Cause and Effect
TITLE: Cause and Effect
AUTHOR: PWCorgigirl
PAIRING: House/Wilson friendship
RATING: 17 and up for general theme and language.
WARNINGS: Deals with a suicide attempt.
SUMMARY: Wilson was cautious. He was going to be cautious for the rest of House's life.
NOTES: This one got an odd start in life. It was a small piece in the middle of something larger, but I wound up throwing out the larger story and expanding on this bit. Inspired by a lot of things, but mainly House's comment, "In this universe, effect follows cause." Also posted at my journal a few days ago so it could sit and marinate. 90% cliche free! Wilson is unscathed. No take-out is eaten, no pianos are played, and no one cries.
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Cuddy thought they were just wasting time together, like little boys who should be separated in the schoolroom.
“You know, you aren’t making my job any easier,” Cuddy said as she glared at Wilson over the top of her paper-stacked desk.
“Who? Me?” Wilson said. He couldn’t think of what he’d done lately to complicate Cuddy’s life.
“You. Aiding and abetting House in wasting time.”
“Uh, most of the time, we’re talking about a patient,” he said.
“Really?” she said. “That’s a whole lot of patients. The consult billing alone will keep us in the black.” Her sarcasm could easily match House’s, but Wilson had years of practice at letting it slide off him.
“Honest,” Wilson said, and gave her his best heart-melting crooked grin.
Cuddy was all about cause and effect, but sometimes one was so far separated from the other that the connection couldn’t be seen. And Wilson wasn’t about to point it out to her.
-- Then --
Wilson was winding up his workday when his phone rang. He picked it up and heard nothing. “Hello?” he repeated.
“I need some help,” House said. His words were slightly slurred. “Little accident in the kitchen. May need a few stitches.” He hung up before Wilson could say a word.
He used the key House had given him, and entered the dark apartment. The living room was unoccupied. The couch held a tangle of blankets and pillows. Since the infarction, House camped out there each day. Books were stacked on the floor, and the TV was off.
Wilson found House sprawled in the kitchen floor, his crutches out of reach and a bloody dishtowel wrapped around his right wrist. Blood was splattered on the floor and down the front of the white porcelain sink, and House’s pajamas were soaked through where his hand lay in his lap.
“What happened?” Wilson asked as he squatted down next to House.
“It was an accident. I broke a glass, cut myself,” House said. Wilson pulled him upright enough to prop his shoulders against the lower cabinet. Their faces were almost touching, and Wilson could smell bourbon on his breath.
“Let me see,” Wilson said, and peeled back the cloth. The gash was deep, and it extended up his wrist an inch into the palm of his hand. It was still steadily oozing blood, but nothing was spurting.
“It’s because of the Coumadin,” House said. For someone sitting in a puddle of his own blood, he seemed remarkably calm. “Can’t get it to clot. Huh. Wish I’d been on it a month ago, you know?”
Wilson fished a clean towel from a drawer and wrapped it around House’s wrist. He gripped it tightly to help stop the bleeding.
“If it doesn’t stop, I’m not going to be able to deal with it here,” Wilson said. He also wasn’t sure he could get House up from the floor by himself. As skinny as House had become during his illness, he was still a big man, and in no shape to offer much help.
Wilson glanced up at the clock over the sink. It was getting late in the day.
“Where’s Stacy?”
“Work,” House said. His expression had become owlish and his voice was more slurred. “It’s what she does to avoid me.”
Too calm, Wilson thought. Lately House never talked about Stacy without barely suppressed anger. He was pale, but he hadn’t lost enough blood to be shocky. House’s eyes closed and his head lolled. Wilson steadied House’s head and lifted his eyelid. The pupil was small, but not yet pinpoint.
Alarm bells began going off in Wilson’s head.
“House, how many pills did you take?”
Wilson got no answer. He didn’t waste time trying to rouse House, but quickly frisked the pockets of his ratty bathrobe and brought up a mostly empty, blood-smeared prescription bottle. Wilson thumbed the blood off the label. Thirty-six Vicodin tablets, filled the previous morning.
He poured what remained into his hand. Only four were left. House could have taken as many as twenty at one go. Wilson grabbed the kitchen phone and dialed 911.
-- Effect --
That evening, while House was getting his stomach pumped and his wrist sewn up, Wilson was telling a great many lies.
He’d lied as glibly as a con man to the Princeton General ER physician treating House. By the time he’d finished spinning his tale, he’d gained House as a brother-in-law and House had a new career as a piano teacher. His infarction had been transformed into the aftermath of a hit-and-run accident.
“He hasn’t worked since the accident, so there’s no insurance,” Wilson said. He signed that he would be responsible for paying the bill.
“Has he had any depression since his accident?” The ER doctor’s name was M. Kruzak, and he looked about fifteen years old. Wilson hoped he hadn’t been on the job long enough to develop his bullshit detection skills.
“No,” Wilson said, not even blinking as he lied again. “But he’s been in a lot of pain. We think he just made a mistake with the medicine.”
“Well, you got him here fast enough that he didn’t absorb a lot of the drug,” Dr. Kruzak said. “We’ll put him in a room and monitor him. If he continues to do well, he can go home tomorrow afternoon.”
Back at the apartment, just after sunrise, Wilson carefully searched the kitchen until he found what he hadn’t seen the night before. The bloody razor blade was out of sight behind the raised faucet set on the sink.
The dishtowel he’d peeled off House’s wrist was still on the floor. Wilson picked it up and caught his breath at the coppery, organic stench of the crusty blood. Had it been that of a patient, he wouldn’t have thought about the smell. But this was different.
Wilson picked the shards of glass out of the sink, mopped up the blood and threw the mop head and the dishtowel away. He looked down at his shirt. There were large splotches of House’s dried blood on the front. He unfastened the first couple of buttons and ripped the shirt off over his head.
House’s shower had a transfer bench in it, a new addition for a man who couldn’t yet shower standing up. Wilson sat under the spray of hot water, his own legs trembling with fatigue and delayed shock.
They’d all just about moved heaven and earth to keep House alive, and he’d tried to throw it all away.
Damn you, House, Wilson thought. He ran his fingers through his wet hair and gripped it until his scalp burned, simply because he couldn’t strangle House.
-- Cause --
Once he’d showered and dressed, Wilson headed back to Princeton General. He’d stopped for coffee on his way and brought an extra cup for House, who was awake and staring at the muted television set in his room.
“Thanks,” House croaked. His throat was raw from the lavage tube. He fumbled with the lid on the cup until Wilson reached over and pulled it off for him.
“I heard you last night,” House said. His throat felt better after the first few sips. “The devil’s going to get you for lying.”
“Looked like he was going to get you first,” Wilson said tersely. He was tired and angry and he was wearing one of House’s dress shirts to replace his own. When he’d opened the closet to get the shirt, he’d seen that most of Stacy’s clothes were gone.
It had all made sense then. She’d finally had enough. House had driven her away and turned on himself.
House looked up from the cup. His normally expressive face was blank. Wilson knew that “ignore it and it will go away” expression well.
“This is not going to happen again,” Wilson said firmly. “Don’t pretend it was an accident. There was no blood on the broken glass, and I found the razor blade.”
House put down the cup and massaged his throat with his good hand.
“Are we talking about the failure or the attempt?” he rasped.
“Don’t play games with words,” Wilson said. “You know what I mean.”
Wilson was out of the chair, pacing. House’s shirt was too large for him, and it bunched up at the waist of yesterday’s trousers.
Of all of the “oh, shit” feelings House had been having since he’d awakened, seeing Wilson in that too-big shirt was the worst. There was no way Wilson had overlooked the missing clothes. Yet more evidence of the fucked-up state of his life.
House took another sip of coffee and squeezed his eyes shut. His head ached, his throat burned and his leg was bitching loudly. The best way to avoid a conversation he really didn’t want to have was to start a different one.
“Why did you lie last night?” he asked.
“Uh, well, for . . . for starters, you’re already in trouble with administration,” Wilson said. “All Adderton needs is evidence of mental instability.”
“I’m glad you care so much about my job,” House said. He no longer cared. It was just another thing to watch slip down the drain.
“One . . . one of us should care about it,” Wilson said. “The only reason you haven’t already been canned is legal told him it looks very bad to fire staff on sick leave.”
House knew Wilson stuttered only when he was upset. Twice in four sentences meant he was extremely upset.
A rap at the door cut off their conversation. A new doctor, one assigned to House’s case since the previous night, came in to discuss House’s test results. He gave House a vastly oversimplified interpretation of the ramifications his near-overdose had for his liver and kidneys.
Wilson, standing against the wall with his hands balled up in his trouser pockets, glared at House over the doctor’s shoulder. For once, keep your mouth shut, he thought.
For once, House did. He only nodded as he got a talking-to about being more careful with pain medication.
“You need to stay with your family for a few days,” the doctor said. He glanced at Wilson. “That okay with you?”
“Sure thing,” Wilson said. He wondered how his acting was holding up. He hadn’t lied this much since his second marriage had begun crumbling. He always reached the point where he simply couldn’t lie any more and told the truth.
He functioned best being truthful. He was always truthful with his oncology patients, but found it went down better with kindness. Over the years, a few of them, unable to face the pain when all the options ran out, had taken their lives. It grieved him when it happened, but he understood.
House wasn’t about to die; he simply didn’t want to live as he was now. For House, it had been an all or nothing at all proposition. Either he lived and walked normally, or he went to sleep and died.
It was infuriatingly selfish, and Wilson knew House was being polite and receptive with the doctor only so he could get out of the hospital as fast as possible.
And then what will you do, Wilson thought as he watched House. What will I do?
When they were alone again, he and House looked at each other without speaking. House glanced away and rubbed his forehead.
“House,” Wilson said.
He looked up. Wilson was still leaning against the wall, looking as if he was holding up the wall instead of the other way around.
“Did you really mean it?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” House said and cleared his throat. It felt as if he’d been gargling crushed glass. “You haven’t asked the main question, so I guess you’ve figured it out.”
“I think so. Stacy’s gone, isn’t she?”
“Pretty much,” House said tiredly. “One more suitcase ought to do it.”
He looked down and slightly flexed his right hand. The line of stitches under the gauze stung a little. There were sixteen visible ones, tiny and black, put in by a quiet, precise Asian woman resident who promised he’d have virtually no scar.
“Everyone will think you have a very long lifeline,” she said, smiling as she bent her head over her work. When he’d flinched, she’d offered him more anesthetic.
It had seemed like a good idea, the best idea he’d had in a while. He’d run through everything he could think of to feel better, so what was a little more pain? Wash the pills down with the bourbon, drop the glass in the sink, lean the crutches against the counter, and use the razor blade on his dominant hand first. No way he’d have enough strength and coordination to finish the job with a gashed left wrist.
It was doped-up logic, and it hadn’t worked. It was too hard trying to hold himself up on his elbows while he did it. His leg betrayed him again, and he’d panicked when he fell. The fall had done it, even more than the gush of blood over his hand. It had broken through the landslide of emotions crushing him.
He’d called Wilson. It was only after, while he was waiting, that he wondered why he’d kept his cell phone in his robe pocket, as if some part of his mind knew all along that he’d need an escape route.
“You could have told me it was this bad,” Wilson said.
House wouldn’t look at him. He kept his eyes down, and ran one fingertip around the rim of his coffee cup.
“Don’t do this again,” Wilson said softly, stopping just short of pleading.
“I can’t promise that,” House said. It was the truth: He didn’t know what he’d do if the darkness ever came on him like that again.
Wilson nodded, a short, curt jerk. “Okay. Be a jackass. I’m going to check you out of here.”
House watched the door close. He wondered when it would occur to Wilson that, before it could have ended, he’d called him.
-- Prognosis --
Under doctor’s orders, House spent the next few days at Wilson’s house, installed in the guest bedroom with the adjoining bathroom and not enough TV channels.
It was another halfway point: not his home and yet not in the hospital. Or the morgue, he thought ruefully. Now that was the ultimate in terminal destinations.
House stared at one bad movie after another, the images passing over his retinas without ever reaching his brain. His brain was otherwise engaged in diagnosing a case: his own.
He was a textbook example of an unsatisfactory outcome. He’d tried narcotics, bourbon, the razor, and large doses of being a complete bastard, but nothing had improved. Having fought himself to a stalemate, he decided to cede the field to time. Old medical school professors liked to point out the medicinal value of time, but House was always too impatient for that.
Not anymore, he decided. For once, for himself, he decided to take all the time he needed.
While he was contemplating the long view, Wilson was hovering. He called every few hours to check in, and House hated the slight hitch his heart gave when the phone rang. He wished he could apologize to Wilson, but to do so would be so uncharacteristic that Wilson might break out the straitjacket.
They’d been moving warily around the subject for days. Wilson knew that head-on confrontations got nowhere with House. So he watched and listened, waiting for House to give him an opening, for some sign that the exhausted, silent man in his guest room was going to come back to life.
“I’m fine,” House said after the third call on the fourth day. “This is getting annoying.”
“Too bad. You don’t make me worry and I won’t annoy you.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” House said. “You use an electric razor, don’t keep enough liquor in the house to treat snakebite, much less drink myself to death with, and Sarah took all the cutlery.”
“Snakebite? Let me guess, you’ve been watching John Wayne movies again.”
“Nothing else to do, except die of boredom before you upgrade the cable service,” House grumbled.
“That’s a doubtful possibility,” Wilson said. That House was growling was a good sign, but he was still cautious. He’d be cautious for the rest of House’s life.
“What are the possibilities for dinner? I’m starving,” House said.
Wilson smiled. He hadn’t heard House complain about being hungry in weeks.
“You never ask me to cook, but I can make a decent lasagna,” Wilson said. “And there’s stuff for a salad in the fridge.”
‘With garlic bread?” House asked, his tone hopeful, and Wilson had to laugh.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll be home by six.”
“All right, but you’d better bring some forks and knives.”
It wasn’t the promise Wilson wanted, but it would have to do.
-- Now --
Cuddy steepled her fingers in front of her and sighed. When he wanted to be, Wilson was as stubborn as House, though he was worlds more charming.
“You’re the responsible one,” she said in exasperation. “Could you at least try to keep him in line?”
“I’m always trying,” Wilson said. His sunny, open smile was irritating her.
“You’re not the least bit serious, are you?” she said. “Why did I ask? No one can get House to change, and, if anything, I think he’s starting to corrupt you.”
Wilson walked back toward his office, humming under his breath, and veered off to glance in at House. For nearly six years, he’d made little adjustments to his routine that brought him this way. It had become second nature to him.
House was working, writing furiously on the whiteboard while the team talked. Foreman was gesturing, pointing with one hand. Chase was slouched in his chair, and Cameron was leaning forward, elbows on her knees as she followed the discussion.
All of them had their backs turned, and Wilson watched for a second until, satisfied with what he saw, he walked on.
He was still smiling.
-- The End --
AUTHOR: PWCorgigirl
PAIRING: House/Wilson friendship
RATING: 17 and up for general theme and language.
WARNINGS: Deals with a suicide attempt.
SUMMARY: Wilson was cautious. He was going to be cautious for the rest of House's life.
NOTES: This one got an odd start in life. It was a small piece in the middle of something larger, but I wound up throwing out the larger story and expanding on this bit. Inspired by a lot of things, but mainly House's comment, "In this universe, effect follows cause." Also posted at my journal a few days ago so it could sit and marinate. 90% cliche free! Wilson is unscathed. No take-out is eaten, no pianos are played, and no one cries.
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Cuddy thought they were just wasting time together, like little boys who should be separated in the schoolroom.
“You know, you aren’t making my job any easier,” Cuddy said as she glared at Wilson over the top of her paper-stacked desk.
“Who? Me?” Wilson said. He couldn’t think of what he’d done lately to complicate Cuddy’s life.
“You. Aiding and abetting House in wasting time.”
“Uh, most of the time, we’re talking about a patient,” he said.
“Really?” she said. “That’s a whole lot of patients. The consult billing alone will keep us in the black.” Her sarcasm could easily match House’s, but Wilson had years of practice at letting it slide off him.
“Honest,” Wilson said, and gave her his best heart-melting crooked grin.
Cuddy was all about cause and effect, but sometimes one was so far separated from the other that the connection couldn’t be seen. And Wilson wasn’t about to point it out to her.
-- Then --
Wilson was winding up his workday when his phone rang. He picked it up and heard nothing. “Hello?” he repeated.
“I need some help,” House said. His words were slightly slurred. “Little accident in the kitchen. May need a few stitches.” He hung up before Wilson could say a word.
He used the key House had given him, and entered the dark apartment. The living room was unoccupied. The couch held a tangle of blankets and pillows. Since the infarction, House camped out there each day. Books were stacked on the floor, and the TV was off.
Wilson found House sprawled in the kitchen floor, his crutches out of reach and a bloody dishtowel wrapped around his right wrist. Blood was splattered on the floor and down the front of the white porcelain sink, and House’s pajamas were soaked through where his hand lay in his lap.
“What happened?” Wilson asked as he squatted down next to House.
“It was an accident. I broke a glass, cut myself,” House said. Wilson pulled him upright enough to prop his shoulders against the lower cabinet. Their faces were almost touching, and Wilson could smell bourbon on his breath.
“Let me see,” Wilson said, and peeled back the cloth. The gash was deep, and it extended up his wrist an inch into the palm of his hand. It was still steadily oozing blood, but nothing was spurting.
“It’s because of the Coumadin,” House said. For someone sitting in a puddle of his own blood, he seemed remarkably calm. “Can’t get it to clot. Huh. Wish I’d been on it a month ago, you know?”
Wilson fished a clean towel from a drawer and wrapped it around House’s wrist. He gripped it tightly to help stop the bleeding.
“If it doesn’t stop, I’m not going to be able to deal with it here,” Wilson said. He also wasn’t sure he could get House up from the floor by himself. As skinny as House had become during his illness, he was still a big man, and in no shape to offer much help.
Wilson glanced up at the clock over the sink. It was getting late in the day.
“Where’s Stacy?”
“Work,” House said. His expression had become owlish and his voice was more slurred. “It’s what she does to avoid me.”
Too calm, Wilson thought. Lately House never talked about Stacy without barely suppressed anger. He was pale, but he hadn’t lost enough blood to be shocky. House’s eyes closed and his head lolled. Wilson steadied House’s head and lifted his eyelid. The pupil was small, but not yet pinpoint.
Alarm bells began going off in Wilson’s head.
“House, how many pills did you take?”
Wilson got no answer. He didn’t waste time trying to rouse House, but quickly frisked the pockets of his ratty bathrobe and brought up a mostly empty, blood-smeared prescription bottle. Wilson thumbed the blood off the label. Thirty-six Vicodin tablets, filled the previous morning.
He poured what remained into his hand. Only four were left. House could have taken as many as twenty at one go. Wilson grabbed the kitchen phone and dialed 911.
-- Effect --
That evening, while House was getting his stomach pumped and his wrist sewn up, Wilson was telling a great many lies.
He’d lied as glibly as a con man to the Princeton General ER physician treating House. By the time he’d finished spinning his tale, he’d gained House as a brother-in-law and House had a new career as a piano teacher. His infarction had been transformed into the aftermath of a hit-and-run accident.
“He hasn’t worked since the accident, so there’s no insurance,” Wilson said. He signed that he would be responsible for paying the bill.
“Has he had any depression since his accident?” The ER doctor’s name was M. Kruzak, and he looked about fifteen years old. Wilson hoped he hadn’t been on the job long enough to develop his bullshit detection skills.
“No,” Wilson said, not even blinking as he lied again. “But he’s been in a lot of pain. We think he just made a mistake with the medicine.”
“Well, you got him here fast enough that he didn’t absorb a lot of the drug,” Dr. Kruzak said. “We’ll put him in a room and monitor him. If he continues to do well, he can go home tomorrow afternoon.”
Back at the apartment, just after sunrise, Wilson carefully searched the kitchen until he found what he hadn’t seen the night before. The bloody razor blade was out of sight behind the raised faucet set on the sink.
The dishtowel he’d peeled off House’s wrist was still on the floor. Wilson picked it up and caught his breath at the coppery, organic stench of the crusty blood. Had it been that of a patient, he wouldn’t have thought about the smell. But this was different.
Wilson picked the shards of glass out of the sink, mopped up the blood and threw the mop head and the dishtowel away. He looked down at his shirt. There were large splotches of House’s dried blood on the front. He unfastened the first couple of buttons and ripped the shirt off over his head.
House’s shower had a transfer bench in it, a new addition for a man who couldn’t yet shower standing up. Wilson sat under the spray of hot water, his own legs trembling with fatigue and delayed shock.
They’d all just about moved heaven and earth to keep House alive, and he’d tried to throw it all away.
Damn you, House, Wilson thought. He ran his fingers through his wet hair and gripped it until his scalp burned, simply because he couldn’t strangle House.
-- Cause --
Once he’d showered and dressed, Wilson headed back to Princeton General. He’d stopped for coffee on his way and brought an extra cup for House, who was awake and staring at the muted television set in his room.
“Thanks,” House croaked. His throat was raw from the lavage tube. He fumbled with the lid on the cup until Wilson reached over and pulled it off for him.
“I heard you last night,” House said. His throat felt better after the first few sips. “The devil’s going to get you for lying.”
“Looked like he was going to get you first,” Wilson said tersely. He was tired and angry and he was wearing one of House’s dress shirts to replace his own. When he’d opened the closet to get the shirt, he’d seen that most of Stacy’s clothes were gone.
It had all made sense then. She’d finally had enough. House had driven her away and turned on himself.
House looked up from the cup. His normally expressive face was blank. Wilson knew that “ignore it and it will go away” expression well.
“This is not going to happen again,” Wilson said firmly. “Don’t pretend it was an accident. There was no blood on the broken glass, and I found the razor blade.”
House put down the cup and massaged his throat with his good hand.
“Are we talking about the failure or the attempt?” he rasped.
“Don’t play games with words,” Wilson said. “You know what I mean.”
Wilson was out of the chair, pacing. House’s shirt was too large for him, and it bunched up at the waist of yesterday’s trousers.
Of all of the “oh, shit” feelings House had been having since he’d awakened, seeing Wilson in that too-big shirt was the worst. There was no way Wilson had overlooked the missing clothes. Yet more evidence of the fucked-up state of his life.
House took another sip of coffee and squeezed his eyes shut. His head ached, his throat burned and his leg was bitching loudly. The best way to avoid a conversation he really didn’t want to have was to start a different one.
“Why did you lie last night?” he asked.
“Uh, well, for . . . for starters, you’re already in trouble with administration,” Wilson said. “All Adderton needs is evidence of mental instability.”
“I’m glad you care so much about my job,” House said. He no longer cared. It was just another thing to watch slip down the drain.
“One . . . one of us should care about it,” Wilson said. “The only reason you haven’t already been canned is legal told him it looks very bad to fire staff on sick leave.”
House knew Wilson stuttered only when he was upset. Twice in four sentences meant he was extremely upset.
A rap at the door cut off their conversation. A new doctor, one assigned to House’s case since the previous night, came in to discuss House’s test results. He gave House a vastly oversimplified interpretation of the ramifications his near-overdose had for his liver and kidneys.
Wilson, standing against the wall with his hands balled up in his trouser pockets, glared at House over the doctor’s shoulder. For once, keep your mouth shut, he thought.
For once, House did. He only nodded as he got a talking-to about being more careful with pain medication.
“You need to stay with your family for a few days,” the doctor said. He glanced at Wilson. “That okay with you?”
“Sure thing,” Wilson said. He wondered how his acting was holding up. He hadn’t lied this much since his second marriage had begun crumbling. He always reached the point where he simply couldn’t lie any more and told the truth.
He functioned best being truthful. He was always truthful with his oncology patients, but found it went down better with kindness. Over the years, a few of them, unable to face the pain when all the options ran out, had taken their lives. It grieved him when it happened, but he understood.
House wasn’t about to die; he simply didn’t want to live as he was now. For House, it had been an all or nothing at all proposition. Either he lived and walked normally, or he went to sleep and died.
It was infuriatingly selfish, and Wilson knew House was being polite and receptive with the doctor only so he could get out of the hospital as fast as possible.
And then what will you do, Wilson thought as he watched House. What will I do?
When they were alone again, he and House looked at each other without speaking. House glanced away and rubbed his forehead.
“House,” Wilson said.
He looked up. Wilson was still leaning against the wall, looking as if he was holding up the wall instead of the other way around.
“Did you really mean it?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” House said and cleared his throat. It felt as if he’d been gargling crushed glass. “You haven’t asked the main question, so I guess you’ve figured it out.”
“I think so. Stacy’s gone, isn’t she?”
“Pretty much,” House said tiredly. “One more suitcase ought to do it.”
He looked down and slightly flexed his right hand. The line of stitches under the gauze stung a little. There were sixteen visible ones, tiny and black, put in by a quiet, precise Asian woman resident who promised he’d have virtually no scar.
“Everyone will think you have a very long lifeline,” she said, smiling as she bent her head over her work. When he’d flinched, she’d offered him more anesthetic.
It had seemed like a good idea, the best idea he’d had in a while. He’d run through everything he could think of to feel better, so what was a little more pain? Wash the pills down with the bourbon, drop the glass in the sink, lean the crutches against the counter, and use the razor blade on his dominant hand first. No way he’d have enough strength and coordination to finish the job with a gashed left wrist.
It was doped-up logic, and it hadn’t worked. It was too hard trying to hold himself up on his elbows while he did it. His leg betrayed him again, and he’d panicked when he fell. The fall had done it, even more than the gush of blood over his hand. It had broken through the landslide of emotions crushing him.
He’d called Wilson. It was only after, while he was waiting, that he wondered why he’d kept his cell phone in his robe pocket, as if some part of his mind knew all along that he’d need an escape route.
“You could have told me it was this bad,” Wilson said.
House wouldn’t look at him. He kept his eyes down, and ran one fingertip around the rim of his coffee cup.
“Don’t do this again,” Wilson said softly, stopping just short of pleading.
“I can’t promise that,” House said. It was the truth: He didn’t know what he’d do if the darkness ever came on him like that again.
Wilson nodded, a short, curt jerk. “Okay. Be a jackass. I’m going to check you out of here.”
House watched the door close. He wondered when it would occur to Wilson that, before it could have ended, he’d called him.
-- Prognosis --
Under doctor’s orders, House spent the next few days at Wilson’s house, installed in the guest bedroom with the adjoining bathroom and not enough TV channels.
It was another halfway point: not his home and yet not in the hospital. Or the morgue, he thought ruefully. Now that was the ultimate in terminal destinations.
House stared at one bad movie after another, the images passing over his retinas without ever reaching his brain. His brain was otherwise engaged in diagnosing a case: his own.
He was a textbook example of an unsatisfactory outcome. He’d tried narcotics, bourbon, the razor, and large doses of being a complete bastard, but nothing had improved. Having fought himself to a stalemate, he decided to cede the field to time. Old medical school professors liked to point out the medicinal value of time, but House was always too impatient for that.
Not anymore, he decided. For once, for himself, he decided to take all the time he needed.
While he was contemplating the long view, Wilson was hovering. He called every few hours to check in, and House hated the slight hitch his heart gave when the phone rang. He wished he could apologize to Wilson, but to do so would be so uncharacteristic that Wilson might break out the straitjacket.
They’d been moving warily around the subject for days. Wilson knew that head-on confrontations got nowhere with House. So he watched and listened, waiting for House to give him an opening, for some sign that the exhausted, silent man in his guest room was going to come back to life.
“I’m fine,” House said after the third call on the fourth day. “This is getting annoying.”
“Too bad. You don’t make me worry and I won’t annoy you.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” House said. “You use an electric razor, don’t keep enough liquor in the house to treat snakebite, much less drink myself to death with, and Sarah took all the cutlery.”
“Snakebite? Let me guess, you’ve been watching John Wayne movies again.”
“Nothing else to do, except die of boredom before you upgrade the cable service,” House grumbled.
“That’s a doubtful possibility,” Wilson said. That House was growling was a good sign, but he was still cautious. He’d be cautious for the rest of House’s life.
“What are the possibilities for dinner? I’m starving,” House said.
Wilson smiled. He hadn’t heard House complain about being hungry in weeks.
“You never ask me to cook, but I can make a decent lasagna,” Wilson said. “And there’s stuff for a salad in the fridge.”
‘With garlic bread?” House asked, his tone hopeful, and Wilson had to laugh.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll be home by six.”
“All right, but you’d better bring some forks and knives.”
It wasn’t the promise Wilson wanted, but it would have to do.
-- Now --
Cuddy steepled her fingers in front of her and sighed. When he wanted to be, Wilson was as stubborn as House, though he was worlds more charming.
“You’re the responsible one,” she said in exasperation. “Could you at least try to keep him in line?”
“I’m always trying,” Wilson said. His sunny, open smile was irritating her.
“You’re not the least bit serious, are you?” she said. “Why did I ask? No one can get House to change, and, if anything, I think he’s starting to corrupt you.”
Wilson walked back toward his office, humming under his breath, and veered off to glance in at House. For nearly six years, he’d made little adjustments to his routine that brought him this way. It had become second nature to him.
House was working, writing furiously on the whiteboard while the team talked. Foreman was gesturing, pointing with one hand. Chase was slouched in his chair, and Cameron was leaning forward, elbows on her knees as she followed the discussion.
All of them had their backs turned, and Wilson watched for a second until, satisfied with what he saw, he walked on.
He was still smiling.
-- The End --