Hellooo! If you're taking House requests...
Can I get something of Taub trying to relax at the end of a particularly long and brutal day? I don't care one way or another if it's angsty or silly or cute, anything really! :) Thanks for considering my request!
The door shut with a dull click behind him. Chris didn’t lock it right away. He just stood there for a few seconds, motionless, as if the simple act of removing his keys from the lock had drained the last of his energy. The silence of the apartment welcomed him like a cold breeze, not comforting, not hostile, just…indifferent.
He exhaled slowly and leaned his head back against the door, eyes fluttering closed. The fluorescent lights of the hospital still danced behind his eyelids, burned into his brain like afterimages from a welding torch. He hadn't eaten since noon. His feet ached. His back ached. His soul ached.
With slow, tired hands, he loosened his tie and let it fall to the ground, where it curled like a dead thing on the hardwood floor. He stepped out of his shoes one at a time, barely mustering the coordination to pull them off, and shuffled into the kitchen.
The fridge opened with a creak. Inside, the usual: old takeout, a couple beers, half a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from a week ago, maybe two. He reached for the wine, sniffed it, and made a face. Then he grabbed a glass anyway.
It wasn’t the wine he wanted. It was the ritual.
The first sip made him wince, but the second went down easier. He carried it into the living room, passing by a stack of unopened mail, a wilting plant, and a jacket he hadn’t hung up in days.
He flicked on the small salt lamp in the corner, amber light spilling softly over the arm of the couch. Then the lamp on the side table. He dimmed the overheads, adjusting the light to something less sterile than the hospital, something warmer, kinder.
He lit a candle.Vanilla cedar. The scent was subtle but calming, weaving through the stale apartment air. He took another sip of the wine and walked to the stereo in the corner. A few taps of the dial and it came to life, filling the room with low, slow jazz. No lyrics. Just soft trumpet and piano, gentle percussion like heartbeats in the distance.
He stood there for a moment, soaking it in.
The couch welcomed him with soft resistance. He sank into it like someone falling into water and let his body settle. His eyes wandered across the room: muted tones, dim lighting, a half-dead TV screen waiting to be woken up.
He placed the wine on a coaster, something he’d always done out of habit more than neatness. Then he reached for the throw blanket and pulled it over his lap, tucking it in, almost like he was trying to swaddle himself in something secure. His fingers ran absently over the frayed edges.
He reached for the remote and turned the TV on. A sitcom was playing. Something canned and bright, with a laugh track that echoed like mocking voices in the hollow of his skull. He hit mute.
The laughter vanished, but the scene kept playing. Characters smiled at each other. Hugged. A father and son reunion. More hugs. He watched it with blank eyes.
He shifted under the blanket, trying to settle into comfort. He reached for the heating pad he kept behind a cushion, plugged it in, and placed it across his lower back. He let the warmth seep in, dulling the pain in his spine. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
A long breath shuddered out of him. He stared at his phone resting on the coffee table. He reached for it and hovered a thumb over Rachel’s contact. Didn’t press it. It wasn’t right.
Instead, he scrolled through the contacts. Stopped at one: Foreman.
He didn’t have a good reason. He wasn’t sure what he would say. Just…something. Anything. Maybe if someone else spoke, the pressure in his chest would break. Maybe he wouldn’t feel like his ribs were collapsing in.
He tapped the name and held the phone to his ear. One ring. Two. Four.
He hung up before the beep.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Just that small act, calling someone, had taken more out of him than he expected. He dropped the phone onto the cushion next to him, face down. He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling for a while.
He took another sip of wine. He clicked off the TV altogether and let the soft jazz take over. He reached for a small book of poetry on the side table, a collection someone had once given him as a gift, still mostly unread. He flipped through the pages, stopping on one. He tried to read it. His eyes passed over the lines, but they didn’t sink in.
He set the book down gently and stared into the middle distance.
The wine glass sat untouched on the table now, forgotten. His hands clasped loosely between his knees. His head hung low.
A sharp inhale broke the silence, then another. His shoulders trembled once, then again, and then gave way to quiet sobs he tried to keep small. He didn’t want to cry. He never wanted to cry. But there was no one here to see him. No one to judge. He was alone in his own space, and still the shame burned through him.
He didn’t wail or scream or fall apart in any dramatic way. He just shook quietly, a man who had held it in too long, who’d said “I'm fine” too many times. His tears hit the floor, silent as snow. He pressed his palm to his eyes, trying to push the feeling back into his skull.
He let his head drop all the way to his hands. His breathing came in uneven bursts. His body curled slightly inward like he was trying to disappear.
Eventually, the sobs subsided, leaving behind only the sound of his breathing and the soft buzz of the heating pad. The music still played,slower now, melancholy piano chords filling in the silence he couldn’t.
Chris wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He sniffed, cleared his throat, and sat up straighter. Still hunched, but less so. He reached again for the wine glass and stared into it. His reflection shimmered faintly in the liquid, distorted and tired.
Instead, he stood slowly and walked back to the kitchen, emptied the glass in the sink, rinsed it, and set it in the dish rack. Then he opened a cabinet and pulled out chamomile tea,a last minute resort for peace. He boiled water, watching the kettle without really seeing it.
When it was ready, he poured it carefully, dropped in the bag, and cupped the mug in his hands as he returned to the couch.
He inhaled the steam. Let it warm his face.
He wrapped himself in the blanket again, this time pulling it higher, around his shoulders. He sipped the tea slowly, letting it burn his throat just enough to feel real. The candle flickered gently, shadows dancing on the far wall.
No TV. No phone. No distractions.
Just the mug in his hands, the quiet sounds of the stereo, and the flickering light.
The city outside didn’t care that he was trying. That he was holding himself together with the frail threads of habit and heat and soft light. But he was. God, he was trying.
And when sleep eventually came, it wasn't in a bed, but right there on the couch, still dressed, half curled, tear streaked. The heating pad shut off with a soft click. The stereo played one last note before the playlist looped again. The candle’s flame thinned, flickered, held.
Chris’s breath slowed. His body finally still.
And in the quiet, soft shadows of that small apartment, that was enough.
