A/N: Thanks for reading!
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
Thanks: NaiveEve and Betz
-8-
"Oh, man." Foreman chuckled. House was...gone. His mouth had fallen open; his eyes were glassy slits. His attention was super glued to the half open window, the tip of his nose occasionally grazing the glass. He seemed mesmerized by the blur of cars and lights. Once or twice he made a snatching motion at the traffic but then his hand collapsed back into his lap as if it had had enough.
"Ohhh, man," Foreman could only shrug and grin, keeping his speed at a steady seventy as he rolled on down the highway.
They were late for the party. Their reservation at Gambini's was for eight o' clock and it was already eight seventeen. But the delay had been unavoidable. Foreman tossed Wilson a heads up, phoning him from The House of Blue Light, spoon feeding him the particulars of House's descent into blitzville. Wilson's reaction was...predictable: silence, then a sigh of frustration, then a characteristic shift to the problem at hand.
Wilson did not want to lose the reservation, so it was decided that he and Chase would take a cab to Gambini's and hold the table. But what were the prospective groom's thoughts on the subject? Well...at the moment House was crooning "Blame It On the Bossa Nova" to the traffic, mangling the lyrics, ree-ally making the song his own. Foreman sighed. Explaining the evening's plans to House would be like trying to hammer a nail into a brick with a plastic straw. A supreme waste of time.
Foreman never intended for House to become so deeply enmeshed in the zone this early in the evening. But give House free access to mind altering substances and this is the shit that happens.
Max Trask was the bookish, bespectacled proprietor of The House of Blue Light, the private club Foreman joined two years ago. An attentive, discreet host, he prided himself on providing those with a decent cash flow a party palace in the middle of ghettoland: a place to enjoy whatever floated their boat...within reason.
Max was a smart guy, a cautious entrepreneur who had no intention of getting raided or having his club shut down. Prostitution and drugs weren't his usual thing. He ran his club as a friendly gathering place for the privileged to meet and mingle. 'Keeping the customer satisfied' was a lost art he intended to bring back. So when Foreman asked him to procure some better grade cannabis, preferably Sour Diesel, for House's wedding celebration, Max complied, but not without reservations. Selling marijuana was about as deep as he would venture into illicit business practices. And Foreman knew if anyone else had made the request, Max might have refused. But the two men had a history, saving each others asses on more than one occasion in their younger days. And Max was a loyal guy with a long memory who didn't believe in letting a friend down.
So Max welcomed the two men into his office and with a flourish, opened his desk drawer and produced a small polished wooden box "For the groom," he announced, smiling, handing the box to House. House's eyes grew wide as he opened his gift and studied the pretties that were procured expressly for him. Ah, yes, here was a blunt, a few joints, and a 'couch pop' (which, Max explained, was a lime lolly mixed with essence du cannabis. Lovely and potent as a joint without the smoke and mess). This was Max's good deed for the day. After leading Foreman and House to a private back room with red velvet walls, a fully stocked bar, sectional sofa, and big screen TV, he left them to enjoy.
House was only supposed to get mildly wrecked at the club. The stopover was planned as a preamble to an evening of drunken abandon. But Anita chose this night to show up. Damn, Foreman hadn't seen her for a year and Max knew it, which is why he sent her to the party to mix and mingle. She sashayed into the room and that was all it took to shift Foreman's attention to...other things. After a short conversation, they retired to an even more private area (the deluxe 'bed and hot tub' combo), leaving House deep inside an aromatic fog of Sour Diesel, happily clicking away at the remote. When Foreman returned an hour later, the entire blunt, one and a half joints, a quarter of the 'couch pop', and three shot glasses of tequila were history.
Pissed. Wilson was definitely going to be pissed when he saw the condition House was in, but Chase wouldn't care. He would simply laugh, sit back and enjoy the show.
With some help from Max and Anita, Foreman managed to get the staggering, bleary eyed House through the parking lot and inside the BMW. After strapping him in for the drive, Foreman swore twice to the heavens, and drove off.
It was almost nine when they arrived at Gambini's. Getting House out of the car and helping him navigate across this more expansive parking lot was going to be a challenge but nothing Foreman couldn't handle.
And away we go...
House's lolly was stuffed firmly inside his mouth. The stick bob-bob-bobbed as he giggled and lurched along with a shuffling, jerky gait. Foreman ambled along beside him, ready and waiting to catch him if he toppled over. But, no. It didn't happen. The guy might be stone cold gone, but he was still an old pro at navigating under extreme circumstances.
House was still giggling when they reached the door. But when he noticed the scenery, he stopped abruptly, wobbled as he leaned on his cane and...just...stared. Yes, it was unusual to find a beautiful, olive skinned, exotic looking woman just...standing outside a restaurant, unescorted. She shouldn't be alone. A woman with her looks belonged on the arm of an oil tycoon or a sheik...or someone else who never had to worry about the price of gas.
Foreman couldn't blame House for ogling her. Hell, his own eyes were taking a little tour. Surely she must be used to this reaction. But if she was, she sure as hell wasn't enjoying it. Shifting uncomfortably, she averted her gaze, pulling her gray London Fog coat a little tighter around herself.
Sighing deeply, House pulled the lolly out of his face, holding one hand out to steady himself as he swayed against the brick wall next to the entrance. "Kinda warm for that coat."
The woman lifted her eyes, then squinted at him, the edge of her top lip curling into a sneer. "You warm enough, Pancho?"
"Ah-ah-ah." House wagged a forefinger at her. "Tha' was pret-ty darn rude..."
"Come on, Casanova." Foreman pulled his own eyes away and prodded House by poking a finger into his back. "You're taken."
"Mmmph." He grinned a goofy grin, shoving the lolly back where it belonged. "Mmm hmm."
Foreman led House to the rear of the wood paneled dining area, where Wilson and Chase sat in a booth next to a massive fish tank. From the amount of empty beer bottles on the table and the way they were chuckling, Foreman knew they were feeling no pain. Two plates of chicken wings, a mushroom pizza and a tray laden with breaded, fried hors d'oeuvre things sat mostly untouched. Drinking had obviously been the night's main activity.
"Mission accomplished," Foreman announced, indicating House with a wave of his hand.
Wilson met Foreman's eyes and the laughter was abruptly sucked down a wormhole.
"You are so late." Wilson banged his beer bottle on the table. His glare could have sliced diamonds. "And look at you."
House blinked and smiled, seemingly unperturbed by the disgruntled greeting. He leaned hard on his cane, wobbled a little to the left, then steadied himself by rocking forward against the table. Finally he managed to ease himself into the chair opposite Wilson, where his attention was drawn to the colorful fish. Some were swimming or just drifting, others darted after one another in a merry game of tag.
With great care, he removed the lolly from his mouth, placed it in his shirt pocket and gave it a proprietary pat. His eyes traveled the length and width of the wondrous aquarium. "Fissssssssssssh!" he exclaimed.
"Are you...done?" Wilson's hair was more tousled than usual, looking like someone had given it an affectionate scrubbing.
"Heyyyy, Jimmy. Forget to mousse your hair? Never gonna impress the chicks looking all messy and uncombed like that" House snickered and weaved back and forth in his chair. He poked a finger at a clown fish and traced its path as far as he could reach without leaving his seat.
"Ohhh, like you're such a damn expert?"
"I'm gettin' married." House's intoned in a joyous singsong. "So I must have that...certain somethin'. You...think you're sooo cute with your dimples and your close shave and your hair. But just look who landed the girl."
"Sheesh."
"You know what your damn problem is?"
"I don' have a problem." Wilson snapped.
"Sure you do." Folding his hands on the table, House leaned forward and proclaimed, "You sir, are stinking drunk."
Chase guffawed. House joined in, lifting his brows almost to his hairline as he bobbed his head up and down and jabbed a taunting finger at Wilson. "Huh? Huh? Am I right?" His heavy lidded eyes shifted to Chase. "Tell me I'm right, pretty blonde intensiv-siv-ist."
"Oh, my god. Here we friggin' go." Foreman took a seat beside House and settled in for an interesting night.
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House liked this restaurant bar type place. The lights weren't too bright. That was good. Right now he could barely see straight, and if he had to squint through bright lights to see Wilson's somber, accusatory glare, he doubted he could do it. Terrible music though, some sensitive singer songwriter mush pouring through the speakers.
There were lots of folks here, lots of pretty people. No one as gaw-jus as that babe by the door but still...
Over at the bar, most of the drunks were shouting to each other, loudly discussing the Knicks game on the TV. Why do tanked people yell at each other? Was it to be heard? It wasn't that raucous in here. Being stoned was mellower, so much better.
Of course, you're much too wasted to shout.
Oh, and just look at that couple standing there, swilling their beers. They got matching leather jackets and Guess jeans on. How idiotic must they have sounded when they picked out their outfits for the evening? Oooh, honey, let's wear this to the bar tonight. Okay, sweetums, let's. Sooo fuckin' infuriating. He winced as his thoughts raged on. Those musings were much too loud for his 'fragile eggshell mind'. Jim Morrison sang about that. Yeah, he sang that song about ghosts and fragile eggshell minds. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. Morrison. Jimmy Wilson. House winked at Wilson, who sucked in a breath and rubbed the back of his neck, like all good little Jimmy Wilson's do.
Mellow. Mellow out tone it down.
But...but lookit. House's attention returned to the couple at the bar.
Ye-esss. I see...
The guy has his hand packed down into the ass pocket of his girl's Guess jeans. Frowning his disapproval, House clicked his tongue and grumbled aloud.
"What's wrong," Chase asked.
"See? Over there? I would never ever do that. Not in a public place."
"What?" Chase followed House's gaze toward the lovebirds. "Oooh, cool."
"Not cool, idiot. You're a low class moron." He glowered. "You'd do that to your girl?"
"What girl?"
House let out an exaggerated sigh. "Cam-er-on."
"Oh, she's not my girl."
"She's not my girrrl," House mimicked the Australian drawl, pretty damn pleased with the result. "You sneak out to plow her at lunchtime." He narrowed his eyes. "She's your girl."
"I wish." Chase suddenly looked sad.
"Idiot."
"House..." Wilson raised a finger.
"See now..." House saw Wilson's finger and raised one of his own. "I know how to treat a woman. Which is why I am getting married and you're all lying in your beds at night pulling your puds." He threw each of them a smug grin and sank back into his seat.
"There is great mystery here, House." Wilson proclaimed. "Mystery and wonder and a touch of Ripley's Believe It Or Not."
"Mmmm." House closed his eyes for a moment, hoping the room would maybe, perhaps, stop spinning.
Say 'pretty please'...
"The mystery is...what the hell does a woman like Myrna see in you?"
"Tell him, Chase." House murmured, rocking back and forth, his eyes still closed. He should really stop. If he stayed this way long enough, he might just fall asleep and what fun would that be?
"Tell him what?"
House glared at him. "Tell him that I am a man of quality...of integrity." He waved his arms, nearly knocking over one of the last standing beer bottles. "A great catch."
"Oh, my god." Chase snorted. "You are stoned."
"You're drunk. That is so much worse." He shook his head many, many times. "Slobberin' and slurrin' your words. You'll be hung over in the morning. Ha! Not me...nooooo."
"No," said Wilson. "You just won't be able to move."
"They're funny, don't you think?" He slapped Foreman on the back as the waiter came by with another round of beers.
"Yo, Fauntleroy. Gimme a shot of Johnny Walker Red." House managed to clumsily snap, snap, snap his fingers at the waiter. "Neat."
The young man mouthed 'Fauntleroy' as he set the beers down. He quirked his lips, then threw a questioning look at Foreman.
"Why're you looking at him?" House asked. "You think he's the ventriloquist and I'm the dummy? Nooo, I'm no dummy. Nope. Now Foreman here, stick a hand up his back and watch him do the ol' soft shoe" House giggled. "Just call him Mistuh Bojangles..." He crooned the last two words, almost certain he was in key.
The waiter opened his mouth to speak, still staring at Foreman.
"Just...get him what he wants, Billy." Foreman quirked his head at House. "He's getting married in a couple of days."
"Why thank you papa-san. It warms my cockles to know you approve."
"He doesn't approve" Wilson took a long sip of his brew. "He thinks you're nuts and that poor misguided girl you've somehow convinced to share your life... is just as nuts."
"Now why you wanna go and say stuff like that about Myrna?" House pulled the lolly from his pocket, and stared morosely at the small green nub that remained. There was blue lint on his lolly. Lint on his lolly. He liked that. It sounded dirrrty.
"Because it's true," Wilson said.
Chase guffawed, turning his beer bottle round and around, making small wet rings on the table, while Foreman...just grinned.
"You want to know what your problem is?" House shoved the lolly back into his pocket. He was shouting now. Assman and his lady friend turned from the Knicks game to stare. "Your problem is...you don' know what it's like."
"I don'?" Wilson asked, reminding House of an inebriated Ricky Ricardo. Immediately, Chase croaked, then laughed so hard his neck and cheeks turned scarlet. He leaned over the table and covered his face, his shoulders bopping to the rhythm of his hilarity.
"No. You don'. But they do." He tossed a military style salute to the couple, who winced in unison before quickly returning their attention the game. "They know what it's like."
"What?"
"You know."
"No, I don.'"
The waiter arrived with the Johnny Walker. House gulped it down, belched, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The room was spinning again. He clamped his fingers around the edge of the table and groaned softly before muttering, "Those kids...think they are in love. It may not be the case but...maybe...if they wish real hard...click their heels together three times..."
"I know all about love." Wilson leaned back in his chair, and swigged down the rest of his brew. "I've been married three times and that makes me an expert."
"Twasn't love." House took a deep breath, riding out a wave of vertigo. It wouldn't be long until he found himself face down on the table. Until then, he would soldier on, gritting his teeth and wagging a finger at his friend. "Twasn't love. Your marriages...they din't last. Can't be love if it doesn't last."
"So you're saying you didn't really love Stacey."
"Tha's...fuckin' different." He threw Wilson a 'don't go there' look.
"You look a little green around the gills."
"That's 'cause I'm talkin' to you."
"You love Myrna? Or are you just curious about what this marriage thing is all about?"
"Tha's a really, really...stupid question." He closed his eyes, thinking how even the brightest people had a problem figuring which end was up sometimes. Did he have to spell everything out?
Answer the question, genius.
He opened his eyes. His colleagues were silent, staring hard at him, waiting for his response like it held some importance. Hell, they didn't care about him. Not really. They were nosy bastards, digging for some nugget to satisfy their jones for gossip.
How can a miserable bastard blessed with near zero social skills and a questionable eye for fashion land a decent woman? That is the fifty thousand dollar question. There has to be an ulterior motive. All cannot be as it seems. You're not going to convince them otherwise. Look at them, sitting there, so smug, godlike and all knowing. They think they have you pegged, old man...
Hell, this thing isn't even going to last that long. Nine, ten years tops. He averted his gaze, focusing on the empty shot glass, the cooling hors d'oeuvres, the lights shining softly on the fallen beer bottles.
"Myrna...is...different".
"We've all said that about our women, House." Foreman said.
"You're sober. What the hell do you know?"
"Do you love her?" Wilson asked.
House shifted in his chair, his gaze falling on the pizza as he considered reaching for a slice. But surviving the ingestion of pizza along with the booze and marijuana combo might not be so easy. As it was, he was teetering on the edge of...a lot of things.
"Pancho, the man asked you a question."
He squinted up to see the lady who had snared his attention at the entrance to the restaurant. "We-ell, hellooo."
"You don't have an answer, you don't get the prize."
The London Fog coat parted slightly. Something glittered by her breasts. His gaze did a vertical glide and he caught a sweet glimpse of navel. "Huuuh..." The sound he made was like a soft sigh on a gentle breeze.
"Answer or I wrap myself up and go to another party."
"You can't," House blurted out. "These guys prob'ly paid you."
"That's alright." She set one hand on her hip. Her eyes, he noticed for the first time, were yellow gold. Cats eyes. "I can give a refund."
House let his eyes wander over her. Her coat was a curtain, pulling slowly back at the entr'acte. More of the sparkle was exposed now and a better view of her lovely belly, with her navel peeking shyly from the wings like a perfect jeweled eye. She wore no shoes.
"You're a belly dancer."
"Good guess." She clinked a pair of finger cymbals.
Gambini's had gone silent as a tomb. The Knicks game was on mute. Those who were dining set down their forks, the drinkers placed their glasses on coasters. All eyes were on House and...
"What's your name?"
"Does it matter, Pancho?"
"You tell me yours, I'll tell you mine."
"Not interested in your name. I'm all for the truth, though."
"They put you up to this?" He jerked his chin toward his table mates.
"Of course." Clink, clink. "So you want a show?"
He opened his mouth, his initial inclination was to answer in the affirmative. But he didn't like the stipulations, didn't like the way he was being wheedled into doing something he didn't want to do. What was his was his. His thoughts on the matter of love verses lust and the frailties of the human heart were his business...and sometimes Myrna's, if she caught him in the right mood.
"Get out."
He could almost see the smugness (an impish, fiendish looking thingy) sprout wings and drift out and away from Belly Dancer's impressive body. Those wings were glittery, with tassels on the ends, making a chi-chink sound as they fluttered, fluttered-
"House?" Wilson admonished softly, tugging the balloon string, bringing him back to earth. "This is a party, a celebration."
"It's ruined. Tha's...your fault, not mine." He might have stood if he didn't think the effort would have caused him to fall over. Too bad. His formidable height would have added so much to the intimidation factor. "And, wow, you're still here?" He threw the dancer an open mouthed look of astonishment.. "You must be foreign. You no unnerstan'?"
Her eyes flashed anger as she wrenched her coat around her, belting it tight. "I feel sorry for the girl getting stuck with you."
"Let's see...vamoose, scat, beat it." He ticked off each farewell on his fingers as he raised his eyes to the ceiling. But looking up was an unfortunate mistake. The moment his gaze hit the beams, the room seemed to...breathe.
(Out with the bad...in with the good...)
His thoughts became a whirlwind, a jumble of nonsense rhymes, colors and strange yellow gold sparks of light.
(nothing is real...)
It was the blunt talking, and the joints, and the tequila, a couple of Vicodin and, of course, Mr. Johnny Walker himself. Together they had clustered in a huddle, conspiring to bring...him...down.
(...yeah, nothing to get hung about)
He gripped the sides of his chair as the room tilted to one side then slow-ly to the other. Sinking back, he heard himself groan, the world seesawing up...and back...continuing on for what seemed like a long, long time. Really, it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Surrendering, allowing control to be completely and utterly snatched away was...kind of cool and was, in some strange way, a great relief.
Belly Dancer was sashaying toward the exit, her laughter melding with the concerned bleats of his table mates. The roar of the Knicks game and the whine of an obnoxious folksinger filled the air, kicking in suddenly, like they had just been released from a vacuum.
Wave that white flag, old man.
His forehead slammed against the polished oak table before he even realized he had keeled over. He grunted, moaned.
But no pain, old man...no worries...
And somewhere in the distance, above the ceiling beams, rooftops and clouds, finger cymbals ca-chinked as gaw-jus glittery wings scooped him up and carried him far, far away.