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Distractions
by Jackyblu
I know he's here because I badly needed a distraction. The leg pain is worse than it has been since the ketamine. No Vicodin left has made this pure hell. I resent that he is putting me through this again. Stop trying to save me before you kill me! I've tried playing the piano to take my mind off of everything. I've listened to music. Even John Coltrane and Muddy Waters couldn't take me to a pain-free place tonight. I am beginning to believe that the place no longer exists. Nirvana is not up ahead at the next off-ramp.
He is sitting quietly nursing the scotch he helped himself to from my sideboard. I would drink too, but my stomach is too unsettled. I can't keep anything down. Too bad, I would have welcomed a buzz. He made me soup and I tried to eat it, but the smell put me off. I smoked a cigar instead. It's made me lightheaded. Maybe not the best idea in the world but it served as a distraction.
I wipe the perspiration from my face with the bottom of my tee shirt for the fifth time tonight. I need to pace but I am afraid to stand. I really don't want to ass-plant in front of him, nor hurt worse than I already do.
I know he feels guilty, that is part of the reason he's here. I also know he wants to help me in any way he can. Maybe that's why I let him come in. Or maybe I am as big a bastard as everyone thinks and I just want him to see what he has done to me...again.
God this fucking hurts!
I wish I could sleep. I don't want to be awake for this. I would ask to be placed into a coma, but for the fact that the idea scares me to death. The last time I was in a coma, I awoke missing most of my right thigh. Truth be told, I have had nightmares about it off and on for years now. I could never tell him that. I could never tell anyone that. Glimpses into my psyche are not welcomed.
We are sitting on the couch as we have done so many times before, legs up on the coffee table, watching a football game. I can't keep the teams straight let alone the score. I recognize the Patriots and I think they are playing the Giants. He shifts his position next to me and puts his feet on the floor. Going home?
He leaves the couch and circles behind it. For one brief moment he stands behind me and then carefully places a hand on my shoulder, before he goes back to the sideboard and pours himself another scotch. The touch and the second scotch tell me how bad he feels. He would never touch me knowing how I feel about personal contact. He isn't much of a scotch drinker either. I'd almost feel bad for him if I wasn't so busy feeling bad for myself. In all fairness, my pain is worse by several degrees.
My heart is hammering in my chest. I am breathing too hard and another wave of nausea hits me. This one is bad and I need to get to the bathroom before I embarrass myself. I get my legs off of the table all right but then I have a problem getting to my feet. I am too shaky. Shit.
He is at my elbow. He just quietly appears like this was the moment he had been waiting for all night. Like this was his whole reason to be here. I would jerk my elbow from his hand but I need to get to the bathroom quick. My stomach is churning and time is not on my side. I start moving as quickly as I can and he senses the urgency. I am unsteady and it is a good thing he is there to help me. I would have been on the floor within a couple of steps. He puts an arm around my waist and moves me forward. The nausea is over whelming me. Oh God!
We make it to the door of the bathroom and I bolt for the toilet. Bad move on my part. My legs go out from under me and I end up falling onto the floor and striking the commode with my chin. I can't get up and retch all over myself.
"Oh God", I hear him say under his breath. I feel his arms encircle me and lift me to a position that I can continue to retch into the toilet and to a lesser extent on myself. This is distinctly unpleasant. I wish my guts would stop torturing me; the rest of my body is doing a fine job without assistance. He continues to hold me and right now I don't care, my internal woes are all that I can focus on at this moment. I am convinced that if I can't stop retching, I will disgorge my very soul next, if I have one.
Apparently he thinks so too. "God Greg", I hear him say sympathetically. At any other time I would have shot him a scathing look and limped away. I'm not really in a position to do that at the moment. "Don't!" I manage in a horse whisper between spasms. Is this ever going to stop? My head is killing me and my jaw aches. I am wet and I smell terrible. This isn't helping my stomach to settle. He rubs circles on my back, always about the caring. I want to remind him I am in this situation because of him. I couldn't believe it was him that made the deal. I didn't want to, but he admitted it. He stood in front of me and told me it was him. It was worse than falling, worse than a punch to the gut. It had been unexpected. Well sort of.
Had it been Chase or Foreman, I could have been philosophical about it. Had it been Cuddy, I could have been pragmatic. Had it been Cameron, I might have been proud.
But this was so unexpected. How could it have been him? How could it have happened again and I didn't see it coming? I didn't want to see it coming. He threw me out of his office; our friendship was all but over then. Yet here he was holding me while I descend into the hell he pushed me into. I'm not sure he has the right to help me, but my choices are limited.
It has subsided. Thank God. I couldn't have dealt with any more. I feel as if giant cobras have squeezed my chest and stomach. I couldn't possibly tell where I hurt worse. I glance down at the porcelain fixture and am surprised and a little unsettled to see blood.
How?
He helps me to sit on the edge of the bathtub. He is holding a towel to my chin. Of course, the fall, I hit my chin and that explains the blood. I am relieved by that, a little too relieved. I didn't realize it had startled me. "I got it", I growl at him and take the towel to apply to my own chin. I don't want him to know I had been scared. Weakness is unacceptable. Yeah Dad, I've learned that well.
He isn't finished with the caring friend thing. "Your shirt is a mess." He tries to help me take it off. He rolls it upward so it can be removed without getting any of the sick in my hair. "Don't!" I growl again, but half-heartedly. I would really like to get this thing off. It stinks. He carefully removes it for me and drops it on the floor. "You okay for a minute?"
I nod. He leaves the room and returns with a clean shirt for me. "Do you want a shower?" I shake my head. I doubt I could stand that long and I am sure as hell not going to let him bathe me. I still have some pride left.
He rinses a clean towel in warm water and hands it to me. I wipe down my chest and stomach. He leaves for another moment, returning with a pair of my pajama pants. "Do you need help?" I think for a moment. What can I do for myself here? Can I put the shirt on? Yes, no problem there. Can I stand take off my own jeans and put on the pajama pants without falling when I stand? I wasn't too sure about that. I don't want his help! I have my pride. Pride goeth before a fall...so I've heard. I nod my head showing my vulnerability again. Damn.
He helps me to stand and I unzip the jeans and slide them down my legs as best I can. When I get them to my ankles I steady myself against the wall and step/kick them off, so far so good. He picks up the pajama pants and things get uncomfortable because I never where my boxers under them when I sleep. I also don't remove them in front of friends who aren't also lovers. He understands my embarrassment. It would be the same with him if the situation were reversed. I slide them down part way still covering the reason my parents call me son. He has me sit on the edge of the tub again, hands me the pants and discreetly leaves the room. My pride remains intact and I am able to wriggle out of the boxers and into the pajama pants without either hurting or humiliating myself.
"Ready?" He calls from outside the door. "Yeah," I reply making sure I am well covered. He opens the door and walks over to me. He allows me to reach for him and stand on my own still holding the front of the pants over me. I lean against him and use both hands to pull the pants up the rest of the way. I lean a moment longer eyes closed. God I hurt! I am so tired. "Come on," he says. He steers me to the door. We move down the hall and I glance at him puzzled. He leads me to my room. "I can't sleep", I say. "I've tried."
"I know", he sighs, "but you're exhausted and you don't need to feel this much pain."
I have to stop and stare at him now. "What? What the fuck? Are you sure I don't need to feel like this? I was pretty sure this was EXACTLY how I was supposed to feel, pain medication being bad for me and all that. Isn't that what this is all about, you and Cuddy deciding what is best for me?" I am furious and my breathing is ragged. I am agitated and my heart is racing. Sleep now? Was he nuts?
"Greg..."
"Shut up!"
"I know you're angry."
"Really? Was it the yelling or the sarcasm that tipped you off?"
"It's not easy trying to be your friend. I was trying to keep you out of jail."
"By putting me through hell? You'd make a fine enemy."
He is upset and angry, it shows in his eyes. It always shows in his eyes. "You are responsible for your own hell. You got yourself into a pissing match with the wrong guy, and he knew just where to hit you. You should have apologized and let him hit you by the way. It would have been easier on everyone. But NO, Not Greg House! He has to prove he is the toughest kid on the playground!"
"Old habits die hard", I say softly.
"Contrary to what everyone in the hospital says about you, you're not fifteen anymore!"
"No, if I was I would have two good legs and a different best friend!"
"Well there isn't a damn thing that can be done about the leg, and as for a different best friend...good luck finding one!"
We are both so angry at each other. I can feel my eyes prickling. I can see the sheen on his too. I feel lightheaded and stumble a bit. He is right there to keep me from falling. I look at his eyes so filled with concern. There is still something there. A shadow of the friendship I have always taken for granted. He must see it in my eyes too. He smiles slightly and shakes his head. "Come on you limping twerp."
Hearing him call me that takes an emotional toll that would not have occurred if I weren't so tired and in so much pain. I give him a tight-lipped little smile from my heart. "Ass", I say.
"Jerk", he says leading to my bed.
"Moron."
"Schmuck."
"Wanker."
"Tired?" He asks as he turns down the bedding.
"Oh yeah", I answer as he helps me in. "I won't be able to sleep."
"Yes, you will." He leaves me for a moment and returns with an IV bag of clear fluid, needle and line.
"What", I ask suspiciously.
"Metoclopramide Hydrochloride," he answers taking my arm and checking a vein.
"For nausea? How did you know?"
"You've been through this before. It will help you sleep too."
"I hope so. I know it should, but I'm not sure it will work on me."
He swabs the area and inserts the needle into my vein. He's good at it. He has a gentle touch. Not like me. I just find the vein and go for it. If I can't get it the first time I call for a nurse. He tapes it down and messes with the line. Once he is satisfied he looks for a place to hang the bag.
"What, you didn't think to bring an IV stand with you?"
"Would have been a little more difficult to take out of the hospital in my briefcase."
"You took this without Cuddy's permission? The police will be raiding your place next."
"Already have, remember?"
"No. I thought they just impounded your car?"
"That's what I meant." He is still holding the IV bag and trying to figure out where to hang it. He is deliberately trying to act busy and not look at me.
"No you didn't. Unless you are living in your car, you meant exactly what you said. When did it happen?"
He still doesn't look at me. "The day after yours."
"I didn't know. Sorry." I am sorry too. He should have told me. "What were they looking for?"
"Forged prescriptions, pre-signed pads, bottles of Vicodin, anything that might incriminate us."
"Us?"
"Tritter thought it unlikely that you were getting all of the pills without some kind of inside help."
"Hmm." I am getting drowsy it is a good feeling for a change, much better than the constant pain and nausea.
He is standing and holding the bag. James Wilson, IV stand and friend. I am so sore and caring less and less about it as the clear fluid runs into my vein. My eyes are closing. I am not ready to sleep just yet because the sight of Wilson holding the IV is very comforting...of course that could just be the medication doing its job.
"Go to sleep Greg. I'll be here when you wake up."
"You won't leave?" I am so tired I don't know what I am saying. "You won't let anything happen to me?" I am nearly asleep.
"I'd never let anything happen to you." His voice cracks a bit.
I couldn't have heard it. I am asleep, I think. I hope. I pray. Thank you for this James.
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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 NBC/Universal, 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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