7.14—"Opiate Argument"
Wilson took a deep breath and stepped into House's office. "We need to talk," he said, his voice a bit unsteady.
House looked up from his desk. "Didn't we just do that, like, a week ago?"
Wilson didn't say anything. He noticed he was trembling slightly as he reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out the bottle of Vicodin. The pills rattled a bit as he placed the bottle on House's desk.
House glared up at him. "Where did you find that?"
"In a box in your old bedroom."
"You went through my stuff?"
"I tripped and knocked a box over," Wilson snapped. "What's your excuse?"
"There's no need to be nasty about it," House muttered.
"House, will you explain this, please?" Wilson asked, trying very hard to be civil.
"It's Vicodin," House stated, looking directly at Wilson. "From back when. I haven't taken a single pill since the day you dropped me off at Mayfield, all right?"
"Then why do you have it?" Wilson demanded, visibly frustrated. "Why tempt yourself? I thought you got rid of it, all of it!"
"So I missed a bottle. Big deal. I haven't taken it. You can test my blood if you want. I'll get you a needle." House stood up defiantly.
"House, don't," Wilson said. "I believe you."
"Then quit treating me like a child who's misbehaved."
"I'm just trying to understand," Wilson continued, hands anchored to his hips, "why you would find an old bottle of Vicodin and make the conscious decision to pack it instead of chucking it."
His words hung in the air. House stared at the orange bottle, not responding.
"House?" Wilson prompted.
"I don't want to have this conversation," House answered without looking at him.
"An intelligent guy once told me you can't always get what you want."
House didn't answer. The completely blank look in his eyes frightened Wilson.
"Greg, come on, talk to me," Wilson implored, sitting down in front of House's desk in a vain attempt to be closer to him and make eye contact. "Let me in. Help me understand what you were thinking."
"You're mad at me."
Wilson sighed. "I'm frustrated."
"No," House contradicted. "You were mad."
"All right, fine, I was mad," Wilson admitted, starting to lose his temper again. "I was mad because I don't you to throw away everything you worked for. Because I care about you."
"Then trust me."
"I did, until I found out you still keep Vicodin lying around," Wilson pointed out.
"Trust me not to take it."
"Then why keep it?" Wilson demanded.
House looked at him finally and answered slowly. "It's just...in case...I need it."
The words struck a chord with Wilson. He studied House. "That's why you wanted to keep the apartment, isn't it? It wasn't the apartment that was your backup plan, it was your secret opiate stash."
"Fine, Wilson, yes," House admitted, rolling his eyes and looking away, "sometimes I think if life gets hard enough I want to be able to go back to it, numb myself out so I won't have to feel my leg and everything else. I almost did it that night right before you kissed me, but I didn't. I got through it."
"Then why do you need them?" Wilson asked, a begging tone to his voice.
"I don't," House stated. "I just...like to know they're there."
Wilson shook his head. "It's not good enough, House."
"I'm an addict, Wilson," House said, glaring at him. "If I need it, I'm gonna get it. If it gets to be too much, wouldn't you rather me take a couple prescription Vicodin than try and score heroin off the street? We both know I could do it."
"House, if it gets to be too much, that's when you talk to someone. Come to me. Call Nolan. Go back to Mayfield if you need to. Greg, you've got a support system now. There should never be a point when you feel alone enough to have to turn to drugs."
"There 'should' never be," House repeated. "That doesn't mean there won't be." He put his hand into his jeans pocket and curled it into a fist. "In the mean time, I've got other ways of coping. I've got you, I've got Nolan. I've got booze, which I only needed while you were screwing Sam anyway. The Vicodin's a last resort."
"It shouldn't be."
"Well what do you prefer?" House glared. "Suicide?"
"House, no!"
"Then let me have this!"
"House, I can't!" Wilson shouted, standing up. "I can't do this. I can't stand knowing you're keeping Vicodin around, wondering how many times a day you think about taking it, worrying that you might slip and I might not even know about it."
"You'll know," House said solemnly.
"I didn't know last time."
"Things were different last time," House explained. "Last time I didn't have anyone. I'd fired Nolan for being an idiot, Cuddy had just gotten engaged to Lucas and told me she didn't love me, and you...you weren't there. You'd been with Sam instead of me and you didn't even notice what that was doing to me. You'd kicked me out."
"You could have called me," Wilson murmured, sitting down again.
"I thought about it," House said, looking down. "But I didn't know if you'd come or not. I couldn't handle the thought of calling and you dismissing me. So I came over instead, I was going to tell you, I was hoping you'd help me...but if you ignored me, then I was gonna go back and take it." He shrugged. "But then you kissed me, and then you fled the building, so I decided that issue took precedence over me hating my life."
"You don't hate it anymore, do you?" Wilson asked desperately.
House looked at him, and Wilson felt a sudden surge of affection for his lover. He reached across the desk and grabbed House's hand.
"No," House decided, letting his hand be held. "I don't hate my life. But I know I could go back to hating it. And if I do...if I've exhausted all other possibilities, the pills are there."
Wilson shook his head, not letting go. "I can't," he repeated. "I can't do it. House, for years...I saw what it did to you. You start with just a few pills, just for the pain, and then you build up a tolerance, you need to take more, and I want you to stop but I know you need it. And then you don't just take it for your leg pain, you take it to numb yourself out completely. You kept going until it was too much for your body to handle, and you–"
"–I know what it did," House interrupted, jerking his hand back. "I was there. I know what happened."
"I don't want it to happen again."
"You think I do?"
"Obviously you're willing to let it," Wilson pointed out.
"It won't get that far."
"If you believed that, you wouldn't have kept them."
House and Wilson watched each other for a minute. Wilson was the one to look away.
"Wilson," House said finally.
Wilson looked at him.
"Please."
Wilson was taken aback. House never said please. Not when he was seriously asking for something. When he was being sarcastic, maybe, but this...
"You keep saying you can't do this," House continued. "At least try. Let me keep the pills around, you'll see that I won't take them, just like I haven't taken them since Mayfield. Just...try."
Wilson looked at House and took a deep breath. "You're telling me that this...having this around the place...it's something you need?"
House looked at him and nodded.
Wilson ran his fingers through his hair. "You're not keeping it around because you plan on taking it, you just like knowing it's there," he clarified.
"Think of it as an epi-pen," House suggested.
The oncologist exhaled slowly. "All right," he said finally, without looking at House. "If you...need this...then I won't make you get rid of it, on several conditions."
House raised his eyebrows.
"First, I want to know where the bottle is at all times. Hide it somewhere where you won't see it and be tempted by it, but somewhere I can check it. Also, when your pain gets worse, I want you to tell me. If your baseline pain is a four and it goes up to a five, tell me. Even if you're not sure whether it's physical pain or not, and even if we're in an argument. If it's a bad day, just tell me."
The two looked at each other for a moment. "Is that all, Mom?" House asked. "Can I go play outside with the other kids now?"
Wilson nodded, and House got up, grabbing his cane.
"Wait," Wilson said.
House looked at him a moment.
"Can I see that real quick?" He nodded at the Vicodin bottle. House picked it up and handed it to him. Wilson opened the bottle and poured the pills into his hand.
"Are you counting them?" House asked, sounding annoyed.
"I just want to know how many there are," Wilson said. "Nineteen."
"And there will still be nineteen there tomorrow," House insisted. "If there's not, you can call Daddy and have them put me back in time-out, okay?"
"Okay," Wilson said, putting his hands up in defence. "I'll drop it. Here." He handed the bottle out to House, but House didn't take it.
"Hang on to 'em till we get home," House suggested. "The last thing I need is Cuddy going through my desk and finding them."
"All right," Wilson said. "So, I'll see you at home then."
"Right," House agreed.
Wilson turned around to go back to his office, but House called him just before he opened the door.
"Wilson."
He turned around and looked across the room at the diagnostician. "Yeah?"
House nodded. "Thanks."
[]
Wilson was making breakfast when House limped down the hall, holding his leg.
"How is it?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light even though he knew House could hear the worried undertones.
"Fine. Same as always. It'd be better if you'd cook me bacon."
"On Saturday," Wilson promised, setting down two bowls of some sort of whole grain cereal.
House dipped his spoon in and made a face. "Where's my Lucky Charms? At least with those I can pick the cereal parts out, but this..." he let the brown flakes fall back into the bowl with small plops.
"The cereal you buy is not intended for consumption by children over twelve. Just try it, House, it's not that bad."
"This cereal isn't intended for consumption by humans," House argued, sticking a bit into his mouth and making a face. "This isn't breakfast, it's torture. Maybe it'd go down easier with a couple Vicodin..."
"House!" Wilson exclaimed, aghast.
House rolled his eyes. "For the love of god, Wilson, I was kidding."
"Don't...kid about that!" Wilson still looked tachycardic.
House sighed. "Fine. You're right. I'm sorry. I promise to never utter the V-word again, all right? Just...relax. Sit down and eat your excuse for a breakfast."
Wilson obliged, but he didn't say anything.
"Are you giving me a ride to work today?" House asked after they'd finished eating and started getting ready.
"Why don't you go ahead?" Wilson suggested. "Last time you wanted to leave before I did you stalked my office and scared all my patients, and it's an experience I'd rather not repeat. I'll meet you for lunch, all right?"
House shrugged his indifference and grabbed his backpack and motorcycle helmet before heading out the door.
Wilson finished rinsing their breakfast dishes and placed them gently on the drying rack. He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door, but hesitated before he left. He gave a backwards glance toward the condo, shook his head, took another step forward, and then set the briefcase down and turned around. He went into the second bathroom, the one used by guests and previously used by House. He opened the medicine cabinet and took out the small bottle of Vicodin. Even though he knew House was gone, he looked over his shoulder before popping off the cap and shaking the pills into his hand. Nineteen. Wilson sighed his relief before dropping the pills back into the bottle with a clatter and replacing it in the medicine cabinet. Feeling better, he left for work.
[]
"Yes," Wilson said into the phone. "As soon as I receive the images, I'll have a look at them and then I'll call you back. Okay? Have a nice day." As he hung up the phone he screwed up his face at the yelling coming from the next room. Though he'd had the office next to the diagnostic room long enough to get used to the occasional outbursts, he still hated hearing them because they often indicated something was bothering House. He got up from his desk and exited his office, watching House's fellows leaving solemnly and House himself slowly making his way into his office.
Wilson met him in there. "Hey."
A searching look. Then, "Hey."
"Everything all right?" he asked, stepping further into the room. "I heard yelling..."
"They're just being idiots."
"Your team or the patient's family?"
"Both."
Wilson gave a grim smile. "How's your leg?"
"For the millionth time, it's fine, Wilson. It's always going to hurt, and you asking about it every hour on the hour isn't going to make it hurt less."
"All right," Wilson said, backing away and sounding a bit hurt himself. "I was just concerned. I noticed that you seemed upset and thought that maybe–"
"–Maybe I was lying to you when I called my team idiots. That can't possibly be why I was yelling at them, it has to be because my leg's hurting a little more than usual–"
"–Sorry I asked," Wilson snapped, turning around. "Sorry I care."
[]
House was sitting next to Wilson on the couch, watching TV. Things had been a little bit cooler than usual after their argument, but neither of them brought it up since then and by now it had been forgotten. Wilson decided, for the time being, to let House just tell him if his leg was worse than usual rather than continually asking about it. House could still tell though, the way Wilson looked at him whenever he grabbed the limb, whenever he rubbed it absentmindedly. He could see the question forming behind his eyes but was internally grateful when the younger man held his tongue. He didn't want sympathy from his lover. He wanted Wilson to see him as House, his best friend, not just a gimpy leg.
"I'm going to the bathroom," Wilson muttered, getting up off the couch.
"Have fun," House called to him, his attention not leaving the TV screen. A few minutes later he heard the flush and the running water that preceded Wilson's return. The oncologist sat back down on the couch without a word, watching the TV.
"Why'd you use that bathroom?" House asked after a moment.
"Hmm?"
"The bathroom," House repeated. "You didn't use the master bathroom, you used the second bathroom."
"What difference does it make?" Wilson asked, sounding slightly irritated.
"You always use the master bathroom," House pointed out. "Before we were doing it, the master one was yours and the second was for me and for guests, except for Sam who was important enou–"
"–Will you get to the point?"
House looked at him. "We don't use the second bathroom anymore. Unless one of us is already in the en-suite. I was out here. The only reason for you to use the second bathroom would be if you needed something the master bathroom didn't supply."
"The second bathroom is closer," Wilson said, avoiding his gaze. "I didn't want to miss too much of the game."
House shook his head. "Even when we're watching TV, you always use the master. Something's changed. Unless you've got your own stash hidden there that I don't know about, you used the second bathroom so that you could check on my pills. Count them, make sure I haven't been sneaking any."
"Fine," Wilson said, crossing his arms. "Yes, you're a genius, House, congratulations. You figured it out, are you happy?"
"No," House said. "How often have you been counting the pills?"
"I don't..."
"Every day? More than once a day?"
Wilson wasn't looking at him. He shrugged.
House scoffed. "You're never gonna trust me, are you?"
"I'm just scared," Wilson mumbled.
"Well get over it," House commanded, rubbing his leg. "I'm not taking the pills. I like knowing they're there, Wilson. I don't need to be constantly reminded of it by you jumping up to check on them every five minutes."
"I usually do it when you're gone," Wilson snapped. "Or asleep. This is the first time you've caught me."
House glared at him for a moment and then got up.
"Where are you going?" Wilson asked.
"I'm amending your conditions," House responded. "When you know where I keep the pills, you drive yourself crazy wondering about them. I'm hiding them. You don't know where they are, you can't check them. Forget about them, Wilson. For once in your life, just trust me."
Wilson watched House go from the bathroom into his old bedroom, pills in hand, and swallowed. He watched the door until House emerged.
"Jeez, Wilson, relax," House said, watching him. "They were in my old apartment the whole time I was living here and the whole time I was living there, and I didn't take them once. It's not any different now. Nothing's changed."
"You almost took them," Wilson reminded him. "The same night Sam and I broke up, before you came here, you told me you almost took the pills. When you were living across town from them you didn't touch them, but once they were there, just a room away, you were more tempted..."
"It wasn't about the vicinity," House said. "I almost took them because everyone had abandoned me and my life was screwed up beyond my control. I'm okay now. I've got you, I've got Nolan. I'm okay. Just let me be okay, Wilson."
Wilson bit his lip and looked at the floor, then he looked up at House and nodded.
[]
House moaned in his sleep and rolled over. Then he opened his eyes. His arms had encountered a mattress where there should have been a Wilson. He sat up in bed. Wilson wasn't there. He looked toward the bathroom to see if the light was on, but then he heard a sound from the other room. House grabbed his cane and hobbled toward the hallway.
The light was on in the second bedroom. House used his cane to push the door open.
Wilson gasped and turned around at the creak.
"What the hell are you doing?" House demanded.
"I...I..." Wilson stuttered like a guilty child. He was surrounded by House's boxes, most of which had been overturned and emptied onto the floor. Rather than answer House's question, he looked down at the floor.
"Did you find them?" House asked.
Shoulders slumped, Wilson pointed at the bed. Next to the records and guitars laid the orange bottle of Vicodin. Having located it, Wilson must have been trying to put the boxes back in order to hide the evidence. House snatched up the bottle.
"House..." Wilson's voice pleaded as he stood up. "House, it was driving me crazy. Please just get rid of them. I can't do this anymore. I just can't. I couldn't sleep because all I could think about was wondering if you took any pills after our fight, and if you did I'd have no way to know. House, please. Come on, this is obviously tearing us apart. Please just throw them out. I just can't do this."
"You said I could. I need to have them here, Wilson, you said it was okay."
"I tried being okay with it House, we both know I tried, but it didn't work. I want them gone, House."
House sighed. "No. Maybe...eventually...I'll feel better enough to decide I won't ever need them. But I'm not there yet, Wilson. I'm not ready to give them up."
Wilson took a deep breath. "Even if it means losing me?"
House's head snapped up. "You're giving me an ultimatum?"
Wilson looked at the pills in House's hands and then at their owner. He nodded.
House didn't answer. He looked at the bottle.
"House..." Wilson said, giving a humourless chuckle. "House, don't do this."
"I'm thinking."
"No, dammit!" Wilson shouted. He glared at House. "You shouldn't have to think. The answer is 'You, James, you. Of course I pick you.' You...the fact that you have to think about it..."
"What about the fact that you gave me an ultimatum in the first place?" House snapped. "I just told you I'm not ready for this, you asked that question knowing you wouldn't get the immediate response you wanted. You asked for it, Wilson. This way when we break up you won't have to feel guilty about it because it would have been my fault."
"You think that's what I want?" Wilson asked. "You know what..." He snatched the pills from House's hand and put them into his pocket before sidestepping House and heading for the door.
"Wilson," House said in a warning voice, getting up and following him.
"I can outrun you, House," Wilson shouted over his shoulder as he hurried to the bathroom.
House tried to move quickly with his cane, but when he made it to the door he could already hear a flushing sound. He came to stand beside Wilson, who was in front of the toilet, and both of them watched the water swirl down, along with the small white pills.
"There," Wilson said, turning to face House. "No ultimatum. No choice. It's me. You have me."
House didn't look at him.
[]
House had refused to follow Wilson into their bedroom and hadn't spoken to him for the rest of the night or at all the next day. He came home from work late and seated himself in front of the TV, rubbing his leg.
"Are you coming to bed?" Wilson asked just before 1a.m., clad in pyjamas and squinting from the light of the TV.
"No."
"Not now, or not all night?"
"I can't sleep."
"You didn't even try," Wilson contradicted, joining him on the couch. "I would have remembered you come in."
"Tried sleeping out here," House said. "Old bed's got too much crap on it. Didn't wanna wake you."
"House," Wilson said apologetically, reaching for his hand. "Please come to bed."
House looked at Wilson, studied him. "You can't just expect things to be okay after what happened. It's not gonna go away just because you want it to. Those pills were mine, and you threw them out. I'm upset with you, Wilson."
"Greg, I did what I needed to do."
"What you needed. Not what I needed."
"Of course it was what you needed," Wilson said. "I prevented you from maybe making a huge mistake–"
"–that would have been mine to make," House pointed out, glaring at him. "I can take care of myself, Wilson. I don't want you to be my mother. I want you to be my boyfriend."
"And part of that is looking out for you," Wilson argued, a part of him relieved that House still wanted him in spite of their argument.
"Which'd be great if you actually had some inkling as to what I needed. I told you I needed the pills there, Wilson. You just ignored me."
"I tried!"
"You didn't try hard enough!"
"And I disagreed with you–"
"–It's my life–"
"–It's my life, too," Wilson insisted, looking House in the eye. He used both of his hands to hold House's hand. "We're together. What happens to you affects me."
"So you admit it was selfish."
"Yes, House, it was selfish," Wilson agreed angrily, letting go of his hand and turning away. "I'm selfish for wanting you here in my life with me rather than back in Mayfield or overdosing on Vicodin."
House watched him. "Okay," he said finally.
Wilson looked at him. "Okay?"
"Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Okay...I'll come to bed. In a minute. I'll be right there, okay?" He got up and gave Wilson a brief kiss to reassure him.
Wilson didn't kiss back. "Wait a minute," he said. "We were just arguing...you just said..."
"I just said okay," House repeated, glaring at him. "It's over."
"Why?" Wilson looked baffled. "Just a second ago you were royally pissed off at me."
"And now I've forgiven you. Let it go, Wilson."
Wilson stared at him, dumbfounded.
House ignored him and poured himself a glass of water from the kitchen sink. "Go to bed," House said. "I'm coming, I promise, all right?"
Looking confused and relieved, Wilson turned around and headed for the bedroom. House watched him go and waited for Wilson to almost close the door before moving. He put his water on the counter and opened a cabinet. In Wilson's desire to keep their kitchen fresh, each cupboard had its own personal box of baking soda hidden in the back. House reached for the top shelf and moved aside a couple boxes of foodstuffs they would likely never use, such as cornstarch and cocoa powder. He found the baking soda, the box never intended to be opened or used for cooking. However, unbeknownst to Wilson, the box had been opened.
House pulled the flaps apart to reveal a mostly empty box with some gritty remains of baking soda on the bottom, and an orange prescription bottle. He pulled the bottle out, careful not to let it rattle, and shook a couple Vicodin into his hand. He rolled them around in his palm, looking at them. Then he dropped the pills back into the bottle with two soft clunks and replaced the bottle in the baking soda box. Putting the box back on the high shelf behind the cornstarch where it belonged, House closed the cabinet and started limping back to the bedroom.
Wilson wasn't asleep yet, but close to it. House shed his jeans and t shirt and leaned his cane carefully against the wall on his side of the bed before climbing in. Wilson made a content humming sound at the rustle of the blankets and lazily reached a hand back for House. House took the offered hand, pulling himself closer to his lover. He slipped both arms around Wilson's waist and clung, his forehead pressed to Wilson's shoulder and half off the pillow.
"Greg, you okay?" Wilson murmured.
"Are we okay?" House asked hoarsely back.
"Yeah," Wilson said sincerely.
House squeezed his hand. "Then I'm okay."