Post-Trauma 10.6
A bit more Post-Trauma. You might want to have a hanky ready.
“How was your interview with our victim?” Leslie Shepherd asks Dewalt.
Dewalt grimaces. “He’s a wreck, there’s no question about that. But he has a clear and accurate memory of everything that happened that morning, except the forty-two minutes he spent in the exam room with Luerssen.”
“Is it possible he’s lying? About not remembering what happened?”
“I doubt it. And I don’t see why he would. There’s one more problem-he’s now also saying that he self-administered the morphine.”
“What about the rest of the drugs?”
“He’s not admitting they exist.”
She taps the end of her pencil on her desk, a nervous habit. “Are you going to be able to give me the testimony that I need? That Luerssen’s alleged attack on him made him unable to appear in court?”
“He’d be unable to aid the prosecution. I can’t honestly say he’d be unable to appear. He’s physically healthy, lucid, able to do his job-except for a slightly flattened affect, he’d come across as perfectly normal, if a little slow on the uptake.”
“Damn.” She’d hoped-although not expected-that Dewalt would be able to say House simply couldn’t appear. It would be by far the simplest way to exclude his damning testimony. “Well, let’s work out what I’m going to ask you in court.”
House refuses an invitation to lunch after Dewalt has gone; Wilson brings him a sandwich to eat at his desk, anyway. There are no crises from next door for the rest of the afternoon, and Wilson’s able to do some of his own work. Five o’clock comes, and Wilson pokes his head in to see that House is half-heartedly presiding over a ddx-his team having apparently succeeded in finding a case-so he retreats to his own office and keeps working for another hour.
At about six, House comes into his office. “It’s time to go home. The work day is over.”
Wilson closes up what he’s doing. “Did you solve your case?”
House nods briskly. “Goodpasture’s disease. Biopsy just confirmed it. Chase is starting the treatment.”
“Great.” He wishes he could see House’s effective performance of his job as a hopeful sign, but Goodpasture’s is a kidney disease-squarely in one of House’s specialties-and rare, but not all that tricky to diagnose. It’s a perfectly respectable day’s work, but nothing to write home about, especially for House.
“You should drop me off at my place and go home,” House tries again, as they’re riding down in the elevator.
“No, I think I’m going to stay with you,” Wilson says.
House looks at him searchingly. “I’m not going to use again,” he says.
“I know you’re not. I just want to make sure nothing bad happens to you.” He imagines what House would say to that. What do you have in mind? Pudgy Jews don’t make the world’s best bodyguards. And Wilson would come back with some crack about the Israeli army.
But now House just says, “Okay.” And, very quietly, “Thanks.”
“What do you want for supper?” Wilson asks as House settles down on the couch for another exciting evening of staring at a blank television screen.
“I don’t know.”
“I could make some pancakes,” Wilson suggests, hoping House will show some glimmer of interest.
“Pancakes are breakfast food,” House says disapprovingly. “Normal people don’t eat breakfast food for dinner.”
A lump rises in Wilson’s throat, and his heart plummets. He examines House’s face for any sign that his friend is messing with him again, or even remembers the last time they had this conversation.
House looks back at him guilelessly.
“Well. I guess we could wait and have them tomorrow for breakfast,” Wilson says helplessly.
“I guess that would be okay,” House says dubiously, sounding like maybe he’s not sure he wants his favorite meal at all.
“Okay then. Uh…we’ve got some tuna steaks,” he suggests.
“Sounds good,” House says agreeably.
Wilson puts the remote control next to House’s hand and goes into the kitchen. A rice pilaf will go nicely with the fish, and there’s some broccoli in the freezer, too. He feels remarkably little guilt about using House’s fragile mental state to get a well-balanced meal into him.
Well. Maybe some guilt. He’ll mix up a pan of brownies while he’s at it. With pecans. And maybe some extra chocolate chips sprinkled on top.
He should have stopped at the store for ice cream.
House pokes disconsolately at his fish. He could be having pancakes, if it weren’t for-
He cuts off that thought quickly. This is the way things are supposed to be.
“How is it?” Wilson asks, nodding toward his plate.
“It’s good. Thanks.” House makes an effort to smile.
Wilson smiles back at him at him sadly. “Great, buddy.”
House eats a small piece of brownie, and doesn’t protest when Wilson turns on the television. He’s not sure it makes any difference to House, but Wilson feels like he’s going to cry if he watches him stare at the blank screen any more.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees House rubbing at his leg. Wilson’s about to ask him if it hurts, but realizes just in time that he shouldn’t. Instead, he gets House’s heating pad from the bedroom and wordlessly arranges it over House’s right thigh.
“It doesn’t hurt,” House says, looking up at him.
“Okay,” Wilson says. “I don’t suppose you’ll take some gabapentin.”
“No.” House shudders a little.
“I wish you would.”
“I don’t need it.”
Wilson disagrees, but short of coating the pill in butter, holding House down, and rubbing his throat until he swallows, he doesn’t see what he can do.
House settles back against the sofa cushions.
“House,” Wilson says. “You’re not going back to rehab, Luerssen’s not going to get you again. You’re going to be fine. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. You know that, don’t you?”
House’s mouth opens, then closes again. Finally he says, “I know you want to help me. But you can’t protect me from the consequences of my actions.”
He couldn’t have just stopped at I know you want to help me, could he? Wilson sighs. “Look. What is it you think you did that made all this happen to you?”
“I’m an addict,” House says. “And I’ve started using again.” He sighs. “I’m going to have to go back to rehab, and maybe I can do it right this time.” He hangs his head a little. “Don’t want you to worry about me.”
“Of course I’m going to worry about you, House--you’re my best friend.”
“I shouldn’t be.”
Wilson doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just keeps going. “And you’re not using again, and you’re not going back to rehab. If you did have to, you’d go to our own program at the hospital, and nobody’d hurt you there. But you’re doing fine, there’s no reason for you to go into rehab at all.”
But House has gone blank behind the eyes-blanker-and he just shakes his head. “It’ll be easier if I don’t fight it.” Wilson’s about to protest, but House holds up his hand. “It almost killed me last time. I can’t go through that again. Not that way. This is it. I’m done.”
Wilson listens to him, realization and horror creeping over him. “You’re…” Faking? No, not quite. “You’re doing this on purpose. You know what Luerssen did-you believe me, even if you really don’t remember it-and you’re…not fighting it.”
House tucks his chin against his chest, eyes fixed on his knees. “I’m not fighting anymore,” he agrees.
“Oh, House….” Wilson doesn’t know what to say. It hurts more than anything he can imagine, seeing House like this. This is what they all wanted-Tritter, Luerssen, the unnamed Them of rehab-House, broken.
What’s worse, is that it’s almost what he and Cuddy had thought they wanted, once. “If he’d just give in once in a while.” If they hadn’t said it, they’d certainly thought it. “Why does he always have to do everything the hard way?”
Because doing everything the hard way is what makes him House. He doesn’t settle, he doesn’t compromise, he doesn’t bend his neck to anyone.
Only now he does. He’s pinned all his hopes on House coming back to himself once the drugs wear off-but even then, House would have to want to claw his way back. If House has given up, his friend could be gone for good.
“It’s better this way,” House says.
House lays in his bed, flat on his back, arms folded across his chest. He’s supposed to be asleep-the night is for sleeping-but something’s keeping him awake. His leg doesn’t hurt-there’s nothing wrong with his leg-but he feels like he’s been kicked in the stomach.
Sort of like Wilson looked when House told him he was done fighting. Poor Jimmy. House has put him through hell, and even now that he’s trying to be good, he’s only hurting him more.
But that’s what addicts do. They hurt everyone dumb enough to care about them. Maybe if he gets better, really better, he can stop hurting Jimmy. He knows They don’t really want to help him-what They really want to do is punish him-but if he can stop hurting Jimmy, the pain will be worth it.
Last time, he’d fought Them every step of the way. Even when they’d broken him, he was still fighting. As soon as Luerssen’s treatments had worn off, he’d started right back up again. Drawing Wilson into his sickness. Making Wilson think he deserved to be helped. Protecting himself-protecting his image of himself as something special, something different from the rest of the hopeless trash addicts-had been his only focus.
He has a new focus now--not hurting Jimmy. He’s going to be good, to protect Jimmy. Jimmy really is special.
He’s thirsty, he decides. He’ll be able to sleep once he’s had a drink of water. And he’s in his own home, for now. He can get up at night if he wants to. Might as well enjoy the privilege while he can.
Carefully setting the heating pad aside, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabs his cane, and gets up. He limps along the hallway to the main room. The floor’s cold on his bare feet.
Another thing he ought to get used to.
When he gets near the living room, he hears a strange sound. At first he thinks Wilson’s having an asthma attack, or an anaphylactic reaction. House hurries toward him.
When he realizes Wilson’s not having trouble breathing, he’s crying, he stops short. “Jimmy?”
“’m okay, House. Go back to sleep.” Wilson’s voice is thick and phlegmy-he’s been at this for a while.
Instead of going back to bed, House eases his way around the coffee table and sits down next to Wilson on the sofa.
“It’s okay,” Wilson says again. “I’m just….” He shakes his head and sobs some more.
Tentatively, House reaches out to him. Twice he almost pulls his hand back, but finally he settles his arm around Wilson’s shoulders. He can’t quite bring himself to say “It’s okay,” or “It’ll be all right,” but he squeezes him a little, and Wilson’s breathing slowly steadies.
Wilson takes a deep, shuddering breath and dabs at his eyes with the sleeve of his pyjama shirt. “Thanks, House.”
“You’re welcome,” House says automatically. After a moment he adds, “You crying over me?”
Wilson makes a vague sort of gesture. “It all just got to be…a little bit too much. Don’t worry about me.”
“I think that’s my line.” House gives Wilson another pat. He has to make him understand. “Really, Jimmy. I’m not worth it.”
Wilson shrugs expressively and rubs the back of his neck, his hand brushing House’s. “Is anybody? Lov-caring about anybody hurts. It doesn’t matter who it is. If you thought about the hurt first, you’d never do it.”
That makes sense to House. “So why do you do it?”
“Because…if you don’t take the chance, you’re not going to be hurt, but you’re not going to be happy, either.”
“You don’t look very happy.”
Wilson rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “Not right now, no. But we’ve had some good times.” He takes a deep breath. “You have to fight this thing Luerssen did to you. You came back from it once already, you can do it again.”
House shakes his head. “Yeah. And look how much good it did. All I accomplished was making the only person who still cares about me cry.”
“I’m crying because I can’t stand the idea of you being stuck like this forever,” Wilson says. “I want you back, the real you. I want everything to be like it used to be, before you went to rehab.”
“I hurt you before I went to rehab, too,” House reminds him. “I’m going to be good now, and I’m not going to hurt you anymore.”
Wilson cries into his sleeves some more. “…House?”
“Yes?”
“Please stop talking.”
“How was your interview with our victim?” Leslie Shepherd asks Dewalt.
Dewalt grimaces. “He’s a wreck, there’s no question about that. But he has a clear and accurate memory of everything that happened that morning, except the forty-two minutes he spent in the exam room with Luerssen.”
“Is it possible he’s lying? About not remembering what happened?”
“I doubt it. And I don’t see why he would. There’s one more problem-he’s now also saying that he self-administered the morphine.”
“What about the rest of the drugs?”
“He’s not admitting they exist.”
She taps the end of her pencil on her desk, a nervous habit. “Are you going to be able to give me the testimony that I need? That Luerssen’s alleged attack on him made him unable to appear in court?”
“He’d be unable to aid the prosecution. I can’t honestly say he’d be unable to appear. He’s physically healthy, lucid, able to do his job-except for a slightly flattened affect, he’d come across as perfectly normal, if a little slow on the uptake.”
“Damn.” She’d hoped-although not expected-that Dewalt would be able to say House simply couldn’t appear. It would be by far the simplest way to exclude his damning testimony. “Well, let’s work out what I’m going to ask you in court.”
House refuses an invitation to lunch after Dewalt has gone; Wilson brings him a sandwich to eat at his desk, anyway. There are no crises from next door for the rest of the afternoon, and Wilson’s able to do some of his own work. Five o’clock comes, and Wilson pokes his head in to see that House is half-heartedly presiding over a ddx-his team having apparently succeeded in finding a case-so he retreats to his own office and keeps working for another hour.
At about six, House comes into his office. “It’s time to go home. The work day is over.”
Wilson closes up what he’s doing. “Did you solve your case?”
House nods briskly. “Goodpasture’s disease. Biopsy just confirmed it. Chase is starting the treatment.”
“Great.” He wishes he could see House’s effective performance of his job as a hopeful sign, but Goodpasture’s is a kidney disease-squarely in one of House’s specialties-and rare, but not all that tricky to diagnose. It’s a perfectly respectable day’s work, but nothing to write home about, especially for House.
“You should drop me off at my place and go home,” House tries again, as they’re riding down in the elevator.
“No, I think I’m going to stay with you,” Wilson says.
House looks at him searchingly. “I’m not going to use again,” he says.
“I know you’re not. I just want to make sure nothing bad happens to you.” He imagines what House would say to that. What do you have in mind? Pudgy Jews don’t make the world’s best bodyguards. And Wilson would come back with some crack about the Israeli army.
But now House just says, “Okay.” And, very quietly, “Thanks.”
“What do you want for supper?” Wilson asks as House settles down on the couch for another exciting evening of staring at a blank television screen.
“I don’t know.”
“I could make some pancakes,” Wilson suggests, hoping House will show some glimmer of interest.
“Pancakes are breakfast food,” House says disapprovingly. “Normal people don’t eat breakfast food for dinner.”
A lump rises in Wilson’s throat, and his heart plummets. He examines House’s face for any sign that his friend is messing with him again, or even remembers the last time they had this conversation.
House looks back at him guilelessly.
“Well. I guess we could wait and have them tomorrow for breakfast,” Wilson says helplessly.
“I guess that would be okay,” House says dubiously, sounding like maybe he’s not sure he wants his favorite meal at all.
“Okay then. Uh…we’ve got some tuna steaks,” he suggests.
“Sounds good,” House says agreeably.
Wilson puts the remote control next to House’s hand and goes into the kitchen. A rice pilaf will go nicely with the fish, and there’s some broccoli in the freezer, too. He feels remarkably little guilt about using House’s fragile mental state to get a well-balanced meal into him.
Well. Maybe some guilt. He’ll mix up a pan of brownies while he’s at it. With pecans. And maybe some extra chocolate chips sprinkled on top.
He should have stopped at the store for ice cream.
House pokes disconsolately at his fish. He could be having pancakes, if it weren’t for-
He cuts off that thought quickly. This is the way things are supposed to be.
“How is it?” Wilson asks, nodding toward his plate.
“It’s good. Thanks.” House makes an effort to smile.
Wilson smiles back at him at him sadly. “Great, buddy.”
House eats a small piece of brownie, and doesn’t protest when Wilson turns on the television. He’s not sure it makes any difference to House, but Wilson feels like he’s going to cry if he watches him stare at the blank screen any more.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees House rubbing at his leg. Wilson’s about to ask him if it hurts, but realizes just in time that he shouldn’t. Instead, he gets House’s heating pad from the bedroom and wordlessly arranges it over House’s right thigh.
“It doesn’t hurt,” House says, looking up at him.
“Okay,” Wilson says. “I don’t suppose you’ll take some gabapentin.”
“No.” House shudders a little.
“I wish you would.”
“I don’t need it.”
Wilson disagrees, but short of coating the pill in butter, holding House down, and rubbing his throat until he swallows, he doesn’t see what he can do.
House settles back against the sofa cushions.
“House,” Wilson says. “You’re not going back to rehab, Luerssen’s not going to get you again. You’re going to be fine. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. You know that, don’t you?”
House’s mouth opens, then closes again. Finally he says, “I know you want to help me. But you can’t protect me from the consequences of my actions.”
He couldn’t have just stopped at I know you want to help me, could he? Wilson sighs. “Look. What is it you think you did that made all this happen to you?”
“I’m an addict,” House says. “And I’ve started using again.” He sighs. “I’m going to have to go back to rehab, and maybe I can do it right this time.” He hangs his head a little. “Don’t want you to worry about me.”
“Of course I’m going to worry about you, House--you’re my best friend.”
“I shouldn’t be.”
Wilson doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just keeps going. “And you’re not using again, and you’re not going back to rehab. If you did have to, you’d go to our own program at the hospital, and nobody’d hurt you there. But you’re doing fine, there’s no reason for you to go into rehab at all.”
But House has gone blank behind the eyes-blanker-and he just shakes his head. “It’ll be easier if I don’t fight it.” Wilson’s about to protest, but House holds up his hand. “It almost killed me last time. I can’t go through that again. Not that way. This is it. I’m done.”
Wilson listens to him, realization and horror creeping over him. “You’re…” Faking? No, not quite. “You’re doing this on purpose. You know what Luerssen did-you believe me, even if you really don’t remember it-and you’re…not fighting it.”
House tucks his chin against his chest, eyes fixed on his knees. “I’m not fighting anymore,” he agrees.
“Oh, House….” Wilson doesn’t know what to say. It hurts more than anything he can imagine, seeing House like this. This is what they all wanted-Tritter, Luerssen, the unnamed Them of rehab-House, broken.
What’s worse, is that it’s almost what he and Cuddy had thought they wanted, once. “If he’d just give in once in a while.” If they hadn’t said it, they’d certainly thought it. “Why does he always have to do everything the hard way?”
Because doing everything the hard way is what makes him House. He doesn’t settle, he doesn’t compromise, he doesn’t bend his neck to anyone.
Only now he does. He’s pinned all his hopes on House coming back to himself once the drugs wear off-but even then, House would have to want to claw his way back. If House has given up, his friend could be gone for good.
“It’s better this way,” House says.
House lays in his bed, flat on his back, arms folded across his chest. He’s supposed to be asleep-the night is for sleeping-but something’s keeping him awake. His leg doesn’t hurt-there’s nothing wrong with his leg-but he feels like he’s been kicked in the stomach.
Sort of like Wilson looked when House told him he was done fighting. Poor Jimmy. House has put him through hell, and even now that he’s trying to be good, he’s only hurting him more.
But that’s what addicts do. They hurt everyone dumb enough to care about them. Maybe if he gets better, really better, he can stop hurting Jimmy. He knows They don’t really want to help him-what They really want to do is punish him-but if he can stop hurting Jimmy, the pain will be worth it.
Last time, he’d fought Them every step of the way. Even when they’d broken him, he was still fighting. As soon as Luerssen’s treatments had worn off, he’d started right back up again. Drawing Wilson into his sickness. Making Wilson think he deserved to be helped. Protecting himself-protecting his image of himself as something special, something different from the rest of the hopeless trash addicts-had been his only focus.
He has a new focus now--not hurting Jimmy. He’s going to be good, to protect Jimmy. Jimmy really is special.
He’s thirsty, he decides. He’ll be able to sleep once he’s had a drink of water. And he’s in his own home, for now. He can get up at night if he wants to. Might as well enjoy the privilege while he can.
Carefully setting the heating pad aside, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabs his cane, and gets up. He limps along the hallway to the main room. The floor’s cold on his bare feet.
Another thing he ought to get used to.
When he gets near the living room, he hears a strange sound. At first he thinks Wilson’s having an asthma attack, or an anaphylactic reaction. House hurries toward him.
When he realizes Wilson’s not having trouble breathing, he’s crying, he stops short. “Jimmy?”
“’m okay, House. Go back to sleep.” Wilson’s voice is thick and phlegmy-he’s been at this for a while.
Instead of going back to bed, House eases his way around the coffee table and sits down next to Wilson on the sofa.
“It’s okay,” Wilson says again. “I’m just….” He shakes his head and sobs some more.
Tentatively, House reaches out to him. Twice he almost pulls his hand back, but finally he settles his arm around Wilson’s shoulders. He can’t quite bring himself to say “It’s okay,” or “It’ll be all right,” but he squeezes him a little, and Wilson’s breathing slowly steadies.
Wilson takes a deep, shuddering breath and dabs at his eyes with the sleeve of his pyjama shirt. “Thanks, House.”
“You’re welcome,” House says automatically. After a moment he adds, “You crying over me?”
Wilson makes a vague sort of gesture. “It all just got to be…a little bit too much. Don’t worry about me.”
“I think that’s my line.” House gives Wilson another pat. He has to make him understand. “Really, Jimmy. I’m not worth it.”
Wilson shrugs expressively and rubs the back of his neck, his hand brushing House’s. “Is anybody? Lov-caring about anybody hurts. It doesn’t matter who it is. If you thought about the hurt first, you’d never do it.”
That makes sense to House. “So why do you do it?”
“Because…if you don’t take the chance, you’re not going to be hurt, but you’re not going to be happy, either.”
“You don’t look very happy.”
Wilson rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “Not right now, no. But we’ve had some good times.” He takes a deep breath. “You have to fight this thing Luerssen did to you. You came back from it once already, you can do it again.”
House shakes his head. “Yeah. And look how much good it did. All I accomplished was making the only person who still cares about me cry.”
“I’m crying because I can’t stand the idea of you being stuck like this forever,” Wilson says. “I want you back, the real you. I want everything to be like it used to be, before you went to rehab.”
“I hurt you before I went to rehab, too,” House reminds him. “I’m going to be good now, and I’m not going to hurt you anymore.”
Wilson cries into his sleeves some more. “…House?”
“Yes?”
“Please stop talking.”