From the Ward Parts 3 and 4
Jun. 15th, 2020 05:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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house_wilson_ghcFrom the Ward (Parts 3 and 4 of 5)
Author: alivehawk1701
Characters: Wilson, House
Warnings: I'll say M further on
Summary: Written during Series 3 during House's time detoxing/admitting himself to hospital after Christmas Eve. He is struggling with his roomate and looking forward to a visit from Wilson . . .
Comments are love, last part will be posted soon, cheers!
“. . . and then I was riding the bus home one day and in those days I took the bus everywhere didn’t matter if it was raining or sunny or whatever and I ran into him on the seventy-four’s south route downtown which isn’t normally there at that time but was running ten minutes late he was—”
Some people have never heard of verbal punctuation.
They can go on and on with one sentence and not even stop to breathe. They have the profound ability to switch from topic to topic without pause, just moving, flawlessly from one subject to the next, on and on and on. Regardless of who they’re talking to. Doesn’t matter if it’s Stalin or John the Baptist they ramble on and on. This is not a gift. In fact the only cure for this very serious condition is to cut the person’s tongue out and hope they don’t find a way to gurgle excessively.
Like this person. She sat down right next to me at craft time and just started talking. No invitation. Worse even because clay and non-toxic paint apparently have a liberating effect on some people.
“ . . . and I had my transfer from that morning but had to buy another one which is really stupid but I saw him and thought I could borrow a dime or a nickel or something because I was short fare but he looked at me and said . . .”
God, can’t she just shut up! I swear, she says one more word, I’m losing it. That’s it. Done with art today. Done. But, nope—shouting isn’t an option. Not that I’m above yelling at the vulnerable and the witless it's just that I’m on the nurse’s naughty list, and not in any way that will end in a very gratifying sponge bath, more like I’m under constant surveillance for what has been described as an unsubstantiated amount of time. I’m supposed to be good for that unsubstantiated amount of time, which means . . . no hitting other patients with my cane, no yelling, and no threatening to remove this woman’s tonsils with my bare hands.
“ . . . and he could at least have given me enough to ride the bus or given me—”
Just be quiet! Go away! Why doesn’t she just find a good sized book and hit me over the head with it? Why doesn’t she drink her way through a dozen gin bottles then smash them three feet away from my ears while blasting scratched and skipping CDs on seven huge speakers?! My head dropped into my hands, fingers pulling at my hair, gritting my teeth past the point that nine out of ten dentists would recommend.
“ . . . he just got on the bus and didn’t talk to me or anything there was nothing I—”
“You totaled his car!” I screamed, unable to take it anymore, “Why do you think he was taking the bus?! You wrecked his car! He had no car to drive!”
Her mouth clamped shut and a glob of paint chose that moment to glop from the tip of her brush back onto the purple-paint covered paper plate under it. And everyone else decided to be quiet and reflective at that same moment—I’m not saying it had something to do with me, I don’t know, but everyone was staring.
She sniffed, lower lip extending enough to emotionally match the redness of her nose, “I told you that in confidence.”
“Christ . . . ”
“Greg,” Maria the nurse said, stepping up to our table, “Problem?”
I looked up at her, “I’m out of clay.”
“I’ll get you more,” she said hesitantly, the familiar quality of our exchange no doubt having something to do with her cleaning up my vomit repeatedly.
I didn’t need more clay. I needed a noose. Or a hand grenade. Or a very tall building to jump off of. I stared at the block of red-ish clay in front of me. It was already an attractive amorphous block. Why ruin it?
“That was really mean, Greg,” the woman whimpered, pushing her paintbrush across her paper in a slow, depressed, purple way.
“But true,” I mumbled.
“Here you go,” Maria said, coming back with some more clay, this time it was white not red, “Knock yourself out,” clay met table and she crossed her arms in front of her, making it clear if push came to shove she could beat me or anyone in an arm-wrestling contest, eyes sliding coolly to the side, narrowing somewhat as she glanced at the teary woman next to me, then to the clay in front of me, “Sarah? You alright?” she asked nicely, getting a sad nod in return. She turned back to me and asked, “What are you making exactly?”
“I’m . . . making something for someone,” I answered.
“Yeah? And who’s that?” the nurse asked and I know I didn’t miss the distinct air of disbelief in her voice.
“Someone,” I said forcefully, annoyed.
When I looked back up Maria still had her arms crossed, disbelief slanted on her face.
“Is that hard for you to believe, or something?” I asked, still annoyed.
“More hard for me believe you’d do something nice for someone.”
“I know I’ve been withdrawn,” I simpered, nodding solemnly, “The pills were the only things that were important—not like now, now I know what really matters . . . and that’s love.”
She laughed. I frowned. Sarah sniffed more.
“Do you really think that’s true?” Sarah asked after several heavy seconds of a very intense staring contest between Maria and me.
I broke eye contact with Maria, sticking my hands in the clay in front of me, letting my fingers sink in, drawing a deep breath as Sarah waited for a response. For a moment the answer stalled on the tip of my tongue—love’s not an obscure thing, I could explain it to you as a symptom of a much bigger disease or as a disease all in itself, biologically boring, all neural pathways becoming accustomed to sensory input patterns and complimentary sexual organs rather than anything profound. Shakespeare might have said differently but he was a poet, not a doctor. Love is human’s excuse not to fear mortality. Makes it okay to die . . . makes it okay to live . . .
“No,” I answered finally, pushing the clay flat silently. It wouldn’t have made a difference if I’d said yes. She knows as much as I do that love is nothing compared to getting wasted and making a tin can out of your fiancée’s car a week before the wedding or overdosing on pain killers and watching the one person who means anything to you in your life walk out the door. Love can go head to head with those things but it doesn’t mean it can win. It can offer selfless sacrifices, it can never give up, it can take care of you when you’re sick, it can come visit you in rehab even after all you’ve put it through, that doesn’t make it infallible. It makes it stupid.
I realize suddenly I’m smiling slightly, the tugging at the corners of my mouth almost unfamiliar.
I want to make something for Wilson. I don’t know what. I just want to make him something. It’s stupid. But I can give it to him when he comes and visits again. I already established that he’s stupid, so I know he will.
I suddenly see movement to the side of me and my eyes dart upward to see Bill standing next to me.
“Nice art,” he said, sitting down, “Supposed to be what, an ashtray?”
I laughed somewhat and sat back in my chair, one hand still on the clay, the other slung over the back of my chair, regarding him darkly for a moment, “You’re not packing? What, no discharge?”
His lips pressed tightly together, eyes wandering over the floor for a moment, anger tightening his voice, “I wouldn’t worry about it—I’m still gonna get out of here before you do,” he retorted.
“Paying the right people off?”
“Maybe,” he said, watching my hand on the clay for a moment, “If you don’t have the right people in high places you gotta find your own way to beat the system.”
“Admirable.”
“That . . . Dr. Wilson is a nice fella,” Bill drawled in an intentionally idle way, his southern accent hanging heavily on his vowels, bringing his green eyes up to mine and raising his chin in a challenging gesture.
“Is that a general observation?” I asked, keeping my voice even.
“I thought I’d mention it—after he came to visit yesterday,” he continued, “Awfully friendly of him,” my eyes jerked up, his satisfied tone matching a smirk that slowly slid over his lips, “You know, golly, I know people—people outside, and they might not be in high places but they’re in some pretty low places . . . ”
“I’m sure you do,” I said, “Big surprise you’re a southern hick skinhead, really thought more of you, Bill.”
“I’m talking enemies, you’re not careful—”
“And if you’re not careful you’re going to lose some teeth, get it?”
His eyes sidetracked to my cane then back, “No need to get angry—this is craft time, go on make your little ashtray—art is healing, remember?”
It’s not an ashtray. Which is smart for two reasons, one; originality is always something to strive for, and two, to a lesser extent, though still prominent, Wilson doesn’t smoke.
My hands on clay, fingerprints combing faint patterns on the surface, memories came to the surface; I couldn’t have been more than six. My Dad smoked. A lot. Complaining was stupid in general but also apparently more so for a five or six year old, if the smoke was making me cough he’d stamp the sole of his figurative boot in the figurative pool of my emotions and grind in the heel saying, “Then leave the room”.
So I’d made my dad an ashtray, thinking it was smart, that he’d like it.
He’d smashed it.
I’d traced a flower on the bottom of the tray, a daisy, and I guess he didn’t like daisies. Or me. Or both.
It’s a coffee mug.
Or anything mug, doesn’t have to be coffee.
Tea, water, Coke, milk, various kinds of citrus in distress.
Although, our handsome protagonist oncologist drinks a startling amount of coffee, so it might be full of coffee, and to a greater extent sugar, nearly twenty-two hours of every day.
Or he might smash it.
I felt a very small part of myself cringe at the distant, decades old sound of clay shattering into a hundred little pieces against the fireplace and turned the coffee mug over in my hands, inhaling past the nervousness. Wilson doesn’t throw things. That’s more of a me thing. But I had to try. Kissing him during a panic attack probably didn’t make things too clear for him.
>>>>>
Wilson is coming to visit again. It’s been 46 hours since time.
And today’s good, I ate breakfast, I made my bed, I’ve stopped shaking. All’s fantastic in the state of Denmark, no problems at all.
Lifting my right thigh with both hands I hauled it into a straight position in front of me as I stretched out on my bed, letting the mug lean against my hip on top of the blankets. He’d be here soon.
The awful routine of this place, group, meal, group, sleep, meal, was enough to drive anyone crazy. I was excited to see him. Anything to shatter the monotony. I never really cared about what was going on before, hospital-wise, but I’d give anything to limp to a vending machine and find out that they’re out of hazelnut coffee, eventually settling for vanilla, but only bitterly.
And I’d kissed him. For the third time. He’d kissed me the second time, we were trading off. I’d kissed him. Impulsively, stupidly, desperately, one or more of those. Kissing Wilson was like getting that cup of hazelnut flavored coffee after it was out of order for years—everything, right down to the way he gave tiny, second-long kisses on my lower lip, the way he moaned in the back of his throat like a contented puppy, to his sweet, almost addictive taste—it had been perfect and beautiful and, whelp, no one ever said life was going to be easy, the heart, or the penis, wants what it wants, all you need is etc etc--and it’d been a huge mistake. Right? For years we’d avoided, or rather balanced right on the edge of, a mutual attraction, flirting was great, fine, totally hetrosexual, why not just go our whole lives, this kind of connection happens everyday.
Yeh right.
I’d been shutting my eyes briefly, determined to be as open as I could be, somehow, uncharacteristically, not like I have anything to lose really, when Wilson showed up, finally.
“Hey,” he said from the doorway, knuckles tapping lightly on the frame.
“Hi,” I responded, covering the mug with my hand, pushing it against my side so it was hidden, then folded my hands over my stomach, meeting his eyes from across the room.
Wilson took a few idling, slow steps into the room, “You finally learned how to make hospital corners,” he commented with a classic I’m-not-that-cute smile that was so James Wilson the campaign is coming out next season complete with his own line of cologne and bath products and tasteful black and white ads in Vogue magazine. He dropped a box he was holding on the bed, “Pop Tarts,” he explained needlessly, taking a lingering breath, “Nurses say you’re doing better,” he sat down on the bed, running a hand through his hair.
“Thanks,” I said, shifting my feet so he had more room, careful not to upset the mug as I sat forward to grab the box. Wilson had set his eyes to wander-mode so when I looked back up at him, the smooth cardboard under my fingertips, he wasn’t looking at me.
“Is your roommate . . .”
“On a pass for the afternoon,” I answered.
“Good,” he inhaled deeply, “Good.”
I set the Pop Tarts on my nightstand, trying not to acknowledge the awkwardness, which, really rehab-is-uncomfortable enough, obviously, so it wasn’t just the gay elephant in the room.
“You’re not wearing a tie,” I said after a moment, head tilted to the side, surveying his tie-less ensemble.
“Yeah, forgot one today.”
“How could you forget a tie?”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“True,” I nodded, “Did . . . you lose all your ties?”
“House, we don’t have a lot of time—do you really want to spend it talking
about what tie I may or may not be wearing today?”
“Yes?”
“No.”
“I just want to know,” I said, offering an innocent shrug, “You know, in case you’ve gone off wearing ties and I mistakenly buy you another one for your birthday or Christmas or something.”
“Hanukkah,” he said offhandedly.
I narrowed my eyes, watching him squirm as the pause didn’t assure him he was safe from further questions, glancing from the top of his head, hair scruffed-up and notably un-neat, to his feet which were nonetheless wearing the same nice, stylish shoes he always wore, “You wouldn’t just stop wearing ties—and you have enough that you’d never run out, so for some reason you must have been cut off from the source,” I watched him close his eyes, a hand rising to his temple, then continued, “Did you sleep in your office? And if so, why not just wear the same tie two days in a row?”
“House . . .” he said and his eyes drifted to the side, pouring impatience into my name but not fooling anyone, namely me, as he tried to obviously keep a slow smile from spreading across his lips.
“Your hair is un-brushed, your face is dry—it’s not extra cold outside so it must be a reaction to something, a new kind of soap or shaving cream—”
“Okay,” he said sharply, giving in, eyes shooting back to mine, “I didn’t go back to my hotel room last night—happy?”
“Getting there.”
“I . . .” he sighed, obviously whatever he was about to say would be better in three to five seconds, hand reaching to rub the back of his neck, that same smile coming to his face, rolling his eyes, “I went to your place and . . . didn’t . . . leave.”
Unlike him I resisted, and succeeded, in not smiling, licking my lips as his eyes came back to me, again, this time holding a challenging resolve, daring me to say something more, a playfulness colouring his cheeks just enough for me to notice. If I’d smiled I would have ruined it. Instead I narrowed my eyes, pressing my lips together in my best put-out, did-I-hear-you-right expression, “Better water pressure?” I asked, not breaking contact, holding him secure with my eyes, the way you’d hold onto a bag of unmarked bills getting onto a busy subway train, the way you’d curl both hands around a bat as the pitcher glared at you from the mound, the way you’d hug the side of a cliff as your shoe lost its footing for the seventh time.
“I thought I’d go over there, see how things were,” he said softer than before, almost defensively, blinking several times, “I didn’t plan to sleep over there, I just . . .” he shrugged, losing track of what he wanted to say as I stared at him.
“You slept in my apartment,” I restated, raising my eyebrows.
“Under the circumstances I didn’t think you’d mind,” he said flatly, “Did you know your alarm clock is broken?”
“Thank god,” I breathed, rolling my eyes to the ceiling. My alarm clock, as they often are, is in my bedroom. He slept in my bed.
“I overslept—it was supposed to wake me up—I was rushing, and consequently one of my ties, the one I was wearing, got coffee spilled all over it.”
“It wouldn’t have killed you to be late for once.”
“It wouldn’t kill you to get a functional alarm clock like a responsible human being.”
“Studies show that people who wake up to an alarm clock every morning die younger.”
“Versus being woken up by . . .”
“Sunlight, natural rhythms, a handjob—unless you’re James Wilson, then you’ve been sleeping on the couch for the better whole of your marriage.”
“The window of your bedroom faces south.”
“And my sheets are what colour . . . ?”
“Blue.”
“Really?” I looked up to the ceiling, “I have blue sheets?”
‘Yeah, they’re like light blue, light-ish, sort of.”
“Like a tea cup blue? Windex blue?“
“Like your eyes blue.”
He took a moment to press his lips together, maybe regretting the last four words he’d said, then gave a noticed self-aimed wince, closing his eyes.
“You slept in your best friend’s bed while he was in rehab,” I said, nodding slowly, a cautious smile coming like a slow sax note to my lips.
“I was thinking of making a memorial but didn’t have the funding.”
“You used my soap to wash your face—it’s not that fancy exfoliating stuff you’re used to, it irritated your skin.”
“Yes, it all makes sense now.”
I looked closer at the colour of his undershirt, visible because he didn’t have the rope of silk tied around his throat, and saw a speck of blue on the cotton collar, “That’s . . . my shirt.”
He sighed, “You’re obviously feeling better,” he fixed me with a disapproving, though miraculously still admiring gaze, then shifted them guiltily to the side, “Yes—it’s your shirt—I’m not even going to bother denying it.”
“This was because your other shirt was dirty?”
“Partly.”
“What’s the other part?”
“Do you want me to be uncomfortable?” he proclaimed, gesturing wildly with his hands,
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“Just having fun.”
“You’re impossible—it’s no big deal, I slept in your apartment, I slept in your bed, I miss you.”
I looked away from him, left hand flexing around the rim of the mug at my side, out of his sight, a warm, unmistakably happy feeling creeping over my chest, “The bed is better with me in it,” I murmured. When he didn’t deny that either, stretching his legs out slightly, maybe relaxing a tiny amount, my finger tapped several times on the rim of the mug and I took it from its hiding place. I held it out to him, chewing at my lower lip,
“I made you this, craft time.”
He paused, eyes going from the mug to me, silent. Then his hand reached out to take it and his fingers brushed mine briefly, forefinger and middle-finger resting over my knuckles, a flash of warmth, then gone. He lifted it in front of him, inspecting it. I ran a hand over the stubble over my cheek, scratching at my sideburns, eyes lowered as he turned it around, silent.
“It’s . . .” he started, breath lisping through his front teeth.
“They force us to be creative—I just,” I shrugged, “You drink coffee.”
“House,” he said and I looked up at my name, meeting his eyes which were pools of melting, sweet affection like the last sip from your drink after all the sugar’s sunk to the bottom, making me doubt the bad-idea-ness of the mug as well as taking my coffee black. My heart even did backflips..
“You hate it.”
“No. I love it,” he murmured, looking away, eyelashes fluttering slightly, then looked back at me, “Thanks.”
For a few quiet moments we just sat there, looking into each other’s eyes, the stupid mug resting on his knee. I didn’t know what he’d do next. Sleeping at my apartment was one thing, I know he missed me but sleeping in my bed; I pictured him curled up under my rumpled sheets, his clothes folded over a chair, glass of water on my nightstand, coming to work without a tie, my shirt on his bare skin—I wasn’t sure what those things meant but no matter what I hoped for, they didn’t mean that he would ever want to be with me—no sane person would ever want to be with me.
“You’re welcome,” I heard myself say. Wilson looked uncertain and frightened. Maybe the mug was a tipping point. Maybe it was pity. Nothing sadder than getting crappy crafty gifts from sick people. Maybe it wasn’t pity though. Maybe it was something else. Maybe. Maybe the tenseness was too much for him, maybe he’d made a decision, maybe the mug had been a larger persuader than I thought, maybe I really was that pathetic, the silence secured itself around us like a bubble and all I could see was Wilson.
He exhaled, “House,” he said, shifting so one leg was up on the bed, his leg pressed against mine, “I’m not going to,” he stopped, rethinking his words, then in one one big rush he said, “We were both there I don’t need to say it we both know it . . . happened again.”
I nodded, “Yeh,”
“Which I guess, shouldn’t have surprised me,” he said almost to himself, then frowned, “I just don’t want to,” he laid a hand, a hesitant hand, like he was touching something hot, on my leg, “Be . . . in the way. Of this, all this. This is important.”
I looked from his hand to his face. If he did know me, he knew I was terrified. That these conversations didn’t come easily to me, that over the last few years I’d more readily push people, him, away from me rather than actually communicate. Couldn’t he do that Wilson thing that he does with me, figure out all that was in my heart, without all the translation errors?
“Maybe I want you in the way. Maybe I need something,” I finally said, “Someone.”
He looked almost boyish, barely hiding a smile, scared, hopeful, both, biting a corner of his lip, “Me?”
“Obviously you,” I said, eyes narrowed, “I don’t,” my throat tightened, forcing me to pause, “Expect you to . . . be there, I know what I’ve put you through and I’m sorry, for all of it,” his lips parted, brows knitted together in thought.
He shifted his weight so he was facing me more, “What are you saying, House?”
Heart pounding. Lowered my eyes, “I don’t want to ignore this anymore,” I looked up, “We both know what this is. What this could be.”
I’d put myself on the cliff. The cliff that was well marked with signs, for years, heading down the length of highway in supposed ignorance until not so suddenly it's coned off and our toes are hanging off the grassy ledge, down to the sea below. I was tired. Of a lot of things. Mostly tired of losing him. I’d rather lose him taking this chance.
He hadn’t said anything, seemingly in thought, processing, then he frowned in a speculative expression, “How many times have I been married?” he asked.
“Three?”
“Did you like any of my wives?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“You made it pretty clear,”
“They weren’t worthy of you.”
“They weren’t that bad.”
“They weren't me,”
“Not even close.”
“Lucky for you I’m a patient man.”
“Not the exact word I’d use to describe you.”
“Observant then,” I chewed at my lip, eyes narrowed, “Maybe it escaped your notice but we’ve kissed three times now. And we’ve never talked about it. Which strikes me as odd. And closeted. And wrong. Blame this environment but I’m over it. My genitals react to you in an undeniable way. I could ask you about your genitals but I do remember putting my hand down your pants on Fourth of July that one time, seemed reactive to me. We should probably just have sex, we’d fight less, or more, but then there’s make-up sex.”
He is eyebrows shot to the top of his head and he smiled, shaking his head slightly before focusing his eyes on mine, “Shut up, House,” he leaned forward and, for a moment, gauging my reaction, pausing to meet my eyes, his lips brushed over mine then held there, pressed sweet and soft against mine, hand on the side of my face. Pulled back from me. Met my eyes.
“Was that ok?”
I smiled, heart drumming in my chest, “Was that a yes?”
“Yes,” he kissed me again, my eyes rolled shut with a satisfied groan, pulling back quickly to say, “Get your own soap,” kissed him lightly, watching his eyes, “But you can stay at my apartment.”
I’m on a cloud. It’s not something I do a lot. It’s strange. And un-cloudy.
>>>>>
The clock ticked one minute closer to three. Dr. Fox was waiting.
Almost three o’clock. Almost time for my appointment. For the first time since coming to rehab I didn’t mind going to therapy. Because of the aforementioned cloud.
I got up from my bed, holding back a grimace as pain dripped like lava from my hip all the way to the end of my toes, my temples following suit a few seconds later, who were then accompanied by a sudden thick feeling over my tongue as my friend Nausea waved hello again.
Doesn’t matter. Somehow none of that matters right now. I’d shrug to illustrate said nonchalance if that wouldn’t assuredly hurt too. There is no clear, recent memory of me having felt optimistic, but here I am, I know this is it. Maybe I haven’t experienced it, in full, exactly, but I’ve read about it; I’m sure of it, this is the real deal, this is optimism.
My leg will hurt. But that’s okay. I have Wilson.
I limped across the ward into the section designated for meetings with the various counselors. Sure enough Dr. Fox was there.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Fox,” I greeted, closing the door after me, flashing a quick smile.
“Good afternoon,” she reciprocated, all except the smile, slipping her glasses on and opening the file, my file, on her lap.
“Having a good day?” I asked, sitting down, leaning my cane on the inside of my knee.
“Relatively,” she said with a frown, cocking her head to side, “What happened?”
“You just said the word relatively.”
“I mean with you,” she said, obviously confused, “You’re . . .”
“—talking too fast?”
“No, you seem . . .”
“Indescribable?”
“Unbelievable.”
“If I had a nickel for every time that word was said in succession with my name . . .”
“You’d be a rich man.”
“I’d certainly have a lot of nickels.”
“You’re happy.”
“Am I? Well, that’s your lingo—not mine.”
“It’s a common enough word, Greg—and it’s not a bad thing.”
“Good—usually I only use morally bankrupt lingo—glad to be on this side of the fence.”
“Mind telling me what brought this on?”
“Serotonin—dopamine, healthy dose of both of those.”
“Not even a day ago you were seriously depressed—short of entering a manic
phase, which is, I suppose, is possible, there has to have been an external influence. What was it?”
“Couldn’t I have just gotten tired of being so sad and reflective—the tears
always smudge up the glass.”
“I’ll believe the sad part, good job at the lingo by the way, but the reflective part? Not so much with you, Greg.”
“Hey, that’s not fair—when you tell a man he’s unreflective you might as well tell him he’s bad at sex.”
“I did call you unreflective and I also find it interesting that you’re bringing up sex in conjunction with that revelation—either they’re related or you’re deflecting—want to make it easy on me and tell me which one?”
“Are we forgetting I’m a real doctor not a head-shrink? Different education.
I never read the backs of cereal boxes when I was a kid.”
“Bringing up your childhood—interesting—also not what I was asking. I believe we were getting to the bottom of your rather sudden mood change.”
“Good, back to me—my favourite topic. You know that list you asked me to make, of all the things I love, with myself on the top? I made it—great exercise by the way—I’m going to paint some rainbows and flowers later while watching The Sound of Music.”
“It was a simple exercise.”
“Exceedingly—idiots everywhere can enjoy it.”
“Liking yourself doesn’t make you an idiot.”
“I know—But I’m really trying to flex my selfishness, by the end of the year I hope to be completely self-absorbed.”
“We’re straying off topic, Greg.”
“Were we ever on one? I’m confused—it must be catching.”
“We were—and if you’ll stay focused we can continue being so.”
“You should recognize the usefulness of straying of topic—most of what you psych-doctors do is read between the lines, right?”
“To a point.”
“So have a go—why am I happy?”
“You tell me.”
“I have been—you just need to listen really carefully.”
“Contrary to what some people may think we’re not mind readers.”
“Colder.”
“Greg, I’m not playing any game, I want you to talk to me.”
“Still cold.”
“Okay . . . something happened, outside your head, more than just neural receptors.”
“Warmer.”
“Something happened during craft-time?”
“Ha—colder.”
“I saw you made something—was that it?”
“Ice cold.”
“Greg, I can’t guess every possibility why you’re smiling today—this is the
first time I’ve ever seen you smile, by the way.”
“Don’t give up—this is fun.”
“I think you mean immature.”
“Same thing.”
“You had a visitor. Dr. Wilson. He just left.”
“Why does he still get his honorary title? We’re all doctors here.”
“What would you rather I called him?”
“He likes Jimmy—I’m partial to Thing 1.”
“And you’re Thing 2?”
"Calling me Thing is supposed to help me? I thought we were working on my self-esteem.”
“What happened with Dr. Wilson?”
“Wow, you’re hot.”
“Excuse me?”
“The game—you’re hot.”
“Dr. Wilson is the reason you’re happy.”
“God, you’re good.”
“It was a good visit?”
“I . . . can’t say.”
“Why not?”
“My honor. And his.”
“Greg . . . you and Dr. Wilson have a very . . . complicated relationship. It’s been the source of many of the problems you’ve faced recently, that’s true right?”
“True,” I agreed, eyes wandering around the room, the familiar pain in my thigh made me rub the uneven muscle over my leg, the friction of fabric on the heel of my palm warming my skin, “But there’s a reason for that and . . . pills don’t love me . . . my leg doesn’t love me . . . my patients certainly don’t love me . . . the damn white board doesn’t love me,” I looked up from my hand, “He does.”
She watched me a moment, eyelashes fluttering slightly under the lenses of her glasses as she took a slow breath between her lips, “You made him the mug.”
I nodded.
“It’s not just a mug, Greg.”
“I’m pretty sure it was.”
“It was an offering—you want to start over, renew your friendship.”
“God, really? Do I need to mention the cigar thing? Really would be on point though.”
Her lack of reaction, product of years of training in dealing with crazy people, was followed by a few moments of direct eye-contact before she raised her chin slightly and asked, “How long have you had feelings for him?”
I frowned, “Do you want me to say birth?”
“If we are talking about your sexuality, sure.”
“It’s not that complicated. I’m sure you know how it works.”
“Not for you. How does it work?”
“There’s an increase of blood flow to my genitals when I’m introduced to certain
stimuli. Wasn’t birth but I figured out my penis enlarged at more than just boobs around the time my father switched from belts to fists,” she didn’t react, I hate that, “Clear enough for you?”
“That must have been very traumatic. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“I heard it gets better. Somewhere.”
She actually took a moment to look away, eyes closing for a moment, folding her glasses then putting them gently on her desk before returning to me, “What happens if you don’t properly clean a wound before you close it up?”
“I’m assuming you mean a metaphorical wound.”
“No, I mean a real wound—what happens if there’s germs and dirt inside the injury and you stitch it up anyway?”
“There wouldn’t be—any idiot doctor knows simple first aid—clean, then stitch.”
“What if you missed some? What if it was bleeding too much?”
“You’d stop the bleeding, clean it, then suture it,” I said, getting angry.
“But let’s just say that it doesn’t get clean. The wound would get infected,
wouldn’t it? It would fill with puss, the infection would spread.”
“Yes.”
“You’re so insistent at stitching up everything that hurts, Greg, before
anyone can look at any of it and pass their judgment, but you’re not doing yourself any favors. If you don’t talk about something, if you don’t work through it, it’s like dirt in a wound. Just because it’s closed and not bleeding anymore doesn’t mean it’s healed, actually it’s just going to get worse.”
“And so that makes this a course of antibiotics?”
“If it helps to think of it that way, yes. We have to fight the infection under the scars.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh, “Wasn’t that a lyric in a Skynard song?”
“I’m not trying to ruin your mood, I’m trying to help you,” she said in gentle way that only came off as patronizing, “I’m glad to see you happy—but just because you’re happy now doesn’t mean your problems are gone.”
“You think if I work through the issues about my father now that it’s really going to make a difference? Do you think if I could explain how I felt on Christmas Eve it would really matter? None of that matters now. What’s going to make a difference is me and Wilson. I can forget everything else.”
“Will he?”
“That’s not fair,” I replied, “At least get us into couples therapy before you start speaking for him.”
“Is that what you’re going to tell everyone else? That you are a couple? That would be a big step for you.”
“Thank you,” I said bitterly, “For stating the obvious. I thought coming out at my age would be easy.”
“You never told anyone?”
“No one but my boyfriends.”
“You were ashamed?”
“It was one more thing I was hiding from people, what did I care?”
“I think you did care.”
“For my safety. For anyone I was with. My father would have killed me. Or
him,” I ran my hand up and down my thigh a few times, eyes wandering to the side, “I was hoping he’d be dead before he had to find out.”
“And now?”
“I’m going to invite him to the wedding. He likes Wilson already. Wait till he hears about anal beads, he’ll love that.”
“Well, “ she said, “This . . . is good news.”
“I’ll say—we’ve already got it planned out. Cameron’s helping pick out the dress, Foreman’s providing the proper bling, and Chase is the flower girl.”
“Greg, I was being serious,” she countered, “You’re through the worst of your detox, you aren’t reliant on the Vicodin anymore, you may be starting an actual relationship with someone—your life appears to me coming together. You must be aware—”
“What I’m aware of is I’m done talking about this—this is my cloud, my happy feeling—you can’t make it go away—you can’t try and rationalize, analyze it to death, or make me look at it from any new and perplexing angle,” I stopped to take a breath, hating that I was having to defend myself, “Once I’m out of here it’s not going to matter to you who I sleep with—you’re not invited to the wedding by the way,” I got to my feet, using my cane and part of the table in front of me, “My time’s up,” I said, ignoring her quick glance at her wristwatch to confirm that time was actually not-up, “I’m taking my gayness elsewhere—to someone who won’t try and rain on it,” I limped to the door, not looking back.
I was just making a b-line for the door of my room when one of the nurses blocked my way. And by blocked I mean he was like a marshmallow expanding on the surface of cocoa in a very small mug.
“Is this a bad time?” he asked, eyes slightly shifty.
“No, I just got done with Dr. Fox,” I replied distractedly, squaring my shoulders a little, my ego inadvertently affected by the nurse’s sheer girth, “Feel free to take that out of context.”
The nurse caught my eyes and the volume of his voice lowered, “I have it.”
“Have?” I asked, frowning.
“Vicodin.”
Blinked. Wetted my lips. “I asked for it four days ago.”
“Took me that long.”
My breath was fast. Mouth dry. Searched him with my eyes, his hands, pockets, eyes eventually making it back up to his, a cold sweat breaking out over my skin.
“So where’s my money?” the nurse asked, the sound of his foot tapping nervously at the edge of my senses.
Money. Money for pills. Vicodin. I’d asked him. Desperate. Detoxing. How could I forget I’d asked him? Asked him to get them for me. Days ago. Long shot. Knew it was a long shot. Now he had them. Now when my life appears to be coming together. Everything seems to be working out. I just have to get through rehab. Get through it. And then Wilson and I can be together. I can wake up next to him in the morning. I’ll kiss him and he’ll taste like coffee. We’ll go to work. Come home. Happy. Because he’ll be there.
Everyday can be like that. Nothing in our way. He’ll love me, not pity me. He’ll love me.
“In my room.”
Author: alivehawk1701
Characters: Wilson, House
Warnings: I'll say M further on
Summary: Written during Series 3 during House's time detoxing/admitting himself to hospital after Christmas Eve. He is struggling with his roomate and looking forward to a visit from Wilson . . .
Comments are love, last part will be posted soon, cheers!
“. . . and then I was riding the bus home one day and in those days I took the bus everywhere didn’t matter if it was raining or sunny or whatever and I ran into him on the seventy-four’s south route downtown which isn’t normally there at that time but was running ten minutes late he was—”
Some people have never heard of verbal punctuation.
They can go on and on with one sentence and not even stop to breathe. They have the profound ability to switch from topic to topic without pause, just moving, flawlessly from one subject to the next, on and on and on. Regardless of who they’re talking to. Doesn’t matter if it’s Stalin or John the Baptist they ramble on and on. This is not a gift. In fact the only cure for this very serious condition is to cut the person’s tongue out and hope they don’t find a way to gurgle excessively.
Like this person. She sat down right next to me at craft time and just started talking. No invitation. Worse even because clay and non-toxic paint apparently have a liberating effect on some people.
“ . . . and I had my transfer from that morning but had to buy another one which is really stupid but I saw him and thought I could borrow a dime or a nickel or something because I was short fare but he looked at me and said . . .”
God, can’t she just shut up! I swear, she says one more word, I’m losing it. That’s it. Done with art today. Done. But, nope—shouting isn’t an option. Not that I’m above yelling at the vulnerable and the witless it's just that I’m on the nurse’s naughty list, and not in any way that will end in a very gratifying sponge bath, more like I’m under constant surveillance for what has been described as an unsubstantiated amount of time. I’m supposed to be good for that unsubstantiated amount of time, which means . . . no hitting other patients with my cane, no yelling, and no threatening to remove this woman’s tonsils with my bare hands.
“ . . . and he could at least have given me enough to ride the bus or given me—”
Just be quiet! Go away! Why doesn’t she just find a good sized book and hit me over the head with it? Why doesn’t she drink her way through a dozen gin bottles then smash them three feet away from my ears while blasting scratched and skipping CDs on seven huge speakers?! My head dropped into my hands, fingers pulling at my hair, gritting my teeth past the point that nine out of ten dentists would recommend.
“ . . . he just got on the bus and didn’t talk to me or anything there was nothing I—”
“You totaled his car!” I screamed, unable to take it anymore, “Why do you think he was taking the bus?! You wrecked his car! He had no car to drive!”
Her mouth clamped shut and a glob of paint chose that moment to glop from the tip of her brush back onto the purple-paint covered paper plate under it. And everyone else decided to be quiet and reflective at that same moment—I’m not saying it had something to do with me, I don’t know, but everyone was staring.
She sniffed, lower lip extending enough to emotionally match the redness of her nose, “I told you that in confidence.”
“Christ . . . ”
“Greg,” Maria the nurse said, stepping up to our table, “Problem?”
I looked up at her, “I’m out of clay.”
“I’ll get you more,” she said hesitantly, the familiar quality of our exchange no doubt having something to do with her cleaning up my vomit repeatedly.
I didn’t need more clay. I needed a noose. Or a hand grenade. Or a very tall building to jump off of. I stared at the block of red-ish clay in front of me. It was already an attractive amorphous block. Why ruin it?
“That was really mean, Greg,” the woman whimpered, pushing her paintbrush across her paper in a slow, depressed, purple way.
“But true,” I mumbled.
“Here you go,” Maria said, coming back with some more clay, this time it was white not red, “Knock yourself out,” clay met table and she crossed her arms in front of her, making it clear if push came to shove she could beat me or anyone in an arm-wrestling contest, eyes sliding coolly to the side, narrowing somewhat as she glanced at the teary woman next to me, then to the clay in front of me, “Sarah? You alright?” she asked nicely, getting a sad nod in return. She turned back to me and asked, “What are you making exactly?”
“I’m . . . making something for someone,” I answered.
“Yeah? And who’s that?” the nurse asked and I know I didn’t miss the distinct air of disbelief in her voice.
“Someone,” I said forcefully, annoyed.
When I looked back up Maria still had her arms crossed, disbelief slanted on her face.
“Is that hard for you to believe, or something?” I asked, still annoyed.
“More hard for me believe you’d do something nice for someone.”
“I know I’ve been withdrawn,” I simpered, nodding solemnly, “The pills were the only things that were important—not like now, now I know what really matters . . . and that’s love.”
She laughed. I frowned. Sarah sniffed more.
“Do you really think that’s true?” Sarah asked after several heavy seconds of a very intense staring contest between Maria and me.
I broke eye contact with Maria, sticking my hands in the clay in front of me, letting my fingers sink in, drawing a deep breath as Sarah waited for a response. For a moment the answer stalled on the tip of my tongue—love’s not an obscure thing, I could explain it to you as a symptom of a much bigger disease or as a disease all in itself, biologically boring, all neural pathways becoming accustomed to sensory input patterns and complimentary sexual organs rather than anything profound. Shakespeare might have said differently but he was a poet, not a doctor. Love is human’s excuse not to fear mortality. Makes it okay to die . . . makes it okay to live . . .
“No,” I answered finally, pushing the clay flat silently. It wouldn’t have made a difference if I’d said yes. She knows as much as I do that love is nothing compared to getting wasted and making a tin can out of your fiancée’s car a week before the wedding or overdosing on pain killers and watching the one person who means anything to you in your life walk out the door. Love can go head to head with those things but it doesn’t mean it can win. It can offer selfless sacrifices, it can never give up, it can take care of you when you’re sick, it can come visit you in rehab even after all you’ve put it through, that doesn’t make it infallible. It makes it stupid.
I realize suddenly I’m smiling slightly, the tugging at the corners of my mouth almost unfamiliar.
I want to make something for Wilson. I don’t know what. I just want to make him something. It’s stupid. But I can give it to him when he comes and visits again. I already established that he’s stupid, so I know he will.
I suddenly see movement to the side of me and my eyes dart upward to see Bill standing next to me.
“Nice art,” he said, sitting down, “Supposed to be what, an ashtray?”
I laughed somewhat and sat back in my chair, one hand still on the clay, the other slung over the back of my chair, regarding him darkly for a moment, “You’re not packing? What, no discharge?”
His lips pressed tightly together, eyes wandering over the floor for a moment, anger tightening his voice, “I wouldn’t worry about it—I’m still gonna get out of here before you do,” he retorted.
“Paying the right people off?”
“Maybe,” he said, watching my hand on the clay for a moment, “If you don’t have the right people in high places you gotta find your own way to beat the system.”
“Admirable.”
“That . . . Dr. Wilson is a nice fella,” Bill drawled in an intentionally idle way, his southern accent hanging heavily on his vowels, bringing his green eyes up to mine and raising his chin in a challenging gesture.
“Is that a general observation?” I asked, keeping my voice even.
“I thought I’d mention it—after he came to visit yesterday,” he continued, “Awfully friendly of him,” my eyes jerked up, his satisfied tone matching a smirk that slowly slid over his lips, “You know, golly, I know people—people outside, and they might not be in high places but they’re in some pretty low places . . . ”
“I’m sure you do,” I said, “Big surprise you’re a southern hick skinhead, really thought more of you, Bill.”
“I’m talking enemies, you’re not careful—”
“And if you’re not careful you’re going to lose some teeth, get it?”
His eyes sidetracked to my cane then back, “No need to get angry—this is craft time, go on make your little ashtray—art is healing, remember?”
It’s not an ashtray. Which is smart for two reasons, one; originality is always something to strive for, and two, to a lesser extent, though still prominent, Wilson doesn’t smoke.
My hands on clay, fingerprints combing faint patterns on the surface, memories came to the surface; I couldn’t have been more than six. My Dad smoked. A lot. Complaining was stupid in general but also apparently more so for a five or six year old, if the smoke was making me cough he’d stamp the sole of his figurative boot in the figurative pool of my emotions and grind in the heel saying, “Then leave the room”.
So I’d made my dad an ashtray, thinking it was smart, that he’d like it.
He’d smashed it.
I’d traced a flower on the bottom of the tray, a daisy, and I guess he didn’t like daisies. Or me. Or both.
It’s a coffee mug.
Or anything mug, doesn’t have to be coffee.
Tea, water, Coke, milk, various kinds of citrus in distress.
Although, our handsome protagonist oncologist drinks a startling amount of coffee, so it might be full of coffee, and to a greater extent sugar, nearly twenty-two hours of every day.
Or he might smash it.
I felt a very small part of myself cringe at the distant, decades old sound of clay shattering into a hundred little pieces against the fireplace and turned the coffee mug over in my hands, inhaling past the nervousness. Wilson doesn’t throw things. That’s more of a me thing. But I had to try. Kissing him during a panic attack probably didn’t make things too clear for him.
>>>>>
Wilson is coming to visit again. It’s been 46 hours since time.
And today’s good, I ate breakfast, I made my bed, I’ve stopped shaking. All’s fantastic in the state of Denmark, no problems at all.
Lifting my right thigh with both hands I hauled it into a straight position in front of me as I stretched out on my bed, letting the mug lean against my hip on top of the blankets. He’d be here soon.
The awful routine of this place, group, meal, group, sleep, meal, was enough to drive anyone crazy. I was excited to see him. Anything to shatter the monotony. I never really cared about what was going on before, hospital-wise, but I’d give anything to limp to a vending machine and find out that they’re out of hazelnut coffee, eventually settling for vanilla, but only bitterly.
And I’d kissed him. For the third time. He’d kissed me the second time, we were trading off. I’d kissed him. Impulsively, stupidly, desperately, one or more of those. Kissing Wilson was like getting that cup of hazelnut flavored coffee after it was out of order for years—everything, right down to the way he gave tiny, second-long kisses on my lower lip, the way he moaned in the back of his throat like a contented puppy, to his sweet, almost addictive taste—it had been perfect and beautiful and, whelp, no one ever said life was going to be easy, the heart, or the penis, wants what it wants, all you need is etc etc--and it’d been a huge mistake. Right? For years we’d avoided, or rather balanced right on the edge of, a mutual attraction, flirting was great, fine, totally hetrosexual, why not just go our whole lives, this kind of connection happens everyday.
Yeh right.
I’d been shutting my eyes briefly, determined to be as open as I could be, somehow, uncharacteristically, not like I have anything to lose really, when Wilson showed up, finally.
“Hey,” he said from the doorway, knuckles tapping lightly on the frame.
“Hi,” I responded, covering the mug with my hand, pushing it against my side so it was hidden, then folded my hands over my stomach, meeting his eyes from across the room.
Wilson took a few idling, slow steps into the room, “You finally learned how to make hospital corners,” he commented with a classic I’m-not-that-cute smile that was so James Wilson the campaign is coming out next season complete with his own line of cologne and bath products and tasteful black and white ads in Vogue magazine. He dropped a box he was holding on the bed, “Pop Tarts,” he explained needlessly, taking a lingering breath, “Nurses say you’re doing better,” he sat down on the bed, running a hand through his hair.
“Thanks,” I said, shifting my feet so he had more room, careful not to upset the mug as I sat forward to grab the box. Wilson had set his eyes to wander-mode so when I looked back up at him, the smooth cardboard under my fingertips, he wasn’t looking at me.
“Is your roommate . . .”
“On a pass for the afternoon,” I answered.
“Good,” he inhaled deeply, “Good.”
I set the Pop Tarts on my nightstand, trying not to acknowledge the awkwardness, which, really rehab-is-uncomfortable enough, obviously, so it wasn’t just the gay elephant in the room.
“You’re not wearing a tie,” I said after a moment, head tilted to the side, surveying his tie-less ensemble.
“Yeah, forgot one today.”
“How could you forget a tie?”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“True,” I nodded, “Did . . . you lose all your ties?”
“House, we don’t have a lot of time—do you really want to spend it talking
about what tie I may or may not be wearing today?”
“Yes?”
“No.”
“I just want to know,” I said, offering an innocent shrug, “You know, in case you’ve gone off wearing ties and I mistakenly buy you another one for your birthday or Christmas or something.”
“Hanukkah,” he said offhandedly.
I narrowed my eyes, watching him squirm as the pause didn’t assure him he was safe from further questions, glancing from the top of his head, hair scruffed-up and notably un-neat, to his feet which were nonetheless wearing the same nice, stylish shoes he always wore, “You wouldn’t just stop wearing ties—and you have enough that you’d never run out, so for some reason you must have been cut off from the source,” I watched him close his eyes, a hand rising to his temple, then continued, “Did you sleep in your office? And if so, why not just wear the same tie two days in a row?”
“House . . .” he said and his eyes drifted to the side, pouring impatience into my name but not fooling anyone, namely me, as he tried to obviously keep a slow smile from spreading across his lips.
“Your hair is un-brushed, your face is dry—it’s not extra cold outside so it must be a reaction to something, a new kind of soap or shaving cream—”
“Okay,” he said sharply, giving in, eyes shooting back to mine, “I didn’t go back to my hotel room last night—happy?”
“Getting there.”
“I . . .” he sighed, obviously whatever he was about to say would be better in three to five seconds, hand reaching to rub the back of his neck, that same smile coming to his face, rolling his eyes, “I went to your place and . . . didn’t . . . leave.”
Unlike him I resisted, and succeeded, in not smiling, licking my lips as his eyes came back to me, again, this time holding a challenging resolve, daring me to say something more, a playfulness colouring his cheeks just enough for me to notice. If I’d smiled I would have ruined it. Instead I narrowed my eyes, pressing my lips together in my best put-out, did-I-hear-you-right expression, “Better water pressure?” I asked, not breaking contact, holding him secure with my eyes, the way you’d hold onto a bag of unmarked bills getting onto a busy subway train, the way you’d curl both hands around a bat as the pitcher glared at you from the mound, the way you’d hug the side of a cliff as your shoe lost its footing for the seventh time.
“I thought I’d go over there, see how things were,” he said softer than before, almost defensively, blinking several times, “I didn’t plan to sleep over there, I just . . .” he shrugged, losing track of what he wanted to say as I stared at him.
“You slept in my apartment,” I restated, raising my eyebrows.
“Under the circumstances I didn’t think you’d mind,” he said flatly, “Did you know your alarm clock is broken?”
“Thank god,” I breathed, rolling my eyes to the ceiling. My alarm clock, as they often are, is in my bedroom. He slept in my bed.
“I overslept—it was supposed to wake me up—I was rushing, and consequently one of my ties, the one I was wearing, got coffee spilled all over it.”
“It wouldn’t have killed you to be late for once.”
“It wouldn’t kill you to get a functional alarm clock like a responsible human being.”
“Studies show that people who wake up to an alarm clock every morning die younger.”
“Versus being woken up by . . .”
“Sunlight, natural rhythms, a handjob—unless you’re James Wilson, then you’ve been sleeping on the couch for the better whole of your marriage.”
“The window of your bedroom faces south.”
“And my sheets are what colour . . . ?”
“Blue.”
“Really?” I looked up to the ceiling, “I have blue sheets?”
‘Yeah, they’re like light blue, light-ish, sort of.”
“Like a tea cup blue? Windex blue?“
“Like your eyes blue.”
He took a moment to press his lips together, maybe regretting the last four words he’d said, then gave a noticed self-aimed wince, closing his eyes.
“You slept in your best friend’s bed while he was in rehab,” I said, nodding slowly, a cautious smile coming like a slow sax note to my lips.
“I was thinking of making a memorial but didn’t have the funding.”
“You used my soap to wash your face—it’s not that fancy exfoliating stuff you’re used to, it irritated your skin.”
“Yes, it all makes sense now.”
I looked closer at the colour of his undershirt, visible because he didn’t have the rope of silk tied around his throat, and saw a speck of blue on the cotton collar, “That’s . . . my shirt.”
He sighed, “You’re obviously feeling better,” he fixed me with a disapproving, though miraculously still admiring gaze, then shifted them guiltily to the side, “Yes—it’s your shirt—I’m not even going to bother denying it.”
“This was because your other shirt was dirty?”
“Partly.”
“What’s the other part?”
“Do you want me to be uncomfortable?” he proclaimed, gesturing wildly with his hands,
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“Just having fun.”
“You’re impossible—it’s no big deal, I slept in your apartment, I slept in your bed, I miss you.”
I looked away from him, left hand flexing around the rim of the mug at my side, out of his sight, a warm, unmistakably happy feeling creeping over my chest, “The bed is better with me in it,” I murmured. When he didn’t deny that either, stretching his legs out slightly, maybe relaxing a tiny amount, my finger tapped several times on the rim of the mug and I took it from its hiding place. I held it out to him, chewing at my lower lip,
“I made you this, craft time.”
He paused, eyes going from the mug to me, silent. Then his hand reached out to take it and his fingers brushed mine briefly, forefinger and middle-finger resting over my knuckles, a flash of warmth, then gone. He lifted it in front of him, inspecting it. I ran a hand over the stubble over my cheek, scratching at my sideburns, eyes lowered as he turned it around, silent.
“It’s . . .” he started, breath lisping through his front teeth.
“They force us to be creative—I just,” I shrugged, “You drink coffee.”
“House,” he said and I looked up at my name, meeting his eyes which were pools of melting, sweet affection like the last sip from your drink after all the sugar’s sunk to the bottom, making me doubt the bad-idea-ness of the mug as well as taking my coffee black. My heart even did backflips..
“You hate it.”
“No. I love it,” he murmured, looking away, eyelashes fluttering slightly, then looked back at me, “Thanks.”
For a few quiet moments we just sat there, looking into each other’s eyes, the stupid mug resting on his knee. I didn’t know what he’d do next. Sleeping at my apartment was one thing, I know he missed me but sleeping in my bed; I pictured him curled up under my rumpled sheets, his clothes folded over a chair, glass of water on my nightstand, coming to work without a tie, my shirt on his bare skin—I wasn’t sure what those things meant but no matter what I hoped for, they didn’t mean that he would ever want to be with me—no sane person would ever want to be with me.
“You’re welcome,” I heard myself say. Wilson looked uncertain and frightened. Maybe the mug was a tipping point. Maybe it was pity. Nothing sadder than getting crappy crafty gifts from sick people. Maybe it wasn’t pity though. Maybe it was something else. Maybe. Maybe the tenseness was too much for him, maybe he’d made a decision, maybe the mug had been a larger persuader than I thought, maybe I really was that pathetic, the silence secured itself around us like a bubble and all I could see was Wilson.
He exhaled, “House,” he said, shifting so one leg was up on the bed, his leg pressed against mine, “I’m not going to,” he stopped, rethinking his words, then in one one big rush he said, “We were both there I don’t need to say it we both know it . . . happened again.”
I nodded, “Yeh,”
“Which I guess, shouldn’t have surprised me,” he said almost to himself, then frowned, “I just don’t want to,” he laid a hand, a hesitant hand, like he was touching something hot, on my leg, “Be . . . in the way. Of this, all this. This is important.”
I looked from his hand to his face. If he did know me, he knew I was terrified. That these conversations didn’t come easily to me, that over the last few years I’d more readily push people, him, away from me rather than actually communicate. Couldn’t he do that Wilson thing that he does with me, figure out all that was in my heart, without all the translation errors?
“Maybe I want you in the way. Maybe I need something,” I finally said, “Someone.”
He looked almost boyish, barely hiding a smile, scared, hopeful, both, biting a corner of his lip, “Me?”
“Obviously you,” I said, eyes narrowed, “I don’t,” my throat tightened, forcing me to pause, “Expect you to . . . be there, I know what I’ve put you through and I’m sorry, for all of it,” his lips parted, brows knitted together in thought.
He shifted his weight so he was facing me more, “What are you saying, House?”
Heart pounding. Lowered my eyes, “I don’t want to ignore this anymore,” I looked up, “We both know what this is. What this could be.”
I’d put myself on the cliff. The cliff that was well marked with signs, for years, heading down the length of highway in supposed ignorance until not so suddenly it's coned off and our toes are hanging off the grassy ledge, down to the sea below. I was tired. Of a lot of things. Mostly tired of losing him. I’d rather lose him taking this chance.
He hadn’t said anything, seemingly in thought, processing, then he frowned in a speculative expression, “How many times have I been married?” he asked.
“Three?”
“Did you like any of my wives?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“You made it pretty clear,”
“They weren’t worthy of you.”
“They weren’t that bad.”
“They weren't me,”
“Not even close.”
“Lucky for you I’m a patient man.”
“Not the exact word I’d use to describe you.”
“Observant then,” I chewed at my lip, eyes narrowed, “Maybe it escaped your notice but we’ve kissed three times now. And we’ve never talked about it. Which strikes me as odd. And closeted. And wrong. Blame this environment but I’m over it. My genitals react to you in an undeniable way. I could ask you about your genitals but I do remember putting my hand down your pants on Fourth of July that one time, seemed reactive to me. We should probably just have sex, we’d fight less, or more, but then there’s make-up sex.”
He is eyebrows shot to the top of his head and he smiled, shaking his head slightly before focusing his eyes on mine, “Shut up, House,” he leaned forward and, for a moment, gauging my reaction, pausing to meet my eyes, his lips brushed over mine then held there, pressed sweet and soft against mine, hand on the side of my face. Pulled back from me. Met my eyes.
“Was that ok?”
I smiled, heart drumming in my chest, “Was that a yes?”
“Yes,” he kissed me again, my eyes rolled shut with a satisfied groan, pulling back quickly to say, “Get your own soap,” kissed him lightly, watching his eyes, “But you can stay at my apartment.”
I’m on a cloud. It’s not something I do a lot. It’s strange. And un-cloudy.
>>>>>
The clock ticked one minute closer to three. Dr. Fox was waiting.
Almost three o’clock. Almost time for my appointment. For the first time since coming to rehab I didn’t mind going to therapy. Because of the aforementioned cloud.
I got up from my bed, holding back a grimace as pain dripped like lava from my hip all the way to the end of my toes, my temples following suit a few seconds later, who were then accompanied by a sudden thick feeling over my tongue as my friend Nausea waved hello again.
Doesn’t matter. Somehow none of that matters right now. I’d shrug to illustrate said nonchalance if that wouldn’t assuredly hurt too. There is no clear, recent memory of me having felt optimistic, but here I am, I know this is it. Maybe I haven’t experienced it, in full, exactly, but I’ve read about it; I’m sure of it, this is the real deal, this is optimism.
My leg will hurt. But that’s okay. I have Wilson.
I limped across the ward into the section designated for meetings with the various counselors. Sure enough Dr. Fox was there.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Fox,” I greeted, closing the door after me, flashing a quick smile.
“Good afternoon,” she reciprocated, all except the smile, slipping her glasses on and opening the file, my file, on her lap.
“Having a good day?” I asked, sitting down, leaning my cane on the inside of my knee.
“Relatively,” she said with a frown, cocking her head to side, “What happened?”
“You just said the word relatively.”
“I mean with you,” she said, obviously confused, “You’re . . .”
“—talking too fast?”
“No, you seem . . .”
“Indescribable?”
“Unbelievable.”
“If I had a nickel for every time that word was said in succession with my name . . .”
“You’d be a rich man.”
“I’d certainly have a lot of nickels.”
“You’re happy.”
“Am I? Well, that’s your lingo—not mine.”
“It’s a common enough word, Greg—and it’s not a bad thing.”
“Good—usually I only use morally bankrupt lingo—glad to be on this side of the fence.”
“Mind telling me what brought this on?”
“Serotonin—dopamine, healthy dose of both of those.”
“Not even a day ago you were seriously depressed—short of entering a manic
phase, which is, I suppose, is possible, there has to have been an external influence. What was it?”
“Couldn’t I have just gotten tired of being so sad and reflective—the tears
always smudge up the glass.”
“I’ll believe the sad part, good job at the lingo by the way, but the reflective part? Not so much with you, Greg.”
“Hey, that’s not fair—when you tell a man he’s unreflective you might as well tell him he’s bad at sex.”
“I did call you unreflective and I also find it interesting that you’re bringing up sex in conjunction with that revelation—either they’re related or you’re deflecting—want to make it easy on me and tell me which one?”
“Are we forgetting I’m a real doctor not a head-shrink? Different education.
I never read the backs of cereal boxes when I was a kid.”
“Bringing up your childhood—interesting—also not what I was asking. I believe we were getting to the bottom of your rather sudden mood change.”
“Good, back to me—my favourite topic. You know that list you asked me to make, of all the things I love, with myself on the top? I made it—great exercise by the way—I’m going to paint some rainbows and flowers later while watching The Sound of Music.”
“It was a simple exercise.”
“Exceedingly—idiots everywhere can enjoy it.”
“Liking yourself doesn’t make you an idiot.”
“I know—But I’m really trying to flex my selfishness, by the end of the year I hope to be completely self-absorbed.”
“We’re straying off topic, Greg.”
“Were we ever on one? I’m confused—it must be catching.”
“We were—and if you’ll stay focused we can continue being so.”
“You should recognize the usefulness of straying of topic—most of what you psych-doctors do is read between the lines, right?”
“To a point.”
“So have a go—why am I happy?”
“You tell me.”
“I have been—you just need to listen really carefully.”
“Contrary to what some people may think we’re not mind readers.”
“Colder.”
“Greg, I’m not playing any game, I want you to talk to me.”
“Still cold.”
“Okay . . . something happened, outside your head, more than just neural receptors.”
“Warmer.”
“Something happened during craft-time?”
“Ha—colder.”
“I saw you made something—was that it?”
“Ice cold.”
“Greg, I can’t guess every possibility why you’re smiling today—this is the
first time I’ve ever seen you smile, by the way.”
“Don’t give up—this is fun.”
“I think you mean immature.”
“Same thing.”
“You had a visitor. Dr. Wilson. He just left.”
“Why does he still get his honorary title? We’re all doctors here.”
“What would you rather I called him?”
“He likes Jimmy—I’m partial to Thing 1.”
“And you’re Thing 2?”
"Calling me Thing is supposed to help me? I thought we were working on my self-esteem.”
“What happened with Dr. Wilson?”
“Wow, you’re hot.”
“Excuse me?”
“The game—you’re hot.”
“Dr. Wilson is the reason you’re happy.”
“God, you’re good.”
“It was a good visit?”
“I . . . can’t say.”
“Why not?”
“My honor. And his.”
“Greg . . . you and Dr. Wilson have a very . . . complicated relationship. It’s been the source of many of the problems you’ve faced recently, that’s true right?”
“True,” I agreed, eyes wandering around the room, the familiar pain in my thigh made me rub the uneven muscle over my leg, the friction of fabric on the heel of my palm warming my skin, “But there’s a reason for that and . . . pills don’t love me . . . my leg doesn’t love me . . . my patients certainly don’t love me . . . the damn white board doesn’t love me,” I looked up from my hand, “He does.”
She watched me a moment, eyelashes fluttering slightly under the lenses of her glasses as she took a slow breath between her lips, “You made him the mug.”
I nodded.
“It’s not just a mug, Greg.”
“I’m pretty sure it was.”
“It was an offering—you want to start over, renew your friendship.”
“God, really? Do I need to mention the cigar thing? Really would be on point though.”
Her lack of reaction, product of years of training in dealing with crazy people, was followed by a few moments of direct eye-contact before she raised her chin slightly and asked, “How long have you had feelings for him?”
I frowned, “Do you want me to say birth?”
“If we are talking about your sexuality, sure.”
“It’s not that complicated. I’m sure you know how it works.”
“Not for you. How does it work?”
“There’s an increase of blood flow to my genitals when I’m introduced to certain
stimuli. Wasn’t birth but I figured out my penis enlarged at more than just boobs around the time my father switched from belts to fists,” she didn’t react, I hate that, “Clear enough for you?”
“That must have been very traumatic. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“I heard it gets better. Somewhere.”
She actually took a moment to look away, eyes closing for a moment, folding her glasses then putting them gently on her desk before returning to me, “What happens if you don’t properly clean a wound before you close it up?”
“I’m assuming you mean a metaphorical wound.”
“No, I mean a real wound—what happens if there’s germs and dirt inside the injury and you stitch it up anyway?”
“There wouldn’t be—any idiot doctor knows simple first aid—clean, then stitch.”
“What if you missed some? What if it was bleeding too much?”
“You’d stop the bleeding, clean it, then suture it,” I said, getting angry.
“But let’s just say that it doesn’t get clean. The wound would get infected,
wouldn’t it? It would fill with puss, the infection would spread.”
“Yes.”
“You’re so insistent at stitching up everything that hurts, Greg, before
anyone can look at any of it and pass their judgment, but you’re not doing yourself any favors. If you don’t talk about something, if you don’t work through it, it’s like dirt in a wound. Just because it’s closed and not bleeding anymore doesn’t mean it’s healed, actually it’s just going to get worse.”
“And so that makes this a course of antibiotics?”
“If it helps to think of it that way, yes. We have to fight the infection under the scars.”
I let out a short, bitter laugh, “Wasn’t that a lyric in a Skynard song?”
“I’m not trying to ruin your mood, I’m trying to help you,” she said in gentle way that only came off as patronizing, “I’m glad to see you happy—but just because you’re happy now doesn’t mean your problems are gone.”
“You think if I work through the issues about my father now that it’s really going to make a difference? Do you think if I could explain how I felt on Christmas Eve it would really matter? None of that matters now. What’s going to make a difference is me and Wilson. I can forget everything else.”
“Will he?”
“That’s not fair,” I replied, “At least get us into couples therapy before you start speaking for him.”
“Is that what you’re going to tell everyone else? That you are a couple? That would be a big step for you.”
“Thank you,” I said bitterly, “For stating the obvious. I thought coming out at my age would be easy.”
“You never told anyone?”
“No one but my boyfriends.”
“You were ashamed?”
“It was one more thing I was hiding from people, what did I care?”
“I think you did care.”
“For my safety. For anyone I was with. My father would have killed me. Or
him,” I ran my hand up and down my thigh a few times, eyes wandering to the side, “I was hoping he’d be dead before he had to find out.”
“And now?”
“I’m going to invite him to the wedding. He likes Wilson already. Wait till he hears about anal beads, he’ll love that.”
“Well, “ she said, “This . . . is good news.”
“I’ll say—we’ve already got it planned out. Cameron’s helping pick out the dress, Foreman’s providing the proper bling, and Chase is the flower girl.”
“Greg, I was being serious,” she countered, “You’re through the worst of your detox, you aren’t reliant on the Vicodin anymore, you may be starting an actual relationship with someone—your life appears to me coming together. You must be aware—”
“What I’m aware of is I’m done talking about this—this is my cloud, my happy feeling—you can’t make it go away—you can’t try and rationalize, analyze it to death, or make me look at it from any new and perplexing angle,” I stopped to take a breath, hating that I was having to defend myself, “Once I’m out of here it’s not going to matter to you who I sleep with—you’re not invited to the wedding by the way,” I got to my feet, using my cane and part of the table in front of me, “My time’s up,” I said, ignoring her quick glance at her wristwatch to confirm that time was actually not-up, “I’m taking my gayness elsewhere—to someone who won’t try and rain on it,” I limped to the door, not looking back.
I was just making a b-line for the door of my room when one of the nurses blocked my way. And by blocked I mean he was like a marshmallow expanding on the surface of cocoa in a very small mug.
“Is this a bad time?” he asked, eyes slightly shifty.
“No, I just got done with Dr. Fox,” I replied distractedly, squaring my shoulders a little, my ego inadvertently affected by the nurse’s sheer girth, “Feel free to take that out of context.”
The nurse caught my eyes and the volume of his voice lowered, “I have it.”
“Have?” I asked, frowning.
“Vicodin.”
Blinked. Wetted my lips. “I asked for it four days ago.”
“Took me that long.”
My breath was fast. Mouth dry. Searched him with my eyes, his hands, pockets, eyes eventually making it back up to his, a cold sweat breaking out over my skin.
“So where’s my money?” the nurse asked, the sound of his foot tapping nervously at the edge of my senses.
Money. Money for pills. Vicodin. I’d asked him. Desperate. Detoxing. How could I forget I’d asked him? Asked him to get them for me. Days ago. Long shot. Knew it was a long shot. Now he had them. Now when my life appears to be coming together. Everything seems to be working out. I just have to get through rehab. Get through it. And then Wilson and I can be together. I can wake up next to him in the morning. I’ll kiss him and he’ll taste like coffee. We’ll go to work. Come home. Happy. Because he’ll be there.
Everyday can be like that. Nothing in our way. He’ll love me, not pity me. He’ll love me.
“In my room.”
