Sacrifice

[rivercrossing2.livejournal.com]

Summary: Wilson confronts House about his most recent decision regarding pain.
Warning: Post-ep, Season 5 Ep. 16, "The Softer Side." 
Rating: M for Medical Content...as House would say, 'Everybody lies...Don't believe everything you read'!!
Disclaimer: All hail David Shore, writers, ect. and Fox....without them, this story wouldn't exist. Please bow to David Shore & Co. ....All Hail! 

“Fighting on with dignity

In life and death we deal

The power and the majesty

Amidst the blood and steel” --Judas Priest, One Shot at Glory (1990)

“You can live with dignity; we can’t die with it.”—Dr. Gregory House, Pilot (1994) 

***************************************************************************************

 

Wilson was seething.

Well, he wasn't so much as seething as he was utterly livid.

In fact, not since Amber’s death, or when he’d been pressured by a certain “insignificant other” into throwing that bottle of Maker’s Mark through the staigned-glass window, had he ever felt so mind-numbingly mad.

He wouldn't just give up so easily...not House...every doctor makes mistakes...it's not like anybody died...it can't be finished...God, he was so happy---

In complete frustration, Wilson slammed down hard on the wheel, nearly colliding with a deer that was feeding by the side of the road, practically giving him a heart attack in the process. Gritting his teeth, Wilson, determined, kept driving.

In heindsight, it wasn't House's but his own actions that later on---much later on--- surprised him: like believing that he had some control over what House did and didn’t do regarding the management of his chronic pain. Even though, time and again, his opinions were dismissed, he still clung to the theory that what he said in defiance of House’s self-destructive behavior mattered.

Yes, Wilson knew he was often very overprotective of a grown man who was responsible for his own choices: but he still could not let go that somehow, in some way, he could do more to prevent the worst possible scenarios from taking their course.

So when Cuddy stopped by his office that night and told him House had decided to forgo the Methadone treatment because he was afraid of the drug’s affects clouding his judgement, it was like a sock to the stomach. Shocked and infuriated to the point where he had left abruptly without telling Lisa goodbye, the only thing on his mind was: Where did I go wrong?

In the past, as a friend to an opiate-addicted chronic pain patient, it had been hard to know which road to take, as House’s actions were, to say the least, unpredictable. He had been both supportive and unsupportive, depending on the levels of danger that were inevitable with the risks House took to alleviate his pain.

There was, after all, that time when House had decided to withdstand one week of detox for one month’s freedom from clinic duty (and yes, he had precipitated the bet into play, but it was a patient-blind study; what was the harm?).

He did not support House’s sham of faking Cancer so he could participate in a Cancer-related agnesic drug trial; he tried to believe House wasn’t just faking rehab so he could avoid another run-in with the law.

Time and again he’d stood by him, in spite of the sacrifices he made, which House was only ever aware of, it seemed, at the very last minute. Like Amber…when it was too late.

He wondered now why he bothered to prevent another catastrophe from happening, because no matter what he did, it seemed, House always found some way to destroy anything good that came out of change.

Yet, here he was, once again, going into the lion’s den: once again proving House right that he was a “martyr” with a “savior complex”. Even if he arrived completely prepared with what to say, House would probably be either passed out or indisposed by some hooker.

He screeched to a halt outside of 221 B, scrambled from the car and, upon reaching House’s door, heard loud and embittered heavy metal blasting from inside. Wilson, gritting his teeth, pounded on the door with all his might. “HOUSE?” he attempted to shout over the noise.

No answer. None, except the rise in rhythm and tempo by even more alienating music that sounded to him like chalk being dragged across a blackboard. Furious, Wilson pounded on the door even harder until his knuckles hurt. “HOUSE!” he bellowed, with as much sternness as he could muster: and was amazed when the door blew open on its own accord.

The deafening music pounding its own anger into his brain, Wilson—attempting to sheild the blistering noise with the palms of his hands---ventured determinedly into the seemingly vacant apartment.

With no other sounds heard except the screeching of electric guitars, Wilson began to feel an instinctual dread. Immediately, he checked to see if anything had been stolen---he’d never found House’s door welcoming uninvited guests. Upon seeing that all House’s instruments---his most prized posessions---and his stereo as well as television were in their place, the dread deepened. By nature, House had accused him of always suspecting the worst: and here he was, doing exactly that. But with no answer upon arrival, and finding House’s apartment open for anyone to simply barge in, Wilson was beginning to fear the unthinkable.

A convulsive shudder coursed through Wilson as he remembered a year ago, Christmas Eve to be exact, that he had found House sprawled out and inept on the floor of his apartment, lying helplessly in a pool of his own vomit.

He crept gingerly through the apartment, noting that everything was very well kempt. Remembering that how, on Methadone, House had managed to shave his beard and even down a suite and tie, Wilson tried to reassure himself that his anxiety was uncalled for. (Perhaps House was in fact merely tidying up, and he was being the obsessive one, in worrying about it at all.)

The bathroom door was closed. Wilson’s stomach knotted, and he tried not to dwell on the images that gathered in his brain like a swarm of locusts. One of them---a vivid picture of House lying limp on the floor, lips blue, eyes wide, stopped Wilson in his tracks. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he halted, momentarily siezed with inhibition.

He forced himself down the hallway and stood before the door, unable to move forward and reach the handle. The ongoing battle of density between electronics was beginning to make him feel dizzy. The nausea intensified, calling him chicken for not facing what he knew was the the only answer he’d ever find.

He was certain that if he didn’t do something right then and there he would be instantly sick, when a horrible sound spoke for him:

It was the sound of someone already sick, violently retching from behind the door.

To anyone, the sound would have made them grimace and gag with disgust; but, to Wilson, it was a delight to his senses.

“House!” Wilson shouted, failing, despite his best efforts, to sound calm. “It’s me! Open up!”

“GET OUT!” came the almost inhuman-sounding growl from inside. Then, after a wheeze and a gasp, the bark, “WILSON: HOW THE HELL DID YOU GET IN HERE?!”

“Your door was open, so I let myself in…” Wilson’s words trailed off lamely. He knew it was no excuse; he should have simply minded his own business. It suddenly dawned on him that if anyone had definitely crossed a line, it was him. “I’m sorry…I didn’t know you were---”

“Puking my brains out??” came the insatiable sneer, followed by the sounds of swooshing and more undesirable sounds. “I usually don’t like to make that kind of news public. You, however,” House spat through bouts of wheezing, “seem to have developed a fetish for becoming my witness.”

“Can I get you some water?” Wilson offered meekly, suddenly feeling incredibly foolish.

“NO!” House hollared,“Now GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, before I call the cops on you for breaking and entering.”

Wilson cringed at the sound of House’s fury, but he could not will himself to leave his friend alone in his pain. House was always pushing people away---and Wilson knew how to do this better than anyone. He would not allow House to become a hypcorite---which was one of the very characteristics in most humans that House despised.

“I’m not going,” Wilson declared.

“Wilson---I’m warning you---”

“Open the door.” Wilson, unable to contain his exasperation, jiggled the handle, but to no avail. Wilson gritted his teeth in rage, knowing that House was going to be as stubborn as ever. “This is the last straw, House,” Wilson said to the door. “You don’t let me in and I’m not writing you any prescriptions to help the withdrawal.”

“Nothing but a lousy stomach flu,” came the muffled retort.

The anger returned again with a vengence. “Cuddy told me what you’re doing,” Wilson shouted, trying to ignore the desperation in his voice. “She said that you’re quitting the Methadone—and I’m sure you know cold turkey can kill?” Wilson threw his hands up in mock defeat. “I know how Russian Roulet’s your favorite game to play,” Wilson prattled on, “but…you might as well be hooked on heroin for real, for all you care!”

“As long as it suites your opinion of me….” House had stopped retching long enough to calm his senses, but he still sounded out of breath, and Wilson could hear the sound of water flushing. “…an opinion…being one I’ve never cared for, by the way. You, who would let me die if it suited your opinion of me.”

Wilson could no longer contain his rage. “Oh, go to hell!” he snapped, feeling utterly helpless, and, swallowing back a further retort, abruptly turned to go. As he did, the door swung open, so hard that it bounced off the wall.

“WILSON,” House croaked.

Hearing his name, Wilson froze, turning slowly about to face his friend, regretting the minute he did. House was sitting in a hunched position on the cold tile floor, his face pale as a white sheet. His hair was a frumpled mess of sweat, and his shirt looked entirely soaked through, and some of it wasn’t only from sweat. His eyes were bloodshot.

Wilson’s heart ached at the sight of him. “Oh---House…” he murmured, crestfallen to see the sight of House in such a state. “What have you done to yourself?” The words left his lips before he realized he’d said them.

“Detoxing’s a bitch, Wilson,” House declared simply, glancing sharply away. “As a doctor, I would think you would know this.”

“Cold turkey can be a possible death sentence---”

House stared off into something behind Wilson’s shoulder. “Right…I know… ‘detoxing for dummies’….but since a steady dose of Ibuprofrin is the only thing that a doctor in his right mind would prescribe for an opiate-dependant patient, I really don't think getting on another opioid to aid in the transition would be a wise choice to make...so I'm only taking Clonidine to help wtih the withdrawal symptoms, and the Ibuprofrin. Other than that...nothing." 

Wilson snorted regally. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“…once the pain's at its max...only a few more days of hell...and then, I’ll finally be able to make up with the Vicodin.”

“Rich,” Wilson muttered, glaring down at the floor. (Do things ever change?)

“It’d be fine---” House shuddered violently as a spasm gripped his thigh, and he paused momentarily to grip the edge of the bathtub with a white-knuckled hand before continuing, “---except it’s the combination of decreasing the Methodone and increasing the pain that’s a bitch.”

Wilson crouched down awkwardly in the incredibly cramped space, nearly hitting his head against the countertop of the sink. “House…You’ve got to get that shirt off….it’s not helping your chills.” He peered into House’s bloodshot eyes, examining the lids. House, strangely, simply allowed him and did not put up the fight; Wilson was discouraged to see the pupils appeared dilated.

“I’ll just soak the next one through anyway,” House mumbled, as though to himself or someone else. “I don’t remember hiring you as my babysitter…that’s what nurses and hookers are for--”

“House---please---Shut up,” Wilson commanded, as he promptly checked House’s pulse. “Vitals Ok…experiencing any constipation, diarrhea?”

“Believe me,” House smiled crookedly in spite of his overall discomfort and the general stench in the room, “you wouldn’t want to be in this room if I did.”

“Insomnia?” Wilson instinctively checked off “irritability” as this applied to House almost every single day.

“Hookers help.”

Wilson chose to ignore that. “Depression?”

“If you keep this up, there will be.”

“Any skin rash from the Clonidine?”

House snickered jeeringly. “You think I’ll drop my shorts for you?”

(Despite House’s sardonic jabbing, Wilson smiled reflexively and said nothing, glad that House was seemingly in good nature, in spite of everything.) “Feeling feint or weak?”

“After so much p-puking,” House remarked through chattering teeth, as he swept a hand over his clammy forehead, wiping away sheets of sweat in the process, “you should be impressed that I’m still sitting upright.”

“I’ll go get you a cold cloth,” Wilson declared, pushing himself up from the floor with clammy hands, feeling slightly feint himself from the room’s nearly overpowering malodor.

“I’ll just keep on taking a bath while I’m waiting,” House managed to announce, his voice breaking and barking from the sore rings around his neck.

Wilson couldn’t help cringing at the statement as he made for the linen closet, snatched a cloth, and returned to the sink in the bathroom. He started as he noticed House’s chin was resting upon his stomach, and his eyes were shut. Wilson’s heart skipped a beat, and all at once he bolted for the bathroom. “HOUSE!”

House’s head snapped back up like a Jack-in-the-box. “Wha…” He blinked rapidly several times, as the room came into focus---as well as did Wilson, crouching before him, wide-eyed in expression. “Wilson…why are you staring at me like that?”

“You passed out,” Wilson gasped, kneeling towards House and placing two trembling fingers against his wrist. “Your pulse is fine…Thank God.”

“God has nothing to do with this,” House snapped. “And of course I’m fine…I was just taking a cat-nap. For chrissakes, Wilson…how many times do I have to say it: I already have a mother…You don’t have to watch me like a hawk.”

“You almost died yesterday!” In spite of his attempts to hide his fear, Wilson was startled to hear it explode in anger. He glowered down at House, whose face looked blank---as though they were simply chatting about the weather.

“Key word is ‘almost ’,” House replied smoothly, unfased and unblinking. His eyes almost glistened in triumph.

By this time, Wilson was practically seething. He was furious. And he was glad for the rage, because it was a motivator for him to make his point. Something he’d wanted to say for years. “Do you realize how many times I’ve had to stand by and watch you ‘almost’ do this, or ‘almost’ do that? You ‘almost’ overdosed on Vicodin. You ‘almost’ wanted to kill yourself. You ‘almost’ wanted to feel happy and pain-free for a change, but decided to self-sabatoge yourself, yet again!...One thing is for sure, though…what you haven’t ‘almost’ done is make a complete fool of yourself!”

For a rare moment in time, House appeared speechless. But then, a question: “You realize you just made a non-sequitur?”

“DAMMIT, House!” Wilson jumped to his feet in a rage and turned fast on his heels, nearly tripping over House’s legs as he stormed out of the bathroom. “You’re on your own.”

“WILSON!” House barked, his voice hoarse from yelling.

“You had your chance,” Wilson shouted abruptly from over his shoulder, as he continued walking.

He was almost at the door when he was startled into silence by the sudden shatter of something toppling over and smacking the floor, and then a gasp, followed by the muffled sound like that of a defeated whimper.

He couldn’t place within the reaches of his rational mind what came next, because it was too surreal; too impossible to be real. What came next was a sound that jolted his memory back to the early days of the infarction, when he had seen a man who appeared to be as impervious as a solid rock, simply crash to pieces---and completely fall apart. It had happened when the pain was freshly unbearable, helped only by induced coma; and it had happened when Stacy left---leaving him solely with the daunting responsibility of putting the pieces of a broken man with a broken heart somehow back together.

This time, the already broken heart had broken something else: a levee. As the levee broke, so too, it seemed, did the barrier to House’s tear ducts, which let loose a well of water. House began to shake uncontrollably as his soul sprang leaks, becoming large as tsunamis that threatened to overtake him. The flood ran wild, shaking his frail frame with the unleashed beast of Mother Nature. He was powerless to stop the damage to his ego as his face crumpled defeated, into a ball full of hopeless despair.

Wilson, horrified at the sight before him, remembered suddenly that, in standing, his body was supported by two legs with which to run. He ran to House’s side, kneeling back down cautiously, afraid to cause further trauma. “Oh---House…” Wilson murmured, forgetting his anger entirely in the process. House would not acknowledge his presence, as he had covered his face with both hands, continuing to shake and writhe as if by convulsions. Wilson swallowed hard, wincing with regret. “House…I’m so, so sorry---”

“G-Get away from me.” The words, though roughly spoken, were barely understandable, stifled as they were through the unbreakable shield of House’s trembling arms.

“I want to help you---”

“GET---” House snapped between gasps, “---AWAY!”

“I can’t just leave you like this…” The despair that had already seized House seemed to find its way to Wilson, and he felt paralyzed by it.

House was breathing hard, his shoulders fighting against the tide. “not…forced…to be here---” He threw a clenched fist to the floor, as though proclaiming the words with the stamp of truth.

“For God’s sakes, no one has to!” Wilson, in aggravation, blinked back tears hot with shame. “You’re right---no one gave me permission to be here. I’m here because…” His voice softened, as he was once more reminded by something he’d said once, long ago. “Because…I choose to be.”

“Id-id-idiot---” House’s shoulders shook so violently by the torrent of unwanted emotion that he was unable to finish the attack: but it was simply all just a wall of sound to Wilson.

“House…” Wilson knelt before him, speaking as though to a small child. He could see that House was mortified and just as frightened as he was by his actions. “It’s natural to cry…you’re going through a lot…it’s nothing to be ashamed of…”

House gritted his teeth, refusing to submit. “No.”

“…you’ve gotten through worse. It’s going to be Ok…”

“No, no, NO!” House exploded all at once, “It’s NOT Ok!” He hugged his stomach tightly with both arms crossed, as though to keep the world at bay.

“They’re just tears, House,” Wilson stated simply, wondering just how deep the scars went, and how long it would take for them to heal. “Tears never harmed anyone.”

“Big…b-baby,” House sputtered, smearing snot and swiping angrily at his eyes. “Stupid…little g-g-girl.”

“House,” Wilson exclaimed in awe, “will you give yourself a break? You’re in excruciating pain, you’re experiencing withdrawal…you’ve been through far worse and survived. You’ve cheated Death several times.”

“D-Death’s…no fool,” House wheezed, the defiance seeming to calm him somewhat, though he could not calm the convulsions. “N-neither am I.” Suddenly, House’s face grew pale as the moon that was by this time shining brightly through the window, and he began to shake his head violently. “Wilson…get out of here…I’m going to be ill.”

Wilson did not move fast enough, and before he knew it, he was covered in a mass of orange-colored vomit from head to toe.

_____________________

Removing his shirt, Wilson was able to help House limp out of the bathroom and into the soft-lit bedroom without leaving too much of a messy trail. House, too tired to protest, allowed Wilson to help him into bed and drink a full glass of water.

He seemed to still be fighting off the embarrassment of having broken down in front of Wilson, but Wilson did not mention this; nor did he mention that he would have to barrow House’s clothes. (Having lived with House, Wilson knew that all of House’s clothes fit him mysteriously well, reminding him suddenly of a not-too-shabby chic-flick that Amber had loved (but that House would have hated) called “The Summer of the Traveling Pants”.)

Remembering how they had rented the movie together on one particularly romantic night, Wilson was overwhelmed with the sudden urge to weep: but he promptly held it back, knowing that House did not need his grief coupled on top of his own pain to deal with.

“Stomach…killing me,” House mumbled, shivering in spite of the new shirt and extra blankets.

“To be expected,” Wilson remarked. “I’ll get you a hot water bottle and some sleepytime tea…it’ll help with the nausea, and the other effect is obvious.”

House groaned. “Great. How about a tampon, too.”

“Jesus, House,” Wilson snapped, but he was grinning as he began instinctively tucking in the blankets about House’s body, as though he were a small boy.

Aggravated by all the fuss, House waved him away, muttering, “I’m not going to break for real, Wilson…just get the bottle and the tea and why not a bedtime storybook too, while you’re at it.”

Instead of a standoff, Wilson offered House a tissue. “Your nose is running a marathon.”

House snatched it with a forced smile of adoration. “Thanks, Mom.”

Wilson chuckled in spite of himself, but his mind was focused on other things. “Think you can keep any food down? How about some cut up bananas and chicken broth?”

“Did my mother tell you that was my favorite?”

“Guess she must have in a dream or something.” Wilson was smiling, but suddenly, House’s face was suddenly shrouded in darkness. “What is it?” Wilson probed, fear coursing through him like an unexpected burst of electricity.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” House was looking straight at him, looking very lost and uncertain and every bit a boy, very unlike the man that Wilson knew.

“About?” Wilson slowly took a seat on the bed beside him, dumbfounded by the abrupt change in atmosphere.

“Bawling, like a baby.” House shook his head defiantly, stubbornly refusing to accept the reality of his past actions. “I know it’s stupid…meaningless…but…I can’t have them knowing.” House shuddered at the memory, vulnerability returning with a vengeance. “I’m not myself, Wilson,” he added pensively.

“Of course not,” Wilson reassured him, patting his shoulder gently---forgetting momentarily who he was dealing with. House reflexively yanked his shoulder away, and Wilson’s face reddened, but he went on. “This is just between you, and me.”

It seemed to take House a moment to absorb this statement. “Thank you,” he replied, tone subdued, staring down at the bed sheets as though embarrassed by his words. Wilson did not understand why he was embarrassed by them at all. He sounded sincere, and, to Wilson, that was all that mattered.

“Will you…” House did not remove his eyes from the bed. “Will you…will you watch me sleep?”

“Thought you only reserved that job for hookers,” Wilson jostled, good-naturedly; simply glad that he was welcome. “Of course I will, House…I’m honored.”

“Cut the cheesy crap, will ya…I’m not dying…How about…that hot bottle?” House was beginning to nod off. “Tea…don’t bother…might not…need it…”

“I’ll get both, anyway,” Wilson replied, practically beaming, glad to be of help. “Just lie back, relax...and leave all the worrying up to me.”

“Wa..wasted a career in…Oncology,” House mumbled, as his mind was becoming slowly swallowed by a cloud. “…should’ve…become…become a…nurse…or maybe a…a psychiatrist…”

Wilson couldn’t suppress a smile, taking this as a very high compliment from a man who rarely complimented anyone. After come careful consideration, he switched the CD of Judas Priest’s Painkiller (currently playing One Shot at Glory) to Vivaldi, specifically The Four Seasons, a series of Baroque Violin Concertos.

Spring began, filling the mind with alluring images recalled from perhaps George Seurat’s A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte—1884….of beautiful ladies with parasols, and children playing happily while adults relaxed as if without a care.

“This music OK for you, House?” Wilson asked softly, so as not to disturb him.

House didn’t answer. For a moment, Wilson panicked: then saw the rise and fall of the chest. Wilson exhaled with great relief: for the moment, House was sleeping, enjoying some much-deserved respite from the discomfort. Even if it would not last for long, House was---at least for the time being---at peace.

Backing slowly away from the bed, Wilson smiled triumphantly before shutting the door softly from behind him.