A/N: Thanks for reading. Comments and concrits are always welcome.
Diclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
Thanks: to my beta NaiveEve.
-9-
"...we can begin."
The words turn over and over in his head like a mantra. He has no idea how long his eyes have been closed or if he has been sleeping, half awake, dreaming, or in some kind of Outer Limits/Twilight Zone state.
He does know the pounding in his head has ceased and the effects of his booze up have flown.
This is not good. Misery should be your company, old man. You should be caressing the porcelain, embracing the pain. Hell, what do you think you'll find when you open those baby blues?
What indeed? After blasting its way into his gray matter, the thought can't simply be shot back down to its abyss. Now he has to address it.
Suck it up. Be brave. Open your eyes...
Fear scrapes its talons down the back of his neck. He inhales deeply ...
...and opens his eyes to find...
...he is home.
The TV drones the eleven o' clock news. The kitchen clock ticks the time down. The dim lamplight throws shadows on his bookcase, his piano, his desk, his phone...
He rubs his thigh, which is being a nice boy tonight and cutting him a bit of pain free slack. He is grateful not to have to dig for his Vicodin.
This is NOT a good thing.
He doesn't care, doesn't care...
"Feeling better?" Mort sits on the coffee table across from him, drumming his fingers against its edge. Has he been here all along? Does it matter?
"Compared to what?"
Mort snorts a laugh as he rubs the toe of one boot against the pile of the carpet. That shock of blond hair hanging over his brow makes him looks like one of those literature professors girls secretly sigh over in the rear of the lecture hall. "I get the feeling you're not enjoying this as much as I am."
House inclines his head. "Woah, you are good". A slow smirk glides across his lips. "Ever think of taking your act on the road? "
"I'm usually behind the scenes, directing the action." Mort replies with a wink.
"You've got plenty of pull. Get yourself a reality TV show. You'd be a smash. You can call it..." House's eyes go wide as he spreads his fingers out before him. "Deathwatch!"
"How...appropriate." The gold flecks in Mort's eyes dance and whirl with unbridled verve.
"Give death a giggle." House crows, playing the obnoxious emcee. "Find out if you are worthy of those perks on the other side. Watch the auditions, see the amazing prizes, gasp at the scandals."
Mort's shoulders shake as he laughs silently and heartily. After a few moments, House's shoulders begin to twitch and move, and he is laughing too. But somewhere inside (so hard to figure where) a switch is thrown, causing that laughter to be infused with a primal, animal-like charge. He rocks up and back as his fingers tug at his hair then rake down his stubble. It doesn't take long before the realization clobbers him.
You have dived down that rabbit hole to where the crazy people go. How's the air in there, boss?
He is...hysterical. It is difficult to tell where the laughter leaves off and the wailing begins. He stops, hitches in a breath, before letting out a long, tremulous sigh. The wetness on his cheeks is cool and slick, reminding him he was not supposed to let this happen. He is supposed to be chillin', calm, in control. But those tears continue streaming down his face, heedless of his master plan. His temples pound. He whips his head from side to side. Sobbing, sobbing, sobbing.
A hand, wide and warm, covers his face. Its thumb presses lightly on his right temple, pinky against his left, three fingers splay across his brow. He groans. Feels good. The tears stop, the rocking ceases. He recoils from Mort's touch, closes his eyes and wraps his arms around his own trembling form.
"You're so afraid," Mort says softly.
"No shit." Disgusted with his display, he drops his hands to his side, sniffs back residual tears and punches the sofa cushion.
Have you written that will? Gotten those affairs in order?
"We spoke about fear, didn't we?"
"Fear is a defense, a way to postpone the inevitable." The sentiment goes round and around, over and over and over in his head.
"There is no need for it." Mort's smile is warm, golden, like his hair, like those little dancing flecks in his eyes. "I promise you, you're going to have it better with me than you ever thought possible."
House clears his throat, taking a moment to regain his composure. "Promises...are nice but they hardly ever stick." He pauses, rubbing his knuckles against his knees. "But that's not the point I want to make."
Mort lifts his hands as if to say, I'm waiting, enlighten me.
"The point I did want to make is," House leans forward, raising one finger for emphasis. "I'm not going with you."
Chuckling, Mort shakes his head and waggles his finger, as if House were a precocious, undisciplined child. Something is going on in those eyes now: flickers of red and tiny explosions of gold are putting on a show.
House eases back against the cushion. "You stink, you're aggravating. My buddy thinks I'm out of my mind," He scowls. "and that's your fault."
You always did have a death wish.
Those eyes. There is no getting away from them. The reds inside the irises are offered up in a hundred different hues, spinning, whirling, melding with the tiny golden bursts. The colors draw him in. He feels his jaw going slack, his head growing heavy on his shoulders. Every few minutes he snaps out of it, realizing he has lost time-two minutes here, five minutes there-before being sucked back in.
The next time House breaks the surface, he mutters, "Not fair."
"Ah, but what is?"
"Damn you." House scrubs his face with his palms. "Leave me alone."
No panic. No more fear. Keep it under control.
"Your stubborn streak used to interest me," Mort says, those green eyes locked on House's. "But it's gradually becoming tiresome."
"My, how quickly they turn." House quips. "See? I'm boring. Good thing you found out before we went to your place." He would like to avert his gaze from Mort's but it seems pretty comfortable where it is."Boy, would you have been pissed to get all the way there and then find out..."
"We're going to do things a bit differently than I'd originally planned." Mort stands and rubs his hands together.
"Are we now?"
"I thought this would be easy." His tail flicks as he drifts over to House's desk. He stops, stares at the disarray and grins, seemingly delighted by it, oohing and aahing as he runs his fingers over everything. The newspapers, two empty Vicodin bottles, the PC, its keyboard and monitor, the telephone, the medical journals, pencils, pens and a rubber Gumby and Pokey entwined in a carnal, bendy embrace seem to really make his day. "Things." He sighs, taking it all in. "I hardly ever get the chance to deal with things. It's all so airy and abstract where we are." Turning his head, he winks. "Oops, don't want to give away too much."
"I'm not going so it doesn't matter."
"Here's what we're going to do." Mort beams. "Rather, what you are going to do."
Something black, shiny and unctuous creeps from under Mort's smarm and charm, slithering easily into House's gut. Something's coming. He is certain. Something pretty damn troublesome (with a capital 'T') is on its way.
And, you ain't finagling your way out of this one with your humor and mad charm. This dude's wise to your crap.
"You need to slow down," Mort says. "You'd be amazed at what you can experience if you let yourself relax."
"I kind of like things they way they are."
"Do you really?"
"I do," House responds flatly.
"Tell me you're not the tiniest bit curious." Mort floats to the bookcase. "That you don't at least want to see what I have in store."
"I don't."
"As you say, everybody lies. Although I'm not without compassion, I do want this to happen and it will." He holds out his hand and beckons. "Come here."
"Naw, I don't think so." House can't recall standing or moving himself along. But here he is on the other side of the room, sans cane, without the faintest hint of pain in his thigh...
...and without a damn song in your heart. You don't stand a chance, old man.
"As you can see," Mort takes him by the arm. "you no longer have a choice in the matter. That stepladder in the kitchen, bring it here."
There have been times, pretty darn grim times, when House has been moved to haul that compact three stair stepladder over to this bookcase.
Oh, we are riding into some mighty dangerous territory, Slim.
He had purposely made it nearly impossible for himself, even with the aid of the ladder, to reach the top of that bookcase. Making this climb was never done for fun or 'just because'. It was done because he had no other recourse. Like now.
"Why?" he asks, having no intention of doing as he is told. Yet the stepladder is already in his hands and he is carrying it over, setting it in just the right spot...
"You know why."
Escape sounds like an excellent plan. He considers using his mobility, temporary though it may be, to race to the door, wrench it open and disappear into the chilly spring night.
It's a lovely dream. But do I really have to remind you about the elevator and the stairs? Do we need to add the doorway to that list of futile exit plans?
Nope.
"Up you go."
He steps onto the ladder, one, two, three, and straightens himself to his full height. Fear retracts its talons and now runs its lithe fingers over the nape of his neck. He shuts his eyes, pressing the side of his face against his books. The rich smells of leather bindings and ink are nice.
"Doctor?"
"Yep."
"Please continue."
Even with the help of the ladder he is unable to see over the top of the bookcase. But he doesn't need to. He knows what he is after; he has, after all, done this before. He reaches, stre-e-e-tching up with one hand, scrabbling through piles of books and dust, searching, searching blindly before finally hitting paydirt in the form of...
...the metal box. His fingers roam over its sharp edges, its clasp, its coolness and wishes he could leave it where it is.
"Thank you, Doctor." Mort's voice travels from one side of his head to the other. "Bring it down."
One, two, three steps, and he is off the ladder, holding the olive green box out to the dude like an offering.
"I don't want it." Mort traces a finger along its edges, its corners, the smoothness of its sides. "It's yours."
His gaze flits from the walls to the ceiling. House has no desire to look at that box, doesn't want to think about what it holds. "I keep it up there for a reason."
"Gives you a certain peace of mind," Mort's smile is small and soft. "knowing all it takes is a bit of effort and it's in your hands."
'It's an escape hatch', is what you told yourself when you brought it home. A backup plan for pain.
It is impossible not to follow the languid grace of Mort's finger against the metal. He is like an artist mapping out a painting, a masterpiece-swirls of color, dabs of geometric detail dapple the surface.
Psychedelic, man.
House sways and Mort grabs his arm. The feeling is heady, electric. House's eyes move with the colors as they dance and writhe along the metal.
"Where do you want to do this?"
Prepped. He's being prepped: sedated before anesthetized.
"Don' wanna."
"Again...where do you want to do this?"
House licks his lips, shakes his head. "Don' care..."
"Bed? Propped up by pillows? Sound good?"
"Mmm. Guess so..."
Box in hand, he plods toward the bedroom. Mort's arm is around his waist, keeping him from wandering away or bouncing off the furniture like an errant pinball.
His simple queen sized bed seems massive and not like a bed at all. It is more like...a cloud. Yeah. All fluffy, pink and floating about an inch above the bed frame.
Shit. Snap out of it.
The comforter is thrown back. Three pillows are propped up against the headboard. House places one hand experimentally on the mattress, then cautiously presses down. The mattress dips beneath his touch, bobbing back in place as he pulls his hand away. It is afloat, like some lame prop from a Las Vegas magic show. Only this isn't one of David Copperfield's amazing feats of prestidigitation, he thinks, meeting Mort's eyes. This is real.
"Please." Mort extends his hand toward the bed.
House sets the box on top of the comforter, then, with the dude's help, manages to climb onto the floating cloud/mattress thing. His head swivels from side to side, fists clenching as his body sinks into the extraordinary softness. It sure doesn't feel like the semi firm mattress he is used to. There are no springs, there is no substance. It is just...air...water vapor...clouds.
"Lean back. Tha-at's right, Doctor."
He hears the click and hum of the refrigerator defrosting in the kitchen. The phone brrrrs and the answering machine snags the call.
You've reached this number in error...
"That's me." House giggles as the words leave his mind.
"I know." Mort raises his brows and giggles along. His fingernail makes a tat-tat-tat sound against the box. "Let's get started."
House. The voice over the machine pokes a hole in the fog.
House lifts the box onto his lap. "Tha's Wil-son."
"You don't want to talk with him," Mort says, rubbing the back of House's neck. "You're busy."
Pick up.
"Mmm." House's eyes roll back in his head. Mort's ministrations are soothing, making House feel like a sleepy boy at bedtime. But he's got to focus. Things to do. He is busy. With some effort, he raises his head, clicks open the clasp and raises the lid of the box.
House?
Wilson sounds unhappy, worried, troubled. House considers making the trip into the living room to pick up the phone and tell him to stop being such a damn baby.
He's so silly.
But the foot of the bed seems too far away, the door to his room might as well be in another galaxy. He is much too comfortably content to move. Snuggling down deeper into the cloud/mattress, House grins and blinks at Mort, who smiles back.
"What have we here, Doctor?" Mort raises his brows and peers into the box.
"Oooh...things."
"Well, I like things."
House nods. "I know."
The phone at the other end of the answering machine clicks off.
"He hung up." That unctuous black thing wiggles in his gut, reminding him that all is not well in Gregland.
I'm not going anywhere, going anywhere, going any-
Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, brother and smile, smile...
Mort strokes the back of House's head, tamping down that growing unease. "You've collected some lovely things. Won't you show me?"
Brow furrowing, House roots through the contents of the box: cotton swabs, a tourniquet, two syringes, two vials of morphine...
"Very useful things."
"I know."
They stare at one another for what seems like a long time. But as he reclines on this cloud that used to be a bed, House realizes that time doesn't seem to matter anymore.
"You know what to do." Mort's whisper floats languidly through his mind.
The morphine is so very tempting. House fingers the little vial, enjoying the way the lamplight makes the glass and liquid shine. He runs a finger over the sterile smoothness of the syringes.
"It's time...Greg."
House presses his lips together, slides the tourniquet over his arm and pushes it up to his bicep. He makes a fist, smiles at how prominently that vein in his arm displays itself, as if it too is anxious for all the sweetness to come.
Mort clasps the vial between two fingers, holding it steady as House, his stomach fluttering, his heart pounding out an anticipatory mambo beat, fills the syringe. The feeling. Ah, the feeling. That initial push when the morphine kicks in will be more powerful, more pleasurable than the most intense orgasm or the thrum of a Harley cycle as it propels him down the road. How easy would it be to become addicted to such a rush?
Easy...
Now he presses the needle against the vein, his mouth falling open as the point breaks the skin. Mort's hand cover his own and together they push the depressor down, down, down. Refill the syringe. No, not all the way. Just enough. Enough. Ahh, yes. Such a gift. Enough is too much. Yes? No? He is too far gone to know.
And somewhere in a galaxy far, far away, a phone rings as House's world breaks apart and drifts around him like a million clusters of stars.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His cell is still in his hand. The realization hits Wilson at the same time his stomach gurgles. He hasn't eaten anything tonight except the bagful of pretzels at House's place.
House.
It is after midnight. He rests his free hand on the sill. Clad in a t-shirt and sweats, he stands by the open window in Tanya's living room. Not much of a wind tonight but still he hears the faint sound of it whining and whistling, coming...
...from a galaxy far, far away.
He cocks his head. The thought doesn't strike him quite as odd as it should.
House.
He should just go to bed. Really, he should just join Tanya, nuzzle up to her warmth, enjoy some lovemaking. Forget House for now. It's late. House had been drunk, probably fell into a heavy sleep, didn't hear the phone.
But House always hears the phone. And after your third attempt, his anger should have been piqued enough where he should have picked up the receiver and slammed it down in your ear.
That would have been something, enough to assuage his concern, his worry, hold them off at least until morning.
"Hey."
Tanya leans against the bedroom door, her heavy lidded eyes giving her a look of sleepy arousal. "You said you'd be right in. That was a half hour ago."
Wilson sighs, continuing to stare at the midnight stars. "I know. I'm sorry."
"If you're so worried, try him again."
"He's not picking up."
She approaches, joining him at the window. "I'm glad you're here."
He lays his arm across her shoulders. "Me too."
"But you're not really here tonight, are you, James?"
"No," he tells her sadly. "I guess I'm not."
She has the look of a woman who truly wants to care, wants to understand but fails on both counts. Wilson closes his eyes as her lips touch his.
"Go to him, James," Tanya says, moving out of his embrace. "But after he snaps your head off for waking him, go back to your hotel. " Turning, she heads toward the bedroom. "I need to get some sleep."
The light scent of her perfume remains, tempting Wilson to follow. He imagines them spending the remainder of the early morning making slow, sleepy love, then drifting off, warm and satisfied.
Outside, the wind picks up again, It sounds heartbreaking, lonely, like a futile cry of the hopelessly lost.
The stars shimmer.
Wilson puts on his jeans, finds his jacket and keys and heads out the door.