House M.D. stuffs
So, I was waiting for someone else to post something on here, so that it wouldn't look like I was totally spamming, but I got tired of waiting. Sorry for looking like a spammer....:(
But, on the other hand, there is a new chapter! :)
Title: Delicate
Chapter: Jump in the Line (five)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Just a lowly fanfic writer. Don't own squat.
Summary: House is changed in a way that no one could have seen coming, and Wilson is left to pick up and take care of what's remaining. Can he handle it?
Warnings: sick!vulnerable!House, House/Wilson slash.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Wilson glanced over to where House was sitting on the floor, TV remote in hand, flipping through the television channels. One of Wilson's ears was glued to the phone listening for a voice on the opposite end, while the other ear overheard blips of interrupted and aborted dialogue. “Damn it, House,” he tried not to shout; “Can’t you just pick one show?”
House turned to look at Wilson over his shoulder, “But they’re all so boring...”
“Yes? Hello?” someone had finally answered. “Hi, I’m Dr. James Wilson. I’m looking for a therapist for a very special case. Umm...” flipping through the stack of papers in front of him, Wilson tried to stall as his eyes darted over a list of names. “You’re Dr. Buroughs, right?”
House was ignoring the TV in favour of eavesdropping on his friend’s conversation, focusing very closely on Wilson’s slightly shaking hands.
“Well, um, I’ve heard about you from a colleague, and I was wondering if you were taking any cases right now?” Wilson picked a pencil up off the desk in front of him and twirled in between his fingers. House sat up and leaned towards him, yearning for the pencil. “Dr. Lisa Cuddy. Yes, well, a fellow doctor, you may have heard of him, he was a diagnostician. Yes, Dr. Gregory House. He had a fall, which resulted in long term brain damage. I’m looking for someone who would be willing to work with the two of us.”
House reached out and touched Wilson’s arm. The man barely glanced at him before dropping the yellow writing utensil into the outstretched, waiting hand. “Me? No, I’m fine. It’s just, I’m not really a specialist in these things. I know it’s an odd case. It’s just sometimes...I don’t know how to act around him. You know?” Wilson glanced at House, and frowned slightly as the man mashed the pencil led onto a receipt that was sitting on the coffee table. “This is all confidential, right? Well, maybe it would be best if I waited to tell you the whole story until you met us both, face to face.” House was now twirling the newly broken pencil between his fingers in a fashion reminiscent of what Wilson had just been doing. “Saturday sounds wonderful. Noon. Yes, we’ll be there at 12 sharp. Thank you so much.”
Wilson finally hung up the phone that he had been on all day, and looked at House, who was intently denting the pencil’s soft flesh with his teeth. “Is that really necessary?” he asked, reclining in his chair. At the sound of a conversation directed towards him, House spat out the pencil and held it out sheepishly to Wilson.
“Sorry. My leg hurts.”
Anything to stop the pain. “Okay, well, let me get you something for it.” In the last two weeks, House had become extremely dependent on the methadone. If Wilson didn't make sure he administered it at exactly the same time every day, it was only a matter of moment before House felt the familiar aching shoot through his muscle. A few moments after that he would start making odd squelching noises. If Wilson forgot the meds for more than half an hour, House would be writhing on the floor in pain. Wilson knew that putting him on something else was probably a good idea, but there was no way he was going to back to vicodin, and almost everything else was too weak for House or came with too many detested side effects. So, Wilson had resolved himself to always have the bottle of methadone at hand and administered it as regularly as he could remember to.
Wilson walked over to the kitchen and poured a glass of water before measuring out the medication. House startled him when he turned around and the man was right behind him, eyes hungry, hands greedily reaching for relief. “Here you go,” he was resigned to feed another addiction to the end. How could he deny House?
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Dr. Buroughs’ office was decorated in mostly pastels, which Wilson was sure were supposed to ease people nerves, but they just made him feel slightly nauseous as he lightly pushed House into one of the easy chairs by a window. “Don’t touch the window, you’ll get your fingerprints all over it,” he said, as House’s fingertips edged towards the glass. He picked up a magazine off the coffee table - Us Weekly - and handed it to House. “Here, this should fill all your gossipy needs.” He knew full well that House couldn’t read it, but he also knew that flipping the pages would occupy House long enough that he could tell the receptionist they were there.
“Dr. Wilson? Well, you two are early.” The receptionist ticked something off and smiled up at Wilson. “Dr. Buroughs is just in a session right now. She’ll be out soon. Why don’t you have a seat? Can I get either of you anything to drink?”
“We’d both love coffee.”
“Sure. Do you take anything in it?”
“One black, one with sugar and cream.”
“Sure.” She pushed herself up from the desk and turned to walk through a door, so Wilson went to sit down next to House.
“You want some coffee?”
“Mmm...”House nodded while still flipping through the magazine. He hadn’t asked to shave again since the first time, and Wilson noticed that his stubble was started to get past the point of being called such. He reached out a tentative hand to touch House’s face. What are you doing?! He couldn’t stop himself, even though his mind was jittering nervously - just like it had when House put him on speed. He had no clue why he was acting this way until his fingers made contact with House’s face. Contrary to the reaction he expected, House didn’t react to his touch. Maybe it wasn’t as awful was tearing his face away and asking Wilson what was going on, but it certainly wasn’t as good as when he used to lean into the touch and place a light kiss on the palm.
Wilson pulled his hand away and dropped it to his lap, staring at a scuff on his shoes. So he didn’t notice when House tore his eyes from the magazine, and looked sadly at the loss of contact. “Jimmy?”
“Yes?”
“Are you gonna get coffee?” A question hiding one that his vocabulary couldn’t form the words for.
“No, there’s a lady, look there she is now.” Wilson pointed at the petite woman, carrying two paper cups with coffee in them. She handed them both to Wilson, who passed the black coffee to House. “Thank you,” he nodded at the receptionist before turning to House, “Careful, it’s hot.”
They waited for another half hour before Dr. Buroughs ushered a large woman out of her office, and turned, smiling, to House and Wilson. “Sorry, that took a little longer than I thought. I just need to run to the washroom quickly. I’ll be right back.”
Wilson nodded. House watched the old woman walk away before turning to Wilson. “Who is she? Why are we here?”
“I told you already,” Wilson sighed into his coffee, “She’s a doctor. She’s going to talk to us.”
“You’re a doctor, too! Why do we need another one?”
“She’s a different kind of doctor than I am. She can tell us different things.”
“What kind?” As House leaned toward Wilson, eager for information, the magazine tipped off his lap and fell to the floor.
Wilson bent over and picked it up, dropping it back on the coffee table. “Um...Things - things about you.”
“I can tell you all about me. What do you want to know?”
“There’re some things about ourselves that we don’t even know, House.” Wilson looked up, hoping for Dr. Buroughs to be quick about using the toilet. He wasn’t sure how long he could stave off House’s questions with such generic answers. Of course, that was why they were there.
The woman walked around the corner, and stopped in front of the two of them. “Well, gentlemen, why don’t you come into my office?”
Wilson got up and helped House out of the chair. “Don’t forget your cane.” House groaned. He hoped maybe one day Wilson would forget the cane.
Once they were seated in her office, Dr. Buroughs pulled out a notepad. “Now, don’t worry. This will just go into your file, and when I feel like we’ve dealt with everything on here, I’ll shred it. No one will see this but us.”
Wilson nodded, touching House’s head lightly. House had chosen to recline against him, feet planted firmly on the arm of sofa, his head pressing softly on Wilson’s chest. He held one of Wilson’s hand’s between his, but otherwise focused all of his attention on the doctor. Wilson was grateful. He wasn’t in the mood for any behavioural lessons today.
“So, why don’t you start, Dr. Wilson. Tell me what happened.”
“You made it here fast,” the nurse ushered Wilson inside, asked him to take off his watch, and give them his pager and cell phone.
“I tried.” He didn’t tell her that he red lined it the whole way, it was the first time he had ever not been scared that a cop might pull his over while speeding. He didn’t have the time to focus on trifles such as laws, right now. “Where is he?”
“We put him in the clinic. It’s the only place we could make sure he wasn’t hurting himself.”
“Hurting himself?”
“Well, he’s not trying to abuse himself. But when we tried to put him into isolation, he started screaming and smashing into the door. He wouldn’t even let us restrain him, and the doctors said not to give him a sedative. We need to measure the extent of the brain damage.”
Wilson was following the nurse quickly down the hallway. “Why would you restrain him? You said he’s just disoriented?”
“We...we weren’t sure if he could be left alone.”
She held a door open for Wilson and he rushed through to find House sitting on an exam table. He had a small patch of gauze on the side of his head, but other than that, looked unharmed. His hands were clasped between his knees as he looked intently at his feet.
“Hey,” Wilson walked up to him and reached to touch his shoulder. “Hey, House? Do you know who I am?”
House looked up blankly, but smiled when he made eye contact. “Jimmy. I knew you’d be here.”
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