Cure- House, MD

chapter 18: leftovers

The glow of the TV casts shifting shadows across the room, the soft hum of a movie filling the silence between us. I'm curled up on the couch, a half-empty plate of leftover lasagna balanced on my lap. House is next to me, legs stretched out, his own plate resting precariously on the arm of the couch. He's fully engrossed in the screen—or at least pretending to be—but I know better.

It's something I like about him, the way he never complains about the small things. Leftovers, mismatched furniture, the movie choices he pretends to hate but secretly enjoys—none of it bothers him. He's been like this throughout my recovery, showing up day after day with some sarcastic comment or half-baked excuse for why he's there. Never once did he seem inconvenienced, even when I was sure I was driving him insane.

I glance over at him, the light from the TV catching the sharp lines of his face. He's focused—or pretending to be—and I wonder, not for the first time, how much he actually cares. If he thinks about me the way I think about him. If his constant presence during these last few weeks was more than just obligation wrapped in sarcasm.

The thought lingers, but I shove it aside. House isn't the kind of person who lets people in easily. He keeps everything at arm's length, hidden behind jokes and cynicism. Still, there are moments—small, fleeting moments—where it feels like he's letting me see something real. Something raw.

"Evelyn," he says suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice is quieter than usual, rougher, and I turn to look at him. He's not looking at me, his gaze fixed somewhere past the TV, like he's gathering his thoughts.

"Yeah?" I say, my tone light but cautious.

He exhales, setting his plate down on the coffee table with more care than I expect. "You ever think about the things you can't quit?"

I blink, caught off guard by the question. "What do you mean?"

He leans back, his hand idly tapping his cane where it rests against the couch. "The stuff that keeps you going, even when you know it's killing you. The things you rely on so much that you don't even know who you are without them."

I hesitate, unsure where he's going with this. "I think everyone has something like that," I say carefully. "Why?"

He finally looks at me, his eyes sharper than usual but also... tired. "Vicodin."

The word hangs in the air between us, heavy and unspoken until now. He doesn't give me time to react before he keeps talking, his voice low and steady, like he's trying not to scare the words away.

"I started taking it for the pain," he says, his fingers tightening around the handle of his cane. "And it worked. It still works. But somewhere along the line, it stopped being about managing the pain and started being about... everything else. About getting through the day, about keeping my head above water."

I don't interrupt, letting him continue. This isn't like him, and I know better than to push.

"It's not just the leg," he admits, his gaze dropping to the floor. "It's the noise. The chaos. The constant reminder that I'm... broken. That I'll never be what I was. The pills don't fix it, but they make it quieter. Manageable. Until they don't."

He pauses, his jaw tightening as he runs a hand through his hair. "I know it's a problem. I know it's more than a problem. But the thought of stopping... it's like standing at the edge of a cliff and convincing yourself to jump. And I can't jump."

His words hit me harder than I expect, and I set my plate down next to his, leaning forward slightly. "House—"

"Don't," he interrupts, his tone sharp but not unkind. "Don't tell me it'll be okay or that I just need to try harder. I'm not looking for a pep talk."