A White Horse Named Vicodin
By Jackyblu
Part One
House woke up on Sunday morning and stretched. He moved his legs to the edge of the bed and placed both feet carefully on the floor. So far, so good he thought. Next he attempted to stand up. This is where things began to unravel. He sat back down again and kneaded what was left of his thigh muscle.
Jesus Christ!
He reached for his nightstand and grabbed the bottle then threw it across the room in anger. He didn't want ibuprofen he wanted Vicodin like every other day since he became 'clean'.
House was taking deep slow breaths when there was a quiet knock on his bedroom door.
"House. Are you all right?"
"Yeah. I'm fine," he lied. "Is there any coffee?"
"I just made a pot. You sure you're okay?"
House rubbed his hands over his face. "Yeah. I'll be out in a few minutes."
"Okay. I'll make us some breakfast."
"Fine."
Wilson moved away from the door. He knew House wasn't all right. House had been limping around the loft yesterday after bringing a few more of his things from his apartment. He had unpacked his belongings and searched for places to put his them. He had been on his feet for a long time.
House slowly rose from the bed. God he was aching. He had expected to be uncomfortable in his back and arms but he didn't expect this escalated pain in his leg. Like every morning since he had returned from Mayfield he wanted Vicodin. He knew just one would decrees his pain level to a more manageable degree. Why the hell hadn't he kept a few?
House closed his eyes for a moment and did what he always did when the cravings arose. He thought of being strapped to a bed in a room with no doorknob on his side. He thought about the pain and the terrible sensations in his body. At that time he had felt like his skin would crawl off his bones. The deep seeded need he had to move in 100 directions at once. It was wanting to die just to make it stop and not being allowed to.
House had returned from Mayfield and with Wilson for support had thrown out every pill in every hiding place. He gave Wilson the morphine kit and had no idea where it was now.
I don't need it anymore, he told himself for the first time today. There would be several more times he would tell himself the same thing. It had become his mantra. I don't need Vicodin. I don't need Vicodin. If only repeating it would lead him to Nirvana.
House walked slowly and painfully toward the bathroom picking up the ibuprofen bottle along the way. He took two and tossed the bottle on his dresser continuing his miserable walk. Entering the bathroom he reached the toilet. He had to place his left hand on the wall so he could lean a bit as he relieved himself. When he had finished he washed his hands placing his forearms on the sink to stay on his feet. Jesus he hurt so badly today.
House splashed water on his face and repeated his mantra. I don't need Vicodin. I don't need Vicodin. Who was he kidding? He would have sold his mother to white slavers for one pill. Well maybe not Mom, but Dad certainly. That thought made him snuffle a laugh. He straightened up to dry his face with a towel and nearly fell on the floor.
Wilson was making pancakes. He knew House liked them especially with macadamia nuts or some other goodie in the batter. House was like a child in many ways. Not child-like but childish. Wilson always thought that was due to his strict up bringing. John House was not a fun guy. Even Wilson knew that. So now House got his fun wherever and whenever he could. And at whoever's expense, Wilson thought as he flipped over the first pancake.
Wilson hummed to himself as he cooked and expected House to pop into the kitchen at any moment his nose twitching. It was nearly impossible to keep him out of the kitchen when Wilson was making breakfast. It was a bit like rattling the dog's bowl. The hound would come running.
He placed four pancakes on the plate. He stopped before placing more batter on the griddle. He walked to the living room and looked around. No House. That wasn't just weird. It was worrying.
"House? Breakfast is ready," Wilson called. "I made pancakes."
There was no sound. Wilson started for House's room when a softer than normal baritone voice came from the bedroom. "I'll be out in a minute. Still looking for a clean pair of socks."
"Okay. I'll keep them warm for you," Wilson called back.
He returned to the kitchen and placed the plate of pancakes in the microwave. He put more batter on the pan and made some for himself.
House sat on his bed and massaged his leg. This was the worst it had been for a long time. He thought of taking a bath. The hot water would sooth it. Wilson wouldn't mind. He struggled to his feet and sucked air between his teeth. The pain overwhelmed him and he became sick. He heaved into the wastebasket unable to make it back to the bathroom. Only bitter stomach bile and ibuprofen escaped him. House wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
Wilson finished his breakfast and began washing the skillet in the kitchen. The pan clanked against the side of the sink. He scrubbed it out and hummed something House had played last night on the organ.
He never heard his best friend retching.
House rubbed his hand over his face trying to decide if he was about to be sick again. He heaved but nothing came up. His stomach convulsed a few more times before it stopped. Having dry heaves was exhausting. House again sat on the bed panting.
Wilson dried the skillet and replaced it its proper place. He had a space just for it and it had to be put back exactly, the handle pointing to the right. Very important to get it correct. If not then the large saucepan wouldn't have enough room and would brush against its smaller counterpart. They might scratch.
He wondered again about House. It didn't take fifteen minutes to find socks even for him. And there was breakfast ready. House never turned down his pancakes or anything else Wilson prepared for them.
He went to House's bedroom door and knocked softly.
"House I know you're not okay. Is there anything I can do?"
A pain filled voice puffed from the other side.
"You can let me use your bath tub."
"Sure. You need help getting to the bathroom?"
"Only all I can get," a winded voice answered.
Wilson carefully opened the door. He could smell the vomit in the room. God he must be terrible today, Wilson thought. He should have known when House hadn't shown up for breakfast.
He found him sitting on the bed rubbing his leg. House's eyes were rimmed red and he was breathing through his teeth. Wilson got on the older man's left side and helped him unsteadily to his feet. He walked House down the hall through his bedroom and into the bathroom. He lowered House onto the closed toilet. Wilson plugged the tub's drain and turned on the water. He straightened up.
"Can you manage on your own or do you need help?"
House didn't have much going for him today but he did have his pride.
"I've got it."
"You're sure?"
"It's a rule of mine. Never undress in front of your mother or best friend."
Wilson looked askance at him.
"What about the 'not walking through the place naked rule'?"
House shrugged.
"Rules are made to be broken. Besides it has a clause. Naked as a means to drive your ex-wives from the building is acceptable," House said his head lowed. He rubbed his thigh forcefully.
Wilson went to the door.
"Okay, I'm right out here is you need me."
House nodded once and Wilson left the room.
House pulled off his t-shirt. He rubbed his thigh again. He had been holding back around Wilson. His chest heaved. Tears slid down his face. He couldn't stop them. His shoulders shook. He didn't make a sound.
At these times House cursed life. He cursed God. He cursed Stacy. He cursed the circumstance that had left him like this. He even cursed Cuddy and her damn suggestion that the dead thigh muscle be removed.
None of this was his fault and yet he had to pay for it every moment of every day of his life. The only time it would stop would be when he was in his grave.
He wiped his face with his right hand. This was pointless. It changed nothing. It didn't even make him feel better. His leg was still killing him. Crying came unbidden, as did his bitter thoughts. It didn't change his situation. It didn't heal his leg.
House used the sink as leverage to push himself to his feet. He slipped off his pajama pants and limped to the tub grabbing the handhold he had installed some weeks ago. He steadied himself and stepped into the tub with his left foot. He helped his right leg in. House carefully sat down in the water.
Wilson heard the water slosh in the tub. He was tense listening hard for a thud or a painful cry. When none came he relaxed. He thought again as he always did on bad pain days that this wasn't House's fault. House was a lot of things. He was a jerk who treated people rudely and with no concern for their feelings. Part of that was just House. Okay, most of it. The other part was the pain.
No Wilson corrected himself; some of it is House's armor.
When a body is badly hurt it develops a scar. If more scars occur on the same place feeling could be lost. House had scars on his leg. Unfortunately he hadn't lost feeling in it. The other place he was badly scared was his heart. Not his physically beating muscle but his metaphysical heart. The one dedicated to that higher plain called love.
House had loved and been betrayed. He trusted those few people he loved and were supposed to love him. John House was supposed to love him. How was a child to understand a parent's abuse?
Stacy. It was hard for Wilson to be unbiased about her. She did what she did for the right reasons. She loved House. She was so afraid he might die. She made her decision while he was still conscious and never told him. The surgery came against his wishes while he was unable to do anything about it. How can a person trust the one they love after that person has allow the violation of their body?
Why should House trust the people around him? He kept them at arms length. Wilson was the only one allowed to get close and even he was stopped at the sentinel's gate.
House was fun to be around. Wilson was learning to be assertive because of House. His meekness was something he disliked about himself. You couldn't help but learn from House. Being his friend was something he could count on. But House's sullenness, his pain, and his thoughtlessness were part of the package too. One had to take the good with the bad.
It's worth it, Wilson thought. He went to House's room and pulled out clothes for him. He took them to his own room laying them upon the bed.
House let the hot water flow over his leg. It was helping but not enough. He leaned back and closed his eyes. If only he had some Vicodin.
If wishes were horses then cripples would ride, House deliberately misquoted in his head. God, why was today worse than any other day?
That wasn't strictly true.
His worst day was when he was in Mayfield coming off the vicodin. He had nothing to ease his pain, which felt as if it had increased to a level that would stop his heart. He begged for help. He was so desperate he threatened to kill himself. They strapped him to the bed for his own protection. He agonized through the pain as the opiate left his body.
The memory scared him to death.
House kneaded the muscle of his leg. He would never go back to that no matter what it cost him. Heat was the answer. When he got out he would sit in the living room with a heating pad on his thigh. He'd take ibuprofen to replace the pills he had thrown up. Wilson would bring him pancakes. It would be all right.
House soaked in the water for an hour. He decided he couldn't stay in there all day, as he was getting very pruned. He reached for the hand bar. Taking a deep breath he pulled himself up pushing with his left leg. He stood in the tub a little afraid to move.
He carefully helped his right leg out first. If it held his weight he would be all right. If not then Wilson would be seeing him in a heap the way he came into the world, wet and naked. It hurt like it was on fire but kept him upright. He quickly brought the left leg over and set it on the floor. He wrapped the towel around his waist and got to the toilet to sit down.
House sat there trying to see if he felt any better. He did a bit. He knew though as the leg became cooler it would feel worse. He needed to have Wilson get the heating pad and help him to the couch.
He got to his feet and went to the bathroom door. He opened it and limped into Wilson's bedroom. House saw his clothes on the bed. He sat on the edge and began to slip on underwear, jeans and a t-shirt with skulls and wings.
Wilson had retrieved the heating pad and a blanket from the closet. He returned to the living room and plugged the pad in a wall socket near the couch.
House took his cane and limped from Wilson's room to the living room. He got to the couch and sunk on to it. He placed the waiting heating pad on his thigh. He took the blanket Wilson offered and put that on his thigh too. Feeling the soothing heat made him sigh.
"Do you want breakfast?" Wilson asked concerned.
House thought his stomach could stand it. He nodded.
Wilson went to the kitchen. He warmed the food in the microwave.
"You want maple or coconut?" He called to House.
"You made macadamia nut?"
"Thought you might like them."
"First you make me pancakes, and then you offer to help me get undressed. James Wilson you're trying to seduce me."
"Damn, and I was trying to be so subtly too."
"I can't be bought cheap you know."
"Yes you can. Maple or coconut?"
"Coconut and you have to bring me flowers before I agree to anything sexual."
"Since when?" Wilson asked pouring the sticky sweetness on the golden goodies. He took a fork from the kitchen drawer.
House shifted his weight on the couch.
"I'm trying out virtue to see if it suits me."
Wilson carried the plate to the room.
"It won't fit. You're a size 42 pervert."
House took the offered plate and fork.
"Well I've lost some sleaze then. I used to be a 44."
Wilson's cell phone rang. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled it out. He walked out of the living room as he answered. House was his friend but he didn't need to hear Wilson's phone calls.
House dug into the food. He was surprisingly hungry. It helped that his leg didn't hurt as badly.
Wilson listened quietly. His face became serious, his mouth a straight line.
"No I'm glad you called. Tell the family I'll be right there."
Wilson hung up the phone and went after his car keys. He looked at House.
"I have to go to the hospital. One of my patients took a turn for the worst this morning. She isn't expected to live much longer."
Wilson startled House by throwing his briefcase, which he kept by the front door.
"DAMN IT!"
He paced and then went to retrieve the case talking more to himself than House.
"We had it under control! She was improving. The chemo was working."
He put the case back and continued to fume.
"Why her? Why is she the one who doesn't make it? She's a mother with three young children. Why the hell did it have to be her?!"
House spoke quietly.
"Because doctors don't get to chose who gets better and who doesn't. We do the best we can but ultimately it isn't in our hands."
Wilson looked up disgusted.
"You don't believe in God. You can't tell me He makes the decisions."
"There's no God. There's only fact and circumstance. It's a fact you did everything you could within medicine to save that woman. It's a fact she's dying. It's just the circumstance we don't know. Why is she dying? Why did the chemo work and yet her body failed?"
Wilson was beginning a slow burn. It was these times when House was so disconnected from the suffering of anyone else that Wilson thought he might hate him.
House knew Wilson was ready to explode. He softened his voice.
"There is one other fact that can't be denied. When one of your patients sours on you, you'll take it to heart. You'll blame yourself when there is no blame to pass around. People die. That is a fact. If you were negligent then it's your fault. If you did all you could then stop nailing yourself to a cross."
"I can't be like you! I feel something when my patients die!"
"Yes! You're a better person than I am. Good for you! It doesn't change a thing. She's still dying."
Wilson's eyes burned at House. He wanted to throw something at him. He hated his smug superiority. He wrenched the door open and slammed it behind him.
He was back in a couple of minutes.
"How much pain are you in?" Wilson asked standing in the doorway.
House didn't look up from his plate.
"I'm fine."
Wilson reentered the room.
"No you're not. Either your hand is shaking or those pancakes are trying to make a break for it."
House forced his hand still. In spite of the heat his leg was feeling worse.
Wilson came most of the way into the room.
"I'll stay if you need me."
House could tell Wilson was torn between his friendship for him and his need to be with a patient as their life ended.
"Go. Hold her hand. Commiserate with the family."
Wilson looked at House questioningly.
"I'll be back as soon as I can." Wilson turned back to the door.
"Hey!" House called.
"Yeah?"
"Are you going to give her the code to the morphine dispenser?"
Wilson gave House a noncommittal look. He closed the door.
"Would you give it to me?" House asked the air.