Monsters in the Dark

Lightning flashes like a photographer's bulb, thunder instant and deafening, indicating a storm right above. He writhes in bed, face a scowling mask of pain.

"Try to relax, House." Wilson's voice is soothing with a backdrop of worry. "The more you move around the more you'll hurt."

"I can't." He grates out, still but tense.

"Deep breaths." A hand lands on his belly, directing focus to diaphragm and away from ribs, their aching joints, tendons and mended fractures. "Slow."

"Not … working." House manages between pants.

"House, I can't give you another shot. You're maxed out already."

"It's never been like this." Words escape clenched teeth. "Not since - " A silent gasp robs him of voice.

"I know." Sympathetic words provide little relief. "Weather channel said we haven't had a storm so bad in a decade."

House snorts tear-eyed. "That'll make me better."

"Don't talk, House." Wet terry cloth dabs at his forehead.

Nostrils flare and cheeks puff as he pants, quicker and quicker till he's frozen breathless. Released of the immediate agonizing grip, he moans. "Put me under." The voice is small and whimpery. "Please."

Wilson sighs. "Okay. Okay…"

House feels a rubber band rolled up his arm, biceps gripped tight until the veins are so big he thinks they will burst at the slightest prick.

"I'll monitor your condition for another half hour. The phone is on the nightstand, my pager is speed dial one. Call if you need anything. Anything at all."

He nods.

Needle breaks skin.

House observes his mind turn to a syrupy substance, sweet and sticky, snaring thoughts and silencing agony. "Thank you." He slurs out on a whisper as the void envelops him.

Emptiness gives to the feeling of his left brain's incessant, analytical chatter shutting down, boundary between self and surroundings dissolving under onslaught of sensations fighting for attention in a consciousness bereft of filters, totally exposed, their immediacy pushing aside a lifetime of baggage and concern of consequences, erasing past and future to make place for the now, and oh what a moment it is, a sea of torturous touches in high definition reality, crystal clear and stark as over-saturated colors, leaving afterimages in wake that melt to myopic infusing pleasure, urgency of need feeding an insatiably growing hunger, an addictive torment inflating his mind till he is taunt with unbearable tension of mixed exhilaration and yearning, bursting like a supernova with a zillion shards launched into the void that coalesce to a soft tremble, solidifying to unconscious stillness under a soothing white-noise shushing and stroking, rocking waves.

When next he comes to, humiliation over the mess in his bed is not the worst thing he feels.

'It's just a dream.' He tells himself. 'A drug induced hallucination. An overdue release. Just like the first time. First time… Means there was more than one.'

'Of course there was more than one.' His argumentative, coldly calculating side cuts in. 'There weren't many real-life opportunities in prison.'

'This was regular.' He recalls, now that the opiate is waning. 'On very bad days, when I'd make use of the drug stash Arnello provided. Same thing over and over: unbearable pain, a morphine pill goodnight, unspecified wet dream, morning mess... Routine.'

'Except that one time…' A vague memory surfaces shyly. 'There were details by the end. Full lips and manicured hands. And eyes...' He grasps for details. 'Deeply set big brown yes, under thick, dark brows.'

'Wilson?'

'Was I dreaming of Wilson?'

'Why would I?'

'I was plastered. It didn't matter anyway. Probably my subconscious projecting a personification of comfort, of comfort-ing. Must be it.' House defies his gut feeling for a moment, until a better explanation appears to him, one that feels right.

'It was Arnello. He provided the drugs. The comfort of being pain free. My drugged out mind must have thrown him in by accident.' He feels at ease.

It was good to have a mob boss for cell mate. Someone who was not a dumb brute. Someone to have an intelligent conversation with, a gripping chess round. Someone with an actual taste in music. Someone with connections to both guards and inmates. Someone who could get medication as needed. Most of all someone who was not a sick perv.

House knows he was easy pickings, knew it all along. 'How did Arnello put it - baby blues that can't run?' It was good to enjoy Arnello's protection. Everyone treated him like the mobster's pet. He knew better. They were cell mates, buddies. And Arnello's resemblance to Jimmy probably sped their befriending.

But it would have come easy enough. They were two cultured men out of their elements. Naturally they gravitated to each other. They had to look after one another.

Well, Arnello was doing more of the looking after. He had more influence. Enough influence to get Thompson off him, if only temporary. 'I was damn lucky to end up with-'

House swallows hard as something occurs to him.

'I was lucky, but Arnello didn't need luck. Could have hand-picked out any cell mate he wanted. But why me? What would he gain?'

Doubt festers.

'Same as me - good company.'

The rationalization leaves him unsatisfied. 'I wasn't good company when I got in. Only became normal when I started to believe that no one would abuse me with him around.' House remembers doubting Arnello at first, but it was true - the lawyer never showed up while Arnello was inside.

'There was another lawyer…' His memory reminds. 'His kid brother, the one that didn't want Arnello out. The one that looked at me like he didn't know if I was the best or worst thing that ever happened. They talked about contracts too. And sales and deals, with mob clans and feds-' House rubbs at temples, details escaping him.

Clarence's words from a few day's back crash to his mind. Thompson was suspected of killing a boss of the Arnello clan for planning to testify against him.

Suddenly House knows what Arnello got out of it, with certainty of knowing his own name. Anguish grips him, his heart aching as he feels physically ill.

What Thompson had that Arnello wanted was him.

'He bought the contract in exchange for silence. Bought me.' He bites on a fist, resisting the urge to vomit. 'Baby blues that can't run.' The words come back to mock him. 'I was his pet. His mate. And not in the Ausie way-' Greg's breath hitches. 'That's why the eyes… Oh, god - I woke up. That's when he left. That's when it stopped. And the lawyer - Fuck!' His eyes water up.

Heels of palms press against bloated lids closed tight in an attempt to force the tears back, geometric patterns strobing over retinas like seizure-inducing videos.

'Damn it!' Plastered hand slams into mattress. He sniffles, sleeve wiping off escaping fluids. 'He was the first new guy I trusted! He was supposed to be the good guy…' Eyes shut, two streaks darken a path down his temples.

He lies awake long after, waiting for his face to return to non-crying appearance before rolling around in slow, torturous moves, remnants of opiate fighting against low pressure system still hovering around. Pushing both pillows off the bed he crawls to the ground, head and chest landing safely in their fluf. He writhes out of dirty clothes and pulls the tangled sheet down to wipe himself clean before balling both up and pushing them as deep in the corner as he can.

Closet door pried open, a series of small yanks retrieve the tightly folded spare cover from the bottom of the coat-hanger section, each tug an odd echo of blades jammed in his shoulder. Heavy down engulfs him, wrapped to a ball around one pillow with another under his head. The cocoon of safety does little to comfort him, heart and mind going mile a minute, unable to rest.

First light arrives with early workmen diving up the street, trash and delivery trucks banging every few feet. Only when muffled, blasé sounds of boring, mediocre life bring constant reassurance of safety does sleep finally find him.