Chapter Text
James succumbed and called for help. A few minutes of standing shivering in the kitchen with tears and snot draining down his face was more than enough for him; his pride couldn’t extend far enough to endure this when he truly had no idea what to do. It was just another thing that set him apart from House, he could let himself believe. It counted for something that he could call for help when he needed it. It was around 3 AM. James was deeply grateful House’s cellphone was still in his pocket. House sounded worried when he picked up the phone, and he made it to the condo in record time.
Getting across the condo to let him in was a monumental task, and he was leaning heavily on the door handle when he opened it. House looked him up and down and frowned, knitting his eyebrows together.
“You really do look like shit.” House brushed past him to get inside and helped James close the door. “When was the last time you ate?” James thought. “What was the last thing you ate?” House tried again. He extended an arm for James to lean on. James glared reproachfully at him, and then planted his weight on it. They slowly made their way to the couch, where House deposited James. “When did you last eat?” House repeated.
“I, uh, I just never got hungry,” James supplied weakly. House tilted his head.
“You’re- what are you, 5? You can’t just not eat.” His voice lacked much bite. “You’re sweating, you’re shaking, you’re pale. Does your stomach hurt?” James glared, but nodded. “What criteria for hunger do you have that’s going unmet, here?”
“I just- I- it didn’t feel like hunger. I didn’t know.” House rolled his eyes. His expression was soft. James looked away, feeling like a misbehaved kid. House walked away without a word. James felt too pitiful to call after him. He heard rustling and clanging from the kitchen, then the fridge door opening. Clicking from the starter in the stove top, then the scent of butter and garlic hit his nose. His stomach lurched and his mouth watered. God, could House be right about this? Was he really just hungry? James leaned back into the couch and stared teary-eyed into the ceiling. House’s body cried easily, he noted. It was embarrassing.
The woman on TV was advertising a device that allowed you to bake a cake with a filling made entirely of icing. James was contemplating who could possibly want that when a plate of food was thrust into his hands. It smelled delicious. It was in an actual china bowl, which was unusual for House, an avid user of disposable kitchenware. Real fork, too. House really was sucking up. Two slices of bread were stuck into the wide bed of noodles. Impromptu garlic bread. He took a hesitant bite of the toast. The garlic toast was good, which gave a little hope for the rest of it, though it was also hard to screw up bread, butter and garlic. When he picked up the fork, it scraped the bottom of the bowl, and the resultant sound almost made him drop it. James’ face scrunched up and his vision went white. It passed, leaving him with the sense that every aspect of the world was trying to attack him.
Being very careful not to scrape the bottom again, James ate some of the alfredo. There was no protein; he hadn’t seen any meat in House’s fridge. It was good anyway. A quarter into the bowl, he stopped shaking. In the other room, he could hear House doing dishes. Eventually, House came back with a glass of water and sat down on the couch on the far end from James. He took a sip of the water and then handed it to James without looking at him.
“Take your medicine,” House ordered. James looked up at House from the pasta, feeling a pit of dread form. House was right, of course. He needed to take the Vicodin. He was feeling better from the pasta, but going without the Vicodin could probably kill all of that progress. He didn’t want to take it. He was glaring at House more angrily than he could ever remember.
“No,” he replied, surprised as it came out of his mouth. “I don’t need it.” Of course he needed it. It was going to hurt. It already hurt. It was going to get worse. James was breathing hard.
“Okay.” House’s voice was impassive. He watched the cake mold commercial for another minute, and then got up.
“Where are you going?” James snapped nervously. He felt like a cornered dog. House opened a coat closet and reached up to a shelf in the top, pulling down a heavy wooden case. James had seen it before, but didn’t know what it was. House set it down on the side table next to James and opened it up. He pulled out a vial and a packaged syringe.
“We can do this the hard way, then.” House was keeping his voice level, but he sounded upset. “I’m not gonna deal with you twisting my back, shoulder and elbow compensating for the extra pain.” James thought about shoving the entire assembly to the ground, shattering everything inside. He turned sharply away from House, feeling tears again. He held out one hand. A rattling pill bottle, then two pills landed in is open palm. He took a sip of the water House had set on the coffee table and swallowed both, feeling them for every centimeter they moved down. Fucking humiliating. What was he, a toddler? A little kid who had to be coaxed into taking his medicine? Apparently so. House threw the opened syringe away in the kitchen trash can and put the rest of his freaky little drug kit back where it came from.
House sat back down on the couch and kicked his feet up on the coffee table.
“I’m changing this. We’ve watched it twice now.” House clicked the remote and frowned.
“You’re counting?” James asked incredulously. House was scrolling through a seemingly endless supply of Paid Programming. He closed his eyes.
“Eenie, meenie, minie,” he choose a channel. An aggressively cheerful woman onscreen was explaining to a gathered audience that the product would make a perfect pee puree. James’ eyebrows shot up.
“Oh, like the vegetable,” he realized aloud. House laughed.
“You hit your head today? Or, I mean, my head.”
“Shut up. It does hurt, though.”
“That happens.” House paused with a searching expression, then added, “you’ll feel better.” James wasn’t sure if he appreciated the effort or if it just made him uncomfortable. “Can you get to bed on your own now?”
“What time is it?” James asked. House hit the info button on the remote.
“4:27,” House replied as James read it on the screen.
“You’ve got work tomorrow, so I’ve got work tomorrow. I think I’m just going to stay up.” House gave him a judgmental look. “What? It’s what you would do.”
“That’s true.” The infomercial droned on. “You’ve got plenty of time to sleep. No one will expect you before 10:30.”
“Stop trying to convince me to go to sleep. It’s not happening.” James snapped. House rolled his eyes and settled in to watching the commercial intently. They lapsed into a silence that felt comfortable. It annoyed James how easy it was.
“I’m gonna make some coffee.” House jumped to his feet too quickly. It was a gesture that could be mistaken for awkwardness, but James was fairly sure that House was just enthused to be able to move that quickly. He disappeared into the kitchen and was drowned out by the television until the coffee machine started roaring. House came back with two cups of coffee. James looked suspiciously at him and the cup.
“What’d you put in this?”
“Nothing? Creamer?”
“And what else?”
“Wilson, why, right now, in this situation, would I waste drugs on you? Seriously.” James took the coffee and took a cautious sip. House had lied; there was also sugar. He wouldn’t have asked for it. He appreciated its presence. He liked his coffee with sugar normally, but House’s body seemed to have a real sweet tooth. The situation was so nauseatingly cozy that he wanted to sprint out the door and down the street. He was trapped, though.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” House asked teasingly. It was nice of him to ruin the too-intimate atmosphere that was building up.
“My girlfriend’s dead.”
“Yeah, well. So is JFK. You think they’re in the same place?”
“So is – same pl-” James laughed angrily, and the sound of House’s laugh made him trail off. House was right, though; that wasn’t really why he was upset. “Well, JFK’s at Arlington National Cemetery. Amber’s buried near her parents’ place in Bucks County. So.. I don’t think so.” House scrunched up his nose.
“I’ll drive you to work.”
“No you won’t. I don’t want me to be seen with you.”
“You could have just said you don’t want to be seen with me. Our circumstance doesn’t change the meaning of the sentence at all.” House wanted to sound airy, but his feelings were clearly hurt. He was having a hard time keeping his emotions off of James’ face, and wow, his eyebrows really were large and expressive.
“Do you have a case right now?”
“No. I’d be there if I did,” he laughed. James couldn’t tell if he was actually kidding. “Take a softball. Ease into it. You’ll get your legs, and if you don’t, just keep taking and solving easy cases.”
“You wouldn’t do that. People will get suspicious.”
“Oh, you’re right. You’re gonna take too many easy cases which will make my employees realize that our bodies were swapped by a witch. I should have thought of that.” House rolled his eyes. “They have nothing to be suspicious about. They might think I have a brain tumor, or something. You can lead them on about it if you want.”
“That’s awful, House.”
“It’s fun. You should try it. Or call out sick, if you want. They’ll all show up here if you do that, though.”
“Why would- oh.” Because they’d think House is trying to kill himself, right. That’s what he would assume. House avoided eye contact.
“What obligations of yours am I about to blow off?” House asked.
“Grief counseling Tuesdays. Therapist Thursdays.”
“Therapist Thursdays,” House repeated lyrically, “I like it.”
“Shut up. I have dinner with – oh fuck, Cameron.”
“You have dinner with Cameron?”
“Yeah. Tonight. You have to cancel. Come up with something.”
“Okay. I don’t like your face or your flat chest, Cameron, so I will not be in attendance of our Widows Anonymous meeting. P.S. please stop bleaching your hair, I don’t mind you looking like a hooker but you should shoot for an expensive one.”
“House! Tell her, uh. Tell her my parents are in town.”
“I like my story better.”
“Tell her I have a cold!” James pleaded.
“We’ll see.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Can you tell her that when you see her?”
“We’ll see,” James mocked. House laughed. Both of them were almost finished with their coffees.
At 7:20, James called it time to go. He struggled to his feet but rejected House’s attempts to help until he was fully outside and realized he’d left his keys. Defeated, he looked blankly at House, who disappeared inside without a word. When he came back and deposited his keys in James’ hands, James stared at them.
“Is it always this bad?” James asked, finally, as he made his way to the driver’s side door. House looked thoughtful and paused before finally replying,
“No.”
The ride to Princeton-Plainsboro was uneventful. James had taken custody of House’s car, which groaned and whined on the way, but really was tolerable enough. He parked in House’s spot and struggled out of the car. His next dose of Vicodin would be in two hours. James wished he hadn’t taken that early dose, because he really could have used it for the walk in. It was 8:00, which was very early for House to be in, but James couldn’t have stood another two hours of waiting around doing nothing. Being bored and in pain was worse than just being in pain. It was also a lot better than ruminating in pain.
“Good morning,” he said reflexively to a passing nurse, with a friendly smile. Oh, wait. The nurse’s eyes went wide and fearful.
“Uh, good morning,” she said quickly. She looked around like she was looking for a hidden camera and then absconded in the direction she had came from. James sighed. He’d have to be more careful not to act like himself. It was harder than he thought it would be not to fall into his own habits and routines.
Speaking of his own habits and routines, Cameron presented a challenge for him. She’d gotten to be a good friend of his, despite their prior issues, in wake of Amber’s death. She was loyal and understanding and helped him process his grief. Cameron knew him better than most people did, by now. She also knew House pretty well. Of course, not like he did, but enough that she’d notice House acting more like James.
When James was about 20 feet from the elevator, a doctor he didn’t recognize made eye contact with him from inside of it. She clearly recognized House, but James hadn’t met her. He hadn’t considered the idea that there were doctors in the hospital that House knew and he didn’t. She stared at him, head tilted a little. She stuck a hand in the elevator door to prevent it from closing. James stopped in his tracks and tilted his head back. Her eyebrows pressed together and raised. James stood perplexed for a few more seconds until she finally made an expression recognizably derisive, shrugged, and let the doors close. That was odd, and James would need to consult House on who that was and what she wanted. He walked the rest of the way to the doors and waited for the next elevator.
Clearly that woman was a hookup of House’s, he surmised. He tucked himself into the corner to let more people on, and the elevator filled up. Elevator Lady was familiar but not recognizable. She was a doctor, but nothing else about her stood out to him. Black hair, maybe? Or just really dark brown? How many hookups did House have wandering the hospital? James didn’t have a leg to stand on there, but he was curious anyway. It unsettled him to think that they could have slept with the same woman.
He was still lost in thought when he got off the elevator, so he was unprepared when he literally bumped into someone.
“I’m sorry!” He said, reflexively, again, and to maybe the worst person he could have. Cameron looked quizzically at him.
“You’re here early. And… apologizing. Did something happen?” She asked.
“Uh- um, well. Oh, hey! Cameron! If Ho- Wilson says anything crazy to you today, just ignore it, okay?”
“Oh, you and Wilson are talking again? I guess that would explain the mood.”
“No, uh. I haven’t spoken to him in two months,” James replied in a tone like he’d suddenly remembered a correct answer after turning the test in.
“Ohhhhkay. Why would he say something crazy to me?” Cameron’s voice was starting to sound concerned.
“I dunno, it just might happen. I’m gonna-” Feeling bad for the entire process, James picked his cane up off of the ground and nudged the small of Cameron’s back with it, gently pushing her out of the way. He went into House’s office and locked the door before she could come after him. Cameron stared through the glass, frowning. She knocked on it halfheartedly.
“Are you… okay?” She asked. James ignored her. She stared in for a few more seconds and then, looking troubled, took her leave. She was probably going to tell people what just happened, which was a shame. House was right, though, it wasn’t like anyone was going to have any real idea what was going on. James wondered if they could effectively get him sent to the psych ward and waste a week of time to figure the situation out, but he settled on “probably not.”
An hour passed. No one came to House’s office because no one was expecting him there. James took a single pill when it came time to re-dose. He didn’t want to be as dependent on it as House was, and at the current rate, he had time to taper down. Anyway, he had no case and as yet no expectations, so it seemed like the ideal time. Maybe House’s liver would send him a thank-you card. At 9:30, Foreman entered- or, tried to enter. James winced when he remembered the locked door, which Foreman was quizzically knocking on. He lumbered across the office to open it, apologizing as he did. Again.
“You’re.. sorry?” Foreman asked, slowly.
“No.”
“You said you were sorry. I heard you say you were sorry,” Foreman pressed.
“You’re mistaken. Hallucinating.” James corrected himself at the end. The delivery didn’t have House’s confidence, though, and clearly fell flat to an incredibly suspicious Foreman.
“Are you feeling okay?” Foreman brought a hand up to James’ forehead, who was so surprised by the action that he failed to swat Foreman’s hand away. Instead, he stood looking awestruck and pitiful. “No fever,” Foreman said, surprisingly gently. A thought wormed its way into James’ head without his consent; Foreman really was handsome. Finally, James had control of House’s limbs again and swatted at Foreman’s hand.
“I’m fine,” he snapped, immediately feeling bad. The harshness clearly held no weight to Foreman.
“Well, you should let me know if you experience any other symptoms,” Foreman replied, disbelieving. “We should order you an MRI if you do. We probably should anyway. There could be consequences to the deep brain stimulation only now starting to manifest.”
“I don’t need an MRI, I’m f-- …” James hadn’t considered the deep brain stimulation. He hadn’t considered, in general, the damaged state of House’s brain. And, yeah, a change of personality was a concerning symptom given recent events. On the bright side, that would probably keep anyone from suggesting he be institutionalized. “I’ll let you know. Or you’ll notice on your own, probably.” It was still too friendly. He really would have to practice being House. James’ friendly disposition was too carefully trained. Breaking it would feel like pissing himself.
Cuddy made her entrance at just the right time to sweep the awkwardness between James and Foreman under the rug. She was holding a stack of files, and was looking around the room with her mouth ajar.
“I have cases. Where is everyone?” It was 10, now, which James supposed was late for House’s fellows to be in.
“There’s construction. He got here before it started, I got here before the flagger quit.”
“Why would the flagger quit?” Cuddy balked.
“House isn’t the only cranky bastard at this hospital.” James chuckled, got two sharp and strange looks, and remembered his position as Acting House. He tried not to visibly cringe.
“Right, well, what have you got?” He asked. Cuddy seemed to switch back on at that.
“Guy came in the clinic two days ago claiming to be urinating insects.”
“Was he?”
“No.”
“So he’s psychotic. That’s not that interesting interesting and it’s really not my job.”
“Well, they admitted him for psychosis, which is where he’s been for the last 48 hours. Says he isn’t seeing the bugs anymore but he can still feel them. Psych’s planning on discharging him soon.”
“Drugs.”
“Urinalysis was negative.” Cuddy smiled; she had that tone like she knew she had a winner. James rolled his eyes.
“Sure, I’ll come down and see Mr. Bug Penis. Maybe we can get a scope all the way in his bladder before we realize that he just needs more olanzapine!” James got to his feet and gestured to the door with his cane. “Lead the way.” Cuddy looked like she had something else to say, but she kept it to herself.
The walk to the patient was long and full of awkward silences. Cuddy explained that she’d had him moved to a bed before Psychiatry could discharge him, due to her concern that his delusion had a physical cause. Psychiatry had disagreed with her, but she had the final say. She opened the door for James when they got to the room. The patient was in his early 20’s, had short brown hair and a weak beard, and was patiently waiting when they came in. He had his hands folded over his waist and looked up patiently. He seemed perfectly pleasant. James looked back at Cuddy pleadingly.
“How, uhhhh.” James trailed off to come closer to the patient, picking up his chart. “Dwight. Okay. How are you doing on the olanzapine?” Cuddy was looking at him like he’d grown two heads, but James needed to try and accomplish something resembling patient care, and no amount of observing House made you capable of being House.
“Fine, I guess,” Dwight replied, watching James fiddle with tubes. “I mean, I don’t like it. I hate being this tired. But it sure beats seeing bugs coming out of my dick. I just wish the feeling of it would go away.”
“Is it a feeling, or a memory of a feeling?” James asked. Dwight frowned.
“It’s a feeling. Right? I can feel it right now. It feels real.” Dwight looked much more uncomfortable than he had before. “Speaking of, I think I have to pis- uh, pee, really bad. I- I don’t-” Dwight was unsteadily trying to get up when James heard liquid hitting the ground. When James rounded the corner (with adrenaline he found himself moving much faster than he had been) he saw blood splatter on the floor between Dwight’s legs and on his gown. He looked mortified. “I’m sorry,” Dwight whimpered.
“It- don’t apologize for bleeding! Are you insane!?” James helped his patient up with some pain. A nurse took over for him, and another nurse ushered him away from the blood. “Prostate cancer?” James thought aloud. House’s voice hitting his ears gave him some much-needed abstraction from his thoughts, which he almost followed up on aloud when Cuddy did it for him.
“I think that’s jumping to conclusions. You’re just thinking about Wilson.” James glanced back at her searchingly, then back at this file.
“There’s no urinalysis in here other than the drug screen,” he mused, flipping through the pages.
“What, are you serious?” She took the file from him and looked it up and down. “Oh my god.” James felt his face starting to get hot, and his ears sounded like waves.
“Is the doctor who failed to diagnose a urinary tract infection currently employed in this hospital?” He asked, laughing. It must have sounded strange, he thought, for his own anger to come out of House’s mouth. House didn’t usually laugh when he was mad. James felt disconnected from the scene. His voice was raising, but he could only tell from the reactions of the people around him. He must have been yelling. “How many people did this pass unnoticed?” Cuddy flinched, which made him feel guilty; fortunately, any consequences would be mainly House’s problem.
“A lot, House,” her voice was placating and gentle. It reminded James of someone speaking to a spooked horse. He guessed the risk of getting hit in the head was similar. “I’m sorry. I’ll make sure he’s taken care of properly.”
“I’ll do it,” James snapped, and stormed out of the room, file in hand.
It was a straightforward problem, and one that James had resolved to his satisfaction by 3pm. He rammed tests and medications past due process, just like House would have, and grappled with the knowledge of how much faster this patient was being treated and handled than his usual patients. There wasn’t anything he could do about that unless he wanted to take over his regular caseload, which was suspicious, strange, and likely illegal. Thirteen and Kutner called out; Taub showed up and was immediately sent home, which he seemed displeased about but ultimately accepted. James felt nauseous again, which was becoming a fact of House’s body for him. He grimaced and covered his mouth, leaning on the wall as he sat and stared absently at House’s locked computer. Cuddy broke his silence.
“Here,” she said, setting down a foil-wrapped sandwich in front of him. “Lunch. You’ve been skipping it without Wilson’s food to steal.”
“Mm. Have I?” He asked, taking the sandwich and unwrapping it.
“Yeah.” She sat down across from him, legs crossed in a ladylike fashion that James was sure had been drilled into her for as long as she could remember. “I’m sorry about that case. That should never have gotten as far as you.” James huffed.
“It’s not me you need to apologize to. Try the guy bleeding from his penis.” His voice was soft and sad. He took a bite of the sandwich and didn’t taste it. “I can’t believe nobody checked. I can’t believe I didn’t check.”
“Foreman says you haven’t been yourself today.” Cuddy said, cautiously.
“Foreman said that? Well, I’m sure he knows all about when I’m feeling like myself.” James rolled his eyes.
“He knows you pretty well, House.” Cuddy addressing him by name made him jump; he’d half forgotten his situation. “He’s worried. We all are. Have you tried to talk to him again?”
“Foreman?”
“Wilson,” she chided. “I don’t really get how that relationship functions, but he means the world to you and I know he feels the same. Tell him you’re sorry that Amber’s gone.”
“Am I sorry..? I’ve told him. He, uh. He doesn’t respond. To my calls. Voicemails. Texts.” House was clingy, and James was starting to feel like an asshole. “He probably needs space.”
“Well.. It’ll work out, House. It always does.” She got up to make her leave. “Call me if you need anything.” As she started out, James made a decision to make his life as House’s understudy easier.
“Actually, there’s one thing.” She turned and smirked.
“My ass is off limits for personal favors.” James felt his face go red.
“Uh- uh, thanks for the offer, but that’s not it. I.” He paused for a moment, trying to think of how House might request what he was intending to ask for. He wouldn’t, was the problem. “Physical therapist.” Cuddy looked surprised, and then thoughtful. She walked back over to House’s desk and scribbled a number on a scrap of paper. “This is Dr. West.”
“Do I know him?”
“I don’t know. Older white guy, muscular, leathery.”
“Spray tan?”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t narrow it down much.”
“I’ll give him a call. … Get out?” He was exhausted, and especially tired of playing House.
“Roger.” She did a faux-salute and left, grinning the entire time. James could imagine how giddy he would have been three months ago, if House had suddenly voluntarily agreed to PT. This wasn’t a victory, though. House wasn’t trying to get healthier, James was just trying to make the best of a bad situation. He dialed the number from the hospital phone, and a receptionist picked up exceptionally quickly.
“Princeton-Plainsboro Rehabilitation Institute, this is Lexie speaking. Do you have an appointment?”
“Uh. I’d like to make one.”
“Yes sir, could I get your name?”
“Dr. Gregory House.”
“Please hold.”