House stumbled as he made his way hurriedly across the living room, which had never seemed so large as it did in that moment, with Wilson's furious voice echoing threats in his ears.
"If you take one step out that door," the younger man snarled, and House heard the frightening change in the sound indicating that Wilson had gotten to his feet. "I'll kill you, House! Don't you dare walk out that door!"
House's mind went back to another time, years ago, when he had heard almost exactly the same words.
"Don't you walk away from me, boy! You take one more step and you better take it running, because if I catch you…"
That time – House had walked out the door.
This time – he didn't.
He stopped at the end table beside the sofa, leaning heavily on his cane and gasping for breath. He did his best to balance, leaning slightly against the end table, as he reached down with his good hand to pick up the telephone receiver, his fingers trembling as he struggled to press the keys.
During the fight with Wilson, he had done his best to ignore the pain in his injured left hand. The fight for survival had driven the worst of the pain from his mind. Now, however, his hand was throbbing. He tried his best to ignore it.
He had bigger problems at the moment.
He glanced anxiously toward the bedroom door, and his gaze crossed the coffee table.
Cuddy's cell phone was sitting there.
He remembered Wilson's words in the bedroom.
"There's something in the living room I want to show you…"
He felt a wave of nausea overwhelm him. Wilson must have been furious at the sight of Cuddy's cell phone on his coffee table. He had already known that House was lying – or at least evading – about where he had been. He must have intended to confront House about it once they were in the living room – and House could not imagine that such a confrontation would have ended well.
Wilson's appearance in the doorway between the living room and bedroom drew House abruptly out of his thoughts. He leaned against the doorjamb, his breathing ragged and labored. Barely on his feet, still obviously in a lot of pain, he glared at House with deadly intent in his eyes.
"Put that down," Wilson gasped. There was a frightening coldness in his voice despite the weak, rasping sound of it. "Now."
House's hand clenched around the receiver, his heart pounding with adrenaline. Though a part of him wanted to, he did not back down. He held Wilson's gaze firmly, and made no move to put down the telephone.
"Yeah," he observed, his voice soft, the slightest glimmer of an ironic smile playing about the edges of his mouth. "You look real scary right about now."
"I'll be fine in about…two minutes," Wilson pointed out, still breathless as he limped a few steps into the living room, teetering precariously for a moment when he stopped. A cruel smile on his face through the pain, he added with a careless shrug, "You'll still be a cripple. Do the math."
"I don't need two minutes." House ignored the malice in Wilson's eyes and voice, as well as the rather unoriginal dig about his disability. "I've already dialed two digits – all I need is one more."
Wilson's eyes widened as he steadied himself with a hand on House's bookcase, straightening up slightly as his gaze locked onto House's – appraising, as if trying to decide if House would actually carry out his threat.
"First thing I'll say is your name – but I don't even have to say anything," House went on, his voice stronger and more even than he had expected. "It takes four seconds for the 911 dispatcher to trace the call."
"Takes a little longer for anybody to actually get here," Wilson countered, and House noticed with alarm that Wilson's voice was growing steadier. He straightened as he spoke. "You'd be dead before the cops showed up."
"But they would show up." Despite the rising fears awakened by Wilson's words, House's gaze did not falter. "They'd show up, find me in whatever state you leave me – and have only your name to go on. Wonder how that'd turn out." He paused, drawing courage from the flash of fear he saw in Wilson's eyes. "Think carefully," he advised, his voice quiet and certain. "Have you covered all your tracks? Or were you just counting on me to keep my mouth shut? 'Cause you know – if you're sure you're ready to face the cops – all I've gotta do is hit one…key…"
Wilson was standing up straight now, no longer needing the bookcase for support – but he seemed frozen in place, his wide eyes fastened on the receiver in House's hand, his finger hovering over the "one" key.
House could almost see his mind racing, his eyes darting between the receiver to the door, between the place where he stood, and where House was across the room. He knew that Wilson was trying to gauge whether or not he could get to House before he could press the key – and if not, whether he would be able to get the phone hung up again before the 911 operator could trace the call.
"Four seconds," House repeated, his voice barely a whisper, yet echoing between them in the stillness of the room. "Think you can make it? Are you sure you can make it?"
Wilson's breath quickened slightly as he edged a step nearer to House, powerless fury raging in his eyes.
Powerless – because they both knew that House had the advantage.
For the moment.
"Stop right there," House ordered, his voice quiet but harder, as he pressed his advantage. "Don't come any closer to me, or I'll do it."
"Then why haven't you done it already?" Wilson's voice held a quiet triumph as he took yet another step, his smile widening when House still did not complete his emergency call – and the gap between them (and between Wilson and those precious four seconds) grew slightly smaller. "If you're going to call the cops on me…then do it."
"You gonna call the cops on me, Greg? You gonna tell 'em what I did to you? Tell 'em what you did to deserve it while you're at it! Go on! Here's the phone! Call if you wanna!"
House closed his eyes for a moment, mentally warring against the fears of the present and the memories of his past, before opening them again with alarm to see that Wilson had advanced another couple of steps while he was distracted.
"You willing to risk your career – everything you've worked for your entire life – on the off chance that I won't?" House strove to keep his voice even and firm – and mostly succeeded. "It's a lot to risk, just to teach me a lesson."
"You won't do it." Wilson's voice was defiant, but trembling slightly, as he edged slightly nearer.
"Yeah. I will. If you move another step toward me."
Wilson froze.
"I've had enough," House went on, his trembling easing as his tactics seemed to be effective. "I may be an addict – but you've become one, too. And I don't know about you, but me – me, I'm not gonna be your enabler." He smirked at the irony of Wilson's own psycho-babble being thrown back in his face, and with such brutal accuracy. "I guess I'm just a better friend than that."
"You were never my friend!" Wilson spat out, furious at the none-too-subtle accusation in House's sarcastic words.
House flinched slightly, but did not yield. "That may be true," he admitted quietly. "But you were mine. For a long time, and a very good one. And – that's why I'm not going to let you do this to yourself anymore." He paused, allowing his words the time they needed to make a genuine impact, before continuing, finally, utterly in control.
"So here's how it's going to work. You're going to leave my house now. You're not going to come back until you're ready to treat me like a human being instead of like your own personal punching bag. If you don't – I'm going to dial that last digit right now and announce your name to the operator. Then, when you realize you're on the verge of getting caught and you run like hell – I'm going to hang up the phone and call Cuddy, and tell her everything. You'll lose your job, your reputation, possibly even your freedom – everything."
House took a breath, pausing to take in Wilson's terrified look. Before he could go on, Wilson broke in, a slightly frantic note to his voice.
"You don't wanna do that, House. You have not even begun to see what I can do to you – what I will do to you if you continue to disrespect…"
"Stop talking to me like you're my damned father!" House broke in, his voice shaking with fury. He kicked out at the only thing near at hand – his cane – and it fell over with a dramatic clatter. "He never broke me, and neither will you!"
Wilson froze, and a tense, profound silence fell between them. He finally looked away, at least having the good grace to look ashamed for just a moment, now that House had figured out how Wilson had been playing his own childhood trauma against him.
"Your choice," House said quietly at last. He held Wilson's gaze with more courage than he felt when the oncologist looked up at him again. "What's it gonna be?"
Wilson seemed speechless at first, his entire body trembling with barely suppressed rage. His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth in what appeared to be the beginnings of a threat, before closing it again in frustration. He moved as if to take a step, then stopped, breathing out a deep, shaky breath as his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
The tension stretched out between them as Wilson wrestled with his anger, his desire to hurt House for all that he had cost him – and his knowledge that House could, in a single moment, destroy everything he had spent his life achieving. There was a chance that he could stop the older man before he could make the call – but there was just as good a chance that he would not be able to stop him.
"Fine," Wilson finally whispered, his dark eyes glittering with bitter malice. "I'll go."
He stood there a moment longer, glaring at House, clearly wanting to attack him again but not daring. Finally, he turned his back on his former friend, stalking toward the door in wide, furious strides. When he reached the door, however, House's quiet voice stopped him before he could step outside.
"Wait."
Wilson turned to face House, his hand on the door, vicious resentment mingled with the question in his eyes.
House's expressive blue eyes were sorrowful as he nodded toward Wilson's pocket and said softly, "Your key."
Wilson's eyes widened as he squared his shoulders, his mouth open to protest.
"Or I call. I need your key. Now."
Silently fuming, Wilson thrust his hand into the pocket of his pants, taking out a plain key ring with a single key on it. In a childish gesture of impotent fury, he hurled the key in House's direction, missing his mark entirely in his anger and sending it flying past the older man and against the wall on the other side of the room.
House did not react to the violent gesture. He simply nodded his approval as he said, "Thanks." He was quiet a moment before adding, "Now get out of my house."
When Wilson slammed the door behind him, House waited a few moments, afraid to set down the phone, for fear that Wilson might come bursting through the door again, just waiting for his chance to ambush him and hurt him again. Until his door was locked, he could not be sure that Wilson would not come back.
After a few moments, House summoned his courage. Still clutching the cordless telephone receiver in his hand, he lunged toward the door without his cane, trembling fingers scrambling over the lock and deadbolt, fastening them firmly into place. Once the door was secure, House leaned forward, resting his palms and forehead against the door, drawing in several deep, shuddering breaths in an attempt to calm his frayed nerves.
He turned around, bracing his back against the door as he slid to the floor, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. After a few moments, he raised the receiver in his hand, dialing a familiar number and lifting the telephone to his ear. It rang three times before he heard a click, followed by the voice he had hoped to hear – though he still had no idea why he wanted so badly to hear it.
"Hello?"
"Cuddy." House's voice came out in a hoarse whisper, still tremulous and uneven.
A moment's silence passed, before Cuddy's concerned voice replied. "House? What's wrong?"
"N-nothing," he answered, cringing at the tremor in his voice. "I…you just…left your cell phone here, so…so I figured I'd call you and…tell you. You know, for when I forget to bring it with me tomorrow. Wanna be sure you know to yell at me about it. Give me an excuse to…to ogle the twins again."
Cuddy was silent for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, cautious. "House – are you all right?"
A lengthy, awkward silence followed her question, as House struggled for the strength to give the answer he wanted to give her.
Yes…yes, I'm fine…he's gone, and he's not coming back, and I'm fine…it's so easy, you pathetic loser, just say it! You're fine!
"…No."
"I'm coming over there."
"No, there's…no need. I won't forget your phone. That was – was just an attempt to fit a clever and completely inappropriate sexual innuendo into a casual telephone conversation…"
"See you in ten minutes, House." Cuddy's tone brooked no room for argument.
To his horror, House felt the tiny pinpricks of tears of relief at the backs of his eyes, and closed them again, swallowing hard past the knot in his throat. He nodded, though he knew she couldn't see the gesture, as he whispered, "Okay. Cuddy…"
When he did not go on, her voice pressed gently, "What, House?"
He hesitated just a moment over two simple words that left her stunned, then hung up the phone before he could hear her reaction to them.
"Th-thank you."