Can't You See It, 7/?
Sep. 30th, 2011 11:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
damigellaChapter 1 and warnings. Chapters 2, 3, 4 and 5, 6.
"What the fuck are you talking about, House?" He's still holding my hand, not letting go, however much I pull. "Is that even true or are you trying to fuck with my mind?"
"Calm down, Wilson. It's true, but I understand that my choice of what and when to tell you about myself might have been unfortunate in the past."
I take a deep breath. "You can say that loud."
He's not holding me tight anymore, but as he talks, his fingertips slide up and down the back of my hand. A touch as light as a feather, and yet it makes me shiver; I cannot find the force to pull my hand away, although I probably could.
"I came back because my lawyer let me know Cuddy had withdrawn her charges against me - thanks to you. Actually, the only person I missed... well, never mind. Unfortunately some of the crimes I was accused of were prosecutable even if no charge was filed, hence I still had to undergo a trial. I should have done time, what with my precedents and the attempted homicide, but my lawyer did a great job insisting it was the hospital's fault I was running around full of incapacitating drugs. I negotiated an agreement and they forced me to spend months in that cesspool in Lambertville, which was barely better than a prison. The only sense in which it was an improvement over Mayfield was the lack of group therapy, replaced by physical work."
House accepted to go into a prison-like rehab, and all I can think of is that he never told me, nor he asked for my help in the process. He's sitting near me, caressing my hand, and we're still so far apart.
"Did they make you work with that leg?"
There's a tiny laugh, or maybe he's coughing. "No, the other inmates did heavy physical work, I was given menial duties. Toilet cleaning, dishwashing, household chores. Boring but not as much as group therapy."
Humiliating, I think, my heart aching for him. And suddenly I realize that for a moment I've been totally concerned about him, as I used to be. When we were still friends. When I still cared.
"But then, why did you go to jail? And what would I have to do with it?"
"I left the facility before completing detox and without authorization when Thirteen called to say you had a car accident, and were probably dying. I realized then that I had made a mistake by not letting you know what I was up to. I had thought I would have time to see you once rehab was behind me, and suddenly it wasn't even clear whether you would be alive at dawn. It was the night between Friday and Saturday and no one able to sign me a permission sheet would be at work until Monday morning."
"They put you in jail for visiting a dying friend?" I feel stupid as I speak. The penal system doesn't respect even family ties, much less friendship. It's just... it's House, and it's me. As if this were enough to give us special rights.
"They had no choice, really. The best the judge could do was slow down the procedure so that I could be with you until you regained consciousness. After that Dr. Yu wrote a letter saying that she needed me for consults, and I got a reprieve. But then I had to do time, and after that complete my rehab. I got the minimum, since I kept my anklet on and there was proof I never left Princeton Plainsboro, plus I was having tox screens every day."
My head is spinning, in part by trying to make sense of what I heard and in part because now both of House's hands are touching mine, and the combined shivers from each arm make my whole upper body sway. When I finally speak again, I can't recognize my own voice. My need to look in House's eyes now is so strong I struggle not to whine.
"So, you went to prison because you chose to sit near me in the ICU after the accident? Even though I was unconscious?"
I try to say this was stupid, but House interrupts me.
"Yes. And you weren't always unconscious, although you have no memory of that time. You talked to me a lot, in fact."
I suddenly notice that his fingers are no longer just brushing the hair on the back of my hands; they have extended their soft touch all around, including the sensitive palm and fingertips, and are now carefully inspecting, on either hand, the skin folds between each finger and the next.
"I first thought you were conscious, then I slowly realized that while I was gone you must have taken the habit of speaking to me in your mind or possibly even aloud. I'm sure you can guess what you told me, even if you can't remember any of it."
I barely nod. My reddening cheeks and my ragged breathing are answer enough, and I feel unable to resist as House holds my wrists and pulls me closer. The next words are spoken very low and so close to my face that I can feel his breath on my nose.
"You asked me how I could have cut all contacts with you, how I could be blind to the fact that you had already suffered so much and now I was piling on the pain, so much so that the broken wrist became irrelevant in comparison."
I can feel his heartbeat against my ribcage. It's almost as fast as mine.
"You said you had decided to drive drunken and stoned hoping that the pain would stop. Added you must be in a Paradise you never believed in because you were suddenly with me and could see my face..."
House pulls ever so slightly back from me, as if he has suddenly noticed he's way too close. The sentence that made him silent spurns me to talk.
"I so wish I could really see you. I miss your face so much."
I shouldn't have said that, of course. But telling some of the truth gives me a minor relief, as a cool gasp of wind in the middle of a wildfire.
"You can. Let's do this now."
I haven't yet asked "how?" when I feel two warm hands bringing mine to a stubbly face.
"This is how you're supposed to look at me, right? Remember what Dr. Yu said."
I can't think anymore, and apparently it's no longer needed. My fingers, who seem to have developed an independent willpower, glide first around House's eyes, exploring wrinkles that I'm sure weren't there last time I saw him. Not so many, not so deep.
My right hand then proceeds through his hair, longer than I remember - House managed to avoid a crewcut in prison, it seems - and I can't stop the fingers of the left as they travel through a stunningly soft stubble to the lips. When my index finger glides between them and starts exploring their inner lining I realize I have gone too far; I pull back abruptly and sit on my hands to prevent any further interaction. I'm so angry at myself that I find my voice again. My usual, rational voice.
"House, we had agreed you would stay for dinner. Now dinner is over, and I want you to go away: I need rest. Please leave my cellphone behind and replace my landline phone on its shelf."
"As you want, Wilson. I'll just say goodbye now."
My ability to think fades away as strong arms pull me in a tight embrace. It's so good it's intoxicating, and I allow him to cuddle me for maybe a minute before I find the strength to push him back. I'm embarrassed and thrilled at the same time. My first instinct, though, is to make sure it won't happen again.
"There's no need to grope me like that, you know?"
"That's not what you said after the car crash."
I feel cold and hot at the same time, as his fingers interlace with mine, while one thumb starts exploring the inner side of my wrist, rubbing small circles whose purpose could be to measure my heart rate but whose effect is to send that rate well into dangerous territory. It's an incredibly intimate gesture, and my hands feel on fire - which probably speeds up my thinking, or at least veers it in the right direction, and I suddenly understand what House means.
Oh God no. No. This can't have happened. NO!
"You told me that what you felt for me became clear only when I was gone, that the pain and the longing got sharper every day I went missing, that you're sure it's the real thing. More than your wives, more than Amber."
I manage to talk. A very few words, and it's a titanic effort. "You...you knew. All these days in the hospital, you knew."
"Yes. I knew you loved me, because you told me so. I only feel pretty stupid for not knowing before."
"What the fuck are you talking about, House?" He's still holding my hand, not letting go, however much I pull. "Is that even true or are you trying to fuck with my mind?"
"Calm down, Wilson. It's true, but I understand that my choice of what and when to tell you about myself might have been unfortunate in the past."
I take a deep breath. "You can say that loud."
He's not holding me tight anymore, but as he talks, his fingertips slide up and down the back of my hand. A touch as light as a feather, and yet it makes me shiver; I cannot find the force to pull my hand away, although I probably could.
"I came back because my lawyer let me know Cuddy had withdrawn her charges against me - thanks to you. Actually, the only person I missed... well, never mind. Unfortunately some of the crimes I was accused of were prosecutable even if no charge was filed, hence I still had to undergo a trial. I should have done time, what with my precedents and the attempted homicide, but my lawyer did a great job insisting it was the hospital's fault I was running around full of incapacitating drugs. I negotiated an agreement and they forced me to spend months in that cesspool in Lambertville, which was barely better than a prison. The only sense in which it was an improvement over Mayfield was the lack of group therapy, replaced by physical work."
House accepted to go into a prison-like rehab, and all I can think of is that he never told me, nor he asked for my help in the process. He's sitting near me, caressing my hand, and we're still so far apart.
"Did they make you work with that leg?"
There's a tiny laugh, or maybe he's coughing. "No, the other inmates did heavy physical work, I was given menial duties. Toilet cleaning, dishwashing, household chores. Boring but not as much as group therapy."
Humiliating, I think, my heart aching for him. And suddenly I realize that for a moment I've been totally concerned about him, as I used to be. When we were still friends. When I still cared.
"But then, why did you go to jail? And what would I have to do with it?"
"I left the facility before completing detox and without authorization when Thirteen called to say you had a car accident, and were probably dying. I realized then that I had made a mistake by not letting you know what I was up to. I had thought I would have time to see you once rehab was behind me, and suddenly it wasn't even clear whether you would be alive at dawn. It was the night between Friday and Saturday and no one able to sign me a permission sheet would be at work until Monday morning."
"They put you in jail for visiting a dying friend?" I feel stupid as I speak. The penal system doesn't respect even family ties, much less friendship. It's just... it's House, and it's me. As if this were enough to give us special rights.
"They had no choice, really. The best the judge could do was slow down the procedure so that I could be with you until you regained consciousness. After that Dr. Yu wrote a letter saying that she needed me for consults, and I got a reprieve. But then I had to do time, and after that complete my rehab. I got the minimum, since I kept my anklet on and there was proof I never left Princeton Plainsboro, plus I was having tox screens every day."
My head is spinning, in part by trying to make sense of what I heard and in part because now both of House's hands are touching mine, and the combined shivers from each arm make my whole upper body sway. When I finally speak again, I can't recognize my own voice. My need to look in House's eyes now is so strong I struggle not to whine.
"So, you went to prison because you chose to sit near me in the ICU after the accident? Even though I was unconscious?"
I try to say this was stupid, but House interrupts me.
"Yes. And you weren't always unconscious, although you have no memory of that time. You talked to me a lot, in fact."
I suddenly notice that his fingers are no longer just brushing the hair on the back of my hands; they have extended their soft touch all around, including the sensitive palm and fingertips, and are now carefully inspecting, on either hand, the skin folds between each finger and the next.
"I first thought you were conscious, then I slowly realized that while I was gone you must have taken the habit of speaking to me in your mind or possibly even aloud. I'm sure you can guess what you told me, even if you can't remember any of it."
I barely nod. My reddening cheeks and my ragged breathing are answer enough, and I feel unable to resist as House holds my wrists and pulls me closer. The next words are spoken very low and so close to my face that I can feel his breath on my nose.
"You asked me how I could have cut all contacts with you, how I could be blind to the fact that you had already suffered so much and now I was piling on the pain, so much so that the broken wrist became irrelevant in comparison."
I can feel his heartbeat against my ribcage. It's almost as fast as mine.
"You said you had decided to drive drunken and stoned hoping that the pain would stop. Added you must be in a Paradise you never believed in because you were suddenly with me and could see my face..."
House pulls ever so slightly back from me, as if he has suddenly noticed he's way too close. The sentence that made him silent spurns me to talk.
"I so wish I could really see you. I miss your face so much."
I shouldn't have said that, of course. But telling some of the truth gives me a minor relief, as a cool gasp of wind in the middle of a wildfire.
"You can. Let's do this now."
I haven't yet asked "how?" when I feel two warm hands bringing mine to a stubbly face.
"This is how you're supposed to look at me, right? Remember what Dr. Yu said."
I can't think anymore, and apparently it's no longer needed. My fingers, who seem to have developed an independent willpower, glide first around House's eyes, exploring wrinkles that I'm sure weren't there last time I saw him. Not so many, not so deep.
My right hand then proceeds through his hair, longer than I remember - House managed to avoid a crewcut in prison, it seems - and I can't stop the fingers of the left as they travel through a stunningly soft stubble to the lips. When my index finger glides between them and starts exploring their inner lining I realize I have gone too far; I pull back abruptly and sit on my hands to prevent any further interaction. I'm so angry at myself that I find my voice again. My usual, rational voice.
"House, we had agreed you would stay for dinner. Now dinner is over, and I want you to go away: I need rest. Please leave my cellphone behind and replace my landline phone on its shelf."
"As you want, Wilson. I'll just say goodbye now."
My ability to think fades away as strong arms pull me in a tight embrace. It's so good it's intoxicating, and I allow him to cuddle me for maybe a minute before I find the strength to push him back. I'm embarrassed and thrilled at the same time. My first instinct, though, is to make sure it won't happen again.
"There's no need to grope me like that, you know?"
"That's not what you said after the car crash."
I feel cold and hot at the same time, as his fingers interlace with mine, while one thumb starts exploring the inner side of my wrist, rubbing small circles whose purpose could be to measure my heart rate but whose effect is to send that rate well into dangerous territory. It's an incredibly intimate gesture, and my hands feel on fire - which probably speeds up my thinking, or at least veers it in the right direction, and I suddenly understand what House means.
Oh God no. No. This can't have happened. NO!
"You told me that what you felt for me became clear only when I was gone, that the pain and the longing got sharper every day I went missing, that you're sure it's the real thing. More than your wives, more than Amber."
I manage to talk. A very few words, and it's a titanic effort. "You...you knew. All these days in the hospital, you knew."
"Yes. I knew you loved me, because you told me so. I only feel pretty stupid for not knowing before."
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