-21-
"Understand"
It's late. Much too late to do what he needs to do. But if he doesn't do it now, the words will settle on the back of his tongue and languish there until...
...until when?
Until he gets up the nerve again.
Prior to that side trip to the city that never sleeps, Wilson had it all under control. Now his palms are cold and clammy. His well planned apology and farewell have taken flight, probably sitting together on a Soho curb, sharing an espresso and laughing at him. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket but warmth continues to elude him.
Some relationships he let tool along like a jalopy on a Sunday afternoon drive, going nowhere fast. He considers each one, each marriage, each dalliance, every one night stand he can remember. They all lead up to Amber, which is where he absolutely does not want to go.
But go there he does, as he stands in the semi-darkness of Rosa's living room, as Amber's ghost moves alongside him. She takes his hand, smoothes his brow, whispers that what happened this afternoon was okay, what he is about to do is right and good and perfectly fine. She kisses his cheek and leaves him to do what he needs to do. Only now, standing in the semi-darkness of Rosa's living room, tears spring to his eyes. He presses his palms against his face, counts the slow ticking of the clock, until his composure returns. Head lowered, he makes his way down the hallway, past Michael's room and into the familiar warmth of Rosa's bedroom.
At first he doesn't see her, since the bed is made, the down pillows are plumped against the headboard. Then he hears humming, a familiar tune. Broadway. Everything's Coming Up Roses. Sometimes she sings it to Michael when he is sad or hurt.
The humming and creak of the rocker lead Wilson to her. Over in the corner, she continues her soft melodic interlude. Those dark eyes shine. Even in the shadows, they are bright. He can tell she's been crying.
He kneels before her, takes her hand, which is warm and dry in his. At that moment he realizes he does love her. But not with the lustful abandon he and Amber enjoyed. That won't happen again. Ever. But he is grateful for Rosa, thankful that for a short time she offered herself to him as a comfort, as a friend. The sad, simple fact is it's not enough to sustain him and never will be.
So he rests his head on her lap as her rocking slows, as she runs her fingers through his hair, down to the small of his back, where she moves her hand languid circles.
"Thank you," she says softly, as if she has joined forces with the apparition to make everything right.
"For what?" he murmurs, enjoying her warmth, her womanly scent.
"For coming back to say goodbye."
Home doesn't feel like home. The moment he enters the apartment he senses the strangeness, like Abe Lincoln surfing the web or a Muslim davening in a synagogue. Wrong, wrong, wrong, yet somehow undeniably interesting.
Why doesn't it feel like home? He puts the question to himself as he roams through his rooms. Cuddy busies herself in the kitchen, setting out plates for the Chinese take-out she insisted on buying on the way here.
When was the last time you ate?
I don't remember.
He passed out in his office and awoke in her car, slumped against the passenger door. It wasn't where he wanted to be. He wanted to be alone to figure things out, without her prodding him, pressing him for details that are fading from his memory like remnants of morning fog.
In between time. Limbo. Neither here nor there.
Station One...
He swallows hard, narrows his eyes as he leans against his dresser, takes in the sights: his king size bed, the nightstand, the alarm clock that informs him with bold, red certainty that it is 7:35.
It doesn't feel like 7:35.
Time flows differently here.
"House?"
Cuddy pokes her head into the room, which makes House wish he could send her packing. But for some reason he is too weary to be caustic, too disoriented to push away such comforting familiarity.
"Give me a minute," he tells her, staring down the wall behind his bed.
"If your lo mein gets cold, guess who's not reheating it for you." She sounds hoarse, like she is either coming down with a cold or has had a rough week. He would venture to guess the latter.
Her steps are purposeful, assured, as she makes her way back down the hallway. She thinks he binged, spent a few days and nights with hookers and pints of bourbon. Nothing will convince her otherwise. He is well acquainted with that somewhat disappointed 'you can't fool me' pout she's worn ever since he came to. It is an interesting concept. If he didn't know better he might agree. But he does know better.
He also knows he doesn't want to be here.
The air doesn't smell right; it is rife with allergens and pollutants that made him wheeze and choke the moment he left the record shop. On the drive to Jersey, his eyes watered and burned, while the stink of decay and filth latched on to him, sinking into his clothes and the car's upholstery and carpet. How is it he never noticed it before?
No wonder he passed out.
"House!" Cuddy calls from the living room. The TV drones, audience laughter punctuates the sounds of scripted words. He didn't miss this either: inanity and stupidity on the tube. Even the news was nothing more than pretty people regurgitating the more detailed and sound newspaper reports. But who reads anymore? Morons want everything handed to them. Over here everything is rushed. Over there is room to breathe. To think. Suddenly he is short of breath again. His leg hurts. The vial comes out; the medicine goes down.
He didn't need his pills there either.
He paces now, wandering the length and width of his room, like a lion in a cage. He wants to go back, needs to go. But how can he? He lets his thoughts roll, plays a game of War in his head: King takes Queen, Seven takes Two. Red Ace, Black Ace. War!
How could he have left? What made him leave? The memory is shifting, turning, coming to him in soft pastels...dreamlike. Soon he won't even believe he could have been in such a place. Impossible. He will never get back. Never.
The thought makes him choke up, and he needs to sit on the edge of his bed until it passes. But that thought grows and shifts into something too large and unwieldy to shrug away. It falls over his shoulders like the pelt of a mammoth. Heavy, stinking. Overwhelming.
He is good at figuring things out, so why does this have him tied up in sailor knots?
Groaning, he lies down, pulls the blankets over himself. The smell of food is enticing. The thought of being trapped across the table from Cuddy, not so much. So he drifts...thinks of Misha, how she was magically, mystically all of them at once. A corner of his lip quirks up at the one memory that is still sharp as a knife edge.
He might have slept or maybe Misha did come to him, smelling raw, like a heady combo of musk and sex, driving him with an animal need he hadn't experienced since...
"House."
"Go 'way."
"You need to eat something. When was the last time-"
"Am I speaking Swahili?" he shouts. "What part of 'get the hell out' don't you understand?" He kicks at the blankets but they're too heavy. He feels locked in. Trapped. Grunting, he rolls from side to side until the blankets ease their grip and he wrenches free. Breathing hard, he pushes himself against the headboard and shoots her a glare.
For a moment she seems taken aback. Head tilted to one side, her mouth falls open. If she was about to say something, she thinks better of it and takes a step back. For an instant, House is sorry.
shouldn't have said that...she's only trying to help you, idiot...not like she's meddling...doesn't know, doesn't understand...
(do you?)
He considers trying to explain but can't seem to gather the words together. By the time he has some kind of handle on it, it's too late. She is way ahead of him, switching round on her heel and tossing him a look over her shoulder.
"I'm leaving. Food's in the fridge," she says.
The words still won't come. All he can do is sit atop his twisted, rumpled bedding in the half-light and watch her leave.
All the fixin's for a picnic are spread out on the red checked blanket. This is cool. Picnics are good, as long as he can sit on his butt under the tree and watch other people set up the grub. Turkey legs and cole slaw, potato salad and pickles. In the cooler, bottles of Sam Adams and cans of Coke sit this way and that, their lower halves buried in ice. For dessert there are chunks of watermelon in Tupperware containers and thick slices of Granny Smith apples in Zip-loc bags.
The person responsible for this bounty is Amber. Why won't she stay out of his dreams? The thought flits round him like a butterfly, pausing to brush his nose and cheeks before fluttering off to who knows where...
she's not through with you yet, bucko...
She plays the perfect hostess, piling a plate high with food. It all looks grand until she sets it in his lap. There the paper plate sags from the weight of squares of intestines, bits of brains and cut up pieces of heart and liver and veins that have taken the place of the picnic fare. The scarlet mess seeps through the thin plate, turning a shiny purple-black as it saturates his jeans. He wonders about this. It is interesting and pretty darn amazing too; the realization that this is his essence set before him like an offering from the gods cold cocks him. He raises his head as he senses himself melding with what never should have been taken away.
Amber smiles, holding out another plate of this horrific stew; his life stuff. Birds twitter. Yellow leaves drift around them. From somewhere far off comes the sound of pots banging, cartoon music, the crack of eggs, the sizzle of butter in the pan.
In the distance, two men and a woman sit on a hillside, watching.
"They're waiting for you," Amber tells him, spoon feeding him as he...
...opens his eyes.
Elmer Fudd has just announced that he will indeed kill that kwazy wabbit. A spatula scrapes a pan. The air is rich with the smell of pancakes and eggs. He considers making his way into the kitchen to investigate but the memory of tendons and brains on a plate causes him to swallow hard and remain still. The blankets are pulled up to his chin. His heart pounds a solid rhythm, assuring him it has not been turned to giblets and gravy.
Alrighty then...
In his head he is already off the bed and halfway to the bathroom. Bladder is in pre-burst mode and he knows he really should put that moronic dream out of his mind and listen to his inner voice of reason. But the moment he moves, his leg protests. A new thought replaces the old. Start the morning with a buzz and a blast. He gazes longingly at the nightstand, at the Vicodin vial standing like a humble servant, waiting to be called.
"I am not your slave," the voice from the doorway assures him.
House turns his head slowly and purses his lips. His tone is raspy and low as he raises a brow. "Ah, your lips say no but your eyes say yes."
Wilson takes a step into the room. His apron looks fresh out of the dryer clean, despite the egg mottled spatula in his hand. Typical. "Cuddy informed me how rudely you sent her packing last night. For some insane reason she is worried about you..."
"Wonderful." House takes in the shadows framing Wilson's eyes, the stubble on his chin, the un-moussed hair that flops over his brow like a rumpled sheet on an unmade bed. "You look like hell. Lost your key to Rosamundo's chastity belt again?"
Through gritted teeth, Wilson soldiers on. "...she said if she stayed here another minute she might have strangled you." He cocks his head. "How you inspire such disparate feelings in people is a mystery science has yet to-"
"I didn't need a nursemaid." House grabs for his pills, snatching the vial on the second try.
"You couldn't find your way home."
"I was disoriented."
"Half in the bag is more like it."
After pushing two pills into his mouth, House swallows, then grimaces and runs his hand over his aching thigh. His eyes find Wilson's; he opens his mouth, then closes it again, taking great care in considering his next few words. "I...went somewhere."
"Oh, I'm sure."
"No. I mean...I went somewhere."
"Hot tubs, seedy hotel, two for the price of one hookers." With a knowing nod, Wilson continues. "It's what you do, House."
"Not this time." Reaching under the pillow, House wraps his fingers tightly around his proof. "I got this...there." In his hand is the pig snout eraser. He thrusts it at Wilson, who immediately bursts into laughter.
"You're joking, right?" Wilson shakes his head, his smile fading as he wraps his hand around the rubber desk accessory. The odd look on his face confirms House's contention that whatever happens in Pleasant Hills doesn't necessarily stay there.
"So you hit the novelty shops on the way home." Wilson flings the eraser back at House before giving his left hand, the hand that held piggy snout, a reluctant scrutiny. His brow creases, his look darkens as he clenches his fist and tucks it into the pocket of the apron.
"You know..." House breathes in amazement. "Damn. You get it."
"I get that you're an idiot." Wilson's tone is gruffer than it has to be. He runs one hand through his hair and gives House a glare before turning on his heel. "I want to put in on record that I'm doing this for Cuddy. This is not my idea of a fun or productive Saturday morning," he announces to the wall. He glances at his hand again before shaking his head and walking slowly out the door.
Smiling, House tucks the pig snout eraser under his pillow again before easing himself out of bed.
"He gets it." Not even the lingering pain in his leg can detract from the joy in knowing that this fact is indeed real and true.