VI.
"Wilson."
A fish with a cane—since when did fish need canes?—swam by in the blackness before Wilson's eyes and he felt his lips curve into a smile. It was House. Well, it was the aquatic version, but it was still House. Why was he dreaming about fish anyway?
"Wilson, wake up." There was something on his shoulder. Shit, he hadn't let her get that close in years. He shoved himself backward, struck out viciously with his left arm, opened his eyes. She was going to come after him again.
Wait a minute. He was in House's bathroom—alone? Now that didn't quite fit. Who'd been waking him up then? Wilson glanced down almost fearfully, half expecting to see Julie, and—oops. Problem solved, there was House.
"House?"
"Mike Tyson?"
"I'm sorry," he said, "I thought you were—"
"Forget it, I know who you thought I was." House sighed. "It was my fault. Now are you going to help the cripple up or keep sitting there like a deer in headlights?"
"Right." Wilson took a deep breath and extended his left hand. House grabbed it and, with the support of Wilson's weight and the bathtub, pulled himself to his feet again. He knew his leg would get him for those little aerobics in the morning, but the buzz from the Vicodin hadn't worn off yet, and so he wasn't really in any more pain. At any rate, it was tolerable.
"You've—uh, you've got a little—"
House glanced in the mirror. His nose was bleeding. "Had worse," he said.
Wilson rubbed the bridge of his own nose and realized that he'd rolled up his sleeves. He was in the middle of rolling them back down and fastening the buttons on each cuff when House finished examining the damage to his face and glanced over.
"I've seen 'em."
Wilson buttoned his shirt anyway and shifted his position until he was seated more comfortably. "What are you doing?" he said. "I still have to take a shower."
"I don't call sleeping showering, do you? Take it later," House said, "won't kill you." He paused. "This is the second time in forty-eight hours and I just had my last beer, so you'd better be grateful, but—" he rolled his eyes "—I think I need to talk to you again."
Wilson blinked. The bandage he'd thrown in the garbage seemed to be staring at him. He grabbed his crutches, levered himself to his feet, and mutely followed House out to the living room. He was staying in the man's house. He didn't see he had a choice.
House sat down at the piano and touched his fingers softly to the keys. Halfway through some piece of Chopin—the melody was graceful, haunting, but Wilson couldn't place it—Wilson interrupted him.
"What is it?"
"What is what?" said House, over the sound of the piano.
"You wanted to talk to me about something. What is it?"
"What makes you think I wanted to talk about something? Maybe I wanted to talk about nothing. What then?"
"You dragged me out of the shower for this?"
"Cuddy called," House said. "Wanted to see how you were doing. She'll call back later. She was—" he turned and leered "—worried."
"That was nice of her," said Wilson. He shook his beer can, determined that he still had about half left, and took a swallow. House eyed the drink enviously but said nothing. Ten minutes passed, and Wilson resigned himself to another conversation. "Two weeks from Thursday," he said. "Court date. That what you wanted to know?"
House stopped playing long enough to speak. "I don't want to know anything," he said gruffly, "but you obviously have something you still need to say. So spill, and maybe then we can go back to work."
"You? Want to go to work?" There was no answer.
"I called her," Wilson said. House was quiet. The piano filled the silence.
"I didn't want to. But I did anyway."
"This is a court case," House said. "Lawyers, you know, the snakey people—they generally get stuck with the dirty stuff."
"I know." Wilson shrugged. "I didn't have to. I'm sorry."
House spun around on the seat abruptly with, Wilson noted, surprising speed. "Stop apologizing to me." Without the music, the room seemed abnormally empty.
"Huh?"
"I said stop apologizing to me. I'm a jerk and you're a grown man. It may be bruised, but I'm pretty sure you still have a spine."
"You're right." Wilson stared at the ground and wiggled his beer with his thumb. "But I can't."
House went back to his playing.
"Two years ago," Wilson said, "I sat with my dog and I cried." He squinted through the opening of the can at the bitter-tasting amber liquid inside. "Sat there for an hour. I couldn't remember what was real. Whether I'd actually had an affair. In the morning I knew I hadn't, but then I couldn't remember." He paused. "You know that running accident? Wasn't a running accident."
House's head moved briefly in a nod.
"I quit playing tennis. Couldn't take the things coming at my face. I'd hold her down, so she'd throw things." He touched his shoulder without thinking. "Pretty good arm really."
The music continued. Wilson erupted.
"You're the one who wanted me to talk, House," he said angrily, slamming down his beer, "so quit playing and listen."
Miracle of miracles, House did, but he didn't turn around. "You think I want to hear?"
Wilson was, to say the least, caught off guard. "What?"
"You think I want to hear this? You think I want to sit here and listen to you tell me this? Not a chance in hell, Wilsie, not a chance in hell."
"Okay," Wilson said quietly. "I understand. I'm so—" He caught himself in time, lifted his feet onto the coffee table and reached for the remote.
"You don't get it, do you?" House grabbed his cane and stood facing Wilson in the middle of the room. "You just don't get it." He shook his head, slightly deflated, and sat down, keeping his movements conservative. "Put The O.C. on."
Wilson scrolled through the TiVo, realized it was on live, and complied.
"I'm not a good man. I'm not a good person. I don't do emotions, I don't do feelings, I don't do therapy. You know the only real way to keep from getting hurt?" House spat. "Well, I'll tell you. Distance."
"Not when she can throw," Wilson whispered.
House looked at the television and didn't say anything for a minute. "I'm not who you'd like to believe I am," he said finally. "I, Wilson, am a full-fledged, grade-A bastard. But I thought—" he shook his head "—maybe I hoped, just a little—that I was a better friend than I knew I was. You stuck around. I didn't want to, but I must've been doing something right." He paused.
"I may want to be miserable," he said, "misery may be my life, I may not give a crap about anyone else, but it still feels good when someone trusts you—even when they shouldn't."
"You do give a crap about somebody," Wilson said, "you give a crap about me." He carefully met House's eyes. "Otherwise I wouldn't be here."
"You couldn't tell me."
"What?"
"You couldn't tell me," House repeated. "You were afraid to tell me what was just about the biggest thing in your life, when I thought, you blabbermouth, that you told me pretty much everything. Then there you were tied to a bed, beaten, saying your wife had been psychotic for years. I didn't want you to tell me," House yelled, "because then I might have cared, and I didn't want to care. I didn't want you to tell me, but—" he took a deep breath "—it hurt when you didn't. You're the first person to hurt me in ten years. Maybe you deserve a medal." He sank into the couch, shut his eyes, and thumped his cane on the ground. "A medal. A damn medal."
Wilson thought, I did it. This—this is House. He paused. Maybe I broke him.
He looked over at his best friend, who still hadn't moved. No. I didn't. I didn't fix him, but I didn't break him.
I talked to him.
And, he realized, it was all thanks to Julie.
