A/N Yeah. There's more plot bunnies where this came from. Bit wordier than I wanted it to be, takes too long to get to the point, so don't be surprised to see a rewrite, but in the mean time, enjoy and tell me if there's anything that really sticks out to be fixed up. Then again, it's what I get for writing while under the influence at 4 in the morning. Enjoy, and if you're from anyone involved with the show, don't sue.
It's a rolled up twenty and traces of white powder left behind on a DVD case. An empty pill bottle and matching empty bottle of whiskey. It's the phone call "just to talk" because there's so much raw energy pumping through his veins that he can't shut up. And you listen to him, patiently. You can't do much else.
You go over to his place, and pretend not to look disgusted with him. Because as much as you are-disgusted with him that is-you can't help but sympathize with him. You can't help but want to reach out to him. Give him something to hang on to. A life raft for another passenger of the Titanic, slowly freezing to death out in the cold ocean, alone.
You spare him the lecture about how he should know better, because you don't know what he's like in one of these moods. You don't know how much of anything he's had-if that was the same bottle from a few nights prior, it was already half gone when he started on it. And that pill bottle could have been mostly finished already. You know how to deal with him when he's drunk. When he's pilled out. When he's decided to roll himself a nice fat blunt and con you into joining in.
But this is something you've never seen before. And you won't admit to anyone-not even yourself-that it scares you. This is self-destruction at it's finest. This is the ticking time bomb going off. It's a lit cigarette just because "he needed one" even though you know full well he hasn't smoked in over a decade. Then again, it's times like this when you feel as though you don't know him at all.
You may have spared him the lecture, but you don't spare him the question. "Why?" Is the only thing you can ask.
"Patient wouldn't miss it. It isn't as though a man near death is really going to care about the eight-ball he so carelessly left behind in his pocket." There's more to it, but you don't pry further. You're not entirely sure if you want to know more.
This is a different man from the one you're used to seeing. He seems paradoxically more on edge and more relaxed than you've ever seen him before. There's a tense tightness running through him, but he seems comfortable. As though he's more at ease in his own skin than he ever was before. It's puzzling, but that's why you've stood by him. Because he's puzzling, and like any other puzzle, you don't give up on it until it's solved. Not nearly as obviously and doggedly as he does, but you hate the idea of loose ends.
"You stole from a patient?" You don't want to pry further, but you can't help it.
"He thinks I had to confiscate it. He thanked me for not going to the cops with it."
"How utterly nice of you."
"I didn't call you over to listen to your dull wit." There's a slight edge of exasperation in the voice, and a hand reaches for the DVD case and twenty. You watch in fascination as he pulls out a baggie, and taps a bit of powder out.
It's a hand working over the powder with a credit card with a sort of practiced, delicate ease that makes it look like something he was meant to do. It's the re-rolling of the bill before it goes up his nose. It's the way that the nostril closes without even needing to push against it. It's the gentle inhalation of the line. It's the other one that's been cut out, demarcated on the back of the black DVD, standing out starkly, and the bill layed next to it. An invitation, but one that wasn't expecting to hear an RSVP.
It's a deep, calming, steadying breath as you look over at House, eyes closed for just a moment, head tilted back so that the sniffles-and the drugs that they threatened to drag out with him-would drip down his throat. He looks at peace, and vulnerable in that moment, before he leans forward again, the tense agitation taking hold once more.
"Why me?" You ask. You don't know why he wanted you to be here to see him like this.
"You expected me to call Tritter? I wanted someone to talk to." He's ready to launch into a ramble, and you know it's just the drugs talking, but you can't decide if you want to hear it or not.
"You never want to talk."
"I also haven't been coked out in a good twenty years, and forgot what it's like to need to talk." You knew his past with drugs. You knew of college parties, of weeks that were hazy at best, and complete blanks at worst.
"What is it with you and drugs?" It's the subtle tensing of a muscle, before he reaches violently for the DVD case. You can't help but smile at his choice of movie. Of course, he'd be doing lines off the back of Traffic. You knew when he was desperate for the vicodin to kick in, he'd often crush them on the back of an old copy of Trainspotting, but that he seemed to have a movie picked out for every drug was just slightly amusing. In a completely fucked up way, but amusing none the less.
"Sometimes, it's fun to do something that just makes you feel good. Not ok, not content, but simply good." It's a hand reaching into a pocket, and this time the baggie remains on the table so that he doesn't have to keep fishing for it. It's another two lines cut out, and left on the table, ready for when the time would come in a few more minutes.
"And sometimes, it's ok not to run." It's a sentence spoken quietly, but just loud enough for him to hear.
"You think I'm running?" It's harsh words, angry, but you're not sure at what.
"Healthy, normal, well adjusted people do not need drugs to make them feel good."
"Healthy, normal, well adjusted people do not exist. They just appear to while hiding their inner demons." Words spoken matter-of-factly, in a tone of voice that clearly told you how much he was talking down to you.
"Not everyone is as misanthropic and self-loathing as you are House. Not everyone thinks they need to hide behind a facade. Not everyone wants to avoid dealing with, coping with life. Some people actually enjoy living it, and don't feel the need to run away from it."
"I'm not running." The words are a dangerous hiss. You'd seen your fair share of irate people on drugs, and you knew the strange effect coke had on people. It made them violent, made them mean. And yet, you kept urging him on. It's a need for self-loathing, to push him away from you, because you don't want to be the one to find him having accidentally crossed the line rather than having toed it.
"Coward." You want him to lash out, and he does, expectedly. He doesn't have much leverage behind the punch, seeing as he's sitting down and sitting next to you, but you can still taste blood where his fist connected with your lip. You see his eyes flash something, but he doesn't open his mouth, instead he merely reaches for the DVD case. "That's all you are. You never man up and accept anything, you just chose to hide instead."
"Shut up." The words are growled. And you're enjoying every second of it. There's a masochist and a sadist both hiding inside of you. The sadist, wanting to see him hurt. It's a desire to see him lash out, if only to see him actually express an emotion, rather than hiding behind the numbness and the stoicism. The masochist wanting him to hurt you, wanting him to go after you, because it would give you a reason to give up on him.
"You did call me over here to talk." The words are mocking, and you see him tense again, before he gets up.
"Fuck you." He staggers to the bedroom slams the door. You give him a moment before you barge in after him. "Go. The. Fuck. Away." It's a measured response, and he doesn't even look up at you. He's standing there in only his boxers, and for a moment you can't help but look.
"Make me." You're baiting him on purpose. You want this to be the final breaking point for the two of you. The way that nothing else has been. His leg hadn't been it, no, that was what had pushed Stacy away leaving you to pick up the pieces. Tritter hadn't been it, even if you wanted it to be. And as hard as you tried to make Amber be that final straw, it wasn't. You still came back to him. The masochist in you always won. But you don't want that part of you to win anymore, you want him to give you a reason to leave him here, not caring what he does to himself.
He turns to face you, and you can't decipher what the emotion on his face was. "I-" He pauses, falters, and looks out towards the living room where the DVD case and white powder lay, helplessly far away. You're in the doorway, and you won't let him get them anyway. He may have been stronger, but you weren't afraid to use his leg against him. "Just leave." The words are quiet, but not out of anger.
Something inside of you snaps. He's not going to push you away. He's not trying to push you away. A wave a guilt washes over you, but you fight to ignore it. "And leave you to do something even more stupid?"
"Why do you think you're here?" The words are snapped, but it's a second-long candid look behind the facade. You're here to keep him in check. To make sure he didn't do something stupid. To make sure he'd come out of this all right.
"How very kind of you, relying on your friends to make sure you don't screw up and accidentally kill yourself." There's supposed to be venom behind the words, but it doesn't quite come out. Like a snake who had used up the last of what it had to defend it's young against a predator, he was left without anything, but he could still try to damage through bite alone.
"You didn't have to come." He hobbles to the bed and sits down on the side heavily, not bothering to have pulled on any pants to sleep in. But you know he's not going to sleep any time soon. "You chose to come here."
"Like I had any clue what sort of a state I'd find you in."
"You've seen me worse." You can't help but sit next to him. There's something vulnerable about him at the moment. Something that no matter how hard he was trying to be sarcastic and cynical, he couldn't hide.
"It doesn't mean I ever like it. It's no treat to watch your best friend cowering behind some substance or another, afraid that maybe this time he's pushed the line too far." You don't know why you're being candid, but you are.
"You won't let me." It's a simple sentence. A simple deceleration that says everything that he thinks about whatever it is you two share. "Why do you keep coming back?"
"Because you won't let me leave." You were trying to put all of this on him. As though it's your fault that you feel some sort of bond with him, like a little lost puppy when you don't have him to call you to his side, tell you to heel, and say you're a good boy. He scoffs at the idea.
"I won't let you leave?" He repeats and you nod. "You're always the one to walk away from things. Always the one to give in. You give up on everything-if anyone should be called the coward here it's you." You bristle at his words, anger flashing up inside of you.
"I give up on everything‽ " There are very few uses for the interrobang in the English language, but you think this is a perfectly valid one.
"You make everyone else push you away. Don't think I didn't notice. And I'm not going to give in to your little ploy and let you manipulate me." You can't help but admire the way he has you read like a goddamn novel.
"Why not? You did it to Stacy, why not do it to me?"
"Stacy was different."
"How?" You ask. He doesn't respond. There's a funny look on his face, one that you've never seen before. One that would occasionally cross his face for a split second when his father was in town, and you wonder what you could have done to earn the same expression that the man that House had hated most had earned. "How?" You pry again, and again no response. He just sits there, staring into space, and for a second you wonder if he's all right.
"It doesn't matter." He still refuses to look at you, and you grip his jaw firmly, forcing him to face you.
"You pushed the one person in your life that you loved away, but you won't do it to me. Why?" You want to know why you're special. You want to know how you've gotten through behind the barrier. Because, quite frankly, it makes you feel special to know that you have the distinction of being the one person House is afraid to push away.
"Can we have this conversation another time?" He's trying to get away from it. Whatever the reason is, it's something he's not comfortable with. But you're angry enough with him for not caring about himself to not care if he's uncomfortable. You want answers, even if it destroys whatever it is that won't let him push you away.
"We're having it now." Your hand is still gripping his face, the stubble rough against your fingers. You're acutely aware of just how close the two of you are.
"Like hell we are."
"You're running again. Whenever someone starts to break down the walls you build up around you, you run. You turn the other way and hide inside a bottle of vicodin and pretend it doesn't matter. You said you're not going to push me away, but you're doing a damn fine job of running away." The anger is back in the blue eyes, and you fight the smirk.
"Have you ever considered that maybe those walls are there for a reason?"
"Yes, and it's fear. You're afraid to get close to anyone."
"Forgive me for not wanting to get hurt. Not that you'd know what it's like, you never actually open yourself up enough to anyone to get hurt. You marry people to fix them, and then leave them when you finish your job and move on to the next Humpty Dumpty to put back together again." The words sting, but you can't think up a witty retort, because as much as they sting, they have truth to them.
"That's not true." you mumble. Not all of it was. He did open himself up. Occasionally. Rarely.
"Really? Prove it. Name one person that you actually are willing to care about beyond fixing. One person you're willing to deal with not because they're broken and you have this need to be needed." You feel your throat contract, and the inability to speak clutches at you.
Aphasia, in it's purest form, caused by a moment of pure panic. No, he wasn't going to open up to someone that he wanted nothing more than to be done with. Instead you just sit there, feet dangling off the bed, staring off into space. You feel a strong hand turn your heads towards him. "Can't do it, can you Jimmy?"
His hand is warm against your jaw, strong, powerful, grounding. "I-" You stammer, "Can we have this conversation another time?" He merely smirks, and shakes his head.
"You're the one that wanted to have it. Who decided that now would be the best time to have it. If you're going to pick at my faults, then let he who is without sin cast the first stone. I'm pretty sure you broke three of your own windows in this conversation."
"Why won't you just push me away already? Why won't you just shove me forcefully out of your life like you have everyone else? What's so goddamn special about me that you refuse to force me out of your life?"
"Why the hell do you keep coming back when I try to do just that? I know I'm good looking, attractive, funny, but do I really need to be fixed so badly that you keep coming back to do just that-try and fix me? Another one of your Humpty-Dumptys?" It's a moment of clarity cutting through all the fog like a knife.
It's the realization of what that emotion had been on his face, the one that you couldn't quite place. Fear. House was afraid. He's looking down at the bedspread rather than look at you, and you take one finger and gently raise his head up so that you're able to look him square in his blue eyes. And for once, House is gone, replaced by Greg, the afraid boy inside, the boy who's hidden his feelings, his fears, everything behind a mask for as long as he'd been alive.
All the anger melts away in an instant. "Was that what prompted all this?" It was a soft question, gentle. "You act as though you're trying to prove yourself more broken than anyone I've ever dated." You want to know if he's been doing this for a reason. If he was monumentally stupid on greater and greater levels just to gain attention.
He doesn't answer, but his eyes stay locked with yours. And you see that flicker of fear cross them again. It's then that you chose to do something stupid-you lean in and kiss him. It's something you'd never thought about before. Something that had never crossed your mind before. But it seemed like a good idea. To do something to show that there was a reason why you kept coming back.
He's the one to pull away, and you curse yourself. "I can't be just another one of your Humpty-Dumptys."He says, his gaze turning back to the ground. The next words are quiet, and you're not entirely sure if you hear them. "I need you too much."
Your hand reached for him, and he latches on as though you're the last thing he has left. And you realize that you are. That he's got nothing left aside from work. That you're the one that has been there for him through thick and thin. And that there's a reason why you always kept coming back. The next words are stammered, like you're the awkward boy back in middle school, unable to talk to girls at all. "I-I-" You fight to find the words. "I don't think all the kings horses and all the kings men could put you back together again, much less me." It's a failed attempt to lighten the mood.
"I don't want to be fixed." You can hear the tremble in his voice. It's then that you give in, and take the plunge. The no-turning-back-from-here moment.
"Even if you were-" You say, locking on to his gaze, even though you don't want to. You don't want him to know how hard it is for you to say this. To admit that you actually have feelings. "-Even if you were fixed, I need you too much to move on just because the puzzle's been solved."
It's a silent moment, bathed in uncertainty, fear, questioning, and then finally blue eyes relax, and the tension eases out of the tight, tall body. The drugs have long since left his system, they'd been sitting in there almost two hours, but the tension they had caused had been replaced with the nervousness that the conversation had brought with it. And for the first time, you think forever, you see him actually relax.
"I-" He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can finish a thought, he opts instead to press his lips to yours. Before you can get over the shock, he's pulling away, a questioning look in his eyes.
It's your turn to open your mouth and not be able to speak. "You are an idiot." Is all you can manage. You see the hurt in his eyes-he's not even trying to put up the facade, and you can't help but melt a little bit. "For being such a fool to do all this-" You gesture vaguely to the living room, "-for this."And with that you lean in and kiss him again, feeling the eager response, and enjoying it.
There was a reason that no matter what, he couldn't push you away. It was white powder on a DVD case, and a rolled up twenty. It was harsh words. It was a conversation that couldn't have been had without a catalyst. And you never thought you'd see the day where you'd be glad for drugs for once. If it wasn't for a little bit of white powder, the two of you would have continued on your way, both lost trying to find the way to shore. No, this had been the breaking point, but it wasn't where you left for good. It wasn't where he pushed you away. This was where he had let you in, and this was where you actually allowed yourself to love.
It wouldn't stop you from trying to put Humpty together again, but that was only because you preferred your eggs whole to scrambled.