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WIP: stabbed!Wilson, Part 13
When he arrived at his apartment, however, House had to realize that drinking himself into oblivion was not an option tonight. Standing in front of the cupboard where he kept his booze, still clad in his motorcycle jacket and holding the cane and the helmet in his left hand, he stared at the empty shelf where he had been so sure he would find an at least half-full bottle of cheap whiskey, suddenly feeling as if the world had ground to a halt. It had been slowing down ever since yesterday night, and now the big wheel had gotten stuck completely and House couldn't to anything but stand there and stare.
Thinking about it, he knew where that bottle had ended up. No more than a week ago, he'd had a bad day, the pain in his leg clawing at his nerves persistently and refusing to be neither appeased nor ignored. He'd finally decided that if he was going to have a crappy day, he might as well have a drunken crappy day. It hadn't come to that, though. The cap of the bottle hadn't been screwed on properly, and when he'd taken it from the shelf, it had slipped through his fingers and shattered on the floor.
House clearly remembered Wilson complaining about the smell when he'd stopped by a few days later. If he concentrated on it, House thought he could still detect a faint whiff of cheap booze where he was standing.
He had no idea what to do next. Ever since he'd left the police station, his only thoughts had been to get home, to get drunk and to let everything disappear underneath a layer of alcohol-induced haziness. Now that this was out of the question, his mind somehow failed to come up with an alternate course of action.
He might have remained standing there for hours if the phone hadn't started to ring. Like this, the sudden shrill sound made him jump and almost lose his balance. He steadied himself on the shelf in front of him and turned around. For a brief moment, House considered simply letting it ring; he didn't want to know, really did not want to know what the person on the other end had to tell him. Then he let go of the shelf and quickly limped across the room to pick up.
"Yes?" he asked, almost flinching at how loud his own voice seemed to be in the stillness of the empty apartment.
"Greg? Is that you?"
House blinked in confusion, and it took him a moment to realize who he was talking to. He had been so sure to hear Cuddy at the other end of the line that his brain failed to recognize the voice of his mother right away.
"Oh," he said finally and put down the helmet and the cane on the coffee table so he could sit down on the couch. "Hey, mom."
"Greg, are you alright?"
House could hear the concerned frown in her motherly tone and leaned back with a sigh, closing his eyes. "Yes, mom, I'm fine. I was... expecting someone else."
He wasn't sure whether he should be annoyed or relieved that she had chosen this moment to call. A part of him wanted to simply curl up on the couch and tell her about everything that had happened and about how fucking scared he was, scared that Wilson wouldn't make it and scared of what would come afterwards, and angry that there was nothing at all that he could do. Usually, it was pretty easy for him to ignore such urges, but tonight, the compulsion to talk was very strong.
"I called your home because I couldn't reach you at the office," his mother said, and the change of topic helped House to swallow whatever confession had been building up in his throat. "I just wanted to remind you that it's your father's birthday in a few days. Don't forget to call, Greg, okay?"
With an inaudible sigh, House let his head fall back against the headrest of the couch. Right. It was that time of the year again. Every year in late September his mom called to tell him that he shouldn't forget calling on the thirtieth. Your father would love that. He'd be happy if he could talk to you for a bit. Blah blah blah.
All of a sudden, all that House wanted at the moment was to get off the phone. His fingers were itching to simply hit the disconnect button. He licked his lips. "Okay, mom," he said. "I won't forget. But I gotta go now. Talk to you some other time."
He took the phone from his ear, but he wasn't quick enough not to hear his mother's voice asking again whether he was sure he was okay. He cut her off in mid-sentence, the open-line tone replacing Blythe House's concerned questions.
House stared at the phone in his hand and felt a surge of anger building up in his chest. He didn't try to quell it but let it rise, and his fingers clutched the phone even tighter before he raised his hand and flung the receiver across the room.
It hit the wall with the ugly sound of plastic breaking, and as the phone hit the floor, the batteries spilled out and rolled underneath one of the bookshelves. House stayed where he was for a few moments, staring at the remains of the phone and thinking that this had been a really stupid thing to do, because now Cuddy wouldn't be able to reach him right away and would have to try his cell phone. He shifted a little and dug his cell from his pants pockets, checking the accu. It was still half-charged. He nodded to himself, and then he simply sat there for a while, staring at the small phone in his hand.
He realized that this was exactly like the day he had been released from the hospital after the infarction. He'd sat on the couch then, too - different couch then - and had stared at the phone, hoping, almost waiting for someone to call and tell him it had all been a joke and had he really thought this was actually happening? Silly him.
No one had called then, though, and of course, no one would call today. Jokes and April Fools were reserved for, well, April. House pocketed the cell phone and slowly got to his feet. He'd get himself some pills from the bathroom and then he'd go to bed and try to get some sleep, as Cuddy had told him to. If he managed to rid his brain of the image of himself sitting on a chair in the basement vegetative state guys room, having lunch and watching hospital soaps with Wilson lying in the hospital bed next to him, all still and quiet, he would maybe even be able to get some rest. And when he woke up, this thing would be over, one way or the other. House found that by now, that thought brought with it little else than a giant wave of relief.
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I hope my next update won't be that long. Jeez, two weeks! That's like eternity on the intarwebs! :P
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I think the characterisation in this chapter is very good. I can totally see him thinking/doing what he does.
I've spotted one typo so far: his only thought had has to be 'thoughts' (plural). :-)
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I've spotted one typo
Uh, I don't think it has to be plural, does it? His only thought had been to get home. One thought only. No?
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Either way, I'm glad he didn't drink himself into a stupor. This story is hurting House as much as Wilson! *is impressed* Or it's hurting him more--at least Wilson is unconscious? (Though if anyone can feel guilt while unconscious, it'd be Wilson.)
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