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Hooker II - House in Pain
by Essex4
DISCLAIMER: This hooker's mine. Hugh Laurie deplorably isn't, but then, I'm not really into owning people. Also, there is no money whatsoever being made off this, which is almost as deplorable (but only almost). Neither are the characters, ideas, stories etc. of the NBC TV series House, MD, mine.
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Lisa's off to Chicago or I-don't-know-where with that Johnny of hers, for good or until further notice. For the time being, I can afford to keep the studio at Dennis's house, which is good for the safety, but the place is expensive. I'll have to look for a new share eventually, or move on.
The man House has not called, but since he's had this fixed date with Lisa every Tuesday evening for more than two months now, and did cough up decent money for a job done well (if I say so myself) by a replacement last time without complaint, I decide I might just give it a try.
*
Ring ring.
The door opens slowly, just a little more than a crack. House has put the chain on, and I can see why: he's pale as a ghost, like Death on leave, and more haggard and stubblier than I remember him. There's a sheen on his face that you'd instinctively connect with cold sweat from intense pain or fear. His eyes are cloudy, he looks like chewed up and spat out again.
"Not tonight," House mumbles, but slips the chain anyway, and the door swings open as he awkwardly thumps back to his couch. He's just in his boxers, and a long-sleeved shirt. He stumbles to sit heavily, leans back, and closes his eyes.
This time, the place is a real mess: blankets, clothes, bottles, used plates - all scattered about the couch in the center, in a manner that suggests the inhabitant might have thrown them clear off his lair. TV's on, the sound is off.
I close the door, put my stuff on the safe-top, and walk over, looking down on him.
His face is averted, and his forehead beaded with sweat now. That bit of walking must have been too much already - he clearly is in pain, ashamed of it, and probably also stoned out of his gourd. Whatever he's taken does not seem to help much in handling whatever he took it for, though.
House also does not want to be alone, but I guess I should leave.
I'm about to take off again when he stops me.
"Pour yourself a Scotch and get me one," House croaks, voice hardly intelligible and hoarse. Fine by me.
I walk into the general direction of the silently blazing TV set, where I seem to remember having seen bottles last time. Nothing. As I turn back I realize that he's probably finished them all and some, and that whatever is still left in the studio will be round and about the couch. Right: sort of opposite the man's current position and well out of his reach, a bottle sits on the floor: less than half-full, and a dirty glass beside it. I don't recognize the label, but it looks like genuine Scotch, and classy.
House has not shifted, and ignores me.
I pick up the glass and cross to the kitchen, trying not to step on things.
The kitchen is small and needs cleaning like the rest of the place, but it has a nice heavy deal table with ornate brass fittings, probably an old countryside butcher's. Worn and very antique. Or maybe it is an ancient operating table, the lamps would match with that too, but I do think they've been using steel or stone for that since time immemorial.
I judge that no clean kitchen stuff will be available. Rifling the place anyway, I fleetingly wonder if I could fix him a hot, bitter chocolate - from real, pure cocoa, not the sweetened supermarket stuff. Nothing like that to unclench any muscles, and probably the imaginary kind as well.
To my amazement, I even find the real thing, a packet of expensive Valrhona, but there's no amount of milk worth mentioning to make it with.**
There are some used glasses by the sink. I wash up his glass, and one for me. I then fill a pot with crushed ice, topping that with some cubes. Amazingly, there are no cold/ warm compresses in this medico's household that I can make out.
Back at the table, I pour some Scotch in both glasses over a couple of the cubes, and sit down next to him. That is, to his right. That deep scar blazes at me like an angry curse. It sure is an ugly thing, but can it really hurt like that? I try to assess him. Whatever it is, it is BAD.
"Leg?"
Dr House nods, feebly.
"Anything else?"
A weak shake of the head.
House is rigid with fighting the pain, and does not respond when I move the glass against his fingers. So I put it back on the table, and take a sip from mine through the ice. Nice stuff. I pick an ice cube and touch it to his brow and forehead. House makes no sound, but leans into the coldness for an instant.
Then he lifts his head. His eyes fly open, and are as sharp and hard as ever for a fleeting moment. There seems to be a question. But he has no strength to stare, and just falls back. Nor does he put his thoughts in words.
I can't tell if he's angry, but my iced fingers on his forehead are obviously much of a relief or a distraction, since he doesn't try to move away.
I need some tissue or fabric.
In the bathroom, there are still, or again, some of the clean, small towels, and I soak one in cold water and wring it. Seems to become a routine around here.
I also take a small plastic bag, and what feels to be a reasonably clean tee. Whirling the humid towel, I return to the living room.
Back at the couch, first thing is to dry and cool his face. House still does not move, and I can't tell if he agrees with what I do. So I take the absence of protest for consent.
I put some ice in the bag, wrap it into the t-shirt, put the towel around that, and very carefully and slowly wipe and cool his face, then his neck and shoulders, pushing open his shirt. He's naked under that which helps. Was probably changing dress when the fit came on.
The cold fabric seems to vaguely comfort him. My treatment needs all the ice. I take what I put into the whisky too, but I still have to get up to get some more.
Slowly, some colour returns to his cheeks.
Eventually, he utters a thank you almost too weak to be audible, and I do wish I hadn't heard it. It's just that kind of thank you I hate most. I've had the sort after blow-jobs occasionally, and the total lack of any self-respect, or self-esteem, it shows on the side of the taker, tends to make me want to throw up in retrospect.
Taking this from a hooker, too, from someone who's mere paid meat, but must not ever see weakness... Yes, I AM a hooker, and, yes, guys DO need to use me, and therefore may feel contempt - for themselves, or any living being. But why render invalid what little pleasure there is to be had from paid affection and some skin contact, in those passing bodies? What am I if they are that low? To me, that sort of gratitude is worse than some john's attempt at violence. I am not defenceless against that.
Inhaling deeply and pushing this line of thought aside, I take a sip of my Scotch, and whirl the towel about some more to cool it again. I then wrap it around the tee.
House feels the whiff of air, and cracks an eyelid. Weakly: "Ah, so it's weird games today, wet towel punishment time?"
"Yes," I grin, trying for wicked, a bit relieved to hear that the cooling did do something, that there's still a living man with some sense of humor in there somewhere, and not just the dejected, tortured creature that felt the need to proclaim some wretched gratitude, just to make known humiliation instead.
I'd've never thought this man to be capable of that sort of self-abasement - and he shouldn't be, either! Searing anger at the whole situation boils up within me abruptly: he's the sort I want to see strong and rising, not utterly crushed by circumstance! But then, here we all are, in this den of iniquity, as long as we can take it.
His words only show for the pain he's in. Still, they were also a dismissal. Which I am going to ignore. This may work, after all.
I drop to my knees next to his head and very carefully touch the skin around the enormous, lurid scar. There's no heat, but still. The marred flesh seems to crawl.
House anticipates my actions and croaks: "No! No cold there! Leave it!"
I ignore him, and slap the iced towel over the scar.
House bucks, yelps, and falls back.
I take the thing away. Then I put it back on again.
He gropes around to stop me, but I am easily out of his range.
"No... no, not ice..."
"Shut up," I say, daring him to beg, and shut up he does. Amazing. I do get the idea that this man's forte is definitely not doing as he's told at all, usually. Had he been less drugged or in pain, he likely would have kicked me out, by my attempt to enter his kitchen, the latest.
Very carefully, I swab my way around the scar. There's a deep gash in the middle of it that looks like it's never healed properly, but also like precision surgery. My middle finger would just fit, I think, if I stuck it in there... There is sick temptation, and the fear to sort-of grow fixed to that gap and lose that finger, a play-time mixture of horror and curiosity...
I resist the childish impulse to probe and dig for the time being, put more ice into the bag, and put it and the iced material back on the scar.
Again, I might just as well have stuck my fingers into an electric outlet. He gives a howl that must stir the neighborhood.
I put the ice-bag on the table and press down the towel once more. House calms as abruptly as he blew up.
I leave my hand on top of his thigh, pressing, but moving very, very slightly only.
Trying to be none-too gentle is more difficult than you'd think.
His head rolls aside limply. He is completely exhausted by fear, pain, and drugs. But the nervous tension is definitely lifting.
"Relax, this should be okay now."
House is watching me warily as I put the iced shirt back on his leg once more, on top of the thicker fabric. My hand goes on top of that, pressing very gently, ignoring House's weak protests.
I can feel the crushed stuff shift and adjust to the shape of the wound. Moving the ice over the towel, I can see that the first minutes of cold touch to the scar still are hell, but House makes no sound now. Luckily, he's pretty much under. His eyes are not brilliant like I've seen them so far, but greyish and fogged with the drugs.
I change the ice again, wondering how many of his pain killers he's taken, in addition to the booze. There is an empty pill bottle on the table and another sitting next to it that's still half full, but the place is teeming with the stuff. There were two bottles in the bathroom as well, and one in the kitchen, on top of the fridge, that I saw. None of them was full for all I could tell. There might be some more among the jumble on the floor.
Of course I wouldn't swear to their contents. People are known to put things into other things without bothering to label either, and from a distance, those oblong pills might just be vitamins.
But even if he only took all of the Vicodin that can have been in the two bottles on the table max., I reckon the dose would be terminal for most grown-ups.
His skin will go numb with the cold at some point. It must be a kind of phantom pain, which doesn't mean it's not bad. From my experience, mental images and memories can be harder to take than physical pain.
Eventually, his eyes close once more. While I massage the coldness into his thigh deftly, House being as absent as anyone can be in such a situation, I wonder if the man before me now is anything like the physician, or the man, that he is to his friends, or colleagues.
After two refills of ice, and an eternity of slow pressure and movement, his tortured muscles give. I dig my thumbs and the balls of my hands in, loosening, calming. By that time, I've explored the scar, its depths enough to rest my own sick mind, and he did not object. A weird place to put a finger into a body...
A sigh and shudder run through him, and he relaxes somewhat. There's no sign otherwise that he's awake, or even alive. His face though... he could be in ecstasy, now. Again I think he's beautiful in his own way, sometimes.
I put the towel and ex-ice-bag in the sink and get very hot water from a cooker to soak the towel in. Just hot enough that I can still hold on to the fabric by my fingertips. I won't use a plate or things to carry it, because it then might just be too hot.
"This is hot, now," I say, and slap the thing on.
He groans, but hardly moves this time. I pull it away.
House's eyes open, and he stares at me, expressionless. The color of pain is gone from them, some of their brilliance has returned. I put the still-steaming towel back on twice under his glare, leaving it on a little longer each time. Finally, I slap the towel on tightly, and press my palms down once more, with my weight on them. Those eyes close again and he is breathing very fast, then he stops himself, and inhales deeply.
He breathes into the pressure for a while, slowly. This does it: his body goes all limp.
House lies exhausted, but when I return from the kitchen, with some tap to drink, his gaze is on me.
After a long time, House asks: "Do you do massage, too?"
His eyes are much clearer than before, but he is very weak.
"I thought that was what I just did."
"Real massage, without the ice torture." His voice is rasping, sexy, really...
"A bit," I say, "nothing pro really, in the medical line."
No grin. House just looks on, like begging.
Eventually, I nod, and get up. From my bag on the safe, I grab the lube. Stays quite a long time and is pleasantly cooling. It will do.
"Gimme," he says, "and the ice."
I go get some more.
He unscrews the lube with trembling fingers and uses first it, then the ice, on his face.
"I could have fetched you some lotion from the bathroom."
He makes a sound not to bother, and puts the fresh ice-bag over his eyes and forehead again, fumbling.
I oil my hands and dig into his buttocks and the back of his legs.
"Ouch."
"Tense, aren't we?"
House snorts.
From there, I move on to the sides and along the hip bone, then to his right thigh.
The muscles above the scar are still as hard as stone. Same below, above the knee.
House complains again, but I do not relent.
I work the scar very carefully, into its depths, too. After a small eternity, something gives. He relaxes some more.
I turn to the other, very shapely, leg, because asymmetry doesn't seem a good idea. Yet it is obvious that it's the right, the scar, that craves attention, and I turn my attention back to it.
At some point, something seems to stir between his legs, but House is drugged and done in. That wound is something dreadful.
In the end, his muscles slacken, the skin tonus on his right thigh goes back to a more normal state, and not much later, he is half-asleep on the couch. He is still sweating a bit.
House is back again and observes me quietly while I remove the towels and clean up.
"Thank you," House says, weakly. Again, wow. The words don't feel all bad this time. His voice and eyes are back to normal now.
Regardless of those noises of gratitude, I get the distinct feeling that I will regret what I said and did here today, regret my kindness, regret that I've seen his loss of face. Also that I forced him to relax, to forego the pain, and how he must hate that. Well, I hate hypocrisy.
Horse medicine... Surely, House must hate nursing even more than me.
"Bedroom?"
He shakes his head.
So I tuck him in under the blanket I got earlier - he's still too weak to efficiently protest -, and make to leave.
"Lights out?"
"No... just... the kitchen."
I do that.
House still watches me while I swing on my emerald jacket. He angles for his Scotch, so he must be better. Then he gestures at the safe.
I look inside, and there they sit: a pile of nice, crisp greenbacks. Nice. Cleanliness does pay. I reach for them, then withdraw. This means he doesn't mind the change from Lisa, and did expect me back. But not for this, not with him like this. I'll shave him hard another time, instead.
When I'm by the door, he says "Don't leave. Not yet. Come here."
I obey.
House takes my hand and puts it on the scar once more, flat.
His eyes are on me, bright again, but he's still light years away.
I sit down and stroke his wound. His hand covers mine.
Eventually, slowly, he moves me away from the lost muscle to another organ.
I just stroke him, for a very long time. When I try to put my mouth there, House just shakes his head. He never gets it up, but that doesn't seem to matter much. I do think this soothes him. Sometimes he twitches, rather like falling asleep. I itch, myself, but nothing doing.
He has stopped sweating, his face does not shine anymore. Color has returned to his skin. Then he does fall asleep, breathing deep and steady.
I tuck him in again, grab my things, and rush my drink - or try to, at first. A shame. At least, the ice got no chance to water it down. An excellent malt, most expensive stuff for sure. Not his everyday drink even though he could afford it. This day must have been hell.
"Your health," I say, and taste it some more, but then finish it off fast. I want out of here. This was hard work. Nursing has never been my forte.
For some moments, I wonder if I should take the money, then decide that this is still my game, and that I won't, today. He hasn't delivered, now has he?
"See ya next week!"
No answer.
I slip out quietly. With a bit of luck, he'll not remember much of this.
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** You need one table spoon to one-and-a-half of cocoa per pint of milk, according to your taste. Hot chocolate of this kind can be made with a shot of whisky, or rum, or liqueur d'orange, all of which make solving the powder a breeze. If you don't want to use spirits, add liquid for the solving drop by drop while stirring. Add just a pinch of salt and sugar each. You might also want to add some other spices, like vanilla, cinnamon, or nutmeg, to your taste. The result is like life itself - beautiful, bitter, strong, and self-asserting.
You make it with a largish glass of dry red wine in exchange for some of the milk, it will raise the dead efficiently. You add chili, it invigorates. You add cayenne, it gives a strong burn in the nether regions some time later, so probably this last version is not for dear friends... But in any case, you do also need about a pint of milk to heat, so nothing doing here.
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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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