| |
Surcease
by Cori Lannam
There had been moments over the last few days when he would have cheerfully strangled Cuddy to get his pills back.
But no, wait--
That was most days, come to think of it. There didn't really even need to be a reward involved - he'd do it as a gift to the world if the damn woman would just hold still long enough.
He gasped and bent over until his forehead hit the cold surface of his desk.
Today was different. This pain was different. That realization was creeping into his brain, little tendrils of unpleasant fact that he cut off with the same stubborn ruthlessness that had kept him alive and functioning years after his life had ended.
You say you won't lie to patients, Wilson's voice nagged through the haze of pain. But you don't have any problem lying to yourself, do you?
I only lie to them for their own good, he thought back, then grit his teeth so hard he couldn't even talk to the Wilson in his head.
No, the pain was no different, except that now it was completely unchecked. Agony radiated up from his leg into his back, his gut, his chest, his head, until it was sparking out from behind his burning eyes. No escape, no surcease existed for this except the one thing he couldn't have.
He levered himself upright again, then fumbled for his cane. Movement, particularly any kind that involved his leg, was the last thing he needed, but if he didn't go now, the kids would find him on the floor under his desk in the morning. That would really be the last thing he needed.
Long practice let him get his coat on while keeping most of his weight on his good hip balanced on the edge of his desk. He could make it down to the front desk. Whoever was there could find him either Wilson or a cab.
But by the time he made it to the door, Wilson was already there, heading down the hall in his direction as if summoned. Of course, summoning Wilson was hardly necessary lately; it was getting rid of him that was the trick. At the moment, however, his presence was handy, and House settled against the doorframe to wait for Wilson to get to him.
"You look like hell," Wilson said when he was still ten feet away.
"Feel like hell, too." He was aware of how heavily he was leaning on his cane, how much sweat was beading on his forehead. "Hey, isn't that a funny coincidence?"
Wilson just shook his head. "Come on. You need to get home."
"What I need is to stop hurting. Can you give me something, Doc?"
That earned him a sigh and a sideways glance of exasperation. "I thought the masseuse helped."
"Sure. For about five minutes." He would have made a show of checking his watch, but he didn't have energy for fripperies. It wouldn't have fooled Wilson, anyway. "But that was eight hours ago. I've practically forgotten what her breasts looked like, though I'm sure you haven't."
"Get in the elevator," Wilson replied.
"Maybe I should get Cuddy to hire her full time. At least she'd be useful. She can have Foreman's salary."
"I don't think she'd work for Foreman's salary."
"Foreman barely does." The cold air was a relief against his face as they emerged into the parking garage. "I guess I couldn't blame her."
He was afraid Wilson would take the opportunity on the way home for a few pointed remarks at his captive audience; he wasn't up to fending off barbs about his attitude or ability to just say no. But Wilson kept his eyes on the road and let House cool his pounding head against the chilly glass of the passenger side window. He closed his eyes and tried to tune out the bumps and swerves that even Wilson's Mercedes and careful driving couldn't erase.
"House." Wilson's voice stayed soft, but the waking jolt still made House hiss with pain. "We're here."
"Super." He opened the door; he dragged his leg out until his foot hit the pavement of his building garage, then lifted his cane out after it. His other leg pushed him up and out of the car, but his balance was shot, and he fell heavily against the door.
Wilson watched, lips pressed thin. House felt his gaze itching even after he turned away, but thankfully Wilson stayed where he was until House was steady on his feet.
"There," he announced as he slammed the door shut and Wilson climbed out on his side. "All in one piece, Doubting Wilson."
"I didn't doubt you," Wilson said, and walked ahead to the elevator as if to prove he wasn't going to treat House like glass. "Not your ability to get out of a car, anyway. You coming?"
"Not tonight, unfortunately," House muttered. He couldn't even appreciate the view of Wilson walking away from him; he wasn't sure he was even going to make it to bed, at this rate.
By the time he limped his way up to the elevator, Wilson was already holding open the doors. "God, you're slow."
"Sniping at the cripple? Nice." He leaned his head against the back of the elevator and tried not to clutch the head of his cane too tightly. He'd rather be leaning against Wilson, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to move again if he did.
"I wish you'd stop calling yourself that."
He turned his head enough to look at Wilson in surprise. "A cripple? Why? It's what I am."
Floor numbers in elevators were good only for two things: reminding you how far you still were from your booze and your bed, and avoiding looking at the person in the elevator with you. Wilson stared at the rising numbers like they were a naked woman and his wife was out of town. "That's what you've decided you are, anyway."
"Find me a better word and we'll talk." He pushed past Wilson when the doors opened, fumbling for his keys and glad he had left his briefcase at the office. "You coming in, or is your duty done now that you've walked me to my door?"
Wilson didn't bother answering, which was just as well, but he did follow House inside. House left the door for Wilson to close and lock, pushing forward into the apartment. He made it halfway across the living room before the pain and bone-deep fatigue finally cut him off mid-limp. All he could do was grip his cane as tight as he could, close his eyes against the rise of nausea, and hope like hell that he didn't topple over.
"The Energizer Bunny, you are not," Wilson said behind him, then came around to his side and stepped close. "Here."
He was trembling with the effort of staying upright against the pain. He wasn't sure he could stand to be touched, but Wilson didn't shy away at his flinch. Wilson's arms closed around him, and slowly House leaned against him, until most of his weight was on Wilson rather than his cane.
After a few moments, he let out a shuddering breath and let Wilson take the cane out of his hand. "It's okay," Wilson said in his ear. "You made it. You're home."
"Don't you have to get to your own home?" he muttered into the shoulder of Wilson's coat. He hoped more than usual that he was right about the answer he was going to get.
"You know I don't." Wilson turned his head slightly until his lips touched House's cheek and dragged gently against the stubble there. "I'll stay if you need me."
"I don't need you," House said, and shivered a little from the soft kisses Wilson was pressing along his jaw. He turned his own head enough to let his nose brush the cool skin just above Wilson's collar.
"I'll stay anyway." Wilson's lips reached the corner of House's mouth, then started back along his cheek. The wandering kisses sent little shocks of pleasure along his raw nerves, binding with the pain and settling it into a deep but tolerable ache. "Let me know when you can move."
"I'm good," he said after fortifying himself with a few more moments of contact. He wasn't anywhere close to good, but he learned a long time ago to move while he could.
"Drink?" Wilson asked as he stepped back, handing back the cane and waiting for House to steady himself before moving away entirely.
"Is that allowed on the Cuddy Plan?"
"I think you're okay with one." Wilson smiled a little and moved toward the liquor cabinet, but House cut him off with a shake of his head.
"I'm fine. I just want to lie down for a while." House shrugged out of his coat, taking perverse delight in the way Wilson grabbed for it before it hit the floor.
He hung it up, then started getting out of his own coat. "Bed for you, then."
Making it to the bedroom was unpleasant, but not that much worse than the rest of his day had been. Wilson stayed busy with the coats for a minute, mercifully giving House space to limp as badly as he had to without observation. By the time Wilson rejoined him, House had tossed the cane next to the nightstand and his sport jacket on the floor next to it. His outer shirt was quickly heading the same way.
Wilson got in his way before he could continue undressing. "No wonder you were all wrinkled today," he said even as he reached for the button of House's jeans.
"I think that's the gayest thing you've ever said to me," House noted, but he held onto Wilson's arms and let him undo his zipper and push the jeans down his hips until they bunched around his ankles.
"I'm pretty sure the gayest thing I ever said to you was the first time I asked you to fuck me." Wilson gave him a small push to get him out of the jeans and onto the bed.
"Mm. You may have a point." He obediently sat on the edge of the bed and managed to kick the jeans away with his good leg, though even the good leg hurt like a son of a bitch now. He rolled onto his back, on top of the covers since pulling them down would require more cooperation than his body was going to give him, and watched Wilson pick up his fallen clothes. "You know, you don't have to fold my clothes. You're already going to be nominated for wife of the year. I mean, you got me a hooker."
Wilson shot him a look that clearly invited House to bite him, then disappeared into the bathroom. House waited for the door to close, then let out the groan that had been building since the elevator. He grabbed a pillow, pressed it against his stomach, and rolled over on top of it to alleviate the ache in his back.
If he closed his eyes and held very, very still, it was almost like the first seconds of the meds kicking in. He could detach from the part of his mind experiencing the pain, as though there was a thin shell between him and the agony that pulsed through his body. Every breath was slow and shallow and in perfect rhythm to keep the fragile trance intact.
From a great distance, he heard the sounds of the toilet and the sink, then the door opening and Wilson rummaging through a drawer. Then the bed shifted beneath him and broke his state of detachment, but the stroke of Wilson's hand in his hair soothed him almost back into it. "You sure you don't need anything?"
"Nothing you can give me. Sorry."
Wilson just bent down and kissed him, then let his hand resume its motion over his scalp. House managed an appreciative sound, and Wilson's hand moved down to rub his neck. He didn't have anything close to the skill of the charming masseuse, but he made up for it with the earnest tenderness that House associated with no one but Wilson. He liked to pretend that Wilson had that tenderness with no one but him.
"I know it was all your idea," he said, his mind flitting from masseuse to Wilson and back again. "You can't pass that one off on Cuddy; she'd never have thought of it."
Wilson's posture stiffened and his hand stilled. "What?"
"Your so-called massage therapist. I'm never going to believe you didn't already have her all picked out. Probably from a catalog with pictures. Or did you get her number from Horny Married Men Monthly?"
Wilson resumed his gentle touches. His fingers kept slipping down beneath the collar of House's shirt; he would have encouraged more if he weren't already half asleep. "No, I saw her commercial on cable really late one night. It was a 900 number, but I figured, what the hell? What's life if we can't splurge once in a while?"
"You're too good to me, dear." Now that he wasn't moving, the pain was subsiding to a dull but insistent throb. Without opening his eyes, he groped out until he found his companion. Wilson had also stripped down to his shorts, and by the feel of it, he'd found House's Bridges to Babylon tour shirt. That meant he was staying the night. Score.
Wilson kissed him again, three soft, deliberate kisses down the back of his neck. "Be right back."
"Thought you already did that," he mumbled into the comforter as Wilson moved away again.
He came back faster this time, and a scratchy blanket settled over House's legs. It was the blanket he kept next to the couch--clever Wilson. He and Wilson had slept under it a time or two, when they hadn't found the motivation to move to bed.
"Asleep yet?" Wilson asked, sliding under the blanket next to him.
"What an incredibly stupid question."
"Just checking for brain function. Come on, move. Last time, I promise."
He grunted his displeasure, but forced his body to turn toward Wilson. As soon as he was on his side, Wilson pulled the pillow from beneath him and tucked it under his own head. "You bastard."
"You always fall for that," Wilson said, but he pulled House to him with gentle hands. The pain flared again, then died back down as he settled against Wilson, who let him drape his arms and legs across whatever part of Wilson he needed to. The solid warmth of his friend eased his discomfort just enough that he thought he might be able to sleep the night.
"You're not prescription-strength, but you'll do," he said into Wilson's neck, hardly recognizing the raspy slur of his own voice.
"What?" Wilson said, and when he didn't answer, "Just go to sleep, for God's sake."
But he stayed awake a little longer anyway, hoping Wilson would kiss him one more time.
END
Please post a comment on this story.
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.
|
|
|