Devil's Playground - chapter 8
Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 8/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.
He'd been shot down in flames.
Storming out into the corridor, Wilson blinks back frustrated tears. Amber is dying. His brilliant, gorgeous girlfriend. Her life, with all its potential and promise, is being wrenched away from her.
Doesn't anybody care?
He knows what's best for her, yet he's being forced to fight tooth and nail to justify his decisions at every turn. Why is everybody turning against him? Why aren't there more people in his corner supporting him? He's being treated like a raving nuisance. Foreman and Cuddy had acted expressly against his wishes, and even House, his staunchest ally, had just dismissed him.
Wilson isn't stupid. No-one has the faintest idea what's wrong with her - everyone is clutching at fucking straws - but, dear God, Prednisone? It could harm her. It's the wrong course of treatment; Wilson can feel it.
What if it hadn't been the rash? The symptom House had seen. House could have noticed that at any time. Whilst they'd been in the ambulance, or when they'd first arrived at the PPTH. Amber's time is running out. The answer to saving her might still be locked inside House's mind with no way to retrieve it if House...
If House...
Wilson stumbles to a halt. There is a way. Deep brain stimulation. House had suggested it before. Would his friend still be willing to try it? House is poorly himself, but Amber's life is hanging in the balance. His lover's. Amber's.
Damp palms squeezed tightly together, Wilson turns around and walks reluctantly back into House's office. He knows he's walking on thin ice. If he badgers House - if he irritates him - House could and would shut him down. If he wants to awaken his friend's compassion, Wilson will have to choose his words extremely carefully.
With his self-assurance at an all-time low, Wilson takes his first faltering step into a verbal minefield. "Cuddy's right. I was... afraid to do anything. I thought if everything just stopped, it would be..." His words tail off as he looks at his best friend. Really looks at him. House is glancing around his office looking stunned. Disorientated. Wilson's chilled to the bone. "House?" Circling the desk, Wilson falls to his knees before him. "House, look at me."
"I was in a bar," House mutters in a shocked voice.
"Sharrie's," Wilson says slowly. "I know. You took me there." His heart swells with hope. "Have you remembered something?"
"This is impossible," House says. He tries to stand up, but his legs won't support him. He tumbles back gracelessly into the chair.
"House," Wilson says miserably.
"I..." House rubs his face and then locks gazes with him. "Is this another hallucination? Are you real?"
I don't know, Wilson thinks deliriously. He's a highly qualified doctor in his own right - a department head - yet, as far as his colleagues are concerned, his opinions might as well count for nothing. Flustered, he stares up at House mutely, shaking his head.
"I can't tell, either. Your speech. I remember that. God, that seems so long ago," House murmurs, and Wilson's brow furrows in confusion because that had made no sense at all. "You left the room; then you decided to come back."
Wilson's eyes screw tightly shut. Because I'm losing my lover! Because no-one will listen to me!
Already positioned conveniently on his knees, he opens his eyes, fully intending to plead. For years, House had taken absolutely everything Wilson could afford to spare and then had blithely bled him for more. House owed him. For Tritter. For Vogler. For untold grievances and hurts. All his friend had to do to cancel his debts was commit this one, selfless act. Was it so much to ask?
But when he looks up at House, his friend looks pale, dazed and tired, and the entreaty perishes in Wilson's throat. How can he coerce him into doing this, knowing that the trust House has placed in him will disintegrate into dust in his hands?
Weighed down by hopelessness, Wilson's spine bows until his forehead presses against House's knee.
House shifts a little, hovering over him. "You feel real," he murmurs.
Lacking the strength to move, Wilson can barely stand the stress. Was it fair? That he had to worry himself sick over both House's health and Amber's? "Promise me Amber's going to be okay," he implores hoarsely, voice shaking. For a few moments, his only answer is a sickening silence and then gentle fingers start to warily pet his hair.
"Soon," House whispers. "I promise you, soon, we'll be okay."
Wilson's head lifts up. "That's not what I..." He stops, floored by the expression on House's face. It's wistful - infinitely sad - and Wilson frowns, disconcerted. "House? Damn it, what are you hiding? You don't have to protect me. Please, please... if you know something..."
"Tell me why you came back."
Sighing, Wilson ignores him. Feeling twice his actual age, he struggles to climb to his feet. He's going to ensure that House gets some long, overdue rest, and to do that, first, Wilson needs to call for a gurney.
"Tell me." House grips his wrist as Wilson steps by him in order to reach the phone.
Wilson glances at him, distracted. House's voice has gained strength, and indeed, his gaunt face has regained a little color. His eyes are shining, clear and bright. "It doesn't matter," Wilson says. "I'm admitting you. You need sleep."
House's fingers tighten painfully. "You came to ask me if I'd still be prepared to try deep brain stimulation, didn't you?"
Flinching, Wilson jerks his arm away and stares at House wordlessly, rubbing his wrist. How the hell did House know that?
House looks pained, as if he's fighting some internal battle, and then his face becomes tranquil. Eerily composed. "You're afraid that if I don't do this, Amber might die. You want that?"
"No, House, of course I don't." Wilson has made his choice. He makes a monumental effort not to fall apart. "But your health's deteriorating. A moment ago, you didn't even recognize your own surroundings. I'm not about to endanger your life; DBS is too risky."
"Ask me if I'm willing to try it anyway." House stands up quickly, then frowns as if he's realized something. He sways, almost losing his balance.
Shaking his head, Wilson stares at the man he's spent his entire adult life trying to protect. "No," he says. "Look at you - you can barely stand. You're not doing it, and that's final."
"The answer's yes," House informs him. "For you, I'll risk it. Let's go."
Wilson still doesn't budge, and House sighs deeply, restless.
"Wilson, now!" House insists. "Before I change my mind."
*
Head immobilized by a stereotactic frame, House glances to the right to look at Wilson. His friend looks fearful, but whether it's on his behalf because he is about to undergo a potentially life-threatening procedure, or whether Wilson is currently thinking about Amber, who could say?
"I'm inserting the IPG probe into your ventral hypothalamus," Chase says behind him. Then, addressing Wilson, "Give him three volts."
House inhales deeply. It's the second time he's been through this procedure, but it's still nerve racking. Not that there's much danger of him suffering another seizure. With the probe only delivering a charge of three volts, House intends to sing like a canary on speed. Plus, of course, his head injury has had a chance to heal. House grimaces. Does he have a single inch of skin that's not marred by a scar? Still, Michael's magic must be working. Neither Chase nor Wilson have made mention of that little anomaly. Come to think of it, when he'd replaced his earlier self, wouldn't it have been highly improbable that he'd have been wearing exactly the same clothes?
"Sending impulse," Wilson warns him.
House blinks rapidly. Time to put his brilliantly simple plan into operation. As long as he doesn't overthink it or lose his courage, it's virtually guaranteed that it won't fail.
House downs his seventh Scotch and smacks his lips, chasing down every last drop.
Standing just in front of him, the bartender shakes his head in disbelief and scoops up House's keys. "You're not getting them back." To hammer home his words, he saunters away from House and places them, for safekeeping, in his till.
House rolls his eyes. Picking up his phone, he scowls when he realizes he's out of credit. "Hey," he yells.
The bartender turns to stare at him.
"You take my keys, you gotta give me a phone call."
Grudgingly, House's heavily put upon guardian hands over his cell.
"Charming as ever," Wilson notes, and beneath the worry, House can hear the tinge of fondness in his voice. "Who were you calling?"
"My trusty knight in shining armour: You."
"I was on call." Wilson frowns, then sighs in sudden understanding. "You spoke to Amber."
"Yeah. I told her to track you down and have you gallop to my rescue after work."
Wilson nods thoughtfully. "What happened next?"
Impatiently waiting for Wilson, House strokes his brow, then runs his fingers along his jaw. He senses there's a presence behind him, and twisting on his stool, he turns to see Amber. He's not amused. "I said to find Wilson," he says belligerently.
"Does she look sick?"
House hears the tremor in Wilson's voice - the hopeful anticipation, and he purposefully hardens his heart. He has to, in order to get through this. "Not yet."
"House?" Amber runs beautifully manicured nails lightly down his arm. "Mind if we talk?"
"Amber wanted to talk to you?" Wilson seems surprised. "What about?" He steps directly into House's line of vision.
House is forced to gaze into his best friend's dark, apprehensive eyes. It makes lying to him much, much more difficult. "She wanted..." House pauses as if he's replaying the scene. It's imperative that he does this. Hadn't Michael assured him that this was an excellent idea? "She... Look, it's immaterial."
"No, it's not. House? What did Amber say?"
Your acting must be flawless. Don't screw it up. Whatever you do, Don't Screw It Up. "I... I can't tell you."
"House. Please!"
House looks up at him and thinks, I'm doing this all for you. Yes, you'll be mad at first, you'll be hurt, but ultimately, I'm doing you a favor. This will enable you to move on. If you believe that Amber is the lowest of the low - that she's capable of deceiving you - of betraying you - her death will be a lot easier for you to bear. Expression calculatedly open and apologetic, House continues the charade with a renewed sense of purpose. "She sneezed," he says. "Bartender handed her a napkin."
"The color?" Wilson asks, mind back on track.
"Nothing unusual." House looks disappointed, playing his part like a pro. "It seemed like she was getting a cold. Then......"
House looks at Amber appraisingly, then pats the stool beside him. He waves to get the bartender's attention. "Oh. Need another round. And a drink for what passes for a lady around here." He grins at Amber wolfishly. "What's your poison?"
"I'll have a Cosmopolitan." She waits until they both have a drink in their hand and then she taps House's glass with hers.
House gulps down his Scotch and looks at her with bleary eyes. "If we're gonna have a conversation, shouldn't we be taping it?"
Taking a leisurely sip of her drink, Amber eyes him speculatively over the rim of her glass. She places the glass on the bar. "Wilson tell you about our argument over the mattress?"
"Yeah," House smirks.
Amber studies her nails. "Did he also mention that we argue a lot? Over trivial things?"
"Everyone argues," House says abruptly. "You're both adjusting to living together. You've known each other how long?"
Amber pins him with her knowing gaze. "He doesn't seem capable of doing anything for himself. Everything he does, he does to please me."
"You're complaining?" House digs in his pocket for his wallet, laughing without mirth. "Look, I'm not following. I'm wrecked. Take me home."
Amber leans in towards him, smiling. "Oh, I'm sure you can keep up." She rests her hand lightly on his knee. "The problem is, House... Wilson's brand of caring. It can be stifling."
"You should count yourself lucky." House stares at her, annoyed. "I don't wanna hear this. Try sorting your problems out with Wilson, not me."
Her smile widens. "No. I want to talk about this with you. It's not often we get a chance to be alone." Her gaze lingers on his mouth. "We're both adults; we have needs. I think we should be honest." She traces her thumb lightly across his lips - raises her brows. "I think it's time to bring something out into the open, don't you?" she purrs.
Mind clouded by drink, House's head tilts slowly back. "Into... into the open?"
Flowing off her stool, Amber nods gravely. House shivers as she bends closer to him, her left breast brushing against his arm, her warm breath softly caressing his ear. She whispers seductively, "This growing attraction between us."
There's a sound suspiciously like a sob, and House quietens, startled.
Dry heaving, Wilson recoils away from him.
"Doctor Wilson?"
Chase. Crap. House had forgotten about him.
"You want to zap him with two thousand volts?" Chase demands.
Anguished, Wilson presses his heels of his palms against his eyes.
"Doctor Wilson, don't listen to him," Chase says sharply. "This is a character assassination. Amber's in no position to defend herself."
A nerve in House's cheek twitches. He isn't going to feel guilty. The lies he'd just told - the damage he'd caused - he'd done it entirely for Wilson's own good. What had Michael said? Wilson would have cause to thank him later.
Wilson's shoulders are shaking. "Why would he lie?"
"To mess with you," Chase says, frustrated. "It's what he does. This isn't hypnosis. House can say whatever he likes."
Wilson crosses his arms protectively over his chest. He stares at House, and the expression in his eyes is so bleak, House can't stomach looking at him.
Jaw working, House stares at a point on the wall.
"You both planned to have an affair behind my back?" Wilson's voice is so flat and emotionless, it doesn't sound like his at all.
House moistens his dry lips. "No. Amber's pretty. I was tempted, but..." House does look back at him then, and he puts all the conviction he can into his tone. "Your friendship means more to me than that."
"Doctor Wilson? You want to stop this?" Chase waits for a decision.
Wilson studies House silently for a time as if measuring the truth of his words. At last, he looks at Chase and shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. "We still don't know what's wrong with her."
If he'd wanted proof that Wilson trusted him, House had it, right there. He sighs with relief.
"You remember anything else?" Wilson asks dully.
"We'd be fools not to see it," House says.
Sure of her welcome, Amber lithely straddles his lap.
House smiles up at her pleasantly. "But what about Wilson?"
"What about him?" Taken by surprise, Amber searches his eyes. "I care about him; I'm sure we both do. But this is about us." She winds a strand of his hair around his finger. Tugs lightly. "If we're careful - discreet - he need never know."
Wrapping his hands around he waist, House lifts her up easily and pushes her back. "Wow! You're even more of a bitch than I thought." He stands up and tosses some bills onto the counter. "You can keep your lift; I'm gonna take the bus."
"If you turned her down, why did she follow you onto the bus?" Chase queries, and House feels like decking him. Would do so, if he wasn't restrained.
"If you keep interrupting me, we'll never find out."
Burping loudly, House looks around at his fellow passengers and apologizes insincerely. When he faces forwards again, Amber has made her way up the aisle and is handing him his cane. "Boy," House sneers, "you don't give up, do you?"
Amber slides into the seat opposite his. "Depends on whether or not it's a lost cause. Oh, and by the way... House? You mention what I said to you in the bar to Wilson, and I'll deny it point-blank." She smiles at him sweetly. "Who's he gonna believe?"
House shrugs. "You, I guess."
"Then we've reached a new understanding." Rummaging in her bag, Amber glances at him. "Do you have a kleenex?"
"I got a sleeve." House looks down at his biking jacket and lifts his arms. "I got two, actually."
"Gonna need more than that. I'm getting that nasty flu."
"The flu?" Wilson says, looking up. His face is dazed. "Is that what's wrong with her?"
"No. I can't think of any complication that would cause massive organ failure."
"She was hitting on you when she had the flu?" Chase asks, still skeptical.
House's eyes narrow. "She thought she was getting the flu, but she was on her feet. She just had a cold." He pauses for effect. "Amber," he says. "No."
"What?" Chase says.
"She was treating herself for the flu. I know what's wrong with her. She has Amantadine poisoning."
"The crash destroyed her kidneys," Chase says. "Her body couldn't filter out the drugs." He sounds excited. "We can cure her. If we place her on dialysis, it will flush the drugs out of her system."
"No, it won't." House's voice is extremely soft, and Wilson steps forwards again to hear him. "Amantadine binds with proteins and dialysis can't filter the blood as well as the kidneys can." He looks up at Wilson and his mouth twists. "Wilson, I'm so sorry. There's nothing we can do."
Moving robotically, Wilson turns and switches the electrode off.
House stares at his friend until Wilson meets his eyes again, and Wilson looks so ill, so ravaged that, for the first time, House is beleaguered by doubt. He'd thought that Wilson would be hurt, yes. Annoyed with Amber, yes. What he hadn't been expecting was for his friend to look so broken. "I'm sorry," he repeats, scowling faintly.
Plainly trying to make sense out of the apology, Wilson stares back at him, shaking his head. Then, thoroughly unnerving House, he begins to laugh. He laughs until hot tears stream from his eyes. He laughs as if he has amnesia himself, and he's forgotten there's a difference between a reminiscence that's hysterically funny and one that crucifies him with sorrow.
*
Wilson is staring out of his window when House and Cuddy enter his office. He doesn't turn to greet them.
Hesitantly, Cuddy reaches out and puts her hand on Wilson's shoulder. "Amber will only survive a few more hours on bypass. If we wean her off anesthesia, you'll have a chance to say goodbye to each other."
Shaking his head, Wilson tries to keep the grief out of his voice. "I don't want to see her."
Cuddy doesn't understand. "If you wake her up, you can tell her that you love her. Tell her what she means to you. I know she would want it."
Wilson's fingers dig into his temples. "I can't. You should call time of death."
Her hand dropping down to her side, Cuddy stares at Wilson's back in confusion. "I never had you pegged as a coward."
"That's enough," House warns her.
Cuddy stands her ground. "Don't run away. You should go to her and..."
"Cuddy, that's enough!" House roars. Seeing Wilson's head lower, his shoulders hunch in as if trying to make himself a smaller target, House verbally lashes out in fury. "He said he doesn't want to see her!"
"If he doesn't say goodbye to her now, he'll always regret it!" Cuddy glares up at House, and then every part of her face softens when she looks at Wilson. "You know I'm right." She turns and leaves the office, closing the door very quietly behind her.
"Wilson..."
Wilson turns and looks into House's eyes, and the pain on his face is so raw, House's breath catches. "I don't know why I laughed," Wilson says. "Chase must think I'm..."
House frowns at him. You don't realize you're crying, do you? "Who cares what Chase thinks," he says gently.
"House?" Wilson pinches the bridge of nose. "Do you... Do you think Cuddy's right?"
"No." House shakes his head emphatically. "Amber has cardiac, renal and liver failure. Wake her up and the chance of her being lucid..."
Wilson's gaze skitters away.
You weren't referring to that, were you? House lapses into silence, unusually embarrassed. He hadn't thought this plan through. To know that he's caused Wilson this much pain? It's unbearable. The regret is overwhelming. "You're not a coward. Ignore what Cuddy said. You've never been that."
Tears dripping off his chin, Wilson stares down at his feet, nodding. "You should go and see her," he says.
"What?"
Wilson sniffs and scrubs his hands furiously over his eyes. "If you're refusing to rest, go and visit her. She... She liked you." He raises his eyes, his face pinched and blotchy and tries to smile, bravely. "You go. I'll be fine."
"Wilson," House murmurs sadly, and all of his weight is suddenly supported by his cane. This can't go on. To see Wilson hurting like this? He can't stand it. "I need to tell you something," House says, trembling. "What I said to you, back there? I..."
"I'm glad you told me, House." Wilson clutches House's sleeve and holds on for dear life. "I know you didn't want to, but I asked you for the truth, and you gave it to me." The tears refuse to stop. "I want to thank you for that. It took courage."
Silenced, House shuffles his feet, unhappily. He has the means to rectify this. He could gather up the pieces of this shattered man, and he could fix him back together. The glue -one lousy confession.
But he would lose his friend.
House watches his best friend cry and knows there's blood on his hands.
House watches as Wilson cries.
*
After throwing Wilson's case into the trunk of the car, House slides into the cab beside Wilson. "Baker street," he directs the driver. They pull out into traffic, and he studies his friend. "You okay?"
Wilson looks at him, his eyes swollen almost shut. "Yeah. Thanks for getting my things. For letting me stay with you."
House lightly elbows his arm. "You're monitoring me, remember?"
Smiling faintly, Wilson nods.
"I packed everything you could possibly need," House goes on. "Laptop, pants, shorts, shirts, romance novels, even moisturizer. I didn't know if that was yours or..."
Wilson flinches and looks down. Then he stares silently out of the side window.
"Sorry," House says. "I didn't mean..."
"S'okay," Wilson murmurs. He still doesn't look at him.
House stares sadly out of his own window at the passing scenery. At all the people milling about like ants - ambling as if they haven't got a single care in the world. Can they really be so ignorant? Don't they realize? Don't they know he's made the biggest mistake of his life and dragged his best friend down with him?
He thinks about the note he'd found in Wilson's bedroom. The note is burning a hole in his pocket the same way guilt is gnawing away at his soul.
Sorry I'm not home. Went to pick up House. A.
House had read the message, and then he'd sat on Wilson's bed for a full five minutes, gazing at nothing. Finally pulling himself together, he'd crammed the envelope into his pocket and shut and locked Wilson's case. He'd looked around Wilson's apartment one last time. Then, case in hand, he'd hurried towards the front door.
He was fresh out of cash. His savings had all gone, and there was a cab waiting for him outside with the meter still running.
To be continued.
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 8/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.
He'd been shot down in flames.
Storming out into the corridor, Wilson blinks back frustrated tears. Amber is dying. His brilliant, gorgeous girlfriend. Her life, with all its potential and promise, is being wrenched away from her.
Doesn't anybody care?
He knows what's best for her, yet he's being forced to fight tooth and nail to justify his decisions at every turn. Why is everybody turning against him? Why aren't there more people in his corner supporting him? He's being treated like a raving nuisance. Foreman and Cuddy had acted expressly against his wishes, and even House, his staunchest ally, had just dismissed him.
Wilson isn't stupid. No-one has the faintest idea what's wrong with her - everyone is clutching at fucking straws - but, dear God, Prednisone? It could harm her. It's the wrong course of treatment; Wilson can feel it.
What if it hadn't been the rash? The symptom House had seen. House could have noticed that at any time. Whilst they'd been in the ambulance, or when they'd first arrived at the PPTH. Amber's time is running out. The answer to saving her might still be locked inside House's mind with no way to retrieve it if House...
If House...
Wilson stumbles to a halt. There is a way. Deep brain stimulation. House had suggested it before. Would his friend still be willing to try it? House is poorly himself, but Amber's life is hanging in the balance. His lover's. Amber's.
Damp palms squeezed tightly together, Wilson turns around and walks reluctantly back into House's office. He knows he's walking on thin ice. If he badgers House - if he irritates him - House could and would shut him down. If he wants to awaken his friend's compassion, Wilson will have to choose his words extremely carefully.
With his self-assurance at an all-time low, Wilson takes his first faltering step into a verbal minefield. "Cuddy's right. I was... afraid to do anything. I thought if everything just stopped, it would be..." His words tail off as he looks at his best friend. Really looks at him. House is glancing around his office looking stunned. Disorientated. Wilson's chilled to the bone. "House?" Circling the desk, Wilson falls to his knees before him. "House, look at me."
"I was in a bar," House mutters in a shocked voice.
"Sharrie's," Wilson says slowly. "I know. You took me there." His heart swells with hope. "Have you remembered something?"
"This is impossible," House says. He tries to stand up, but his legs won't support him. He tumbles back gracelessly into the chair.
"House," Wilson says miserably.
"I..." House rubs his face and then locks gazes with him. "Is this another hallucination? Are you real?"
I don't know, Wilson thinks deliriously. He's a highly qualified doctor in his own right - a department head - yet, as far as his colleagues are concerned, his opinions might as well count for nothing. Flustered, he stares up at House mutely, shaking his head.
"I can't tell, either. Your speech. I remember that. God, that seems so long ago," House murmurs, and Wilson's brow furrows in confusion because that had made no sense at all. "You left the room; then you decided to come back."
Wilson's eyes screw tightly shut. Because I'm losing my lover! Because no-one will listen to me!
Already positioned conveniently on his knees, he opens his eyes, fully intending to plead. For years, House had taken absolutely everything Wilson could afford to spare and then had blithely bled him for more. House owed him. For Tritter. For Vogler. For untold grievances and hurts. All his friend had to do to cancel his debts was commit this one, selfless act. Was it so much to ask?
But when he looks up at House, his friend looks pale, dazed and tired, and the entreaty perishes in Wilson's throat. How can he coerce him into doing this, knowing that the trust House has placed in him will disintegrate into dust in his hands?
Weighed down by hopelessness, Wilson's spine bows until his forehead presses against House's knee.
House shifts a little, hovering over him. "You feel real," he murmurs.
Lacking the strength to move, Wilson can barely stand the stress. Was it fair? That he had to worry himself sick over both House's health and Amber's? "Promise me Amber's going to be okay," he implores hoarsely, voice shaking. For a few moments, his only answer is a sickening silence and then gentle fingers start to warily pet his hair.
"Soon," House whispers. "I promise you, soon, we'll be okay."
Wilson's head lifts up. "That's not what I..." He stops, floored by the expression on House's face. It's wistful - infinitely sad - and Wilson frowns, disconcerted. "House? Damn it, what are you hiding? You don't have to protect me. Please, please... if you know something..."
"Tell me why you came back."
Sighing, Wilson ignores him. Feeling twice his actual age, he struggles to climb to his feet. He's going to ensure that House gets some long, overdue rest, and to do that, first, Wilson needs to call for a gurney.
"Tell me." House grips his wrist as Wilson steps by him in order to reach the phone.
Wilson glances at him, distracted. House's voice has gained strength, and indeed, his gaunt face has regained a little color. His eyes are shining, clear and bright. "It doesn't matter," Wilson says. "I'm admitting you. You need sleep."
House's fingers tighten painfully. "You came to ask me if I'd still be prepared to try deep brain stimulation, didn't you?"
Flinching, Wilson jerks his arm away and stares at House wordlessly, rubbing his wrist. How the hell did House know that?
House looks pained, as if he's fighting some internal battle, and then his face becomes tranquil. Eerily composed. "You're afraid that if I don't do this, Amber might die. You want that?"
"No, House, of course I don't." Wilson has made his choice. He makes a monumental effort not to fall apart. "But your health's deteriorating. A moment ago, you didn't even recognize your own surroundings. I'm not about to endanger your life; DBS is too risky."
"Ask me if I'm willing to try it anyway." House stands up quickly, then frowns as if he's realized something. He sways, almost losing his balance.
Shaking his head, Wilson stares at the man he's spent his entire adult life trying to protect. "No," he says. "Look at you - you can barely stand. You're not doing it, and that's final."
"The answer's yes," House informs him. "For you, I'll risk it. Let's go."
Wilson still doesn't budge, and House sighs deeply, restless.
"Wilson, now!" House insists. "Before I change my mind."
*
Head immobilized by a stereotactic frame, House glances to the right to look at Wilson. His friend looks fearful, but whether it's on his behalf because he is about to undergo a potentially life-threatening procedure, or whether Wilson is currently thinking about Amber, who could say?
"I'm inserting the IPG probe into your ventral hypothalamus," Chase says behind him. Then, addressing Wilson, "Give him three volts."
House inhales deeply. It's the second time he's been through this procedure, but it's still nerve racking. Not that there's much danger of him suffering another seizure. With the probe only delivering a charge of three volts, House intends to sing like a canary on speed. Plus, of course, his head injury has had a chance to heal. House grimaces. Does he have a single inch of skin that's not marred by a scar? Still, Michael's magic must be working. Neither Chase nor Wilson have made mention of that little anomaly. Come to think of it, when he'd replaced his earlier self, wouldn't it have been highly improbable that he'd have been wearing exactly the same clothes?
"Sending impulse," Wilson warns him.
House blinks rapidly. Time to put his brilliantly simple plan into operation. As long as he doesn't overthink it or lose his courage, it's virtually guaranteed that it won't fail.
House downs his seventh Scotch and smacks his lips, chasing down every last drop.
Standing just in front of him, the bartender shakes his head in disbelief and scoops up House's keys. "You're not getting them back." To hammer home his words, he saunters away from House and places them, for safekeeping, in his till.
House rolls his eyes. Picking up his phone, he scowls when he realizes he's out of credit. "Hey," he yells.
The bartender turns to stare at him.
"You take my keys, you gotta give me a phone call."
Grudgingly, House's heavily put upon guardian hands over his cell.
"Charming as ever," Wilson notes, and beneath the worry, House can hear the tinge of fondness in his voice. "Who were you calling?"
"My trusty knight in shining armour: You."
"I was on call." Wilson frowns, then sighs in sudden understanding. "You spoke to Amber."
"Yeah. I told her to track you down and have you gallop to my rescue after work."
Wilson nods thoughtfully. "What happened next?"
Impatiently waiting for Wilson, House strokes his brow, then runs his fingers along his jaw. He senses there's a presence behind him, and twisting on his stool, he turns to see Amber. He's not amused. "I said to find Wilson," he says belligerently.
"Does she look sick?"
House hears the tremor in Wilson's voice - the hopeful anticipation, and he purposefully hardens his heart. He has to, in order to get through this. "Not yet."
"House?" Amber runs beautifully manicured nails lightly down his arm. "Mind if we talk?"
"Amber wanted to talk to you?" Wilson seems surprised. "What about?" He steps directly into House's line of vision.
House is forced to gaze into his best friend's dark, apprehensive eyes. It makes lying to him much, much more difficult. "She wanted..." House pauses as if he's replaying the scene. It's imperative that he does this. Hadn't Michael assured him that this was an excellent idea? "She... Look, it's immaterial."
"No, it's not. House? What did Amber say?"
Your acting must be flawless. Don't screw it up. Whatever you do, Don't Screw It Up. "I... I can't tell you."
"House. Please!"
House looks up at him and thinks, I'm doing this all for you. Yes, you'll be mad at first, you'll be hurt, but ultimately, I'm doing you a favor. This will enable you to move on. If you believe that Amber is the lowest of the low - that she's capable of deceiving you - of betraying you - her death will be a lot easier for you to bear. Expression calculatedly open and apologetic, House continues the charade with a renewed sense of purpose. "She sneezed," he says. "Bartender handed her a napkin."
"The color?" Wilson asks, mind back on track.
"Nothing unusual." House looks disappointed, playing his part like a pro. "It seemed like she was getting a cold. Then......"
House looks at Amber appraisingly, then pats the stool beside him. He waves to get the bartender's attention. "Oh. Need another round. And a drink for what passes for a lady around here." He grins at Amber wolfishly. "What's your poison?"
"I'll have a Cosmopolitan." She waits until they both have a drink in their hand and then she taps House's glass with hers.
House gulps down his Scotch and looks at her with bleary eyes. "If we're gonna have a conversation, shouldn't we be taping it?"
Taking a leisurely sip of her drink, Amber eyes him speculatively over the rim of her glass. She places the glass on the bar. "Wilson tell you about our argument over the mattress?"
"Yeah," House smirks.
Amber studies her nails. "Did he also mention that we argue a lot? Over trivial things?"
"Everyone argues," House says abruptly. "You're both adjusting to living together. You've known each other how long?"
Amber pins him with her knowing gaze. "He doesn't seem capable of doing anything for himself. Everything he does, he does to please me."
"You're complaining?" House digs in his pocket for his wallet, laughing without mirth. "Look, I'm not following. I'm wrecked. Take me home."
Amber leans in towards him, smiling. "Oh, I'm sure you can keep up." She rests her hand lightly on his knee. "The problem is, House... Wilson's brand of caring. It can be stifling."
"You should count yourself lucky." House stares at her, annoyed. "I don't wanna hear this. Try sorting your problems out with Wilson, not me."
Her smile widens. "No. I want to talk about this with you. It's not often we get a chance to be alone." Her gaze lingers on his mouth. "We're both adults; we have needs. I think we should be honest." She traces her thumb lightly across his lips - raises her brows. "I think it's time to bring something out into the open, don't you?" she purrs.
Mind clouded by drink, House's head tilts slowly back. "Into... into the open?"
Flowing off her stool, Amber nods gravely. House shivers as she bends closer to him, her left breast brushing against his arm, her warm breath softly caressing his ear. She whispers seductively, "This growing attraction between us."
There's a sound suspiciously like a sob, and House quietens, startled.
Dry heaving, Wilson recoils away from him.
"Doctor Wilson?"
Chase. Crap. House had forgotten about him.
"You want to zap him with two thousand volts?" Chase demands.
Anguished, Wilson presses his heels of his palms against his eyes.
"Doctor Wilson, don't listen to him," Chase says sharply. "This is a character assassination. Amber's in no position to defend herself."
A nerve in House's cheek twitches. He isn't going to feel guilty. The lies he'd just told - the damage he'd caused - he'd done it entirely for Wilson's own good. What had Michael said? Wilson would have cause to thank him later.
Wilson's shoulders are shaking. "Why would he lie?"
"To mess with you," Chase says, frustrated. "It's what he does. This isn't hypnosis. House can say whatever he likes."
Wilson crosses his arms protectively over his chest. He stares at House, and the expression in his eyes is so bleak, House can't stomach looking at him.
Jaw working, House stares at a point on the wall.
"You both planned to have an affair behind my back?" Wilson's voice is so flat and emotionless, it doesn't sound like his at all.
House moistens his dry lips. "No. Amber's pretty. I was tempted, but..." House does look back at him then, and he puts all the conviction he can into his tone. "Your friendship means more to me than that."
"Doctor Wilson? You want to stop this?" Chase waits for a decision.
Wilson studies House silently for a time as if measuring the truth of his words. At last, he looks at Chase and shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. "We still don't know what's wrong with her."
If he'd wanted proof that Wilson trusted him, House had it, right there. He sighs with relief.
"You remember anything else?" Wilson asks dully.
"We'd be fools not to see it," House says.
Sure of her welcome, Amber lithely straddles his lap.
House smiles up at her pleasantly. "But what about Wilson?"
"What about him?" Taken by surprise, Amber searches his eyes. "I care about him; I'm sure we both do. But this is about us." She winds a strand of his hair around his finger. Tugs lightly. "If we're careful - discreet - he need never know."
Wrapping his hands around he waist, House lifts her up easily and pushes her back. "Wow! You're even more of a bitch than I thought." He stands up and tosses some bills onto the counter. "You can keep your lift; I'm gonna take the bus."
"If you turned her down, why did she follow you onto the bus?" Chase queries, and House feels like decking him. Would do so, if he wasn't restrained.
"If you keep interrupting me, we'll never find out."
Burping loudly, House looks around at his fellow passengers and apologizes insincerely. When he faces forwards again, Amber has made her way up the aisle and is handing him his cane. "Boy," House sneers, "you don't give up, do you?"
Amber slides into the seat opposite his. "Depends on whether or not it's a lost cause. Oh, and by the way... House? You mention what I said to you in the bar to Wilson, and I'll deny it point-blank." She smiles at him sweetly. "Who's he gonna believe?"
House shrugs. "You, I guess."
"Then we've reached a new understanding." Rummaging in her bag, Amber glances at him. "Do you have a kleenex?"
"I got a sleeve." House looks down at his biking jacket and lifts his arms. "I got two, actually."
"Gonna need more than that. I'm getting that nasty flu."
"The flu?" Wilson says, looking up. His face is dazed. "Is that what's wrong with her?"
"No. I can't think of any complication that would cause massive organ failure."
"She was hitting on you when she had the flu?" Chase asks, still skeptical.
House's eyes narrow. "She thought she was getting the flu, but she was on her feet. She just had a cold." He pauses for effect. "Amber," he says. "No."
"What?" Chase says.
"She was treating herself for the flu. I know what's wrong with her. She has Amantadine poisoning."
"The crash destroyed her kidneys," Chase says. "Her body couldn't filter out the drugs." He sounds excited. "We can cure her. If we place her on dialysis, it will flush the drugs out of her system."
"No, it won't." House's voice is extremely soft, and Wilson steps forwards again to hear him. "Amantadine binds with proteins and dialysis can't filter the blood as well as the kidneys can." He looks up at Wilson and his mouth twists. "Wilson, I'm so sorry. There's nothing we can do."
Moving robotically, Wilson turns and switches the electrode off.
House stares at his friend until Wilson meets his eyes again, and Wilson looks so ill, so ravaged that, for the first time, House is beleaguered by doubt. He'd thought that Wilson would be hurt, yes. Annoyed with Amber, yes. What he hadn't been expecting was for his friend to look so broken. "I'm sorry," he repeats, scowling faintly.
Plainly trying to make sense out of the apology, Wilson stares back at him, shaking his head. Then, thoroughly unnerving House, he begins to laugh. He laughs until hot tears stream from his eyes. He laughs as if he has amnesia himself, and he's forgotten there's a difference between a reminiscence that's hysterically funny and one that crucifies him with sorrow.
*
Wilson is staring out of his window when House and Cuddy enter his office. He doesn't turn to greet them.
Hesitantly, Cuddy reaches out and puts her hand on Wilson's shoulder. "Amber will only survive a few more hours on bypass. If we wean her off anesthesia, you'll have a chance to say goodbye to each other."
Shaking his head, Wilson tries to keep the grief out of his voice. "I don't want to see her."
Cuddy doesn't understand. "If you wake her up, you can tell her that you love her. Tell her what she means to you. I know she would want it."
Wilson's fingers dig into his temples. "I can't. You should call time of death."
Her hand dropping down to her side, Cuddy stares at Wilson's back in confusion. "I never had you pegged as a coward."
"That's enough," House warns her.
Cuddy stands her ground. "Don't run away. You should go to her and..."
"Cuddy, that's enough!" House roars. Seeing Wilson's head lower, his shoulders hunch in as if trying to make himself a smaller target, House verbally lashes out in fury. "He said he doesn't want to see her!"
"If he doesn't say goodbye to her now, he'll always regret it!" Cuddy glares up at House, and then every part of her face softens when she looks at Wilson. "You know I'm right." She turns and leaves the office, closing the door very quietly behind her.
"Wilson..."
Wilson turns and looks into House's eyes, and the pain on his face is so raw, House's breath catches. "I don't know why I laughed," Wilson says. "Chase must think I'm..."
House frowns at him. You don't realize you're crying, do you? "Who cares what Chase thinks," he says gently.
"House?" Wilson pinches the bridge of nose. "Do you... Do you think Cuddy's right?"
"No." House shakes his head emphatically. "Amber has cardiac, renal and liver failure. Wake her up and the chance of her being lucid..."
Wilson's gaze skitters away.
You weren't referring to that, were you? House lapses into silence, unusually embarrassed. He hadn't thought this plan through. To know that he's caused Wilson this much pain? It's unbearable. The regret is overwhelming. "You're not a coward. Ignore what Cuddy said. You've never been that."
Tears dripping off his chin, Wilson stares down at his feet, nodding. "You should go and see her," he says.
"What?"
Wilson sniffs and scrubs his hands furiously over his eyes. "If you're refusing to rest, go and visit her. She... She liked you." He raises his eyes, his face pinched and blotchy and tries to smile, bravely. "You go. I'll be fine."
"Wilson," House murmurs sadly, and all of his weight is suddenly supported by his cane. This can't go on. To see Wilson hurting like this? He can't stand it. "I need to tell you something," House says, trembling. "What I said to you, back there? I..."
"I'm glad you told me, House." Wilson clutches House's sleeve and holds on for dear life. "I know you didn't want to, but I asked you for the truth, and you gave it to me." The tears refuse to stop. "I want to thank you for that. It took courage."
Silenced, House shuffles his feet, unhappily. He has the means to rectify this. He could gather up the pieces of this shattered man, and he could fix him back together. The glue -one lousy confession.
But he would lose his friend.
House watches his best friend cry and knows there's blood on his hands.
House watches as Wilson cries.
*
After throwing Wilson's case into the trunk of the car, House slides into the cab beside Wilson. "Baker street," he directs the driver. They pull out into traffic, and he studies his friend. "You okay?"
Wilson looks at him, his eyes swollen almost shut. "Yeah. Thanks for getting my things. For letting me stay with you."
House lightly elbows his arm. "You're monitoring me, remember?"
Smiling faintly, Wilson nods.
"I packed everything you could possibly need," House goes on. "Laptop, pants, shorts, shirts, romance novels, even moisturizer. I didn't know if that was yours or..."
Wilson flinches and looks down. Then he stares silently out of the side window.
"Sorry," House says. "I didn't mean..."
"S'okay," Wilson murmurs. He still doesn't look at him.
House stares sadly out of his own window at the passing scenery. At all the people milling about like ants - ambling as if they haven't got a single care in the world. Can they really be so ignorant? Don't they realize? Don't they know he's made the biggest mistake of his life and dragged his best friend down with him?
He thinks about the note he'd found in Wilson's bedroom. The note is burning a hole in his pocket the same way guilt is gnawing away at his soul.
Sorry I'm not home. Went to pick up House. A.
House had read the message, and then he'd sat on Wilson's bed for a full five minutes, gazing at nothing. Finally pulling himself together, he'd crammed the envelope into his pocket and shut and locked Wilson's case. He'd looked around Wilson's apartment one last time. Then, case in hand, he'd hurried towards the front door.
He was fresh out of cash. His savings had all gone, and there was a cab waiting for him outside with the meter still running.
To be continued.