Wilson wakes up in House's bed….slanted. His head rests on the right, legs splayed across the left. The silence of the apartment startles him and for a moment he panics. Where's House? But then he remembers and breathes again. He doesn't get up immediately; it's Saturday and he really isn't interested in doing anything except going to see House. But he knows he can't; he knows his presence can give no comfort. He is a reminder of everything House will lose.
Eventually he rises and stumbles into the bathroom, where he examines his face for so long it becomes a flesh-toned blur. His eyes shift and his face comes back into focus. Bags hang under his eyes. His skin shines, (nightmares he can't remember made him sweat) so he turns the tap on and gasps as his hands bring shockingly cold water to his face. House's towel is rough against his skin, but the effect takes. He doesn't look quite as dead anymore.
He stands at the sink for a moment before he returns to the bedroom. The bed welcomes him back and he watches the ceiling as emotions run through him. The world rushes, blurs past him, leaves him behind while he stands on the sidelines. He walks through limbo with baited breath, waiting for the outcome of his friend's (How does he describe House now, after all that's happened?) fate. The friend that he loves. That he touches, and when he does, feels grounded. Like he matters, like he's connected to someone. But that scares him more than he'll admit, because the feeling that floods his body with adrenaline seems to be scarily akin to love. He thinks that he's been in love before, that his wives all received his love. But now he knows he's wrong; they received contented affection at best. None of them made him feel like House did (like he's being spun around while staying still, like his stomach is trying to crawl out of his body. Like House's fingers are connected to his synapses, sending electricity through him with the smallest touch). It's a dangerous feeling; he stands on a precipice and prays he can keep House, because if he can't, he doesn't know how to move forward.
House is annoyed. He sits in a mandatory therapy group, listening to the sob stories of the addicts around him. He watches a young woman (barely 19, if that) begin to cry as she explains how she got hooked on cocaine and crystal meth. Her hair is limp, greasy, and she twists it around her fingers as she speaks. He looks at those around him and decides he has no business being here, that proving himself to Tritter isn't going to have much of an effect, other than lowering his IQ. The 'therapist' is one of those bleeding hearts; he interjects nods in between thoughtful gazes. As they move around the circle telling their stories, House's mind slips away; he thinks about his dreams. Wilson had been there, so close. He slid his hands through the dark hair, felt the younger man's heart mimic his. Tasted the salt on his skin. The taste floods back into his mouth, makes him salivate as he imagines running his tongue down Wilson's chest.
"Greg," The therapist calls to him, breaking his thoughts. He's annoyed at this; his mind is his sanctuary. He doesn't like to be interrupted.
"Dr. House," he corrects. "What?"
"Here, it's first names only. You're not above anyone, you're not special; you're not different. You're an addict." House looks at the 'doctor.' His gaze makes the man feel like he's being interviewed. It….unnerves him. He's glad when House finally speaks.
"Actually, unless anyone else here practices medicine and has a double specialty, I'd say I am different."
House smiles as the group.
"Oh, yeah. Is anyone else missing a large part of their right thigh?" When no one attempts to answer him, he relaxes into his seat (partly because a wave of nausea grips him, forcing him down so the bile doesn't come up).
"So you're above the rest of us?" It's the brown-haired girl. She stares at House, glaring.
"I didn't say that. I just said we're not the same."
The therapist tries to regain control.
"Denial. Doesn't help the process, Greg."
Twelve sets of eyes look at him, pity him. They think he's in denial, that he is unable to admit why he's there.
"You know what, Dr. Anderson? You're right. I'm in denial. My leg is psychosomatic. I take Vicodin to deal with the psychic pain that's a result of my leg being practically amputated, a decision made by my ex, who left shortly thereafter. But here's the thing. For forty-one years, I wasn't an addict. I drank occasionally. I tried pot—hell, I've had coke. But you're right. There's no correlation between a physical deformity that was a direct result of ineptness in this very hospital. If you'll excuse me, I have to vomit."
House gets up, leaves the room and heads for the closest bathroom. Tears run down his face as he throws up, and he tells himself it's from the strain (but he knows it's for all he's lost, and all he still stands to lose).
House is in his room now (if you could call it that), laying on his back. There's a bed above his head, but it's empty. He isn't sure if Cuddy called in a favor or if it's the luck of the draw, but he's grateful for it. He lays, curled towards the wall to take pressure off his right side. His leg is hyperaware; lava has replaced his blood and he can't breathe normally. His head pounds in time with his heart; he chokes back vomit every five minutes. Cameron tried to visit him earlier, tried to comfort him. She sat with him, talking about nothing, really. Her hands had reached for him after awhile; she meant to touch him, hug him maybe, but he pulled away. Her eyes got bright, be he ignored this. All she had to offer was pity, something he didn't need. Her eyes were too soft, too inviting. i She /i was the functional vampire, not Wilson. She wanted to suck him dry, take away all his wounds. Absorb him. He left her there, sitting on the visitor's couches. She stood up, tried to say something, but thought better of it. Her fingers (like birds fluttering) went to her lips and she left.
He's glad Wilson hasn't come to visit him today; as good as it would have been to see him, it would have been worse to watch him go.Now House thinks of the only regret he'll have if he goes to jail. Wilson's brown gaze is in his eyes; he sees him in his mind. He wants Wilson, wants to press against him and breathe in the scent of his skin. It differs with the time of day, his skin. In the morning it's sweet, almost. Clean. Shampoo and soap. In the afternoon it's fragrant, starched. His clothes mixed with the smell of aftershave. House likes Wilson's night smell the best; he smells the cool winter cold on him. When they lay in bed together, Wilson smells like House mixed with the faint smell of fabric softener.
In his mind he's kissing Wilson, slowly moving his hand down the younger man's chest. Moving his fingers behind boxers, feeling the dark curls beneath. He stiffens, but he makes no move to relieve himself. He won't do that here.
House is in the common room. It's arts and crafts time and he fiddles with clay. He digs his nails into it and feels a memory wash over him; he's young and he's playing with this same play-doh, but it's bright blue. He's dropped some and it lands on the carpet. He tries to get it out, but the more he touches it, the deeper it soaks in, until it's ingrained so deeply his fingers do nothing but pull stray fibers. He's afraid now, breathing fast for fear of the punishment to come. Legs move into the room and his breath hitches, but he breathes again when he realizes it's his mother.
"I'm sorry," he gasps, tears already covering his cheeks.
"Greg, it's ok. I'll get it out. Why don't you go upstairs and play? Just wash your hands first." She ruffles his hair and kisses his forehead. He smiles, then runs away. Puts distance between the mess and himself.
House is so wrapped up in his memories he doesn't see the slack-clad legs that move towards him, then stop in front of him. He looks up and almost jumps when he sees Tritter in front of him, but manages to keep from giving the policeman the satisfaction.
"How's it going?" The cop's voice is low, soft. Never perturbed. Never raised.
"Great. In five minutes we'll be holding hands and singing Kumbaya."
Tritter smiles. He gets to House, and he knows it. He examines the doctor for a moment, taking in the gleam of sweat on the skin. The bags under his eyes, the shaking hands that rest in clay. House is a reduced man, and Tritter eats it up.
"You know this means nothing to me," He whispers, adjusting his belt. His pocket rattles and the officer takes out a bottle of Tylenol (dry swallows two).
"Why not?"
"Told you before. We don't need Wilson anymore. You screwed up. You'll go down for it by yourself. All alone."
House meets Tritter's eye, holds it until the officer looks away.
"Fine." He says. "Now get away from me."
Tritter listens, walks away. House looks at the ball of clay in his hands. It's flat. He's crushed it.
He gets up, goes back into his room. He thinks of Wilson, how he's doing. What he's doing.
At this very moment, Wilson is in House's bed, dreaming of him.