The Last Mile, Part 1 of 3
Title: The Last Mile (1/3)
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: Solid R; Gen at this point
Summary: An argument between House and Wilson gets out of hand.
Disclaimers: Standard disclaimers apply. House and Wilson belong to each other. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Note: Assume this takes place in the present. The Op-Ed I mention, "Handcuffs and Stethoscopes," by John Tierney, appeared in the NYT in July. This piece is finished, for the most part. I will be posting parts two and three later this week. Title cribbed from a Smiths song, quoted below. However, do not mistake this for songfic.
"Why is the last mile the hardest mile?" -- The Smiths, Is It Really So Strange?
Friday afternoon and House was bored. Video games? Played out. Music? Too many choices. TV? Not enough choices, at least not good ones. Patient, not that interesting, and he already knew what he was going to tell Foreman to do, when Foreman showed up.
House fell back on an old stand-by: the Op-Ed pages of the New York Times, now in convenient online format. He wouldn’t have to get ink on his fingers. There was always some nutcase going on about something: the battle of the naysayers, the yes men, and Maureen Dowd. He absently wondered if the columnist might be one of Cuddy’s mysterious friends.
“‘Handcuffs and Stethoscopes’? This could be promising!” House said to his empty office as he followed a link. He was certain that doctor porn didn’t fall under All The News That’s Fit to Print by any stretch of the imagination, but he might get a nugget that he could drop into conversation, and that was a good thing.
In reality, the column turned his mind to Wilson, and not in a pleasant way. House was still thinking about Wilson when he felt a rush of air from his office door. Brooding would have to wait.
“Have Mr. Vomit cultured for Candida, get a stool sample, and stop the Levaquin. I think we’re looking at a severe fungal infection, not bacterial, or it could be fungal and a bacteria that doesn’t react to Levaquin.” He turned then and saw not the expected Foreman, but the very same Wilson he was trying not to think about. “Oh, thought you were Foreman.”
“That happens more often than you’d think,” Wilson said.
House grinned in spite of himself. Wilson wasn’t smiling back. He stuck his hand in the pocket of his lab coat and pulled out a small slip of paper. “It’s that time again.”
“You do take good care of me,” House said. His voice was plain, and almost quiet.
“I try.” Wilson made eye contact and breathed through the tension. The prescription shouldn’t have been a problem, but it was. They were friends; they had always been friends. The pills made them more than friends.
There were days when it was too much.
House looked down as he dropped the paper into his pocket. “I’m worried about you.”
Wilson looked at House with some suspicion. Either he was up to something, or. Or what? He was up to something. The pause stretched out too long as House stood up to gather his thoughts, and Wilson moved toward the door.
“Wait,” House said. He tightened his fingers around the head of his cane to bolster his will to continue with this exercise. House had no trouble fitting words into sentences, but this was different. He wasn’t used to worrying. “You… I don’t know how to say this.”
Wilson responded with a half chuckle. “That never stopped you before.”
“Will you let me finish? The DEA is starting to crack down on doctors about pain killers,” House said with less than his usual precision. He thumped his cane against the floor for emphasis.
“If you’re going to be paranoid, leave me out of it,” Wilson said, wary, condescending and more than a little tired of it all. “It’s a stretch, but try watching your own back instead of making me do it for you.”
“I’m talking about the Drug Enforcement Agency,” House said, allowing no time for Wilson to say more. His voice was angry and impatient. “The Feds. They’ve got big guns and they take themselves very seriously. This is important stuff!”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m an oncologist,” Wilson shot back. “At any given time, half my patients are medicated for legitimate pain control. I know this may bruise your ego, but you’re the least of my worries.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t have cancer,” House said, trying to keep his voice even. “You’ve been supplying an admitted drug addict with schedule three narcotics for years! Scrip happy dentists and plastic surgeons won’t keep these people busy forever.”
Wilson shut his eyes and shook his head. “You meet the criteria for chronic pain, and you’re convinced that Vicodin is the only way to treat it.” Wilson no longer tried to hide his contempt for House, his pills, and his own role in the addiction. “What’s your point?”
“One of these days, they’ll be coming for you,” House shouted. “I’m a red flag.”
“You’re in pain, Greg. You can’t function without the pills.” Wilson raised his voice. “You said so yourself.”
“You could end up in prison because of me.” House’s tone was close to pleading, but he had no idea what he was pleading for, except Wilson’s attention, which was not coming.
“I get it now. You’re worried that if I go to prison, your supply will dry up,” Wilson said. “Who’s going to write for you then? Cuddy? You don’t trust anybody else!” They circled each other like animals, with slow, watchful precision. Neither man was comfortable in his position.
“You don’t get it at all,” House stepped closer to Wilson, who stood fast.
“Then explain it to me.” Wilson’s eyes glittered with something House didn’t attempt to read.
“Not until you answer my question.” House’s voice was worn from yelling, and his heart was tired.
“Fuck, what’s the question? I didn’t hear a question.” Their toes nearly touched; their words came fast and thoughtless.
“Why do you write for me, Dr. Wilson? Why put yourself at risk?”
“I don’t see it as a risk.”
“Then you’re not seeing.” House whispered, finally noting their positions.
“Why are you doing this?” Wilson’s eyes never left House’s, but they were blind to each other now.
“Why do you write for me?” House asked again.
“Because you let me,” Wilson yelled at the top of his voice.
“Every time you take out that pad for me, you risk your reputation, you risk your medical license.” He emphasized each word to make sure Wilson heard him. “You risk going to prison. You can’t honestly think that ‘Well, your honor, I wrote all those prescriptions because he let me’ is going to hold up in Federal court.”
Wilson recoiled as he realized that none of it mattered to House.
“You want to play it that way? Fine,” Wilson said. “I’m your doctor. I’m going to continue to treat you until they find you dead in an alley.”
Doctor. The word rang in House’s ears like a gunshot. “You…” he trailed off in disbelief. “You are not my doctor.”
“That’s not what your chart says.”
“You have a chart on me?” He never considered that Wilson would keep notes on him. For the first time in a long while, House had no idea what to say.
“I’m not like you. I keep records. Every ache, every pain, every pill is documented,” Wilson said smoothly. Power rushed through his body, obscuring everything in its path. He lifted his chin slowly. Light from the window glinted in his eyes. Every bone and every muscle exalted in the glory of winning.
In that moment, House hated Wilson; hated him for winning, hated him even more for being right. A blanket of denial suffocated the last of his presence of mind. He lashed out with his free hand and pushed against Wilson’s face, digging hard, scratching for blood.
Wilson grabbed at House’s wrist and fought to twist the arm away. “Damn it, House! You’re--Ow!” He bit into the skin between House’s thumb and forefinger. House drew back, and Wilson looked at him, really seeing for the first time in minutes.
House was hell bent on revenge, his head adrift in bad waters: bitterness, anger, and the deepest kind of hurt. He released his cane and swung at Wilson with his right hand. His fist connected, crushing bone against bone. Wilson’s head lurched from the shock of the blow.
They stared at each other uneasily, and breathed as if both of them had to remember how.
“I could hurt you,” Wilson whispered, rubbing his cheek as he squared himself away, as if to confirm the impact. “I could break you.” In an instinctive motion that proved the truth of his words, Wilson picked up House’s cane from the floor and moved it under House’s hand. His knuckles pressed into the flesh of House’s palm, and House trembled.
He did not see Wilson leave the room.
Part Two
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: Solid R; Gen at this point
Summary: An argument between House and Wilson gets out of hand.
Disclaimers: Standard disclaimers apply. House and Wilson belong to each other. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Note: Assume this takes place in the present. The Op-Ed I mention, "Handcuffs and Stethoscopes," by John Tierney, appeared in the NYT in July. This piece is finished, for the most part. I will be posting parts two and three later this week. Title cribbed from a Smiths song, quoted below. However, do not mistake this for songfic.
"Why is the last mile the hardest mile?" -- The Smiths, Is It Really So Strange?
Friday afternoon and House was bored. Video games? Played out. Music? Too many choices. TV? Not enough choices, at least not good ones. Patient, not that interesting, and he already knew what he was going to tell Foreman to do, when Foreman showed up.
House fell back on an old stand-by: the Op-Ed pages of the New York Times, now in convenient online format. He wouldn’t have to get ink on his fingers. There was always some nutcase going on about something: the battle of the naysayers, the yes men, and Maureen Dowd. He absently wondered if the columnist might be one of Cuddy’s mysterious friends.
“‘Handcuffs and Stethoscopes’? This could be promising!” House said to his empty office as he followed a link. He was certain that doctor porn didn’t fall under All The News That’s Fit to Print by any stretch of the imagination, but he might get a nugget that he could drop into conversation, and that was a good thing.
In reality, the column turned his mind to Wilson, and not in a pleasant way. House was still thinking about Wilson when he felt a rush of air from his office door. Brooding would have to wait.
“Have Mr. Vomit cultured for Candida, get a stool sample, and stop the Levaquin. I think we’re looking at a severe fungal infection, not bacterial, or it could be fungal and a bacteria that doesn’t react to Levaquin.” He turned then and saw not the expected Foreman, but the very same Wilson he was trying not to think about. “Oh, thought you were Foreman.”
“That happens more often than you’d think,” Wilson said.
House grinned in spite of himself. Wilson wasn’t smiling back. He stuck his hand in the pocket of his lab coat and pulled out a small slip of paper. “It’s that time again.”
“You do take good care of me,” House said. His voice was plain, and almost quiet.
“I try.” Wilson made eye contact and breathed through the tension. The prescription shouldn’t have been a problem, but it was. They were friends; they had always been friends. The pills made them more than friends.
There were days when it was too much.
House looked down as he dropped the paper into his pocket. “I’m worried about you.”
Wilson looked at House with some suspicion. Either he was up to something, or. Or what? He was up to something. The pause stretched out too long as House stood up to gather his thoughts, and Wilson moved toward the door.
“Wait,” House said. He tightened his fingers around the head of his cane to bolster his will to continue with this exercise. House had no trouble fitting words into sentences, but this was different. He wasn’t used to worrying. “You… I don’t know how to say this.”
Wilson responded with a half chuckle. “That never stopped you before.”
“Will you let me finish? The DEA is starting to crack down on doctors about pain killers,” House said with less than his usual precision. He thumped his cane against the floor for emphasis.
“If you’re going to be paranoid, leave me out of it,” Wilson said, wary, condescending and more than a little tired of it all. “It’s a stretch, but try watching your own back instead of making me do it for you.”
“I’m talking about the Drug Enforcement Agency,” House said, allowing no time for Wilson to say more. His voice was angry and impatient. “The Feds. They’ve got big guns and they take themselves very seriously. This is important stuff!”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m an oncologist,” Wilson shot back. “At any given time, half my patients are medicated for legitimate pain control. I know this may bruise your ego, but you’re the least of my worries.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t have cancer,” House said, trying to keep his voice even. “You’ve been supplying an admitted drug addict with schedule three narcotics for years! Scrip happy dentists and plastic surgeons won’t keep these people busy forever.”
Wilson shut his eyes and shook his head. “You meet the criteria for chronic pain, and you’re convinced that Vicodin is the only way to treat it.” Wilson no longer tried to hide his contempt for House, his pills, and his own role in the addiction. “What’s your point?”
“One of these days, they’ll be coming for you,” House shouted. “I’m a red flag.”
“You’re in pain, Greg. You can’t function without the pills.” Wilson raised his voice. “You said so yourself.”
“You could end up in prison because of me.” House’s tone was close to pleading, but he had no idea what he was pleading for, except Wilson’s attention, which was not coming.
“I get it now. You’re worried that if I go to prison, your supply will dry up,” Wilson said. “Who’s going to write for you then? Cuddy? You don’t trust anybody else!” They circled each other like animals, with slow, watchful precision. Neither man was comfortable in his position.
“You don’t get it at all,” House stepped closer to Wilson, who stood fast.
“Then explain it to me.” Wilson’s eyes glittered with something House didn’t attempt to read.
“Not until you answer my question.” House’s voice was worn from yelling, and his heart was tired.
“Fuck, what’s the question? I didn’t hear a question.” Their toes nearly touched; their words came fast and thoughtless.
“Why do you write for me, Dr. Wilson? Why put yourself at risk?”
“I don’t see it as a risk.”
“Then you’re not seeing.” House whispered, finally noting their positions.
“Why are you doing this?” Wilson’s eyes never left House’s, but they were blind to each other now.
“Why do you write for me?” House asked again.
“Because you let me,” Wilson yelled at the top of his voice.
“Every time you take out that pad for me, you risk your reputation, you risk your medical license.” He emphasized each word to make sure Wilson heard him. “You risk going to prison. You can’t honestly think that ‘Well, your honor, I wrote all those prescriptions because he let me’ is going to hold up in Federal court.”
Wilson recoiled as he realized that none of it mattered to House.
“You want to play it that way? Fine,” Wilson said. “I’m your doctor. I’m going to continue to treat you until they find you dead in an alley.”
Doctor. The word rang in House’s ears like a gunshot. “You…” he trailed off in disbelief. “You are not my doctor.”
“That’s not what your chart says.”
“You have a chart on me?” He never considered that Wilson would keep notes on him. For the first time in a long while, House had no idea what to say.
“I’m not like you. I keep records. Every ache, every pain, every pill is documented,” Wilson said smoothly. Power rushed through his body, obscuring everything in its path. He lifted his chin slowly. Light from the window glinted in his eyes. Every bone and every muscle exalted in the glory of winning.
In that moment, House hated Wilson; hated him for winning, hated him even more for being right. A blanket of denial suffocated the last of his presence of mind. He lashed out with his free hand and pushed against Wilson’s face, digging hard, scratching for blood.
Wilson grabbed at House’s wrist and fought to twist the arm away. “Damn it, House! You’re--Ow!” He bit into the skin between House’s thumb and forefinger. House drew back, and Wilson looked at him, really seeing for the first time in minutes.
House was hell bent on revenge, his head adrift in bad waters: bitterness, anger, and the deepest kind of hurt. He released his cane and swung at Wilson with his right hand. His fist connected, crushing bone against bone. Wilson’s head lurched from the shock of the blow.
They stared at each other uneasily, and breathed as if both of them had to remember how.
“I could hurt you,” Wilson whispered, rubbing his cheek as he squared himself away, as if to confirm the impact. “I could break you.” In an instinctive motion that proved the truth of his words, Wilson picked up House’s cane from the floor and moved it under House’s hand. His knuckles pressed into the flesh of House’s palm, and House trembled.
He did not see Wilson leave the room.
Part Two