A/N: Thanks to all who have been reading and reviewing.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
Thanks to NaiveEve for taking the time to read and beta this story. Her help has been immeasurable.
-8-
House chose to spend beer night at O'Reilly's, which suits Wilson fine. A local watering hole, it doubles as a reception hall and is conveniently located around the corner from House's apartment. Casual and comfortable, it boasts friendly bartenders and 'world famous' chicken wings.
But O'Reilly's is not always House's choice for Tuesday night beer fest. Occasionally he opts for The Bistro in downtown Princeton, a place more apt to be filled with rowdy drunks than quiet, reflective inebriates. More of a club than a pub, it is busy and bustling and hosts The Battle of the Jazz Bands on Tuesday and Friday nights. When House got loose, after his third or fourth beer, he could easily be persuaded to sit in with any of those bands. He loved the piano. And damn he was good. Give him a chord progression, simple or complex, and he can make it do twists and turns, sending it to off to uncharted stratospheres without even trying.
Wilson derives a good deal of pleasure watching House play. Music weaves a peculiar spell over his friend, easing his tension, his pain, smoothing those lines the years have so deeply and thoroughly etched into his brow. Music transports him, bringing him a unique emotional release like nothing else can, not love or lust, an intriguing diagnostic conundrum or even a Vicodin high.
But tonight there will be no music, at least not the Battle of the Jazz Bands kind. Wilson mulls this over after parking his Volvo in the lot across the street. "Maybe there should be music. Real music." Perhaps tonight they should surround themselves with the sensual whine of a saxophone, brushes drifting across hi-hats, the deep rumble of bass that makes drinks shiver and chair legs shudder. Wilson sighs as he makes tracks for the bar. Maybe they should have gone to The Bistro. It is Tuesday, after all. Sitting in with a band may have been the best thing for House, offering him some brief respite from those demons plaguing him.
Well, too late now.
Wilson peers through the beveled glass doors, scoping out the booth where he and House usually sit. Generally, House is there before him, scanning the sports page or checking out whatever game is on the TV over the bar. Tonight, though, their booth is occupied by a burly guy wearing a muscle shirt and his brassy blonde girlfriend who, from the looks of it, is well into her second Margarita.
Wilson's gut clenches. He takes the intrusion of the galoot and his gal as a personal affront, which, he realizes a moment later, is woefully irrational of him.
To combat this irrationality he pushes open the door, saunters inside, not giving the couple at his...no...their table another thought.
O'Reilly's is a roomy, relaxing place, with tables and booths, wood paneled walls, sepia toned photos of eighteenth century Princeton lining the walls and an expansive bar in the center of the action. The barstool cushions are made of soft red leather; lamplight and candlelight mingle and flicker, reflecting in the bottles of spirits standing proudly behind the busy bartender. TV screens are everywhere, offering a lively array of sporting events: from bowling to volleyball, football to cricket. On occasion House watches equestrian events on ESPN, commenting glibly on the women's derrieres as they bounce up and down in their saddles.
"He's a pig," Wilson thinks, casually surveying the place. "So what else is new." The place is far from jumping but still he can't find House, which troubles him. House may be unreliable in many ways but he always makes it a point to be on time for beer night. Especially when ol' Jimmy is footing the bill. Worry has carted in matches and a pile of wood. Very soon it will be lighting a blaze in Wilson's belly.
"Hey, Doctor Wilson." The bartender calls to him over the mellow din of music and chatter.
"Eddie." Wilson throws him a greeting as his eyes continue to search the room.
"You looking for Dr. House?" He shoves his dish towel into a wet beer mug, digging deep to dry the bottom.
Wilson pushes his hands into his jacket pockets. "Oh, yeah." He nods, flashing a small smile. "I am."
"He's upstairs. Paid for the private room." Eddie tosses him a wink. "And he's not alone."
Wilson shoots a gaze toward the back of the room, at the smooth wooden banister and the sturdy oak steps. "That's a big room upstairs, isn't it? For...office parties, receptions..."
"Oh, he's having a party alright." Eddie wiggles his brows then sets the mug down and begins drying another.
"Thanks, Eddie."
Wilson weaves a path around tables, waiters and customers. In his gut the match is struck, the fire is lit, the wood crackles and burns. Smoke fills the sky, spiraling and swirling as Wilson takes the stairs two at a time and pushes open one of the heavy oak double doors.
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"How do yer do?"
"No, no, no, no. It's h-OW. Watch my mouf. h-O-Wwww." House presses the woman's cheeks between his thumb and forefinger and purses his lips. "Say it."
"H-O-Wwwwwww dooo ya dooooo?"
"Yes!" House cries, patting both her cheeks and planting a sloppy smooch on her forehead. "Yessss!"
They fall over each other like a pair of overgrown puppies, howling and giggling in their seat at the L-shaped booth in the corner. The room, which is large enough to accommodate at least one hundred people, seems to swallow them up. Four booths line the walls. Tables and chairs have presumably been stored away for another day. A faded red streamer hangs from the center of the ceiling, a left over reminder of some booze infused celebration.
God knows what it cost House to rent this room for the night.
The pair are in their own little world, continuing to cackle in the maniacally goofy way of drunken sots. Wilson wonders about this 'love match', since the woman doesn't seem like House's type. House likes them young but he was never into this heavily masacared, black lipsticked, paste white complected goth look of hers.
Above the couple hang framed photos of turn of the century horse and buggies. The table is littered with evidence of slovenly partying. Greasy paper plates are piled high with chicken wing bones. A half full bottle of Dom Perignon tilts like a once grand tower in its silver ice bucket. An empty pitcher, a bottle of scotch with an inch of liquor remaining, and three shot glasses complete the picture. Wilson's eyes travel from the photo gallery to House and his lady friend, before he notices the other woman seated at the end of the booth. She runs a finger over the rim of her Coca Cola glass, taking the occasional sip.
"Oooh." House's girlfriend twiddles with the buttons of his shirt as she throws Wilson a provocative wink. "Who dat?"
"Who, who?"
They collapse in a tangle of squeals and hysterics again before she manages to sit up, pry House's hands off her hips and smooth her spiky black hair. What she really should be attending to is her blouse, which has somehow been pulled low off her shoulder, revealing the creamy top of a shapely breast.
"Hey, Slim Shady." Cola girl waves her glass at House. "Friend of yours?"
"He don't have no friends 'cept Dom P. and me." Spiky Hair Girl leans across the table and shakes the champagne bottle nestled in the melting ice. "And looks like Dom's seen better days."
"Oooh, hold on a minute. Ju-ust hold on." House squints and flops forward, his upper body crashing onto the table. Wilson winces at the whack of that connection and the loud oomph that springs from his friend's slack mouth. But it is pretty obvious that House is feeling no pain. He giggles and stretches out his arms causing the shot glasses to clink against one other and fall over. Waggling his fingers at Wilson, he bellows, "Hey-yy, there's my friend. That's good ol' Jimmy Wilson over there."
"He's cute." Spiky Girl coos.
"He's taken." House pouts, using two hands to push himself back into his seat. "Got a little number named Tanya waiting for him." He raises his brows and lets his tongue slide across his lips. "They have sex."
"Oh!"
"House..." Wilson folds his arms, throwing an apologetic look to both women but adding an extra dollop of 'sorry' to Coke girl.
"We're all adults here." House hiccups, belches and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "You have sex, right?" he asks Spiky Hair.
"Hell, yeah." She waves at Coke Girl. "Right, Gabby? We did it right before we came here."
"Ho!" House pounds a fist against the table, while punching the air with the other. He smirks, his eyes glimmering and shimmering in dazed excitement.
Letting out a long, cleansing breath, Wilson scrubs a hand through his hair. "Ladies, I need to apologize for my friend."
"Aww, no, you don't," Spiky Girl says, sniffing each shot glass for leftovers. She discovers a drop, twists a finger in the glass and sucks up the remnant. "He's cute too."
"Charming," Wilson hisses.
"Can we go now, Sally?" Gabby, formerly Coke Girl says, tossing House a sneer in the process.
"Aw, don' go." House grasps Sally's shoulders. "We were jus' getting started. The night is young, the booze is," He sneaks a look at the near depleted bottles. "...kinda, sorta still flowing..."
"Oooh, I'm sorry, Trent. But Gabby wants to go...y'know." Sally quirks her head at her partner who is rooting through her purse.
"Trent?" Wilson bleats.
House's eyes go wide. "Sex? Oh, man. They're gonna do it? Again. I wanna watch."
"I'm really, really-" Wilson raises a finger then slowly lowers it again.
Gabby finds her keys and jingles them gingerly at her friend.
"Maybe 'nother time." Sally stands, sways, ruffles House's hair then, with some effort, starts to squeeze by him.
He manages to cop a quick feel of her derriere before she escapes.
"Go jerk off, why don't you." Gabby scowls at House. "That'll keep your hands busy for a minute or two."
Sally is staggering toward the door and Gabby hurries to catch up. She pulls Sally's arm into a proprietary grip and leads her from the room.
"Bye!" House shouts, lifting up his cane to offer a farewell salute.
The double doors drift closed.
"Charming company." Wilson folds his arms and hitches one brow at the door.
"Chah-ming."
He makes his way to the booth, slides in next to House and scoffs, "You told them your name was Trent?"
"Mmm." House attempts to balance a shot glass on top of his hand but is thwarted by a case of the shakes. "Damn!" The glass tumbles to the table, then rolls to a stop by the ice bucket. "Gu-urls who wear black lipstick and suck down booze cream for guys named Trent, or Duke, or Bart."
"So you've taken a survey," Wilson says.
"No. It's just something I learned on the great road of life."
Shaking his head, Wilson emits a sorrowful laugh. "You...are so drunk. Why would you do this to yourself? Why would you invite a lesbian, who obviously didn't like you, and her quasi-lesbian pal, who did, to party?"
"Becuz...they weren't boring." House swivels his head back and forth like forlorn eight year old. "And...I just wanted to live a little."
Wilson's eyes go wide. "So what you're saying is you felt you needed to get bombed to feel alive?
House manages to raise his eyes to meet Wilson's. "Sumtin' like that."
"In case you don't recall, the plan for the night was to have a few beers with me, some conversation with me and watch the Mets...with me." Wilson drums his fingers against the table. "Would that have been so terrible?"
"No-oope."
"Now we can't even enjoy the evening."
"Aww...why not?"
"Because when you're drunk you're even more infuriating than when you're sober, if that's possible." Wilson tells him. "And I wanted to talk to my friend tonight. Not the blithering idiot who has taken over his body."
"That's not very nice."
"It's true."
They sit in relative silence, Wilson tapping his fingers together, House mumbling to himself and narrowing his eyes at something across the room. Muffled sounds of laughter and music drift up from downstairs, making it even more apparent what a waste of time this evening is.
"Come on," Wilson says, finally, pushing out of the booth.
"Huh?"
"We'll go back to your place. I'll fix some coffee. It won't do anything for you but it'll make me feel better."
House looks at him with an odd expression, which is somewhere between fright and resignation. "No."
"No...what?"
"No...I don't want to go home right now." House rests his hands on the table and laces his fingers together. Suddenly he doesn't seem so drunk anymore. His gaze moves slowly past Wilson to the other end of the room.
"House, what possible reason could you have for wanting to stay?" Wilson follows his friend's gaze. "What?"
"Do you see it?" His whisper is satin on sandpaper.
"Do I see...what?"
"You know."
"I do?"
House bangs his palms against the table. "You see it, don't you?" Throwing his head back, he lets out a long whistle of relief. "I knew it. I knew he would mess up somewhere along the line."
"Who?"
"You see it, right?"
Wilson shakes his head. "I see a room meant for office parties and wedding receptions. How much did you pay-"
"That." House thrusts his trembling finger at the object in question.
"That is a party streamer the cleaning crew probably forgot to rip down."
Slowly House leans his elbows on the table, rests his chin inside his palms and mumbles, "Facing up to your fears is good for the soul." He closes his eyes.
"House..."
"Facing up to your fears..."
House's eyes flutter open, his frown deepening as his gaze catches the streamer. "...is good for the soul." He slides out of the booth.
Wilson stands, noticing how House's limp is more pronounced than usual, how his shoulders rise and fall in a lopsided rhythm as he hobbles along. It is amazing he can function at all after all the alcohol he has consumed. His breathing is ragged and loud in the quiet, open room. It hitches in his throat as he makes his way...
...to the streamer which flutters lightly, even though there is not a hint of a breeze.
Strange...
Wilson follows House, remaining just a few steps behind. That haunted, determined look in House's eyes warns him not to get too close. You're not supposed to wake a sleepwalker. But House isn't sleeping. It seems he is...somewhere else.
The streamer dangles, twirls. As House approaches, his steps slow to a shuffle. His fingers brush the crepe again and again...
"House, why don't we go downstairs..."
Suddenly House rears back, mumbles some babble about...a promise..., then cries out like a man whose pain has taken him by surprise. He flexes his fingers, studying them from every angle as if searching for a wound.
Wilson steps forward, grabs his arm. "What is it?"
House's eyes shimmer with tears and barely restrained panic.. Wilson can't recall the last time he has been witness to this particular phenomenon. "What?"
House licks his lips, shudders and gives a quick shake of his head. "I can't tell you."
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Yes, old man, the streamer had eyes...
"I was drunk."
...a forked tongue...
"That's your excuse?"
...and fangs..
"Yes."
It bit you.
"You were more than just drunk, House." Wilson sips his black coffee, then sets the mug on the coaster on the coffee table. "You were...gone."
"Drunk." It is the bottom of the ninth. The Mets are losing to Pittsburgh. Badly. House clicks the remote, flipping through channels in disgust. There is nothing worse than watching a good team getting shellacked by an abysmal one.
"How are you feeling?"
House settles on one of the "Dirty Harry" movies (he can't quite recall which one), sets the remote on the arm of the sofa and turns to Wilson. "Fine."
Wilson is scrutinizing him, his eyes filled with compassion, worry and anticipation. If he is waiting for some sort of explanation, it would not be forthcoming.
I can't tell you.
House knew uttering the words was like opening a bucket of worms. Still, he had no control over blurting them out. His drunkenness had been part of the problem. But it was mainly Mort's damn fault for terrorizing him with that snake streamer thingy.
A gargantuan mistake.
The effects of his booze up with Spiky Girl or Sally whatever her name was are still with him. Every once in a while the room tilts precariously, his eyes ache like they've been rubbed raw with sand and his temples pound like twin drums in a marching band. Amazingly, nausea hasn't come calling to rob him of the chicken and booze. But, who knows? A midnight conference at the porcelain throne might take care of that piddling transaction.
If you're still here at midnight...
It's best not to think about that. Best not to dwell on it. Hell, ol' Mort might have taken a fancy to another young stud and forgotten all about him.
Oooh, why you so crazy...
"I'm not sure if I believe you," Wilson says.
Between sips from his Poland Springs bottle to combat the dryness in his throat, House replies, "I told you I was fine when you carted me back home," House ticks off each instance on his fingers, "and while you were making your first cup of coffee, again when we clicked on the game, after you had a wash up, when you scoured the cabinets for pretzels and now after your second cup-"
"You're not fine, House." Wilson shakes his head. "You scared the hell out of me at O'Reilly's."
"Believe me, it wasn't my intent. I was very, very drunk." House flexes his hand again but stops abruptly, feeling Wilson's eyes on him. "Stop scrutinizing me," he says, his gaze stubbornly affixed to his hand. "Just...stop."
"I can stay here tonight," Wilson offers cautiously.
"Get rid of him." The voice buzzing in House's ears is regretfully all too familiar.
"The party's over." The thought pummels House like a hard right to the jaw.
Oh, yeah? Sez who?
"Sez the goddamn voice circling my gray matter."
But hey, bro. You cool. You know just how to work it...
He also knows that to snap his head up would not be at all beneficial. Mort is expecting him to panic; the dude feeds on that sort of reaction. And though House is certain he will be surrendering himself to Mort's whims later in the evening, he refuses to let his consternation show now. With a forced nonchalance he wishes he truly felt, he slowly glides his gaze over to where Mort stands.
"It wouldn't be a problem." Wilson takes another sip of his brew, watching Clint Eastwood load his Magnum.
Mort floats by the kitchen, about an inch off the hardwood floor. A purplish gray haze enshrouds him as he begins to move in quick, restless circles. His tail flicks. Its tapered end pokes out of the shroud like a snake's tongue testing the air. With some reluctance it pulls back and winds itself around Mort's right leg. Mort stops. He turns. Folding his arms, he looks like a bull about to charge as he lowers his eyes at House, eyes that are nothing more than black holes in a face that is a blur of white light and deep shadow. Anger. Mort's anger fills House's mouth with its metallic taste, its slippery blood-like texture.
"If you don't get rid of him," Mort growls, "I will."
The words pierce House's gut like the eight inch blade of a carving knife . "Go to Tanya," he says to Wilson, his eyes remaining fixed on Mort's. "She has needs only you can fill."
"You are too kind." Wilson gives a small laugh. "But I think she'll survive the night."
"How can I make this perfectly clear?"
Wilson lifts a brow, tossing House a questioning look.
"Get out."
Wilson shifts on the couch, his expression one of disbelief. "You really mean it, don't you?"
"Get. Out. I'm tired. I want to go to sleep."
Very good.
"I don't need you taking an hour to brush and floss, and mousse and gel and blow dry your damn hair in the morning," House continues. "It's annoying."
Folding his arms, Wilson eyes him with a grim look of concern. "Something's off. Something's just not right with you."
House lifts his cane and gives it a threatening shake. "Owwwt."
Mort's laughter echoes in House's head, causing his temples to pound even harder.
"Alright, I'll go." Wilson eases himself off the sofa, his eyes never leaving his friend. "But my cell will be on. Call me if you need me. It doesn't matter what time it is. You understand?"
"Get rid of him!" The room seems to recoil before twisting into a sorry mess of purples and grays.
House closes his eyes and massages his temples with two fingers of each hand. "So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, goodnight...," he rasps.
First there is silence. He knows Wilson is giving him one final round of scrutiny before turning on his heel. In a few moments House hears footsteps. The front door opens. The front door clicks shut.
Then...
...two hands come from behind, taking the place of his own, making slow, impossibly delicious circles against his temples. House's hands fall helplessly, heavily to his sides. He leans his head against the back of the sofa and can't help but surrender to the pleasure.
Very good, Doctor. Ve-rrry Good.
He mouth lifts into a grin as the pain, the fear, the weariness draw together to form...an official Mets baseball.
Here's the wind up. Here's the pitch.
He swings and connects. It's a blast! A good one. It's outta here. He shades his eyes watching with heady elation as all the bad stuff rises higher and higher until it is nothing more than a dot in the sky...
...until it is gone.
"Now...," Mort's voice sprinkles over him fresh and cool, like spring rain on stadium grass. "...we can begin."