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  Pain 
 by Gena Fisher  

 Title: Pain Author: Gena Fisher email: sentinelgirl@yahoo.com Rating:
slash but G Disclaimer: Not mine and I'm really poor so don't sue me.
Summary: House experiences pain. Notes: We'll see tonight how House
handles detox but this is my explanation for why he might do what he does
in the previews - as far as we can tell w/o having seen the actual
episode. 

Pain

Cameron paused as she pushed through the office door. House wasn't there.
Odd. She checked her watch. 9AM. Hmm, he always managed to come in by 9.
Sometimes he looked as if he hadn't gotten to sleep until 8 but he was
always there. Maybe he'd come in early and was already prowling the halls
in search of amusement, which generally took the form of tormenting
helpless mortals. No, she could see his computer wasn't on and his
briefcase wasn't under his desk. What would keep House from the office?
Illness? She chewed on her lip, running back over the events from the day
before. He hadn't complained of feeling unwell but with a start she
realized House never complained about how he felt - not in a way that
would get him real sympathy. He might accuse someone of harassing a
cripple, his words, but he did so to anger, to confuse, - to distract.
There were plenty of times he looked haggard and unwell but any time he
spoke of his disability he did so mockingly. 

Events from the previous day played through her head, and she examined
them for any sign she might have missed at the time. He'd stayed in his
office most of the morning, but that wasn't unusual, sometimes he sat at
his computer for hours doing - something. Other times they might find him
in the chair in the corner, legs propped on the footstool and a magazine
in his lap. But there were times he couldn't sit still and would wander
the halls for hours coming back sweaty, and pale, leaning heavily on his
cane. She hadn't detected a pattern, and didn't know if it was his mood or
his leg which dictated his routine. He never discussed it and none of
them'd had the nerve to ask but that didn't stop them from speculating -
and worrying. The first time the three of them had returned to the office
and found their boss lying on the floor, arms thrown wide, his bad leg
resting on the chair, it had caused a minor scene. It was the one time she
had seen him at a loss for words. Since then she and Chase made it a point
to make sure he was obviously unconscious or bleeding before they raised
the alarm although Foreman walked past his sprawled form without even
blinking. 

"Where's House?" Chase asked, peering over her shoulder.

"I was wondering the same thing," she said. "Did he seem okay yesterday?"

"Okay for him. It was a walking day," Chase said, "he must have done
twenty laps after lunch. Not that I was counting." Not good, Cameron
decided. He always left early on a walking day. 

"What's so fascinating?" Foreman demanded from behind them both. "Where's
House?"

"That's what we were trying to figure out," Chase said. Like penguins at
the zoo, they trundled inside, stopping in front of House's desk as if it
might produce the answer. It didn't. After several minutes silent
communing with its urban chic-ness they gave up and went into their own
shared space. Twenty minutes later Dr. James Wilson arrived.

"Oh, good," he said, "you're all here. I, uh, Dr. House won't be in
today," he began, "and maybe not for a few days."

"What's happened?" Cameron demanded.

"I had him admitted last night." Wilson raised a hand to forestall their
questions and allow him to speak. "He called me about 10 o'clock
complaining of some numbness in his leg. When I got over there is was so
bad he couldn't even get up to let me in." He hoped they didn't notice the
fact he must have his own key to House's place. "He's in room 521 but I
doubt he'd welcome visitors."

~~~~~

63 ceiling tiles. Seven rows of nine. Nine rows of seven. How many of
those little holes? Gregory House squinted at the tile directly above his
hospital bed, trying to decide how many holes might be in a square inch.
He didn't really care, probably wouldn't need the answer for any of the
insurance forms he'd no doubt be filling out soon, but it kept his mind
off - other things. His gaze fell, sweeping over the glass and chrome
furniture, the TV murmuring on the wall opposite, and finally rested on
his own foot. Not very exciting stuff, really, but the fact that he
couldn't feel the usual ache between him and it caused an unpleasant
sensation whenever he dwelled on it. Hence, the ceiling tiles. 63. Seven
rows of nine. Nine rows of seven. The pain wasn't that bad. Okay, it was
agony most of the time, and a dull ache the rest, but this absence of pain
made his heart beat like a trapped bird. They'd prepared him years ago for
the fact he might lose his leg and there had been times, curled in a ball
and panting through the muscle spasms that he'd thought amputation would
be easier than constant pain, but when it came right down to it he was
scared. Scared of what would happened. Scared of facing people knowing
they knew. Scared of turning to someone for help and finding out he was
all alone. House closed his eyes, squeezed them shut and took a deep
breath. 63 tiles. How many holes per square inch?

She silently eased the door open and stepped inside. A stray shafted of
sunlight drifted in through the curtains and bounced off the shiny chrome
table beside his bed. She'd never liked these hospital rooms, they felt
cold and the glass walls made her thing of exhibits at the museum. Each
room looked like a tableau of suffering which she and her colleagues would
wander past, fascinated, taking notes and chatting excitedly about the
strange sights on offer. She willed the image away and looked at the man
in the bed. House looked - frail. She'd seen him almost every day for the
past eight months and never once thought he looked weak in any way. He
always looked tired. He didn't seem to sleep much but to her it had always
seemed more because his mind churned at breakneck speed day and night than
anything else. He usually looked rumpled. She would have been surprised to
learn that once upon a time appearance had mattered to him. But that was
before trivial things had lost their hold on him; things like clothes, and
manners and sparing people from the cold, hard truth. But right now he
looked frail and all alone.

"Wilson once told me it's important to look at things from a different
point of view to see their uniqueness," House commented idly, "but ceiling
tiles are fucking boring whether you're standing on your desk or lying in
bed."

"How are you feeling?"

"Don't you have some work to do, Cameron?" He finally rolled his head to
look at her and she could see he was sweating and his normally penetrating
blue eyes had dulled to gray. 

"I brought you this." She moved quickly, nearly darting from the doorway
to his beside. She laid the magazine beside his hand, not looking at the
IV line running into his arm, but avoiding it anyway. She fled before he
could think of anything nasty to say. But when she had gone he let his
fingers brush over the slick surface of Soap Opera Update and a tiny,
involuntary smile flickered across his lips. House looked up. 63 ceiling
tiles filled with holes. He began to count.

~~~~~

"How is he?" 

Wilson let his hand drop from the door handle and turned to face Lisa
Cuddy. He knew the moment he did that she could read the anxiety on his
face. "He's developed a bit of a fever but I don't think it's got anything
to do with his leg."

"Why not?" Cuddy held out her hand for the file Wilson was carrying and
took a moment to read over his notes. 

"I'm fairly positive the numbness is a pinched nerve," he said. "Things we
take for granted, like getting dressed, are difficult for Greg." He
pointed out.

"Yes, it must take a lot of effort to snag a pair of crumpled jeans from
the floor and a T-shirt from under the bed," Cuddy agreed. Wilson
grimaced. House never put much thought into what he wore now days, but he
knew it was mostly just to annoy her. "So he twisted wrong and pinched a
nerve?"

"I think so."

"And the fever?" Cuddy's steely eyes bore into his. Wilson knew she could
be a hardass but she also respected House and she'd made many concessions
to his condition that only Wilson knew about. 

"Could be an infection of some kind or even the flu possibly," Wilson
suggested. "We'll wait and see how he does tonight." She held his gaze a
moment longer, searching for something in his eyes, satisfied she nodded
and turned away. Wilson slumped against the wall outside House's room and
watched her go. He was a fool. He was risking everything he held dear for
- he looked at the faint outline of the hospital bed - for Greg. He shook
his head and reached again for the door handle.

"What's the verdict, Wilson," House asked, "are you going to have me put
down?"

Wilson didn't answer. He snapped off the television and dropped into the
chair beside the bed. "You have no idea do you?"

House frowned, then blinked and gave Wilson a look of comic astonishment.
"I have all kinds of ideas but most are illegal, several are immoral and
one is physically impossible."

"Greg," Wilson closed his eyes, willing the panic beating through him to
subside. "What do you remember about last night?"

"Last night?" For once House seemed serious. He stared at Wilson for a
long moment then said slowly, "I remember - hurting. I took a pill but,"
his voice trailed off and his eyes lost their focus. "I called you because
I felt - cold, sick. I felt like I was sinking."

"You took one pill?"

House hesitated. "Two."

"You drink anything?"

"I always have a drink at night, you know that," House snapped. "What the
hell is this? What are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything," Wilson said. "I just want you to level with
me." 

"I never lie," House said and the "to you" hung in the air between them.
"Cuddy thinks I OD'd, doesn't she."

Wilson looked away, his gaze on the vague forms passing on the other side
of the glassed wall. He hated these rooms, even with the curtains drawn it
still felt as if he was performing in a play, and his part was always in
the tragedy. "You were on the floor. There were pills; the whiskey bottle
was lying next to them. Greg, you can't do this to yourself, you know
that."

"James," House reached out and caught Wilson's wrist. "I was hurting. I
moved wrong and felt something give, it took my breath away. That's when I
called you." He tightened his grip, "I'm not an addict. I passed out
because of the pain."

Wilson wanted to believe him, he projected as much trust as he could but
knew it hadn't been enough when House let go of his wrist and lay back on
the pillow. "I'll check on you later," Wilson said and rose from the
chair. "You're still running a slight temperature." 

~~~~

Addict. House closed his eyes and listened to the faint sound of his best
friend walking away. Wilson thought he was an addict just like the rest of
them. He wasn't addicted, he knew that. He took it for pain, just for the
pain. Hell he never took more than the prescribed dose, did he? Well, last
night he had but that was because - of the pain. House scrubbed a hand
over his face then wiped his damp palm on the sheet. When the pain went
away for a while he could think, he could breathe again, why didn't they
understand that?

"You never lie, huh?" House jerked his head towards the corner of the
room. He could make out a dark form, barely distinguishable from the
shadows. "Sure you're not lying to yourself?" 

"Go away. Leave me the hell alone for once," House ordered but the figure
stepped closer, shadows dropping away like autumn leaves until House was
left to stare at the man he'd once been.

"Ah, Gregory is that any way to treat yourself?"

"You're a hallucination."

The counterfeit House gave him a slick smile, "And you're jealous." He
shifted closer still, walking without a limp. Tall and slender, he moved
with the grace of those blessed with natural athleticism. House glared at
the intruder, hating his tousled brown hair, his deep tan and the bright,
clear eyes snapping with vitality. With nauseating ease House's impostor
threw himself into the chair so recently vacated by Wilson, one long leg
curled under him, the other dangling over the chair arm. "Admit it, Greg,
you'd give anything to be me again."

"Are you a fucking idiot? I mean, am I a fucking idiot, of course I
would," House barked. He wiped at the sweat along his upper lip. Who the
hell had turned up the heat? 

"Well, at least that was the truth."

"I never lie," House said again. 

"And you're not addicted to painkillers?"

"No!" He wasn't. He couldn't be, could he? Yesterday had just been a very
bad day, the dull ache keeping him from resting at all. He walked when it
felt like that, working the muscles that were left but by the time he'd
gotten home House knew it had been too much. Strangely cold and utterly
exhausted, he'd poured himself a drink, intending to sit at his piano for
half an hour or so to unwind but the maid had moved his chair when she
vacuumed and when he turned he'd hit his leg hard against it. He
remembered a blinding flash of pain stealing the breath away from his
lungs, and the sting of tears that had sprung to his eyes. After that time
had stopped adhering to natural laws and he didn't know long he laid half
sprawled across the piano shuddering with reaction. Somehow he'd manage to
swallow two pills, knowing one wouldn't even take the edge off what he was
feeling then called James when he thought he could talk without screaming.
Something had been wrong, he'd known it then, he'd felt leaden and cold
and wanted Wilson's warmth nearby. He hadn't even had his whiskey after
taking the two Vicodin. He wasn't a fool nor was he suicidal so why were
they all bothering him?

"Greg? What's wrong?"

House struggled to focus on the voice at his elbow. "Wilson? Why's it so
hot in here?"

"Damn! You're temperature is spiking." Wilson's hand on his cheek felt
cool and he closed his eyes in relief. "House?" The hand moved, cradling
the back of his skull, "Here, take a sip of water." House let the water
fill his mouth, flowing down his throat to slake a thirst which until that
moment he hadn't realized had consumed his soul. Never had anything tasted
so sweet. He wrapped his hand around Wilson's and would have drunk the
entire glass if his friend hadn't stopped him. "Easy, not too much, Greg,"
Wilson warned and House groaned when the glass was pulled away. "I'm going
to give you something to help. You still with me?" House felt the quick
sting of a needle in his arm. 

House blinked up at his friend. Out of the corner of his eye he could see
his imaginary self lounging against the wall, twirling his cane like a
propeller. "We're both still here," he slurred, "but only one of us is
real."

~~~~~

"Will you sit with him for a while?" Wilson asked. He was standing in the
Diagnostic Medicine office staring down at Allison Cameron. 

"He doesn't like people when he's awake," Foreman pointed out, "why would
he want someone sitting beside his bed when he's practically unconscious?"

"I doubt if he would," Wilson said, "but I don't want him to be alone."
Chase had spent a couple of hours with House just after lunch and Wilson
planned on spending the evening in room 521 but he couldn't get away until
7 at the earliest. 

"Of course," Cameron said quickly. She touched his arm as she left. 

"I hope she likes sea shanties," Chase said with a cryptic shake of his
head, leaving Wilson and Foreman staring at each other. 

"That his lab results?" Foreman asked and took the file from Wilson.
"Looks like his white count is up pretty high."

"It's an infection," Wilson agreed. 

Foreman read the results, nodding. "Yeah, I see that. This makes it look
like he's fought it on an off for a while. He had emergency surgery to
save his leg after the initial damage, right?"

"Yeah, it was pretty touch and go there for a while," Wilson said quietly,
remembering the horror of those first few days not knowing if House would
live or die. "I - we were all very worried he might not make it."

Foreman gave him a searching look. Something about his expression, the
dark, unblinking eyes, made Wilson uncomfortable. "The broad spectrum
antibiotics don't seem to have knocked it out. This thing's been hanging
around waiting for a while. Has he shown signs of this infection before?"
Wilson thought it over. With Greg it was so damned hard to know. He never
looked 100% and even on good days he wouldn't tell anyone he wasn't at his
peak. The only way Wilson had ever even come close to judging how House
was feeling on any particular day corresponded to the time they spend
together that day. If House sought him out, tried to cajole him into an
outlandish or childish endeavor or spent hours teasing him about some
minute detail he'd seized upon, it was a good day. If House avoided him,
or lashed out with some needlessly vicious remark, it was a bad day; bad,
but not the worst. No, the days when House stayed in his apartment
answering the phone only when Wilson threatened to call the paramedics and
the door only when Wilson thought his knuckles would bleed were the worst.
Those days, when they occurred , he looked as if the life was being
drained from his body and his soul. "Dr. Wilson?" Foreman said.

"Sorry," Wilson said, pulling his thought back to the present. "Yeah,
there's been several times in the past few years House has been fairly
ill." They decided on another round of antibiotics, a slightly stronger
mix designed like an assassin to hunt down the stubborn infection and
terminate it once and for all. 

"Look," Foreman said, "I know you're worried but I'll take care of this." 

Wilson dropped his gaze, staring at the tips of his shoes. Of all House's
team, Foreman was the one he had trouble reading. Chase was affable, easy
going, and nearly impossible to ruffle, all qualities that made him one of
the best ER doctors Wilson had ever seen. Cameron cared passionately about
everyone she crossed paths with; patients, doctors and the man on the
street. But Foreman was different. He cared, but not like Cameron. He got
along with people but wasn't anything like Chase. He and House butted
heads almost continuously but he shared many qualities with his boss;
stubborn, brilliant, impatient, curious, and changeable. Wilson took a
deep breath, hoping he could trust his instincts. "Thanks, Foreman. I know
you think House is a jerk, and well, he is, but he's my friend. You have
to believe me when I tell you he can't help being the way he is now." 

Foreman nodded. "I figured as much." Absurdly grateful, Wilson shrugged
and headed for his office. He had several patients to see, and some calls
to make then he could spend the evening with Greg. 

It was after seven when he finally punched the button for the fifth floor.
He was tired and the sandwich he'd gulped down a couple of hours before
sat like a rock in the pit of his stomach and all he wanted was to sit
down. He carried House's briefcase over his shoulder, the Gameboy, and
portable TV tucked securely inside. He'd also gotten the kitchen to send
up some chicken soup and it sloshed against the lid of its container with
each step he took. When he reached 521 and peered inside, Wilson was
surprised to see all three of House's employees. Chase and Foreman had
pulled in chairs and were sitting on the far side of the room, both
staring up at the television. Cameron sat at House's beside, frowning up
at the screen. His gaze went to House, who was sitting up and looking
slightly better than he had hours earlier.

"Cuddy give in and get us the adult cable package?" He asked as he stepped
inside. 

"That wouldn't be appropriate for a hospital, Dr. Wilson," Cameron
reminded him. 

"Too cheap," House said, "she spends our recreation budget at Victoria's
Secret." He sounded stronger and his eyes looked clearer but there was a
stiffness in his manner than spoke of pain. Danner in orthopedics had
confirmed the pinched nerve and prescribed gentle exercise to alleviate
the problem once House's infection had been taken care of. Right now Greg
needed fluids and as much rest as he could get in a hospital. Wilson made
a show of getting House's toys out, laying them on the side table with a
flourish. He grinned over at his friend and saw a pleased expression on
House's tired face. 

"Thought you might need some diversions," Wilson said. "You feeling any
better?" House didn't answer but Wilson hadn't really expected him to.
"Well," he turned to the three younger doctors, "I think I can take it
from here."

"I don't need a baby-sitter," House growled. 

"You need a muzzle and some kind of shock collar," Wilson said with a
placid smile. Chase coughed a laugh and Foreman muttered something too
quiet for them to hear. 

"Good night," Cameron said as she lead the others out of the room. 

Wilson fished a spoon out of his pocket and set the container of soup
before House. "You hungry? I brought soup."

~~~~~~~

House pretended to eye the soup but was really watching intently as Wilson
seated himself and used the remote to flick through channels. Silence
stretched between them lasting until he settled on All In the Family
dubbed into Spanish. House wanted to say something, anything that might
destroy the distance which seemed to have grown between them but he didn't
have a clue where to begin. With a sigh he spooned up soup, swallowing
mechanically but after a minute, pushed it away.

"Not hungry?"

House shook his head. He wasn't hungry, didn't think he'd be hungry
anytime soon and didn't feel like eating with James just sitting there
mesmerized by Archie Bunker. "James," House stopped, not really sure what
to say even though he had started. Wilson continued to stare at the TV a
moment longer then with a sigh, flicked it off. 

"I can't lose you," Wilson said softly and without looking at House.
"You're the one constant in my life, Greg. The one person I can count on
to understand and accept what I do, who I am." When he turned his brown
eyes glittered dangerously. 

"But you keep marrying nurses," House pointed out.

Wilson laughed but it broke like a sob. "Yeah, but I don't mean to." He
reached out, taking Greg's hand in his. "This," he squeezed House's
fingers, "is so much more than my marriages ever have been. We're - we're
soul mates, Greg."

House interlaced their fingers and slowly pulled Wilson's hand up until it
rested over his heart. "Soul mates?" Wilson nodded. "Like Romeo and
Juliet? Like George and Gracie? Maybe like Cary Grant and Randolph Scott?"
Wilson rolled his eyes but nodded again. Pain. He'd lived with it for so
long and never noticed that its icy grip felt a lot like fear. Wilson's
silent declaration had sent his heart leaping. "If - I take better care of
myself you'll never leave me?" House knew he sounded pathetic, needy, the
one thing he hated above all else but he couldn't help it. He needed
reassurance. Since his illness he'd tested Wilson's devotion every step of
the way, striking out at him in his most vulnerable places but Wilson had
never backed off. He got angry, he got hurt but he always came back. House
knew it took a lot for Wilson to ignore the way he was treated, to keep
reminding himself that the old Greg was still inside there someplace, and
he was grateful Wilson seemed to pull it off. He owned James something in
return.

"Even if you don't take care of yourself," Wilson said, "I'll be right
beside you." 

I'll prove it to him, House thought. I'll show him that what Cuddy and the
others believe is bullshit. If James can handle what I inflict I can
handle a little pain of my own. 

  
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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.