Part One
Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness;
but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing
When House entered Dr. Malaki's office, he didn't bother with 'hello' or 'go to hell'; he just plunked himself into the nearest black leather chair and started in on this month's edition of Top Engine.
"Dr. House," she said, and maybe House was letting circumstance cloud his judgment, but she sounded so confident and assured of herself that it felt like one big slice of smarminess. He kept his nose buried in the magazine. "I know you don't want to be here."
"What gave it away?" He flipped through the pages, not actually reading anything. The magazine could've been filled with articles about car mechanics who resembled Zeus, for all he knew, but he had to stick it to her one way or another.
"But Dr. Cuddy's told me that either you come here once a week or you go back to working at the clinic. And I've heard how much you dislike working there."
"Thanks for telling me how I feel."
He'd been half-hoping to goad her into snatching his magazine away or bursting into a tantrum, but he supposed that they trained her kind better. She wouldn't be one to lose her cool so easily.
"So you'll probably be passing a lot hours here. You could spend that time doing nothing, or we could talk. It's up to you."
His hand shot up into the air, letting his non-reading fall into his lap. Mocking Malaki promised to be more fun and than the magazine. "Ooh, ooh, I vote we do nothing," he said, as earnestly as possible, like a Boy Scout swearing on his mentor's grave. "Or we could do the ink blot tests. I've got a real talent for freaking out quacks with my readings, just you wait and see. One time I saw Sleeping Beauty crashing into a Ferris Wheel. There was blood everywhere. And by 'blood' I mean 'ink.'"
"Cute." She appeared to be, now that he'd actually given her a good look, truly of Filipino descent, as her name had suggested but her New York accent denied. Her black hair was cut sensibly and razor-sharp to chin-length, and her glasses had a thin, copper frame. Her expression was as calm as the landscape paintings that adorned her office.
He'd call her plain and probably would during a future session, but she was that sort of plain that implied that she didn't bother with the extras because she did not deal with bullshit.
Bullshit of the sort he was flinging at her now.
"Some have expressed concern--"
"By 'some' you mean 'Cameron,' right? She wouldn't know how to stick to her own business even if she was handcuffed and dropped to the bottom of the ocean."
"Dr. Cameron was worried, yes." Malaki clasped her hands over the table--yep, there it was, a gold band on her wedding finger. So she allowed some measure of bullshit in her life, after all. She was a romantic, wearing a symbol of how a relationship could last forever and beyond.
What a load of crap. It pissed House off just to think of it.
"But she wasn't alone. All the reports I've received agree you've been acting unusually for the past month, ever since the accident," Malaki said.
"You can say it, you know," House said petulantly. "'Since Wilson died.' Or maybe you prefer a euphemism--since he kicked the bucket, since he went to rottenskull café, since he became worm food--"
His voice rose, but it was only because he was so annoyed at having to tell everyone to not tip-toe around him. That was all; there was no other reason. And he certainly wasn't yelling because the subject matter upset him.
House forced himself to put a lid on his anger. He didn't want to lose control in front of the professional whack-job interpreter; he might as well stamp 'loser' on his forehead if he did. "You can say 'since he died,'" House concluded.
"Fine. Since Dr. Wilson died, it seems that you've not displayed any signs of grief or even changes in behavior--aside from your fixation on Ms. McFinn."
House laced his fingers and looked away. "Should I be boo-hoo-ing my eyes out?"
"It's been said that you're still in denial."
"Denial? Who just told you to stop dancing about the bush? I get it. He's rotting in the ground." House kept trying to read Malaki for reactions, but maintained a stubborn poker-face, as if she'd overdosed on Botox. He switched tactics. "But enough about me. Tell me about your mom. She a bitch? Or maybe your marriage is so awful you prefer to wallow in other people's problems."
She didn't even bat an eye, the stubborn thing. "We're not here to talk about me, my mom, or my husband. We could talk about Wilson, though. I heard that the two of you were close."
"His office was right next to mine. Empty now, though maybe it's haunted. You think it's haunted, Dr. Mal?"
Using the wrong name didn't faze her. "What I think doesn't matter, right now. Why don't you tell me what you think?"
"He's probably around," House said, saying ridiculous things with the hopes of bugging her. "He was such a workaholic I don't think he'd even know how to leave. But, even if his ghost is hanging around, I'm harassing Cuddy 'til she gives me the room." He didn't want it for sentimental reasons; he needed the space to lock his employees up until they stopped looking at him like he was about to burst into a mushroom cloud of repressed grief.
"And you two were living together?"
House shrugged. "He slept on my couch. Peed in it too, the dog. No wonder his wife threw him out. He saved me the trouble of doing the same when he died."
Malaki's eyes flicked down, and for a second House thought he'd finally gotten to her. "I've also heard rumors that you were more than friends."
He'd heard them, too, and hearing it now irritated him just as much as it had before. But he hid his annoyance with a jest: "Yeah, we were more than friends. I owed him money. Couldn't pay it back, so, y'know, had to resort to sexual services. It wasn't a pretty sight, let me tell you."
"You're a funny man, Dr. House."
"And you're not."
He spent the rest of the hour pointedly ignoring Malaki and reading his car magazine. It ended up being entirely devoid of articles about car mechanics that looked like Zeus.
"How'd your day go?"
House glared at Wilson. "We really have to stop meeting like this."
The setting--a bland hospital room--was blurred and lacked detail. The background furniture bled into one another and all color was washed away, but this tended to be the case in House's dreams. Or at least in the dreams he'd been having lately. "Why? I think it's kind of nice, myself." Wilson, on the other hand, came in a HDTV level of quality. House could see everything about him, from the floppiness of his bangs (longer than they'd been a month ago; they'd been trimmed just before the accident. Bangs couldn't grow in dreams, could they?), to the creases in his white, ironed, button-down shirt.
"For one thing, how am I supposed to miss you if you won't go away?"
"Why miss me if you don't have to?" Wilson asked, propping his feet lazily against the patient's bed, his shoes scuffing dirt onto the pristine sheets. House glanced at the bed's occupant, a twenty-something girl with strawberry-blonde hair. As with the other non-Wilson details, House couldn't quite make her facial features.
Well, this being a dream, it didn't matter where Wilson put his feet. It nagged at House, though, Wilson being that irresponsible and inconsiderate. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel like Wilson.
"I should be missing you. You're dead."
Wilson sighed and shook his head, a sight House had witnessed many times in their years together, as well as in the month since Wilson's death. "How many times do I have to tell you? This is me. I'm real."
Wilson placed a hand on his upper arm, and sure enough, House could feel its pressure, light at first, then harder, as his grasp tightened. House pulled his arm away. "Yeah, that'll be very convincing when I wake up tomorrow and you're still dead." House grabbed the remote control from off the blurry bed stand and flicked through the channels. Since this was taking place in his own head, there'd better be something good on.
Wilson settled into his chair, his elbows sinking down to his sides and his back slouching against the curve. "You never did say how your day was."
"They sent me to a shrink."
"What for?"
"Because I didn't cry at your funeral," House said, gaze set on the TV.
"I thought the punishment for that was death row."
"That's in Algeria."
"Ah. Wise people, the Algerians. You should've cried at my funeral. I deserved it."
House snorted. Dream or not, this was actually not a bad Wilson substitute. He wasn't quite entirely Wilsonian, but he was just enough so to do the trick.
House plunked his own feet onto the girl's bed, relaxing. "If anything made me cry at your funeral, it was the sheer boredom."
"Not my fault," Wilson said. "If I'd gotten any warning, I'd have planned it at a strip-club."
"What, as a final act to make everyone like you?"
"Yup."
And though House resisted against accepting this Wilson, like he did every night, in the end he gave in. Something was better than nothing. And sometimes, when he let himself not think too hard about it, House could fool himself into believing that this was no dream and that this really was Wilson.
In the background, the TV's static droned.
House woke up and stared up at the ceiling, groggy and confused. Hadn't he just been talking to Wilson? They'd been mocking shrinks and other things and then suddenly he was waking up in bed--
Quacks. He rolled over and stuck his face into the pillow and let himself, like an ostrich sticking its head into the ground, take false security in that comfort. Of course. They'd been talking about quacks because Cuddy sent him one to get him "deal" with Wilson's death because Wilson was dead. The whole conversation had been in his head.
House had been right. The memory of Wilson grabbing his arm in a dream was not convincing at all, when he returned to reality.
He took in deep, stabilizing breaths, to calm himself down. He couldn't go through this every single damned morning. He simply couldn't. He had to kick Wilson out of his mind, once and for all. But how? What was keeping him there?
"Welcome one, welcome all!" House announced, waving his arm as if to present the patient's room as a marvel beyond imagining.
But his three employees did not seem at all impressed. Their body language, a mixture of crossed arms and hands on hips, conveyed wariness and skepticism. Foreman especially looked like he was on the verge of declaring House crazy (again) and leaving. Cameron and Chase had slightly more sympathetic expressions, but House didn't care for that.
"Why the long faces?" House asked. "You were the ones insisting that I had to get back on the ball--and I'm on it, so start walking if you don't want to fall off."
"You picked Diana McFinn," Foreman pointed out, impatient and annoyed. "You can't expect us to take this seriously."
House glanced at the girl, her limp and greasy strawberry-blonde hair spread out on the pillow. Her vitals were smooth and steady. As always, he refused to think about how much she looked like the girl costarring in his dreams; it meant nothing. The resemblance was just his subconscious playing tricks on him. "She's been in a coma for the past month--maybe you're too heartless to take that seriously, but I do."
"House, we know," Cameron said. She wasn't as curt as Foreman, but only because she had her 'poor House' setting up as high as it went, her tone soft as if to spare him from excessive pain. Her pity bugged him most of all. "You've been here every day since she came in and--it's no secret why you're obsessed with her."
Why did everyone sidestep saying it out loud? Did they think he'd shatter and break into pieces if he heard the words? "Because she's the bitch that crashed into Wilson's car and killed him. It's okay, you can say it." Chase and Cameron winced at House's bluntness.
Foreman raised his hands up in exasperation. "You can see why we're thinking this isn't a real case," he said. "I'm not going to help you in your neurotic crusades, House. Leave the poor girl and her family in peace."
"Okay," House agreed, leaning against the wall opposite the glass door where his team had congregated. "Soon as you tell me what's keeping the Wilson Killer in a slumber deeper than Sleeping Beauty's, you can go."
Chase scrunched up his face, already thinking about it, and House made a note to mock his compulsion towards obedience the next time the opportunity arose. Cameron checked the file attached to the bed.
Foreman, though, he just made a move towards the door, ready to slide it open. "It's a severe case of being-in-a-car-accident-itis. Comas are pretty normal after those."
Cameron, still glancing through the file, replied, "But there was no head trauma, in her case--unlike Wilson who--" She took a deep breath, as if it really were a hard thing to say. "Who suffered a fatal skull fracture from the accident. Diana was better protected by her air bag; the CT revealed no skull fractures and no brain swelling. House is right--there's no immediate correlation between the coma and the car accident."
Times like these, House was glad to have trained so efficient a group. After the first push, he didn't have to nudge anyone into the right direction; they went there of their own accord. Chase jumped straight in. "If she had a pre-existing condition, then the impact against the air bag would've been enough to cause the coma."
"Oh, come on," Foreman scoffed, his hand slipping off the doorknob. "Like what?"
"That's for you to figure out," House said, stepping back into the conversation now that everyone had gotten into the rhythm and were past questioning his choice of patient. "It's your homework for tonight."
Perhaps he'd overestimated their willingness to get into this case. With the flow of their argument broken, the magic was ruined. They stared at him as if he were in a straight jacket, yelling at the top of his lungs about fairies and dragons.
"Maybe it's an interesting case, House, but I'm not sure it's a good idea to dig too deep into this," Cameron said, lodging Diana's file back where she'd found it. "You've got such an--emotional investment in this, after all."
"But if no one else can figure it out, then it's up to us, isn't it?" Chase said.
"You shouldn't validate his craziness," Foreman said.
"Think what you want," House said, heading towards the exit. "You're working on this or you're fired. The choice is up to you. For those of you on the keeping-my-job side, run whatever tests you think are appropriate and bring your next wave of speculations to me."
If nothing else, at least he could boss them into doing what he wanted.
"Can't you leave the poor girl alone?" Cuddy asked, accosting him in his office. She was wearing a somber flower-print combo, with dark crimsons and navy blues. She was still wearing mourning-ish clothes, then. House wouldn't have thought the trend would last more than a week. What was she trying to prove? She hadn't been that close to Wilson.
"Who ratted out on me? All of them?" House guessed.
"You've already scared her family off; they don't visit her anymore," Cuddy accused, not answering his question and protecting the mole's identity. Not that it mattered, as long as they did their jobs--and the last he'd seen of them, they'd been wheeling the McFinn girl towards the MRI room.
"No, her boring company is keeping them away. Coma patients aren't known for their neat parlor tricks."
"Oh, forgive me," she said, dipping heavily into the sarcasm jar, "it must have nothing to do with the fact that the creepy, confrontational best friend keeps hanging around asking who else she's murdered with her incompetent driving!"
"That was just that one time," House said, full of dignity. "And it's a valid question. The girl's a menace."
She started to say something that promised to be biting, but then she took a deep breath. "It's not that I don't understand, House," she said, sounding less angry and more sympathetic. House steeled himself for more pity--didn't anyone ever run out of it? "It's hard to let go--"
Hard? He'd spent the last month dreaming of Wilson. Try 'impossible.'
"--but I think it'd be easier on you, if you let this go. Stop looking for scapegoats."
His anger burst out. "Oh, sure, I want to hang on. This is my idea of a good time. I'm so happy to be chasing a ghost. It's a real joyride!" He saw Cuddy's expression go from kindly to guarded, and that made him listen to himself. He was yelling, he realized. Again.
Embarrassed, he lowered the volume. "I've got to know. That's all."
Cuddy nodded once. "Okay."
"I wish you hadn't died," House said. He thought of how boring the hospital seemed without Wilson there to provide annoyances, entertainment, and support. Something caught in his throat, and so he looked away. Once it was safe to speak again, he said, "Everyone's been bossing me--more than usual--ever since. It's irritating."
They sat on a wooden porch, facing a group of birch trees bursting with deep-green summer leaves; the sun was warm on House's skin. He and Wilson were each in their own wood and straw chairs, which, whenever they moved, moaned against the worn veranda panels. House was vaguely aware of the girl with strawberry-blonde haired girl off to the side, creaking on a rocking chair, but she didn't matter, so he ignored her.
"Sorry my death inconveniences you," Wilson offered, without sounding sorry at all. "I didn't mean to get knocked off, if that helps." He drank from a glass of juice and House could see the moisture glistening on his lip; smell the orange on his breath. Absently, House wondered how his dreams could hold so much more sensory detail than his waking life.
House grunted. "Whatever." He grabbed the orange juice, more to claim a vengeance from Wilson than to cure his thirst, and drank all of it.
Wilson watched him. "That make you feel better?"
"Not really," and House threw the glass as hard as he could. It disappeared, though, into nothingness, not giving him the satisfaction of breaking into countless pieces.
House thumped his cane against the floor, staring at the one symptom on the white board: 'coma.' As far as lists go, it wasn't all that helpful. "No alcohol ingestion, no diabetes, no infections, no organ failure..." he said under his breath.
"You can add a whole lot of other 'no's," Foreman said, without any of the annoyance from their last session. Maybe now he saw that this was a stumper of a case. "No epilepsy, no meningitis, no brain tumors."
"We ran the CT and the MRI scans over again," Cameron said. "Still no signs of brain swelling, brain fracture, or damaged tissue. There's literally nothing wrong with her."
"Except for the not-waking up thing," House said. "Last I heard, that's not 'right.'"
"So there's no anatomic cause," Chase said, tapping his pencil against the table as he thought out loud, "and she has no other medical reasons to be in a coma."
"This isn't making any sense," House concluded, still looking at the board, as if the one word on it would make sense through sheer eye contact. "Go fetch me an EEG--and answers, too, while you're at it."
After they'd gone out, House ran through all the medical articles he could lay his hands on about unusual cases involving comas, but none of them shed any light on the McFinn girl's problem. House could almost let himself believe that her coma was some kind of karmic-induced retribution. But he knew better; gods were never the answer.
But he'd figure this out. He had to, for his own peace of mind.
"I heard you're trying to diagnose Ms. McFinn," Malaki said after some twenty minutes of complete silence. Her tone implied a patience capable of watching paint dry all day, if that's what took to reach its goal.
House frowned to let her know that he didn't appreciate her distracting him from playing FlatOut on his PSP. But mostly, he didn't want to talk about taking on McFinn as a patient, particularly not to the psychologist Cuddy had forced on him. "The way I understand it, the patient jabbers while the shrink daydreams and doodles."
"It varies from case to case," she replied.
Maybe he could distract her from the subject. "We always talk about me. How about you? How was your day? Helped any of your nut-jobs find that elusive happy ending?"
"Dr. House, I don't discuss myself, or my other clients, with my patients."
She was so stubborn. But so was House. "Maybe I don't feel comfortable with giving tit without tat."
"I was born in 1973. So is diagnosing Ms. McFinn distracting you from his death? Or helping you fixate on it?"
He pulled the PSP closer to his face, as if he could block her away if he just focused hard enough on the game. "She killed Wilson and therefore I'm a monster for trying to save her. Is that what you're saying?" In the game, his car veered dangerously close to the edge, and he fought to stay on track.
"Depends. Why do you want to wake her up?"
He stayed on track, but by doing so ran straight into another car. A bright and colorful explosion illustrated the screen; game over. But not grief was necessary: no doctors were hurt or killed in the playing of this game. He could start up from his last save; he'd suffered no real loss. "It's an interesting case. That's all."
He went back to his violent racing and Malaki, thankfully, did not pursue her disquieting line of questioning any further.
Back home, House turned on the TV for background noise and rummaged about the kitchen. His search yielded the usual results: a jar of smooth Skippy peanut butter (the bottom of the jar already showing through); half a loaf of white bread sporting healthy bits of green-grey mold here and there; and bins filled with leftover takeout that was starting to smell.
House made a mental note to throw the spoiled food out someday, scraped out some peanut butter, and spread it across a couple of bread slices with the mold strategically cut off. He dumped his dinner onto a pastel glass plate.
The plate was Wilson's, but then again, so was most of House's kitchenware. Wilson had brought in the pots and utensils shortly after coming to crash at House's place and he hadn't gotten around to throwing it out yet. He would, though. He really would, just like he would throw out the rotting leftovers.
The arduous ordeal of making dinner over, House collapsed onto the couch, sitting on Wilson's jacket, the one that had been there since the accident. House hadn't gotten around to getting rid of that, either. Or any of Wilson's other things that littered the apartment, from the pristine-white tennis shoes kicked into the corner to the brief-case gathering dust on the coffee table.
It wasn't as if having Wilson's things lying around was hurting anyone.
The TV was playing some movie from the eighties, with a couple discussing their Feelings and Future. The girl, with chestnut hair, high cheekbones, and hazel eyes, wasn't entirely ugly and had some sort of appealing and familiar quality to her, so House didn't change the channel. The music swelled to cheese-tastic crescendos and the couple kissed like they would die or something if they didn't; House, his sandwich finished, licked his fingers and watched intently.
The girl pulled away from the kiss turned her head just so, and that's when House realized why she looked so familiar: she bore a great resemblance to Wilson.
Scrambling for the remote, House changed the channel as quickly as humanly possible; he couldn't let himself watch a Wilson look-alike make-out! Kissing and Wilson was an association he did not need to make!
And to think he'd been drawn to the girl. There had to be something very wrong with him.
He changed channels until he came across a manly and meaningless American Chopper episode. It was a far less disturbing choice of program. Once that was done, he watched a show about rebuilding homes and, after that, a late-night rerun of The Girls Next Door.
House could feel his brain melting at the inanity from all the trash TV, but as long as it kept him awake, he didn't care. He couldn't go to sleep, not with the kiss and Wilson look-alike still fresh in his mind. Who knew what effect the subliminal message would have on his subconscious?
But House couldn't help himself; before long, he started to doze off. It was time to surrender. Resigned, he switched the TV off and headed towards his bed, hoping he'd dream about anything, even Freddie Krueger, anything other than Wilson.
"This is your fault," House said, agitated, pacing around--where was this, anyhow? He'd never been here before, neither in his waking nor in his dreams. It was a bedroom of some sort, with wood panels and a twin bed, in which Wilson was reading, lying on his stomach.
The strawberry-blonde girl, their usual companion, looked at them both before getting up and leaving without a word. Could she do that? House had never seen her leave before. Not that he minded; it'd been weird, having her mute presence around. And now he'd have more privacy with Wilson.
"What are you blaming me for this time?" Wilson craned his head to follow House's movements. Again, House could see Wilson in vivid detail, even his pupils traveling and back forth, while everything else faded away insignificantly.
"Everyone keeps telling me how I should be--upset. Angry. Crying. Something. Anything but what I am."
"There's nothing new about that," Wilson said, putting a bookmarker into whatever it was that he that he was reading (House looked, but the cover was blurred and he couldn't make out any words) and turned around, lying on his side. He propped his head up with his hand. "I used to do that with you."
"Yeah, but--" House stopped in his tracks. "It's different."
"How so?"
"Because you should be telling me what to do! You should be overflowing with opinions and demands about how I should feel! How I should think! You should have enough material to write 'A Guide for House on How to Live'."
Wilson managed a half-shrug, as if he hadn't really didn't have any thoughts on the matter.
And that was too much. He was tired of this non-entity that looked and talked and even smelled like Wilson but acted nothing like him. House started to shout, this time on purpose, wanting to make this strange, unresponsive Wilson react in some way. "And it's different because you're dead and so you're not ever around, except for in my head, which is not where you're supposed to be! You don't tell me what to do, but you keep asking me these things my loony-reader would love to know, but let me tell you this: you lost the right to ask me anything when you got snuffed."
Wilson watched him, nestling against the pillow, passive and unperturbed. "Doesn't sound all that different to me," Wilson said with that same annoying I-know-all certainty he'd had in life. "It's the same thing: you don't want anyone butting into how you lead your life, no matter who's doing the butting. And you blame me because it's easy."
House sank onto the side of the bed and let his cane fall; it made no sound as it hit the wood paneling. "I don't know. Whatever it is, I'm tired of it."
Wilson sat up and House heard the bed creak as Wilson did so, the mattress sinking as the weight concentrated itself in a single spot. House knew exactly where Wilson was--right behind him--from the hand on his shoulder and the breath on his neck.
House twisted around to look at Wilson. "To top it off, when I do get to see you, in these dreams that probably mean I've lost my mind, you're--you're weird. Like Wilson Lite. Or Wilson Zero. And I hate diet soft drinks--if you're going to poison your body, go all the way."
"Hmmm," Wilson said, without any indignation over being compared to Diet Coke.
House buried his face into his hands, as if he could escape his frustrations that way. "If you were real--or if you at least acted real--"
This time, Wilson did seem to take offense. "I keep telling you that I am," he insisted, leaning in closer, his breath now hot against House's cheek, his hand sliding down from House's shoulder to his elbow.
"I've told you before: touching me in my dreams? Not all that convincing after I've woken up." Wilson narrowed his eyes at him, disapproving of House's cynicism, and, for some reason House couldn't explain, it made his heart beat faster. It must be out of anger. Yes, exactly; his blood was heating up in anger. "Okay. You know how I know you're not real?" House challenged.
"How?"
"The real you would never let me do this," House said and leaned into the few centimeters that separated them, forcefully pushing his lips up against Wilson's.
Under any other circumstance, House wouldn't have ever even considered kissing Wilson. It'd be like kissing a Tupperware box or the bark of a tree. That is, you could, but why bother?
But it was desperate times, so House called on desperate measures. He wanted to provoke this gilded Wilson into a reaction he should have. The way House saw it, the original Wilson would freak out, shove him away, and after wiping away his lips to get rid of boy cooties, start off an a lecture about how House pushed buttons to get the worst reactions out of people. House also did it to be annoying, since this dream Wilson was frustrating him by promising so much and delivering nothing at all.
So, really, the kiss should've lasted a few seconds at most.
But then Wilson opened his mouth, and House opened his in counter-point, what had started out as an immature outburst did funny things to his head: funny, pleasurable things. And before House could think about what was happening, they started to kiss languidly, with lazy tongue explorations, as if they had all the time in the world. House could feel not only the wetness but the textures too, of teeth with sharp edges and smooth sides. Wilson tasted of mint, as if he'd just brushed his teeth.
At least that much was realistic. Wilson had been a compulsive brusher.
They parted, and House was filled with a warm, stomach-flipping buzz. He wouldn't mind doing that again. And again. Had he been angry a few seconds ago? He couldn't begin to imagine why.
"Actually," Wilson said, with the hint of a smile, "If you'd tried, before, you'd have known that I would've let you do that. In fact--" and then Wilson was touching his abdomen, his hand sneaking beneath House's shirt, and House wanted very much to see where this was leading, except that there was suddenly a loud ringing and then everything was gone.
House opened his already opened eyes to his own bedroom and glanced to the side; the glowing red lights of his alarm announced the time of seven-thirty a.m. He'd been dreaming about Wilson. Again.
To top it all off, he had a hard-on.
He smashed the alarm off, ending at least the ringing, but that didn't help him forget the contents of his dreams. God, he'd and Wilson had--he'd known that the movie from the night before would only cause him grief.
For a moment, House couldn't tell if he was angry for having woken up too early or too late.
He'd made out with his dead best friend in his dreams. This could not be good. This could not be, in any conceivable way, good. Dreaming about beheading baby seals would be healthier than this, House was sure.
He wasn't coping. He wasn't coping at all.
And he couldn't go on like this.
It was another day without answers.
House perched himself on the edge of the McFinn girl's bed, one hand holding a nearly-empty cup of coffee and the other tapping against the bedspread. His unfocused gaze rested on the readings flashing off the monitors as he thought.
"House?" Cameron asked, sliding the glass door open and walking into the room. He could divine why she was there from her voice alone: to tell him that the latest test had come out negative. "We just did the lumbar puncture--"
"No encephalitis, I know." He started to mentally run through all the other, less conventional, causes of comas.
Cameron broke his train of thought by asking "Is there anything--"
"Do your job," he said, before she could finish the phrase. It came out more harshly than he'd intended. God, he was so cranky today; dreaming about kissing Wilson had felt good at the time, but it'd he'd been on edge ever since. Wanting to hide his agitation, he added, "Just figure this out."
She frowned, probably in disapproval of calling a young girl a 'this.' What she didn't know was that he was referring to a very different 'this.' He didn't know why, but House felt that if only he could get McFinn awake, then the dreams would stop. Maybe once the final mystery related to Wilson's death was buried as neatly as his body had been, then House himself could get some rest.
House didn't get why Wilson's memory couldn't RIP and leave him alone already.
"I--" Cameron stood right next to him, and for a moment House was afraid she was going to do something sensitive and caring like put a hand on his shoulder. She did, in fact, reach out her hand, and it hovered there before she pulled back, as if she'd thought better of the gesture. House was glad she did not stoop to such cruelty. "I think I know what you're trying to do. Trust me; I tried everything, after I lost someone, to bring them back--"
"Don't compare Wilson to your husband," House snapped. The last thing he needed were more subliminal messages about him sharing a romantic connection with Wilson, especially not after the inappropriate touching in his last dream. His imagination was creative and fucked up enough as it was. "It's not the same at all."
"Bargaining is the third--"
"I'm trying to get rid of him!" House exclaimed and saw Cameron flinch. He was letting anger get the better of him for the second time in the past five minutes; he really did need learn how to control it. He took a deep breath and looked away from Cameron and to the McFinn girl. "I'm getting rid of the last of him."
She looked so concern that it made him want to barf. "You want resolution?"
"Yeah, sure." Whatever floated her boat and took it away from him.
Cameron didn't go away, though. "So what now?"
"Go and test for all the unusual suspects: yellow fever, malaria, and don't look at me like that, I don't care if she doesn't have any symptoms for those. We've already locked up all the other suspects."
She was on her way out when House had another hunch. "And take turns with the other two in the sleep lab, tracing her REM sleep."
"She's comatose, not asleep," she reminded him oh-so-helpfully. "She's not experiencing sleep-wake cycles, remember?"
"Thanks for Medicine 101, I really needed that. Now go be a good little girl and do as I say," he said, making hand motions to shoo her away. "But before that, you've got something much more important to do." He stuck out his empty mug at her. "Get me more coffee."
House sipped at his second cup of coffee since having come into Malaki's office. The slurping and the initial 'erks' at taking in too hot a liquid were the only sounds so far in the session.
Malaki, as ever, sat with a straight back and her hands clasped on the table, unperturbed by House's attitude. He half suspected that she could see, in some mystic way that they taught only in the most advanced psychology circles, after the students had proved their loyalty by sacrificing ducks in the name of their craft, that he had something to say and that he needed the time and space to find the words.
House drained the contents of his mug and went for a third serving.
With his back to her as he poured, House asked, "So what do you quacks have to say about coping?"
"Depends on what you want to know."
The pouring done, he had no choice but to turn back towards her, though he hated having to face her after essentially asking for help. And she didn't even have the decency to be smug or smarmily victorious; she was as calm and professional as ever.
But he had to do this. Who knew when he'd finally figure out McFinn's mystery and thus bury Wilson once and for all? Until then, he didn't want to risk dreaming. And though he, the mighty House, was capable of many a thing, not even with the aid of all the world's coffee would he be able to keep himself from falling asleep.
And he feared that his dreams would only get worse.
Maybe, just maybe, if he got a hold of whatever subconscious feelings were going haywire and tidy them up, he could avoid anymore romance-flick scenes with Wilson. And tying up feelings into neat, pretty packages was supposed to be Malaki's job.
At least House had the mug as a distraction and a prop. He stared into it so that he wouldn't have to keep looking at Malaki's placid expression.
Trust Cuddy to find him the most maddeningly unemotional psychologist around.
"Your glossy textbooks probably have long, bulleted lists on how to cope with--" No need to say it; she already knew what he was referring to. And for all that he'd been telling everyone to stop chickening out on admitting to Wilson's death out loud, he couldn't bring himself to say it, this time. It was too embarrassing, admitting in words how much it was disturbing him. "Like diet and exercise and crying at group therapy."
"Those do help," she said, "But there's no set, definite way."
That's what House hated about the 'soft' science; there were no answers, only maybes and possiblys and suggestions. At least with medicine, you plug in one variable and you can accurately predict results.
She continued, "There are some things that help more than others, like talking about your problems--" This was obviously an invitation for House to start spilling his guts, but he made some non-committal noise. His guts would stay inside, where they belonged.
Great help she was, telling him what he already knew.
Having brought nothing with which to distract himself--he'd been stupid to believe that maybe he could get through the hour by actually talking--House picked up a random book from one of Malaki's many shelves and started reading. He didn't know how she spent the rest of the time, since he wouldn't look at her afterwards.
Damned bladder; House couldn't put off peeing anymore. With a silent apology to his leg and a promise to take a nice, shiny Vicodin afterwards, House started the long journey towards the bathroom. His hand trembled slightly as he reached to open the door, but he preferred the shakes and the extra trips to the bathroom, to sleeping.
Unfortunately, his body had other ideas: he was tired, cranky, and his eyes kept closing of their own accord as if to suggest that he should fall asleep on his feet.
As he walked, Foreman, at a faster pace, caught up to him, papers in hand. "Here's the latest reading from the lab report, and weren't you the one who insisted on getting regular updates? It's harder to do that if you're running away from your office."
"Nature calls," House said and swung the bathroom door open. "Well? Spit it out."
"No REM sleep," Foreman said, and didn't look away as House picked a stall and unzipped his pants. "Shocking, I know."
Fortunately, House wasn't pee-shy; having an audience didn't bother him. "What is it they say? About patience and results? I think they go hand in hand, right? But I wouldn't know much about that, since I hire people to have patience for me. Keep at it."
"We're wasting time and money on a pointless procedure, House."
Done, he flushed. "Share your better ideas, then. How will we raise the unrising?" Foreman just let out a breath of air and suggested nothing. "Yeah, that's what I thought." House said and limped, leaving the cane against the wall, towards the sinks.
As he stuck his hands beneath the water faucet, his hands trembled again. House could see, in the mirror, Foreman raising an eyebrow. "Maybe if you weren't drinking contiguous cups of coffee, you'd be shake-free."
"Nah, that's 'cause of all the drugs I've been sneaking behind everyone's back."
"Not that it affects me," Foreman said, wearing an expression of ever-suffering martyrdom, "but could you try to be sensible? Maybe not engage in self-destructive behavior?"
At that moment, House yawned.
"You're taking in all that caffeine and you're sleepy?" Foreman asked, incredulous. "What are you doing to yourself?"
"Doesn't matter," House said, refusing to let himself yawn again. "Forget me and get back to the girl."
Back in the office, House poured himself another cup of coffee to go with his Vicodin. He paced to keep the overwhelming urge to sleep at bay, but his leg was hurting; it wouldn't accept anymore walking, for now.
So House sat down, waiting for the Vicodin to kick in. But the couch's leather and form were inviting, and he ended up lying down, folding an arm beneath his head. The Vicodin would take effect faster if he was comfortable. He closed his eyes for a bit of rest so that he could stay awake another few hours.
Before he knew it, House was sound asleep.
"You keep running away," Wilson said, voice low and so near House's ear it tickled. House could hear Wilson's breathing, as fast and uneven as his own. "Scared?"
It occurred to House that this was probably another dream, but somehow, trapped beneath Wilson's body, their limbs so entangled he wasn't sure which was whose anymore, it didn't seem to matter. "Yes," House said, sliding so that their cocks rubbed against one another. "Positively frightened. Shivering with fear."
And then he really was shivering because Wilson fluttered over his neck, kissing here and there. "Not here," Wilson said, between kisses. "Out there."
Out there. Yes, House was vaguely aware that there was an outside to this room, to this bed with light-blue cotton covers, and to this concentrated existence with Wilson. This was the fairy tale and there was a real world out there, but he could care less, and he didn't appreciate Wilson bringing it up when they had better things to do. House bit, in reprimand, Wilson's ear hard enough to smart. "Forget that."
Wilson shuddered and House tingled from satisfaction that he could elicit such a response. House had controlled Wilson in so many ways, over the years, so having this kind of command over him felt only right. What cosmic-sized stupidity kept them from doing this until now?
Wilson pulled away and traced his fingers over House's cheek. House could read the worry in his expression. "You're not known for careful thinking before rushing into things, House."
House didn't know how they could be sharing this much sweaty, naked body contact with him still feeling cock-teased. Leave it to Wilson to take all the fun out. "Less talk, more fucking," House insisted.
"Always a class act," Wilson said with a slight smirk. He pecked House quickly and from there went down, and down, and down until he took House's dick in his mouth and started in on a very earnest blow job, bothering with none of that foreplay bullshit. House bucked and cried out, almost coming from that alone, but he made himself hold back. He couldn't come so soon, and not just because he wanted to make the pleasure last.
House had the feeling bad things would happen once they were done and he'd rather put it off for as long as possible. Here and now, he was happy; he couldn't be sure about afterwards. He focused on the present.
From the look of it, Wilson seemed to like what he was doing. And maybe he did. Maybe he spent all his free time sucking guys off--it certainly felt like he did, he was that fucking good at it--and House was only now beginning to discover this very welcome side of Wilson. House grunted; he wasn't going to hold off much longer.
But before House could come--and by now he was desperate to do so, forget his bad premonitions, he wanted the gratification--Wilson slid the dick out of his mouth and moved back up so that he was face to face with House again. "Hey," House protested, "You forgot the grand finale--you know, the whole point of sex."
House could see Wilson's chest rise and fall. "I've heard that some people have sex, sometimes, out of affection."
"Well. Not everyone can be sensible," House said. "That why you pulled the plug? You want to fulfill your lifelong fantasy of coming simultaneously with me?"
"Yes," Wilson deadpanned. "That was my life-long dream. But I was thinking of something better. Put your legs around me--"
And just like that, House was shrinking into himself and away from Wilson. He balked from years of shame and pride over his thigh. He could lie down on a soft bed and get a blowjob, no problem, but some of the more complicated things Wilson classified as "better" were strictly off the menu.
Wilson rubbed House's thigh. "No, it's not a problem, here--"
No pain flared at the contact and, for the first time, House realized that he wasn't hurting. At all. His life for the past few years had been defined by pain, and here he was, without it, and he'd already forgotten it.
Preparing for the worst, House experimented raising his right leg and discovered a mobility he'd lost with the infarction. It was as if he'd never been crippled. "Alright," House said appreciatively, and swung his legs around Wilson's. "This is better."
"See? You should listen to me more often."
Wilson slid into him, smooth and easy. They didn't bother lube or condoms and House wondered for a second, in the back of his mind, about the wisdom about that, but then Wilson was pulling in and out of his ass, and that was distracting, to say the least. "Fuck," House said, his hips meeting Wilson's rhythm, his fingers digging into Wilson's shoulders. "Fuck."
"House," Wilson said, but not like he coming or like he was having an epiphany, which is how House preferred to hear his name said when fucking; more like he had an important message to get through and his time was almost up. "Don't go--"
Was he crazy? "Why the hell would I--"
And Wilson thrust harder, getting in deeper--
House sat up suddenly, bolting up from the chair. Heart pounding, eyes wide open, he was fully awake in his office, the morning light coming in strong through the windows. His mug of coffee, filled and cold, was on the floor where he'd left it before closing his eyes for 'just a couple of seconds.'
His pants were sticky with tell-tale fluid. Fuck.
He'd gone from dreaming about kissing to fucking his dead best friend. It was getting progressively worse. He shut his eyes, but the visuals were burned into his mind: the sweat forming on Wilson's shoulders, his half-open mouth--
And, oh god, the best sex House ever had was imaginary.
House didn't object to the gay factor. Hell, it wasn't as if he didn't appreciate the male form, and he'd already experimented with the other side of the sexuality fence. But this--this wasn't healthy. No way could having wet dreams about dead people be at all healthy. And while House wasn't into psychotherapy or self-help books, he had standards for his sanity. Standards he was not currently reaching.
He was hunting through the cabinets behind his desk, hoping they'd yield some change of clothes (maybe the track pants from back when he pretended to do rehab to keep Cuddy off his back), when Cameron stormed in. He sat down quickly, using the table to hide the damp spot on the front of his pants.
"We've got something," Cameron said, sticking the new set of readings at him. "Not that it makes much sense. Diana was as unresponsive as ever, and then, around seven a.m., she went into increased mental activity. She fell back down to previous levels a few minutes ago."
House's stomach lurched. Was there more to the resemblance between McFinn and the girl in his dreams than his subconscious playing with him? "What kind of mental activity?"
Cameron rubbed her eyes, either to get rid of the tiredness from having stayed up all night or to try to make sense out of what was happening. "She showed signs of experiencing REM sleep."
"She's in a coma," he reminder her.
"That's what we said to you," she said testily. "We thought she might be going into a vegetative state, but it didn't last long enough. It had to be a glitch in the equipment, or some other factor making it only look like her REM sleep-on cells are active."
Other ideas flashed through House's mind, none of which he liked. The REM sleep coincided far too neatly with his own nap-time; he could almost fool himself into seeing a correlation between the two events. But that was crazy. Absurd. Something you'd see in a soap opera.
But there had to be some explanation for the increased brain activity and House meant to find out what it was. "You three fools keep monitoring her--and next time, actually check if she's showing other signs of REM sleep!"
She made a face, but called Chase and Foreman to update them.
While she was distracted, House put on his winter coat that went down to his knees and thus thankfully covered all embarrassing pant-smudges that might elicit questions, and shuffled towards the door.
"Where are you going?" Cameron asked.
"Home. Got no rest last night."
"Neither did I!"
"But I'm the boss, aren't I?" he said, and left.
On the way back, House refilled his Vicodin prescription and picked up a bottle of bourbon. He didn't remember ever dreaming on those foolish occasions when he'd overdosed, and meant to repeat the experience, if only to get a few hours of peaceful sleep.
Once he was home, he took too many Vicodin for his own good and drank until he passed out.
"You idiot," Wilson said, sounding as if he were far away. Everything felt fuzzy and round and blissfully distant. But even with the blur, House could detect the concern in Wilson's voice. Why couldn't anyone ever stop caring and leave him alone already. "House," Wilson said insistently, and House felt a hand wiping at his forehead, gentle and caressing. That was nice. He leaned in towards the touch.
And then he was slapped. "Ow," House whimpered, too heavy to do anything else.
"Wake up."
Waking up was the last thing House wanted. Moaning, he rolled away, to get away from Wilson, his obnoxious demands, and his slaps. But Wilson was faster and stronger, and he shook House, like trying to rattle coins out of a piggy jar.
"Wake up, damn it!" And with another slap House was awake--awake and on his back, with the undeniable urge to hurl. The bathroom, whole meters away, was too far to reach, so he puked then and there, on the perfectly innocent carpet. And then he puked some more, because nothing was quite as motivational as being face to face with your own barf.
Once he'd drained the contents of his stomach and then some, House rolled away, squeezing his eyes shut and moaning involuntarily. He let himself lie there, sick and woozy.
The stench of vomit strong next to him, House could almost fool himself into thinking that the only reason he hadn't choked and died on own regurgitation was that Wilson had saved him.
He wanted to believe that it really had been Wilson, looking out for House after his death, just as he had in life. But that was the wishful, pointless thinking of a man with a killer hangover and serious mental problems. The dream had been manifestation of his own subconscious. Nothing more.
He tried to get up, but the queasiness in his stomach was too great for that. Unable to reach any other cleaning materials, he wiped at his mouth and then rubbed his hands onto his pants, wanting the barf and spit off his skin. Great. Now he had a rug and a pair of pants to clean and still no solution to his dreams. Overdosing wasn't going to cure him.
House would consider this a time for extreme measures, but, in fact, he couldn't imagine anything more extreme than what he'd just done. Except for dying, but that wasn't so much a solution as it was an end. And he wasn't that desperate. Not yet, anyway.
Despite feeling like crap thanks to the overdose and the hangover, House went back to work in the late afternoon. Being alone with his overactive and twisted imagination was not something he wanted, and besides, he was less likely to sleep at the hospital, where he was constantly pestered by his underlings.
House started to brew a new pot of coffee in his office, but at the first whiff of the coffee beans, he stomach revolted, forcing him to close the bag. After over a dozen cups in the past twenty-four hours, coffee was repulsive. So he bought a soda from the closest vending machine, instead, to serve as his caffeine rush. At this rate, he'd develop an addiction as vicious as the Vicodin one, but it was better than going back to that.
The caffeine boost wasn't enough, though. House's body still whined at him to lie down. But he refused to give in, keeping himself awake by bouncing a ball against the wall. It stimulated him about as much as knitting would, but the physical motion kept him from laying his head onto the desk and zonking out.
Sometime around throw number two hundred and six, Chase and Foreman came in. "Got more results and what happened to you?" Foreman asked, once he took a closer look at House.
House rubbed at his face, as if that might hide the signs of sleep deprivation and overdose. "Too many hookers. But enough about me, as fascinating as I am. Gimme the skinny on the McFinn girl."
Chase and Foreman exchanged weary glances, which House did not miss, even in his wiped-out state. He steeled himself for more obnoxious expressions of concern, but being good, obedient boys, they did as they were told.
Chase tossed a folder down the table. "The same thing happened as last night: she experienced heightened brain activity for a while, though for a much shorter period."
Something like a police siren went off in House's head. He scanned through the data, making sure that Chase hadn't misunderstood the numbers. "Any other REM patterns?"
"The neurons in the pontine tegmentum were active," Foreman said, with a mild grimace, "But no rapid eye movement."
"Her heart rate and breathing were regular, as was her temperature," Chase added.
The activity dated from ten oh three to ten eleven. While House didn't know at what time he'd passed out from the boozing and the drugging, nor had he checked his watch after being slapped into consciousness by the dream Wilson, it had been around ten o'clock.
"Maybe she's not in a coma," Chase said.
"How else are you going to explain her symptoms?" Foreman asked.
The overlap between his dreaming and McFinn's brain activity could be considered a fluke, if it'd happened once. Twice could be a coincidence. House did not, however, want to go for a third time to confirm or deny the correlation. He wanted answers, and he wanted them before his dreams freaked him out any further.
Was there a correlation?
"Jung believed in the collective unconscious," Chase said, smirking. "Maybe someone's tapping into hers."
It was a joke, but it caught House's attention.
Foreman sighed, as if disturbed by the kind of people he had to work with. "For one thing, the collective unconscious isn't some kind of brain-share; it refers to common aspects in human psyche. And secondly, how is that a valid suggestion?"
"I like it," House interrupted. "Take it further." They both stared at him. "Go on," he encouraged. "We haven't found answers inside the box, so maybe they're outside."
"You're not thinking that someone is dipping into her mind, are you?" Chase asked. "That's not scientific. Or even logical!"
"Don't want to hear about the reality of facts from an ex-wannabe priest," House snapped. "And it was your idea."
"House," Foreman said, "Maybe you're not in your right mind, what with your 'hookers' and Wilson's death, but you're the one who insisted we diagnose Diana, so if you're not going to contribute, the least you could do is stop being so narcissistic and forcing the conversation back to yourself."
Narcissism. That one world revealed, to House, a greater context. "That's it," he said, and before either one of them could ask what was what, he was gone.
While the hospital was an excellent resource on some branches of knowledge, it was downright lacking in others. But the public library was pretty good at filling in the hospital's gaps.
House pulled off as many reference books on Greek mythology as he could while still stumping along with a cane and touted them to the nearest table. However, despite the relative fame of the legend, only one book had anything on the subject:
- "As for the famous love affair with Endymion [...] because of his beauty, Selene fell in love with him, and Zeus granted him a wish, which was to sleep forever, remaining deathless and ageless."
The idea had been more plausible in his head than on paper.
House rubbed his temples so as to keep his hands busy and unable to shut the book. The idea sounded crazy now, but then so did most of his epiphanies. He had a hunch, and House trusted his instincts. He read on. Unfortunately, this account does not make clear whether Zeus' offer was the result of Endymion's beauty or Selene's love, and whether Endymion's choice was at all prompted by the latter (so that he might look upon his youth forever?). No source claims that the sleep was her idea. Loukianos' dialogue between Selene and Aphrodite suggests that she has become enamored of him while seeing him asleep each night, and that when she descends to him, he awakens to fulfill her desires. House nearly slammed the book shut upon reading that last phrase; this all was stupid for words. But he made himself reread the passage. Doing so was about as pleasant as drilling holes into his skull--without anesthetics.
The passage all but memorized, House tipped onto the back legs of his chair and thought. His theory's main problem was its impossibility; even if he'd lambasted Chase for his disbelief, the kid had a point. Collective unconsciousness and ancient shepherds the object of a Greek goddess' lust had no place in science, especially not in House's interpretation of it.
Moreover, if it was true, then he was Endymion to Wilson's Selene, and the mental image of them dressed up as their respective parts alone made his toes curl with indignation. And even if it could be true, the pieces didn't fit. Wilson was dead, not a hunting moon goddess, and the one in a permanent 'sleep' was the McFinn girl, not House.
Then again, if he was going to seriously consider himself the victim of a piece of Greek myth gone astray, he shouldn't be picking at the details.
He had a hypothesis, as absurd as it was. The next step: testing it.
Cameron was with the McFinn girl, reading some chick lit book or other. Come to think of it, he'd forgotten to tell them to give up the brain-watching duty. Oh, well. He'd never aimed to be a kind boss.
"House!" She said as soon as she saw him. "Where you've been? Chase and Foreman said that you ran out like you'd had one of your breakthroughs, but you weren't--"
He held up a hypodermic needle. "Here's my breakthrough."
Cameron stood up, toppling the chair over. "Maybe we should discuss your breakthrough before you go stabbing--"
"Nah, I'm pretty sure about this," House quipped, searching for a spot to inject into. "You can cross your fingers and hope for the best, though, if you like." There. He pushed in to the girl before Cameron could stop him. She may have been a stick, but her stubbornness could level empires; better get to his destination before she could get in his way.
"What did you just do?" Cameron demanded, torn between trying to make House 'fess up through sheer eye contact and checking the girl's vitals to keep up with any changes and prevent potential crashes.
"Aw, I'm hurt," House said in mock-injury. "Don't you trust me?"
"Not when you're acting like a maniac!"
A groan came from the general direction of the bed. Cameron and House both snapped their attention back to their patient.
"Was that zolpidem?" Cameron asked.
"Maybe," House replied.
"So, what, you want to wake her up for a few hours? What good will that do?! And the FDA hasn't approved zolpidem for coma patients--"
"But does anyone actually trust the FDA?"
The McFinn girl moaned again, flexing her head like she was keeping track of a lazy fly buzzing about. "What are you waiting for? Won't her family want to have a boo-hoo-ful reunion while she's awake? Call them!"
Cameron shot him a dirty look, letting him know full and well that she recognized this tactic to get her out of the room. But she complied, leaving to get a phone number and probably tell Cuddy what had just happened.
The girl started to blink and grope, pulling herself up to lean on her elbows. The moaning had stopped, but now she looked frightened. "Is that you?" She asked, her voice thick from disuse and far too long a sleep.
"Am I who?" House asked, his heart rate speeding up. Just because he'd tested his theory didn't mean he really thought it could be true.
"Oh, God, it is," her eyes widened, "I thought--"
House was spared from any further awkward conversations about how they knew each other because Cuddy and Cameron stormed in then, with comforting messages about the care McFinn had and would continue to receive and how she'd get to see her family soon, wasn't that nice.
House left them. He'd received all the confirmation he needed, from her reaction to him, on her role in the dreams. And while a great part of him was curious to learn more, the subject felt too unsafe; dangerous. It weirded him out too much. Plus, he had to carry out the next part of his experiment before she went back into her coma.
He was dying for a good bit of restful sleep, anyway.
The thing about hospitals was that there was always a bed available. House walked into a technically unoccupied room, shooed away the intern that'd been napping there, and made himself comfortable. He was fast asleep within minutes.
When he woke up, all daylight was gone; it was an early-evening dark outside. He'd slept for hours, it would seem.
And he hadn't dreamt one single bit with Wilson.
Good, House thought. But he wasn't pleased.
A day passed. Two days passed, and then three. And to everyone's, minus House's, disbelief, the McFinn girl failed to fall back into a coma. A week later, Cuddy allowed the hospital to discharge her.
Cuddy and House watched from the second-floor balcony as Chase wheeled her out, accompanied by her parents. "You did it again, House," Cuddy said. "Damned if I know how, though."
"You never do," he said. He squinted, trying to get as good a look he could before she left. Seeing her go, he felt as if he were bidding farewell forever to his dreams with Wilson forever. That was a good thing. He'd worked towards getting peaceful rest.
Then why did he want to drag her back and make her stay?
"So what did it? It couldn't have been just the zolpidem, or else she'd be back in that coma."
The automatic doors closed behind them, and the girl was gone. House bit his lip. "There was never anything wrong with her in the first place. She just needed a kick-start to get back into gear."
That evening, House flicked his apartment's entrance lights and stared at key objects: Wilson's briefcase, still dusty and still on a coffee table; Wilson's jacket, rumpled and half-shoved into a crack between the cushions on the couch; and the tennis-shoes, lonely in their corner. The more House looked, the more he found, like the spare pocket-protector Wilson had left on the bookshelf behind the TV.
Before, having Wilson's things about hadn't bothered House. Before the dreams had ended, it'd felt like Wilson had stepped out for a moment and would be back before long, with the groceries for dinner.
Though House had seen the body, though he'd slept through most of the funeral, though he'd gone through his waking life with the conspicuous absence of Wilson--not until now did it really hit him that Wilson was gone. With nothing left of him but Wilson's discarded things, House finally understood. He'd lost Wilson.
House closed his eyes. Denial had felt a thousand times better than this.
Part Two
"How have you been this last week, Dr. House?" Malaki asked. He detected something softer in her tone; he didn't know if she'd heard off the gossip vine about his recent fall in cheer, or if she could tell by simply looking at him. He supposed it didn't matter either way. While he hadn't exactly opened his arms wide towards pity and sympathy, it didn't bother him so much, now. He kind of wanted it, in fact.
"I've been," he said. "That's about it, I guess." He scratched his arm, feeling awkward.
Malaki tilted her head. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know." House remembered how when he first came here, all he'd wanted was to make Malaki admit that her work was pointless and nonsensical. And House didn't have the fighting spirit in him now, for Malaki or for anyone else.
"Numb?" She suggested. "Turned off?"
That sounded about right. Talking took far too much effort, so House shrugged. Sure. Turned off.
Malaki pushed her glasses upwards. "While I was doubtful about your decision to diagnose Ms. McFinn, I stand corrected. Your progress since then has been rapid and admirable."
Progress? What progress? If he'd gone forward, House had missed it. What he felt was stuck, lost, and any other number of synonyms that he couldn't be bothered to think up.
"At this rate, I'm sure that you'll soon come to terms with Wilson's death."
Oh, that kind of progress. If House didn't wince at the reminder of Wilson's death, it was only because he was determined not to. He wasn't about to go back on all his rants and become skittish at the mere mention of Wilson's passing away, but now that he'd finally realized the truth, he'd lost his bravado. He didn't want to hear the words so starkly.
He missed his bravado. That and other "things."
Before he could stop himself, House said, "Doesn't feel like progress." Being indifferent to the quack was one thing; actively participating in her quack process and discussing his feelings were things he ought to be alarmed about. He should be running--well, limping--out of the room screaming at the loss of his self-possession. He didn't, though. Instead he sat there and felt tired and apathetic.
"Grief never feels good," she said, which was about as inane as it got. Would she tell him next that headaches hurt? "But it gets better. Never perfect, but better that than denial."
"Denial was good," he muttered. And it was. What had he been thinking, going out of his way to ban Wilson from his dreams? They'd been better than nothing--and better than grief, for that matter. He wanted the denial back.
"You'll see," Malaki said. "Well--despite your progress," and House wished she wouldn't call it that, it made him sound like a school boy who needed to raise his grades, "I think we should keep having regular sessions, just in case. And I know you'll appreciate any excuse to stay out of the clinic." She smiled, and House stared at her, trying to make sense out of it.
It later struck him that her last phrase had been a joke. Maybe she'd taken up a sense of humor in the absence of his own. Or maybe she'd had one all along, and he hadn't noticed. House considered for a moment what other things he might have missed out about her, but dismissed the thought out of laziness.
"Can't be bothered," House told Cameron when he called from his bed. Before she could ask questions, he hung up.
It was true; he couldn't be bothered. He was tired of getting out of bed, of showering, of driving, of ignoring people as they talked at him, of eating, even. He couldn't drag himself through another work day.
Plus, he had better things to do.
He grabbed a medical journal off the stack he'd piled up next to him on the bed; he'd come across the collection last night, while trying to put order to Wilson's things, and he'd been making his way through them, in chronological order, ever since.
Lying on his side, House opened the journal to one James E. Wilson's article about mutations in a sample of young women with breast cancer. It dated back to 1998, when Wilson was nowhere near being the head of an Oncology Department--though it did help him make a name for himself.
It was actually the first article he'd released after he'd met House. "Here," he'd said, dimples popping up on one side of his face as he smirked, "I know once you're done with it, there'll be nothing left anyone else could contend with."
House wasn't the nice kind of guy who reviewed his colleague's papers, especially not out of the goodness of his heart, but he'd accepted, if only to test how far Wilson's limits went. Sure, he laughed at a pointed jab about his deteriorating relationship with his wife, and sure, he was up for mocking the surgeons. But surely he'd get fed up with House sometime.
The article was actually decent, but House still told Wilson it contained "universe-sucking black holes in logic." And House could still remember how Wilson had laughed at that, as if, yes, it was a good point, and yes, the article indeed was pulling entire galaxies into event horizons.
It had only made House want to get to know Wilson better, if only to provoke him further.
House never did find that breaking point. And now he never would.
He kept reading, reminiscing about their ten-year old debates, during midnight snacks of curly fries in the hospital cafeteria, over breast cancer and the meaning (or lack thereof) of life, and which Baywatch actress had the best rack.
This behavior was beyond pathetic, but House couldn't help himself. It was the closest he could get to Wilson, now.
The next morning was Saturday and House meant to sleep through it, with or without Wilson to keep him company in his dreams. He still hadn't the energy for anything else.
His plans, however, were dealt a fatal blow when the doorbell rang--and kept ringing for two, five, ten minutes. House resisted for as long as he could, with a pillow over his head, until it seemed that getting up and yelling at whoever it was would take less effort than waiting for the ringing to stop.
He didn't bother to check himself in the mirror or change out of his sleeping clothes; he just opened the door with a glare armed and ready.
Cameron stood on the doorstep, aggressively cheerful. "Morning."
He tried to close the door in her face. But she apparently knew him too well, for she'd lodged a foot in the doorframe.
"I don't want any," he grumbled.
"Any what?" Cameron asked.
"Whatever it is you're offering."
"Ah," she said, lighting up. "That's because you think you have a choice." Forcing the door open with her body, she squeezed in. "You'll want to dress yourself, since we're going out."
"Since when do you get to tell me what to do?" House complained.
"Oh, please, I know you like being bossed around by pretty girls. Go get dressed."
Rather than ask where they were going, House put on his most raggedy t-shirt that he should have thrown out by now, and a pair of wrinkly jeans that were in desperate need of a washing. But Cameron only nodded in approval of his wardrobe choice and whisked him to her car.
"Where are we going?" House finally asked as they pulled onto the highway.
"It's a surprise."
He heard their destination before they got there--a whimsical, childish tune bringing to mind clowns and rickety rides. "Please don't tell me you're taking us to a carnival."
"Thought you could use the cheering up," she said, bright as ever. House slumped down his chair and fantasized about escaping from Cameron's nefarious clutches. For starters, why was she doing this? Had she determined his depression had reached an interventional level? Why was she determined to try to cheer him up through the most ridiculous means imaginable?
The carnival smelled of sugar and grease and (faintly) of puke, and in harmony with the carnival tune was the ear-splitting chatter of kids. As if finally getting around to mourning Wilson's death didn't cause enough pain. "You brought me here to torture me, didn't you."
"C'mon," Cameron said and dragged him. They moved slowly because he couldn't walk through the dirt paths easily with his cane.
Once they'd each wolfed down greasy hotdogs ("For a skinny girl, you eat a lot") and giant-sized Cokes, House's crankiness hadn't quite diminished but it had settled down to a low simmering that, in the face of idiotic and rigged games, could be forgotten.
He almost felt better.
"I want to try the shooting," Cameron insisted. It sounded like the perfect opportunity to mock her aim, but given how she managed to hit four cans with five bullets, he didn't get the chance. She won a teddy bear and, after naming it Acebutolol, passed it onto an envious on-looking kid.
"You stay up at night thinking how to be top yourself in saintliness, don't you," House said, pained.
She grinned. "Your turn to shoot."
He was going to argue about how all these games were unfair and it was stupid and what good was it going to do him, anyway, he'd still be a miserable louse after playing, but Cameron look so determined he knew that she'd brook no refusals. He accepted the gun.
With the first shot he didn't concentrate at all and he missed by a humiliating margin, the corkscrew bouncing off the canvas behind the targets. Hearing Cameron snicker behind him, he vowed not to miss again.
On his second shot, House thought back to the hunting expeditions he used to go on with his BB gun, and focused on transferring that knowledge to the present. He thought of nothing else.
In doing so, he forgot, even if for only a while, about death and dreams.
House still hadn't remembered during his third shot, and by the fourth shot he was enjoying himself. He lived in the moment, getting swept up in Carnival: the Ferris wheel, running away from clowns, and the distorted mirrors.
For a blissful while he was just House, being silly with one of his employees.
They were wandering aimlessly about the park when Cameron pointed at something. "The bumper cars," she suggested.
And just like that, House remembered. He felt again the weight of his depression from the past few weeks. "I need to sit," he barely said out loud before falling into the nearest bench.
Off to the side he heard Cameron apologizing. "I'm so sorry--I didn't think--"
House watched as the kids and their parents crashed into one another. He hadn't witnessed the accident--he hadn't even been at the hospital where they'd brought Wilson in--but he'd imagined it many, many times. Sometimes he imagined it gory, creating the most horrific scene he could. Sometimes he let himself think that Wilson went quickly. He's imagined it in more ways than he cares to count. "I forgot too," he said in rare and complete honesty. "Just--forgot."
Cameron sat next to him. "Sorry," she apologized again.
"You said that already." He heard her start up another round of "sorry" before he shot her a look at she stopped before getting halfway through the word.
There, in the midst of the noise and the smells and the colors and all the movement, House thought about Wilson. Thought about what Wilson would say if he knew about this excursion ("You? Happy? That's gotta be a joke.") and thought about what he'd have done, had he been here. House thought about the Saturdays they had spent together.
Mostly, he thought about how much he missed Wilson and how much he would keep on missing him.
"I think I loved him," House said, almost absently, as if to let the words out and not to express it to any particular audience.
But he did have an audience, even if he'd forgotten her for a moment, and Cameron put an arm around his shoulder. House let her because right now, he did want the sympathy. He'd loved his stupid dead best friend. And, unaware of this fact, he'd driven away the one bit of him that might have remained.
When he drove up to the house, he spent a few minutes inside the car, figuring out how to go about doing this. He'd been determined to come here, but now that he had, it felt absolutely foolish. What was he hoping for? To unbury himself a Happy Ever After?
While he thought about these things, he looked at the house and the two family members sitting on rocking chairs on the porch. The place seemed familiar. He'd never been here before, but somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd spent long pleasant hours there.
The older woman, with reddish hair that was beginning to grey, got to her feet once House stepped out of his car and into visibility. "What do you want," she demanded, like a feline growling at her cub's attacker. Said cub, Diana McFinn, let her mother growl, her face moody.
House held up his hands, trying to prove his innocence by waving them. "Nothing, just a nice chat, a nice, pleasant chat--" Being so polite felt almost poisonous to House, but it was vital that he get to talk to her. He'd put up with anything for that.
"She's got nothing to chat about with you--"
"Mom." McFinn said, hugging herself. "It's okay. He's not a bad man. Not too bad, anyway." The mother looked doubtful. "Really, mom. He can stay. I need to talk to him, anyway."
The mother frowned. "But if he says one word about murder--"
"Then we'll kick him out," Diana supplied. When her mother showed no sign of leaving, Diana intoned, in that way that only children can to their overbearing parents, "We'll talk alone."
"Fine," her mother sniffed. "But if he harasses you even one bit..."
"I'll call, mom. Promise." And with that, it was just the two of them. Now that the maternal bodyguard was gone, House studied Diana. She'd gained weight since the coma, giving her a healthier sheen. But she still seemed too small for her clothes, like she had a way to go before she filled out to her original size. Her skin was sallow, adding to the impression of a long-term sickness, but the upcoming summer would probably take care of that.
"Come on up," Diana invited. "Can you make it?"
"I can," House grumbled, going up the arduous steps, and again was struck with an uncanny feeling of déjà vu. Why did this place seem so familiar? When he'd gotten up to the porch and turned around to a scene full of birch trees it struck him: he had spent time here, on this very porch.
In his dreams with Wilson.
He stared at Diana, expecting answers. And she delivered. "I thought you might come see me," she said, still hugging herself, shifting her weight from one foot to another. "Didn't think it'd take you this long, actually."
"What made you think--"
"I watched you flirt with Wilson for over a month," she interrupted, and House felt--weird. He couldn't specify how, but it was a little like his brain had been knocked out, or like he'd peeled his skin off and put it on backwards. Weird. Things were not where they belonged. "I got a pretty good idea of what you're like."
House took a deep breath and searched for a phrasing that would make him sound as un-crazy as possible. "So you saw it all." She nodded. "Everything," he added, just in case they were working from a different definition of "all." She nodded again, eyes downcast. And no wonder; she'd basically seen him, and Wilson, star in a porn video. "It wasn't just in my head."
"Funny," she said, "I thought it was all in my head."
"Um," House said, because, for once, he was speechless. He looked away from her; now that he knew what she'd seen, he was embarrassed to be there. It was one thing to purposefully go out and shock people; it was another thing to have your privacy invaded. But then suddenly he did know what to say: "I was not flirting with Wilson!"
"Or he was flirting with you. Whatever. Same difference." She had a point, actually, even if House wasn't entirely comfortable yet with seeing their relationship in that way. Diana shuffled her feet. "We done here?" She asked. "Or--"
"Did you have any clue about what was going on?" If she did, House wanted in, because the more he thought about it, the less sense it made. It was like examining an expressionistic painting with your nose pressed against the center: what was a beautiful image from far away dissolved into incomprehensible colors, up close.
She rubbed the base of her sleeve against her forehead, moving away strands of hair that had fallen into her face. "Not really. Wilson and I knew about the car accident and we talked about it--"
"You talked to him?" House felt a surge of jealousy that she got to spend so much time with Wilson. Wilson's murderer shouldn't get to partake in his company.
"Sometimes, when you weren't there."
"What--what did you talk about?"
She shrugged. "Stuff. Who we were. Our lives. What we remembered about the accident. How we got where we were. You--he talked a lot about you. It got pretty boring, after a while."
"Thanks," House said, the sarcasm plain in his voice, and for the first time she smiled.
"There's only so much anybody can say on one subject, y'know." She leaned against the banister. "You actually helped, a bit. That's how we figured out what happened. That he'd died and I--hadn't. You kept him updated, and he let me know what was going on. Not that I wasn't thinking it could be one massive mental trip."
House wished Wilson had done the same for him. He'd have liked to known what the hell was going on. If he could talk to Wilson again, he'd berate him for that.
Could he talk to Wilson again? "Have you seen him since--"
Diana shook her head. "I was hoping you had."
And there it was. Wilson was gone from her, too. House closed his eyes and tried to manage the disappointment at how quickly his new hope had been shot down. But maybe Wilson wasn't entirely gone; just because he wasn't in the McFinn girl's mind anymore didn't mean that he'd vanished forever. "If he's not with you--"
"I don't know where he could be," she said, her hands playing nervously with one another. "We never got how he could be hanging out in my head, especially if he was dead, but that's how it was, and so--I don't know, House. I'm sorry. I really am. He was a good guy."
"He was more than a 'good guy,'" House snapped. "He should be here. Not you." And he meant it. She should've been the one to die in the crash. Or, even if she'd survived, she should have stayed dead to the world. If she had, then Wilson wouldn't have been kicked out of existence.
She looked away, embarrassed and grieved. Good, he thought. She deserved much worse.
"Keep your homicide count down--stay off the streets," he said, before stumbling off the steps and back into his car, off to anywhere else that wouldn't remind him of what he'd unwittingly given away.
If he'd known, things would be different. He'd still have Wilson at night.
The McFinn girl proved to be a dead-end, and with no other routes to explore, House wound up at the public library, the one place that had come anywhere close to explaining the whole mess.
He grabbed a wider variety of reference books than before, even nabbing a few from the children's section, though that earned him a few weird looks from librarians and kids alike. Apparently men with limps and stubble weren't allowed to appreciate bright colors and large fonts.
House flipped through book after book, hunting for information through indices, but he found nothing new; they all repeated each other, like a literary echo. Endymion was a real hunk of a dude; Selene (or Diana, or Artemis, or any of number of names) couldn't resist his irresistible looks; he went into a forever-sleep; and they lived happily ever after in his dreams. Yadda yadda yadda. House had known that much even before dipping into 'research.'
And there was nothing about third parties providing the background scenery to the fornication.
House pushed the books away from him in disgust and left them there, not bothering to put them back onto the shelves.
Walking back to his car, staring down at the ground, he turned the matter over in his head. It would seem that both he and Wilson played the part of visitors, since neither of them were 'available' all the time. Meaning, Diana had played the role of Endymion and provided the dream-space for the meetings.
Maybe if Diana fell back into a coma--
House stopped that train of thought then and there. No good could come from that.
But it kept coming back to him, like a low-budget, overplayed commercial. There would be problems, he reasoned, jiggling the keys and unlocking the car door, not the least of which would be the McFinn girl coming back to consciousness once more, rendering the attempt futile. Moreover, if she blabbed about who'd put her back into the coma, it'd land House in jail (permanently, this time). And even if House tried and succeeded, Wilson would nag at him for sacrificing the girl. Assuming, of course, that the plan worked and Wilson actually came back to House's dreams.
He got into his car, glad to be out of the cold, and rubbed his hands. So he couldn't knock the McFinn girl out, tempting as the thought was. Still, there was something to the idea of comas. House assumed they were the modern-day version of the Greek, god-induced never-waking-up-again slumber.
He switched the ignition on, and just like that it struck him: who said that McFinn had to be the one in the slumber? Why couldn't it be he himself? He'd happily play the part of Endymion, if it meant that Wilson came back to him.
He let the car run, heating up, while he thought about this. Technically, this idea should be rejected outright for sheer ridiculousness. Then again, everything so far about this affair was ridiculous, so what harm was there in adding more insanity?
And House liked the thought of being in a coma and of seeing Wilson again. Well, Wilson might not show up--that depended on whether or not he still existed or, for that matter, if he'd actually lasted after his death.
But House was willing to try anything, no matter how radical the attempt might be.
"Hey, you."
The kid-doctor--or so House assumed, from his zit-sporting face and his hesitant, scurrying walk as he clutched a clipboard to his chest--stopped in his tracks. He look to his right, to his left, and even behind until he was forced to conclude: "You mean me?"
"No, the other you behind you. Yes, you!" House said.
"But you're Dr. House!" He gaped. "You don't ever talk to interns!"
House refused to let himself roll his eyes. Of course he talked to interns, provided they were foolish enough to get in his way. But he didn't want to scare the kid unnecessarily; he was already frightened enough for the task House had in mind for him. "Well, you're the exception, aren't you."
A blush tinged his face. "Ah, am I?"
"Yeah. Now come with me, I've got something for you to do."
"Yes! Of course!" The kid matched House's stride, but then stopped. "Only--I was just paged to the ER and I have to go, but maybe we can--" House shot him such a withering, scornful look that the he squeaked out, "But you come first, of course." House led him into an empty patient room. "Lucky you," he said, hopping onto the bed, "You get to be part of a super-special research project: testing out propofol. Gotta make sure it's better than thiopental for faking comas."
The kid opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, like he was flexing his jaw. "Really? I didn't hear anything about this research project--"
"You think you know everything?" House bet he did, but the kid-doctor still shut up. "I've got all the ingredients here--all that's missing is for you to shoot me up with it. What are waiting for? It's Cuddy-approved. But you'll be Cuddy-disapproved if you don't do it."
The kid took the syringe from House. "Are you sure Cuddy authorized this?"
"How many times do I have to tell you!" House snapped. He was starting to regret bringing in a newbie doctor to give him the injection, but it wasn't as if he had much choice. He needed someone by his side in case something went wrong. "You think I'm a liar? Or are you too dumb to do a procedure a monkey could in his sleep?"
The kid bristled, offended at being accused of such base incompetence. "Of course I know how to give an injection!"
"Good. Maybe there's hope for you yet." House plopped his head onto the pillow, sticking out one of his arms so as to be connected to the IV pump. "Now do it." He kept an eye on the kid as he did it--House wouldn't have put it past him to screw this up. But the he must've done it right, for reality started to slip away.
The next thing House knew, he was standing in the hospital's entrance hallway. It was empty: no ornery nurses at the reception, no shuffling patients, no janitors sweeping after discarded gauze. He'd never seen it like this. Frankly, it was eerie.
"House?" he heard from behind.
He knew that voice. He'd been craving to hear that voice.
He turned around, and sure enough, Wilson was there. Faced with the person he'd been seeking these past couple of weeks, House was suddenly shy and embarrassed. He stayed where he was, not knowing what to say or do. Part of him wanted to run to Wilson, but he hadn't run in years, and especially not because he'd missed someone that much.
Wilson showed less self-consciousness and closed the distance between them, stopping only when his feet were about to skid against House's. "Hey," he said, as if House's shyness were contagious.
House looked anywhere but at Wilson. In his peripheral view he saw that Wilson had no idea what to do with his hands, which went from his hips to his pockets and back to his hips again.
Screw this first-date awkwardness; their time was limited. House grabbed and kissed him, tasting and smelling as much as he could, soaking in Wilson's presence. And Wilson paid back in full.
Dream or not, though, they still had to breathe, so they came apart for air. Panting, Wilson said, "You're back."
"That's my line," House protested. "Where've you been?"
Wilson shook his head. "I don't know. Diana," and even with Wilson's spit in his mouth, House was irritated at the reminder at how much more time she got to spend with him in the afterlife, "she disappeared and I--I don't remember. I don't think I was anywhere."
"Hades, maybe," House suggested wryly, and Wilson smirked.
"No, I'd have remembered that."
"Maybe you took a dip in the river Lethe."
"But then I wouldn't remember you either," Wilson said.
And the conversation died there. The relief they'd enjoyed over their successful reunion was dampened by the references to the Ancient Greek hell. They remembered how precarious their situation was.
Wilson let go of House and started to look around. "Is Diana back in a coma? The poor girl, she should get on with her life--"
He was doing it again! "She's not here," House said peevishly. "We're in my coma."
Wilson looked at him like he'd sprouted feathers and started to squawk. "What do you mean, your coma."
"Put myself into one. Had a hunch that if I did, you'd be waiting for me. I was right, wasn't I."
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, something House hadn't seen him do since he'd died. As infuriating as House had considered it before--it was the sign of an oncoming-lecture--House was glad to see it again. "Comas aren't toys," Wilson started.
"You're going to lecture me," House said smugly. "You really are Wilson. That thing with you being all cool-as-a-cucumber about everything was strange. What was up with that? You get a personality transfusion after dying?"
"For one thing, you weren't being appallingly stupid," Wilson's tone was harsh. "And, I don't know. I just haven't been as stressed, lately. I don't get as upset as I used to."
"Death is de-stressing," House wondered. "Who knew?"
"No job, no pressure to succeed--it makes a difference."
It occurred to House that this was an opportunity not just to see Wilson again, but to ask All Important Questions that had been bugging him his whole life. "Tell me more about the afterlife."
"It's boring, I guess? There's not much to do. I only had Diana for company, and she's a nice girl, but not someone you'd want to spend too much time with, much less an eternity."
"You poor boy," House mocked. But it made him smug to hear Wilson say, in his own terms, that the McFinn girl interested him about as much as a bowl of gravy. He liked being reminded that Wilson preferred him.
Wilson pretended to pout and, seeing his lips poke out like that, House was tempted to kiss him and get into a serious making-out session. But now that he had a source of answers from The Beyond, he had a ton more questions to get through first. "So that's it? No judgment, no ultimate comprehension, no blinding light of truth?"
"Not so far. Maybe that comes later, when I'm not hanging out in comatose minds."
"Comatose," House mused. "This almost proves my theory right."
"Almost?" Wilson asked. "What theory?"
House didn't answer; his mind was moving along too quickly to help the laggers. "I need actual evidence--seeing and touching you in my head doesn't go far as proof. Tell me something I have no way of knowing."
Despite having been left behind, idea-wise, Wilson caught up. "My credit card number?"
"I know that."
"Ah. Of course you do. Then--" Wilson paused to think. "My first grade teacher's name. Mrs. Kowalski."
House did love Wilson, but sometimes he was simply too silly. "You could not be more boring if you tried. Don't you have anything exciting to pass on? The name of the last nurse you slept with? Julie's bra size? The more excruciatingly embarrassing moment of your life?"
"You know all that," Wilson pointed out. "In fact, you caused that last one. I almost had to change career because of you."
"You're no fun," House informed him. "You were no fun in life, and you're no fun dead."
"Wouldn't want to be inconsistent," Wilson said, with a fond expression, and that was the last House saw of him. He fought to stay, to not lose sight of Wilson or at least get in one last touch; but it all faded away.
House came to in a hospital bed he'd been lying on and to the sight of many, many blurry faces peering down at him. He closed his eyes. Whoever they were, House didn't care. They weren't Wilson.
He couldn't keep himself from hearing them, though. He heard murmurs of what sounded distinctly like Cuddy inserting the word "idiot" multiple times in each sentence. Eventually, the voices trailed away, accompanied by receding footsteps. When all the noise was gone, House dared to open his eyes.
Cuddy was still there and it was like all joy had died.
House had never seen Cuddy like this. He thought he'd seen her in every stage of pissed-off, from mildly to I'm-about-to-chew-your-face off. But this--this was murderous.
He opened his mouth and said "Hey." It came out as a squeak, partly because of his relaxed vocal chords and partly because out of fear. Cuddy did not reply; she merely crossed her arms and glared at him, making him feel awful and so very tempted to crawl beneath the covers. Anything so he didn't have to face her. "How's it going?" he asked, in a more normal, casual tone. "Seen any good movies lately?"
"Gregory House," she said, "You're dumber than I ever imagined."
"Am not--" he protested, but this was no discussion.
"You don't know how to deal with your emotions. Fine," she paced. "So I send you off to a psychiatrist--she could help you out, but nooo, you're too dim-witted for that. Instead you risk your life so that, I don't know!" She threw her hands up. "So that you can act out a death wish as convincingly as possible? To punish yourself? You're crazy, House."
"Comas aren't that risky--"
"There are still complications! And what kind of a sane person knocks themselves into a coma?"
"The bored ones?"
"You are not bored and you know it. Look." Her anger wound down and she spoke more calmly. "Maybe you haven't noticed, but there are some people around here who worry about you and while we know better than to expect you to treat yourself well, we'd prefer it if you didn't fulfill your suicidal inclinations."
"Wasn't suicide," he said petulantly.
"Then what was it?" But House couldn't tell Cuddy about how he was pretty sure his dead best friend existed on different plane without her thinking he was even more mentally unbalanced, and so he didn't. When it became apparent that no answer was coming, Cuddy went on. "I'm going to guess: a poor mechanism for dealing with the death of one James E. Wilson, isn't it?" That was actually mildly correct; House bit his lips. "But you think you're the only one missing him? He was my friend, too."
"Oh my god," House said like he'd just realized the most vital thing of all. "You did sleep with him."
Cuddy smacked him on the arm. "Is that all you ever think about? And no, I did not."
House rubbed at his arm, making a mock face of pain at her. "And what do you mean miss him? You only ever saw each other at work. Stuff of epic friendships, that."
She stared at the ground, though there was nothing of interest there. House knew, because he checked: there was only plain, uninteresting tiled floor. "We--some mornings, he'd drop by with a cup of coffee, and we'd chat. About nothing in particular. He liked the place near his old home, a locally-owned store, but he knew that I'm addicted to Starbucks' frappuccino, so he'd go there instead. Just because I liked it. That's how he was. And he wasn't scared of me, like most of the staff. He treated me like he did everyone else."
She didn't speak for a while, and House assumed it was because she was rummaging through her memories. "So, yeah, we were only work colleagues, but I practically live in this hospital, and we were friends. I miss him."
House had an idea of how missing Wilson felt. He knew too well, so much that it felt wrong to mock her for it. So he stayed silent.
"Anyhow," Cuddy said, "In light of your complete lack of common sense, you're getting a one-way trip to the psych ward."
"What?" House sat up. "I'm not staying in the crazy-bin."
"It's for your own safety," Cuddy informed him. "Until we can be assured you won't be putting yourself in any more danger, you can enjoy yourself there. Safe and sound."
"This is crazy!"
"No," Cuddy corrected. "You are. This is for your own safety."
In a word, this sucked. If he was stuck here--who knew for how long--how was he supposed to see Wilson again? And even if he did get out, House mused darkly, Cuddy must've warned all the interns against the bogus 'coma study.' How would he dupe anyone else into doing the procedure? Money? Threats? Promises? Maybe he should just do it by himself. He could handle it. He didn't need a baby-sitter.
Problem was, while any of those solutions might work in the short term, they weren't things he could pull off regularly. Comas weren't like baths; you couldn't slip into one on a daily basis.
Damn Wilson for dying and not coming up with a convenient way to haunt House. Why couldn't he have been more conventional, as was his wont to do anyway, and become a ghost? Then again, ghosts had no physical substance, so House could've forgotten doing any of the sexy stuff.
The door unlocked and House got ready to swing out of bed and out of the room; this could be his chance at freedom. Depending on who it was, he could trick them into seeing things his way.
"Good afternoon," Malaki said, locking the door behind her. Already House was slumping back into bed, having lost the hope that this would be his get-out-of-jail opportunity. "How are you?" she asked.
"Why ask me?" House said, sullenly. "Ask Cuddy, she'll tell you I'm crazy. Or you can do your job and tell me yourself."
Malaki raised an eyebrow. "I'm not in the habit of telling my patients how they are."
"Sure it is. Call me crazy and keep me stuck in Bedlam."
"I can get you released, if you give me reason to think you won't harm yourself any further." Malaki settled onto one of the hospital stools, managing to look perfectly composed and in place even on the flimsy plastic-and-metal furniture. House resented her calm. "Why don't we start by discussing what drove you to fool that intern into drugging you?"
He was sick of this. Very, very sick. "What do you want me to say? That I wanted to die but didn't have the guts to go all the way? That I thought it'd be a wacky, fun way to pass the evening? That I'm so bored I wanted the ultimate black-out?"
"How about," and Malaki adjusted herself on her seat, sweeping her ankle-length skirt so that it fell off the chair more evenly, "you tell me why you actually did it? Instead of feeding me what you think I want to hear."
House wanted to laugh and he almost did. Anything he could come up with, off the top of his head, would be far more plausible than the truth. Any "actually"s would guarantee him a long-term vacation, or even retirement, in confinement.
Hell. The truth was so implausible that Malaki would see it as another one of his incomprehensible jokes. She might even get annoyed at him, for being so disrespectful.
If House couldn't get out of here, the least he could do was bait Malaki. He hadn't succeeded so far in unbalancing her, and trying once more would be more fun than convincing her of his sanity. "When Ms. Murderer McFinn was in a coma, Wilson was stuck in her head and I dropped by for visits, in my dreams. But then he was evicted from her head when she woke up and we lost our hanging-out space. I went into a coma to see him again."
"So Dr. Wilson transferred minds? How did he do this?" Malaki asked.
He looked at her. She said this with a straight face, as if she was asking about the weather or commenting on a recent ball game. He looked at her harder; still no sign of mockery or of humoring the whacko. All the while, he repeated her phrase over and over in his head, just to make sure he hadn't misunderstood.
She was taking him seriously. That was most definitely strange. "That's not the reaction you're supposed to have."
"Are you the one psycho-analyzing me, now?"
"You're supposed to tell me to take this seriously," House insisted. "Maybe tsk-tsk at me and write down 'a sadly hopeless case' in some notebook. You shouldn't be asking follow up questions."
"But you are being serious," she said, tapping her foot. "And I'm curious about how the transfer mechanism works."
How could she have known that, at his most ridiculous, House was being honest with her for the first time? Witchcraft. It had to be witchcraft. Or some other equally logical explanation. "Well?" she asked.
If they'd come this far, he might as well go the rest of the way. It wasn't as if they could do much worse to him. Not legally, anyway. "Damned if I know. He was in her head, and then he wasn't, and when I went into a coma, he was there in my head, so however it happened, the coma-swap thing worked."
"I see," she said, and rubbed her chin. "As I recall, he'd never met Ms. McFinn--but I suppose that with the accident, he couldn't help but make a connection with her."
"I'm pretty sure psychologists aren't supposed to be crazier than their patients."
She frowned and House celebrated inside. He had, at last, at very long last, gotten her goat. Finally! He should've known that a psychologist's most sensitive point was their own sanity.
"You think that just because something can't be explained by science that it's not true?"
He was appalled. "Psychology is a soft science, but aren't you taking this too far?"
"Do you want me to help you or not?" she said curtly. "Because I can tell Cuddy to keep you here as long as she wants."
"Okay, fine." House crossed his arms and slumped against the raised bed. "Wilson formed a magical, mystic link with that McFinn trash during the accident. And?"
"And Dr. Wilson knew you before he passed away, so he was tied to you already. Are there any other coma-patients with whom he has a connection?"
"I don't know. Maybe one of his terminal patients. So what?"
"Maybe," and he disliked how she said it slowly, as if she, of all people, were slow to grasp concepts, "if you 'introduced' to him names of other comatose people, he'd have somewhere to go."
It made sense. It made so much sense that he should've thought of it himself. On the other hand, it made his own theories look reasonable. "I'm telling Cuddy you're off your rocker."
She looked irritated for the second time this conversation. Insulting her mental health really was a goldmine. "If you believe it, why am I crazy for agreeing with you?"
"Because I experienced all of it! You, you're just taking my word for it!"
"I've always been able to read people," she said, with what felt, to House, like forced dignity. "And who knows? Maybe I'm only humoring you, so that you can see how insane you sound." House made a face; if that was her tactic, then she'd succeeded. "But I'd like to give you a chance--if you're right, then you won't have to put yourself back into a coma. If you're wrong--you might realize it. And that's an important step towards recovery."
"A chance?" House couldn't help himself; he hoped that she was crazy enough to help him with his mad, mad schemes.
"I'll put you into another coma," she promised. "After we look up the names of those comatose patients Dr. Wilson worked with."
"I can't believe I ever thought you were a fuddy dud," House said wonderingly.
"Most people do," she admitted, the light reflecting off her glasses as she nodded.
But before House could let himself get too excited at the prospect of help from his own psychiatrist to jump off the deep end, he had one concern. "You husband isn't dead, is he?"
Looking amused, "Should he be?"
"Your motives would be, shall we say, questionable, if he is."
"He's alive and healthy. In fact, he's picking me up from work today."
"Okay! Let's do this."
Malaki recommended to Cuddy that House stay at least another few days (and House bet it hadn't been at all difficult to convince her of that), which gave them time enough for research until their next 'therapy session.'
House insisted that Foreman come see him, and he did. His arms were crossed as he came into the room. "You've done a lot of dumb things," Foreman said, "but you should be proud. Because this coma thing? Tops them all."
"Foreman," House pretended to be touched. "You keep talking that way, and I'm going to start thinking you care."
"Shows how much you know," Foreman said with a slight grimace.
His coworkers had to stop this whole giving a damn about him; it made House feel uncomfortable and he wished they wouldn't bother. He changed subject so that he wouldn't have to think about it anymore. "Look, I want you to dig up Wilson's school files--go back as far in the mists of time as you can. I'm thinking kindergarten, elementary school."
"...No wonder they stuck you here."
"Haha. You're a real barrel of laughs. But want a job after I get out of here? Get that information--and chop chop! I want those files!" Foreman gave him an exasperated, yet resigned, look of irritation, and went off.
As he waited for Foreman to return, House tried to not worry about all the things that could go wrong: that Wilson's teacher was someone else altogether, a Mr. Snyder or a Mrs. Brown; that this really was all in his head; and that Wilson really was deader than a doornail.
But with nothing to do but think, House paced the room, running in the same circles as his mind.
When Foreman came back, House snapped at him, "What took you so long?"
"An hour is not that long for digging up a dead man's prehistoric school records."
"Yeah, yeah, fine." House snatched the files from Foreman's hands and filed through them, his heart suddenly racing. This was where it could all fall apart.
The fax copy of the first-grade report was slightly smudged and set up in a format obviously straight out of the seventies, but it was still readable. The typewriter-written document neatly read "James E. Wilson" next to box for the student's name, and beneath that was "Teacher: Mrs. Kowalski."
House reread that name a dozen times, just to be sure.
And only then did he let himself laugh in relief.
"You need help," Foreman said, with an expression that clearly said just how bonkers he thought House was. "More help than that psychiatrist's giving you."
"Ah, she's not so bad," House said, grinning like a maniac.
An old name might not be much to go by, but, having never discussed their elementary school days, House had no way of knowing who taught Wilson when. And when he calculated the probability of getting that name right--well, the chances were close to nil. House trusted numbers and percentages. He trusted them enough to believe this much: Wilson was real. He really was real.
"So many names," House commented, scanning the list of coma patients Malaki had smuggled him. "None of them appetizing. If I go with an old guy, they'll croak before we know it, sticking Wilson in limbo again. And who wants ugly old men around? But if I go for the hot chicks, well, let's just say there's a reason why Wilson divorced three times."
Malaki did not laugh, smile, smirk, or even offer her sympathies to his horrendous plight. "Any one of them should do; you can feed him more names later, as necessary." Maybe she wasn't a fuddy-dud, after all, but people walking off planks to their deaths had better senses of humor than her.
As a psychologist, Malaki didn't have the training to administer anaesthetics, but all he needed was for her to stick around to make sure nothing horrible happened to him once he shot himself up with the drug. And if she couldn't figure out how to help him if something did go wrong, there were plenty of trained monkeys out there who could.
House had worried that Malaki would back out at the last moment with good but annoying reasons like "I realized that your dead best friend probably isn't Selene to your Endymion," but she waited patiently as he set up the IV pump with propofol. The world faded to black and House didn't have to worry anymore.
When he came to, House was sprawled out on his couch back in his apartment. "How does this scene selection thing work? Don't I get to pick the background?"
Wilson came out from the kitchen with a couple of beers. "Don't ask me--you're the DJ. I just show up."
House accepted one of the beers, which was already forming drops of condensation along the side. "I thought you didn't want me boozing."
Wilson stared at him. "Somehow, I imagine the effects of mixing alcohol with Vicodin are cancelled out by the imaginary beer." He sat down on the couch, right next to House, with his arm along the back. "You managed to come back?"
"Oh, shit," House said, putting down his drink. He didn't have time for that. "Can't forget--you know anyone else in a coma? Your ex-patients?"
"Um." Wilson sipped at his beer and thought. "Joe Amos, he'd been down for a couple of weeks before my untimely demise. There was Margaret Brown, she's been gone for a while; I think her family was going to sign a DNR, maybe they already have..."
"Good enough," House interrupted him. "Those two were on the list. Better stick to people you know, for now. We can get more complicated later, when we have more time."
"List?"
"Of people in comas--figured you could go swing by their heads. You up for it?"
"...Huh. Now there's an idea. Why didn't I think of that myself?"
House almost told him that he'd had the same reaction, but then decided to keep it to himself. No reason why he couldn't take all the credit; it wasn't as if Malaki would ever find out about the thought-theft. House never minded taking the credit, even if it wasn't his own.
"I'll give you more names next time, but for now--" House knocked the beer from out of Wilson's hand, the contents fizzing out of the can as it sailed over the back of the couch (nice, being reckless and not paying for the consequences) and kissed Wilson, throwing himself at him. Who said that their plan would work? House had to make every moment count.
Wilson tasted of beer, and it was the last thing House sensed as everything blackened again.
House smirked to himself upon waking up in the hospital.
"Got the news through to him?" Malaki asked. Still not having recovered all movement, House nodded in the slow, fractional way that he could. "And you're all right? I didn't catch anything wrong going on from here." He nodded once more. "Good. And if I hear you've gone and put yourself back into a coma ever again, I'm having Cuddy lock you up here. For good."
"Won't need it," House rasped out. At least, he didn't think so.
He was out of the psych ward that very afternoon.
He was on his way out of the hospital, looking forward to ending the day and getting in an early start on that night's sleep, when Chase called out to him. Oh, great; an interruption.
"I heard they released you," Chase said, bordering on sullen, sticking his hands into his pockets. What was he upset about?
"As you can see," House motioned to himself and the exit.
"That's good," Chase said, kicking a bit at the ground with one foot, and then with the other. "Wouldn't want you to stay in there."
"Nope, we wouldn't." House glanced at the automatic doors longingly. So close and yet so far. "Do you have a point? Because I make a practice out of not being dragged kicking and screaming into small talk."
"Don't do it again," Chase blurted, and then looked horrified. House couldn't blame him; he'd feel the same way, if he'd accidentally blurted out that much worrying and concern in public.
"Yes, mommy," House said easily, "I'll be a good boy. Awww, don't frown, junior will be a good boy, I promise."
"I don't know why I bother," Chase muttered.
"I don't either," House said, and then finally left.
Back home, House swallowed a couple of sleeping pills, not wanting to wait the several hours it'd normally take to get sleepy. He took the most boring book he could find ("Great Expectations"), lay down in his bed, and waited.
This time, House was in a large Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital room filled with beds and equipment. And he had company--besides Wilson, that is.
"Let me introduce you two," Wilson said, and House had to assume that it was to the elderly--that is, nigh on decomposing--man standing next to him. "Joe, this is House; House, Joe."
"Hey," House said, averting his gaze. This was strange.
"Nice to meet you, young man," Joe said. "Dr. Wilson here has been telling me all about you. And I told him, if I'm not using my head for anything, why not let you two use it? I mean," and he waved his arm, which had an IV attached to it, "I've been here so long I forget what it's like out there. Heh. Dr. Wilson's given me the first bit of mental activity I've had in years. Can you believe the Red Sox won?"
"Um," House said. He didn't like this idea anymore. There was no privacy.
At least House wouldn't have to be jealous at other spending more time with Wilson than he got to. Or so he hoped.
"Shall we go, House?' Wilson asked.
"Go where?" They were probably tied to this Joe guy, just like the IV drip was tied to him.
"Don't mind me," Joe said, waving them away.
Wilson guided House towards the door; beyond it was the fuzziest, most generic park House ever had the misfortune of seeing. A drawing by a five-year old would've had more convincing details. House almost preferred to stay with Joe, but Wilson pushed him forward into the vaguely defined 'outside.'
"Your idea worked, House! Look at us!" Wilson said, exuberant.
"Uh-huh." House was having a hard time believing it all.
"And there's no end to coma patients, so as long as you keep me updated, we can keep this running for--" Wilson didn't say the last two syllables of the word, and House knew why. "Forever" was on the daunting side of time estimations. "Forever" lasted entire lifetimes and maybe, now that they knew something a bit after the afterlives, perhaps well after death.
It was scary, but in a good kind of way.
"Anyhow, I'm glad you can bypass the comas," Wilson said, starting to walk through the unremarkable, vague grass. House followed, hands jammed into his jeans' pocket. "That scared me."
"Yeah? You and everyone else. Cuddy actually locked me up."
Wilson snorted. "Good for her!"
"You're not supposed to take her side."
"Can you blame her? Inducing a coma doesn't imply 'mentally hinged'. And it's not as if we could ever count on you to take care of yourself! I bet she, and everyone else, have been logging in extra hours on their taking-care-of-you duty since I've been gone."
House thought back to Foreman warning against drinking too much coffee; Cameron dragging him out of his apartment to forget his woes at the carnival; Chase demanding that he take better care of himself; and Cuddy making him go see Malaki. "They've tried."
"See? You should be kinder with them; maybe show some gratitude," Wilson chided.
"I'll write them a thank-you note; happy?"
"It's a start," Wilson granted. "And how about Diana, how's she doing?"
House pinched his mouth and thought how to put the situation in the best possible light. "She's okay?" Wilson looked dubious. "Maybe I yelled at her some. About her bad driving." He hated being looked at that way, so House defended himself, "Well, it's true--she killed you! You can't expect me to play nice."
Wilson placed a hand on House's shoulder. "Accidents happen. It's not her fault, and I think I'd know, since I was there."
"I'm not apologizing. And you can pout all you like, but I'm not. The blind old lady doesn't say sorry to the thief for calling the police on him."
"If it weren't for her, we'd have never met up again--" Wilson argued.
House shook his head. "I got her out of the coma. That's enough. Maybe you can forgive and forget, but I can't."
And Wilson must've understood, because he stopped pressing the point and, instead, wrapped his arm around House's back, pulling them close together. House reciprocated, slipping his own arm around Wilson. That was one more advantage to being painless in these dreams; he could walk without his cane and hold onto something much better.
They'd been walking in silence for a while when Wilson, so very randomly, blurted out, "I'm like a super-hero now--they could call me The Coma Walker!"
That one comment reminded House all over again why he'd gone through all this sanity-doubting effort to get Wilson back in his life. So to speak. "You," he said, affecting great disgust, "are a dork. I can't believe I wanted to stay with you."
And Wilson smiled, because he knew House was only teasing him. "But you do."
Yeah, he did.