House was back in his office. Andie and her mother had vacated the premises about an hour before, Chase and Foreman had helped them move to Andie's room. Reportedly Andie's mother did feel better after her nap, but was still somewhat disgruntled at House for having forced it on her. She had been heard to mutter something about never trusting "that man" again.
House was rubbing his leg. His stay on the cold balcony – never mind the blankets and all – had not done it good. But unlike Andie, he wasn't dieing, so he didn't mind that so much. But he did mind the return of the pain. Sure he was never totally free of pain, but Cuddy's injection had dulled it for a couple of days and his own worry over his mother had overruled it for the rest of the time. The latter fact had actually surprised him, because he did know that stress usually increased the pain in his leg. He refused to listen to Wilson's psychobabble about him "punishing" himself with the pain in his leg, because that was just bull, but that stress was a factor in his wellbeing he did acknowledge.
He had expected to be in more pain due to his worry, not less – which is how he had convinced Cuddy to give him the morphine injection. And it was morphine this time; he had made sure of it. Besides, Cuddy was fortunately on the same page with Wilson about drugs being preferable to patricide. But instead of increasing his pain, his mother's illness had dulled it, in the same way that an interesting case usually did. Fascinating, but not something he was willing to try again.
The presence of his parents had affected his mood as well. Sure, with less pain in his leg, he had been mellower - perhaps that was a word he could use - than in a long time. He had actually been nice to his underlings – he chuckled to himself - that had them more worried than anything he had ever done before. Perhaps he needed to do something outrageous soon, or they would be searching his home for drugs! They would do it too, because he had taught them. Talk about being hoisted by you own petard! But it wasn't just the lack of pain that made him different. He hated to admit it to himself, but he did not want to make his mother think she had failed in raising him. Which caused quite a bit of conflict in him, as he very much wanted to make his father think that he had failed. He was not sure how long he could stay on top of his feelings about and for his father.
He wasn't even quite sure why he hated his father. He was a perfectly ordinary man, not cold, not unfeeling, not unloving. Just unimaginative. He hadn't cheated on his wife, he had done his best to love his son and raise him. House could not turn his back on him for any clear reason – and he could quite easily see why his mother loved the man. But John House had been so glaringly lacking in everything that his son had needed when growing up and so totally unaware of his lack, that House could not have hated him more had he been an abusive parent. And a fortnight of John House asking him about his girlfriends – or lack of them, his work, his hobbies, his friends and then giving his opinion about how lucky House was for being alive and how ungrateful for not appreciating it was more than House could contemplate without reaching for his Vicodin.
He took the pill and looked at it with almost amused resignation before popping it into his mouth. He hated being dependent on it. But that dependency he could deal with. At least it was straight forward thing. He took the pill the pill gave him relief, made it possible for him to function. No ifs, or buts, or especially no what ifs. The real problem he had with the pills was that he had to ask for them. Both Wilson and Cuddy knew what had been done to his leg, they knew he was in chronic pain but still, if he wanted a prescription he still had to convince them that he needed it. What part of "I am in pain" was so hard to understand? None of the words were longer than one syllable! Why did they need elaboration on the point? Pain! Google it or look it up in a dictionary.
Of course he knew that people who didn't know pain like those who suffered from it every day didn't know the absolute quality it could take. There were no degrees to it, there was no such thing as mild, medium or severe pain. There was just pain. It ruled his life, not the drug, pain. The drug just allowed him some negotiating room with the pain. That was the main reason he had sent Stacy away; why he refused even to contemplate anything with Cameron. He was a married man already. Married to his pain. It was his La Belle Dame Sans Merci that hath him in thrall. His cruel mistress was also a jealous one. It really tolerated no other. But in time he had learned to live with it, sometimes it did make a point of reminding him who really was in control, but most of the time he was able to live with it. With the help of Vicodin.
He could have understood Wilson and Cuddy's concern or worry had he been unable to function. But he did his job – well, after a fashion, but it was still the same fashion he had done it before he became a cripple – he paid his bills, washed, eat; did all the things people normally did. What was their problem with that? Because he didn't "share"? Didn't they know him at all? They had to know he hated talking about private things, and you didn't get much more private than pain. Still they kept on telling him to find alternative methods of pain management. All of those methods meant being dependent on other people. Telling new people about his pain, how it had come about, what happened to his leg and "how he felt about it". What the bloody hell did they think his answer was going to be? Happy? Grateful that his bloody girlfriend had wanted her pound of flesh before merrily going her own way? Glad that he was alive? Humble because his doctor and "loved one" had "cared" enough to go against his wishes and make sure he survived? "Survival" was not all that is was cracked up to be!
And even if he was lucky enough to find someone like Ingrid, who didn't talk much nor ask any questions (mainly because she had so little English) he would still be dependent on another human being. And frankly, human beings sucked! You made yourself dependent on them and you were setting yourself up to be screwed, big time. Besides, giving his pain into the hands of someone else also meant letting someone else know exactly how much he hurt at any given time. That was private information and not for sharing or for public consumption. And it would be public. Sure the therapist or whatever person it was in charge of his pain management would not "kiss and tell" – unless his/her ethics were in par with House's own (he shrugged to himself) – but people would know when and where and they could draw their own conclusions and they would. Especially his ducklings would, if he had taught them anything at all about observation. And he had!
He really hated the idea of parading his pain for all to see! Sure, they saw some of it even now, there was no hiding his cane or his limp, but he was good at distraction. When you hide in plain sight, most people don't see you. He made the cane and the limp so much part of his self that people did not see past them - to the pain. Obviously he had been a little too good at it, since he had fooled Wilson and Cuddy, too, both of whom ought to have known better. That is, had they wanted to. Wilson had his own reasons for giving different interpretation to the actions of his friend, and House suspected not all of those reason were pretty or to Wilson's credit. But then, human beings sucked. Cuddy was easier to understand. She felt responsible for what had happened, guilty. And it was human nature to try and protect oneself from things that hurt – like guilt.
He could have let them in a little bit more, he supposed. But his pain was his monster, and he was very protective of it. He knew it well, every claw it had, every bite it took, every nightmare it gave him. Nobody else needed to know. His monster, his closet and he was damned if he was going to out it for all to see.
House shook his head. He really needed to get a grip and find something else to do than sit here morosely thinking himself into deep depression. Fortunately right then Wilson decided to pay a visit, though he didn't look too happy either.
Cameron had reported earlier to House that Wilson had been by to see him, but had left having seen Andie and her mother in his office. It looked that Wilson had an opinion about that and could not wait to voice it.
"House, why did you do it? You had no right to drug her without even asking her permission!" Wilson huffed with righteous anger.
"Well had I asked her permission, she would have refused and it would have been near impossible to slip the pill to her then," House stated like what he had done ought to have been self-evident to anyone with half a brain.
"Then if she refused you shouldn't have done it! It's unethical to give people drugs without their consent and without telling them what the drug is." Wilson was shaking his head at his friend.
"Jimmy, you do remember who you are talking to, right?" House asked.
"Damn it! She lost over two hours of her daughter's life! You had no right to do it."
"Andie told her that she wanted to be alone, so she would have missed some anyway. Most of the time she was asleep, Andie was asleep as well. And sad though it all is, and painful though all this is to Andie's mother, she is not the patient. Andie needs her mother to be there for her, especially towards the end. If she collapses before that, Andie is the one who will suffer. Besides I have more room to manoeuvre here, as I'm doctor to neither of them."
"Which is exactly why you should stay out of it!" Wilson told him. "When you drugged her, you didn't even tell me. I was in my office you could have called me and told me. But no, you drugged her and then you went to see Andie – against her wishes as well, as she had just said she wanted to be alone – and you didn't think me, as their doctor, needed to be informed."
House looked at Wilson considering for a moment. He leaned back in his chair and said: "Why didn't you join us? You obviously saw me on the balcony, knew that Andie was alone with me."
"I had things to do," Wilson responded with some evasion.
"Or could it be that you didn't want to be reminded how much better my balcony is now, compared to yours? I can understand that. There it is, your balcony: alone, unappealing, barren, not much fun at all. And then there is mine: decorated, lighted, it has warmth, fun and – not the least – scintillating company."
"We are not talking about balconies but Andie and her mother here!" Wilson exclaimed.
"Precisely," House responded. "You are being eaten inside by the green-eyed monster. You are jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous! Why would I be jealous and over what?"
"You feel rejected, because for the moment I am the flavour of the day with Andie and her mother. You have been there from the beginning, they have relied on you and you have let them too close to you. Now, all of a sudden, I come with the baubles and chimes and what not, and take over. And you feel rejected and alone and unappealing. And you resent it that all your commitment and work is pushed aside for one short loan of a balcony."
"You ... you are wrong!" Wilson insisted. "I'm happy for Andie, that she has something to bring her some comfort, joy whatever she needs now when she needs it most. I am not jealous!"
"Yes you are," House stated. "Not that you need to be. They have not forgotten you and when the end comes closer they will want you. Not me, you. But right now they are raw with grief and they cannot handle any more of it. And your grieving over Andie is like sandpaper on a sunburn for them right now. They cannot deal with it. For a moment they need a respite from pity, and sadness, and grief. For just a little while they need someone who doesn't give a damn."
"You give a damn," Wilson said looking a little sheepish after House's speech.
"Ok, not much of a damn, then. They will need you later. But till then, you too, take this time and pull yourself together. You need to find your objectivity – or at least some of it. Or you won't be of any use to them, or any other of your patients."
"I ... Maybe. I don't know what I feel anymore. I'm confused, and hurt. Maybe there is something in what you said," Wilson admitted. "At least you are right about me needing to find my objectivity. But I still think you were wrong with that drug."
"Ethically speaking, of course," House agreed. "But I have never let ethics stand in the way of things that need to be done."
"House ... oh, never mind," Wilson sighed. "There really is no point in talking to you, is there."
"And yet you keep on doing it." House smiled at his friend.