A/N: A dark little chapter… very dark. And number 13, at that. So, umm… Happy early Halloween:) mjf
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Dreams
Wilson and Cuddy sit in silence for a few minutes after the voice file ends, each lost in their own thoughts. But when Wilson absentmindedly reaches for his mug of tea with his left hand, Cuddy sees him wince at lifting the cup.
She stands up, places her hands on her hips, and announces, "Change of plans. I'm taking the first watch. You're taking a couple of Motrin and an ice pack. And a nice, long nap."
Wilson considers arguing, but it seems that everything that's happened today is conspiring to make movement impossible; his leaden body is aching to lie down, for just a few minutes. He allows Cuddy to shoot down his token protest, and thanks her, moments later, when she magically appears in front of him with the pills and the ice. I didn't even see her leave the room; must really be out of it. Just a few minutes; rest my eyes, and I'll be fine.
But as soon as he lies down, Wilson's brain switches on. The phrases from the end of the voice file play in a continuous loop as Dick tells him, again and again and again, how important it is to have that conversation about self-perception with House. And Cuddy's voice choruses in, "Vital to his recovery… vital." A third insistent voice chimes in; it's House, repeating that strange, worrisome monologue from earlier this evening, about his leg. Wilson is dimly aware that this isn't really happening, tries to tell himself it's only his worry about House's nonsensical accusations.
As Wilson starts, against his will, to drift off, borne towards sleep on pure exhaustion, an odd scene opens in his mind.
I want a healthy leg, House continues to insist. You're wrong about me, wrong about the pain, and the pills.
You wouldn't know how to view yourself if you couldn't blame everything on the leg, Wilson shoots back. Your entire identity is wrapped up in it. Your perception of everything would have to change if your leg were healthy!
That's one change I'd be happy to make! House tells him.
No, you wouldn't. Told ya once that being miserable doesn't make you different—just makes you miserable. But I was wrong about one thing. You're sure as hell different. And you can blame that on your misery. But take away the pain, you lose the built-in excuse to be miserable, to ignore the rules the rest of us live by.
But you took away my pain! House laughs, without mirth. And I'm still hurting. Same song, he sneers; different leg.
Because you have to hurt, Wilson hisses. You need to hurt; it's who you are….
Wilson twists on the couch, trying to escape his nightmare.
---
And in House's bedroom, the night demons are claiming a second victim, as House's recurring dream pulls him in from oblivion to argue with Wilson again.
I don't define myself by my leg! he tells Wilson. And, in the objective part of his brain, the part that's aware that this is a dream, he thinks to himself, Here we go again. He wonders if the nightmare will play out to its unthinkable conclusion this time.
---
You think my pain makes me who I am? House asks, as Wilson's dream moves firmly into nightmare territory. All the details are coming sharply into focus. Wilson sees now that they're in House's office. He doesn't know how he's aware that the rest of the wing is deserted, he just knows that it is.
My pain is me? That's it? House's voice has a taunting quality. Wilson is suddenly frightened, and he doesn't know why.
---
In the bedroom, Cuddy watches House with growing concern. His sleep's become restless, and now he's starting to mumble. She can't make out the words, but the tone is at once angry, and pleading. Cuddy's wondering if she should awaken him, then thinks better of it; as long as he's not in physical discomfort, a troubled sleep is better than none at all, she reasons. And with the level of anxiety he'd exhibited today, she can't really be surprised that some of it might spill over into his dreams.
---
Wilson's lost the fight to escape his nightmare; his body is still now, as his subconscious mind pulls him further in the scene unfolding in House's office. His fear, which he's already pegged as irrational, continues to grow as House continues to taunt him. And then his fear finds focus.
So, the leg is who I am; I am my pain. Wilson shivers at the eerie sing-song quality of House's voice. House picks up the heavy marble pestle lying in the mortar on his desk, and begins to toy thoughtfully with it.
Then it would follow that more pain would make a better me, don'tcha think? House asks Wilson. And, never removing his eyes from Wilson's, House lifts the pestle and brings it down, hard, on his left thigh. And again.
Wilson watches in horrified fascination, unable to process what he's seeing. When he's finally able to move, he begins to run to House's side, but the eight feet between them is an interminable distance, and although he runs until he's out of breath, he never gets any closer.
It isn't until the pestle drops to the floor, and House is looking at him with a mocking, satisfied smile, that Wilson's steps actually close the distance between them. He sees at once that he's too late; House's left quadriceps is gone, beaten to an oozing pulp, the thigh a gaping, bloody crater.
Wilson's cries for help go unanswered, and he remembers that they're here alone. There's no one who can help House. No one but Wilson. It's up to Wilson, all of it. He reaches a tentative hand towards the wound, watches as the ruined muscle turns black and shrivels away at his touch; House begins to laugh.
No! Noooo! Wilson screams, and hears his own voice echo in his ears.
---
Cuddy is still watching House. His restlessness is increasing, and the indistinct mumbling's becoming clearer, the tone more threatening.
I was wrong not to wake him, she thinks. She stands to go to the bedside, but a low sound from the living room catches her attention. She turns her head, listens more closely as the quiet sound becomes louder, and then she hears Wilson shout "No!" The second time he shouts the word, the syllable is drawn out, in terror.
She starts to head to the living room as his voice rises again. But this time, it's joined by a second voice, echoing the same word. Cuddy watches in horror as House, eyes wide, bolts upright in his bed. Cuddy stands frozen in the doorway as the voices of the two men mingle and roar in her ears.