Chapter 5: Stranger Things Have Happened

Goddamn this dusty room
This hazy afternoon
I'm breathing in this silence
Like never before

This feeling that I get
This one last cigarette
As I lay awake
And wait for you to come through the door

Oh maybe maybe maybe
I can share it with you
I behave I behave I behave
So I can share it with you

You were not alone
Dear loneliness
You forgot
But I remembered this
Oh stranger stranger
Stranger things have happened, I know

I'm not alone
Dear loneliness
I forgot
That I remembered this
Oh stranger stranger
Stranger things have happened, I know

 A downward spiral. A day of regret and misunderstanding and self-doubt. A day of breathlessness and fluttering heart. A day of mourning. A day for forgiveness. No one to call. No one willing to forgive.

Just another day.

In my room I sat, staring at the wall, bouncing my leg and fidgeting with a pen. Stillness was a skill I hadn't then and certainly never would acquire. To move was to live. To learn was to live. And vice versa.

I wanted to think of him, of House, to concentrate on him and consider the impulsiveness and the subsequent magnificent agony to which I led myself. Ruins surrounded everywhere I roamed, not all for which I could be blamed. Accountability was futile, for instance, where Frank was concerned. My soul still ached for all of the wretched things I said to him in our last meeting. My heart stopped when I saw his lifeless body and broke completely when my better senses reminded me that Frank was not a man of sentiment; Frank, being who he was, would never have visited my mother's grave. He would never have left a photograph, an indication that our shattered bond hurt him, too. Not without a pay-off. It infuriated me persistently the way he proved he didn't care about his own son, about Donny, who was wandering the streets of New York City in a state of bipolar chaos. There I sat on the bed of an asylum longing to find Donny - - hoping he'd found some asylum of his own. I loved him instantly. My compassion for him would likely never be tainted. For as much as I could tell, Donny was nothing like his father. He was like me. He was hiding. And unless he wanted to, he was never to be found.

"Probably too much like you." Her voice was saccharin. Even in my own mind she was cold, callous, calculating. A piece of me. The piece that pushed Frank away. The piece that unwittingly signed his death warrant. She pretended to innocence, and though I knew she killed him, I often entertained the notion that that was the unadulterated truth. That I was ultimately responsible. Gage may as well have cut out my own heart when he cut out Nicole's. I needed a living, palpable culprit outside of myself to hold accountable for Frank. My denial of her death was profound. I needed her for so much. I loved her.

"Go away," I begged her. "We have nothing to say to each other."

"I beg to differ, Bobby." Sensory hallucinations abounded. She smelled of roses, perhaps a body cream: the scent wasn't overwhelming, not perfume. "You're right to blame yourself for Frank. You're every bit as responsible as I am."

"I didn't kill Frank." But I wasn't so sure.

"Right. And that's why you're here taking anti-psychotics, anti-depressants and mood stabilizers. And that's why, despite all of that, you still agonize over his death." I felt breath on my neck. The rose was beautiful. And lavender. I didn't catch the lavender at first. "Tell me, Bobby. How does it feel to answer the call of your heritage? How does it feel to push someone over the edge...metaphorically speaking?"

"I didn't kill him!" I shouted, stood and backed away from the bed. She was gone. House was at the door.

"Bobby? Are you O.K.?" He looked around the room and back at me, his eyes searching for any visual clues to my condition. His intensity was startling -- an amalgam of the personal and professional that suggested my well-being was a matter of concern.

I surveyed the room for traces of her, but even her scent had vaporized. Reason told me she knew as much as I - that my persistent reverie possessed an all-access pass with which to observe and torture me - but I hesitated to speak in her presence. I was entitled to my irrationality. After all, I was confined to an asylum. Breathing deep, satisfied the coast was clear, I addressed his concern. "I'm...fine." I loathed the pause necessary to coherently convey racing thoughts and required to contain rage and paranoia. "My beautiful blonde was...paying me a visit."

"It sounded like the two of you were having an argument." He took a step closer, his eyes sweeping the room. Another step brought him to my side. "Is she gone now?" he asked, placing his hand on my arm to steady me as his gaze locked on mine. I was hypnotized, staring into endless blue depths. I could lose myself there.

"She is." I took his other hand in mine, grateful for the interruption. Grateful that he was there at all. "It's a good thing you got here when you did. She was psychoanalyzing. She's phenomenal at it."

House snorted. "She's phenomenal at twisting you up like a pretzel and sounding psychologically profound while she's doing it. Would you expect anything less from the manipulative bitch?" He put his hand to his mouth in mock regret. "Sorry. I forgot. She may have been a serial killer, but she was your serial killer. You're still not over her."

She materialized beside him. "Are you going to let him talk about us like that?" I winced when she spoke. "He's got us all wrong. You're your own serial killer fantasy. Otherwise, what would you need me for?" She smiled. "Go on, Bobby. Ask him who the hell he thinks he is."

My eyes narrowed in response to the sting he inflicted. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you can't trust the psychological analysis of someone who has a vendetta against you, especially when she has access to all your deepest fears and harshest self-judgments." One hand cupped my face gently. "That's not objective analysis, however clever and persuasive she may sound. The degree of pain inflicted is not an indicator of the degree of truth. Sometimes it's inversely proportional." His eyes were calm, without anger or reproach, as soothing as his words.

Without reservation or any form of second thought, I pulled him closer and kissed him. He tasted of mint which poorly masked the organic taste of his mouth. It was my preference, his natural taste, found on his breath halfway through the day. To taste and smell his sweat again became an instant longing. We broke the kiss. "I missed you," I confessed.

"I could get used to this," House murmured, continuing to hold onto me, his face close to mine.

My heart thumped hard against my chest. "I'm already used to it."

"What have we here?" Frank's lanky frame appeared at the door and gradually approached as he spoke. "Finally found that soul mate you were holding out for? Mom always said that you'd keep throwing that away. Wind up alone. 'Perpetual bachelor', I believe she called you. Am I remembering correctly?"

Indeed, he was. She chided me relentlessly and despicably for everything I did and didn't do. 'You said he'd be here!' she was always screaming at me when Frank failed to turn up for her. I told him every time that she asked for him. If I could find him, of course. 'He's a good boy. You could spend more time with him.' It took a moment to realize I was staring at Frank.

House's voice called me back to the present. He'd brought his mouth close to my ear. "Who are you seeing?" he asked in a confidential whisper that told me he wanted inside my reality and was prepared to take my side.

I closed my eyes and whispered back. "My brother, Frank."

"You need to tell me about Frank, OK?" He nodded, brows raised, head cocked to the side waiting for me to copy him with an affirmative.

"This should be rich," Frank said as he sat down on the bed. He mocked me. "Mommy didn't love me as much as she loved Frank!" His voice was obnoxious. "You think maybe she didn't consider you well-matched with the rest of us? You know, with your dad and everything."

I closed my eyes. "He had...problems. Drugs. Homelessness. He was killed..." I took a breath and opened my eyes. "Nicole Wallace," I said, hoping I could leave it at that.

His eyes widened and he frowned. He rested his hands on my shoulder and spoke close to my ear again. "You're telling me that Nicole Wallace murdered your brother?" He pulled back to look at my face. "Was that early or late in the game?" he asked, looking puzzled.

"Just before she died," I began.

"Aren't you going to tell him? He's just going to keep asking." Frank stood and walked to me. "She died trying to save you, Bobby. Didn't she? Which means I died trying to save you. And you were finished with me."

"I could've treated him better," I admitted.

He rubbed my shoulders. "Let me guess. That's what he's telling you right now, isn't it? How badly you mistreated him, right?" House didn't seem particularly concerned by my failures as a brother. He continued to touch me affectionately. "Seems to me his real beef is with her. But since she wouldn't have any sense of guilt, playing with her would be no fun at all. Am I right?"

"Playing with her would be an exercise in futility, because each of them only exists now in my mind." Even discussing the state of my deficient brain felt wasteful. "I sincerely could've treated him better." I pulled away and sat down at the edge of my bed. "I told him...I never wanted to see him again. I was...frustrated, you know? His son Donny went missing and he couldn't..." I chuckled in exasperation. "He couldn't have cared less if he put effort into it! And Donny...he's a beautiful boy. And lost. Physically and emotionally lost. Frank...didn't want the responsibility of him. He figured that since he hadn't been in the boy's life up 'til then, that the boy wasn't really his problem. And so the next time I see Frank, he's dead. He died believing that I truly felt the things I screamed at him when I was out of my mind with rage."

House brought his mouth close to my ear. "Yes, you could have treated him better. But he could have treated you better and his son better and ... everybody who'd ever known him better. It's the nature of drug addicts." He paused and rested his head against mine for a moment. "You're right about the futility of your two hallucinations arguing with each other. But it's also futile for your subconscious to convict you of crimes against your brother based only on your guilty conscience. Where are the witnesses for the defense, your attorney, the judge?"

It was impossible to rationalize the irrational and yet that was what he was determined to accomplish. It was considerate and noble and, I suspected, out of character for him altogether. "It's easy for anyone who hasn't lain in bed all night denying irrefutable fact and genetic predisposition to rationalize."

He pulled away, a look of concentration suggesting he'd just gotten an idea. He grinned and patted me on the head. "O.K. I'll bite. I haven't lain awake all night. And I'll take your assessment as gospel truth." He turned away from me and limped back one step and then another. "You're right. You could have treated him better." He made a "so-what?" gesture. "Would that have saved his life? Made him happier when he couldn't get a fix? Turned him into a model father?"

"Who the hell is this guy to judge me like that? He's an addict, too, it's written all over his face!" He was right. It was obvious. "You lost everything, Bobby, and this asshole wants to minimize that. He wants to tell you you're justified for withholding sympathy from me. How many people have turned their backs on him, I wonder?"

I wondered, as well. Was I better than Frank for sitting in my apartment depressed and drinking most of the time? Was I better than House? What about my behavior gave me a right to treat Frank like any other junkie? If I wouldn't fight for him, no one would. He was either on the street or in a slum. He was my brother. He had problems.

"And what about you?" I asked, suddenly angry. "Why do you get to judge Frank? Who turned their back on you?"

House sounded equally angry as he answered impatiently, "Wilson cut a deal with a cop on a vendetta to put me away. He said I was a junkie." He took a deep breath. I could see he was struggling with painful memories but he didn't stop. "Wilson told me we were never friends after his girlfriend died. She was coming to take me home because I was too drunk to drive." He looked at me challengingly, daring me to argue with him. "If someone had killed me before we'd made it up, he'd have been just as tortured with remorse as you are now. But I survived and my faithful sidekick had time to return to my side, ready to kick me again the next time he thinks I've sunk to a new low. Does that qualify me to judge Frank now?" He paused. "Now, it's my turn to ask the questions. Why does Frank get to judge you?"

I looked at Frank. He shrugged. "I'm dead. How could I judge you?"

"Frank isn't judging me, I'm judging myself!" I shouted. "Wilson...Wilson's twisted life didn't sneak into your apartment, dose you and throw you out of a window." Vehemently, I shook my head and covered my eyes. Back and forth I rocked in the hopes of burning off pent up frustration. I attempted to continue as patiently as possible. "You're not like Frank. I can see that. You got your sidekick back, O.K.? Frank died alone. And now I'm alone."

"Yes, you are judging yourself -- unfairly and irrationally -- and often with the voice of your dead brother! We both know that. Let's examine your assumptions individually. First, you're a cop. The fact that a criminal decides to kill your brother is tragic and horrifying -- but not your fault. Your "twisted life" didn't kill your brother. A serial killer killed your brother. Second, even if you were on good terms with your brother, you wouldn't have been there to save him when he died. Not if your serial killer is as good as you say she is. And, clearly, she was as fiendishly clever as you say, because look at how successfully she managed to create a situation where you could torment yourself." He stepped towards me and put one arm out to grip mine. His voice dropped, "Third, you're only as alone as you want to be ,,, for as long as you want to be. I doubt your brother was ever there for you when you were alive. Too bad he won't leave you alone now that he's dead."

"Oh, Bobby..." The saccharin Nicole was laying in my bed staring at the ceiling. "You know, he's right. You are only as alone as you want to be." She looked over at me, her big, bright eyes flirting with me. "It's about time I got into your bed." She giggled. "Anyway, you aren't alone. I'm here. Who else do you need?"

"House." I said it before I even noticed I'd spoken.

"Yeah?" he answered, confused. "Oh, you were talking to someone else," he suddenly realized. "Who was just talking and what did they say?"

"It was Nicole," I responded quickly, buying time to make something up for the latter half of his question.

"I'd already know his name," she pointed out to me. "I'm all short of lies on this one."

"You're useless," I mumbled to her. House stood before me, confused. "Not you," I assured him. He nodded. Unaware that I was swaying, my hands motioned with every word I spoke. "She...told me that I wasn't alone. She said I had her." The last sentence ran together as one word.

"How sweet! A serial killer of your very own." House rolled his eyes. "But, seriously, I'm thinking we should figure out how to send her back wherever she came from."

How fortunate. He failed to spot my non-answer. "You'll have an easier time forgetting him," she pointed out, interrupting my thoughts.

"You don't know what you're talking about!" I shouted at her. I moved toward the bed nearly forgetting House altogether. "Chemistry is what it is, Nicole. If anyone knows that, it's you and me, so don't give me that bullshit!"

She smiled. "Did I tell you that Frank was amazing in bed?"

My head burned in furious agony. I covered my mouth and stared at her.

"What? Trying to restrain yourself? Don't want to look any crazier for strangling a hallucination? Have you considered that perhaps you're fighting your natural urge to kill by refusing to do away with Frank and me?" Her eyebrows were high.

I folded my arms over my chest. "You leave my father out of this."

"Why? You've been thinking about it since you figured out who Mark Ford Brady really was. Piecing together bits of rage and how well you held yourself back. Wondering when you were finally going to snap."

I turned away from her and looked back at House. "I'm sorry," I said, shaking my head.

"Daddy issues, too! Geez, Bobby, we're just about a perfect match here. What are the odds?" He grinned at me, winner of a moonstruck lottery.

I took a seat on a chair and buried my eyes in the palms of my hands for a moment. Daddy issues. You have no idea, House. Fighting hard to swallow, I looked back up at him and rested my chin on my hand. "Your dad. I want to hear about him."

"Turns out the sonfabitch who raised me as 'Dear Old Dad' was genetically unrelated to me. When I confirmed the lab results, I wanted to throw a party. If you remember 'The Great Santini,' then you have some idea of what he was like --Dad the Marine -- but without the redeeming values."

I nodded. "The...sonofabitch who walked out on me wasn't my dad, as it turns out."

"And?" He looked at me expectantly.

I shook my head. "It's your turn. Tell me what he did to you."

He looked uncomfortable, reluctant to spell it out. "I'm pretty sure his idea of discipline wouldn't cut it with prisoners of war. Geneva Convention and all that.... And he didn't think I was worth much as a kid or as a man. I was an unending disappointment, wrong in every way. Does that tell you enough?" He was wincing unconsciously as he looked away.

I shrugged. "How much would I have to tell you?"

"Whatever was relevant and necessary for me to get the picture. Have I given you enough to get the picture?"

"Mm," I replied with a nod. "My father was in the service. He was away a lot. A philanderer. My mother was...lonely. She...met someone." I chuckled. "Frank called him 'Uncle Mark' when I asked about him. I'm...the baby, you see. I couldn't remember who he was. He brought me toys, Frank said, visited." I shook my head. "I dunno. Anyway, Mark...took advantage of my mother. Beat her. Raped her. Mark Ford Brady," I said, assuming he knew the name. "My father." A test of House's sensitivity and understanding. Perhaps he'd pass. I hoped.

"When did you find out the truth about your father -- and your conception?" His troubled expression reflected concern rather than disgust.

"It was a deathbed confession...I...dragged it out of her."

"Your mother?" he clarified.

I nodded. "Is this a one-off thing we have?" I asked quickly, staring at the floor. The question was lurking in my mind and I needed, at least, to ask it. "Does it end when we're done here?" I looked up.

"I woke up at 2 a.m. trying to figure out how I could convince you to move in with me when we leave here. Insane, I know. So, I pulled myself together and decided I'd do the mature thing and wait at least a week before bringing it up to you." He grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "But since we're all mad here, I can see there was no need for the delay."

I rested my head on the wall, relieved. "Easier said than done," Nicole chimed in. I had to be rid of her somehow, to distract myself. The moment was as good as any.

I went to him and kissed him while I steered us toward the bed. He fell on top of me. "Wanna give Nicole a show?" I asked.

"You've already noticed my exhibitionist tendencies?" His eagerness exceeded anything I could reasonably expect.

I smiled. "I think it may actually be the only way she's leaving here."

"What? Two guys together not a turn-on for your stalker?" He breathed a chuckle against my ear.

I shrugged. "We didn't know each other that well. But it is a turn on for me. And if I'm thinking of you..." I left the suggestion hanging.

"An interesting hypothesis. One I'd be happy to test extensively." He moaned as my hand stroked him through the fabric of his pants.

"Wonderful." I pulled his mouth to mine and kissed him again, reveling in his taste. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be a one-off thing in his mind and it certainly wasn't in mine. But moving in with him was hardly an option, and I didn't see him leaving his exotic post anytime soon.

We had to enjoy whatever time we had. And avoid getting caught.