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sick_wilson2014-02-05 08:49 pm
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Fanfiction / What Lurks in Man (Chapters 4-6)
Title: What Lurks In Man (Chapters 4-6)
Author: Swiss Army Knife
Rating: worksafe
Summary: Wilson is so lonely that he fakes mental illness to get into Mayfield with House, but both men are quickly overwhelmed by the consequences.
Chapters 1-3
Chapters 7-9
Chapter Four
House and Wilson shared recreation. It was the best part of the day. This was true even though they did ridiculous things, like finger-painting and stencils. Today it was modeling clay. As they industriously shaped their pieces, they ignored the man seated to their left, who was steadily eating his way through his baggy of salty dough.
Wilson leaned over into House’s space as the man used his long, deft fingers to mold his creation. Curious, he asked, “What are you making?”
“An anatomically correct human heart.”
“Oh.” Wilson couldn’t help grinning. Gamely, he peered at the red blob before pointing to a vaguely shaped, hump-backed part of it. “You left out the right atrium.”
“Have not!” House countered, but though he sounded outraged, he was scanning his clay figure furtively. Finally, he pointed to a dubious little node of debris. “There.”
The oncologist leveled dubious eyes on the tumorous extension. His slow, deliberate eye roll was more articulate then words. Then he patted House’s arm, feigning consolation. “It’s good to know there’s at least one thing you can’t do.”
“I’m an artist!”
“You’re a musician,” Wilson corrected, “but obviously not a sculptor.”
The former diagnostician turned huffy. “Well, what are you making, then?”
“Clinic patient,” Wilson explained, offering full view of a questionably humanoid figure with a depression in its head.
House fingered the dimple. “What’s with the hole?”
“That’s where his brain is supposed to be,” Wilson answered solemnly.
There was a beat, an then they both folded, heads bowed over, giggling.
Recreation was the best part of the day.
<>
The worst part of Mayfield was sessions with Doctor Medina.
During that first meeting, Wilson had been intimidated, a feeling which he was certain had been exaggerated by the blur of his early-admission medication. Unfortunately, even with that reduced, the feeling had only changed, not disappeared. Now it was a sick dread felt in the pit of his stomach, which Wilson recognized as fear.
The man dug into Wilson’s psyche with a scalpel, and it hurt.
This was because Wilson was facing his demons, Doctor Medina said. He was recognizing his faults. But every session, as his inadequacies pilled higher, Wilson felt his guilt drift closer to self-loathing. Inevitably, he left that office feeling weak and wanting to lie down. Usually, they let him, unless Doctor Medina had forbidden it. He was still on a very high dose of medication, and was expected to sleep a lot of the time.
In contrast, House seemed to be doing better. He never had good things to say about Nolan, but as one as accustomed to House-speak as Wilson, he could pick out the tiny kernels of respect, however begrudging. The psychiatrist had to be doing something right.
Wilson wished he could be so lucky.
‘I can do this,’ he often told himself as he curled up on his bed, desperately trying to keep Doctor Medina’s most recent words out of his head. ‘It won’t be forever. I can wait for House.’
He told himself that, and although each day that passed made him feel more and more like he was holding himself together with sutures and surgical tape, he kept his unstable emotions to himself as much as possible.
House had enough burdens of his own.
<>
They weren’t in a high-security prison, and there were places of relative privacy at Mayfield. Relative, meaning that although House and Wilson were alone in the hallway at the moment, a nurse was periodically walking past the connecting corridor, peeking in and then moving on when they didn’t seem to be doing anything interesting.
Wilson leaned his head back against the wall, thankful for the low lighting. It was a residential hallway, and some patients were sleeping already, so the harsh overheads were somewhat dimmed. They were in their hospital sweats, legs stretched out against the floor, and House was munching jellybeans. Wilson watched him jam bauble after brightly covered bauble into his mouth.
“Contraband?” he wondered aloud.
“Nope. Care package. Guess who.”
“Cameron,” Wilson guessed correctly on the first try. He stretched out his hand, and House begrudgingly deposited one of the pieces – a black one, licorice. Wilson put it in his mouth anyway, chewing thoughtfully. “Who would have thought you could ever manage to be good enough for privileges.”
“I didn’t throw anything last night,” House retorted. “I also vomited into the bedpan.”
A hoarse, amused sound as Wilson chuckled, easily seeing through the sarcastic tone. “Did you really used to throw things? No, don’t answer. Stupid question.”
“I was in pain,” House said, unconsciously echoing a very dark day for both of them.
His leg stiffened as though on cue, and as Wilson watched House rub his thigh, he thought about the first time he’d seen his friend go into withdrawal. That was back in the days before House’s chemical dependency had been confirmed, when Wilson had gone to Cuddy with his plan to make House see where his Vicodin use was taking him. However, instead of seeking help, Wilson had watched his friend bash his own fingers to pieces to escape the pain.
Since then, House had been meticulous, even obsessive, about keeping himself in stock of Vicodin. In the long years since he had last done without his chemical crutch, Wilson had managed to forget what coming down like this looked like. It was worse than he remembered.
House sought his friend’s face defiantly, daring him to arch a brow, but Wilson was staring at his laceless shoes. No doubt fearing that he might ask another question – or worse, make an emotional gesture – House changed the subject.
"You see that nurse? She’s cheating on her diet. Diabetes type 2. Last night was a ‘bad’ night. And her. She’s secretly hiding away part of her paycheck so she can leave her husband; he’s given her gonorrhea, but he’s the main breadwinner. She must have some brats. And – oh! He’s having an affair. They met before work and she left lipstick on his lapel. He was running late and didn’t want to change it, so he’s trying to convince himself that he’s being paranoid thinking people will notice. See how he keeps smudging it between his finger and thumb? That’s not blood."
Wilson hummed assent, amused as always by this game House played, diagnosing people’s lives. They both knew, by now, that half of it came straight out of his ass – educated guesses, at best – but his unerring aim for the most private parts of people’s lives often made him closer to right than wrong. Either way, it was pretty entertaining.
He remembered how they often stood side-by-side on their office balconies, listening to House’s acerbic wit as he tore to pieces the people walking below. It used to be such fun.
“I missed this,” he said. “I missed you.”
“You’re a sentimental twit, Wilson.”
Wilson smiled.
“Here.” House shoved the package into his chest. “I don’t like the green ones.”
The sound of chairs scraping reached them from the common area. It was almost time for a room check; then they would be shooed away to their separate groups for evening therapy. House leaned heavily against Wilson as they stood, using him as a crutch and ignoring the side railing completely.
<>
Their days developed a routine. Recreation and meals they took together, and any free time one or the other earned. Sessions they had apart, and the long, long nights. Sometimes they talked about House’s therapy, or House complained about Nolan or Beasley, but other times they didn’t. Mostly, Wilson was content to enjoy his friend’s progress.
Today recreation had been on the grounds, and he and House had walked the orderly paths well within the supervision of the attentive staff. When they came in for lunch, House had been moving stiffly, and Wilson tried to spare him the trip through the lunch line. One of the cafeteria staff, a stout woman in a neat white paper cap, frowned at his request for two trays.
“His leg hurts. We just came in from outside,” he tried to explain, his voice carefully humble. He was getting used to living without people’s polite respect for his white coat. Here, he had only faded sweatpants and a t-shirt, fragile paper slippers, and certainly no tie. “Please.”
The woman frowned, but finally her mouth pursed. She laid out the two portions on separate yellow trays. “I’m watching you,” she warned gruffly.
Wilson took as direct a path to House as he could manage, feeling the woman’s eyes on his back the entire way.
“Pizza,” House said dreamy, and Wilson couldn’t decide what kind of ‘pizza’ he was referring to. Certainly not their meal of gluey macaroni and limp, tasteless fish sticks. He munched a roll and felt his stomach give a little lurch as it had been doing all week. It was his nerves, probably, and not the food, which was disappointing but not unpalatable. Still, he swallowed hard and tried not to think of clotted cheese and wet, mushy reconstituted meat.
House leaned over and snatched one of his crumbly cookies and popped it into his mouth. He munched on it obnoxiously. “You’re a food snob, Wilson,” he said, sneering around bits of debris, and Wilson turned away in disgust.
A sharp, sudden pain struck him right above his ear, and his hand snapped up compulsively to cover the little hurt. Down the table, another patient glared at him with dark, deep-set eyes. Confused, Wilson blinked at the man. He didn’t recognize him.
“He’s from Ward Four.” House’s hot breath came a little closer to his ear than he was prepared for, and Wilson fought no to flinch – either nearer or away. “Paranoid schizophrenia. He’s been cheeking his medicine.”
Wilson didn’t ask how House knew; long ago, he had learned not to doubt the man. Unable to stop himself, he glanced back at the patient, who was still glaring at him, unblinking. Was his brother like that somewhere? It made sweat come up on his neck, thinking of Danny with an expression like that.
He came back to the present in time to see House pick up the bit of broken plastic utensil that had been flicked at Wilson, his eyes turning as dangerous as flint poised over a pile of tender.
“House, don’t,” Wilson said. Theirs was a meeting of eyes, strong willed blue and a brown that begged – No trouble, please – and then House reluctantly turned back to his meal.
“Fine,” he said. “Far be it from me to keep little Jimmy from getting his pigtails pulled.”
Relieved, Wilson turned back to his plate. The smell made his stomach give another wobble, and he reached for his carton of grape juice. He struggled for a moment with the plastic cap, which finally came open with a satisfying pop, and –
“Ouch!”
This time, the sharp pain snapped him in the eye, and the jug of juice dropped out of his hand, upending over his tray and spilling over his lap. Startled by the sudden cold, squinting through his stinging eye, he wasn’t fast enough to prevent House from bolting up from the bench.
“You idiot, you could have blinded him,” he barked down the table. “Did the voices in your head order you to do that, or do they mostly just tell you when to take a piss?”
The schizophrenic from Ward Four was already on his feet, his eyes otherworldly in their fixated calm. His lips were two white lines bisecting his face. Whether he understood that he was being mocked or not, the hostility was plain enough. In a stunningly quick and fluid moment, he lunged, grabbing for House’s soft throat, heedless of blows or pain.
They wrestled for purchase, but the schizophrenic found his victory in the weakness of his enemy. Knocked unbalanced by a glancing blow, House’s leg gave, and the wild patient found his inevitable grip. The instant he heard House gag, Wilson threw his weight against his friend’s assailant.
His assault was only partially successful. The hands lost their grip on House but found purchase again in Wilson’s hair. Tears burned as the roots were torn, but he kept his arms wrapped around the man’s middle, afraid to let go even after a knee swung up wildly against the bridge of his nose and he saw stars.
“Wilson! Wilson!”
His name being called was the first thing he understood, and then he became sensible to the fact that he was being pulled on by many hands – hands of people dressed in scrubs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw House being similarly manhandled, even as he flailed and kept yelling Wilson’s name.
Wilson tried to reach him even as he was pressed against the floor. He felt a pull on the waistband of his pants and a little sting, and almost in that instant everything began to swim. He squirmed helplessly in the grip of the sedation, a sense of impending doom closing around him. He tried to make his lips form around the word “House”, but the darkness sprung upon him like a cat out of a high place and he was devoured before the familiar syllables could scrabble their way out of his throat.
Chapter Five
There was a butterfly bandage over the bridge of Wilson’s nose the next day at group, holding the bruised, split wound together. There was also a thin red scratch across his eyelid which still stung, but neither pain rivaled the come down off the sedative. He had awoken dizzy and lightheaded, and even now the disorientation hadn’t completely faded. He felt listless, and it was hard to ignore the disapproving frowns on the faces of the hospital staff.
Even Dr. Beasley’s usually placid face was tight that morning. “I understand you were in an altercation yesterday, James,” she said. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She wanted to talk about it; Wilson could tell. He tucked his shaking hands under his armpits.
“Benjamin. That’s the name of the patient you fought with. He’s been struggling recently, and now we’ve been forced to place him in solitary. It could have serious repercussions on his recovery.”
“He’s not taking his medicine,” Wilson mumbled, without knowing why he said it. He was fighting the urge to rock.
All the other patients were staring. Dr. Beasley looked outwardly cross. “Why would you accuse someone like that, James? You need to take responsibility for your own actions. What you did has real consequences.”
“He hit me in the eye.” Wilson felt helpless in his defense. He felt like a child. “He hit me, and he attacked House.”
“House.” Dr. Beasley made a strange smile then, condescension laced with contempt. So she knew House, but she didn’t like him. Because he was her patient, though, she didn’t want to say so outright. “Greg is a very difficult patient.”
The way she said it made it an accusation, and Wilson felt a little hot needle of anger. “He was defending me.” His chin came up for the first time. “He’s my friend.”
Beasley could have said anything. From her position at the head of the circle, she could have brought down a blow from any side. Instead, her expression changed to a sticky kind of compassion. She shook her head like she was sorry for him. “You’ve been very lonely, haven’t you, James?” she said.
“I –” Wilson felt bewildered. He felt like he’d gotten lost; he didn’t understand the trajectory of the conversation anymore.
“I understand that it can be comforting to feel as though you have a friend here, but if you let House manipulate you, you’ll only interfere with his recovery, too.”
Wilson was confused. That wasn’t why he came here. “No. I just don’t want him to be alone, hurting. Alone.”
“Have you been hurting alone, James? It’s not wrong to want companionship, but it seems to me that you’re broadcasting your needs to the kind of people who won’t – or can’t – answer you. You might think you’re doing them a favor by being their friend, but what you’re really doing is enabling. You aren’t thinking about what’s best for them. You’re meeting your needs.” She sat back, crossing her arms with all the authority of one who believed her words were inscrutable, correct.
Wilson was losing it steadily. His medicine swung the world around and he felt sick. It was worse because he’d heard those words so many times. About the women who had formerly been his wives, and about his friendship with House. He felt another wave of nausea. Tritter. Tritter had said that too. If they could believe that – if they all could believe that, the police and the doctors and the people at the hospital – then he couldn’t be trying hard enough. Or else, was he really so selfish?
<>
House wasn’t interested in therapy that day. In an attempt to be flippant, he picked up the heavy glass paperweight at the edge of Nolan’s desk and pitched it handily from one palm to the other as he reclined in the padded chair he’d claimed as his own. “What’s on the menu for today? My inner child?”
Nolan caught the stolen globe neatly out of the air and laid it down on the edge of his desk with a heavy thunk. “Actually, I think I’d like to talk about James today,” he said.
Momentary panic traveled up House’s spine. He hadn’t seen Wilson since they’d both been sedated. In an effort to seem ignorant, House slouched against the backrest of the chair, carefully moderating his voice. “James?”
He was being deliberately obtuse; up until now, he had kept carefully quiet about Wilson, but Dr. Nolan wasn’t one to be sidetracked. “Yes. Your friend from the ward. The nurses say you’ve become quite inseparable.” He bent over and retrieved a file laying open on his desk. “It made me curious, so I looked him up.”
He read:
“James Evan Wilson, M.D., formerly of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, oncology.” Nolan’s dark, intelligent eyes captured House’s squarely. “Why, that would have made you colleagues.”
House didn’t appreciate the way the psychologist was looking at him. It was too much a poise of judgment, as though he were looking meaningfully upon House’s wrongdoing. As though he knew anything about him and Wilson, and how they worked.
Unfortunately, anger would only have made it obvious how close the topic was to him, and so House fought not to reveal his agitation. “It’s nice to have a familiar face around,” he heard himself choking out instead.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be comfortable with a coworker being aware of your condition.”
Angry, why was House so irrationally angry? Why did he want to shout at Nolan, telling him that if there was ever someone whose confidence he could trust, anyone who would not slough him off onto someone else at the first perceived vulnerability, then it was Wilson. Because he was here, wasn’t he? Through the infarction and subsequent recovery, through Volger, Tritter – hell, through Amber. Wilson was still here.
“I don’t mind him. He’s crazier than me,” House tried to joke, but his forced laugh stuck in his throat.
Nolan was inscrutable. “That makes it sound like you know him well.”
“We were just acquaintances. It’s not my business,” House said. It was one of the hardest sentences he’d ever forced out of his mouth, but he did it anyway. Afterward, he had to run his tongue over his teeth, expecting the tackiness to have left their bitterness on his teeth.
Dr. Nolan was looking at him with knowing eyes. It was fifty-fifty whether he had accepted the ruse. Certainly, it wouldn’t take much investigation to prove him wrong – a call to the hospital, to Cuddy or his team. What would happen then? Would they realize that Wilson had forced his admission and discharge him? For some reason, the very idea cause sweat to break out down House’s back. Leave. Wilson couldn’t leave now.
Finally, though, after forcing him to hold taut with anticipation for a long moment, Dr. Nolan uncrossed his arms and said, “Okay.”
The one word relieved the tremendous tension that House dared not express visibly.
“But I want you to understand, House, that while we here at Mayfield are uniquely equipped to help you with your drug dependency, there are plenty of nearby facilities for the treatment of depression and anxiety disorders. And I will not hesitate to transfer James out if I feel like your past association is negatively affecting either of your recoveries. Is that understood?”
A single nod. Another concession. Wilson had become a privilege. Idly, House wondered what he would be willing to do to secure his right to his friend.
<>
That night, House went to bed craving sleep. The conflict in the dining room had done hell to his leg. It ached down to the bone, with sharp spasms of agony coming periodically and without warning. He collapsed onto his bed, feeling the cruel twist of craving for the first time fully since Wilson showed up.
Hurting and exhausted, he’d turned over and waited, sweating through the pain, for sleep to wash over him and take everything far away. And that was when She came.
“He’s a threat to us,” said a female voice, and House knew without asking that she was talking about Wilson. His eyes snapped open and his heart beat a little faster. She was talking about Wilson. “That’s why he’s really here. He’s always resented our true genius.”
“He’s just doesn’t understand,” House refuted.
“He’s a saboteur. A lovely saboteur.” She affected a demure smile, batting her eyes coquettishly as though in benediction to the relationship her image had had with Wilson. “Our only friend.”
Ignoring the pain, House sat up. Sternly, he said, “You’re wrong.”
There was no confirmation, no denial. Just the smile of a ghost. “It’s a good thing that he’s so fragile,” she said, moving like a wisp, first by the bed and then by the door. There was no mistaking the threat implied in the sweet, smooth cadence. “I think he’s cracking already.”
“Go away,” House hissed.
Her look turned almost pitying. She said, “I can’t.”
<>
Nolan sat with his knuckles digging into his cheek, scrutinizing House. Several minutes passed before he broke the silence, saying, “You seem down today. What’s on your mind?”
House’s hands gripped the arm rests of the chair. He caressed the brass studs beneath the pads of his fingers. “Setbacks,” he grated.
Nolan leaned forward. “You’ve been hallucinating again?”
Kneading his temple, House huffed. “Dreaming. Maybe. I can’t tell, not always.”
Most psychiatrists would have honed in directly on that admission, but Nolan was different. Instead, he looked House right in the eye and said, “Nurse Mike says you refused recreational therapy today.”
House tried to remember that this man’s straightforwardness was the only thing that made him bearable. He growled, “The anti-psychotics aren’t working.”
There was a considering pause. “They only work on a genuine psychosis, Greg.”
“You don’t think auditory and visual hallucinations and disassociation with reality indicates psychosis?”
“No. I certainly think that in a situation of great stress, combined with the narcotics, that you did experience a psychotic interlude severe enough to warrant hospitalization, especially since you’ve proven yourself too compromised to determine your own drug regime. That being said, every test and session we’ve had since only serves to convince me more that you shouldn’t be having continuing problems.”
Furious, House snapped. “I’m seeing my best friend’s dead girlfriend! I lost all contact with reality! I tried to kill of my fellows with my subconscious.”
“House,” Nolan said. “You’re an exceptional person, and you’ve gotten used to thinking of yourself in that way, but do you know how common it is for family members to see dead loved ones after a significant loss? Combine that with the head trauma you underwent… I’m not saying you didn’t suffer a break, but based on everything I’ve seen and observed, I do not believe there is lasting physical damage.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” House said, stone faced.
“You lost a fellow, someone you cared about. You increased an already unmanaged dosage of Vicodin. The mind copes in different ways to great stress. But that doesn’t mean you’re broken, Greg.” Nolan stopped. “You don’t believe me.”
It took House an impossible six seconds to process what Nolan was suggesting, but then it struck like the impact of a car driven directly against his sternum. Stress and Vicodin. Kutner. And now only his fear. Nolan didn’t think he had brain damage. He thought it was a mood disorder, depression or whatever you wanted to call it, and not a permanently disordered mind. It was the easy answer, the mediocre answer. The result where the patient didn’t die.
House couldn’t accept it. At least not as anyone else’s theory.
“I want to see my charts,” he demanded. Heat burned in his words, an anger born of fear.
“Greg –”
“No! I want to see my charts, my psych notes, everything.”
Any other therapist would have denied him. In spite of his record – given his record – they would never had involved him. Patients didn’t diagnose themselves. However, Nolan wasn’t just any psychiatrist. “Alright,” he said.
“What?” House’s arguments died stillborn on his lips.
“I said ‘alright’, Greg. You’re a very special case here and I won’t prevent you from drawing your own conclusions, although I’m concerned you think too much – or too little – of yourself to be unbiased. Still, I’m willing to give you access to your workups. Even to my own notes. Though, I warn you in advance that I doubt your group counselors will be willing to produce theirs.”
“That’s fine. I don’t need half-baked assumptions about my mommy and bed-wetting habits.”
“You have to promise to consider what I said while you’re doing this,” Nolan countered.
House agreed. “I will – with a fine toothed comb.”
<>
House tried to avoid Wilson, but in the end, it wasn’t something he had the willpower to do. Which was how they ended up sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor in one of the large common areas with the lights turned down to accommodate the film being projected on the wall.
Dim images, ruffled by the white bed sheet that had been put up. A classic film was playing, one so old that there was no color. Wilson had his eyes pinned to it, but neither of them was watching.
Through the fabric of his t-shirt, Wilson seemed unusually warm. House leaned into him and said, “Nolan took me off the anti-psychotics.”
Wilson lifted his head; he looked very tired. The butterfly bandage was gone, but the bruises still traced the zygotic bones of his face. In only a couple of weeks, he appeared thinned, and his short, disheveled hair made him look forlorn. A vivid recollection of Amber’s words came to House: ‘I think he’s cracking already.’
He shook his head.
Wilson asked, “Are you afraid he’s wrong?”
House glanced away. However, it was difficult to shut out a person when your subconscious couldn’t stay away from him. She was leaning against Wilson, pressing into his side, ghosting his cheek with her hand.
House growled, “I’m not crazy.”
Instead of Amber’s grin saying, ‘Yes, you are,’ there was Wilson’s familiar voice as he looked directly at House and said, “No, you’re not.”
Without giving himself the opportunity to think better of it, House dug his fingers gratefully into Wilson’s arm and kept them there until the movie had run out and they were all ushered to their beds.
Chapter Six
One afternoon, Mike the orderly interrupted House’s Twelve Step meeting to let him know he had a visitor. He was lead to a room on the first floor, one he’d never been in, and found himself in a space with a flower printed couch and pictures of birds hanging on the wall. Lisa Cuddy waited on that couch, with her hands folded in her lap and her expressive mouth pursed into a deep frown.
She was dressed as he remembered her, in a dark red blouse and a pinstriped skirt that only masqueraded as professional. It surprised him that he was not drawn to her exposed bosom, that he couldn’t summon up any interest beyond a vague memory of that falsely recollected night. It almost made him laugh now; he had thought he knew what the detox would do to him. One night over the toilet bowl, healed by morning sex. He examined her now, the curve of her legs over the edge of the couch, her hips, turned towards him, her lips, her hair. He shook his head. Nothing. He supposed it did something to your libido when you couldn’t even choose when to go to the bathroom by yourself.
Her dark eyes flickered when he came in – relief? – but then subdued again when she saw him holding his thigh as he limped, unaided.
“Where’s your cane?” she asked.
“Not allowed with guests. Couldn’t risk beating you to death,” House responded, dropping down onto the cushions beside her. He grimaced. The plasticy material that covered it had no yield at all.
Cuddy’s eyes, when he looked up, were moist with concern. She wasn’t a woman for tears, but like many dark-eyed people her sorrow or worry or grief turned to glistening depth. Wilson’s did the same thing, and House almost smiled. Lisa and Jimmy, both brown-eyed and in love with him. (Both Jewish too, and wasn’t there some kind of off-color joke in that?)
The thought was enough to make something wrench inside, and House extended an unusual mercy for him. “Quit fretting. I do have a cane on the ward. Got lots of privileges. For good behavior.”
“I wouldn’t believe it even if I saw it,” Cuddy responded, but her mouth had twisted up.
“So,” House said. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“It’s been a month. I wanted to see how you were doing.”
‘I do care about you,’ her expression said, but he knew all about that, and at the moment it couldn’t have interested him less. His world had sunk down to a smaller size. Only the immediate things were relevant. Wilson was his only connection to Princeton Plainsboro now.
“What did you put in your planner – ‘Manicure at one’? Almost anything would be better than ‘Visiting a department head in the loony bin’. Hard to spin that one a nice way for the donors.”
It was hard to be certain, but despite her disapproving look, Cuddy seemed reassured by his sardonic greeting. “Well, I see being here hasn’t stopped you from being an ass.”
“Surprise, surprise. That wasn’t the Vicodin after all.”
In spite of her hard look, her tone softened somewhat. “How’s the pain?”
“It’s been better.”
Her voice was pitched low. He wondered who she thought she was keeping a secret from. “And what about the hallucinations? Have you seen anything else?”
As though on cue, a shadow hovered at the edge of his vision, but House refused to turn and face it.
“No.”
“So, the doctors think you’ll recover. It was the Vicodin.”
“My therapist thinks I’m depressed. We’re working on it so I can get…better. Less miserable.”
“That’s good. Nobody deserves to be miserable, House. You know your job is waiting for you when…when everyone thinks you’re ready to come back.”
“Wilson’s here,” House blurted. The words formed without much thought.
Cuddy’s mood dropped, if possible, into even more dark and unfathomable waters. “I know that. I signed the transfer,” she said. “But how did you –”
House didn’t let her finish. “You have to know that he doesn’t actually belong in this place.” Mockingly, he sing-songed, “Wilson gets theatrical and feigns a depressive fit and you give him exactly –”
“House,” Cuddy interrupted. “The whole hospital watched him deteriorate. He stopped being present at work. He missed committee meetings, dropped his administrative duties, started walking around like a zombie.” Despairingly, she said, “If Chase hadn’t gone to check on him… House, he tried to kill himself.”
“He wasn’t serious!”
“I watched them defibrillate him in the ER,” Cuddy said. “Are you going to tell me that wasn’t serious?”
House grappled with this new knowledge. Although they had never discussed Wilson’s admission in detail, he had been led to believe that his friend had manipulated his way into Mayfield. But a defibrillator, that meant –
House raged against the possibility: “He’s not that stupid. He’s a doctor. He knows how to control –”
“House, he could have predicted. But to be on a table…no one can know. Have you considered what a desperate act like that might mean, even if he didn’t actually intend to die?”
Mute, House listened to her tear down his conceptions, putting new light to Wilson’s presence here and the reasons for it.
She said, “It used to be that Wilson had other safety nets. He cared about other people, his job. But somewhere –” Julie, Tritter, Amber, Kutner. Cuddy let out all her air and pressed her hands to her face. “Somewhere those things failed. And now he just has you.”
Suicide. The word set a fuse burning in House. He had imagined the scenario that had brought Wilson to Mayfield. He would have used his one ace skill – his emotional intelligence, his ability to court and create empathy – in a way just as effective as the way House used the unrepentant truth to make his diagnoses. In his mind, he heard Wilson speak, winding together his family’s poor mental history and past flirtation with therapy and antidepressants to create the viable foundation for a seemingly earnest and entirely convincing cry for help.
Wilson was the best liar he knew. Even House couldn’t always recognize the deception if the man truly applied himself. Now he had proved it with a lie of omission that House, in his own great need, had never even thought to examine. A defibrillator on a table. Wilson wasn’t like House. He didn’t put pocketknives into power sockets to see if there was a God. If he took the pills – and it would be pills, House could see that now as a razor sharp ray of light coming down onto his brain – if he had taken them…
“This meeting is over,” he said.
<>
Wilson looked down at his uncooperative hands, rotating the thick plastic bracelet around his wrist. He’d worried it so much that he’d worn a red line into his skin, but it was secured so it wouldn’t come off, not even if you chewed it. Wilson had seen some people try.
He hunched his shoulders further in, trying to bring the world into order around him, to shield better against the shadows of this environment. His nerves were so raw these days. It was getting harder to get up in the morning, especially when House met with Nolan, which meant Wilson might not see him.
It was also bad on days he was scheduled with Doctor Medina. Wilson dreaded those mornings. He often became anxious and panicky until someone noticed and ‘offered’ him a lorazapam. He didn’t want the medicine. Medina was hard enough to face without a groggy mind. Wilson often wished House could be with him those times. He always had sharp, cutting things to say. House wasn’t ever helpless.
But he couldn’t always be with House. House was trying to get better. He had to attend a Twelve Step meeting for addiction today, and another that was specifically for discussion on pain management. Wilson’s diagnosis of chronic depression was unrelated to either, so of course he couldn’t attend.
Usually, Wilson was content to wait, but today a restless pall was on him, a premonition of dread. He pressed against the printed wallpaper in the lounge and kept his eye on the ward room door without knowing what he was anticipating.
When House barged in, barely acknowledging the staffs’ cursory glances and surrendering his cane without a word, Wilson felt a surge of gladness so rare he almost leapt toward his friend. Then he saw the stormy visage and the blue eyes rimmed with fire, and he knew when House twisted his hand into Wilson’s arm and pulled him toward a corner that nothing good could come of this. Something had gone wrong.
“House?” he asked, his voice wavering on the question. In their hospital, in Princeton, in their old life, it would have sounded impermissibly pitiful, but now Wilson didn’t care. Why was House so angry?
He didn’t have to wait long to find out. House put himself into Wilson’s space and it came pouring out all over, hot and sour smelling, bile and fury.
“Suicide?” he demanded, and Wilson’s blood went icy cold.
It would have been easier if House had been a normal kind of person, weeping with the outrage that a wounded loved one might feel when they found out the truth. But this was House, and he wasn’t like other people. The truth, to him, was a weapon, and he drew it out now along with his other weapons – sarcasm, ridicule, contempt. He faced Wilson like an opponent, because Wilson had deceived him, and that was unforgivable.
“How did you do it? What kind of pills did you put down your throat? Because it would have to be pills. Little Jimmy would never put a pistol in his face. It was Vicodin, wasn’t it? Of course it was. It would be too great a metaphor to miss. Vidodin kills. You’ve been saying it for ten years.”
“House –”
“It was a win-win situation. Fifty-fifty you wake up in intensive care and they ship you to Mayfield, fifty percent you don’t wake up at all. Did you have a preference? Were you disappointed?”
“Stop, House.” Wilson was pleading. They never pleaded with one another. It was one of their unspoken rules. But even though he locked his lips around the words, inside his head, the litany continued. ‘Please, please stop.’
House didn’t hear him.
“Explain yourself!” he demanded, his voice crackling like lighting, or a long, thin strap.
Wilson stammered. “I couldn’t think of anything else. I thought – I thought –”
“I thought,” House mocked, and his eyes were so mean that Wilson shrank away from them.
House laughed, but it was nothing like the laughter that bounced off the bricks of their balcony, or presided over take-out food, cigars, poker. It was a black laughter, ugly and rife with condemnation.
“You’re such a good liar, Jimmy, even I was fooled. I thought you came here for me, but you brought your very own mental illness with you. I knew we were both addicts, but I never even considered you were that pathetic.”
Wilson, upset to the point of choking, said, “House, I swear –”
“Shut up,” House said.
The words were like the empty, tight silence of the sea drawn back in the moment before a tsunami. All the holes and hiding places exposed. Dying fish with their pale bellies up, flopping feebly on the exposed ocean floor. And then the growing roar.
Wilson saw his ruin coming from a long, long way, and a tone grew in his ears, a single, long discordant note as the end approached. As the houses of his mind huddled, whole for only a moment longer, the soul that populated it fled, but much too slowly. Wilson saw the tower of black water.
Then the crash:
“Stay away from me, Wilson,” House said with finality. Then he turned and stalked away.
Wilson was left behind. The structure of his world was splinters churning in dark, swollen waters. He swayed in the wake of this disaster and didn’t know what he was doing.
“Are you alright?” The voice belonged to one of the male staff members. Mike. The man’s palms were up, but he didn’t touch Wilson. Quietly, he asked again, “James, are you okay? Did he upset you?”
Wilson didn’t realize he had put his arms around himself. Didn’t know how agitated he must have looked to attract attention. His head swung from side to side, before it finally anchored on the door. Out. He needed to go outside.
“Hey, you can’t go there right now.” Mike tried to intercept him as he neared the exit.
Wilson barely understood the words. Everything was white light. Sharpness. He reached for the door.
“I said, you can’t go out,” Mike repeated, trying to steer him away, but the touch went straight through Wilson’s flesh and muscles and nerves and bones, and he jerked away, yanking himself free of the restraining grip and threw himself against the door. Out!
“Some assistance here!”
Hands tried to pull him away; he threw them off. He didn’t hear the calming words. Didn’t hear the call for help that brought more bodies, more hands to grip and hold and tug and push. He struggled, squirming to get away from the unwanted embrace. He fought the hands while his heart beat thump, thump, thump.
Then violence, the cold tiles, the burn of the syringe. Hopelessness, followed by nothing.
A hood came over the world.
<>
House’s mood had not improved. He hadn’t slept the night before; had almost refused his medication out of pure spite and flushed them down the toilet. He was feeling fractious and volatile when one of the orderlies approached the couch where he was sprawled out in the dayroom. Vaguely recalling the bland face, broad forehead, and wide spaced eyes, House bore his teeth into a vicious grin. “How are things going with your pregnant girlfriend? She’s a feisty one, isn’t she? You sure that parasite is yours?”
The man ignored his preliminary attack. Instead, he said, “They had to increase the medication of your friend today. James.”
House sat up slowly, the nerves of his body jangling. “Why?” he asked.
“He had a breakdown and got violent.”
“Violent," House scoffed. "Wilson isn’t capable of flipping a baby turtle.”
“Apparently, something pushed him over the edge,” the young man said knowingly. “He’s in his room now.”
The judgment in this stranger’s tone had House’s hackles rising in an instant. He demanded, “Why are you telling me this?”
“I thought you might want to know. He’s the only person I’ve seen you connect with. I noticed you didn’t come to see him today.”
“So?” The back of the couch creaked in protest as House’s weight was thrown against it. “I have my own problems without babysitting that self-destructive liar.”
“Funny,” the orderly said, neutral yet piercing. His eye caught House’s. “I wouldn’t have put you in the role of babysitter.”
<>
House was reticent during his next meeting with Nolan. Broodingly, he let his four-pronged crutch tilt from one foot to the other. He wished for his own cane, so he could twirl it. He hadn’t realized before now how much restless energy it dispersed.
“You seem upset," Nolan began.
Last night, he hadn’t slept. Instead, he’d spent the night lying awake, remembering the glow of the television screen while The L Word played, a yawning, half-conscious Wilson propped up beside him for company. Laughter as House threw bits of rolled paper from the second floor, aiming for Cuddy’s bosom. A hundred thousand stolen French fries. Then this morning, when the judgmental orderly had appeared with his unwelcome news, that idealized past and the impossibly complicated present had mixed together like chemicals in a beaker exposed to heat. House felt he gases building even now, until he could not contain the eruption.
“Wilson is an idiot!”
Nolan leaned back in his chair, unfazed by this outpouring of passion. He made a noise like something had just occurred to him: “Huh.”
House growled. “'Huh'? Is that what they pay you the big bucks to say? What do you mean, 'huh'?”
The psychiatrist gestured with his hand. “This is the first time I’ve seen you invested in the wellbeing of another human being. It’s good.”
“My friend tried to kill himself, and it’s good?”
“Every session we’ve had has been about your misery, your future," Nolan said, "but I think we both know that a big part of your issues is how you relate to other people. I'll be honest with you: I’m relieved to see you show evidence of empathy. It wasn’t sure if you had a tie strong enough for that.”
“I’m not a sociopath!”
“No, but you’ve dedicated your life to truth rather than people. In a way, it’s one of your exceptionalities, but you’ve taken it to the point of being almost inhuman at times. Psychiatrists don’t like to loose inhuman people back into the population as a general rule, especially ones whose livelihoods are based on caring for vulnerable people.”
House snarled, “Are you saying you trust me more because I’m angry with Wilson?”
“It gives me greater confidence in your emotional range, that you love someone enough to feel betrayed when they try to leave you,” Nolan answered.
House’s first instinct was to rail against the very possibility of such an indiscreet and impractical sentiment as love having anything to do with his relationship with Wilson. However, his ire deflated almost as soon as it reached its peak, and he slumped instead. “They won’t let me in his room.”
“Dr. Wilson is being monitored. Doctor Medina believes that his aggressive episode was an attempt to hurt himself for the first time since he tried to take his life. I agree.”
“Hurt himself, or was hurt by those goons with syringes?”
“It’s not a perfect system,” Nolan agreed. “But the structures we have in place are meant to protect everyone, both staff and patients. This is a situation that needs to be handled with care, especially considering the instigating factor.”
House’s temper flared again. “Are you blaming me?”
Nolan spread his hands. “I’m inviting you to talk. Do you want to tell me what happened, House?”
House’s head fell back against Nolan’s chair. He lolled for a moment, chewing over his thoughts. Then the give: “My boss came to see me.”
“I know,” Nolan said. “I approved the visit. I thought it might motivate you to see that your old life was waiting for you.”
A huff, like an exhale burdened with a snort, came out. “Yeah. All the old crap, just hanging out there waiting for me.” He raised an eyebrow, daring Nolan to deny it was so. When he continued, it was to say, “She said she referred him. Told me he was dead on a table. They had to restart his heart.”
“That’s traumatic news. Did James not tell you?”
“Of course not. He’s been lecturing me on mental health for years. I already knew he was a hypocrite, but I would never have believed –” He stopped, swallowed. “He lied to me.”
“So you confronted him?” Nolan asked.
Housed clenched his teeth, but the anger that had sustained him before was gone now. He admitted, “I yelled at him. Set him off. I can do that. Never seen him lose it with anybody else; not Jimmy, the shining persona of patience and light.”
“It sounds as though you resent him,” Nolan suggested.
House looked up sharply. “No, or –” He sought an explanation that made sense. “Sure, for the regular things. He walks, I can’t. He’s adored by all, and I’m not. And he’d definitely win the tiara at the beauty pageant. But…no. I’m smarter, for one thing. Wilson couldn’t beat out a paperclip in linear thinking. And he’s secretly evil. It balances out.”
“From listening to you talk, I’d say you cared about him.”
House hadn’t forgotten the tale he’d told in the beginning, submitting that they’d only been colleagues. He bit his tongue and reused to be lured more than he already had, even if it was clear that Nolan already understood the lie. Still, he felt he had to say something.
“I hate him.”
Nolan had a thousand expression, but most of them were very slight variations of neutral. This one was blatantly sad. With almost offensive gentleness, he said, “House, it's normal to be upset if someone you depend on makes a choice like James did.”
“He’s still here,” House breathed, more to himself than anybody.
“He is, isn’t he?” Nolan answered thoughtfully. It caused a little thrill of panic to run down House’s back. Had he said too much? But, as always, Nolan managed to surprise him. He walked to his desk and withdrew a memo pad. House watched him scrawl his signature under a short note. He held it out to House with all the aplomb of a golden ticket. “Here.”
“What is it?”
“Permission. Go visit Wilson. They should let you in his room. Though I wouldn’t expect any privacy.”
A little of House’s old, easy sarcasm revived slightly. He sneered, “Privacy?”
Nolan gestured. “Go.”
House staggered up from the chair and turned toward the door. He was just reaching for the handle when Nolan spoke again.
“Greg.” He waited until House looked back. “I know part of you is still angry with him, but your friend is sick. If you’ve got it in you – and I think you do – show compassion.”
Author: Swiss Army Knife
Rating: worksafe
Summary: Wilson is so lonely that he fakes mental illness to get into Mayfield with House, but both men are quickly overwhelmed by the consequences.
Chapters 1-3
Chapters 7-9
House and Wilson shared recreation. It was the best part of the day. This was true even though they did ridiculous things, like finger-painting and stencils. Today it was modeling clay. As they industriously shaped their pieces, they ignored the man seated to their left, who was steadily eating his way through his baggy of salty dough.
Wilson leaned over into House’s space as the man used his long, deft fingers to mold his creation. Curious, he asked, “What are you making?”
“An anatomically correct human heart.”
“Oh.” Wilson couldn’t help grinning. Gamely, he peered at the red blob before pointing to a vaguely shaped, hump-backed part of it. “You left out the right atrium.”
“Have not!” House countered, but though he sounded outraged, he was scanning his clay figure furtively. Finally, he pointed to a dubious little node of debris. “There.”
The oncologist leveled dubious eyes on the tumorous extension. His slow, deliberate eye roll was more articulate then words. Then he patted House’s arm, feigning consolation. “It’s good to know there’s at least one thing you can’t do.”
“I’m an artist!”
“You’re a musician,” Wilson corrected, “but obviously not a sculptor.”
The former diagnostician turned huffy. “Well, what are you making, then?”
“Clinic patient,” Wilson explained, offering full view of a questionably humanoid figure with a depression in its head.
House fingered the dimple. “What’s with the hole?”
“That’s where his brain is supposed to be,” Wilson answered solemnly.
There was a beat, an then they both folded, heads bowed over, giggling.
Recreation was the best part of the day.
<>
The worst part of Mayfield was sessions with Doctor Medina.
During that first meeting, Wilson had been intimidated, a feeling which he was certain had been exaggerated by the blur of his early-admission medication. Unfortunately, even with that reduced, the feeling had only changed, not disappeared. Now it was a sick dread felt in the pit of his stomach, which Wilson recognized as fear.
The man dug into Wilson’s psyche with a scalpel, and it hurt.
This was because Wilson was facing his demons, Doctor Medina said. He was recognizing his faults. But every session, as his inadequacies pilled higher, Wilson felt his guilt drift closer to self-loathing. Inevitably, he left that office feeling weak and wanting to lie down. Usually, they let him, unless Doctor Medina had forbidden it. He was still on a very high dose of medication, and was expected to sleep a lot of the time.
In contrast, House seemed to be doing better. He never had good things to say about Nolan, but as one as accustomed to House-speak as Wilson, he could pick out the tiny kernels of respect, however begrudging. The psychiatrist had to be doing something right.
Wilson wished he could be so lucky.
‘I can do this,’ he often told himself as he curled up on his bed, desperately trying to keep Doctor Medina’s most recent words out of his head. ‘It won’t be forever. I can wait for House.’
He told himself that, and although each day that passed made him feel more and more like he was holding himself together with sutures and surgical tape, he kept his unstable emotions to himself as much as possible.
House had enough burdens of his own.
<>
They weren’t in a high-security prison, and there were places of relative privacy at Mayfield. Relative, meaning that although House and Wilson were alone in the hallway at the moment, a nurse was periodically walking past the connecting corridor, peeking in and then moving on when they didn’t seem to be doing anything interesting.
Wilson leaned his head back against the wall, thankful for the low lighting. It was a residential hallway, and some patients were sleeping already, so the harsh overheads were somewhat dimmed. They were in their hospital sweats, legs stretched out against the floor, and House was munching jellybeans. Wilson watched him jam bauble after brightly covered bauble into his mouth.
“Contraband?” he wondered aloud.
“Nope. Care package. Guess who.”
“Cameron,” Wilson guessed correctly on the first try. He stretched out his hand, and House begrudgingly deposited one of the pieces – a black one, licorice. Wilson put it in his mouth anyway, chewing thoughtfully. “Who would have thought you could ever manage to be good enough for privileges.”
“I didn’t throw anything last night,” House retorted. “I also vomited into the bedpan.”
A hoarse, amused sound as Wilson chuckled, easily seeing through the sarcastic tone. “Did you really used to throw things? No, don’t answer. Stupid question.”
“I was in pain,” House said, unconsciously echoing a very dark day for both of them.
His leg stiffened as though on cue, and as Wilson watched House rub his thigh, he thought about the first time he’d seen his friend go into withdrawal. That was back in the days before House’s chemical dependency had been confirmed, when Wilson had gone to Cuddy with his plan to make House see where his Vicodin use was taking him. However, instead of seeking help, Wilson had watched his friend bash his own fingers to pieces to escape the pain.
Since then, House had been meticulous, even obsessive, about keeping himself in stock of Vicodin. In the long years since he had last done without his chemical crutch, Wilson had managed to forget what coming down like this looked like. It was worse than he remembered.
House sought his friend’s face defiantly, daring him to arch a brow, but Wilson was staring at his laceless shoes. No doubt fearing that he might ask another question – or worse, make an emotional gesture – House changed the subject.
"You see that nurse? She’s cheating on her diet. Diabetes type 2. Last night was a ‘bad’ night. And her. She’s secretly hiding away part of her paycheck so she can leave her husband; he’s given her gonorrhea, but he’s the main breadwinner. She must have some brats. And – oh! He’s having an affair. They met before work and she left lipstick on his lapel. He was running late and didn’t want to change it, so he’s trying to convince himself that he’s being paranoid thinking people will notice. See how he keeps smudging it between his finger and thumb? That’s not blood."
Wilson hummed assent, amused as always by this game House played, diagnosing people’s lives. They both knew, by now, that half of it came straight out of his ass – educated guesses, at best – but his unerring aim for the most private parts of people’s lives often made him closer to right than wrong. Either way, it was pretty entertaining.
He remembered how they often stood side-by-side on their office balconies, listening to House’s acerbic wit as he tore to pieces the people walking below. It used to be such fun.
“I missed this,” he said. “I missed you.”
“You’re a sentimental twit, Wilson.”
Wilson smiled.
“Here.” House shoved the package into his chest. “I don’t like the green ones.”
The sound of chairs scraping reached them from the common area. It was almost time for a room check; then they would be shooed away to their separate groups for evening therapy. House leaned heavily against Wilson as they stood, using him as a crutch and ignoring the side railing completely.
<>
Their days developed a routine. Recreation and meals they took together, and any free time one or the other earned. Sessions they had apart, and the long, long nights. Sometimes they talked about House’s therapy, or House complained about Nolan or Beasley, but other times they didn’t. Mostly, Wilson was content to enjoy his friend’s progress.
Today recreation had been on the grounds, and he and House had walked the orderly paths well within the supervision of the attentive staff. When they came in for lunch, House had been moving stiffly, and Wilson tried to spare him the trip through the lunch line. One of the cafeteria staff, a stout woman in a neat white paper cap, frowned at his request for two trays.
“His leg hurts. We just came in from outside,” he tried to explain, his voice carefully humble. He was getting used to living without people’s polite respect for his white coat. Here, he had only faded sweatpants and a t-shirt, fragile paper slippers, and certainly no tie. “Please.”
The woman frowned, but finally her mouth pursed. She laid out the two portions on separate yellow trays. “I’m watching you,” she warned gruffly.
Wilson took as direct a path to House as he could manage, feeling the woman’s eyes on his back the entire way.
“Pizza,” House said dreamy, and Wilson couldn’t decide what kind of ‘pizza’ he was referring to. Certainly not their meal of gluey macaroni and limp, tasteless fish sticks. He munched a roll and felt his stomach give a little lurch as it had been doing all week. It was his nerves, probably, and not the food, which was disappointing but not unpalatable. Still, he swallowed hard and tried not to think of clotted cheese and wet, mushy reconstituted meat.
House leaned over and snatched one of his crumbly cookies and popped it into his mouth. He munched on it obnoxiously. “You’re a food snob, Wilson,” he said, sneering around bits of debris, and Wilson turned away in disgust.
A sharp, sudden pain struck him right above his ear, and his hand snapped up compulsively to cover the little hurt. Down the table, another patient glared at him with dark, deep-set eyes. Confused, Wilson blinked at the man. He didn’t recognize him.
“He’s from Ward Four.” House’s hot breath came a little closer to his ear than he was prepared for, and Wilson fought no to flinch – either nearer or away. “Paranoid schizophrenia. He’s been cheeking his medicine.”
Wilson didn’t ask how House knew; long ago, he had learned not to doubt the man. Unable to stop himself, he glanced back at the patient, who was still glaring at him, unblinking. Was his brother like that somewhere? It made sweat come up on his neck, thinking of Danny with an expression like that.
He came back to the present in time to see House pick up the bit of broken plastic utensil that had been flicked at Wilson, his eyes turning as dangerous as flint poised over a pile of tender.
“House, don’t,” Wilson said. Theirs was a meeting of eyes, strong willed blue and a brown that begged – No trouble, please – and then House reluctantly turned back to his meal.
“Fine,” he said. “Far be it from me to keep little Jimmy from getting his pigtails pulled.”
Relieved, Wilson turned back to his plate. The smell made his stomach give another wobble, and he reached for his carton of grape juice. He struggled for a moment with the plastic cap, which finally came open with a satisfying pop, and –
“Ouch!”
This time, the sharp pain snapped him in the eye, and the jug of juice dropped out of his hand, upending over his tray and spilling over his lap. Startled by the sudden cold, squinting through his stinging eye, he wasn’t fast enough to prevent House from bolting up from the bench.
“You idiot, you could have blinded him,” he barked down the table. “Did the voices in your head order you to do that, or do they mostly just tell you when to take a piss?”
The schizophrenic from Ward Four was already on his feet, his eyes otherworldly in their fixated calm. His lips were two white lines bisecting his face. Whether he understood that he was being mocked or not, the hostility was plain enough. In a stunningly quick and fluid moment, he lunged, grabbing for House’s soft throat, heedless of blows or pain.
They wrestled for purchase, but the schizophrenic found his victory in the weakness of his enemy. Knocked unbalanced by a glancing blow, House’s leg gave, and the wild patient found his inevitable grip. The instant he heard House gag, Wilson threw his weight against his friend’s assailant.
His assault was only partially successful. The hands lost their grip on House but found purchase again in Wilson’s hair. Tears burned as the roots were torn, but he kept his arms wrapped around the man’s middle, afraid to let go even after a knee swung up wildly against the bridge of his nose and he saw stars.
“Wilson! Wilson!”
His name being called was the first thing he understood, and then he became sensible to the fact that he was being pulled on by many hands – hands of people dressed in scrubs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw House being similarly manhandled, even as he flailed and kept yelling Wilson’s name.
Wilson tried to reach him even as he was pressed against the floor. He felt a pull on the waistband of his pants and a little sting, and almost in that instant everything began to swim. He squirmed helplessly in the grip of the sedation, a sense of impending doom closing around him. He tried to make his lips form around the word “House”, but the darkness sprung upon him like a cat out of a high place and he was devoured before the familiar syllables could scrabble their way out of his throat.
There was a butterfly bandage over the bridge of Wilson’s nose the next day at group, holding the bruised, split wound together. There was also a thin red scratch across his eyelid which still stung, but neither pain rivaled the come down off the sedative. He had awoken dizzy and lightheaded, and even now the disorientation hadn’t completely faded. He felt listless, and it was hard to ignore the disapproving frowns on the faces of the hospital staff.
Even Dr. Beasley’s usually placid face was tight that morning. “I understand you were in an altercation yesterday, James,” she said. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She wanted to talk about it; Wilson could tell. He tucked his shaking hands under his armpits.
“Benjamin. That’s the name of the patient you fought with. He’s been struggling recently, and now we’ve been forced to place him in solitary. It could have serious repercussions on his recovery.”
“He’s not taking his medicine,” Wilson mumbled, without knowing why he said it. He was fighting the urge to rock.
All the other patients were staring. Dr. Beasley looked outwardly cross. “Why would you accuse someone like that, James? You need to take responsibility for your own actions. What you did has real consequences.”
“He hit me in the eye.” Wilson felt helpless in his defense. He felt like a child. “He hit me, and he attacked House.”
“House.” Dr. Beasley made a strange smile then, condescension laced with contempt. So she knew House, but she didn’t like him. Because he was her patient, though, she didn’t want to say so outright. “Greg is a very difficult patient.”
The way she said it made it an accusation, and Wilson felt a little hot needle of anger. “He was defending me.” His chin came up for the first time. “He’s my friend.”
Beasley could have said anything. From her position at the head of the circle, she could have brought down a blow from any side. Instead, her expression changed to a sticky kind of compassion. She shook her head like she was sorry for him. “You’ve been very lonely, haven’t you, James?” she said.
“I –” Wilson felt bewildered. He felt like he’d gotten lost; he didn’t understand the trajectory of the conversation anymore.
“I understand that it can be comforting to feel as though you have a friend here, but if you let House manipulate you, you’ll only interfere with his recovery, too.”
Wilson was confused. That wasn’t why he came here. “No. I just don’t want him to be alone, hurting. Alone.”
“Have you been hurting alone, James? It’s not wrong to want companionship, but it seems to me that you’re broadcasting your needs to the kind of people who won’t – or can’t – answer you. You might think you’re doing them a favor by being their friend, but what you’re really doing is enabling. You aren’t thinking about what’s best for them. You’re meeting your needs.” She sat back, crossing her arms with all the authority of one who believed her words were inscrutable, correct.
Wilson was losing it steadily. His medicine swung the world around and he felt sick. It was worse because he’d heard those words so many times. About the women who had formerly been his wives, and about his friendship with House. He felt another wave of nausea. Tritter. Tritter had said that too. If they could believe that – if they all could believe that, the police and the doctors and the people at the hospital – then he couldn’t be trying hard enough. Or else, was he really so selfish?
<>
House wasn’t interested in therapy that day. In an attempt to be flippant, he picked up the heavy glass paperweight at the edge of Nolan’s desk and pitched it handily from one palm to the other as he reclined in the padded chair he’d claimed as his own. “What’s on the menu for today? My inner child?”
Nolan caught the stolen globe neatly out of the air and laid it down on the edge of his desk with a heavy thunk. “Actually, I think I’d like to talk about James today,” he said.
Momentary panic traveled up House’s spine. He hadn’t seen Wilson since they’d both been sedated. In an effort to seem ignorant, House slouched against the backrest of the chair, carefully moderating his voice. “James?”
He was being deliberately obtuse; up until now, he had kept carefully quiet about Wilson, but Dr. Nolan wasn’t one to be sidetracked. “Yes. Your friend from the ward. The nurses say you’ve become quite inseparable.” He bent over and retrieved a file laying open on his desk. “It made me curious, so I looked him up.”
He read:
“James Evan Wilson, M.D., formerly of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, oncology.” Nolan’s dark, intelligent eyes captured House’s squarely. “Why, that would have made you colleagues.”
House didn’t appreciate the way the psychologist was looking at him. It was too much a poise of judgment, as though he were looking meaningfully upon House’s wrongdoing. As though he knew anything about him and Wilson, and how they worked.
Unfortunately, anger would only have made it obvious how close the topic was to him, and so House fought not to reveal his agitation. “It’s nice to have a familiar face around,” he heard himself choking out instead.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be comfortable with a coworker being aware of your condition.”
Angry, why was House so irrationally angry? Why did he want to shout at Nolan, telling him that if there was ever someone whose confidence he could trust, anyone who would not slough him off onto someone else at the first perceived vulnerability, then it was Wilson. Because he was here, wasn’t he? Through the infarction and subsequent recovery, through Volger, Tritter – hell, through Amber. Wilson was still here.
“I don’t mind him. He’s crazier than me,” House tried to joke, but his forced laugh stuck in his throat.
Nolan was inscrutable. “That makes it sound like you know him well.”
“We were just acquaintances. It’s not my business,” House said. It was one of the hardest sentences he’d ever forced out of his mouth, but he did it anyway. Afterward, he had to run his tongue over his teeth, expecting the tackiness to have left their bitterness on his teeth.
Dr. Nolan was looking at him with knowing eyes. It was fifty-fifty whether he had accepted the ruse. Certainly, it wouldn’t take much investigation to prove him wrong – a call to the hospital, to Cuddy or his team. What would happen then? Would they realize that Wilson had forced his admission and discharge him? For some reason, the very idea cause sweat to break out down House’s back. Leave. Wilson couldn’t leave now.
Finally, though, after forcing him to hold taut with anticipation for a long moment, Dr. Nolan uncrossed his arms and said, “Okay.”
The one word relieved the tremendous tension that House dared not express visibly.
“But I want you to understand, House, that while we here at Mayfield are uniquely equipped to help you with your drug dependency, there are plenty of nearby facilities for the treatment of depression and anxiety disorders. And I will not hesitate to transfer James out if I feel like your past association is negatively affecting either of your recoveries. Is that understood?”
A single nod. Another concession. Wilson had become a privilege. Idly, House wondered what he would be willing to do to secure his right to his friend.
<>
That night, House went to bed craving sleep. The conflict in the dining room had done hell to his leg. It ached down to the bone, with sharp spasms of agony coming periodically and without warning. He collapsed onto his bed, feeling the cruel twist of craving for the first time fully since Wilson showed up.
Hurting and exhausted, he’d turned over and waited, sweating through the pain, for sleep to wash over him and take everything far away. And that was when She came.
“He’s a threat to us,” said a female voice, and House knew without asking that she was talking about Wilson. His eyes snapped open and his heart beat a little faster. She was talking about Wilson. “That’s why he’s really here. He’s always resented our true genius.”
“He’s just doesn’t understand,” House refuted.
“He’s a saboteur. A lovely saboteur.” She affected a demure smile, batting her eyes coquettishly as though in benediction to the relationship her image had had with Wilson. “Our only friend.”
Ignoring the pain, House sat up. Sternly, he said, “You’re wrong.”
There was no confirmation, no denial. Just the smile of a ghost. “It’s a good thing that he’s so fragile,” she said, moving like a wisp, first by the bed and then by the door. There was no mistaking the threat implied in the sweet, smooth cadence. “I think he’s cracking already.”
“Go away,” House hissed.
Her look turned almost pitying. She said, “I can’t.”
<>
Nolan sat with his knuckles digging into his cheek, scrutinizing House. Several minutes passed before he broke the silence, saying, “You seem down today. What’s on your mind?”
House’s hands gripped the arm rests of the chair. He caressed the brass studs beneath the pads of his fingers. “Setbacks,” he grated.
Nolan leaned forward. “You’ve been hallucinating again?”
Kneading his temple, House huffed. “Dreaming. Maybe. I can’t tell, not always.”
Most psychiatrists would have honed in directly on that admission, but Nolan was different. Instead, he looked House right in the eye and said, “Nurse Mike says you refused recreational therapy today.”
House tried to remember that this man’s straightforwardness was the only thing that made him bearable. He growled, “The anti-psychotics aren’t working.”
There was a considering pause. “They only work on a genuine psychosis, Greg.”
“You don’t think auditory and visual hallucinations and disassociation with reality indicates psychosis?”
“No. I certainly think that in a situation of great stress, combined with the narcotics, that you did experience a psychotic interlude severe enough to warrant hospitalization, especially since you’ve proven yourself too compromised to determine your own drug regime. That being said, every test and session we’ve had since only serves to convince me more that you shouldn’t be having continuing problems.”
Furious, House snapped. “I’m seeing my best friend’s dead girlfriend! I lost all contact with reality! I tried to kill of my fellows with my subconscious.”
“House,” Nolan said. “You’re an exceptional person, and you’ve gotten used to thinking of yourself in that way, but do you know how common it is for family members to see dead loved ones after a significant loss? Combine that with the head trauma you underwent… I’m not saying you didn’t suffer a break, but based on everything I’ve seen and observed, I do not believe there is lasting physical damage.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” House said, stone faced.
“You lost a fellow, someone you cared about. You increased an already unmanaged dosage of Vicodin. The mind copes in different ways to great stress. But that doesn’t mean you’re broken, Greg.” Nolan stopped. “You don’t believe me.”
It took House an impossible six seconds to process what Nolan was suggesting, but then it struck like the impact of a car driven directly against his sternum. Stress and Vicodin. Kutner. And now only his fear. Nolan didn’t think he had brain damage. He thought it was a mood disorder, depression or whatever you wanted to call it, and not a permanently disordered mind. It was the easy answer, the mediocre answer. The result where the patient didn’t die.
House couldn’t accept it. At least not as anyone else’s theory.
“I want to see my charts,” he demanded. Heat burned in his words, an anger born of fear.
“Greg –”
“No! I want to see my charts, my psych notes, everything.”
Any other therapist would have denied him. In spite of his record – given his record – they would never had involved him. Patients didn’t diagnose themselves. However, Nolan wasn’t just any psychiatrist. “Alright,” he said.
“What?” House’s arguments died stillborn on his lips.
“I said ‘alright’, Greg. You’re a very special case here and I won’t prevent you from drawing your own conclusions, although I’m concerned you think too much – or too little – of yourself to be unbiased. Still, I’m willing to give you access to your workups. Even to my own notes. Though, I warn you in advance that I doubt your group counselors will be willing to produce theirs.”
“That’s fine. I don’t need half-baked assumptions about my mommy and bed-wetting habits.”
“You have to promise to consider what I said while you’re doing this,” Nolan countered.
House agreed. “I will – with a fine toothed comb.”
<>
House tried to avoid Wilson, but in the end, it wasn’t something he had the willpower to do. Which was how they ended up sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor in one of the large common areas with the lights turned down to accommodate the film being projected on the wall.
Dim images, ruffled by the white bed sheet that had been put up. A classic film was playing, one so old that there was no color. Wilson had his eyes pinned to it, but neither of them was watching.
Through the fabric of his t-shirt, Wilson seemed unusually warm. House leaned into him and said, “Nolan took me off the anti-psychotics.”
Wilson lifted his head; he looked very tired. The butterfly bandage was gone, but the bruises still traced the zygotic bones of his face. In only a couple of weeks, he appeared thinned, and his short, disheveled hair made him look forlorn. A vivid recollection of Amber’s words came to House: ‘I think he’s cracking already.’
He shook his head.
Wilson asked, “Are you afraid he’s wrong?”
House glanced away. However, it was difficult to shut out a person when your subconscious couldn’t stay away from him. She was leaning against Wilson, pressing into his side, ghosting his cheek with her hand.
House growled, “I’m not crazy.”
Instead of Amber’s grin saying, ‘Yes, you are,’ there was Wilson’s familiar voice as he looked directly at House and said, “No, you’re not.”
Without giving himself the opportunity to think better of it, House dug his fingers gratefully into Wilson’s arm and kept them there until the movie had run out and they were all ushered to their beds.
One afternoon, Mike the orderly interrupted House’s Twelve Step meeting to let him know he had a visitor. He was lead to a room on the first floor, one he’d never been in, and found himself in a space with a flower printed couch and pictures of birds hanging on the wall. Lisa Cuddy waited on that couch, with her hands folded in her lap and her expressive mouth pursed into a deep frown.
She was dressed as he remembered her, in a dark red blouse and a pinstriped skirt that only masqueraded as professional. It surprised him that he was not drawn to her exposed bosom, that he couldn’t summon up any interest beyond a vague memory of that falsely recollected night. It almost made him laugh now; he had thought he knew what the detox would do to him. One night over the toilet bowl, healed by morning sex. He examined her now, the curve of her legs over the edge of the couch, her hips, turned towards him, her lips, her hair. He shook his head. Nothing. He supposed it did something to your libido when you couldn’t even choose when to go to the bathroom by yourself.
Her dark eyes flickered when he came in – relief? – but then subdued again when she saw him holding his thigh as he limped, unaided.
“Where’s your cane?” she asked.
“Not allowed with guests. Couldn’t risk beating you to death,” House responded, dropping down onto the cushions beside her. He grimaced. The plasticy material that covered it had no yield at all.
Cuddy’s eyes, when he looked up, were moist with concern. She wasn’t a woman for tears, but like many dark-eyed people her sorrow or worry or grief turned to glistening depth. Wilson’s did the same thing, and House almost smiled. Lisa and Jimmy, both brown-eyed and in love with him. (Both Jewish too, and wasn’t there some kind of off-color joke in that?)
The thought was enough to make something wrench inside, and House extended an unusual mercy for him. “Quit fretting. I do have a cane on the ward. Got lots of privileges. For good behavior.”
“I wouldn’t believe it even if I saw it,” Cuddy responded, but her mouth had twisted up.
“So,” House said. “To what do I owe this visit?”
“It’s been a month. I wanted to see how you were doing.”
‘I do care about you,’ her expression said, but he knew all about that, and at the moment it couldn’t have interested him less. His world had sunk down to a smaller size. Only the immediate things were relevant. Wilson was his only connection to Princeton Plainsboro now.
“What did you put in your planner – ‘Manicure at one’? Almost anything would be better than ‘Visiting a department head in the loony bin’. Hard to spin that one a nice way for the donors.”
It was hard to be certain, but despite her disapproving look, Cuddy seemed reassured by his sardonic greeting. “Well, I see being here hasn’t stopped you from being an ass.”
“Surprise, surprise. That wasn’t the Vicodin after all.”
In spite of her hard look, her tone softened somewhat. “How’s the pain?”
“It’s been better.”
Her voice was pitched low. He wondered who she thought she was keeping a secret from. “And what about the hallucinations? Have you seen anything else?”
As though on cue, a shadow hovered at the edge of his vision, but House refused to turn and face it.
“No.”
“So, the doctors think you’ll recover. It was the Vicodin.”
“My therapist thinks I’m depressed. We’re working on it so I can get…better. Less miserable.”
“That’s good. Nobody deserves to be miserable, House. You know your job is waiting for you when…when everyone thinks you’re ready to come back.”
“Wilson’s here,” House blurted. The words formed without much thought.
Cuddy’s mood dropped, if possible, into even more dark and unfathomable waters. “I know that. I signed the transfer,” she said. “But how did you –”
House didn’t let her finish. “You have to know that he doesn’t actually belong in this place.” Mockingly, he sing-songed, “Wilson gets theatrical and feigns a depressive fit and you give him exactly –”
“House,” Cuddy interrupted. “The whole hospital watched him deteriorate. He stopped being present at work. He missed committee meetings, dropped his administrative duties, started walking around like a zombie.” Despairingly, she said, “If Chase hadn’t gone to check on him… House, he tried to kill himself.”
“He wasn’t serious!”
“I watched them defibrillate him in the ER,” Cuddy said. “Are you going to tell me that wasn’t serious?”
House grappled with this new knowledge. Although they had never discussed Wilson’s admission in detail, he had been led to believe that his friend had manipulated his way into Mayfield. But a defibrillator, that meant –
House raged against the possibility: “He’s not that stupid. He’s a doctor. He knows how to control –”
“House, he could have predicted. But to be on a table…no one can know. Have you considered what a desperate act like that might mean, even if he didn’t actually intend to die?”
Mute, House listened to her tear down his conceptions, putting new light to Wilson’s presence here and the reasons for it.
She said, “It used to be that Wilson had other safety nets. He cared about other people, his job. But somewhere –” Julie, Tritter, Amber, Kutner. Cuddy let out all her air and pressed her hands to her face. “Somewhere those things failed. And now he just has you.”
Suicide. The word set a fuse burning in House. He had imagined the scenario that had brought Wilson to Mayfield. He would have used his one ace skill – his emotional intelligence, his ability to court and create empathy – in a way just as effective as the way House used the unrepentant truth to make his diagnoses. In his mind, he heard Wilson speak, winding together his family’s poor mental history and past flirtation with therapy and antidepressants to create the viable foundation for a seemingly earnest and entirely convincing cry for help.
Wilson was the best liar he knew. Even House couldn’t always recognize the deception if the man truly applied himself. Now he had proved it with a lie of omission that House, in his own great need, had never even thought to examine. A defibrillator on a table. Wilson wasn’t like House. He didn’t put pocketknives into power sockets to see if there was a God. If he took the pills – and it would be pills, House could see that now as a razor sharp ray of light coming down onto his brain – if he had taken them…
“This meeting is over,” he said.
<>
Wilson looked down at his uncooperative hands, rotating the thick plastic bracelet around his wrist. He’d worried it so much that he’d worn a red line into his skin, but it was secured so it wouldn’t come off, not even if you chewed it. Wilson had seen some people try.
He hunched his shoulders further in, trying to bring the world into order around him, to shield better against the shadows of this environment. His nerves were so raw these days. It was getting harder to get up in the morning, especially when House met with Nolan, which meant Wilson might not see him.
It was also bad on days he was scheduled with Doctor Medina. Wilson dreaded those mornings. He often became anxious and panicky until someone noticed and ‘offered’ him a lorazapam. He didn’t want the medicine. Medina was hard enough to face without a groggy mind. Wilson often wished House could be with him those times. He always had sharp, cutting things to say. House wasn’t ever helpless.
But he couldn’t always be with House. House was trying to get better. He had to attend a Twelve Step meeting for addiction today, and another that was specifically for discussion on pain management. Wilson’s diagnosis of chronic depression was unrelated to either, so of course he couldn’t attend.
Usually, Wilson was content to wait, but today a restless pall was on him, a premonition of dread. He pressed against the printed wallpaper in the lounge and kept his eye on the ward room door without knowing what he was anticipating.
When House barged in, barely acknowledging the staffs’ cursory glances and surrendering his cane without a word, Wilson felt a surge of gladness so rare he almost leapt toward his friend. Then he saw the stormy visage and the blue eyes rimmed with fire, and he knew when House twisted his hand into Wilson’s arm and pulled him toward a corner that nothing good could come of this. Something had gone wrong.
“House?” he asked, his voice wavering on the question. In their hospital, in Princeton, in their old life, it would have sounded impermissibly pitiful, but now Wilson didn’t care. Why was House so angry?
He didn’t have to wait long to find out. House put himself into Wilson’s space and it came pouring out all over, hot and sour smelling, bile and fury.
“Suicide?” he demanded, and Wilson’s blood went icy cold.
It would have been easier if House had been a normal kind of person, weeping with the outrage that a wounded loved one might feel when they found out the truth. But this was House, and he wasn’t like other people. The truth, to him, was a weapon, and he drew it out now along with his other weapons – sarcasm, ridicule, contempt. He faced Wilson like an opponent, because Wilson had deceived him, and that was unforgivable.
“How did you do it? What kind of pills did you put down your throat? Because it would have to be pills. Little Jimmy would never put a pistol in his face. It was Vicodin, wasn’t it? Of course it was. It would be too great a metaphor to miss. Vidodin kills. You’ve been saying it for ten years.”
“House –”
“It was a win-win situation. Fifty-fifty you wake up in intensive care and they ship you to Mayfield, fifty percent you don’t wake up at all. Did you have a preference? Were you disappointed?”
“Stop, House.” Wilson was pleading. They never pleaded with one another. It was one of their unspoken rules. But even though he locked his lips around the words, inside his head, the litany continued. ‘Please, please stop.’
House didn’t hear him.
“Explain yourself!” he demanded, his voice crackling like lighting, or a long, thin strap.
Wilson stammered. “I couldn’t think of anything else. I thought – I thought –”
“I thought,” House mocked, and his eyes were so mean that Wilson shrank away from them.
House laughed, but it was nothing like the laughter that bounced off the bricks of their balcony, or presided over take-out food, cigars, poker. It was a black laughter, ugly and rife with condemnation.
“You’re such a good liar, Jimmy, even I was fooled. I thought you came here for me, but you brought your very own mental illness with you. I knew we were both addicts, but I never even considered you were that pathetic.”
Wilson, upset to the point of choking, said, “House, I swear –”
“Shut up,” House said.
The words were like the empty, tight silence of the sea drawn back in the moment before a tsunami. All the holes and hiding places exposed. Dying fish with their pale bellies up, flopping feebly on the exposed ocean floor. And then the growing roar.
Wilson saw his ruin coming from a long, long way, and a tone grew in his ears, a single, long discordant note as the end approached. As the houses of his mind huddled, whole for only a moment longer, the soul that populated it fled, but much too slowly. Wilson saw the tower of black water.
Then the crash:
“Stay away from me, Wilson,” House said with finality. Then he turned and stalked away.
Wilson was left behind. The structure of his world was splinters churning in dark, swollen waters. He swayed in the wake of this disaster and didn’t know what he was doing.
“Are you alright?” The voice belonged to one of the male staff members. Mike. The man’s palms were up, but he didn’t touch Wilson. Quietly, he asked again, “James, are you okay? Did he upset you?”
Wilson didn’t realize he had put his arms around himself. Didn’t know how agitated he must have looked to attract attention. His head swung from side to side, before it finally anchored on the door. Out. He needed to go outside.
“Hey, you can’t go there right now.” Mike tried to intercept him as he neared the exit.
Wilson barely understood the words. Everything was white light. Sharpness. He reached for the door.
“I said, you can’t go out,” Mike repeated, trying to steer him away, but the touch went straight through Wilson’s flesh and muscles and nerves and bones, and he jerked away, yanking himself free of the restraining grip and threw himself against the door. Out!
“Some assistance here!”
Hands tried to pull him away; he threw them off. He didn’t hear the calming words. Didn’t hear the call for help that brought more bodies, more hands to grip and hold and tug and push. He struggled, squirming to get away from the unwanted embrace. He fought the hands while his heart beat thump, thump, thump.
Then violence, the cold tiles, the burn of the syringe. Hopelessness, followed by nothing.
A hood came over the world.
<>
House’s mood had not improved. He hadn’t slept the night before; had almost refused his medication out of pure spite and flushed them down the toilet. He was feeling fractious and volatile when one of the orderlies approached the couch where he was sprawled out in the dayroom. Vaguely recalling the bland face, broad forehead, and wide spaced eyes, House bore his teeth into a vicious grin. “How are things going with your pregnant girlfriend? She’s a feisty one, isn’t she? You sure that parasite is yours?”
The man ignored his preliminary attack. Instead, he said, “They had to increase the medication of your friend today. James.”
House sat up slowly, the nerves of his body jangling. “Why?” he asked.
“He had a breakdown and got violent.”
“Violent," House scoffed. "Wilson isn’t capable of flipping a baby turtle.”
“Apparently, something pushed him over the edge,” the young man said knowingly. “He’s in his room now.”
The judgment in this stranger’s tone had House’s hackles rising in an instant. He demanded, “Why are you telling me this?”
“I thought you might want to know. He’s the only person I’ve seen you connect with. I noticed you didn’t come to see him today.”
“So?” The back of the couch creaked in protest as House’s weight was thrown against it. “I have my own problems without babysitting that self-destructive liar.”
“Funny,” the orderly said, neutral yet piercing. His eye caught House’s. “I wouldn’t have put you in the role of babysitter.”
<>
House was reticent during his next meeting with Nolan. Broodingly, he let his four-pronged crutch tilt from one foot to the other. He wished for his own cane, so he could twirl it. He hadn’t realized before now how much restless energy it dispersed.
“You seem upset," Nolan began.
Last night, he hadn’t slept. Instead, he’d spent the night lying awake, remembering the glow of the television screen while The L Word played, a yawning, half-conscious Wilson propped up beside him for company. Laughter as House threw bits of rolled paper from the second floor, aiming for Cuddy’s bosom. A hundred thousand stolen French fries. Then this morning, when the judgmental orderly had appeared with his unwelcome news, that idealized past and the impossibly complicated present had mixed together like chemicals in a beaker exposed to heat. House felt he gases building even now, until he could not contain the eruption.
“Wilson is an idiot!”
Nolan leaned back in his chair, unfazed by this outpouring of passion. He made a noise like something had just occurred to him: “Huh.”
House growled. “'Huh'? Is that what they pay you the big bucks to say? What do you mean, 'huh'?”
The psychiatrist gestured with his hand. “This is the first time I’ve seen you invested in the wellbeing of another human being. It’s good.”
“My friend tried to kill himself, and it’s good?”
“Every session we’ve had has been about your misery, your future," Nolan said, "but I think we both know that a big part of your issues is how you relate to other people. I'll be honest with you: I’m relieved to see you show evidence of empathy. It wasn’t sure if you had a tie strong enough for that.”
“I’m not a sociopath!”
“No, but you’ve dedicated your life to truth rather than people. In a way, it’s one of your exceptionalities, but you’ve taken it to the point of being almost inhuman at times. Psychiatrists don’t like to loose inhuman people back into the population as a general rule, especially ones whose livelihoods are based on caring for vulnerable people.”
House snarled, “Are you saying you trust me more because I’m angry with Wilson?”
“It gives me greater confidence in your emotional range, that you love someone enough to feel betrayed when they try to leave you,” Nolan answered.
House’s first instinct was to rail against the very possibility of such an indiscreet and impractical sentiment as love having anything to do with his relationship with Wilson. However, his ire deflated almost as soon as it reached its peak, and he slumped instead. “They won’t let me in his room.”
“Dr. Wilson is being monitored. Doctor Medina believes that his aggressive episode was an attempt to hurt himself for the first time since he tried to take his life. I agree.”
“Hurt himself, or was hurt by those goons with syringes?”
“It’s not a perfect system,” Nolan agreed. “But the structures we have in place are meant to protect everyone, both staff and patients. This is a situation that needs to be handled with care, especially considering the instigating factor.”
House’s temper flared again. “Are you blaming me?”
Nolan spread his hands. “I’m inviting you to talk. Do you want to tell me what happened, House?”
House’s head fell back against Nolan’s chair. He lolled for a moment, chewing over his thoughts. Then the give: “My boss came to see me.”
“I know,” Nolan said. “I approved the visit. I thought it might motivate you to see that your old life was waiting for you.”
A huff, like an exhale burdened with a snort, came out. “Yeah. All the old crap, just hanging out there waiting for me.” He raised an eyebrow, daring Nolan to deny it was so. When he continued, it was to say, “She said she referred him. Told me he was dead on a table. They had to restart his heart.”
“That’s traumatic news. Did James not tell you?”
“Of course not. He’s been lecturing me on mental health for years. I already knew he was a hypocrite, but I would never have believed –” He stopped, swallowed. “He lied to me.”
“So you confronted him?” Nolan asked.
Housed clenched his teeth, but the anger that had sustained him before was gone now. He admitted, “I yelled at him. Set him off. I can do that. Never seen him lose it with anybody else; not Jimmy, the shining persona of patience and light.”
“It sounds as though you resent him,” Nolan suggested.
House looked up sharply. “No, or –” He sought an explanation that made sense. “Sure, for the regular things. He walks, I can’t. He’s adored by all, and I’m not. And he’d definitely win the tiara at the beauty pageant. But…no. I’m smarter, for one thing. Wilson couldn’t beat out a paperclip in linear thinking. And he’s secretly evil. It balances out.”
“From listening to you talk, I’d say you cared about him.”
House hadn’t forgotten the tale he’d told in the beginning, submitting that they’d only been colleagues. He bit his tongue and reused to be lured more than he already had, even if it was clear that Nolan already understood the lie. Still, he felt he had to say something.
“I hate him.”
Nolan had a thousand expression, but most of them were very slight variations of neutral. This one was blatantly sad. With almost offensive gentleness, he said, “House, it's normal to be upset if someone you depend on makes a choice like James did.”
“He’s still here,” House breathed, more to himself than anybody.
“He is, isn’t he?” Nolan answered thoughtfully. It caused a little thrill of panic to run down House’s back. Had he said too much? But, as always, Nolan managed to surprise him. He walked to his desk and withdrew a memo pad. House watched him scrawl his signature under a short note. He held it out to House with all the aplomb of a golden ticket. “Here.”
“What is it?”
“Permission. Go visit Wilson. They should let you in his room. Though I wouldn’t expect any privacy.”
A little of House’s old, easy sarcasm revived slightly. He sneered, “Privacy?”
Nolan gestured. “Go.”
House staggered up from the chair and turned toward the door. He was just reaching for the handle when Nolan spoke again.
“Greg.” He waited until House looked back. “I know part of you is still angry with him, but your friend is sick. If you’ve got it in you – and I think you do – show compassion.”
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Thanks for posting this here. I rarely check ff.net these days, due to lack of decent House/Wilson, so I probably would've missed this.
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