New Fic: Hard Knock Life
Summary: Kutner has a panic attack. Wilson lends advice.
Rating: PG, for brief references to violence.
Pairing: Kutner+Wilson Friendship...A rare thing, indeed.
Spoilers: For Season 5, "Here Kitty"
Disclaimer: Do I sound like David Shore? I hope not---because if i do, it might mean that I have a brain problem!
A/N Writte for sick_kutner 's Sick!Wilson/Sick!Kutner Challenge! Prompt#1: Kutner (or Wilson) begins seeing a therapist specializing in doctors and discovers that Wilson (or Kutner) is seeing the same shrink. (I have taken the liberties of changing the prompt slightly to fit the plot.)
Kutner couldn’t remember a time when he’d been this angry before, except if you counted becoming an orphan at six years old and watching everything you knew and loved disappear right in front of your eyes. Back then, he’d been so full of rage that he had hated not only the man who had taken away his only family, but the whole world and everything in it, including himself for not having done more.
That, however, was twenty-two years ago. Since then, he’d managed to put most of his tragic past behind him and move on with his life---and had done so for the most part successfully. Being adopted by the Kutners had played a key role in his long and perilous journey towards healing---as he’d found a family once again, someplace he knew that he belonged. Becoming a doctor had helped tremendously as well---for with each life he saved, he felt as though he were atoning for the two lives that were lost. Ironically, as a doctor he’d also learned that when it came to his patients, there were some things that were beyond not only his, but everyone’s control (such as bus crashes and amantadine poisoning).
Another lesson he learned was that not only was House the boss, but that being the boss meant that House could do anything he pleased---including making a fool out of not only Kutner, but every single one of his employees whenever he felt like it.
Today, apparently, Kutner had been the main target, as House had first conned them all into thinking that he had a terrible illness. He had stopped talking suddenly in the middle of a sentence to bend over, looking very pale---as though he were about to be sick. Before anyone had a chance to react, he had turned in Kutner’s direction, proceeding to puke blood all over Kutner’s immaculately clean shirt and white jacket. The “blood” itself had turned out later to be only cranberry juice, yet another one of House’s sick jokes---yet, at the time, Kutner had thought it was real (as had everyone else who had witnessed the truly terrifying scene).
As soon as he had looked down and saw that he was covered with blood, Kutner felt feint---and his head started to spin. As House’s taunting words “do you like cranberry juice” echoed in sickening repetition over and over again in his mind, he felt his legs beginning to buckle, and he knew that if he wanted to hold onto the last of his dignity, that he had to get out of there, and fast.
The longer that House continued to leer at him with his crooked, evil grin, the more light-headed Kutner felt, until he was so dizzy that he could barely see straight. “Hey, Kutner, why don’t you go back inside and change your shirt,” Foreman suggested, sounding understanding, much to Kutner’s surprise. (It was as though Foreman could tell that he was inches away from falling, using all of his willpower just to keep standing.)
“Yeah,” he slowly agreed, but it was as though someone else had made the decision for him. “I’ll go do that. I’ll be right back,” he added, and before House could stop him he began to break into a run, making sure that he wouldn’t look back and find the Devil nipping at his heels.
Once he was inside, he slowed down, but his heart seemed to think that he was still running, as it was racing at an unusually fast pace. Trying to suppress his alarm, Kutner struggled to catch his breath, but it felt as though he were choking or suffocating to death. A horrifying thought immediately popped into his brain, and it caused him to stop in his tracks and gasp out loud: Oh my God, House drugged the juice….
The idea of House wanting to kill him was absolutely absurd, but weirder things had happened and everyone else already thought that House was crazy enough as it was. (Could House really hate him to the point that he’d want to do him harm?) He was probably just being paranoid. After his parents had been killed, Kutner---as a young boy---had feared that the man would come after him too. Even though his adoptive parents (the Kutners) had tried time and again to convince him that the man was in jail (and would remain so for a very long time) Kutner had continued to be afraid that someday he, too, would meet his parents’ fate.
Now he was afraid that his time had truly come, and the terror ran like electricity throughout his body, shocking the core of his very soul. An overwhelming feeling of nausea overcame him almost immediately, and he knew that the poison must have already spread through his veins. Soon, it would eventually paralyze him, after which he would most likely go into shock and then die.
There had to be another explanation for what he was feeling; because even though he knew House did weird things, House wasn’t really crazy. (Kutner was determined to believe this at all costs as his life depended on it. He would continue to believe it even if no one else did; at least, he would hold onto this belief until House was carted off to the loony bin…but until then, he would simply have to try to give House the benefit of the doubt). He didn’t know if House was crazy or not. All he knew for sure was that his stomach was killing him and he knew he had to find a bathroom immediately, or else he would soon be sick all over the floor, and he could not---he would not---allow that to happen. His dignity had suffered more than enough already that day. Yet the more his stomach ached and the more everything spun, Kutner feared he was doomed---but then he remembered that there was at least one bathroom that he knew of on the first floor. Without a moment’s hesitation he took off running.
Kutner managed to make it to the bathroom just in time, for as soon as he crouched down in front of the bowl, everything came up in an overwhelming succession of painfully dry heaves. He hadn’t had much of an appetite that morning, so his stomach didn’t have much to mix with other than bile. After several moments of puking, his ribs hurt so much that he could barely sit up.
Exhausted, Kutner sat still for several seconds as, much to his relief; the nausea began to subside as quickly as it came. Though still slightly dizzy, he managed to pull himself into a somewhat comfortable position, still shaking uncontrollably from the whole ordeal.
It was then that the swooshing sound of the toilet flushing from within the stall next door to him jolted him awake. “Hello?” came a wary, yet gentle and very concerned voice, followed by a tentative knocking on the wall between the two stalls. “Are you okay in there?”
Kutner froze at once, as he recognized the voice immediately to be that of none other than the oncologist Dr. James Wilson, House’s one (and perhaps only) friend. Wilson, whose girlfriend Amber (he still thought of her as Cutthroat Bitch) they had fought so hard to save and failed…Wilson, who ate lunch with House every day, like clockwork---and who gave advice if the patient had signs of possibly cancerous symptoms.
This was not good, Kutner realized. House couldn’t know he’d gotten sick because of what were probably just nerves, due to some stupid cranberry juice stunt. Rumor had it that House told Wilson everything, as the two were best friends who had known each other some fifteen-odd years or so. Kutner knew that if he revealed himself that if Wilson knew, then House would know and he was screwed, for House would know just how lily-livered he truly was.
Yet, he couldn’t just sit there and say nothing, which would only cause Wilson further concern---and perhaps then Wilson would have to alert the ER that there was someone in the stall who was unresponsive, and then everyone would know it was him.
He decided the best course of action was to make his identity known to Wilson and to Wilson only. Besides, while Wilson was House’s best friend, he didn’t seem to be like House at all…yet, then again, Kutner hadn’t known the man for very long. He decided it was worth the risk, and took a deep breath as he prepared himself to speak.
“Hey, Dr. Wilson,” Kutner managed to say, in spite of the sudden aching in his throat, “I’ll be okay, thanks…I don’t know why I just got so sick, I think something I ate must have disagreed with me…”
“Dr. Kutner?” Wilson’s voice was full of shock and surprise. Then, Kutner could hear the creaking dissention of an opening and closing stall door. “I didn’t know it was you… Does House know you’re in here?”
“No…” Kutner gagged and spit out the last of the bile with relief. “No one does…except you, that is,” he added begrudgingly, wishing that he had never been found.
“Can you stand up? Do you need help?” From the close proximity of Wilson’s voice, Kutner guessed that the man was standing directly on the other side of his door.
“Nah…I can get up by myself, but thanks,” Kutner muttered, and somehow he manage to stand up on wobbly feet. Even as he did, however, he was dreading having to explain the “blood” on his clothes. He knew he couldn’t avoid Wilson forever, and that at some point would have to tell him what happened. Bracing himself for a thousand questions, Kutner announced, “I’m coming out,” and waited for Wilson to stand back, as he pushed open the door.
“Oh, my God,” Wilson exclaimed, his eyes widening with horror upon first sight of the “blood” that had completely soaked through Kutner’s shirt. “What in the hell happened to you!? Are you---are you hurt?” Wilson stammered, “Do---Do I need to go page the ER or something? Or---or is that the patient’s blood---?”
“It’s not mine and it’s not the patient’s,” Kutner cut him off quickly, while stumbling wearily in the direction of the sink, desperate to rid himself the leftover bile in his throat. He realized it was now or never---time to face the music. “House spit cranberry juice all over me,” Kutner confessed bitterly, “pretending it was his own blood.” Grateful to Wilson’s new expression (which seemed to match his own feelings of rage) he was nevertheless still embarrassed and proceeded to douse his mouth out with as much water as his cupped hands would allow to rid himself of the taste.
“Shit,” Wilson expressed in a voice which vocalized both his anger and sympathy, which Kutner appreciated more than he would ever allow Wilson to know. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Kutner…House can really be a jerk sometimes---but then again, that goes without saying.”
With his eyes on the sink, watching the water swirl effortlessly in a whirlpool and disappear down the drain, Kutner said, “I’m assuming he probably told you about my being an orphan?”
“Yeah,” Wilson admitted softly, sounding regretful. “Unfortunately, he did...and I’m sorry he did, because it’s really none of my business.”
Something about that statement irritated him, and suddenly Kutner knew why. “Why are you always so sorry?” he blurted out without thinking, whirling around to face Wilson directly, looking him straight in the eye. “He’s the one who spit at me, who made a fool out of me in front of everyone; not you…! You didn’t blab about my secrets to the whole classroom, either…and it’s not like I have anything to be embarrassed about with being an orphan, you know,” he added hotly, (though he knew he wasn’t really at angry at Wilson at all, but was really angry at House), “it’s just something that happened to me, that’s all; people die every day, no matter who loves them. It’s not like I wanted to be an orphan; it was just how it happened; just how things happened to be.”
Wilson blinked with bewilderment at Kutner's words, seeming completely at a loss as to what to say. He’d never heard Kutner be so adamant before, nor speak so candidly about himself. “I’m…” For a second, Kutner expected Wilson to finish that statement once more with “sorry”, but Wilson simply exhaled sharply and shook his head with disgust---not at Kutner, but rather, at himself.
“I don’t know what to say, Dr. Kutner,” Wilson muttered, remorsefully shaking his head, “I just don’t…except…” He hesitated, blushing fiercely, and much to Kutner’s amazement, glanced sharply away as though afraid to face him.
“Except what?” Kutner demanded, however warily; part of him didn’t really want to know. Finally satisfied that he had cleaned his mouth out entirely, Kutner forced himself to turn back around towards Wilson again, waiting expectantly and anxiously for his new companion to continue.
“Mind if I feel your forhead? I don't mean to embarrass you," Wilson added kindly.
Again, Kutner wasn't sure why he was so drawn to the idea of Wilson lending him a helping hand, but nevertheless he agreed without protest to allow Wilson to place a soft palm to his temple. The feeling of someone's hand like a soft wet cloth against his own skin reminded him suddenly of his mother, as she'd stayed by his side when he'd been a young child and stuck at home with a nasty case of the flu. The thought of it nearly made him want to burst into tears, but somehow he vowed to stay perfectly still and did not move one muscle until Wilson was done.
"Except for some understandable sweat," announced Wilson in a businesslike manner (at last retracting his hand and backing respectfully away), "there's no fever present. You're not warm. You're fine." Suddenly, Wilson looked very uncomfortable, which only left Kutner feeling uncomfortable as well---his mind racing, as it wondered what could possibly be running through the Oncologist's mind to make him look like that. "Forgive me, if this is also none of my business, but…” Wilson winced as though he were getting ready to drop a bombshell, and Kutner tensed immediately as he went on, adding nervously, “Do you ever experience, um…" Wilson blushed profusely, seeming almost to shrink as he added in a much quieter voice, almost in a whisper a pair of two words that, when together, Kutner had always despised: "panic attacks?” finished a timid-looking Wilson.
“Um…” Now Kutner wished he could spontaneously combust, and it made perfect sense that Wilson wouldn't want to pry as they barely knew each other and never worked together. Yet, Wilson did have a point, as his symptoms fit perfectly. “Now that you mention it, well…” He cringed, trying to forget all the nightmares he’d had as a child, and the flashbacks that felt like nightmares during the day. “Well, yeah, um, sometimes, I guess I do…but when I was a kid, I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and panic attacks happen naturally when you’ve gone through a traumatic experience,” he confessed. Immediately the blood rushed to his face, as he’d feared that he’d said too much---but Wilson only nodded sagely in response, as if he’d experienced some sort of trauma-related experience himself.
He would have continued to feel embarrassed if Wilson didn’t look more so; the Oncologist’s face had turned beet red in seconds and he was staring resolutely down at the floor. “PTSD…House told me about how you witnessed both your parents get shot…I’m so sorry that you had to go through all that, Kutner….it must have been a devastatingly painful ordeal.”
“Thanks. But I’m not surprised that you know all that too,” Kutner muttered, and sighed with submission. Even though he was mad that House had divulged his entire history to Wilson, he was actually glad that Wilson knew, and seemed to understand where he was coming from. He was surprised to find that just talking to Wilson was actually helping him feel better. The nausea had all but disappeared, and he didn’t feel light-headed or even the slightest bit dizzy. To his amazement, it appeared that Wilson was right---he’d had a panic attack, the first one in years. Though it was a relief to know he hadn’t been poisoned, even the thought of having a panic attack scared him---because he’d assumed that, on a whole, he was better. “Maybe I should start seeing a therapist again,” he suggested, more to himself than to Wilson.
“How long has it been, since you’ve seen one?” Wilson questioned him nonchalantly, as though seeing a therapist was no big deal---they could have been simply talking about a patient’s health or the weather.
“About twenty-one years ago,” Kutner confessed, “my adoptive parents had me see a therapist the first year I was with them, when I was nine…but it was only for about a year. The social worker had insisted I do it. That was the last time, because after that, I saw no one.” He tensed as he waited anxiously for Wilson’s response, not even knowing why he cared so much what it would be, but he did.
“Maybe that is a good idea,” Wilson agreed, much to his relief and surprise. “I see a very good therapist right here in town. Her name is Julia Goldstein. She specializes in doctors who have anxiety disorders and depression, and ironically she’s also a grief therapist. Naturally, I started seeing her after Amber died…Perhaps you’d be interested? I’ve got her card in my wallet.”
For some reason, this random act of kindness on Wilson’s behalf left Kutner stunned, completely unsure what to say. He was grateful but at the same time overwhelmed that Wilson would care so much as to give him some guidance. Part of him was afraid to begin the therapeutic process again, but he knew that in the long run, it would help…besides, he’d been dealing with some insomnia lately, and perhaps Julia Goldstein could help him find a better way to cope than playing video games all night long.
“Yeah, I’ll give it a try,” he heard himself saying, taking the card from Wilson’s outstretched fingers, “Thanks.”
“No problem. Hey, you better change and get back to the conference room, if you want to keep your job,” Wilson added in warning.
“Thanks for the advice,” Kutner returned, and he meant every word of it from the bottom of his heart.
“No worries. My door is always open,” Wilson added with a quick wink and a small smile, as he headed for the door, leaving Kutner the privacy he desired.
Kutner shut his eyes and breathed in deeply as he pocketed the card, knowing he’d have to come up with a very good excuse as to why it had taken him this long to change his shirt and wash his face. However, for some reason, he was feeling suddenly brave, and knew that no matter what happened, he’d find some way of coping.