I can't figure out where to take this one- if anywhere- but here's what I have. This came about after thinking about House's comment that he knows his way around a razor blade in Autopsy. And then there's the whole Stacy arc- it's blatently apparent that either a)Wilson overreacts or b)that something very very bad happened. I took the latter and went with it. Personally, I'm not sure House actually could do the about-to-be-mentioned acts.. but maybe with the right drugs? Who knows. Tell me what you think- and where I should go with this if anywhere.
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There were crumbs on the table. Wheat bread, Wilson thought. Maybe toasted. He could smell it in the stale warmed air of an apartment closed up for too long. It hadn’t been that long ago that a slice of bread, maybe two, had popped up from the toaster that leaned precariously to its right on the cluttered counter. Its owner would have grabbed the slices, taken them quickly to the waiting plate, dropped them, buttered them up, maybe some honey or jelly. Said plate was in the sink, a thin layer of water sitting in its indentation. So why this? Why now?
People who were trying to kill themselves didn’t eat before they died. If they did eat, it was decadent- a last meal, the finest wine, a filet. It wasn’t toast with butter. Suicidal people normally weren’t thinking of last meals. Dead people didn’t need nourishment. What was the point?
Along with the smell of toast, also hung the smell of blood and sweat, suffering. The lights were too dim and it was hard to make out the outline of his friend, lying on the couch, arms against his chest, a splotch of white standing out against the black. Feet were elevated on the armrest. At the other end, his dark hair, damp, stood on end. He was far too pale.
Wilson sighed and went to the bathroom again and tried to ignore the mess there. He needed an ibuprofen- for himself. The headache that he’d had since yesterday was growing to migraine proportions and it throbbed against the back of his neck, relentless. An ibuprofen probably wouldn’t work. It would delay the inevitable for just a while longer though. He put the pill in his mouth, went to the kitchen, filled two glasses of water and drank one himself.
“House….” Wilson pushed the other glass of water towards House’s face. “You need to drink this.” He sat two pills on the coffee table.
House’s eyes blinked open suddenly, his face flinching from the glass. He shook his head.
“You’ll drink this or we’re going in.”
House blinked again, sighed. His arms were still against his chest, pajama bottoms covered right leg crossed on top of the left. He shuddered, blinked.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m insane.”
“Leave.”
“No.”
Wilson began gathering the supplies from the coffee table: bandages, antiseptic, the backs of the butterfly bandages. The pressure bandages that he’d used were still sitting on the table when he came back after disposing of the rest of the garbage. Blotches of red- too much really- covered them. He’d never expected this. Yet he’d had the kit in his car for the past month.
“House.”
“Go away.”
“House, I’m not leaving.” Wilson shoved the glass in House’s face again. “Drink it.”
Sensing that he wasn’t going to win, House put his palms on the couch, lifting himself to sit upright. Wilson didn’t miss the grimaces as his forearms took the weight. He lifted his right leg with his hand, lowering it to the table.
“What are those?” House asked, nodding towards the pills.
“Valium.”
“Right.”
Wilson watched as House took a tentative sip, swallowed. He thought he saw a slight tremble in his hands, just enough to make the water ripple. Eyeing him, House put the glass back down on the table. The glass squeaked against the glass top, making him wince as his back came to rest against the leather couch. House knew his his heart rate was still too fast and too hard. And his breath still felt caught.
Satisfied that House had drunk half the glass, Wilson gathered the bloodied bandages and took them towards the kitchen, dumping them into the trash. He scrubbed his hands with the dish soap at the sink, scraping away blood under his fingernails. Jesus. Blood under his fingernails.
Knowing House as well as he did, Wilson didn’t think he had it in him. Not this way. Never this way. He’d figured the booze would do it. Or a gun if it had been available. But it had been neither. It was a razor blade and warm water.
If Wilson had been thirty minutes later, House would’ve needed a transfusion. If he’d been an hour later, House might’ve been dead. But as it was, Wilson had arrived a quarter to six. He’d gotten away from work early because of the snow. Traffic had been horrendous, a three car pile-up cluttered the streets leading from the hospital. It was easiest to drop by House’s place first. So he turned down a side street, and made his way over to the apartment.
The steps leading up were slippery and it had made Wilson grab for the rail despite his careful footing. God knew, there was no way House was getting out of the apartment in these conditions. Wilson had pledged to bring him some groceries and maybe some movies later on. But House didn’t answer the door.
It wasn’t unusual. Since the infarction, it had been difficult for House to maneuver. And painful. Always painful. More often than not, Wilson found himself using his key to get into the place if Stacy wasn’t around to answer the door first. But Stacy was gone.
Along with the paintings, the quilt, and the flowery smelling bathroom potpourri, Stacy had taken what was left of House. It occurred in small increments over months. First and foremost had been House’s anger. Then it had been Stacy’s self-loathing and guilt. It culminated to a grand event just two months prior. At first, Wilson thought that maybe it was for the better. It could be a fresh start for both of them. A break, if nothing else. Time to sort things out.
But House had started treading dangerous waters. When Wilson arrived after work, House would still be sleeping- having never gotten up. Wilson started bringing lunch, watching soaps in the middle of the afternoon on a break from work. But he’d have to pull House out of bed for that. And then he’d watch as House lumbered back there after the show was over and only half the food gone.
Moreover, House wasn’t talking. There were no complaints about how stupid Stacy had been. No ruminations on what they’d done wrong, on how to win her back. “How’re the cancer kids?” he might ask one day. On another day, he might ask about the Steelers or the Fliers, place a bet on a win. More often, he asked for a prescription. “I’m out.” But he couldn’t be out. It’d barely been a week. “Drug monster’s been raiding my stash. I’m out.”
Wilson, afraid, decided to comply. He gave House more, but he started carrying the bag in his trunk. Naloxone, Valium, and an assortment of basic first aid supplies.
That day, just like so many others, he’d entered the apartment with his own key, shoving the door open with the wind, shutting it again before the cold got in. The first thing he noticed was that House was evidently awake. The water was running and light came from underneath the bathroom door. And the place smelt like toast.
“What were you thinking?” Wilson, angry again, sat on the table across from House and reached for the wrist without the bandages on it.
“Wasn’t.”
He was quiet, counting beats and looking at his watch. Better than before: 100. He shook his head. “You could’ve...” He couldn’t get the word out. Died.
“That was the point.”
The sight had been one of the ugliest Wilson had ever seen. And he’d seen a lot- skin sloughing off of cancer patients, bleeding infested bed sores, sunken hollow cheekbones on gray faces. House’s face hadn’t been gray- but it’d been pale enough. To see a random patient with an injury or illness was one thing. To see your best friend trying to off himself was another.
Wilson had knocked on the bathroom door twice, telling House that he’d brought him the journals he’d requested from the hospital library. There had been no answer and the slow stab of concern had twisted through Wilson’s gut. The door was unlocked, so he opened it.
House was bent over in the tub, gasping as he drew something towards him, up his arm. Wilson saw a spurt of blood and was stunned into disbelief. And then House looked up, a grimace on his face. Wilson could see his pupils, pinpoints in the dim light. And then he grinned sickly at the intruder at the door. Christ.
Wilson grabbed the towel off the rack and forced House’s arm into it after prying the straight razor from the grip of House’s right hand fingers. The incision was perfect, running smoothly along the radial artery, halfway to his elbow. A surgeon’s cut. He placed the towel around House’s arm, squeezing. House’s head fell back against the wall of the bath, resigned.
They sat that way for a half hour, Wilson watching the rise and fall of his friend’s chest as the water turned tepid. House kept dozing off. Wilson kept slapping him awake. House appeared annoyed, but didn’t fight back.
When Wilson finally had the courage to move the blood soaked towel, the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. The artery had spasmed and shut down with the pressure. Wilson covered the wound with the towel again, taking House’s right hand and placing it on top.
“Hold that.”
The only response was a nod. But by the time that Wilson had gotten back with his kit and the clothes, House was half unconscious and the towel had slipped into the water, turning it red. For a moment, Wilson thought that House had done it again- that he’d managed to make another cut. There was so much red. But when he grabbed at House’s arm, it was still trickling and there was no other injury.
Wilson wrapped House’s arm in a pressure bandage and threw the towel on the bathroom floor. He tapped the lever holding the bathwater in and the drain started, gurgling. House’s eyes opened at the sound and Wilson grabbed a second towel from underneath the cabinet.
“Can you stand?”
House’s right arm, shaking, reached for the side of the tub and his left foot curled up underneath. The right leg didn’t budge from its location, stretched on the floor of the tub, tinged with the red stained water. The ugly, jagged scar on House’s thigh stood out in red contrast on pale skin and Wilson sighed, trying not to stare. Instead, he stood and took House’s left arm under the elbow, helping him to stand. House’s right hand came against the wall, steadying himself as Wilson reached for the towel, wrapping it around House’s waist.
If House hadn’t taken six Percocet and lost the blood, he might’ve been embarrassed. But he hardly noticed Wilson drying him off. He hardly noticed the tight throb of the pressure bandage against his damaged arm. He rested his weight on Wilson as he lifted his right leg out of the tub first, followed by his left. He lifted his limbs when told, let his friend dress him in the pajama bottoms and the t-shirt. Wilson all but carried him to the couch. The only time he spoke on the way was when Wilson mentioned calling an ambulance. “I’m fine,” House had said. “I’m not dying.”
As soon as they were on the couch, Wilson had dug into his bag for his penlight. He flashed it into House’s eyes, noting his response. “How many pills did you take?”
House looked up at him through angry, hooded eyes as he sat hunched over his knees. Gooseflesh prickled his skin. “A few.”
Wilson sensed that he wasn’t going to get a straight answer. He sighed and drew out the vial and the syringe. “I’m giving you Naloxone.”
House’s eyes rose to meet his, panicked. “Please don’t do that.”
He filled the syringe anyway and grabbed House’s arm. There was no outward protest, just the dark stare boring through the top of his head. The drug worked fast and House grabbed for his leg, pressing in around the scar. Wilson watched, shameful. But he’d had to do it.
After the injection, Wilson had removed the pressure bandage, replacing it with the butterflies and the gauze wrap. He needed stitches. Maybe surgery. Remaining silent, Wilson took House’s pulse one more time and noted the sheen of sweat and the shivering. He pulled House’s feet up to the armrest and left him there while he got the ibuprofen for his headache, washed the blood beneath his fingernails.
“Why?” Wilson asked now, as House leaned to his left again, resting his head on the arm of the couch.
“You know why.” His eyes shut.
“Your life’s not over.”
“Nope. Just life as I wanted it. Now I’m stuck with this.” His eyes opened for a moment, looking at Wilson from the corners, before shutting again.
Wilson sighed, looking at the ceiling, tapped his foot. “There are things you can do.”
“Crocheting is not really my cup of tea.”
“Teaching…”
“I hate students. Eager to please little jerks feeding off of mommy and daddy’s second mortgage.”
“Does no one impress you? You were a student once.”
“Paid my own way. Still paying, actually.”
“And that makes you better than them?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then you have something to teach them.”
House’s lips turned up for a moment. He’d been tricked.
“If I can’t think straight, then I have nothing to teach them.”
“House…”
“Nothing works…”
“Something will work. We just have to keep trying.”
“If she’d…’
Wilson interjected. “You know she did the right thing. You have to quit blaming her.”
“Then who do I blame?”
Wilson stared into his friend’s face for a moment, shaking his head, grimacing, trying to think of something positive in House’s life with which to fuel him. But it really all came down to this: House had lost everything. He’d lost his girlfriend, his job, his athleticism, his entire being. There was hardly anything left. Wilson reasoned that he might’ve tried suicide too, if he’d been dealt that hand. Life sucked.
House swiped the Valium off the table and swallowed them with the rest of the water. Wilson stood by, silent, watching as House’s breaths slowed to levels indicating drug-induced sleep. Then he grabbed the blanket off the back of the chair and tossed it over top before heading for the phone.
I've just had a chance to glance over this and once again nomad you've blown my socks off! And that's just on a quick peek through. I hope to get a chance over Thanksgiving to catch up on some reading and beta work. I'll add this one to the list and post some more constructive criticism later (although I don't see anything wrong with it now)
Please keep writing, I love it!
Hmm...I wrote some more... slowly (in between being a SUCKER for staying at my job...) Hmmm.. to continue forth or to end.... problem is either this has to be super super long or it has to stop really really soon.
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Dim lamplight crept in, making him squint his already closed eyes. The couch underneath and the clock ticking reminded him of where he was. The stinging and throbbing in his wrist held tight to his chest reminded him of what he’d done. House allowed his eyes to open, remaining as still as possible. Wilson had propped both legs on pillows, with his feet resting on the arm of the couch. The blanket that had been covering him was on the floor now he was cold in the thin pajamas and the t-shirt.
Sighing once, he pulled himself up to lean against the couch. He could still feel the weighted tie of Valium making his movements lethargic. His tongue was dried out- alcohol induced. Maybe the charcoal. His guts felt like they were about to drop out.
The sound of another body sighing stopped House from further movements and he looked up to see Wilson sitting up in the chair, his eyes closed, mouth open. As House watched, the mouth closed and a hand swiped at the corner before dropping again and letting his head rest to the opposite side. Had to be uncomfortable.
House fingered the bandage on his wrist, running under the gauze to feel the butterflies. He was shocked, actually, that he woke up on the couch. He’d figured Wilson would dope him up and cart him off to the nearest loony bin, stitch him up, shoot him full of antidepressants and antipsychotics, send in the psychoanalytical army to teach him that life was beautiful.
The wound on his wrist stung, making the pain in his leg a little more bearable. But he hadn’t had any drugs since the Percocet he’d taken- and Wilson had counteracted that quickly enough. He wondered now where the Percocet was- if Wilson hadn’t flushed what was left in the bottle down the toilet. And if he had- what drug was next? He needed something- the sooner the better.
Suppressing a groan, House propped himself up so he was standing, leaning on the couch, right toe barely on the ground and not holding any weight just yet. Slowly, he lowered his heel so that it was flat, grimacing as his knee straightened. He had graduated to weight bearing with the crutches last week- but only on the good days. To the best of his recollection, the crutches were still in the bathroom and it wasn’t a good day.
He had yet to take a real step when Wilson stirred and stared at him. House stared back, continuing to maneuver himself around the couch, still leaning on it. Wilson watched, rubbing sleep from his eyes, wondering if House would ask for help at any point. When House got to the end of the couch and threatened to take a real step, Wilson stood.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“My pills are in there.” His head nodded towards the dark room at the end of the hallway.
“You don’t have any left- you took them all.” House didn’t remember that. Wilson crossed his arms, sighed. “I’ll get you some ibuprofen.” Wilson made to stand, but was stopped by House’s voice again.
“Gotta take a dump. Gonna get that too?”
“I’ll get your crutches.”
House stood in silence while Wilson disappeared down the hall, returning with the bottle of pills in one hand, which he held onto as he handed the crutches over. House took them, but Wilson could see him grimace when his left hand took weight on the grip. Wilson fought the urge to say anything and let House go to the bathroom.
The crutches were a relief on his leg, but killed his arm. House was forced to move at a snail’s pace, refusing to look back at Wilson, whom he knew would be staring. When House finally arrived, he reached blindly, missed, reached again for the light switch. His jaw clenched at the sight in front of him. Stupid.
Two towels were tossed at the drain’s end of the tub. The tub itself, cleaned by the service just two days ago, had the faintest tinge of red around a water line mid way up. What the hell had he been thinking? Such a stupid thing to do- when he knew that Wilson would be on his way sometime that night. He’d had just the right combination of drugs and booze to set off the process of diminishing his fears and lowering inhibitions. Six years ago, it would’ve meant that he would’ve slept with Chelise from accounting or whatever blond bimbo had flipped their hair at him. Two years ago, he would’ve told Stacy that he loved her and drunkenly joked about their future kids. Neither time would’ve involved the pills- but this was different. Tonight, it meant that a straight razor was too tempting a proposition to give up- despite its limitations on effectiveness. Most of the event itself, he mused, was a blur. There was toast for a snack, alcohol to wash it down. Once he was drunk, he got more drunk. And then the pills and the site of the razor in the bathroom. He recalled the first sting of the razor biting into his flesh and how it had seemed so easy at first. A second, two, had passed and the pain came and he’d lost the pressure just as the door opened. It seemed a little funny to him at the time. So coincidental. So cliché.
It would’ve been so much easier had he had a gun. Quicker. Or better drugs. More effective. Now his arm hurt, his mouth was gritty and black, and he’d have to call the cleaning service again. And then they’d ask questions. Great. He’d think of a story. A shaving accident. They’d look at the bandage on his wrist, examine the roughness of the stubble, and give him a disbelieving look. He wouldn’t care. House shut the door and turned towards the toilet, ignoring his haggard face in the mirror and the blood-tinged tub.
Wilson heard the shuffling, the toilet flush, the sink running, the door open, light coming back into the hallway, illuminating the slow moving figure coming back to the living room.
“Wouldn’t go near there for a while…” House mumbled as he collapsed back into the couch. Wilson put two pills in his hand and pushed another glass of water towards him. House eyed the pills- Motrin. Fantastic. He tossed the pills to the back of his throat, swallowing them without the water. Wilson pushed the glass forward again and House frowned, then gave in, downing the entire glass. “Happy?”
“You need stitches.”
Wilson moved in, sitting on the table in front of House again and grabbing his wrist. The pulse now was steady, strong, regular. All things considered, House looked good. Wilson took the bandaged wrist, turning it so that the cut would be facing him through the bandages.
“It’s only been a few hours,” House muttered, watching as Wilson removed the gauze.
“Four actually.”
“I don’t need the bandage changed.”
Wilson said nothing more about the bandages and continued to work by changing the subject from the wrist to everything else. “How do you feel?”
“Hungover.”
“How much did you drink?”
House shrugged.
The bandage was spotty, but the wound was still clean and closed. If it hadn’t been for the depth of it, it wouldn’t look serious.
“You need to talk to me here, House,” he said, sighing as he pushed at the edges of the wound. “This is serious.” He wagered a glace upwards, but House was looking at the cut, sneering.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about, ‘It was an accident.’ Or maybe ‘It’ll never happen again.’”
“It was an accident. It’ll never happen again.” Wilson’s eyes rolled and House looked at him, partially amused, partially defiant. “You asked.”
Wilson sighed, leaving House’s wrist alone for a moment and sitting up straight on the table. His hands rested on his knees. He looked down for a moment, gathering his reserves, and then back up to House.
“Listen… I’ve been talking to Dr. Cuddy…”
“Satan spawn…”
“She does have special powers,” Wilson breathed. “She can get you a job lecturing or...”
“I don’t want a job. I want things back to normal.”
“House…” Wilson shook his head. “This… has to stop. It happened. It’s done….”
“That’s funny. Leg thinks it’s still happening…but he and I don’t always see eye to eye…”
This was getting nowhere. Wilson stood abruptly, taking the used bandages to the kitchen and dumping them into the trashcan. When he returned, there were ultimatums to be made.
“Either you take the position that Cuddy offers you or you start seeing a shrink.”
“Offing myself is easier.”
“I don’t want to deal with the mess.”
“No one asked you.”
“You did- the moment you decided to slice your wrist when you knew I was coming over. Who else would find you?” Wilson sat again, put his hands to his temples. “So take a job, we’ll work on the meds… or I’ll tack on some Prozac for good measure.”
House shook his head.
“It won’t be easy at first…”
The head continued to shake, the frown deepened. A hand clenched a thigh.
“You’ll have to be accommodated- short days. Then you can… hang out. Just being out there will…”
“No.”
“The conference room and office next to mine are both empty. Moore left two weeks ago. We can get you a comfortable chair, subordinates to do all your dirty work…”
House glanced up at him.
“A television. Your own fridge, a coffee maker.”
Wilson could see House’s wheels turning. He wasn’t shaking his head anymore. The eyes were focused somewhere on the mantle, thinking, imagining. Wilson used it to his advantage.
“No one would say anything if you took a nap in the afternoon. You’re in pain; you’re on medication.”
“An Eames.”
“What?”
“I want an Eames chair- with the Ottoman.”
“A what?”
“Eames. You said comfortable…”
“Those are cost $3000, House.”
“I could’ve sued for three million.” Wilson sighed. “And my pick of cases.”
“No one said anything about cases.”
“I’m not teaching.”
Wilson shook his head. It would be weeks before they set everything up anyway. The first part of this task would be making House set it up. Give him the budgets, the paperwork, make him formulate, interview, hire. He’d hate it, but he’d do it anyway. The real work wouldn’t come for months, a year. The only important part was that House would be working- not at home, alone with his pills, his drinks, his blood. “Then it’s settled,” Wilson, firm, hands on hips.
House’s head bobbed once, and gave something approaching a snort. He looked down at his wrist, examining the thin line splitting the skin, the butterflies holding it together. He flexed his fingers, testing the nerves there. In tact. He pushed on his palm, wincing. It was fine.
“You need stitches,” Wilson sighed.
“Blood flow’s okay. Nerves are in tact.”
“Stitches.”
House’s shoulders dropped and he leaned back on the couch, his hand still in front of him, upturned. “It’ll be fine.”