snowblindrpg | [log] Don't Try to Save Me [closed]

Just as well. I do Spanish better than Italian. [House keeps working away at the bed frame as he carries on the conversation across the house.]

Donner Party must've had some connections... if he could check whether you were on a flight to come visit him.

[That conversation feels like it was months ago, but the clue still holds in House's mind.]

I have passable French, but no Spanish. [ What a mundane topic of conversation, but Will was okay with it for the time being.

His inspection of the room only held his attention for a brief period, before he found himself coming back to the doorway of the bedroom. This time, without a butcher's knife in his hand. ]

The Ripper could be very charming, when he put his mind to it, and like most successful psychopaths he was an expert at manipulating people into doing what he desired of them.

Besides, we both knew, I'd be coming to visit. I went to kill him and he was laying in wait to kill me.

[ There was a brief pause and then, in the same conversational tone. ]

Do you want help with that?

[Will's voice draws closer as he speaks and the hairs on House's neck rise. He glances over when the other man stands in the doorway, but the absence of the knife settles his nerves marginally.]

Sounds like you two were made for each other. You're not bad at manipulation, yourself. It was fun watching you piss some people off, though. Not bad at that, either.

Not really looking to speed up the process here.

[He pulls off one of the major rails for the frame and the whole thing collapses with a crash, upsetting House's orderly pieces already on the floor. He lays the rail out parallel to the wall and starts fixing everything else.]

Edited 2017-10-24 18:57 (UTC)

I suppose not. [ Will remarked, addressing the other man's statements out of order. Hands in his pockets, he walked into the room moving towards the corner where the stag had stood earlier. There wasn't anything to sit on so he tucked himself into the corner and leaned back against the cold walls.

He didn't mind the ice at his back, it felt real. ]

Better to toil at futility on your own. Makes a better horsehair shirt that way. [ His words weren't spiteful or even superior, just soft and matter of fact. Will even moved to deflect from them but voluntarily turning the lens back on himself.

After all, Hannibal was dead. What was the point to playing out a story any longer? ]

There was a time I would have taken a swing at you for such a suggestion. But seems ungraceful to punish someone for being smart about it.

So many of the men and women around us purposefully kept their blinders on, wanting only to see what fit their view of each of us; the Ripper and myself. They're the ones who usually got caught in the middle.

[ He does sound genuinely regretful about that.

Then there was a chuckle and the wry tone was back. ]

It's not that difficult. Everybody in this place is a raw nerve, waiting to be pressed. All you have to do is listen and it all comes spilling out, like pus from a lanced wound.

Edited 2017-10-24 19:32 (UTC)

[House shifts subtly so that he doesn't have his back fully to Will. It's a small thing, but one that's not likely to be missed. He'll play it off as being an easier speaking position if he needs to.]

Medical metaphors. For me, Graham Cracker? You really shouldn't.

[It's interesting how much more casual Will is about revealing things off the network. Or maybe that's just the whole being alone for months thing. One of those questions he hadn't answered... 'alone for a year or constantly in people's company for a year.' House knows what he'd choose if he had a choice, but Wilson had always been of the opinion that he needs people. Maybe just to keep him human.

Not that Sherlock Holmes particularly helps his humanity.

He's not sure Will Graham will, either.]

Anyway, you wouldn't be the first person to take a swing at me here. Won't be the last. Just leave off the knife when you do it. Dying outside the plan's more of an inconvenience than anything, but I don't like to be inconvenienced.

I'm sure you don't, either. [He's shifting his lines of nuts, bolts, and screws to one side to make room for other pieces.] And people getting in the way when you're just trying to murder a guy are incredibly inconvenient. I imagine, anyway.

[ This really was absolutely the worst introduction anyone could have asked for. Just two days earlier, Will would have been a lot more domesticated, would have reflected more of his tablet personality.

Now his already unstable mind was being messed with, he was suffering the nightmare images of Hannibal dead, ever part of the nightmare as real to his imagination as the dreams where he'd been drowning. They left him waking up feeling even more devoid of anything left to lose than usual.

And his self-destructive streak when normal was already pretty high.

So when House discreetly shifted himself so that Will wasn't at his back, the younger man smirked. He saw the move for what it was and a quick jerk of his eyebrow suggested that he approved of House' choice. Will wouldn't turn his back on himself either. ]

What do you expect people to do when you so expertly bait them, House? [ He asked, still lounging in the shadow of the corner. ] You'd be disappointed if they didn't take a swipe; just means more self-flagellation work for you later.

[ He watched the near compulsive manner in which House laid out the pieces, it made his lips twitch. ]

If you're so slopping in your murder habits to allow yourself to be inconvenienced, you deserve the trouble.

Is that how you practice medicine? Every little nut and bolt in it's place on the tray beside the body?

[House is going to ignore the mention of self-flagellation for the moment. His own self-destructive impulses aren't exactly hidden, certainly not from people who have been here for any length of time.]

Some would say you just deserve to be inconvenienced for murder, full stop. A former FBI profiler, you'd hope would say that.

I already told you I don't do surgery, though. [He holds up a hand and waggles his long, thin, pianist's fingers.] Nothing small. [But he's perfectly capable of it when he needs to be, small delicate work.] And we try not to take the nuts and bolts out or put anything in, if we don't need to. That's the difference between our jobs. Figuring out the cause of death because they died is cheating in my line of work.

It's considered morbid to the point of disturbing if we try to figure out the cause of death before they die. [ Will pointed out, eyebrows lifting in an innocent puppy expression, despite the macabre tone of the conversation.

He moved out of his corner and began to pace along the wall, keeping the bedframe between himself and House. ]

Doctor. FBI profiler, retired or not. None of it really matters does it. This place is like death, the great equalizer. Keep us all here long enough and none of us have anything to go back to; even if we survive.

You'd probably stop more murders by being morbid. And hey, nothing wrong with a little morbid humor.

[House returns with a small shrug. He watches Will pace for a moment as the other man's words wash over him. One thing, in particular, makes the doctor's brow furrow. A light flickers in his mind, the start of a realization.]

Been dreaming of trouble on the homefront?

Except the US Attorney General tends to label that entrapment. Who knew? [ The way he says it might suggest that he has a little more experience with this situation than just having read about it through an interoffice memo of 'things not to do'.

At the question, Will reached up with both hands and scrubbed them over his face. With his eyes closed, all the images from his nightmares surged forward and for a couple of breaths, he tasted the coppery tang of too much blood.

He teetered, on the edge of tumbling towards the dark lure of nightmare and the last moments of his friend's life. It took more effort than he was comfortable admitting, in order to bring himself back to the room, with House.

Will's hands fell away, dropping to scrub anxiously at the fabric of his slacks. ]

Doubt anyone else would call it trouble. More like, cause to rejoice; break out the party hats and streamers.

[ His pacing paused once more and he gave his face a single handed brush over, before he continued. Because he understood the question House was asking. ]

It's like an anxiety dream. Where you know what you have to do, but you come up short of the mark and everything falls apart.

Like being gone caused it all to go to hell.

[House closes his own eyes for a moment and rubs a thumb over his brow. He knows it's dangerous to show any kind of vulnerability to this man. Will is the kind of person House avoids purposefully so he doesn't have to be quite so on all the time, can just let himself fade out in...]

But the world keeps spinning--kept spinning--without you there. Even while the bodies piled up.

[He fishes a bottle from his pocket and pops the top so that he can shake one pill out and dry-swallow it. That's his only dose for tonight. God, he hates this. He should have been done with detox months ago.]

[ It is a risk, and even Will can't be sure which way he'll go; help the bird or crush it. For the most part, his heart still leans towards help, particular the birds who do not deserve to be crushed.

House was many levels of an asshole, a rude asshole at that, but the man's bite was defensive in design and even Will could see that. He read and studied the doctor's actions rather than allowed himself to be riled by his words.

His hands came down and went back into his pockets, a deceptively relaxed position, even as he paced. Will watched the dry swallow of the pill, as he took a moment to flick the lens around. Because in truth on his end, Hannibal's capture and death meant less bodies, but he realized quickly that despite the use of 'you', House was looking inwards. ]

How many bodies? [ He asked, his voice soft, a whisper from the shadows. ] I've been here for what feels like years now, so you're even longer. How many bodies does that equate too?

I have an extremely... specialized practice. [The road of last resort.] Depending on how interesting the cases are, I have anywhere from two to four new patients a month. I'd say 70% of them leave through the front door. So that's 17 to 34-ish extra a year.

[The furrow at his brow deepens as he returns to rearranging.] My team isn't complete morons. So, maybe 20... 25% success on their own.

It's less the bodies that bother me and more that the evidence is there and no one will see it. It's always there. You just have to look for it, listen... smell. Tasting's suspect. Dry vomit's pretty gross, but it tells you a lot about what someone's been eating. [He offers Will a wry smirk and shrug before returning to his work.]

It doesn't really matter what happens in dreams, though, just reality. Can you still tell what's real?

Edited 2017-10-25 00:38 (UTC)

What is it with you doctors and your desire to smell everything. [ Will groused, though he was listening to what House was saying ... maybe not too closely to the idea of tasting someone else' dry vomit because; gross.

As for the question, Will shrugged. ]

My reality gauge has been suspect for a very long time. I've learned to ... compensate. [ He paused and turned. ]

For instance, you're real because none of my hallucinations ever sing at me.

Boring hallucinations.

[Probably not, but he's being flip for the sake of it now.]

Scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. It helps the process.

[And really, he's diagnosed more than a few things thanks to smell.]

My process, anyway. What exactly is your process? You said you saw the past, more-or-less and step into the killer's shoes. [He can't help being a network stalker, really.] How's that work exactly? Just close your eyes and go into your head?

[ Will glanced over and offered House a small smirk as he read the flip in his tone. He let it go, figuring it wasn't really bait from the other man. ]

It's invasive and more than a little creepy. [ He groused. As someone who has been sniffed ... often, he feels he can say this.

Ah there it was, the more subtle bait laying a hook that looked so innocent. Will eyed it pensively, swam lazily around it's temptation and considered swimming away. But what was the point anymore?

After a moment he shrugged and walked over to the side of the bed. Sinking down on his knees, he reached out and picked up a bolt, rolling it around in his fingers. ]

Depends upon who you ask. [ He said after a moment. ] Jack always said I made unique intuitive leaps, to which I always told him that the evidence made the leaps, he just had to be willing to see it.

The Ripper diagnosed that I had an overabundance of neurons we have in childhood, meant to encourage our associations. Which I think was just a ninety-nine cent way of saying I had an overactive imagination.

[ Will looked down at the bolt in his hand and then reached to set it back in place, careful to make sure it lined up perfectly. ]

The reality is somewhere in between those two extremes. I walk onto a crime scene, take in all the evidence and then my imagination allows me to recreate the scene in my head. Then I take the evidence of what was done to the body and I allow myself to recreate doing it, in my head.

All the sounds, the tastes, the scents ... the feel [ He looked down at his hands, flexing long fingers. ] the beauty of it, as perceived by the killer's mind. What he was thinking, in that moment, what he felt, believed, ached to produce.

[ He looked up and had to blink a couple of times and even then, suddenly the room was filled with them. Hobbs, Budge, Wells, Gideon, Tier, Brown, the unnamed man, Dolaryhyde. They circled them, Dolarhyde crouching down beside House and watching him curiously, his tail lashing slowly; Francis always had been a curious creature.

Wells stood off against a wall, looking achey with the cold, disgruntled. Gideon stood over House, imperious but also a little inquisitive. Budge was already circling the room, like a trapped shark. Tier was crouched by the door, scratching the frame with a long claw, Hobbs ... Hobbs sat next to Will, smiling at him knowingly, Brown on his other side, looking adoring.

Will cleared his throat and reached up to rub at his eye. ]

Like I told you, months ago. You let people like that into your head, they never neaten up before the leave. Always a dirty sock or that mildew laden toothbrush left behind. Can't get rid of those smells.

[House watches Will, watches his eyes move around the room.]

Do I need to start singing to you again, Graham Cracker?

[And what he wouldn't give to have a few scans of Will's brain, go over it with Foreman to see what there is to see in Will Graham's head that makes him unique. Or Sylar here, he supposes. Strange would be his first choice, but House and the neurosurgeon aren't on the best of terms. Not to mention, Sylar tends to appreciate the base need to know more than most people House has met here.

He doesn't let Will answer, though, as he carries on.]

It does sound interesting. Diseases are something like murderers, I guess. Victims are the symptoms they present with. The more victims we find, the closer we get to catching them. And once we know the pattern, we can break it with the right set-up. Usually. [And if not, then he can at least tell people what's killing them so they have whatever closure that offers.]

Do you get satisfaction from what you do?

[Not 'do you enjoy it?' because that's just going to invite a scoff. But enjoyment isn't necessary. Not all the time. Not even most of the time. Satisfaction is what keeps House coming back.]

[ He appreciated the wry offer and showed this with a genuine little smile, even as he shook his head. He had a handle on his hallucinations, knew where the real man sat amongst the shades and none of the killers in his head were a threat to House.

The doctor further secured this by raising an interesting parallel between what he did and what Will did. The ex-profiler looked up and gave House his sincere attention, obviously considering the similarities.

At the question, perhaps strangely enough he nodded without hesitation. ]

I saved lives. [ He said, the words were matter of fact. There wasn't a self-pitying question in the tone, or a narcissistic arrogance, it was merely a statement of fact. Will knew his scales were not as clean as most law enforcement agents, but he also had enough self awareness to know that he had ... saved lives. ]

I could have quit, just as I imagine you were often given the opportunity to quit. Walk away from it all for the sake of self-preservation. Go somewhere with a beach, free flowing rum and a questionable dress code? [ He grinned at that last, figuring it would fit House' sense of humor.

But then he sobered. ]

But what I did, I couldn't ever teach it to anyone else. I could give them the insights and the process but they'd never have the right tools. There was no one else who could, whole, do what I could do broken.

[ Will leaned back on his hands, his eyes now focused on House and actually watching his face, rather than darting around. ]

I think you know exactly what I mean.

[House agrees with a slight incline of his head.

There are days when he has fun with his job. As much as he complains about people and would generally prefer to keep his own company, there are days when things go right, when they solve a difficult case and it gets Cuddy off his back for a little while.

But mostly he goes to work in pain, he uses the puzzles as a distraction to the pain, the boredom, the noise inside his head that never stops, just gets quieter sometimes. And at the end of the day, he goes home to sleep in pain. Lucky him and all the wonderful healing here. Now the pain's just psychosomatic.

And the noise still doesn't stop. It's just supplemented by the occasional scream.]

Luckily, I don't have a Donner Party screwing around with me. Just my admin when the big donors turn the screws on her. My department does rare and unusual. Noooot a lot of money in that.

[In fact, they're one of the few departments consistently in the red.]

When did you first realize you had your 'overactive imagination'?

Edited 2017-10-25 02:39 (UTC)

[ The BAU was also pretty deep in the red. Though they delivered results, by the time they were called in the wrongful death suits were already stacking up and people weren't too keen on the idea of psychological action. They wanted to see physical results.

Will did give a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement to the effect Hannibal had on his psyche; there was no denying that.

But his lips twitched as House grumbled about the red tape of upper management politics. ]

Jack had his fair share of big dogs who liked to turn the screws on him for results. When I'm feeling charitable, I like to think that's why he broke so many of us in his effort to get results to appease the top brass.

[ Will tilted his head to the side, then lifted a hand and made a setting aside motion. He wasn't ignoring House' question -like he'd done with Watson- but rather just setting it aside for now. ]

What was your most rare and unusual case?

[House likes talking about his cases, so it's not actually as much of an irritation as it might be, having Will table his question. He finishes putting the last piece of the bedframe into line on the ground before sitting back on his heels and looking up at the other man to give him his full attention.]

The teen supermodel with testicular cancer was pretty interesting. Presentation-wise, not disease. You don't usually see that sort of thing on a babe with a figure like young Carmen Electra.

[He considers for a moment more before smirking.]

How about one where I crossed over into your lane? Heavy metal poisoning with gold dust.

Heavy metal poisoning with gold dust? I like the sound of that. [ Will said, shifting in his spot and finally settling on the floor. ]

I've got one that crosses over into your lane to offer in trade. Killer who put victims into a diabetic coma, then buried them and grew mushrooms off their bodies.

[ Who let these two men into the same building? ]

[That's horrifying. It's also clever and sounds incredibly fascinating. House's gaze all but sparkles with interest.]

Sounds like a great way to make bank with as much as truffles cost these days. [He considers a moment longer.] Or were they magic mushrooms. Free your mind and connect to reality and everyone else on a whole different level.

[He raises his hands and wiggles his fingers at Will for good measure.]

Patient initially presented with a swollen tongue following strenuous physical exertion. I.e., a sex romp. All over the house, I was told. We got a very thorough history on that one. We ruled out allergies and panic attack pretty quickly. My neurologist said neck trauma from the romp. I had a hunch about the lungs, though, and had my immunologist check those. There was scarring. Waited a couple of hours and the guy started developing a rash. That's when I started thinking heavy metal. It explained both symptoms. Problem was... he wasn't testing positive for the usual suspects and he had a clean environmental history.

[ Will's lips twitched and he shook his head. ]

Nothing so practical. [ He said, almost ruefully. ] Opisthokontum, the belief that animals and fungi can be brought together into a super kingdom. He believed it was a way to bring us all together, as a collective mind. [ Sometimes the pretension of his monsters left even Will wondering WTF. ]

So you're thinking heavy metal and testing for the usual suspects. How did you get on the trail of gold?

Well, he sounds like a sentimental moron. [Much less cool. Still an interesting method.]

My patient and his wife were sentimental morons. Or so they said. High school sweethearts. Touching. [He rolls his eyes.] Different case, different patient gave me the idea the wife was involved in the first place. Guy came in with herpes, said he'd only ever slept with his wife. So I gave him a script to help with the symptoms, then one for her... then one for their daughter's karate teacher. Wife comes in to bitch. It's a whole thing, and I end up getting the idea that maybe the wife gave her husband herpes while she was getting a little something-something. He's the one who comes in complaining, she's kept quiet about hers until then. Voila! Reasonable doubt for the blame game. Wives can be assholes like that. Even the loving ones.

It wasn't just that, though. My team kept coming back to some kind of allergy based on the symptoms they were choosing to look at, but the guy wasn't improving. That says it wasn't an allergy or environmental. Wifey hadn't left hubby's side since he'd come in except to use the john. I had my immunologist search the wife. I knew she was putting... something on his food. Unfortunately, they decided to leave out wifey's genitals when searching her, so that turned out to be a bust.

And so we come back to herpes guy and his wife. We got around to the fact that he was cheating on her, and she pulled off her ring and threw it on my admin's desk. Diamonds might be forever, but gold? Gold is the symbolism we use to tie the knot.

I told my immunologist to check the wife's medical record, look for a history of arthritis. Bingo. Gold sodium thiomalate, arthritis treatment rarely used in the U.S. We sorta doubled it down when I had them test him for gold poisoning and shook her hand after coating mine in stannous chloride. Interesting thing about stannous choloride the ancient Egyptians found. Not only is it great for hardening ruby glass, but it turns gold bright purple. Wifey's fingers went violet.

Which was absolutely one of the coolest ways I've every triple-confirmed a diagnosis. She wouldn't tell me why, though. She loved him. And she wanted to murder him. Slowly and painfully.

And I thought I had relationship problems.

Edited 2017-10-26 16:17 (UTC)

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