Pathetic

Hands on my back.



Hands on my face.



I was turned over and a thumb pressed one eyelid open.



Even unfocused, I recognized the blue eyes and stubble.



I tried to speak, but managed little more than a croak.



"What happened?" he asked, hands roaming over me. "Have you been shot?"



Since my voice had abandoned me, I shook my head no. The tendons in my neck protested so loudly that I was sure House might have heard.



"Let's get you up," he said, gripping my forearms, "do you think you can stand?"



"I dunno," I rasped.



House planted his feet and gave a firm tug at my arms. I scrambled to get my legs under myself, mindful of the slick floor, and somehow, between the two of us, we managed to get me upright. Staying that way was another matter.



My legs felt shaky and untrustworthy, and I held out my arms to try and balance. Everything appeared a bit black around the edges, and I stumbled over my own feet.



House grabbed me under one arm, hands sure and steady, and I clung to him like a drowning man.



"It's okay," he said evenly, "I've got you."



I turned my head to focus on him with my one good eye and he gave me a smile that looked more like a grimace. Shit. I must have looked worse than I had thought. He shifted his gaze when he noticed me looking.



"C'mon," he said, gripping my arm more tightly to lead me away, "my car's right over here."



By the time we reached his old, grey beater, I was out of breath and my legs were rubber. He opened the passenger door, and I practically fell inside, yelping at the sudden fire in my ribs. I closed my eyes and was asleep even before House could walk around the car and slip behind the wheel.



A particularly large bump jolted me awake, and my scrambled mind took a moment to process what had happened. My guts were still rolling and my head was pounding loudly enough to make white spots appear in my vision. I slid a cautious hand up to what used to be my face and moaned.



Something pressed against my lips and as I opened them to protest, I felt the pill slip inside. Then, the blissful coolness of water to wash it down. I gulped greedily and House pulled the bottle away.



"Slow down, Tex, I don't need you to choke and aspirate while I'm driving."



I opened an eye to peer out the window, but the bright sunlight hurt my head and I closed it again.



"Hospital?" I asked. I didn't have the energy to form the whole question.



"Nah," he said, steering us over another spine-telescoping bump. "If I'd brought you back looking like this, everyone would assume that I was the one who did this to you." He paused, perhaps navigating a corner, perhaps navigating the turn of the conversation. "Especially after the hissy fit you threw today."



Hissy fit? Me? I wanted to shout at him, but even thinking loudly hurt my head, so I didn't bother to validate him with a response. We drove in silence for a moment, but then I was compelled to ask:



"Where are you taking me?"



"Home," He answered. The tone implied that it should be followed with the words, "Where do you think, stupid?"



I sighed, defeated. I didn't want to go back to the hotel. I didn't want the front desk clerk gawking at my bruises. I didn't want to look at my face under the harsh stab of the bathroom's florescent lights. I didn't want to lay on that hard bed with the stupid dip in the middle, curled up alone. That was the crux, really. I didn't want to be alone. Especially not there.



I struggled valiantly to control the wave of despair that seemed to suddenly rise up inside of me, and I mostly succeeded, except for a single tear that escaped and made a run for it down one cheek. And then another. And another.



House pulled the car over and removed the keys from the ignition. I just sat with my head down, afraid that the sight of the hotel lobby would make me start bawling like a woman.



"Hey," he said, more gently than I would have thought him capable, "we don't have to go to my place if you don't want to. I can take you wherever you like."



My head snapped up and I saw that we were, in fact, in front of his apartment. The wave of despair was replaced with a tsunami of gratitude and it was somehow even more overwhelming and debilitating. I tried to fight it, I really did, but I just felt so damn sorry for myself and so fucking mad that I'd screwed up the best thing I'd ever had that I began to cry. Tears of sorrow, regret, and shame.



Pathetic. He was right, I really was pathetic.



House said nothing, but he stayed, and for that I was grateful. Eventually I managed to get a hold on my emotions and slowed down my erratic breathing. I'm okay. I'm okay.



"C'mon," House said, giving a firm squeeze to my shoulder, "let's get you inside."



***



So now I sit on the toilet and watch, through my one good eye, as he turns on the shower and gets a fresh towel from the linen closet. The mirror is close by, but I'm afraid to look. It hurts like a bitch already, and seeing the train wreck that used to be my face won't make it feel any better. The look in House's eyes when they finally settle on me says it all. He looks sad, angry, and a little disgusted. I feel badly that he's going out of his way to help me when he obviously still resents me.



When the water has reached the desired temperature and the mirror is clouded with steam, House jerks his head towards the shower and gives me a curt nod.



"Strip and get in."



I open my mouth to protest, then close it again. Even through my swollen, bloodied nose I can smell myself. I'm not sure what's worse: the scent of vomit, or of fear. I'm surprised that he hadn't complained about it on the way here. Come to think of it, I'm surprised that he even let me in his car.



I slowly unbutton my shirt, my hands stiff and still shaking. I would gladly just pull it over my head, but I can't lift up my arms to get it off. When it is fully undone, I shrug it away and begin to work on my pants. House takes this as his cue to leave.



The lip of the tub seems awfully high, even though I've showered here many times before. I grip the handrail for dear life and lift one mutinous leg over the rim and then the other. God, I feel so weak and shaky that I'm afraid I'll fall and injure myself even more, so I slowly sink to a crouching position and let the water beat down on me.



Little chunks of hair (and head) slough off and I watch them circle the drain before slipping through. The vicodin has eased the pain a little, but my face still throbs in time with my pulse, and I keep my breathing shallow so as not to waken the beast that is residing in my ribs.



"Happy birthday, Jimmy," I say to the drowning head-chunks and wrap my arms around my knees and bury my face in the crook of an elbow. I'd cry again, but I'm just too fucking tired.



***

The parking lot is dark and cold. I'm so damn cold, but I lie still, straining to hear their footsteps echoing against the pavement. Have they left? Or are they just waiting for me to move, to get up, so they can finish me off? My heart pounds in my chest, and my throat is sore and dry.



What if they've gone to get a gun? Oh God! I'm going to die! I hear footsteps and I tense, keeping as still as possible. Don't breathe…don't breathe!



Then he grabs me.



"No!" I cry out, flailing my arms. "Get away! Get the fuck away from me!" My eyes are closed, because I'm too afraid to look, but I kick my feet and lash out with both fists. The grip on my shoulders tightens and the panic that had been bubbling up inside me unleashes into a full-blown volcano of terror.



"HELP!" I scream, "JESUS, PLEASE! LEAVE ME ALONE!"



Then he's shaking me and calling my name.



"Wilson."



I yelp and cover my injured face.



"Wilson," he says again, reassuringly.



I jerk awake and realize it's House. I'm not in the parking lot, I'm in the shower, and House is here, his brow furrowed with worry, the water dripping from his face onto his forearms. I watch the rivulets dribble down the creases in his cheek, then pause, suspended from the stubble, before breaking free and landing on the fabric of his shirt, already dark from the shower's spray.



God, vicodin is such a trip! How long have I been staring? How long have I been in the shower? The water is cold and I shudder as I realize this.



"Are you all right?"



I blink stupidly a few times before I'm able to form the word "cold." He nods and adjusts the taps until the temperature is comfortable again. Oddly enough, now I begin to shiver in earnest.



He uncaps the shampoo and pours a generous dollop into one hand. Then, without asking permission, he wipes it onto my head and begins to scrub. When I flinch, he makes an apologetic face and eases up on the pressure. I'm confused both by his actions and his demeanor. A few short hours ago he all but told me to get the hell out of his life, and now he's as gentle as a lover.



It occurs to me then that I'm naked, and I'm suddenly self-conscious. He's seen me in the nude before, of course. At the gym, before the infarction, in the showers at the hospital, hell, even taking a piss at the urinals, but he's never touched me before, like this, and despite the pain that I'm in, it feels good.



"Look at me," he says, and I debate whether to obey before I finally do. Instead of giving me one of those soul-searching stares that make me feel more naked that I already am, he looks at my injured eye. A bit of gentle prodding, then he takes the face cloth and wipes my face, scrubbing off the dried blood. Then along my hairline, around my ears, and across the back of my neck. He stops to pick up the soap, then works the sudsy cloth across my back and shoulders in broad circles.



It feels good. A little too good, and I shift, aware of my nakedness and the sensation pooling in my groin. To distract myself, and perhaps him as well, I ask the question that is eating at me:



"Why?"



He gives me a quizzical look, but I know he's feigning not understanding me.



"Because you smell like puke?"



"That's not what I meant."



He chuckles darkly to himself and I sigh. I'm too fucking tired to play games right now.



"What?" I ask, hoping my annoyance is coming through loud and clear.



"You're Jewish." He says, and I've obviously missed the punch line, because he chuckles again. I wait, knowing full well that he'll reveal himself when he's good and ready, and pushing him only causes his machinery to grind more slowly.



"Jesus," he says, chuckling again, and I think perhaps I've been hit on the head harder than I previously assumed. The vicodin probably isn't helping my mental state either, but I'm truly at a loss.



"Jesus?" I parrot, pondering the possibilities. "Is it his Birkenstocks that you find so funny, or the fact that my people killed him?"



"Crucified," he corrects, and I nod.



"Okay, crucified."



"Sandals are always funny, especially when worn with socks," he agrees, "but I mean that you called to him, just now."



"No, I didn't."



He smiles broadly, like he always does when he knows he's right and I can almost imagine that maybe today didn't happen. Maybe we didn't say all of those hurtful things to each other.



He stares at me again, until I'm uncomfortable, then hands me the soap.



"I'll let you take care of the rest," he says with a lingering nod to my privates, "there are some clean clothes on the toilet."



I nod and clutch the soap to my chest.



"House?"



He pauses, the shower still soaking his head.



"Thanks," I say, feeling like an idiot, and yet overwhelmingly grateful at the same time.



He says nothing, but gives me another nod. That's one of the things that I like about him. Sometimes he knows when to shut the hell up.



***