Title: Lead Me Upstairs (11/?)
Author: nomad1328
Disclaimer: House and all characters therein belong to Shore Z, Fox, Bat Hat Harry, Heel &Toe, etc. I make no money off of them.
Thanks go to my reviewers and also to my beta, Armchair Elvis.
"For fuck's sake, Neil! I'm crippled!" House yells up the stairs as his direct supervisor, Neil Mattioli, walks up them without turning. "You can't do this!" .
"Talk to the EAP, House. I can't do anything else for you."
He still doesn't turn when he's speaking, and House stares at the back of his head in disbelief. Neil Mattioli has just canned him. One moment, Mattioli was motioning him over for a walk towards the elevators. The next, he had pulled House into his office, telling him that he was a liability, unable to function both physically and psychologically, that maybe he should look into doing research instead. He'd given House a stack of paperwork, told him to sign it, check with Employee Assistance if he needed help, and "good luck." Then Mattioli had risen to his feet, held out his hand (which House refused to take) and started towards the hallway and eventually the stairs. House had followed as quick as he could, arguing to give him more time. It had only been a year, he would get better, he could be a doctor again. But his supervisor had a made a decision.
House turns and nearly bowls over Lisa Cuddy. They both stumble, reaching for the other. Both of them end up still standing, but Cuddy's face is awkwardly planted on his chest. "Dr. House, I'm…"
"Get off of me."
She backs away, smoothing out her jacket.
"Are you okay? Did I…?"
"Fine. Great," he responds, anger apparent in the tense set of his mouth and posture. She begins to say something else, but it doesn't come.
Having regained his balance, he turns and heads towards the exit of the hospital as Cuddy watches him storm off best he can.
She has no idea what's set him off, but she'll learn soon enough. The only thing she does know is that every time she sees him, a cold slithering guilt slides into her throat and she's rendered nearly speechless.
When she runs into Wilson later on, he's having lunch with Stacy and neither of them know where House has gone. He was due for a PT session at eleven, but when Stacy showed up to be his cheering squad, he wasn't there. Wilson and Stacy had both dialed his cell, but House didn't pick up. When Cuddy tells them what she heard from O'Brian, another nephrologist who works with House under Mattioli, Wilson buries his face in his hands and Stacy crosses her arms.
Upon hearing the news, Stacy immediately starts thinking of a thousand ways that House can sue the hospital. In the next five minutes, she also figures out a few ways that House can sue both her and Cuddy.
Wilson feels so sick to his stomach that he can't finish lunch. He tells his boss that he's sick and he's going home, but then follows Stacy in her car. They head to the apartment first, but he's not there. From there, they split up and begin checking all of his local haunts.
It is almost four when Wilson stares up at the sign on the brick wall: "Charlie's Pub." He and House went there once- years ago, before Stacy, and got plastered on cheap tequila. It had been part celebration, part pity party. Wilson was divorced. House got hired. The bar was within walking distance to the hospital. Afterwards, they decided that it hadn't been the best place to get rowdy and that they wouldn't go back. The crowd was shifty and the prostitutes and drug dealers might as well have been wearing gold stars. Wilson mutters a whispered "Great" under his breath and goes into the bar.
Neon beer signs light the bar's walls and a few mid afternoon lowlifes cling to the shadows. Despite the sparse crowd, cigarette smoke still hangs in the air and the jukebox is blasting some obnoxiously fast country song.
House is at the bar, shoulders hunched over a glass containing a clear amber liquid and a few half melted ice cubes. The bartender, a short and grubby balding guy with navy tattoos up and down his arms, looks to Wilson as he sits on the bar stool next to House. "Want a drink?" Wilson shakes his head. "Then you ain't got no business here."
"I'm his ride." Wilson says, not even angry. He's expected it from this place.
"Don't need a ride." House, obviously drunk, slurs the words and the 'i' in ride is just a little too long.
"I think you do."
"How many has he had?" Wilson eyes the half empty glass on the bar and realizes, for the first time, that a pill bottle is sitting on the bar counter as well, closer to House so that it was at first hidden in the shadow.
The bartender wipes down glasses and shrugs a silent nonchalance.
"And you didn't notice that he might be on medication?" Wilson barks, anger welling.
"Half the guys come in here on medication," the barkeep replies. "He ain't no different."
"I should report you."
House tosses the rest of the glass back and swallows. His throat is almost numb now and everything is going down easily. He reaches for the pills and begins fumbling to get the cap off. Wilson grabs them and stuffs them into his own pocket. He knows it's a risk, and that House might retaliate, but it's the only thing he knows to do. House's fist closes on air and he pounds the wood of the bar once before sighing and falling into a brief blank stare. After a moment, he holds up a finger and motions at the bartender. Wilson clamps a hand down on House's wrist and shakes his head at the bartender."He's done. How much does he owe you?" Wilson asks, pulling out his wallet. At the motion, House breaks out of his brief inactivity, reaches into his coat pocket, and throws a money clip full of his credit cards, identification, and cash on the counter. "I've got money. Take it. Who gives a fuck…"
He trails off as he reaches for his cane, hooked on the metal bar underneath the counter. When he stands, he predictably sways. Wilson grabs House's arm to steady him while still trying to negotiate the tab with the bartender. It comes to over fifty dollars. Wilson grabs a few bills from House's money clip and places them on the wood. It's far too much money for a single guy at a bar. House has either been drinking high-priced scotch or he's had a lot of cheap scotch. Wilson bets on the latter and slides the money clip into his own pocket.
When they turn towards the door, Wilson's arm is still on him, trying to steady him on the right side. House keeps leaning too far over and hasn't been using the cane long enough to develop a normal rhythm. A fall wouldn't hurt him immediately, but it would suck in the morning. Halfway to the door, House seems to realize that someone is touching him and he shrugs away from Wilson, nearly toppling.
"Wouldn't do that," Wilson says, grabbing House again. "You're not exactly steady on that thing yet."
"Steadier than you."
Wilson purses his lips and stays silent. Getting to the car, surprisingly, goes without another hitch.
House starts feeling in his pockets as soon as Wilson is at the wheel. Wilson looks over at him, annoyed, but refuses to say anything. House has been on Vicodin since coming off the crutches a few weeks ago. Wilson knows that the prescription was filled yesterday, yet the bottle is half empty.
"I left my pills," House mumbles as the car starts.
"I've got them."
"Give." He reaches a hand over the console.
Wilson says nothing and instead reaches for his cell phone. He dials Stacy. Before he can get two words out, House is trying to yell, making conversation impossible.
"'sdat her? Huh? Fucking...!" He slams his fist into the console, but it doesn't give under his fist. The Volvo is invincible. "I can't…" he trails off, bringing his hands back to his lap and staring out the window. He turns his head to Wilson for a half moment and murmurs something like "I want to hate her..." Then he seems to settle, looks down at the floorboards between his feet and clinches his fists. Wilson is grateful, for once, that the alcohol and pills have made House unable to communicate because he doesn't want to hear what House might be trying to say. The only downside is that when House spills half the scotch and a few pills onto the floorboards, he is unable to tell Wilson that it is about to happen.
Stacy and Wilson get on either side of House and half carry him into the apartment. By now he's close to unconsciousness and with the exception of the occasional grunt, he's silent. Wilson wants to throw him into a cold bath. But Stacy insists on the bed and a cool cloth, under threat from Wilson that she'll have a bigger mess to clean up tomorrow.
As it happens, it's not Stacy that gets to clean up the mess. By the time morning comes, Stacy is packing an overnight bag and heading to a friend's house a few miles down the road. The night has been too much. House awakes from his drug and alcohol induced unconsciousness spilling forth a noxious mix of accusation and anger in between leaning over the bed to heave what is left in his stomach onto the hard wood floors. He won't let Stacy touch him when she tries to help him to the bathroom. Wilson half carries him there himself and follows through on his initial idea right after he urges Stacy out of the room, and eventually out of the apartment.
"You need a break from this," he says to her, hand on her bicep as she crosses her arms. House is quiet and dripping wet on the bathroom floor and they have moved into the living room to talk. "Go to Karen's and get some rest. He'll be better tomorrow. It's just a bad day…" A single tear drops quickly down her face and she makes no move to wipe it away. Her eyes keep darting over Wilson's shoulder, looking at House's slumped form in the bathroom down the hall. This has been nearly a year in coming- bottled rage dripping out in angry sarcasm, but building all the same until bursting forth a geyser. "Okay," she responds, but she knows this is the beginning of the end.