Bathing must be one of the world’s wonders. At least for House, of course— the way warm water affects his bum leg is far different than the way any normal individual would feel muscle relief.

It’s not some magical mystery cure, of any sort, but it brings him far more relief than the average person— though, it can only work its magic if House actually gets motivated enough to shower.

Which, he rarely does.

As House returned from Princeton-Plainsboro, he hooked his cane up on the coat rack beside his door. When traversing his apartment, he often didn’t need his cane. He could shuffle from his couch to his damn bathroom without support.

On good days, at least.

Due to his leg’s minimal function— yes, it’s not just pain, his leg barely works from the knee up— he cannot take showers. He can only take baths.

He popped in his drain blocker, turning the heat up high and sprinkling in a bath salt or two. Anything to ever so slightly dampen his pain.

He lost his shirt, pants, boxers— he almost stepped into the bath wearing his socks, but quickly peeled those off, as well.

He gripped his grab bar, slowly lowering himself down into the smoking hot water, the heat shooting up his legs and straight to his thigh. He let out a shaky exhale, holding a prepped cup of liquor in his free hand.

He sunk deep into the water, dampening his hair and taking a sip of his whisky as he lolled his head back.

Oh, paradise. He thought, before the loud chime of his ringtone sounded in his ear canals. He groaned and cursed lightly, slipping on his readers.

“..what.” He tsked, as he clicked open his flip phone— quaint, for the best doctor in America.

Why now?