Wilson is having an out-of-body experience. He thinks it happened sometime after he entered the courthouse. He came in, sat down, watched as House took his place near his lawyer. The judge gave House a withering look and then the proceedings continued. Wilson tasted stale coffee and wished he had a mint.
It was then, he thinks, that he stepped outside of himself. He remembers looking around, his vision going black for a moment, then returning a second later. It's odd, but he doesn't make much of it—until he realizes he's sitting next to himself.
What was in that coffee?
Wilson moves a hand in front of his face—his body's face (wonders if this is what insanity feels like) and there's no reaction, he's slightly worried. When the hand that reaches touch the body next to him moves through cloth and flesh like objects through water, Wilson withdraws the 'slightly' and is now more than quite distressed. He's so engrossed in his own situation (a somewhat valid distraction) that he doesn't see Cuddy take the stand. But then he hears her voice and he's looking at her, watching her in awe as she deftly spins a story.
"The defendant did pick up the prescription, then?" The prosecutor paces in front of Cuddy, who stares at him lazily. Her blue eyes follow him, but only to meet his, to show him he doesn't intimidate her. She's not afraid.
"Yes. Dr. House did pick up a prescription."
"A prescription? Not Oxycodone?"
"No, actually. Dr. Wilson had brought to my attention the fact that Dr. House had tried to steal the patient's pills earlier. I thought he might try again, so I replaced them with placebos."
Tritter is on his feet, all but shouting.
"She's lying, your honor. She's just trying to keep him out of jail." The judge looks at Tritter for a moment before answering.
"In my court, Detective, you will not speak unless called to the stands. She addresses Cuddy now.
"Do you have any record of this replacement?" House's lawyer answers to this.
"Yes we do, your Honor. Exhibit eight." He motions to Cuddy. "May I show the witness the exhibit to verify authenticity?" The judge motions yes, and Cuddy is shown the document. She verifies her signature.
"She forged that!" Tritter spits, on his feet once more.
"Detective. One more outburst and you'll be spending the night with Dr. House in contempt. Are there any valid objections that can negate this documents?" Tritter doesn't answer, so the judge proceeds.
"The court accepts exhibit eight." The Judge examines the document she's taken from House's lawyer before speaking.
"With this new evidence, I feel there is no need to continue the trial. The charges for intent to sell are also dropped; Detective, I don't see why they were drawn in the first place. You know how discovery works, correct?"
Tritter looks at the Judge for a moment. The expression in his eyes is unreadable, then he smiles. "Yes, your Honor."
"Dr. House will spend the night in jail, then return to rehabilitation. Case dismissed." Guards move to take House, when the older man looks behind him.
"Wilson!"
Wilson feels a sort of pulling, a shifting. He feels heavier, hears the echo of his heart in his head and then he's standing. House has broken away from the guards (Nimble. They don't expect it) and he's touching Wilson, pulling him close. There's a quick kiss between them and then House is gone. A hand rests lightly on his shoulder and Cuddy's leaning into him, telling him visiting hours start at five and that they'll come back.
He's still getting used to feeling solid, but manages to look at Cuddy in amazement.
"You, why did you?—" She shushes him quietly; they're still in a courthouse, where perjury is considered a no-no.
"Outside." Her hand clasps his elbow and practically drags him up. He's walking, following her and they're by her car, where she can't seem to find her keys. But she unzips a pocket and declares i this /i is why she always keeps a spare (Wilson swallows hard and realizes that 'borrowed' was House's way of saying "Eh, they'll find out about it eventually). But then they're in the black Mercedes and Wilson blushes; the image of his and House's……activities flashes in his mind and he looks down at his feet. Time passes and neither of them speak; the hospital appears in front of them and they get out. Cuddy walks away, mumbling about how she thought she had more gas than that, then suddenly stops.
"House." She turns to look at Wilson and he grins sheepishly; there's nothing he can do now but offer her gas money, which she declines. She tells him to meet her out here at 5:30; they can share a car or he can follow her.
House sits in a jail cell. It isn't so bad, he muses (the fact that he won't be spending an extended period of time in something similar probably influences this), but it could use a TV. He's bored, and there's no one to watch.
He thinks about Cuddy. Why she did it, what she was going to do to him when he got out of rehab. He wasn't worried, but he was curious. She had no reason to save him; she had everything to lose (but she picked a side and stayed there). House is glad Wilson was there, but when he glanced back at him a few times, during the testimonies, it was almost as if he….wasn't.
Wilson's eyes had been glazed; his gaze was unfocused. He was slumped a little, using the back of the seat to support his weight. It was only when House had touched him that the man had seemed to wake up, to be present. But he can't find an answer, and this bores him. Again. So he lies back, tries to sleep (for a few hours, anyway. He knows he'll see Wilson later—Cuddy too, unfortunately).
Wilson absentmindedly rolls House's pain meds between his hands. He's retrieved them from Voldemort, and found that the name is fitting. The man barely looked at him when handing over the pills, but called out to Wilson's retreating back.
"Makes sure those go straight to him." Wilson looks at the man, incredulous.
"We're not all addicts, Vol—" Wilson stops himself before the name passes his lips. He looks quickly at the large man's tag. "Symons."
He's in House's office (he's been in his far too often over these past few days) on the leather chair. Tiredness weighs down on him and he stares blankly into space, letting the delicious exhaustion pull at his eyes. He feels like he hasn't slept for days, thought that's all he's been doing lately. It's that buzzing feeling, being spread too thin; muscles can't relax, eyes can't focus. Words don't come easily in a sluggish mind. Staying awake tires him; it's like fighting to come up for air. He swims, fights his way to the top, but staying above the surface drains him. So he gets up, stretches and feels his muscles twinge with pleasure. He doesn't notice that Cameron, Foreman and Chase sit in the next room until the door near him swings open and the all but fall over themselves to hear the verdict. All but Foreman, that is. He stakes his time, moves calmly behind the others into House's office.
When the news is delivered, Cameron sighs in relief; Chase looks at her for a moment but quickly smiles. Foreman's expression doesn't change, but he lets out a gruff, derisive laugh.
"Of course he'd get off." He leaves, goes back through the lounge and is on his way, briefcase clutched in hand. Chase and Cameron leave together and Wilson goes to Cuddy's office.
House is still sleeping when his visitors arrive.
"House." The man in question's eyes open immediately.
"Man of the hour," he sits up, grins at them. Cuddy moves closer to the bars. Whispers.
"I perjured myself for you. When I get through with you at the clinic, you're going to wish you had been in jail. You're mine. Got it?" She waits for a response. House nods, and she leaves, her heels clicking loudly.
"Hey," House moves closer to the bars, puts his arm through. "Come here."
So Wilson does, but he's looking down.
"What's the matter?" He tried to touch Wilson, to see what's wrong, but cool metal restricts his reach. Wilson looks up then, and his eyes are bright.
"I was sure you were—" he cuts himself off, doesn't say it. The feelings he's been numbing with sleep are bubbling to the surface. Shock, anger, fear. Love. Guilt. He's watched House almost die, had sex with him, worried about him, feared for him, almost froze on a roof over him. Wilson's shaking and he catches himself with the bars.
But he looks into House's eyes, and something in him stops. Stops looking to the past, regretting everything (fearing everything. Hating himself). He's staring at the future, and he's finally ready to live through it.
"It was worth it." House somehow knows what this means. He smiles a little.
"You're such a girl." But it's his long fingers that wrestle through the bars to touch Wilson's hair, his lips that press against Wilson's forehead gently, like a parent checking for a fever.
"Oh, here." Wilson fumbles for something, remembering himself. He pulls out the pills and gives them to House, who takes them but tosses the bottle on the bed.
"Aren't you going to take those?"
"Wilson," House's eyes are dark, and he's looking at Wilson with hunger (a dying man would seem less eager). "Be here as early as you can tomorrow."
"But rehab—"
"I'll go back. But you'll need to take the day off."
"Why?"
"Because when I get through with you, you won't want to walk."