February 2000 - Princeton, NJ
"House!"
"Use your key!"
"My hands are full."
"Yeah, well my leg has a hole in it; we all have to adapt."
"You suck, you know that?"
"You got in, didn't you?"
"No thanks to you. These are your groceries."
"What, you want me to thank you?"
"That'd be a good place to start."
"Thank you, Wilson, for taking care of my crippled ass."
"Someone's gotta do it, especially if you won't."
Wilson watched as House snorted in response and slowly made his way from the living room to the kitchen, hands braced on his crutches and eyes trained on the floor in front of him. He shifted his gaze away before House could notice and proceeded to unpack the paper bags he'd placed on the island.
"Lisa Cuddy asked about you this morning."
"You were both at the hospital on a Saturday morning? God, how pathetic."
"She wants to know when you'll be ready to come back."
"What did you tell her?"
"That she'll have to ask you herself."
"No, you didn't."
"Yes, I did. She told me that she has been trying to ask you, but that you let all her calls go to the machine and never call her back."
"I let everyone's calls go to the machine; she isn't unique."
"I told her that. I also told her I'd mention it."
"Right."
"Do you even want to go back, House? Honestly?"
"What do you think?"
"I don't know what to think; it's starting to seem like you're content to just sit here and watch your soaps all day, having your groceries delivered and meals cooked for you."
"You think this is me feeling content? I know it quells your need to be needed, so it might surprise you to learn that I actually don't enjoy having to depend on you for every little thing."
"Well, you don't seem to want to do much to change it."
"Oh, really?"
"You tell me, House. First, you drove away Stacy. You refuse to take or return any calls. You're here, on this couch, every day. You aren't doing anything to help yourself."
"You have no idea what you're talking about, Wilson."
"No? Then you tell me, House. You tell me what you're doing to make this better for yourself."
"Wilson…"
"Tell me, House. Make me understand."
"I don't...patients...no one wants a doctor who's constantly high on fentanyl. Cuddy doesn't, the board doesn't, my patients and students certainly won't."
"Then we'll get you off the fentanyl, start something else. There are entire classes of drugs we haven't even touched yet."
"Fentanyl helps my pain."
"Something else might also help your pain. A different opioid, a tricyclic antidepressant for the nerve pain. Just because fentanyl works, doesn't mean it's the right choice."
"Easy for you to say."
"And that right there is why I don't think you're serious about going back to work. You're giving up, just like you gave up on rehab."
"I don't…"
"What, House?"
"I don't want to be in pain, damnit! Do you think I like being high? That I enjoy being dependent on an opiate that knocks me flat on my ass? I hate it! But what I hate even more is the pain. It's constant, Wilson. Constant. Muscle cramps if I sit too long, muscle cramps if I stand too long. The damaged nerves feel like I'm being stabbed, poked, and burned, like a piece of meat in a frying pan. Ever had to stand up after your foot's fallen asleep? It's that, multiplied by a thousand, all the time. It hurts, Wilson. And as much as feeling like my head's stuffed with cotton sucks, I'd take that over being rendered immobile by the pain any day.
"I'm sorry..."
"Don't be. Not your fault."
Wilson stared at his friend for a long moment, then nodded tightly. He'd finished unpacking House's groceries during their conversation and now reached into his jacket pocket, fingers searching for plastic vial he'd picked up from the pharmacy that morning.
"No one wants you to be in pain, House. We just want you to get back to your life." Wilson said at last, placing the orange bottle on the butcher block between himself and House. "I'm not writing you another scrip for fentanyl. I can't. So you'll have to try this. I'll be back tonight. Page me if you need me."
House nodded silently and watched Wilson leave. Once Wilson was gone, his eyes glided to the prescription bottle. He'd known for weeks that his days on fentanyl - at least fentanyl legally prescribed by Wilson - would soon come to an end. But he hadn't known when Wilson would officially cut him off, or what the oncologist would pick as a replacement. He took a painful, unsteady step forward and grasped the bottle, bringing it close so he could read the fine print. Hydrocodone bitartrate and acetaminophen 7.5mg/750mg. Vicodin.