Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1

I'm glad the dream worked. I wanted it to mirror the dream in "Top Secret" more than anything else. Now here's the real Wilson. And thank you all again for the reviews. I think they do make me write faster and I sincerely appreciate your thoughts. :)

Understanding Pain

They make me miss Cuddy's office. By the time they're done bruising my veins and choking me with tubes, I wish I were back on her hideous couch dreaming about Wilson.

Worse than their not knowing the ass end of a nasogastric tube is the wait. I needed those pain meds before they started torturing me, not afterward. I grumble and snap and threaten and invoke the name of Cuddy, but they may as well be deaf for all the good it does.

I'm waiting for the meds to arrive before I call him. Something about having a tube shoved down my nose and a gut that hurts so much I'm ready to yank my own intestines out has put me in a foul mood.

I bark at the nurse who's fiddling with the suction. Eventually he leaves saying he'll be right back with my meds. I don't believe him and tell him so.

I watch him return to the nurse's station and make notes. He can make notes later. I need those meds. Most patients who hit an eight on the pain scale get faster service. It's been twenty minutes.

I stick my tongue out at him. So what if he can't see me.

Now I'm bored. I reach for the PSP and try that level again.

Just because I'm not writhing and groaning like most of the idiots here who hit an eight doesn't change the number.

But at the same time, once the meds arrive, I can't reasonably put off calling him any longer. Unreasonably, I could put it off indefinitely, but that's not me.

I beat the level before the nurse returns. Finally. I've had to endure one part of my body necrotizing already, I know what it feels like. I don't need to go through it again.

I watch him inject it.

If Cuddy were any kind of human being, she would have ordered a drip. But apparently ischemic bowel feels different to me than it does to everyone else. I'm special. My pain isn't as bad. I can get through it. It only hurts because I don't know what killed that kid. Nothing to do with oxygen deprivation at the cellular level. That doesn't hurt at all. Ask anyone else with gut rot. They'll tell you. If you can get them to stop screaming first.

He stays for a few minutes to watch for a reaction.

The only reaction he's going to see is relaxation, and it's so controlled he probably doesn't see it at all.

He leaves.

I can breathe again. Seems like it's been hours since I've drawn a real breath.

Just because I don't parade the pain, doesn't mean it isn't there.

I'm better. I can breathe. Now I'll call him.

I place the PSP next to the other important things I've brought to cure boredom and pick up the phone.

Patient phones never follow logic. They've changed the system since I was shot. I skim the instructions and enter a series of numbers that might be correct.

Someone picks up.

It's him.

He's in his office for once.

Frankly, I'm surprised.

"Hi," I say.

I sound…shy? Nervous? I'm not…

"House. Hey. What's up?"

I hear his tone change from professional to boyfriend as soon as he hears me. God, I can smell the chicken soup already.

"Not much," I answer lamely.

I clear my throat. Still not sure what I'm going to say.

"Thought I'd take your advice and get the hernia repaired." Lame, lame, lame.

"I don't recall advising that," he says, "but okay."

"You did," I tell him. "Sort of."

I hear him scoff on the other end of the line.

"It was implied," I say.

"You sound better," he tells me. "Feeling better?"

Oh, choke me with a gym sock. I imagine him tracing little hearts with a forefinger on his desk.

"Yeah."

For a second, there's this awful awkward silence. He's figuring out what I want. He knows I never call him without a reason.

"You…ah…when do you want to do the surgery?"

"Soon," I say.

I really don't want to tell him. I'm still trying to think of a way out of it.

"You should wait until you're over the food poisoning," he advises.

And in that second I hear him figure it out—a slight hesitation on his end marks the realization.

"Unless it gets worse."

A terrible, terrible pause. He knows, but he'll still ask anyway. It's who he is.

"It's not worse, is it?"

"Ah…yeah…it is…" I cringe. "But don't worry, I've got it under control."

He says some variant of Oh God House what did you do but it rushes by so quickly I don't catch all of it.

"I'm okay," I tell him. "I'm getting it fixed this afternoon."

He's on his feet now, spilling papers, knocking containers of pens over, that stupid miniature Zen sand garden and the other crap his pets give him. I don't need to be there to know what's going on.

"Where are you?" he asks insistently as though I'm a hostage who's just escaped and found a pay phone to call him with my whereabouts in the few seconds I have before my captors return.

I give him the room number and cringe again.

"Why didn't you call me?"

I just dreamt that—didn't I?

I blink.

But this time he sounds more put out than he did when I dreamed this conversation.

"Because I…didn't want to worry you or interrupt you," I tell him. "I'm okay. I had it under control."

He sighs.

And in that sigh I hear how deeply disappointed he is. He's past the point of anger.

My insides twist. Crap. Disappointment is so much worse than anger.

"Cuddy has my file," I volunteer.

I try to sound cheery. Can't pull it off.

"She's probably expecting a call from you."

If I were the type to bite my fingernail, I'd bite my fingernail. This is the one where I wish he'd say something. I wish he'd yell. Anything.

He's silent.

I can't stand it. I start babbling.

I tell him what time my surgery is and who'll do it. I tell him how I woke up and how I thought it was faster for me to do everything and that it's only been about an hour and a half since I noticed the problem.

I tell him I'm sorry I didn't call earlier, and I am sorry now. I hate silence from him. (I don't tell him that.)

"You know I'm bad at this," I say. "I didn't know what to do, whether I should call you or— All I thought about was getting here and getting it fixed. I should have…paged you or something, but I didn't want to… Look, I'm sorry if you're upset. Really. I am."

I hear him sigh again. He's about to say something. At last!

"House, what are you on?"

"Morphine," I answer. "Not a lot," I'm quick to add. "Cuddy prescribed it."

He asks for the dosage. I roll my eyes—I know he can hear that through the phone as well as I can hear him pinching the bridge of his nose.

I tell him.

He falls silent again.

"Everything else is in my file," I continue. "Cuddy has—"

"Cuddy, yeah, I know."

Yep, he's pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'm not high," I tell him. "I'm normal."

Oops. Why did I say that? I don't want to bring up this old argument again.

"Okay," he says.

Okay means not okay.

Crap.

Then I have an idea.

"Um, so, will I see you?" I ask.

He'll want to stop by, right? The whole point of not telling him was to avoid his excessive coddling. Because he'd bother me too much. He'd be here, bothering me. So he wants to come—right? And it's better if I invite him…because that shows…something…

I suck at this.

"Yeah," he answers. He sounds tired. "Yeah—I have a couple of things here, but—yeah."

"Okay."

And awkwardly we say goodbye and hang up. I hate phone calls.

He thinks I'm high.

I'm not high.

I'm not in pain either. Well, I am, I just don't care about the pain.

I feel better. I can breathe. I just—don't want to have this argument, least of all with myself.

The room-temperature saline chills my veins. I gather the thin blanket and pull it to my shoulders.

With such immense relief comes tiredness. I remember that I haven't slept much.

I think about lifting a hand to find the remote for the television, but I'm tired and…