Commitment, 1/2 (R)
Posted to house_wilson and housefic
Title: Commitment, Part 1 of 2
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House and Wilson
Rating: R for theme and language (no sex)
Summary: Much too much; Wilson takes a break.
Note: Takes place about two weeks after episode 3-14 “Insensitive”; spoilers to that point. Beta by the awesome daisylily. For nightdog_barks, who has always feared that Wilson will break down.
It had been a terrible week for House: late February gloom, unsolved questions, annoyances both major and minor, mortal coils shed left and right, and a notable lack of successes. The spectral ghost of Wilson’s migraine on Monday had seemed to linger over the rest of the week, and he’d been at his most irksome, handing out a soapbox lecture at every turn.
House had finally ducked him and fled. It was only because it was not Wilson’s number on the caller ID that House bothered to pick up the phone that Thursday evening.
“Um, sir?” the nasal alto inquired.
Too tentative for a telemarketer, too old for Girl Scout cookies. House contemplated just hanging up, but tiredly responded, “Yes?”
“My name is Darlene; I work at the Plainsboro Garden Inn. We have a guest here named James Wilson?”
House shifted in his seat; he had no energy for this. “Let me know when you stop spouting random facts and actually get to something that pertains to me.”
“Sir, Mr. Wilson, he’s not doing very well tonight.”
Wilson had looked washed out that afternoon when House had glimpsed him from his Clinic hiding spot. “Is he dying?”
“I - don’t think so.”
“Probably the flu. He’s a physician; he can heal himself.” He shifted the phone in preparation for hanging it up.
“It’s not the flu, sir,” the nasal Darlene nasal-ed, “but I think he needs someone to take care of him. I got your phone number out of his cell, and that’s why I’m calling you.”
“I’m not a hand-holding type. I’m sure there are dozens of people listed in his phone more caring than I am. Call them.”
“You’re the only person in his cell’s phone list, sir,” Darlene said quietly. “I know I’m probably bothering you when you’re busy, so I’m sorry, but this situation is really… not good. My manager wants to call the police, but Mr. Wilson has always been nice to me, gone out of his way. I think he deserves to have a friend help him tonight and not go to jail.”
In spite of himself, House was intrigued. “Why would he go to jail for being sick?”
“He’s not, um, sick in his body, sir. But he’s disturbing the other guests, and my manager’s really about to call the cops unless I can tell him someone is coming right away to take care of Mr. Wilson.” Cameron and her book on effective influencing had nothing on Darlene.
“All right. I’ll come.” House pushed up off the couch and looked around for his keys.
“That’s a relief; thanks. Do you need directions?”
“No, I know where you are.”
***
Darlene was twenty pounds lighter and more than thirty years younger than House had pictured her. She also looked vaguely familiar. Trying to place her, he had an image of thick paper with a white border - it was a photograph. Darlene looked like a woman he’d seen in an old photo, holding a baby. More details danced out of reach and then evaporated when Darlene spoke.
“Thank you for coming, sir. His room is on the fourth floor.”
They sidestepped a fireplug of a man with a gold nametag and a deeply etched scowl.
“Taking care of it, Mr. Allen!” Darlene called as the elevator doors closed.
“What did you say was wrong with Wilson?”
“I’d prefer you see for yourself, sir.”
He heard for himself the moment the elevator doors opened. Wilson’s “singing” could be heard all the way down the hall.
“He wasn’t this loud before. Mr. Allen’s probably gotten more complaints.”
“I’d say so,” House replied, grimacing.
“Drive My Car” was in full swing when they got to Wilson’s door. Knocking, Darlene called loudly, “Mr. Wilson?”
“Beep, beep. Beep, beep. Yeah!” being the only reply, Darlene went ahead and opened the door with her passkey.
House had expected the room to be a disaster, but it looked like any hotel room. The only item even remotely out of place was a mini-bottle of Maker’s Mark square in the center of the desk. Neatest drunk ever. House rolled his eyes.
The air was a little cold, presumably to accommodate how Wilson was dressed: jeans, sweatshirt, winter jacket, and scarf.
“Going out somewhere?” House inquired during a momentary lull in Wilson’s serenade.
“Nope,” Wilson replied, at a normal volume. He didn’t seem surprised at all to see the two of them in his hotel room. Keeping up his slow pacing, he continued, “Just got back. You’re wearing the wrong shirt.”
Keeping his eyes on Wilson, House quietly asked Darlene, “Hasn’t he been here since you called me?”
“Uh huh. All evening, actually, since about five-fifteen,” she replied. She was bravely staying in the room but had ducked behind House.
“Wrong shirt,” Wilson repeated. “It should be olive.”
“I thought you liked me in blue.”
“You shouldn’t have changed.” Wilson’s voice was growing loud again. “Olive, olive, olive!” He screamed the last word and with breathtaking speed snatched away House’s cane.
“You never change! Why would you change that?” He swung the cane like a baseball bat and smashed the room’s large mirror.
“Mr. Wilson!” Darlene screamed as the shards rained down, far enough away from all of them, fortunately. House’s mind was ticking through drugs, legal and not, that could cause this kind of behavior.
Wilson turned toward them and smiled peacefully. “It’s OK, Darlene. No one’s hurt. Look.” He held out the cane, balancing it lightly on his palm. “House’s cane isn’t even hurt.”
When she reached for it tentatively, Wilson snatched it back. “Mine now,” he sing-songed, and carried the cane with him into the bathroom.
“Darlene, honey,” his voice rang out, “do you have any mascara?”
“Um, what?” She was shaking, but sticking with them. House was grateful for the backup. His mind was still listing: cocaine, PCP, amphetamine, methamphetamine, dextroamphetamine, methylphenidate, L-DOPA, anticholinergics…
“Mascara, Darlene.” Wilson poked his head out of the bathroom and looked so much himself that House almost laughed.
Darlene took a deep breath. “I have some in my purse.”
“Oh, no, honey. You don’t want to share your mascara and risk conjunctivitis. It’s nasty. I bet they have some in the gift shop downstairs, though, so run and get me some, OK?”
“OK,” she replied hesitantly.
Wilson had gone back in the bathroom. “Brown if they have it, but black’s fine if they don’t.”
When Darlene had fled, House squared his shoulders and prepared to get this all under control. He limped over to the bathroom, missing his cane every step, and walked in. Wilson was contemplating his face in a lighted makeup mirror that pulled away from the wall. His features were so magnified as to be distorted.
“Wilson, did you take anything?”
“No, that’s you. You’re the one who takes.” Wilson poked at a blemish on his chin. “I’m the one who gives. And who walks away. Walking, walking, slap of rubber on wood, on concrete. I don’t think I even know how to take any more.”
Wilson pushed his nose from one side to the other, inspecting the skin.
“Pay attention!” House snapped.
“That’s you, too,” Wilson replied. “You pay a lot of attention to a lot of things - scrutiny. That’s a funny word to say. Scroo-tuh-nee. You pay a lot of scrutiny, but you never really notice, do you?”
House slowed down his speech, enunciating each word clearly. “Did you take anything?”
Wilson frowned. “You’re repeating yourself.”
“I’m asking about drugs!”
“Drugs!” cried Wilson happily, clapping his hands together and turning toward House. “That’s a good idea. Give me some of yours!”
House stepped back and covered his pockets. “I don’t have anything.”
“Liar. Everybody lies.” Wilson gave his face one last glance in the mirror and then reached into a drawer on the vanity.
“Or maybe,” he continued, “you already took them all. Yeah, that’s what happened.”
Proudly, he showed House his find: a tube of lipstick. “Picked it just for you,” he confessed in a whisper. “It’s the same color Stacy used to wear.”
House had been clinging to a small hope that this was just drunkenness, but nope. Definitely drugs, or some kind of mental breakdown. Or both.
“I never told you I ran into Julie,” Wilson commented. He had opened the lipstick and was waving it back and forth in front of the large mirror over the vanity. He seemed to be drawing on his reflection, although the tube wasn’t touching anything. Then suddenly he focused back on the makeup mirror and brought the lipstick to his lips.
“When did you see her?”
“It doesn’t matter.” In between phrases, Wilson was applying the lipstick, from the center of each lip to the corner. “She was with a new friend from her new country club, and I’m pretty sure I paid the entrance fee for that in the divorce, but that’s not really all that important to the story. The thing was, she introduced me to her new friend - who had great tits; you would’ve liked them - as her whore of an ex-husband.” The lipstick was on thick and garish. Wilson reached for a tissue and began to blot.
“Later that made me laugh so hard,” he continued. “You know why?”
“Because she’s a heartless bitch who doesn’t know what she’s talking about?”
“Because whores get paid!” Wilson threw back his head and laughed loudly, for what seemed like a year. When the laughter died down, he went on. “Whores get money for having sex. I spread my legs like a, well, whore is the only simile I can think of right now.” He frowned, pouting, and his lipstick smeared a little. He blotted and began re-applying it.
“If I had a different simile, that’d be more powerful, but anyway, the point is, I spread my legs nice and wide and give it up every single time. And I never, ever get paid. I’m worse than a whore, stupider than a whore. I’m the sluttiest slut that ever slutted.”
House was tired. He didn’t want to hear any more; didn’t want to think; didn’t want to acknowledge the worry and fear that was beating in time with his heart. “Wilson,” he tried, “Julie was just trying to hurt you.”
“The truth hurts!” Wilson chuckled and then stilled, his eyes growing wide. “Ooh, ooh, I got it! That’s why you don’t believe in lies. You want to use the truth as your weapon, your twisted dagger. Stab everybody until they’re in just as much pain as you are. Yah, listen to me, how good I am at this. I’m a philosopher-king, that’s what I am. A slutty, slutty philosopher-king.” He leaned forward and rested his head against the large mirror, and House feared for one very scary moment that Wilson would either slam his head into the mirror or start to cry.
“Wilson!” he yelled, just to snap the self-immersion.
Wilson practically sang his next words: “He’s gone.” He straightened up and puckered his lips a few times, watching himself in the mirror. “But I’m here. You can call me Jimmy.”
The voice sounded totally different, and they were definitely not in Kansas now. “How old are you, Jimmy?”
Wilson frowned and glared at him, perturbed. “You know how old I am, House. Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Darlene’s voice floated in just then. “Mr. Wilson? I bought you some mascara, but they only had black.”
A thrust to House’s chest, and he was forced to stagger back out into the hotel room.
“Sit,” Wilson commanded, pushing House onto the bed. Then he beckoned Darlene with one curled finger. “Come on in, sweetie; help me put my face on.”
They disappeared into the bathroom together. House listened to them with one ear while he called Foreman.
“Your friend’s real nice,” Darlene commented.
Wilson laughed. “He’s not real nice, but I love him anyway.”
“So you two are-?”
“Together? No. We’d make a cute couple, though, wouldn’t we?”
“I’m not sure anyone would call him cute. Sexy, maybe. Forceful, if you like that type.”
Foreman wasn’t answering his home phone.
“Him?” Wilson asked. “He’s a pussycat. Underneath. Way, way underneath. In fact, so far underneath, the rest of him might have squished the pussycat by now. You know how diamonds are made?”
“Made? I thought they pulled them out of the ground, like mining in a cave.”
Foreman wasn’t answering his cell phone.
“That’s right,” Wilson said. He seemed to be enjoying himself now, enjoying teaching new things to Darlene. “But before they get in the cave, nature makes them. Diamonds actually start out as coal, but then over a long time, millennia, the coal gets compressed by the pressure and weight of the earth and it turns into diamonds.”
“That’s interesting, that something dark and dusty turns into something so pretty.”
“Yeah. So I think House’s pussycat went through something similar, got all compressed and changed, and now it’s a hissing semi-feral alley cat.”
House punched in the numbers for Foreman’s pager with a little bit more force than necessary.
“Well, if it’s only semi-feral, there’s some hope for it, isn’t there? My sister takes in stray cats, and if they’re not too far gone, then with a lot of love and patience you can gentle them into good house pets.”
“I guess you’re right.” Wilson paused. House most definitely did not want to think what Wilson’s face looked like now. “You’re a good girl, Darlene; you shouldn’t let your boyfriend treat you so badly.”
“I don’t any more. I broke up with him.”
“That’s excellent. I’m very proud of you. Some day I’ll be brave enough to walk in your footsteps.”
Finally, House had Foreman on the phone. He gave him the bare minimum of details and ordered him to bring Ativan when he came. Then House chanced a look into the bathroom.
Wilson caught his eyes in the mirror. The mascara over-emphasized his eyes but was nowhere near as garish as the lipstick. “Darlene,” Wilson ordered, “it’s time for you to go home. I appreciated you staying with me, but your shift’s over; you should clock out.”
Looking concerned, Darlene replied, “Are you sure you’ll be OK, Mr. Wilson?”
He patted her hand and smiled. “It’s not your concern; you’ve done enough. I don’t think I’ll see you again, so best of luck and please take care of yourself.”
“Why won’t you see me again?” She was near tears.
“Oh, because I’ll be checking out of the hotel, of course. Worn out my welcome, and I really should go anyway. Goodbye now.” Dismissing her entirely, Wilson returned to contemplating his face in the mirror.
As Darlene came out of the bathroom, head lowered, that old photograph flashed through House’s mind again. Top photo in the blue box Wilson liked to keep in his nightstand. Probably in storage now. But it was only his mind playing a trick on him; Darlene didn’t really look much like Wilson’s mother.
She silently handed House his cane, and he walked her to the door.
“Sir -” she began.
“I’m going to take care of him,” he reassured her. “We’ll be out of here in a few minutes, and I’ll make sure he’s OK.”
“Thank you,” she whispered and headed down the hall.
Wilson started singing again, thankfully much quieter than before, and more in tune as well. “I Want to Hold Your Hand” wasn’t that bad a song.
House had to reassess how he felt after the twenty-fifth repetition of the chorus. Because Wilson was relatively calm, House had let him stay in the bathroom, just checking briefly in on him every few minutes. Wilson ignored him, and there had been no other incidents. Still, he was grateful when Foreman knocked on the door.
As he was letting Foreman in, Wilson emerged from the bathroom. He was still wearing the same clothes, including the coat and scarf, but his hair was freshly wet, and he seemed to have added another coat of both mascara and lipstick.
Kind and patient soul that he was, Foreman jumped right in with the questions. “Why are you wearing makeup?”
“To look pretty,” Wilson replied with all sincerity, batting his eyelashes before walking to the room’s window and pulling back the drapes. “It’s Christmas Eve; I want to do something special.”
As Foreman stared across the room at Wilson, House reached out for his bag. “Let me hold that. I want you to give him a neuro exam.”
Looking out the window, Wilson was humming a Christmas carol and swaying. Foreman turned toward House and hissed, “He doesn’t need a neuro exam; he needs a psych bed!”
“We got my brother a psych bed,” said Wilson vacantly.
“What?” Foreman asked.
“We got my brother a psych bed. He didn’t sleep in it, though. Four days and he didn’t sleep. They gave him meds but it didn’t work and he escaped. Walked away and away and away and now he’s dead.”
Wilson. God, Wilson. House leaned forward. “You don’t know that -”
“He’s dead.” Wilson turned back toward the room, but he was looking at nothing. “I loved him more than any person I knew, and I couldn’t help him. Got him a bed he never slept in and it didn’t help one bit.”
“Jimmy,” House called.
Wilson suddenly crossed to Foreman and grabbed his arm. “And then I met someone I loved even more than David. I didn’t think that was possible, but yeah. And he took everything I had to give, and things I didn’t think I could give, and things I didn’t even know I had. He took it all and now I have nothing. But that’s OK, except - now he’s dead, too. Killed himself on Christmas Eve. Bottle of oxycodone and bottle of Maker’s Mark. I think he’d say he didn’t mean it, but what does that matter? He didn’t even love me enough to live.”
“Wilson,” said House, but he was soundly ignored.
“There are ghosts everywhere,” Wilson sighed, and the energy seemed to drain completely out of him. “I’m pretty tired now. Can I have that bed?”
Foreman replied consolingly, “Yeah. I’ll have to call and arrange some things, but yeah.”
“Wilson,” House implored, and again Wilson looked right through him.
“Let’s go,” Wilson said, moving wearily out the door with Foreman close behind him. House sank onto the bed and dropped his face into his hands.
(Continued)
Title: Commitment, Part 1 of 2
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House and Wilson
Rating: R for theme and language (no sex)
Summary: Much too much; Wilson takes a break.
Note: Takes place about two weeks after episode 3-14 “Insensitive”; spoilers to that point. Beta by the awesome daisylily. For nightdog_barks, who has always feared that Wilson will break down.
It had been a terrible week for House: late February gloom, unsolved questions, annoyances both major and minor, mortal coils shed left and right, and a notable lack of successes. The spectral ghost of Wilson’s migraine on Monday had seemed to linger over the rest of the week, and he’d been at his most irksome, handing out a soapbox lecture at every turn.
House had finally ducked him and fled. It was only because it was not Wilson’s number on the caller ID that House bothered to pick up the phone that Thursday evening.
“Um, sir?” the nasal alto inquired.
Too tentative for a telemarketer, too old for Girl Scout cookies. House contemplated just hanging up, but tiredly responded, “Yes?”
“My name is Darlene; I work at the Plainsboro Garden Inn. We have a guest here named James Wilson?”
House shifted in his seat; he had no energy for this. “Let me know when you stop spouting random facts and actually get to something that pertains to me.”
“Sir, Mr. Wilson, he’s not doing very well tonight.”
Wilson had looked washed out that afternoon when House had glimpsed him from his Clinic hiding spot. “Is he dying?”
“I - don’t think so.”
“Probably the flu. He’s a physician; he can heal himself.” He shifted the phone in preparation for hanging it up.
“It’s not the flu, sir,” the nasal Darlene nasal-ed, “but I think he needs someone to take care of him. I got your phone number out of his cell, and that’s why I’m calling you.”
“I’m not a hand-holding type. I’m sure there are dozens of people listed in his phone more caring than I am. Call them.”
“You’re the only person in his cell’s phone list, sir,” Darlene said quietly. “I know I’m probably bothering you when you’re busy, so I’m sorry, but this situation is really… not good. My manager wants to call the police, but Mr. Wilson has always been nice to me, gone out of his way. I think he deserves to have a friend help him tonight and not go to jail.”
In spite of himself, House was intrigued. “Why would he go to jail for being sick?”
“He’s not, um, sick in his body, sir. But he’s disturbing the other guests, and my manager’s really about to call the cops unless I can tell him someone is coming right away to take care of Mr. Wilson.” Cameron and her book on effective influencing had nothing on Darlene.
“All right. I’ll come.” House pushed up off the couch and looked around for his keys.
“That’s a relief; thanks. Do you need directions?”
“No, I know where you are.”
***
Darlene was twenty pounds lighter and more than thirty years younger than House had pictured her. She also looked vaguely familiar. Trying to place her, he had an image of thick paper with a white border - it was a photograph. Darlene looked like a woman he’d seen in an old photo, holding a baby. More details danced out of reach and then evaporated when Darlene spoke.
“Thank you for coming, sir. His room is on the fourth floor.”
They sidestepped a fireplug of a man with a gold nametag and a deeply etched scowl.
“Taking care of it, Mr. Allen!” Darlene called as the elevator doors closed.
“What did you say was wrong with Wilson?”
“I’d prefer you see for yourself, sir.”
He heard for himself the moment the elevator doors opened. Wilson’s “singing” could be heard all the way down the hall.
“He wasn’t this loud before. Mr. Allen’s probably gotten more complaints.”
“I’d say so,” House replied, grimacing.
“Drive My Car” was in full swing when they got to Wilson’s door. Knocking, Darlene called loudly, “Mr. Wilson?”
“Beep, beep. Beep, beep. Yeah!” being the only reply, Darlene went ahead and opened the door with her passkey.
House had expected the room to be a disaster, but it looked like any hotel room. The only item even remotely out of place was a mini-bottle of Maker’s Mark square in the center of the desk. Neatest drunk ever. House rolled his eyes.
The air was a little cold, presumably to accommodate how Wilson was dressed: jeans, sweatshirt, winter jacket, and scarf.
“Going out somewhere?” House inquired during a momentary lull in Wilson’s serenade.
“Nope,” Wilson replied, at a normal volume. He didn’t seem surprised at all to see the two of them in his hotel room. Keeping up his slow pacing, he continued, “Just got back. You’re wearing the wrong shirt.”
Keeping his eyes on Wilson, House quietly asked Darlene, “Hasn’t he been here since you called me?”
“Uh huh. All evening, actually, since about five-fifteen,” she replied. She was bravely staying in the room but had ducked behind House.
“Wrong shirt,” Wilson repeated. “It should be olive.”
“I thought you liked me in blue.”
“You shouldn’t have changed.” Wilson’s voice was growing loud again. “Olive, olive, olive!” He screamed the last word and with breathtaking speed snatched away House’s cane.
“You never change! Why would you change that?” He swung the cane like a baseball bat and smashed the room’s large mirror.
“Mr. Wilson!” Darlene screamed as the shards rained down, far enough away from all of them, fortunately. House’s mind was ticking through drugs, legal and not, that could cause this kind of behavior.
Wilson turned toward them and smiled peacefully. “It’s OK, Darlene. No one’s hurt. Look.” He held out the cane, balancing it lightly on his palm. “House’s cane isn’t even hurt.”
When she reached for it tentatively, Wilson snatched it back. “Mine now,” he sing-songed, and carried the cane with him into the bathroom.
“Darlene, honey,” his voice rang out, “do you have any mascara?”
“Um, what?” She was shaking, but sticking with them. House was grateful for the backup. His mind was still listing: cocaine, PCP, amphetamine, methamphetamine, dextroamphetamine, methylphenidate, L-DOPA, anticholinergics…
“Mascara, Darlene.” Wilson poked his head out of the bathroom and looked so much himself that House almost laughed.
Darlene took a deep breath. “I have some in my purse.”
“Oh, no, honey. You don’t want to share your mascara and risk conjunctivitis. It’s nasty. I bet they have some in the gift shop downstairs, though, so run and get me some, OK?”
“OK,” she replied hesitantly.
Wilson had gone back in the bathroom. “Brown if they have it, but black’s fine if they don’t.”
When Darlene had fled, House squared his shoulders and prepared to get this all under control. He limped over to the bathroom, missing his cane every step, and walked in. Wilson was contemplating his face in a lighted makeup mirror that pulled away from the wall. His features were so magnified as to be distorted.
“Wilson, did you take anything?”
“No, that’s you. You’re the one who takes.” Wilson poked at a blemish on his chin. “I’m the one who gives. And who walks away. Walking, walking, slap of rubber on wood, on concrete. I don’t think I even know how to take any more.”
Wilson pushed his nose from one side to the other, inspecting the skin.
“Pay attention!” House snapped.
“That’s you, too,” Wilson replied. “You pay a lot of attention to a lot of things - scrutiny. That’s a funny word to say. Scroo-tuh-nee. You pay a lot of scrutiny, but you never really notice, do you?”
House slowed down his speech, enunciating each word clearly. “Did you take anything?”
Wilson frowned. “You’re repeating yourself.”
“I’m asking about drugs!”
“Drugs!” cried Wilson happily, clapping his hands together and turning toward House. “That’s a good idea. Give me some of yours!”
House stepped back and covered his pockets. “I don’t have anything.”
“Liar. Everybody lies.” Wilson gave his face one last glance in the mirror and then reached into a drawer on the vanity.
“Or maybe,” he continued, “you already took them all. Yeah, that’s what happened.”
Proudly, he showed House his find: a tube of lipstick. “Picked it just for you,” he confessed in a whisper. “It’s the same color Stacy used to wear.”
House had been clinging to a small hope that this was just drunkenness, but nope. Definitely drugs, or some kind of mental breakdown. Or both.
“I never told you I ran into Julie,” Wilson commented. He had opened the lipstick and was waving it back and forth in front of the large mirror over the vanity. He seemed to be drawing on his reflection, although the tube wasn’t touching anything. Then suddenly he focused back on the makeup mirror and brought the lipstick to his lips.
“When did you see her?”
“It doesn’t matter.” In between phrases, Wilson was applying the lipstick, from the center of each lip to the corner. “She was with a new friend from her new country club, and I’m pretty sure I paid the entrance fee for that in the divorce, but that’s not really all that important to the story. The thing was, she introduced me to her new friend - who had great tits; you would’ve liked them - as her whore of an ex-husband.” The lipstick was on thick and garish. Wilson reached for a tissue and began to blot.
“Later that made me laugh so hard,” he continued. “You know why?”
“Because she’s a heartless bitch who doesn’t know what she’s talking about?”
“Because whores get paid!” Wilson threw back his head and laughed loudly, for what seemed like a year. When the laughter died down, he went on. “Whores get money for having sex. I spread my legs like a, well, whore is the only simile I can think of right now.” He frowned, pouting, and his lipstick smeared a little. He blotted and began re-applying it.
“If I had a different simile, that’d be more powerful, but anyway, the point is, I spread my legs nice and wide and give it up every single time. And I never, ever get paid. I’m worse than a whore, stupider than a whore. I’m the sluttiest slut that ever slutted.”
House was tired. He didn’t want to hear any more; didn’t want to think; didn’t want to acknowledge the worry and fear that was beating in time with his heart. “Wilson,” he tried, “Julie was just trying to hurt you.”
“The truth hurts!” Wilson chuckled and then stilled, his eyes growing wide. “Ooh, ooh, I got it! That’s why you don’t believe in lies. You want to use the truth as your weapon, your twisted dagger. Stab everybody until they’re in just as much pain as you are. Yah, listen to me, how good I am at this. I’m a philosopher-king, that’s what I am. A slutty, slutty philosopher-king.” He leaned forward and rested his head against the large mirror, and House feared for one very scary moment that Wilson would either slam his head into the mirror or start to cry.
“Wilson!” he yelled, just to snap the self-immersion.
Wilson practically sang his next words: “He’s gone.” He straightened up and puckered his lips a few times, watching himself in the mirror. “But I’m here. You can call me Jimmy.”
The voice sounded totally different, and they were definitely not in Kansas now. “How old are you, Jimmy?”
Wilson frowned and glared at him, perturbed. “You know how old I am, House. Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Darlene’s voice floated in just then. “Mr. Wilson? I bought you some mascara, but they only had black.”
A thrust to House’s chest, and he was forced to stagger back out into the hotel room.
“Sit,” Wilson commanded, pushing House onto the bed. Then he beckoned Darlene with one curled finger. “Come on in, sweetie; help me put my face on.”
They disappeared into the bathroom together. House listened to them with one ear while he called Foreman.
“Your friend’s real nice,” Darlene commented.
Wilson laughed. “He’s not real nice, but I love him anyway.”
“So you two are-?”
“Together? No. We’d make a cute couple, though, wouldn’t we?”
“I’m not sure anyone would call him cute. Sexy, maybe. Forceful, if you like that type.”
Foreman wasn’t answering his home phone.
“Him?” Wilson asked. “He’s a pussycat. Underneath. Way, way underneath. In fact, so far underneath, the rest of him might have squished the pussycat by now. You know how diamonds are made?”
“Made? I thought they pulled them out of the ground, like mining in a cave.”
Foreman wasn’t answering his cell phone.
“That’s right,” Wilson said. He seemed to be enjoying himself now, enjoying teaching new things to Darlene. “But before they get in the cave, nature makes them. Diamonds actually start out as coal, but then over a long time, millennia, the coal gets compressed by the pressure and weight of the earth and it turns into diamonds.”
“That’s interesting, that something dark and dusty turns into something so pretty.”
“Yeah. So I think House’s pussycat went through something similar, got all compressed and changed, and now it’s a hissing semi-feral alley cat.”
House punched in the numbers for Foreman’s pager with a little bit more force than necessary.
“Well, if it’s only semi-feral, there’s some hope for it, isn’t there? My sister takes in stray cats, and if they’re not too far gone, then with a lot of love and patience you can gentle them into good house pets.”
“I guess you’re right.” Wilson paused. House most definitely did not want to think what Wilson’s face looked like now. “You’re a good girl, Darlene; you shouldn’t let your boyfriend treat you so badly.”
“I don’t any more. I broke up with him.”
“That’s excellent. I’m very proud of you. Some day I’ll be brave enough to walk in your footsteps.”
Finally, House had Foreman on the phone. He gave him the bare minimum of details and ordered him to bring Ativan when he came. Then House chanced a look into the bathroom.
Wilson caught his eyes in the mirror. The mascara over-emphasized his eyes but was nowhere near as garish as the lipstick. “Darlene,” Wilson ordered, “it’s time for you to go home. I appreciated you staying with me, but your shift’s over; you should clock out.”
Looking concerned, Darlene replied, “Are you sure you’ll be OK, Mr. Wilson?”
He patted her hand and smiled. “It’s not your concern; you’ve done enough. I don’t think I’ll see you again, so best of luck and please take care of yourself.”
“Why won’t you see me again?” She was near tears.
“Oh, because I’ll be checking out of the hotel, of course. Worn out my welcome, and I really should go anyway. Goodbye now.” Dismissing her entirely, Wilson returned to contemplating his face in the mirror.
As Darlene came out of the bathroom, head lowered, that old photograph flashed through House’s mind again. Top photo in the blue box Wilson liked to keep in his nightstand. Probably in storage now. But it was only his mind playing a trick on him; Darlene didn’t really look much like Wilson’s mother.
She silently handed House his cane, and he walked her to the door.
“Sir -” she began.
“I’m going to take care of him,” he reassured her. “We’ll be out of here in a few minutes, and I’ll make sure he’s OK.”
“Thank you,” she whispered and headed down the hall.
Wilson started singing again, thankfully much quieter than before, and more in tune as well. “I Want to Hold Your Hand” wasn’t that bad a song.
House had to reassess how he felt after the twenty-fifth repetition of the chorus. Because Wilson was relatively calm, House had let him stay in the bathroom, just checking briefly in on him every few minutes. Wilson ignored him, and there had been no other incidents. Still, he was grateful when Foreman knocked on the door.
As he was letting Foreman in, Wilson emerged from the bathroom. He was still wearing the same clothes, including the coat and scarf, but his hair was freshly wet, and he seemed to have added another coat of both mascara and lipstick.
Kind and patient soul that he was, Foreman jumped right in with the questions. “Why are you wearing makeup?”
“To look pretty,” Wilson replied with all sincerity, batting his eyelashes before walking to the room’s window and pulling back the drapes. “It’s Christmas Eve; I want to do something special.”
As Foreman stared across the room at Wilson, House reached out for his bag. “Let me hold that. I want you to give him a neuro exam.”
Looking out the window, Wilson was humming a Christmas carol and swaying. Foreman turned toward House and hissed, “He doesn’t need a neuro exam; he needs a psych bed!”
“We got my brother a psych bed,” said Wilson vacantly.
“What?” Foreman asked.
“We got my brother a psych bed. He didn’t sleep in it, though. Four days and he didn’t sleep. They gave him meds but it didn’t work and he escaped. Walked away and away and away and now he’s dead.”
Wilson. God, Wilson. House leaned forward. “You don’t know that -”
“He’s dead.” Wilson turned back toward the room, but he was looking at nothing. “I loved him more than any person I knew, and I couldn’t help him. Got him a bed he never slept in and it didn’t help one bit.”
“Jimmy,” House called.
Wilson suddenly crossed to Foreman and grabbed his arm. “And then I met someone I loved even more than David. I didn’t think that was possible, but yeah. And he took everything I had to give, and things I didn’t think I could give, and things I didn’t even know I had. He took it all and now I have nothing. But that’s OK, except - now he’s dead, too. Killed himself on Christmas Eve. Bottle of oxycodone and bottle of Maker’s Mark. I think he’d say he didn’t mean it, but what does that matter? He didn’t even love me enough to live.”
“Wilson,” said House, but he was soundly ignored.
“There are ghosts everywhere,” Wilson sighed, and the energy seemed to drain completely out of him. “I’m pretty tired now. Can I have that bed?”
Foreman replied consolingly, “Yeah. I’ll have to call and arrange some things, but yeah.”
“Wilson,” House implored, and again Wilson looked right through him.
“Let’s go,” Wilson said, moving wearily out the door with Foreman close behind him. House sank onto the bed and dropped his face into his hands.
(Continued)