A/N: This story is a House/Medium crossover but have no fear! No prior knowledge of the show "Medium" is necessary to enjoy the show. Elements of psychological horror, House/Wilson friendship and the supernatural all play a role in the tale. So sit back, hang on tight, and enjoy the ride.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
Beta: Thanks, NaiveEve
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"The Descent"
Her pupils contract against a light that is pure, brilliant and clean; a light that slices through the darkness with a jeweler's precision. She takes one step back, cupping her hand over her aching eyes as her calf muscles tense. She wants to run. A dark heart lurks in this brilliance, a malevolence that makes her stomach churn. But flight is impossible; some force holds her, making her look, observe. Bear witness.
The light is a brotherhood of daggers and arrows and knives: a million spiked death tools carved from the sun, painstakingly connected to form this giant mass. It rises from...somewhere, making it nearly impossible to see...what she is supposed to see...
...which is the thing behind it, inside it. Some structure rises slowly, so slowly from beneath and between the brilliance. Slowly, purposefully. So as not to reveal too much too quickly.
"It wouldn't be fair to give away the game before we even set up the board, now would it?" the voice chides with an irritating air of superiority. It isn't right. The owner of that voice has the advantage before the rules are even handed out.
But isn't that always how these things go?
She sighs, digs deep into the pocket of her robe and finds a pair of plastic sunglasses. Their lenses are tinted and their pink frames are dappled with tiny gold sparkles. She's seen them before, of course. They belong to her ten year old daughter, Bridget, who currently wears them to school, in the bath and to bed at night. Bridget wouldn't mind her mom borrowing them for a little while; she is an unselfish, good natured kid.
With great care, the woman places the glasses over the bridge of her nose. They are kind of snug, not a perfect fit, of course. But they will do.
Her trepidation rises now that she doesn't have to squint, now that she can see. That fear intensifies, striking her with cold precision in the center of her chest, tickling her insides, making her stomach clench. Maybe she should go. The higher this thing rises, the stronger is her urge to cry out and flee. But she remains silent and still, finding it impossible to curb her curiosity. She is fascinated. It's almost as if she is...mesmerized.
Now she can see, finally! Yes. The structure is...a house. Its roof is blackened, in disrepair, the siding is peeling and rusting, rotting away. The light caresses it, possesses it, creating shivering, distended shadows against its damaged exterior. She draws closer (can't help herself). The house seems to breathe. The windows glow blue.
They blink.
She gasps, clenches her pillow and jerks upright
The bedsprings complain as her husband flops over like a heavy sack. Smiling, drowsy, he pats her trembling hand. "Morning," he mumbles, his voice still rough with sleep. "Another day...another dream, eh, darlin'?"
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Today is one of those days when it is all about the leg--a day when the Vicodin serves only to mildly assuage the distress. It's like putting a Mickey Mouse Band-Aid on a trauma victim's wound. Stress, frustration, lack of sleep has done him in. House has had it. That's it, he decides, not even glancing at the last file from his stack. It is only four-thirty. He is supposed to serve in the clinic until five but is skipping out early. War wound. Horrible day. Dead patient. All good excuses.
He grunts, leaning over the reception desk, making a five fingered 'gimme motion' at the prune faced nurse with the cold stare. He doesn't like her, she probably wishes he would make like a tree and leave and seems more than happy to throw the duty log at him. It lands on the desk with a thwap!
"Pen." He flaps the book at her. "Or, if you prefer, I can open a vein and sign my name in blood."
She twists her lips and sneers, which brings home the fact she is wearing indigo lipstick. He thinks there should be a law banning women from wearing indigo lipstick. It is a gross subversion of the human form. Someday he will emblazon this on a t-shirt. So let it be written, so let it be done...
Nurse Indigo Lips tosses a pen at him. He snags it from the air without a look, without a thanks. Then he ducks his head, stares at the log, his eyes roving over the familiar and not so familiar signatures. Gillerman, yeah, Tyson, no, Pestrana, who? He's been working here long enough to know these people but can't seem to visualize any of them. That's okay. They are about as important to him as an extra pinky finger might be. But one day they will need him and then, unfortunately, he will be forced to deal with their idiocy first hand.
Somewhere deep inside, past the pain, past the frustration of losing the kid, he wonders what it might be like to fly free. Just get on his bike and ride...anywhere. Losing himself in anonymity sounds as tasty as a Mars Bar. How great would it be: dying his hair blond, shaving, putting on a few pounds, going to work in a video/electronics store? He wouldn't have to deal with kids dying on him and the aftermath: grief stricken parents and three stacks of paperwork...
"Are you done with the pen, Doctor?"
He scribbles his name and the time and flings the pen so it rolls off the desk onto the floor.
"Oops," he says, enjoying how quickly her sour look turns septic.
This small but meaningful exchange puts him in an almost agreeable mood. He nearly makes it to the door before a slim hand drops on his shoulder.
"Hou-use."
He takes a deep breath, then speaks, his words rat-a-tatting like machine gun fire: "Already signed out for the day. Check the log. I am gone, gone, goodbye." He raises his eyes, noticing the flicker of the fluorescent light above the door. "Be an angel. Get maintenance on that, stat."
"House!" The hand squeezes his shoulder so hard, he feels tiny electric shockwaves zip down his right side.
"What?" With a violent shrug, he rids himself of the hand and turns, seething again.
Cuddy sets one hand on her hip and...just...glares. "You have a patient."
"I signed out."
"Is that so?" She pushes closer and stands on tiptoes so they are nose to nose." I had a feeling this might come in handy," she thrusts a bottle of White Out into his hand. "Now you can make it all go away."
His lips tighten, eyes widening as he lets the black and white bottle fall from his fingers and clatter to the floor. Some spectral disciple of Buddy Rich has arrived. It climbs aboard the Torture Greg Express to pound a complex rhythm against his temples. "Get someone else," he grumps. "I'm gone."
"The guy is scared," she says, snaking around to block his way. "He's been waiting two hours to see you."
"Tell him my last patient died. That'll change his mind."
"You had no control over that," she lowers her voice to a hiss. "The kid had a brain aneurysm while your team was trying to get his heart started. There is nothing you could have done." Her look loses its hard edge. The old Cuddy compassion returns. "You can turn this day around. Make this guy feel better." She steps aside. "But if you have to go..."
House taps the cane against the door's metal framework. His free hand pushes the door open a crack. He stares at his sneakers, pensive, indecisive; he is almost out, almost free.
Finally...
"If I do this, no clinic duty for two weeks."
"One," she counters instantly.
He gazes out the plate glass, at the waning daylight. The late afternoon sun makes leaving that much more inviting. The way the leaves on the elm trees shiver says there is just a hint of a breeze. The air will have that good, fresh smell, so rare in this city. It's going to be an enjoyable ride home. But Cuddy is relentless. Boss lady will have her way.
He takes one step back, then another. The door hisses shut. The grass, trees and ribbon of road home are behind the glass now (gone, goodbye). Hell, they might as well be in a different country.
Grumbling, House glares at the rows of patients waiting for some doctor to hem and haw over their sorry asses. They are seated in folding chairs, a few nod off, some are reading, some look anxious or lost, all of them waiting for medical attention for...what? Hangnails, earwax buildup, paper cuts? House would bet that every one of these cretins has fallen victim to ridiculously boring ailments that could be tended to at home.
"A free clinic is not an excuse to waste a doctor's time," House yells, lurching into the center of the room. He is about to do three minute diagnosis on a kid with a tattooed neck, when Cuddy shoots over. She thrusts a file folder at him. House rubs his leg and grumbles before snatching it out of her hand.
His leg hurts, he's hungry.
He lost a patient today. He is...miserable.
"Room Four," Cuddy calls over her shoulder as she sashays away.
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The Eggman sits on the examination table, his fingers fidgeting with the tip of his tie. He is ovular and about twenty pounds overweight. His gut sags, hanging over his belt like a sack of gelatin. House immediately thinks, no, he knows, the guy is the epitome of pathetic.
"So..." House settles into his rolling chair and propels himself closer to the exam table. "What's wrong with you?"
"Aren't you supposed to tell me that?" Eggman looks lost. His plump cheeks burn scarlet and he seems about ready to weep. "I mean, you're supposed to be the best."
The chair squeals as House pushes himself to a standing position. He presses one hand on the exam table to steady himself. Leaning close, he notices the guy's eyes are brownish hazel and there is a mole beneath the loose skin of his chin. "Your file says your chest hurts"
"Yes. I...hurt."
"Why is that?"
"You're the doc-"
"Couldn't be too bad," House says.
"It burns." Eggman punches one pudgy fist against his breastbone. "It's bad."
"If it was that bad you'd be dead by now." His gaze skitters all over the guy. "You waited two hours to see me?"
Eggman emits a sad little chuckle.
House retrieves a stethoscope from his shirt pocket, listens to the guy's chest, then stops...and goes slack-jawed. "What...have we here?" He flicks a small white granule off Eggman's shirt. He finds another, presses it against his forefinger and brings it to his tongue for a taste.
"Well, well, well, "
"Well...what?" Eggman croaks.
"That's salt." House winces as he settles into his chair, hunching forward slightly to massage his thigh. "It's all over your shirt. You a drinking man?"
"I...sometimes."
"You go to Pancho Villa's downtown? Dollar Margaritas from one to three?"
"Well, yeah...today, in fact. I'm retired, you see-"
"You're retired and you're wearing a tie and dress pants?" He sneers. "Oh, I know. You wanted the chicks to think you were just taking a break from your oh, so hectic work schedule. Good one." House pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, reaching into his jacket pocket for his Vicodin. He flips off the cap, shakes three pills into his hand and tosses back his head to dry swallow. After a moment, he smiles and proclaims, "You're an idiot."
"What did you say?"
House returns the Vicodin to the safety of its shirt pocket lair. He snags the file folder from where it sits on a metal table next to a roll of gauze and a bottle of Peroxide, then allows himself a perfunctory scan of the top page. "Bill Faulkner," he says, glowering at the guy over the paper.
"That's me." The man brightens. He looks like Humpty Dumpty sitting on a wall.
"Any relation?" House asks, tossing the file back to its resting place.
"I take it you mean--?"
"Willie...the Faulkman, the Faulkmeister. You know...As I Lay Dying...The Sound and The Fury..." Off Faulkner's suddenly cold stare, House exhales sharply. He dips his hand into his jacket pocket to find his scrip pad and a pen. "Guess they don't teach that stuff in High School Equivalency classes..."
"Just hold on now, Doctor. You have no right to assume that just because..."
"You're going to tell me nobody's ever remarked to you about your name?"
"They have...I guess." Bill Faulkner says. "I just have more important things to concern myself with."
"Like what?"
"I had a career." Eggman puffs out his chest. "I made my living as a healthcare professional."
"Aha! A bedpan flusher." Tossing him a wink, House coos, "They're in very high demand. But you knew that."
"You have no idea what you're talking about." Faulkner's tone is like a grey, low lying cloud: thick and threatening.
"Okay, so now you're going to tell me how deeply I've insulted you..." House rests the pad on his knee and drums his fingers against the chair's metal armrest.
"I am Doctor Bill Faulkner. Before I retired I was a respected psycho-therapist.
"Quack. Quack. Quack." House tilts his head this way and that as he scribbles on the pad. He rips off the page and hands it to Faulkner.
Faulkner reads, "Prilosec...?"
"Very good. You can read. You may be a quack but at least you're literate."
"Just what are you getting at?"
"I'm saying that number one--you have a nasty case of heartburn. Prilosec will take care of the problem."
"So...it's not my heart?" Faulkner slumps forward, his mouth going slack with relief.
"Not this time." House sniggers, he is beginning to enjoy this. "The Margaritas at Pancho's did a number on you. The shit that passes for Tequila in that hole is the crappiest swill in Princeton. Only idiots and alcoholics drink there...or retirees going through their obligatory mid-life crisis. Are you one or all of the above Willie?" He raises a brow, keeping that wicked little grin going.
"You're a smug bastard, aren't you, Doctor?"
House claps his hands. "That's why they pay me the big bucks. How's that pain?"
Faulkner winces and taps his chest with his fist. "Awful..."
"You learn the hard way. After you down a few Pancho's Honchos you feel like your guts are going to burn right through your chest." House rocks back in his chair. "Am I right, Faulky baby?"
"I...guess."
House tucks the scrip pad back into his pocket as his fingers knead his right thigh. "Number two, psychiatrists and psycho-therapists are charlatans. They make a career out of preying on weak minded morons willing to part with their cash for the chance to spill their guts to a stranger."
"Now, you see," Faulkner lifts a finger, "that's where you're wrong."
"I'm not wrong."
"Doctor House," Faulkner begins, "as you may or may not know, the mind needs constant maintenance, just like any vital organ." Faulkner's eyes brighten like klieg lights. This detour into his little neck of the winds has obviously rocked his world "Your emotional state affects your overall health and vice-versa."
"Thank you, Andrew Weill. Hey, let's break out the Enya discs. Or how about George Winston's "Autumn"? There's a dandy New Age snoozer."
"As a physician, a man of science, surely you have some notion of how the mind works in tandem with the body. Take your leg, for example."
House's smirk fades. His palm aches. He hadn't realized how much pressure he'd been placing on his ruined thigh.
"What happened to your leg, Dr. House?" Faulkner's smile is a practiced mix of gentility and compassion. Confidence shines through that silly Eggman veneer.
Infarction. Muscle Death. The words nearly tumble out. But House stifles them and puts them away for another day, "Not your business."
"You took your meds but they don't seem to be helping."
Something isn't kosher. Eggman is suddenly strutting his stuff. He's sharp; he's deductive. House has an odd, niggling feeling that someone is playing a supreme 'let's 'get' House gag. At any moment a contingent of clinic doctors and nurses will come barreling through that door, guffawing and slapping each other on the back. Now House is the stooge, the pathetic loser.
"Maybe you need something more than your meds to ease that pain, Doctor." When Faulkner smiles, he looks like the moon. The man in the moon. "You helped me. Why not let me return the favor?"
"I don't need your help." House's voice sounds flat and weak. His weariness is like a sinuous snake, weaving through his vitals, through his mind, making his thoughts slow and logy. He thinks how much he wants to be on that ribbon of road, his Honda beneath him, taking him home.
"Over the course of my career, I've helped many people overcome chronic pain," Faulkner eyes House's leg. "using little more than the power of the mind. Doesn't that pique your curiosity, just a little?
The cane is sturdy and true within House's trembling grip. He winces, pushing himself up. The pain...ah, yeah. It's like a living thing with tendrils that grip his thigh like a vise and...squeeze. He loses his breath for a moment, black dots float and dance across his vision before receding. "I am curious...as to when you're going to take the hint that this meeting is over," he says while hobbling toward the door. "But, hell, stay if you want. The nurse will toss you out at her leisure."
"Dr. House," Faulkner calls.
House hesitates for less than a moment before pulling open the door.
"I'll leave you my card," Faulkner says with a calm air of superiority. "I still do this sort of work on a per diem basis. Call me anytime."
How odd. Faulkner's voice closes in like heavy fog, filling every inch of House's grey matter. He makes a valiant, yet futile attempt to shake free of it as he enters the bustling clinic, as the exam room door swings shut.
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He roams through his rooms, attempting to will the pain away.
You're a man of science...the mind works in tandem with the body...maybe you need something more than your meds...
Eggman, Faulkner, the supercilious know-it-all is in House's head. Somehow the guy got to him. Faulkner took a chance, put a quarter in that jukebox in House's psyche and played all the right tunes, making House wonder, causing him to consider...
...mind over matter, the power of suggestion. House sits at the piano, immerses himself in a few bars of some somber improvised twaddle. But it doesn't ease the pain, doesn't stop the Eggman's words from pushing through. With a soft grunt, House rises and moves to the sofa. He switches on the TV and attempts to lose himself in some Eastwood spaghetti western but it doesn't work. He's restless; he hurts. A tumbler of scotch and two Vicodin later, he finds that although the pain persists, it is weaker now, but still...
He calls Wilson. Does he want to down a few? Yeah, it's a weeknight, yeah, it's late.
But still...
It is nine-o-clock on a Wednesday night but Richter's is hopping. It's jazz night. Over in the corner, a trio is playing a dark, smoky version of Coltrane's A Love Supreme. It suits House's mood just fine.
"So what's up?" Wilson shifts on his barstool and sips Corona from the bottle.
House doesn't respond right away. He taps his glass against the bar in time to the music, then pours himself another two fingers of scotch. "What do you think of shrinks?" he asks cautiously.
Wilson tosses him a typically cynical grin. "Why do you ask?"
"Does it matter?" House tilts the glass one way, then the other, watching the light reflect off the deep amber liquid.
"Probably."
House gives Wilson a measured look. "We don't really have to play this game, do we?"
After taking another sip, Wilson taps one finger against the bottle. "I think the good ones serve a purpose. They help...certain people."
"Ever go to one?" House's gaze flicks back to the pretty amber in his glass.
"No. But Bonnie did."
"Mmm?" House gulps down his drink, reaches for more. The room is in soft focus now. Pain sits tied up in the corner behind the band. Good. Serves it right. Fucker.
"She needed help figuring out why she was depressed all the time." Wilson shrugs. "He helped her come to the conclusion that it was mainly because she was married to me."
"Was it?"
"Of course. But I could have told her that from the start and saved us both a few grand." He laughs, House doesn't. He drains the rest of his drink instead.
"You thinking of going to an analyst?" Wilson's eyes widen in surprise.
"I'm thinking of trying to get rid of this pain."
"By going to a shrink?"
"I don't know." House rubs his palms against his face.
"You had a bad day, House," Wilson tells him. "You'll feel better tomorrow."
"Yeah." House eases off the stool and grasps the edge of the bar to stop the room from spinning. "You're right. I will."
Wilson sighs, slaps down a twenty and accompanies House to the door.
"Y' know, that was the first smart thing you said all day." House tells him, punctuating each word by shaking a finger under Wilson's nose.
"Gee, thanks."
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It is after eleven. House sits on the edge of his bed, holding a business card in one hand, the phone in the other.
Call anytime...
The little black numbers do a happy jig against the card's white background. They know he's going to use them just as House knows his leg pain is not going to give him any time off for good behavior this evening. He will pace, then doze off, then dream something horrendously fantastical, then pace some more, then sleep, dream, wake...
He punches the first three digits into the phone, hesitates, scrubs a hand through his hair, thinks about taking a long, hot bath. But...too late. He has punched the final four digits into the keypad, his fingers doing the deed seemingly of their own volition.
Faulkner picks up on the second ring, giving House a friendly, knowing greeting. He sounds pleased but not surprised. House has the vague notion Dr. F.'s been sitting by that phone all night...like an anxious lover...
...just waiting for him to call.