James stacked the food in the now freshly cleaned kitchen - they could reheat everything later once House was awake.
He went to check on him. House was out cold, snoring lightly, and his features were a little more relaxed now. Best to let him sleep. James dragged a throw over his friend and went to deal with the mess in the bedroom.
It took some time to go through the clutter. Most of the items were pill bottles-no surprises there, but as James collected them to put back in the drawers, he saw a fair amount were not specifically pain-related. Another couple of muscle relaxers, more sedatives, a laxative he knew was trialled six months ago-how had House gotten his hands on it this soon?
As he sorted through the collection, it dawned on him that House had an arsenal of weapons at hand, not just to combat pain, but the attending symptoms: sleeplessness, constipation, the leaching of nutrients from various med combinations . . . all familiar to him as an oncologist. This was palliative stuff, some even late-stage, and that knowledge actually horrified him. How had he missed this? Certainly, some of it could be attributed to House's habit of hiding his med intake, but it was more complicated than that.
He deliberately lets us focus on the Vicodin. James stood in the soft semi-darkness, stunned. He wants us to see him as an addict. But I don't get it. Why? Why take that on? It makes no sense.
Whatever it was, though, he could not ask House straight out. He wouldn't appreciate James even mentioning any of the meds he had just sorted back into the drawers. This was not how House worked. This was not how they worked. He would have to be very careful not to scare House off - he would never be able to even touch on that subject again if he did.
After he had put the drawers back he collected whatever laundry was left on the floor but decided to run the dishwasher on a quick cycle before starting another wash. He'd gotten about half the mugs settled in the top tray when he realized he was closing his weak eye in order to focus, a sure sign he was approaching the point of no return with fatigue. He stood there, half-drifted into sleep, aware he should at least find a chair…
"Sit down before you fall down." House spoke almost directly into the other man's ear. Wilson jumped and dropped a mug. He stared down at it as if he'd never seen one before.
"How–how are you feeling?" It was a reflexive question–typical of Wilson. Check in on everyone else first, even when practically asleep standing up.
"You should have let Pearson take over deathwatch," House said. "Or one of your other lackeys."
Wilson clearly had to force himself to focus on the content of House's words. "Who says my patient died?"
"How long have I known you? You lit the fire - out of some stupid notion that the heat and light will make you feel better, no doubt. You cleaned my whole apartment. You did my laundry. Unasked. I didn't even trick you into it. You need to work off your guilt about losing another patient. Looking at how these countertops sparkle, I'd say the patient was just barely out of diapers." House picked a tumbler from the pile and filled it with water from the tap. "Guess I'm lucky my best friend is an oncologist with a guilt complex, don't have to fork out money for a housekeeper."
Wilson gave a derisive snort and looked away. "Your best friend? How many others have you got?"
"None that double up as a cleaner." House opened the fridge and peered inside. "Or as a shopper."
He knew Wilson was deflecting, but he didn't care. His friend's bottomless pit of guilt served him well most of the time.
"So . . . you think this is overcompensation. But you're willing to let it go on since it benefits you."
"It benefits you as well." House found some lunch meat, extracted a couple of slices from the pack, folded them up and took an enormous bite. "Hey, not bad. No mold."
"Oh, good lord." Wilson stalked over, took the rest of the meat from his hand, and shut the fridge door. "You don't have to scavenge the middens like some damn half-starved wolf. There's takeout waiting. Go. Partake. Enjoy."
Even lukewarm, the pizza was delicious. House settled on the couch with some caution, afraid of waking the sleeping pain in his leg, but it stayed quiet. With a sigh, he grabbed a second slice and opened the bag of onion rings. They were fried to a crisp, the way he liked them–though at room temperature would do, he was hungry and didn't really care about anything except filling his belly.
"Don't even think about demanding a beer," Wilson said from the doorway. He came in with paper plates and napkins and set everything on the coffee table. "Coke or water, that's it."
"Okay, mom." House finished off the slice, burped and reached for more. Wilson shook his head and added another log to the fire before he sat at the opposite end of the couch and picked up the remote.
They watched the evening news in companionable silence. House relaxed gradually as the familiar litany of violence in Philly and Manhattan, climate change disasters, local weather and sports played out, as reliable as the sun coming up and going down. Wilson watched with the occasional acerbic comment, a few of which made House chuckle. The familiarity loosened his internal knots a bit, helped along by the meds. Until . . .
"So when did you get your hands on that constipation med? I thought it was still being trialled." Wilson sipped his Coke.
"It's been out for a month." House kept his tone neutral. The last thing he wanted right now was an interrogation or worse yet, a lecture.
Wilson looked surprised. "It hasn't been added to my approved list."
"Probably not a good idea for anyone under the age of twelve." House munched an onion ring. He looked over at Wilson, who appeared to be paying a lot of attention to the weather forecast. Too much attention for someone who spent close to no time outdoors. Here we go, he thought, and put down the half-eaten onion ring. "Look, say what you gotta say, don't hold back."
"This all seems like . . . it's pretty close to a palliative care list, at least it appears that way to me." Wilson spoke slowly, still looking at the screen.
There was a long silence.
"If you're gonna rat me out to Cuddy, use your own phone." House reached for his drink. The anxiety returned, creeping up his spine, making his mouth dry.
"I'm not ratting out anyone, least of all you."
House nodded. "Smart. Better blackmail material if you keep it quiet."
Wilson sat up. "That's not–I don't–NO." He glared at House. "Fuck your paranoia! Maybe I care that–that my friend is taking meds that tell me he's struggling! And he's said nothing to me about it, in fact he's done his best to hide it like–like it's–I don't know–"
"Wow." House hid a smile. "Tell me how you really feel, Jimmy."
"Take this seriously for once! I do care, you know! It–it bothers me that you'd keep this some stupid secret–"
"Maybe I didn't need a lecture or you suggesting I drink more cocoa. Or go to pain management." House set his can on the coffee table. "This isn't concern. It's frustration over losing a chance to boost control over your bestie."
Wilson stared at him. "Wow," he said finally. "You really think I'm that evil. Good to know."
"I think you're a micromanager and have been for years. Among other things." House returned Wilson's glare. "You've never been shy about manipulating my need for meds before. I don't know why you're hesitant now."
Wilson sat there, eyes wide. Then he closed them and swallowed hard. In any other context, House would have laughed at this moment of calculated melodrama.
"You know what, I'm just kinda done with this week." And you, was the silent subtext. "I'll–I'll see you on Monday, okay? See you then. Have a great weekend."
Belatedly, House remembered Wilson had been short on sleep himself and had spent the day doing housework instead of resting. Goading him without taking that into consideration was a mistake. "Clearly you didn't pay attention to the forecast. We're due for sleet overnight."
Wilson shot him a look. "I live across town, big deal."
House shook his head. "You'll hole up at home and give in to the temptation to tell Cuddy about this. Can't have that."
"CHRIST, House!" Wilson's hands actually clenched into fists. "I'm not saying anything to anyone! You ass, I–I care about you for some unfathomable reason but of course, that's just me being manipulative!"
"Wilson–"
"DON'T! You got what you wanted from me, now I've had enough! Remember to give me another good slap if I ever show anything like concern for you again!"
"Will you calm the fuck down and let me get a word in?!" House folded his arms. "Or are you fully invested in this little angstfest?"
"Oh yeah, this is just me being hormonal, right?" Wilson scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm too fucking tired for this. For any of this."
For just one short, fearful moment, he wondered if he would find the two bedroom drawers empty as a result of Wilson's cleaning spree. But then House remembered his calm demeanor earlier: the simple questions, the matter-of-fact way in which he had taken charge when he himself was close to losing it. As he looked at his friend now, he saw genuine worry underneath the tiredness. No, he would probably find the drawers re-organised and maybe some expired meds removed.
And yet, the anxiety was pooling in his stomach, cold and icy, making him regret he'd eaten pizza earlier. But he knew there was no way back now. He looked at Wilson; tired and upset.
"Sit," he said, his tone still too sharp. Wilson ignored him. "Sit." He softened his voice; that usually worked. A few moments passed. Wilson sighed and perched in the easy chair next to the couch. There was a brief silence.
"So ask. Because you're not worried about a simple laxative." House leaned back into the couch. "Once more I say ask, and be done with it."
Wilson clearly hadn't expected this. "I… I don't-I don't even know where to start." He paused. "I . . . I guess my first question is–uh, how–how bad is it? I mean, not just the pain. The–the side effects."
"Be specific," House snapped.
"Yeah, okay." He hesitated. "I'm seeing late-stage meds. The kind my patients take when chemo and radiation have hit hard for a while. That . . . that . . . it was–unexpected." He stared at the floor. "Is–is this just from using opioids? Specifically, the Vicodin?"
The inquiry was sincerely meant, that was clear; no emotional overtones or baggage added. It deserved an honest answer. House decided to give him a bit of the truth. "It's not 'just' anything."
Wilson nodded. "Okay. So, lack of exercise, irregular eating and sleeping habits, continual stress . . ." He trailed off for a moment. "You're getting older as well, which always complicates everything."
"Kinda tough to run those 5Ks without a right quad."
"Mm." House could almost see Wilson shift into diagnostic mode. "Have . . . have you had anyone examine the site? I mean lately. CT scans, bone density, any of that."
"You're looking for bone loss and muscle deterioration." House debated, and offered another tidbit. "Moderate, at least for now."
"Shit." Wilson sighed. "But not unexpected." He shot House a glance. "You know PT would help to some degree."
"Fuck PT."
"Have you even tried it? Okay, okay," Wilson raised his hands in a gesture of surrender when House sent him a hot glare. "You don't have to tell me your opinions on that subject, trust me. But we both know building up muscle mass and bone density would help to some degree–"
"There's no muscle to mass. PT hurts–" House stopped, unwilling to say more.
"Building up muscle around the damaged area is possible," Wilson said quietly. "There are therapies that are less intrusive, like–"
"Don't." Anger surged through him, and he had to give in to it. "Don't treat me like one of your dead-already patients! I've been through this a thousand times with every idiot pain management and PT hack in this damn town, and none of it makes any difference except to send my numbers to the top of the scale!"
To his surprise, Wilson didn't fire back. "Okay," he said after a moment's charged silence. "Okay, then . . . I guess we look at the alternatives."
"There's no 'we' in this. And there aren't any."
Wilson actually smiled. "That's rich, coming from you." His smile faded. "You're willing to go to the ends of the earth to get your patients a diagnosis, but you won't do the same for yourself."
"Yeah, make me wrong for that too." House shrugged. "So what."
"I'm not making you wrong for anything, I'm pointing it out. And . . . and I'd like to know why." Wilson sat back and looked at him. "Why you're not good enough to deserve your own high standards. Why you won't pursue your own truth to its conclusion. Or to an answer, at least."
"Maybe . . . the answer is something no one wants to hear."
It took Wilson a full ten seconds to respond. He leaned forward, his gaze pinned to House's. "No."
"'No' what?" House did his best not to squirm under that intense stare.
"You don't get away with that. At all. I call bullshit. Finding the answer is what drives you. You–you think you aren't worth it." Wilson's brows lowered. "You really think that."
"Don't project your presumptions on me–"
"Uh uh." Wilson shook his head. "I'm not, and you know it. This is some all-or-nothing crap you have stuck in your head. You think . . ." Those thick brows lifted. "You think you have to be perfect to find help. Holy shit, House! Are you nuts?"
"According to you, apparently I am." He sounded passive-aggressive and he hated it. Inviting Wilson to analyze him when he already did so uninvited most of the time had been a mistake. He'd had enough. It was dangerous to move too much at this point, but he had to get off the couch. "Well, this has been fun, Dr Freud, but now it's time for a nightcap. Same time again never?"
He headed over to the shelves to fetch the bourbon, wondering if he would make it before Wilson intervened.
"House!"
He didn't.
He took the bottle and turned to face Wilson. The flippant response he'd been about to deliver was a bad idea, he could see that now. It would only prolong the agony. Offense was better than defense, after all . . . He poured a finger of bourbon, then held out the glass. "Peace offering."
Wilson squinted at him, his suspicion clear. He made no move to take the glass. House lifted it in invitation. "It's straight from the bottle. I'm not dosing you."
A sort of spasm rippled over Wilson's features–it could have been a smile, but hard to tell. "Sure." He hesitated, then slowly came forward, reached out, took the glass. "You're gonna have one too, I guess."
"Yes, I am having a nightcap with my Vicodin." House made sure his tone was mocking. He wouldn't point out this was a standard method of getting at least some sleep before his leg woke him in the small hours . . . He took another glass from the shelf and poured a fairly stiff drink. Wilson made some noise, a disapproving snort or grunt. "Fuck off. I can handle this."
"I think that's the problem. No, I'm not starting anything," Wilson held up a hand as House turned to glare at him. "So maybe . . . we drink to both of us getting decent sleep tonight, at least."
It was sort of an acceptance of his offer; good enough to go on, for now at least. "Yeah."
They drank in silence, then went their separate ways.