Story: "A Beach To Walk On"
Summary: House on a tropical island, post episode 7 x 23
Rating: R
Warnings: Substance abuse and possible death of main character
Acknowledgement & thanks: for encouragement by damigella_314 & M.E.W. for the beta.
A Beach To Walk On
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House meandered down the hard packed stretch of sand between the elements, a little bit tipsy (at least that's what he would call it if asked) and in a good mood. He enjoyed the salty breeze in his face and the tepid water that caught his naked feet every few steps, and like almost every morning, the beach, stretching out in a soft concave arc before him, was deserted but for birds and sea creatures lumbering around the edge of the water-just like him. He was lucky to have come here this early in the year, off-season, having the beach west of town and hotels almost to himself.
Also there was the simple equation of no beach bars = no sunbathers. Normally House wouldn't go too far away from the next bar himself, but the secret lay in having the bar moving with you. The first day or days he had been here, he hadn't been privy to that secret yet and had sat moping in the sand, remembering what he didn't want to remember, his brain in constant re-loop of what had happened and all the following whys and hows and what nows and emotions he didn't want to feel. He had stopped that circus and now he was good here; his thoughts were simple critters, transient schemes, and his wants were simple. He was just there, in an elementary way, part of the never silent surf that was almost like a heartbeat, but never predictable. This wave breaking two seconds too early and that three seconds too late: it was incalculable and addicting, something he could watch and listen to all his waking hours (which were not that many, admittedly) and it never got old. The only thing rushing by was the sun, it was hastened along its arched path in the cerulean sky at sometimes dizzying speed; House had seen it jump quite impressing distances between closing his eyes for a lazy, longer blink and opening them again.
It was a good life with no cares, no past, no tomorrow, all courtesy of the right amount of his little helpers.
Smiling, House viewed his own shadow stretched before him on the wet sand, an elongated three limbed mythical creature. A wave came in and crawled craftily under the shadow as if to hide, or to crawl under his hide, hesitating there for a moment as if it waited for him to say something, then loudly leaving with a hissy fit of exasperation when he stayed quiet. It reminded him of Wilson, all that was missing was the wounded look he would give him but that was of course hard to do if you were made of water and air bubbles. Jackass, Wilson said. The next wave was larger and reached up to House's ankle, feeling like a hand trying to grab it, leaving with a lingering caress of regret before melting into the ocean again. House gave a yelp and jumped back from the surf belatedly, angering his still not fully healed leg with the move, but his concentration was on the sudden feelings of loss and longing in his heart and the resulting wave of panic, as he realized he had been outside for hours now and had allowed to run his levels low.
He sat down heavily into the first inch of dry sand, grunting when his leg protested again with a not so far away growl. He fumbled with his backpack and upended it, it's contents jumbling out with a cacophony of banged together glass, metal and plastic. He picked the pill bottle out of the heap and fumbled it open, swallowing four of the long, white pills with haste, washing them down with a swing out the whiskey bottle.
With closed eyes he waited in quiet desperation for the pills to travel down into his duodenum and start working, finally numbing that silly thing in his chest-and that leg, too, but it was not as important. Instead a surge of nausea pushed up inside him, jack-knifing his body, and delivering the contents of his stomach right back to daylight. Dry heaving, House fell to his side, all energy leaving him like a drowned nuclear plant. His insides, directly under his right lower ribs, were pulsing with dull pain and he pressed his hand down on it, swearing under his breath, cursing his traitorous, failing body. And then laughing at himself for doing so, still forgetting sometimes that it did not matter anymore.
He picked the pills out of the whiskey and bile soaked sand and held them securely in is white-knuckled fist. To try again would probably produce the same result as before, perhaps eating something first... His swollen eyes swayed to the other stuff he had upended onto the sand. On top a Granola bar, a package of tissues, keys, lighter, a few separately packed cookies pilfered from a bar, a spoon, a dented metal box, a small, battered manga action figure he had found on his first day on the island. And...
His fingers itched to grab the clear zip bag and its little foil wrapped contents. Don't, Wilson said, repeating what he'd said since the kid who sold him the booze from under the counter, had turned out to be helpful when it came to other purchases, too. At first he'd bought it only as a kind of reassurance, a way to stretch his limited Vicodin supply. At first he had used it to be able to sleep. Then he found it made him forget why he was here at all, and made the pain in his chest stop, and it made the voices stop-and that was he wanted the most, didn't he?
But he was sober enough now to realize it was a bad idea to take it here out in the open, lying in vomit soaked sand on a sun roasted beach. If a sunstroke didn't get him first, someone would find him and call the police to cart the beach bum away. Therefore, a very bad idea.
House heaved himself up on shaking arms and stuffed his belongings back into his rucksack. Climbing onto his feet was a struggle, but he managed with the sheer power of shoulder muscles and a cane that chose to be steady for once. For a moment he remained standing bent over, breathing hard, his other hand still on his throbbing liver. When it went away, as it always did after a while, he painstakingly made his way back to the dingy boarding house that was his "home" now.
It took a few days until he felt well enough again to walk back to his beach. He was still stiff and felt like an old man tottering along-or maybe it was the result of the morning drinks he had with his Vicodin, but who was counting. Especially if that combination made him feel good again and painted the content smile back on his lips while he was looking over the azure sea and the almost cloudless sky above which could have been picture perfect but for the contrails.
Then he saw them. On his beach.
He came up to two whispering and giggling teenagers who were puttering around in the sand, doing whatever. They stood up now and were looking down on whatever they had done and the girl announced with triumph, "Haley loves Willy!" and reached over to kiss her boyfriend with a loud smack. Oh, goodness, I'll get sick, House thought, irritated by these lovey doveys, his stomach heaving once in obedience, leaving a sore taste of bile mixed with alcohol in his mouth.
House made a long neck to see what they were gawking at and saw a five feet wide heart shape made of seashells. The inside proclaiming H + W. House grimaced and made exasperated gagging noises behind the youngster's backs, sick in mind of the kitschy sap-dripping hormonal display. The boy, the alleged Willy, but maybe he was Haley, looked over his shoulder and scowled at him darkly, his eyes clearly saying that he didn't like what he was seeing. House returned the look tit for tat, watching with satisfaction as the boy's pose turned to unease. He took his girlfriend by the hand and tucked her away and in the next moment they were running giggling down the shore.
House smirked after them, feeling content with having chased the intruders away. He sat down his heavy backpack and took a generous swing off the bottle he was carrying in his hand. Lazily his gaze drifted down again to the seashell message. "Haley loves Willy," he sing-sanged in Bugs Bunny imitation. "Hermione loves Walter, Horace loves Wilma, House loves Wilson, Herbert loves Wanda, or perhaps he loved her bra, ha ha, they're all sitting on a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n...." House blinked. The H + W stared back at him. Had he really just sung that? "Oh,oh,oh," he grunted, his grin dying away. House loves Wilson? Wilson loves House, yeah, the sap loved everybody and a cat. But House loves Wilson? No, no, House loved...Cud...her. Or had wanted to, badly. Needed to, desperately. Needed her to make him normal, with a life his father would have approved of and a partner his father would have approved of-everything to make the voice of Colonel House in his mind stop that called him a disappointing failure and fouler things. He had tried so hard for the illusion to work, but then she had taken the love away. Because he was indeed a disappointing failure. He was left behind with a hurt in his heart so bruising, he could not even cry. And his father was laughing.
But it was alright, he didn't love her anymore, either. He never did anyway. No, sir. She was just there when he needed someone to save him. Right time, right place, wrong person. Or the other way around. Or crosswise. He stopped that train of thought as it kept confusing him. Anyway. Story of his life. Being the wrong person to the right person. Being wrong to any person at any time, being the freak he was. Genius, Wilson's voice whispered. Freak with too small a heart. No, you aren't. Freak with authority issues. My hero. Freak who tried to kill his ex-girlfriend. Wilson said nothing.
House sat down in the sand, leaning his head against his cane while he slightly rocked himself, starring at the shell heart. H + W stared back with a chalky smirk. House loves Wilson. The words took root in his brain, the wheels turned sluggishly, greased with alcoholic tar, and the more he thought, the more his heart began to beat in his ears, louder with each squeeze of that dumb muscle, beating against his sternum as if pounding against a prison door. I do love Wilson, House realized after a while of soul searching. I love him, I hoped he would come and save me that night after the crane collapse. After all, he had always saved me before.
Twelve years ago, when he would've just laid down and let himself die, Wilson had held on to him with more strength he had ever given him credit to, had given a condemned man a little extension to the inevitable end. Had saved him from that narcotics cop, saved him from a thousand dumb stunts he had been pulling and had taken him in when nobody else would have him. And House had given back sneer and insult. Oh, House, Wilson's sad voice whispered. And lately...House had seen the desolate eyes Wilson had turned to him when he wouldn't speak with him about anything but Cuddy. House just hadn't cared since he was a freak who was throwing his obsessive love at the wrong person and tortured the right person gleefully with it, tortured his best friend for not being what House needed to be and to do: normal and to please his father. Punishing Wilson for not being a woman when he really wanted him as a man. Even now he could hear his father say his usual lament of f-starting words, adding a new one at the end.
House looked around in panic, needing something, looking for someone, anything that made these emotions go away. Nothing but the empty post card idyll all around him that held no answers, had no function but being an escape from reality. His shaking fingers fumbled with the flap of his backpack and closed around the familiar pill bottle (his last one, already half-empty) his other hand gripping the whiskey bottle like it was the neck of his father.
Obviously, he was not drunk enough jet to make the voices and thoughts go away, and somehow it got harder each day to silence them. He was well aware the Vicodin was producing the voices-a new flavor and he hadn't decided yet if was better or worse, as the last time he had seen people and not just heard them. But the Vicodin was supposed to make his pain go away, and right along with it his emotions and feelings but somehow it didn't work anymore either. Both, alcohol and his trusty pills, were failing him. Absentmindedly, he rubbed at the marks in his inner elbow, scratching the edges of the itchy band aid covering the newest addition. Maybe he should go home and use his other little helper to sleep and make the feelings and voices go away for awhile. Please, don't, Wilson said. "Shut up!" House cried hoarsely. "Just shut up," he repeated in a half sob, his hands cradling his throbbing head that indicated quite gleefully that he was sobering up fast. Well, at least he could change that. House looked down at the whiskey bottle he was still holding in a death-grip and eased his fingers a little, feeling the blood return into his white fingertips.
He swallowed a big mouthful of the amber fluid, feeling it burning down his throat. But it did not stop the rate in which his mind produced thoughts, they kept just running on, not caring for their owner's despair. All too often his father had declared his son a failure who would come to a miserable, lonely end someday. Seemed his father had been right, and someday had come early. Or late, depending on the point of view. House was a fugitive with no way back, no way out, expecting (when sober) Interpol waiting for him each night when he got back to the boarding house. There must be a warrant, there was no way Cuddy and her sister hadn't sued him, and this time he knew he would not get away with just a slap on his wrist while everything would go on as before. His job. His only friend. History. House knew he would go to jail. Not only because of what he had done, but what he had in his bag-and his room here and his flat at home-when they caught up with him. He should throw it away, bury it under a bush, get sober, get clean and be responsible, man up and face the music. One call to Wilson and he would help him, arrange everything-even if Wilson was hating him now, he would do it, he knew it. Even after everything that had happened, Wilson would go to the gallows with him, if he'd let him. Yes, I would, Wilson said.
But he couldn't let Wilson do it. And he couldn't go to jail and rot his few remaining years away there, Wilson once a month behind a wall of glass, pale with sorrow. The thought of getting shut into a small room alone made him breathless with panic, the notion of having to bow to righteous people-like his father-daily made him sick. They would break him like his father had broken him, he would lose his mind there, go crazy, and when he feared something more than anything, it was losing his mind. There really was no way out, he realized for the first time in all sharp-edged clarity his sobriety cursed him with, and it broke through all his defences, shattering fantasy and hope and the weight on his heart and mind was suffocating him as surely as the bite of a Black Mamba.
His leaking eyes fell heavily on the square plastic body of the lighter on top of his knickknacks. A naked, big-boobed woman looking invitingly back at him. Mocking him. Saying, I can make it stop. Come, you want it.
Yes, he wanted it. He let go of the Vicodin and rifled around for the metal box and the other items scattered around in his bag. House, no! Wilson wailed. His hand was steady as he held the lighter under the spoon, the white crystals slowly melting. Wilson cried in his mind, begging, but he did not listen anymore.
Before him the shells forming a heart and letters glimmered whitely in the evening gloom.
Behind him the surf broke gently on the shore, caressing his feet as the tide came in.
End
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