It had taken weeks of effort, some mine and some others', to get him to this point: sitting in my car on an unfamiliar (to me, at least) street mid Friday morning. Our destination was only a few yards away; this should be the easy part. I shut off the engine and waited for House to make a move.
"I can't believe you brought me here," House grumbled, glaring first at me and then up at the house.
"I can't believe that you were so desperate to avoid seeing your own mother that she had to call me to get you here," I countered, not feeling especially sympathetic towards him today. Blythe House had called me the previous week. She hadn't seen her son in almost two years, she said, and he just kept giving her excuses. His father would be away for a few days, which, she assured me, should make House more agreeable to the whole thing. I filed that piece of information away in the 'House Issues' folder and resolved to look into it later – much later, after I'd managed to safely execute the visit.
I almost smiled as I remembered the conversation. If this was House 'agreeable', I couldn't begin to imagine what this journey would have been like if it had been for John House's sake.
"That was just a front." This time Greg was smirking when he met my eyes. "Mom's always had a bit of a thing for you – cute Jewish doctor with those big, brown, dreamy eyes – who could resist?" I scrubbed a hand over my face, partly out of annoyance and partly to hide the slight blush I could feel building on my cheeks. I sighed as I did so. It had been an early start, and a long, irritating drive, and I really wasn't in the mood for House's delaying tactics.
"House, can we just go inside now? Please?" House shrugged.
"Go ahead; I'm not stopping you." He slipped a hand into his inside jacket pocket, retrieving the ever-present amber vial. He popped the top off and dropped two of the pills into his palm, swallowing them immediately. He looked up in time to see the disapproving frown that I knew I could never quite manage to keep from my face in moments like these. House rolled his eyes. "My leg hurts!" He defended. I pursed his lips, but didn't say anything. I found it hard to believe, given the rate he'd been popping pills during the drive, but I strongly suspected that he would enjoy the argument if it meant he could wait longer before going inside. I wasn't enabling him in that.
I changed my mind as he peered casually into the prescription bottle, shrugged, and tipped the single remaining pill into his mouth before pressing the cap back on and tossing it to the floor of the car. I shook my head in exasperation.
"Only you would need to get doped up for this!" House just shrugged again and got out the car. I pinched the bridge of his nose, prayed the effects of the drugs wouldn't be too obvious, and followed a moment later.
"You have a lovely home, Mrs. House," I commented politely. After the initial greetings and welcomes, we'd had been ushered to the kitchen table, which was where we now sat slowly sipping coffee. Mrs. House smiled at me.
"Call me Blythe, James," she ordered gently, as she had done on all of the few occasions we had met. I returned her smile easily and promised that yes, of course, I would.
Our conversation was very much what I would have had expected. Small talk mostly. House didn't contribute much – not that I was surprised. House wasn't much of a talker in these situations at the best of times. He responded if asked a direct question, which was really about as much as I could have hoped.
A comfortable silence eventually fell over the room. I chanced a longer-than-normal look at House, checking him over carefully, although for what I couldn't say. Whatever it was didn't seem to be there, so, satisfied, I turned my attention back to Blythe. I opened my mouth to resume a conversation, but she stood and lifted the mugs off of the table before I could.
"I'd better make a start on lunch. You boys can go get settled in, maybe rest a little. I know you've come a long way. Greg, you can show James to his room, can't you?"
"Sure," House agreed easily. If Blythe noticed that his response was just that little bit too slow, that his eyes took just that little bit too long to focus on her face, then she didn't say anything. House rose and swayed for several seconds. For a few horrible moments, I seriously considered the possibility that he was about to pass out, but before I could do anything, he'd steadied himself and was moving towards the kitchen door.
It didn't surprise me in the slightest when House merely gestured at a row of doors on the landing before heading into a room opposite and collapsing on the bed. Car journeys never meant well for House's leg, and pain could take a lot out of a person. Even with the Vicodin, although that was probably just serving to make him drowsy. I rolled my eyes, and investigated the upstairs of the house.
Door one lead to a bathroom. Door two was for a double room. I stuck my head in, took note of the photos on the bedside table, and labelled it as John's and Blythe's bedroom. Which meant that door three was for me. I stepped in, dropping my suitcase carefully by the wall, and took stock. Double bed, dresser, closet. Standard guest room. I sat down on the edge of the bed, bouncing slightly as I did so. Nice – comfy.
I'd been in my room an hour, unpacking one or two things from my case before settling back on the bed with a book, when Blythe called up the stairs.
"Greg, James! Lunch!" I marked my place and stood, walking straight across the hall to check on Greg. Still fast asleep. Great. I shook him lightly, but it did little to rouse him.
"Go away," he mumbled when I didn't immediately stop. "'m sleepin'" I sighed, but left anyway. This was going to be fun: no, sorry Mrs. House. Greg doesn't want any lunch. What? No, of course he hasn't drugged himself into a coma. That would be irresponsible and stupid.
I could tell that Blythe was concerned when I came down alone, but I assured her that he was just tired – he'd had a late night, I explained. Work had been really busy; this was his first break in ages. She nodded, apparently accepting the excuse, but I wasn't convinced. We ate lunch in the semi-awkward manner you'd expect from two people whose only connection is sleeping upstairs. When we'd both finished, I engaged her in one of those pointless arguments about who should wash up, before she shepherded me out of the kitchen, telling me to check on House.
He was awake when I entered his room. Or rather, he was waking up. His eyes were open and he was blinking groggily. I marched straight to the side of the bed as he started to sit up, grabbed a pillow and chucked it at his head. I almost smiled when it hit dead on.
"You bastard!" I hissed instead. "I didn't come all of this way to eat meals with your mom!" He rolled his eyes and sat up fully, leaning back against the headboard.
"Oh, relax. I missed one lunch. I was there for the coffee before, wasn't I?" I gritted my teeth.
"Yeah, and that went so well. What were you thinking? What if she'd noticed that you were…" I trailed off and just gestured at him instead. He shrugged, an action that was starting to infuriate me far more than was reasonable.
"Mom hates confrontation. She'd never bring it up, even if she thought there was something to bring up." I didn't miss the note of bitterness in his voice, and added it to my growing list of things to ask about when I had the time.
"That doesn't actually make me feel any better, but ok…" He shoved the pillow back to where it belonged. Whether he meant it or not, I took it as an invitation to sit down. "Just be there for dinner. She wants to see you." House fixed his gaze on the floor.
"Yeah. Sure." I cocked my head to the side as I appraised him. Was that…guilt? No, it couldn't be. When House felt guilty, he never let it show, or, at any rate, not in the normal way. So then…what?
"You don't sound very sure," I prompted carefully. He didn't move his eyes, but did open his mouth, and for a second I really thought that he was going to let me a little way into the mystery that was his mind. And then his eyes snapped up to meet mine, and the moment passed.
"You know, I might be a cripple, but even I can manage a flight of stairs in less than the six hours we have until feeding time. So yes, I'm sure that I can make it to dinner. Can you get my Vicodin?" Subject closed. Well, I wouldn't push. He was moving on, and would expect me to do the same.
"After the amount you took this morning? I don't think so." I told him firmly. He glared at me.
"Party pooper," he muttered. I shook my head.
"You're good to go at least until tonight, and you know it. Now, you going to spend some time with your mother, or should I fetch the adoption papers so I don't just have to act the part of her son?"
I sat quietly in the living room as mother and son caught up. Or, more accurately, as Blythe talked and House listened, making appropriate 'hmm'ing noises every so often. After a couple of hours of that, she started trying to talk him into playing the piano for her, and I noted with interest his complete inability to say no to her. He played every piece she suggested flawlessly, until she paused a little too long between requests.
"Mom, Wilson and I are going out now. See you at dinner, ok?" She looked a little disappointed, but nodded anyway.
"Eight o'clock, sharp. Don't be late." House's face stretched into something resembling a grimace, but he turned for the door before I could see for certain. I smiled at Blythe, promised that I would see that Greg made it home on time and followed him out of the room.
"And we're going to a…bar?" We were standing outside an establishment that looked exceedingly seedy.
"Well I thought about volunteering you as an erotic dancer, but the strip club is further down the street…and I have a physical impairment, so…" he shrugged with a 'what can I do?' expression all over his face.
"House, it's four o'clock in the afternoon!"
"Easier to get a table." He jabbed the back of my leg with his cane. "C'mon. In you go." Another fight just not worth having. I pushed opened the door and quickly located a table about halfway between us and the bar. I headed over to it, sitting in the chair furthest away.
"Bar keep!" House called as he approached his own seat. "Two scotches!"
"So why are we here?" I asked once our drinks had arrived. House downed his in one go.
"Thirsty," he muttered when he'd put the glass back down.
"Then I'd strongly suggest you drink some water instead," I advised dryly as he called for a refill. While he waited, he started fiddling with his cane.
"I hate being here," he eventually admitted. I frowned.
"Why? I know you prefer staying at home, but you don't usually react like this." He didn't respond. "I know that you don't get on with your dad very well, but he's not here." I paused as I considered the matter. "Is it your mom? She seems nice to me, don't really see what you could object to…"
"I guess she is," House mumbled. My eyes widened.
"It's your mom? Oh my God, House, what did she do?!" There was something House had always kept a secret about his past. I had no idea what it was, or when in the years before we'd met it had happened, but it was there. I'd never guessed his mom, though…
House shot me a furious look.
"Nothing, alright?! She didn't do anything!" I held up my hands.
"Ok, ok, I'm sorry! I just thought…and you said…" House sipped his drink and rested his forehead against his palm, elbow resting on the table.
"I hate being here," he repeated. I bit my lip, burning with the curiosity that had been present for years and was now enflamed after spending less than a day at his parents' home.
"What about your dad?" I hedged. It was a risky move, but I figured that since he clearly didn't want to go back yet, he couldn't react too badly to any questions. He glared at me. "What, you drag me all the way here and now I'm not allowed to talk?"
"Dad's nice enough too," he finally answered. "Marine. Military to the core." A sneer formed. I waited patiently; I already knew all this. "Honest to a fault."
"So, nothing like you then?" I teased. House froze, and I couldn't tell if he was angry or hurt. Or both. Whichever it was, I'd apparently crossed some invisible line. I kicked myself mentally. I'd been so close!
"No." He said in a deadly quiet voice. "Nothing like me." He knocked back the remainder of his scotch and ordered a third.
I cut him off before he could get a forth.
"You want your mother to know what you spent your afternoon up to?" His temper already short, his irritation with me was almost tangible.
"Mommy's not going to ground us when she finds out that we didn't say no. We'll just tell her we gave into peer pressure. All the other kids were doing it too!" He whined. Then his expression turned serious. "Give it up, Wilson." Ignoring my protests, he ordered the forth drink anyway. "See?" He pointed to my watch when he'd finished. "We're still going to be back well before mom gets mad. No problem."
House continued to grate on my nerves over dinner. He still wasn't helping the conversation any, unless his mom tried to ask him a question relating to something other than his work, at which point he showed fantastic prowess at manipulating the conversation away from himself. Typical House, of course – he was perfectly capable of being polite and charming, but only when it served his purpose. Apparently that applied to his family as well.
And that was fine – House's job was far from simple and far from boring. It could easily be talked about for a few hours. But I could see Blythe's brow furrow more and more with each brush off, and that was slowly infuriating me. House couldn't just put aside whatever the hell his issues were for one weekend, even to make his mother happy? If he really didn't have some major, ancient problem with her, then there was no excuse.
House disappeared the second the meal was over, and, once again, Blythe sent me to check up on him. I could see that she was more worried about her son than she had been earlier, now that tiredness didn't really seem to be an applicable reason.
He was again stretched out on his bed when I reached him, hands behind his bed.
"You're unbelievable!" I exclaimed when I saw I had his attention.
"Whatever. My Vicodin's in that bag," he told me, pointing vaguely to the left side of the room. I checked my watch. It had been more than long enough since his last dose, I decided, although it really didn't make any difference what I thought. I moved away from the bed and crouched down in front of his backpack, rifling through its contents.
"Look," I began as I pushed through Gameboys, Ipods and other assorted items. "Can you pretend for one second that you're a normal human being and just give the woman what she wants? She's obviously worried about you. Can't you just… Are you sure your pills are in here?" A thorough search of the outside pockets and his wash bag had yielded nothing. I heard the creaking of springs as House rose from the bed.
"'Course I'm sure. Where else would I have put them?" I stepped back, giving him the space to look for himself.
"What about your coat pocket?" I suggested. He shook his head.
"I finished those in the car." He lifted the bag and upended it, dumping his things on the bed. He spread them out, scouring through them.
"Maybe you forgot them." I made the logical step. House shook his head again, rapidly.
"No! Why would I- I couldn't…" I sighed.
"House, they're not here. You must have left them at home." He wheeled around as fast as his leg would let him, and I was taken aback by the desperation suddenly shining in his eyes.
"Write me a new scrip," he ordered. "It's not too late, I can still get-"
"Sorry," I cut him off. "I don't tend to carry my pad on weekend vacations." He swallowed harshly and his breathing quickened.
"There's-There's a clinic around here. Open twenty-four hours. I could-" I interrupted again.
"What walk in clinic is going to give opiates to someone on their first visit?" His eyes flicked back and forth, as though searching for ideas.
"You're a doctor. You can verify-"
"No ID to certify I'm a doctor. Even if they wouldn't just assume we were both part of a drug ring." I watched with mild concern as his breaths started coming out shorter and sharper? Panic attack...? Surely not.
"We have to- I can't- I need-" He broke off, gasping. I placed my hands on his shoulders and pushed, carefully easing him onto a clear spot on the bed.
"House, breathe slow," I commanded. "Try and calm down, ok?" He nodded tightly and started attempting to force normal breathing. After a few minutes, I released his shoulders. He took a last deep breath before raising his head again. "What was that about?" I asked softly. He looked away immediately.
"The next few days. Without-"
"Jesus House!" I broke in. "I'm sure even you can go two whole days without drugs! Withdrawal won't get that bad that quickly." House's mouth snapped shut. He locked his eyes with mine.
"You think," he began slowly, "that this is all about scoring my next hit?" I stared dumbfounded, unable to look away.
"Well…isn't it?" We stood in silence for what seemed like hours, until House finally tore his gaze away.
"Yeah, of course." He muttered. "I'm jonesin' already." His voice dripped in sarcasm.
"House…" I wracked my brains, trying to find the right words. None sprung to mind. "I didn't mean…"
"Doesn't matter. Forget it." There must have been something in my expression that he didn't like, because he waved a dismissive hand my way and continued: "Seriously. Doesn't matter. Ok?" I nodded dumbly. "Now, since this apparently upsets you so much, I'll go sit through another couple hours of conversation. Happy?"
I woke just after midnight with an uncomfortably full bladder. I shifted out from under the warmth of my covers reluctantly and padded across my room. My hand was on the doorknob before I heard it: the familiar lopsided footsteps apparently making laps around the landing. I twisted the handle, opened my door and stood, leaning as casually as I could manage against the doorframe.
"Going for the four hour mile again?" He didn't stop until his route had brought him next to my door.
"That's right, mock the cripple," he griped. A good and bad sign. Less exhaustion and stress in his tone would have been better, but the fact that he answered at all meant that it could be a lot worse.
"Why didn't you go to the living room? There's more space there, and cable…" I realised my mistake as soon as I'd made it. Of course. House and stairs didn't mix that well on the best of days. Tonight, it would probably be bordering on suicidal.
"Too dark down there. Who knows what could be waiting for me?" He replied quickly.
"What, monsters from the closet?" He shrugged.
"They're bound to get bored there eventually. Actually, I was thinking nasty old men with twirly moustaches who want to take my virtue." I peered around him to look down the stairs.
"Hmm…yes, that would certainly be a concern. God knows you're already lacking in virtues as it is." House shifted his weight slightly, wincing and putting an end to the conversation. "It's bad." I'd meant it as a question, although it didn't come out as one.
"No shit," he mumbled. I looked on, trying my best to keep as much sympathy as possible out of my expression. He wouldn't appreciate it.
"We can leave first thing, if you want," I offered. I desperately wanted to make amends for offending him earlier, and this was the best apology I thought he would accept. "I'm sure your mom will understand." House shook his head once. I was surprised, but tried not to let that show either. "Then can I do anything? There's one of those twenty-four hour gas stations not far from here. I could run out and get you something. I know smoking sometimes helps-"
"No!" House insisted, too loudly. We both glanced towards Blythe's bedroom door. When there was no sign he'd woken her, House continued in a lower voice. "We're not leaving; you're not buying anything." He looked again towards his mother's room. "She doesn't need to know about this. I'm already a d-" He stopped abruptly. I frowned.
"A what, House?" I asked. He bit his lip, and half shook his head, warning me off the subject. A disappointment. That was my guess, and if I was right, it wasn't a topic I was just going to ignore. "You know you upset her." I spoke slowly, giving me time to gage his reaction. "You don't like it, but you don't know what to do about it. So you avoid it." He didn't reply, which was as much confirmation as I needed. "Talk to her. Tell her about your life. Let her in a little bit more."
"This is my life!" House pointed at his right leg. "She doesn't need to know about this," he reiterated. "So don't think you're doing some noble thing if you run off and tell her. The only thing that would change is that she'd get more worried." One corner of my mouth turned up, in a sort of smile.
"I can't say I agree with you. But my lips are sealed." House appraised me for a second, and then, pleased with what he'd seen, nodded.
"There's no point you standing there all night." He stated, shifting his weight again. I took the hint, and continued on my way to the bathroom. The second I shut the door, the footfalls resumed.
Getting House down to breakfast the next morning was a nightmare. I'd found some aspirin in the bathroom cabinet, but it wasn't nearly good enough. He still needed me to support most of his weight, but the staircase was too narrow for us to stand side by side. I ended up standing in front of him, my arms held rigid, bracing myself against the banister and the wall as House pressed heavily down on my shoulders. It was a slow process, and we both nearly fell more times than I cared to remember. Fortunately, Blythe was outside fetching the mail when we reached the kitchen, so we were able to get House situated at the table without alerting her to the problem.
"She's not stupid. She's going to notice something's up," I reminded him.
"She might notice something, but she won't know what." He was adamant.
"And what exactly are you going to do when you have to walk somewhere? Or when she expects you to do more than just lie on the couch watching TV? Or-" He glared at me.
"I get it!" He wasn't, for obvious reasons, in a great mood this morning, so I let it drop.
House, however, had apparently given the matter some thought. He let his mom take his plate, after having done little more than push the eggs around on it, and then complained loudly of a headache. I watched, a smile playing on my lips, as Blythe brushed the back of her hand against his forehead.
"Hmm…you might be running a slight fever." House, predictably, rolled his eyes.
"You go to medical school too?" His tone was really more short than teasing, but his mother let it slide.
"You feeling ok?" House shrugged.
"I feel a little nauseous, and I'm really tired." Those two were probably true, between the pain and the beginnings of a detox.
"Do you want to go and lie down?" House shook his head. I continued to observe curiously.
"No, I came all this way to see you-"
"Don't worry," she patted his shoulder. "I don't want you to over do things. Just you go and rest." In the best show of reluctance, I thought I'd ever seen, Greg rose from his seat and left the room, gesturing slightly with his head for me to follow him. Great. More stairs to climb.
With House settled back in bed, alibi sorted, I returned to his mother, ready again to fill the void of her absent son.
"There's something wrong, isn't there?" She asked the second I entered the room. I hesitated for a few moments, before remembering the promise I'd made to Greg.
"He must have picked up a bug somewhere. He'll be fine, he just needs a day or so of rest." I poured myself another cup of coffee and rejoined her at the breakfast table.
"That's not what I meant. He's…" she trailed off, unable to find the right words. "He's miserable." She finally settled. "I don't know if it's the leg, the pain, the pills... but something's been changing in him over the last few years, something to make him unhappy." I raised my eyebrows. I worried about House's emotional well being too, but it usually got pushed aside to make way for worrying about his growing Vicodin addiction, or his inability to function properly by himself, or any of the other, more immediate concerns that were just integral elements of loving House.
"He's…alright," I tried to reassure her, although it was a weak effort. "He has complete control over his work life, he has all the medical mysteries he could ever want-"
"And outside of work?" She interrupted. I thought for several seconds, trying to come up with something convincing to tell her, but nothing came to mind.
"He has me," I answered honestly. Our eyes connected, and she nodded silently, a shared thought passing between us. I wasn't enough. But I would have to do.
It was the fact that, when I awoke again in the early hours of the morning, I didn't hear footsteps on the landing that alerted me to a problem. I crossed the room and the space between mine and House's doors in just a few long strides, turning the handle and pushing the door open. The room was dark, with the only light coming in from the streetlamps outside of his window, reducing House to a profile with a glowing outline. His left leg was stretched out on the bed in front of him; his right was bent slightly. His body was arched over his thigh, forehead almost – but not quite – leaning against his knee and hands hovering either side of his scar, occasionally jerking slightly as if he was preventing himself from touching. I could hear his breathing, loud and laboured.
Suddenly he whimpered – not loud enough for it to disturb his mother, but loud enough for me to hear it over by the door – and threw his head back. His face now illuminated, I noticed the shine of tears streaking down his cheeks. His body soon followed the same path as his head, back arching and hands fisting his sheets. Without a thought, I shut the door behind me and darted to his side. I climbed onto the bed beside him and slid over, lifting his shoulders ever so carefully, so that I was sitting half behind him. His torso twisted round, and his right hand found purchase on my T-shirt. I could feel him shaking where we were pressed together.
"Ssh, now, it's ok. I got you. I've got you." I whispered the words into his ear as I wrapped my arms gently around his shoulders. I resisted the temptation to rock him, knowing it wouldn't do his leg any good at all. He burrowed his face into my chest and his tears scalded my skin. This wasn't fair. It wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to have to live like this. He'd been strong, athletic, powerful! Now he'd gone two days without painkillers and he was a total mess. And there was nothing either of us could do for another twelve hours.
It could only get better than this.