A/N: Thanks for reading and commenting. Much appreciated!
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium ain't mine either.
Thanks: To NaiveEve and Betz88 for their wonderfully helpful insights.
-4-
"Whispers and Moans"
It's been a long day...
The voice is deep, even, hypnotic, interrupting the flow of her workday. It snaked its way into her head sometime during the early afternoon and has been an unwanted guest ever since.
Allison's day has been fairly normal (or as normal as any of her days can be). Work has kept her involved, engrossed. But she's made next to no progress on her current project. At this rate she'll never wrap things up by the time vacation rolls around. Davalos has her researching files on an unsolved killing spree in Milwaukee. Similarities between this case and a current local murder investigation can't be ignored.
...a long day.
She gets no 'vibe' from her research, no bead on who the perpetrator might be as she sifts through ten or twelve possibilities. Perhaps something would click if her mind wasn't so fixated on this voice. Any other time she might suspect this...obsession might have something to do with her assignment. But no, Allison knows, without even weighing her options, that this is not the case. The voice belongs in that shiny little dreambox, the one where the knives and the house and the darkness and light already reside.
She sighs, once again delving into her notes on the screen. The words crowd into each other, pushing and shoving, getting in each other's way. Absently, she shakes her hand, which has gone heavy and numb...like an iron bar...
It's no use. The sentences are a garbled mess. Her fingers have stiffened up on her, which makes her more angry than concerned. She senses that this, too, is part of what has become an ongoing feast of mystery and misery.
While attempting to flex her fingers, she turns her gaze toward the window and studies the tops of the buildings, the low, fluffy clouds, the deep midday blue of the Arizona sky until...
...sensation floods back into her hand. She glowers, shakes it one more time for good measure, then forces herself to consider something fun, lighthearted. How excited her family is about the New York trip! Yes, keep that thought glowing on the back burner...
She gives a fleeting glance at the clock on the wall. 2:12. Time is a fleeting, mercurial thing. The day is flying. Soon it will be time to pick the girls up from school. But first she really needs to wrap her head around trying to get something done here.
...we're going to have a chat...let your eyes close...
Damn! No, it sure doesn't look like it's going to happen. That voice...is maddening in its persistence...
Her fingers stall over her keys as the voice continues its soothing drone on...and on...something about the absence of pain... of lying on sand...of a lovely warmth. She feels herself falling forward in slow motion, her forehead touching the keyboard. She drifts away for a moment. Her PC blips its complaint, causing her to blink and jerk her head up, dazed.
She spits out an expletive, blinks again and pushes her hair off her face with one angry swipe of her palm. Her gaze takes a cautious trek around the office. Fortunately, it's tea time; the majority of her colleagues are either smoking outside the building's main entrance or enjoying a mid-afternoon snack in the cafeteria. She is supposed to be holding down the fort. But her hands are trembling, her mouth is dry. Whatever or whoever she is channeling is not going to allow her life to continue the way it should.
And the major problem here, the sense she gets from this most recent interlude, is that it's just the beginning of something very bad. Maladjustment, anger, vindictiveness are all part of the big picture. But right now they are mere paint blotches on a practice canvas. There is no tone to them, no shape, just raw notions flickering in her mind's eye.
That...and the voice...
Resting her elbows on her desk, her face in her hands, she lets out a long, shaky breath. The owner of that voice is gone now but there is no telling when she might enjoy the pleasure of his company again. Her head feels lighter but--what's this? Sand. She flexes her toes and winces, sensing the roughness between them, the irritating grit that has somehow made itself at home there. Like she'd just taken a walk on the beach...
...or through the desert...
The cursor blinks at her from the LCD screen, as if waiting for some meaningful contribution. It just ain't gonna happen. Not today, anyway. She heaves a defeated sigh and begins to pack up, pushing her papers back in their file folders. Her stomach is growling. She'll forget the coffee and bagel she had planned on scarfing down before she left, and take the girls for ice cream instead. A treat. They'll like that.
In the corridor, footfalls echo, along with a bit of quiet conversation and a touch of laughter. Mary and Jennings have returned. She can smell residual cigarette smoke on them before they even step into the office.
Allison is sooo out of here, done for the day. With any luck, Mr. Superdrone is done for the day too. Maybe some sense of normalcy will take over when she leaves here. Yeah, and maybe pigs live in beehives.
She saves her work, powers down her PC, then grabs her purse from the corner of the desk. After murmuring her obligatory farewells, Allison heads for the door.
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Something isn't right.
Wilson thinks how strange it is that House arrived before him this morning. Usually, he'll stroll on in just as the little hand of Wilson's watch is ju-ust about sneaking up on the Roman numeral ten.
And as his team straggles in, House is already at the whiteboard. The differential is well underway before the steam from their coffees had a chance to warm their lips.
Like some sage in a lab coat, Wilson sees all as he strolls past Diagnostics, as he takes a few furtive glances through the blinds. House will call him on this subterfuge. It's inevitable. So Wilson invents a few lame excuses to toss out for when it happens. It's just a matter of time. Later he will gently confront House in a way that says he's not prying, just concerned.
Concerned about House's visiting a shrink? Exploring uncharted territories in that House-ian mind? A dangerous undertaking, to be sure...
Wilson mulls this over as heads to his office. And the more he ruminates, the more ridiculous he feels about obsessing over it. The guy just wanted to talk to a professional, get another angle on pain management. Right?
If you say so, Jimmy...
Settled behind his desk, Wilson sifts through his paperwork, attempting to begin the day on a productive note. But, really, nothing in the stack cries out for his immediate attention. With only a marginal twinge of guilt, he slips it all into a file folder and places it in his top drawer for later...after he figures out what is really going on with his friend.
What brought House to this point?
Wilson wonders...
...how House's evening went. Last night, while at the Knicks game with Tanya from Pediatrics, Wilson half expected one of those ill timed calls from House to interrupt the flow of things. When it didn't come, he forced himself to think pleasant thoughts and massage the top of Tanya's hand with his thumb.
The players danced and dipped and ducked, arena lights reflecting off their sweat drenched brows. Sneaker soles squeaked against the gleaming court as the ball was passed and tossed high, thumping against the backboard before swishing through the net. It should have been exciting. Tanya grasped his fingers when the action got tight, when the players moved so close, he could feel their heat and tension rise, like the slow build of humidity before the cloudburst.
And the crowd goes wild.
But the cell phone's silence had been more deafening than the roar of that crowd.
It was probably a great game but the pertinent details escape him now.
Wilson's temples throb. It's only nine-thirty in the morning and already he needs to rid himself of this annoyance. He sighs, fixes his gaze on his blotter and uses two fingers of each hand to make slow circles against either side of his forehead.
Why...? What is this new fascination?
Now there is no escaping the curiosity that is spinning wildly, bouncing off every corner of the room like the Tasmanian Devil from those Loony Toons cartoons. Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing!
He is restless. The walls are too close; it's as if the desk has him trapped, daring him to just try and leave this office.
No!
Wilson's penchant for mysteries stops at Hitchcock movies and medical cases. Otherwise he can do without them, especially when they involve House.
He pushes free of his desk. Scrubbing a hand through his already tousled hair, he makes his way out the door and hurries off to Diagnostics.
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No, something isn't right here at all.
Wilson has returned to his ringside seat behind the vertical blinds...watching House's eyes gleam as he jabs a plastic knife (?) in the air to emphasize a point. He takes long strides, covering the length of the room, switches round on his sneaker sole to make the return trip. His team moves their heads in unison to track his steady pace.
His limp is nowhere near as pronounced as usual. The cane seems more of an accoutrement than a necessity. He twirls it once for effect, holds the knife eye level, and... lapses into silence.
Cameron meets Chase's bemused stare, Foreman gives an impatient hitch of his shoulders and riffles through some papers.
Wilson pushes the door open. The fact that his presence seems to snap House out of his daze doesn't escape him.
House blinks twice, smiles at Wilson, while pushing the knife deep into his jacket pocket. "Why it's Dr. Wilson, kids. Say hello, Dr. Wilson." He gestures to his team to repeat the greeting, which is met with silence and blank stares.
Seemingly nonplussed, House continues. "I was just telling the kids where they went wrong in their embarrassingly off the mark conclusions to the Health Channel challenge."
Wilson's gaze travels to House's free hand, which is rooting around in his pocket: the pocket with the plastic knife.
"Looks like Cuddy's not going to have to come through with the cash." He throws his team an exaggerated frown, then brightens again. "That's what you get for not paying attention to the little--"
"Are you done here?" Wilson asks. "I mean, you don't have a case. Can we talk?"
"You were spying on us before." House waggles a scolding finger, then sings, "I saw you."
"Yes, House, I figured you would-"
The hand in House's pocket stops its restless motion and slides into view. It's a fist now; the serrated point of the plastic knife is playing peek-a-boo from between two fingers. "It's not a good one," House murmurs almost apologetically, "But it'll do for a start."
"What?"
"It...doesn't shine..."
Wilson frowns, glances at the knife, then at House. His frown deepens as he turns to leave, motioning House to follow with a quirk of his head.
After gazing at the knife one last time, House returns it to his pocket, then follows Wilson out the door.
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House is smiling again. He sits across the desk from Wilson and taps the rubber tip of his cane against the carpet in time...to something. Bumpbump...bump da bump...bumpbump...bumpdabump
"So how was your night?" Wilson asks, deciding not to express his annoyance over House's need for percussion.
"Good. How was yours?" bumpdabump...
"I mean," Wilson leans forward. "how was your appointment with the shrink?"
"Say what you mean then." House scans the objects on Wilson's desk. Really, there is not much to see. The desk is uncluttered. Near the pen cup sit two plastic ducks that waddle when you wind 'em. But House seems more interested in what's in the cup than what surrounds it. "I may have been blessed with a multitude of talents but mind reading ain't one of them." His top teeth touch his bottom lip.
"How was it?"
"What?"
Wilson pounds his fist against the desk. "You're infuriating. Do you know that?"
"Yes." House's fingers light on the contents of the pen cup.
"I'm trying to have a conversation with you."
House pulls a letter opener out from the between the pens, pencils and Liquid Paper sticks. With great care, he holds it closer to the desk lamp, squinting as he leans forward to gaze at it. He turns it this way and that, the light catching the tapered tip...as his mouth falls open...
"House?" Wilson hitches forward in his chair. Something cold touches the center of his chest and leaves a lingering caress. "House!"
But House is otherwise engaged, gazing at the letter opener like it is a long lost lover or the most delectable delicacy on the pastry tray. Then, slowly, with great reluctance, he lowers it into his other palm, his eyes lighting on it one last time before tucking it into his jacket pocket...
...next to its less impressive cousin, the plastic knife...
He licks his lips, before fixing his gaze on Wilson. Then the chatter starts-- rolling off his tongue like it had been just waiting for its big chance. "Okay. You were so intent on pulling me away from my team. Now you're just...sitting there, gawking at me. I mean I know I'm pretty darn irresistible and all that but...wait a second. Could it be jealousy? Hmmm? Has jealousy reared its ugly head because I have a team and you...just have your windup ducks? House folds his hands in his lap. That odd, obsessive gleam in his eyes is fading, like morning fog over a cool blue lake. "You're pretty damn silent for someone who was so intent on goading me into having a conversation. Conversing is a two way street, by the way. Didn't they teach that in Oncology school? Well, maybe not." He sits back, crosses his legs. "It's your turn to talk..."
Wilson raises his brows, takes a deep breath, then lets it out slow. He decides to forgo the obvious question. But he can't help wonder if House is even aware of what he just did with that letter opener.
"How did your appointment go?" He tries again.
"I told you."
"No, you didn't. You just said it was good."
"It was good, and there's nothing to tell. We talked. He gave me a relaxation exercise to help with the pain. It works." He lifts the cane, then lets its tip bounce off the carpet, again and again and again. "Anything else?"
"Did you take any Vicodin today?"
House snorts and affects an insolent sing-song tone. "Yes, Mommy, when I woke up."
"And what time was that?"
"Why does it matter?"
"Humor me."
For a moment, House's gaze seems to focus on something far, far away. "Five A.M."
Wilson rears back, incredulous. "You were up at five? Were you in pain?"
"A little." House scratches his head and scrunches his face, apparently straining to remember. "Couldn't sleep. Took a pill. Did the exercise he showed me."
"What exercise?"
"It's...something I do in my head." For a moment, House's face goes blank, then just as quickly rejoins the living.
"Really?"
"Yeah." House nods. "It helps. You should look into it." He works his shoulders, like he is limbering up for a run. "It might ease your troubled mind."
Wilson leans back in his chair and folds his arms. "Do it now."
"Nonononono." House shakes his head and chuckles. "Some things are for me and me alone. Get your own Svengali."
Svengali?
Wilson is more than interested now. He is positively intrigued. "What did you mean by that?"
"What?" House's hand is going for that jacket pocket again. His fingers rest against the fabric just above the opening.
Sighing, Wilson plants his elbows on the desk and fixes House with a weary look. "Svengali."
Frowning, House moves his hand down past the pocket and toward his right thigh. He rests his fingers against his jeans and after a moment begins to move his hand up and back. "I...don't know."
"You said it."
"It just came out." In a much too familiar way, he tightens his grip on his thigh and begins to slowly knead the aching area. His jaw works. His knuckles go white as he continues on in that desperate quest to ease the pain. After a moment, he croaks, "Your problem is you take everything too literally."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Who is this guy you're seeing, anyway?" Wilson rests his chin against the flat of his palm. "What's his name? Did you even check him out?"
House moans, lowering his head, his hand pushing and pushing against that pain.
"And what's with those knives?"
His shoulders slump, his hand freezes in mid push. Then, slowly, House raises his head and Wilson can see the defeat in those eyes. Defeat and...something else. A hint of terror, as if he's just been shown a flickering silent movie of his own demise.
"This is your fault," House hisses through gritted teeth.
"Take a pill, House," Wilson says softly. "You'll feel better."
"I was fine before you started-"
"Before I started bringing up things you didn't want to talk about?"
Shadows have taken residence deep within the furrows of House's brow; congregating inside the etched lines beneath his eyes. They lie grey against his stubble, smudging his cheekbones...
"This is your fault." House's breathing is labored. Wilson can hear it whistle deep inside his chest as he digs into his pocket, the one without the knives.
Now an amber vial is in House's hand. He shakes it once, twice. The rattle of pills is loud in the silence.
"How is it my fault?"
"You were the one who insisted on knowing who I'm seeing. You were the one who forced his way into my business." He thumbs off the cap, which seems to linger in the air for a moment before doing a triple somersault and falling under the desk. With a trembling hand, he shakes his pills into his palm. Two or three bounce off the desk and onto the carpet but neither man moves to retrieve them.
After dry swallowing, House glares defiantly past the wind up ducks and the pen cup at Wilson. "I was fine before you stuck your nose into where it doesn't fuckin' belong."
"I was just trying to help you, House." Wilson keeps his voice even, his hands folded before him. He sets his demeanor to doctor/patient mode. It's the only way he can make it through this altercation without throttling the guy across from him. "I don't understand what I-"
"You've helped bring back my pain." House pumps a fist in the air. "Yeah, right on, soul brother. Good job." He jams the open vial back into his pocket, grabs his cane and pushes himself to his feet. The cane is no longer an accoutrement, a House-ian version of a baton. Now it's simply...a cane, a primitive aid for Mr. Misery. House leans on it hard as he half staggers, half limps to the door. His gait is lopsided and achingly slow. Wilson remains mute, knowing House will head to his office, fall into his Eames chair and try to sleep off the pain.
The door opens; the door shuts. Wilson sits very still, steeping in the silence. He swallows hard, not realizing his own right hand has taken a trip to his right thigh until he finds himself rubbing it up and back...up and back.