-22

"Dreamscape"

There is a reason.

Half lying, half sitting on her sofa, Cuddy is warmed by the velveteen throw blanket tucked around her legs, and the glow of the fire brought to her courtesy of Duraflame. She watches the flames dance, and her lips curl into a smile around the lip of her wine glass. Fire can be equated with trouble, with passion, with obliteration. Tonight it reminds her of her girl scout days, those times her troop would go on summer overnights, camping out at the field behind the high school. They would huddle together, giggling and squealing around the campfire, each trying to out spook the others with the world's most terrifying ghost story.

With some reluctance, Cuddy allows her thoughts to flutter away from her girlhood. They dip and they dive, circle overhead, then float down again. When they begin to veer toward House's strange behavior and how his acid tinged salvos sent her packing today, she refuses to pull up a chair. Not now, she thinks. Maybe later she will mull it over and try to make some sense of it.

For now, she takes another sip of wine and lets her thoughts drift toward Kutner's latest bombshell. She doesn't know what to make of it; she does know she is reluctant to bring the other two 'fever kids' back. Eddie and Dan's parents are already miles past their patience threshold. How will those daddies and mommies react to Dr. House's assertion that the remedy for their children's maladies is a simple tonsillectomy. They won't believe it but will probably allow it as a last ditch effort. And what if it doesn't work? Cuddy is reluctant to think that far ahead.

Felicia was signed out last night, twelve hours after her operation. Now it's a waiting game. The girl will be checked every week until the fever time has come and gone. With any luck, in a month or two, they can pronounce her, Eddie and Dan cured.

Maybe.

This is House's call, and normally she wouldn't question him with such tenacity. But he made the call after a bout of disorientation so severe he couldn't find his way home. What should that tell her about this particular revelation?

Cuddy sighs. See? You didn't want to think about House but here he is again.

Kutner's assurance that House seemed clearheaded when he put forth his miracle cure was a small comfort. But Cuddy will latch on to that assurance, tuck it away in that special place she keeps all her wishes and dreams and hopes.

There is a reason, she assures herself. A reason why this case has more twists and turns than a roller coaster, and a reason why House's state of mind is stranger and sadder than usual.

For better or worse, she thinks as she drains her glass, everything will fall into place.

Eventually.

They leave around midday, with Wilson wondering how House convinced him sign up for a trip to this...place. And yes, the place has a name...Pleasant Hills, but Wilson is reluctant to acknowledge it. The name is eerie; it brings to mind discomfiting images: Willoughby from The Twilight Zone,The Village from The Prisoner, that terrifying British show, which gave Wilson such horrific nightmares, he could never watch it again.

This place, this Pleasant Hills, sounds too hallucinatory to be real. An overabundance of bourbon, pills, and sexual misadventure might have contributed to the tripped out visions. This sounds more than possible. This sounds just about right. Wilson considers mentioning his notion to House, but House is too driven to listen to reason.

So much for being steeped in reality.

House insists on driving, making sure the pig snout eraser is facing him on the dashboard before turning the ignition key. He drives too fast. Nothing unusual there. His fingers are wrapped around the wheel in a tight white-knuckled grip, as if he is pressed for time. Occasionally he tilts his head, muttering low to himself. He knows where he's going and he sure as hell knows exactly how to get there.

The car speakers blare AC/DC's "Highway To Hell", which inspires Wilson to reach for the volume control.

"Don't," House warns. The sedan's wheels squeal as he takes the corner turn with a little too much gusto.

"It's too loud."

"If it's too loud, you're too old."

Wilson knows he's not going to win this one; he sits back and folds his hands across his chest. In a moment the name bracelet glinting on House's wrist catches his eye. "Where did you get that?" he asks with a jut of his chin.

"There," he says.

"You're not a jewelry kind of guy, House."

"It was part of the package."

"So now that you're away from there, why don't you just..." Wilson gives a nonchalant quirk of his shoulders. "...take it off."

"Why should I?" House veers around a stalled cab and roars onto the highway.

"Hell, I don't know..."

The day is beginning to remind Wilson more and more of a twisted children's tale: Once upon a time Doctor House took a vacation. He liked it so very much he asked his best friend to come along and see the sights with him. It was fall in Pleasant Hills and so very beautiful. His friend was sure to like this vacation spot as much as he did and want to stay there with Doctor House forever.

Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose, inhales sharply, then tries injecting a few cc's of normalcy into the conversation. "Where do you want to go for dinner?"

"Misha will cook," House says, looking more relaxed now that they are traveling at a good clip toward their destination.

"Misha. Hmm, I see. New girlfriend?" Wilson chuckles but stops abruptly at House's look of irritation.

"You have no idea where I've been, which is why I'm taking you there." House pulls the car over to the side of the road.

"Why are we stopping?" Wilson asks.

Reaching past Wilson, House pops opens the glove compartment, digs around a bit before finding a cassette amongst the receipts and registration papers. He pushes the tape in the player and turns up the volume. With a satisfied nod, he steers the car back into traffic again.

Wilson shakes a finger at the tape deck. "What is this?"

"Robert Mitchum. Calypso Is Just So..."

"Oh." The strains of steel drums and island rhythms serenade them for as long it takes to reach the exit to Manhattan.

"So when did it happen?" House taps a finger against the steering wheel.

"What?"

"When did you break up with Rosa-lita?"

"Who says I did?"

House's lips quirk, searching for a smile but not quite finding it. "Your actions speak volumes."

Wilson scowls. His gut twinges with that aggravating 'gotcha' tug House is so good at inspiring.

"It's Saturday," House continues in a jovial tone. "Saturday is family day, especially when there's a kiddy involved. If you want to continue the nightly schtup fest, you gotta keep the status quo." One brow hikes up as they roar past a tractor trailer. "Breakfast is eggs, bacon and pancakes around the kitchen table. Cartoons blaring from the other room, you and Rosebud sharing meaningful, cosy lo-"

"Shut up, House." Wilson's voice tears like the ragged edge of a well used blade.

House is silent for as long as it takes him to switch lanes. "You wouldn't be with me now if you were still with her."

"How would you know?"

"You're not denying it. You haven't even attempted to convince me I'm wrong."

Wilson clasps and unclasps his hands in his lap as he realizes two things. One is that he will never, ever win this argument (since House has him cold). Two is that House has, as if by wizardry, veered the conversation away from himself and the mysterious Misha.

"Alright, yes. I broke up with Rosa," Wilson admits with a casualness he doesn't feel.

"Why?"

"It just wasn't," Wilson thins his lips and clenches a fist. Wouldn't it feel good to belt him? C'mon, just one single potent blow? He relaxes his hand and sighs. "It wasn't right, for either of us."

House grunts. The sound is not a self-satisfied one. It's just a sound, a response, a noncommittal, apathetic reply.

For that one instant, Wilson hates him.

"Who's Misha?" Wilson manages to ask.

House huffs out a laugh, while car horns blare like a disgruntled brass section in an orchestra pit. He turns his head toward Wilson and smirks. "You'll find out soon enough. And maybe if you're good she'll bring a friend." He lowers his voice as he returns his attention to the road. "So many to choose from, in your case. This could kill you."

They are downtown now, passing through Little Italy and Chinatown. Amber used to make fun of women who shopped here for knock-off Louis Vuitton, Coach, and Gucci bags. She had been a great believer in the real deal. "You can always tell a knock-off," she assured Wilson, who wouldn't know a D & G from a Prada, real or otherwise.

The car was slowing. Wilson raised his head, and blinked, realizing he had either been dozing or so intent on his thoughts, he had lost track of time. It seems later now, much later. Late afternoon with its deepening pastiche of reds, blues and golds, has poured itself over everything: the Asian market, the banged up Honda Civic sitting in the parking area. The place might have been abandoned. But on closer look, no. Its window was a palette of grimy grays and a weak flicker of yellow light. On display was a poor excuse for a chicken, making slow, greasy rotations on a spit.

An odd, strangled noise comes from the person beside him. Not quite a cry, not a gasp. It's some forlorn sound, as if the world has crumbled and there are just no words...

"This is wrong," House croaks, shaking his head in slow motion. His eyes are wide as they stare in disbelief at the shop window. He grabs the pig snout eraser and begins to run his thumb quickly, desperately along its belly.

"You okay?" Wilson gets a sudden urge to take House's pulse. His skin will be cold, that pulse will be racing. House's face has gone white, the stubble too dark against the pasty skin; his lower lip trembles.

He is still shaking his head.

"What?" Wilson reaches for House's wrist but House jerks away.

"You don't know. Something's wrong..."

Wilson is more fearful than uncertain. Fearful as House shakily grabs his cane from the back seat, as he mutters to himself and pushes open the car door. Wilson is afraid as House takes those few unwieldy steps toward the shop window.

After a few moments, House whips around and gives Wilson a sad, impatient look.

Come with me, that look says. I can't do this alone...

In her dream, the sky is the color of weak tea and the highway stretches for miles. She is dressed for summer: floral print cotton blouse, salmon colored culottes, the soles of her sandals scratching against the asphalt as she continues her trek.

There is no way of knowing when and where this walk began. Or maybe here is where the story opened: a barren highway under a weak tea sky, enshrouded by a veil of loneliness, heat and anticipation.

Too soon the sky darkens, the night descending more quickly than it has a right to. Dreams have an uncanny way of moving a story along.

Yellow pools of light dot the widening expanse of road. It's time to watch her step because here there be corpses. The intermittent illumination picks out a staring eye, a lolling tongue. Searchlights roam the place like partygoers looking for a spot to set their drinks. They flit from body to body, revealing unfortunates she's seen wheeled from the ER to the morgue, post autopsy casualties, tagged and prepped for the undertaker.

And here is Amber. Staring at the world with beautiful blank eyes. Her lips part as if some revelation might be forthcoming. But there is only the sound of the wind picking up, and a scuffling, shifting noise somewhere inside the blackness.

Shivering, teeth chattering, Cuddy reels around, spinning like a dreidel, sandal soles sinking into decomposition as she stops abruptly to meet Wilson eyes. He watches her from the side of the road, shaking his head, mouthing, 'I'm sorry', as the darkness pulls him in.

She manages a step or two more before the Decomposition Club decides it needs another member. As she sinks into its midst, she gets a glimpse of House behind a chain link fence, his right leg is gone, blood shines black on his hands as they reach out to her.

She wakes with a jolt, then winces at the sour-sweet taste of wine on the back of her tongue. Her cheeks are cold and tear streaked. The Duraflame in the fireplace is nothing more than blackened soot and ash.

Her temples pound; swatches of the horrific dreamscape flutter in her mind's eye, like tattered, bloodied cloth on a clothesline. After allowing herself one small sob, she throws off the blanket, then retrieves the empty wine glass from floor. She bites her lip, willing away that 'teetering on the edge' feeling the dream inspired before making a slow, halting trek to bed.