Play Along: Chapter Four

Wilson had a miserable evening. Rebecca forgot about her shyness the moment he told her to call him James outside the hospital. It only took until the waiter served their starters for her lively chit-chat to wrack Wilson's nerves. He couldn't remember ever hearing that much meaningless talk about absolutely unimportant things. He tried to lead her to more significant topics, but she enjoyed her own talking so much that he hardly got a word in. He ate in silence, trying to block her words from his mind, afraid they might do some serious damage to his brain.

"My auntie always said 'girl, you need some red shoes to go with your red dress!'"

Wilson shook his head as if trying to get rid of that pointless statement. What was she talking about anyway? He was very much looking forward to kick her out of the car at her apartment really soon, although he was not sure if he was able to drive, if he had to listed to another story of Rebecca's "auntie".

"James? Are you okay? You're quite." Rebecca cast him a worried look. "Do I talk to much? My auntie always says "Beccy, you tend to talk too much.'"

"No, I'm fine", Wilson lied. He rubbed his neck and already cursed his lie when Rebecca started on her next auntie-story.

Later he stopped at her house, his head hurting.

"Do you want to come in?" she put a hand on his knee and looked him in the eyes.

"No!" Wilson answered way to fast and too loud.

She pouted. "You don't like me. I'm sorry, if I wasn't entertaining enough. I'm sure you usually spend your evenings with studied women, doctors. I can be more entertaining when you come and play upstairs." She giggled. "My auntie said 'a girl has to know how to keep a man happy especially at night.'"

Wilson froze. Having to spend the night with Rebecca would be his worst nightmare. He hoped for his beeper to go off, but it remained silent. "Sorry Rebecca, I really have to go."

"Why?"

Why? Wilson struggled for words while she was watching him, waiting for him to answer. What was he usually doing that could keep him from spending the night with her. House! He spent most of his nights with House. He knew his answer took him way to long to be believable.

"I have to go see a friend," he finally managed.

"A girlfriend?"

Wilson screamed inwardly. She did not ask him a single question the whole eveing, why had she to start it now?

"No, just a good friend."

"Why do you have to see him tonight? You could have sex with me", Rebeccas big innocent eyes showed a little sparkle.

"I – I", Wilson stuttered. I'd rather have sex with him, he thought and despite the surprise about his own thoughts it took him some effort not to say it out loud. "I need to help him. He's sick," he said instead.

She looked at him, staying quiet for the first time this evening.

"I am a doctor", Wilson added to explain his obligation.

"You're lying", Rebecca said angrily and got out of the car. "You don't know what you are missing!" She slammed the door shut and disappeared into the house.

Wilson leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. He wished he could really drive over to House now, but that was completely out of the question. He had had an overdose of estrogen tonight and felt smashed.

House was smashed. He had emptied a bottle of whiskey and as long as he could still keep the balance he would get more beer from the kitchen. He had tried to play the piano earlier this evening, but all he did come up with was some stupid love song. Wilson's voice was still ringing in his ear: No girl. No date.
He had lied! Wilson was his best friend and was not supposed to lie to him.

House reeled back into the kitchen and got another beer from the refrigerator. He had trouble opening the bottle, but managed it. He glared into the fridge, his eyes clouded from the alcohol, took out two more bottles and opened them right away. He was afraid he would not be able to open more bottles later. One arm around the bottles and the other on his cane he limbed along. His eyes fell on the vicodin on the table. He'd better not leave them in the kitchen again. Pondering for a second, how to pick the bottle up, he finally bend down and grabbed it with his teeth. Fully equipped he went back to the couch. House stared at the commercial spots without seeing them. He didn't know if it was a commercial break within a movie or a break between two movies. He didn't even care. With his first gulp of beer he took one pill, then took two more with the next gulp. He didn't know how much pills he already took. He had stopped counting when Wilson had left with the girl.

Wilson! There he was again. Stuck in his head like – like .. like a coagulum in a small bloodvessel. No, he wiped that analogy away, too painful. Like bubblegum stuck in the hair. Not better either, to disgustig. Like – his brain was desperately looking for another analogy, but could not come up with any.
"Stuck like Wilson in my head", House stated loudly into his empty living room. He got startled by his own thought. When did this start? Since when was Wilson stuck in his head? And why the heck wouldn't he get out of there. House tried to think, tried to remember, but the alcohol and the pills had his brain clouded and he could not seem to find his way through the fog in his head.

His temper rose, he emptied his bottle of beer and smashed it on the floor. Damn alcohol! Damn Wilson! He reached for the vicodin on the table, noticed he slipped. House tried to steady himself and reached out again. The bottle was close but was maliciously dancing in front of his fingers. And then his fingers closed around emptiness again.

"Stay!" House barked at the pills and reached out again. He had to be faster then the bottle, much faster. James could do it, he thought and grabbed for the bottle one more time. His fingertips brushed the cold plastic and then he fell. He never thought the couch would be this high. He fell for seconds, minutes then he hit the ground hard and everything went dark.

House's brain was conditioned to Wilson showing up whenever he felt miserable. Now that he lay on the floor, open mouthed, his breath came short and unsteady. His heartbeat completely out of control. Fast beats from the pills and the alcohol, slow beats from the same causes. His body didn't know how to react to the mass of drugs in his system. His temple was bleeding where his head had hit the table.

Through the dark in his head pictures of Wilson started to appear. The imaginary Wilson took his head, held him up. His heart switched to a still weak, but more regular beat. His stomach started to protest against vicodin, beer and whiskey. House started to choke. He reached for Wilson's hands that held him, he heard Wilson's soothing voice. Wilson was cursing, cursing House for drinking too much, for taking too many pills. Still his voice calmed him. He choked again and again and finally his stomach turned its inside out. He grabbed Wilson, then fell again. This time to a much softer landing.

Wilson lay in bed, still thinking about the evening. Why did he have to go out with that girl. Was it just to annoy House? Or to prove himself he wasn't gay? There it was again. He had tried to push the thought aside since the evening with House. Of course he wasn't gay! Wilson told himself again. He was married three times. A lot of girls and women could attest that he indeed was not gay. But still there was this moment when House played with his fingers so softly and then lifted his head. House was wrong. Wilson knew it now. He had not tried to kiss him, but he had hoped House would kiss him. There was no denying this fact, but Wilson couldn't figure out why he wanted it so much. He grabbed a second pillow and wrapped around it, his face buried in the soft cotton. He could smell House somehow. He felt so close now. Wilson closed his eyes and finally fell asleep.