Gentle Knock - Chapter 81 by zeppomarx (house fanfic)

Title: A Gentle Knock at the Door, Chapter 81
Author: zeppomarx
Characters: House, Wilson, Cuddy, Foreman, Chase, and others.
Warnings and So On: Definitely safe. H/W friendship.
Summary: House is a physical and emotional mess, having been wrongly imprisoned and tortured and all sorts of nasty stuff. It's about what happens next, and how House deals with it. A sequel to Priority's Exigencies, which is a sequel to DIY Sheep's The Contract, which has spawned an incredible number of offshoots.
Timeline: Set nearly a year after the beginning of Exigencies.
Earlier chapters: Chapters 1-16 here. Chapters 18-43 here. Chapters 44-61 here. Chapters 62-67 here. Chapters 68-79 here. Chapters 80-? here.

COMMENTS: If you'll keep commenting, I'll keep responding. I promise. Really. (If you've commented on the last few of chapters, you might want to go back and take a look -- I've responded to all of you. And I'm willing to respond again, if you reply to my responses.)

Oh, Yeah, the Disclaimer: Still don't own the characters (except the ones I created). I appreciate them, though, except when they wander around in my brain and won't let me sleep.

SUMMARY: The mysterious George Carter keeps calling. Who is he and what does he want?

TEASER: Enough...

___________________________________________

A Gentle Knock at the Door
Chapter 81

On a day after winter ceded to spring, Linda answered the phone and took another message from George Carter. From the kitchen, she felt House’s eyes on her, and caught his subtle glance and nodded. Again. He’d been calling every day or so for weeks. And every time he called, Rainie got agitated.

An hour later, while Claudia DuBois was in Rainie’s room for morning massage and therapy, House used his walker to go into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator door, he grabbed a can of ginger ale to settle the queasiness in his stomach brought on by the pain meds.

“What are we going to do about this?” asked Linda.

“Not sure.”

“She gets so upset when I give her the messages, but it doesn’t seem right not to tell her he’s called.”

House got that look on his face, the one that Linda couldn’t read.

“We can’t keep buying pottery for her to break. Well, actually, we can—God knows we can afford it—but it seems a waste of cheap ceramics. As it is, there are too many shards to fit in our plant pots. Maybe we should just buy more plants.”

* * * *

“I’ll see him.”

“You sure?”

Rainie set her jaw and nodded grimly.

“Do you want to do this alone?” House searched her face for nonverbal clues. Her eyes flickered for just a fraction of a second, and he saw fear. He had his answer. No matter what her response, he was not going to leave her all alone with someone who frightened her. She’d had enough fear.

“Yes.” She sounded determined.

He waited, continuing to watch her face. Her hazel eyes gazed right through him. He saw sorrow, anger and then, again, a flash of fear.

“I don’t think so,” he said. She looked up at him, startled. Startled and, perhaps, relieved. “If you want me to go to another room for a while, okay. But I’m staying close.”

Slowly, her head tilted back as she exhaled a long, slow breath and stared at the ceiling. He thought he saw tears beginning to develop in her eyes.

They sat like that for a long while, Rainie staring at the ceiling and House staring at Rainie.

“Okay,” she said finally. “That would be good.”

* * * *

PRESS RELEASE
For Immediate Release

The Evie Foundation today announced the appointment of its board of directors.

The nonprofit foundation, recently formed with $10.6 million in seed money, was created to provide medical and psychological assistance, and to support research into better methods of recovery, for people who have survived catastrophic injuries.

The newly named board members are Drs. Gregory House, Lisa Cuddy, Karen Langley, Jacey Liu, James Wilson and Ian Yeung, plus journalist Evan Schuster and founder/president of the foundation, Maureen Eloise Adler.

* * * *

Under all the other pain—the pain in his hand, the pain in his head, the pain in his back and his feet and his teeth and his toenails and his eyelashes and his hair—House could feel the sharp, burning ache of his right thigh. For a time, other agonies had masked it. Now, maybe, those injuries were getting better, allowing the old torment to break through. Or maybe the leg had gotten worse because of Pevey’s assault on it.

It hadn’t seemed that bad all those months ago in the hospital. Of course, in the hospital, he’d been on morphine.

Didn’t matter why. What mattered was that he couldn’t escape it. Even with all the other anguish that had happened since, he couldn’t get away from the first and worst.

And the problem with having yet another surgery on his right hand, he realized, was that he couldn’t use that hand to rub his thigh, to try to ease the spasms. He tried rubbing the area with his night splint, but succeeded only in jabbing himself in a tender spot. A small cry tumbled out. Frustrated, he slipped the splint off and tried again, but all that did was make his hand hurt.

Lying in bed, he looked at the clock. Eight. Claudia wouldn’t be here till nine, and then she’d spend the first hour with Rainie. Two hours. Two very long hours. Maybe Linda could massage it. But no. It was Thursday, and she had the day off.

Over the last few weeks, he’d tried to get the other two to work on it, but neither Max nor Latisha—hired to replace Marina—were any good at therapeutic massage. They just rubbed randomly, without any real understanding of anatomy or human physiology, and therefore without any relief.

He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. Oh, God! It was unbearable! His leg had woken him up at two, throbbing at first, and then stabbing. By six, he had maxed on his meds, and it was just getting worse. No therapy and no more meds till ten.

He gripped the sheets, closed his eyes and tried to breathe. In, slowly. Out, slowly. In. Out. In. Out.

Well, that killed a whole fifteen seconds. He needed distraction. Where was that remote?

He couldn’t find it. Lifting the covers, he searched the bed. Not there. The bedside table. Nope. The floor around the bed. Not there either. Had he kicked it off the bed? Struggling to sit up, he tried to see over the end of the bed. Or was it perhaps underneath?

A sharp contraction suddenly hit him, knocking the air out of him, and making his eyes sting. He tried to remember how to breathe.

Where was the damned thing, anyway?

He was considering sliding off the bed to search under it when the door opened. Latisha entered carrying a tray.

“Breakfast, Dr. House.”

“Where the hell is the remote?!” yelled House, totally uninterested in breakfast.

Latisha was getting used to House’s moods, but they always took her by surprise before she remembered what Linda had told her. If he’s cranky, he’s in pain. If he’s really cranky, it’s more pain than you can begin to imagine.

“Let me help you find it,” she said after a moment, setting the tray down on the recliner.

Together they searched the room, finally tracking down the elusive remote wedged between the headboard and the mattress.

“There you go,” said Latisha, heading back out of the room.

Sighing with visible relief, House turned on the set and began scanning for something to watch, something that could keep his mind occupied until ten.

Breakfast might do that, too. Hadn’t Latisha said something about breakfast?

Grimacing in frustration, he realized the breakfast tray was still perched on the recliner, too far away to reach.

“Latisha!!”

A moment later, she reappeared.

“Breakfast?” said House, conjuring up all the annoyance he could muster.

“Oh, sorry, Dr. House. Let me get it for you.”

The six most aggravating words in the English language, thought House. Let me get it for you. They implied an inability to get it for yourself and a casual condescension on the part of the ineffable ass who uttered them.

Over the sound of his TV, he could hear Rainie’s through the adjoining wall. She seemed to be watching an old movie. House thought he heard Spencer Tracy. Changing to TCM, the sounds of the two TVs merged. Sure enough. Boys Town. That ought to keep him entertained for a few minutes, although the film was nearing its end. He hoped something involving would follow. Otherwise, he’d be channel surfing for… how long was it now...? …one hour and forty-seven minutes.

Now, about that breakfast. He looked over the tray. Pancakes, bacon, melon, coffee. That was complex enough to keep him busy for a while.

Next door, Rainie got out of bed. House heard the muffled thud of her crutches as she headed off to the bathroom. About an hour after he’d woken up at two, he’d heard occasional soft moans through the adjoining wall. Over the next six hours, the moans had waxed and waned, but never disappeared entirely. Apparently, she hadn’t had a good night either. And today the mysterious George Carter was coming by.

The water was running in the shower. With all the bars added, plus the shower seat, Rainie could just about bathe herself, but Latisha would need to stay in there with her just to make sure she didn’t lose her balance and get hurt. House would be pretty much on his own for the next half-hour.

Trying out his newly operated-on fingers, he carefully picked up the fork and speared a piece of melon on the first try. Not bad, he thought. Next stop, Carnegie Hall.

* * * *

He’d been remarkably patient about the mysterious Mr. Carter, which hadn’t stopped him from playing detective on his own. Despite his best efforts, however, he’d had very little luck. It was such a common name that he’d found 62 of them in the New York City area alone. Was it the George Carter who was a jeweler in the Village? Or the George Carter who owned a construction business in New Rochelle? Or one of dozens of other George Carters? And no matter which one it was, what did that George Carter have to do with Maureen Eloise Adler, girl reporter?

More than anything right now, he wanted to know with whom he was dealing, and why this man frightened and angered Rainie.

“Before he gets here, do you want to clue me in?” asked House.

“Not really,” she said. “He’s someone I’d rather not ever see again.”

“Then why are you seeing him at all?” asked House. “Why even bother, if it upsets you this much?”

She looked away, and her eyes looked sadder than he’d ever seen them. Who was this man, and what kind of hold did he have over her?

“I have to.”

“But why?”

“I have to know. I have to know why he’s sought me out. I have to know if I’m right.”

House understood overwhelming curiosity, but he didn’t understand this. She was extremely upset at the idea of seeing this man—she’d had an emotional reaction every time he’d called—none as bad as the first, but bad enough—but still she felt she had to see him anyway. Why? And what did she mean, I have to know if I’m right? Right about what?

She looked at him, and read his mind. Then she looked down and spoke, her voice low.

“He’s my father.”

NEXT: The Visitor...

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