He rolled over onto his stomach, ignoring the sound of the blonde zipping up her boots and collecting her gauche earrings from the bedside table. Ignoring her quieter friend, as the smell of her overpowering floral perfume left tracks of her paces as she searched for the sweater House had thrown over their shoulders, into the darkness of the hotel room. A click of heels let him know the blonde (Kara?) was heading towards the door, and he wasn't surprised that she didn't say goodbye. He was surprised when the other one ran her finger tips up his sweaty back, leaned in to kiss his cheek and simply said, "Thanks."
He should have guessed she was a closet lesbian.
Once they were gone, he threw off the top bed sheet, wishing he had the energy to get up and shower. Instead, he stretched out his limbs and tried to tell himself that the deep sense of dissatisfaction with the whole encounter was simply a matter of gender. You've gotten used to taking it up the ass, he diagnosed. It was purely a lack of physical fulfillment. It had nothing to do with… Flashes of tackling Wilson for the remote control, dipping his hands into Wilson's pockets in his search even though he knew the thing was shoved between the couch cushions, of spitting on Cuddy's hand as she reached for the faucet, just so she'd squawk and slap him or kiss him or steal his toothbrush and promise to do lewd and disgusting and thrilling things with it, all these images reminded him of why he was trying to make it harder and harder for himself to go back to Princeton.
Betty and Veronica had seemed like an ideal distraction, but more importantly, they were as good a variable as any to test a hypothesis. He didn't care if it was bad science. It was free sex, and it gave him the chance to approach this problem in a way that wouldn't leave him feeling like an emo pussy on some juvenile sulk fest or a middle-aged man in the midst of an identity crisis. But now, he couldn't remember what question he'd set out to answer, only the questions he'd been asking himself since he reached Boston.
Was it just being part of a threesome that had made him so disgustingly happy these past seven months? Was it just Cuddy's amazing body (and Veronica had the measurements, if not the flexibility)? Was it just the regular stimulation of the prostate (a.k.a. The Gay Factor)?
Frustrated that this was the best he could come up with, House forced himself to sit up and head towards the shower. He didn't know why he was so focused on his motivations. Surely he should be trying to figure out why Wilson and Cuddy had suddenly paired off and squeezed him out. As he ran his fingers through the stream of water, checking the temperature, House snorted in disgust over his surprise. Apart from the fact that he still couldn't see what Wilson and Cuddy had in common (except for him), there was an obvious answer as to why they were shutting him out. Just look in the mirror, buddy. Still the same guy who'll skip town, down a butt-load of pills, fuck the first willing bodies he finds, and try to justify it under the name of scientific curiosity and the oh-so-mature They Did It First.
If he was any sort of functional human being, he'd have left himself years ago.
Snorting again at his own stupidity, House stepped into the shower. He tried not to think. It was easier to just stop breathing, so he did. Filling his lungs with air, he thrust his face into the shower stream, closing his eyes tight enough that blooms of color illuminated the darkness and the pressure made his whole face feel heavy. Finally blinking his eyes open, he tracked the floaters in his vision, tiny dead cells in his vitreous humor. Casualties to his need for self-destruction, Wilson would say. Wilson was good at ignoring medical fact in order to make a point. But all this thinking about Wilson just made House even more tired, and he rested his forehead against the cool tile, staring at the absence of the dozens of bottles of shampoos, conditioners and body washes that lined the rim of his (their) tub back home. He stared at the absence of his life with two people he reluctantly loved, and wondered again why he'd risked this in the first place. When Stacy left, she'd taken something that he'd never get back. With Cuddy and Wilson leaving, he wondered if there would be anything left for him except stupid fucking patients and stupid fucking puzzles and stupid fucking pills and stupid fucking pain. Maybe once, maybe even just a year ago, that would have been enough for him. Hell, more than a few people would tell him that it was more than he deserved. And, if asked, he'd have to agree with them. Not because he was somehow unworthy of a better life. It was just that he'd never thought anyone deserved anything. People had no right to expect happiness. It was that expectation that made so many people assholes.
When had he become such an asshole?
About two minutes after you were born, Wilson would say. Took him a whole two minutes? Cuddy would ask in mock-surprise.
House slammed his fist into the wall, then turned off the water.
Two hours later, he was driving his bike back to Jersey. His hand ached, probably fractured, but his mind was clear. No. It wasn't. It was a whiteboard of treatment options. He kept trying to erase the five stages of death. That's not treatment, he hissed at himself. That's a DNR. He was no closer to an answer by the time he reached his (their) apartment. He knew they'd both be at work, and he thought that they might have moved out their things in the four days he'd been gone, but walking inside and seeing the kitchen still full of Wilson's fancy knives and Cuddy's organic food, he knew they were still living there, waiting for his return. Just as he knew he didn't want to hang around, living in their absence. He left, got back onto his bike, and headed towards Cuddy's house.
She'd never sold the place, even after effectively moving in with him two months into the relationship. Ever few weeks, she'd drop hints about the three of them relocating to her bigger, brighter, girlier house, but they'd never summoned up the energy to do more than talk of the evils of lilac and the hell of moving pianos. House knew that she'd sometimes spend her weekend afternoons alone in her house, when all the testosterone got to her. As he fished out his spare key, he wondered if she and Wilson had been coming here all along, when being with him was a bit too much to bear.
Letting himself in, he checked the freezer to see if there was any ice for his hand, but it had been unplugged. The air in the house was stale, thick and warm but still somehow comforting. Fingers aching, along with everything else aching, he made his way back to her bedroom and collapsed on the bed. There was something different about the room. Picture frames. On dressers and bedside tables and walls, there were pictures of the three of them, together or in pairs or on their own. Smiling, laughing, and sometimes glaring, but more surprising was the date some of them had been taken. This was a visual history going back years. Sometimes, House forgot how sentimental Cuddy could be. And he wished he didn't make her feel the need to hide it from them.
Not that she'd have to. Anymore.
House ordered some food. He flipped through some photo albums he found tucked into her bookcase. He threw his clothes into the washing machine, glad it was still hooked up. And later, as he tried to fall asleep, he thought of all the things he wanted, and how it was impossible for him to just take them. He thought of how hard it would be to just sit down with them and tell them the truth and ask that they tell the truth in return. He thought of how much work it would take for them to hold this thing together. And he thought of the many ways things could fall apart. Maybe they'd all be alone again. Wilson, off in search of another wife. Cuddy, off in search of another sperm donor. Him, off in search of a few good hookers that worked as a double act.
Or maybe Cuddy would be the fourth Mrs. Wilson. She'd order him to come to the wedding and in the next breath order him to do his clinic duty and, in the next, order him to hire a new set of fellows and let them stick around for more than a month or two. And Wilson would butter him up with season tickets and a dozen lunches before getting up the nerve to ask that he stand as best man. And he'd agree to it all, after a great deal of bitching and a great deal of pouting and a great deal of Vicodin, and then he'd be off in search of a few good hookers that worked as a double act.
And Wilson would cheat on Cuddy, or Cuddy would ignore Wilson because her hospital means more to her, and one of them, or both, would come to him for comfort, and try to convince themselves that they chose the wrong person, and he'd try to convince himself that having just one of them, either one, was better than having no one. And then things would fall apart, because it just wasn't enough.
Or maybe House was wrong. Maybe they'd work through it and things would go back to normal and it would be easy and forever. Maybe they'd all decide to just be friends and it wouldn't hurt for more than a day or two.
Like maybe the Ketamine would have worked, like maybe removing the clot in his leg would have worked, like maybe, like maybe, like maybe.
Though it wasn't out of his hands, it also wasn't his choice. All he could do was tell the truth, take a step back, and make them decide if he, this, was worth saving.
The next morning, he went back to work. Looking at the stack of applications on his desk, the few requests for consults that had accumulated in his absence, House's profound apathy gave him an idea of just how big his step back needed to be.
Cuddy was the first to find him, which he hadn't expected, given the fact that Wilson was just next door.
She looked relieved to see him. Happy. Pissed off, but happy.
"I fucked someone else," he said, for once proud of himself that he wasn't taking great pleasure in shitting all over someone's good mood.
"Two someone elses, actually," he continued. "I didn't enjoy myself. I didn't do it to hurt you, or Wilson. I don't think I did it to hurt myself, but I think I did manage to break my hand. Whatever you decide to do…you both do whatever you have to do. This department is fucked. None of these applicants are good enough, but even if they were, I wouldn't care. Whatever you decide to do, I don't think I want to work here at the moment. So either put me on leave, or consider this my notice. In the meantime, I stayed at your place last night. If you want me to come home, to both of you, that's fine. If you just want me out, that's your call. I've got my phone, if you want to talk to me. Either as my boss, or…just call, if we need to talk. I'm going down to the clinic to have my hand taped and then I'm going back to your place."
He could see she was going to cry, could hear her swallowing over that lump in her throat as he moved past her towards the door. He didn't need to convince himself, he just leaned down and brushed his lips against her temple and breathed out, "I love you." And then he left.
All things being equal, he should have stopped in at Wilson's office and given him the same spiel, hopefully without the hesitation and without the pauses to regain composure. But the hurt in Cuddy's eyes had been as draining as he'd imagined it would be, and he decided it'd be better to just call Wilson in a few hours, when he was ready.
All things being equal, Wilson was the one to walk into his exam room in the clinic.
Eyes widened with surprise, until they caught sight of the bruised hand House was cradling against his chest, and then it was hands-on-hips predictability with a chaser of sighs and rolled eyes.
"You ever get the feeling of déjà vu?" he asked, wheeling his stool over to the table and pulling House's hand closer.
"Didn't you just ask me that?" House replied automatically.
"Were you detoxing again?" Wilson asked, probing his fingers gently before reaching for the file and ordering a set of films.
"You could say that."
"And what would you say?"
'That I drove to Boston and got wasted in a cheesy Cheers knock-off, had a disappointing threesome with two paralegals, and missed you both so much that I punched a wall."
The file twisted in Wilson's grip.
"And would you be telling the truth?" he asked.
"I thought you could always tell."
Wilson wouldn't look at him. House wasn't sure if he wanted him to. He wasn't sure if Wilson even wanted an apology, a mea culpa, a physical supplication, the kiss, the words. The gesture of sacrifices he was pretty sure he'd never make. All House knew was that he couldn't offer Wilson things like reasons and apologies without demanding them back, because Wilson owed him just as much. So he stood up, took his file from Wilson's grasp, and walked to the door without touching him, even though he wanted to, so wanted to grab him and push him and punish them both.
"I've already talked to Cuddy. About us. Me." And then, House left the hospital, deciding that his hand would be just as broken the next morning, just like everything else, and, maybe like everything else, he could try to fix it then.