Shifting Gears
Summary: He swears he's never coming back to Middletown, New York. He's only here to please Cuddy; he won't be making it a habit.
Warning: Spoiler for 5x16, "The Softer Side" and 5x19, "Locked In"
Disclaimer: I decided to sneak into the convention disguised as David Shore, then realized that being a woman and looking nothing like him, this might be rather difficult....consequently, there's no reason to fool people into believing that I own House, which....(drumroll)....alas, I do not.
A/N: For some reason, perhaps due to the font type that I used when posting, there may be some words missing from certain paragraphs. If while reading you encounter this, just scroll over the spot entirely with the pointer of your mouse, & it shall magically appear! (P.S.: it only takes a second.)
“On an average day, how bad is the pain, using a scale of one to ten?” asks the ancient, balding specter behind the desk that has introduced himself as Dr. Ackerman, as House, rather than listening, takes a careful, calculating survey of the room. His eyes hungrily scour the room and jot down mental notes of every passing object, because every object tells a story, and the story that House hopes to find is one that will reassure him who exactly is the real “nut job”.
So far, he has noted that the psychiatrist is obsessed with ships, particularly sloops of all kinds. He can see at least a dozen pictures of sloops on the walls and lining the shelves. Most of them are Bermudas, or those with a single mast; Wilson would be impressed to find there are also several schooners (two-masts), including several subgroups consisting of yawls and ketches…the guy has clearly done his homework. In fact, with his income, the psychiatrist probably owns at least a couple boats himself; his family probably makes a regular weekend outing of it.
House isn’t sure why he settles with this image, because he still hasn’t found any hints of a family yet…particularly a happy family. His eyes continue to skim the bookshelf, pointedly avoiding Dr. Ackerman’s peculiarly ogling gaze. The acidic rusty smell of old books seeps from the shelves like the stench of a leaky gas pipe, adding to his already pounding headache. Finally, he finds what he is looking for in the small frame of two healthy-looking brats each with their arms around a giant, drooling Old English Sheepdog, whose mass takes up most of the shot and is greater than the two kids’ bodies combined. Next to the kids he spots an even smaller frame, but he can’t see the photo it contains. The photo is hidden from view, because the frame is facing him from reverse. Interesting, thinks House, and, in quiet satisfaction, he smiles.
“Well, it must be a good day then…Should I take that nonverbal response as a 2?” The moron is practically beaming at him with pleasure and, perhaps House imagines it all, but he’s pretty certain that the man actually winks at him.
In mere moments, he’s become a volcano nearly ready to erupt; yet, House already has what he wants, so no dramatic climax is necessary. “I see you got your Doctoral Degree in Psychiatry at John Hopkins,” he remarks brightly, his whole face stinging with the effort to keep his smile intact. “I went there too…it’s a top-notch school….some of the best days of my life happened there.” Remember, he’s a psychiatrist…and even though psychiatrists are another breed of doctors, they’re still in the same exact field as shrinks--they get paid to talk.
“Yeah? You went to Hopkins? Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised…Dr. Cuddy tells me that you’re a brilliant diagnostician.” Dr. Ackerman plays it smooth, but he’s overjoyed, House can tell, to discover that they have something in common. In fact, he’s so positively giddy that if House didn’t know better, he would have thought Dr. Ackerman had the photo switched because he had a secret male lover smiling broadly on the other side of it. It’s not just the starry-eyed expression that leads House to believe Dr. Ackerman knows far more about House’s professional life than he’s currently letting on…it’s because this man, having just met him for the first time, is pushing far too hard to please him. To please him…or please Cuddy…either way, it can’t be good, because whenever something goes too well for all concerned in the beginning, everyone always winds up either extremely pissed, slightly bitter, or simply just disappointed….again.
He wonders what Dr. Ackerman would think of Dr. Cuddy, if he were to indulge him with one of John Hopkins University’s best top-secret tales of the time that he and Lisa had made sweet, sweet love on the coroner’s table.
“She said that, did she,” he mumbles low to the floor, cursing Cuddy for talking him into come here in the first place. He smiles unexpectedly as he suddenly recalls one day her storming determinedly into his office, demanding that if he ever pulled a stunt like taking Methadone again without her knowing, she’d fire him, if he didn’t go hire himself a psychiatrist…and when he blatantly refused, knowing full well she was bluffing (and knowing that she knew it too), Cuddy saying that even if he was off the Methadone for good, she was going to double his clinic hours for good if he didn’t at least make an attempt to get his act together, ”…Somehow!”.
So here he was, against his will, taking a last-chance effort to calm the bear again, except he couldn’t really be sure what it was that Cuddy expected of him this time. In fact, he’s bit disappointed that Cuddy would even consider that any kind of medicine, even an antidepressant in addition to Vicodin, could be the answer. She should know by now that anything he tries is certain to compromise his health in some way, and that she’s simply wasting her precious time by staying up nights over his safety. He knows he’s not there to have any sort of life-changing epiphany that would turn his world into rainbows and sunshine; that is the stuff of poorly-written chick flicks, and old-time black-and-white movies that magically transforms Wilson into a gigantic weeping Buddha.
“Lisa’s been telling me over the phone that lately, she’s been very, actually extremely, worried about you,” Dr. Ackerman divulges, luring back his waning attention with the skills of a highly trained lion tamer.
“Everyone always worries about me…and they shouldn’t,” House retorts lamely, voice grim and frowning as he jiggles a secret vial of Vicodin. He’s hidden it in the pocket of his thick hooded sweatshirt, debating on whether he should silence the scream in his leg and, in the presence of a newfound psychiatrist, down three pills at a time, in plain view.
“And why ‘shouldn’t’ they worry?” His eyes bright, Dr. Ackerman is eating up his words like they’re candy, and House wrestles with a sudden twisting sensation of dread settling deep down in the pit of his gut. He can’t lift his eyes; he’s almost certain that if he does, he’ll be face to face with an ink blot. He’s certain that, in the catacombs of Dr. Ackerman’s mind, the dusty spine of an ancient book displaying the term ‘inferiority complex’ is currently being checked out, revealing the symbolic picture of an iceberg on the cover. Except that, in House’s head, the same book has a different cover, revealing the state of an iceberg melting quickly under the heavy pressure of global warming.
“Dr. Cuddy is truly fearful that one day you’re going to hurt yourself irreparably, Greg….”
House locks eyes with the older doctor, as he feels his entire body grow rigid, and growls, “Don’t call me ‘Greg’….”
“…and personally, I’d like to know why you didn’t seek a psychiatrist, when you took on the Methadone…that’s very tricky business. In fact, I’d like to know the name of the doctor who prescribed it to you…because I’d like to give him a call…I’d like to know why he felt it was a good idea to take you off of a drug that you’ve probably become dependent on, and switch you to an also potentially addictive drug without any psychological assistance.”
“He knew what he was doing,” House replies steadily, his voice firm. “I’ve known him for a long time, and I know how he thinks.”
Dr. Ackerman, however, still sounds unconvinced; he must know that House is mainly a loner, and not usually one to let others in on his secrets. “This doctor, is he a…friend, of yours? Dr. Cuddy tells me you mainly keep to yourself. How does this man know so much about your condition?”
House debates how to most carefully answer that question. “Friend, no…Colleague, yes….and it’s hard to miss the cane...people have tried…but you simply can’t hide a cripple.”
“Dr. Cuddy tells me you have one friend at the hospital…a Dr. Wilson, in Oncology….She suspected it was him.”
He’s not surprised that Cuddy would rather believe it was Wilson than outright ask him instead of stalling and guessing….except stalling is lately what she’s best at, so he can’t really be surprised. It isn’t lost on him that he’s currently stalling too, so he replies curtly, “He would have told her the lame theory that I was on heroin, because, pathetically, that’s what he sincerely believed…I wish I could say that Wilson went to Hopkins as well, but I don’t think he would have gotten in….sadly, he’s not as bright as you’d think.”
“And yet, you’re friends with him,” Dr. Ackerman adds, promptly donning his Shrink Hat.
“Colleagues,” House bristles, crossing and uncrossing his good leg as he shifts about trying to find a comfortable position on the couch, “and we just happen to have some things in common, that’s all.”
“Such as…?” encourages the cunning psychiatrist, in the same alluring tone as Wilson when he’s delicately probing, “Go on…?”
“Well, there’s always…” House grimaces visibly as he hears himself confess in an almost inaudible whisper, “monster trucks…”
“Interesting,” says Dr. Ackerman, and, to House’s utter amazement, giggles gleefully like a schoolgirl, and, shaking his head in amusement, actually begins to take notes.
“Why are you writing that down?” House demands with alarm, as it suddenly dawns on him that Cuddy could hear about this, because he’s pretty much decided that he’s not coming back.
“Oh…don’t mind me, sir, I’m just scribblin’,” Dr. Ackerman returns in a most jovial voice, as he abruptly snaps the folder shut, before House can manage to sneak a look. “You act like I’m going to throw you to the wolves or something,” Dr. Ackerman chuckles ceaselessly, as he sees the panicked expression nakedly revealed on House’s face. “You’re not running from the law, are you? Should I be calling the FBI?”
Just stay away from anyone with a police badge named Tritter. “If I were on the lamb,” House replies dryly, “it would be pretty stupid of me to be sitting here chewing the fat with you in a neighboring state not too far from the town that I live in, now, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s just a joke, Son.” Dr. Ackerman is staring straight at him; he’s giving him the look again---the one hat he’s sure is mostly reserved for the really special clients like, for instance, Wilson’s schizophrenic brother. True, House uses humor himself as a coping mechanism, but usually his target is someone other than himself. This man seems to think that his situation is laughable, when sometimes it’s so painful he can barely dare to breath.
“You really should try to loosen up…try to see the bright side of things…sometimes physical pain is psychosomatic, Dr. House, as I’m sure you well know…you might want to try and give yourself a break once in a while.”
Psychosomatic…House shudders. (That word.)
To House, this is possibly one of the greatest insults a doctor could make to the face of a patient with chronic pain. The first thing that comes to mind is, Does he think I’m faking an infarction? It infuriates him to be placed in a situation where he must prove himself again. He’s suddenly brought back in time to the look on Cuddy’s face as he begged her for morphine and, when she refused, he forced himself to show her the scar…the ugly scar…because it seems that a limp and a cane sometimes just aren’t humiliating enough.
Now, he’s finding himself under the spotlight again…and he’s certainly not going to prove how much he’s suffering by undergoing the same humiliation, but this time in front of a man. On the outside he’s a rock, but on the inside, suddenly he’s his father’s son again, looking straight into blank eyes that don’t offer any reward, searching for any kind of hint that there’s someone behind those eyes. Thinking, Can’t he just see that I’m trying, simply doing the best I know how?
“We have an outpatient program that offers psychotherapy and holistic therapies like yoga,” Dr. Ackerman is meanwhile laying down the groundwork for admissions. “You could come here on weekends; it wouldn’t interfere with your job; you wouldn’t have to let anyone know---”
“Forget it,” House mutters flatly, pushing himself with much difficulty to rise from the couch, “I’m not buying a ticket into your lousy program…so save it for some other sucker who thinks a ninety day stretch at some country club is going to numb his pain. Anyway, I already did the Rehab thing---or maybe Cuddy already told you…so re-do the math, if you’re thinking that one worked out for the better.”
Dr. Ackerman’s voice is amazingly calm, but his eyes tell a different story, and they’re expertly hurling daggers at him from across the room. “Sit back down, Dr. House, our time is not yet up.”
“I hired you…and I’ll decide when our time is up,” House replies coldly. “And, according to me, it’s right now. Goodbye.” With that, he snatches his cane and heads straight for the door.
“You’re making a big mistake, Greg,” Dr. Ackerman calls out after him, daring once more to use the informal, and, without answering, he grits his teeth and keeps going. Not as big a mistake as the one you just made, Doctor.
Outside, the rain has disappeared and the sky is an artistic visionary’s dream of different colors, but House is far too blind with rage to appreciate it. As he crosses the lot towards his bike, he reflexively swallows dry four Vicodin and checks his phone for messages. There’s at already three message from Cuddy, one from Chase (?) four from the team, and at least six messages from Wilson. Shit---It suddenly occurs to him that they were supposed to meet for lunch that day, and now he’ll have to come up with some clever explain to excuse his absence, because he knows Wilson will demand to know where he’s been.
His leg is still throbbing with a vengeance as he saddles himself onto the bike, and he’s glad that the wind will be soon be accompanying him as an easy distraction. House downs the clutch hard, and, due to the biting cold, he has to bump start the bike several times before the engine finally roars to life.
Not before long, he’s on the outskirts of town, and, by some twist of fate, he’s the only one on the road. The forest swallows him whole, and he tries to forget where he’s been. Something, however, is nagging at him, and it’s the knowledge that he knows he’s gotten off far too easy.
The puddle comes up from out of nowhere as he rounds the bend at 65 mph, but it’s not a puddle---it’s a pothole, and it catches him completely by surprise. Panic seizing, instead of progressively applying pressure, his mind doesn’t listen to logic and stomps down hard on the Repsol Honda’s front breaks: and it doesn’t take long for him to realize he’s probably just secured himself a death sentence. Seconds later, and he’s spinning madly out of control; he front breaks have locked, and he’s become a whirling dervish. He knows he’s going to crash, and there’s nothing he can do to prevent it.
The last thing he remembers is catching sight of his cane flying over his head, and, as he hits the ground, thinking regretfully: There goes Cane # 5….