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Pleasure
by gena fisher
Pleasure - the Flipside of Pain
(There are all kinds of pleasure in the world and each struggles to find their share).
"Hi, Baby," Julie Wilson wound her arms around her husband's neck and pulled him down for a long kiss. She knew the moment their lips touched tonight wasn't going to be a barrel of laughs. He kissed her just the way she liked, a couple of soft light kisses, deepening for just an instant, then a quick lick at her lips as they separated, but it felt "off", mechanical and labored. She studied his face for a moment, really looking at him for the first time in a week. He looked tired, there were dark shadows under his eyes, and the smile he gave her barely qualified to be called one. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he said and stepped passed her to hang his coat in the closet.
"Of course something's wrong," she said. She sighed, and crossed her arms, watching his nightly ritual with as much patience as she could managed after four years of the same thing. Wilson shrugged out of his coat, folded his scarf and placed it in the pocket, before hanging it in the closet. He heeled off his leather shoes, lining them up among the other four identical pairs, then closed the door and carefully laid his car keys on the credenza. Julie took a deep breath. "Jim, the counselor said we need to be more open with each other. I worked at a hospital for five years, I think I can handle any story you want to tell me."
"It's not about a patient," Wilson said. He squared his shoulders and turned to her. "It's Greg."
"Oh." Greg, again. Julie willed away the sneer she could feel waiting at the corner of her mouth.
"Please, Jules," he murmured and the look on his face made her remember the shy, sweet man she had fallen in love with. She went into his arms, lifting one hand to his cheek and letting her fingers play through his thick hair. God, she loved the feel of him against her, his lean body, the heat of him pressed to her. "I don't know what to do," Jim said and for a moment she thought he didn't know what to do to her and she was just on the verge of a suggestion when he went on. "I thought I could help him, but Greg is getting worse."
Greg, again. "Baby, come on, let's go upstairs." She tugged on his hand, trying to get him to follow her but he shook his head.
"I thought you wanted to talk?"
"Not about Greg," she said, switching tack and wriggling close to whisper in his ear. "Let's talk about us." She knew the moment he looked away that he wouldn't be distracted. "Why the hell do you always do this? Why do you drag that man into our marriage every single time?"
"He's my friend," Wilson said.
Julie pulled out of his arms, disgust written plainly across her pretty features. "You care more about him than you do for me!" She accused with malicious pleasure, eyes glittering. Turning on her heel, she stormed up the stairs, the slamming bedroom door echoing throughout the whole house.
"Shit." Wilson cursed.
~~~~~~~
"You okay?"
Cameron looked up, nodded, then went back to aimlessly stirring her cold coffee. Foreman sat down, cradling his own cooling cup. They sat in silence for several minutes, neither inclined to disturb the relative calm which had befallen them after the most hellish week either could recall. It was Robert Chase who did that. He strode into the cafeteria, spotting them at the far table and hurried over.
"He's still upstairs," he reported to Cameron, "just sitting in his chair."
"Is he okay?"
"He looked better than he has since Monday. Must have taken his meds. He yelled at Wilson but I couldn't hear what he said," Chase told her, "then Wilson left and House is just sitting there."
"Maybe I should go talk to him," she suggested.
"About what?" Foreman asked. Cameron and Chase both stared at him. "No, really. What can you say, Cameron? You going to ask him if he wants to talk about being a junkie?"
"He's not a junkie."
"Being addicted to Vicodin doesn't make him a junkie?" Foreman asked. "Sorry, I thought that was the definition."
"I don't think a junkie could voluntarily go a week without a fix," Chase pointed out quietly.
"What is it with you?" Foreman demanded, turning to face Chase. "Are you the one with a crush? Is that why you always stick up for him?"
"I'm just saying he isn't stealing cash out of our lockers and scoring a hit on the corner."
"No, he's just haunting the dispensary like Jacob Marley."
"Did you see his hand?" Cameron asked.
"What's that got to do with it? He said he caught it in a drawer."
"He did it deliberately," Cameron said. "He did it to distract himself from the pain in his leg."
Foreman looked slightly surprised but recovered quickly, "Another sign he has a major problem. Withdraw would magnify whatever pain he normally feels."
"And he still didn't take the Vicodin," she said just as firmly.
They sat, the three of them trading looks between them like baseball cards. "I hope he didn't make Dr. Wilson too mad." Cameron finally said.
"Wilson can take care of himself," Foreman pointed out.
"It's not him I'm worried about," she said.
"You're worried Wilson might give up on him?" Chase gave her a surprised look. "House is a stubborn bastard but I think even he knows this was for his own good. He'll be alright."
"He's had a hard week. He still looks like he might pass out."
"Doesn't look as bad as he did when he was puking in his office," Foreman said.
"What?" Both Cameron and Chase asked.
"He was vomiting. Into a trash can," Foreman said with a shrug. "That shouldn't come as a surprise." What did come as a surprise was Chase's page. CALL MOM.
"He looking for me," Chase said, his voice carrying a pleased note. Cameron and Foreman rose when he did and followed the younger man into the elevator. House's office was dark, but they could see him sitting in his chair in the corner. He looked up when all three entered.
"Some kind of Internet special," he asked. "Page an intensivist, get an immunologist and a neurologist for free?" Not waiting for a reply he lifted his broken hand, "My car requires two hands and I'm one short. I need a ride home."
"Of course," Chase said. They waited as he heaved himself upright, swaying on his feet for a moment. Cameron moved forward, her hand on his arm.
"I don't need help," House snapped, but his face had drained of color. Cameron let go but stayed close as he made his way slowly out into the hallway. By the time they reached the elevator his energy had begun to flag and House rode down wedged into the corner with his eyes closed.
"I'll bring my car around," Chase said but Foreman stopped him.
"You drive a Porche ZX3," he said. "We better use mine." Foreman drove an Infiniti.
"I pay you too much," House complained, stifling a gasp as he struggled into the front seat. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as the car pulled out of the parking lot. They drove in silence, Foreman switching his attention between the traffic and the man beside him. House appeared to be asleep, his newly damaged hand cradled safely against his stomach. At one point they turned a corner and his cane slid across the leather seat, thumping into Foreman's leg. Before Foreman could reach out and right it, House's hand shot out, his untapped fingers closing over the polished wood almost violently. "Don't," was all he said but for just a moment Foreman thought House meant to say something else.
"Isn't that Dr. Wilson's car," Chase asked. They pulled up at the curb in front of House's building and could see a dark Lexus, it's PPTH parking permit dangling from the rearview mirror. House didn't answer, just opened the door and pulled himself to his feet. It looked very awkward, he couldn't use his left hand very well and needed the right for his cane. Cameron ducked her head, unable to watch him struggle for balance but forced to listen to his labored breathing as he reached back in for his briefcase. They all knew he'd taken his first painkiller in a week only an hour or so before but in the yellow glow from the streetlight he looked as bad as he had since taking Cuddy's bet. The three of them watched him enter his building, back straight, head up and not looking for anyone's help. "Whatever happened to him," Chase said quietly, "the drugs aren't the problem. We can't treat him like an addict. We have to treat him like the man we respect." He had the pleasure of seeing Foreman's thoughtful nod before they pulled away from the building.
~~~~~~~
House stabbed the elevator call button. He could feel the tremors in his forearm, making his cane shake just enough to be annoying. The broken left hand throbbed and all he want was to lie down. It had been a hell of a week, the pain had been nearly unbearable at times, but this first jolt of Vicodin into his system was making him dizzy. He knew what he would find when he got to his apartment but for once, the prospect of James slouched in his favorite chair didn't bring with it lascivious thoughts. He'd been an idiot to accept the bet but he'd needed to know once and for all.
"I figured with all that adrenaline you'd worked up, you'd be rolling around with the stunning Julie like a couple of cats in heat," House said when he opened his door. Wilson was indeed slouched in his favorite chair and by the look on his face his evening had ended much the same as House's own.
"Shut up," Wilson said. House dropped his case and leaned against his piano, fumbling with his coat until it and his sports jacket puddled behind him. He knew it was going to take a few days before his body slipped back into its routine. Right now the memory of pain had dulled, the one pill he'd taken had brought almost the same relief two would have only last week. Detoxing might have been hell but this brief, blissful reprise seemed almost worth it - if he hadn't been shaking with exhaustion and forced to face the wrath of his one and only friend.
"I'll do better than that," House said and limped towards his bedroom. His cane thumped loudly on the hardwood floor, beating in time with his heart. He knew he needed to shut it all down, to just sink into sleep for as long as he could. No one understood what it was like for him; not James, not Cuddy, not even the three young doctors he worked with day after day. House lowered himself to his bed, propping his cane well within reach and stretched out. His mind raced, frozen moments from this latest case with the kid, Kevin, ancient memories from his own life, passages from medical journals, scenes from his soap operas, half formed thoughts, they all pounded inside his skull. It had always been that way but without the ability to keep up with them, he felt pinned beneath their weight. Years ago his colleagues had been amazed at his ability to do ten things at once, to juggle his hectic schedule, to teach, to consult, to lecture, to live his life at full tilt twenty-four/seven. Those days were gone.
His interest, the amazing concentration he could bring to a subject, the intuitive leaps his brain could perform were all still there, but his body had failed him. He tired quickly, and sometimes the pain hit so hard it took his breath away, leaving him winded and shaking. He knew Foreman thought he was lazy, every time the neurologist found him sitting with his legs up on his desk, House could see disgust in his expression. Foreman had no idea of the effort it took him to just get to his office some mornings. But it was an effort he'd renewed lately, thanks in part to Foreman's attitude, Chase's faith and Cameron's meddling. Too often in the early days as head of Diagnostic Medicine the cases he'd been given could have been solved by a candy-striper with a PDR. His expectations had dimmed, his energy waned. He'd replaced it all with minutia; his soap operas, the video games, the insubstantial world of Celebrities Uncensored. Dwelling on things of no real importance kept everything at bay, let him have the illusion that he still controlled his life. Cuddy had accused him of using his pain meds just for the high they gave him. Well, there was no "high" anymore, there was pain and there was getting by and if he had to use narcotics to get by so be it.
House looked up as a shadow filled the doorway. Wilson stood there, leaning against the door and looking as bad as House felt. "You wanted me to work," he said quietly, throwing an arm over his eyes as James neared. "You said I was wasting a gift by holing up here. I did what you asked, James. I'm out there, I'm making an effort the only way I can."
The bed dipped and James' hand slipped into his. "I'm just worried. I thought -" he broke off, dragging in a deep breath. His grip on House's fingers tightened. "I thought it would be like it was before."
"I'm not the same man I was," House said.
"I don't want to see you like this."
House dropped his arm, looking James in the eye. "Then leave." Time stretched thin between them. House forced himself still, the smirk on his lips practices and steady. He could see Wilson's dark eyes quartering his face, looking for real intent. A frizz of panic lanced through him when Wilson rose, their hands dropping apart as he turned away. "James!"
"You have to try," Wilson said, turning to look at him. He took a step, throwing himself back down on the bed and gathering House within an embrace so desperate it frightened him. "God, Greg, you have to want to change. I remember how you were before, how you could make people laugh. Your love of life made everyone else feel just that much more alive. When I was around you I thought I could take on the world and win! Now, now all I feel is lonely. I see the walls you've built, the anger you can't let go of, and it makes me miss my old friend that much more." House held on, his good hand clenched in Wilson's shirt front, the broken one flat against Jame's back. He lowered his face to the warmth of James' neck, breathing in the slightly sweaty scent. "I loved you. I want to love you again."
House felt the echo of those words through their close pressed bodies, a rumble that touched something so deep within him he'd never suspected its existence. "You can't," he whispered, "there's nothing left for anyone to love." A small secret sense of pleasure went through him at the thought that, finally, he had reached the bottom. He had shown them all that they were wrong, even James. He wasn't worth it, he was utterly beyond hope.
~~~~~~
James Wilson turned his head just enough to place a chaste kiss on House's cheek. He knew the older man needed to sleep, he could feel the trembling along House's back and hear the slight hitch in his breathing. He loosened his hold and eased Greg down to lie against the pillow. "I won't give up," he promised. Greg blinked slowly, sleep already stealing over him, but staring at him with those unnervingly blue eyes a moment longer. He leaned down and kissed House again, softly, gently, on the mouth and had the pleasure of seeing his friend settle into peaceful sleep.
"Pleasure," he whispered barely loud enough for his own ears to hear. He ran his fingers through Greg's hair, trailing his hand down his chin and finally across his chest. He could feel the steady rise and fall as Greg slept there beside him. That Greg could still move him to tears, still held the most cherished place in his heart, gave him hope. He wouldn't give up without a fight, he wasn't about to lose faith in Gregory House.
~~~~~~~~~
Lisa Cuddy flicked off her desk lamp and picked up the cold mug of coffee she'd forgotten all about. It had been a long day, no, strike that, it had been a hell of a long week. What in the world had possessed her to take Wilson up on his suggestion and offer Greg House an insane bet like she had? She still couldn't believe it even now that it was over. She knew he was addicted, he'd obviously known it, too, but he'd gone a week without pain meds just to prove he could. Cuddy scraped back her hair, using a scrunchy to hold it in place as she wandered through to her bathroom and started the taps.
'It makes me neutral.' House had said. She knew it was the truth, and knowing it made something cold burst inside her and spread throughout her soul. "Greg," she whispered, "you poor bastard." She hadn't known him - before, but the medical community was a bit like a small town, everyone gossiped. Anyone who had known House in those years before his illness, described a man driven by his own phenomenal intellect, a man who soared so high above his peers it was like he lived on another world. The years after he'd been ill were, by all accounts, dark and miserable times. He'd survived because his reputation endured, because people remembered how he had been and overlooked the rude asshole he'd become. If taking Vicodin brought him up out of that darkness to a neutral place maybe it wasn't all bad.
Cuddy tossed bath salts into the swirling water, dropped her robe and stepped into the steaming tub. She could feel the tension in her muscles draining away as she soaked. He couldn't keep taking Vicodin, not much longer without risking his health, such as it was, but she'd give him awhile before she hit him with that. Maybe Wilson had been wrong, House could function like that, he had for years now. Still, the look on Wilson's face when he'd approached her, the fear and pain in his brown eyes couldn't be ignored. For whatever reason, James Wilson cared about House and watching him destroy himself was killing Wilson. Cuddy sighed and lifted a bare foot to the tap, sending a bit more warm water into her bath. God, it felt good to just relax like that everyone needed a bit of pleasure in their lives no matter how small. She allowed herself a tiny hope that somehow tonight Gregory House had found a little bit of pleasure in his world as well because from here on out it was going to get rough.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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