Author's Note: I mixed two great loves of mine – House M.D. and Greek mythology – and got this. I hope you enjoy, and I really hope you share your reactions with me. Honestly, I'd love to hear whatever you have to say. Also, I have not abandoned 'The Last Waltz'. It's just taking a bit longer than expected.
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Sisyphus can no longer remember how long he's been pushing the boulder. It's been years. Maybe it's even been decades; it feels like it has. His hands are raw and bloody from the task, but even though they burn like a brand when he touches the stone, he keeps pushing.
He knows the surface of the boulder by heart. Every crack and crevice, every bump and bulge - it's all been memorized by his fingertips. If a piece of the stone chips off, Sisyphus knows it.
He can't imagine life without the stone. If today the gods should forgive him and lift his punishment, Sisyphus would not leave without it. No, he would push the boulder to the top of the hill one last time, then rest his aching muscles beside it and lean against the rough surface. His hands would scab and heal; moss would creep up the edges of his companion. Maybe the moss would cover him, too.
A jagged edge of the boulder cuts into his palm, and he hisses as it tears away a little more of his skin.
Three days after the clot was removed from House's leg, Wilson arrived back in the States to find his best friend permanently crippled. Five weeks after the clot was removed, Stacy left. She was crying when she called Wilson to tell him she wasn't coming back. Five weeks and six days after the clot was removed, House was emptying the contents of his stomach onto his living room floor while Wilson held him.
"Get your hands off of me!" House hissed, his voice so venomous that Wilson almost flinched. He tightened his grip, though, holding onto House's upper arms. He was kneeling behind the older doctor and his support was all that was keeping House from falling onto his face.
"Don't you fucking ignore me!" House tried again. His voice was getting weaker, and the painful sounding rasp made more of an impression on Wilson then the anger. "I told you to let go. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Wilson was glad he wasn't facing his friend. It was hard to look him in the eye. "I guess I've been foolishly led to believe that face planting in a pool of vomit isn't a good thing." He said, and hesitated, pulling his friend a bit closer to himself.
"I'd rather be with my vomit than with you." House snapped. "Let go, or I swear…"
"You'll hurt me?" Wilson whispered. His hands were shaking from the strain of supporting House. Carefully, he slid one arm and then the other across House's chest. The leverage was better this way, and Wilson was able to pull House back until he was resting against Wilson.
House shuddered. "No. You're not worth the effort. You're a stupid and selfish son of a bitch and you think you know what's best for everyone, like you're some kind of fucking god. Why can't you leave?" His voice broke. "I just want you to leave."
"Greg…" But Wilson had run out of words. He shuffled backwards awkwardly on his knees until the pungent smell of vomit wasn't quite so overpowering.
House shuddered again and Wilson realized that his friend was retching. He changed their position again, but held on just as tightly. House gagged and bile trickled out of his mouth and onto the floor. "I hate you." he gasped when he could breathe again.
The lights were all off, and Wilson wished he could get up and turn on at least one. Maybe, in the light, the veil of surreal misery would lift. Because it wasn't supposed to be like this. House was strong and stubborn. House didn't give up, not ever. "Okay." Wilson said. House snapped his head around, trying to see his companion's face, but Wilson turned to the side, resolutely avoiding his eyes. The younger man ended up focusing on the original puddle of vomit. Small white mounds broke the surface like islands in a lake. "Okay, he repeated, "I can live with that. I can live with your hate better than I could live without…"
Both men were silent for a long time, but Wilson was content to just listen to House's ragged breathing.
---
Hephaestus didn't win Aphrodite with love. He didn't win her with riches or power, or even the beautiful jewelry he crafts and with which he adorns her beautiful body. Above all, it wasn't pity for the crippled god that won her hand in marriage.
Most say that it was Hephaestus's apathy that sealed the marriage, but that's a skewed way to see it. If a blind eye to infidelity is all it takes, she could have chosen from many; certainly most more handsome and charming than the crippled blacksmith.
It is really Hephaestus's honesty that won her over. He sees her for what she is - perfect in form, perhaps, but in no way a perfect woman. Aphrodite lets her passion guide her, heedless of the pain that follows in her wake. It's cruelty, no matter how unintended, and it tarnishes her.
Aphrodite is not nearly as beautiful as everyone pretends she is.
Hephaestus alone doesn't pretend, and so she comes back to his home before the sun rises, night after night.
Of all the gods who begged her hand in marriage, she chose the one who saw and accepted her. She chose the one who smiles when she leaves, knowing full well where she's going, and not loving her less for it.
And, sometimes, Aphrodite stays the whole night in Hephaestus's bed.
"Pick a card, any card…" House intoned as he fanned out the deck in his hand. Wilson peered over the top of his medical journal and frowned.
"Magic tricks, House?" He didn't really mind being interrupted, but that didn't stop the exasperation from entering his voice. Ever since he moved in with his friend, he hadn't gotten a moment's peace. House was looking at him with a raised eyebrow, so Wilson reached forward and pulled a card from the spread. It was the three of hearts, Wilson noted.
Keeping the card face down, Wilson handed it back to his friend. House put it back into the middle of the deck, seemingly in a random spot. Wilson knew better than to assume, though. House was built for parlor tricks – he had long, nimble fingers and a knack for timely distractions. Wilson kept his eyes glued to the deck as House shuffled the cards. In House's hands, the two halves of the deck merged seamlessly back together, and then he handed the cards to Wilson.
"Shuffle it twice," House commanded, still speaking in an unnaturally deep voice. It sounded more like Darth Vader than a magician, and Wilson was unable to hold back a smile as their eyes met. "You suck," House added in his regular voice as Wilson tried to shuffle the cards while keeping an eye on the diagnostician.
A phone rang just as Wilson handed the deck back to House. From the ringtone Wilson knew it was his cell. He didn't want to let House out of his sight in the middle of a magic trick, though, so he kept his gaze on his friend as he stood up. House rolled his eyes and set the deck on the coffee table, raising his hands to show that he wouldn't do anything while Wilson was out of the room.
"Uh uh," Wilson said, "You're coming with me." He grabbed one of House's hands and pulled him to his feet. House sighed and muttered something about trust, but he was smiling as the pair left the room in search of Wilson's cell, the older doctor leaning heavily on his friend in lieu of a cane.
The cell was in his coat pocket, which was in the front hall closet. Wilson looked at the caller ID and instantly felt his stomach knot up. Unconsciously, he leaned into House as he flipped the phone open.
"Julie?"
"James." Came the cool response. He hadn't talked to his ex-wife without the presence of lawyers in a long time. Her voice flowed into his head, and Wilson struggled to concentrate solely on her words. House was still holding onto him for support, and Wilson suddenly felt like he was in two worlds – one foot in the warmth and comfort of House's apartment, and the other foot trapped in the world he had created for himself; feelings of guilt and anger and shame.
He responded to Julie's words automatically, and when she finally hung up, it took him awhile to notice. Silently he shut his phone and ran a hand over his face. House made an impatient noise and tugged him back towards the living room. "No one makes the Great Housedini wait," he growled.
"House, I don't feel like playing cards right now." Wilson turned to move in the other direction, but House didn't let him take more than a step. The older man tightened his grip. "What did Julie want?"
"Nothing." Wilson said, and then shook his head. "She's moving. She found some old stuff of mine in the attic. I'll pick it up tomorrow."
"Then there's nothing better for you to do at the moment. Sit your ass down and let me finish dazzling you with my amazing powers of prestidigitation."
---
The ocean watches as a strange and beautiful bird launches from a tower on the coast and takes flight. At first the details are clear, reflecting in the undulating mirror-blue of the surface. But the heat of the sun reflects, too, catching the white feathered wings. Icarus soars upward, and the details melt away. Soon the clouds swallow him completely.
One feather appears, and then another. They meander down and land so softly on the water that they cause no ripples. Minutes later, the first wax raindrops fall.
When Icarus is seen again his wings have twisted and warped. Feathers pull loose from the wax and catch in the breeze, marking the path of his plummet. The force of the fall drives the melting wax over his back and down his legs. Despite all this his eyes are closed and a smile graces his face. What is the difference between flight and freefall? Can he feel the difference?
The ocean watches.
The impact is spectacular. He hits the water at an angled dive, his back arched and his arms outstretched. White spray like broken glass shoots into the air the moment his chest and chin make contact with the ocean. Any idea of water as a yielding substance becomes a lie as bones crunch.
Froth and feathers are caught and swirl about in eddies. The water settles. The ocean gently cradles what remains of the broken man.
Wilson arrived at the diagnostic's department conference room just as House was wiping the whiteboard clear. All of the patient's symptoms disappeared under the eraser in a few broad sweeps of House's arm. When the board was blank, House stepped back with a sigh.
"You diagnosed the patient?" Wilson asked, more to make his presence known than anything. It was asking the obvious – House would only be cleaning the whiteboard if he'd found a diagnosis. Even if the patient had died, House would still have kept up the list of symptoms, forcing himself and his team to keep picking away at them until the answer was discovered.
House gave him a disdainful look. "Of course. Would I be leaving work if my job wasn't finished?"
Wilson hid a smile as House grabbed his leather jacket from the back of a chair and led them both out of the room. This whole week had been an example of perfect timing. House had gotten a difficult case on Tuesday, the same day Wilson's Volvo had broken down. Because a brain-teasing patient was the only thing that could get House to work on time, Wilson was actually able to accept his offer of a ride to and from the hospital.
House was practically bouncing as they walked side-by-side, still riding the high of a good mystery. It was Friday now, and Wilson hoped House had plans for the weekend, something to keep him busy. The older man slipped into boredom so easily. Well, it wasn't like Wilson had anything planned for the weekend – if House drove them both back to Baker Street, he wouldn't complain.
Thoughts of the weekend died when they reached the parking garage. The Corvette was no longer where House had parked it this morning, and in its spot was the bright orange motorcycle. "Where's your car?" Wilson exclaimed. He glanced around the garage, hoping against reason that the Corvette would be nearby.
House shrugged. "I drove it home for lunch. Then I drove my bike back." House limped over to his prized motorcycle. A bag was slung over the handle bars, and he picked it up.
"But how am I supposed to get home?"
House opened up the bag and pulled out two helmets. Grinning, he tossed one to Wilson. It was also a bright orange color. The oncologist stared at it. "No. There is no way I'm getting on that- that deathtrap of yours!"
"Oh come on. I bought you the helmet and everything – do you really think I'd spend fifty bucks on a hunk of plastic if I was planning on getting us killed?"
Wilson pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "I'm calling a cab…"
"You'd really rather pay a foreigner who doesn't understand the cultural significance of a red octagon to drive you a couple miles than trust me? Come on, Jimmy! I promise I'll be careful."
Well, it was only a couple of miles. Wilson shot one last glare at his friend before slipping the helmet over his head. It took a moment to get positioned on the bike, and then they were off. As soon as they left the parking garage, Wilson learned two things: first, it was raining softly outside, barely more than a mist but enough to make him tighten his grip in nervousness. Second, House lied. He was not careful.
House sped recklessly down the streets and took corners at angles that that made Wilson clamp his eyes shut in fear. "House, slow down!" He shouted, but between the motor and the wind, Wilson doubted that he could hear him. He wrapped his arms as firmly as he could around House's waist. It didn't make him feel any safer, but at least if he got thrown off the bike, he'd be taking his bastard of a best friend with him.
Dimly he was aware that they couldn't be heading to House's apartment. They were no longer doing death-defying turns. Plus, they were accelerating, and even House's insanity couldn't justify doing 80 mph in a residential zone.
Wilson hunched forward and buried his head against House's back. The slope of his helmet rested between the taller man's shoulder blades. Sitting like that, he concentrated on his breathing.
He'd gone horseback ridding once with his first wife, Hannah. They'd taken a scenic route through a woodsy park that was only slightly less romantic due to the amount of horse dung along the trail. Hannah's horse had been white and Wilson's had been gray. It had rained lightly, and steam had risen from the horses' skin. Eager to get out of the rain, Hannah had spurred her horse into a gallop. Obviously trained to do so, Wilson's horse matched its pace. He'd leaned close to the animal's powerful body, feeling it's warmth as he gripped the reins. He had been terrified then like he was terrified now.
Wilson was startled when House touched his left hand, which was currently clenched around his right wrist in front of House's chest. Horrified at the thought of House driving one-handed, Wilson tried to swat it away, but that required moving. Instead he stayed rigidly still.
House's hand circled Wilson's wrist, the diagnostician's fingers pressing against the veins beneath his palm. Almost immediately, the bike slowed. Wilson opened his eyes, but it didn't make any difference. All he could see was the black of the leather jacket.
They continued to decelerate. Wilson did his best to calm his heart down. Eventually he must have reached some semblance of a resting heart rate, because House finally removed his hand. The bike was holding steady at a much slower speed, probably even below the speed limit.
Wilson turned his head slightly and saw that they were on a country road. The gray-green of the scenery blurred as it flew by. Wilson sighed and closed his eyes. House touched his hand, and at first Wilson thought he was testing his pulse again. But House didn't go for his wrist this time – he just interlaced their fingers and held on.
---
Wilson clenches his hands into fists, dropping them to his lap. He can feel his nails digging into his palm, so hard that he might be drawing blood.
The Ketamine didn't work.
He stares hard at the top of his desk, watching his field of vision blur with moisture. He can't forget the sight of House, limping past him in the hallway, cane in hand once again.
His breath hitches. It was stupid of him, so stupid, to believe in the Ketamine miracle cure. But he's always been prone to believing things from House that he would scoff at otherwise. It's just that House can make the unbelievable happen so many times, just by using that brilliant mind to cheat fate. Why shouldn't have Wilson believed that House could fix himself, when the diagnostician could fix everyone else?
Wilson bows his head. Because it was a myth, he chides himself. The Ketamine cure was a myth and a fairytale and he had made believe right along with House, even grasping on when House had let go.
It's hard to breathe as it hits him all at once like a stab to the heart – the loss that's so complete. House doesn't have a pain free day to look forward to for the rest of his life. And his life, God – he'll rely on a cane until either increased pain or weakness in his arms takes even that away. Then he'll be confined to a wheelchair. His addiction will worsen through the months and years and Wilson will be forced to watch as his best friend's liver is destroyed by the Vicodin.
House had gotten a few weeks of freedom from the treatment, but now the chains were back, and the vultures would continue to eat him alive.
He blinks and hot tears run over, landing on his desk.
The Ketamine didn't work.