Chapter 32 – The Things They Carried

"What's wrong with you?"

I looked up, taking my eyes off of the mountain of dishes I was in the process of watching. Zach stood next to me, brushing off his apron and watching me intently.

"Nothing's wrong with me," I said.

"Bullshit. You're usually a ray of sunshine. Today, you're partly cloudy. What's the deal?"

I shrugged. "It's nothing, Zach. I'm fine."

Okay, I wasn't fine, and hadn't felt fine for the past few days. House and I had spent the second half of Detox finding new and interesting ways to avoid one another. I didn't know what to say about the fit I'd thrown after he'd smashed his hand, and he no doubt didn't want to deal with me. I always managed to arrive home just as he left, or vice versa. I barely saw hide nor hair of him, not that I was really seeking out his company.

I could admit it, at least to myself: I was embarrassed. I'd had a full-on meltdown in front of House, who didn't exactly think highly of people who let their emotions get the best of them. I didn't want to know what House thought of me, now that he'd seen what I looked like when I lost control. Though truthfully, it's not like I knew what he thought of me before that.

It sucked. I hated that House and I were tiptoeing around each other. It didn't feel right. Not to mention, I couldn't even pretend that I wasn't trying to run away from his detox; if day three had sent me spiraling, being around him for the remainder of his withdrawals would've just made things infinitely worse. The last thing House needed right now was to try to deal with me dissolving into a puddle of tears while he vomited out the entire contents of his stomach.

I knew I was rationalizing. If House was talking to me, he totally would've called me out on it.

"Something with your dad?"

I shot Zach a suspicious look. "What makes you say that?"

"Educated guess."

I took a deep breath. Maybe it wouldn't kill to talk to someone... "You ever care about someone so much, that when they're hurting, you can't even be around them? You can't watch them in pain, so you end up just walking away?"

He shrugged one shoulder, eyes unreadable. "I guess."

I waited. He didn't seem to have anything else to add, but he was still watching me intently. "Is that all I'm gonna get? An 'I guess'?"

"This isn't about me, it's about you."

"Sometimes it's good to find someone who can understand what you're going through."

"And sometimes it's cathartic to talk about the reason you're upset in something other than incredibly broad terms."

I glared at him, and Zach smirked at me. I was slowly starting to learn that my coworker was much smarter than anyone gave him credit for.

"My dad, he's... sick. It's hard to watch for me, because, you know, he means a lot to me. And... I saw my brother go through something really similar, and it reminds me of that, and it just makes it all the worse, and I... I need to do something, but I don't know what, or when, or how. Happy?" I ducked my head, staring down at the soapy dishes.

"So by sick, you mean..." He trailed off. Perceptive, wasn't he?

"Yeah." That one syllable revealed more to Zach than I'd told to just about anyone else in this universe.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

He was quiet for a moment. He gently nudged me aside, taking the soapy dishes in the other half of the sink and beginning to rinse them while I scrubbed. "Everybody's got a limit," he said at length. "You can't be a hundred percent strong a hundred percent of the time, even if it's for someone you love. And that's okay. It's okay not to be perfect."

"It's not that simple," I replied. "If I'm not perfect, things could go pretty bad."

"I'm assuming you didn't mean that to come off as narcissistic as it did."

Zach had a point. "I don't know if I'm narcissistic, or just neurotic to the point that I can barely function."

"I'd say the second. I'm not gonna tell you not to worry, 'cause that seems like a base component of your personality, but you should at least worry less. Don't worry about things you can't change."

But I can change them. That's the whole problem. "Right."

He knocked me with his shoulder. "It'll turn out okay."

"Aren't you gonna tell me to get him help, or something?"

"People can't be helped unless they wanna be. You can get him help all you want. It won't do a damn thing if he doesn't want it. He needs to decide to get help himself."

"You speaking from personal experience?"

"Maybe. Regardless, that ball's in his court."

A long exhale parted my lips, and I felt bone-deep exhaustion seeping into me. "I suppose you're right."

"Yeah, that's a nasty habit of mine."

We were quiet for a few moments, just doing dishes and enjoying the relative peace. We only had one customer, some old man tucked into the corner with a vanilla half-caff and a laptop. It was a slow night at work.

"Zach?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks. It's nice to get an... outside perspective."

He gave me a crooked smile. "No problem."

Cuddy called on the sixth day of House's detox.

"Carhart-House residence," I greeted promptly when the phone rang, just as always. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I'd just finished my school work for the day.

"Anya, hi," Cuddy said. I was surprised to hear her voice; she'd never called the apartment. What was the point? She had House's cell number.

Okay. So she wants to talk to me. Or, House is missing and he won't pick up his cell...

"Hello Dr. Cuddy." I sank down on the couch. "Is there... something I can help you with?" I ventured. What could Cuddy want with me?

"I just thought I should call and check in..." She drifted off for a moment. "Okay. This is a bit awkward, but I wanted to know how things are at home with your father. He's told you about the bet, I assume?"

"He goes one week without pain relief, you get him out of clinic duty for a month."

"He goes without vicodin for one week, and he gets out of clinic duty for a month," Cuddy corrected me.

"Yeah, well, the ibuprofen isn't really doing him any favors."

I didn't mean to get snippy with her, but the longer Detox went on (and it was beginning to seem never-ending) the more I wished that Cuddy and Wilson wouldn't have baited House into giving up his meds in the first place. What did it really accomplish, other than making him miserable?

I hope the month off of clinic duty is worth it.

"Wilson and I aren't trying to hurt him, Anya," she assured me, her tone somewhere between delicate and patronizing, like she was talking to a child.

"And yet, he's hurting." Okay. I needed to restrain myself. "And if you're wondering how things are at home, we're both looking forward to tomorrow."

"I was just concerned. You haven't been at the hospital much lately–"

"I've been working a lot," I cut across her. "Speaking of, I have a shift in an hour. Is that all, or...?"

Silence, then: "No, I suppose that's it."

"Alright, well, have a good day." I promptly hung up the phone.

Okay. That had been uncomfortable, and I'd been bordering on rude to her, but how else was I supposed to react? It didn't sit well with me, her getting all worried over how House was when she and Wilson were the ones who convinced him to do this in the first place.

I shook my head, sighing. I needed to watch myself in the future. The last thing I wanted or needed was to make an enemy out of Cuddy, of all people.

I'm really on a winning streak this week, aren't I?

It's a bitch playing the piano with a broken finger. Still, when I was troubled, music was always the number one way for me to calm down. A slow, simple, minor melody drifted through the apartment, something familiar and nostalgic, even though I couldn't place exactly what it was.

It was late. House was on day seven of his detox. He'd started to get a little better around last night. Not that he'd told me. I was just guessing, considering that he hadn't gotten up in the middle of the night to stumble to the bathroom and throw up, which had been his ritual over the past several days. I'd laid awake listening, unable to go back to sleep and unable to do anything to help him.

Don't worry about things you can't change, right?

If only it were that easy.

My phone buzzed on the bench next to me, plastic rattling against wood. I paused, picking it up. I checked my inbox. I had a text from Wilson.

"Cuddy let House out of his sobriety twelve hours early. He's coming home."

I didn't respond, not sure what he wanted me to say. Two minutes later, I got another text.

"You should talk to him."

I frowned down at the phone. I hadn't seen Wilson in a few days, having not gone to the hospital since my blow-up. House must've filled him in on what had happened. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. It wasn't like I was the world's most private person, or anything, but Patrick was something I liked to keep in my closet where he damn well belonged. Some things are better left in the dark. Coping skill number one, and all that bullshit.

"I thought the best way to fix things with House was to just ignore him for a few days," I texted back, trying not to sound too passive-aggressive.

About thirty seconds later, my phone buzzed: "This isn't a fight."

No, it was something else entirely. But how was I supposed to talk to House about Patrick? I'd never really faced Patrick's death. Hell, I didn't even cry at his funeral. I just felt... numb. It didn't feel like my brother was dead. It felt like he'd left on some extended vacation, and he'd be back eventually. I just had to be patient.

He's dead. He's dead, and he's never coming back, and if you're not careful, House'll end up just like him.

Those fucking pills of House's weren't needles, but they reminded me way too much of my brother's own addiction. I tried to tell myself that the pills wouldn't kill him. That he'd get off of them, sooner or later, and I could make sure he didn't relapse like he had on the show.

You couldn't stop Patrick. Can you stop House?

I closed my eyes. I'd cried myself out over the past few days. Good thing, I guess, or else the waterworks probably would've started up again.

The apartment door opened with a creak, and shut just as quick. I heard the distinct sound of two sneakers and the bottom stopper of a cane hitting the ground. House was back. I was surprised he'd actually come home when he knew I was here and awake. I thought he would want to avoid the ticking emotional time bomb I'd become in the past few days.

I continued playing, pretending I hadn't heard him enter. I wanted to give him the chance to just go to his room and shut the door. Anything else would be painfully awkward, wouldn't it? It would be easy enough to just continue avoiding each other until we could forget that it had happened at all.

I heard House milling around in the kitchen, bottles clinking together. I imagined he was planning to put away half a bottle of bourbon before bed, a nice chaser for the heap of vicodin he'd probably taken before he left work. Celebrating a bet well won and a patient well cured, no doubt.

I sensed House's presence behind me. Okay, that was a surprise. Did he actually want to talk to me? Maybe just to pry some more. Tragedy was interesting, after all. Maybe the shattering of his mental image of my pristine home life had intrigued him. If he tried to give me the third degree about it, I was going to shut him down.

I didn't talk about Patrick. The end.

He sat down next to me on the piano bench. He had a tumbler of scotch in his hand. No bourbon meant he was planning to sleep in the near future. Huh. I continued to play, and I finally identified the song: "Not As We". Another good tune I'd picked up from watching House.

When I finally finished the song, I let my hands fall from the piano, landing limply in my lap. I stared down at the keys, not wanting to look at House, but I could practically feel his eyes burning into the side of my head.

He held the glass of scotch out in front of me, and simply said, "Tell me."

No snark, no sarcasm. No obsessive need to nose into everyone's business. Just a simple request.

Tell me.

I stared at the scotch. I took it from him, downed the half-glass in one swallow, gagged, spat it back into the cup, and set it down on the bench next to me.

I hadn't planned on talking about it, but I never was any good at saying no to House.

"My brother," I began shakily. "His name was Patrick."

By the time I was done, it was well past two in the morning, and House had gotten into the scotch himself. He hadn't said a word since I started talking, but he'd been listening. His eyes had barely left me the entire time.

I didn't know whether to be touched, or freaked out.

"He died at the beginning of my junior year," I finished. "I went over to his apartment when I got out of school, and he was dead. Accidental overdose."

Quiet again. I waited for a reaction, prepared for the worst. After a few agonizingly long moments, House nodded.

"Okay," he said.

I finally met his eyes. "Okay?" I echoed.

He nodded again. "Okay."

I stared at him. On instinct I wanted to burst out and say, "I just broke down and told you the worst thing I've ever gone through, and all you have to say is 'okay'?"

But it was House. And House listening to me, giving me a chance to talk about what had happened without any scathing remarks or general dickitude, that was huge, coming from him. House had come in here, sat down, and forced himself to act like a person for a short time, for my benefit. Or at least, I assumed it was for my benefit.

I looked away. "Okay." I rose from the piano bench.

House stood too, picking up his cane from where it leaned against the side of his piano. I craned my head, looking up at him. House wasn't even extremely tall, but he towered over me by almost a whole foot.

"I'm going to do something," I said slowly, carefully. "And you don't have to... reciprocate, or anything, but I– I need to do it, alright?"

A slight narrowing of his eyes. "What are you–"

I stepped forward, wrapped my arms around his waist, and hugged him.

I know, I know. House wasn't one for physical contact, and I'd definitely just crossed a line that should've probably remained uncrossed, but I was a hugger, damn it, and I'd just poured my heart out to him. I needed some kind of physical reassurance. With my ear pressed against his chest, I could hear his heartbeat.

Even after being in House's universe for months, I still felt the wonder of it: he's real. He's actually real.

House didn't return my embrace, and that was both unsurprising and totally okay. I released him, backing away. I cleared my throat, red creeping into my cheeks. "I'm, uh. I'm gonna go to bed." I practically stumbled towards the couch. From beyond the shallow grave I'd buried her in, Fangirl Me shouted incoherently about having just hugged House.

House limped for his own bedroom door. When his hand settled on the knob, he called over his shoulder, "Goodnight, Anya."

"Goodnight, House," I replied, not really thinking about it. It wasn't until House had retreated to his room and I'd turned out the light that I realized something.

That was the first time House had called me by name. Not kid, not midget, not 'hey, you'. He'd called me Anya.

Small gestures.

Small miracles.