Insert usual disclaimers here. I don't own House or any of the House characters. Be a lot cooler if I did, though.
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House strode confidently into his apartment a couple of weeks later, flying high. He and his team had wrestled their way through their most recent case, and after nearly ten days of twists, turns, multiple misdiagnoses, and arguing, the teenage patient was finally on the road to recovery.
It had been cause for celebration, and House had busted out the good stuff he normally reserved for himself, pouring a shot into everyone's coffee mugs. He hadn't missed the warm hug between Chase and Thirteen, nor the pained expression on Foreman's normally taciturn face. Taub had merely stood to the side, catching House's eye and shrugging imperceptibly, seemingly unshaken by the drama that unfolded around him.
Hot damn. House was going to have a hell of a lot to share with Brandon tonight. Wilson had been strangely unavailable, begging off the offer of a shot with some mumbled excuse that House didn't quite catch. The two of them had found an uneasy truce since their blow-up, circling each other like lions even as they fell into their old routines.
He grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator along with last night's beef curry, tossing the latter into the microwave and returning to the living room to flip open the laptop and fire it up. The microwave pinged at him while he was on his way back to the kitchen, and he was soon settled on his couch with his food and his beer, music blaring away out of the laptop's remarkably capable speakers.
Life was good tonight, and he was jazzed to include Brandon in on the party. House clicked on his IM program, signing in. It was just after midnight, and Brandon should be signing in before too long after his own ER shift.
Brandon piqued his curiosity. The guy was sharp, wise, nearly House's intellectual equal. What the hell was he doing slogging away on the night shift in the ER? House suspected that there was more going on than Brandon's night owl tendencies. Any normal human being would have sought out a more reasonable schedule long ago.
Brandon obviously wasn't normal, not by a long shot. No wonder he and House got along so well.
His IM program chimed, announcing Brandon's presence. House immediately started typing. RC and 31 are SO going to hook up tonight.
When Brandon didn't respond after about five minutes, House frowned. Normally Brandon responded almost immediately. Thanks to House, he was nearly as invested in the ongoing drama in diagnostics as House was. House typed again. Hello? This is Planet Earth...
The Duran Duran reference also failed to draw a response from the other man. Either House was off his game, or something was rotten in the city of Detroit. In House's mind, that pretty much covered the whole city, but that was beside the point. He and Brandon had debated the pros and cons of that topic countless times since their initial contact.
House scarfed down his leftovers and moved on to the medical forum, scanning through the topics for anything interesting. Nothing caught his eye tonight, and he moved on to one of his favorite porn sites.
Nothing new uploaded there, either. It was proving to be a slow night, even on the mighty Internet.
House huffed irritably and pushed himself off the couch to toss his empty container and grab a second beer. He had barely sat down again when his IM program chimed at him.
"About damn time." House grumbled, clicking on the window to read the message.
This is Major Tom to Ground Control. The message read.
About goddamn time. House typed back. Did you see my last message?
The Duran Duran thing? Brandon answered. Yeah, I caught that. Cute.
Not that one. House rolled his eyes as he typed. The other one.
There was a short pause before the message came in. Oh. Yeah. That's good, right?
Something didn't seem right, but House couldn't put his finger on it. Brandon seemed disconnected, disoriented. House checked his thoughts before they went too far. Sometimes the hoofprints really did belong to a horse, and not a zebra. Good for them. EF isn't exactly thrilled.
Can't imagine he is. Brandon replied. I know I wouldn't be.
Something was definitely up. House groaned internally before typing his message. Okay, what the hell is going on? You're totally off your game tonight.
Sorry. Brandon answered back, a little quicker than he should have. Rough night. Guess I had a little trouble leaving work at work. Any word from AC?
Not a peep. House replied, baffled that Brandon would even bring Cameron up.
Huh. Weird. Brandon typed. So how do you know they're going to hook up?
We finally nailed our case. Patient should be all fixed and ready to go home in a week or so. House responded. Ergo, RC's going to nail 31. Or the other way around. Could go either way, in a manner of speaking.
You're sick. :D Brandon answered. It's one hell of a rush, isn't it? Snatching a life back from the brink, solving the unsolvable...exciting stuff, right?
Yeah, it is. House smiled a little. Guess the ER's a little different. No mysteries there, just a race against the clock.
Brandon replied almost immediately this time. We lost more than a few of those races tonight. Between the multi-car pile-up and the gangbangers that couldn't seem to leave the battle behind...Tonight just flat out sucked ass. There was a brief pause before he continued. Matter of fact, we've had a lot of those nights lately. Seems to go in waves.
House couldn't help but notice Brandon's rambling and misspelling. It was completely out of character for him. No wonder you decided to get wrecked. Seems kind of soon for an alcohol buzz...what are you on?
Not drinking. :) Brandon typed back. Imbibing in a bit of the herb, perhaps. I'd share if you weren't, you know, hundreds of miles away.
House took a long drink of his beer, carefully considering his reply. Brandon was having a hard night, and House hadn't been around much over the last week or so. They had chatted a little here and there, whenever House had a spare moment, but those moments had been few and far between. House found himself wracking his brain, trying to come up with anything that should have sent up a red flag.
Hey, man. House finally typed back. I'd take it if you were offering. He paused a little, debating on how far to butt in. So, Midnight Toker, who's your source?
Are you kidding me?! Brandon shot back. You could be the DEA for all I know. Or the FBI. Or any of those other alphabet agencies, lol. I'm not telling you. There was a short pause. Let's just say I know people. Nice reference, by the by. You're a funny guy, G...if that's your real name. :D
House rolled his eyes. Brandon had clearly gone more than one toke over the line tonight. The only mystery was why. A few rough nights in the ER didn't sound like sufficient explanation to him.
He huffed in frustration. All he really had to do was come out and ask if the guy was okay, even though he obviously wasn't okay. After all, Brandon had let House unload countless times. It seemed only right to return the favor.
There was one problem with that. House didn't know how to go about it. If Brandon were a patient, he'd browbeat, berate, and do whatever he had to do to get his answer. But he wasn't a patient, and therefore House had to tread a little more carefully. It wasn't exactly his strong suit.
Helloooo...you still there? Brandon asked.
Yeah. I'm still here. House responded. Look...you know I wouldn't normally ask, but...are you okay?
No. The other man answered after an impossibly long pause. I'm not okay.
House mentally kicked himself, furious for not noticing sooner. What's going on?
It's nothing specific, G. Brandon seemed to pull himself together a little. I'm just having kind of a hard time right now. That's all you need to know.
A flash of anger went through House upon reading Brandon's message. That's BULLSHIT. I've practically bared my fucking soul to you. I'm offering the option for you to do the same and you blow me off?! That's stupid.
Fuck off. Brandon instantly answered. You wouldn't understand.
I might if you'd take the time to explain it. House fired back. Believe it or not, I might actually be able to help you out. You could talk to me, at the very least.
Brandon didn't answer right away, and House nearly clicked away before his IM program finally chimed.
Fine. You win. Brandon typed back. I'll talk. But be warned...it's a long story. I hope you've got some time to kill.
My work is done...boss gave me the day off tomorrow. House typed back, not sure what he was getting into. I've got almost nothing but time.
Good. The other man answered. You're going to need it.
House was a little unnerved at the thought, but steeled himself for whatever Brandon was preparing to dump on him. He just hoped he was up to the task.
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Brandon was shaking as he butted the end of the joint and disgustedly threw it in the ashtray. He knew better. He fucking knew better. And yet...here he was, living as if it were three years ago all over again, minus the random sexual encounters. That was the one thing he didn't have the stomach for anymore. It wasn't worth the risk.
He let out a hollow laugh at that. Not like playing around with his quickly slipping sobriety was any less of a risk. It was a good thing he was past the point of mandatory drug tests at work. There was no way in hell he could pass one right now.
You going to talk, or what? Greg typed in. I know I've got all night, but...get on with it already.
Brandon couldn't help but laugh at Greg's impatience. At least he was trying. It was more than he could say for anyone else in his life right now.
Who the hell was he kidding? Right now, there wasn't anyone else. Kelsey was across the state, and Brandon didn't want to bother her with his problems anyway. All of his friends from his time with Jeff had long since moved on, since most of them were Jeff's friends to start with.
He pushed his dark thoughts aside and started typing. Sorry. I just have a hard time talking about this stuff.
Yeah, sounds like this one guy I know. Greg responded quickly. You know him, too. :P
I don't even know where to start. Brandon felt like he was just rambling. Finally he decided to just dive in and get on with it, as Greg put it. I'm fucking up, and I don't know why.
Fucking up what? Greg asked. You're going to have to be more specific. Mind reading isn't my specialty.
Brandon sighed hard, almost unwilling to admit what he knew he needed to admit. Okay...I told you about the man I was with, right?
Died three years ago, cancer. Greg replied. Yeah, memory's still functional.
Right. Of course Greg would remember. He was scary good that way. I was his primary caretaker almost to the end. It took a lot out of me, more than I wanted to admit. After he died...everything went to hell for me. I just...fell apart. For about a year, all I did was work, drink, and screw around with strangers. I don't even remember half the things I did. Not sure I want to.
He hit the enter key, waiting for a response before he continued. His hands were starting to shake. This was a part of his past he hadn't shared with anyone.
I know there's more. Greg typed back. Don't leave me hanging here.
Brandon debated telling Greg about his final breakdown in the ER. To hell with it, he decided. Might as well share the whole sordid tale. I somehow stumbled into my own ER one morning after being out all night. I'd been drinking and doing God knows what drugs. Probably whatever the person I was hanging with had. I don't even remember. I chewed out one of the nurses when she tried to help me out, knocked over some equipment, threw up on some patient's shoes, and passed out right in the middle of the ER floor.
He sent the message, awaiting Greg's reply. It seemed a long time in coming, but Brandon knew his sense of time was screwed up right now. So you didn't lose your job, obviously. Greg answered. Let me guess...you got shipped off to rehab?
It was either that or...yeah, lose my job. A surge of bitterness went through Brandon. I might as well have lost my job. I should have been at least senior attending by now, maybe even running the ER. No way in hell is that happening now. The board will never allow it.
Well, no, not if you're fucking up like you say you are. Greg's words were brutal. Rehab didn't take?
It did, at first. Brandon answered, a little taken aback by Greg's response. After a year or so, I would have the occasional beer when I got home after a tough night. Figured I could handle it. Guess I was wrong.
There was a long pause after Brandon sent the message, and he could feel the buzz start to wear off a little. He started to reach for the joint again when he spotted Greg's reply. What do you want?
What the hell do you mean? Brandon started to wonder if Greg had been smoking the same stuff he had.
I mean, deep down. What do you want out of your life? Greg responded. Simple question, if you stop and think about it.
Simple, sure. Brandon answered. Not so easy to answer.
That's what I said, too. Greg typed back. I didn't know how to answer at first. You probably don't, either.
You're right. Brandon admitted. I don't have a fucking clue.
Sure you do. Greg countered.
No, I don't. Brandon quickly replied. All I know is that I don't want to live like this.
And what is 'this'? Greg pressed.
You've got some goddamn nerve, you know that?! Brandon was suddenly furious at Greg's probing. You're not a shrink. Stop trying to act like one.
No, I'm not. Greg replied. But I've hung around enough of them to learn the language. Trust me. I know what I'm talking about.
Brandon snorted derisively at Greg's confident words. The question hung in the back of his mind, though, lingering, wandering through his brain and picking up thoughts as it did so. What do I really want? I want it to be six years ago. Before he was diagnosed, before he was so sick. Brandon swallowed hard. Before it all went to hell.
You know you can't have that, right? Greg punched a hole right through that idea. Might as well go for something you can really have.
Brandon sat and stared at the computer screen for what seemed like the longest time, just thinking, the fog lifting as his buzz wore off, his emotions triggered by the night's events finally coming to the surface.
I don't want to hurt. He finally typed back. I want to be able to see someone that looks like him without feeling like my heart's being ripped out. He took in a ragged breath. Fuck. I miss him.
Brandon felt something slide down his face, something that had been three long years in coming. Everything he had tried to keep inside for so long finally poured out of him, and he could hardly see his monitor. I'm going to have to get back to you. Thanks to you, I can't see my damn screen.
I'll be around. Greg replied. IM me when you can see again.
I will. Brandon typed back, more by feel than anything else. Thanks for knocking some sense into me.
It was in you all along, Scarecrow. :) Greg answered. I didn't do much.
The hell you didn't. Brandon furiously replied. I'd probably be drowning in a puddle of my own vomit right now if you hadn't contacted me tonight.
I guess we'll never know, will we? Greg responded. You going to be okay for a minute?
Yeah, I'll live. Brandon answered. I'll get back to you in a while. Need some time for myself.
Okay. Greg replied. Like I said, I'll be here.
Brandon managed to smile a little at that. Even though Greg was hundreds of miles away, just knowing he was there made a world of difference. Maybe, just maybe, there was a light at the end of this tunnel, and maybe it wasn't the oncoming train. Brandon figured he might as well hang around and find out.
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Thanks for all your lovely reviews so far. Now...keep them coming. ;)