August 14th

Gene wasn't sure what to expect during his first meeting with Greg House, but the discovery of the patient at his desk, engaged in a search of the top drawer, wasn't on the list. Gene pulled the door shut behind him and came into the room. House glanced up, blue eyes fierce in his gaunt face, and continued his efforts. Gene took the seat across from the desk and made himself comfortable. "Good morning," he said. House didn't respond. He yanked on the locked bottom drawer.

"Key," he said. Gene said nothing. House leveled a look at him. "Do. You. Have. A. Key." He over-pronounced each word as if he spoke to an idiot.

"Yes," Gene said. House tilted his head in a quizzical manner.

"Well?" he said. Gene shrugged.

"You asked if I had a key," he said. "I answered your question."

"DUH," House said, but a flash of amusement passed over his features. "Hand it over. I can't conduct a thorough search unless I get to look through all the drawers. Hence the word 'thorough'."

"You're telling me you can't pick a lock?" Gene leaned back and crossed his legs. "I've heard differently, you know."

House narrowed his eyes. "Wilson's a total yenta," he said. "I get it. There's no way you want me to see your files, because then I'll know you can't help me."

Gene gave a soundless sigh. "The spare key is taped on the underside of the desktop," he said. House located it and opened the drawer. He took a handful of files and spread them out.

"Lots of patients," he said. "Bet you make the big bucks." Gene was silent. House rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't tell me you're as modest as your little slice of sweet pertater pie."

"Modest?" Gene shook his head. "Not really. I'm good at what I do."

House picked up the first file. "I'll be the judge of that," he said.

"Be my guest," Gene said. House gave him a hard stare, then opened the folder.

"Inoperable cancer," he said after a moment. "No difficulties there. Morphine and plenty of it."

"If that's Helen's file, she refused to be sedated or over-medicated," Gene said. "She didn't want to die unaware of her surroundings."

"Helen was a moron," House said. He tossed the file aside. "So you gave her the minimum palliative care possible."

"We worked together on the right coverage," Gene said. "She was able to tolerate the level of pain she was in, and that's what she wanted."

"And that's your goal, to do the bare minimum." The sarcasm couldn't quite hide fear-quite a lot of fear, in fact. Gene chose his next words with care. One misstep and he would lose the chance to gain his patient's trust, probably for good.

"The objective is to help my patients manage their pain to our mutual satisfaction," he said. House snorted in obvious derision.

"I don't want my pain managed. I want it gone, as in non-existent." He paused. "You can do that?"

"I won't make promises I can't keep," Gene said. He watched House's expression darken. "But I can promise to do everything in my power to find what works for you." He nodded at the pile on the desk. "Keep reading."

"Okay," House said after he had perused several cases. "You're as good as your word, at least on paper." He shoved the files to one side. Some of them fell on the floor and scattered papers everywhere. Gene regarded the mess with resignation. He couldn't dump it on his long-suffering receptionist; she would never forgive him for the destruction of her careful work. So much for watching the game this evening. He switched his attention back to House, who spoke once more. "-if I tell you what I want and you give it to me?"

"I can't do that," Gene said. "You're an addict. Unfortunately, you're also legitimately dependent on pain meds. That makes the whole process more difficult."

"So we're both wasting our time," House said. He pushed away from the desk.

"I didn't say that," Gene said mildly. "I said it would be more difficult." He watched his patient struggle to his feet. "I'm willing to try, if you are."

"As if I have a choice." House gripped the back of the chair.

"Actually you do," Gene said. House shook his head.

"You and your chicken-fried girlfriend are both delusional," he said. "I work with you, I get my hopes up for nothing and I'm back to collecting Lortabs. Choices galore." He glared at Gene. "It's simple. Write me a scrip for Vicodin."

"There are more treatment possibilities in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy," Gene said. "Vicodin doesn't work for you."

"Like hell it doesn't!" House snapped. "An unlimited prescription would be a great start to a beautiful supply and demand relationship." He held out his hand. It shook visibly. "Gimme."

"Even if Vicodin was an option, I'd hesitate to prescribe it," Gene said. "You have an interesting history with experimental usage. During one two-day period you took nitro to create a migraine-like headache, followed by an experimental anti-migraine med, followed by acid, followed by anti-depressants."

"It wasn't migraine-like, it was the real thing," House said. "So I'm too crazy to fit your parameters. And who ratted me out, as if I didn't know?"

"The drugapalooza was noted in your file," Gene said, mildly amused. "If you haven't deduced it yet, you're in a nut house. I think 'crazy' is a parameter that fits a number of people here, and not just the patients. And that's not why I wouldn't give you Vicodin."

There was a brief silence. "Explain," House said finally.

"Besides the experimentation, you underwent an extremely risky surgical procedure almost immediately after sustaining injuries, including concussion and a fractured temporal bone, during a major traffic accident. You suffered at least one seizure and possibly others. You were also in another accident recently, where you sustained a possible mild concussion and some serious road rash. That's a lot of physical damage in a comparatively short period of time. It complicates things quite a bit," Gene said.

"I'm fine." House tossed another file on the floor. "Oops. See, if I had my medication that wouldn't have happened." He gave Gene a hard stare. Gene said nothing, only waited. House's defiance leaked away, bit by bit. After an awkward moment he lowered his gaze. "Vicodin helps me function," he said. His tone was sullen, defiant.

"That's the real reason you took it?" Gene kept his tone one of curiosity.

"If I took it for the high then I'm evil incarnate because I like being stoned," House said. "If I took it for the pain, then I'm a drug-seeking pussy. Anesthesia, analgesia, both are morally objectionable."

"Okay, let me put it another way," Gene said. "Which do you want more? Freedom from pain, or an eternal buzz?"

"Both," House said. Gene smiled.

"In a perfect world you'd get both," he said. "But in a perfect world you wouldn't be missing a big chunk of your thigh muscle. That dumbass attending would have figured out he was dealing with a blood clot and not a charlie horse." He sat up a bit. "If you could become relatively pain-free with a clear mind, would that be worth working on the addiction to get it?"

"Aha," House said. "The carrot at long last. Too bad it doesn't hide that big knobbly stick you're carrying."

"I can't change the choices you're given," Gene said. "I can only help you decide what will work best for you. And from what I've seen, a life with as little interference from pain and drugs as possible could happen, if you're willing to try for it." He looked at House, and kept his expression neutral. "I'd like to run a test or two, if you're agreeable."

"You've got plenty of test results in my file," House said. "If you require my balls, they were put in the lock box when I came here."

"I want to check some genetic markers," Gene said. "The amount of Vicodin you took would have kept two people comatose, even accounting for tolerance. I suspect you have an hereditary resistance to pain meds. It's rare, only about seven percent of people with Western European ancestry have it, but it's worth a look-see."

House considered, then nodded. "Okay. But only if I get to go over the results."

"Fine by me. Let's get started then," Gene said. "There are some buccal swab kits in the left hand drawer. Grab one and we'll send it off to the lab today."

"That's it-no lectures, no compulsory Narcotics Anonymous meetings, no moral high ground." House sounded incredulous. Gene kept his expression deadpan.

"You know what they say about assumptions," he said.

That garnered a slight smile. "There are exceptions," House said. "Myself being one." He rummaged in the drawer and extracted a kit.

"So I've heard," Gene said. He stood and stretched tight shoulder muscles. This had gone somewhat better than he'd expected. "Open wide, genius."

"I could get you fired for that remark," House said. He broke the seal on the kit. "You're taking a risk letting me in on the diagnosis and treatment, you know that."

Gene thought of previous administrative freakouts regarding his methods. "Yeah."

"Good," House said. "Maybe we're on the right track after all." He stuck the swab in his mouth and scraped his cheek.

Time will tell, Gene thought, and hoped he could navigate the stormy waters ahead.

He told Sarah about it over dinner that night. "If my guess is right, this is gonna be an uphill battle," he said, and mopped some gravy off his plate with a biscuit. Sarah sat back and gave him a thoughtful look.

"There has to be a way to get him some relief. Amputation is a last resort but he'd veto it, to say the least."

"I've got some resources I can consult without revealing the patient's identity or specific case details." Gene finished off the biscuit and took another from the basket. "I'll give him every chance to find something, Sare. You're doin' the same thing in a different way."

"Hope so." She ate some chicken. Gene split the biscuit and spread one half with some butter.

"You are," he said again. "He isn't gonna make it easy for either one of us, but then we're used to that."

"I don't think we're used to the level of resistance he'll put up," Sarah said. She stole the other half of Gene's biscuit. He gave her a mock glare.

"Thievin' crow," he said. She gave him a wide smile.

"My last name's Corbett, after all." She munched the biscuit and watched him eat some chicken. "He's in a lot of pain. The meds they're giving him at Mayfield don't begin to cover it, but the process to change them takes donkey years."

"Darryl could push it through . . ."

"He's trying." Sarah put some honey on the last bite of biscuit. "For now though, we're all Greg has."

Gene nodded. "Something tells me he's not used to having anyone on his side when it comes to pain relief."

"Or for anything else." She picked up her plate and stood, stretched a little, glanced out the window. "Wish this weather would break. It's makin' people crabby and mean. Even the patients are bothered by it."

"Forecast says it won't rain anytime soon. We'll just have to deal with the heat and call it good." He took the plate from her. "I'll wash up tonight, you still look tired."

"I won't say no." Sarah took the remains of the roast chicken and the biscuits to the counter. "One of the nurses brought in some raspberries from her garden. I'll make a peach-raspberry cobbler tomorrow."

"Sounds good to me. We still on for dinner and a movie on Sunday?" Gene stacked the plates and gathered the silverware.

Sarah smiled at him and stretched a little. "Yup. You choose the movie, but I get M&Ms in my popcorn." She kissed him as he moved past her. Gene paused.

"Can we do that again?"

She obliged. "Thanks for helping," she said softly. Gene smiled down at her.

"My pleasure."