While Cameron and Wilson had been having their discussion, House had been having his own fun; that is, if it could really be called fun.
The bar he has chosen was not one he frequented often, or rather not at all any more. In fact, he could only ever remember being there once or twice before. Resting against the bar, he tried to remember. He was almost certain that he had been in there with Stacy, some time years ago when they had been able to say that they loved each other. Some vague memory of a first or second date flickered briefly through his mind, only to be quickly dismissed by the bitterness that the alcohol was beginning to activate.
House personally did not consider himself a bitter man. At least not bitter to the extremes that he had witnessed throughout his career. Lonely? Yes, maybe just a little bit. But definitely not bitter. Downing the latest shot of bourbon, he let this thought settle in his mind. His loneliness certainly didn't bother him, or so he tried to convince himself. He had friends, and albeit their relationship was not all up to par, he had family. Thinking back to the day Eddie had first presented in the ER, House couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy, which was quickly followed by an even sharper pang of shame; jealousy for the lowly vagrant's fortune in friends, and shame for envying someone so pathetic. And Eddie had indeed been quite pathetic, the more House thought about it. He had lived, more or less, out of a box, or whatever the homeless made their sad structures from. And the "friends" he had spoken of so endearingly now seemed to House to be no more than sniveling street junkies, desperate for the attention that anyone was willing to give. The more he thought about it, Eddie was just as lonely and pathetic as the rest of them. He had just been a bit more popular. Perhaps it was his carefree and overly trusting ways. That was his flaw: easy acceptance. He had accepted anyone into his life who would so much as speak to him and call them friend.
Then why, House wondered, was he feeling as though he had robbed a man of so much? It wasn't as though Eddie had anything good coming to him. He had only more cold nights and starving days to look forward to.
House signaled to the barkeep that he wanted another one, and took a slow look around the room. Back when he and Stacy had been there together, it has actually been a decent establishment. But that had been years ago. Things changed. It was dark and gloomy inside now, dark enough to hide the grime that coated the tables. He wondered absent-mindedly if sitting at one of them could be considered a health hazard. Shaking that thought from his head, he decided that for the next thirteen hours or so until morning he wouldn't think at all about anything health or medical related. He wasn't so stupid as to believe that Eddie's death had been his own fault. These things happened, much as House hated to admit it. Greg House, the almighty God of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, had been defeated. By what, House could not yet say. But it irked him, enough so to ruin all of his plans for a night of anonymous drinking out on the town that surely would have ended with Wilson showing up to haul his drunk ass home.
Leaving a wad of bills on the bar, he stood and made his way out. He stepped out into the cool night and began to walk. His leg was sore as hell, like always, but it seemed like a good night for a long walk and lots of thinking. It was fall, and it was dark, but even House couldn't help but notice how beautiful the leaves on the trees were getting. Or maybe it was the amount of alcohol he had consumed that caused him to notice. At the moment, they reminded him of Cameron – her hazel eyes, her dark auburn hair, and the crimson blouse she wore sometimes. He didn't know why he should be reminded of Cameron right now. She had confronted him and accused him of being completely insensitive. He wasn't angry with her. If House was angry at anyone, it was himself. He had been practicing as a doctor for years and had solved cases far more complex than Eddie's. Cameron had been right. He did need to do something. What, he didn't know. So he kept walking, the people passing by becoming fewer and fewer as the city went to sleep. And then there was no one. Just House, alone with his thoughts.
He didn't know what time it was. He had arrived at the bar by five o'clock. By then, the rain had stopped. When he had left, it was a little after seven, and he figured that he had been walking now for a good three or more hours. House found that he had arrived at the entrance to a park in the suburban part of town. It was dark and there was no one around. By now, most people were in bed. It was only Tuesday night after all, so it wasn't like other nights, when there were sure to be young people out gallivanting and having a good time.
Walking through the park, House was glad for the solitude. Spotting a bench, he made his way to it and sat down. He hadn't noticed it while he was walking, but his leg was killing him. That would teach him to spend three hours strolling around. Pulling his bottle of vicodin out, he popped one of the little white pills into his mouth and swallowed, hoping that it would kick in soon. He was beginning to wish that he hadn't left his bike back at the bar. It would be a long walk back. Luckily, he wasn't in any great hurry.
The wind was starting to pick up a little, and House pulled his jacket closed. He wondered if Eddie had ever spent a night in this park, maybe even sleeping on the same bench. It must have been a hard life. He had to consider the fact that maybe Eddie was better off dead. He wouldn't have to spend any more cold nights outdoors, wondering how he'd get his next meal while he shivered. But somehow, House doubted that Eddie had ever looked forward to the secure and peaceful sleep that came with death.
He wasn't dismissing the death as what was for the best. That would be insensitive. House didn't think he was insensitive. Just straight forward. Maybe his manner seemed rude, even mean, to some people. But he couldn't help it. It made him sick to see the way some people, like Cameron, liked to dwell on awful things. Life was so much easier when you just accepted things and moved on.
But you haven't accepted things.
"Oh, shut up." House said aloud to the voice in is head. He knew it was his conscience, and he wished he could silence it. However, he knew that those were his own thoughts, as much as it pained him to admit it. He hadn't moved on. When he had lost his leg, not to mention Stacy, he had lost his ability to do that. He let out a frustrated sigh and rubbed a hand over his jaw line, feeling the stubble that had become a permanent part of his character. He was tired. It had been a long day, and all the walking hadn't done much to relax him. But try as he might, he couldn't get his mind to stop telling him what a screw up he was. Eddie's death was just the latest in a long line of mistakes that he had made, and he couldn't seem to move past it.
Cameron had wondered why he didn't seem to feel affected by Eddie. She was wrong. He had been deeply touched by it. Pathetic as he had decided Eddie was, there was something about him that House had liked, or at least appreciated. The man must have been around forty years old, and he had never accomplished a single thing in his life. House remembered Eddie telling him about dropping out of college, pissing off his parents, and taking to the streets. At first, he had stayed with friends. But as they died one by one of drug overdoses or STDs, he had been left alone, no home, no more friends. Eddie had embraced his life as a homeless junkie, building a whole network of equally pathetic friends. And he had lived that way for years now, completely happy. It didn't make much sense to House. How could anyone be happy living that way?
You just don't believe in happiness anymore.
"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" His voice spread through the park for nobody to hear, then died. It was absurd. Of course he wanted to be happy. Hell, he was happy. He had a good job, made good money, had friends… House had to stop himself on that last one. He knew it was true that he didn't really have friends, except for Wilson, and Wilson only just barely tolerated him. Foreman respected him and looked up to him just a little bit. Chase, on the other hand, seemed to avoid him at all costs. House didn't know if the Aussie feared him, or his temper, or he just plain didn't like him. Cameron was the only one who openly cared about him. He couldn't begin to understand why when he kept pushing her away and making it more than evident that their relationship would never be more than professional.
But all these things didn't have to mean that he was unhappy. Sitting there on the bench alone, House was beginning to understand why Eddie's death had bothered him so much. It wasn't guilt about not being able to help him. It was something deeper, something darker that it had brought to light. Eddie, who had never amounted to anything in his life but had been happy, got to die and finally be at peace while House, a successful and accomplished doctor, had to go on living and being miserable.
This realization shocked House momentarily. He had to shake his head a few times, telling himself that that was a stupid thought. It didn't make sense. Just because life wasn't as grand as he'd once thought it could be didn't mean that he wanted to end it. He knew for a fact that he didn't have the willpower to do it anyway. Leaning back and popping another vicodin, he tried to forget that he had ever had that thought. It had been stupid, and he knew it must have been a combination of the alcohol and painkillers that had made him think it. House was content with his life. He didn't need or want anything that he didn't already have.
That's a lie, and you know it House.
He stood up abruptly, feeling more than aggravated at the little voice. Fine, he thought to himself. I don't have to sit here all night listening to my mind spout bullshit. House began walking out of the park the way he came. He knew that what he needed was sleep. That would keep his damn conscience quiet. After all, he had been up since six. Leaving the park, he began to walk up the deserted street. He hesitated a moment, trying to decide which was closer, the bar or his house. Deciding that his own house was closer, he started to walk in the general direction of it. There was no point in hurrying. It was already past midnight, and he would be lucky to get home by two thirty or three o'clock. By that time, there would be almost no point in going to bed. He'd have to get up three hours later anyway. That was when he remembered Eddie's file. He still felt a huge obligation to look it over. "Dammit.", he muttered, and turned around. His backpack was with his bike, back at the bar. Cursing himself for being so careless, he tried to pick up the pace.
The alcohol that House had consumed three hours ago had all been burned away. He was sober, and he didn't like it. The trees on either side of the street didn't look so pretty anymore. Instead of Cameron, all the reds and browns reminded him of Eddie's final moments, when he had choked on and coughed up his own blood. And again, he wondered about the homeless man, and how many times he had looked at those trees and been reminded of something. They had probably all been good memories, him being such a happy guy and all. House walked faster and faster, as fast as his aching leg would allow him to go. The houses on either side of him looked dark and foreboding, and in the alleys between every one of them, House couldn't stop himself from thinking about what it would be like to live in some box down one of them. Seriously, he wondered, how in the hell could anyone be happy living that way? It still wasn't making sense to him.
The wind was getting stronger, and House could smell rain in the air again. Great. He tried to go even faster, for all the good it did. He cursed the fact that there was never a cab to be seen when he needed one, which was hardly ever. So, blocking out all thoughts about Eddie or happiness, he continued to walk as the rain began to fall, feeling strangely disturbed at his own thoughts.
By the time the bar was in sight, it was after three am, or rather, closer to four. The rain was coming down lighter, but House had become thoroughly soaked long ago. The cool air combined with the fast pace he had started out on caused his leg to burn with pain. He had slowed down considerably because of it and was now at a painfully slow limp. Seeing his bike parked on next to the sidewalk up ahead, he managed to walk towards it a little faster. Stopping in front of it, he closed his eyes in exhausted relief. The tricks that his mind had been playing on him in the dark had caused him to feel deeply paranoid, and he was glad to finally be somewhere familiar. House felt as though he had been a different person from the time he had left the bar until now, his time of return, what with his increasing feelings of guilt and paranoia, not to mention his vague thoughts on suicide.
Hey, we're forgetting we ever thought that, remember? He had to remind himself not to think about it…it was out of character, not like him at all.
Climbing painfully onto the bike, he gunned the engine and took off in the direction of his home, the scenery passing by in one long, merciful blur, allowing his mind to more or less zone out. He let habit direct him to his home, focusing solely on the mindless task of steering the bike. At the park, his own thoughts had rattled him, and he no longer trusted himself to think for fear of what feelings might surface.
Upon reaching his destination, he very quickly and stiffly picked up his bag and walked up the steps to his door, his mind locked in automatic for the time being. He entered and closed the door behind him, feeling a wave of fatigue wash over him. Reminding himself where he was, he finally began to relax, feeling as though the last few hours had never happened. House was home now. He was himself again. He was where he belonged. In the morning, he would get up and go to the hospital, Cameron would have given up whatever useless crusade she had been on, and he would go on with the business of treating patients, forgetting that he had ever let a patient's death bother him. Totally beat, he threw himself happily at his sofa, letting his body sink contently into the cushions, all the stress and anxiousness of a long day beginning to melt away. A faint beep alerted him to the unwanted presence of a message on his answering machine. Normally, he would have ignored it for several days, but House was presently feeling the strangely atypical need for human contact. Dragging his sore, stiff leg behind him, he made his way to the machine and pushed the playback button.
"House, dammit it, pick up the phone…" It was Wilson. "C'mon, stop being an ass and just pick up the damn phone….Ok. Have it your way. Cameron was worried, so I told her I'd talk to you, and while leaving a message won't count with her, this is as far as I'm taking it. Look," a sigh was more than audible over the machine, and Wilson sounded both frustrated and aggravated. "Just apologize for whatever stupid thing you said to her. It'll make my life a lot easier if I don't have to spend any more time mediated between the two of you." There was an angry click, and Wilson had hung up.
House smiled, mildly amused by Wilson. He always managed to sound mad, when House knew for a fact that he wasn't. He may have been weary with the problems that were often associated with having House for a best friend, but he certainly was past being bothered by them. They simply brought frivolous tidbits of drama into days that had become, over many years of practice, dull routine. Wilson tried to ignore them, but finding that to be impossible, he instead feigned annoyance. However, it went to show how committed he was to House that he never just got tired of all the negativity that followed the man and ended their friendship. He didn't need House, and vice versa, but their genuine fondness of each other overrode any thoughts of resigning the friendship.
House felt half an urge to call the man back, but realizing the time, decided not to. Instead, he went back to the couch with his book bag. It was now four o'clock and he didn't see the point in going to sleep. Deciding he didn't want to face Eddie's file alone, he went to the kitchen for reinforcements, that kind that came in a bottle. An old coffee mug sufficed as a vessel, and House began to flip through the charts with the help of Jack Daniels. He had already spent hours reviewing every last detail, but that had been before he had killed Eddie, when time had definitely been of the essence and there had been little time for thought and reflection. Sure, they had been able to carry out their usual ritual of differential diagnosis, but time had gotten way ahead of them, and the luxury of being able to recline on one's sofa with a bottle of booze hadn't been affordable. But there was no rush now. Eddie had met his end before anyone had arrived at any conclusions, and now House had all the time in the world to muse over the file. And he did, forgetting for the time that all of these test results and histories related to Eddie. For the next two hours, the only movements House made were to flip the occasional page or to pour more liquor.
Halfway through the jumble of diagrams and test orders, he frowned and set the folder down on the table, puzzled. As far as House had been able to tell so far, there had been explanations for every one of Eddie's one million symptoms. The proper treatments had been given, yet still he had deteriorated. Every time that they had been able to treat something, something else got worse. It was almost as if the more they tried to help, the sicker the man got. It was maddening for House, and he was becoming increasingly perturbed by it. He knew that every case wouldn't be by the book. In fact, most of his were the cases that defied all of the traditional explanations. But this was just too much. Eddie hadn't been that sick. He had been paraplegic, but other than that, he had claimed that he felt fine. Never better.
The VCR clock said that it was six fifteen, so feeling stumped and more than tired and just a little drunk, House wearily made his way to his room and his closet. He was too tired to go through the whole ordeal of taking a shower. It had rained on him enough the previous night anyway. He shivered while he peeled out of his old clothes, wishing that he had changed into something dry when he had first come home. He found a clean t-shirt and blue jeans and put them on, along with a blazer. Not concerned with his appearance, House didn't even bother to brush his teeth or even run a comb through his hair before leaving. Home wasn't the place to be right now. He grabbed the file from the table and threw it back into his bag before hurrying out the door. Some manic urge had overtaken him after looking at the file, his continued failed attempts at solving the case causing him a sort of nervous desperation. Just as it had the day before, Eddie's death and the unsolvable aura surrounding it made no sense to House. He was a man of science and provable facts, so needless to say, a "cause of death: unknown" did not sit too well with him. He needed to know. A remote feeling of general wrongness was beginning to work its way forward into his upset and sleep deprived consciousness. Wrongness in the sense that Eddie wasn't supposed to die. Of course, it was all triggered by the alcohol and lack of sleep, and some strange, indescribable chain reaction in his brain that had begun with his contrast of himself and Eddie, and ended with him wondering that maybe if anyone should be dead, it was him. At any rate, House needed answers, answers that he couldn't find on his own. He hopped onto his motorcycle and set off for the hospital, hoping that Wilson would be in early.
TBC.
Please, please, please, R & R. I would really appreciate any advice or opinions on these first two chapters, as I can't tell from my overly biased point of view whether or not I am succeeding in at least being coherent…I am paranoid that this isn't making sense to anyone but me; I have trouble getting my point across sometimes. Seriously, if it sucks, PLEASE tell me. I'm willing to trade jello for honest opinions. Really. Any flavor you want – red, green, or lemon – I can make anything. Tks.
- A. D.