Chapter 2
House was living in a hell of impotence.
The detox had been brutal. The sour smell of urine, the tacky feeling of sweat in every crevice, the rawness of his jangling nerves. House doubted he would ever forget them, or the cramps, or the nausea – all of which had mixed to create a lurid memory of agony. Nor would he forget how he had ultimately broken down and begged in the end, wailing for a relief that never came.
When he had finally passed out, he had awoken to find a stranger sponging his restrained and prostrate body. In that awful moment of helpless, sick and dazed with pain, his mind had strayed back to the paltry, half-assed performance he had put on for Tritter in Princeton's rehabilitation clinic, and it amazed him that anyone had believed it.
By the time he'd finally come up from the debilitating fugue, his mouth had been one solid taste of bitterness – of vomit and vitriol. Barely able to support his own weight, he'd demanded to be discharged. They'd refused him. Instead, House had been summoned before Dr. Darryl Nolan.
House had stomped into the man's office, ready to steamroller or do battle. In the first five seconds of their acquaintance, he managed to insult the man's competence and his race. It would have sent most people into a tailspin of explosive anger, but Doctor Nolan had only smiled as though he'd been told a funny joke.
He'd informed House that he could check out whenever he wished; no one here could lawfully detain him. However, if that was his choice, he would return to a shadow life. Without Nolan's signature on the right piece of paper, House would never practice medicine again. It was at that point that House had been visited by an image of Wilson, whose earnest expression begging him, just this once, to cooperate. The thought of his friend arched, but House dashed the feeling away with fury.
In the end he'd had no choice; he had to stay and play Nolan's game. Yet if he was going to be in hell, he decided, everyone was going to be in hell with him. He'd spelled it out for Dr. Beasley that first day on the floor: there would be chaos in their precious ward, until Nolan signed the release papers just to be rid of him.
Meanwhile, he chaffed under his physical limitations without the Vicodin. He chaffed under the restriction of locked-down hallways and doors. He chaffed under all the regulations of Mayfield, and from having his decisions lorded over by bungling pacifiers who called themselves doctors.
And if the trials of the real word were not enough, there was always the siege going on in his own mind.
House kneaded his fingers through his cotton pants and bared his teeth against the sound of his roommate's snores. In the half-light from the corridor, he could see her, perched on the end of his bed. She was always there at night, keeping him company in his troubled, waking dreams. Taunting him now that the drugs were gone from his system and could have no part in her appearance. She showed her teeth around her glossy lips, and he fought the ugly little emotions worming their way deeper inside him with every bead of sweat that trailed down his forehead.
The questions pinged, a relentless parade: 'How badly is my mind damaged? How far am I gone?'
Amber smiled, and there was no distraction from her haunting presence. No pills, no work, no company. There was nothing at all but her and House.
All morning, House felt as though he was moving through a fog. Though he had mustered the will to be combative enough to get dismissed from recreation, the truth was that he was exhausted. His long war of attrition was not going well. He had antagonized his fellow inmates, cheeked his meds, and lead a revolution over table tennis paddles. So far, though, Nolan had not cracked. Fake urine tests. Undermining his rebellion with grace.
The limited success was discouraging, and the endless gnawing in his thigh was a constant distraction. Then there were the people. The condescension of the doctors was bad enough, but the patients were worse – Alvie, dear God, what on earth had he done to deserve Alivie?
He made his way ponderously to the dining hall since his cane wasn't allowed in the cafeteria. There were rows and rows of tables, and patients in all degrees of humor, from calm to agitated. Their faces were a blur to him, and it was only by chance that he looked up and caught a flash of brown hair, crowning a familiar profile that stood out like a Monet in a room full of finger paintings.
At first, shock prevented House's limbs from moving, but almost before he realized what he was doing, he had pushed his way through the rows of benches and seized the seated man. House could feel his grip go all the way through the cheap cotton fabric, bearing into flesh.
In a hoarse whisper, he demanded, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Wilson jolted violently, but when he saw House, he stilled. "House," he mouth opened like he wanted to say more, but then his dark eyes flickered to the orderlies hovering at the edges of the dining hall. One of them seemed to have noticed the iron grip House had on Wilson and had tensed almost imperceptivity, his arms uncrossing.
Reluctantly, House loosed his grip. However, by that time, he'd had time to reevaluate details, like his friend's hospital issued clothing, his disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes. "You look like hell," he blurted.
Wilson lips pursed automatically, his eyes creasing with faint laughter lines. "Thanks, House. You're looking good too."
House's legs went out from under him. He collapsed inelegantly beside Wilson on the bench. His mind was still turning in circles, but without any traction. He wasn't getting anywhere.
"How are you here?"
"Are you asking metaphysically or specifically?"
House growled, a response that seemed to be answer enough.
Wilson fidgeted with his utensil – a spoon, of course. "It wasn't difficult. My family history was fairly convincing."
"Stupidity isn't genetic," House spat, but Wilson remained unmoved, his wandering eyes still sliding all around the plastic benches and hunched, robe-covered backs, but never on House. He scooped a small amount of flaky mashed potatoes from his tray and spent a moment sucking on the end of his spoon. When he spoke, it was in an unconcerned, measured tone.
"Depression can be tracked through families."
House leaned back slightly on the bench, wishing that it would give so that he could wobble as he contemplated, but the legs were bolted to the floor. Over the years, he'd made attempts to gain access to the Wilson family, but Jimmy could be like Fort Knox when he wanted to be. He'd met Wilson's parents. They put up a good façade, all graceful smiles and plastic normalcy, but House's career was built on seeing past the obvious. He'd wager the Wilson's were as nutty as a box of cracker jacks. His missing brother probably only scratched the surface.
Ignoring House's penetrating look, Wilson probed a doubtful slab of beef. It was obvious that his sensibilities as an amateur-chief were sadly disappointed. Meat byproduct was a long way from even the feeblest home cooking. "I guess you get used the quality of food here," he said.
House snorted. "Guess again," he answered, but there was another emotion starting to emerge now that the shock was passing. It simmered up out of his inability to decide anything for himself and mixed with the sleeplessness, the pain, and the loneliness that he would never have admitted to feeling. All of a sudden, he was angry.
"You couldn't leave it alone, could you?" he said. "Couldn't keep your interfering mitts out of my life for even three weeks."
"House." Wilson's stupid, gooey eyes were as dangerous as armed weapons, and House refused to look at them.
"I always knew you were an idiot, but this is a new measure of moronic, even for you."
Wilson flexed his fingers, which trembled. "Yeah."
For some reason, that easy answer made House even more infuriated. "Did you think I'd be helpless without you? Well, I've been fine. I don't want you –"
To see me like this.
"House," Wilson said in a wounded voice that did nothing to quell House's torrent of emotion.
He narrowed his eyes. "I don't see you, Wilson. You can just put whatever crazy plan you have in reverse and get the hell out." With as much indignation as he could muster, House surged out of his seat, wobbled for a moment, and then marched out of the hall, dragging his leg behind him like a crippled wing.
It was later in the day, and Hal was nattering on about his endless headaches to a consolatory Beasley, but House wasn't listening. For hours, he had been turning over Wilson's sudden appearance, analyzing it as only he could. It had been easy to throw out hostile words when they first encountered one another. He'd been shocked; of course he had. The flush of anger had been only too real. He was angry at Wilson. He'd been furious and stupefied, but also…relieved. For the first time since he'd stepped into the building, he'd felt as though he could breathe.
Eventually, the cycle of denial tapered into acceptance. Wilson was here, and that wasn't easily undone. Nor would it be any use ignoring Wilson. He had never succeeded before, and he certainly wouldn't now with no other outlets. Finding out exactly what happened was his best course of action.
Unfortunately, he wasn't his own man. The ward door was like the hanger on a river. Two sets of doors, an automated lock, and syringes at the ready to force him down.
Inwardly, House snarled. He glared at the whiteboard hanging on the wall. The condemning zero marked by his name was a reminder of where his scorched-earth policy had gotten him. Until now, he had made every attempt to provoke, to control, to subvert and sabotage. The result? He had no privileges. He was a prisoner in this damn place.
"House? Did you have anything you wanted to share today?"
Beasley was looking at him with her usual inviting expression, asking the question that he had always taken as an opening to begin his daily round of ridicule. The patients were all looking at him like docile sheep, except for Alvie, who was more like a neurotic, twitchy sheep with worms. It would be incredibly easy to pin them all down once more, to set off each and every psychosis. But… He looked up at the whiteboard again. He needed to speak with Wilson.
House opened his mouth.
He found Wilson in a common room, one floor down. He was staring at a snowy television set, and for a moment he looked so much like he belonged in this place that House felt ice burning a cold path down his ribs. Yet as quickly as it came, the feeling passed, and House flopped his lanky body alongside Wilson's on the couch. With an audible groan, he stretched out, deliberately taking up far more space than necessary. He languished, squirming until he was something resembling comfortable – or as comfortable as he was liable to get these days, with his lower body one perpetual, throbbing agony. At the moment, it was spiraling down, flaring and subsiding with his new position. He waited, knuckles white, until the sheen of sweat at his temples was the only indication that anything was amiss.
When he made eye contact with Wilson, he saw the worry he was excepting, but at the moment it appeared to be more distantly concerned than fretful. That puzzled House just long enough for realization to hit him like a jolt of electricity, and then he was furiously snatching up Wilson's wrist, seeking the languid heartbeat at the same time his own hammered with realization.
"You idiot," he hissed, only remembering to lower his volume at the last moment. "You're drugged."
That it had taken House so long to realize was just another testament to his diminished abilities. Patients admitted to hospitals often spent the first few days drugged to the gills, sedated to ease the transition into inpatient care.
"Just a bit. I've already been here a week, and they've backed down on the dosage already," Wilson reassured. His head fell to the side, his mouth twitching with chagrin. "Still a little fuzzy though."
"You're a moron," House hissed. Teeth gritted, he demanded, "Do you know what kind of impact those meds can have one someone who isn't depressed?"
Wilson responded to this tirade with a shrug. "Course I do. I'm a doctor. But it's the same medication I was on before. Just a stronger dosage. And they've already reduced it once."
"You deceptive bastard," House accused, but even so, he couldn't keep a note of admiration from his voice. Only when there was no sharp-witted rejoinder, but only a vacant smile, did the full nature of the situation return to him. He cleared his throat. "Why?"
"You were alone."
House settled back with a long drawn-out sigh, because that answer, however idiotic, it was also pathetically familiar. It was stupid, self-martyring, and possibly insane, yet it was also completely Wilson. In true St. Jimmy fashion, he was risking his health and career for the sake of their exceedingly unhealthy friendship, and if this didn't finally prove just how screwed up it was, he didn't know what possibly could.
What frightened him – deep, deep down, where House was even capable of admitting to being frightened – was that he was glad. He could feel the physiological reaction happening; some of the wiry tension that had fused his bones together and intensified the pain of every movement was fading. His body was letting itself rest.
To cover the reaction, House sneered. "At least you're in the right place. You deserve to be here far more than me."
Wilson responded by letting his chin drop, once again directing his gaze at the television's endless snow. His non-answer was an answer in itself.
"You're staying," House queried.
"I'm here while you're here."
It was a promise flavored by an even sweeter one, because 'while you're here' implied the possibility of going home. But to go home meant… House looked at the man next to him, looking wane and withdrawn. He had done this for House. Oh, he'd done it for Wilson-reasons too, which were only ever partially selfless, but it was still something. It reminded House that there even was a world outside for them to return to.
Suddenly, House knew he wanted to reclaim his life. He wanted to go home with Wilson, and – his jaw set – there was only one way he could do that.
Capitulate.
Author's Note: The inability to copy and paste is obnoxious, but I would still appreciate feedback about parts that stuck out to you as you read. I'm sorry about the delay getting this chapter posted. One stubborn paragraph was dragging its feet, and I'm still not completely thrilled with it. Take care.
