Public Exposure
Sacrifice
The Insider OST
Lisa Gerard
House occupies himself with playing melodies from memory, careful not to make a sound in his deafness, not to alert the guards.
A new, unknown body odor fills the room and he wonders at the person's identity, jerking away from a sudden touch of some stranger's hand and his own. Head turns to the visitor's side, than down as the fleece lined restraints are undone, dressing lifted and wrists spun around for an inspection of sutures.
Before leather belts can be replaced, he grabs the stranger's hand, androgen in built but decidedly male in utilitarian maintenance. Uninterrupted, he moves up the rough fabric of a repeatedly bleached lab coat, over a starched shirt collar and silky tie, to a round jaw with perturbing chin, smooth shaven cheeks and long bangs. Recognizing the former fellow, his mouth quirks to a shadow of a smile, wane one mirrored on the Aussie's face.
House struggles against grating tendons to form a victory sign, barely holding the hand up in view. A few seconds later he transforms the gesture to a pointer or gun, conspicuously aimed at his belly.
Chase feels over his abdomen, flinching at the other man's wince. The intensivist rolls House to recovery position, legs pushed up against chest.
Knowing what will follow, House grabs a pillow and curls around it, evidence of abuse to be revealed the second his gown is maneuvered out of way. He can sense Chase's shock by the shaking of fabric the young doctor still holds above his back, shame mounting with each moment he is being stared at.
Whatever feelings occupy Chase's mind, he is considerate of a very private House, proceeding immediately with treatment, applying a generous dose of gel before threading the tube in.
Greg's bowels roil in response to the jet of lukewarm fluid, teeth sunk into the pillow. He breathes deep from the diaphragm, stomach bloated and withdrawn in time with the rinse and suction, an attempt to speed up the painful treatment, hasten its end. At least there is no stench to remind of the cesspool that was his cell.
Chase spreads one hand between Greg's shoulders, the other snuck between gown and pillow, fisted for House to push against. In wide, rolling circles it moves around Greg's navel, massaging the cramps away until the treatment is completed. Gloved fingers return to gingerly feel around damaged flesh, searching for abnormalities on internal organs and mercifully finding none.
The slightest accidental rub on sensitive tissue triggers in House a reflex response, physical pleasure bringing only anguish. He clutches the pillow tighter, face pressed deep into its down to muffle sniffled moans. But he can't hide the way his torso tenses with each strangled cry.
Inspecting hand retreats, the other landing lightly on his shoulder.
At this the dam falls apart, violent, hiccuppy shudders racking him as raspy wails release his misery.
All Chase can offer is his presence, waiting out the storm of emotions with an occasional rubb on the shoulder as House cries himself drained.
Numb, he does not move a muscle as Chase applies rubber bands at the roots of pathological growths, face blank and blind eyes staring out devoid of spirit. House takes what little comfort he can from the fact there will soon be no outer physical evidence of that particular abuse, one small unwanted reminder less.
Finally Chase covers him up and a moment later his hands come over Greg's, guiding them into something like a degenerated prayer clasp.
House doesn't even think about mocking the gesture or protesting, humor and pride long beaten out of him, their place taken by resigned submission, even voice carved out. Instead, there is some kind of solace from it, its intention at least.
The two stand so for a long while, until Chase gives him a light squeeze to warn of his departure or perhaps ask permission for the same.
House responds with a quick nod, reassuring the younger man he is better, and returns to the music in his head.