All night buzz on a line
It's only blood on the rime
Wrecks my head every time
It leads me on
Where'd it all go wrong
David Gray
Alibi
Chapter 10: Alternative
House was sure that his eyes were on fire. They were burning, and tears sprung forth out of them in reaction, leaving a trail on his salted face. He tried lifting his hands to relieve his itching eyes. But the hands wouldn't cooperate. There were bowling balls attached to his wrists. His whole body felt heavy, wasted. Grimacing, he opened his eyes, the dim lights pulling a groan from his lips. Through opened eyes, he could see his arms weren't chained and he urged them, staring at them, to lift. They slowly obeyed and he swiped at his eyes to get the itch and fire out. Barely satisfied, he let his hands drop to the sheets again. Hot, sweaty, and his mouth tasted like he'd been eating from a litter box. His throat was parched. House shifted uncomfortably, trying to prolong the inevitable. He was either going to die of thirst, or he was going to call the damn nurse.
Just as he was about to give in, to urge his fingers towards the call button, the blinds shifted, clattered, and someone moved into the room. House sighed, louder than he meant, and lifted his head an inch. Wilson. Turning as soon as he realized House wasn't asleep, Wilson, one hand on his hip, the other holding a coffee, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, looked down at House, searching for words.
"It's not polite," House rasped. "Do something productive, get me some water."
Wilson moved to the stand and poured a cup of water with a straw in it, handing it to House. House struggled with steadying his grip, but managed. Wilson tried to look amused, but the only feeling he had was fear. Fear that his best friend wouldn't get better. Fear that this would be the final straw, the downward spiral. It often happened that way. Like a healthy elderly man, running three times a week, suddenly falls down the stairs. First it's the hip, then it's the pneumonia, then it's the heart and finally the will to live. House wasn't elderly, but he already had problems and his will to live was questionable. House handed the cup back to Wilson, and his head went back to the pillow.
"I'd kill for a hot shower…"
"Pretty sure Brenda would give you a warm sponge bath."
"She's not coming near me."
"You know what they say about tough-as-nails nurses…"
House frowned. "You'd know better than me."
Wilson pulled a plastic chair near the bed, resting his elbows on his knees, still not sure what to say or how to say it. What do you say to the man you're afraid will die? Do you tell him he'll be okay? Do you tell him he'll be better soon? Tell him he's your bestest bud and that you don't care if he's an ass and addicted to the pain medication you prescribed to him? "Not polite to stare…"
"You mentioned that," Wilson responded and settled on "How are you?" as a conversation starter.
House's voice was better after the water and he shifted a bit. Comfort still eluded him. "Was that a rhetorical question?"
"Your temperature's down."
House nodded.
"Listen- I'm sorry…" Wilson started.
House shook his head. "You didn't do anything."
"Last week… I…"
Last week, House's pain had gotten the best of him.
He'd woken on Saturday morning, everything from his knee to his groin on fire, burning, aching. He'd paced for four hours before he'd reached for the box. Cuddy's call and the ensuing case had kept him occupied, but hadn't kept the pain at bay and he'd been grateful when it was over and Crandall was gone. When he'd crept back to his couch after four days of hard work, he'd taken the box down again, sat down on the couch, and had had no guilt on injecting himself. He'd suffered long enough. He'd deserved relief.
It was the first time he'd had morphine in seven years and it slid into his veins like an egg through a snake's throat- too big, stretching the skin, but satisfying the hungry pain. It had slipped further, deeper, and House snapped off the tourniquet, letting the drug move, letting it surge. His leg had been quaking from the effort of staying still, but then he lifted it, despite its protest, to rest on the couch in anticipation of the morphine's lull. His left leg had followed as the morphine had hit House's head in a blurry rush. His vision swam. Something had crinkled in his back pocket and he lifted to withdraw it. Test results.
Crandall.
Leona.
Negative.
It was a good deed, right? Crandall had wanted a daughter. Leona had wanted… needed a father. He'd done something decent, even if it was a lie. A white lie- like Wilson telling his wife she was beautiful when she had the flu and was hacking up last night's pork chops. Made someone feel good. White lies. There was still guilt- just a bit. But as the morphine had spread through his system, the guilt began to dissipate with the pain and everything else. House had thrown the results onto his coffee table and shut his eyes just as the phone began ringing.
Wilson.
Oh well.
Wilson, meanwhile, had crooked his mouth and put his hands on his hips as he put down the phone, glimpsing back at the television. His mind hadn't been able to stay focused on it- he'd kept thinking of seeing House pace the hallways, of House gripping his thigh, House admitting his guilt. He had tried to remember if the pain had started before or after Crandall. Was he wrong? Wilson was the first to insist that House had some sort of psychosomatic pain- he knew there was always going to be pain, but was it as bad as House believed it to be? Worth the 80 mg of Vicodin? House hadn't said anything to him the day before Crandall showed up. He'd been distant… antsy….dammit.
Wilson flipped channels. Braves… Red Sox. Yankees. Smokey and the Bandit part III.
House hadn't complained. He'd kept it to himself- working it out by the pacing. He'd called the masseuse. He hadn't complained- but he never complained until someone noticed. Until someone brought it up. Even when Wilson had brought it up, House had kept quiet, shut his mouth, focused on the case. Focused on a case, still in pain… he wasn't bored. He wasn't malingering. He'd been desperate. And whether it was psychosomatic or real, it was still pain. And House in pain was House seeking relief.
An hour later, Wilson had found himself outside House's apartment, 2 boxes of Chinese food and a six pack of Grolsch in his hands- make-up gifts. He'd knocked, but House didn't answer. Wilson checked outside and saw the bike. Checked the alley and saw the car. He couldn't see in the windows. He'd knocked twice. So he'd dug out his key and slipped it in, turning it and opening.
He saw the flash of red on the couch. The television was on, but there was no sound, except a soft swoosh of exhalation. Wilson had shut the door quietly, wondering if he should drop the food in the fridge and leave. He had been halfway to the kitchen before he looked back and saw something odd on the table- rubber? He dropped the food on the countertop and turned back to peer over the couch with his hands on his hips. He'd taken in the wasted syringe, the paper, the tourniquet. There had been a drop of dried blood on House's inside elbow.
"House," he started, loudly. "House, wake up." Wilson had moved around in front of the couch now, sitting on the coffee table. He took House's wrist- slow pulse, steady. House had groaned and he swallowed shifting his face towards the back of the couch.
"House! What did you take?"
"G'way," he'd slurred, putting a hand to his eyes.
"Yeah," Wilson had muttered under his breath. "What's in the syringe, House? Demerol? Morphine? Heroin?" The last an attempt to garner a response more than an accusation.
The attempt had worked and House turned his face towards the ceiling again, blinking against the limited light and frowning. "I'm not stupid." He'd gotten the terms out clearly, but only barely.
"If it hurts, you take the Vicodin. That's the deal. You don't get to treat yourself special because you're a doctor."
"Gotta sleep."
"You gotta do something else. This is out of control."
"It hurt."
"The Vicodin…"
"Didn't work. I took double. I took one more. I quit. Third time- you know they lied about that?"
Wilson had shaken his head and rubbed his face, covering his eyes, giving in as a conscience and going back to being a doctor. House had been stretched out on the couch, the one hand still over his eyes while the other sat on top of his thigh. "Was it nerve pain or the muscle this time?"
"Nerve."
"How far?" They'd been through this before.
"Far enough."
"Scale?"
"Enough."
"Give me a number," Wilson demanded.
"42." House had grumbled, shifted, and opened his eyes, looking over at the fuzzed image of Wilson sitting on his recliner, either concerned or annoyed- maybe both. He'd rubbed his face, trying to eschew the giddiness that the drug was still pushing through his mind. Wilson wouldn't believe him- never did. Everyone- except Cameron- thought it was psychosomatic. Oh, House is in pain? Maybe he's just bored, lonely- needs attention.What's bugging him now? Parents? Girlfriend left? Anniversary of some traumatic event? Soap operas were funny. He smirked a bit and then frowned, his anger at Wilson's intrusion burgeoning through the morphine's pull.
"Why do you care? You always think…" he pulled his legs to the side of the couch, sitting, sighing as a twinge shot through the drug, "that it's nothing. It's a conversion disorder. I'm sick in the head." His head rested on his left elbow, planted on his knee.
Wilson had opened his mouth, shut it.
"I didn't want this," House had muttered. "But it happened."
"Then make me understand. Convince me."
House had sighed for the umpteenth time within the few minutes. "Listen, no matter what I tell you, you're still going to want to do an MRI. When the MRI comes back negative, you're going to think it's in my head. Who knows… maybe it is. All you need to know is that it hurt. And all you want to know is that two hours ago, I gave in. I took the morphine. I need sleep."
Wilson's hands had clasped, fingers squeezing together and he placed them against his mouth as he nodded. "And now?"
"It's better."
"Sure."
House had reached down for his cane and planted it, pushing himself off the couch with his hands, wincing when the pain reminded him that fixes were only temporary, and turned to the kitchen once he let out his breath and got his balance. It wasn't as if he hadn't considered it. He was a doctor. He knew about psychosomatic pain, emotional vulnerabilities leading to physical weaknesses, to pain. He'd even conceded that some of it was related to his emotion. He'd admitted to himself, if no one else, that he sometimes took the Vicodin for a little courage, a little boost. His leg tended to act up more when under stress. But then, people tended to get sicker under stress- like a college kid getting strep before exams. It was fact. But sometimes, there were no reasons. Like now.
House had opened the refrigerator. Then, lifting his nose in the air, he'd spotted the containers and opened them, shutting the refrigerator with his cane. He'd taken note of the beer, but judging by the fuzziness in his head and the syringe on the table, not to mention Wilson's death stare, he figured he'd pass until he was alone again. His stomach suddenly had dropped at the smell of the food, and he'd turned his back on it, filling a glass with water instead and heading back to the couch.
"So what do you want to do?" Wilson implored, unmoving.
"Watch TV."
House turned the volume on the television up.
"You can't shoot morphine at work."
"Yeah."
"You won't be able to work."
"Great. Move a treadmill into my office in front of the whiteboard. Eight hours of that a day, I won't have to worry about my diet."
"We should do a full work…"
House was shaking his head, staring ahead, "Yeah… useful."
"Rehab."
"Again…." He swallowed drank again, put the glass on the table. "Why do you care?" Wilson was taken aback, as usual, by House's bluntness and he'd held back his gasped surprise and stumbled over an excuse. "I… thought…" he paused. "House, you're…" Another pause. "As screwed up as you are, you are a friend. I don't want to see you kill yourself."
"But it bugs you that you can't help. You can't take it away. You can't be guilty over what happened and you can't be guilty over not being able to help. None of it's your fault. God, you're needy."
Wilson shook his head. "Where did you get it?"
House grinned, secretive, eyebrows raised. "Wouldn't you like to know…"
"Fine."
They'd sat, silently watching the television. Eventually, Wilson had gone to the kitchen and grabbed his food and a beer. House had been intent on watching the game on the television. .
"How often does this happen?" Wilson asked, settling back onto the couch. Wilson's eyes stared through the television and focused instead on House
"Every Saturday usually. Though mostly I get pizza."
"The… pain. How often does it get this bad?"
House had continued to stare at the screen. "I don't keep track."
"And the morphine?"
House had shrugged, noncommittal and sarcastic. "Whenever my dealer comes up with a good price."
Wilson had sat back on the couch, eating, drinking, thinking. The only sound resonating had been the television and the occasional woosh of a passing car outside. When the game was over, House had stood up, picking up his glass and limping slowly into the kitchen to refill it. Wilson had watched as House struggled, catching the gasps, the pauses as the morphine dissipated.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Wilson had called, gathering the empty Styrofoam container and beer bottle, following House into the kitchen.
"What were you going to do? Order a hooker? Send me to a shrink?"
"If this is real pain, we can do something about it."
"I am."
"It's unhealthy."
"Healthier than pacing for eighteen hours a day."
"If you would go to the therapist…" Wilson had paused, making himself clear as House's eyes narrowed.
"Get out," House had murmured, staring blatantly at the kitchen counter.
"What?"
"Get out."
Wilson had thrown his hands up, sighed, and consented. House's tone had been set in stone and Wilson knew from experience that there would be no changing House's mind at the moment. House would stick him with lunch bills and con him out of some cash before the week was over. He always made Wilson pay for forgiveness, but it would come- eventually.
"Do me a favor- write a suicide note. Otherwise, I don't know what to do with all your crap."
House had flinched and turned to limp to his bedroom. Wilson had slammed the door behind him.
Now, as he stood over House, he regretted the words. At the time, they were meant to make an impact- to urge House into confession, rehabilitation, whatever it took to get over it. But now he realized that House had acted out of true desperation to stop the pain that was consuming him. He hadn't been trying to kill himself. He'd been trying to live.
They had skirted the issue all week, despite Wilson buying lunch every day. He had watched as House downed pill after pill. He tried to joke about the masseuse. In the mornings, House's eyes would be bloodshot and Wilson, attempting to get a reaction, would joke that marijuana was usually reserved for cancer sufferers and potheads. House had remained quiet, avoiding having any lengthy conversation. What conversation there was turned everything into something about Wilson. He turned the masseuse into a story about a hooker and how Wilson might be needing one soon. He turned the marijuana back on Wilson's dealings with it in oncology. But now House wanted Ketamine.
"I'm sorry about last week," Wilson said again. "I'm sorry I didn't do anything."
"You're apologizing for inaction," House paused, looking upwards at the ceiling. "Interesting."
Wilson sighed, rubbing his neck. What else was there to say that he hadn't said? House shut his eyes and shifted a little under the blanket, pushing himself up a bit towards the pillows. Wilson watched, frowning, struggling under his opposition to the extreme treatment, Ketamine. Asking for Ketamine meant, essentially, that House was admitting something was wrong, and, furthermore, that he was willing to do something about it other than take more pills. To Wilson, who knew House better than anyone and recognized his stubborn inability to admit defeat or weakness, the decision appeared epic. Wilson couldn't get it out of his mind. He'd come to House's room to think about it, while watching over him. He hadn't expected House to actually be awake for the thinking process- the planning- but here he was and Wilson was unprepared.
"I guess I was wrong," Wilson started. House remained silent. "You know you're an ass…" slipped out.
"Yeah, I know," House responded.
"Pain is something that's difficult to objectify. All we have is a patient's word- unless there are physical signs. And you've been… difficult… before." Wilson stood again, beginning to pace as House watched, silent, waiting for Wilson's guilt episode to end. Wilson hadn't been quite sure how to phrase his apology and it was coming out as an excuse for his behavior. The Ketamine request had answered the question as to how much the pain was affecting House and what he was willing to do to stop it. It had just been so hard sometimes- to tell when House was sulking or when the pain was actually creeping up.
"And you are an addict- so that plays a part…"
"Ohh, that's crap."
"Listen, the point is that you asked for this Ketamine treatment. I've read the studies on this. This is not going to be like taking a Vicodin. This is five days of intensive care- you'll be in a coma. This is five days that you'll be completely reli…"
House was nodding, annoyed. "Yeah yeah…I've read them too."
"But every single one of us knows that you don't let anyone…"
"If it works, it'll be worth it," House said seriously. Wilson sighed. "Besides," House muttered, lifting his arms for a second to show the tubes and wires hanging off of him. "I'm already half way there…"
Wilson paused for a moment, recalling every interaction he'd ever had with House. House liked permanence- the "quick fix" was never an option, he wanted the full deal. Always. "What changed?" he asked suddenly. "Why now?"
House's head dropped back. "After I was shot," House paused, seemingly uncertain. "I had an hallucination," he admitted.
Wilson, disbelieving, sat again, rubbed a hand across his forehead. "And this hallucination... made you want to change?"
"That guy that shot me? I'm pretty sure his wife committed suicide."
"You said…"
House shook his head. "It was my fault," he stated. "I cured her, but I ruined her life. You know why I ruined her life?" He didn't let Wilson answer. "I told her the truth." Wilson's curiosity allowed House to continue. "Telling these people the god's honest truth, telling myself the truth, is depriving everything of… meaning. Telling myself that my leg is never going to heal, that I'll never get better… it's the truth." House thought of the Vicodin then- how it and sarcasm hid the pain so well, but continued without mention. "The puzzles helped- solving the big mystery and letting everyone know everything- distracted me from it and I let it get away from me. The nature of this job… it's physical and it's real. I neglected that aspect of it. Let it become abstract- so that it didn't mean anything more than a game. I've based everything on its need to be fixed. And everything on the notion that it could have been prevented. Absolutism isn't saving anyone. It's destroying… everything."
House's revelation sat warming in Wilson's belly for a moment, turning over and over until Wilson's mind could emerge with something to say to take the edge out of the moment.
"How high is your fever?" Wilson asked, smirking, breaking the silence. House's composure visibly relaxed from the pent up state of drastic disclosure. Wilson returned on a more serious note a moment later. "So do you think it will work?"
"It'll work."
"And you're sure you want to do this?"
"Absolutely."
Wilson, somehow, was relieved.
House was more on edge. Between the fever that still invaded his body and the overwhelming sense of embarrassment over his disclosure, he laid in the bed awake for far longer than he should have been. House had never been, and would never be a "touchy-feely" kind of guy. As long as he could remember, he'd recalled the hesitation when confronted by a friend or a relative- they always had to touch him- pats on the back, hugs, pinching cheeks until he was 16. Christ. He didn't know why he cringed- only that he'd always felt it. Some people were affectionate. He wasn't one of them, didn't want to be one of them. In forty-seven years, there were two people with whom he never hesitated to touch- his mother and Stacy.
His mother had a mother's keen instinct. She knew exactly what was going on in his head even if he didn't. She shocked him sometimes, with her knowledge and foresight. Her simple and straightforward comments left nothing to question. And while she may not have had all the answers, she had many of them. Stacy, on the other hand, knew House's actions and his motivations. But she'd never been able to pin down his thoughts or emotions. He wasn't a talker, didn't see the point in cathartic conversations that only served to either embarrass someone or make them angry. Stacy and House never had "the talk." House because he didn't see the point. Why not just see what happens? And Stacy because she knew what his response would be.
When something was wrong between him and Stacy, he'd spend the night in his office. If something was really wrong, he'd knock on Wilson's door and sleep on his couch. Then one morning, he'd wake up, go to Stacy and they'd have great make-up sex and never mention the issue again. But make-up sex didn't rectify her deception. Maybe it was because it didn't happen until six months afterwards. The delay in apologetic action caused an irreversible situation. Maybe if he'd been able to make her understand in the first place, it never would have happened.
Although revealing the hallucination had come after a day's worth of silent ruminations, it didn't change his embarrassment over the situation. After Wilson left, thinking back to the conversation, his face had burned with shame. He'd let down his guard and hated himself for it. He couldn't explain it, except to say that it was who he was. Other people- they could complain, comfort, emote. But he was better than that. He was different.
Uncomfortably shifting under the covers, his fingers gripped the loosened sheets. He wished he could roll over. His back and hips were already sore from being on it for so long. Just to roll to his side…
House lifted his hands, making sure the wires and tubing were out of the way, and gently rolled to his left, bringing his right ankle to rest in front of his left. The pressure on his back was immediately relieved and he sighed gratefully as his gut also readjusted to the new position. Sleep wouldn't cure him of his shame, but a temporary fix was better than nothing.