Title: Some Days Are Worse Than Others
By: Sy Dedalus
Pairing: Gen; House/Wilson strong friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, Wilson/Cuddy friendship. The ducks are involved minimally. Some Stacy/Mark later.
Rating: Overall rating of T+, TV-14; chapters 1 and 2 rated M, R, NC-17, etc. for language, graphic violence, and general dark vibes.
Warnings: Extremely dark fic, graphic violence, graphic language, WIP.
Spoilers: All of Season 1
Summary: An alternate ending for “The Honeymoon” based on the script sides leaked by Fox in April 2005. Synopsis: instead of going home to his Vicodin, House gets angry and ends up starting a bar fight and nearly overdosing. We go from there….
Disclaimer: The beginning of this fic is written around lines from the sides for “The Honeymoon” which very obviously belong to FOX, David Shore, the writers, etc., anyone but me. I do not own the characters or the lines from the sides and make no claim to own them. I am making no money off of this. Please don’t sue me. All epigraphs by Modest Mouse, Robert Lowell, …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead, W.B. Yeats, etc., belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don’t sue over that either.

Big-time props go to moonlash_cc for the fic "Anger Management" (http://www.livejournal.com/community/housefic/66556.html) from which Wilson's punching bag was borrowed and to my plot beta, our own Auditrix! Spelling and grammar errors are mine.

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One

I said that I’d said that I’d tell ya
And that’s you’ve killed the better part of me.
If you could just milk it for everything.
I’ve said what I’ve said and you know what I mean
But I still can’t focus on anything.
We kiss on the mouth but still cough down our sleeves.

—Modest Mouse, "Dramamine"


Cuddy and House stood in the hallway talking. It had been a long week for both of them and even longer month in the wake of Vogler. For his part, House just wanted to leave.

It was Friday. He wanted to go home and forget everything that had happened since Stacy had walked back into his life. He wanted to drive home reckless and stupid and running red lights and stop signs, to feel how his leg hurt for it, driving a stick. He wanted to walk into his apartment and leave all the shit at the door. Then he wanted to take a few Vicodin, have a drink, jerk off, borrow Wilson’s punching bag, wail on it until he collapsed, and end by sleeping as long as he possibly could, alone, away from everything and everyone. That was what he wanted. He wanted to be left the fuck alone.

So he’d just tried to extricate himself from the conversation to get started on that list and she’d stopped him. “Hang on,” she'd said.

He gripped his cane impatiently and drummed the fingers of his left hand against his side. Whatever she had to say to him right now was of no interest whatsoever to him. She could say, 'take me, House, I'm all yours,' and look all breathless and horny and he'd just leave. He wasn't in the mood for anything right now that wasn't on his to-do list.

“I want to run something by you,” she said.

She didn't just say things like that. He tensed, on guard, expecting something bad, though what could be worse than what he'd already been through this week?

Truthfully? She could if he let her.

Cuddy. Sometimes she just wouldn’t let him leave.

Cuddy annoyed him. Cuddy annoyed him most of the time, but since she’d gone to bat for him with Vogler, he’d felt a little less annoyed. Now, though, he was back to his usual level of annoyance with her. It was bad enough that he’d been so unfortunate as to dig himself into the memory of ten years ago recently, the infarction, the fuck up, how he’d been dead (that part didn’t bother him) and how Cuddy’d brought him back (that part bothered him). How Cuddy had seen him dead, a corpse on the table, and shocked his ass back into the mortal coil. His life in her hands then. His job in her hands recently, which only made things worse when they'd been bad enough as it was. And after Stacy’d left, his heart in her hands.

They’d fucked that up too. That is to say, they’d fucked, and then they’d fucked up. He was on the rebound, he should’ve known better. She’d seen him dead and probably had at least some idea of just how big his dick was, his formerly dead dick attached to his formerly dead body, before she entered into it, and she should’ve known better. Fuck ethics. Fuck patient/doctor relations. If she had really felt something for him, she would have known better than to try and glue him back together when he’d only just been smashed apart. She’d given it a try, resuscitating him emotionally after she’d done it physically, she’d really given it not so bad of a try, but she should’ve known. She had been there. She had fucking been there. For that moment when Stacy let it slip just as he was losing consciousness, the moment he’d realized that (and he’d known it all along, really he had) things could go very badly. She’d seen how in love he’d been with Stacy. She was a woman. He operated under the assumption that women knew that it took a while 1. to get over a serious relationship and 2. to get used to the idea that you’re crippled for life. Well, the last one was unisexual, but the first thing—Cuddy should’ve known.

When he thought back on it now, he liked to think that she had known and she’d done it anyway. That it had been another one of life’s little kicks to keep him down, face permanently stuck in the mud. It made it easier for him to live, thinking that. But he knew she hadn’t done it knowingly and he couldn't really hate her for it. He didn't hate her. He didn’t even dislike her. It might be a leap to say he actually did like her, but at the least he respected and tolerated her, and he could count on one hand the number of people those two verbs applied to. And she was, despite the comment that was about to spring from his lips, a pretty decent fuck.

“I will not have sex with you again no matter how much you beg me,” he said. “It was miserable the first time, all the desperate administrative need—”

She squared on him and he knew whatever was coming next he wasn’t going to like at all. He was, in fact, going to hate it. Whatever it was.

She took a deep breath. She knew that what she was about to tell him wasn’t going to be easy on him. Nothing about this week or the last week had been easy on him. But she needed to know. It was her job to get his answer because she was in charge of hiring and that was that. She didn’t have to like it and right now she’d give anything to have someone else tell him this.

“Stacy’s husband is going to need close monitoring here at the hospital and since we could definitely use her back here, I offered her a consulting job, risk management,” she said.

His gaze, which had been defiant and fixed on Cuddy, dropped immediately to the floor. A very small, emotionally disconnected part of his brain raised lips and eyebrows in ironic laughter at having her back here in risk management of all things. It was so apt. But for the most part he just felt numb.

The week had been such hell already, starting with Stacy’s outright refusal to acknowledge that they’d ever had anything when she’d gone with the ambulance crew instead of taking up his offer to drive her to the hospital. She was upset. At him. At hubby passing out. He understood that, but couldn’t she just….

And now this.

He couldn’t say that he hadn’t seen it coming. He had just hoped that life wouldn’t give him another kick in the pants, grind his face further into the mud. It was bad enough that he had to treat the guy who got to come home to her everyday, to tell her he loved her, to be told the same thing back, to smell the scent of her at home after she’d left a room, to fuck her senseless one night and go slowly and tenderly the next, to wake up next to her in the morning, sniff her morning breath and send her to the toothpaste, to take in all the small things that she did that made her who she was, to feel her warm next to him on the couch watching tv, to make her laugh, to wear a ring that said she was his and his only and everyone else could back the fuck up—it was more than bad enough that he had treat this guy, this Mark, to be forced by his job to think about how he was doing everyday and wonder how soon he’d send him home so he could go back to fucking the woman he loved, but now he was going to have to see her too everyday, no longer as the patient’s wife, the next of kin, someone he could shirk like so much excess baggage, but now as a colleague. A lawyer. Given his penchant for risk, probably his lawyer. And it meant that now she was here, she might not ever leave. He might be forced to watch her love someone else—that every time he saw her, he would know that she loved someone else and not him. That he would never get her back. Because, hell, even if hubby did kick off, what were the chances she’d come back to him? to the bitter, selfish old man he’d become? They were just about fucking zero.

He realized Cuddy was still looking at him. He was dazed by this news but his mind had never stopped working—that was his problem, it never did stop working, ever. It kept him trapped as much as his leg did now.

He took the next logical step in the conversation because he didn’t know what else to do and he sure as hell didn’t want Cuddy doing anything drastic like giving him a hug.

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at her.

“Did she say yes?” he asked dully, eyes still on the floor. As if it fucking mattered.

“She said only if it was okay with you,” Cuddy answered.

She had that softened quality in her voice again that meant she was feeling something other than contempt for him at that moment. He couldn’t stand it.

And Stacy. Fuck. She would. She fucking would. Do the nice fucking thing that in reality only put it all on him again, so that if she started working here, it was with his blessing, and if she didn’t, he was the asshole who’d fucked her out of a good job while she watched her husband die.

What choice did he have.

Really. In any of it. In all of it.

What choice did he fucking have.

He didn’t have a choice about his leg and until very recently, he didn’t have a choice about his job. Now he did have a “choice,” in a manner of speaking, but his job was his life and whatever he chose would make it even more of a living hell than it already was, take away the small amount of pleasure he had until now managed to derive from it, so what choice was that.

But he did have one real choice about his life. The ultimate choice.

Cuddy had brought him back before and it had been a mistake. She should’ve let him die happy and in love right then and there. Everyone’s lives would have been easier, including his. But no. Instead she’d done the doctorly thing. He hadn’t signed a DNR because he’d still had hope then. Hell, he’d had hope and love. But once those paddles touched his chest and got his fucking heart beating again, beating him into the ground, all choices, all hope of love, were removed from his life. Only the illusion of choice was left, what he had dangling in his face right now. He’d already signed his leg away by the time Cuddy got around to shocking him and Stacy had started in on signing the better part of him away too. He should’ve signed that DNR. But he still had that one thing. And he’d be damned if he let Cuddy save him this time.

He was determined now. It was time to leave.

He turned and walked away without looking at her again. He knew what he would do. He didn’t know how he’d do it, but he knew what he would do.

“Yes or no,” he heard her say.

He stopped and turned to look at her, feeling nothing. “It’s fine,” he said.

He wouldn’t be the asshole anymore.

Awesome. I totally just spoiled myself, but it was worth it. I loved it.

I try to think I'm not a prude, but when I read the jerk off line, I was like :o . It's sad really. I've been a drummer for 8 years so all of my friends are yucky disgusting guys yet I am still shocked by the mental image of House jerking off.

But it was great! I really enjoyed it!

Superb as usual sy!!! :D It'll be intersting to see how close it comes. Thanks for all the dark interesting angst ridden stuff I love it! Not only is it the best but it helps me get in the mood to write too.

PS I didn't steal the hug line, it was there two weeks ago and you'll probably see it next week and think I stole it! honestly I didn't!! :huh:

Beautiful, Sy; just beautiful. Your work jolts me in a way that I can't even describe, only to try to let you know that if you wrote a sonnet on toilet paper, I would read it. Most people around these boards know that I am an h/c - angst junkie, and the darker the story, the more it moves me. "Some Days ..." grabbed my soul and wrung it the-hell out so bad that it was bone dry when I stuffed it back in. Well guess what! I saw "Le Miz" a long time ago, and it was great, but I didn't stand. I read "Some Days ..." and now I'm standing! Small world, aint it?! WOW! Bets ;)

Thanks for the reviews, guys. I appreciate it. :)

Pennywise - hooray for drummers! You're making me wish mine weren't in storage five states away. :D If the idea/image of House masturbating bothered you, you, ah, might not like part of the next chapter so much. It's a good deal more explicit, though it doesn't contain any beating off really. I'm sort of sorry that you're spoiled now, but I'm happy you've read and that you like it, and if this is the only 'spoiler' you've come across, you've still got many surprises waiting for you. :)

Rt - thankie. :) I'm very curious to see how they film this, what they keep, what they toss, etc. What actually happens in the episode, too, I'm curious to see. ;) I'm wondering where Wilson is in all of this and you can see how I've dealt with him below. There's my prediction for that part of the episode, at least. I'm glad this gets you in the mood to write cause I'm definitely in the mood to see more fic from you! The hug line is all yours. Now I'm very intrigued about the context in which that line will appear. Can't wait, can't wait! B)

Betz - cheers. :) And, um, I hope your soul's okay after this next chapter. Toilet paper, eh? I've got stuff written on checks, receipts, napkins, and an assortment of other scraps, but no toilet paper. Hmm. I'd better get on that one.... ;)

Okay, next part coming right now.

Cheers,
Sy

Some Days Are Worse Than Others (2/?)

Credits: Once again, to moonlash_cc for Wilson's punching bag from "Anger Management" (http://www.livejournal.com/community/housefic/66556.html). Also, big thanks to Audtrix for tossing House’s thinking ball around with me and fleshing the rest of this story out so that you can expect a fully-formed fic. If it’s good, it’s good cause of her. (If it’s bad, it’s obviously my fault.)

Note: 'Fuck all' is British slang for 'nothing.'

Cheers.

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Two

Oh, noose
Tied myself in
Tied myself too tight

—Modest Mouse, “Talking Shit About a Pretty Sunset”


House stabbed the parking garage pavement with his cane. Step, stab, step, stab, step, stab. That was what the ground did to him most of the time—step, stab, step, stab, step, stab, pain rippling through his leg—so why not return the favor. His bag thumped against his side with each motion. The parking garage, as far as he could tell, was empty.

Step, stab, step, stab, his car, sex on wheels, in sight, hard to miss, step, stab, step, stab, fucking Stacy, fuck-ing Stacy and in an instant he’d dropped his cane, slung the bag off of his shoulder, and hurled it at the concrete pylon.

The echo of his cane clattering, the bag smacking against the pillar, his cry of rage as he threw it and of pain as he stepped down hard on his bad leg—it didn’t last long enough. He wanted to do it again and again. He wanted some reckless teenage driver to careen through the garage and run him down on the spot so he wouldn’t have to pick things up. His cane. His bag. Worthless weights around his neck.

Why was he still breathing.

He bent, wincing involuntarily, to pick up his cane and hobbled over to the pylon to retrieve his bag. His Gameboy and iPod were in there. He hoped they were broken.

Reaching the car of every man’s mid-life crisis, he tossed the bag in the front seat and squeezed himself into the seat. His leg hurt like hell. He put two Vicodin in his mouth and swallowed them.

He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to follow the list he’d made, that he’d followed nearly every day since Stacy came back. Tuesday and Wednesday had been okay, better than yesterday or today. He’d been working hard, tracking the problem, keeping occupied the way he best liked to be occupied. And then when he had gone home, it was to a drink, a few pills, and one of the higher class hookers available in the city for a long, slow blow job that left him relaxed enough to sleep for a few hours. Then infomercials and porn and he felt like he could go back to work without exploding.

But yesterday. Yesterday was bad. Yesterday everything had gotten to him. He’d snarled and snapped at everyone and they all had the sense to leave him alone except Wilson. Wilson started pushing him, saying that this wasn’t healthy, that he needed to talk to her, that he needed therapy. Fuck that. He’d done all the talking he wanted to do with Stacy. He had nothing left to say to her. But Wilson just wouldn’t stop. Pushing him and pushing him and telling him what to do and finally House went off and started yelling at him. Wilson couldn’t handle it either and started yelling back. House didn’t remember what was said, but all his part was to the tune of “get the fuck out of my life” and all of Wilson’s part was “you need to stop doing this” and getting him into therapy and other bullshit that he wanted no part of. They yelled until Wilson finally got it and stormed out before House could throw anything at him. They’d seen each other in the hall three times today. House didn’t look at him and didn’t acknowledge him or the anger that burned in his chest. Wilson didn’t look at House either. He’d be perfectly happy to never see Wilson again. So when he’d gone home that night, he’d unleashed on Wilson’s punching bag, which was perfect because it smelled like Wilson and all he wanted to do was beat him and Stacy and Cuddy and Cameron until they all left him the fuck alone. He was tired when Candy came over but still angry enough that he pushed her, saying faster faster and bucking into her mouth, fuck propriety, even as she deep throated. He cried out angry and frustrated when he came and rolled over, dick still half-hard and wet with saliva and semen, directing her to the money on the dresser, not bothering with covers or pillows or anything and not caring if his leg hurt later because he’d slept on his side, and fell asleep before she could thank him for the big tip he’d left her.

He didn’t like angry sex and he didn’t mistreat hookers, but he knew that if he went home to the routine tonight, he would hurt her and end up in deep shit with her pimp. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want another night of drinking alone and beating the shit out of a bag that smelled like Wilson. He turned the key in the ignition and heard the engine roar and purr. He didn’t want any of it.

He popped the clutch and tore out of the parking garage, hearing the engine strain in first gear before he shifted to second, and strain in second before he shifted to third. His apartment was to the right. He turned left.

He drove in a circle around the city before his leg started really hurting. He stopped at an ATM and took out two-hundred dollars. He’d need cash for whatever it was he was going to do tonight. Which, he’d pretty much decided, was going to be getting fucked up in some way. He drove off from the ATM, leg burning now, and decided he’d stop at the next suitable place he saw.

It didn’t take long to find a good place. A door in the side of a run-down brick building that had a dilapidated sign announcing its name hanging above it. It would do just fine. He found a place to park, swallowed two Vicodin, and went into the bar.

-----------------------------------

It was nearly full. Full of desperate people. Alcoholics waiting on liver transplants like the old man passed out at the bar. A greasy salesman in a rumpled suit who’d probably been there since they opened for the night and hadn’t made a sale in a month. Several rednecks in plaid shirts, gigantic guts hanging over their gigantic belt buckles, skinny legs and practically no ass to sit on. More washed up middling semi-professional types freshly released from their cubicles, staring at nothing. Losers who’d lost the only thing they had left years ago and came here to drink themselves to death. Clouds of smoke. Sawdust on the floor. Megadeath on the PA. A full-on shithole. Perfect.

House took a seat in the middle of the bar. The bartender came over.

“Two shots of Makers and a Guinness,” House said. The bartender nodded and got the drinks. House gave him a twenty and waved off the change.

He knocked back the shots and started in on the Guinness, taking it more slowly. A good Guinness was something to be savored ideally, but he wasn’t interested in savoring anything tonight. Still, it was cool running down his throat, chasing the burn of the bourbon. He sat for a minute, sipping the beer and waiting for the shots to kick in. They were taking too long.

He tapped the bar and the bartender came over. “Another shot,” he said and pressed a five dollar bill on the bar when it arrived. He gulped it down and got to work on the beer.

---------------------------------

Half an hour later he was out another twenty bucks and seriously fucked up. He’d lost track of how many shots he’d had but he’d only had one pint and it had gone straight through him.

House stumbled to the bathroom. He took a piss and then staggered into a stall and puked all over the seat. He didn’t bother flushing. Someone else had puked in there already.

He felt more sober now. Fuck that. He swallowed two more pills and gimped back to the bar. That made five or six or seven or something, plus or minus whatever he’d just puked up. Damn his body for refusing poison.

He sat back down and ordered another shot and another Guinness, tipping the bartender liberally. He tossed down the shot and started chugging the Guinness, foam spilling onto his face and shirt. He put the glass down, half empty, and swayed as the shot hit him and the beer started doing its work, sloshing inside him, making his blood burn. He belched and picked up the glass again, finishing it off.

He lit a cigarette and took a drag, waiting for the Vicodin to kick in. Nothing about tonight was going to be slow if he could help it and he sucked on the cigarette mercilessly.

Fucking Stacy. Fucking Wilson. Fucking Cuddy. He’d say ‘fucking Cameron’ too but she was such small potatoes now that he didn’t even bother. Fucking Stacy. She would walk right back in and start fucking with his head again. Poor ole hubby’s sick and dying and no one knows what to do, but you, Greg, you’re brilliant, could you do this for me, fix him, make him better so I can go back to my life, happier than when I left it, and you’ll still be in the same place I left you ten years ago? You’ll still be so fucked up you can’t even act normal and take advantage of it when the hot young babe on your staff throws herself at you. “Do her or you’re gay,” that guy had said. And he was right. It was seriously fucked up that he couldn’t just run with it. Stacy’d left him so fucked up he couldn’t settle down enough to deal with Cameron maturely. Because he did feel something for her. Or he had. But every time the impulse to feel something came up, he pushed away, because he couldn’t do it anymore. Not after her. Not after what he’d gone through. He didn’t need anybody and he didn’t want anybody. And fuck Wilson for suggesting otherwise. “You have no relationships,” he’d said. As if it meant something. Well, it meant fuck all to him. It was enough that he had alcohol, Vicodin, music, work, and a buddy to hang out with now and then. That was all he needed, aside from the occasional blow job. And he had money for them, so he was fucking fine. He didn’t want a girlfriend. At his age, having a girlfriend was pathetic and sleazy. He didn’t want a wife either. No girlfriend, no wife, not even a friend with benefits who happened to be female, because that never worked out. She always got needy and started pushing on him. He didn’t want a guy either. He didn’t want anything beyond sex. No love, no caring, no devotion, none of it. Absolutely fuck all. He needed food, shelter, and sex, and he got it and he was fine. He was absolutely fucking fine. So Stacy could step the fuck off.

He took one last drag on the cigarette and it stubbed out as an angry song pounded over the speakers. He recognized it. Rage Against the Machine. Good fighting music. His blood stirred. He wanted a fucking fight. He wanted to fight until he felt something again. Something that wasn’t numb.

A few seats down he heard a hooker and a john talking.

“C’mon,” the john said, “it’s a nice night out. We could—”

The john started saying something in a low voice and scratched his balls. The hooker looked tired and washed out. The john was obviously a trucker. Either that or he was a lumberjack and there weren’t a lot of lumberjacks in Jersey.

House heard her rebuff him. Good for her, even if she wasn’t his kind of hooker. This might play to his advantage.

“Warden—” he said and the bartender came over. House handed him a ten dollar bill and the bartender poured him another shot and another Guinness. He fished his keys out of his pocket.

He slid them over the bar to the bartender. “No matter how insulting or degrading I am to you tonight,” he said, “do not give these back to me.” He wanted a fight, not a wreck. A fight he did to himself. A wreck usually involved others and he was fucked up enough already without killing someone while driving drunk.

The bartender nodded and took his keys, putting them away.

House leaned down toward the shot, head spinning, and sipped from the glass until the liquid was under the line and he could trust himself to pick it up and not spill it. He did, hand shaking now that the other two Vicodin were starting to kick in, and swallowed it. He put the glass back on the bar and stuck his finger in the head of Guinness. He licked it. Yeah, he was fucked up.

He had no idea what would happen tonight, but he imagined he’d end up in an alley or the drunk tank. Whatever. He didn’t care what happened. Stacy flashed unbidden in his mind again and he growled to himself. The music, the beer, Stacy, Wilson, all of it made him want a fight like nothing else. The Vicodin was holding him back, making him mellow.

“No means no,” he heard from across the bar. It was the hooker, shoving away the big guy’s hands. Well, one of his hands. The other one was busy scratching his crotch. He said something to her that House didn’t catch. This would do. Better than a punching bag that smelled like Wilson. With so much Vicodin and alcohol in his blood, feeling so numb, he could take this guy for a long time.

“Hey,” he said sloppily to her, “is Mandingo bothering you?”

“Mandingo?” the trucker growled, “you callin me a—”

“You’re a trucker, right?” House said, getting up from his seat and limping over to them. “Piss in a bottle while you drive. The reason you’re scratching your penis,” House said and he, the trucker, and the hooker looked down simultaneously and the trucker self-consciously stopped scratching, “is because you have a bacterial infection from the container. You should wash it out once in a while. Either that or your—” he looked at her, “little ho gave you something extra for your twenty bucks.”

“Who you callin’ ho?” she said, head weaving from side to side with her words.

“Sorry,” House said, “you’re a nurse?” He leaned on his cane and the trucker looked from him to it and back.

“Look, buddy,” the trucker said, eyes on the cane again, “we don’t want no trouble with you.”

Fuck, this guy was a piece of work. Who knew it took so much to get a drunk trucker to fight?

“You threatening a blind man, sir?” House said, tapping him with his cane as though he were blind. His eyes were wide open and everything on his face said ‘I’m fucking with you.’ Each tap of the cane said, ‘I’m fucking with you.’

“You’re not blind,” the trucker snarled, fists clenching.

House tapped him again. “There’s a shape here,” he said, tapping, “…it’s big…” tap “…stupid…” he sniffed the air “…it even smells dumb.”

The trucker’s face was red and he was shaking. “Go back to your beer, old man, before you get hurt.”

Fuck this guy. What did it take.

“Let me put it in a way even you can understand,” he said patronizingly, leaning in, practically on top of the trucker, “she can’t love you because she’s got twenty other johns.” He tapped the guy again, hard, looking straight at him.

The trucker stood, a few inches taller than House and a good hundred and fifty pounds heavier.

“I’ll hit a cripple,” he said in House’s face, sour stink of beer on his breath.

House laughed at him, not backing down. “With what?” he said, nodding to the trucker’s hands, “Those? Your little girly hands? You might break a nail.” He got up further in the trucker’s face. “Bitch,” he added.

The trucker punched him swift and hard in the gut and the pint of Guinness rose in his throat. He gagged and spat and sucked in air, winded, but he didn’t double over. He hadn’t even felt it, except to feel that it was good because it was what he wanted.

He coughed and got his breath back. “You know,” he said, “I read my horoscope today. It said I had a very good chance of getting my ass kicked by a big, dumb, son of a—”

The trucker swung with his right fist and connected with House’s cheek. Then a left on his jaw and a right in the eye and another left and an upper-cut that made his head fly back, but he didn’t feel any it and he didn’t move, feet planted hard to keep the force of the blows from knocking him over.

The attack stopped and he leaned forward on his cane, grinning through the blood in his teeth. “I got six Vicodin in me,” he said, spitting blood at the trucker, “Hit me again, you sorry piece of—”

The trucker leaned in to comply but suddenly the bartender was in the middle of them, pushing the trucker back. The trucker swept him aside like he was paper and unleashed an attack on House’s ribs and face.

Punch after punch after punch. It was good. It was the kind of beating he couldn’t give himself.

But he wasn’t going down. He was starting to feel it, staggering, blood running down his throat, but he wasn’t going down. He wasn’t going to go down until he was knocked down and he wasn’t going to give up until he was knocked out. He needed this. He needed to feel this.

The trucker paused, breathing hard, his face flushed in the dark of the bar.

House laughed again. “Come on,” he yelled, laughing, “do it. Do it again, you pussy.”

The trucker started swinging, but by that time the other booze hounds felt like they should step in and keep his crippled ass from getting even more crippled. One-sided fights didn’t go down too well, even when the guy getting the shit kicked out of him kept asking for it.

Suddenly there was a mob around him and he found himself in a headlock. He struggled, thrashing, and the guy holding him tightened his grip.

“No, no!” he cried, tears mixing with blood in his eyes that ran from cuts on his forehead. The trucker was wearing a large ring on his right hand that looked like it came from some kind of sports championship. House wiped his face with his sleeve, and looked up at the trucker, “Hit me!” he yelled, struggling, “Do it, you bastard! Do it!”

The trucker started struggling against the people who held him back.

“He’s not finished!” House yelled. “Let him up!”

They didn’t and the trucker stopped fighting them. House saw this.

“Come on, you filthy piece of shit! Finish it!” he yelled.

He elbowed the guy who had him in a headlock in the ribs and got loose, staggering forward.

“This guy’s got an infected dick, don’t touch him,” he shouted and the crowd loosened its hold on the trucker as he surged forward again.

House welcomed it. More blows to the face and a few solid punches in the ribs and stomach. He threw up this time, blood and beer on the sawdust.

The crowd got a hold on the trucker again, but no one was coming near House. He stepped forward, getting in the trucker’s face.

“Is that all you got, pussy?” he spat, breathing hard and wiping the blood and vomit off of his mouth.

The trucker surged again but the crowd held him back. House felt people closing in on him.

“Fucking come on!” he yelled and took a swing at the trucker.

The trucker broke loose and hit House harder than he’d hit him yet. The force of the blow made him stagger to the right and he collided with a barstool and toppled to the ground.

The trucker turned around to get back to his drink, cracking his knuckles in victory.

“That’s enough,” the bartender said and started to pick House up, handing him his cane. “I’ll call you a cab. Go home and sleep it off.” He didn’t like fights in his bar because he didn’t like the cops in his bar. But this guy was done for the night.

“Fuck you,” House snarled and grabbed a glass from the floor as he got to his feet. He threw the glass at the trucker before the bartender could stop him.

The glass sailed past the trucker and hit the wall, but it got his attention. He turned and looked dully at House, who was barely standing now, blood on his face and shirt, leaning hard on his cane. “You’re not finished,” House said.

The trucker stood menacingly but didn’t advance.

“Twenty dollar whore won’t even sleep with you,” House said. “Because you’re a little pussy bitch.”

The trucker picked up a chair and slammed it into House’s left side. House hit the ground hard and didn’t move for a second, but then he started trying to get up. The bartender called the cops. Didn’t look like the old goat was going to stop fighting until he was hauled off.

The bartender motioned to one of the regulars who’d tried to hold the trucker back. The bartender shot him a look that said, ‘Let’s get him outside before he does any more damage,’ and the regular nodded. Together, they picked House up and drug him through the bar to the exit. House was dazed but not done yet. He struggled and spat and cursed, but he didn’t have the leverage to put up a fight. They propped him up against the building and he sunk for a second, dizzy, feeling blurred.

Seeing him subdued, the bartender said, “I gotta go back inside. Watch him till the cops come, okay?”

“I’m not getting involved, man,” the regular said, his hands up, “not with the cops.” He turned and walked away.

The bartender shrugged and went back inside. The cops would know what was up. If they even showed.

Inside, the trucker was trying to talk to the whore again. He saw the bartender come back.

“Come on, sweetheart,” the trucker said, “I know where we can get some cash. I’m gonna treat you tonight.” She shrugged tiredly and went with him.

Outside, House was struggling to get to his feet. He was still conscious. That wasn’t how he wanted to be. He wanted more until he was finished for good.

The door swung open and the trucker and hooker stepped out.

“Gimme your wallet,” the trucker said, standing over him.

“Fuck you,” House said.

The trucker hit him hard and he flew into the side of the building and crumpled. He felt a hand in his back pocket as he tried to get up. The trucker kicked him in the gut and he went down again.

“Shit, baby, this guy’s loaded,” the trucker said, taking the cash out of House’s wallet.

“See you in hell, asshole,” the trucker said and tossed the wallet at House, who was gasping for breath after the kick.

The pair left and House lay there for a while, getting his wind back. He heard sirens as he tried to stand up.

A patrol car pulled up, lights flashing, and two cops stepped out of it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” House said, bloody, speech tired and slurred, spitting blood as he talked.

“We got a call about a fight,” the first cop said, not paying attention to House. “Step aside, sir.”

“You found the fight,” House said and charged the first cop. His partner grabbed House as he took a swing at the first cop. He barely connected with the guy’s face before he was being held back.

“You’re under arrest for assaulting an officer,” the first cop said as his partner tried to get House’s hands behind his back and reach for his cuffs at the same time.

“Fuck you, pig!” House said and started struggling, breaking free. The first cop clubbed him. He staggered but didn’t go down, cuff around one of his wrists. He pushed the second cop as he tried to grab him and charged the first one again.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” he said and spat on him. The cop clubbed him in the head and this time he did go down.

“Call an ambulance,” the first cop said to his partner as he knelt to fasten the other cuff, “this guy’s on something.”

His partner nodded and reached for the radio.

House was unconscious before he hit the pavement.

PLEASE you are too modest. I did nothing.

And now I get to writhe with envy and admiration at your first paragraph: Step, stab, step, stab, step, stab: six words that just perfectly sum up House's entire waking life. That whole parking garage scene is fantastic.

Chuckling at your description of the rednecks.

The drama of the fight (and of House's valiant efforts to give himself alcohol poisoning) -- that's great, but what's really making this fic are those internal monologues you're doing with House. Like the one in the garage and especially the one in the bar (Fucking Stacy. Fucking Wilson. Fucking Cuddy. He’d say ‘fucking Cameron’ too ...)

Poor House. The cops don't even believe at first that he's the guy they're after (until he makes himself the guy they're after.)

And what an interesting tension -- he's drowning himself in just inhuman amounts of Vicodin and alcohol, but then he picks the fight because...he wanted to fight until he felt something again. Something that wasn’t numb. It's like he's trying to get his inside and outside to match, but he can never quite manage it.

I'm leaving you in an evil place at the end of this one. Sorry! And thanks to Aud for the medical help, which I ignored in some cases, hence any implausibility, and for the advice on how to wake House up. ;)

--------------------

Some Days Are Worse Than Others
Three

A car radio bleats,
“Love, O careless Love…” I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat...

—Robert Lowell, “Skunk Hour”

House woke up swinging. Something was holding his arm back. And his arm really hurt. As did the rest of him. He stopped struggling and opened his eyes, squinting in the harsh light of the room. A hospital room. An ER room.

Fuck, he’d landed in a hospital.

Not an alley, not the drunk tank, not a morgue. A hospital. Fuck.

He couldn’t even get properly fucked up. And he was fucking tied to the fucking bed with soft restraints. What, did they think he was going to go somewhere?

His right hand and wrist were wrapped up. Probably broken. His head hurt like a motherfucker. Concussion, probably. He couldn’t see too well out of his left eye, which he imagined was a lovely shade of puffed-up purple. His nose was packed with cotton and he was breathing through his mouth. Breathing hurt. Broken ribs, broken nose. His jaw didn’t feel broken, though, which rather surprised him. And there was a tube running down his throat. Okay, so his nose was half packed with cotton and half packed with an NG tube and cotton. They’d pumped his stomach. Great. Just what he wanted.

He tried to pull himself up with his left hand. He pushed against the pain, his abdomen spiking it along with the rest of him, and he wasn’t going to let it stop him until all the blood rushed from his head and he fell back with a strangled cry.

His heart was going like mad and he was panting. He recognized it as hypovolemic shock. So he’d been wrong. He was bleeding internally, but it wasn’t that bad, or it hadn’t been that bad. They definitely didn’t know about it, though. He was right about that part.

Something started moving in the room at his yelp. He’d seen a blur of purple when he’d tried to get up, but he was still startled when it spoke.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” it said, friendly. It was a nurse. She stood and he got a look at her. Why would they have a nurse watching him? “The officers want to speak to you,” she said and went toward the door.

“Wait,” he said, “before you go.” She stopped and turned to him, still friendly. “How long have I been here?” he asked.

“About forty-five minutes,” she said, smiling. Why? Why would anyone smile at him?

He was angry that the cops had brought him here. They couldn’t just leave him in the drunk tank like everyone else, could they, and let him bleed out in peace? That was just too fucking much to ask, wasn’t it. But he was here and he obviously wasn’t going anywhere any time soon, so why not give them a heads up—maybe they’d sedate him before he passed out and he wouldn’t have to bother with them too long. Fucking doctors. Fucking cops.

“Okay,” he said flippantly, fixing his good eye on her. “You’ve got about ten minutes—maybe fifteen—before I pass out from internal bleeding. Just so you know.”

She looked askance at him, friendliness gone, as if he were the one tied to the bed.

“Don’t believe me?” he said casually. “Take a BP. Five bucks says the systolic’s under eighty.”

She tried to remain professional. “Sir, you’re—”

“You know what?” he interrupted, trying to wave his hand and rattling the rail instead, “you’re right. Nevermind. Let the fuzz in.”

“I’ll…tell the doctor,” she said, somewhere between bewildered and annoyed, and went to the door.

He wished for a moment that he wasn’t in a hospital gown that only went down to his mid-thigh and that there wasn’t a little plastic tube snaking out of his dick, taped to his leg, because this just wasn’t how he liked meeting with the cops, especially not when they’d dragged him here instead of prison where he belonged. But what really bothered him was the fact that both of his hands were tied to the bed, so he couldn’t rearrange his gown or reach for a sheet if he’d wanted to. And he did want to. Damn genetics for making him so tall and damn hospital gown manufacturers for making them so short. However, Princeton General had the kind of gown that was open in the back instead of the kind that was open in the front that PPTH had, so he wasn’t as exposed as he could be. But, all things considered, he’d rather be passed out in a cell right now, still fucked up, than loaded with saline and whatever feeble pain meds they’d given him, which weren’t doing the least bit of good. But hang on—he should still be grooving from the Vicodin. He was stone cold fucking sober instead. Shit—they must’ve figured it out and given him Naloxone and Acetylcysteine. Shit, that meant a tox screen. He was so screwed now.

He didn’t have time to dwell as two men stepped into the room followed by the nurse. House vaguely recognized one of them.

The taller one, the one who didn’t look familiar, said, “This is Officer Dodge, I’m Officer Lopez.”

“Which one of you did I hit?” House asked, trying to get a better look at them. Fuck them for bringing him here instead of leaving him to rot. So if he was fucking with them now, it was their fault.

Dodge scowled at him. That was his man.

“If I say I’m sorry, will it make it better?” House sneered.

“Sir,” Lopez said professionally, “you have the right to remain silent. I suggest you exercise that right.”

“Or what?” House said, voice dripping with sarcasm and barely repressed anger, “you’ll use it against me in court? Go ahead. See if I care.”

Dodge’s posture got aggressive and he waved a finger at House, saying through his teeth, “Just until we get you—”

“He can’t go anywhere,” a new guy interrupted, stepping into the room.

House looked at him. The night shift doc. Great.

Lopez murmured something to Dodge and held him back.

“Not until he’s cleared,” the doctor added, looking over some labs.

“Cleared?” House asked.

“You have a concussion,” the doctor said flatly, as if it were plainly obvious to everyone. He was looking down his nose at House.

“Yeah, I know,” House said, ruffled. He looked at Dodge. “Thanks.”

Dodge scowled at him again.

“And we need to get a psychiatric evaluation before we release you,” the doctor added. There was a certain wicked quality to his voice that unnerved House.

“Why?” House asked. “Last time I checked, getting into a fight with a certified jackass wasn’t grounds for a trip to the funny farm.” He looked at Dodge. “Don’t get angry, padre. I meant the other guy, not you.”

Dodge just scowled again.

“We ran a tox screen at the request of the officers,” the doctor said, tone clipped. “You nearly overdosed on Vicodin. Actually, we’re not quite sure how you managed to attack these officers at all with the amount of Vicodin and alcohol in your system. Care to explain?”

“I have a medical condition,” House groused, trying not to squirm. What was it about this guy? “And a high tolerance for pain meds.” So he was right: they’d done a tox screen. He was in for it. They’d know now and they’d never leave him alone. Another thing he’d fucked up.

“Yes,” the doctor said, “we know. We pulled your records. Your prescription is for a maximum dose of sixty milligrams per day. We found much more than that in your system.”

“So?” House said. “My leg really, really hurt today and I needed a few extra pills. It means nothing. In fact, my leg really, really hurts right now.”

“You are a doctor, Dr. House,” the doctor said, annoyed, “you know we can’t give you anything else.”

This guy. He really hated this guy.

He turned to the cops. “Doctors are sadists,” he said, “am I right?” He thought he saw Lopez’s lip twitch upward. Dodge remained surly.

“How do you know this guy?” Lopez asked the doctor.

“He works at the teaching hospital,” the doctor said tiredly, annoyed. “He’s a prick.”

“I see my reputation precedes me,” House said. He couldn’t recall pissing this guy off. He didn’t even know who this guy was. “What did I do?” he asked casually, “piss in your cornflakes?”

“Worse than that,” the doctor muttered angrily, trying to contain himself.

“Well, you’re going to have to put a name with the face,” House said. “Isn’t that customary? Don’t doctors usually, I don’t know, introduce themselves to the patient?”

“I’m Doctor Floyd,” he said lowly.

House thought for a second. Then he had it.

“Pinky!” he said, smiling as much as his busted face would let him. “Now I remember you. How’s tricks? Mind pulling this tube out of my nose? I’d do it myself, but,” he pulled at the restraints, “I’m kinda tied up here.”

Floyd growled something House didn’t catch and moved on to another topic. “Your liver—” he started to say.

“I know all about my liver,” House growled. This was neither the time nor the place and he knew for a fact that his liver wasn’t bleeding, so Floyd had nothing to say to him about it.

“I’m sure you do,” Floyd said, “but—”

“Doctor,” the nurse cut in. She indicated to something below the bed.

“What?” House said nonchalantly. “Blood in the Foley?”

The nurse looked up, astonished, and nodded. Floyd only looked angrier.

“This is the part where I get to say, ‘I told you so,’” House said. He turned to the cops. “As for you gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a few hours to get your statement. I suggest you get some coffee, maybe take a nap, or—hey, you know what would be a good idea? You could go back out and catch criminals!”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Dodge said to the doctor.

House felt himself starting to fade, getting cold, everything getting louder around him. Right on time.

“Get a BP,” the doctor snapped at the nurse. To the cops, he said, “He’s bleeding internally.”

“Hey,” House said weakly as the nurse wrapped a BP cuff around his arm, “I told ya so.” Things were fuzzy and thick around him. “And if you leave a sponge inside me,” he whispered, passing out, “I’ll…sue…your ass.”

-------------------------------

As a rule, Wilson didn’t keep a phone in his bedroom. If it was important enough to get him up at night, he’d be paged, not called. So the phone rang downstairs four times before the machine picked up and Wilson slept on upstairs next to his wife.

Great work, sy. B) Yeah, I'm waiting for the season finale, to see if the 'sides' for ep 22 are accurate or mock ups. Apparently, FOX sometimes fakes stuff like that. But, the rest of the 'sides' have been fairly accurate, so far...

If it is true, it's going to be both riveting and horrifying seeing House go into complete self-destruct mode. On one hand, it's going to be good for him to get some of that darkness, anger, self-hatred and devastation out of his soul instead of keeping it walled up and festering behind his defense mechanisms for all these years. Maybe he needs a 'dark night of the soul' before he can truly begin healing and dealing with what's happened in his life. On the other hand, it *is* seriously F'd up for him to pop several pills, add beer and chasers to the mix, and then pick a public beating (doesn't seem like a strong enough word, somehow--more along the lines of 'decimation') at the hands of a drunken Neanderthal.

I always suspected House's mental, emotional and spiritual pain *far* exceeded the 'permanent gun-shot level pain' of his leg. It looks like we might finally see some of that coming out in him. And, it's ironic if the people who love House most--Wilson, Cuddy and Cameron--are the ones who helped chip away and pull apart enough bricks in House's walls for House to finally explode, like this. House hid for a long time, shut himself down emotionally and concealed his pain behind sarcasm and verbal barbs. But, now, the mess that he's been inside is going to be reflected on the *outside.*

As I've said, before, what I'm interested in is who will be the person (or people) that looks after House when he's in this state... Wilson? Cam? Someone else?

Hugs,
Sanlin

GAH!!! :o When do you find the time to write all this?!! :blink: Updates to 'Intervention' and 'Some Days...'?! :lol: Not to mention that it's all absolutely amazing stuff!!! :D

I think I'll just send my stuff over and let you do that as well so I can catch up on my reading!!!! :lol:

Thanks sy for these wonderful stories and no matter how degrading or insulting I get don't give 'em back!!! Oh wait wrong line, no matter how much I whine ... KEEP IT COMING!!!!

That was great. I'm kinda scared for House now. As awesome as the story was, I hope it doesn't happen in the show. Maybe it makes him more human, but it doesn't really fly with my perception of House. I figured he'd get his ass kicked somehow, and egg the guy on, but I didn't think he'd go after a cop. Cool...

Wow, I meant to make you guys wait longer for another update, but my complete lack of things to do this week are playing to your advantage. ;)

---------------------------

Some Days Are Worse Than Others
Four

It was Saturday and Wilson didn’t have to be up early for work, so he slept in. He would’ve slept in longer but the dog whined to go out at seven-thirty and Julie nudged him—it was supposedly his dog, after all—and he got up. The morning was cool and he hissed at the dog to hurry up. He collected the newspaper and the dog and went back inside to make coffee and then spend the morning on the article he was writing.

If he could concentrate.

Stacy’s appearance had stirred up House and House had stirred him up. He couldn’t even speak to House yesterday, not after the shouting match they’d had Thursday afternoon. It wasn’t as though Wilson didn’t understand how difficult the situation was for House. He’d weighed that a few months ago when he’d agreed to meet with Stacy for dinner on that ill-fated night. The look on House’s face when he’d spilled about why he couldn’t make the Monster Truck Wet Dream…yes, he knew House didn’t think he needed to be protected from anything, but the look on his face made it pretty damn clear that he did need protection, no matter what he thought.

And at that point, it had only been a consult with her—perfectly innocent except that it fell on a bad night. She’d explained over the phone that she was coming on behalf of her husband and that she didn’t want Greg to know. As if she had to tell him that. He’d been there and he knew that things had gone about as bad as they could possibly go given that neither House nor Stacy intended to hurt each other. And he’d watched silently over the years as House struggled to deal with the aftermath. House never really had dealt with it—that was the disease behind the festering sore that had become his life. And being House, he didn’t acknowledge it either. They didn’t talk about Stacy at all. Until their dinner date three months ago, Wilson was sure it had been at least three years since he’d even uttered her name in House’s presence. He didn’t know what went on in House’s head most of the time and when it came to Stacy, things were no different, but he imagined House spent the better part of his days trying not to think about her or any other hypothetical ‘ifs’ and ‘maybes’.

But, damn it all, Stacy had done the right thing and gone about doing it the right way. She’d been clandestine to spare Greg. Wilson appreciated that. At dinner, he could see how torn she was between the desperate need to help her husband and empathy for Greg. Wilson knew that she hadn’t wanted to mess with him. She knew how hard things were for him (after Wilson had told her, but she’d imagined it pretty well, Wilson discovered; she did, after all, know him well). She wasn’t out to hurt him. That was part of the reason he’d agreed that she should bring the case to House. He also knew House would be interested in the case purely as a case. But most of all, he knew that if she came back, it might force House to deal with the pain he still carried around like a cross every day, that made him swallow Vicodin like his liver wasn’t about to fail and avoid forming new relationships like they’d kill him if he even tried.

That was what the whole dysfunctional business with Cameron had been about. Even though he’d taken Cameron aside and been about as threatening as he ever got to her, warning her to be careful around House and to be absolutely sure she wanted this, because she couldn’t possibly know what she was getting into, he admired the depth of feeling she had for him and the sheer tenacity she displayed. He knew House’s thoughts on the subject: Cameron was hot, she needed to grow up and get over herself, and as much as he tried to avoid admitting it, he felt something for her. Wilson knew that what House felt could only go so deep; House wouldn’t allow himself to go past a certain level anymore. And that business had ended…well, like it had ended. Maybe things would be different once House got over himself and grew up too. Wilson, for one, hoped that having Stacy around, having House see that she had moved on and picked her life up, might help him.

Sure, Stacy hadn’t lost nearly as much and, amazingly, she wasn’t as sensitive as House was. She’d been House’s first serious adult relationship. House had had plenty of flings and a few steady girlfriends before her, but nothing like the intensity and seriousness of the relationship he had with Stacy. If life hadn’t screwed him over, House may have become a normal person with a kid bouncing on his knee, a house in the suburbs, and any job he wanted in the country. Of course, Wilson knew House never stood a chance of being ‘normal,’ not in any conventional way, not with his gifts and his drive, but he could’ve had it so much better than he had it now. Simply put, he could have been happy.

But that was an extreme version of how things could have gone. Wilson knew quite a bit about how what one intended to happen in a relationship didn’t always happen like one intended it to; Stacy could have screwed him over and House could have just as easily screwed her over. Shit happened in relationships. But at least it would’ve been easier to assign blame and move on, and House wouldn’t have been left with a crippling injury that had in no way been his fault. Wilson had never been entirely certain why Stacy had left, but one thing he did know was that it hadn’t been the leg, not physically at least, and it hadn’t been that she didn’t want to give him the care he needed, and it hadn’t been a host of other things that added up to, in short, him. It was something she felt bad about instead. It had been her, something in herself that she couldn’t deal with. Wilson didn’t know what it was, but it was what had driven her away. And House—House hadn’t understood at all, nor did Wilson blame him. He’d thought he was going to die. Wilson had thought that too, though he’d hoped fervently that House would beat the odds. And once he’d lost everything and found himself still breathing, thinking, feeling, living—House had never gotten over it.

Wilson had hoped that time would help. He tried his best to help too. He’d agreed that Stacy could bring the case to House on the condition that he be given a little time to prepare House for it. But then Vogler had arrived and shot his plans all to hell, and then Cameron had started putting on the moves with abandon, and between running interference on the two, Wilson didn’t have time to soften the blow. Suddenly the months had passed and there she was, file in hand, doing her best to be attentive to the fact that House was still hurting over her, but hurting herself over her husband. And House had been himself—sour, unruly, rude, and unapproachable—times ten. If House had acted like an animal with its leg caught in a trap ever since the infarction, growling at everyone who tried to help him, then he was acting like the same wounded animal now, except that he was cornered and surrounded by advancing predators. He’d been merciless to everyone, lashing out in all directions. And as much as Wilson understood what was going on, why House was acting the way he was, he knew that House had been driven to a point so desperate that he was either going to be captured and rescued or gnaw his leg off and escape. Captured and rescued entailed several enormous fights. That’s what the detox bet had been about—one of the first enormous fights. But now everything was at a fever pitch.

And yes, Wilson had snapped on Thursday. He could only take it so long—House’s stubborn insistence that he was fine, that he didn’t need anyone’s help. Wilson wasn’t proud of it, the way he’d unleashed on House Thursday, but it was necessary. He’d said things that House needed to hear—things that he knew House had heard for a long time from Cuddy, but it was different coming from him and he knew that. And if House had sulked all day Friday, well, that was too bad. He’d needed to hear it from him for two reasons: Wilson was closer to him than anyone else and he trusted that Wilson would never hurt him. If House saw their fight on Thursday as a betrayal of that trust, well then, he needed to grow the fuck up and get over himself. And Wilson would do his best to see that that happened as painlessly as possible, despite the fight they’d had.

Wilson had come home Thursday angry and frustrated, cursing House for having borrowed his punching bag, and went out on a vicious five mile run. Then Friday…on Friday, every time he saw House, he’d seen anger and he’d known not to mess with him, that it was just too soon, that some days were worse than others for him and this was one of the bad ones. He hadn’t called him last night—not because he didn’t care, but because he knew it was still too soon. He’d pushed hard, harder than he’d ever pushed before, and he knew enough to back off for a little while so House could cool off. He’d call him this afternoon, because whether House liked it or not, they needed to have a serious conversation.

He sat down with a cup of coffee and unfolded the newspaper. He hated feeling this way. So helpless, so frustrated, so angry. It wasn’t who he was. Only House could bring it out in him like this. He felt anger start burning in his chest and flipped to the sports page, trying hard to concentrate on the box score of the last Red Sox game and predictions for NBA playoffs.

The blinking red light of the answering machine caught his eye.

He hadn’t heard the phone and they didn’t often get calls in the middle of the night—well, not from people who’d leave a message. House never left a message—he’d page Wilson if it was really important—and Wilson’s girlfriends all knew not to leave a message. So it must be someone for Julie. Anger flashed again in his chest, this time for a different reason, and he washed the mug out, getting ready to go upstairs to take a shower.

He was half-way to the staircase when the phone rang again.

Yay! More! B)/Aghh! More cliffhangers! LOL *g* Thanks for spoiling us with so many chapters, sy. :)

I like your 'read' on Wilson's clandestine meeting with Stacy... I can see something like that happening. It would have to be a compelling reason for Wilson not to have gone to the Monster Truck Rally with House. And, more importantly, for him to attempt to conceal his meeting with Stacy.

I like the 'trapped animal' metaphor, too. That's how House seemed to me near the end of "Detox." Trapped, cornered--forced to face some of the things that he'd been lying to himself about, hiding from, and living 'shut down' and cut off from his emotions.

Also, I completely agree that House has to finally deal with everything from his past--the infarction, Stacy, etc.--before he can hope to move on. Hiding and trying to wall himself off from people and his emotions hasn't worked.

Yeah, life never stops, no matter what's going on. House has been hit by a lot of hard, highly-emotional things, lately... the detox, Vogler, Cam, Chase's betrayal, and so on... and now, boom, here comes Stacy. No wonder he went into meltdown mode. Even if House was healthy, happy, and well-adjusted, instead of royally F'd up, that would be a lot for *anyone* to deal with...

Waiting for the phone call... :-)

Hugs,
Sanlin

Aaaahhh. *rips out hair and squirms around* NOOOO!!!! I hate you for leaving us hanging like this. But then i love you for writing such a FREAKING AWESOME fic so all i can say is MORE!! MORE!! MORE!!! *starts chanting* oh and on the point of sounding selfish write as quickly as humanly possible but still make the story good because i'm dying for more. :D Keep up the good work :lol:

You guys are so spoiled. :P

---------------------------

Some Days Are Worse Than Others
Five

Cuddy didn’t take many weekends off. Her job was her life, but even if it hadn’t been, it would still require her to work longer hours and more days than most. But it was what she wanted. It was what she was good at. And most of the time, she loved it, or at the very least, enjoyed it a great deal. So she got up around eight most Saturdays and spent the better part of the morning at the office. Right now she was sitting in her bathrobe having a cup of coffee before she started the day, thinking things over.

Yes, she loved her job, but there were, of course, rough patches here and there. Taking over the reins had been difficult—getting everyone used to the idea that she was the boss and implementing the changes she wanted to make. There had been some hard fights, too, with a variety of entities—unions, the government, the university, the town—that saw things differently and had a different agenda. She’d worked through them like a good administrator should: equitably and swiftly. And then Edward Vogler had shown up with a wad of cash and an obsessive-compulsive desire to create the hospital in his own image: an evil empire that was entirely at odds with what she believed in personally and professionally, yet one which was mitigated by said wad of cash.

Things probably would have been fine—everyone would’ve made the adjustment and carried on like always, if Vogler hadn’t done what no one in his right mind should ever do: he’d pushed House and he’d pushed him hard. Of the many things House wouldn’t tolerate, pushing was perhaps the one that made him recoil the most, and, as per Newton’s law, he reacted by pushing back. And though they needed the money—what hospital didn’t need the money—it had been House who’d forced the board into making the right choice. Which remained so surreal that she’d find herself looking up from time to time to see whether the sky had turned purple or to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

House. If it weren’t for him and his surprising ability to grow a conscience overnight, the hospital would still have loads of dough and an uncompromising businessman at the helm. Which would most probably have been to the detriment of the hospital. It seemed that nearly every major conflict—or, at least, the major conflicts that had gotten to her the most—involved House in some way. He liked to think that he could get away with anything, and he pretty well could, but that didn’t mean he had to rub it in her face. And it certainly didn’t mean he had to (or even could) rub it in Vogler’s face. But he had. By himself. It was as if he’d suddenly become a superhero to Vogler’s supervillain. Perhaps that was it. House just needed an equal and opposite force to react to in order for him to become a force for good. She shook her head at the comic book overtones of the whole thing. House would just love it if he knew she’d ever thought of him as a superhero out of a comic book.

She wasn’t much of a believer in the idea that one person could change the world—rather, it was more like many people doing many things which added up to something big which changed the world—but when it came to House, most of her beliefs went flying out the window and were subsequently hit by a bus and ground into the blacktop until they were no longer recognizable. He still got to her. He would probably always get to her. She liked to think nothing got to her. But House would always be different. He did that to people—to the small handful he’d deigned worthy of his daily attention, which usually came in the form of denigration—he changed them. He always had a profound effect, one way or another.

Look at Wilson. House and Wilson were a matched set—the embodiment of Plato’s theory of the spirit whereby it was split when born into flesh and lived life to reunite with its other half. Sex, for Plato at least, had nothing to do with it. Nor did love, really, except in the fraternal sense. It was instinct. The idea of them sleeping together…well, she knew what House was like in that department, how he needlessly complicated things, and she couldn’t imagine Wilson bearing it. Bearing House at work and as a friend was one thing. Having to sleep with him, whether that meant sex or just sharing a bed, was another thing entirely. House was an extremely private person for all his blustering façade; she knew how much trouble he had with intimacy—not so much a fear of it as a total lack of understanding of it, as if he’d been born without that part of his brain. It would be cute, though, House and Wilson together, making a little home in the country with a white picket fence and swans or peacocks or some equally ridiculous animal parading around a koi pond. She smiled a little at the thought, pushing the swans aside. House and Wilson together. It was cute.

But House wasn’t ready for that. Odds were that House would never be ready for that. Watching him this week with Stacy, the little gestures he made and expressions he wore when he thought no one was looking—they were so telling, and she understood him much better now. That is, she’d always understood why House was so pissed off at the world, but she’d never really known on a visceral level how that felt. Seeing it acted out before her gave her a pretty good visceral understanding. Telling him her decision yesterday had been one of the worst things she’d ever had to do in the line of duty, so to speak. Her loyalty was to the hospital first. Hiring Stacy was for the good of the hospital. She was damn good at her job and a good lawyer who wasn’t hell to work with was hard to find. Cuddy tried not to think about how young Stacy had seemed ten years ago just like she tried not to think about how precarious House’s existence had been at that time, though she was reminded of that every time she looked at him, even when she was so mad she’d like to kill him herself.

He wasn’t fragile, but if he were dropped one more time, she was sure he’d break. She’d been edgy yesterday when he’d walked so resolutely away after spending a good five minutes looking like he’d been shot. She’d nearly followed him, but what could she have said? That part of House’s past had always been closed to her, even if she’d been a witness and a party to it. What had happened between him and Stacy…she wasn’t even sure if Wilson knew all of the details. She’d nearly followed him anyway. He’d been hanging by a thread all week and she was worried that she’d seen it snap last night. But she wasn’t his friend anymore. She was his boss, his colleague, one of his verbal sparring partners, and occasionally his doctor, but she’d long since ceased to be his friend. She couldn’t have followed him in any of those roles. That was what Wilson was for.

But this entire train of thought was wrecking her day. She’d been sitting over an empty coffee cup for ten minutes now. She tried to think about something else—budget reports, conferences, anything that she had control over—as she went to take a shower. She didn’t have much luck.

She’d just finished dressing and was about to leave for a quiet morning’s work when the phone rang.

She answered it, wondering who it could be so early.

"Lisa? It’s James Wilson.” But it didn’t sound like Wilson. Wilson didn’t sound low and gruff and scared like this.

“Dr. Wilson,” she said, surprised, “what's up?” She couldn’t recall him ever calling her at home before, let alone at 8:30 on a Saturday morning.

His voice was tight on the other end of the line.

“I’m at Princeton General,” he said. “I need you to get down here. House has done something incredibly stupid. He’s—” Wilson cut himself off. She could practically hear him biting his lip on the other end.

Her gut tightened. She knew what the tone in Wilson’s voice meant and she knew the answer to her next question before she’d formulated it.

“Is he okay?” she asked.

“No,” Wilson said and immediately corrected himself, hesitant tone in his voice. “I mean, yes, he’s—he will be okay, but—look, I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. Can you come or not?”

“Yeah,” she said, “I’ll be right there.”

There was a click on the other end and the line went dead. She put the phone down, shocked. The way he’d said it. She shook her head slowly, trying to process what he’d said.

She’d watched House walk away yesterday, so resolutely. She knew that whatever it was, it was big and it was ugly and it scared the hell out of her.

---------------------------------

All things considered, House was doing well. Remarkably well for a man his age and in his condition who’d ingested so much poison. He’d come out of surgery with no complications and they were monitoring him closely in the ICU, concerned primarily with his head injury at the moment. Wilson hadn’t been up to see him yet. He couldn’t—he didn’t know what to say. So he paced and waited for Cuddy to arrive.

When he’d answered the phone and a voice on the other end told him that House had been in a fight, assaulted a policeman, and was in the ICU after emergency surgery, he’d nearly dropped the phone and he’d had to work himself to a chair quickly or he would’ve dropped himself. He was House’s next of kin. He got the call if House was in trouble. And House was in major trouble.

Physically, he’d be fine, of course. He wasn’t going to have the greatest week or two, but he’d heal up. The bleeding wasn’t too bad and they’d caught it early. He’d had a pint of blood and the labs they’d just drawn were looking good. The assessment of his mental status from the ER indicated that he was fine there as well—or at least that the concussion hadn’t affected him. Even his leg—he’d somehow managed to do no damage whatsoever to it according to the preliminary examination. House’s own guy would have to take a look at it to be sure, but Wilson wasn’t worried. Not about House’s leg anyway. Not about any other part of House’s body. If Greg had been his patient, as a doctor, he’d be done by now. The rest, though. The rest wasn’t something he could fix nearly as easily as stopping a bleed or setting a wrist.

The fact was that his best friend had ODed and gone psycho in a bar and he was now lying in the ICU, tied to the bed and on a suicide watch. Even the fact that he’d hit a cop wasn’t worrisome.

No. What worried him was that Greg had done what he always feared Greg might do: he’d tried to kill himself. Wilson had always pictured him swallowing a bottle of Vicodin in his living room, though, not getting his ass kicked in a seedy bar. If that was really what had happened—the cops’ story wasn’t very detailed. Wilson made a mental note to check the bar out later and talk to some people.

Getting into a fight just wasn’t Greg’s style. So Wilson recognized this for what it was: an agonized cry for help. But House wouldn’t see it that way. It was up to him—him and Cuddy—to make Greg see it that way. To do something at least. That was why he’d called Cuddy. Right now, he felt paralyzed. He needed someone who cared about House, knew what the last week had done to him, and who was still reasonably objective. There was only one person in the world who fit that description.

He hoped she got here fast.

Ahhh!
*chokes*
God you are so good! I was crying at the last bit of Wilson's part where I was talking about this being a cry for help for House.
Awesome...just...awesome. You realize you have totally spoiled me. I need more...I've become an addict.

Here's some more. I've been meaning to write back to you guys regarding the reviews, but this fic has simply run away with me at the moment. Pennywise--LOVE your icon. "He loves lamp." That Brick. :D Will hopefully write more back to you guys for being so cool to review when I'm not about to pass out from the nice sleepy meds.

--------------------------

Six

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

—W.B. Yeats, “The Second Coming”

Wilson paced a six foot line in front of the hospital’s reception area. Step step step step step step turn. Step step step step step step turn. Back and forth, chewing on his left thumbnail as he went. He’d stopped biting his fingers when he was a kid and he didn’t realize he was doing it now. He’d wonder later how his thumbnail got to be so gnawed.

The call had caught him completely off-guard. He’d been in boxers and an undershirt, fresh out of bed, and once he’d hung up and he was able to move again, he’d run upstairs and snatched the first pair of pants and shirt he came across, grabbed socks and shoes, pulling everything on as he ran back down the stairs, barely sitting to tie the shoes, and sped out of the driveway. So many things had been flashing through his head that he didn’t realize until later, after he’d had a look at House’s chart and labs, called Cuddy, and started pacing, that the raggedy old jeans and black Rolling Stones t-shirt he was wearing were Greg’s, borrowed after some drunken night months ago. They were on top in the drawer because he’d been meaning to return them. He hadn’t even thought as he grabbed them. He didn’t think about them now, except to register who they belonged to and feel a brief stab at their significance. He wouldn’t have a lot left if he lost House. But one thing he couldn’t take right now was thinking about what this meant to him. He forced himself instead to think again about House and what to do with him. Because everything had changed last night. Everything.

Where was Cuddy? He was going to lose it if he had to wait much longer.

Step step step step step step turn. Step step step step step step turn. Step step step—he heard the unmistakable no-nonsense clack of her heels on the linoleum floor and turned to see her fast approaching, looking very concerned, and about as overdressed as he was underdressed.

“Where is he?” she asked immediately.

Wilson hesitated. This news was so big, so life-changing. It reminded him of every time he had to tell a patient they were going to die. If he could preserve the innocence of their not-knowing, he’d do just about anything. The burden of knowledge was heavy sometimes.

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s in the ICU,” he said slowly. At the look of panic on Cuddy’s face, he snapped out of it. “He started a fight last night in a bar and got pretty beat up. They had to operate to stop some bleeding, but he’s doing fine.” Wilson took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “He’ll be fine.”

She looked at him, reading his face. “That’s not it,” she said.

“He hit a cop,” Wilson said, cringing at her cringe. “They arrested him, but he passed out and they brought him here.”

She shook her head, eyes boring into him. “That’s not it, either.”

“You’re right,” Wilson said, rubbing his neck again and looking at the floor. He didn’t think he could say it, so he produced a folder and handed it to her instead.

She took it and read. It was a tox screen time stamped late last night.

Of the three things she expected Gregory House to do one day, this was the one that frightened her the most. The other two—him doing further damage to his leg and him going on a shooting rampage—didn’t concern her as much. This was the hardest one of those things to fix.

“He ODed,” she said quietly, not looking up from the folder.

“Yeah,” Wilson said, nodding his head, hand still on his neck. “He did.”

She closed the folder and looked up at him.

He couldn’t face her. “Let’s…sit,” he said and moved awkwardly toward a chair.

“You haven’t seen him?” she asked, taking a seat across from him, noting how rattled he looked.

“No,” he said, sitting forward and clasping his hands together, elbows on his knees. It was his consult posture. The serious consults. Not the ones House called him in on. Because if he thought of this as a consult, it was easier. “I wanted to see you first.”

She nodded, understanding. If this was hard for her, it must be overwhelming for Wilson, though they’d both known it might happen at any time. But knowing it was a possibility and having it happen were two entirely different things.

“Did you see him last night?” she asked. She could feel it already. As with the infarction, she could tell that this was going to be another one of those things she’d always secretly blame herself for.

“No,” Wilson said. They were both talking in hollow tones. “I went straight home.” He paused, hesitant. “We…had a disagreement Thursday afternoon,” he said, looking down again. “I didn’t speak to him at all yesterday.”

She could see this, also, forming: that Wilson would always blame himself for this too.

“Then you don’t know,” she said, searching his face when he looked up at her. She saw only confusion and weariness.

“Know what?” he asked, wishing that whatever it was, he didn’t have to know. He knew too much already.

“I…spoke to him late yesterday afternoon about hiring Stacy back,” she said slowly. She saw anger flash in Wilson’s eyes for a millisecond before the mask was back in place. He was taking this very badly. “She said that she’d only come back if he approved of it, so I had to ask him.”

“I see,” Wilson said, tone clipped, chest tightening. Of course he understood. It was her job. What Greg had done made a lot more sense now. “Did he say yes?” he asked. He knew the answer already. What could he have said?

She nodded. “He did.” Now it was her turn to study the floor. “But way he took it when I told him—the way he looked, the way he left—I should have known.”

“We both should’ve known,” Wilson said, trying not to sound as dejected as he felt. “We did know. We just…didn’t catch it.” He looked up at her suddenly. “I don’t think he meant it.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, seeing the look in his eyes change, the mask falling away, despair creeping in.

“He wouldn’t do it this way,” Wilson said beseechingly, desperate for her to believe him but trying to keep the tone out of his voice. “He didn’t plan this.” Why couldn’t he say it right?

But she understood. “I agree,” she said. “But it doesn’t change the fact that he knowingly and, I presume willfully, overdosed. We can’t ignore it.”

“I know,” Wilson said. “I wasn’t suggesting we ignore it. I was suggesting…” he trailed off, looking at the wall, and sighed. “I don’t know what I was suggesting,” he said. He looked back at her, his gaze piercing and utterly helpless. “I don’t know what to do.”

He was definitely taking this hard. She was starting to worry about him. She’d never seen him lose control like this before.

“Well…” Cuddy started, going into business mode, “we’ll transfer him as soon as he’s stable.” She paused, then said with the kind of conviction that meant she was trying to get herself to believe it too, “Appadurai’s good. She can handle him.”

Wilson nodded. This was why he’d called her, because she knew what to do, and because he couldn’t do this alone.

“He’s got to deal with this,” she continued, more sure of herself now. “I don’t want him back at work until he does. It’s not good for him and it’s not good for the patients.”

Wilson nodded again. He rubbed his face with his hands and sighed. Why did his chest feel tight? Why was his throat closing up like he was about to cry? He fought it. If Cuddy didn’t say something soon…

“Do you have his chart?” she asked carefully, keeping her tone neutral, not acknowledging the anguish she saw on his face. She knew it wouldn’t help if she did.

“No,” Wilson said, feeling better, less lost, less helpless, now that he had a question he could answer. “It’s upstairs,” he said, relieved that he didn’t sound as shaky as he felt. “Why?”

“How bad is he physically?” she asked, tone calm, though it was painful to watch Wilson right now.

Wilson took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to get himself back under control. This kind of question he could handle.

“He’s not great,” he said. “Concussion, broken nose, broken wrist, a few broken ribs, lots of soft tissue damage,” he ticked them off as if he were looking at a diagnostic dummy from med school. None of this applied to his friend. These were abstract broken bones in an abstract body. He needed to remain as clinical as possible if he was going to make it through the next few hours. “Nothing that won’t heal.”

He paused, looking at her, and realized what she’d been asking. “Knowing him?” he said, “he’d try to walk out of here tomorrow if he wasn’t tied down.”

God, that sounded bad. He felt himself starting to shake and his breathing quickened. He fought it.

She looked surprised, so he continued, “He was combative when they brought him in,” he said, wondering why his chest felt tight again, “and one of the officers was adamant that he be restrained.”

She was surprised, but not overly so. She’d seen the tox screen. But Wilson. He looked like he was falling apart.

“What have they given him?” she asked, lobbing him another easy one. She saw his hands starting to shake.

“They gave him a shot of Demerol before I arrived,” he said, sounding shaky even to himself. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he get a grip? “I told them to be as conservative with the pain meds as possible.”

Cuddy nodded. “I think that’s best,” she said, alarmed, but keeping her voice steady.

“Yeah,” Wilson said, breathing really fast now, “but he’s in pain.” What was happening to him? His hands were tingling and he felt sick to his stomach. He put his head in his hands and leaned forward, looking at the floor and panting.

Cuddy was at his side in a flash, sitting on the edge of the chair to his left. “Wilson?” she said, grabbing his left shoulder, “are you okay?”

He tried to breathe, shaking harder, his feet starting to tingle. “Yeah…” he said, “I think…” But he didn’t know. He didn’t know.

And then he realized what it was and dropped his head, letting out a shaky laugh between pants. “Panic attack,” he said, trying to slow his breathing now that he knew what it was. “God,” he said between breaths, “I feel so stupid.”

Cuddy moved her hand to the middle of his back and started rubbing in gentle circles, holding onto his shoulder with her other hand, feeling him shake and shudder and gasp for air beneath the thin material of the ancient t-shirt he was wearing. She had never seen him like this before. “It’s okay,” she said soothingly, “it happens.”

“Yeah,” he said, still shaking but breathing slower now, “but…I still feel stupid.”

He took a deep breath and she felt him shudder under her hand. She looked away, trying not to notice that he was wiping tears out of his eyes.

They sat like that for a minute until she felt him stop shaking and get his breathing under control again. She gave him a final rub and squeezed his shoulder, then broke contact. She heard him say “Thanks” softly to the floor and smiled sadly.

Wilson felt like an absolute idiot. He knew he shouldn’t, that if he was ever going to have a panic attack, now was the time, but he felt idiotic nonetheless. Having his boss rub his back in the middle of a panic attack was possibly one of the most humiliating scenarios he could imagine and it had just happened, tears and all. He wasn’t used to this, to being on this side of the glass. It royally sucked.

He sighed and rubbed his face, feeling better but worn out now. He picked up the folder that had been sitting in the chair to his right and passed it to her.

“There’s also this,” he said, sounding steadier but still shaken.

She took it wordlessly and read it. She shook her head at what it told her and read it again.

After a moment, she said in disbelief, “He can’t be doing that bad, can he?”

“No,” Wilson said tiredly, still looking at the floor. “The numbers are skewed. I asked them to run it again, but I think it’s pretty safe to say that he’s in the early stages of liver failure.” He paused, the bitter, metallic taste of fear in his mouth. “He must have known, too.”

Cuddy nodded slowly to herself. She closed the folder and handed it back to Wilson, who tossed it back in the chair next to him.

She stood and went to the receptionist, asking for a cup. She filled it with water and brought it back to Wilson, who took it gratefully and sipped from it.

“It can wait,” she said, professional and clinical again. “Right now, I’m going to go talk to his doctors.” She paused, softening the next sentence just enough that it wouldn’t hurt him because it was too soft or too hard, “Come find me when you’re ready.” She’d forgotten that she could be good at this.

Wilson nodded at the floor, still hunched forward in the chair, paper cup of water in his hand. She turned and he heard her heels clacking away on the floor.

He was such a fool. How would he ever be able to talk to House when he couldn’t keep it together enough to talk about House?

He rubbed his face again with his left hand and drug his fingers through his hair, tugging at his scalp. He sat back in the chair, sprawling out, and took another sip of water. He hadn’t had a panic attack since med school and it had only happened once then. He’d thought he was under control. He’d thought that then and he’d thought that until just now.

He remembered how he’d felt when Vogler’d motioned to fire him—how betrayed, how angry, how helpless. It was a lot like he felt now, but it wasn’t about anyone’s job this time. It was so much more serious than that now.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He felt better. He didn’t realize how badly he’d needed a release. This week had been really hard. That, he supposed, was what he got for letting House borrow his punching bag. He smiled wryly. Fat lot of good it had done either of them.

He fingered the thin fabric of the shirt, looking down at it. Rolling Stones Steel Wheels North American Tour 1989 it read with a picture of the band instead of the usual giant red tongue. Nicely faded and worn, very comfortable. Maybe he’d keep the shirt to teach House a lesson. He smiled at that thought and finished the water, squeezing the paper cup in his hand as he stood. He gathered up the labs, threw the cup away, and walked toward the elevator.

He could do this.

Wow- Sy, you are amazing. I'm actually afraid that the spoilers actually point to this as the way of the ending of the season, because if it does, I'm afraid *I* may be the one having a panic attack! Wonderful work as usual, amazing.

I think I am going to be severely disappointed in the upcoming episodes after reading this...their writers are good, but not this good. Awesome.

Mmkay, this is gonna be the last update for a week or two. I simply cannot put off my papers any longer. (Grrr, stupid papers :angry: ) Thanks to everyone for commenting. I'll try to get back to this as soon as I can, which I'm hoping will be sooner rather than later. :)

At least this chapter doesn't end with a cliffhanger. :P

------------------------------

Seven

What is forgiveness?
It’s just a dream.
What is forgiveness?
It’s everything.

—…And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead, "Another Morning Stoner"


Wilson ended up taking the stairs, tired as he was. A few flights, taking them slowly, was what he needed and he felt better by the time he reached the fifth floor.

Cuddy was still talking to House’s doctor when he got to the ICU. She glanced at him in mid-sentence and he nodded that he was okay.

One of the nurses saw him and handed him a folder. House’s liver test. He opened it. House was doing about like he’d expected him to be doing, though the results were still skewed. He needed to get off the Vicodin immediately. Wilson knew how that would go—the same way it went a few months ago with that bet between House and Cuddy that had been his idea. Drug addiction was no longer at the top of House’s list of worries now, though. What he’d done last night made everything else insignificant.

Cuddy wrapped up her conversation and came over to him.

He handed her the file. She read it and nodded to herself.

"So..." Wilson said, "…what now?"

"I talked to his doctor about a transfer," she said. "He agreed to do it as soon as House is stable."

"About that," Wilson said. "I’m not sure if it’s such a good idea. I know we’ve got better people, but word would get out. I don’t think he could take that right now."

"Good point," she said, "but we can keep a closer eye on him on our turf with our people. As for his pride—he signed it over last night when he took those pills."

"That may be true," Wilson said, "but I don’t think he needs this right now—he might shut down completely. We need to be able to get through to him and we need his trust for that. Give him a choice."

"Okay," she conceded. "Are you ready?"

He nodded.

A nurse went into the room before them. Cuddy squeezed his shoulder and gave him a brave smile. He tried to smile back before he pushed the door open.

--------------------------------

House blinked against the steady beep of the heart monitor and tried to breathe. The shot of Demerol they’d given him an hour ago had begun to wear off, but when he’d asked for a top off, they’d refused. The loopy buzz of anesthesia had worn off hours ago, much faster than it should have, because they insisted on waking him up every fifteen minutes to ask him the same dumb neuro questions. Yes, he knew who he was and where he was and when it was. What he also knew was that his body needed sleep to heal and that he wanted to sleep so he wouldn’t have to think and feel, and his wants and needs were usually so out of tune with each other that he resented them for screwing this one time that they were in synch up.

The first hour after surgery had been a pleasant haze punctuated by nudges and mumbles that were over quickly and let him ease back to sleep. One of the neuro checks in the second hour catapulted him into wakefulness and he looked around the room, annoyed, until everything came flooding back to him. He wheedled some ice chips and Demerol out of the nurse and grumbled about the TV until she turned it on and put the remote by his left hand. He really should be resting. Hmph. Didn’t they get that having something to turn his attention to was better for him now than having nothing, which would turn his thoughts inward and cause him untold distress? But no matter. The TV was on and he was relatively comfortable, in and out of sleep, watching infomercials and answering neuro questions for some two or three hours.

The surgeon and anesthesiologist had looked in on him—he was fine, he felt okay, though he could use some more Demerol and a better cable package—and then an array of clear liquids appeared and the nurse was adjusting the bed and taking off the oxygen mask and then, to his everlasting chagrin, holding juice with a straw in it for him because the doctor didn’t want his restraints removed. Not even one so he could hold the juice himself, the bastard. Yeah, the guy with the broken ribs, bum leg, and one hand out of commission who’s also fresh out of surgery is going to sit up, undo his restraints, and walk out of there before anyone can catch him just because they let him have one hand free to hold the juice himself. Sure. Shit, he could barely move his head without getting dizzy and nauseous from the pain and drugs. They’d given him some crap about how he’d tried to yank out his NG tube when he’d come out of surgery and how he’d been struggling against the restraints when he slept, which indicated blah blah blah. Come the fuck on. They had a babysitter in the room with him, flipping through Cosmo, and even if she was doing her level best to ignore him, he wasn’t exactly going to sneak out from right under her nose. This suicide watch crap. It was just that—crap. But they weren’t listening when he said he hadn’t meant it and since talking made his head and chest hurt, he did his best to grin and bear it, ignoring her like she ignored him, thankful he hadn’t pulled a chatty sitter.

Then one of the cops from the night before had come in—the nice cop, what was his name?—and taken a statement. House was brusque even though the cop tried to be understanding. Why did he hit the officer? He didn’t know. He was fucked up. Why did he resist arrest? The same. He didn’t feel like explaining. He didn’t even feel like reporting the robbery. The cop eventually left him alone and he went back to sleeping and waking and sleeping and waking, wanting very badly to tear the tube out of his nose, but no, he wasn’t ready they said, he’d thrown up the juice earlier and, hey, he was a doctor, he knew what that meant, it needed to stay in for a while, but fucking come on, he was fine, his gut was fine, and the damn thing was so uncomfortable.

But no. No. They weren’t listening. He should rest and give it time. No way. How could he rest with a tube down his throat, constant, annoying, bothering the hell out of him? It was simple: he couldn’t. So he squirmed until he got tired, faded for a while, and started squirming again, and faded again, back and forth with neuro checks thrown in for good measure until they day shift came on. They’d bugged him for a solid ten minutes with all kinds of checks—vitals, pain, incision, neuro, the works—but he’d gotten another hit of Demerol out of it, enough to get him good and high for about half an hour this time, but it hadn’t lasted, the buzz.

He was horribly awake, horribly able to think. He wanted to curl up and go to sleep for a long time, to stop thinking, but they wouldn’t give him a top off. Said he was fine. Bullshit. He knew when he was fine, and he wasn’t fine now. He’d drawn a day-shift sitter who laughed maniacally at every distinctly un-funny thing Matt Lauer said. She was ruining television for him. That made him suicidal. His head hurt like a motherfucker. He needed another hit of Demerol. No one should have to sit through this. He pressed the call button and waited, tugging idly at his left restraint to make the rail rattle and piss off the sitter.

The door opened and the sitter quieted down. A nurse came in and removed his oxygen mask. "You’ve got some visitors," she said.

Before he could get a word out, he looked up and saw Wilson, who looked shocked and pale and was…wearing his clothes? What?! Wilson?! In my clothes?! Maybe the concussion had done some damage after all.

"What’re you doing in my clothes?" he asked stupidly, blinking his good eye, wondering if he was dreaming. He automatically tried to reach up and rub his face with his left hand, pulling on the restraint instead. Dammit.

Then he saw Cuddy step in next to Wilson. Now he was definitely dreaming. Or maybe cracked in the head.

"What’re you doing here?" he said to her. This wasn’t right. God, his head hurt. He wanted them to go away.

He looked back to Wilson, noticing the clothes he wore again.

"You haven’t replaced me already, have you?" he said to Cuddy.

Cuddy gave him a small glare and turned to the sitter. "Could you leave us alone for a few minutes?" she said.

He heard the sitter get up and leave. He remembered the nurse. He looked at her, confused. "This isn’t why I called you," he said, "but they’re real, right?" He indicated to Cuddy and Wilson with a slight nod of his head.

She nodded and he cursed inwardly. He had naively hoped that he would slip under the radar, or at least that he’d have the morning to himself. That he wouldn’t have to deal with anyone until after he’d gotten some real sleep.

"O…kay," he said. "I need some more Demerol then. My head is killing me." He tried to reach up with his hand again to rub his head and made the rail rattle again instead. He hit the mattress with his fist, frustrated, and the pulse-ox monitor slipped off his index finger.

Cuddy grabbed his arm, holding him still, and put it back on. "No," she said angrily, "no more drugs." She looked at the nurse, dismissing her.

"What?!" he said as loudly and angrily as he could, which only made his head hurt more, and started tugging hard at the left restraint, accidentally elbowing himself in the ribs. "Aghh," he groaned, "why?!"

"You just had 50 milligrams," she said. "That’s more than enough." She was concerned. He looked like crap. But she needed to be firm with him now. And the way he was tugging leads off of his body—no wonder they had him restrained.

"It’s not working," he grumbled, settling down and starting to sulk. Then he realized something. "It’s you," he said accusatorily, trying to point his finger and running up against the restraint again, "you told them not to give me anymore." He didn’t need to wait for her to nod. "Why?!" he said and tugged at the restraints again. "Dammit, can’t you get them to untie me?"

Wilson snapped out of the daze he’d been in and rounded the bed, removing the restraint on House’s left hand. House scratched his shoulder and rubbed his head. "Thanks," he said to Wilson. "Now if you could take this tube out and let me go home, that’d be great."

Wilson was holding onto the bed rail with both hands. House saw his knuckles go white, though the pained expression on his face didn’t change. "No," he said softly, not looking at House.

"What?" House said in disbelief. Wilson never said ‘no’ to him. What was going on?

"House," Cuddy barked, getting his attention back on her instead of Wilson. "You hit a cop? You hit a cop?!"

"He was looking at me funny," House said lamely, scratching around the heart monitor leads. He wished the damn thing would quit beeping at him and he really wished it wouldn’t give Cuddy and Wilson such a plain indication of how aggravated he was. He glowered at her and started working on the other restraint.

"They want to take you to jail for assault," Cuddy said, one notch below yelling, "Do you have any idea what that means?"

House did his best to shrug. "First time offender," he said. "Slap on the wrist, maybe a fine. You get to use that legal budget you’ve got for me at last." He got his right arm free and bent it—yeah, that felt good—finally resting it carefully against his hip, a little closer than he’d like to the incision site. Now if he could just get this damn tube out…

"You don’t just assault an officer and get away with it," Cuddy growled.

"It was dark," House said, "I couldn’t tell he was a cop." He started toying with the tube, wondering if he could turn the suction off from where he was.

"That’s not what the police report says," she said. She noticed him messing with the tube. "Stop that," she said, "or I’ll tie you up again myself."

"You’d like that, wouldn’t you," he said sullenly and dropped the tube, resting his hand delicately on his chest instead. He needed to stretch so badly. The mattress was hard as a rock.

Cuddy was still staring at him. Oh, the cop, right. "He hit me first," House said. He rubbed his head again. "I barely touched him and he gave me a concussion—he’s the one who should be arrested."

"The report says you attacked him and called him a, and I quote, ‘fucking pig’," she said, spitting the last words out at him.

"But there weren’t any witnesses," House said, annoyed, wishing she would just drop it. "His word against mine."

"Yeah," Cuddy said angrily, "and you were so drunk they had to pump your stomach."

House rolled his eyes—his good eye. "Look," he said, "it happened really fast and I said I was sorry." He clutched at his ribs with his good hand. All this talking was making them ache horribly. "Can you get me some pain meds or leave or something," he groaned. "God, this hurts."

"Serves you right," she said, "for picking a fight in the first place." But her heart tugged. If she didn’t know he was drugged the gills already, she’d be out the door and drawing the meds herself right now. He looked that bad.

"How do you know I started it?" House said flippantly.

And then he said something like that that let her know he was fine. That he was whining because he wanted a fix.

"You always start it," she said tiredly.

"Yeah, well, I had a pretty damn good reason," he mumbled and rubbed his head again.

"Okay, yeah, you did," she said grudgingly. "I’ll give you that. But there are better ways of dealing with this." She sighed. "What did you think getting yourself beaten up and arrested was going to accomplish?" she asked.

"It made me feel better," he said snidely. It wasn’t that far off from the truth. But they didn’t need to know that.

"So you feel better now, like this?" she said, exasperated. She knew she was pushing him in an area he didn’t need to be pushed in right now, but dammit, she was angry. And Wilson. He hadn’t moved from his place next to House. His hands were still on the bed rail and he was staring at something below the bed. He looked like he was going to drop. He looked up at her when the conversation lapsed into a pause.

House saw Cuddy and Wilson exchange a series of glances that ended in a slight nod from Wilson. Cuddy drew herself up to leave.

"I’m going to go talk to the police about getting the charges dropped," she said. "You’re lucky he gave you a concussion. I’d let you go to jail if he hadn’t."

"You would not," he said, but she was out the door before he could get it out. Just as well. All that yelling had left him tired and hurting. But Wilson was still here. Maybe he’d give him something.

Wilson pulled up a chair and sat down next to House, slouching, not sure he could do what he had to do.

House looked horrible. His face was stitched up, bandaged, bruised, and swollen, one eye nearly swollen shut, tissue around his nose swollen from where it had been broken. He could tell through the gown and the way House wasn’t breathing deeply enough that his ribs were wrapped, and then there was the dressing over the surgical incision. His right wrist was splinted and the knuckles bruised. And all of the paraphernalia that he was tangled in—EKG leads, NG tube, IV, pulse-ox monitor, Foley—was disconcerting to say the least. But his face was by far the worst. Wilson could barely stand to look at him. It was painful. He breathed deeply and tried to get a grip on himself.

House watched him out of his good eye. He didn’t like what he was seeing. When Wilson was reticent, it meant something was wrong. Really wrong. And since he knew exactly what that something was, he wasn’t terribly interested in hearing whatever lecture Wilson had prepared for him. But he couldn’t very well get up and leave, so he waited, feeling anger and anxiety come and go in waves.

"So," Wilson said after a while.

"So," House repeated, not knowing what else to do.

"Why’d you do it?"

House looked away. "You know why," he said testily.

"Maybe I do," Wilson replied, voice even, restraining himself. "But I want to hear you say it."

"What, because admitting it is the first step?" House said sarcastically, eyeing Wilson. "Bullshit."

"No," Wilson said, anger sliding into his voice, sitting up the chair, "because I need to hear you say it. I need to know."

"You need to hear me say what? that it’s fucking hard, having her back? that she’s so distant I can’t stand it? is that it?" House slammed his fist down on the mattress in frustration and the pulse-ox lead came off again, "Well there, I said it." He winced, his head hurting, and tried to put the lead back on, gasping as the movement made his wrist radiate pain. He sucked in air and gasped again when that made his ribs hurt. Wilson put the monitor back on his finger and House yanked his hand away. "Either get me some pain meds or get the hell out," he snarled.

"That’s not it," Wilson said lowly, cold anger in his voice.

"What do you want?!" House yelled, groaning against the pain from his ribs. "It was hard, okay?" he said, softer this time. "It was just hard…I couldn’t deal with it anymore," he said quietly. "It was too hard."

Wilson laughed bitterly. "And you couldn’t pick up the phone and tell me?" he said.

"We weren’t speaking, if you recall," House said, frustrated. His ribs hurt. And his head. And his wrist. He didn’t want to do this.

"Still," Wilson said, a bitter, angry edge in his voice. "You couldn’t call me? You had to take a handful of pills and get the shit kicked out of you instead?"

"It wasn’t like that," House said. "I didn’t…mean it. I didn’t…plan it. It just sort of happened."

Wilson stared hard at him. "‘It just sort of happened’?" he repeated caustically. "Things like this don’t ‘just sort of happen’. Dammit—what were you thinking?!"

House sighed, genuinely contrite. "I…just…it…it just got out of control," he said softly. "I’m…sorry." The last word was barely a whisper.

"And you think that fixes it?" Wilson said angrily. "That you just get to get away with it and come back like nothing happened?"

House didn’t say anything. Wilson stood and started pacing aggressively. He could feel himself shaking, tears in his eyes threatening to run down his face.

"Goddamn it, Greg, you tried to kill yourself!" he shouted. "I—we—can’t ignore that."

"I didn’t try to kill myself," House said quietly. It really bothered him, seeing Wilson like this. "I was just tired of it."

"Like hell you didn’t," Wilson said, "You knew exactly what taking that much Vicodin meant. You fucking knew and you did it anyway. And if you hadn’t gotten in a fight, you’d be dead now. You’d be fucking dead. Is that what you wanted? Is it? Does our friendship really mean so little to you that you’d throw it all away over this—over her? She’s back, it sucks, but is it worth your life? Jesus Christ, Greg, why? Why did you do it?"

"I just couldn’t take it," House said. "If you’re going to yell, the least you can do is let me have something for my head."

"No," Wilson growled, "no. You’re not going to hide behind drugs anymore. It’s killing you and it’s killing everyone around you."

"Now you’re just being melodramatic," House said, rolling his eyes.

"I’m being melodramatic," Wilson repeated. "You know you’re liver’s failing," he said. House had the good sense to look surprised. "Yes, I know—we know," Wilson continued. "The ER guy ran the test and I just had it re-run. The numbers don’t lie. But you do. You must’ve known about it for a while now."

House looked away. He had known. For a few months.

It was all the acknowledgement Wilson needed.

"You couldn’t tell me?" Wilson said, "Or Cuddy? So we could get you treated, or on the transplant list if it’s necessary? You couldn’t do that, that one simple thing? I—we have to find out like this?!"

"It’s not about you, okay?" House shouted, banging his fist on the mattress again. "Maybe I don’t want a new liver. Did you think of that?"

"So, what?" Wilson said, exasperated. "You want to die instead? You want to just give up?"

"No," House said angrily. "I just don’t want to be sick for the rest of my life. And if I told you, you’d make me go off the Vicodin and try a bunch of alternatives that don’t work, have never worked, will never work, and ruin the good years I have left. If I’m going to die, I’m going to do it on my terms, okay?" He paused, trying not to breathe so fast that it hurt. "I don’t want—I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to be in pain all the time. And you and Cuddy—you think that there’s some miracle treatment out there that I’m overlooking—well, there’s not. Okay? There’s not."

"What do you know about that," Wilson growled. "You haven’t tried anything in years."

"Yes, I have," House said grudgingly. "That week in Bermuda two years ago and the two weeks in Vegas before that?" Wilson nodded. "I never went to Bermuda or Vegas."

"What’d you do," Wilson asked. He’d stopped pacing and stood, hands on his hips, squared and facing House now.

"Rapid detox," House said. "I tried the latest things. They didn’t work."

"And…and you didn’t tell me?" Wilson said, angry, hurt, disbelieving. "I could’ve helped. I could’ve been there." He rubbed a hand over his face. "And some of those therapies, you’re not going to see results in a week. It takes months."

"I don’t have months," House said.

"You could," Wilson said hopefully, trying to convince him. "You could. If you’d just— At this stage—"

"No," House cut him off. "No. I don’t want to."

"Okay…" Wilson said. He realized that arguing over this now wasn’t doing either of them any good. "But—if you were doing this and not telling anyone—why’d you take that bet a few months ago with Cuddy? Why’d you do it if you knew all this already? Why subject yourself to it?"

"Because doing that was easier than doing this," House said tiredly. "It’s my problem and I’ll deal with it myself. I am dealing with it."

"Yeah, cause you’re so great at dealing with things," Wilson said bitterly. "You couldn’t talk to me or Cuddy or—her—last night. You had to do this instead. Yeah, you’re just great at dealing with things." He paused. He just couldn't give up that easily. "You can get better," he said plaintively. "It’s still early. There’s still time. We’ll start you on something with a lower acetaminophen level that’s not so hard on your liver and—"

"Save it for your chemo patients," House growled. "If I do what you want me to do, I won’t be able to do my job. I don’t have a lot left as it is. I can’t stand to lose that too."

"You could still work," Wilson said, close to pleading. "You could still take cases. You’ve got a great team. They can do everything but the thinking and you’re training them pretty well to do that, too."

"I just don’t want to be sick," House said. "It’s not too much to ask." He was starting to shake with pain and anger and exhaustion. "Look, I can’t do this right now. I’ve been up all night—they won’t let me sleep—and I feel like crap. Either you’re going to keep yelling at me until you feel better and then go high-five Cuddy for being Mr. High and Mighty or you’re going to help me by getting this damn tube out of my nose and getting them to clear me so I can get some sleep, but whatever you do, do it fast, cause I can’t take much more of this." He shuddered and ran a shaky hand over his good eye. The heart monitor told them both he was more agitated than he should be.

"Okay," Wilson said softly. "I’ll talk to your doctor." He started to leave. "Put the mask back on. Your sats are dropping."

Wilson left and the sitter came back in, eyeing him nervously now that he wasn’t restrained anymore. He closed his eyes and breathed in the oxygen, feeling the Demerol smooth the edges of the pain. Of course he knew that Wilson and Cuddy were right, that he didn’t need any more Demerol yet. But he wanted it. He was so tired. He wanted to feel good again and to go to sleep and above all, he didn’t want to think about anything he’d just heard or said.

He was nearly asleep when the nurse came back in. She did a neuro check, moved the mask, and gave him some more juice to see if the tube was ready to come out. He kept it down and she went away, leaving the rest of the juice with him.

When she came back, Wilson was with her. He had something with him, which he put in the chair, and then called the sitter out into the hall as the nurse took the tape off of the tube. He was grateful to Wilson for having the delicacy to limit the number of witnesses.

She pulled the tube out and he gagged and coughed and choked and held his ribs and groaned, but he was glad to have it out, even the removal of it left him dizzy and hurting. She was hanging another drip when Wilson came back in.

"I’ll sit with him," he said quietly to the nurse and went around the bed to the chair. House tried to pretend he hadn’t heard that.

"What’s that?" House asked the nurse, pointing to the drip.

"Vistaril," Wilson answered. The nurse finished and left.

Wilson held up two cups of jello. "You want some of this?" he asked, opening the first cup.

"No," House said, annoyed. "I want some Demerol. My head hurts. I’m tired."

Wilson bit back a reply: You’re jonesing.

"Give it half an hour," he said instead, pointing to the drip with his spoon. "If it still hurts then, I’ll get you something."

House sighed and rolled his good eye. He drank a little more juice and watched Wilson scarf down the first cup of jello.

"Since when do you eat jello like that?" House asked, bothered by the fact that Wilson was going to baby sit him now. "You look like a pig."

"Since I got a phone call right after I woke up and skipped breakfast," Wilson said, attention focused on the television. "This is good—you sure you don’t want any?"

"No, thanks, jello’s not that good," House grumbled.

Wilson shrugged and tore into the second cup.

House felt the Vistaril relax him and tug him toward sleep. As he dropped off to sleep, he blearily hoped Wilson had gotten him cleared and that he wouldn’t have to face anymore annoying neuro checks.

Wilson watched him fall asleep, pulse and resps evening out with the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He leaned over and put the oxygen mask back on House’s face. House stirred a little but went right back down. Wilson would give him thirty minutes before he did a quick neuro check. In the mean time, he settled back in the chair, hands tented over his face, and watched House sleep, thinking.

I read this in the wee hours, last night, sy, but conked out before I could comment... LOL

Amazing work, as always. :D I love the details you've put in, like Wilson being so out of his head with worry that he grabs the first clothes that come to hand, and they just happen to belong to House. (Under different circumstances, this would be a very sexy and appealing notion. LOL ;) ) It's so telling, because normally Wilson is almost painfully immaculate in his dress and grooming, every button in place... ...the only unruly thing about him is those stray locks of hair over his forehead that always become charmingly and boyishly disarrayed. LOL Ditto the panic attack, because Wilson is always so calm, especially when dealing with his oncology patients and their families. Something serious happening to House is the one thing he can't be 'cool' about. Everything else gets overridden and trumped by his soul-deep panic at realizing what House just attempted to do and, also, what House has been concealing for so long.

You've written Cuddy as a very strong charac