Chapter Text
The walls have been white for quite some time now, starkly clinical against the flurry of struggle which has plagued House’s mind. He’s been here for some time, almost four weeks now. After the horrendous first week writhing in pain due to Vicodin withdrawals, he had been placed into a more permanent bedroom. The single bare cot and nightstand could hardly be considered as such, and the company was far from pleasant. House’s obnoxious roommate Alvie, who would do anything in his power to ensure that House never got a moment of silence. Four weeks he’s spent in the company of Alvie and his singing. Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital- where sanity goes to die.
House follows behind one of the many Psychiatric Nurses as she leads him down another indistinguishable hallway. Cane in hand, and limp a little less prominent than before, he grunts. “So, I’ve finally been good enough to earn a field trip?”
The nurse smiles politely, clutching the file against her chest. “Actually, yes.” With a quick gesture, she beckons him to turn down the hallway alongside her. “Mayfield has received a few friends from a neighboring psychiatric hospital who have been struggling with staffing issues. They will be staying for a few weeks.”
“Oh great. More crazies?” House shakes his head, scoffing. The people in his support group are pathetic enough, easily able to be picked apart by a keen mind such as his, something he didn’t shy away from doing. “Why me?”
The question lingers in the air, replaced only with the steady sound of her high heels and his cane against the linoleum floor. “Doctor Nolan has been very pleased with your growth and progress so far. He was hoping you would introduce yourself to them, and be a friendly face for them to lean on in their transition.”
House rolls his eyes. “Am I getting paid for this?”
“Well, no, but Doctor Nolan believes this will be a great step forward in your treatment plan.”
“Are you sure you want me to be the one to give a speech to new patients? I’m not exactly known for my friendly face.”
The nurse fights a smile, cleaning not off put by the facade House has put on. “Come on, we wouldn't want to keep them waiting.”
The heavy door to the large intake room is pushed open, and House takes in the ten patients sitting before him. Blank stares, gray outfits, and slumped shoulders greet him for the most part. There's one patient who twitches as she looks around, and another who is bound by chains that ensnare his wrists and ankles.
“Okay, everyone. Welcome to Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital.” The nurse is met with apathetic nods and broken eye contact. She continues on anyway, her voice soft and patient. “This is one of our patients, Gregory House-”
At that, one of the patients jolts. He’s an older man, with a wide frame and curly white hair that spills out over the top of his head. His head raises slowly, his eyes latching onto House.
“You!”
House’s shaved head snaps towards the grunt, widening briefly as he takes in ths broken man before him. A slight recognition flashes in his eyes as he searches his mind for where he may have seen the man. Had he been a patient? A fellow doctor? His mind comes to a screeching halt as he takes in the broken man before him. The golf tournament, the rivalry. “Shooter McGavin?”
The nurse smiles, placing a comforting hand in between House’s shoulder blade as she takes a few steps forward. “You two know each other?"
“Do- Do we know each other?” The golfer laughs, his voice twinged with madness. “Ha! Haha! Of course we know each other!”
House doesn't break eye contact, searching over the man with careful eyes. He’s older, run down, manical. Evidence enough by the gray sweatpants and sweatshirt he’s wearing, adorned with chuffs and chains on his wrists. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. “We golfed together once or twice.”
House gently allows himself to be led away, towards the corner of the room. With a quiet voice, the nurse leans closer. “Listen, he’s been having a really difficult time adjusting. They sent him here, to Mayfield, in hopes he has a better time.”
“So?” House scoffs, unamused.
She continues slowly. “It may be good for the two of you to… room together.”
He shuts this down immediately, unwilling to even hear her out. “Absolutely not.”
“Just for a week, until he gets evaluated!”
“We aren’t exactly best buds. He couldn’t stand me back when he was sane.”
Thinking on her feet, the nurse babbles quickly. “We’ll put you in a bigger room. You’ll get a break from Alvie.”
Bribery? That’s the best they could do? “Fine.” Luckily for them, he’s an easy man to please. Alvie had been getting on his nerves recently. A vacation couldn’t hurt. “One week only.”
“Just, try to be gentle with him, alright?”
House rolled his eyes, mumbling profanities under his breath.
***
True to her word, the new room was much bigger than the one he’d been stuck in for the past few weeks. And no Alvie meant a shot at sleeping a full night without interruption.
The last time House had seen McGavin was on the TV in the doctors breakroom. He had been sitting with Wilson, feet up on the table and reuben in his hand, as he flicked through the channels lazily.
Mouth half stuffed with a bagel, Wilson rolled his eyes as he stared at the insistence of House's finger clicking the remote. “Come on, House. Pick a station.”
“Can’t you see I’m trying?” House shot back, taking another bite of his sandwich. He sighed, and stared at the breaking news headline that graced Channel two. “They’re interrupting my Soap’s for breaking news.”
They settled into silence as the newscasters faded, a golf course appearing on the screen. Happy Gilmore bent over, ready to take the final shot of the tournament. The ball rolled, and sank into the hole. Chaos erupted as people cheered, crowding around him. He’d done it, the son of a bitch had won the tour, saved his grandma’s house from foreclosure. House couldn’t help but smile at the thought, his momentary friendship with the golfer flourished in his chest. It had only been a few weeks since the tour, what feels like a lifetime in terms of hospital shifts and endless pain, but the friendship was still close to his heart.
The pair watched as Doug appeared on the course, presenting him with his very own gold jacket. Only when he’s about to grab it is it snatched out of his hand. Taken by a middle aged man who runs away quickly.
Wilson sat forward, his mouth agape. “Is that…?”
House narrows his eyes, standing up to get a better view of the small TV hung from the ceiling in the corner of the room. It was. Shooter McGavin was being chased down the green, his arm struggling to get into the jacket as people gained on him. “Well I’ll be damned.”
It wasn’t long before he was tackled by the crowd of Gilmore supporters who had been on his ass. A few punches flew, kicks, insults, and soon enough the jacket was ripped off his back and returned to Gilmore. “Idiot.” House scoffed.
What happened to him after the fact was always a mystery. House kept loose tabs on Gilmore, he’d gone on to continue playing for the next few years. Happy had written him a few emails, even invited him to the wedding, which he did not attend. No matter what he saw, or read, he never saw any news on Shooter. House had always assumed the man would quit out of shame. Being shown up by a rookie who can barely contain his can-do attitude and failure at golf would be enough to make him want to quit.
House puts his bag on the bed on the left side of the room, laying his cane alongside it on the mattress. “You can take the left side.”
Shooter shuffles in after him, looking over his shoulder awkwardly as he strains at his cuffs. Not in any sort of angry way, but anxious. House watches him slowly sit on the empty bed across from him, watching him with a careful, scared appearance.
A few hours pass as the two settle in. House unpacks his few belongings, and shoots curious glances over to Shooter, who seems to have no belongings other than a book with him. 9 pm rolls around, time for lights out. The hallway light shutters off, and they are left with nothing but the small lamps by their bedside. House hops into bed, his back breathing a sigh of relief at the increased mattress quality, and shuts his eyes.
“He ruined my life.”
Popping a begrudging eye open, House looks at Shooter. “Who?”
Shooter’s fists ball in anger, his chains shimmying and jangling. “Gilmore. He took the gold jacket from me!”
House rolls over, laying on his side to stare at the other man. He’s disturbed, more than he ever had been at the tournament. “You can’t always get what you want.”
Shooter curls up into a ball, shaking with anger. “It was supposed to be a Shooters Tour!”
“Look, sometimes things don’t go according to plan. You think I want to be here?”
Shooter doesn't reply, instead opting to grab his book from the nightstand and read it quietly, although it's clear that his mind is elsewhere.
“What are you reading?”
He holds up the cover, ‘The Haunting of Hill House’.
House sits in silence for a moment. He should turn his back and go to sleep, but something in him stops himself. It had been so long since he’d spoken to anyone he’d known. Wilson seemed to be avoiding his calls, not that he blames him. The pain was too much. “You like horror?”
Shooter puts the book down, as if thinking, before nodding, still not making eye contact. “Yeah, I do.”
“You should read The Shining.” House says.
Shooter places the book on the nightstand, turning to face House fully. “O-oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“‘We sometimes need to create unreal monsters and bogies to stand in for all the things we fear in our real lives….” He recites a quote from the book he’d read when he was still in college. “ I think you’d like it.”
Shooter nods.
“You’re not a bad guy. I mean, maybe you’re an asshole but…” House trails off. “Just… don’t let it define you.”
Shooter nods once, his eyes lingering on House before rolling over and facing the wall.
***
“I want to say goodbye to McGavin.” The words shock even him, yet they fly out of his mouth as he balances the backpack on his back.
“McGavin?” The intake nurse frowns, shuffling through stacks of paper. “Ah. He got moved back to Westford State a couple days ago.”
House stands up straighter, leaning over the top of the desk to try and get a look at the papers. “He did?”
The nurse nods, closing the book and looking up at House. “Yeah. Said he was better off in solitary.”
“What? But he was fine-”
“He had a pretty bad… incident after you moved rooms.” She frowns again, smiling and patting his hand. “It’s just better for everyone involved.”
The walk to the bus stop is strange. In some ways, a step forward, and yet, he can’t help but feel like he’s leaving a part of his past behind. Shooter McGavin was broken, shattered, unlikely to ever see the light of day again. All because the better man won?
He frowns, sitting down on the cold bench. Maybe in a few years time, it would be Shooter’s Tour.