Hangman

PART NINE

Chase spends the day trembling and trying not to eat so he can savour the taste of House. He thinks maybe it’s a game the other man is playing, and attempts to forget it, until he opens the door that evening to a desperate kiss from Wilson. The older man’s tongue is darting around his mouth, his hand gripping Chase’s hair. Chase knows he should enjoy this, but he wanted to keep House’s flavour, House’s taste. Wilson lets his hand drift to Chase’s hips and pulls him closer, grinding his growing hardness into Chase’s.
“Why are you doing this?” gasps Chase into Wilson’s mouth as the other man runs his fingers through Chase’s hair the same way House did earlier. “Is this just some game you and House are playing?”
At the mention of the other doctor Wilson freezes and swiftly steps away from Chase.
“House was *here*?”
Chase rubs a hand across his swollen lips.
“Yeah, he came around earlier.”
Wilson isn’t really focusing on Chase; he’s staring hard at the ground.
“And I take it you and he…”
“No.” Chase steps forward and puts a hand on Wilson’s arm. “It didn’t get that far.”
Wilson is shaking slightly and he can’t meet Chase’s eyes. He bites one of his lips slightly.
“This was a stupid idea. I’m sorry Chase. I have to go.”
He starts to turn away. This is the second time this has happened today, one of the older doctors coming to Chase, arousing him completely and then refusing to follow through. And he isn’t having it.
“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on.” Chase snarls, with backbone that surprises even him, refusing to let go of Wilson’s arm.
Wilson is still refusing to meet Chase’s eyes.
“Last night, I- I got very drunk. House found me and…” Wilson swallows, before whispering, “House raped me.”
Chase can see a small tear fall down Wilson’s face. At that point, Chase hates him.
“Get out.” Chase says, pushing Wilson towards the door.
“What?” Wilson looks up, surprise and hurt on his face, “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“I said GET OUT!” Chase pushes Wilson out of the open door and shuts it with a slam in Wilson’s pained face.
Chase ends up on his knees in his hallway, breathing hard and unable to think. House raped me. He doesn’t want to believe that House could do something like that, although he knows that a few of the times House has fucked him, the consent was a little dubious. No, the thing that hurts the most and has him curling up into a small ball of helpless misery on the floor is that House did it to *Wilson*. And that’s why House came over this morning and *that’s* why Wilson’s here now and *that’s* why the two men are so angry with each other. Chase can’t cope with the fact that he never meant anything to either man- they were just using him to get at each other. Chase starts to cry. He hates House, hates Wilson, and hates *himself* for being so pathetic and weak and letting himself be used. He clambers to his feet, tears still streaking down his face, and heads towards the kitchen, intent on drinking himself into a painful slumber.
*
Wilson sits on the stairs of Chase’s apartment block with his head in his trembling hands. He can’t cry because he’s cried out everything he has over the past couple of days, and this morning before work he cried helplessly as he showered his sore body until his face was wet and aching and he thought he would be sick. Right now he just feels completely empty, because he’s lost House and he’s lost Chase and he’s lost Julie. Wilson sits alone, huddled against the wall, and presses his cold fingers against his face, and loses track of time.
*
Chase decides that maybe mixing himself cocktails with all the different drinks in his house is a good idea. He’s already drunk several shots and his feet just don’t seem to want to move properly. He pours vodka, brandy, whisky, tequila and even some sort of foreign gin into a blender, adds a few ice cubes and presses the switch down. He forgets to put the lid on and the room is covered in a coating of alcohol. Chase crumples to the floor, weak with hysterical laughter. He sucks some of the liquid off a strand of his hair, trying to salvage some of the precious drink. He’s laughing and crying as he attempts to lick it from the floor. He’s laughing so hard it hurts as he drains the final few drops from the jug. He gives up laughing when he slips on the floor and lands in a heap. His head bangs on the floor and for several minutes he lies there crying into the puddles of alcohol.
*
Rain pours down outside of the Corvette, rolling down the paintwork and making it look even more red under the streetlamp. House sits in the car, eyes glassy, toying with the lid of his Vicodin pill bottle, unable to remember how many he’s taken. Not enough to cause an overdose, but enough to take the edge of hurt off his emotions. Now, he’s just angry. Angry at Wilson for being pathetic and screaming rape (especially because some little part of House thinks he might be right), angry with Chase for just *letting* him in and not even being strong enough to ask what the hell he was doing, and angry with himself for being… well, him. House feels like he’s hit rock bottom. He’s lost his best friend, his lover and any self-respect he once had for himself. He bangs his head against the steering wheel and watches his pills tumble all over the floor of the car.
He sits and watches the building where Chase lives, keeping it under constant surveillance because he can’t bring himself to go home right now. He watches Wilson walk in and not come out again. A couple of hours later, he watches the lights in Chase’s apartment click off.
And even though he’s probably too high to do so, he drives away.
*
Wilson is still sitting on the stairs of Chase’s apartment. He pulls his knees up to his chest and tries to ignore the bitter feeling of rejection in his chest. Eventually, he falls asleep.
*
The next morning at work House is still slightly high. Cuddy comes to find him and asks if he’s seen Wilson recently, because he hasn’t come in today.
“You know James,” House says with a manic cheerfulness he doesn’t feel. “He probably over-indulged last night and is hung over.
Over-indulged with Chase he thinks bitterly, and he once again sees Wilson groping Chase in his head, a movie that’s never really stopped playing.
“I have to go.” He tells Cuddy, as in his imagination Chase tilts his head back and Wilson bites at his neck. “I have sick people to go see.”
*
House is sitting in the clinic trying to ignore the woman sitting in front of him. She’s wittering on about scabies and leprosy when all she really has is eczema. House flips the lid of his Vicodin pot, tipping two of the tablets into the palm of his hand. House closes his eyes and rests his head back against the wall behind him. In his mind he can see Wilson kissing Chase, holding Chase, *loving* Chase. He sees himself in the door, can feel anger in his veins and he’s shouting:
“You WHORE! You fucking whore!”
House isn’t really sure when he stood up, but the woman in front of him has a look of fear on her face. His fist is clenching the stick in his hand, and to his horror he can feel his eyes beginning to water.
“Get out.” He says to the woman. “Get out!” She flees from the room, one hand over her mouth, her other clutching her coat around her.
House sits back down and tries to control himself.
“Oh Jimmy,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
He buries his face in his hands, his cane resting between his knees. House doesn’t want to cry, but he can’t help it. The tears are bitter on his cheeks, the sobs choking his throat. House hugs his stick to his chest. It’s the only thing he has left now.
*
Foreman is beginning to feel as though all his prayers have been answered. House is nowhere to be found. Chase is no longer at work. And Cameron, moping because the two main men in her life aren’t *here*, has gone somewhere far, far away from him, probably crying in the lab or over-examining some patient a couple of floors away. Right now, everything is perfect. Foreman sips at a coffee and fills in the crossword that Chase would be filling in, were he not having a nervous breakdown or whatever.
He is so not prepared for Wilson to stumble into the office looking helpless, asking Foreman desperately “Where *is* he?”
Foreman puts his coffee down on the table, the familiar frown creasing his brow.
“Where is who?” he asks, putting the cap back on the pen. Wilson is breathing heavily, his face flushed. Foreman can’t help but wonder if he’s run up the flights of stairs. He smirks as Doctor Wilson’s hair falls into his eyes, and he tries to brush it away with one of his shaking hands.
“Foreman!” Wilson storms over to him and grabs the lapels of Foreman’s lab coat. “Where is he?!”
“Let go of me.” Foreman says calmly, with that unflappable cool that no one but House can shift radiating from him. Wilson looks at him with madness in his eyes, floppy, messy hair falling all over his face.
Almost as though realising that he’s acting like a lunatic, Wilson lets go of Foreman and sinks into one of the chairs, picks up the coffee mug and starts drinking from it.
“I need to speak to him.” He whispers, more to the cup than Foreman.
“Look if you’re looking for Chase, he’s at home, and if you’re looking for House, he’s in the clinic-”
“He’s not.” Replies Wilson. “He’s gone.”
As if that simple statement has called out to the universe, Cuddy comes in, also glaring at Foreman.
“Where the hell is House?” she snarls. “Does no one do any work around here?”
Wilson goes back to staring into the hot brown liquid, his face one of broken despair. Foreman sighs and glances up at Cuddy.
“He’s gone home apparently. He must have felt sick.”
Cuddy snarls:
“Of course he’s sick! He’s House! That shouldn’t stop him working. What with Chase gone and now-” She catches sight of Wilson. “What are you doing up here?”
Wilson slowly looks up at her.
“I was looking for House.” He says miserably.
“Oh for the love of-” Cuddy storms out of the room, determined to get that crippled son-of-a-bitch back to work. She tries to ignore the nagging worry in her mind and focus on her anger.
Apart from when he was getting over his leg, House is never sick. It’s not his style. House skives off clinic duty, he doesn’t stay at home. Cuddy frowns as she dials House’s number into the phone. She listens to the dialling tone impatiently, tapping her foot on the floor, her hand on her hip.
“Come on House.” She murmurs, her heart beating hard. “Come on Greg.”
*
House is drunk. He doesn’t usually drink, but he’s cleaned out his cupboards.
“I’m doing a Chase!” he slurs to the empty room, a bottle of Scotch in his hand. “But I’m House.” He says, placing the other hand on his chest. “Greg House.” He smiles to the empty room, bowing his head as if to applause. “Greg House.” He sighs, taking a drink from the bottle. “Greg fucking House.” He wipes a hand across his eyes, his lips trembling as he feels the first few tears fall.
House is sitting on his piano stool, his stick resting beside him, his eyes watering. He can feel the sharp pain in his leg, but he ignores it. House isn’t interested in being House for once. He wants to be, he wants to be…
“I don’t know.” House moans into the bottle, “I don’t know.” He picks up his stick and stumbles to the mirror. “Hello there,” he says, a grin streaking across his face, making him look manic. “How are you doing? Me?” House replies to the reflection. “Oh I’m just dandy!” He watches himself take another swig of the bitter liquid. “How about you?”
The reflection shrugs. “I’m swell. A bit drunk I guess.” The person in the mirror winks at House. “A bit fucked up.” House stops smiling at himself. “A bit? You’re more fucked than, than…” House’s drunk brain struggles to think of an answer. “You’re just fucked.” He whispers. To the left of him, House’s phone starts to ring. “Oh, piss it.”
*
A patient starts to flatline and almost no one notices. Half the hospital seems to be hanging around innocently outside Cuddy’s office. The blinds are closed but everyone is speculating about what’s going on inside. It’s been an interesting morning.
Wilson was the first to go in, white and shaking and bruised. Chase arrived maybe half an hour later, after being called by Cuddy. He looked pale and sick and his hair was wet with what seemed to be alcohol. And House was dragged in maybe an hour after that, apparently pissed out of his brain.
Right now, Cuddy is shouting at them, although no one can hear what she’s saying; it’s too muffled by the glass. Cameron and Foreman exchange glances and then turn back to look at the door.