My Foe
Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.
A/N: This story can be read on its own or as the continuation of a theme that follows "My Hell". I've been reviewing the episodes from season six so far to get a feel for Lucas' personality and behaviorisms but I'm finding some difficulty here, so please be patient with me if he is portrayed OOC. I'd appreciate any insight you may have concerning this, so please remember to review and let me know what you think!
Warning: This story involves adult issues that involve violence, sexuality and strong language. Reader Discretion is advised.
Rating: This is rated T for adult themes and coarse language.
Part I
I'm lucky, I suppose. My meeting with my psychiatrist went well and he agreed not to recall me to Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital for my drinking if I attend AA meetings here in Princeton. While I'm not thrilled with the idea of sitting in a room in some community hall or church with a bunch of other drunks and exposing my private struggles publically, it is better than being institutionalized again.
I kind of blew it the other day, although not as badly as I could have done. After a disappointing meeting with the woman I love where she rejected me I found myself sitting in a white collar lounge drowning my sorrows in overpriced Scotch. What's wrong with that, you may ask? Well, I'm an opiate addict and, although I'm loathe to admit it, an alcoholic. A recovering addict and alcoholic—or at least I was before last Saturday. It could have been worse in that I had also bought some ill-begotten Percocet tablets and had debated whether I should just take a couple for the mind-numbing high they would produce or take them all and permanently get rid of all aspects of pain I feel on a daily basis. Before taking them there was a small voice in the depths of my soul that told me to call my therapist, Dr. Nolan, before taking any of them. Nolan had talked me through those moments of extreme weakness, temporizing to give my best friend and roommate Dr. James Wilson the time he needed to locate me and intervene.
Nolan had called Wilson and me in to see him to discuss with me what should be done to ensure that I was safe and able to stay away from using and abusing substances to self-medicate my depression. One of his suggestions was for me to return to Mayfield for further inpatient treatment which was absolutely the last thing I wanted to happen. I'm afraid that having to return would be the final nail in the coffin of my career. The way things were between Cuddy and me I know she would fire me and report it to the state licensing board before the door of her office hit me in the ass on my way out.
Wilson also knew that returning to Mayfield would cause me more harm than good and after some negotiation Nolan was willing to allow me to remain in Princeton on three conditions: Firstly, Wilson and I have to get rid of everything and anything in the loft that contained alcohol, including all liquor, liqueurs, beer, wine, mouthwash, and Nyquil. Secondly I have to attend AA meetings no less than three nights a week until my therapist is convinced it isn't necessary any longer. Finally the third condition is that I begin to see Nolan once a week instead of biweekly as we have been doing for the past two months. While I don't like the idea of having so much of my time taken up with twelve step it is a great deal better than becoming an impatient at Mayfield again.
The entire drive home there is nothing but silence in the car. My best friend hasn't spoken to me since we left Nolan's office. He doesn't look pissed off—in fact, he looks a little on the sad side as he drives—but I have no idea what exactly is going through his head. All I do know is how incredibly guilty I feel for him having to sacrifice a beer with pizza in front of the TV or a glass of wine with dinner because of me. He has been so good to me since my return from rehab…so much better than I deserve and now I am only adding another burden on him. If only I hadn't been an idiot and gone to that lounge, drank and bought that Percocet…but no matter how much I wish I could, I can't go back and change it now.
I try to break the silence; tension is high and my anxiety is on the rise.
"Wilson," I say quietly, staring straight ahead at the road in front of us. "I've been thinking that maybe it's time for me to make other living arrangements."
My best friend whips his head around to look at me so quickly that I can almost hear a crack. There's a frightened look on his face.
"Whaa—why? We're getting along fine…well, as fine as we ever get along," he asks me quickly. "Is it something I've done?"
I look at him incredulously. Did he seriously just ask if he had done something wrong? This entire day trip to see my shrink was all about what I've done wrong. This isn't about him, it's about me.
"You haven't done anything wrong," I tell him, shaking my head. "This is about me, about all the trouble I've caused you since I moved in with you. You've been a good friend, but now I'm causing another imposition upon you with the booze."
"That?" Wilson responds and then shakes his head in dismissal. "House, I should have got rid of all the alcohol as soon as I knew you were moving in. You're an addict, for God's sake! I should have thought of it but I didn't. Don't worry about the booze. If I want to have a drink there are plenty of bars in our neighborhood that I can go to."
I'm quiet for a while. His response isn't exactly what I expected. I was certain he would be a little relieved that I brought it up before he had to. I try to figure out what his reaction means. He looks nervous, almost panicked. It's like he's afraid rather than relieved that I will leave.
"You shouldn't have to do that," I tell him, glancing in his direction. "I'm not worth all of the disruption I've created for you. I think it's best if I go back to my own place."
Wilson is silent now, but I see his emotions at play in his dark brown eyes and animated face. He has never been able to lie to me with me knowing. I haven't always called him on it because I figure sometimes there are damned good reasons to lie, but he can't contain a look of guilt whenever he does. Likewise it usually fairly easy to read what he is thinking and feeling by the expression in his eyes.
He rubs the back of his neck, and I detect a look of hurt; this reaction nearly floors me. Wasn't it only last fall that Wilson wanted me to move out of Amber's apartment because the neighbor below didn't like me (or anyone else for that matter)? Now he looks upset that I'm suggesting it myself.
"Nolan won't agree with it, especially now," he says to me quietly. He's gripping the steering wheel tightly; the muscles of his lower arms are tensed up. "I don't think it's a good idea either. A couple of days ago you were holding a handful of pills contemplating taking them all."
I look out the side window, watching the scenery whiz by but not really paying attention to any of it. He wants me to stay because he's afraid that I will off myself as soon as I'm alone. Is that because he doesn't want to lose his friend or because Wilson can't handle personal loss very well and he doesn't want to go through anything similar to what he had with Amber? Or is it he'd feel guilty and he would rather be put out than feel guilty? Then again, it may be that he's afraid that if anything should happen to me people would level looks of reproach on him, assuming that he kicked me out and that was the impetus of my fail? I know that Wilson is proud of his good-guy reputation and doesn't want that compromised.
"I'll let it be known that I moved out, not that you kicked me out," I tell him, not looking in his direction. "If anything happens to me no negative response will fall on you."
"Is that what you think this is about?" Wilson asks me, his voice sounding strained. "That I don't think you should move out because of how I will look? That I'm concerned about what it will do to my reputation?"
I look over at him. "Isn't it?" I ask him, an angry edge to my voice.
My friend signals right and hits the brakes, pulling his Volvo off of the highway and parking it on the shoulder. He runs a hand through his hair and takes a couple of deep breaths before looking at me. His chocolate brown eyes are misty.
"House," he says, his voice quavering slightly, "Has it ever occurred to you that the reason I don't want you to move out is because I actually like having you as a roommate—that I actually enjoy your company? Could it be that I care about you and don't want to see anything bad happen to you?"
I see the intensity in his eyes and realize that he is being sincere. It kind of spooks me. I'm not accustomed to hearing someone tell me that they care about me. I know that I care a great deal for him and I'm not certain how I would react should he die—it was hard enough on me to watch him risk his life by undergoing a living-donation of part of his liver! I don't know how to respond to that without feeling foolish and losing face. So I do what I always do in this kind of situation—I make a joke and deflect.
"My, Wilson," I purr and smile slyly, giving him a wink. "I had no idea!"
Wilson keeps staring at me, not amused. "This is a joke to you? You think this is funny?" He shakes his head in disgust and looks out the windshield.
I realize that I've hurt him and feel guilty. Why do I always have to question his motives when it concerns me? Why can't I give him the benefit of the doubt and take his words at face value? Why do I have to be such a jerk?
"No," I tell him with a sigh, sobering. "It's not. I just don't want you to end up resenting me and having that hurt our relationship, that's all."
My friend is quiet a moment before looking at me intensely. "Exactly what is our relationship, House? How would you define it?"
The question takes me aback. What kind of relationship do I think we have? Is he serious? We're friends—best friends. What kind of relationship does he think we have?
"You're my best friend, my only friend, really," I admit uncertainly. "How would you define it?"
A bitter little smile crosses his lips. He keeps staring straight ahead and half-shrugs. "You mean more to me than my brother does. Than Danny did."
Danny was another brother Wilson had been close with when he was younger. For him to tell me this is extremely significant. I really didn't know he felt that way. Unlike my family Wilson's growing up was a functional, even loving unit. Family is important to him, and he cares more about me than he does family; No one has told me that before, not even Stacy and she was my lover.
"Anyway," he says, "If you insist on moving out then I won't try to stop you--just don't do it because of me." He turns on his left signal and then waits for a break in traffic on the highway before joining it again.
I stare at him for several minutes, thinking about what has just transpired and trying to figure him out. Wilson is just as big of an enigma to me as I know I am to him. I live to solve puzzles, I'm very good at it, but I don't know if I'll ever be able to figure him out. Perhaps that's why I like him—life with him is never boring.
The rest of the drive is silent. We arrive back at the loft around noon and are expected at the hospital after lunch. As soon as we are inside Wilson heads directly to his bedroom and shuts the door. I go to the kitchen and make two Dagwoods—one for me and one for Wilson-- and pour a large glass of milk; I'm famished! As I go to put the milk carton back into the fridge my eyes are drawn to the bottom shelf and the partial six-pack sitting there. I would much rather have a cold beer than milk and the temptation to grab a bottle is incredibly strong. I feel breathless as I look at it and my hands tremble, my eyes glued to it. I unconsciously lick mp lips, imagining how it good it tastes. I look over my shoulder but Wilson is nowhere in sight. It occurs to me that I do work today, but I don't have a case right now and one beer will be metabolized by my liver by the time I get to the hospital anyway.
I grab a bottle before I can change my mind and twist off the cap, taking a deep pull. It tastes better than I imagined. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand I take the bottle and my sandwich and go to the kitchen table to eat. I'm conscious of the fact that Wilson could come into the kitchen at any moment and catch me with the beer; that wouldn't be good. That being the case I finish it quickly and then put the empty into the recycling box under the sink. I grab the milk I poured and return to the table to finish my lunch. I can't shake the guilty feeling I have although I'm not certain why I feel that way. Alcohol really was never the problem with me in the past. Yes, I did drink quite heavily before rehab but I could go without it if I had to, unlike the Vicodin. I rationalize this way until Wilson arrives.
He has changed from casual to professional, doing up one of his cufflinks as he arrives in the kitchen. He's wearing a crisp white dress shirt and grey dress pants and spit-shined black leather dress shoes. One of his God-awful ties hangs loosely around his collar; it was an olive green with thin mustard-colored stripes running diagonally across it. Where did he get those ugly things, anyway? He looks good, though—he always looks good, which is why he has the reputation with the ladies that he has. Hanging his suit jacket on the back of a kitchen chair he goes to the fridge to find something to eat and finds the sandwich I made him sitting on the top shelf.
"Did you make this?" he asks, pulling it out and raising it for me to see.
I nod, swallowing before saying, "For you. Don't drink the milk; it tastes funny." I take a swallow of the beverage.
Wilson grabs bottled water and takes a seat at the table with me. "You're drinking it," he comments, frowning slightly.
"Tastes fishy," I answer, shrugging, "like tuna or something. Did you leave the lid off of some in fridge?"
"I haven't prepared fish lately," he tells me and then takes a large bite out of his Dagwood.
"Could just be me," I comment, "another side-effect of my psych meds popping up out of nowhere." I finish the rest of my milk, making a little face at the aftertaste when I finish.
He nods in agreement.
We finish our lunch, clean up from it and then head to the hospital. I ride with Wilson simply because we're leaving at the same time. On the way I start to feel butterflies in my stomach. At some point this afternoon I will almost certainly see Lisa Cuddy, the woman of my affections, for the first time since our Saturday rendezvous at the park. I have no idea what kind of reaction I will get from her and I decide that I'm going to do everything I can to avoid the Dean of Medicine today, including doing my clinic hours without her having to hunt me down and nag me to do them (like she usually has to). Truth be told, I don't hate it as much as I used to, unless, of course, I'm having a bad leg day. Today, however, the pain in my leg is only hovering around a four out of ten, which is a good leg day for me sans opiates.
Wilson and I don't make it past the Clinic before Cuddy emerges from it and zeroes in on us. By the look on her face I have a sinking feeling this is not going to be a good. She stops right in front of us, blocking our path, her hands on her hips. She looks incredible today, but then again I can't think of very many times I have seen her where she hasn't looked anything less than incredible. Her dark brown hair has been flat-ironed and teased to perfection. The pale blue blouse she wears, while not a color she typically wears, brings out the blue in her grey-blue eyes. It is a v-neck that plunges low-enough for me to see the curve of her breasts as they emerge from her white lacy push-up—but of course, the blouse doesn't have to be very low-cut for me to have a nice view from my height. Being tall definitely has its advantages. A medium-grey pencil skirt and three-inch grey pumps with perfectly curved legs in between finish the entire delicious package.
The Dean of Medicine notices me noticing her and gives me a glare but I don't buy her indignant posture one bit; she dresses the way she does to be noticed, to be looked at and admired by the opposite sex. I'm not complaining; I simply don't see the point of her generating the pretext of being offended. Ordinarily I would have said something suggestive about how good the twins look today but I know that I am already walking on thin ice with her and decide to keep the comment to myself. She is my boss, after all, and I do like my job even though I don't always act like I do. My stomach is a little queasy and I'm mildly surprised at just how uneasy I am.
"Nice of you two to finally show up," she says to us, annoyed. "You'd think it was a work day or something! I can't wait to hear the explanation."
Wilson and I exchange looks of confusion. My best friend is the one to voice our question.
"What are you talking about?" Wilson asks her, frowning, looking a little annoyed, himself. "We called in to let you know we wouldn't be in until after lunch. We left the message with your assistant."
"I didn't receive any such message," Cuddy said skeptically, "and I talked to my assistant the very first thing I did this morning. You're going to have to come up with something better than that. What, did the strip club in your neighborhood have a two for one breakfast and lap dance special running this morning?"
Looking at her in complete amazement I can see Wilson beginning to boil under his collar and I decide to speak up if for nothing else than to prevent him from saying something that will get him twenty hours extra Clinic duty.
"Sorry," I snark, trying to appear nonchalant about the whole misunderstanding, "that's only on Friday mornings. Monday mornings it's one-dollar double-feature at the peep shows downtown."
Cuddy looks at me like she is about to strangle me and opens her mouth to blast me when Wilson steps in to rescue me. "I don't know why you didn't get the message, Cuddy, but I'm the one who called in today and left the message with Brenda. House had an unexpected appointment with his therapist which I was asked to attend. If you want you can check with my assistant—I called her right after you so she could rebook a couple of appointments I had this morning. Now, if you'll get out of our way, I have an appointment this afternoon that I'm going to be late for if I have to stand here and argue with you any longer!"
I look at Wilson and am impressed. He's usually the people-pleaser, always trying to maintain the peace but this time he is pissed off and unwilling to put up with her crap. I can't help but smirk with approval.
Cuddy returns his glare with a glare of her own but after a moment steps aside of him, still standing in my way. "You," she says to my oncologist friend, using her thumb to point towards the elevators, "go! You," she says to me, "in my office, now!"
Wilson casts me a look that asks me if I want him to stick around and kick her ass but I give him a quick shake of my head, telling him to get while the getting's good. Reluctantly he heads for the elevators.
Cuddy marches towards her office. With a reluctant sigh and a roll of my eyes in protest I follow. Suddenly my leg pain shoots to a six out of ten; just my luck. On top of that I feel a headache coming on and my stomach still feels unsettled, like something I ate isn't agreeing with me. This just isn't my day.
Once in the privacy of her office I close the door behind me and take a seat in one of the two chairs sitting in front of the Dean of Medicine's desk, stretching out my right leg to help prevent it from cramping up. She is already behind her desk, working at her computer.
"What's really going on?" she asks me harshly, glancing at me occasionally with angry eyes.
"Exactly what Wilson told you," I answer, becoming a little exasperated with her. "I had an appointment with Nolan who asked Wilson to be there because what we were meeting about concerned him as well. We stopped at the loft for lunch and came here. Do you want me to repeat it again or can I go do some of my Clinic hours now."
"There was no message," she tells me, leveling her eyes on mine.
"Then Brenda screwed up," I tell her, my voice hard. I meet her gaze fearlessly. This time I'm telling the truth.
Looking away first she sighs and sits back in her chair. "What's with the unexpected appointment with your psychiatrist?"
"I don't have to answer that question," I tell her stiffly. The last thing I want to do is admit to her that I was in seeing my shrink because I got drunk and considered suicide after her rejection. I don't want to give her that much power and I especially don't want Lucas to know.
"I'm just concerned," Cuddy tells me, her expression softening.
Oh no you don't! I say under my breath. You are not going to give me mixed signals again, sucker me in and then humiliate me like you did in the park! I care so much for her, but I can't let her take me to that place again because if I do, and she hurts me again, I'll likely end up taking all of the pills next time.
"Like you were on Saturday," I retort as coldly as I am able. "Thanks, but no thanks. I can do without that kind of concern." I rise to my feet, grab my cane and begin to limp for the door; I don't give a damn whether or not she is finished with this conversation because I am.
"House, wait!" She calls after me. "Please, I need to explain!"
I stop and look over my shoulder to her. My eyes narrow with hurt. "You don't need to," I tell her. "That slap on the face was explanation enough."
"House--!" Cuddy begins to protest but I cut her off. I intend on having the last word this time!
"Just one thing," I say. "At one point we were friends. When did that stop—when I shouted off the mezzanine that I slept with you, or was it when I returned to Princeton with my hat and heart in my hand? Because lately you've been avoiding me like the plague, treating me like your worst enemy. If that's the way you want it, fine. You're no longer anything more than my boss!"
Before she can say anything—positive or negative—I leave as fast as my gimp leg will let me. I swear I can feel her eyes boring through my back. Good, I decide. Now she knows what I felt like in the park!
I head directly for my office. In the conference room Foreman sits at the table reading a journal but no one else is around. I don't bother going in there. I hang my jacket up and set my backpack down on the sofa then go to my desk and sit down. My blood is pumping hard in my veins, hard and fast. I'm not feeling good now. My head is throbbing, I feel nauseous and there is a faint cramping sensation in my abdominal muscles. While it is entirely possible these symptoms can be attributed to my heightened emotional state, I wonder. On top of everything else, am I coming down with the flu, too? I open the top drawer of my desk and pull out the bottle of A.S.A I keep in there. I pop a couple of the bitter tablets and bite them once before dry swallowing them. They should take care of the headache at least.
My intention this afternoon was to do some of my clinic hours, keep my nose clean and avoid Cuddy—but since I have already had my run-in with her, and I feel lousy, I decide to lay down for a few minutes first. Once my headache is under control and my stomach settles down I'll head to the clinic. I push my backpack onto the floor and lay myself down onto the sofa, careful not to cramp or jostle my bad leg. I lay my right arm over my eyes to block out the light and focus on my stomach, trying to will the nausea away.
I must have drifted off for a little while because I don't remember anything until I feel a hand on my forehead and then a cool, damp cloth wiping my face. I open my eyes to see Wilson kneeling next to the sofa, frowning.
"House?" I hear him ask me but he sounds like he's a mile away. "Are you alright?"
My stomach begins to churn violently while at the same time terrible spasms in my abdomen make me moan in pain and curl up like a fetus. I force myself to sit up; I know that if I don't hurry and get myself to a bathroom now I'll be sick everywhere! I push Wilson aside and rise to my feet. It is then that I see Foreman watching over me as well. I don't take the time to acknowledge him or even search for my cane. Hobbling with my bad leg I go as fast as I can and barely make it to the men's room before I begin to heave. I bang open a stall, hang over the toilet and puke up everything in my stomach all at once or so it seems. The heaving doesn't stop there, however. I keep vomiting and vomiting, my stomach muscles screaming painfully with the spasms. Even after my stomach is completely empty I continue to heave, bringing up stomach acid and bile.
Eventually there is a break in the vomiting, but the cramping in my bowels is running full-steam ahead! I barely get my pants and shorts down and plant myself on the toilet before they let loose as well. The pain in my abdomen is almost enough to make me completely forget the pain of my thigh. At that moment I wish that I was dead because my body certainly felt like it was dying.
When my body finally calms down a little, my body exhausted and trembling from weakness, I force myself to a standing position and clean myself up the best that I can. I was fortunate and made it to the toilet this time, but if this continued I may not be so fortunate again. I flush the mess away and then somehow find the strength to make it to a sink. Standing in the bathroom are both Wilson and Foreman, watching me carefully. I brace myself against the sink and then wash my hands, arms, neck and face then scoop some water into my mouth to rinse out the vomit and bile taste. My body is trembling quite a bit now.
"Are you going to be okay?" Wilson asks me, approaching and placing a hand on my shoulder.
"I think I have the flu," I tell him. "I have to go down to the Clinic."
Wilson laughs incredulously. "House, if you have the flu you can't treat patients! Besides—it's six-thirty! The Clinic is closed for the day."
It's my turn to look incredulous. "No," I tell him, shaking my head. "It can't be! I only laid down for a few minutes. It can't be any later than two."
My friend shakes his head and shows me the face of his watch. I stare at it for a moment, not believing my eyes; it is in fact six-thirty-three.
"You slept all afternoon," Foreman tells me with a crooked smile. "I went down to the Clinic shortly after you laid down and when I came back around six to grab my stuff and head for home you were still lying there."
"I came by to see if you were ready to go home," my oncologist friend tells me, still frowning in concern, "and found Foreman standing over you, trying to wake you up. You were sweating profusely and groaning in your sleep."
"Fever," I croak. "It's the flu, alright. Take me home Wilson."
"Alright," he tells me covering his face with one hand while wrapping an arm around my shoulder and allowing me to use him as a crutch back to my office, "but let's stop at a janitorial supply room to pick up a few plastic trash bags for the ride home."
"Thanks," I say to him sarcastically. "Why don't you just stick me in the trunk while you're at it?"
"Actually," he responds, looking quite serious, "if you wouldn't mind…?"
I give him a death glare which causes him to stop talking. At my office I pick up my jacket, backpack and cane and then Wilson and I make our way to the elevators. Fortunately the car is empty when it arrives so I don't have to suffer the stares of people taking in the picture of a sick gimp.
As we walk through the lobby on our way out I feel my stomach start to churn again but I'm not too worried about that. There can't possibly be anything left in my stomach to barf up. As we reach the lobby doors we run into my foe, Lucas Douglas. The private investigator is about fifteen years younger than I am and not nearly as tall. He has medium brown hair, average build and a boyish face that looks deceptively innocent and trustworthy for the weasel he really is.
A few weeks ago Wilson and I learned just how evil and destructive he could be when he pranked us in retaliation for purchasing the loft that Cuddy and he had been aiming to buy out from underneath them. Actually, he was trying to send a message to me to back off from Cuddy and leave her and him alone, that he is superior and the sole possessor of her heart but Wilson ended up being in the line of fire. He put an opossum in Wilson's bathtub; the vicious little marsupial caused quite a bit of damage to the bathroom before it was caught and removed but not before it scared the hell out of my friend. Next he loosened a safety bar I installed by said tub to aid me to get out of the tub after a bath. After one such bath I grabbed the bar to lift myself out and it gave way, sending me flying back into the tub. I was fortunate and didn't hit my head but I came within an inch of doing to. If I had, and had been knocked unconscious I could easily have drowned before anyone would have found me. His next attack was on the loft itself; he rigged the sprinkler system to go off unexpectedly and drown the entire place as well as the contents therein; thousands of dollars in water damage were caused not to mention the inconvenience of finding somewhere else to stay while everything dried out and repairs were made. Up until that point we had no idea that it was Lucas who was behind this until he confessed to us his guilt in front of several witnesses in the hospital cafeteria—right after he tripped me and sent me flying face first, tray and all, to the floor.
Even after all of that I refused to retaliate—not because I am a better man who is above such primitive territorial behavior but because it wouldn't make any difference at all. Cuddy was never informed of the truth and even if she had been she likely wouldn't have believed it. It wouldn't endear her any more to me or give me a hand up on the jerk she is living with. If I got caught, it would only solidify in her mind what she has been convincing herself of for months—years, really—that I'm an irresponsible destructive villain and Lucas is the unfortunate victim of my insanity. The truth is, he does have the upper hand with Cuddy; she has voluntarily submitted herself to his manipulative control and will not listen to reason concerning him. As much as I hate it, she's made her choice and there's nothing more that I can do.
Wilson and I exchange baneful glares with Lucas and it's obvious to anyone watching that there is no love lost between us.
"Hello, Wilson," he says, smiling coldly with an affect of smugness. "House, I'm surprised to see that you actually showed up at work today. Too bad about Saturday. When will you learn that you've lost and I've won? Do I need to remind you again of that fact?"
"There's no contest from me," I tell him weakly, feeling like I'm going to start heaving again any moment. It's unfortunate that my stomach is as empty as it is. I would love to vomit all over him just about now. "She's all yours. You two deserve each other."
He smirks and then eyes me up and down with disgust. "You look terrible," he tells me. "You look like you fell off the wagon. You didn't, did you? Because that wouldn't bode well for your job should Lisa and the Board discover that you have. State licensing board wouldn't be too thrilled either."
I see Wilson bristle; he's been the one between the two of us who has been the most anxious for retaliation, surprisingly. Usually he's the one struggling to hold me back from a brawl.
"He hasn't relapsed, Lucas," Wilson spits at him angrily. "He has the flu. Go shove that up your--."
"Time to be going," I say, cutting Wilson off and preventing him from further antagonizing the little creep. I weakly push Wilson towards the exit, turning my back on my antagonist.
"Get better soon," Lucas calls out sickeningly sweetly. Wilson begins to turn back as if to run at him but I grab my friend's arm again and pull him with me outside.
"Why do keep protecting him after what he's done to you—to us?" the oncologist demands angrily.
"I'm not protecting him," I tell my friend, "I'm protecting you."
Wilson looks at me indignantly. "Me? I can take that runt out with one hand tied behind my back!"
Of that I have no doubt. I've seen Wilson raging angry more than once and he's scared me every time. "Yes," I tell him wearily as we slowly continue towards Wilson's car. "You take him out, then he has you arrested for assault, he sues you and he makes certain Cuddy hears only one side of the story. You end up as one broke, unemployed oncologist facing jail time. You can't beat a guy like that blow for blow; he's entrenched. To destroy him you have to force him to destroy himself."
"So, General House," Wilson quips sarcastically, "what do you suggest we do?"
I can't respond to that question because I suddenly double over from a strong, painful abdominal spasm. My friend grabs me quickly to keep me from falling down.
"House," Wilson says to me worriedly, "maybe it's not a good idea to be taking you home. Maybe you should be kept here for observation."
"For the flu?" I exclaim, straightening up as the cramping passes. "Just take me home so I can collapse in bed and die there."
"That's what I'm afraid of," he mutters but doesn't argue with me further.
We reach his car and he helps me get in before rounding the front and climbing into the driver's seat. As he drives I curl up in my seat as much as I can without antagonizing my leg into hurting more than it already is. It seems to be cramping a little as well and I hope that it doesn't get any worse than it is right now or else I may be facing breakthrough pain on top of the flu. I begin to shiver a little and my joints begin to stiffen and ache. Damned flu, I think. Who the hell catches the flu in February?
"How are you holding up?" Wilson asks me when we are about half-way back to the loft. He has those worried puppy dog eyes glancing at me.
"Cold," I tell him softly, wrapping my arms around myself and shivering.
"The chills too, huh?" he asks rhetorically, shaking his head. Reaching down to the control panel he turns the heater on a little and turns on the seat warmers. It feels good for a while but then even that action fails to make me feel better. My headache is back with a vengeance.
It seems like an eternity before we reach the loft. Wilson helps me out of the car. I feel a little lightheaded as I stand up and I grab Wilson's shoulder to steady myself. He casts me another worried look which I choose to ignore. It's a wonder that he has any lining to his stomach left with all of the worrying he does.
He has to help me most of the way up to our place. Once there I hurry to my bathroom and am sick again. I can feel my pulse in my neck and notice that it's quite rapid and weak. Bradycardia, I tell myself. Hypotensive. I'm dehydrated and I know that I have to replenish the fluids I've lost being sick if I want to stave off hypovolemic shock.
I finish up in the bathroom and head for the kitchen to grab a glass of water when I meet Wilson in the hallway, carrying a tray holding a pitcher of water, a glass and two extra-strength ibuprofen tablets. He read my mind.
"To bed," he orders, nodding towards my bedroom. He doesn't have to tell me twice. I limp ahead of him and pretty much collapse on my back onto my bed. Wilson sets the tray down on top of my dresser and then approaches me. "Get undressed," he tells me.
"I knew it was only a matter of time before you tried to take advantage of me!" I tell him with mock-horror, hugging myself protectively.
Wilson rolls his eyes. "Yes, House," he says deadpanning it, "I can resist no longer; I'm here to ravage you. Take your clothes off so we can get things started."
"My mother told me about men like you," I quip with a smirk, forcing myself to sit up. I scratch at my arms, which have begun to feel itchy. Come to think of it, my legs have, too. I undress quickly down to my boxers as my friend goes into my bathroom and returns with the waste basket double-lined with plastic garbage bags. I don't have to ask what that's for.
"Here," the oncologist hands me the ibuprofen from off the tray and pours a glass of water, handing that to me as well. "Take these and finish that glass of water and the next one I pour you."
"Yes, Mommy," I say as I pop the pills into my mouth. I know that they won't come close to easing the pain I feel throughout my body, but they will fight any fever I may have. I swallow them with the water that tastes decidedly saline. "You put salt in this?" I ask him, making a face.
"Of course," he tells me. "You're dehydrated and you've lost a lot of electrolytes. I don't want you to go into shock. Drink up."
I obey and after that I climb beneath the covers, relishing the feeling of the pillows supporting my tired and achy neck and the mattress holding up body. I scratch absently as I watch him place the waste basket easily within my reach.
"How is your stomach?" Wilson asks me. "Do you need something for your nausea?"
I shake my head in response. My stomach has actually settled some, at least for the time being. All I really want right now is to be left alone to suffer in the dark until exhaustion overtakes me and I fall to sleep.
"Okay," my best friend tells me gently. "Try to get some rest. If you need anything just bellow. I'm certain you know how to do that."
"Ha ha," I say dryly. "Thanks, Wilson."
"You're welcome," he tells me before turning off the light and leaving the room.
It takes me a while to fall to sleep; the darned itching is annoying me to no end. I'm not certain where that fits in with my flu theory but I am feeling too sick and tired to think about it. Once I fall asleep it seems to only last a few seconds before the cramping and vomiting begin again. I grab the basket and throw up the water I drank into it and then continue to violently retch after that. I feel my bowels preparing to let loose and I stumble out of bed, scrambling for the bathroom but I don't make it only a foot or so away from the toilet. Not only do I feel absolutely wretched but now I have the humiliation of having soiled myself as well. All of my symptoms are back with a vengeance along with something new and unexpected—lingual and circumoral paresthesias, or in layman's terms, my mouth, tongue and lips feel like they are on fire.
I pull myself up to my feet and nearly make it to the sink to begin cleaning myself and the bathroom floor when a wave of vertigo unlike any I have ever experienced before in my life hits me. I try to hang on to the sink for support but end up on the floor, landing on my ruined thigh and bringing down the glass soap dispenser which shatters on the tile. I scream out involuntarily from the excruciating pain that it sends through my thigh and up my hip to my spine. I'm sweating heavily and I'm not certain if it's from the sickness or the agony, and at that moment it doesn't really matter to me. It's hard to breathe, my heart is racing, I feel like I'm going to heave again and I am close to crying. I jump as the bathroom door suddenly opens and Wilson races into the room. He stops short when he sees me lying on the floor in a dirty, shaking, miserable heap.
"House!" he cries and is immediately at my side. I forget about my humiliation, wanting for nothing else than for Wilson to make it all go away.
"This," I say, gasping for a full breath, "is not the flu." I feel him grab me as if to help me up but then everything spins again and I black out.
To Be Continued….
