You know me. Hostility makes me shrink up like a...

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House sat on bed as he switched the tv off with the remote, and tossed the remote onto the bedside table. The movie he'd been watching was finished, not that he was really watching it, and he wasn't in the mood to lie here and half-heartedly watch another. He was getting sick of feeling moody about Cuddy – not just because the dinner had gone badly, but more because he was certain he was on the way to successfully screwing this thing with Cuddy up. He'd spent more time than was probably healthy, trying to dissect the reasons why he felt the way he did about Cuddy, why this thing between them mattered to him more than he liked, and the more he thought about it the moodier he became. Moody because he felt guilty for how much of an ass he'd been.

Thing was, he didn't want to go across to her room to apologise. He hated saying sorry, didn't matter how in the wrong he was. But he wasn't sure Cuddy was going to come to him, not after how much he'd clearly hurt her, which left him with little choice but to go to her instead. A few times he'd almost built up the courage to just go across the hall and knock on her door... but then he envisioned how awkward it would be and decided not to go. How long was that going to carry on for, though?

He rubbed his hand over his face as those thoughts went through his mind for the millionth time since last seeing Cuddy, and he then pushed himself up from the bed. He went to the toilet, washed his face and wandered back out to his room, feeling listless.

Screw this. He wasn't going to hang out in his room like this. Heading towards the door, he grabbed up his keys along the way, deciding he'd go somewhere in the hotel. Where, he had no idea. Somewhere. When he stepped out of his room, however, his gaze was drawn across the hall to Cuddy's door. Maybe he could...

He shook his head at himself and shut his door firmly, and began to walk off down the hall. He slowly came to a stop, though, and glanced back at her door again. After a long moment, he turned and started towards her room just as slowly, until he was standing in front of her door. He stood there, debating with himself what to do or what to say if he knocked and she answered. This felt like deja vu all over again - how many times had he come to her door like this now?

Before he could give himself a chance to chicken out, he knocked on her door and then stepped back, looking down at the floor awkwardly.

House stood in front of the bathroom mirror, frowning at his reflection as he attempted to knot his necktie into some kind of neat looking knot. This was his fourth attempt and he was getting annoyed on top of already feeling agitated from nerves. Stupid that he was feeling nervous about having dinner with Cuddy because it was Cuddy he was having dinner with. Not some person he didn't know. The fact that this was a date, however, was the cause for his nervousness; he told himself again and again that there was no need to make an impression... yet here he was, knotting a necktie - something he rarely ever wore - to go with the crisply ironed pale blue dinner shirt he was wearing.

It wasn't just that, though. The fact that he and Cuddy were going on a date blatantly acknowledged that they were in a relationship. He still wasn't sure what to think about that, especially given everything that had happened. He'd sort of successfully managed to distract himself enough throughout the day to not think too deeply about all the crap with Dean and Alice. Wilson's apparent new friend, the Pommy mop head weirdo, had caught House's attention enough that he was even distracted from thinking about this date for a while. He really, really didn't like Wilson's new friend. Just thinking about the possibility of being even remotely replaced burned a big hole of jealousy and anxiety in House. They'd seemed pretty damn chummy, too, and House really didn't like that, either. For the first time in, well, ever he felt like an outsider to Wilson. Secondary. Like he wasn't important.

( Read more... )

Well, now that Wilson knew about Cuddy and he, Wilson was the first person House thought to go to regarding their relationship or whatever the hell it was. To vent, or to voice issues, or... just vent. Particularly with the 'in love' business. House still didn't know what to make of that. And not just because Cuddy was in love with him, but because he wasn't sure what Cuddy was to him.

He headed for Wilson's room first, banging on his door to be let in. After several times of knocking, he decided Wilson either wasn't in or wasn't answering, so he headed off down the hall to the elevator. He caught it down to the lobby and tried the bar first, seeing drinking had become such a leisure activity for Wilson lately - and no dice. So, he tried the gym, just in case, then tried the swimming pool seeing Wilson had said about swimming there before - with the stripper, no less - and still no Wilson.

House headed for the dining hall, deciding that maybe he'd head back to his floor and wait outside Wilson's door until Wilson came back, if he couldn't find him in here. He shoved the doors open and scanned the room, and his eyes landed on Wilson across the other side of the dining hall. Without hesitation, House started towards him briskly, and declared when he reached Wilson's side, "Eat later. We need to talk."

House went back to his room after leaving Wilson’s. He flopped down on the bed, feeling exhausted from what had just happened in the last few hours.

He couldn’t sleep, though. He still felt restless, his body felt tense, his leg hurt, he just felt completely windblown. He got up and had a hot shower in the hopes that would ease his leg and muscles, and relax him. It didn’t - when he got out, he sat on the end of his bed with his towel wrapped around his waist, still feeling as drained and uptight as before. Just cleaner.

He tried watching TV, tried to read, found he couldn’t concentrate on anything because his mind was racing over everything that had happened - from his confrontation with Alice in the bar, to Wilson. And thoughts about Cuddy. And Cuddy and Dean. And Stacy. And what Wilson said about Cuddy - that Alice had said Cuddy was in love with him.

He covered his face and rubbed his eyes, trying in vain to get the thoughts to stop. He couldn’t, though. He needed a distraction, something to take his mind off it all. Or he needed to be with someone who could take it his mind off it all. Or he needed… something.

He needed to see Cuddy. Or wanted to see Cuddy. Wanted to be with her for a while, despite everything.

He dragged himself off the bed and stripped off his towel, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He didn’t bother with shoes or socks, just grabbed up his cane and headed out of his room barefoot, across the hall to Cuddy’s door. He wasn’t sure if she was actually in, but if she wasn’t he’d go back to his room. Or go somewhere else. Or maybe go and find her.

Without hesitation, he lifted his cane and rapped on the door a few times before letting his cane drop back to his side. He leaned heavily on it, looking wearily down at the floor, as he waited to see if Cuddy was in to answer.

House stalked out of the bar and started making a beeline for the elevator.

He could make neither heads nor tails of his conversation - or, more accurately, confrontation - with Alice. It was all too fresh, still rattling around in his mind like shrapnel; words like, “you know he’s in love with you, right?” swirling in amongst the bewilderment.

He tried to ignore it all as he reached the elevator and punched the button; as he stepped into the elevator when it arrived; as he watched the doors close and felt the elevator shifting upwards. Tried, but failed. All the things Alice said kept reeling around and around and House couldn’t work out if he was angry at Alice for interfering, angry at Wilson, or angry at himself. Maybe it was all three. Maybe it was… maybe…

You know he’s in love with you, right?

House burst out of the elevator when the doors opened on his floor and started down the corridor towards Wilson’s room, a determined look on his face. He wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted to know from Wilson, but he did know that he wanted to see him. For some reason. To yell at him, or to take his confusion out on him, or to flat out demand to know what the hell Alice was on about. Not only that, but what Alice had told Wilson.

Just as he was nearing Wilson’s door, he saw the door open and halted in his tracks when Wilson emerged from the room.

House glared at him furiously.

House was restless.

He’d been restless ever since he saw the state Wilson was in. And ever since he heard Stacy was in the hotel. Well, really, he’d been restless ever since he found out about Cuddy and Dean, but seeing Wilson and finding out Stacy was here only served to put him right on edge.

The thing was House didn’t want to see Stacy. He did not want to be face to face with her, not after he’d pushed her away, told her to go back home to Short Hills, pushed her out of his life for good. But… that was all history that was back home. And it didn’t matter how much he tried to convince himself he didn’t need to see Stacy, he actually did. Not because he wanted to see her but because he needed confirmation that she actually was here.

He left his room after spending an hour trying to occupy his mind with TV. He threw a cursory glance at Cuddy’s door across the hall, remembering how anxious he’d been when he told her about Wilson, and about Stacy being here. He made his way to the elevator, no idea where to start looking for her. She could be anywhere. He knew she sometimes drank alcohol to calm her nerves when she was under stress, so he tried the bar first, without success.

He moved across to the banquet hall next, couldn’t find her there, tried the pool area just in case, then decided that maybe the quickest way to find out if she was here was to ask the Bellboy. Not that the idea appealed because he hated the Bellboy, but he wasn’t left with many options. The creep could at least tell him Stacy’s room number.

That decided, he started to make his way towards the reception area, navigating himself through the twists and turns of the hallways that led from the pool area to the lobby. His leg was burning, throbbing, and he had to stop a couple of times to catch his breath before he resumed walking. And just as he rounded the corner, he almost walked right into someone walking the opposite direction.

House made his way slowly down the hallway, towards his room. Thanks to Snape’s potion, he was in considerably less pain than he’d been since first meeting Snape in the bar… or really, since discovering about Cuddy and Dean. Which, to House, felt like eons ago now. Maybe it was eons ago - it wasn’t like he had any idea how much time had passed between then and now. Then again, maybe it just felt that way because so much had happened.

He just couldn’t believe Stacy was here. Stacy, of all people. And he couldn’t believe how unrecognisable Wilson was. Those two issues were troubling enough that House was able to somewhat take his mind off what happened between Cuddy and himself - though, they weren’t exactly a comforting substitute, not by a long shot. He’d been tempted to go back to the bar after meeting with Snape, and drinking himself into a state of oblivion, just to quieten everything in his mind - but the memory of how horrible Wilson looked, of how much he’d changed, was enough to fend House away from the bar for now.

So, that left him with little idea what to do with himself. As he trudged down the hallway, a feeling of panic and helplessness started to build in him. Knowing Stacy was here and seeing how much worse Wilson looked made House’s confusion of Cuddy pale in comparison. As he neared his room, he slowed to a stop when his eyes landed on Cuddy’s door across the hall.

A memory of him shouting at Cuddy in anger about her sleeping with Dean flashed through his mind. He quickly shook it away. Thinking about that only made him start brooding. He was due for his pill, but he was debating whether he wanted to face Cuddy right now. It was hard to think clearly, though, when his mind was rattling over so many things that were bothering him.

Frustrated by how untogether he felt, House moved across to Cuddy’s door and knocked loudly on it before he could change his mind.

House wasn’t sure how many days had passed since he’d last seen Wilson. Days? Weeks? He had no way of measuring time in this place; a day could seem like a week, a week like a day, a few days like a month, a month like a week… All he knew for certain was the bar had been the last place he saw Wilson. House had walked out, utterly disturbed by how unglued Wilson was, yet too caught up in himself to really be able to see outside his own issues.

And while he remained tangled up in his issues with Cuddy, the days - or weeks, or who the hell really knew how long - passed by without hearing another peep from Wilson. He didn’t know what prompted the sudden thought about Wilson as he lay sprawled in his bed with his head propped up on pillows as he blankly watched a Gene Wilder-Richard Pryor movie - maybe it was the scene in the movie of Richard Pryor waving a bottle of scotch around drunkenly. But as he lay there, he grew less focused on the movie and more focused on the realisation that he had no idea what had happened to Wilson, if he was okay, if he was still sober.

House was suddenly off his bed, snatching at his shirt lying discarded on the floor. He tugged it on and reached for his cane, and after he switched off the TV with the remote he headed for the door. He shut the door firmly behind him, throwing a glance at Cuddy’s door, then down either end of the corridor as he made his way to Wilson’s door.

Once he was standing there, he went to knock - and then halted. What was he going to see? What state was he expecting Wilson to be in? House had no idea. All he could see in his head was the image of Wilson slouched over the bar, dependant on glasses of scotch like an alcoholic. He hesitated for one more moment and then rapped loudly on the door with the handle of his cane. He waited, listening closely for any movement inside before he rapped on the door again, in slower, more punctuated knocks.

House waited until he was out of sight from the bar to stop and brace his hand against the wall. The way he’d landed on the floor when Dean tripped him up jarred his leg; it was throbbing sharply. The bruise on his chin where Dean had uppercut him was throbbing, too.

More than that, however, was the horrible twisting feeling in his stomach that Cuddy had been sleeping around with someone else. He really didn’t want to believe Dean - House wanted to believe that Dean had just said he’d slept with Cuddy to rile him up. And right now, the very thought of Cuddy being with anyone else made House so full of envy he could hardly stand it.

He leaned against the wall and gripped at his thigh, breathing quickly from both the scuffle he’d just gotten into with Dean, and to get some control over the pain in his leg. Cuddy had slept with that arrogant prick? When? Why? What the hell was all that wanting to be with him stuff, if she was sleeping around with people in the hotel?

Another burst of furious jealousy and anger ignited in House. He pushed away from the wall and took a few pained, staggered steps before he started to head off as briskly as he could to the elevator. He caught a ride to his floor and headed straight for Cuddy’s door, anger in him growing with each step he took.

Upon reaching her door, he pounded on it hard, then leaned against the doorframe as he rubbed at his thigh with his other hand. He pounded on the door, harder, until he heard the doorknob being turned and he fixed his gaze into a fierce glare as the door was opened.

House ended up going back to his room, after meeting that blonde woman down in the lobby. He'd had a crap enough day as it was; the way the morning had turned out with Cuddy, meeting Wilson in the bar, getting punched in the face by John. Yeah, he wasn't interested in his day getting any more crap than it already was, and hanging around downstairs was only going to result in him bumping into more people, which would only prove to increase said crap factor.

He spent a while attempting to watch TV, gave up on that and moved to reading, which he also gave up on after a short while. He eventually took to plugging his ears up with his iPod and lounging on the bed to brood. Unfortunately, the bed smelled of what had happened in it the night before and the morning, which only served in making him feel moodier. He kept mulling over Cuddy, and his meeting with Wilson, and tried to work out why he was so damn bothered by this thing with Cuddy, unprotected sex aside. His conversation with John, too, had left House feeling unsettled. It was never confirmed whether John was the zombie Cuddy had mentioned, but it was too uncanny for him not to be. The guy had seemed pretty possessive of Alice, but that wasn't the point -- the point was Cuddy had mentioned this guy, and had mentioned about maybe she should seek other guys to sleep with, and that was before he and Cuddy slept together but still, he couldn't shake it from his mind, and why was he obsessing over this?

House found himself rubbing his fingers over the bruise on his jaw where John had punched him and he shook himself, and turned the music on the iPod up louder to drown his thoughts out. He stayed like that, music blaring through the earbuds while he lay on the bed, until his ears were aching and the sun was sinking. He got up to go to the toilet, made the mistake of glancing at his watch and saw it was barely five in the afternoon yet, and begrudgingly took to tidying his room up for something to do. He put away the books and papers strewn across the floor, picked up the clothes left lying around and came across Cuddy's bra tucked just underneath his bed. How it got there, he didn't know. But once he'd got sick of tidying up his room, he pushed the bra into his pocket and resumed watching TV until it was finally seven o'clock.

He was absolutely desperate for his pill by the time he was standing outside Cuddy's door. He was acutely aware of the last thing she'd said to him before she left this morning, too -- You know where to find me. If you want me for something other than your drugs. That had left him feeling like he'd used her. Which hadn't been his intention. Or had it? He didn't know. He was getting way too confused about this whole thing. It was just supposed to be sex and nothing more, yet his mind had been focused on it all day.

Giving an impatient shake of his head, he knocked on the door and hated the sudden erruption of nerves he felt in his chest. This was stupid. It was just Cuddy, for God's sake. Cuddy, whom he'd known for years, whom he'd sexually taunted day in and out at work, whom he'd admittedly had fantasies about having sex with in the past but never in a million years thought actual sex with her would've amounted to anything as confusing as this. Unprotected sex just made it worse, because what if she did fall pregnant? More than that, why the hell had he lost so much control over himself with her? Why had they both lost so much control over themselves? That was the crux of his confusion here, and he was afraid to think too deeply into it in case he came up with an answer he didn't like or didn't know how to deal with.

God, what was he? A teenager? He bashed on her door again, louder this time, feeling frustrated at the thoughts that were racing through his head.


Edited to include House getting punched in the face by John, which happened here.

He was never going to see the end of these long twelve hours.

That had been House's thought when he glanced at his watch for what seemed like the millionth time, only to see that four hours had passed. He'd tried watching television in his room, managing to sit through half of 'Jerry McGuire' before he got too annoyed with Tom Cruise to put up with watching the movie anymore, and turned the TV off. So, he'd gone for a walk; a long walk, outside in the Hotel grounds, where he sat himself down on the ground and picked at the dead grass while staring at the desert horizon. He bored of that quickly and went back inside to prowl around, sat by the pool for a little while, sat in the banquet hall for a little while without really eating anything, made a trip across to the bar and had a few drinks.

After looking at his watch another million times and watching time tick as slowly as possible, as though his watch knew he was hanging out for it to strike seven at night, House retreated back to his room and resumed watching television. He read for a bit, paced for a bit, read some more, watched some television... He felt agitated and restless, and couldn't stop fidgeting if he was sitting still. He eventually resorted to making origami out of pages from his book; ripping the pages out and ripping them in half so he could make little paper cranes -- to keep his mind occupied and his hands busy. The more cranes he made, the smaller he made them to challenge himself so he'd stay interested in what he was doing.

All during this time, when his mind managed to stray from his medication for short bursts, he found himself thinking over what Cuddy had said in the morning about having no one to talk to. He felt the same way, partly. Part of him wanted someone to talk to, if only to feel less insignificant.

When the time began to approach seven, House rolled off the bed -- which was rumpled, unmade and littered with dozens of little paper cranes -- and made his way into the bathroom. He had a quick, near-scalding hot shower to try and wash away the edginess he was feeling from not having his pills, dried off just as quickly with a towel, and then got dressed. He put on his less scruffy-looking jeans and his light blue button down shirt, and headed across the hall to Cuddy's door at precisely seven o'clock.

He raised his hand to the door and knocked loudly.

OOC: Cont'd from here.


House left the banquet hall quietly after Alice said she was going to get another cup of tea. That she was being almost professional about it, in the sense that she said she'd be up in ten minutes and that a cup of tea came before what House had found himself agreeing to, made him feel a little more comfortable. If she was going to treat this almost as though it was a business deal then so was he.

He made his way up to his room and shut the door without locking it. His room was something of a mess -- clothes strewn about, personal items carelessly scattered about on various surfaces, the bed was unmade. He stood in the middle of the floor, surveying the clutter. He was an untidy person by nature; his room had been a lot tidier when Cuddy had been looking after him, mainly because she was anal about tidiness. Well, he thought she was, anyway.

He frowned. He shook his head to push any thoughts of Cuddy out of his head, wondering why he was even thinking about her. Probably because the last time he saw her she'd made it clear that he was a sad bastard by paying money to have companionship. Except in this case, he wasn't actually paying anything; he was just exchanging an offer of distraction for Alice's offer of distraction, which in a way was about as good as exchanging money for services.

He moved across to the bed and sat down heavily on it, setting his cane aside. Ten minutes, she said she'd be here. He glanced down at his watch: she'd be here any minute.

This had to be some kind of joke. It had to be.

House had been back to the Hotel for a few days now. Or what seemed like a few days. He was completely disoriented by what time meant anymore, because he thought he’d only been in the Hotel for a total of a couple of weeks when he’d had his 24-hour reprieve, only to discover a couple of months had gone by. So, a couple of days… could’ve been a couple of weeks for all House knew.

But that wasn’t important right now. Hell, no. He was standing at his bedside table, holding the vial of Vicodin in his hand -- which was completely empty. He’d just taken the last pill for the night with the intention of going to bed because it was late -- about 12.30 at night -- and when he’d set the bottle down he’d fully expected the bottle to refill itself like it did last time. In fact, he sat watching it, eyes glued to the orange bottle, and… nothing.

A minute passed, and nothing. Five minutes, still nothing. He frowned in confusion and snatched the bottle back up, snapped the lid open and peered inside before popping the lid back on and placing it back down on the bedside table. And still nothing.

He quickly got to his feet and snatched the bottle up again, and he shook it, opened and closed the lid a few times, peered at it closely, tried to understand why the bottle wasn’t refilling. And as each minute passed where the bottle didn’t do as House expected it to, panic began to creep into House’s veins.

“Come on,” he muttered to himself as he picked the bottle up yet again and went through the routine again of shaking it, opening and closing it, not realising his breathing had become faster as it rapidly started to sink in that maybe the pills weren’t going to replenish at all.

Shit shit, fuck no. He was starting to get desperate. House shook the bottle with more force and made a quiet, panicked sound as he opened it yet again, and in a fit of anxiety he slammed the bottle onto the bedside table before he smacked it off with hand, hard. The bottle bounced against the wall with a hollow clacking sound and landed to the carpeted floor.

House looked around him wildly. How could this be? How? Surely that couldn’t have been a once-off. Surely, the Hotel was going to look after him, because how else was he going to manage his pain? Except where were the damn pills?! If the fact that he discovered he lost his home and his job back in Princeton wasn’t enough, this was just the icing on the cake. This was… This was…

“Fuck!” House cursed in a frantic voice when he leaned over to pick the bottle back up and saw there still wasn’t a trace of his pills left. He threw it back against the wall and faced away, staring across the room with no idea what he was going to do. All that his mind was consumed with was what am I going to do? What the fuck am I going to do? He limped quickly across the room without his cane to the bathroom, banged the door open and moved straight to the sink to wash his face.

He could barely think straight. The last thing House ever expected was for his pills to not replenish, and the panic that had slammed into him felt almost as impacting as detox did. Because what the hell was he going to do? He shut the water off and, foregoing drying his face, he limped back out into the room to check if the pills had miraculously appeared in his minute-long absence… and no dice.

He spent another bewildered moment looking around his room desperately before he grabbed up his cane from where it was lying on the bed, and moved straight to the door. He threw it open and burst out into the hallway, face still dripping with water, looked left and right and moved to Wilson’s door. House had no idea if Wilson was in there, but he banged loudly on the door with his fist, too panic-stricken to care right now that he wasn’t on talking grounds with him.

No answer. House banged again, louder, and when there was still no answer he started to head briskly down the hall. Where to, though? Where was he going to go? He stopped in the middle of the hall and looked about himself helplessly. He turned quickly to look back to Wilson’s door, and then his eyes settled on Cuddy’s door.

Without thinking about it he headed straight for her door, and pounded on it. So what if Cuddy hated him right now, so what if she said she was never going to help him again, so fucking what. He wasn’t even thinking about that right now. Just his pills, that was all he could think about.

“Cuddy!” He pounded even more insistently. “Cuddy!”

House couldn’t rest, much less sleep. His argument with Cuddy had left him feeling restless and on edge. He spent a good part of an hour shifting from his back to his side and back again, unable to get comfortable, moving about to the point where his bed covers had rumpled halfway off the bed.

It wasn’t just that he was unsettled by the argument they’d had, and the discomfort he’d felt at realising he was completely and utterly alone in this Hotel, aside from having Cuddy and Wilson: he was getting desperate for some kind of hit. He only had two Vicodin left in his bottle, which was standing on his bedside, and apart from those two pills he had nothing else. And his pain, his state of detox and his current mental state were all heightening his want-- no, his need for a hit.

House got to the point where he couldn’t stand lying in bed anymore: he threw the covers back in a heap and pushed himself up with a pained grunt, carefully swinging his legs over the edge. He spent a moment, hunched over as he firmly rubbed his hand over his thigh and sighed heavily. He was rapidly reaching that point of desperation where he felt like he was going to flip out of control. He could feel the anxiety bubbling, building beneath the surface.

He glanced at the pills and without giving it a second thought House dashed his hand out and snatched the bottle from the bedside table. He fumbled with the lid and tipped the remaining two pills out onto his palm, and threw them into his mouth. With his head upturned so he was facing the ceiling he recapped the bottle as he swallowed and closed his eyes. The pills went down dry and thick, and House had to forcibly swallow a few times before he got them down properly. Two pills weren’t going to do anything. But it was all he had.

Sighing, he looked down as he aimed the pill bottle at the bin - and when he threw it he heard a distinct rattling sound in the bottle. House was off the bed just as the bottle hit the bin with a dull clanging sound, his hand diving in to retrieve the bottle. What was… That couldn’t have been…

He held the bottle up. And saw that it was filled with pills.

House just stared at it for a long, hard moment, unable to believe what he was looking at. What…? How? The pill bottle just replenished itself, like magic? House took a limped step backwards to the bed and sat down, peering at the bottle with a nonplussed look on his face. He was completely confused. How was this even logical?

But before his inquiring mind could start trying to figure out how that happened, it suddenly dawned on him: he had medication. He had his pills! A feeling of sudden elation swept through him and House felt -- for the first time in weeks -- happy. Overjoyed. Relieved. He let out a deep sigh and then laughed, unable to believe his luck. All his problems he’d been stewing over a moment ago suddenly no longer mattered. His leg pain didn’t matter, his detox, none of it mattered.

He broke the bottle open again and tipped all the pills out onto his palm, studying them as though they were precious jewels and then tipped them back in one by one, until there was one left in his hand. He lifted it to his mouth and threw it in, not caring if he’d just had three times too many pills. Hell, if the pills replenished when he finished them, that must mean…

Oh boy. This was turning out to be a good day. House recapped the bottle and set it back down with a satisfied grin on his face. He slapped his good thigh in glee and pushed himself up from the bed, reaching for his cane. He was still feeling weak from all the detox he’d been going through -- but he wanted to do something other than lie in bed.

House started to wander around the room, went out into the hallway outside and started to wander that, came back to his room -- by the time he did, he was starting to feel the effects of the Vicodin kicking in. Feeling himself mellow out, House took a seat on the floor, propped against the wall by the bathroom, and closed his eyes. His legs were spread and his cane was laying haphazardly beside him. He had a smile on his face that clearly showed he was already half-baked. He didn’t even think how angry Cuddy could potentially be when she came back -- she was far from his mind right at the moment.

Well, until she finally did come back. House was still propped up against the wall with his eyes closed, clearly high and very clearly enjoying it, and when he heard the door open he lolled his head against the wall and opened his eyes to peer up at Cuddy with a somewhat glazed on his face.

He closed his eyes again and lolled his head back against the wall. “As Elton John sang,” he began in greeting, “‘the bitch is back’.” House started to laugh as though that was the funniest thing he’d heard in a long time.

House cracked his eyes open and peered across the room without actually focusing on anything, and then closed his eyes again. Something had roused him from sleep, though he wasn’t sure what it was.

He was vaguely aware of whatever dream he’d been having already fading fast from his mind, and he wasn’t fully awake yet to register the state of his body. It was certainly a testament to how tired and exhausted he’d been that he’d managed to sleep through the entire night -- though, to House, it felt like he’d only been asleep for a few minutes. He’d been awoken in the middle of the night for a quick administering of medication; though he’d been so tired and exhausted he barely registered it was happening.

He grunted quietly and shifted on the bed, opening his eyes again briefly to peer unseeing across the room, and he was slowly becoming aware of muscular pain. Cramping in his stomach, mainly, and myalgia in the rest of his body. He grunted again and threw his arm up over his face, restlessness quickly starting to settle in.

“Oh god,” he sounded out in a scratchy, uncomfortable voice as he became more and more aware of the aches and pains in his body. Not as bad as they were when Cuddy first stormed into his room the night before but enough to be extremely unpleasant to wake up with first thing in the morning.

And where was Cuddy? “Cuddyyyy,” he called out without bothering to look to see where she was, and the way he drew her name out made him sound more like a sick, grumpy child rather than a grown man.

[OOC: Stolen from earth_defender. No, this isn't part of dark_desert_hwy canon at all -- it's just a bit of Christmas silliness.]


Yes, that's a mistletoe. Yes, I'm standing underneath it.

A few rules:

One kiss and one kiss only.

If you're extra pretty, maybe I'll stretch my offer to two.

If you're Cuddy, I get to cop a feel. Of what, that's up to me to decide.

If you're a guy, I won't say no. But I will object if you try to cop a feel. I have a cane and I'm not afraid to use it.

If you're Wilson, I get to spin your Hanukkah dreidel. What does that mean? You'll have to step under the mistletoe with me to find out.

If you smell or have bad breath, you lose out. Yeah, when it comes to body odours of any description, I totally put the 'bah' back in 'humbug'.

Okay. Take the opportunity while it lasts, before I change my mind.

y0

It's been brought to my attention that none of House's lj entries are showing up on people's f-list.

Whyyy this is happening, IDK. The only thing I've backdated is the OOC post at the top of House's journal, so I have no idea why nothing is showing up. But if people can see this post, and any previous posts of House, on their f-list -- drop a word here, please?

Cheers.

So. Cuddy was in the Hotel, according to Snape. It was only because the potion that Snape gave House wasn't enough to curb what he wanted that he was back in the bar, otherwise he'd have been bashing on her hotel room door by now, once he found out what room it was. That was probably a very good thing, for Cuddy especially. Even if she knew House was around, she hadn't been subjected to him personally. Yet.

One of the things House did when he was feeling exceptionally unstable was that he projected his stress through being extremely hostile and volatile to those around him, and he tended to manifest what he couldn't handle into pain in his leg. Needless to say, House was in a lot of pain. Or so he thought.

And to make matter worse, he only had those five pills left. It was only by sheer force that he was rationing his pills to try and make them stretch, but lowering his Vicodin intake dramatically also meant that he was suffering withdrawal from it. Which was hardly a surprise that he'd taken to drinking more as a form of self-medication to numb his mind and his pain. The downside to that was that he was becoming dependent on the drink, and quickly. Especially Firewhiskey. As a result of this, and of his pain and withdrawal, his complexion had taken on a sallow look; he looked sweaty and pasty, there were bags under his eyes and he'd lost a little weight. He didn't exactly look his best.

This whole falling out thing with Wilson was only exacerbating the situation even further, and House felt too proud and indignant to fix a situation he needed to fix for his sanity, and for Wilson's.

So, yes. House wasn't a pleasant person to be around, at all.

He had a glass of Firewhiskey in front of him on the bar, and he was staring down at his drink moodily as he absently rubbed his hand up and down his thigh. He lifted his drink to his mouth and threw the contents back sharply. Thumping the glass hard on the bench before he pushed it towards the bartender, he grunted, "Another."