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Pills
by Nikki R.
He downed them all.
He thumbed the little bottle, flicking off the lid and tapping two pills into his palm, then two more, then two more, then two more, then two more, then two more. Two more until the bottle was empty and on the floor, rolling under the bed. Empty, like him. The handful of white pills stood out in the dark, iridescent. They clicked together in his palm, whispering sweet promises of sleep and welcoming darkness.
The pain just wouldn't leave. It had seeped into every corner, every crack in his body, filling him. The pain pulsed and throbbed in time with his heartbeat, sending waves of red, red heat washing over him. Through the haze of blood-red pain, he saw the amber bottle. Crouched innocently on the nightstand. Little white pills gazing back at him.
He pushed through the door of his bedroom, not bothering with the light switch. The king-sized bed looked so far away, impossibly far. He stumbled across the room, flinging himself onto the bed with a sharp hiss of pain.
He was so ashamed. So fucking ashamed of himself, so tired of the pain, the fear, the constant bitter taste in his mouth. He leaned heavily on the cane, exiting the bathroom and heading down the hall towards his room. Towards sanctuary.
There was blood mixed with the vomit. Not much. He wasn't surprised, really.
House knelt on the floor, face inches away from the toilet. He retched, wishing that he could vomit his soul right out of his body, out of the broken shell. Away from the pain.
He felt sick. He crashed into the bathroom, weaving from the pain and the exhaustion and the Scotch. The cane was hooked over the towel rack, a well practiced move he executed without even having to look. He went down on his knees. Fuck. That hurt.
Too many pills. Too much booze. The mixture churned in his stomach, and he rose up out of the Eames in his living room in a sea of nausea and sleeplessness. Bathroom was fifty feet away. He weighed the pros and cons.
Everyone was gone. The only ones left were House and Ben Nevis, age 21.
Cuddy had crippled him, Stacy had crippled him. Stacy and Cuddy. Wilson had saved him, and Cuddy had tried so damn hard. And he had shoved her away. He'd shoved everyone away. Cuddy shoved back, and Wilson had just laughed at him, tossed him a beer, and told him to piss off. Stacy had left, and Cuddy had stopped trying, and now Wilson, too, was gone
He threw the last of his things into his bag, zipping it up and slinging it over his shoulder. He left his key on House's nightstand. House picked it up, feeling the cool metal in his palm; it burned him like a brand. He threw it, hard.
"Sorry," Wilson said. "But I have to go."
"What the hell is this?" Wilson was packing. The bag was nearly full, Wilson was dressed, the room seemed empty, stripped, without his things lying around. It was too clean, to tidy. It reminded House of the morgue. The most organized room in the hospital, and the one with the least life in it.
It was like Stacy all over again.
House walked into his apartment, bitching about the cold and shouting for Wilson to start making dinner. Wilson didn't answer. House, apprehensive, pushed open the bedroom door.
House parked the bike outside the apartment. Today had been a bad day day. His leg had burned, the sharp bite of cold in the air that slicing through the Vicodin and into his muscles. Two doses into the day, though, and he was feeling loose and warm and fuzzy. Unfocused, and restless, the pain barely tolerable.
The bike hummed, the road whipped by. House was flying, glued to an orange monstrosity, the black road disappearing beneath his tires. Trick or treat.
It was Halloween. Pumpkins dotted porches, and the hospital had sported garish decorations all day. House revved the engine, ready to go home, home, home.
The day was a blur. He couldn't, and didn't try to remember the events. His leg had been bugging him, so he doubled his dose. No interesting cases. Played some solitaire, made fun of his Cameron, of Cuddy, of the clinic patients, of Wilson, of his staff, of the nurses, of the weather. Of everything. Trying to lighten the mood, trying to distract Cameron and himself from the fact that they would never see each other again. It bothered him more than he thought it would.
He fell, on his way out of the apartment. He was a cripple, he was used to falling. He knew how to fall without hurting himself too badly. But he had seen the look in Wilson's eyes, the guilty, heart-broken expression. That had hurt more than the stone-hard whack of the floor against his torso.
It was cold. The leaves had shifted from green to red and yellow, and were now in the beginning stages of brown. The few that had fallen swished underfoot, whispering the coming of winter into reddened ears. House hated the cold. It made him sore and stiff and bitchy. It made him aware of how he could not go for an early morning jog, when it was dark and the air was crisp and wet with dew. How he could not rake the yard or walk in the park with a beautiful girl, oohing at the leaves and holding hands through woolen gloves. He snapped on his leather jacket, heading for the door.
When House rolled out of bed, he knew that today would be tricky. The cold had stiffened his whole leg, and he had to treat it carefully, cautiously. Move oh, so slowly. Damn.
The night passed in a haze of beer and pizza and cheap movies and Wilson and the piano and just talking, and not talking but just thinking, and not thinking but just being. Being there, being together. Pretending that this was normal, this stupid, screwed up friendship. Pretending that he was a whole, normal man, who could run into the kitchen to fight for the last slice of pizza, or jump up when he scored a bonus life on Super Mario, or wrestle his friend to the ground and hold him there, laughing and just feeling alive.
Wilson came to the door, bearing gifts. Two large pizzas and a six pack. Life was good.
"I'm coming over, whether you like it or not."
The phone rang, but House did not pick up. The message clicked on.
It was a dream, obviously. And even after he woke from it, he could not bring himself to move, to remind himself that he could not move freely, dance, or jog, or play golf. He lay still, pretending that he wanted to, that he didn't have to.
They danced. He was so graceful, and he held her so delicately. She never felt safer than when she was in his arms, never saw anything as beautiful as this man in motion. Dancing, or running as he loved to, or even just lining up his golf shot. His every motion was a work of art. Grace...
House had his arm slung around a woman with dark hair and a bright smile. Her eyes shone with laughter, though she was pretending to be angry. A dark haired man laughed at the bar, sipping from his drink and slapping House on the back. "Go on," he said. "I'll watch your beer for you." House had feigned reluctance, though he loved the feeling of freedom, the good, full, contentedness of holding the woman close to him, chest to chest, his cheek resting against her hair. He groaned, and finally agreed pulling the woman off her stool and walking to the middle of the room, her fingers laced through his.
Wilson poked Stacy in the ribs. "Hey, isn't this your song?" Stacy turned to Greg. "Yeah, Greg. Aren't you going to ask me to dance?"
The jukebox stilled, the notes of the previous song fading out. There was a click, and "Iris" started to play.
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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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