House is floating in the ocean. The water that cradles his body, creating the illusion of weightlessness, is a deep blue that seems too intense to be real. The sun beats down on him gently, and he feels sleepy. The feeling is akin to when the Vicodin content in his bloodstream becomes superfluous. It's like something else controls his body; it tells his muscles to relax until he feels as flexible as putty. His mind lets go too, and he can slip into a deliciously numb sleep. His problems, his pain—nothing matters anymore because he's removed. He watches the situation from miles away, as if he were on a plane coasting over a city. He stays this way, floating into the vast emptiness of the ocean, letting the salty embrace rock him gently.
But then something's wrong. He's swaying too fast, rocking violently back and forth; he lets his feet drop and tries to tread the water, but there's a current under the water that grabs him from below, pulling him under. He opens his eyes—tries to focus, but he can't see anything in the suddenly murky water. He's trying to claw his way to the surface, to get air he desperately needs. His hands slide through the water uselessly; he's not getting anywhere. He's stuck. The light of the sun is so far away now, so faint. Then he's surrounded by blackness that envelops him, whispers in his ear that House is his now, and that he's not going anywhere.
House tries to talk, to ask who the hell is speaking to him so far under the water, but his open mouth fills with water. He tries to spit it out but it moves past his throat into his lungs and down his esophagus. He's choking now, trying not to take in any more water, but his body doesn't listen. It tries to breathe; it's dying for air, for life, but the sea holds neither for him. House's vision is tunneling; he's only got a few seconds left. Wilson flashes before his eyes as he reflexively breathes in one last breath of saltwater. His vision disappears altogether, and as he fades away he thinks he hears laughter.
House doesn't wake gently. He coughs himself into consciousness and is leaning over his table on his knees with no idea how he got there. Then the memory of the yesterday—a day that seemed so long ago, a day that seemed to encompass years, floods back to him.
There's a bottle on the table and he uncaps it and holds it over his mouth, dry swallowing two pills. His breathing is returning to normal so he sits on the couch again and relaxes into the cool leather. The television is still on, and he directs his eyes at it but doesn't watch. The VCR blinks under the TV; it's only been an hour since Wilson left.
Every nerve in House's body is wound tight; the Vicodin is in his system, but he can't relax, can't slip away into lazy daydreams that leave his eyelids at half-mast and his thoughts far away from pain. This reaction, he knows, is psychosomatic. There's no reason for him to feel as he does; he's drugged and comfortable. The only other time he's ever felt this way was when he watched another brunette (darker hair, almost black) walk away from him without looking back.
He has to make Wilson look back. Without bothering to change, House pulls on his coat. He looks at his apartment as the door swings shut, and wonders for a moment if this is one of the last times he'll se it.
House arrives at the police station. He makes a beeline for Tritter's office, not bothering to answer the cop who demands to know what House thinks he's doing. The office is unlocked; Tritter doesn't look up as House enters, the cop trailing closely behind.
"This ok?" The officer asks, motioning toward the arrogant man with the cane.
"Fine," Tritter replies, leaning back in his chair. His eyes don't acknowledge the other man; he's focused on House. Studying him. Looking for new ways to chip the doctor's impressive armor. The officer leaves, and then they're alone. Together.
House is blunt (as ever). "I'll go to rehab."
Tritter shows House his teeth; it's supposed to be a smile.
"The deal's off," he says, his smile stretching wider. "We don't need Wilson's testimony." He delivers this bit of news like he's talking about the weather. His voice is not threatening; it's not even raised. But Tritter knows how to manipulate others. Every calm sentence that spews from his malignant mouth is laden with threats—his soft demeanor is akin to a snake about to bite; it sits, coiled and ready until it sees its prey, then strikes as hard and fast as it can. House is Tritter's prey.
The log. House realizes. Tritter knows about the Oxy.
Tritter watches realization dawn on House's face. He stands up, taking his jacket from the back of his chair. He's now beside his desk, looking House in the eye.
"You're a smart man, Gregory (but I'm smarter)." House's hands twitch, balling into fists.
"But drug addicts are dumb (I'm enjoying this more than you know)," he continues. His words are gentle; he could be talking to a child.
"And they always make mistakes (And believe me, yours was spectacular)." Tritter slides past House, but turns back as his hand touches the door.
"Merry Christmas (I am going to fuck you over)," he says, clapping House on the back. He chuckles on his way out, and House swears he's heard that laugh before, but he can't pinpoint it. He waits there a moment, alone in Tritter's office, pondering what he's going to do.
Go to jail, his common sense replies, because you're a stupid, narcissistic asshole whose pride just destroyed his self-preservation.
Somehow House makes it back to his apartment. He can't remember the drive home, but somehow he's parked outside his building, sitting in his idling car. He stares at nothing for a few moments before cutting the ignition and stepping out into icy air that makes his leg ache. His gaze is on his feet; there's black ice, on which he wasn't keen to slipping (though it would be the crowning achievement of the night.) The black concrete that holds his attention so thoroughly is interrupted by a pair of brown loafers. He looks up to see Wilson on his front porch, wrapped in a blanket.
"What're—" He begins, but Wilson interrupts him.
"I told you. I'm not going." Wilson's voice is soft—but is in no way similar to Tritter's. There are no veiled threats in the younger man's tone, no animosity bubbling just beneath the surface. Wilson speaks softly because he is almost afraid of saying the words out loud; he's afraid to be rejected, and almost as afraid to finally have House—just to watch him be taken away.
House's defense mechanisms are failing; he doesn't have the energy to be mean, to make fun of Wilson's trembling vulnerability. Things are being taken away from him, things that make him special. If he can't practice medicine, what is he? Wilson stares up at him from the step. House sits next to him, roughly stealing the majority of the blanket.
"What are you going to do?" Wilson asks, taking House's close proximity as an apology. He moves a little closer to the older man, leaning into him.
"The only thing I have left." House looks Wilson in the eye and sees that they're shining; the streetlight illuminated the irises and makes the whites glow, and before he knows what's happening he's kissing and being kissed. House feels something wet touch his skin and realizes why Wilson's eyes had such a sheen to them. His hands move to the high cheekbones of the younger man and wipe away the tears that mar his smooth, dry skin. Their kiss creates heat; their breaths come out as wispy vapor—it looks like they're steaming.
"Let's go inside." Wilson stands and holds his hand out to House. He doesn't take it to get up, but grabs it on the way in, squeezing Wilson's fingers.
"I fucked up." House whispers to himself.
"What?" Wilson turns back to House, not quite believing what he'd heard.
"Nothing," House drops Wilson's hand and they enter the apartment. "Nothing."