Losing It

The following week that House spent in the recovery room passed rather uneventfully. As he waited for the reinjury to his skull fracture to slowly heal, House was surprised by the number of visitors who made their way in and out of his room. He had not expected so many people to even care about his injury, much less to take the time to come and see him. However, as it turned out, his room was rarely empty of visitors.

Wilson rarely left at all.

House’s new employees came by fairly frequently to check on how he was doing, to update him on the progress of a patient, or just to say hello and let him know they were concerned. His former employees came by more frequently, especially Cameron. She and Cuddy were there more than all the rest of them put together.

While they were there, Wilson kept up a flawless performance, making them believe that he had actually forgiven his friend, giving the impression of ultimate concern and compassion, appearing to be concerned with nothing more than House’s safe and swift recovery. He fussed over him, making a big show of making sure he was comfortable and had everything that he needed, laughing and joking with him as they had not done since before Amber’s death.

There were moments when House almost believed the act – until the others left them alone.

That was when Wilson began filling his ears with gently whispered verbal poison.

Cameron stopped by for the first time halfway through the second day. The moment she walked through the door of his room, she froze, taking in his bruised, battered face, the weary ache betrayed by his tired, bloodshot eyes – and the warmth and compassion in her expression was nearly House’s undoing.

Keep it together, moron, he warned himself, averting his eyes before she could see too much in them. Don’t let her see…

“Oh, God, House,” she murmured, dismay in her voice, a sympathetic half-smile on her lips. “You look awful.”

“Thanks,” he replied flatly, rolling his eyes, while silently thanking whoever might be listening that she had given him something he could work with. “What would I do without you here to lift my spirits and brighten my day?”

“I guess we’ll never know, will we? Since I just can’t seem to stay away.”

Unoffended, Cameron sat down in the chair beside his bed with a self-deprecating smile, hesitating a moment before bravely reaching out to gently squeeze his hand. Ordinarily House would have immediately pulled his hand away, rejecting such open affection.

At this particular moment, however – he felt pathetically needy.

Before he even knew he was going to, he had turned his hand slightly in hers, squeezing back – and found to his horror that he did not want to let go, not at all.

Which was why he immediately jerked his hand away, clearing his throat uncomfortably, glancing up at her through lowered eyes, hoping he had recovered before she had noticed his momentary emotional lapse.

Judging by the concerned frown that creased her brow – she had noticed.

She recovered quickly, however, and proceeded to lighten the mood with several random stories of things that had happened around the hospital in the past few days – just the sort of workplace gossip that usually drew House’s interest, if only because he loved to know everything that he could about everyone around him.

Today, it was not all that interesting to him, but it was at least a distraction. Wilson joined in the conversation, and House could not remember the last time he had heard him sound so open and casually comfortable. Even though he knew deep down that it was an act, it still felt good to hear it, and he could almost – almost – convince himself that it was real. When Cameron left nearly an hour later, House found that despite his situation, he was feeling a little better, a little lighter – a little less hopelessly alone and miserable.

Wilson calmly watched Cameron go, leaning casually back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. A sort of ironic, secretive smile crossed his lips as he glanced speculatively at House, who suddenly could not seem to make himself hold Wilson’s gaze. Wilson said nothing for a long moment – but when he did speak, the cold, calculated tone of his voice seemed to suck all the air out of the room.

“Pathetic, isn’t it?”

House frowned, misunderstanding Wilson’s meaning. He shook his head as he objected, “She’s over me. That’s all in the…”

“Not her. You,” Wilson interrupted, scathing contempt in his voice as he gave his former friend a cold, disgusted up-and-down look that left him feeling utterly vulnerable and ashamed – two things he had never thought he could feel, not with Wilson. But the mockery in the younger man’s voice made his face burn with humiliation.

“She wanted you for nearly a year, and you threw it away – and now you’re all trying to hold her hand. That’s cute, House. Really cute.” He was quiet for a moment, before adding in a chillingly soft, cruel voice, “It’s too late, you know. She’s over her thing for pathetic, maladjusted, crippled addicts.”

House swallowed back the sick sensation of shame that filled his throat, turning his face away from Wilson in a vain attempt to hide the hurt of his words. For some reason, his usual swift wit failed him, and he found himself without any answer for the cruel taunts that he ordinarily would have put down with ease.

It wasn’t as if he even still had any romantic feelings for Cameron. Their awkward mutual feelings had long since faded into a reasonably comfortable – if mostly unacknowledged – friendship.

Still, Wilson managed to make him feel like a pathetic, needy fool, hung up on a younger woman who no longer wanted anything to do with him. He found himself going over Cameron’s visit again in his head, seeing every casual word and action through the darker lense of Wilson’s words, and finding pity where before he had only seen friendship and compassion.

It was like that the entire week.

Foreman and Chase stopped by, together, and spoke casually for a few minutes, asking House how he felt and updating him on a couple minor pieces of hospital news, before going about their work again.

“They couldn’t wait to get out of here,” Wilson observed with a malicious smirk. “Yeah. They really care about you, don’t they? Probably would have been a relief to them if you hadn’t woke up.”

When House’s new staff showed up, together – probably for moral support, as they were all still seemed to be just a little bit scared of him – Wilson barely waited for them to leave again before launching into his searing commentary.

“Yeah…you just can’t spend five minutes with another human being without making them hate you, can you, House? And yet they’re still here, pretending to care. Selfish insincerity is such a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

Cuddy was there more often, camping out in the chair beside House’s bed, holding his hand and talking warmly for hours at a time. In the midst of the nightmare his life was spiraling into, her gentle words and affectionate friendship were a much-needed oasis of safety.

However, her visits forced Wilson to hold up the act for longer periods of time; and somehow, that only seemed to make him more vicious – and far more devastatingly personal – when she finally did leave the room. After one late night visit, the last night before House was released from the hospital, Cuddy left exhausted, but happy with House’s increased recovery. As soon as she was gone, Wilson turned his piercing gaze on House, clearly displeased with the relatively serene, peaceful expression on his face.

He instantly set about to destroy the comfort and reassurance Cuddy had just done her best to leave with her friend.

“You see the way she looked at you?” Wilson asked. “She feels sorry for you.” He laughed – a cold, brittle sound – as he added, “You’re such a joke to her, House. She used to respect you…used to look up to you, even. Now all she sees is a useless, helpless addict who can’t even do his damn job without pissing somebody off enough to put him in a coma.”

Anger flashed in House’s crystal blue eyes as he finally looked up, glaring at his former friend. “Yeah, except we both know that’s not what happened. You…”

“She doesn’t know that,” Wilson pointed out softly, a cruel smile on his lips.

“Yet.”

Silence fell in the room for a few tense moments, as Wilson stared intently at House, studying his face with a dangerous glint in his eyes that made House wonder about the wisdom of the single, pointed word he had spoken. After a long moment, Wilson stood up from his chair, slowly moving toward the bed. House maintained eye contact with him, though he wanted badly to look away, his hand sliding down the side of the bed to hover over the nurse’s call button.

In a swift, smooth motion, Wilson caught his wrist, pulling it up, placing it back on the mattress, and holding it there firmly. House glanced anxiously toward the deserted hallway outside his room, swallowing convulsively as he looked back up at Wilson through apprehensive eyes. He was utterly alone, with a man who seemed intent on his ultimate destruction – a man who had already almost killed him once – and he was in no physical condition to defend himself.

Wilson smiled, clearly reading his fears in his eyes. “You’ve sabotaged yourself, House,” he informed him in a matter-of-fact voice. “Too many pills…drinking in the middle of the day…massive head injuries…How in the world is she supposed to believe anything you say? Especially over anything I say?”

The cruelty House had endured over the past few days had him on the verge of breaking, emotionally ready to lash out at Wilson in retaliation for the many verbal and physical injuries he had already taken from him; but physically, he knew he didn’t stand a chance, not yet. It was best to go along with the younger man’s game for now, rather than risking further infuriating him, when there was no one around to see, no one to help him if Wilson decided to put him in another coma.

“Who said anything about saying anything?” House sighed, rolling his eyes, but deliberately backing down, wanting to divert Wilson’s anger while it was still possible.

“Hopefully no one,” Wilson shrugged. “’Cause you really don’t wanna start running your mouth about this stuff, House. Not unless you wanna get hurt.”

Before House could react, or make any move to stop him, Wilson’s hand shot out, locking around his throat in a choking grip, shoving his head back against the bed behind him. His other hand was still pinning House’s right hand to the bed, and he smiled grimly, simply ignoring the weak, scrabbling efforts of his left hand to break his grip on his throat. Wilson easily restraining the older, injured man even as he struggled to free himself, to draw breath before he passed out from the lack of oxygen.

Wilson’s thumb was digging into House’s windpipe, cutting off his breath completely, until he finally let up a little, allowing him to draw in enough oxygen to keep him from passing out. The monitor to the left of the hospital bed began to beep rapidly, acknowledging the distress House was having in breathing, but Wilson just reached over without hesitation and switched it off for the moment. He leaned in closer, meeting House’s wide, panicked eyes as he continued in a cold whisper.

“You’re gonna keep your mouth shut, House. You’re not gonna say anything to anyone about this. Because no one is gonna believe you, anyway, if you do. Cuddy, all of them – they’ll believe me over you. Because everybody knows you’re losing it, House. Everybody knows that you’ve been falling apart for months now. Before Amber. Before any of this.”

A part of House’s mind knew it wasn’t true, knew that Wilson was twisting the events of the past year to his own liking, using them to manipulate him – but another part of him, a dark, insecure part that had believed those things already, accepted them with a sinking heart. He stopped trying to pull Wilson’s hand away from his throat, instead holding up his left hand in a pleading gesture, begging Wilson to stop – though he didn’t only mean the choking.

The words hurt a thousand times worse.

Wilson took no pity on his devastated friend, instead leaning in closer with a malicious smile, as he continued, each word clear and distinct for maximum agonizing effect. “You lost every shred of credibility you might have had left, around the time I found you lying on the floor of your apartment in a puddle of your own vomit.”

House flinched at the memory, and the calloused way in which Wilson referred to it.

“Attempted suicide doesn’t exactly make you look like a model of stability.”

Wilson sneered, pressing his thumb down harder again, his smile widening with sadistic satisfaction when House gasped uselessly for breath, but did not try again to break his grip on his throat. The younger man nodded slowly, his jaw setting with grim approval, before he finally released his hold, removing his hand mere instants before House would have lost consciousness.

“Now you’re getting it,” he observed with satisfaction. “I’m in charge, here, House. And you’re gonna do what I tell you, and keep your mouth shut. Aren’t you?”

A flash of memory filled the fading darkness behind House’s eyes, as he hovered between consciousness and sleep – a familiar voice from his past, equally as terrifying as Wilson’s was now.

Now you’re starting to get it, aren’t you, boy? This is my house. I’m in charge here, and you’re gonna do as you’re told! Aren’t you, Gregory? Aren’t you?

He winced at the remembered fear and shame of that moment, momentarily uncertain as to where he was, or when. He struggled to make sense of his mingled memories and the painful reality of the moment, blinking in confusion as his lungs filled with blessed, much-needed oxygen, drawing him back to full consciousness.

“Hey…stay with me here, House,” Wilson snapped, impatient. “Listen to me! Are you gonna keep your mouth shut, or do I need to…?”

“No…” House shook his head hurriedly, gasping out the words between deep, trembling draughts of much-needed oxygen. “…no, I won’t…won’t say anything…”

There was a weary resignation in his voice, a sense of utter exhaustion and defeat that seemed to satisfy whatever it was that Wilson was looking for. The younger man nodded, backing off slowly and returning to his chair, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Tomorrow…tomorrow you go home,” he stated in a quiet, intent voice. “And everything can go back to normal.”

House closed his eyes, taking deep breaths despite the pain in his abused throat, willing himself to go to sleep, to avoid the horrifically complicated mess that his life was swiftly becoming, but as he did, one thought kept circling through his mind.

No…nothing will ever be ‘normal’ again…

TBC...