Post-Trauma 11.8
The rest of Chapter 11, folks! The saga should be wrapping up over the next week, with chapter 12. Warning for slight shmoopiness at the end of this part.
The party breaks up shortly after the verdict comes in. Wilson insists on boxing up the remains of the Appetizer Cornucopia, saying, “There’s enough left here to feed a family of four for a week.”
Wilson shouldn’t have to nag at him, but House has to admit, it’s somehow comforting when he does. He plucks the check out of Wilson’s hand and digs in his pocket for his own wallet.
“I’ve got it, House,” Wilson says, grabbing for the check.
“I have money,” House points out, getting some out of his wallet and waving it.
“I know you have money, I just--” Wilson sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, fine. Thanks.”
Even when he tries to be good, he upsets Wilson.
“That Lee guy,” House says, apropos of nothing. Wilson has him tucked up on the couch with a beer. Monster Truck Jam is on the TV, and House actually seems to be following the program, complicated as the storyline is.
“What about him?” Wilson asks.
“He’s kind of…strange.”
“I liked him.”
“Yeah?” House asks dubiously.
“Yeah. He kind of reminds me of my best friend.”
House frowns. “Who’s that?” he asks vaguely.
“You, you goofball.”
Sitting back with a satisfied smile, House says, “I knew that.”
When Monster Truck Jam ends, House switches the TV to a Japanese baseball game on satellite and mutes the sound, then goes over to the piano.
It’s the first time he’s played since the attack on Thursday. Wilson’s not sure what to make of it when, instead of playing a song, House just runs through a few scales, then taps out “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” After playing a few variations on the tune, he goes back to scales. “Do you think--” he stops.
Wilson waits. House plays more finger exercises. When he can’t stand it anymore, he asks, “Do I think what?”
“Never mind, it’s stupid.”
“You can ask me if you want.”
More finger exercises, then, “Suppose it was Luerssen. In the Clinic on Thursday.”
“Yeah?” Wilson tries to keep his tone neutral.
“Yeah. I mean no, it wasn’t. But suppose it was.”
“Okay….”
“Suppose it was. And I said it wasn’t. Under oath.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So that’s perjury.” House nods, like he’s figured out something important.
Oh, Christ. Has House given up on going back to rehab only to become convinced he’s about to be shipped off to jail? “As long as you say what you think is true, it’s not perjury. You’re not going to get in any trouble. Even if you remember something else later.”
“I already told the police that Luerssen…you know. And he didn’t. You’re not supposed to make up stories.” House reaches toward his half-empty beer, which is well out of reach on the coffee table.
Wilson gets up and takes it to him. “They understand. What’s going on.” He’s never sure what to do when House insists that Luerssen didn’t do anything to him-which would be worse, agreeing with him, or arguing with him about it? He tries to keep his responses neutral.
“Once when I was a kid I went to the police and told ‘em…well, it doesn’t matter what I told ‘em. But when my Dad found out, I had to go back and tell them I made it up. They said you can go to jail for telling stories to the police.”
“You aren’t going to jail,” Wilson tries to reassure him.
“I either lied to them, or I lied in court today,” House points out. “Somebody’s gonna notice.”
“It’s not that they haven’t already noticed. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” House stares at his hands, moving slowly across the keyboard. “I know. They think I’m too crazy to know what happened and what didn’t.”
“Not crazy, exactly,” Wilson temporizes.
“See, here’s the thing,” House says slowly. “I think…well, did you notice that when I pointed out John Smith in court….”
Wilson holds his breath.
“He was Luerssen. I mean, Luerssen was him. But I know it wasn’t Luerssen in the Clinic. I’m sure it wasn’t. But…I don’t know. Maybe I’m losing it.” He tries to say it lightly, like he’s not too concerned, but Wilson knows that not being able to trust his own mind has got to be scary for House.
“You’re not losing it. Brenda identified Smith as Luerssen too, remember?”
“She didn’t get a good look at him.” House keeps playing, slowly.
“He’s on the security cameras, too,” Wilson points out.
“But if it was Luerssen, then why am I so sure it wasn’t?”
“Well. Why do you think that might be?”
“’Cause I’m crazy,” House concludes moodily.
“Suppose you’re not. Why else could it be?”
“He said he wasn’t Luerssen.”
“Who did?”
“Smith.” House drains his beer. “D’you want another one of these?” he asks, getting up.
“I’m still working on this one,” Wilson answers.
He half-expects that when House gets back from the kitchen, he’ll have either moved on to another topic or clammed up entirely. But he goes back to the piano and says, “I’m not sure why he’d say he wasn’t Luerssen, though. I mean, I don’t go into exam rooms and tell people I’m not James Wilson. Who’d think I was?”
Wilson smiles faintly. “Right. Do you, uh, remember anything else about…Smith?”
“He told me to take a throat culture and send it out…and then he told me to lock the door.”
“And then what?”
House shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember…what happened next. Except getting the test results and writing his discharge instructions. It would’ve taken at least a half-hour for the results, but it’s just a blank.”
“It sounds like you remember a little more than before. Locking the door, I mean,” Wilson suggests.
“Mm. Guess you’re right,” House says dubiously.
“More of it might come back, if you give it time,” Wilson suggests.
“And…I remember Luerssen-doing those injections, when I was in therapy with him. And telling me-well, you remember. We already talked about it. I remember telling you about it better than I remember it happening.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I remember feeling like it was true, when I told you. But now I’m just as sure it didn’t happen.” He brings his hand down on the keyboard in a discordant crash. “I don’t know which version is true.”
“Well.” Wilson thinks fast. “Suppose you have two patients…or a patient and a family member…with two different stories about what happened. How do you know which one to believe?”
“Don’t patronize me,” House snaps.
“I’m not…okay, sorry. But you know how to tell which version is true.”
“By looking at the evidence,” House agrees. “So we’ve got…a lot of crap in my bloodstream…needle mark on my right arm…video of Luerssen walking into the Clinic….”
“Stacks and stacks of paperwork that you actually did, without Cuddy having to chain you to your desk,” Wilson adds. “One dead girl. One tape of Luerssen browbeating the dead girl. One dead girl’s suicide note, which quotes extensively from the aforesaid tape.”
“Have you got the hots for that lady lawyer?” House demands.
“Hm? No.”
“Good. She probably goes for burly criminals, anyway.” House looks at him soberly. “Okay. So Luerssen really did it.”
Wilson nods. “Yeah. That’s what I think, too.”
Luerssen looms over him, menacingly. “You’ve been a very bad boy, Gregory.” His voice is soft, silky, and bone-chilling.
“You told that faggot Temas, and your little boyfriend, and the fucking cops, that I tortured you.”
He tries to shake Luerssen’s hands off, but Luerssen is already rolling up his sleeve. His tight grip on House’s upper arm makes the vein pop out. The needle appears from somewhere, and Luerssen jabs him with it. The poison feels cold and oily going in.
“I wasn’t here. You’ve never seen John Smith before in your life.”
“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” House parrots obediently.
Luerssen backhands him. “You’ll talk when I tell you to talk, Gregory. Don’t move.”
He tries to rub his jaw where Luerssen hit him, but his hands are like lead, anchored to his thighs.
“You know what you are, Gregory? You’re a filthy, stinking, lying addict.” Luerssen’s breath is warm on his ear. “You lie, all the time. You were lying about me. I helped you get better. Say it.”
“You helped me get better.” The lie tastes like bile in his mouth.
“You lied because you didn’t want to get better. You resented being forced into treatment. You resented me for trying to help you. But you know better now. You’ve gotten worse since I stopped treating you. You’ve started using drugs again. You’re pumped so full of morphine you can hardly see straight.”
House’s eyes go out of focus.
The stinging slap arrives out of nowhere. “Look at me, you idiot.”
House trains his eyes on the blurry oval of Luerssen’s face.
“Your father hates you because you’re worthless. Say it.”
“My father hates me because I’m worthless,” House says, and knows it’s true.
“You deserved it when he beat you. Your mother’s a fool to love you. Say it.”
“I deserved it when he beat me. My mother’s a fool to love me.”
Luerssen moves away from him and starts rummaging through the exam room cabinets. “When’s your next appointment with Temas? You still go on Thursdays?”
House doesn’t answer; Luerssen didn’t tell him to talk.
“Fucking imbecile. Tell me.”
“Yes. This afternoon.”
“Good, Gregory. Tell him everything you said about me was a lie. Everything you said about New Horizons was a lie, too. We helped you get better.”
“Everything I said--”
“Don’t tell me, you moron. Tell him. Temas. Temas hasn’t helped you. You’re going to end treatment with him as soon as possible.” He bangs the cabinet shut. “Where the hell do you keep your drugs here? Vicodin, oxy, any kind of narcotics? Tell me.”
“Pharmacy,” House tells him.
“Fucking fuck. All right. Your leg doesn’t hurt. Say it.”
“My leg doesn’t hurt.”
“You lie about it hurting so you’ll have an excuse to use drugs. You planned all along to start using as soon as you could get away with it.” Luerssen perches on the rolling stool and rolls over to him. “And there’s another thing, Gregory. You’re going to get rid of the boyfriend. Grown men don’t have sleepovers at each other’s houses. If I have to drop by your place to give you another treatment, I want to find you alone, you hear me? Boyfriend’s there, he’s going to get hurt. It’ll be your fault if he gets hurt. Say it.”
“It’ll be my fault if he gets hurt.”
Wilson starts awake, unsure if the sound he thought he heard was real, or part of the dream he’d been having. When it’s followed by a torrent of cursing, a groan, and a House-sized thump, he knows it was real.
He hurries back to the bedroom. House is on the floor in a tangle of limbs. When he sees Wilson, a fleeting look of relief comes across his face, before he resumes his struggle to get up.
“What happened?” Wilson kneels down next to him. “Here, the sheet’s wrapped around your leg. Where’s your cane?”
“You should go.”
“Huh?” House doesn’t like to have people see him in positions like this, vulnerable and undignified, but it’s different when it’s just him and Wilson.
“You should go home. It’s better if you’re not here.” House manages to sit up, leaning against the side of his bed.
“We’ve had this conversation before. I’m staying.” Wilson sits next to him. “Did you have a bad dream?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“About….”
“’Bout what happened in the clinic. I don’t know if it’s what really happened, or if it was just…bits and pieces from my other sessions with him.”
“What happened?”
“Oh. You know. Just the usual stuff. Mild violence and lots of yelling.” House studies his hands. “He said he’d hurt you if he found you here.”
“He’s in jail,” Wilson points out. “He’s not going to show up here.”
“Doesn’t matter.” House wraps his arms around himself, like he’s cold. He probably is-he’d abandoned the pyjama top at some point, and just has on the bottoms and a t-shirt so worn you could probably read a newspaper through it. Wilson snags a blanket from the bed and puts it over them, tucking it up around House’s chin. House wraps the corner of the blanket around his hand, clutching it tightly. “I remember when I was really little-like three or something-I thought if you held on to the corner of the blanket, the monsters couldn’t pull you out of bed and eat you.”
“That’s…unique.”
“Yeah. I was kind of stupid as a kid. I don’t know why my mom put up with it-every night she’d tuck me in and make sure I had my corner to hang on to. Dumb, huh?”
“No.” Actually, the thought of tiny House clinging to his security corner is equal parts cute and sad. “Little kids have all kinds of weird ideas, superstitions. It’s scary, being little.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. We used to have this red, like, runner, in our upstairs hallway, and for a couple of years my brothers and I were all convinced that if someone was standing on it at the stroke of midnight, it would turn into a pit of boiling lava and you’d fall in and die.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah. I used to be afraid to get up at night and go to the bathroom, because I’d have to go across the red rug, and I couldn’t tell time yet, so I didn’t know if it was safe. I never said anything to my mom-I guess I figured she wouldn’t have a lava pit in the upstairs hallway and not know about it.”
House laughs until he’s gasping for breath. “I oughta get one of those for my hallway. Keep you outta here at night,” he says, in between fits of hilarity.
“I can tell time now,” Wilson points out. “I just have to time my visits carefully.”
“I’d get an unpredictable one. You’d never know when it’s going to change from an ordinary rug to a lava pit.” House takes a few deep breaths and gets serious. “I’m no good for you, Jimmy. Even if Luerssen doesn’t come and get you, I’m just going to fuck everything up and make you miserable.”
“I’m not going anywhere, House,” Wilson tells him. “You’re stuck with me.”
House drops his blanket-corner to rub his leg. “It’s not that I don’t love ya, Jimmy. I mean, you know I do, right?”
“Sure, I know.” House has mentioned it before, usually when he’s drunk or otherwise in extremis. “I love you too, you know that.”
“Yeah. That’s not the point. The point is, I’m not…you just shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” Wilson asks quietly.
“Because I don’t deserve it,” House snaps. “And don’t get all mushy and stupid about it. We both know I’m a lousy friend-I sponge off you all the time, and I’m lazy, and I insult you in front of girls you like, and I only come see you when I want something, and…well, there’s lots of reasons. All right? I’m just not good enough, and you shouldn’t have to put up with me.”
“I don’t have to,” Wilson points out. “I want to.” He casts about for the right thing to say. “Look, have you always felt this way? Or just since, I don’t know, Thursday?”
“Yeah, it would be great if it was that simple, wouldn’t it? Luerssen tells me I’m crap and I believe it, right?”
“Are you saying he didn’t?” Wilson asks.
“Of course he did.” House shakes his head. “It’s just…oh, fuck, I don’t know.”
“You’ve been trying to push me away for our entire friendship,” Wilson points out. “What makes you think it’s gonna work now?”
House shrugs. “Dunno.”
“Look. Losing this--” He gestures vaguely to the space between them “-would hurt me more than anything else that could possibly happen. Okay? You don’t need to go away, you don’t need to change. You’re just fine the way you are.” He knows he’s put pressure on House to change, before-but each and every one of those attempts backfired miserably, from the detox bet that led House to break his own fingers, to the deal with Tritter that landed him in rehab in the first place. That, and his experiences with pod-House over the last few months, had finally convinced him he ought to just accept House as he is, and consider himself lucky.
House ducks his head. “You sound like my mom.”
“Yeah, well. She’s a smart lady, your mom.” Wilson gets up and offers House his hand. “Let’s get you tucked back into bed, okay?”
“Okay.” House lets Wilson pull him to his feet, and crawls into bed.
Wilson fluffs up his pillow and shakes out the blanket, then pulls it up around him and tucks the corner in his hand. “Goodnight, buddy.”
“G’night.”
The party breaks up shortly after the verdict comes in. Wilson insists on boxing up the remains of the Appetizer Cornucopia, saying, “There’s enough left here to feed a family of four for a week.”
Wilson shouldn’t have to nag at him, but House has to admit, it’s somehow comforting when he does. He plucks the check out of Wilson’s hand and digs in his pocket for his own wallet.
“I’ve got it, House,” Wilson says, grabbing for the check.
“I have money,” House points out, getting some out of his wallet and waving it.
“I know you have money, I just--” Wilson sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, fine. Thanks.”
Even when he tries to be good, he upsets Wilson.
“That Lee guy,” House says, apropos of nothing. Wilson has him tucked up on the couch with a beer. Monster Truck Jam is on the TV, and House actually seems to be following the program, complicated as the storyline is.
“What about him?” Wilson asks.
“He’s kind of…strange.”
“I liked him.”
“Yeah?” House asks dubiously.
“Yeah. He kind of reminds me of my best friend.”
House frowns. “Who’s that?” he asks vaguely.
“You, you goofball.”
Sitting back with a satisfied smile, House says, “I knew that.”
When Monster Truck Jam ends, House switches the TV to a Japanese baseball game on satellite and mutes the sound, then goes over to the piano.
It’s the first time he’s played since the attack on Thursday. Wilson’s not sure what to make of it when, instead of playing a song, House just runs through a few scales, then taps out “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” After playing a few variations on the tune, he goes back to scales. “Do you think--” he stops.
Wilson waits. House plays more finger exercises. When he can’t stand it anymore, he asks, “Do I think what?”
“Never mind, it’s stupid.”
“You can ask me if you want.”
More finger exercises, then, “Suppose it was Luerssen. In the Clinic on Thursday.”
“Yeah?” Wilson tries to keep his tone neutral.
“Yeah. I mean no, it wasn’t. But suppose it was.”
“Okay….”
“Suppose it was. And I said it wasn’t. Under oath.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So that’s perjury.” House nods, like he’s figured out something important.
Oh, Christ. Has House given up on going back to rehab only to become convinced he’s about to be shipped off to jail? “As long as you say what you think is true, it’s not perjury. You’re not going to get in any trouble. Even if you remember something else later.”
“I already told the police that Luerssen…you know. And he didn’t. You’re not supposed to make up stories.” House reaches toward his half-empty beer, which is well out of reach on the coffee table.
Wilson gets up and takes it to him. “They understand. What’s going on.” He’s never sure what to do when House insists that Luerssen didn’t do anything to him-which would be worse, agreeing with him, or arguing with him about it? He tries to keep his responses neutral.
“Once when I was a kid I went to the police and told ‘em…well, it doesn’t matter what I told ‘em. But when my Dad found out, I had to go back and tell them I made it up. They said you can go to jail for telling stories to the police.”
“You aren’t going to jail,” Wilson tries to reassure him.
“I either lied to them, or I lied in court today,” House points out. “Somebody’s gonna notice.”
“It’s not that they haven’t already noticed. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” House stares at his hands, moving slowly across the keyboard. “I know. They think I’m too crazy to know what happened and what didn’t.”
“Not crazy, exactly,” Wilson temporizes.
“See, here’s the thing,” House says slowly. “I think…well, did you notice that when I pointed out John Smith in court….”
Wilson holds his breath.
“He was Luerssen. I mean, Luerssen was him. But I know it wasn’t Luerssen in the Clinic. I’m sure it wasn’t. But…I don’t know. Maybe I’m losing it.” He tries to say it lightly, like he’s not too concerned, but Wilson knows that not being able to trust his own mind has got to be scary for House.
“You’re not losing it. Brenda identified Smith as Luerssen too, remember?”
“She didn’t get a good look at him.” House keeps playing, slowly.
“He’s on the security cameras, too,” Wilson points out.
“But if it was Luerssen, then why am I so sure it wasn’t?”
“Well. Why do you think that might be?”
“’Cause I’m crazy,” House concludes moodily.
“Suppose you’re not. Why else could it be?”
“He said he wasn’t Luerssen.”
“Who did?”
“Smith.” House drains his beer. “D’you want another one of these?” he asks, getting up.
“I’m still working on this one,” Wilson answers.
He half-expects that when House gets back from the kitchen, he’ll have either moved on to another topic or clammed up entirely. But he goes back to the piano and says, “I’m not sure why he’d say he wasn’t Luerssen, though. I mean, I don’t go into exam rooms and tell people I’m not James Wilson. Who’d think I was?”
Wilson smiles faintly. “Right. Do you, uh, remember anything else about…Smith?”
“He told me to take a throat culture and send it out…and then he told me to lock the door.”
“And then what?”
House shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember…what happened next. Except getting the test results and writing his discharge instructions. It would’ve taken at least a half-hour for the results, but it’s just a blank.”
“It sounds like you remember a little more than before. Locking the door, I mean,” Wilson suggests.
“Mm. Guess you’re right,” House says dubiously.
“More of it might come back, if you give it time,” Wilson suggests.
“And…I remember Luerssen-doing those injections, when I was in therapy with him. And telling me-well, you remember. We already talked about it. I remember telling you about it better than I remember it happening.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I remember feeling like it was true, when I told you. But now I’m just as sure it didn’t happen.” He brings his hand down on the keyboard in a discordant crash. “I don’t know which version is true.”
“Well.” Wilson thinks fast. “Suppose you have two patients…or a patient and a family member…with two different stories about what happened. How do you know which one to believe?”
“Don’t patronize me,” House snaps.
“I’m not…okay, sorry. But you know how to tell which version is true.”
“By looking at the evidence,” House agrees. “So we’ve got…a lot of crap in my bloodstream…needle mark on my right arm…video of Luerssen walking into the Clinic….”
“Stacks and stacks of paperwork that you actually did, without Cuddy having to chain you to your desk,” Wilson adds. “One dead girl. One tape of Luerssen browbeating the dead girl. One dead girl’s suicide note, which quotes extensively from the aforesaid tape.”
“Have you got the hots for that lady lawyer?” House demands.
“Hm? No.”
“Good. She probably goes for burly criminals, anyway.” House looks at him soberly. “Okay. So Luerssen really did it.”
Wilson nods. “Yeah. That’s what I think, too.”
Luerssen looms over him, menacingly. “You’ve been a very bad boy, Gregory.” His voice is soft, silky, and bone-chilling.
“You told that faggot Temas, and your little boyfriend, and the fucking cops, that I tortured you.”
He tries to shake Luerssen’s hands off, but Luerssen is already rolling up his sleeve. His tight grip on House’s upper arm makes the vein pop out. The needle appears from somewhere, and Luerssen jabs him with it. The poison feels cold and oily going in.
“I wasn’t here. You’ve never seen John Smith before in your life.”
“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” House parrots obediently.
Luerssen backhands him. “You’ll talk when I tell you to talk, Gregory. Don’t move.”
He tries to rub his jaw where Luerssen hit him, but his hands are like lead, anchored to his thighs.
“You know what you are, Gregory? You’re a filthy, stinking, lying addict.” Luerssen’s breath is warm on his ear. “You lie, all the time. You were lying about me. I helped you get better. Say it.”
“You helped me get better.” The lie tastes like bile in his mouth.
“You lied because you didn’t want to get better. You resented being forced into treatment. You resented me for trying to help you. But you know better now. You’ve gotten worse since I stopped treating you. You’ve started using drugs again. You’re pumped so full of morphine you can hardly see straight.”
House’s eyes go out of focus.
The stinging slap arrives out of nowhere. “Look at me, you idiot.”
House trains his eyes on the blurry oval of Luerssen’s face.
“Your father hates you because you’re worthless. Say it.”
“My father hates me because I’m worthless,” House says, and knows it’s true.
“You deserved it when he beat you. Your mother’s a fool to love you. Say it.”
“I deserved it when he beat me. My mother’s a fool to love me.”
Luerssen moves away from him and starts rummaging through the exam room cabinets. “When’s your next appointment with Temas? You still go on Thursdays?”
House doesn’t answer; Luerssen didn’t tell him to talk.
“Fucking imbecile. Tell me.”
“Yes. This afternoon.”
“Good, Gregory. Tell him everything you said about me was a lie. Everything you said about New Horizons was a lie, too. We helped you get better.”
“Everything I said--”
“Don’t tell me, you moron. Tell him. Temas. Temas hasn’t helped you. You’re going to end treatment with him as soon as possible.” He bangs the cabinet shut. “Where the hell do you keep your drugs here? Vicodin, oxy, any kind of narcotics? Tell me.”
“Pharmacy,” House tells him.
“Fucking fuck. All right. Your leg doesn’t hurt. Say it.”
“My leg doesn’t hurt.”
“You lie about it hurting so you’ll have an excuse to use drugs. You planned all along to start using as soon as you could get away with it.” Luerssen perches on the rolling stool and rolls over to him. “And there’s another thing, Gregory. You’re going to get rid of the boyfriend. Grown men don’t have sleepovers at each other’s houses. If I have to drop by your place to give you another treatment, I want to find you alone, you hear me? Boyfriend’s there, he’s going to get hurt. It’ll be your fault if he gets hurt. Say it.”
“It’ll be my fault if he gets hurt.”
Wilson starts awake, unsure if the sound he thought he heard was real, or part of the dream he’d been having. When it’s followed by a torrent of cursing, a groan, and a House-sized thump, he knows it was real.
He hurries back to the bedroom. House is on the floor in a tangle of limbs. When he sees Wilson, a fleeting look of relief comes across his face, before he resumes his struggle to get up.
“What happened?” Wilson kneels down next to him. “Here, the sheet’s wrapped around your leg. Where’s your cane?”
“You should go.”
“Huh?” House doesn’t like to have people see him in positions like this, vulnerable and undignified, but it’s different when it’s just him and Wilson.
“You should go home. It’s better if you’re not here.” House manages to sit up, leaning against the side of his bed.
“We’ve had this conversation before. I’m staying.” Wilson sits next to him. “Did you have a bad dream?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“About….”
“’Bout what happened in the clinic. I don’t know if it’s what really happened, or if it was just…bits and pieces from my other sessions with him.”
“What happened?”
“Oh. You know. Just the usual stuff. Mild violence and lots of yelling.” House studies his hands. “He said he’d hurt you if he found you here.”
“He’s in jail,” Wilson points out. “He’s not going to show up here.”
“Doesn’t matter.” House wraps his arms around himself, like he’s cold. He probably is-he’d abandoned the pyjama top at some point, and just has on the bottoms and a t-shirt so worn you could probably read a newspaper through it. Wilson snags a blanket from the bed and puts it over them, tucking it up around House’s chin. House wraps the corner of the blanket around his hand, clutching it tightly. “I remember when I was really little-like three or something-I thought if you held on to the corner of the blanket, the monsters couldn’t pull you out of bed and eat you.”
“That’s…unique.”
“Yeah. I was kind of stupid as a kid. I don’t know why my mom put up with it-every night she’d tuck me in and make sure I had my corner to hang on to. Dumb, huh?”
“No.” Actually, the thought of tiny House clinging to his security corner is equal parts cute and sad. “Little kids have all kinds of weird ideas, superstitions. It’s scary, being little.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. We used to have this red, like, runner, in our upstairs hallway, and for a couple of years my brothers and I were all convinced that if someone was standing on it at the stroke of midnight, it would turn into a pit of boiling lava and you’d fall in and die.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah. I used to be afraid to get up at night and go to the bathroom, because I’d have to go across the red rug, and I couldn’t tell time yet, so I didn’t know if it was safe. I never said anything to my mom-I guess I figured she wouldn’t have a lava pit in the upstairs hallway and not know about it.”
House laughs until he’s gasping for breath. “I oughta get one of those for my hallway. Keep you outta here at night,” he says, in between fits of hilarity.
“I can tell time now,” Wilson points out. “I just have to time my visits carefully.”
“I’d get an unpredictable one. You’d never know when it’s going to change from an ordinary rug to a lava pit.” House takes a few deep breaths and gets serious. “I’m no good for you, Jimmy. Even if Luerssen doesn’t come and get you, I’m just going to fuck everything up and make you miserable.”
“I’m not going anywhere, House,” Wilson tells him. “You’re stuck with me.”
House drops his blanket-corner to rub his leg. “It’s not that I don’t love ya, Jimmy. I mean, you know I do, right?”
“Sure, I know.” House has mentioned it before, usually when he’s drunk or otherwise in extremis. “I love you too, you know that.”
“Yeah. That’s not the point. The point is, I’m not…you just shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” Wilson asks quietly.
“Because I don’t deserve it,” House snaps. “And don’t get all mushy and stupid about it. We both know I’m a lousy friend-I sponge off you all the time, and I’m lazy, and I insult you in front of girls you like, and I only come see you when I want something, and…well, there’s lots of reasons. All right? I’m just not good enough, and you shouldn’t have to put up with me.”
“I don’t have to,” Wilson points out. “I want to.” He casts about for the right thing to say. “Look, have you always felt this way? Or just since, I don’t know, Thursday?”
“Yeah, it would be great if it was that simple, wouldn’t it? Luerssen tells me I’m crap and I believe it, right?”
“Are you saying he didn’t?” Wilson asks.
“Of course he did.” House shakes his head. “It’s just…oh, fuck, I don’t know.”
“You’ve been trying to push me away for our entire friendship,” Wilson points out. “What makes you think it’s gonna work now?”
House shrugs. “Dunno.”
“Look. Losing this--” He gestures vaguely to the space between them “-would hurt me more than anything else that could possibly happen. Okay? You don’t need to go away, you don’t need to change. You’re just fine the way you are.” He knows he’s put pressure on House to change, before-but each and every one of those attempts backfired miserably, from the detox bet that led House to break his own fingers, to the deal with Tritter that landed him in rehab in the first place. That, and his experiences with pod-House over the last few months, had finally convinced him he ought to just accept House as he is, and consider himself lucky.
House ducks his head. “You sound like my mom.”
“Yeah, well. She’s a smart lady, your mom.” Wilson gets up and offers House his hand. “Let’s get you tucked back into bed, okay?”
“Okay.” House lets Wilson pull him to his feet, and crawls into bed.
Wilson fluffs up his pillow and shakes out the blanket, then pulls it up around him and tucks the corner in his hand. “Goodnight, buddy.”
“G’night.”