-18-
"Destination"
Tonight is his night, Wilson decides after giving the matter a bit of thought. He had every intention of facing her and do what needed to be done, but at the last moment he switched gears.
All the cool kids call it chickening out, House chides him from somewhere off in the ozone.
Wilson does his best to ignore the zingers that bat around his subconscious like ping-pong balls. They are stress inducing, irritating, a sampling of House at his worst and most caustic. No, tonight he will leave them behind, give himself a break, take care of his own needs and not concern himself with what House says or Rosa thinks.
Leaving Rosa in the dark, while heading off to take a long, relaxing drive sounds like a plan. But it only takes five minutes of pondering the consequences before guilt forces Wilson to do the right thing.
His left hand steadies the steering wheel, while the right flips open his cellphone. These simple actions help the spring wound tension in Wilson's gut to ease. And as a reward for his worry and fret, his call is routed to voice mail. All the better! A quick message is what he leaves: Can't make it tonight. Something came up.
Lame.
And just like that he's done.
But this subterfuge is unlike him. Experience has taught that the best way to face a problem is to deal with it head on. He can get away with hiding from Rosa for a night. With House, that constant source of irritation and aggravation, brutal honesty is the best way of dealing, of communicating.
Wilson wonders (not for the first time) who gave him the job of being House's conscience. He feels like a beleaguered Jiminy Cricket, seated on House's shoulder, spewing out truths House would rather not hear.
Why do you care?
Yes, why? House sure isn't thinking about him. That wascally ol' wabbit is probably at a craps table right this very minute, praying for a hot shooter to take the game home.
But not Jimmy Wilson. Not he of the pressed trousers and the pocket protector. A man who rarely gives into his baser instincts. However.
How-evah!
Lordy Hallelujah, he thinks, I am free at last.
Or at least for the night.
He pulls onto US-1 N/Brunswick Pike. His plans are not clear. At first he thinks he might just hit the nearest Blockbuster and pick up a few hot new movies to spend the night with him. But when the store comes into view, something compels him to keep going...
...going...toward New York. He realizes this as he merges onto NJ18 toward I-95 and the New Jersey Turnpike. Turning back is possible, of course. Anything is possible.
But not at all probable.
Leaning one palm against her chin, elbow against the wood, Amber gazes down at him, like a scientist studying a lab rat. She tosses out a cynical, throaty chuckle. The silky ends of her hair brush his lips and brow. "You used to be such a fighter," she says as shadows ebb and flow behind her: snakes entranced by a charmer's tune. "What happened to you?"
Something, some steel wool like substance in his throat prevents him from speaking louder than a whisper. "Dunno."
"Your mind, Greg." She shakes her head slowly, causing her hair to tickle his hand. He wants to grab those tresses, pull her in here with him, where they can share the inevitable consequences of his actions together. "Always thought you were too smart to fall for smoke and mirrors." Behind her the shadows tire of their dance and form a reasonable facsimile of Wilson. He is a mottled gray and black figure, a man of stone cursed with a terrible grimace and steel pebble eyes. One shivering hand rises and grasps the lid of this box, this coffin. Slowly, he pulls it shut, the dark closing around House like a velvet shroud.
Amber chuckles again from beyond the blackness. "You deserve everything you get."
He gasps as he wakes, feeling like he might have slept for a year or a Rip Van Winkle lifetime. The dream is leaving him quickly, but it will haunt him later, he is sure of it.
Sleep still has a hand on him; his thoughts attempting gamely to burn through the fog but not quite making it.
Maybe, he thinks after a few moments, he will peer between the blinds and find something completely different than what was here yesterday. What will he do if the leaves and the yard and every last bit of the autumn pastiche are gone? What if he has been transported...again? It's possible.
Anything is fuckin' possible.
Misha...
His mouth is dry. He can still smell her on him, some kind of musk; a scent of a sinuous exotic beast. Not unpleasant, that scent. It brings back the release, the moment she became all of them intertwined, their hearts, minds, limbs, breaths working as one. Prior to that she was each one in turn: Cameron, all wide eyed and earnest in her pleasure giving, Cuddy, fierce in her passion, riding him hard...then easing...easing finally into Stacy, who knew him best, knew exactly what he liked. He recalled how his hands traveled down a body that was first firm and lean, then fuller in the breasts, heftier in the ass, slimmer in the hips, brown eyes, blue eyes, green.
He lifts his hand to cheek, recalls the taste of salt on his lips. The cane is by the window. The blinds are down but sunlight bleeds through the slats, like a welcome, a greeting, a tranquil good morning.
He hates it because it's normal. And nothing here is normal.
Right then he decides he wants to go back, never thinking he would ever yearn to return to Princeton, to Baker Street.
But he does.
Misha. This time, the thought of her nearly overwhelms him and he needs to grasp the bedpost to brace himself.
"Oh, no you don't," he mutters to the paneled walls and the soft watercolors in their frames. After a couple of deep breaths, he feels more steady on his feet, knows he can continue on with his plans to cut this vacation short.
Maybe it's been done for you...maybe...
With a shaky hand, he lifts the blinds and is heartened to see he is still here. The yard is still leaf strewn and the wooden plaque continues to sway up and back on its hinges. The lettering on the plaque is more distinct now, etched deeply into the wood so the calligraphic characters are blackened, like a brand.
Gregory House, M.D.
Relief washes over him, like a warm tide. This nod of approval from the town council shouldn't make him feel this good.
Maybe someone's been messing with you, boyeeee...
And maybe somebody has a wicked bad sense of humor, he thinks, switching round on his bare heel and stumbling toward the bathroom. He needs to pee, needs to wash away the odd taste of the long night.
He shuts the bathroom door, then leans against it and closes his eyes. For a moment, the world shifts and turns. From far away he hears the sound of steel drums, of a singer with a raw, natural feel for the music, crooning the sunny songs of the Caribbean.
Calypso is just...so.
Oh, the weather outside is frightful...
There is more than a chill in the air, he thinks as he heads up the block. Fall has scurried off, abandoning him, making room for winter. Since he set off for the town hall, the sky has darkened, the fluffy white clouds have turned into an angry mob, slipping into something a bit more...dangerous; they are now the shade of gunmetal and probably (impossibly) possess the hard, cold consistency of a firearm, as well. His feet skitter over the leaves that are slippery with winter's first frost.
An icy wind whips in from the north. It wrenches the remaining dead leaves off the trees, whirling them around before sending them in to instigate the attack. They build up an army, sending out orders for the leaves on the ground to rise up and swirl in gradually widening eddys around House, his legs, torso, head.
The world grays out. Moaning, he tilts back his head, as the whirlwind imprisons him. The wind is brutal, biting at his chin, his cheeks, his fingertips. The sharp edges of the leaves are like miniscule whips, stinging his face, leaving scratches on his brow, the corner of his mouth. He allows his fingers explore the terrain. They return to him bloodied and trembling.
Lost.
He moves his feet but no, he's not getting anywhere. It's like running in place...or taking one step forward, two steps back. Panic sets in, gripping his gut with cold, slippery feelers. In the air is a tang of ozone, a whiff of electricity. Everything is buzzing, everything is gray. Is this what constitutes eternity? Is this how it's fucking going to end?
Then...
It all goes away. Somewhere, a director must have yelled 'cut!' causing the gray to immediately dissipate and the sun to shine again.
Before him stands the town hall, so proud and serene, throwing a welcoming smile down at him. Warm light glows through the windows telling him all is well. Peachy. He is calm now, languorous almost, happy to have made it through the storm to his destination. But this is not his destination, not really...
...since the town hall is now his neighbor, having taken the place of Jayda's house and the house next to it. It seems Pleasant Hills has succeeded in giving him that proverbial slap upside the head once more.
Interesting? Sì. Compelling? No.
More than ever, House wants to return home.
Or so he thinks, as he heads up the steps, as he struggles to ignore the impish fiend breathing in his ear, asking him where he might find somewhere as intriguing as this in that other place. Where could he live that would consistently provide him with this racing, heady intoxication?
Haven't touched a drop, officer. I swear.
A tinkle of bells announces the arrival of the ice cream truck. It rolls by with languid ease; its floppy haired driver is enjoying an orange icee as he meets House's gaze. Smiling. Wilson is smiling, chin shiny from his late morning treat. It's not really Wilson, though.
It could be.
The bells tinkle again, before fading as the truck rolls on.
"Hmmph." House grunts, reaching into his pocket, like he is searching for his car keys. It is an unconscious action that convinces him, yes, he really does want to hit the road. Alas, alack, no keys. Instead his fingers curl around something rubbery and pliant. He pulls it out and scowls at the piggy snout eraser from 'his' desk. In another life he might have tossed it to the ground, stepped on it and kicked it off into the weeds for good measure. Here he simply returns it to his pocket and enters the building.
In the town hall lobby he finds a hatless Sarno, leaning on the wall adjacent to the mosaic masterpiece. His hair is a spiky brush cut, shiny with mousse or pomade or some such girly shit House would never think to use. Sarno fiddles with his keypad thing, his frustration rising with each punch of a button.
"Shit on a stick!" he whines finally and rolls his eyes. He huffs out an impatient breath before allowing his attention to settle on House. "You ever have problems with gadgets? It's like they're out to get us, I swear. Sometimes I think they're the ones in control and we're the fuckin' zombies following along."
"Maybe they hate you." House offers, eyeing the tiny squares that make up the replica of the town on the wall. "Maybe they plan to suck your blood dry while you sleep," Moving closer, he notices the houses are numbered and arranged in some sort of color coded order: an order that would surely make sense only to The Powers That Be.
"Man, you should be in a much better mood than this."
House whips round to find Sarno staring at him, grey eyes widening with a sudden wicked bemusement.
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. You're on vacation." Sarno pales and fidgets with the keypad. Its glow pulses in a heartbeatin' rhythm as it squawks a complaint. "Just...figured you might be having some fun."
"And why is that?" House takes a step toward Sarno at the same time Sarno stutter steps backwards.
"Isn't that what people do..." Sarno offers him a tremulous grin. "...on vacation?"
"I'm done with vacation," House says. From the corner of his eye he notices the twinkling mosaic tiles again, each one sending out a wink just for him. "Get me out of here."
"You sure?"
Anger roils and churns in House's gut. Tempering it with a cynical barb doesn't seem to be an option, so he sets it free. "You're asking me if I'm sure, as if something is going to go 'click' in my head to change my mind." Head spinning, heart racing, he continues. "You're nervous. There's a bead of sweat shining on your temple, a few more above your lip. You're supposed to keep me here. Eleventh hour guy. The last gasp saloon on the way home."
The speech has not done its job to intimidate. Instead it appears to have given Sarno a boost, a shot of confidence he lacked earlier on. His shoulders straighten as he steps forward so he almost nose to nose with House. "My man, why the hell are you so eager to get back there?"
"It's where I live."
"Doesn't have to be."
"It is."
Sarno tilts his head, narrows his gaze. His smile comes slow and easy; he is enjoying this exchange. "Gonna pack up my troubles, toss away my ills. Oh, there ain't nothin' nowhere, no-how like Pleasant Hills, " he belts out in a surprisingly pleasant tenor. "Sometimes we have a good ol' knees up at the McDuffy's Place down on Fifth and Main. That little ditty always ends the evening." He winks. "Join us sometime."
"Don't think so, my man."
"You're making a mistake." Sarno smirks, wagging his keypad at House. "Some night when you're tossing and turning in that big lonely bed of yours back there, you're going wonder why you left. You're going to miss the way the days here go on and on and on. You get used to it, you know. You learn to appreciate it."
The corpulent security guard trudges past them. His shoes squeak as though there are mice being slaughtered beneath each ponderous step. After tossing Sarno and House a somber one finger wave, he rounds the corner and is gone.
Sarno returns the wave then runs his tongue across the dots of sweat above his his upper lip. "Okay, it's game time."
"Not interested."
"Name three things you keep on your desk...in your office."
Against his better judgment, House digs around his gray matter for a response but discovers he can't seem to find one. He can't remember...
"Think." A tinge of sympathy colors Sarno's words. "How about that place you call home? Let's go for something simple. Is your dresser on the right or left side of your bedroom?"
"Left."
Sarno's voice is gentle, lilting, like at any moment he might begin to croon a lullaby. "You sure about that, my man?"
House averts his gaze and stares blankly at the tiles, then abruptly, helplessly stumbles forward. He manages to put his arms out to regain his balance, cutting short his momentum before careening into that ju-ju-be rendering of the town. The closer he gets the more the pieces seem to melt into one another.
Now...his leg hurts. Just like that. The familiar ache must have taken a vacation of its own and is now back to join him on the contemplated journey back. His right hand takes it upon itself to reach down, massage the offending scar through the denim.
"You'll be needing these," Sarno is beside him, cane in one hand, Vicodin vial in the other. "where you're going."
Reluctantly House reaches out to accept the offerings.
"Guess you made your choice then," Sarno says.
"Guess so."
The keypad in Sarno's hand blinks and squeals a complaint as he aims it at the mosaics. A miniscule emerald green square races through the veins and arteries of the town map. Beneath the town hall the ground shivers. Outside the wind gusts, House imagines the yellow-brown leaves being tossed and whirled around and around and-
-he is on the bench, the emerald green bench that wasn't here earlier (neither was the town hall, my man). Everything shifts, everything changes.
Beneath his palm rests the crook of his cane, the pill vial in his front jeans pocket presses against his thigh. The wind picks up now, bringing with it a calypso beat, a catchy ditty House recalls his mother singing around the house.
'Matilda...Matilda...she take my money and run to Venezuela...'
Closing his eyes, he remembers every word, every note. It's nearly impossible not to let the music move him. He taps the rubber nub of his cane in time as...
...run to Venezuela...
...an explosion of candy pink crackles behind his lids. It thrusts him forward, illuminating the way through the self imposed darkness...
...and suddenly he finds himself returning the cool gaze of the blond kid is behind the record counter. "Yes, I'm that Tony", is emblazoned on the kid's badge of courage. He hands House a rectangular brown paper bag and smiles.
"Be seeing you," he says.
There is nothing to say, not one worthwhile comment to drag from his head and lay down like a wager at a poker table. He can only grab the package and stumble dazedly out the door.