Title: A Brutal Precedent (3/11)
The night passes like an oversized turd in a low-flow bowl. Short periods of sleep accompany longer bouts of wakefulness, and time just isn't passing as it should. He'd slept a little in the afternoon as the Vicodin paved a path through his system. But now sleep is elusive. Whenever he looks at the clock, it's not ten minutes that have passed, but one. There is no need for the nurses who come in to wake him- he does it himself. And they won't sedate him. They've given him Ibuprofen, a heating pad for his leg, ice for his head. But his body craves the narcotic- which Cuddy has informed him will be available at 9AM tomorrow morning. Nine more hours of this. He'll start puking and they'll mistake it for a hemorrhage. Roll him into an OR, cut his head open, find out he's faking.
Turn one way, and the light from outside filters through the blinds. Turn the other and the light filters in from the hallway. Glass everywhere here. Except the clinic. No one saw what happened in the clinic. As soon as the cop figured out he didn't really "see" it either, he'd taken his photos and left. Detective Gillman had promised to call when he had an update, but either Cuddy wasn't giving House the news or there was nothing. This meant that Gloria, mother of two, was still on the prowl. Probably eating popcorn on the couch with her head in her husband's lap and her kids on the floor. Honey, why is your fist all bruised? Hit a doctor today, Stan. Real asshole of a guy. Thought he deserved it. Want me to beat him up? Nope, got it covered. Kiss. Smack. Red handprint. Not in front of the kids, Stan. Or maybe…
The door slides open. Tap tap. Bedside lamp flicks on. "Dr. House?"
"Here."
Squeeze one. Squeeze the other. Nausea? Not yet. Headache? Definitely. Date, place, name. Pupils equal, reactive- just like two hours ago. Take the ice off the head. More later. All good to go. Your BP and heart rate are up. No shit. In pain? Didn't he just answer that? 1000 mg Ibuprofen two hours ago. No more for four hours. All maxed out and up shit creek. Oh, what to do now? Nursie is a little concerned. She bites the side of her lip and leaves without turning off the light. She'll be back.
Maybe she got another call. Patient crashing down the hall. Give it fifteen.
Fifteen more. She can't have forgotten. Come on- she has to be doing something so he can get his meds. Something. Anything. His leg is in a vice grip. His face throbs. His body hurts. And he's sweating now that the ice pack is gone.
Come on. Come on.
Damn.
Light still hurts his eyes. And the lamp is still on. Scootch to the left a little, little more. Heating pad is staying in place. Grip on the little string coming down from the lamp. Who the heck put this lamp here? A tease for the immobile patient. Where are the high tech beds and why doesn't he qualify for one. Pull. There we go. Darkness again. Better than the light.
Fleeting half sleep images. A pumpkin head with a third eye, grinning with yellow teeth and yellow eyes. Jaundiced. One day maybe. First comes pain, then comes narcotics, then comes complete organ failure death in a baby carriage. Evil laugh. Grim reaper such as he is. Gobbling up lives left and right to take them to… No heaven. No hell. Only here. Here matters. Life matters. He matters. Why he has to keep going until he stops. And it won't be voluntarily.
Not like the craven, snot nosed minority doctor: Afraid of becoming like his boss. Foreman. Pitiful excuse to leave the job of a lifetime. All the things they've seen, documented, cured. Most docs only get one of those cases their entire lives. He gets one a week. Three years of medical observation, experimentation. And all Foreman can think of is himself. Why he shouldn't be like House. Foreman should care. Care about how a patient feels emotionally, talk to them, learn their names. It's not a name that matters- it's the illness and the cure. Simple. Scientific. Absolute without the muddy water of humanity's faults. Except those idiot suicidals. Interesting, but pains in the ass. He won't take another one of those. Doesn't help. They never admit it right away. Foreman and his feelings. Foreman and his guilt.
No guilt about stealing from Cameron though. Funny how it works. He wants to be guilty- thinks it's right. But he's not. And he doesn't feel. He doesn't care. Just wants to care. Big difference- can't change what you are. Leave so you can pretend to be something else.
And Cameron…Cameron won't last in her quiet portrayal of stoicism. It's her nature. She sits on patients' beds, squeezing their arms, smiling with oozing sympathy. Feeds off of need. Wilson should date her. Or maybe that's two north's on a magnetic strip. Repulsive. The thought of them having sex. Would it be needy? Or far too giving? Relax, let me…. No let me… no, you… Stop. Talk about repulsive. No more. She's doing Chase anyway. How long will that last?
Forever maybe. But Chase is a smart kid. Maybe he's doing something right. She is hot. Skinny, perky. Wonder if he satisfies her. Can't believe he actually took a job at General. Figured he'd split, move to California and go surfing. Or somewhere else nearby. He's a smart kid. Could get a job anywhere. Sucks up a bit- but it's a trait that serves well in the whole hiring process. Show'em you'll please'em. House had never had that himself. Arrogance before the begging pup of humility. Wonder how Hector is doing. Leg healed up where the door smashed him? Kind of hope so. Annoying dog. Did whatever he wanted- just to piss everyone off. Malevolent. Vicious in his thought. Dogs think? Rrf rrf. Break the cane. Fucker will fall over. Ha door open. Come on in dude. Stereo is just on that top shelf. Not much else to steal- but maybe you like guitars. Some Vicodin scattered about if you're into prescription drugs. No? Hey, come back here. Grabs a jeans leg, pulls. Running. Bye. See you next time, enjoy the stereo. Where's that thingy I was chomping on? Ah. There it is. Tastes like crap. But the texture…
"House…"
Not in his house, never again. Self-centered and arrogant bastard. All about him. All the time.
"House, wake up."
Foreman shouldn't be here. People with real brain problems down the hall. Or across town.
Not Foreman- Krauss. Why do they sound alike? The light is on again. Krauss is wearing his doctor gear. Only two doctors in neurology this week. One on leave, the other down with pneumonia. Way to go doc, heal thyself. And it's stroke season. Or concussion season. One or the other. Maybe both. Dead head season.
Krauss sighs, checks pupils. Yup. Still work. He looks over to the monitors, sighs.
"You're in withdrawal, House."
House glares. A bead of sweat rolls into his ear. He shivers involuntarily. Crap. He's given it away.
"You shouldn't have narcotics right now. It could mask…"
"My head's fine. If you don't give them to me, I'm going to start puking and it'll throw off this whole monitoring thing for real." He pauses. "You got the crappy shift. You need to bargain better."
"I go where I'm needed."
"No you don't. You go where you need to be needed." Same as all the rest.
Krauss's head shakes and his lips are tight.
"It's been twelve hours." He sighs again, still undecided. "How much pain is there?"
"Serious?"
Krauss sits back in the chair he's pulled over. Crosses his legs.
"Ten."
Krauss brings his leg down, crosses the other one and his arms. Skeptical. Pen tapping on the chart. "Don't lie to me, House."
"Not now, but it will be by 9AM."
Stillness and quiet. Beeping on the monitor. Too fast for this time of day.
"Come on, Krauss."
"I looked at your CT results. You've got s series of surface contusions. Narcotics increase the pressure in your skull. Those contusions could react to that. More likely, they'll just mask any symptoms…"
"Not giving me narcotics will mask the symptoms." Anger, hot and pain-fueled.
"Tramadol."
"Non-narcotic."
"It could mask symptoms, but it won't raise the pressure."
"It doesn't work."
"Fine." Krauss stands. "Dr. House, I'm sorry I can't get you anything else for the pain now. The nurse will be by later to see if you need anything. Try to get some rest."
Fuck.
Oh fuck. No… don't leave. Come on…
"Come on, Krauss, you can't…"
"I'm doing what's best for you. Don't make this harder than it has to be. You can take the Tramadol or not."
"You're making this harder… Just give me my pills…"
"No."
The door shuts. Hard. Hurts his head. Clock reads 1AM. 8 hours.
Sleep. Dream. Sweat. Shiver. Shiver. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. There is his office. Just a floor away. Upstairs. One elevator, something like fifty feet times two. Pills there, lower right drawer in the box that once housed an Ipod. A short trip. So close. But shit. Nausea has snuck its head into the door of this throat. If he goes now, there will be a mess in the hallway. Hope Nurse Betty knows what this is. Isn't a hemorrhage. He isn't dying. Just suffering. Better lean over to the floor. Get it on the bed and they'll want to change the sheets. No thanks. Lean lean… leeaaannnn… retch. Spit. Here it comes again. Dinner. Hospital kitchen pork chop. A1 sauce. Back on the pillows, gasp. Breathe through it. Shaky. Sweaty. Damn. He gives Nurse Betty two minutes.
It takes her one and she is on him like white on rice. All the lights are on, door is open, and more nurses stampeding. Or maybe just the cleaning crew.
Dr. Krauss issued a warning. He's going to blow chunks and sweat like a pig in a concrete sty. Bitch and moan. Just ask him to get oriented. Call me if he's not. Oriented just fine. He could play it up. But holes in the head are so not in style. And baldness. Clean up the puke or it'll dry and stink. Another ice pack on his forehead. So cold. No more hot. His nose is running.
Two more episodes of this and years later, there is light coming through the window. Real, tangible sunlight. Hasn't felt this drained since he got shot. The Tritter-enforced detox was easier than this. Didn't have the gaping wound on his head to worry about. Then again, the conflicting pain signals are getting wrapped around each other. Overall, his leg hurts less than it should. More than usual. He's in the throes of detox. But tired too. The exhaustion welcomes him to its realm.