-24-
"Speculation"
The day has turned strange. There is no doubt some funny stuff is going on, and it's not simply a product of House's deranged mind.
No...it is definitely...something...extraordinary.
It's a short walk to House's car. To Wilson's surprise, the police station is just around the corner from what used to be that Asian market. The market has now been magically, mystically transformed into a different kind of entreprenaur's wet dream. Where once a greasy chicken roasted and rotated on a spit in the window, a glittering array of vintage record albums now stands: Bing Crosby, Patti Page, Vic Damone. Stuff of another time, another era.
Wilson can't help but stop and stare at those album covers, and this is probably a mistake. Because they have him now, holding him in thrall, their grip gentle yet firm. Sparkling, shiny, mesmerizing. At one point he could swear Bing tipped his hat, while Patti threw him a seductive wink and Vic blew a plume of cigarette smoke from his Pell Mell. Those smokey tendrils drift along with music flowing from the storefront speakers. It all kind of takes him away.
The music is powerfully seductive, making it impossible for Wilson not to tilt his head this way and that in time with the rhyme and the melody. He blinks, making a half-hearted attempt to break free and try to eke some sense from this. But no, the longer he stares, the stronger his conviction grows that really, he has made a mistake, that Tony's has been here all along. Suddenly, the idea that he stood by while House broke things in an Asian market seems preposterous.
Where did that come from? You must have dreamed it. Here's what really happened: House showed you around the record store, then you drove him to the train because he's going to spend the rest of his vacation in Atlantic city.
Atlantic City...
Yes, something clicks. Something about the notion sounds right. He dimly recalls advising House not to go off on another boozy respite, to which House replied with a salvo so bitter, it compelled Wilson to give up the battle.
That's your story and you're sticking to it.
He feels better now. The old-time crooners pouring out their songs of love, mirth and the good life are putting him in a grand mood. Humming along, he digs House's keys from his trouser pocket and opens the car door. Maybe he'll stop along the way, take in a film before heading back to Princeton.
He wonders if the John Ford film festival is still going on; Cheyenne Autumn would be fabulous on the big screen. Or how about The Horse Soldiers?
The thought of strolling through the Village, stopping for a Cappuccino before entering the cool darkness of the theater sounds good. But the idea of immersing himself in a sprawling western (uninterrupted this time) sounds even better.
This time he will sit in a more populated area of the theater, surrounding himself with those who are simply there to watch the film. Safety in numbers, he thinks and chuckles.
So he leaves Tony's parking lot, and the air seems to shimmer with a liquid heat. Yeah, it's strange, but it is also right and natural and good. He checks the rearview mirror and it takes a moment for him to realize what he sees in the reflection is a vacant lot.
Tony's is gone.
It all comes back in a blistering rush, causing him to hitch in a breath and grip the armrest of the emerald green bench to steady himself. The memory of this place grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him up good. A dash of ecstasy clips him and moves on, perhaps en route to hit on some other hapless soul. He comes down slowly, wondering why the sights, smells and sounds of Pleasant Hills hadn't stuck with him when he went over. How could he have forgotten...everything? Why did he even leave here?
Two pair of jeans, three t-shirts and a football jersey hang on a clothesline behind that woman's house across the street. They move as if possessed, riffling gently in the warm wind; the sleeve of the jersey rises and falls, tossing out a greeting. His own hand drifts up, seemingly of its own volition, to reciprocate.
The woman is nowhere in sight. Perhaps she is watching from the kitchen window as she prepares dinner. She had to be somewhere close by, since her boy is here, dancing amongst the clothes, whirling around and around like a banshee. He holds a toy airplane above his head, making it dip and dive through the cottons and polyesters. The clothes seem to embrace him, falling around his shoulders, caressing his cheeks.
Throwing back his head, the boy provides his own soundtrack to the dance by making a droning noise as haunting and alien as a Buddhist prayer.
It will be some time before the half light surrenders to darkness, even though the sun is sinking behind the hills and trees and rooftops. The memory of this tugs at him, how the days seem to stretch on and on like a long, slow taffy pull.
The boy is tiring now. His shoulders slump and he drops the plane onto the grass, as if it has become almost as weighty as the real thing. He stumbles around for a bit before collapsing beside his toy and closing his eyes. His mouth falls open and soon he is asleep.
House stares at this sedate scene for a few moments, until shadows lengthen, tugging at his sleeve, drawing him from his reverie. It's time to get a move on. In the distance, bells tinkle. Like the shadows, they compel him to take action. The walking stick awaits, leaning against the bench like the patient new pal it is. Its top is flat and feels strange beneath his palm. He takes some comfort in the fact that he doesn't really need it; here, pain is a filmy, ghostlike thing, hanging around just for the hell of it. It doesn't have the power to command him, and it will soon be gone completely.
The tinkle of bells grows louder, embellished by the warm hum of a motor and a nauseatingly cheerful hallooo! Ice Cream Man Wilson tips his hat from the drivers seat of his truck. Without hesitation, House approaches and eases into the passenger seat, setting the cane between his legs.
"Seat belt." Ice Cream Man Wilson waggles a finger at House.
"Who wears a seatbelt in an ice cream truck?"
"Safety first,"
With a grunt and an exaggerated eye roll, House straps himself in. The bells continue their merry tune as Wilson gives a satisfied nod of his head, as they roll on toward House's Pleasant Hills home.
Smart man, Amber whispers, full lips barely brushing stubble. Smart man.
He turns over in his sleep, his only defense, but she continues the torment, to cajole.
Of course they want you. That mind of yours is a blessing and a curse, isn't it?
He shouldn't let her intimidate him. After all he has been through because of her, he should at least exhibit some gumption, some strength of will.
She laughs and it sounds like the worst kind of taunting from the bully on the lunch line or in the schoolyard as...
(you think you're so bright, bright boy, genius, bright boy, genius?)
...darkness descends, as the sun goes down for the last time, as the lid of a coffin lowers..slow...slow...slow...
He groans as he wakes, as the dream shatters like glass, shards flying every which way. Burying his head into the pillow helps calm him. His racing heart slows, his breathing becomes even and deep. The images are already leaving him and soon he won't remember them at all, until the next time they decide to pay a visit.
What day is it?
Who knows? Days and nights blend together so seamlessly, House hardly realizes how immersed he has become in this new world. Life just is. Thoughts of his other existence over there, that place where he limps and hurts and is generally a bastard of the first order, interrupt his flow only occasionally. Flashes of that world assault him like white hot novas: the hospital halls, his office, the diagnostics room, his team. They poke at him, prod him. Remember? It hasn't been that long. Invariably something will distract him from this invasion, lead those thoughts away, causing them to submerge deep into the murk, where they will bubble and churn, biding their time until their next opportunity arises to accost him.
Misha will be here soon to bring him breakfast. Toast, coffee, eggs scrambled lightly. House hears her puttering around the kitchen. Pots bang, glasses clink. She is not quiet about anything she does. In bed she howls and yips and sighs and exhales with the force of a gale wind. It would irritate him if it didn't excite him so much. It doesn't make sense. Nothing does.
So he will languish here, waiting for these days to become routine. For the surprise and delight of discovery to become commonplace, which is when he will find a way to leave this place. They won't like it. He can see the way they look at him, waiting for the boredom to set in. Sarno, Garrett, on occasion that woman, Irie, who intimidates the crap out of her underlings. It's fun to watch her at work; she is smart and so aware of her power. The more sparingly she uses it, the more potent it becomes. House can't help but have a begrudging respect for her intellect and savvy, but this is something he will never let her know.
Garrett and Sarno go out of their way to bring him patients with ailments unusual enough to spark his interest in some small way. Sometimes he wonders where they dredge up these sickly, hapless fools. Back there he probably wouldn't have deigned to set foot in the same room with them. Here...he takes what he can get.
On the rare occasions he does find something baffling during his exam, he drags the patient into the diagnostic room, seats them under the white light and waits for his new virtual team to arrive. The members of the team arrive promptly, as if they've been sitting in the void, playing pinochle and waiting for his summons. How is this possible? Don't these guys have practices and patients...somewhere? It seems all he has to do is snap his fingers and they drop everything for him.
You've got a rep, old man. King of the hill, top of the heap. All the cool kids want a piece of your action.
From the window by his bed, he has an excellent view of the yard next door. It's summertime today. Early in the season. He can smell the fresh cut grass. The hum of insects and the twitter of birds provide the obligatory soundtrack for the morning. There is also the familiar sound of Chas, as he splashes and sings in his wading pool. Mom is nowhere to be seen. The last time he saw her she was sobbing, warning him about something that has now escaped him. The more he thinks about it, the more dreamlike the scene becomes. He can't be positive it ever happened at all.
He brings one hand up to his temple, gingerly runs two fingers over the light bruising there. He knows he's been 'worked' on. There are needle marks in his arm that never seem to heal completely. At times he would like to ask, to see if his guides on this trip will at least acknowledge what seems more than obvious. But something always stops him, as if the knowing isn't worth the consequences.
(a whisper in your ear, a notion in your head)
The pig snout eraser stares at him from his nightstand, It bears witness to everything that goes on in this room, but it ain't giving anything away.
When Misha arrives, House is standing by the window watching the boy frolic in the pool. The kid is full of energy, bouncing a ball over and over between his legs, screaming with glee as the water explodes over him and the surrounding grass.
But a more interesting diversion draws House's attention away from the boy: a nibble on his earlobe and warm, expert fingers roaming down the front of his sweatpants.
Stacy used to start the proceedings in just this way.
How does this one know what to do and do it so damn well?
His initial thought is to push her away; he wants to be clearheaded, to be able to mull over a situation that is beginning to get away from him. He is used to having the upper hand. Once he had control and could easily reason things through. But it seems the only one in this world he can control is himself. And that power is slowly slipping away.
"Hungry?" Misha purrs in his ear. "Breakfast is served." She wraps her fingers around his cock, strokes the shaft gently but with a firm, practiced urgency. He thinks of Stacy, of her smooth skin, summer Saturday mornings they used to lie in bed until the sun rose higher and breakfast grew cold on the tray. That was before the pain took all the good stuff away.
Control has taken a seat in the corner. Watching, chuckling at the way House has allowed it to slip so easily from his fingers. His hips jerk in time with Misha's ministrations, which leaves him no other choice but to close his eyes...and surrender.
"He's getting bored." With a disgruntled flip of his hand, Garrett indicates the LED screen on Sarno's desk.
"Misha's with him. He's never bored when she's around."
"The graph doesn't lie." The Afterburn in House's blood tells the story of his mood, and that mood proves to be troublesome. The red spikes illustrate his attempts to poke holes in what he is experiencing. He is not the type to live and let live, which Garrett believes might eventually lead to big problems maintaining their hold on him. A regimen of drug induced suggestions and plentiful sex would keep a normal guy happy, pliant and willing to please. Not so with Dr. House. Garrett has seen him scrutinizing the needle marks. While under the spell of the phenobarbital, he has been advised not to ask about them, that they are normal and natural and right.
Dr. House doesn't believe it.
It is more than apparent how much they need him here. He has already saved two lives, once by offering his expertise in the holographic diagnostics chamber. The other during an office examination of a fourteen year old boy. The doctor's lightning quick diagnosis of the sometimes fatal Methicillin-Resistant-Staphylococcus Aureus (or MRSA) was enough to get the boy proper treatment in time.
"So what do you propose we do?"
Garrett has made an uneasy truce with Sarno, mainly because Irie demanded it. "Play nice or you both get your asses demoted to desk duty in New Mexico," she told them. "I've got half the staff in that place clamoring to take over your positions. Their resumes are on my desk. All I need do is pluck two from the top and it's bye-bye both of you."
Sarno is staring at Garrett with a familiar condescending gleam in his hazel eyes. Leaning his palms on Sarno's desk, Garrett bridles his anger, cocks his head and nods. "Guess we'll just have to find a way to make life more interesting for him."