crippled in body

House had something on his mind. And it had been there, for weeks and months.

So he decided that it was time to do something about it. So he went made plans, a few weeks in advance, and went shopping, and got everything settled except for permission from the most important man in his girlfriend's (and sort of fiancee, if you looked at it that way) world.

Her son.

So after Drew got out of school, House suggested that they go get ice cream. And that was why, sitting outside a Baskin Robbins in the shade, he looked over at the boy and calmly broke the ice.

"Drew," he began, poking at the ice cream with a spoon. "I...I want to marry your mom. The right way, because she deserves that, but I wanted to make sure that it was okay with you, because I know you love her very much."

A swallow.

"And I'm not trying to be your dad, because nobody can replace him, you know? I just...I love you very much and I love your mom very much and I want us to be a family."

Simple.

The fact that I know how to do the right thing, that no matter what happens, I have my sense of knowing what's right and wrong, and not in the moral sense, in the life altering sense. I don't piss around the subject. You're gonna die or you're going to live, when you come into that ER, and it's up to me to make it happen.

I'm not going to hold your hand. I'm going to do what's right, even if it's controversial or it's risky. When it comes down to life or death, you have to take chances and you can't hesitate, because when you hesitate, people die.

And generally we dislike people dying, in this business.

Muse: Dr. Greg House
Fandom: House, M.D.
Words: 116

The unknown.

I'm not talking about UFOs or who built the pyramids, but the future in the sense regarding health and wellbeing. I have patients who come into that ER who are dying, who've been shot at, hit by cars, or maybe they've tried to kill themselves, and they look at you, with this fear in their eyes...

They don't know whether they're going to live to see another day, let alone what it will hold.

If they were stupid enough to land themself in the ER in the first place, then it's their own damn fault, and I'm not going to hold some whiny teenager's hand as he throws up because we've had to pump his stomach to get the three hundred Tylenol out. I'm not going to assure a self inflicted GSW he's going to be okay, because for all I know, he could code in thirty seconds and the last thing he ever sees is the ceiling through the blood in his eyes.

The unknown scares people. So they start to hate not knowing. They try to find everything out. How many times it takes when you slash a wrist. How long it takes to bleed out. Tip and tricks to make death permanent. Now I'm only talking about people who try to kill themselves.

People who get sick are another matter entirely.

They're playing a waiting game, on test results and news from the lab. They don't know what the results are. If it's good or if it's bad, and they stop wanting to run the tests. Like idiots. Because they're scared.

My leg is fucked. I get it MRI'd every year or when it hurts really bad for more than normal. I do a blood test if I feel weak or suspect jaundice. One day, God forbid, my liver is going to go, and I'm going to do every damn test in the book to figure out how to fix it.

I'm not afraid of dying. I just don't want to.

Muse: Dr. Greg House
Fandom: House, M.D.
Words: 328

It was a week after spring break, and House was struggling. The workload at Duke wasn't more than he'd expected, but it was more than he was used to, and he was starting to slip. He wasn't going to waste this, however, so he'd been focused on the books since he'd gotten back into the swing of things.

She was at class, and wasn't going to be back for at least another half hour. He'd tried everything to focus, and the table was covered with stacks of medical texts, his notes were semi-organized, and his essay was written in bits and pieces. He was trying, really. But it wasn't working, and he needed a break.

So he grabbed a beer, took a drink, then went into the bedroom and plucked his guitar off the stand, and then his smallest amp, and wandered his way out to the balcony. He dropped into one of the two chairs they kept out there, set the beer on the table, the little amp on the floor, and turned it on and plugged in. He kept the volume down, and kicked his chair back, balancing it against the railing and closing his eyes as he went about tuning the guitar.

When she arrived back at their apartment, she would find him on the back porch, beer on the table, next to a half smoked cigar, and singing and playing his way through 'Foxey Lady' by Jimi Hendrix, completely lost in the music.

(And ignoring the essay that was due in two days.)

Alright, you got me.

So it's straight as an arrow, right. We know that. It has to be, if we want it to work properly. Sure there's a little bit of a bump here or there, but hey, that's what you get when you go natural. Straight as an arrow. We got that. Long, that's obviously next. I'm a tall guy, and well, it's nice to be able to do what I want without having to bend over like a damn contortionist while I'm at it. Straight as an arrow and long.

Hard. It's hard. Hell, it's always hard. Stiff, is probably a better word, actually, come to think of it. It's nice to be able to wrap my hand around the thing and know that as long as I hold on tight, it's not going anywhere. The tip helps that, too, you know. Wide enough and all. Useful for poking things with.

And I've got great aim. Why wouldn't I? Hell, I've been using the thing for years, every day, every night, and it's never failed me yet.

So okay, I admit it.

My cane is much more badass than it looks.

...

What?

You thought I was...talking about my...

!!!

Perverts.

*G*

Muse: Dr. Greg House
Fandom: House, M.D.
Word Count: 194

Drew, when given the option of a sport to play in, had chosen roller hockey. There was a local league that had games on the weekday afternoons, after school, and House usually took him to them. Mel would come by on her days off, and on Saturdays for the more important 'real' games, but it was a way for the both of them to bond with each other and it gave Drew that 'dad factor' he was missing since Brian had died.

Not that House was the ideal father figure. He tried, but it was obvious that he was 'mom's boyfriend' or 'Greg' and not 'Dad'. He wasn't looking to be that man in her son's life, because he wasn't going to be. If it ever got to that point, well then, it was a bridge they'd have to cross.

House, being House, was standing in the goal box, watching the other seven and eight year olds skate around. Drew was out there, in his helmet, knee pads, and mouthguard, stick in hand and skating with the rest of his team before the warm up was over.

It was during the actual game, which at the point House moved to sit on the sidelines near the bench, did things get a little interesting.

One play in particular, when someone stuck their stick out in front of her son, sending the seven year old to the ground, hard. One second of silence, and House waited to see if he'd get up, but when he heard a shriek of pain and saw Drew curl up into a ball on the concrete, he was off his ass in half a second and bolting over to the side of the play area as the ref whistled play dead.

One day, at the Happy Child Day Care Center, sometime between cookies and milk and naptime, disaster struck. Children ran screaming into the brightly colored playroom, tears streaming down their cheeks, sand in their pants and bugs in their hair, a wild herd of chaos and confusion until a steady hand can calm the stampede and begin to get the details out. This is the account of that fateful day...

"Miss Cuddy!!" The little girl with the brown ponytail with a pink bow raises her hand. "Greg is being mean to us again! He's insulting our smarts because I like to read books and play with puzzles!"

"Yeah, and he made fun of me because he says my hair is prettier than Cameron's and that's not cool because she's totally a girl." The little blond kid with blue eyes and pouty lips raises his hand too.

"He picked on me at lunch because he thinks I stole my sandwich instead of my mom making it. Jerk."

"Eric, that's not nice langauge." Miss Cuddy steps into the center of the circle and looks down at them all. "No matter what Greg said."

"But Miss Cuddy, he told me I was funny lookin' and that I--"

"That's enough, Eric. Now, Cameron, Chase, what did he say to you?"

"He says I look like a girl and I sound like one too," Chase says, with the pout still gracing his lips. "Cause I hit my knee on the monkey bars and I cried."

"You cried?!" The little girl covers her mouth with her hands and giggles. "Oh my gosh that's so cute."

"I am not cute!"

"Yes you are," she sticks her tongue at him and then giggles some more. "Chasey is so cute, Chasey is so cute, Chasey is--"

( Happy Child Day Care Center : True Secrets Revealed! )

House wakes up and sits up in bed, blinking to himself for a long moment before he checks the clock, and check his clothes. He's scheduled to start a shift in an hour, and killing monsters is definitely not on the agenda. Unless of course, you consider disease a monster, and Cuddy as the bringer of it, with her Files of Disaster and High Heels of Doom...

...it was going to be a long, long shift.


Muse: Dr. Greg House
Fandom: House, M.D.
Word Count: 961
OOC: Please forgive the crackedness of this post...I couldn't resist.

Sin.

Interesting choice of topic this week, I have to say. Being that I'm currently living in it, and no, that does not mean I have strippers hidden in the bedroom and a crackpipe on the kitchen table, much to someone's dismay. I'm talking about Vegas. The city that never sleeps. Where else can a man wander around all night with a beer in his hand, having a go at each of the Seven Deadlies?

Lust. There are hot women (or hot guys, if that's your thing, personally I'm very straight and very okay with that) on every billboard, flyer, business card, and corner.

Gluttony. Twenty-four hour buffets, free drinks if you're playing at the right tables and the right slots. If you want it, you can get it, which brings me to...

Greed. Money. That's all Vegas is about. Give me more, give me more, daddy needs a new boat.

Sloth. Sleep all day. Party all night. Do what you want to do, when you want to do it. If you want to sit on your ass in front of a slot machine all day, go for it. Spend the entire weekend in the hotel room? Do it.

Wrath. Things aren't going your way, you curse. Fuck, dammit to hell, shit, mother fucking slot, bastard, you whore.

Envy. The car looks nice. So does that number that keeps getting higher and higher. Keep feeding the machine. Keep feeding the machine. Keep feeding the machine. Almost there. Trip diamonds...

Pride. You sex machine, with your Armani suit and four hundred dollar an hour limo. Walk down the street like you own the place, and you'll end up luckier at night than a leprechaun sliding ass naked down a rainbow striped stripper's pole.

Las Vegas. City of Sin.

No place I'd rather be.

Muse: Dr. Greg House
Fandom: House, M.D.
Words: 292

House was enjoying this vacation. He was now sporting a pretty good tan, and had relaxed considerably, after a couple's massage he'd scheduled that morning,as well as his own 'personal massage' he'd had later, with his fiancee.

Now, it was time to do something fun.

Snorkeling along a reef, sounded like it would work. He made sure to grab his water shoes and his underwater camera, as well as directions to the snorkeling point on the island. There was a shuttle that would take them around, wherever the guests at the hotel wanted to go.

Once they were on it, and at the place, he eyed the gear and selected a mask and snorkel, as well as a pair of fins.

This was going to be fun.

His leg was hurting.

No more than it normally did, at first. He was taking an extra Vicodin in the middle of the day, sometimes, if he was on his feet a lot in the ER. ER work was harder on him than his old job had ever been, and he figured that was the reason he was feeling sore and his leg ached.

A few days after it got worse, he tried stretching it. Tried getting a therapist to align his spine to see if that would help. It did, just a bit, but more Vicodin. He was trying to stop that, taking more when he felt pain.

Every morning he checked his eyes. White, if not a little bloodshot.

Thankfully.

House woke up one morning, however, and upon putting his feet on the floor, realized that going to work was not an option. He winced to himself, grabbed for his Vicodin, downed two, and then promptly grabbed his cell phone and called out of work quietly, as to not wake up Mel, who was still sleeping beside him. He set the phone down and then grabbed his cane, pushing himself to his feet.

That hurt.

Part of him wanted to get back in bed. But all he had to do was wake up Drew. So he carefully, slowly, eased his way down the hall. Knocked on the boy's door and then poked his head in, to tell him to get up and that cereal was breakfast for the morning, and then quietly made his way to the kitchen, started her coffee, then gritted his teeth and gripped the counter, stifling a groan as he heard Drew's slippers on the tile.

"You okay?"

House shook his head. "No, I'm not. But I will be, in a minute."

"I'll go tell mom," the boy replied, as he turned to exit the kitchen. Despite House's protest, Drew slipped into the bedroom and walked to his mother's side of the bed, touching her lightly on the shoulder. "Mom?"

He's standing in the living room, with an empty bottle of tequila and a page torn from the phone book. She'd left it on the fridge, with that ugly magnet of the Space Needle, who the fuck liked the Space Needle anyways, stupid national landmark building whateverthefuck it was. Pizza. Phone.

"I'd like a Hawaiian," he tosses the bottle onto the coffee table with a dull thud as it hits the oak and then the floor. "Large. Extra pineapplesandcheese. You have my address. Hundred bucks it if gets here in half an hour."

( Phone, meet table, meet floor. )

Muse: Dr. Greg House
Fandom: House, M.D.
Words: 575

He wouldn't say he was nervous, but he was, just a little. The night before, after what trouble they'd gotten themselves into on the couch in his apartment, he'd made an evening phone call to his mom and asked her if it would be alright if they stopped by on the way to head to Virginia to do what they had come to the East Coast to do. His mother, of course, was more than happy to prepare lunch for three extra bodies, and was thrilled that her son would be coming by with the girlfriend he'd told her about. If it was up to Blythe, her son would have everything he needed to be happy, no matter what it took, and she was pleased to hear that he'd gotten serious with the woman he'd met and left Princeton for.

She also wanted to meet this mystery woman, and make sure her son wasn't getting into any trouble.

House would tell her that he was fine, regardless.

The drive to the upper part of the state was simple enough, and after about an hour, he was consulting his memory of the location of the home his parents had bought. It was outside of town, with several acres of property attached. The house was a simple two story, with a wrap around porch along the front, and behind it was a barn, once used for livestock, but it had been turned into a hanger for the plane his father owned.

He parked the truck in the driveway near the carport, then turned off the engine, and looked around. His mother's car was there, and his father's truck was as well. He looked over at Mel, and then back at Drew.

"I can't promise she won't try to hug you guys, but I'll try to fend her off," he said quietly, giving her son a little smile, before he looked at Mel. He could tell she was a little nervous, and hell, he heard the screen door open, and looked over to see his mother standing on the porch. "Here goes nothing," he murmured, as he hopped carefully out of the truck and was met by the older woman, who swooped him into a hug.

"My baby," she murmured. "Gregory, really, you need to visit more often, I miss you. Though," she reached up and ruffled his hair. "You really need to learn to brush that mess."

"Mom," he laughed. "My hair is fine."

"If you consider the 'I just look like I woke up, yet it's noon' look to be fine, then yes," she chided playfully. Obviously, he got his wit from somewhere, and she was it. "Rascal."

House let out a snort, and then turned to Mel and Drew. "Mom? This is Mel, the one I was telling you about," he reached for her hand. "And her son, Andrew."

Blythe took one look at the woman, and the boy holding her hand, and gave them both a warm smile. "It's so good to finally meet you, Gregory has told me such wonderful things about you both," she said.

Today was the day that they were leaving for the east coast. He'd managed to get a flight for the three of them, in cash, to JFK International. Wilson was going to pick them up, at the airport, and take them to Princeton, and then House was to drive them down, by truck (he'd had Wilson rent a 2006 Ford F-150, so that they could load up some stuff in the back and have it shipped home to Las Vegas) to Virgina, and Mel's old home.

He knew this was difficult, for her. He had been standing there in the bedroom, watching her back her bag, and the gun case, just in case, and he knew that even without what had transpired the last few nights between them, this was going to be hard. She needed some sense of closure, but he had no idea if she would ever be able to find it.

Hopefully, this would help.

The flight was uneventful, as much as a cross country jaunt in business class could be. House had taken the aisle seat, so he could stretch his leg out, and that way Drew could sit by the window while Mel had both of her 'men' beside her. He had his iPod in, quietly, and was leaned back, relaxing the best he could, napping a little.

When they arrived in New York, the first thing House noticed was the thin blanket of snow on the runways, and the fact that it was still snowing outside. Drew was looking at the weather with interest.

"And that," he commented. "Is why we packed our coats in the carry-on bin."

He reached into his pocket and dug out his Vicodin as the passengers began to unload from the plane, popping two before he stood carefully and opened it. They had some luggage to pick up from baggage, and would meet Wilson there, but this was a much bigger, and busier airport, than McCarran. And that, was why he looked at Drew. "Stay close to your mom, okay bud? I don't want you to get lost."

Not to mention, if anyone tried to touch Mel's son, House was pretty damn sure that said person would be lying on the floor immobilized in under four seconds, thanks to his mother.

A small grin to himself. Damn, he loved this woman.

He had been planning this for days. Before he, Mel, and Andrew set out for the east coast and the cruise he'd gotten them all for the holidays, he was having a few friends out to Las Vegas for a visit.

Which was why he was sitting in the office, with his black Strat on his lap, tuning the strings and fiddling with each little detail on the well worn guitar. This was his pride and joy, and he was excited. He checked the time on his cell phone, then stood up and set the guitar aside, grabbing his cane and his keys.

He was supposed to meet his friends at the hotel they were staying at in half an hour, so they could catch up and practice a little bit, before he'd get a chance to play with them later in a little club downtown, a bit off the Strip, but at least they'd get paid for it. And most importantly, he would get to introduce them to Mel.

Who they all seemed to think didn't really exist.

Getting to the hotel was easy enough, even with his guitar slung across his back as he rode the motorcycle. Crandall saw him first, and then Rob and Alex, and finally, Hector, as he pulled into the spot outside the little hotel room they were all crammed into.

Rob had his drums, Hector was fiddling with his bass, Alex was prodding at the keyboard stuffed in the corner, and Crandall was plucking the strings of the acoustic he had left on the bed. They knew their stuff, and would leave in awhile, after they'd finished shooting the shit and getting things together.

A few hours later, House returned home, to change and get ready, and snuck into the bathroom, where he heard the shower running.

Oh, this is easy.

"Jukebox Hero" by Foreigner.

I mean, come on. That's all I wanted to be when I was growing up. I wanted to be a rockstar, and when they wrote that song, and the vocals, and just how damn powerful it is, with the rock and the bassline and the lyrics, you cannot go wrong with standing in the shower and belting out classic rock while your girlfriend is trying to sleep in, ignoring her protests and the shoe you think just hit the door of the bathroom.

Seriously.

And it has a bitchin' solo at the end. Not the best, but, I love to sing that song.

Often.

And loudly.


Muse: Greg House
Fandom: House, M.D.
Words: 108

House was busy reaching for his keys when he heard the knock on the door, and was praying it wasn't a door to door salesman or someone trying to convert him into the religion of their choosing. He was supposed to be at Drew's school in half an hour, to pick him up, and was seriously considering hiding out until he got the all clear. He left his cane leaning next to the door and pulled it open a crack, eyeing the two men standing on the porch.

When he saw a badge flash, he just sighed a little. "What do you need?"

"Gregory House? We just have some information about your court date this Friday, a paper we need you to sign," one of the men forked over a piece of paper and a pen.

As he took the paper and pen, he reached up and flicked the chain off the lock, looking down at the document in his hands. When he narrowed his eyes, and looked up to ask just what this was all about, he felt a hand on his collar and another on his shoulder, yanking him out of the house. With one gripped hand, he dragged the pen along the wall by the front entryway as he struggled to get out of the grip, but after a few seconds, something hard connected with his temple and it went dark.

Thirty minutes later, a bell rang and children began to stream out of the elementary school that Drew attended, her son one of them, chatting with a friend as they made their way to the parking lot where they would be picked up. When Drew scanned the lot, and the motorcycle was nowhere to be found, he wondered momentarily if his mother was supposed to be picking him up instead.

But it was Thursday. Mel had meetings on Thursday afternoons, and that was Greg's day.

He waited for a few more moments, then headed back into the school, to call his mother, like he'd been taught. Cradling the phone to his ear with two hands, he waited for his mother to answer her cell phone, and when he informed her that Greg hadn't come to pick him up, she told him that she was on her way.

Calls to House's cell phone were left unanswered, but not straight to voicemail. The phone was on, just silenced in his pocket. Where he was, he had no idea. When she arrived home, the signs would be obvious. The door had been closed, but not locked. The pen scrawled on the wall. His helmet on the table, keys right next to that, and his cane, leaned against the wall, would be the most visible sign that something was not right.

If there was one thing you could always do in Las Vegas, it was find an open, crowded, cheap bar at any time of day, order yourself a drink, and instantly be forgotten about. Unless of course, you were being hit on by the stripper four stools down, but that was another story. House walked into the bar, gripping his cane tightly in his hand, to balance the shoulder pain that was still persisting, as well as the pain radiating up his leg and into the pit of his stomach.

"I'll have a glass of Walker Blue, straight." He commented, before he made his way over to a corner table and sunk into it, accepting the glass of the aged scotch and taking a sip. The alcohol he was drinking had been around longer than he had been alive, he noted in his head.

Not that any of that mattered.

One glass of the scotch turned into a second, and between the scotch in his veins and the lack of Vicodin in his system, he was quite pleasantly distracted from life and the pain ripping through his body. He wanted to curl up in a ball and die, but he just took another drink of the scotch, and eyed his cell phone when he heard it beeping insistently at him to inform him of a voicemail.

From Mel.

Carefully, he had dialed her number, relayed his location to her, and then hung up the phone. Two glasses of scotch was enough, he agreed with himself, as he drained the second glass down to the halfway point, and set about people watching to pass the time until his girlfriend arrived.

I'm a man, but I'm not a pig. There is something that makes a man go wild, at the sight of a woman's leg sliding out through the slit in that dress, or the way your hand quivers as you smooth your palm against the curve of her hip, when you can taste the salt on her skin as you kiss at her neck. Men are just defined as sexual creatures. It is in our brains and in our blood that we must reproduce, sow our seed, if you will, and we have to claim women as our own.

Some men choose to do this by screwing and leaving, or roughing up their women in bed. They're just there for sex, right? Who cares about loving them, or treating them right.

That's not who I am.

I believe in the art of seduction. Playing hard to get is one of my special tricks. I tease and a tempt, because I think the reward will be all the sweeter in the end, if that's how it is supposed to work. If it's supposed to be something hard, fast, and frantic, I'm not against sneaking out to the backseat of an SUV with tinted windows in the parking garage.

Foreplay is man's gift to woman.

And I love it.

So there.

Muse: Dr. Greg House
Fandom: House, M.D.
Word Count: 213

For one day, you get a free pass to do anything you want to one person. They will not remember it tomorrow, and whatever you do will wear off in 24 hours. Who? And what?

It's not what I would do to someone, but what I would do with someone.

My father.

I would talk with my father.

[screened only to Mel]

I envy you, and what you've told me about your dad. I won't deny it. I also envy you for what you have with your son, with the bond that you have, and the bond that Brian got to have with him. I know I told you that I don't want any kids, and I understand that you don't want anymore kids, and I'm not changing that statement. I'm also not saying that I want to step up to the reins and help you parent your son, but, you need to know that I'm willing to help. I know it takes time, and I know I may never get the chance. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't want it, just a little.

You have someone who loves you unconditionally. Who trusts you no matter what. Who knows that you can make anything, and everything, better. I know I have your love, and your trust, but I also know that I can't make everything better, no matter how hard I try.

I dunno. I'm just rambling, I suppose.

[end screened]

I would talk with him. Find out why he said what he said. Why he treated me like he did. Why I didn't matter. And after 24 hours, I would hope to have my answers. If not, then, oh well. No loss.


Muse: Dr. Greg House
Fandom: House, M.D.
Words: 243

House had come home on his lunch, to find the front door open and squad cars outside.

That put him into a mild panic, and he quickly stepped into the house and eyed the disaster area that had taken place. The dog was barking angrily from the backyard, jumping up against the sliding glass door as she attempted to get in and chase the police officers out. At first, he was worried and scared that this was somebody there to get him, or Mel, or Drew, but when he saw Tritter standing in the hall, bag of Vicodin bottles in his hand, his stomach sank.

"I want to see a warrant."

"And you'll get one," the detective answered, slapping a piece of paper against his chest. "Boys are working on getting that cabinet in the bedroom open, hope you don't have more surprises in there."

House's face fell. That was her gun cabinet. And there were papers in there she told him never to look at. His hand went for the phone on his belt, and he dialed her number. When it went to voicemail, he left an urgent message.

"Mel, you need to get home. Drew's alright, but the son of a bitch has a warrant and he's searching the house, I don't know what you have,"

The voice of a cop could be heard in the background, warning Tritter that he had the safe open and that there were firearms inside, before the detective just walked over and took the phone away from him. "He'll have to talk to you later, because Gregory House, put your hands behind your back,"

The call ended.

House rolled his eyes as Tritter yanked his arms back behind him and cuffed him again. "This is merely a precaution, if we have firearms on site." He murmured, before he pulled him over and sat him down in the hallway, against the wall.