Devil's Playground - chapter 11
Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 11/12
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.
Deeply engrossed in a novel when Andrew pays him a visit, House isn't in the mood for pleasantries; he only looks up long enough to see who his guest is. "I'm not accepting cold callers today," he says. "Cuddy's depending on me to save lives."
"No wonder the morgue's overflowing," Andrew mutters under his breath.
"What?" House regards him with suspicion.
Knowing the Sahara desert will freeze over before House manages to collect his manners, Andrew helps himself to a seat. "Oh, it was nothing important," he says, waving a hand airily. He looks at House with an expression of supreme innocence. "Good book?"
"Looks promising. It's about a dominatrix." House briefly shows him the cover, and Andrew's mind is forever branded with a visual that's all whips, chains and leather. "If you buzz off, I might get a chance to read it."
"Some things are sent to try us," Andrew points out. And since you insinuated yourself into Wilson's life, I should know. He moves things along. "You're not going to ask me why I'm here?"
"Do I look interested?" House licks the pad of his index finger and turns another page.
"No, not especially, but as a favor, I'll tell you anyway. I came to offer you the chance to save the life of someone you actually care about."
House still doesn't look particularly intrigued. "I don't care about anyone," he says.
"Not even Doctor Wilson?" Brow furrowing, House pretends that he's still absorbed in his book, but Andrew can tell that he's struck a nerve: House repeatedly skims over the same sentence. "Your pardon," Andrew says. "I was under the impression that you two were friends."
"We are." House finally condescends to give Andrew his undivided attention. "He's the exception to the rule. We're best friends. And more." He flutters his eyelashes outrageously. "We're sleeping together."
Unlike House, Andrew doesn't bat an eyelid. "Good for you," he says. "That explains a lot."
"In between bouts of screwing, we've also been known to have the occasional talk," House continues. "If Wilson's feeling poorly, he would have told me."
Andrew shrugs. "And yet, you're sitting here nonchalantly reading a book. You're not in the least bit concerned about his mental health?"
House leans back in his chair and lays his book down, open, on his stomach. "His mental health? He seemed perfectly happy last night," he muses. His face is suddenly bisected by a smug grin. "You should have heard him scream."
In sheer frustration? Andrew has been blessed with almost limitless patience, but even so, House can quickly wear him down. He stands up smoothly. "Well, I'll leave you to your fantasy, Doctor House," he says. He makes it to the door before House deigns to speak again.
"You think you know him better than I do? You've known him for what - a couple of weeks? I've known him for years." There is a tiny but noticeable pause. "Bet you'll never guess how we first met," House challenges him.
Andrew would have kept on walking, but he receives a mild rebuke. When Wilson is experiencing difficulties, House seeks refuge in denial, the voice reminds him. You're well aware of that. Wouldn't it be unkind to leave him in ignorance?
"That's a tricky one," Andrew replies, turning around. "Let me think. If I were to guess, I'd say that you were both held captive - Wilson by iron bars and you by his beauty. Am I right?" Andrew watches as House's eyes bulge in shock, and he sighs inwardly. He hasn't even explained the main purpose of his visit yet. He decides to go for broke. "You really know him that well? You discuss everything?"
"Yes," House answers cautiously. "And it's Doctor Wilson."
"Did he like the poster?"
"Poster?" House rubs his forehead.
"The Hitchcock poster? The one we both gave him for his birthday."
House jerks and turns chalk white. "How do you know about that?" he whispers. His novel falls, forgotten, to the floor. "We've only just met. This isn't real; I'm dreaming."
"No, you're not." Andrew doesn't give him a chance to recover. "Last Thursday, I prevented Wilson from jumping off the hospital roof," he says flatly.
House shakes his head violently. "No," he says. "He wouldn't do that. You're lying."
"I never lie. Two weeks before that, Wilson watched as a truck approached, and then he purposefully walked out in front of it. I saved his life then, too. He's not going to look so pretty if he's smeared all over a sidewalk, is he?"
House covers his mouth with his fingers. "What kind of sick joke is...?"
"You need to talk to him."
"Wilson wouldn't take his own life. I know..."
"You know nothing. Your friend is very, very ill. I can't stress that enough, House. You need to tell him what you did."
"What I did?" House looks lost and overwrought, but Andrew's determined not to feel sorry for him.
"That you lied to him during the DBS. Amber didn't try to pick you up in the bar. I'd keep quiet about the timeshift, though. If he discovers that you could have jumped back and stopped her from getting on the bus but chose not to, that's not going to help his recovery."
"God," House says. He stands up on legs that threaten to buckle. "How could I have been such an idiot? You work for Michael."
Andrew stares at him, stunned. "I don't work for Michael," he says. "Nothing could be further from the truth. And you're not an idiot, although you are a little naive." His tone and gaze soften. "All I'm trying to do - all I've ever tried to do - is look out for Wilson. Believe it or not, I can understand why you arranged those deals, House. You try to hide it, but I know you care about him deeply; I know you love him. I realize that you didn't intend to hurt him, but the problem is, you have. You need to help him. You need to do it soon, before it's too late."
"There's nothing wrong with Wilson," House insists. He sets his jaw stubbornly. "If there is, I... I would have seen it."
"House..." Andrew stops because if House doesn't believe him now, he never will. He points at House's cane, disappointment sculpting his mouth into an unhappy camber. "Perhaps you should get that white stick."
*
After ejecting the DVD and switching off the television with an excessively dramatic snap of the wrist, House turns to the man sitting next to him. "Well?" he wants to know.
Body relaxed in a boneless sprawl, Wilson blinks at him drowsily. "It was watchable, I guess," he says quietly.
House elbows him in mock annoyance. "Watchable? You heathen; it was bitchin'." Sweeping up his glass, he shifts to face his friend more fully.
Andrew had been lying through his porcelain-veneered teeth, House decides, swallowing a mouthful of beer mechanically. Wilson's assistant had either been wildly exaggerating or he'd been stirring things up - attempting to cause trouble. Well, his ploy had failed spectacularly because House is buying none of it. Wilson is fine - he's sure of it. He is living with Wilson. He's observing him on a daily basis; he had been sleeping every night with the man cocooned in his arms. If his friend was suicidal, wouldn't he know?
Sure, Wilson had been somewhat withdrawn, but that could be attributed to tiredness. And so what if Wilson had taken to staring absently into space a little too often for House's liking. Wasn't a man entitled to daydream? Even Wilson's rapid weight loss wasn't a huge cause for concern. When Wilson became stressed, his appetite dwindled; that was just the way he was. The man's avoirdupois tended to go up and down like a yo-yo.
No, the notion that his friend could be thinking about taking his own life was inconceivable. Absurd. House has given this a lot of thought. Wilson is the most resilient person he knows. His friend is invincible. House is perfectly content to leave it at that.
Only...
"I was in serious trouble, House."
Suppose Andrew hadn't been lying? Suppose - defying all expectations - the interfering busybody had been telling the truth? If Wilson had tried to commit suicide, then that would mean that House had... that House had...
Blood pounds angrily at House's temples.
That he'd as good as murdered him. Plain and simple.
Wilson is gazing at his wrists, his expression almost wistful, and House is suddenly apprehensive. He sets his glass down on the table and resolves to set his mind at rest, once and for all. "Wilson?" he says.
"Yeah?" Rejoining the world of the living, Wilson looks across at him.
"Can you summarize the plot?"
"What? What are you talking about?" Wilson frowns at him, confused.
"The plot. Of that movie we've just watched." House points blindly at the now silent television, watching as a blush creeps up Wilson's neck and adds a bright swathe of color to his normally pale face.
"I..." Wilson stares at the television as if hoping to see a still from the movie burnt helpfully into the screen. "I..."
"Come on! Hurry up; rigor mortis is setting in. What was it? Western? Thriller? Comedy?" House's gaze is shrewd, his eyes unsmiling. "Extra bonus points if your synopsis turns me on."
Highly embarrassed, Wilson glances at him and then stares fixedly down at his hands. "I wasn't really paying attention," he confesses. "I was distracted."
"You sat there and didn't take anything in?" House is incredulous. "For over two solid hours?"
Shoulders tightening up, Wilson eases out of his slouch. He nods guardedly.
House is beginning to hyperventilate. I shouldn't have started this, he thinks. I don't wanna know. Keen to avoid a second panic attack, he takes a deep breath. "What about the time you walked out in front of that truck? Were you distracted then, too?"
Wilson's cheeks bleach to white in approximately two seconds. He starts to push himself up off the couch, but House grasps the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
"I need an answer," House says grimly.
Gaze darting wildly around the room, Wilson is fretful. Caught off-guard. "It was raining," he says finally. "I wasn't looking where I was going. I was walking down unfamiliar streets. I got... confused." His left hand lifts and flutters helplessly - a nervous reaction - before he lets it fall back limply into his lap.
"You got confused? Is that what happened last week? You thought you were a meadow lark or a red-tailed hawk, or something?" House tightens his grip on Wilson's arm when Wilson tries to flee again and forces the man to sit back down. "Huh?" he demands, shaking his friend. He's inexplicably furious. "Tell me. Is. That. What. Happened? When you tried to fly off the roof?"
Wilson doubles over, sucking in huge, sobbing breaths.
Oh, Christ, House thinks, the full horror of the situation just beginning to sink in. He can no longer pretend that he hadn't fucked up royally, not now, when the repercussions are smacking him - slap-bang - in the face. Oh, God, I can't believe this. Andrew was right.
"Talk to me," House whispers, curling over with him, faint with nausea. "Were you confused, then?"
Weakly, Wilson tries to pull his arm free, and all at once, House is filled with foreboding. He sits bolt upright. Dread nibbling at his sanity, he roughly pushes up Wilson's sleeve. He doesn't know what he's expecting to see - a mess of cross-hatched scars or bandages or raw, seeping wounds, but he finds nothing like that at all when he exposes Wilson's inner wrist. Just flawless, unbroken skin. With aching gentleness, he rolls the edge of the sleeve back down and meets Wilson's eyes, at a complete loss.
"I've thought about it," Wilson admits with reluctance, and House can't bear to hear any more.
"Okay, Wilson," House replies numbly.
"I think about it constantly," Wilson informs him.
Sickened, House nods. He closes his eyes, suddenly feeling old beyond all measure, but his attempt to withdraw is rudely cut short. Cool hands frame his face, and there's regret in the fingertips.
"I'm so sorry," Wilson murmurs.
House's eyes snap open. "Don't you dare apologize," he says hoarsely. Reaching out tentatively, he puts an arm around his damaged friend. Wilson doesn't seem inclined to object, so he draws him in slowly until their shoulders brush. House is beside himself with grief. He'd done this. He'd struck bargain after bargain with Michael and, in so doing, he'd systematically destroyed his best friend. Little by little. Piece by piece. If Andrew hadn't been around to save him, Wilson would be lost to him already.
"We'll get through this, you and me," House says, his voice low and urgent - his cheek pillowed by tousled hair. "But I need you to promise me something. Swear to me that you won't try anything stupid like that again."
Fingers playing with the hem of House's t-shirt, Wilson keeps his head bowed - his expression shielded. "I promise," he intones dutifully, and the words sound wonderfully convincing.
So convincing, in fact, that if he'd spoken them to anybody else, they would have missed the hesitation.
*
House waits until Wilson has been asleep for several hours, and then he dresses, with difficulty, in the dark. Once he's fully clothed, House lays back down on the bed and shifts nearer to his beloved - close enough to feel his warmth.
He owes Wilson an apology. He very nearly offers a verbal one. But how could a blurted "sorry" possibly atone for all this? Still, hopefully, his actions will speak for him and with more eloquence: he's willing to sell his soul. House clears his throat. "You've been a pain in the ass since the moment I first clapped eyes on you," he says instead. It's the kind of stinging insult he flings at Wilson every day, so House can't understand why his voice breaks.
Wilson, who could sleep surrounded by a pack of whooping hyenas, doesn't stir.
House kisses his shoulder, his lips pressing lightly - with terrible delicacy - against the bare skin. "I'm gonna fix this," he murmurs.
He rolls carefully off the bed and grabs his cane. He detests saying goodbye, especially to Wilson, so he makes his slow, ungainly way out of the bedroom without so much as a backward glance. He's irked when he finds Andrew sitting waiting for him in his living room. "Foreman a role-model?" he snaps.
Andrew raises an eyebrow.
"Okay, dumb question. If barriers of time aren't an obstacle, breaking and entering must be a snap." House shrugs into his jacket. "Switch the lights off before you leave," he says.
Andrew stands up and walks around the end of the couch. He smiles genially. "Where are you going?"
"Local store. We're fresh outta milk." House picks up his bike keys. "Wilson becomes insufferable when he's deprived of his morning frosted flakes."
Andrew's smile fades. "This isn't a laughing matter, House."
"You hear me laughing?"
"You're going out to sign that contract."
House sighs heavily. "What else can I do?"
"There's plenty you could do! For starters, you can tell Wilson that you lied."
"No, I can't."
Andrew spreads his hands. "Why?"
"Because it's out of the question. If I tell him that I lied to him, he'll hate me. They'll never be any chance of a reconciliation. It's better this way. Everything will revert back to normal. Nothing will have changed."
"Yes, it will." Andrew paces away, then whirls back to resume arguing. "The timeline will revert back to normal, but you would have sold your soul. You sign that contract and there's no get-out clause, House. It's not like joining a gym class where you can just bail out if you don't enjoy it. It's binding. You'll be facing an eternity of torture. Of agony."
House indicates his leg. "I'm in agony, now."
Andrew laughs in disbelief. "If you go to hell, you'll experience pain, the likes of which you have never known. You're not going to be able to ease the torment by swallowing a couple of Vicodin, House. You think you know what agony is? You haven't got a clue. You've got no idea at all. Go back to bed, try to get some sleep, and tomorrow morning, you can tell Wilson what you did. Even if he hates you for the rest of your life, it's infinitely better than that."
Half-smiling, House looks down at the carpet, and when he looks up again, his eyes are clear. Determined. "I don't like you," House says. "Never have, never will." He jingles the keys he is holding, anxious to get going. "But Wilson trusts you. Once Michael alters the timeline again, Wilson won't be talking to me. It might take a while for us to patch things up. Will you... watch over him for me?"
Andrew glances towards the bedroom. "I'm telling you, you can't do this," he says.
House starts to open the front door, and then his entire body convulses, all the liquid in his cells boiling and expanding as if exposed to an intense fire. Face contorted by a silent scream, he crashes to the ground.
"That wasn't real." Andrew kneels on the carpet in front of him and touches House's shoulder. "You're okay," he says, "it's all over."
Sweat pouring off of his face, House peers dazedly up at him. "You... you bastard." House's limbs are still jumping. "You s... son of a..."
"I'm sorry, House, but that was a taste of what you'll be facing." Andrew strokes the damp hair. "That lasted a mere split-second. Imagine experiencing that degree of pain for time without end."
"Help... help me up."
Andrew glares at him, frustrated. "House..."
Teeth clenched, House rolls over and tries to get his knees under him. He's as weak as a newborn colt. "Help me up."
Silently, Andrew assists House back onto his feet.
Bending over and bracing his hands on his hips, House tries to catch his breath. "Give me my keys."
Andrew scoops them up off the floor but holds onto them. "Don't go out there."
House snatches the keys away from him. Shakily, he puts his hand on the door.
"Don't meet Michael," Andrew warns him. "If you don't want to tell Wilson the truth, then keep quiet and do nothing. Better to leave things the way they are than for you to go back to that bar."
"You don't get it, do you?" House glares at Andrew with cold disdain. "This is my fault! How long will it be before I return home to find him swinging from the ceiling, huh? Or lying on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood." He shudders violently. "How will I live with that?"
Andrew looks at him evenly. "We'll find other ways to help him. If it comes down to it, we can have him committed. I can't allow you to do this." He tries something new. "Wilson wouldn't want you to do this."
"Wilson's suicidal," House hisses at him. "He's not capable of rational thought. All Wilson wants is for his life to be over." Blue eyes gaze at Andrew, dulled by remorse and self-disgust. "I am going to do this," he says softly. "Hell is where I belong. I'm a monster." If Andrew has anything else to say on the subject, House doesn't wait around to hear it. Stumbling out of his apartment, he closes both the topic and the door.
The door, he double locks behind him.
To be continued.
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 11/12
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.
Deeply engrossed in a novel when Andrew pays him a visit, House isn't in the mood for pleasantries; he only looks up long enough to see who his guest is. "I'm not accepting cold callers today," he says. "Cuddy's depending on me to save lives."
"No wonder the morgue's overflowing," Andrew mutters under his breath.
"What?" House regards him with suspicion.
Knowing the Sahara desert will freeze over before House manages to collect his manners, Andrew helps himself to a seat. "Oh, it was nothing important," he says, waving a hand airily. He looks at House with an expression of supreme innocence. "Good book?"
"Looks promising. It's about a dominatrix." House briefly shows him the cover, and Andrew's mind is forever branded with a visual that's all whips, chains and leather. "If you buzz off, I might get a chance to read it."
"Some things are sent to try us," Andrew points out. And since you insinuated yourself into Wilson's life, I should know. He moves things along. "You're not going to ask me why I'm here?"
"Do I look interested?" House licks the pad of his index finger and turns another page.
"No, not especially, but as a favor, I'll tell you anyway. I came to offer you the chance to save the life of someone you actually care about."
House still doesn't look particularly intrigued. "I don't care about anyone," he says.
"Not even Doctor Wilson?" Brow furrowing, House pretends that he's still absorbed in his book, but Andrew can tell that he's struck a nerve: House repeatedly skims over the same sentence. "Your pardon," Andrew says. "I was under the impression that you two were friends."
"We are." House finally condescends to give Andrew his undivided attention. "He's the exception to the rule. We're best friends. And more." He flutters his eyelashes outrageously. "We're sleeping together."
Unlike House, Andrew doesn't bat an eyelid. "Good for you," he says. "That explains a lot."
"In between bouts of screwing, we've also been known to have the occasional talk," House continues. "If Wilson's feeling poorly, he would have told me."
Andrew shrugs. "And yet, you're sitting here nonchalantly reading a book. You're not in the least bit concerned about his mental health?"
House leans back in his chair and lays his book down, open, on his stomach. "His mental health? He seemed perfectly happy last night," he muses. His face is suddenly bisected by a smug grin. "You should have heard him scream."
In sheer frustration? Andrew has been blessed with almost limitless patience, but even so, House can quickly wear him down. He stands up smoothly. "Well, I'll leave you to your fantasy, Doctor House," he says. He makes it to the door before House deigns to speak again.
"You think you know him better than I do? You've known him for what - a couple of weeks? I've known him for years." There is a tiny but noticeable pause. "Bet you'll never guess how we first met," House challenges him.
Andrew would have kept on walking, but he receives a mild rebuke. When Wilson is experiencing difficulties, House seeks refuge in denial, the voice reminds him. You're well aware of that. Wouldn't it be unkind to leave him in ignorance?
"That's a tricky one," Andrew replies, turning around. "Let me think. If I were to guess, I'd say that you were both held captive - Wilson by iron bars and you by his beauty. Am I right?" Andrew watches as House's eyes bulge in shock, and he sighs inwardly. He hasn't even explained the main purpose of his visit yet. He decides to go for broke. "You really know him that well? You discuss everything?"
"Yes," House answers cautiously. "And it's Doctor Wilson."
"Did he like the poster?"
"Poster?" House rubs his forehead.
"The Hitchcock poster? The one we both gave him for his birthday."
House jerks and turns chalk white. "How do you know about that?" he whispers. His novel falls, forgotten, to the floor. "We've only just met. This isn't real; I'm dreaming."
"No, you're not." Andrew doesn't give him a chance to recover. "Last Thursday, I prevented Wilson from jumping off the hospital roof," he says flatly.
House shakes his head violently. "No," he says. "He wouldn't do that. You're lying."
"I never lie. Two weeks before that, Wilson watched as a truck approached, and then he purposefully walked out in front of it. I saved his life then, too. He's not going to look so pretty if he's smeared all over a sidewalk, is he?"
House covers his mouth with his fingers. "What kind of sick joke is...?"
"You need to talk to him."
"Wilson wouldn't take his own life. I know..."
"You know nothing. Your friend is very, very ill. I can't stress that enough, House. You need to tell him what you did."
"What I did?" House looks lost and overwrought, but Andrew's determined not to feel sorry for him.
"That you lied to him during the DBS. Amber didn't try to pick you up in the bar. I'd keep quiet about the timeshift, though. If he discovers that you could have jumped back and stopped her from getting on the bus but chose not to, that's not going to help his recovery."
"God," House says. He stands up on legs that threaten to buckle. "How could I have been such an idiot? You work for Michael."
Andrew stares at him, stunned. "I don't work for Michael," he says. "Nothing could be further from the truth. And you're not an idiot, although you are a little naive." His tone and gaze soften. "All I'm trying to do - all I've ever tried to do - is look out for Wilson. Believe it or not, I can understand why you arranged those deals, House. You try to hide it, but I know you care about him deeply; I know you love him. I realize that you didn't intend to hurt him, but the problem is, you have. You need to help him. You need to do it soon, before it's too late."
"There's nothing wrong with Wilson," House insists. He sets his jaw stubbornly. "If there is, I... I would have seen it."
"House..." Andrew stops because if House doesn't believe him now, he never will. He points at House's cane, disappointment sculpting his mouth into an unhappy camber. "Perhaps you should get that white stick."
*
After ejecting the DVD and switching off the television with an excessively dramatic snap of the wrist, House turns to the man sitting next to him. "Well?" he wants to know.
Body relaxed in a boneless sprawl, Wilson blinks at him drowsily. "It was watchable, I guess," he says quietly.
House elbows him in mock annoyance. "Watchable? You heathen; it was bitchin'." Sweeping up his glass, he shifts to face his friend more fully.
Andrew had been lying through his porcelain-veneered teeth, House decides, swallowing a mouthful of beer mechanically. Wilson's assistant had either been wildly exaggerating or he'd been stirring things up - attempting to cause trouble. Well, his ploy had failed spectacularly because House is buying none of it. Wilson is fine - he's sure of it. He is living with Wilson. He's observing him on a daily basis; he had been sleeping every night with the man cocooned in his arms. If his friend was suicidal, wouldn't he know?
Sure, Wilson had been somewhat withdrawn, but that could be attributed to tiredness. And so what if Wilson had taken to staring absently into space a little too often for House's liking. Wasn't a man entitled to daydream? Even Wilson's rapid weight loss wasn't a huge cause for concern. When Wilson became stressed, his appetite dwindled; that was just the way he was. The man's avoirdupois tended to go up and down like a yo-yo.
No, the notion that his friend could be thinking about taking his own life was inconceivable. Absurd. House has given this a lot of thought. Wilson is the most resilient person he knows. His friend is invincible. House is perfectly content to leave it at that.
Only...
"I was in serious trouble, House."
Suppose Andrew hadn't been lying? Suppose - defying all expectations - the interfering busybody had been telling the truth? If Wilson had tried to commit suicide, then that would mean that House had... that House had...
Blood pounds angrily at House's temples.
That he'd as good as murdered him. Plain and simple.
Wilson is gazing at his wrists, his expression almost wistful, and House is suddenly apprehensive. He sets his glass down on the table and resolves to set his mind at rest, once and for all. "Wilson?" he says.
"Yeah?" Rejoining the world of the living, Wilson looks across at him.
"Can you summarize the plot?"
"What? What are you talking about?" Wilson frowns at him, confused.
"The plot. Of that movie we've just watched." House points blindly at the now silent television, watching as a blush creeps up Wilson's neck and adds a bright swathe of color to his normally pale face.
"I..." Wilson stares at the television as if hoping to see a still from the movie burnt helpfully into the screen. "I..."
"Come on! Hurry up; rigor mortis is setting in. What was it? Western? Thriller? Comedy?" House's gaze is shrewd, his eyes unsmiling. "Extra bonus points if your synopsis turns me on."
Highly embarrassed, Wilson glances at him and then stares fixedly down at his hands. "I wasn't really paying attention," he confesses. "I was distracted."
"You sat there and didn't take anything in?" House is incredulous. "For over two solid hours?"
Shoulders tightening up, Wilson eases out of his slouch. He nods guardedly.
House is beginning to hyperventilate. I shouldn't have started this, he thinks. I don't wanna know. Keen to avoid a second panic attack, he takes a deep breath. "What about the time you walked out in front of that truck? Were you distracted then, too?"
Wilson's cheeks bleach to white in approximately two seconds. He starts to push himself up off the couch, but House grasps the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
"I need an answer," House says grimly.
Gaze darting wildly around the room, Wilson is fretful. Caught off-guard. "It was raining," he says finally. "I wasn't looking where I was going. I was walking down unfamiliar streets. I got... confused." His left hand lifts and flutters helplessly - a nervous reaction - before he lets it fall back limply into his lap.
"You got confused? Is that what happened last week? You thought you were a meadow lark or a red-tailed hawk, or something?" House tightens his grip on Wilson's arm when Wilson tries to flee again and forces the man to sit back down. "Huh?" he demands, shaking his friend. He's inexplicably furious. "Tell me. Is. That. What. Happened? When you tried to fly off the roof?"
Wilson doubles over, sucking in huge, sobbing breaths.
Oh, Christ, House thinks, the full horror of the situation just beginning to sink in. He can no longer pretend that he hadn't fucked up royally, not now, when the repercussions are smacking him - slap-bang - in the face. Oh, God, I can't believe this. Andrew was right.
"Talk to me," House whispers, curling over with him, faint with nausea. "Were you confused, then?"
Weakly, Wilson tries to pull his arm free, and all at once, House is filled with foreboding. He sits bolt upright. Dread nibbling at his sanity, he roughly pushes up Wilson's sleeve. He doesn't know what he's expecting to see - a mess of cross-hatched scars or bandages or raw, seeping wounds, but he finds nothing like that at all when he exposes Wilson's inner wrist. Just flawless, unbroken skin. With aching gentleness, he rolls the edge of the sleeve back down and meets Wilson's eyes, at a complete loss.
"I've thought about it," Wilson admits with reluctance, and House can't bear to hear any more.
"Okay, Wilson," House replies numbly.
"I think about it constantly," Wilson informs him.
Sickened, House nods. He closes his eyes, suddenly feeling old beyond all measure, but his attempt to withdraw is rudely cut short. Cool hands frame his face, and there's regret in the fingertips.
"I'm so sorry," Wilson murmurs.
House's eyes snap open. "Don't you dare apologize," he says hoarsely. Reaching out tentatively, he puts an arm around his damaged friend. Wilson doesn't seem inclined to object, so he draws him in slowly until their shoulders brush. House is beside himself with grief. He'd done this. He'd struck bargain after bargain with Michael and, in so doing, he'd systematically destroyed his best friend. Little by little. Piece by piece. If Andrew hadn't been around to save him, Wilson would be lost to him already.
"We'll get through this, you and me," House says, his voice low and urgent - his cheek pillowed by tousled hair. "But I need you to promise me something. Swear to me that you won't try anything stupid like that again."
Fingers playing with the hem of House's t-shirt, Wilson keeps his head bowed - his expression shielded. "I promise," he intones dutifully, and the words sound wonderfully convincing.
So convincing, in fact, that if he'd spoken them to anybody else, they would have missed the hesitation.
*
House waits until Wilson has been asleep for several hours, and then he dresses, with difficulty, in the dark. Once he's fully clothed, House lays back down on the bed and shifts nearer to his beloved - close enough to feel his warmth.
He owes Wilson an apology. He very nearly offers a verbal one. But how could a blurted "sorry" possibly atone for all this? Still, hopefully, his actions will speak for him and with more eloquence: he's willing to sell his soul. House clears his throat. "You've been a pain in the ass since the moment I first clapped eyes on you," he says instead. It's the kind of stinging insult he flings at Wilson every day, so House can't understand why his voice breaks.
Wilson, who could sleep surrounded by a pack of whooping hyenas, doesn't stir.
House kisses his shoulder, his lips pressing lightly - with terrible delicacy - against the bare skin. "I'm gonna fix this," he murmurs.
He rolls carefully off the bed and grabs his cane. He detests saying goodbye, especially to Wilson, so he makes his slow, ungainly way out of the bedroom without so much as a backward glance. He's irked when he finds Andrew sitting waiting for him in his living room. "Foreman a role-model?" he snaps.
Andrew raises an eyebrow.
"Okay, dumb question. If barriers of time aren't an obstacle, breaking and entering must be a snap." House shrugs into his jacket. "Switch the lights off before you leave," he says.
Andrew stands up and walks around the end of the couch. He smiles genially. "Where are you going?"
"Local store. We're fresh outta milk." House picks up his bike keys. "Wilson becomes insufferable when he's deprived of his morning frosted flakes."
Andrew's smile fades. "This isn't a laughing matter, House."
"You hear me laughing?"
"You're going out to sign that contract."
House sighs heavily. "What else can I do?"
"There's plenty you could do! For starters, you can tell Wilson that you lied."
"No, I can't."
Andrew spreads his hands. "Why?"
"Because it's out of the question. If I tell him that I lied to him, he'll hate me. They'll never be any chance of a reconciliation. It's better this way. Everything will revert back to normal. Nothing will have changed."
"Yes, it will." Andrew paces away, then whirls back to resume arguing. "The timeline will revert back to normal, but you would have sold your soul. You sign that contract and there's no get-out clause, House. It's not like joining a gym class where you can just bail out if you don't enjoy it. It's binding. You'll be facing an eternity of torture. Of agony."
House indicates his leg. "I'm in agony, now."
Andrew laughs in disbelief. "If you go to hell, you'll experience pain, the likes of which you have never known. You're not going to be able to ease the torment by swallowing a couple of Vicodin, House. You think you know what agony is? You haven't got a clue. You've got no idea at all. Go back to bed, try to get some sleep, and tomorrow morning, you can tell Wilson what you did. Even if he hates you for the rest of your life, it's infinitely better than that."
Half-smiling, House looks down at the carpet, and when he looks up again, his eyes are clear. Determined. "I don't like you," House says. "Never have, never will." He jingles the keys he is holding, anxious to get going. "But Wilson trusts you. Once Michael alters the timeline again, Wilson won't be talking to me. It might take a while for us to patch things up. Will you... watch over him for me?"
Andrew glances towards the bedroom. "I'm telling you, you can't do this," he says.
House starts to open the front door, and then his entire body convulses, all the liquid in his cells boiling and expanding as if exposed to an intense fire. Face contorted by a silent scream, he crashes to the ground.
"That wasn't real." Andrew kneels on the carpet in front of him and touches House's shoulder. "You're okay," he says, "it's all over."
Sweat pouring off of his face, House peers dazedly up at him. "You... you bastard." House's limbs are still jumping. "You s... son of a..."
"I'm sorry, House, but that was a taste of what you'll be facing." Andrew strokes the damp hair. "That lasted a mere split-second. Imagine experiencing that degree of pain for time without end."
"Help... help me up."
Andrew glares at him, frustrated. "House..."
Teeth clenched, House rolls over and tries to get his knees under him. He's as weak as a newborn colt. "Help me up."
Silently, Andrew assists House back onto his feet.
Bending over and bracing his hands on his hips, House tries to catch his breath. "Give me my keys."
Andrew scoops them up off the floor but holds onto them. "Don't go out there."
House snatches the keys away from him. Shakily, he puts his hand on the door.
"Don't meet Michael," Andrew warns him. "If you don't want to tell Wilson the truth, then keep quiet and do nothing. Better to leave things the way they are than for you to go back to that bar."
"You don't get it, do you?" House glares at Andrew with cold disdain. "This is my fault! How long will it be before I return home to find him swinging from the ceiling, huh? Or lying on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood." He shudders violently. "How will I live with that?"
Andrew looks at him evenly. "We'll find other ways to help him. If it comes down to it, we can have him committed. I can't allow you to do this." He tries something new. "Wilson wouldn't want you to do this."
"Wilson's suicidal," House hisses at him. "He's not capable of rational thought. All Wilson wants is for his life to be over." Blue eyes gaze at Andrew, dulled by remorse and self-disgust. "I am going to do this," he says softly. "Hell is where I belong. I'm a monster." If Andrew has anything else to say on the subject, House doesn't wait around to hear it. Stumbling out of his apartment, he closes both the topic and the door.
The door, he double locks behind him.
To be continued.