| |
Tell Me Something
by multicgypsy
Tell Me Something
House saw the car veering into the right lane, cutting him off. He saw it plain as day. He
even saw the blinding explosion as the car collided with the car it nearly cut off; which
was why he didn't see the tree when he swerved to avoid the crash, and slams right into
it.
Thankfully, the impact knocks him out instantly. Only when the EMTs wake him up does
he realize how truly thankful he was to get to be unconscious during some of the pain.
"Christ," he hears himself moan as he squeezes his eyes shut to block out the explosion
that he can still see.
"He's awake."
"Sir, can you hear me? Hello! Do you hear what I'm saying?"
"Check his vision."
He winces as his left eyelid is pulled back and a big shape swims into view.
"Can't see," he mumbles drowsily, his vision still obstructed by the burst of flames. His
head hurts.
A light clicks on that feels like it's burning. His left eye is finally allowed to close, only
for his right to be pulled open moments later.
"Pupils are reacting."
"So the hit clearly isn't affecting that."
"Helmet could have bumped the occipital."
They are talking very fast, and House struggles to keep up.
"Fuzzy pickles," he punctuates.
"What was that, sir?"
The light clicks off and he blinks furiously, trying to clear his eyes. Nothing helps, so he
eventually gives up.
"Sir! You have to stay with us, okay?"
"I'm not," he assures them, "not going anyplace"
"We're getting you to a hospital, sir. Do you have a preference?"
He is most definitely addled, but he can think clearly enough so as to give the safest
answer he knows: "Princeton General."
"Can you tell me your name?"
"Greg House," he says without pause.
"And do you remember what happened, just before?"
"George of the Jungle."
"Excuse me?"
"Watch out for that tree." He allows himself a small smile, despite how much it hurts
to move.
"Before, you said fuzzy pickles. Can you tell me what that means?"
"Still with us, Greg?"
He feels rushed; they are talking very fast.
"Camera flash," he supplies weakly, unable to think of a better way to say it.
"He means there's an imprint."
"Explosion," he tells them.
"Alright, Greg, you're going to be just fine, but I need you to stay with me, okay?"
"But"
"You can worry about this later, but right now, you have to stay with me."
"I need you to talk to me, Greg. Just tell me something."
"Whatabout?" He asks. "I'm tired."
"Anything you want to talk about. Just keep talking to me."
---
"Tell me something."
"Likewhat?" Wilson asks with careful uncertainty at House's unusual request. It is five
weeks after House's surgery for the infarction in his leg, and since his return home, the
man has done nothing but push Wilson away with verbal assaults; this was something
new.
"Anything!" He demands, clenching his teeth as he struggles to pull himself upright.
Wilson rushes to his side to assist him, so he doesn't have to hear him scream again.
Once situated, House bangs the back of his head against the headboard of his bed in what
Wilson can only guess is an attempted distraction from the ominous pain in his leg.
"Do you want another vicodin? You can-"
"I don't want to hear about my leg," he shouted, desperation in his eyes and pain written
everywhere else. He struggled to regulate his breathing, trying to calm down. "I can't"
Trying, but failing.
Since the infarction, everything had been about the pain. An average day consisted of
measuring the pain, managing the pain, cursing the pain, trying to forget the pain, and
trying to get Wilson to go away.
"Just give me something, tell me something," House pleads, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Just do something."
"I'll get you some water," Wilson says solemnly, and fills a glass in the bathroom sink.
When he returns, House is hunched over, gripping his leg incredibly tight, trying to keep
his hands as far as possible from the scar, but not so far that he doesn't feel it. He is
shuddering, trying to look away, and is thankful that Wilson returns so quickly.
House grabs the glass as soon as Wilson is close enough, squeezing that instead of his
leg, muttering, "Okay, okay" though he is only truly okay after he takes the pill.
"Tell me something," he says again, much calmer now.
"I don't know what to talk about." Wilson said, dragging a chair to the side of the bed.
"I'm not so social anymore,"
"Yeah, yeah, taking care of me," House says bitterly. "Not an excuse."
"I'm busy being an oncologist too, you know," Wilson says with a shrug.
House gives him a pathetic look. "You've had what, fifty plus years of life to talk about
and have nothing to say?"
Shaking his head, Wilson smiles, almost laughs, too. He finally decides on the story of
his Bar Mitzvah, which he recalls after but a few more minutes of House trying to bribe it
out of him.
"I'd beat it out of you," he threatens, "but it feels like hypocrisy for a cripple to beat
somebody up."
"House, you're not a cripple," Wilson tries sympathetically, but House dismisses it.
"When did I ever say that? I was talking about cripples," he sighs. "Tell the damn story."
So Wilson tells House about his bar mitzvah. The story is relatively uneventful, and
House doesn't react to any of the jokes that Wilson tries to make, but he listens to every
word he says, and for that, he is grateful; Because when Wilson talks about something
else, House can finally think about something else.
---
"Do I get a phone call?" House asks as he is wheeled on a stretcher, down a long hallway.
"I'm allowed to have one phone call."
"Sir, there will be a phone in your room," Some doctor tells him. Her sympathetic tone
reminds him of Cameron. "You just have to wait until we get you there."
"I have the right to one phone call!" House demands more vigorously, "This is against
the law, you know."
"Please be patient."
"Give me my damn phone call."
"This isn't a prison," she tries.
"Not for me, it isn't."
The doctor ignores the rest of his protests until they arrive at a small room, where she
informs House that he will be staying the night.
"Fine," he dismisses, already reaching over for the phone on the table beside the bed.
Frustrated that it is out of reach, House sits up, but the action causes his vision to black
out, and he presses his hands over his eyes, muttering under his breath. "Jesus fuck"
Hands on his shoulders push him back against the pillows, where he focuses on his
breath. When everything else is out of control, he can always control his breathing. The
spiraling chaos in his head passes, and he opens his eyes to see Not-Cameron still
standing at his side.
"Could you pass me the phone?" House says sullenly, hating to depend on someone for
the dumbest of things.
His hands shake as he dials his boss's number.
"Doctor Cuddy," comes the voice on the other end, answering after the fourth ring. She
sounds stressed out.
"You waited four rings?"
"House!"
"This could have been an important call. What will the rich folks think?"
"Where the hell are you?" She seethes.
"Can't come to work, boss."
There is a pause, where House imagines her sighing and rolling her eyes. "You better
have a good reason."
"I lost my cane," he says simply.
"I thought you had a whole slew of them at home," she says.
House rubs his hand over his face, exhaling slowly. "I'm not at home."
"So where are you?"
"Hospital," he tells her.
She pauses; he hears her fingers tapping her desk. "You're already here?"
"No," he says, and yawns widely. "I'm at the hospital."
"Stop being a jerk, House. You have clinic duty today, and I need two hours if you"
"What are you wearing?" he cuts her off.
"Nothing." She says dryly, "Come down here and you can see for yourself."
"Can't," he says again, "Just wanted to let you know."
He hangs up the phone before she can argue or complain or patronize him any more.
"House?" She asks, and forcibly hangs her phone up when the line clicks off. Looking at
the phone, she notes that the incoming number is neither House's home nor cell phone.
So she hits redial.
"Princeton General. How may I direct your call?"
---
The only time Wilson can leave the hospital is in the early afternoon, so he can leave one
hospital to go to another. On the way, he stops by House's place and rummages through
his closet until he finds a cane. It is black and very smooth, and it feels nice to just hold
it. Wilson imagines that it feels much less nice to lean on.
Wilson slings it over his shoulder, trying not to think about how awkward he must look,
and unconsciously rubs his thumb across the polished wooden surface.
Doctors give him funny looks, the man who's walking with a cane, but not with a cane,
and Wilson feels funny carrying it. When House walks with it, it is like his fifth limb
the only attention it gets him is pesky sympathy, but it's like the cane is part of him.
Wilson, on the other hand, doesn't know how to hold it, where to put his hand, where to
put the cane, and just looks out of place.
So he keeps it over his shoulder until he reaches House's room
"I knew it," he says, loud enough to wake House, who wakes with a start, looking very
confused until he realizes that he is no longer sleeping, or even dreaming. He sees Wilson
leaning awkwardly on his cane and finds this incredibly amusing.
"Aww, you're a cripple too? Let's be friends."
"Does your head hurt?"
"Why, do you want it to? Going to hit me with your cane?"
"It's your cane," Wilson says, carefully standing it up against the end of the bed. "I heard
your standard one is in splinters."
House perks up, "I made the headlines?"
Coming closer to House, Wilson shakes his head. "The crash did. Hell, your bike even
did"
"Nice" House breathes, the corners of his lips curving up into the humble beginnings
of a smirk. "What did you know?"
"What?"
"You came in all high and might, said you knew something? I was shocked."
"That bike," Wilson says practically, sounding like a wet old blanket, "was going to be
the death of you."
Sarcastic as ever, House counters, "Am I dead?"
Inspecting House's chart, Wilson frowns. "You could have been."
"It was a concussion."
"It still is a concussion."
"So why bring the cane? You know that since I have the cane now, nothing will keep me
in this bed."
"Do what you want," says Wilson, surprising House with his indifference. "I have to go
back to work."
"Well okay." House shrugs, waiting for Wilson to do something. Not just leave
without a tearful goodbye. "Bye, then."
Wilson comes, he sees that House is fine, he sees to it that House will be able to walk out
of there on his own, and off he goes. He has real sick people to help; House doesn't
count, because he's always sick. What difference does a few new cuts and bruises make?
---
House doesn't tell Wilson that he is being released that evening, on the theory of Wilson
being just his friend and not his mother. He calls himself a cab, and from the backseat, he
calls the repairman to check on his baby.
When House returns home, his apartment smells like tea. Sniffing curiously, he tosses his
jacket onto the couch and collapses in his armchair moments later.
"Honey, I'm home," he muses, propping his leg up on the table.
Wilson greets him with a steaming mug in his hand, emerging from the kitchen and
looking like he's trying hard not to smile. "How do you feel?" It is no surprise that he is
there. In fact, House would feel almost hurt if his friend had just let him settle on his
own.
"Like a doctor," House says irritably, scratching idly at a scab on his wrist. "I don't need
this from you."
"Fine," Wilson resigns, "I just made you tea. Doctors don't do that, do they?"
"The correct phrasing would be 'do we'," House says, ignoring that Wilson has extended
the mug to him and is giving him a questionable look. He does not take it.
"It should help you relax," Wilson explains, moving the mug a little closer to House with
hopes that he'll take it. House just looks threatened, and shifts away.
"You know what should help me relax," he mutters, reaching into his pockets and
frowning when he finds them empty. Quickly scanning the room for what Wilson knows
is the spot where he left his last container of vicodin, twisting the hem of his shirt
anxiously around his fingers, he adds as an afterthought, "I'm not hungry."
"It's tea," Wilson says, trying pathetically to be persuasive.
House responds by reaching over for the remote and turning the TV on. In the glow of the
screen, his cuts and bruises appear more prominent, and Wilson shifts from foot to foot.
This must be what it's like to be Cameron, he decides, having this practically
insuppressible desire to reach out and help absolutely everyone. He has stronger will
power, though, which is all that is keeping him from forcing the tea down House's throat;
that, and the knowledge that despite his injuries, House can hurt him.
So he resigns, unhappily. "Your pills are on the table next to your bed."
As Wilson begins to turn around to go retrieve the little amber bottle from the night table,
that is when House reaches up and snatches the mug from his hands. And he's smirking
as he takes a sip of the steaming tea.
"I knew you'd get them for me," he gloats, chuckling, wrapping his hands around the
mug and feeling the heat burn his palms instantly. It helps him relax, probably more than
the tea will.
"Oh, you're fun," Wilson snaps, leaving House's side and sitting on the side of the couch
farthest away from him.
"And you're pathetic," House snaps, though still grinning. "Poor House, so sick that you
refuse to berate him for even his worst vices, which, may I add, you have never before
failed to do."
"Because you had a concussion!" Wilson says exasperatedly, gesturing nonsensically
with his hands.
"Yeah, not a lobotomy." House sips the tea again, making sure to breathe deep the
glorious steam and letting it fill his mouth and throat. Closing his eyes, he acknowledges
that this feels good, and that he does appreciate Wilson's thoughtful gesture.
For the second time in less than five minutes, Wilson gives in to House, because this is
the point in the conversation that they can either go on picking at each other, or one of
them can change the subject.
Wilson knows that House will never give in. But apparently, the silence stirs something
in the older man, some unexpressed frustration. "This is why I hate doctors," he mutters,
his gaze fixed on the TV.
"And why is that?" Wilson asks, knowing House is bitching about something that he's
done. "Because we're thoughtful?"
"Because you're always jumping at the chance to fix people." He says accusingly into the
mug, glaring. "I fix myself."
Wilson scoffs. "You say that like it's actually true."
"You're mad because I haven't thanked you for making me tea," House says does not
ask. "You made tea; you heated up water and dropped a bag into it. Even a cripple can do
that."
Wilson gets up and strides into the kitchen with his hands jammed into his pockets. He
paces a little, hearing the TV get louder, and decides to pour some tea for himself. When
he returns, House is flipping through every channel, idly breathing the steam.
Wilson clutches the mug far too tightly, "Do you think that's really the best thing to do
with-?"
"Doctor!" House dismisses with a wave of his hand.
"Concussion!" Wilson shouts back.
"Healthy!" House protests. "They let me out, didn't they?"
"You know, most doctors risk turning into hypochondriacs, diagnosing themselves left
and right, but you're the only one who's gone the other way, completely ignoring your
own body! As a doctor, I think you really should be resting."
"I'm not on a treadmill. This is resting."
"What are you trying to prove?"
"Thank you for the tea," House snaps, signifying that he wants to stop arguing; Wilson
knows that he's tired, and now he's not even trying to hide it.
"Just go lie down, I'm not going to make fun of you for it. You're being so"
"Thank you! For the tea!" He explodes, unable to contain it any longer. "What do you
want?"
Wilson is pleased, not because House lost control of his frustration, but because he made
House lose control. But he decides to give his friend a break. Shifting uncomfortably,
House sets the tea down and picks at his cuts again. He fingers the bruises on his face,
runs his hand through his hair, then reaches down to rub his leg. Wilson watches him.
At length, House sets his jaw and looks at Wilson. "See, now it hurts. Now that we're not
talking"
He shifts again in the chair, and Wilson suddenly clicks into comprehensive mode, finally
understanding what House has been doing, what he's been saying since he came in.
"I thought you didn't want to talk," he admits.
"I don't," House punctuates. "But I don't want to get up and get my pills either."
Wilson grins, nodding. "So we're talking, then?"
"No, you're talking. He rests his head back on the chair, still looking at his friend, but
with a more expecting look now, and allows himself this one, innocent request:
"Tell me something?"
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
|
|
|