A/N: Thanks to all who have read, commented and are enjoying the story. My apologies to those from Cleveland, Ohio and Fort Lee, New Jersey.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
Thanks to the great and powerful NaiveEve for her wonderful beta skills.
-12-
Wilson wonders if his Very Bad Awful Morning will level off to being merely 'awful' any time soon. He has lost track of time, which is not a huge surprise, seeing how the last two hours felt like two days-two long, miserable days. In addition, the ache in his upper arms and its nasty cousin, back pain, are clamoring for his attention. Helping Foreman haul House's limp six foot two inch frame from the bed, out of the apartment and into the back seat of the Volvo had been a true test of stamina and strength. In retrospect, they probably should have called an ambulance. And he should have figured that any attempt at subterfuge involving House would end in failure.
True to her word, Cuddy was waiting at the hospital's emergency entrance when Wilson and Foreman arrived with their bundle of joy. Immediately she dispatched two gurney toting orderlies and a three person medical team to take care of things. House was tended to and rushed off to a room more quickly than Wilson would have thought possible. But this was not a private affair. It seemed that every idle EMT, every nurse on a break, every doctor not currently burdened with a patient had taken that precise moment to pass by this particular area of the hospital. House in trouble was always of major interest on a slow news day. And Cuddy, it seemed, had been too overwhelmed with concern, regret, anger and frustration to shoo any of the gawkers away.
Wilson doesn't hold it against her, recalling how this variety pack of emotions skittered across her face once, then again and one more time for good luck.
Now the vitals monitor beeps out a comforting rhythm as House sleeps. Wilson sits at his bedside, not daring to check the time. God knows he's probably supposed to be at work by now. But Cuddy will handle things. Cuddy will make sure everything is up and running. The thought soothes him. Now and then, when he lets his eyes drift closed, he plays a game, synchronizing his breathing with the rhythm of House's vitals. Almost like music, he thinks. Almost like a song...
"Nice to know you're paying attention."
Wilson's eyes snap open. He lurches forward, emitting a noise somewhere between a gurgle and a drone.
"I could be dead and you wouldn't even know it."
The monitor beeps its rhythmic, foot tappin' beat. Wilson clears his throat. "I've got it covered." He indicates the monitor with a tilt of his head.
"What are you doing?" House asks. He is sitting now. His tone is calm, which belies the fact he is taking in his surroundings with wide, frightened eyes.
"Are you...okay?" Wilson asks.
"What is this, question for a question time? You should be at work instead of sleeping. Only I can sleep on the job and get away with it. "
"You were just so out of it, I thought-"
"I don't have much time," House snaps. That lethargy and drugged out, childlike demeanor are gone. He seems more like himself except for the trepidation meshing with the irritation in his tone. His gaze just won't quit, continuing to flit restlessly from the walls to the table to the lights.
"Relax. You're not going anywhere." Wilson rises from his chair to sit on the edge of the bed. "You're here because we wanted to make sure you hadn't poisoned yourself."
House's head whips toward him.
Wilson scoffs. "Don't thank me or anything."
House folds his hands on his blanket, forefingers tapping together as his head lowers. He bites his bottom lip, seeming edgy, pensive but something...some random thought suddenly alters his mood. His eyes shift toward Wilson and his frown transforms into a slow, tantalizing grin. "Wanna see something cool?"
"What?"
"Something way cooler than anything you've ever imagined."
Wilson returns to his chair. "Go back to sleep, House."
But House no longer seems in the mood for rest. He throws off the wires connecting him to the monitor and eases himself off the bed. Wilson can't help but gawp at the fact that House is a) again moving along quite well without his cane and b) his apparel is by no means hospital issue.
"Where's your cane? I know I brought it."
After giving the room another cursory once over, House shrugs. "I don't need it right now. When I do it will show up."
"It will...show up?"
"Yeah."
"And excuse me for asking...but what the hell are you wearing?"
"What?" Spreading his hands, House glances down to check his look. "Oh, this little ol' thing?" He hefts his shoulders, clicks his tongue. "He says I've gotta wear it and there's no arguing with the dude. He'll throw a fit otherwise. I know he'll throw a fit when he sees you." Winking, House adds in a whisper, "He doesn't like you, thinks you distract me."
"Who's 'he'?'
"So many questions for one so small." House laughs and smoothes his robe with the flat of his hands.
"You look like the lead rider in a Roman chariot race."
"Sssh, keep your voice down. If Cuddy sees this getup she'll want one too." He sidles next to Wilson. "But no can do. This is, after all, a robe of privilege. Now..." His eyes twinkle with some strange otherworldly light. "...are you ready?"
"For what?"
"Touch my robe."
"Who are you, the Ghost Of Christmas Present?"
"Funny." House waggles a forefinger at his own flowing sleeve. "Touch."
"You're touched," Wilson grumps but puts fingers to fabric anyway. Immediately the back of his neck prickles with a weak, persistent charge. Short, sharp, shocked. The tips of his fingers tingle. He wants to ask...lots of things but can't seem to get his tongue to form the words. House is smiling. He thinks this is funny. Yeah, real funny.
And suddenly...the world turns white. Wilson is blinded by the brightness of it...the whiteness. He is snowblind. Polar bear in a snowstorm blind. But he is still...somewhere. His fist clenches fabric, the sleeve of House's silly white robe. The robe of privilege he called it. Well, of course it must be a special robe for House to even consider wearing it. It's a dream.
Of course it is. He is still in the hospital, seated at House's bedside. Only now they are both asleep.
"Look."
Okay, he'll play along. The quicker he gets on with this foolishness, the faster he can wake up and get back to the business at hand. He can't spend the whole day at House's side. Work calls; patients to see, lives to save.
"Look!"
The snowblindness dissipates. It is like cottony fog pulling away from itself and drifting off to parts unknown. But unlike that fog, this one continues to command a presence, like the whole world's been dipped inside it but shaken only partially clean.
Wilson's mouth falls open. "What the hell?"
He is surrounded by a crowd of milling, bemused looking...ghosts. His shoulder is jostled as a tall woman in basketball garb drifts by. A callous looking guy sporting a fishing hat with a dented brim follows suit. They bobble away as Wilson is pulled deeper into the throng.
Well, maybe they're not ghosts. Wilson doesn't believe in ghosts. But these guys are certainly pale as specters. Corpses have more color in their faces and their skin. These...people are almost transparent but...not...quite. Their clothes have a blush of hue, as if faeries had daubed them with dots of pastel pink, blue and gray before fluttering away.
The air is filled with murmurs, though no lips move to shape sounds. Still, from the tone of their soft chatter, Wilson can somehow tell these 'people' are his compadres. They don't know what the hell is going on either.
Seriously though, they're not really like him, are they? There is a wrongness about them, something odd he just can't put a finger on-
"They're dead," House tells him.
Strange. So intent is he on this extraordinary experience, Wilson has almost forgotten about House. But Wilson's fingers no longer grip that robe of privilege. The realization zaps him like the electric jolt of a taser. House? Craning his neck, Wilson attempts to find him over the sea of filmy, opaque humanity He has to be here somewhere. His voice was just in his head. In his head? What does it mean?Awww, it's a dream.
His concentration flags. Dread descends. He feels alone and afraid.
"House," he cries, pushing through the relentless people sea. He stumbles into the guy with the fishing hat. The guy turns slowly (step by step) to face Wilson, his mouth gaping wider and wider, revealing tiny white teeth and a lolling, pallid tongue. His white eyes bulge, like grapes about to burst.
"House!"
"Ssssh, I'm here." The familiar voice is in his mind, probably not real at all.
His eyes dart every which way, looking, seeking, hunting. Wilson thinks he sees House here, then over there, then...nowhere. It's like playing Where Oh Where Is That Rascal Greg? There! A brief glimpse of House sends Wilson pushing and shoving, struggling to catch up, upsetting the flow of pedestrian traffic. But no one complains or calls him 'buddy' or tells him to watch where the hell he's going. The most important thing for these folks, it seems, is getting to their final destination. He stops for a moment, taking one more look around before throwing his hands up in despair.
Smiling white robed figures float and dip above the throng, herding everyone off to somewhere. He finds himself following along, hoping the next person to jostle him will be House. But it doesn't happen. It is not happening.
He is routed off into a group heading toward a tent the size of a garden shed. His group leader, a young man with flame colored hair, a pug nose and an engaging smile, floats above, directing each person through the tent's open flaps. He seems harmless enough, reminding Wilson of the guy at the airport who waves planes in for a landing.
But now something smells. No, actually, something stinks. It occurs to Wilson as he closes in on the tent flaps, that this place might not be as pure and clean as it looks. It reeks of garbage left too long in the sun, of bodies blown apart, the detritus of a battlefield: guts, bits of brain, intestines, an eyeball here, a half a finger there. He is a doctor, an oncologist, a firsthand witness to how the failings of human physiology can turn a body and life into a gruesome mess. But it's not fair. He sees it all so clearly now, how unfair it really it. Stifling a sob, Wilson presses his fists against his eyes, his left foot lifting to cross into the tent's cool interior. It's just not-
"Noooo you don't." He is pulled away, whirled around. He spies a flicker of stubble, a flash of blue eyes. House has arrived to wrench him out of the queue.
"Hey...I lost my place." Wilson sniffs away residual tears.
"You don't want to go there."
"Well, why not? It's cooler inside and I don't think it stinks-"
"You'd never come back." House has that know-it-all smirk: an arrogance you could shoot down but never defeat. "Is that what you want?"
"No."
"Didn't think so."
They weave a surprisingly smooth path through the crowd, the lower edge of House's palm pressing between Wilson's shoulder blades, urging him along.
"Here." They stop beside a small white fence at a remote edge of this field, yard or whatever it is. House squints toward the crowd. "It never stops, this whole life-death thing. I wanted you to see if first hand," House tells him softly. "without getting caught. Unfortunately he knows you're here, which is going to put a damper on our plans. I thought I could show you the inner sanctum. But he-"
"Who?"
"Death dude, the big guy, the top cop, the Big Kahuna."
"Ah."
"He's really pissed and guess what? He's on his way."
"Then maybe I'd better go." Wilson attempts to amble off but House holds him firmly by the shoulders.
"Look over there." House directs Wilson's gaze with a waggle of fingers. "Check out the tower."
Raising his head, Wilson gawps over the bobbing, wandering throng at...a wonder, a marvel: a massive white tower, floating above the human sea. It seems to be made of fog and cloud and vapor. Now and then, bits of it drift up and disappear into the sky's glaring whiteness. Meandering around its balcony are folks all spruced up in those silly robes. One of them, a slim yellow haired guy with a hawk like nose leans over the edge, surveying the crowd, like he is searching for a special certain someone.
"He's looking for me, isn't he?" Wilson attempts to duck behind House.
"Yep, and hiding sure ain't gonna help."
"Now here's the six million dollar question. Why the hell did you bring me here?"
"I thought it might be...interesting."
It is impossible to be angry at House when that little boy grin is plastered across his face.
Search and destroy. The yellow haired guy is diligent, Those green eyes are huge, seeking, searching, scoping Wilson out. Eventually they lock on him, holding him, commanding him to stay right where he is. The guy's look is all dankness and darkness, like howling winds whipping through open graves. Now he whoops and cackles, rotating one arm like Pete Townsend doing a windmill before pounding that final thunderous chord of "Won't Get Fooled Again".
The sky shimmers. The crowd, the tents, the air, recoil, preparing themselves for a maelstrom.
"Time to go." House says, gripping Wilson by the shoulders. He spins Wilson to face him and there is a sense of urgency in his movements, in how the tips of his fingers press against Wilson's collarbone. "Remember the tower." Gold flecks dance, twirl and spin inside House's blue irises. "Only the tower." He presses his thumb and forefinger against Wilson's temples, three fingers splayed across his brow.
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There is no maelstrom. It was a hoax, another of Mort's antics designed to confuse and infuriate him.
Wilson slips through House's fingers, melting like candle wax into a lively array of colors. Brown for his hair, red for his tie, blue for his shirt. House stares, transfixed, as the hues merge together on the ground, shifting to form an image like a chalk drawing on asphalt.
"Did you like that?" The image speaks to him, its growing resemblance to the death dude is remarkable. It shifts once again, now swirling up like a mini tornado, rising, rising, forming legs, arms, teeth, hair, until it is Mort. His smile is beatific; those green eyes gleam like newly polished emeralds. "Scared the hell out of him, didn't I?"
"You didn't have to do that."
"It was magnificent." Mort spreads his arms, as if to embrace House, the rabble, the tents, his minions. "You're lucky I was amused. No telling what might have happened if your friend bored me."
"I'm leaving." House turns, heading for the tower.
"You didn't answer my question."
He stops, curling his fists, well aware he evaded the question. But he is reticent to talk about the power he has been thrown. He won't allow himself to consider what it would mean to keep it.
"Did...you...like...being able to bring Wilson here? How did it feel, being omnipresent, omnipotent, godlike for a bit?"One delicious, hot buttered perk.
The words echo and swell over and over in his head. Turning toward Mort, he lowers his head slowly, bringing his hands to his ears, attempting to silence the voice and the intensifying chatter and hum of the rabble.
"Too much to absorb all at once. I know." Mort smiles. He is at House's side, moving those expert fingers against his neck. "I know. We'll go to a quieter place."
House closes his eyes, enjoying the soothing motion of Mort's fingers despite himself. When he dares to look again, he finds the rabble, the tents, the white against white have vamoosed.
Now the world has gone red.
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The world careens back into place, the overwhelming white supplanted by blues, golds and reds...
"-Wilson?"
"Tow-er," he mumbles, shaking his head as he opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is cleavage. Like a partially opened gift it peeks invitingly from between the opening of a frilly red satin blouse. "Cuddy." He rubs a hand down his face, surprised at the amount of stubble on his cheeks, deflated by the drool on his chin.
"I'm sorry, James, but you have patients waiting for you," she tells him, sounding genuinely apologetic. "I held them off as long as I could."
"I know." He shifts in his chair, wincing as his aches and pains continue their assault from last night. He raises his eyes toward the bed. "How is he?"
She lifts a brow and shrugs. "Sleeping it off."
"Good." Pressing one hand against the armrest, he pushes himself up and stands by the bed. House is dreaming, his eyes flitting every which way beneath his lids, one side of his mouth lifts into a gentle half-grin. A forefinger twitches. Wilson notes that House is clad in aqua hospital issued sleepwear and his cane stands in wait in the corner behind the bed. He has no idea why this should matter. It just does.
"Tell whoever's waiting I'll be with them in fifteen minutes." Wilson scrubs a hand through his hair. "If I don't shower and shave they might wonder why a derelict has taken over my practice."
"No problem." She joins him at House's bedside. "I can't believe he did this."
"I can." Wilson shrugs. "If he gets a notion in his head, it doesn't matter who it's going to affect or hurt. As long as he gets what he wants-"
"He needs to see Schiller," Cuddy says, smoothing House's blanket. "As soon as he can speak and comprehend, he's going. And don't let him talk you out of it."
"Me? I've never been a pushover."
"Oh, no?"
"Well," Wilson throws her a lazy grin. "hardly ever."
Cuddy pats him lightly on the shoulder. "I'll see you later."
Wilson yawns as the door drifts closed, as House mutters in dream speak. He turns to leave, then pauses in mid-stride. A tower, impossibly immense, made of clouds and vapor, floats high above...everything. It flickers in his mind's eyes, then vanishes. His body tenses as his palms go cold, his eyes moving cautiously, expectantly around the room. Remember... No. Wilson forces his thoughts toward real stuff: breakfast, patients, a shower, a shave, managing to shove the thought of the impossibly immense tower out of his head.
His hand trembles, slipping off the door handle twice. Spitting out a curse, he twists the damn handle, yanks open the door and hotfoots it down the corridor, leaving House alone with his dreams.
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Red.
It is the color of passion, of ire and fire. It is the deep, rich color of oxygenated blood-a stubborn entity to be reckoned with-a life force.
House sits in the center of the red room, head down, arms slung over bent knees. Above him, hovering in the air (that lub dubs like the beat of a healthy heart), Mort plays the observer, judge, jury, instigator and interrogator. Fluttering to and fro above her master is Sera. She is the seducer, Mort's backup plan if all else fails.
"Now what?" House mutters.
"That is up to you," Mort says.
"Bullshit. You want what you want." House lifts his head and glares at him.
"Not if it means dealing with your constant obstinance." Mort smirks. "That gets old real fast."
Humming some sweet, sad tune, Sera circles overhead, occasionally dipping low to caress House's cheek. Her touch melts him but he forces himself to swat her away with a halfhearted swing of his hand.
"You said my purpose here is to humor you," House says.
"Oh, and you have." Mort chuckles.
"You've tried intimidation, seduction, flattery. You even had me drug myself so I'd be in the right frame of mind to follow you."
"Yes, all true."
"I do believe your desperation has reared it's ugly little head." Spreading his arms, House's glare darkens to a glower. "You said you wanted my wit, my input. Walk with me, talk with me." He shakes his head slowly. "But you're full of it. All you've done-"
"-is bring you pleasure, perks like you've never experienced."
House's gaze softens and drifts toward Sera of its own accord. She is in the midst of transforming into that incredible white fluttery thing for which he has no defense. Violet eyes, huge and irresistible lock on his.Don't.
No? Oh, come on, it'll be fun.His mouth falls open. "You're playing with me, preying on my weaknesses to get me to stay. I call foul."
"You'll stay if I want you to," Mort tells him as Sera drifts closer. "Staying is not the problem. Your wanting to stay. That's the key. It took me this long to get you here. Do you think I'm going to give up without a fight?""This is getting old."
Sera stands before him, red lips set in an impish grin, violet eyes calming him, drawing him in. She runs her hands over his face, down, down his shoulders, his biceps. In a moment she changes course, running her fingers lightly up and down his arms.
"Stop," he hisses.
Laughter bubbles from her lips. Those bubbles floating up, up bursting against the walls in blotches of pink, blues and yellows...
...as death dude applauds, and each handclap is like a thunder boom. The walls quake from the force of them.
"Stop!" House shouts and, after a moment, shouts it again to make his point that much clearer.
Something clicks and the energy level in the room powers down The pair stop their antics and stare at each other in surprise, then turn to look at House. He returns their look with a smirk, pretty darn chuffed that his anger has put a damper on the Mort and Sera Show.
Mort's brow furrows. "It's no fun like this."
"Guess not."
"It never was."
Sera folds her arms, twists those pretty lips into a pout and shakes her head.
"I thought it would be different this time," sighs Mort. "After all, you don't have much going for you...over there."
"Oh, I don't know..."
"You have no friends."
"I have one..."
"Oh, wow, that's right-the skittish Dr. Jim." Mort claps his hands and chuckles.
"One friend is all you need, " House tells him.
"You're miserable, in pain."
"So I am."
"You're a pill popping gimp."
"You know what? House shakes a finger at the two of them. "You need a hobby other than messing with my head. Let...me...see." He taps his chin, his gaze darting from Mort to Sera. "Hey, I know. Why not make an attempt to do your jobs? I challenge you to keep me from getting bored when I go back."
"See?" Mort throws up his arms. "This is why you end up hobnobbing with the rabble every single time you're here." He punches the wall, causing Sera to flinch and the colorful blotches to tremble and break apart like paint chips. "No wonder you have such an ancient soul. You don't have the courage to move on."
"That's my problem. Don't concern your boyishly blond haired head about it." He stands, brushing flakes of color off his robe. "You're a nuisance" He indicates Sera with a quirk of his chin. "That goes for you too, Elvira. Don't bother me anymore. I don't need your promises, your ridiculous robe or your damn perks."
"You say that every time too."
"This time I mean it." He flutters his eyelids like a winsome coquette. "Honest I do."
The dude is in front of him now, seeming much taller than usual. His shadow is overwhelming, huge, darkening the red room to a somber mulberry. House must lean back and tilt his head to see Mort's face.
"Do you have any idea of what I can do to you...?" Mort's voice is gruff, low, barely a murmur.
And suddenly...it's like an ice floe has broken apart inside of House, its shards catching a ride through his bloodstream, branching off into his nervous system, settling cool inside his capillaries and arteries. Bruise colored walls surround him, thrumming and pounding their heartbeatin' rhythm.
"...where I can send you?" The edge of Mort's lips brushes his ear.
There is a flutter at House's shoulder as Sera zips by him, then through him, offering him a second or two of pleasure before the fear kicks in again.This fear will be your undoing, old man. Give in and you'll be his slave, like Elvira up there.
"You could send me to Hell or..." House hefts a virtual bat and knocks trepidation out of the park. "Cleveland."
"What?" Mort sniffs out a surprised laugh, which clashes boldly with the ominous presence he has assumed.
"Cleveland is a hole. I'll take Fort Lee, New Jersey or even Hell over Cleveland.
"That can be arranged." Mort waves a hand and the walls return to their gently pumping scarlet.
High above, Sera soars, her arms spread wide. She resembles a white bird flowing smoothly along on a gentle current of air.
"You put up a good fight," Mort says. "Again."
"How many times now?"
"Does it matter?
"Guess not."
"Can't say it hasn't been fun," House says. "Now get me the hell out of here."
"You're sure about this?"
House closes his eyes. "Wait." He reaches deep inside his robe and roots out the final vestige of Mort's world. The Black Unctuous Thing coils tightly around his wrist. House raises his hand and shakes it hard up and back until the Thing loosens and flies off. It hits the wall with a wet thwack, adhering to it like a sucker fish.
"Are you done?" Mort gives him a disgusted glare; Sera's eyes shimmer with tears.
House shouts, "I am gone."
"Then go where you belong." Mort presses his hand against House's brow, pinky and thumb against his temples, three fingers splayed across his brow...
...and...he...is...caught in the midst of the jostling, writhing, panicked bodies of the rabble. Tossed from side to side, he is assailed by the sounds of grunts, moans, cries and the sickly sweet stench of decomposition. They detest him, blame him for their plight. He knows this because of the way they are clawing at him, crushing him, pushing him down, down into their black hole center. He can't see, can't breathe...
...and his head snaps up from his pillow. In his throat the scream sits, wedged in thick and tight.
It is only another moment before it flies free.