A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading!
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.
-14-
"Skyscrapers...And Everything"
There are times House chides him for running like a girl. Well, hell, maybe that's true, Wilson thinks, zipping along with lithe, quick ease past nurses, orderlies, three kinds of doctors, four varieties of surgeons. A virtual Baskin & Robbins assortment of healthcare professionals here at Princeton-Plainsboro. He can't help the way he runs. Hey, at least he can run.
Dammit.
He is panting by the time he catches up with House at the elevator banks, rewarded for his trouble with a sharp, stony glare...then nothing.
"Where are you going?" Wilson lifts his hands in exasperation as the elevator dings and slides open.
House stands aside, glowering at the thundering herd as it debarks. Pushing through the stragglers, he boards, throwing Wilson a caustic leer. Seething, Wilson bobs on the balls of his feet as two interns saunter slowly past him. They have no idea they're blocking his way. Are they friggin' sleepwalking? Do they need a taser zap in they butt? It's like they're out for a goddamn midday stroll. Somehow he manages to shoot forward, nearly ramming them both into the wall. He mutters a vague apology as he wedges his shoulder between the doors just in time to stop them from sliding shut. With a grunt, he squeezes through and stumbles into the car. The doors slide open again. Gifting House with a tight lipped nod, Wilson takes his place beside him.
"Stop following me," House says, staring straight ahead.
The doors close.
Wilson plants his hands on his hips. "So did you walk out in a snit or did Cuddy send you home to 'get your head together'?"
House hugs his helmet closer to his body...
...like a talisman, Wilson thinks.
House leans over to punch the "L" button, and the car begins its smooth descent. His mouth twitches, his tongue trails along the bristle just below his lower lip. "I don't want to talk to you."
"That's getting pretty old, House." Wilson glides toward the buttons, feigning great interest in the aluminum frame around the control panel. A quick tour: here we have the 'call for help' phone in case anyone has a coronary between floors, the emergency 'stop' button for those who need to be coerced into conversing in a normal, everyday-
Something whizzes by his ear before thwacking hard into the wall by his head. The hairs on the nape of his neck stand at attention as he whips around to see House wielding the cane that almost put him on the floor.
A corner of House's lip curls. He snickers...just a little. Wickedly snide or not, this is not House, but an amazing replica of the genuine article. "Don't be stupid," the imposter says.
Stunned, Wilson stands frozen to the spot, thinking of the best way to respond.
House cheek tics once, then tics once more for good measure. "Trapping me in an elevator would be a complete waste of your time and mine." He raises one brow, thumps the tip of his cane on the floor. "Especially mine, since the mistress gave me the day. Got places to go, people to see."
Frowning, Wilson removes his hand from the control panel as his old pal futility claps him on the back. They are more than friends now. Brothers are what they have become.
The car reaches its destination; its doors slide open.
The guy he considers his best bud has shut him out, locked the windows, twisted the deadbolt. The eyes that at times twinkle with mischief, or darken in moody contemplation have gone dry, flat. Dead.
"I do believe I hear the squeal of a malignant melanoma." House cups a hand to his ear as he moves into the lobby. "It's pining for you."
"House..."
"Better hop to it." Those dead eyes widen as they meet Wilson's distressed gaze. "There are rumors those things are pret-ty darn deadly."
"Let's go back to my office," Wilson inwardly cringes at the plea in his tone. "We can talk there."
"Quit being my shadow. Leave me alone. Go back to work." He hitches his pack a little higher on his shoulder. "I don't want to talk to you."
Over the next forty-eight hours, this moment will play over and over in Wilson's head, haunting him, insinuating itself into his dreams. It is the moment House's 'I don't want to talk to you' mantra lost its programmed, automaton quality, becoming an absolute truth spoken from the heart. The hard realization will hit him--this is the moment House became completely and utterly lost to him.
House weaves through the crowded lobby toward the exit with Wilson close behind. They are outside now, early afternoon, the sun still high in the sky. Wilson can't recall the last time he'd been outside the hospital at 1:15 on a Friday.
Despite House's dismissive diatribe, Wilson tails him to his bike, watches helplessly as House fits the helmet over his head and buckles the strap. He fits the cane into its sheath on the back of the bike, then tucks his pack into his saddle bag.
"Come back inside, House." Wilson tries. "I'll talk to Cuddy. She'll reconsider."
"Get a life." The key is turned, the motor revs and growls.
Wilson thinks he also hears the words "forget about me" before House roars off. But he can't be absolutely sure.
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He is hungry, but he's not hungry. At least he shouldn't be. It's not time to eat. That's a no-no until later. He has three hours before he can even consider it. It is then he will drive to the diner, order the right food. Eat it exactly as he is supposed to.
But it wasn't always that way, was it?
Noooo.
When did it start...being that way?
Dunno.
He shouldn't be asking himself these questions, now should he?
Nooo.
Oops.
Okay, then. What shall we do?
House wanders out of the living room, down the hall to the bedroom, backtracks, peers into the bathroom, as if something might crawl from the drain to amuse and delight him. When that doesn't happen, he roams to the desk, lets his fingers wander over the phone, linger on an unopened bag of sour fruit Jelly Bellys (not...now), and the PC. He considers immersing himself in a game. He has a fleeting memory of signing up to play World Of Warfare online. When was that? The software rests by the computer under a copy of Us Weekly, three issues of the Journal of American Medicine, and ten or twelve pieces of unopened mail. He spends some time staring at the spine of the game, rubbing his brow, then pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers.
The vague memory flies. Maybe he was just...thinking, imagining, putting himself in another place, the way Bill taught him. Suddenly the memory doesn't seem like a memory at all. He closes his eyes.
Breathe. Think. Imagine.
No. World of Warfare was just a lark, something he thought sounded like fun a long time ago.
Just as well. You don't want to play swords and sorcery with a bunch of Lancelot and Guinevere wannabes.
He scoffs and mutters, "Lancelot", glares at the PC like it might throw lightning bolts at him, then heads for the sofa. It is a comfortable place. Here he might relax, think, maybe remember...
He freezes in the middle of the living room, his cane tip punctuating the sudden stop with a sharp bump against the hardwood. He looks around as though he has forgotten something.
Lately his memory has been skewed. A loose wire somewhere in the mix. He pictures that wire whipping and sparking through the dense canals of his grey matter. Sometimes it conjures up odd images, things that never could never have happened. Dreams? No, not dreams. Dreams break apart into a blur of color and images, fluttering out of reach like sparrows flying from a malevolent, grasping hand. No. Lately when he is at rest, he falls into these...states, finding himself in a place too real to be the stuff of sleeptime meanderings. Although he can't recall many details, the images he does remember are strong: captured seconds, minutes, moments on a train...heat inside of...armor...blood...pouring...jagged cuts...wrist...the woman...in red...like...blood
Ghosts.
Perhaps he should tell Bill, since Bill Faulkner is, after all, his only real true friend.
Run.
Two fingers of his right hand rub absently at his left palm. The gauze is gone now. The wound is protected by a large economy size bandage. The gash no longer pains him; in a couple of days it will be almost completely healed. Amazingly he only needed one stitch, which he will remove later today. It wasn't as bad as he thought.
What happened to your hand, Doctor?
Metal...cold...sharp...slice...in...deep. The blood...the blood.
Breathe. Run...
His head jerks up; his leg serenades him with a brash concerto of pain. He grunts, limping toward the sofa as he checks his watch. It happened again. He lost time. Two hours gone while he stood silent and still in the center of the room.
He winces, easing himself onto the sofa, right hand rubbing right thigh. No time, no energy, no desire to put himself in that other place to ease the pain. Bill will be disappointed.
Why tell him?
Fiery sharp needles stab his right thigh, once, twice, again. Again. The pain is so exquisite, he can only bite his lower lip, squeeze his eyes shut and rock up and back to ride it out. Gradually it eases, throbbing in tandem with the pounding in his temples. He moans, digs into his jacket pocket and grasps the vial, so thankful for the comforting jiggle of pills against plastic. He feels the tension leave his shoulders; but his leg cranks the agony level up again; yeah, that pain knows it is about to be put down like a boxer on the ropes. One-two-three...
Closing his eyes, he presses three pills against his lips, draws them into his mouth with his tongue, savors their bitterness for a moment before letting them leave on their journey.
Bye, bye. So long...
"Good idea" he says after moments, hours, eons. His words are slurred, his thoughts drift, consorting with the fog. Time has been controlling him lately. He wonders what it would be like to take charge of himself again: to run from everything, everyone: Cuddy, Gurand, his team...Wilson...
...Wilson.
Bill?
Something stirs his innards, a toxic mix of guilt, fear and anxiety does its magic, transforming the Vicodin haze into wisp thin tendrils of nothing. His head clears, thoughts sharpen as he levers himself up, gazes with vague interest at his watch. It's late, almost four. Time to go.
The phone rings.
He ambles past it to retrieve the jacket he tossed on the bed.
It rings again.
Let's see...it could be Wilson, Cuddy, Doc Gurand wanting to add another notch to his psych belt...
and once more.
He shrugs on his jacket. Now the cell phone in his pocket shudders against his left thigh...
...again and again and...
"I don't want to talk to you!" he shouts, wrenching the phone from his pocket. It vibrates warm against his wound and he almost looks at it, almost flips it open.
You should, you know. It could be important. People are worried about you. They'll come here looking for you...
He tightens his fingers around it, strangling it, squeezing the life from it. He draws back his arm like Nolan Ryan on a good day, and hurls the phone into the kitchen. It smashes against the stove, shards of black plastic skitter across the linoleum, scattering under the butcher block table and the dishwasher. Gone. Goodbye.
Silence.
El telefono? Ah, she is 'ow you say...demised, an ex-wireless instrument of communication.
So dead.
That wasn't right, Greg. You need that phone to do your job.
And suddenly, the guilt is so intense, so relentless, his only reaction is to laugh. The giggles arrive first, trickling from his throat and mouth in a happy little parade. Soon they are shoved away by the big guns: raucous, booming, pull out the stops guffaws. Tears spring to his eyes and he stumbles back into the door to keep his balance. The house phone rings again. "I don't...want...to...talk to you!" he sing /shouts through his breathless chortling.
He grasps the doorknob and waits for the ringing to stop. It takes a while. Whoever is on the other end is damn persistent.
You could kill that sucker too. Make sure it never rings again.
No. He needs at least one phone, doesn't he? What if he wants to order a pizza or Chinese?
We don't do that anymore, do we, Greg?
He considers this, as guilt skitters like around his innards like a frightened cockroach.
No. We don't.
Checking his watch, he realizes with a start he is already off schedule, late for the diner.
At this rate he will be late for his appointment too.
Bill will be unhappy. Maybe that was him on the phone. You should have answered. Go look at the caller ID. He's going to be so unhappy. Better hurry, better go. Go NOW.
"I do my job," he proclaims to the silent room, then holds his head with one hand, ducking as if expecting a bomb to burst through the ceiling.
You are so pathetic, so wracked with guilt. Serves you right. You know why? Because what goes around comes around, idiot. You owe the world.
He straightens his shoulders, takes a sharp breath as his throat constricts. Something is bubbling up from his entrails. He pictures it: steaming black liquid: bilious as a snake chopped and liquefied by thousands of shimmering, dancing blades. The room tilts. Suddenly, laughter spews from him again, horribly, like a madman has come for tea and overstayed his welcome. He rides with it, hunching over like Quasimodo, hobbling around the room, willing it to stop, to leave him. He finally makes a deal, trades in the jocularity for a spate of strangled sobs as...
...he thinks about dinner; then abruptly... of New York City.
...skyscrapers...and everything...
The last of his tears slides down his cheeks, he swipes them away with two impatient scrubs of his hand.
He thinks about numbered avenues, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh. He likes the order, the ease of navigation. Can't really get lost, unless you want to
lose yourself
It would be easy lose himself and find himself all in the space of a week. An unscheduled vacation.
Unscheduled? You can't be serious. That's wrong, just the prattle of a tired mind. You need the kind of rest only Best Friend Bill can give, ol' son. Face it, you'll
He never takes vacation. But this time...
cause more trouble than you're worth. They'll come looking for you, banging on the door, so worried, concerned...
...the thought of neon lights, a small hotel room off midtown, of anonymity sounds delicious...
...delicious. He checks his watch again. 4:30. Time to eat.
You want to lose yourself? Fine. In your condition, don't be surprised if it's a one way trip, boyeee.
Hunger gnaws at him. He touches his stomach, then checks his pocket for his keys (check), his wallet, (check), his cell (all gone). No matter. He will eat, make a stop at the store, drop off his wares here, pack a small bag, and leave on an unscheduled trip.
Really?
Yeah, really, he tells himself, heading toward the door with purposeful, unwieldy strides.
You'll be groveling back, old man. Crawling like the wretch you are.
He pulls open the door, walks out, clicks it shut, testing it to make sure it locks good and tight. He hobbles into the waning daylight and stands in the middle of the sidewalk. Raising his face to the sky, he squints into the deepening blue. The late afternoon sunshine warms his brow, his cheeks. Feels good. He savors it for a moment, allows his lip to curl into a tight, careful grin.
Yeah, go ahead and smile, wiseass. You ain't never gonna survive this.
"I don't want to talk to you," he mutters. His cheek twitches, head jerking slightly to the left as he follows the sidewalk to his bike.
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Allison remembers what it was like when she was young: this almost surreal sense of excitement: a strange butterfly flutter in the pit of the stomach, like a symptom of some otherworldly malady. Combine this with a demon called Anticipation, you have a most delicious sort of torture.
It is easy to see how excitement and anticipation have claimed her eldest daughters' souls. The trip is all they talk about--to each other and to Marie, who grins and claps her hands at her sisters' frenetic chatter. "Silly," she squeals at them.
Knowing something extraordinary is just around the bend, out of sight, out of reach yet there, well, it's just too cruel. Life is so different for the young. So much of it is just...wow. The promise of a trip to New York on a plane is thrilling. It's like nothing they've ever experienced. And since they have no frame of reference, Allison has tried to downplay their excitement. What if they are not suitably impressed? After all, dealing with a pair of moping, apathetic siblings a few thousand miles from home would not be much fun for anyone. But the dynamic duo are not yet old enough to be jaded and still young enough to be easily amused. The bright lights, tall buildings, and the overall hustle and bustle are sure to keep them enthralled.
Allison gives optimism a solid try, despite what she's been through over the past few days. It will be good to get away from thoughts of Weir, the knight, her job. Everything. Plus, she can't deny being just a bit excited herself.
Sitting at the kitchen table, smoothing her palms over the lightly wrinkled photocopy before her, she can't help grinning. Joe is in the girls' room, doing his best to convince them to at least try to get some sleep. He reads from their favorite bedtime story book One Hundred Three Minute Sleepytime Tales. Allison can almost hear the roll of Ariel's eyes. She maintains she is much too old for such silliness, yet on a normal night, she will lay with slitted eyes and become as engaged in the stories as Bridget and Marie.
Allison certainly understands. She was the same way.
There is magic in stories. Imagination is a key factor in what makes childhood such a unique and innocent place. But that innocence is not easy to preserve. And for her girls' sakes, she can't allow what remains of their innocence to turn to naiveté. It is unfortunate they have to learn about the bad stuff, the bad people. If she could, she would protect them forever. But the best she and Joe can do is teach them the basics of street smarts.
On occasion, life truly does suck.
She sighs, brushing her hair from her eyes, and studies the page again.
The Phoenix police department is fortunate to have Ernst Welk as their primary sketch artist. The man is so extraordinarily patient, so detail oriented, Allison wonders if he suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
Ernst hadn't been interested in the whys and wherefores of her person of interest, just the shape of the eyes, the length of the hair, were the earlobes long, short, medium? How wide was the bridge of the nose? What would Ernst have thought if he knew where she had come across this distraught looking soul? It doesn't matter now, Allison thinks, pressing her glass of white wine to her brow. Cool. Nice. She closes her eyes, allowing herself to relax. The paper crinkles under her fingers, forcing her to look at it again. The rendering of the Knight, Lancelot, whoever he is (she really needs that name) is chilling in its perfection.
Those eyes are wide and staring, bluest of blue. She knows the color, despite the fact that this is a pencil sketch. Ernst didn't need colors to catch the misery, the guilt, the pain. The knight's short brown hair is threaded through with silver-grey. It is unkempt, sticking up in tufts. She senses that even on the best of days, his appearance is not his number one priority. Look at that stubble: he certainly doesn't wear it to emulate the forced casualness of a Miami Vice cop. No. This guy just doesn't like to shave. His mouth is partially open, his front teeth and the tip of his tongue just barely visible, like he's got so much to say but something is holding him back.
Something...
Her reverie is broken by the sound of running. One of the kids is on the way. Not Ariel. She's much too cool to run in the house. Marie? Doubtful. Those footfalls draw nearer, pounding the carpet like muffled explosions. Bridget, Allison thinks, smiling again. Yes, Bridget appears in the kitchen, feet slapping hard against the linoleum. She plows into the back of Allison's chair, then wraps her arms around her mom's neck.
"What are you doing?" Bridget asks. She smells like baby powder and toothpaste.
"What are you doing?" Allison twists her head, and her nose touches the cool, smooth skin of her daughter's cheek.
"Everyone fell asleep," she grumps, pulling out the chair next to Allison and seating herself with a harrumph. "Can you believe it?"
"They're tired, Bridge." Allison folds her arms across the sketch. "We've got a big day tomorrow."
"So we should all be asleep. Even you." Leaning forward, Bridget's brows raise as she plants a stubby finger on the paper. "Who's that?"
"Oh." Allison smoothes a hand over Bridget's hair. "He's a man mommy's trying to find."
"How come?" Bridget's on her knees now, turning her head this way and that to get a better look.
"I think he's in trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
Allison makes her tone as light as a wisp of her daughter's blonde curls. "I'm not sure yet, Bridge."
"Really?" Pouting, Bridget furrows her brow, which makes her look like a wise little professor. "He's afraid."
"Mmm, could be." Allison folds the paper once, twice, three times and tucks it into the pocket of her robe. The original is with Devalos, who has promised to look into contacting the FBI about getting an ID on the guy. When he gets a chance. "Time for bed, honey."
"He's going to New York," Bridget says brightly, hopping off the chair.
Sometimes Bridget knows things, just like Ariel knows things, just like their mom knows things. In this case, Allison doubts her daughter's revelation holds a shred of truth.
"Maybe that's because you're going there."
"Nope," Bridget responds with an adamant shake of her head. "That is just a co-in-see-dence"
"Good word, Bridge." Allison kisses the top of her head and walks her down the hallway. "Go to sleep now."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Daddy fell asleep in my bed, right in the middle reading of Roger's Very Bad Dream to us." She ticks off one finger at a time. "First Ariel, then Marie, then Daddy. It got very lonely in there."
"I'm sorry to hear that." They stop by the bedroom door. Joe's snoring is inordinately loud, breaking up the quiet. She is surprised the girls can sleep through it. "Go wake your daddy."
"Maybe we'll see him there."
"Who?"
"The man in your picture. Maybe we'll see him in New York."
"I don't-"
"We can invite him for lunch. Maybe that will cheer him up." Bridget plants a finger on her chin, her eyes raised to the ceiling as she seems to mull this over. "I wonder if he likes hot dogs."
Before Allison can open her mouth to respond, Bridget rushes into the room. Dashing to the bed, Bridget taps her small fingers hard against Joe's collarbone, wrenching him from sleep. He jerks upright, rubs his eyes. One Hundred Three Minute Sleepytime Tales falls to the floor. Beside him, Ariel and Marie stir.
"Come on, girls. Get into your beds," Allison calls softly from the doorway, "and Daddy sleepyhead will join Mommy and we'll all get some shuteye."
Joe grunts, moving off the bed, plodding behind her to their room. "G'night," he mumbles, slipping under the blankets and falling back to sleep almost immediately. She stands, watching him, her hand dipping into her pocket almost of its own volition. The drawing crinkles at her touch.
Miles to go, Allison. Dead Kid's voice plays in her head. She wishes he would give her a break, leave her alone for the duration of her week off. Somehow she doesn't think he cares. He has his own agenda. But so does she.
She removes the drawing from her pocket, places it in her purse that is hanging on the doorknob. She can't help wonder about Lancelot. What is he up to? Has he made progress beating back his demons? Really, it shouldn't matter.
But it does.