A/N: Thanks to everyone reading, reviewing and enjoying.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.
Thanks: to my beta NaiveEve and first reader Betz88.
-9-
"Taught By Experts"
Heck. There is nothing like coincidence, happenstance and a fortuitous alignment of stars to raise the spirits. When the elements come together in just the right way, you feel, yess, maybe there is a method to all the madness, maybe there is that glorious reason to be. Allison mulls over the non-science of fate, how deftly it plays its hand in these situations, taking no credit, getting little respect. That's okay because she knows, she believes.
The fact that Ariel and Bridget are actually divvying up their Twinkles bounty, giving Marie enough to keep her smiling at the dinner table, is even more cause for celebration.
Maybe, Allison thinks, she and Joe really did do something right along the way. She gives Daddy Joe a knowing look, the kind parents have shared every day for decades, centuries, eons. Their little brood is brimming with excitement; the kids are growing up.
Oh, and then there is one additional detail that makes this good day that much better, the absolute pièce de résistance: big eared slasher with the penchant for gaudy shirts was apprehended, snagged by Detective Scanlon, four plainclothesmen, two uniforms and three security guards in the mall parking lot, shortly after Allison's call. Aloha Shirt, whose name is Curtis Weir, was in the process of stowing his purchase from Classy Cutlery in his trunk when he was read his rights, cuffed and shoved into the back of a police cruiser. His grin could only be described as 'shit eating'. Was he ecstatic that his spree was over? Did he have a nasty little secret? Was he really and truly insane? There are no answers. Not yet, anyway.
Inside the Classy Cutlery bag were five carving knives, seven steak knives and a smattering of paring knives, all housed inside a black velvet box. Guess Curt's old blades were getting pretty dull...
Lovely.
Questioning will commence tomorrow. Allison will make sure to be on hand to observe and perhaps participate in the meet and greet, throwing in some queries of her own.
Who's Johnny, Curt?
She hears the words fall from her lips, could swear she actually said them. But the girls continue to gush over their accessories; Joe is pouring the milk.
Nobody knows but you, Allison...
She is more than overjoyed to be leaving for New York in two days.
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A song is stuck in his head, a goddamn song reeling and rocking around his grey matter. He doesn't like it; doesn't need it. It is one of those songs House would play over and over, probably warble it loudly, if he was drunk enough.
Shut UP!
All Wilson wants is to keep the Repsol in sight, to find out where its rider has been disappearing every night for the past two weeks.
"Is that so much to ask?" he hisses, leaning forward, his knuckles paste white against the dark blue steering wheel.
The Volvo and the bike are speeding now, hovering a good five miles per hour over the legal limit. It is a dangerous way to travel these city streets. School is out; the late afternoon is balmy. Kids are roaming around, hanging by the five and dime, wandering across the road like they own it.
Shit. Shee-it!
Wilson has had to slam on the breaks for: a red light, a stop sign, three kids playing tag, and an elderly woman who didn't think to look both ways before she stepped into the road. The Volvo's back tires screamed in protest each time he stopped short and pounded the wheel. The Repsol jutted ahead; the rev of its motor and smoke from the exhaust seemed the ultimate mockery.
And all the while, Chuck Berry assured Wilson is his ragged rock and roll growl that 'you can't catch me'.
Omigod.
We're stopping. Yeah. Congratulations. We've made it to...a diner.
A diner. This is where House goes to meet his doctor? A goddamn diner? Or is this just the appetizer before the main course?
House parks as close to the entrance as he can, eases himself off the bike, removes his helmet and hefts in under his arm. After snagging his cane from its holder behind the seat, he turns and shoots Wilson a glare...
...so chock full of anger, of anguish of...hate, it seems as lethal as a tornado wrapped in barbed wire. With each violent whirl, Wilson feels himself being sliced a little deeper, the sharp edges raking through skin and bone, muscle and tissue, closing in on his vitals.
It hurts.
He scowls, runs a hand along his upper arm, expecting to feel a warm, sticky moisture saturating his sleeve.
House's movements are halting, his disability even more glaring, accentuated by his stooped shoulders, the tremor in his hands. He step-thumps his way to the wheelchair ramp, head bowed as he totters up the incline. There he stops, turns again, tap...tap...taps the tip of the cane against the diner's stucco exterior. Each tap is like a gunshot, sticking it to his friend in short, smart little bursts. Come on, he seems to say with those eyes, with that lopsided stance. Come on over here. Let's get ready to fuckin' rumble.
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Seated behind his desk, Bill Faulkner immerses himself in the familiar; focuses on the whisper of cool air through the vents, the framed watercolors, the bright and oh, so pretty daffodils in the vase. Inhale, exhale, deep and slow. He senses a settling inside himself, like he is a stone drifting gently to the bottom of still water.
Inhale...let it out...relax...
The news was very bad, very bad. Curtis Weir's arrest is the worst thing that could have happened now. So unfortunate. The sessions with Greg are going so well. Leading him to the brink of that deep, dark abyss has been such fun.
But if Curtis, the volatile and unstable sociopath, decides to relate his life story, the party will be over. Johnny will undoubtedly suffer. He and Sarah will rate fugitive status. By rights they should be in jail now. But luck has stuck by them for a long time. Unfortunately, luck might have shot its load, run its course, waving bye, bye over its shoulder as it hops the next train home. Faulkner clicks his tongue and shakes his head. Just when it looked like John's running days were over, this had to happen.
Another stickety wicket, Billy.
Thankfully, John's actions didn't point to Faulkner, not directly, anyway. But if his own luck turns sour, Faulkner will feel the ripples of John's impulsiveness. If the ripples churn and roil themselves into a tsunami, the wave will eventually encompass his little part of Jersey and drown him.
Despite these unsettling facts, he remains calm, placid as the water, deeply immersed as that stone. The PC and webcam are ready, set up against the wall on the right side of the room. Faulkner averts his eyes from the unsightly, yet necessary, additions to his carefully laid out office. True eyesores they are: the black metal tripod with its oversized spider-like legs , the glass lens calmly observing all the wrong, all the guilt he should be feeling but doesn't.
He will have to work more quickly now, bring his sessions with the doctor to their inevitable end. As if to emphasize this point, he shakes the vial of Dr. House's new...medication, ordered from the pharmacy today. With a gentle chuckle he sets it down before him. One thing he will not do is give up because of this setback, this ripple in the calm.
His cell phone burrs in his shirt pocket. With a sigh, he pulls it out, flicks it open and greets Johnny without even checking the caller ID.
John is upset, sobbing in that hushed, hoarse way of his. Faulkner listens as he always listens. In the days after John bought the pistol and actually used it, Faulkner would listen for hours.
What's that song? Faulkner scribbles his mental meanderings on a legal pad as Johnny continues to babble and weep. The song said...something about a stranger coming from the east, lawbook in his hand...
All his training, his years of treating troubled psyches did not prepare Faulkner for Johnny's feat of courageous idiocy. To this day, Faulkner couldn't believe Johnny had it in him. Talking out your rage is much different than acting on it. John was always a great talker. But Danielle's suicide changed him, gave him a different slant on life...and death.
...Gene Pitney. Big hit. Movie theme, right? James Stewart film. Yeah.
Johnny worries about staying put, worries the police will break down the door, take him away. He didn't hurt anyone this time, just drove the car. No matter, John. Can you spell accessory? Faulkner tells him he should have thought of all this before joining Weir in his Minnesota escapades. You play, you pay.
...yeah, Pitney sang it with such sincerity. That line about the two shots ringing out that made Liberty fall...
Johnny Moray, Johnny, Johnny, Jack, Jack. He really should have picked a better name to use as a cover. Faulkner thought the name Johnny Moray was much too similar to Jack Moriarity for comfort. But Johnny, Johnny, Jack, Jack was a bullheaded sonofabitch. Couldn't tell him anything. Never listened. Now look at him. Now look.
...was an eerie case of predestination in a pop song. Faulkner gives a virtual finger snap of triumph. Now he remembers. "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance". That's it. He scribbles the title in bold letters across the page. Despite his worry, he heaves a silent little sigh. It could be Johnny's theme song if the title were changed...
...to "The Man Who Shot Gregory House."
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Wilson follows behind House, who is limping down the aisle at a good clip. It is obvious he is searching, scoping out a specific table, his seat. There-over by the window, two women sit, finishing their chicken sandwiches. The older one's silver hair is pulled back into a severe chignon. Her blouse is mauve, her skirt a deep violet. She looks like a teacher or some sort of administrator, while her auburn haired companion could be her secretary or student. Younger and somewhat attractive, she is clad in dress pants and a white scoop neck top. Immersed in their food and conversation, the women fail to notice when House stops across the aisle from them, resting his hip against the edge of a vacant table. His wounded hand is set atop the head of his cane. The lower half of the hand is wrapped up pretty good, lots of gauze and tape. He doesn't appear to be in pain but is anxious to be seated-in his seat. His eyes are blue-grey chips, staring the women down as his lips twitch, then settle into a somber bloodless line.
He waits.
"House," Wilson hisses, using two fingers to touch House's upper arm. "There are plenty of other-"
One good jerk of his shoulder sends Wilson's hand away.
Tossing a furtive glance around the room, Wilson sees they haven't attracted any attention yet. But they will.
The two women are yakking, checking over the dessert list on back of the menu as...
...House shifts his weight from good leg to bad to good.
"Maybe we should-"
"That's my damn table." Not a trace of the old silky sarcasm in that tone. He is just angry, gruff and mean.
The waitress is harried, wielding a tray, muttering an apology as she brushes by them. House grunts and takes a stiff step closer to the gabbing gals.
"Stay here. I'll...fix it." Wilson points at him and for a moment, House is House. He gets it, raising his brows and taking a step back.
There is something to be said for a beguiling smile, a boyish tilt of the head, a warm, open gaze. Wilson knows how to use them to his best advantage. He gives a smart little bow as he coos, "Excuse me, ladies."
The women look up in mid gabbery. The older of the two glares at Wilson like he has two heads, but the younger one returns the smile.
"My friend and I usually sit at this booth when we come here." He shifts his shoulders, pulls out his best little boy pout. "He's...not feeling too well...a little upset..."
"He drunk? On something? Looks like one of those hippy guys to me." The older one lifts a brow, sips her water.
"He's just..." Wilson turns to look at House, who now seems entranced by an oblong patch of sunlight on the linoleum. "...uh..." He smiles at the women again. "I'll give you twenty dollars...each if you move to another table."
Administrator's green eyes widen.
"Don't be silly," The younger woman pipes up; her look is sympathetic. "We'll move. Come on, Elma." She gathers her purse and jacket and slides out of the booth.
"I'll take the money." Elma sits firm. She dabs her mouth with her napkin, then holds out her palm.
"Elma..."
"Haven't had dessert yet. I'd just as soon stay put."
"That's my seat." House steps up beside Wilson and stomps his cane against the floor.
"Now, mister." Elma makes a commanding gimme motion at Wilson with her outstretched fingers. "Before he makes a scene and embarrasses the hell out of you."
Wilson's smile is replaced by a knowing sneer. He digs his wallet from his back trouser pocket and comes up with the goods.
She snaps the bill from his fingers, stows it in her purse, then smiles at her friend. "Desserts on me, Tina. " She begins to slide out of the booth, then pauses to look coquettishly at Wilson. The look does not suit her. "Could you move your charge out of the way?"
"He's not in your way." Tina brushes past House and Wilson to grab her friend by the arm. "You're insufferable, so incredibly uncompassionate. I cannot believe you did that."
"What?" Elma stands, smoothing her skirt, smirking.
"The man is obviously sick and you take his friend's money?" she says, leading Elma down the aisle to find another table. "I cannot believe you..."
"Boo!" House calls after them. "Boooo!"
"Sit." Wilson says, motioning for House to move into the booth.
Glowering, House eases himself onto the seat, shifts his body closer to the window, setting his cane and helmet beside him. Dust motes dance inside shafts of sun, washing over him like silver spotlights, accentuating his pallor, the unruly growth of beard. His hair sticks out in tufts. When was the last time he'd had it cut? Moving in slow motion, he leans his chin against his palm and stares outside as his eyes...go...blank.
"House?"
"Good afternoon."
The waitress has arrived. Pretty, young, dark hair, shining cheeks. Wilson suddenly wonders how those plum red lips might feel moving under his.
Leaning over, she gathers up Elma and Tina's dirty dishes and launches into her cheery patter. "My name is Molly and I'll be your server."
"Mol-ly?" House murmurs, his eyes on the parking lot.
"Hi, Greg." She stacks the last plate on her pile and looks at Wilson. "Can I start you off with something to drink?"
"I'll have an iced tea," Wilson says.
"Be right back."
He raises a forefinger. "What about..."
"Mol-ly knows." House squints into the waning daylight.
Come here often? Obviously...
Molly returns almost immediately with an iced tea for Wilson, a Coke for House. She takes Wilson's order, then heads to the kitchen. Wilson doesn't ask. Doesn't mention the fact there are two of them but only one order on her pad.
They sit in silence as glasses clink, silverware tings. House runs his fingers lightly over the bandage, gauze and tape.
"How's your hand?"
Silence. A tractor trailer rumbles by. House blinks again.
"House?"
"I don't want to talk to you."
"Okay, this should be interesting." Wilson leans forward, cocks his head. "Why not?"
House bites his lower lip, runs a finger down the aluminum window frame. "Because you poke your nose into my business. A real friend respects his friend's property, maintains a courteous distance."
"Are you kidding me?"
"A real friend knows when a friend wants to be left alone. A real friend minds his own business." House rubs his beard, squints at the shadows settling over the parked cars. "That is what a real friend does. You don't. I don't want to talk to you."
Well, howdy stranger. The haggard looking guy hunched over his soda glass is not House. It couldn't be. Some other sad soul has taken over House's body, reading this strange riot act in a chilling monotone.
I don't want to talk to you.
Those words spill out flat, expressionless, like an automaton reading off a teleprompter. It's as if he's been instructed, put through the paces. Taught by experts.
"House...who is this therapist you're seeing?"
"He's my friend. He gets rid of my pain."
The idea is ludicrous, especially coming from a physician who is rarely civil to his own patients. "Your therapist is not your friend, House. He's your doctor. He's supposed to treat what ails you-"
A fist is raised, a glare thrown like a dagger. "He...is...my...friend!" House's fist meets the table, causing the silverware and glasses to shake and clatter. A few diners look up from their meals, then look away fast.
Naw...you don't want to get involved in this.
"What is his name?" Wilson says softly, thinking maybe if he asks real nice...
"I don't want to talk to you."
Round and round and round...
The food arrives, which is a cue for the automaton to take House over completely. Usually he garners great pleasure from the act of chowing down. Each bite is savored, accompanied by grunts of satisfaction and snatches of conversation. But now...?
What the hell?
Wilson can only stare, dumbfounded, as House attacks the two burgers, fries, chicken noodle soup, and vanilla shake, stuffing his face like a man who hasn't eaten for a week. Forgetting his turkey sandwich, Wilson studies House's every chew and swallow, every flick of those vacant eyes, and soon notices something else odd: a pattern. House ravages his food using a pattern that never alters: burger, burger, fries, soup, shake. Burger, burger, fries, soup, shake.
Chew, chew, swallow, chomp, chomp, swallow, sip, slurp.
Rinse and repeat.
"Is...that good?"
No response.
I don't want to talk to you...
House keeps his eyes on the quickly dwindling food; only occasionally will his gaze drift to the slice of pie, waiting patiently off to the side.
A reward for the good boy who cleaned his plate like he was told. A sweet, sticky prize for the kid who ate it all-ll up.
Now the sight of the turkey sandwich, augmented by pickle and slaw, makes Wilson's stomach turn. He cringes, stares at House, whose beard is dotted with crumbs, bits of French fries, and a soup noodle.
This is a nightmare, a foray into The Twilight Zone.
House's plate is empty now, completely clean. Not a crumb, fry or stripe of ketchup remains. He's onto the pie, shoving it into his face, as savage as a cannibal, joyless as monk.
You can call Cuddy, have her send some orderlies, bring House in for observation...because...why? Um...he ate a hearty meal? Nope. Ain't gonna wash.
House downs the final piece, the very last crumb, pushes the plate away with his thumb. His eyes move across the table, his frown deepening at the sight of Wilson's untouched food.
"You want it? Be my guest." Wilson rubs his brow, tosses a resigned wave at his plate. "Take it home for later."
"You should eat," House tells him. "You'll be hungry, like I was."
"I think I'm full from bearing witness to your cholesterol adventure." Wilson fixes him with a sorry stare. "Why don't you skip your appointment? We'll go back to your place, watch "Hang 'em High" or...whatever. Have a few beers..."
House's jaw works as he scans the empty plates. After a moment, he gives a satisfied sniff, chugs the rest of his cola, then grabs his cane and helmet, and pushes himself out of the booth.
"Where are you going?" Wilson wonders if the tremor in his tone is noticeable.
"You know where I'm going. You just said..."
"I know," Wilson says, "I know, it's just that-"
House stands by the edge of the table, taps the wooden tip of his cane against one sneaker...and reaches forward. Wilson doesn't rear back, doesn't protest as two shaky fingers pluck a pen from his shirt pocket. House holds the pen up to light, turns it this way...and that.
"You could've asked," Wilson says, a shimmer of humor in his tone. "I would have-"
House shoves the pen into his jacket pocket as he meets Wilson's gaze...
...and for one glorious moment, the clouds part to reveal House in those eyes: frightened and confused, like a little boy lost. "If you're thinking of following me," he says, "don't."
Okay. Wilson stares at his hands, presses them flat against the table as he arranges his thoughts in ragged little piles. He raises one finger, lifts his eyes as he opens his mouth to speak...
...but House is already gone.
