Author's Note: No excuses. Don't have any. Just a longer chapter with a Wilson flashback. Questions answered, more raised. Thanks for those still handing in with me.
12.
Moments passed, moments in which House began to lose himself in the splendor of her touch, the wonder of her kiss. Like separate branches of the same vine stretching toward the light, his arms reached up to encircle her at the same time as his lips pressed into hers, deepening the kiss.
He knew in the secret places of his heart, she was his salvation.
And yet he was not, could not, be hers. He was too battered and broken. He was wholly undeserving of this.
Of her.
Remy leaned into him in a restrained yet unremitting demand for more. House yielded at first and began by following her lead, his body and heart overriding the doubts and fears that plagued him. But his mind never stopped whirling with opposing thoughts, culminating finally to one which supplanted all others.
He abruptly turned his head away, effectively breaking off their kiss.
"No."
Sensing the battle raging within, Thirteen sought to mitigate his hesitancy by reestablishing their physical connection. But as she reached up to stroke the side of his face, House took hold of her hand, halting its progress.
"Don't," he breathed, opening the eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed in the first place.
"Why?" she asked, lifting her gaze to study the sharp features of his profile.
House paused long enough to fill his lungs with air, then slowly exhaled, buying himself time. Gingerly, he slid his body away from her, inclining his shoulders against the headboard and rolling his head back to stare blankly at the ceiling.
Regretfully, Thirteen let him go. She looked down and when she did she was surprised to see that although he had physically separated his body, his hand however still held onto hers. Their fingers threaded so well together that it was difficult to discern exactly where his hand stopped and hers began.
Still, House held on. It as if in maintaining that contact, by staying in touch with some small piece of her, he was keeping himself alive and grounded.
"I can't," he said, lowering his head in order to meet her gaze.
Thirteen made a show of glancing below his toweled waist, before locking eyes with him, raising her finely arched eyebrows in question at his body's unmistakable infidelity to his words.
"I don't mean I can't. I can," House said testily. "I mean . . ." He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "I can't," he repeated. He raised his chin, leaning his head back as he swallowed hard on a dry throat. Thirteen focused on the way his Adam's apple bobbed along the line of his refined neck.
Gently, she shrugged off his grasp, removing her hand from his in order to raise that same hand once again to his face. Her eyes were filled with understanding and her fingers felt soft and warm as she tenderly caressed his cheek. She seemed to be waiting for something else, for some signal from him.
Exhausted and shattered as he was, House threw out a last match to the wind. He knew if he could engage her curiosity, which was nearly as unquenchable as his own, perhaps he could alter her current course . . . and save her, prevent her from making this terrible mistake.
No matter how much he himself wanted otherwise.
"Do you really want to know why I didn't use pills to off myself? Why I slashed my wrists instead of ODing on Vicodin or some other painkiller?"
Thirteen's almond-shaped eyes widened in surprise at House's abrupt change of subject. She slowly nodded her head.
"Only if you," she hesitated, then finished, "Only if you want to tell me."
House closed his eyes and sighed. He wasn't sure what he wanted anymore.
Or maybe he was sure. He wanted her. But he also wanted to keep her safe, leave her whole.
He sighed a second time, resigning himself. Behind his closed eyelids, he could see it all again. The scene flickered before him, like an old piece of nitrate film, the images shaky at first with the flood of emotions his memories evoked.
He was limping heavily toward the motel room, off balance by both the long, unproductive day and the loaded paper bag he had crammed into the crook of his left arm. He moved as quickly as he could in the chill mountain air, desperate to get inside where it was warmer and where he might for a time be able to ignore the white hot stab of pain in his right thigh. It was worth a try.
Short on time and with a long list of things still to do, House needed to explain his quickly organized contingency plan to Wilson. Even more important, House needed his best friend's consent and possibly, his participation, no matter how limited.
He hung his cane on his left wrist and shifted the paper bag packed with supplies over to his left hip before swiping the key card in the lock. Taking back the cane in his preferred right hand, House took a deep breath just as the lock's light flashed green. Turning the door handle, he muttered under his breath, "Here we go."
House stepped inside the room, pausing a moment as his eyes adjusted to its relative dimness. Though only late afternoon, the blinds were drawn from force of habit.
Neither House nor Wilson had been keen to allow any possible witnesses to the goings-on in their room. The former wished to keep secret the frequent use of painkillers and his own selfless nursing of his friend while the latter remained embarrassed at the idea that the casual passerby might assume they were more than friends. Wilson's hypersensitivity to outsiders' misconstruing his and House's relationship had early on in their journeys opened the door for House's constant ribbing and occasional practical jokes. Yet Wilson had become oddly grateful for this distraction, one of many his friend provided, as the weeks wore on and his health continued to decline.
From the far side of the room, Wilson looked up expectantly and House noticed his best friend's improved appearance. Wilson looked much better, his eyes were brighter and there was a little more color in his face. He was on the upswing of yet another, unexpected rally and House was grateful for it. In the coming hours and days, Wilson's improved health would prove essential.
Upon House's entrance, Wilson turned off the television and tossed the remote control onto the nearby nightstand. He stood up and casually walked toward his best friend just as House turned to close the door, turning the bolt and affixing the chain to the frame.
"You were gone an awfully long time," Wilson said. "What'd you get?"
"Just some . . . supplies. Food, stuff like that."
Wilson cocked his head. "Drugs?"
House sighed and turned back to his friend. No time like the present. He shook his head. "No."
Wilson let out a small chuckle. "C'mon House. Quit joking around."
House stared steadily at his friend. "I'm not joking."
"House, don't feel like you have to protect me. I know what you've had to do to score my painkillers. I just want to say thanks."
"I said NO," House said, raising his voice as if he were speaking to an unruly child. He immediately regretted it. But time, specifically his time, was running out. "Look Wilson," he said, then sighed, "I need to talk to you."
Wilson took a step back and narrowed his eyes. "O-kay."
"Sit down."
"That bad?" Wilson asked, as he backed up and slowly lowered himself onto the bed furthest from the door.
House nodded. There was no sense in couching it in gentle language or trying to make this pretty - because within the next few hours, it wasn't going to be pretty at all. In fact, things were going to get downright ugly. He looked at his best friend again. He was glad Wilson was in the middle of another rally. Maybe he would have the strength . . .
House lowered his head, sidestepping around Wilson's bony knees protruding from his terrycloth robe, and limped past him to the small refrigerator in the corner of their room.
"I've got some food, some sandwiches and sodas which should last you the next few days," House said, unloading the items from the paper bag and storing them in the refrigerator.
"Me?" Wilson asked, immediately picking up on the omission. "Not . . . us?"
"Listen to me Wilson," House said as he shut the refrigerator door and rose to his full height. He felt a trickle of cold sweat running down his spine. "Our stockpile of painkillers is limited and my supply line, my supply line just dried up."
Wilson's eyes widened. "Are you sure?"
House nodded again. "Yep. Saw my dealer get taken out in handcuffs by a couple of narcs. Can't count on any more from that pipeline. No more drugs. Done. Finished. End-of-story."
"But what are we going to do when . . .?"
"I've got enough stockpiled to last you until . . ." House shook his head to clear the image, then lifted his chin, gesturing at Wilson. "You should have enough for awhile yet."
"Just 'me' again," Wilson said, nodding as comprehension slowly dawned on him. "But what . . . what about you?"
House closed his eyes and dropped his head. "No," he said so quietly that Wilson had to lean forward to catch his words. "If we can't count on any more coming in then we can't count on there being enough for the both of us."
"Maybe you can find another supplier?" Wilson said incredulously. "You must have contacts?"
"Focus Wilson!" House shouted raising his eyes to look at his friend. "Remember how long it took me to get this guy? To make sure that he could get us medical grade painkillers? Think I'm gonna take the chance of trying to find a new dealer now? When the narcs are gonna be combing the streets and cracking down on all the dealers in the area?" He shook his head again. "If I get arrested now, it won't do either of us much good."
"Okay, okay," Wilson said raising both hands in a gesture of appeasement. "So what are you gonna do?"
"Only thing I can do." He limped past Wilson again, still holding the half-full paper bag. He raised his arm and looked at his watch – the watch the doomed Kutner had given him as a gift so very long ago, a lifetime before . . . "It's already been four hours since my last pill," House said.
Wilson was much quicker on the uptake this time. He shook his head vigorously. "No House! No! You can't!"
"Got any better ideas? Cause I'm more than open to hearing them. Anything that doesn't involve you or me getting drugs cut with crap like drain cleaner? Or both of us getting arrested and thrown in jail so that you can spend the rest of your short life in a prison hospital while I become the favorite bitch of some tattoo-faced moron who's got a fetish for gimps with scars?" House finished, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
Wilson shook his head, "No, but . . ."
"Then you've gotta, we've gotta see this through." House paused before spitting the next words out. "I need . . . I need your help Wilson. Just this once . . . just one more time."
"Okay," Wilson said slowly nodding his head, the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. He realized what House's request had cost him.
House couldn't stand to see the tears so he turned away.
"Good," House said as he upended the bag, emptying the remaining contents onto the bed Wilson was currently sitting on. From the corner of his eye, House saw Wilson lean forward to get a better look. When he turned toward him again, Wilson's eyes widened, this time with consternation, as he looked at the items House spread out before him.
"That stuff looks like . . ."
"It looks like that because that's exactly what it is. Sue me."
"But what do you need . . .?"
"Thing is Wilson, I'm . . ." House swallowed hard on a dry throat. "Look, we both know this isn't going to be a walk in the park. I'm already . . ." House stopped again to focus. He felt his stomach clench. "Doesn't matter. What does matter is very soon I'm gonna get to the point where I won't care anymore about what happens to you. I won't care anymore about what happens to me. In another couple of hours I won't care about anything else except stopping the pain."
He closed his eyes but soldiered on. "I won't be able to stop myself from running outside and trying to find a dealer, any dealer, no matter what the consequences. Or worse, I'll break into the stash I've been saving for you and leave you with nothing. Do you understand?" He turned back, opening his eyes to look at Wilson as if he were looking right through him. Though his eyes were already a little bloodshot, his gaze remained sharp and clear.
"I can't allow that Wilson," House continued. "Neither of us can afford to let that happen. So I'll have to be stopped. I have to stop myself. You'll have to help me. I have to be stopped now, before it's too late."
Wilson stood up and approached his friend. "Okay House," he said with more than a hint of resignation in his voice. He exhaled forcefully and said, "What do you need me to do?"
House nodded somberly. It cut like a knife to have to ask his friend this. Worse still was the knowledge of what Wilson would witness over the next few days and of the things he might try and do and say to the man he loved like a brother.
But if there had been any other way, any choice that didn't risk Wilson's safety or health, House would have done it.
"I'm going into the bathroom to purge," House said. "I'll get rid of whatever's still in my stomach. But that's not gonna help all that much. I'm still gonna hurl."
"Don't worry about that. You've cleaned up enough of my messes."
House nodded again. "When I come out, I'll put on my pajama pants and a tee shirt. Then you'll have to use these," he picked up one of the sets of fur-lined handcuffs, "to restrain me. My arms and legs will have to be fastened to the bedposts."
"For how long?" Wilson asked.
"'S long as it takes."
Wilson silently regarded him, waiting.
"Judging from my experience at Mayfield, two, maybe three days tops. Can you do that? For me?"
"Yes," Wilson answered quietly. Then he raised his eyebrows and asked. "You want me to restrain your right leg too? Won't that hurt your . . ."
House let go of a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Of course it's gonna goddamn hurt! Everything's gonna goddamn hurt in a little while." He involuntarily shuddered. "So yes, my right leg too. But don't put this on me," he dropped the handcuffs onto the bed and picked up the bondage gag, "right away. I'm gonna need to vomit. Once I start screaming though," he paused again, this time lifting his wrist up to wipe the beads of sweat that had started on his forehead. Echoes of pain and his own futile screaming when he was at Mayfield filled his memory. He was getting close. "We don't want any nosey maids or passersby calling the cops to bust down our door, not with the drugs we've still got in here."
Wilson shook his head, "No, of course not."
House grinned darkly at him. "Especially if they see me tied up to the bed like your sub, eh Wilson? Still afraid people will think we do each other?" He paused just long enough to see Wilson shift uncomfortably. Though time was of the essence, House couldn't pass up on a chance to needle his best friend. "That's why you were so shocked to see my purchases from the local sex shop wasn't it?" He shook his head. "Tsk, tsk. Still so repressed. So inhibited. Break down the door of your closet Wilson! Now's your big chance to do to me what I know you've been waiting years to do."
Wilson raised his head, smiling gratefully at the deflection. "Nah. That doesn't fit into your fantasy now does it? I don't have a tattoo on my face and I'm not into scarred gimps. Besides, if I ever decided to go gay, I'd find someone closer to my own integer instead of your wrinkled old ass."
House's smile turned into a grimace as another wave of pain moved through him like water. Still, he kept up his front. "That's the spirit Wilson! Still insisting you can do better than me. Only I think the REAL reason you don't want to tap my fine, more experienced ass is because your package will look insignificant in comparison to my superior length and girth."
"Yeah right House. Brag all you want. But you know what women say."
"Ouch?"
Wilson laughed out loud. It was the first time he'd laughed in quite some time and House's shaky smile returned, inching a little further up at the corners. It did not, however, reach his eyes, which were still filled with pain. But as Wilson's warm gaze continued to embrace House's cold, fearful one, the warmth of his chocolate brown eyes was finally successful in melting a bit of the icy blue.
"No! They say 'it's not the meat but the motion,'" Wilson refuted.
"Yeah, that sounds exactly like something your women would say. No doubt desperately trying to hide their disappointment with your microscopic frank and beans."
"You know, you say things like that and in a little while you'll be tied up in the same room with me. My phone takes pictures and has internet access. And this room has wi-fi."
The blood ran from House's face as another wave of pain from his injured right leg washed over him. He stopped smiling abruptly and looked down at his now trembling hands. "Guess we better get this party started," he said quietly.
As he turned toward the bathroom, Wilson raised his hand to rest it on his friend's shaking arm. He nodded and looked deeply into House's eyes. "It's time for me to take care of you again House," he said then paused and smiled weakly. "Just like old times."
Overcome with emotion, House averted his gaze and merely nodded. He stepped around Wilson, heading toward the bathroom.
"I'll be here when you come out," Wilson said to House's retreating back. And just as House turned to shut the bathroom door behind him, Wilson spoke once more. He whispered, knowing full well House could still hear him through the door.
"I won't . . . I promise I won't leave you House. I promise I'll take care of you. Trust me."
