March 5th
Rob stirred as unconsciousness slowly lifted. He smelled stale whiskey and frowned. What's Mum doing up this early? She never makes it out of bed before I have to go to school. The muzzy thought didn't feel right though.
"Wakey wakey." Someone spoke very close by. It definitely wasn't his mother; the raspy baritone held a familiar edge. His frown deepened as he started to roll away from the source of irritation. A second later his vision filled with a spectacular display of fireworks as pain exploded inside his cranium. He curled in on himself. "What a shame, you look like a three day old turd. That's just unfortunate on so many levels. Get up!" A hand grabbed his arm and shook him hard. Nausea flooded Rob's body.
"Don't . . ." He crawled to the edge of the bed in a vain attempt at escape.
"Yeah, because asking me to stop always works," the voice said in a tone much too amused for Rob's taste. "I'm not going away anytime soon. Neither is that twenty megaton bomb that's detonating in your head right now. Might as well get this over with."
Bits and pieces of the previous evening's activities began to turn up for review—the first hit of whiskey, the impatience in Remy's eyes when she spoke to him, Will's expression as he touched her hand. Slowly Rob rolled over, eyes shut tight as the room spun and his head throbbed in agony. Only one person would be cruel enough to torment him during a hangover. "House," he said through gritted teeth.
"Heeeey, right first time!" A hand smacked Rob's knee, and reaction howled through his body. "Looks like whatever plan you had to get the bike rider fixing your flat tire wasn't successful."
Rob worked his way through the metaphor and chose to be offended. "Screw you," he said eventually.
"Nope, I'm not available either." House sounded almost cheerful. "So when exactly did you move into the active-alcoholic phase?"
"I'm . . . not. Haven't."
"Denial is a wonderful thing. It lets you get away with all sorts of cool stuff, at least until your liver craps out."
"You oughta know," Rob sneered, and regretted it when his stomach tightened. He slid his head over the edge of the mattress, struggled to hold everything in. He heard House rise and move away swiftly. A moment later something was shoved under his face.
"It would be really rude of you to ruin the carpet," House said. "Use this."
It was a humiliation to puke into a cute little rattan wastebasket. At least it had a plastic bag liner in it. The stench of sour liquor made him think of things he'd pushed away for years.
(He knew better than to expect she'd be awake, but he crept into her room anyway. She lay with her face turned away from him, arms akimbo like a broken doll's. She smelled of gin, her clothing wrinkled and limp.
"Mum?" He sat next to her, put a hand on her back. Her breathing was slow and erratic, but at least she was alive. On a sigh he got up and left her. It would be hours before she woke, and even then she would just look for another bottle, not him. Only when Dad was home did she pretend her priorities were different, but she wouldn't have to bother tonight; his father would work late, as usual. )
After he'd emptied out, he wedged his face into the crook of his arm. "Go away."
"Here." Something nudged Rob's hand. He cracked one eye open. It was the whiskey bottle, about a third full. "Hair of the dog. It helps."
Rob stared at it. After a moment he slowly sat up a little, took the bottle, opened it and swigged a substantial amount of the contents. It burned all the way down, which felt good but in a bad way. "Proving a point?" he asked after a few moments. His tongue was thick and clumsy and his eyes couldn't quite focus, but at least the nausea had started to retreat.
"Don't have to." House pulled up a chair and propped his feet on the mattress.
"It isn't about Cameron," Rob said after a time and another swallow of whiskey. "Or Dibala, or you going off the rails. I don't really know why . . ."
"Doesn't matter." House crossed his legs. "There's always a reason. Or there isn't. What matters is what you decide to do about it. Or what you don't."
"I can stop," Rob said. He set the bottle aside, though he knew it didn't prove his point.
"No you can't." House looked away. "Don't even bother to go there. It's too boring to meander through the usual dance of denials and accusations. Let's get right to the nitty-gritty, as we used to say back when hippies ruled Haight-Ashbury."
"Which is?" Rob snapped. His heart pounded in time with his head.
"You tell me."
"You want me to say I'm an alcoholic because of one night of drinking?" Rob rubbed his eyes and groaned as pain thudded through his skull.
"It hasn't been just one night lately though, has it?" House folded his hands over his middle. "This pattern is becoming more frequent. Maybe you aren't getting drunk every time, but you're buzzed enough to relax or fall asleep or forget—"
"I'm not you!" Rob said loudly, and winced. "Okay? I'm not you."
There was a brief silence. "You mean you're not a burned-out, pathetic jerk who's lost everything through his inherent weaknesses and retreated from the world in some last-ditch attempt to get his groove back," House said quietly. Rob squinted at him. That was quite a speech, he thought. He meant it too. The sadness that realization caused was a bit of a surprise. Aloud he said
"Something like that."
"Well yeah," House said. "You're just starting out on that ever-so-amusing and delightful journey." He gave Rob a direct look. "You won't have as many years to work with because you're genetically predisposed, I think. You'll give it a good run though. Fifteen, maybe twenty before enough of your liver hardens and the last brain cell kicks the bucket." He tilted his head. "Or you might stir up enough free radicals to get some really good cancer on, like your old man. I don't think he wanted you to follow in his footsteps in quite that fashion, though."
"I'm not an alcoholic," Rob said. He rubbed sweaty palms on his thighs and glanced at the bottle. "Things have been a little rough lately—"
"Uh uh." House shook his head. "Can't have it both ways. You said this kind of behavior wasn't brought on by recent events—now you're saying it is."
"What d'you care?" Rob muttered, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
"I don't." House swung his legs to the floor. "But you should." He got to his feet. "Talk to Doctor Goldman," he said quietly. "And tell Wilson you're out of the game from now on. You're too emotionally fucked up to be an effective spy."
"I'm not a spy," Rob protested, but House had already turned his back and left the room. He closed the door with a snap that echoed like a rifle shot around the inside of Rob's brain.
For a long time he sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the house gradually come to life. Sunlight began to filter in around the blinds; the room air was chill, the fire died down to embers once more. He had a vague memory of Remy crouched by the hearth as she added wood to kindling, her face illuminated by the soft light. She'd dumped him on the bed like a sack of potatoes, obviously glad to be rid of him. She and Reynard probably kept each other warm, he thought, and sighed. Well, if she had he'd pushed her into it by acting the fool. Now he had a long ride home with someone who probably couldn't stand the sight of him, and a meeting with Wilson and Cuddy that would not be pleasant for anyone in attendance.
He was interrupted by a click and the sound of forced air in the heat vents. A few moments later someone knocked on his door.
"Electricity's back on," Will called. "There'll be hot water in an hour if you need it." Rob flinched and wrapped his arms around himself. The idea of a scrub-up under hot water held no appeal whatsoever, but then neither did a journey downstairs when he still smelled like a distillery gone bad.
After an hour he opted for a shower. That meant he was able to show up with clean damp hair brushed back from his face and his teeth and tongue mostly free of the taint of vomit and liquor. He approached Sarah as she sat at the kitchen table with Thirteen as they shared tea and fresh-baked rolls.
"Doctor Goldman, could we talk in private please?" he asked quietly. He didn't look at her companion. Without a word Sarah rose, and they went to the office.