Dr. Wilson's Day of Destruction: Part Two
Author's Note: For the first time in several days I feel closer to my regular self (been super-sick which is beyond annoying), so writing doesn't seem quite so complicated anymore. Reviews are my medicine.
In the weeks following, when I looked back on that afternoon, it would completely confound me that I believed my best friend's lies so easily. I should have been too jaded to follow him to the car, too suspicious to get in. But one of the unfortunate things about being James Wilson is that my good judgment, when mixed with alcohol, often checks out.
The hospital was a good twenty minutes from The Fox and the Hound, so I was surprised by how short the drive seemed. I supposed that I could attribute it to House's penchant to speed but even in my alcohol-laden state something told me that wasn't the whole story. I glanced at my friend.
"I took a shortcut," he explained, reading my expression with practiced ease.
"A shortcush," I repeated blearily. I scrunched up my face trying to think through the thick haze of drunkenness but all I could focus on was House's fingertips lightly brushing my back as I climbed out of the car. "What shortcush?" I tipped forward a little, my balance thrown off by my attempt at speaking. I'd never been very good at multitasking.
"Stop talking," he ordered, positioning himself under my arm again, and together we made our way to the door.
"You know," he continued, withdrawing his keys and sliding one into the lock, "when you wanna drink you really don't mess around."
"Yesh, well, I have a lot of stuff on my mind," I muttered.
"What kind of stuff," he asked. With his free hand he turned the knob and swung the door open. "After you."
I took slow, careful steps into the living room, using the door frame for support, before propping myself up against the wall so that House could enter behind me. "Stay right there," he instructed, disappearing from my line of vision on the way to his kitchen.
His kitchen?
With a slightly angry, sinking feeling, I glanced around at my surroundings; then I released a heavy, rather put-upon sigh. "House," I called.
"Hold on," he yelled back loudly.
"House! Thish is not the hospital."
His deep chuckle floated into the room, over to where I stood (or, rather, leaned), wrapping itself around me, warming me all over. "You're a master of perception," he called cheerfully, and unashamedly.
"You lied! After - "
"After you said I would," he finished for me, reentering the room. He held out a large glass of ice water, which I took with trembling hands. "You didn't answer my question."
"Your question?" Even as the room began to swim, I was pretty sure I knew what he was talking about. However, years of being his best friend had taught me that in situations like these my best option was to feign utter innocence.
He frowned at me. "Yes. My question. What kind of dark thoughts is poor darling Wilson having that sends him to a bar at one in the afternoon? To drink alone."
I shrugged, but his eyes that had the most irritating knack for seeing every damn thing that you wouldn't necessarily want him to see, continued to gaze at me unblinking. "Well . . . You know."
"Not really."
Like how much I want to shove you up against the couch and do a myriad of things to you that would make both of us ache for days. "Like Matt," I decided was marginally safer. I swallowed a gulp of water just to avoid expanding on that answer.
"Matt." He clearly could not have believed me less. "And his career issues?"
"Right." More water.
"And thinking about his career issues didn't remind you about your meeting with Cuddy?"
I opened my mouth to continue with my obviously-convincing lies, but was hit by a wave of dizziness so strong that I felt my voice die in my throat.
"Sit," House ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. The couch was closest, so with minimal assistance I worked my way over and lowered myself onto the cushions, resting my head against the back. Okay, that was much better. With my eyes closed I couldn't even see the room spin. Why hadn't I thought of this before?
"Housh," I said when I felt confident enough to try speaking again. "I have to get to Cuddy, I gotta get more money for Matt."
"Not this Matt business again. No matter how much you pay him, he's still not going to blow you. Well, probably."
"House!"
"Oh, Wilson, calm down. I called Cuddy."
I blinked, completely floored. "You did?"
"Try not to look so surprised," he replied, and I didn't think it was my imagination that he sounded . . . defensive?
"You really did?"
"Whatever. It's not a big deal."
And for anyone else it wouldn't have been. But House, my House, the one who had, on more than one occasion, drugged people simply because he wanted to, had gone out of his way to do something nice? For me? Without my asking? "Sorry, it's just kinda warm for hell to have frozen over."
"Cute. Anyway, I told her you weren't feeling well, so she said you could have an extra hour."
"When did you call her," I pressed.
He rolled his eyes in annoyance. "In the car. You were sitting right there."
I had no idea if this was true or not, but honestly, what choice did I have? It would take more than a glass of water to sober me up, so driving was out. I'd have to let House take me up there. Though I'd never really liked depending on House's sense of compassion.
For a long moment neither of us spoke, and I let time pass by listening to the sound of House retrieving a bottle of pills from the bathroom, the sound of his cane tapping against the floor as he made his way back. He threw the bottle into my lap, and then my heartbeat sped up when I felt him lay a cold rag along my forehead.
"You are so annoying," he muttered.
I tried not to smile but knew I failed. "Whatever. You're an ass. Picking on a drunk guy." I opened my eyes to try to pry the cap off the bottle of Ibpropren, but nine shots of vodka made it impossible. Eventually, after watching me work at it for a full two minutes, House snatched it out of my hand and opened it for me, pressing the now-loose pills into my hand. "Oh. Thanks."
Again we lapsed into silent contemplation, and I allowed my mind to wander. I thought about the last time I'd gotten this drunk on my own, how I'd ended up lying on my back on an operating table, staring up at my best friend though the glass of the gallery. I thought about House's near-death experiences, how I'd never known about any of them until after the fact.
Well, except one.
The day he'd gotten shot I'd been on my way to his office to tell him a joke a patient had told me. I'd never forget that I'd been in the middle of rehearsing it to myself (can't fuck up the punchline when House is your best friend) when his team had come flying through the hallway, pushing their boss on the gurney.
I remembered that I'd sat in the waiting room for what had felt like hours, waiting on news, though terrified to hear any. Eventually I'd gone into disconnected shock, and had began planning my best friend's funeral to myself. I'd order orchids, because he'd think roses were boring, and I'd play Hanson on a CD player in lieu of an organ. And no church, though I knew I'd have to fight Blythe on that particular point.
"Wilson," House said, interrupting my thoughts.
I glanced at him.
"You alive over there?"
I grinned a little crookedly. "So, do you want roses at your funeral?"
He raised his eyebrows. "That's what you've been thinking about? My funeral?" When I shrugged as my answer, he continued, "It doesn't matter. You won't be the one to plan it."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, it's not like I'm going to go first."
I snorted derisively. "Yeah, okay, whatever."
"You think I will?"
"What I think is that I'm too drunk to be having this conversation right now." Not to mention that thinking about House dying was pretty depressing.
"You brought it up," he pointed out. "You did it to yourself."
I'd known House a long-ass time, long enough to know that letting things drop had never been his strong suit. And honestly, this was one of the safer topics of conversation with my mouth-filter out of commission, so I found myself answering him. "You're always dying." And really, I could have stopped there. I should have stopped there. But, unfortunately, that's just one of the things about me. I don't know when to quit. "Every damn year something comes out of the woodwork to try to find a way to kill you. You get an infarction. Shot. Almost overdose. Electrocute yourself. Go crazy. And remove your own tumors in your bathroom. You're dying first."
"Yeah well," he replied. "I doubt it."
"It's your right."
"Think of all the crap I've lived through," he continued arguing. "No, no. You'll definitely go before me."
I smiled, strangely comforted by the thought. So, maybe I'd never get to have him the way I wanted. But at least I wouldn't have to plan his funeral.
"I won't like it though."
My eyes moved to the chair, where House was sitting. Had I actually heard him right? Or was it a drunken hallucination or something? Because the other option was that House had actually just said something . . . nice to me. One of the nicest things he'd ever said to me, actually.
Go figure that it'd be an hour after lying to and kidnapping me.
"Wilson, why did you get so drunk in the middle of the afternoon," he asked me for, if I was keeping accurate track, the third time.
"I'm off today. I figured it'd be better to do it then, rather than waiting until I was shapposed to work."
"Sort of a failed plan," he pointed out. "But the last time you got drunk on your own -"
I moaned in frustration and buried my head in my hands.
"You were planning to give away a part of one of your organs."
"Please, House, can we drop it?"
"Never been very good at that. And why didn't you call me? I love to do the drunk thing."
"I don't know," I snapped. "I just wanted to be alone."
"Not good enough. Try again."
"You know, you're pretty annoying yourself."
"Well, I can theorize on my own, if you'd rather. My first guess would be, since you didn't invite me, that it's about me. Which would be weird, considering last night we ordered pizza and watched The O.C. And everything seemed fine."
I kept my face as passive as possible, hoping that he'd move on when he ran out of steam.
"Did something happen today? Someone die?"
"No."
"You didn't even wait until the weekend. There's something you're not telling me here."
"You're crazy," I replied, stealing a look at the time. "Unfortionishly, it's time for us to go."
"I'll just keep going in the car."
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
Part One