It was his addiction that was killing me. How that works I guess I'll never understand. With every pill that he pops I can feel another guilty pang in my chest. It's as though his addiction is all my fault. I wasn't there to catch him in time, I wasn't there to be his fall back crutch, like he'd been mine so many times before. I let him become an addict, so every time that he's detached, every time he's numb and flying high from the Vicodin, it's all my fault.
When I'm with Julie, I worry about him. I wonder if he's alright, if he ate dinner. I wonder if the pain is just too much for him, and if it's making him do stupid things. As I lie in bed with my beautiful wife, our backs turned to one another, I'm thinking of the beautiful steel cold blue eyes, and I'm wishing that he was mine.
We're at work together again, and he thinks I don't notice the way he tries to rub his leg without anyone noticing. Hr's in more pain, even though he's taken his pill already. So self-conscious about his leg, his cane, he puts cynicism over it like it's a fashion, covering all the pain. He can't even think of a retort to the taunt Foreman tossed so callously at him. Sometimes I worry that I'll lose him even more then he's already lost to me. He seems like some untouchable God, up on his pedestal, looking down on the normal humans, mocking us for our pathetic feelings and need for normalcy. He has all right to mock us. It's that normalcy that keeps me from approaching him now and taking him as my own. I suddenly feel sick, and my head begins to spin.
We're in his office, and his eyes are pleading, begging me to give him the shot. Morphine will solve everything, or so he's convinced. I look into those eyes, begging him with my own. Begging him not to beg me, turning him away hurts so much worse then his leg, I'm almost positive. I can read his eyes just as he reads mine, and though he looks proud and tall, I can tell that he's just been knocked on his back by the pain inside, and slowly it's destroying him. We have an entire conversation of silence between us, and finally he nods, and I shrug. He turns away and I feel like my heart has been ripped out. He needs my help, and again I'm unwilling or unable to give it to him. I'm free to go home to Julie now, but there is no comfort in her arms, always crossed over her chest.
Julie is finally sick of it, and I am as well. She doesn't even try to hide the scent or the evidence of other men anymore, she's tired of living with a man who ignores her when I'm sure there are plenty who don't. I was clinging to my sanity in her form, to the thought that something about the life I lived was at least somewhat normal. That damn moral compass, that desperate need for normalcy. She screamed at me like it was my fault, and I screamed back pretending like it wasn't. Throwing my things in a suit case I went to the only place I knew I'd be welcome at this time of night. I went to the one place that I wanted to be welcome at this time of night.
When the door opened and annoyed ice blue cycles caught my form, I felt my heart skip a beat, and instantly knew that this was the only place that I actually belonged. I think he planned on yelling at me, but then he notices my tear stained face, the pathetic puppy dog look in my eyes, and I know what he's thinking. He's thinking I was caught in the affair he'd made up in his head. Really, he was the affair, he was the reason that things weren't working out. I tell him that he's right, that it's all about sex, and that Julie was having an affair. I see the shock on his face, and wince when I hear my voice break at the sound of her name. I'm too nervous suddenly, and I think of turning away, there must be some hotel that is still renting rooms. My eyes snap open when he moves to the side and offers me a beer, without pithy retort or an "I told you so". In fact, there isn't really talk about my third failed marriage.
We're together again, sitting with his team. He's lecturing them on something, spouting out metaphors and insulting them in turn. He pops another pill, but this time I smile. It's almost time to go back home, and it's only his third pill of the day. I don't know if the pain is lessening, or if he's just too distracted, but with every day, the pills start to decrease. Suddenly, he's not an addict anymore, he's just in pain. A pity that this couldn't have happened sooner. It'd be nice to have a hospital that had addict-free staff, James. I ask myself what exactly that means, starting a side rant in my head as I often do, but I realize the answer before I even start off, as a set of blue eyes catch mine, and him and I share a smile.
I am addicted to Gregory House.