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House is not becoming fond of Hector. That would be stupid.
He brings him to the hospital because he has a bet with himself about how much vital medical equipment he can get Hector to chew on before being caught by a nurse or Cuddy. Then, when it comes to it, he doesn't really feel like trying to sneak Hector into the clinic or the lab or into radiology in search of bite-able objects that won't seriously endanger Hector's health. Lugging a dead dog around the hospital would be even more conspicuous than a live one, he realises. Instead, he sets Hector up in his office with Wilson's stethoscope to slobber over. He'd wanted to swipe one of his team's lab coats to give Hector something comfortable to lie on but they were sadly all elsewhere, presumably being worn by his team.
Wilson eventually comes by, and the conversation turns to Hector, and Bonnie, and how Bonnie can now have pets in her condo.
"If you want to keep him…" Wilson says, in a tone that slices far too close to House's marrow for comfort. Wilson always knows. "She wants a new puppy anyway. She'll understand."
"Why would I want to keep him?" He manages to make it sound derisory, but he can't stop his gaze skittering away from Wilson's open face.
"You're sure?"
House scoffs and forces himself to reach for Hector's leash and hand it over, and just like that, Wilson's walking out of his office with Hector in tow, limping along on his right exactly where House usually is.
Halfway down the hall, Hector looks back at him, eyes huge and brown and reproachful.
"Wilson." He pushes the words out of his throat. "Wait."
The first thing House does that evening is start researching the causes of chewing in dogs. In the meantime, he actually tidies his place for once, getting all chewable items out of Hector's reach. He orders a deterrent spray and gives his cane a liberal coating just to be sure; apart from his books and record collection, it's the only thing he'd be really annoyed at Hector destroying (again).
Then, via a process of elimination, he realises that Hector is chewing things because he's just bored.
House can relate.
Hector already knows some basic commands, so with judicious encouragement in the form of bits of sausage, House teaches him more complicated things. Hector's favourite quickly becomes the combination of playing dead, and then springing back to life when House mimics the application of a defibrillator and shouts "Clear!".
House buys puzzle toys for Hector to play with when he's not at home, though he finds himself keeping more regular hours now that he knows he has to be there to feed and walk him at certain times.
House had been a little worried about getting Hector enough exercise, given that he couldn't take him on long walks. But Hector is slow and arthritic, and most days is happy just to make it to the end of the block and back with House at his side. On sunny days, House drives them to the park, and he sits on a bench whilst Hector enjoys the slowest game of fetch in the world.
It takes a few weeks, but Hector eventually stops chewing everything in sight and manages to control his bowels until they get outside each morning and evening.
The satisfaction House feels the day he wakes up without dog slobber on his shoes almost rivals the feeling he gets at the end of a tough case.
A Saturday morning comes around where House slips getting out of the shower.
He makes himself lie still for a minute as the initial shock and pain washes through his body. Then he runs his usual mental evaluation: no bang to the head, arms, wrists and fingers mobile (he's long since learned not to put a hand out to catch himself), a fantastic constellation of bruises already starting to blossom across his right shoulder, hip and knee.
Getting up is going to suck, as usual, so he stays on the floor. The cold from the tiles starts to leech into his bones and he quietly wishes to himself that there were someone in earshot who would have heard him go down, would already have helped him up, dried him off, brought him his clothes. He lets himself wallow in the patheticness of that desire for a minute or two.
Then, he hears scratching at the bathroom door.
"Hector?"
A whine in response, and then Hector is shoving the door open and galloping towards House where he lays on the floor. He licks House's chin and noses his way under House's arm, wiggling up against his chest. Hector's body is warm and House can feel the fierce beating of his heart under his hand.
House looks at him and Hector looks back.
"So, you gonna help me up?" House asks. "Or did you just come in here to hang out?"
Hector's response is to burrow further under House's arm, until his head is shoved into House's armpit.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," House grumbles, and reluctantly pushes himself up so he's sitting with his back against the wall. "Happy?"
Hector merely trots over to the bathroom door and looks back at House expectantly.
House sighs, and grabs his towel from the rack next to him. It takes a minute of effort and a lot of deep breathing, but he gets his feet dry enough that it's safe to stand, and swipes the towel across the floor for good measure. Then he plants his left foot and pushes himself up, all the sore spots in his body simultaneously making themselves known.
"Wanna fetch my cane?" House asks, holding his hand out sarcastically to Hector, who gives one of his yappy barks in answer and stays put. House rolls his eyes. "Sure, now you refuse. A month ago you couldn't wait to get your jaws on it."
His first step is tentative but he can quickly tell that things are ok and he's going to stay vertical. He makes it into his bedroom with no further drama, hand on the wall in lieu of his cane, Hector watching him all the way.
The pain comes later. It creeps in under the cover of darkness and gets into bed with him, a white hot brand being pressed against the side of his thigh that throbs and pulses in time with his heart. It takes all of his willpower to roll on to his side so he can get a hand to the leg and desperately try to stave off the oncoming cramps.
He knows he should have iced the leg before getting into bed.
Rest, ice, compression, elevation.
Rest is easy; he'd spent most of the day on the couch, only getting up a couple of times to let Hector out. He keeps his feet up all the time anyway, to give the shitty circulation in his lower leg a helping hand. As for compression, the constant pins-and-needles sensation from the nerve damage makes using a compression bandage over his scar intolerable, but his usual one-handed massage is a decent substitute.
But he can't do ice.
House allows himself the luxury of a moan as the muscles in his thigh spasm.
His body is wet with sweat, and tears are creeping out of the corners of his eyes to mingle with the moisture on his face.
He hates this with every fibre of his being. He hates that he can feel each individual muscle move as they cramp around the empty space, that he can feel the grating sensation of his kneecap against the head of his femur, pulled out of alignment by the rock-hard tendons. The scar itself fizzes and burns and itches so badly that he has to shove his hand between his legs to stop himself touching it and drawing blood by scratching. The pain comes in waves and he forces himself not hold his breath against it, gulping and sucking at the air as each cramp tightens and relaxes.
It's both easier and harder to bear alone.
Easier, because without a witness there is no need for a facade of okayness, or a pretence that he knows how to deal with what he's going through in a stoic, manly fashion. He knows even Wilson clings to the idea that there can be grace and nobility in suffering. Consequently, Wilson has never seen House like this.
On the other hand, it's harder. Without a witness, he's not sure if he can stay attached to the earth. Without witnesses, he bites his own arm or punches the bedstead just to stay present and aware of where his body ends and the pain begins, as it guts and fillets him and flays off his skin.
Tonight, however, a third option comes into his room.
House's gut roils as the bed dips. A moment later, a warm, furry body presses itself against him. He blindly reaches out a hand and swallows a sob as Hector licks his palm. The sharp rasp of the tongue against his skin is so different to everything else he's currently feeling that it brings him out of the pain for a split second. House fumbles his hand to the the top of Hector's head and strokes him over and over and over, eyes squeezed shut because even though Hector's just a dog, House doesn't want to see him looking at him right now. Hector's fur is soft and through the rhythm of his strokes House manages to find a rhythm for his breathing.
After many long minutes, the cramps begin to ease, and all that's left is the residual throbbing pain. House tentatively takes his hand off Hector's head and transfers it to his thigh. He can feel the bruises under his fingers from the morning's fall, and it's swollen too.
Lying in the dark, he considers the bag of frozen peas in the freezer and the little dog curled quietly next to him, and how the feel of his soft, warm fur under his fingers and his rough, wet tongue against his wrist had briefly made the pain small and quiet and insignificant. Perhaps, next time, the same thing could happen with the cold.
But the next time never comes.
Hector stops eating.
House can barely coax him to eat the cooked chicken his gives him from time to time as a treat.
He whines when House tries to get him to move, and only stands up extremely reluctantly when his need to go outside becomes desperate.
House watches how Hector walks over to the door. His steps are slow and his breathing is laboured.
He recognises the symptoms all too well: Hector is in pain.
Hector submits himself to a physical exam and presses into House's touch as House palpates his limbs, chest and stomach.
There's a mass.
By the end of the next day, House has imaging of Hector's cancer, and a recommendation from the vet for euthanasia. He can make an appointment to have it done at the veterinary hospital at the end of week.
He takes Hector home, and tries not to think about how light the little dog is in his arms when he carries him in from the car, how he can feel the bones under his soft warm skin.
He's not having Hector killed by a stranger on a cold metal table, in a room lit by fluorescent bulbs that stinks of disinfectant.
He looks at the weather forecast for the week ahead and chooses Thursday.
The day dawns crisp and clear. House carries Hector outside to do his business and gives him a breakfast of all his best treats: sausage and cheese and a squeeze of peanut butter that Hector licks off House's fingers.
House drives him to the park and they sit under a tree, sunlight dappling the grass around them. House has brought Hector's favourite toy, a rubbery ball with a length of rope attached. House would throw it for him, or they'd play tug-of-war. Hector noses at it now, but when House tosses it a little distance away across the grass, he makes no effort to get up and fetch it. He just looks at House and House looks back, knowing that look; the look from a hurting body, a body that's giving up, giving in.
When they get back home, House lifts Hector on to the couch next to him. Hector curls up against House's hip, and they watch a monster truck rally. House strokes Hector's head and back, over and over again, and feels his warmth and softness. After ten or fifteen minutes, Hector has fallen asleep. House carefully stands and goes over to the bookcase.
The green metal box is cold and hard, but his hands are steady as he unlocks it and draws up the dose. He's already done the mental math; it's nearly ten times as much as he'd give himself on the worst of worst days. It would be less if he could deliver it intravenously, but despite having read up on it, he's not sure he'd actually be able to find a vein on a dog.
He goes back to the couch, carefully kneels down and without hesitating, injects Hector with the morphine.
Hector dies quietly, and peacefully. House keeps a hand on his chest and feels as his breathing slows and stops, and then his heart does the same. The fur gradually cools under his fingers, and when he looks up again it's dark outside.
He calls Wilson.
"Hector's dead."
"Oh, House. I'm sorry."
"Thanks." He doesn't know what else to say.
"You want me to come over?"
House looks over at the little body huddled under a blanket on the couch, and the bottle of scotch on the mantelpiece.
"Tomorrow," he says.
Wilson comes over as promised, and he brings a shovel without House having to ask. He also doesn't ask where they're going when they get in the car, though House knows that when they get there, he'll recognise it.
House drives them to a little patch of woods that surrounds a small hill on the outskirts of Princeton. Back in the old days, he and Wilson used to go running on the couple of gravel trails that loop through the trees.
If he'd been able, House would have taken Hector for walks, or runs, here too.
They start off with House carrying Hector and Wilson carrying the shovel, but after about twelve paces it becomes clear that he's not going to get any further on the uneven ground if he can't use his cane. So Wilson takes both Hector and the shovel, and House looks at the ground and concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other, all the way through the woods and up the hill.
When they get to the top, he leans against a tree and waits for his heart rate to go down and for his leg to stop shaking.
"You good?" Wilson asks, after laying Hector's body down on the grass between the trees. The sun is just beginning to set and from the hill they can see the distant rooftops of Princeton, glinting orange and grey.
House nods, and takes the shovel.
He already knows that he probably won't be able to dig. He simply can't stand on his right leg by itself whilst using the left on the shovel. The other way round might work, but he's pretty sure that he won't be able to press down hard enough with his right to actually move any soil. Either the pain will be too much, or the lack of muscle will mean he simply won't have the strength.
But he's determined to try.
He gets himself balanced on his left leg and raises the right so that his foot's on the shovel. Then, he leans forward, pressing down mostly with his upper body, willing his right knee to hold.
The blade of the shovel pierces the earth, the first stroke of the cold womb he's forming. House carefully lifts his foot off the blade and levers it out of the ground, dumping the soil to the side.
He manages three more strokes before he has to stop and hand the shovel over to Wilson and lean against the tree again.
Eventually Wilson deems the hole deep enough, and lays Hector down in it.
They stand side by side at the grave. Wilson lays a gentle hand briefly across House's shoulders.
"Thanks," House mutters, but it's directed towards the thing at his feet.
He takes the shovel back again and starts to scrape the soil back into the hole.
The heap of soft white fur in the grave slowly disappears into black, until all that's left is a little dark mound on the top of the hill, surrounded by trees.
The sun is gone.
House leans on Wilson all the way back down the hill and through the woods to the car.
He spends the next day stuck in bed, his leg on fire.
The day after that he calls the nearest shelter, and asks what he has to do to adopt a dog.