Part Twelve
I am forced to blame everyone who is reviewing this story for the increasing length of the chapters! : )
Here is Part Twelve, written in a bit of a rush, but I hope it does the trick. As ever, I hope you enjoy it:
Despite his cocktail of meds, Wilson was still up before House the next morning, feeling more well-disposed towards the world than he had for days. He spent a few minutes enjoying the minutiae of his morning ritual (wash, gargle, spit, and not a nurse in sight,) before examining his body in the bathroom mirror. It had only occurred to him that morning that he hadn’t seen his reflection in quite a while. He eyed himself sternly; leant towards the glass; narrowed and widened his eyes; opened his mouth; flitting through expressions like a child. Just the same. He picked up his razor and started to buzz it over his jaw.
He wondered what his scars would look like beneath the bandages. On his side, a straight incision; that would be a smiling silk-pink line, the healing skin taut and shiny. Wrong-handed, he steered the razor cautiously around his jugular (he’d had quite enough blood-loss for the time being) and mentally flicked through a parade of his patients’ surgical scars, trying to find the best fit for himself.
His shoulder would be getting a new surgical incision soon; he wondered idly if the original stab wound would still be there, a little sinkhole in the skin. It would be a puckered, black-line -- the image of his grandma’s pursed lips suddenly sprang into his mind, looming forwards to kiss him as a boy. He recoiled, nearly slicing his own throat and catching a glimpse of his horrified expression in the mirror. That was . . . just wrong. He shuddered, and carefully resumed shaving, trying to purge his mind of such comparisons.
Wilson hoped that whatever their shape, the scars looked neat, professional. Soon they would become part of him, he knew; the same as a freckle or the dimple on his knee he’d gotten from falling out of the tree house when he was seven. But it was so much easier to suspend revulsion when it was his patients’ scars; so easy to become aloof, to stop seeing wounds, and just medical patterns. He clicked off the razor and stared at himself: was that vanity? Surely his own body deserved a portion of pity too; why should he stare at himself every morning and see a mark of violence, and every morning think ugly, or knife?
He slipped off towards the kitchen. House was still sprawled over the couch, fingers brushing the floor, snoring gently - his own scar concealed, as it always was. Wilson imagined a faceless woman lying next to him in bed; she’d see, and ask as well, what happened there? He’d probably have that conversation with every woman he’d ever be with, for the rest of his life. He jammed the bread into the toaster.
He could always lie. Appendectomy - that covered his side. Shoulder would be trickier. I fell on a fence-post. The dog ate my brachial plexus.
“House.” He walked over to the couch and put the plate of toast on the coffee table. “House. It’s past nine. Get up.”
“Guhfknik,” responded House eloquently. He buried his face further into the pillow. An arm unfurled from the sheet and reached out for the pill bottle, gulping back two Vicodin before he had even cracked an eye open. Wilson thought guiltily of his night in the double bed, and refrained from commenting.
“Why -- are you even conscious?” rasped House, looking at him in disbelief.
“It’s past nine,” Wilson repeated, munching his piece of toast. “Seriously, I thought you had a case?”
“Make some breakfast and shut -- ” House managed to focus on the plate, and glared. “Fine. Just shut up then.” Despite the fact that Wilson had deliberately laid the toast out in front of him, House swiped a piece with practised stealth, and made absolutely no effort to rise from the couch. Wilson knew that House wouldn’t even attempt to get up while he still had an audience, so he rolled his eyes obediently and disappeared back into the kitchen.
“And toast?” shouted House. “I can make toast. You’ve got to start earning your keep.” His threat was followed by a muffled string of muttering, and then a curse, and finally Wilson heard House limp heavily towards the bathroom.
When he came back, dressed and marginally less bleary-eyed, he sprawled back over the couch and started leisurely eating his way through Wilson’s newest batch. “Cuddy’s going to be pissed,” Wilson pointed out.
“Good. It’ll give her something to do,” retorted House through a mouthful of toast. “Seeing as she doesn’t do any actual doctor work.” He noticed Wilson’s grimace, and dusted the crumbs off his knees irritably. “This is my couch, what’s your problem?” He pointed a crust at Wilson accusingly. “Righty not satisfying your needs?”
He seemed to cheer up when Wilson spluttered in disgust. “Anyway, what’s your plan for the day while you sit and lecture me? Eating and sleeping? Hardly pushing for the burn, are you?”
“Well, the one-handed wrestling master-class was fully booked,” said Wilson dryly. “Do you have anything TIVO’d that isn’t Spongebob?”
“The O.C.”
“Then I guess I’ll be watching daytime tv,” said Wilson glumly.
“Come on, you can’t possibly be upset about missing work?”
“I actually find my career more fulfilling than watching General Hospital. I don’t suppose you’ll need a consult on your new case?” he suggested lightly. “You could dial in for my medical opinion.”
House didn’t smile, though: he looked away and threw his crust onto the plate. “Thanks, but I’m sure I can find someone else in the hospital to say ‘It’s not cancer’,” he said sardonically. He got to his feet and gave Wilson a distinctly threatening glare. “Stay away from the hospital and get some rest,” he warned, pointing at the immobiliser. “Or I’ll buckle you to a lamp-post and leave you there.”
“I take it back. You have a charming bedside manner.” House glowered at him and grabbed his bike helmet from the corner, unhooking his cane from above the door.
“And don’t erase my TIVO,” he added mulishly. Wilson smirked and settled back against the couch cushions.
“Goodbye, House.”
“’Bye, Wilson.”
House was in an infinitely better mood on his way back from work, feeling the motorbike purr underneath him and devour the tarmac below. If he was right about his autoimmune theory, and the treatment worked instead of tanking some new organ system, then the case would be solved, Harvey could rot in jail, and he’d stop feeling like crap whenever Wilson made some innocent enquiry about the hospital.
The sideways snatches of city he saw through the helmet were all tinted dark by glass, shot through with sun-streaks, and blurred by his speed. If he was right --- He revved the engine, and tore around the corner. How could he be wrong, going this fast? He grinned into the wind.
It wouldn’t change his choice, he knew that. But at least he wouldn’t find himself musing over new theories while Wilson was passed out next to him on the couch.
Of course, Harvey would be fixed, while Wilson might never get to wield his left-handed can-opener again. That thought wasn’t really contributing to his buzz of happiness. But then he reflected, as he unclipped the cane from the bike, that it wasn’t exactly his fault that Wilson was finding out that life wasn’t fair. House had known that fact for long enough.
The pain of dismounting was drowned out immediately by a jab of annoyance as he saw two cops walking out of his front door. He pulled off the helmet and eyed them warily.
“What do you want now?” It was the meek-looking woman again; the other guy was already getting into the car without glancing at House.
“Doctor House,” she said politely. “Nice to see you again.” She even tried to sound sincere, which House found vaguely amusing. “Doctor Wilson was just signing off on his statement from the other week. He’s been clarifying some of the details for us.”
They want to take it to court as a hate crime; she’d already told him she was pushing for as much. He wondered what information Wilson could possibly have withheld the first time round that could help to incarcerate that scumbag.
“Sounds like fun,” he murmured. She ducked into the car and gave him a small smile. House felt a slight sense of foreboding as he stepped into his home; Wilson had hardly been buoyant after his last visit from the cops.
At least he wasn’t weeping or scowling; he was sat up in the living room with the tv on mute, rubbing the back of his neck absently.
“I see the cops crashed your party.” Wilson nodded, and House thought he’d have to push a bit harder, but then Wilson picked up the remote and started turning it over in his hands.
“Yeah, they were just going over my statement.” He stared at his hands, and gave a strained smile. “They wanted me to go over some of the choicer quotes.” House sat down on the couch and put his feet up, fixing his eyes on the tv, and silently started counting to ten.
Seven, eight, -- and “They want me to provide a motive,” said Wilson suddenly, and he glanced at House. He was aiming for dismissive and annoyed, but wasn’t quite carrying it off. “Like I have some insight to offer.”
House gave a non-committal nod, mind racing, and watched the silent anchorman gesturing on the screen. “For a mugging, I’d guess the motive was cash,” he said carefully. This time, he only had to count to five.
“. . . Yeah,” said Wilson unconvincingly, and he dropped the remote in House’s lap. “You pick, I’m done.”
Wrong answer. “Except it obviously wasn’t,” snapped House, fighting a wave of disappointment. He’d been sure for a second that Wilson was going to actually tell him.
Wilson jumped at House’s outburst and stared. “What?”
“Money obviously wasn’t the motive, or it wouldn’t still be an issue,” said House. “Fair enough if you haven’t exactly been chatty with me on the subject, but if you’re not even speaking to the cops -- ”
“Did you miss the part where we just had another interview?!” asked Wilson incredulously. “I’ve spoken to the police! Just because you never need to talk about anything -- ”
“Oh, what is wrong with you?” House sounded furious, and Wilson looked shocked and defensive almost immediately, but he was too frustrated to care. “You nearly died, you don’t say a word about it and now you’re analysing me?”
And now Wilson was doing that indignant gaping-thing he always did when House caught him off-guard; he took opportunity of the moment’s silence to switch the channel, and glared at the Baywatch credits. But Wilson didn’t do his expected segue into stuttering; he just sat back and folded his arm over the sling.
“I got mugged,” he said tartly. “Someone tried to kill you. Do you want me to start examining why we never talked about that? I don‘t remember you confiding in me about motives.” House felt a little thrown by the parry. Sure, blame me.
“As I said at the time, I assumed his reasoning was faulty,” he said, not entirely comfortable with the direction the conversation was taking.
“What? When - You never said that!” said Wilson, glaring at him. “Someone tried to kill you, House, and . . . apparently it didn’t even faze you!” House, caught in the full rush of Wilson’s stare, suddenly realised that this speech had been brewing on Wilson’s side for several days. “Did the reason not matter?”
Wilson was looking at him demandingly, but more than that -- there was something unspoken in the question, some appeal, something hopeful.
“No,” he said.
And with nauseating predictability, there it was; the brief flash of hurt in Wilson’s eyes, and the familiar stab of guilt in House’s gut. (But why should this be about him anyway? Wilson always made it about him.)
“Why are you suddenly comparing your behaviour to mine? Doesn’t that strike you as odd?” he added accusingly. House was never the template for other people’s actions.
Wilson sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, what was I thinking?” He looked slightly deflated, and went staring at the tv blankly. House felt an unfamiliar impulse to fill the silence.
“If you’d gotten shot because you're, . .” House gestured vaguely with the remote, “whiny and self-righteous, or because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, it would make no difference. You’d still be - "
“House - " Wilson raised his hand in warning. “I already said, it wasn’t, - personal. It’s not a big deal,” he said firmly, and any lead that he had been extending towards House had retreated completely.
“Right,” said House. Wilson shot him an exasperated look, as if the entire conversation had been his handiwork.
“I’m going to lie down,” he announced, with an air of finality.
“Then who’s going to cook?”
Wilson gave a small, weary snort of amusement and disappeared down the hall.
“Sure, take some me-time,” muttered House. He listened to the footsteps die away towards his bedroom, and squeezed the remote hard in his hand. He’d lost his chance to get to the facts. Hell, he’d dropped a boulder on the train tracks.
And Wilson was back to rolling his eyes resignedly as if House had just been airing some theory about his sex life. He felt a burst of annoyance, at Wilson’s aloofness and at himself, and at the fact that apparently an abundance of emotional and conversational foreplay was required simply to find out the damn truth.
He grabbed his bike keys, and decided that this felt absolutely nothing like running away from the issue. That was more Wilson’s thing; House was just really hungry.
Wilson could probably use some space, anyway.
Wilson was alone.
It was quiet. He was still, wrapped and muffled as he was in so many blankets. He listened to the slow breathing, and it took him a while to realise that it was his own. It seemed synthetic; displaced; like someone’s breath crackling down a phone-line from somewhere behind his ear. He could feel the rise and fall of the vent, holding his jaw immobile: in and out. In and out.
In the black and white, with only this static-sounding rhythm, only his own body counting out the time, he was as still and removed as the man in the video footage . . . the first man on the moon.
How long had he been here?
The ceiling was black, and his car would be nearby, gleaming like a silver fish that lurked in the corners of an aquarium.
In and out. Everything else was silent.
He turned his head to the side, and saw the concrete below his cheek. It was cold, the ground; beyond the green fringe of blankets. But he was warm under the layers; a heat was pooling in his stomach and side, spreading up to his shoulder, and --- Was that a noise, creeping between each breath?
With a rush like vertigo, Wilson was suddenly aware of dizzying space outstretching beyond the crown of his head. He couldn’t tilt back and see, but he could feel it: a vast, empty runway that unrolled towards him, and ended where he lay neatly bundled in the corner. And as he realised the stretches fanning out from behind his head, the damp heat in his side grew hotter and hotter, until it almost burned.
And he heard, far away - a footstep.
Now he was straining to hear; the silence had been broken, and in the stillness there was someone else -- another footstep. Another. Getting closer . . .
They were growing louder, measured and louder as if following an invisible thread through the darkness, and Wilson knew with an absolute dread that the thread led here.
He couldn’t move. Worse than struggling: he was paralysed, in the grip of some fatal inertia that had severed the connection between body and brain. His shoulder and side hurt so badly now, flashing to a crescendo, but he was mute around the tube, tightly bound up like a package . . . His breathing was as steady as the footsteps (still coming) even though his body was clamouring to panic, disconnected from fight or flight but screaming to try ---
--- And the steps, metres away now, were slow and deliberate, but he was rooted to the ground,
Coming closer, closer ---
“Ah! -- ” Wilson kicked and twisted: he could now, and he was; struggling breathlessly against the tangle of bedclothes in -- in the bed. In House’s room.
Oh. He stared down at the sheets. He was trembling, flushed with adrenaline, and then almost immediately with embarrassment. The sedate, solid furniture was silently positioned around him; and thank God, House must not have heard. He had tried to wrench out of the sling; the pain was real. He groped for the pills on the dresser and tried to calm his breathing.
Fuck. He never had nightmares. He kicked the remainder of the sheets away irritably from where they had bunched around his ankles, and shakily moved to stand. Someone seemed to have unhinged his knees, and everything hurt with the sharpest edge he’d felt for days. He brushed the sweat off his forehead. He felt as bad as he did after the dream that had recurred since med school, the only other nightmare he could recall having since he was a child, with all the backwards consults. He would be running around frantically and everyone - his parents, House, Cuddy, the hotel concierge - would casually inform him when they brushed past that they had cancer (how come you didn’t know that? Really, I‘d have thought that you of all people should have known that! Where the hell have you been?!) and that he was too late: nothing could be done to save them.
To hell with this; he wanted the sling off, even if it was only for a while, and some sort of distraction, and then a shower. How much could he jar his arm sprawled on the couch?
In the hallway the quiet murmur of the tv made him feel a hundred times better in a moment. He wandered towards it. “House?”
He wasn’t in the living room; wasn’t in the kitchen. Wilson frowned, and rooted through a cupboard, carefully checking expiry dates. He needed House to undo the immobiliser, and then bitch about it, and demand some ambidextrous pancake-flipping in return. House could be guaranteed upon to smash you back to reality like a wrecking-ball. A couple of hours ago and Wilson had felt so distanced from him it had been painful; now he wanted nothing more than to have his ass of best friend around, solid and infuriating.
“House? House!" There was no answering shout. And in the cupboard, nothing but cornflakes and jam. Typical.
"I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” he called, taking a swig of water from the tap. Nothing. Wilson put the cornflakes on the counter and idly started tracing the kid’s maze on the back of the box; soon the meds would kick in, and the warm kitchen light was doing the rest. He glanced down and saw the red-light on the answer-phone; maybe that was House. He tapped the button, and searched around for a bowl.
You have: one new message.
House, it’s me. Cameron. House would be eating pancakes in some Jersey diner while his patient was probably arresting. He dug around a drawer for a spoon.
It’s not autoimmune, Cameron sighed down the phone, and Wilson smiled in sympathy. The tests came back negative. The treatment's not working.
Wilson heard the click of the front door, and saw the bike helmet sail across the room to land on the couch, accompanied by a shout of: “Pizza! Get out of bed!” He grinned.
I went back to the parking-lot; no fungi or toxins. I think we can rule out environmental, continued Cameron’s voice, and Wilson paused in the act of moving round the kitchen counter.
He’d misheard. He slowly turned his head and stared at the little red light, eyeing him beadily.
but still no clue on what triggered the anaphylaxis, and ----
But the rest of the sentence didn’t filter in, swallowed by a cold, congealing certainty welling up inside him. Wilson watched House’s rucksack soar, as if in slow motion, to join the helmet on the couch, and he heard the uneven hop as House turned to lock the door behind him.
-- think you should come back in.
End of messages.
“Wilson?” House stepped into sight, unzipping his jacket with one hand, balancing two pizza boxes on the other. “Hey. I was too hungry to wait for the delivery guy,” he said. “Which saves you having to tip.” House tilted his head, and frowned at Wilson with sharp blue eyes.
“Wilson?”
Wilson watched, seemingly from somewhere else entirely, as House took in his sleep-mussed hair, ghost-pale face and the blank, stunned expression in his eyes, and he thought: parking-lot. He felt a strange lunge in his gut. Anaphylaxis. He gripped the counter with white knuckles. House.
Static roared in his ears; a cold, prickling sensation swept over him, upraising all the tiny hairs on his arms and neck. House stepped closer.
“Wilson? . . . Are you ok?”