A/N: Thanks for reading/commenting/enjoying.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.
Thanks: to NaiveEve and Betz88 for their help and encouragement
-10-
"The Last Time"
Allison isn't about to be the only one packing suitcases. At breakfast, she made the announcement that everyone will be responsible for their own stuff (except for Marie, who is too little and will need her sisters' help).
Ariel and Bridget are old enough to decide what they need to bring for the week's stay. It will be warm; June weather in New York is warm like Phoenix, except more humid and muggy. Bridget said she didn't want to be mugged and could they please not go. Ariel explained with a touch of exasperation that muggy meant hot and stifling, and really, really uncomfortable. And if Bridget didn't want to go, she could stay at the McKendry's and play with Tide the Chihuahua all week. Marie clapped her hands and Allison stifled a laugh and declared 'that's enough of that'.
Joe will pack for himself; he is good that way. He knows what kind of day she had, the trauma, the visions, the glimpse of the perp's twisted psyche, which will take more than a day to leave her.
Now the kids are busy in their room; Joe is washing the dinner dishes. She can hear Ariel and Bridget opening drawers, chattering to Marie, who is most likely clutching Bunny, looking on in awe. The girls paw through shirts and shorts, socks and underwear. Those drawers will need some straightening after this, Allison muses, letting her eyes close, as she lazes on the sofa, feet up, evening news a drone, a buzzing fly in this dark tunnel...leading to...
...a train car. A pretty darn exquisite one. These are not your ordinary, everyday railroad accommodations. Allison gives the car a leisurely once over, noticing the gilt edge fixtures around the doors, the wood paneled walls, polished to a high sheen. The plush maroon carpet is embellished with tiny gold starbursts. There is a faint smell of cigars, a more prominent, richer scent of leather seats. These seats, she thinks, running her hand along the top of one, are more like easy chairs: so soft, high backed, each one the color of a Maui sunset.
The car rumbles and clickety-clacks beneath her new red shoes with the spiked heels. The color goes nicely with the scarlet dress she wears. It is stylish, urbane, with a sweeping hemline that tickles her calves. It is like nothing she has ever owned. But she wouldn't mind having it hanging in her closet. Although, when would she ever wear it? It is too fancy for work or for a trip to the mall. Maybe for Halloween? Kids would get a kick out of it. Joe would, well Joe would like it a lot. A possibility...,
The train squeals to a stop, causing her to sway and grab onto a seatback to keep her balance. Her wide brimmed hat tips over her eyes. She sends her fingers on an exploratory tour and finds the brim to be velvet. Red velvet, she assumes.
Doors slide smoothly open, with hardly a sound, none of that grating or squeaking you get on everyday, ordinary trains. Hmmph. Allison nods appreciatively, impressed with this first class operation.
The first passenger is the same young man she encountered at the mall; the same kid who wanted to join her on the train. Well, looks like he gets his wish. He's got that James Dean, Rebel Without a Cause moodiness down just right: unsmiling, smoldering green eyes with a faraway look. Girls would swoon over this one. His lank, pretty hair drifts over his brow as he saunters to the rear of the car. As he moves, his thin hospital gown swishes around his legs, certainly not as flowingly as her scarlet dress. But she figures he is brooding too much to care. He appears to have more on his mind than what apparel he's been forced to endure. He falls into the last seat in the car, flopping his feet up on the chair facing him...and shoots a glare her way.
She considers engaging him in a little tête-à-tête, when a loud, metallic clanking sounds behind her, interrupting her plans.
Clank-CLINK, clank-CLINK, clank-CLINK.
Metal boots shuffle over the meticulously maintained carpeting. It is the knight. Her knight. Lancelot.
His gait is uneven, halting; his head is bowed, shoulders hunched. It's as if some unseen entity is riding him, adding significant weight to his armor, hampering his progress, debilitating him further.
He puts his full weight on his jewel encrusted sword as he stops to rest. His armor squeaks and squeals like a hurt cat as he lifts his head to search for a seat.
And as he makes his decision, the doors slide closed behind him; he grunts as he clink-clanks across the aisle to settle in by the window. Resting the sword against the wall, he leans his head back and places his gloved hand over his visor. That's when she notices the bloodstains tainting the underside of the glove and the lower portion of his sleeve. She wants to ask if he's been in battle, if he is okay. These questions will be boxed up with all the others, set aside for when her knight decides to communicate: if that time ever comes.
His armor is almost entirely black now, except for a few grey smudges and tiny pits of rust dotting the landscape. She wonders about the holes in his suit: one near the top of his shoulder and the other at the thigh of his right leg, Allison imagines small charges clinging to the metal, setting off two small but powerful explosions. She can just about see the patch of suit jacket by the shoulder; a circle of worn denim by the thigh. It is clear that Lancelot has been through a terrible trial, a traumatic event. She feels a renewed determination to convince him to remove the visor, talk to her, tell her his story.
She draws closer, eases herself into the seat across from him, but is pulled from her reverie by the malevolent look of the boy in the rear of the car, as she...
...gasps and jerks upright. Joe's hand is on her shoulder; he is smiling that knowing, 'it's dreamtime again' smile. He tells her the kids are asleep, asks if she might be coming to bed too? She grunts a sleepy assent and lets him take her arm and lead her down the hall to their room, to lie down, to dream some more.
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House sits on his gradually cooling cycle, eyeing the stone and stucco exterior of the Sedgewick Arms. Usually he doesn't give the building a second thought, so anxious is he to get to Faulkner's office, to lose himself for an hour or two or three. But today something is preying on him. He needs to think. For some strange reason, he feels compelled to get his thoughts in order. Not an easy task, since each internal query is met with stubborn resistance.
Reasoning, deducing, chopping away the perfunctory and getting to the heart of the matter are his forte. If he had a whiteboard and a team, he would be all set.
Wilson would've have listened, acted as your team, but you probably didn't give him a chance. Actually, you don't quite remember what went on in the diner, do you? Except for the memory of stuffing a ridiculous amount of food in your face, it's all a blur. Too bad. You do know he's concerned about you. Doesn't that make you think something's a little...wrong here? That something in your head might need a little fixing? Wilson cares. You could have told him about this oddball world you've been tossed into. Maybe he could have...
Pain sets its sights on him, aims straight and gets him good in the right thigh. All thoughts of Wilson take a hike...replaced instantly by
...chowtime...best friend Bill...his ideas...what he says goes...best friend Bill...never lead you wrong...
The throb in his thigh gradually fades. Breathe. Turning his head, he faces the road home. Just hop on the bike, rev it up and you're on your way. The road leads to Princeton. Home. Safety. It would be easy. So simple. Rev it up. One hand grips the ignition key and...
...suddenly he is inside a vacuum, gasping, wheezing, his chest hitching. Then, like an afterthought, pain grips his leg again. Black dots dip, dance and dive on the pavement, on the white lines dividing the road in two.
Focus, Greg. Tha-at's it. Look at the building. Best friend Bill is waiting...
Breathe.
Heart beat slows, time ticks and ticks and tocks. It is alright...alright. He is safe now. Yeah. He removes the key from the ignition, stuffs it deep inside his jeans pocket, then considers how good his hands feel in these black leather driving gloves. This is real. It's like he has been shaken out of a stupor. He smells their good leather smell meshing with the scent of his sweat. Heady...alive. He smiles, removing his helmet, letting the breeze riffle through his damp, matted hair.
Flexing his fingers, he savors the gloves' supple, sturdy feel. They protect his hands from the elements, giving the gash in his palm additional armor against pain and infection. He blinks, runs two gloved fingers up the length of his throat...and gently back. Abruptly, his thoughts shift to the individual aftertastes playing on the back of his tongue, the cloying sweetness of the apple pie, greasy meaty onion taste of the burger, slippery noodles, tiny bites of chicken...
...so much food...so much heavy food...makes you logy...drowsy...in need of a little nap...
and maybe that's the point
(breathe...drift...)
Cars rush by, he sways, realizes the shadows are deepening,
(you're late...he's waiting, waiting...best friend Bill...you owe him...)
Above the building, the sky is a mass of cotton wool clouds: bruised looking, purplish black, huddled together, swallowing up the daylight.
He grabs his helmet and cane, then crosses the road to the entranceway before he is swallowed up too.
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This could be the last time, the Prophet Jagger once professed. Sho' nuff. House's decision is made in the elevator that this will be the last time he takes the ride up to the tenth floor of the Sedgewick Arms. He feels a sudden burst of determination, an adrenaline rush that gives him the impetus to hold tight to this decision.
Sure, old man, you're all better, or as good you're gonna get. He fills his head with assurances, with encouraging words. Leaving the car, he pauses to slip off his driving gloves (taking care not to pull away the gauze on his hand) and tuck them into his jacket pocket, before continuing down the quiet, carpeted hallway to Faulkner's apartment.
He announces his arrival, using his cane to tap the door...
...for the last time.
Faulkner is there, smiling, welcoming him with a wave of his hand and...
...suddenly...House feels a warmth in his gut. The taste of apple pie and burger grease on the back of his tongue soothes him.
He leans against the threshold, using all the restraint he can muster to stop himself from moving further into the place. If he takes one step, then one step more, he might forget that this is, indeed, the last time.
"Come in, Doctor."
House squints hard at him. "What do we do here?"
"I'm sorry?" Faulkner's lips twitch up. He smoothes the black tie that lies perfectly straight against the tan shirt.
"It doesn't seem like we do much here." House rubs his brow, takes a breath. "Three, four hours go by. It sure takes a long time to do a lot of nothing."
Faulkner clasps his hands and draws closer, his head cocked to the right. "Your pain is manageable now?"
"Yes."
"So what's the problem?" He takes the helmet from under House's arm, and sets it on the floor, in the corner.
"No problem." Looking at the ceiling, House mulls over each word before saying them. It is a supreme effort to bring them forth, like piling one gargantuan stone on top of another. "I'm...done...with...this. With...you."
"What happened to your hand, Doctor?"
House lowers his gaze to meet Faulkner's, his response terse and quick. "Cut it."
"Looks like there might be quite a gash under all that gauze." Faulkner raises his brows. "What happened?"
"Cut...it."
"Do you remember how you cut it, Doctor?"
"I..."House directs his gaze toward the polished black shoes of Bill Faulkner, then studies the way his own sneakers sink into the plush nap of the carpet. He shakes his head, his heart beating hard and fast, winces against the pie, meat, vanilla shake tastes clawing at the back of his throat, choking him. He staggers forward but Faulkner is there to catch him. His hands are rock solid under House's arms, steadying him, righting him again. The man is all warmth, cologne, impeccable, clean shaven, a shoulder, a comfort...
Best friend Bill...always there for you...
"It's time to rest, Dr. House, don't you think?"
His breathing slows. Yeah, sounds like a plan. He imagines lying back in that comfortable recliner, thinks of how perfectly it conforms to the shape of his body, like a cloud...
(...the last time...last..time...)
Then he is walking beside Faulkner down the long hall, through the maze of rooms, drawing nearer to the glass display. A welcome sight, mini fluorescents illuminate the wonderful dragons and knights and maidens and castles and...
He stops short. His eyes go wide and he is suddenly speechless, disconsolate. His ragged breathing makes his throat ache, the pounding of his heart causes his ribcage to shudder, as one hand shoots out to grip the side of the case. The glass trembles beneath his fingers, causing two of the smaller dragons to tip over and land on their backs on the grassy plain. They could be sleeping; they could be dead.
But the dragons are the least of House's concern.
"Gone?" House rasps.
The middle shelf, the place where the jewel encrusted sword once sparkled its mystical welcome, is empty.
"Gone," Faulkner whispers.
House's mouth falls open. He searches for a word, an exclamation, a cry
(sounds like...)
but he can't articulate the depths of his distress. The vacant shelf gleams its surprise. That vacancy makes House want to smash the glass with his cane, let those flying shards imbed themselves in his hair, his skin.
The pain would feel better than this emptiness that has settled inside him like a black hole.
"Where is it?" he asks.
"It's safe, don't worry." Faulkner touches his back. His palm feels good, comforting, warm.
"I want to see it."
"Oh, you will."
"Now?" House snaps his head toward Faulkner.
Faulkner's eyes gleam with empathy, the corners of his lips turning up into an easy grin.
"Now?" House's voice cracks.
Tucking his hands in his pockets, Faulkner nods, keeping that smile in place. "Soon."
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The moment Wilson pulls his Volvo into Cuddy's driveway, he wishes he were back in his hotel room. Surely there is something on his Tivo he hasn't watched yet. Even dozing off to an infomercial would be better than being here. Articulating his fears to someone other than himself is not a pleasing prospect. But he needs an ally, someone who can offset his growing panic, assure him there is a reason behind House's strange, disturbing behavior. He tries to convince himself there is a solution. Between the two of them they will come up with an answer that makes some kind of twisted sense.
Weariness assaults him as he shuffles up the walk to the door. He hadn't realized he was so tired. Falling into bed, giving himself an hour's reprieve would feel fantastic. But it's not going to happen. Not right now. He presses the buzzer and braces himself against the wall of the porch.
The door opens immediately, like he was expected. Cuddy is dressed in black shorts, an itty bitty pink t-shirt. The faint chatter of TV trails along behind her.
"So?" she asks.
He thins his lips, fixes her with a defeated look as he shakes his head.
"Did you follow him?"
"We went to the diner."
"The diner."
"Yes."
"So you didn't find out who-"
"He...wouldn't let me." He cuts her off in a tone that is all rasp, gravel and grit.
They stand at the threshold, each hoping the other will have the grand solution to what is now more than a spot of trouble. The chirpy chirps of crickets is the first sign that evening is here; the soft, persistent drone of the nightly news is the other.
"Is House alright?" she asks, finally.
"I...don't think so."
She keeps her eyes on him as she steps away from the door to let him in. He wishes she wouldn't look at him like that, like he might give her a friendly chuck on her shoulder, tell her he's only kidding and ask her to a movie or a museum show or...
No.
He sits across from her in the living room with its richly upholstered loveseats, the recliner and ottoman, the sofa, the high backed cherry wood chair (an antique, which has probably been in her family for decades). She lowers the volume on the TV. Alex Trebek's mouth jabbers but nothing comes out.
At least one thing is as it should be.
Wilson waits a beat, collects his thoughts, then gives Cuddy the lowdown. The details of House's cholesterol adventure pour from him like cascades of water down a mountain pass. Once he starts talking he can't seem to stop. But Cuddy doesn't interject or interrupt. She just listens.
The rush of words slows to a few sad sentences, before gradually dying away. Wilson hangs his head, expecting to hear some sort of response. But Cuddy offers nothing, just pushes up from the loveseat and heads to the kitchen. When she returns, she holds two tumblers of a rich amber liquid and hands one to Wilson. Looks a lot like scotch. One taste tells Wilson it is. The good stuff.
It warms him, makes him hopeful for possibilities. Ah, yes, the magic of one hundred proof alcohol.
"I'm going to contact Gurand tomorrow," Cuddy says after her third swallow. "House needs to talk to him."
"He won't." Wilson drains the glass, immediately feeling the unique head rush only booze on an empty stomach can provide. "He'll tell you he's got a therapist. He calls this doctor his 'friend'."
She raises a brow. "You know as well as I do that a therapist is not a friend."
"House should know that too." Wilson lifts a hand, then drops it in his lap. "I think...whoever this guy is he's seeing, is playing with his head, putting stuff in there that doesn't belong."
Tapping her nearly empty glass against her armrest, Cuddy juts out her lower lip. "So you think this 'doctor' is using House as a subject rather than treating him as a patient?"
Wilson sinks back into the sofa. "I know how it sounds, believe me. But when House spoke to me tonight..." Wilson huffs out a frustrated breath, rubs one hand along the cushion. "...he sounded like a bad actor reading off an atrocious script. It was eerie. But the freakiest part was those eyes."
"It sounds like something out of a B-movie"
"I wish you could have been there." Wilson's tone has gone quiet, reflective. "That look in his eyes when he was shoveling food into his face...he was frightened, like he was crying out for help without being able...without being permitted to articulate it."
She downs her drink, shakes her head. Her words are edgy and hushed. "No doctor would take on a patient for the express reason of exerting control over him."
"No." Wilson sets the cool glass against his cheek. "But you know as well as I do that House has a distinct talent for pissing people off."
God, what the hell did he do this time?
The question hovers in the silence, as the images on the TV flicker against the walls like shadowy spirits, as Cuddy's eyes search Wilson's, as Wilson wonders what House might be doing...
...right now...