Bestest Buddy 19: Busted
Okay, this one is a rush job. I may need to edit.
'Triple-darn. Quintuple darn!' Sammy thought to himself as he rode along in his mother's Jeep. He felt another headache coming on. Life was so unfair! He'd kept his nose almost perfectly clean for a week so that he wouldn't miss out on sleeping over at David's, and now the whole thing would be ruined by his stupid head.
If he complained about the headache, Dad would tell him off, since Dad wouldn't believe that his head really ached. If he told his mom, she might believe him, and give him some of the kid's aspirin that was kept in the master bathroom medicine cabinet, but then she'd probably keep him home tonight.
He wanted coffee, but that would make him need to run around like a maniac, and he'd probably break something or get into some other trouble at David's house.
Sam was determined not to miss the first sleepover at his best friend's, so he decided to try and get some aspirin, even though they didn't always work. If he couldn't get into his parent's private bathroom, he'd have to figure out a backup plan.
House nodded to David, and they began to play, David on the piano, and House on one of his electric guitars. They were playing “East St. Louis Toodle-oo,” a song that David had heard on one of House's Steely Dan albums. David had loved the song, because there was a stride piano solo that he'd nailed over the summer as his school audition piece. He really loved hearing his dad make the guitar “talk” in this piece, so they practiced it often.
Wilson was sitting in the window seat, his legs stretched out and his back against the wall. He was listening to his two loves, marveling over their impressive talent, and keeping an eye out for the delivery guy - David had requested pizza for his sleepover dinner.
They arrived together - the pizza and Sammy. While he paid for the delivery, Wilson held the front door open for Sammy and his dad. They looked a grim pair, Sammy's usual broad grin was missing in action, and Tom's mouth was pressed into a firm line. Wilson knew that Sam's dad did not exactly approve of his son being exposed to the relationship between Wilson and House. Luckily, Liz had threatened him into holding his tongue for their son's sake. Still, Wilson could tell that the man was grinding his teeth - that is, until he heard the music.
Tom Chu and Sammy stood just inside the front door while Wilson paid for the pizza. Tom had apparently slipped into music appreciation mode. “Very nice!” he commented to Wilson as he nodded towards their music room.
“That's David on the piano, and House on the guitar,” Sammy told his father, proud of his talented friend.
Tom frowned and looked up at Wilson for confirmation. Wilson steered them to the doorway of the room, where they viewed David doing his stride solo, then the two of them easily playing counter to one another to the resolution of the song. They played freely, with little regard for mistakes, merely enjoyed themselves.
“See, Dad?” Sammy pointed to the two people rocking out in the music room. “David plays with his dad all the time.”
Tom nodded and replied in his clipped, curt way, “Yes, and if you would apply yourself, we could play together as well.”
Sammy stared down at his shoes. That wasn't gonna happen. He chose not to think about that now, when his head was pounding. He had tried to get his aspirins earlier, but his dad had been hanging around in the bedroom after work, so no dice. He would have to either steal some from David's house, or, as a last result, scarf down some of the coffee he'd brought with him.
Tom declined Wilson's offer of dinner, and left, but not without sparing his son a single stern gaze that spoke volumes. Sammy's head hurt too much to take much notice of it, though. He was thinking about how he could possibly eat right now. The act of chewing actually made his head hurt worse.
House rarely missed anything. Like the way Sammy the human vacuum cleaner nibbled on the same piece of pizza throughout the whole meal. And the way he kept rubbing at his forehead. “Kid's got a headache,” he mentioned to Wilson after they sent the boys off to play while they cleaned up.
“Yeah?” Wilson immediately trusted his partner's assessment. He started to walk out of the kitchen. “I'll get him something-”
“You'll do no such thing,” House warned. “I wanna see him without any drugs -well, without anything from us, anyway.”
Wilson wasn't exactly enthralled about House running diagnostic tests on their son's friend, but he knew his Greg, knew that there wasn't much point in arguing.
David and Wilson had planned a great sleepover. They had planned to watch two movies on the big flat screen TV in the great room. There would be popcorn, and Wilson was planning to make them strawberry smoothies for dessert later. Then they would have an hour or so before bed to do whatever they liked.
It all fell flat, though. Wilson had noticed that Sam was looking pretty sleepy, so he sent the boys to get dressed for bed between the movies. Fifteen minutes into “Avatar,” Sam was snoring.
David was disappointed, but consoled himself with the thought that they would have time tomorrow to hang out together before he and Wilson drove Sammy back home. Wilson put Sammy into David's lower bunk, and the three watched the rest of the film together.
House waited half an hour after David was in bed before he slipped into his son's room, using the slice of nightlight from the hallway. It took only seconds to spot Sammy's backpack. He hooked the handle-strap on its top with his cane, and made his way out of the room.
In the master bedroom, House searched through the backpack. A pair of jeans, a long-sleeved polo shirt, underwear, one dose of Ritalin in a little pillbox for the next morning. A small stash of comic books, and two action figures.
Wilson was sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching his partner. He knew it was useless to protest this invasion of Sammy's privacy, not when the boy's health was in question. He took the backpack from House and started rummaging through the outer pockets. There in a side pocket, inside a pair of rolled-up tube socks was the old Ritalin bottle. His heart sank when he saw the brown substance, thinking that it might actually be an illegal hard drug.
House grabbed the bottle from his partner and opened it unceremoniously. He nodded to himself with satisfaction. He tasted the stuff, and felt it melt on his tongue. “Instant coffee,” he told Wilson. “Sammy was having a caffeine withdrawal headache tonight.”
By two-thirty, Sammy's headache had intensified, and woke him from fitful dreams. He thought maybe he could take his coffee, force himself to lie in bed, and be fine by morning. He slid out of the lower bunk and groped his way to the sliver of light that came in under David's door. He opened the door a little, and started groping around for his backpack.
After searching for five minutes in the semi-darkness, Sammy figured that he must have left his backpack in the great room or something. He slipped out the door and padded down the hallway. There, on the arm of the sofa. What in the heck was it doing there? He didn't care. His head hurt way too much. He headed right over and grabbed the handle on his backpack. What he didn't count on was that House's arm was attached to the backpack. House was sleeping on the sofa, lying in wait for Sammy.
Sammy let out a short scream.
“Shh!” House said in a sharp whisper. “You trying to wake the dead?”
“Oh...” was all Sammy could think to say.
House reached into the pocket of his bathrobe and pulled out the little plastic vial of coffee. “Looking for this?” he asked.
Sammy turned white.
House set the backpack down on the floor. He regarded his son's friend for a moment. “I guess that means your headache hasn't gone away on its own.”
Sammy's mouth fell open.
“You were rubbing your forehead all evening,” he told the boy. Then he handed Sammy the vial. “This usually make it go away?”
Scared now, Sammy just came clean. “Yeah.”
“You're having something called 'caffeine withdrawal,'” he told Sam. You've had so much caffeine that your body needs it, or some really nasty things happen, like headaches. How long have you been doing this?”
Sammy couldn't think, not when his head was pounding worse than before, and the remedy was so, so close.
House nodded towards the boy and gave a permissive little wave. “Go ahead. It'll make your head better, and then we're gonna talk about this.”
Sammy didn't hesitate, not when his head was about to explode. He opened the child-proof bottle and tipped half of the Taster's Choice onto the back of his tongue. He'd grown accustomed to the dark, bitter taste, welcomed it, even.
House got to see Sam as Wilson sometimes saw him, House. No wonder his partner sometimes recoiled when he watched him take a couple Vicodin. This was, in part, ritualistic behavior - the way Sammy put his lips around the whole bottle, tossed the grounds back, and knew just how to get the right amount into his mouth on the first toss, without over or under- doing it. Then the grimace as the saliva in his mouth dissolved the crystals so the could swallow them. Damn creepy.
House waited a bit, observing the boy, who wasn't doing much of anything except sitting next to him on the sofa and looking scared.
“How's your head?”
“Getting better,” Sammy told him.
“Sit down right there.” House pointed at the coffee table, the usual place where David sat when a serious talk was necessary.
The boy obeyed. He was scared, but not as much as if his father had caught him. “Are you going to tell my parents?” Sammy asked.
“Don't you think I should?”
No, of course not - Sammy wanted to say, but he already knew the right answer. “I guess so.”
'Triple-darn. Quintuple darn!' Sammy thought to himself as he rode along in his mother's Jeep. He felt another headache coming on. Life was so unfair! He'd kept his nose almost perfectly clean for a week so that he wouldn't miss out on sleeping over at David's, and now the whole thing would be ruined by his stupid head.
If he complained about the headache, Dad would tell him off, since Dad wouldn't believe that his head really ached. If he told his mom, she might believe him, and give him some of the kid's aspirin that was kept in the master bathroom medicine cabinet, but then she'd probably keep him home tonight.
He wanted coffee, but that would make him need to run around like a maniac, and he'd probably break something or get into some other trouble at David's house.
Sam was determined not to miss the first sleepover at his best friend's, so he decided to try and get some aspirin, even though they didn't always work. If he couldn't get into his parent's private bathroom, he'd have to figure out a backup plan.
House nodded to David, and they began to play, David on the piano, and House on one of his electric guitars. They were playing “East St. Louis Toodle-oo,” a song that David had heard on one of House's Steely Dan albums. David had loved the song, because there was a stride piano solo that he'd nailed over the summer as his school audition piece. He really loved hearing his dad make the guitar “talk” in this piece, so they practiced it often.
Wilson was sitting in the window seat, his legs stretched out and his back against the wall. He was listening to his two loves, marveling over their impressive talent, and keeping an eye out for the delivery guy - David had requested pizza for his sleepover dinner.
They arrived together - the pizza and Sammy. While he paid for the delivery, Wilson held the front door open for Sammy and his dad. They looked a grim pair, Sammy's usual broad grin was missing in action, and Tom's mouth was pressed into a firm line. Wilson knew that Sam's dad did not exactly approve of his son being exposed to the relationship between Wilson and House. Luckily, Liz had threatened him into holding his tongue for their son's sake. Still, Wilson could tell that the man was grinding his teeth - that is, until he heard the music.
Tom Chu and Sammy stood just inside the front door while Wilson paid for the pizza. Tom had apparently slipped into music appreciation mode. “Very nice!” he commented to Wilson as he nodded towards their music room.
“That's David on the piano, and House on the guitar,” Sammy told his father, proud of his talented friend.
Tom frowned and looked up at Wilson for confirmation. Wilson steered them to the doorway of the room, where they viewed David doing his stride solo, then the two of them easily playing counter to one another to the resolution of the song. They played freely, with little regard for mistakes, merely enjoyed themselves.
“See, Dad?” Sammy pointed to the two people rocking out in the music room. “David plays with his dad all the time.”
Tom nodded and replied in his clipped, curt way, “Yes, and if you would apply yourself, we could play together as well.”
Sammy stared down at his shoes. That wasn't gonna happen. He chose not to think about that now, when his head was pounding. He had tried to get his aspirins earlier, but his dad had been hanging around in the bedroom after work, so no dice. He would have to either steal some from David's house, or, as a last result, scarf down some of the coffee he'd brought with him.
Tom declined Wilson's offer of dinner, and left, but not without sparing his son a single stern gaze that spoke volumes. Sammy's head hurt too much to take much notice of it, though. He was thinking about how he could possibly eat right now. The act of chewing actually made his head hurt worse.
House rarely missed anything. Like the way Sammy the human vacuum cleaner nibbled on the same piece of pizza throughout the whole meal. And the way he kept rubbing at his forehead. “Kid's got a headache,” he mentioned to Wilson after they sent the boys off to play while they cleaned up.
“Yeah?” Wilson immediately trusted his partner's assessment. He started to walk out of the kitchen. “I'll get him something-”
“You'll do no such thing,” House warned. “I wanna see him without any drugs -well, without anything from us, anyway.”
Wilson wasn't exactly enthralled about House running diagnostic tests on their son's friend, but he knew his Greg, knew that there wasn't much point in arguing.
David and Wilson had planned a great sleepover. They had planned to watch two movies on the big flat screen TV in the great room. There would be popcorn, and Wilson was planning to make them strawberry smoothies for dessert later. Then they would have an hour or so before bed to do whatever they liked.
It all fell flat, though. Wilson had noticed that Sam was looking pretty sleepy, so he sent the boys to get dressed for bed between the movies. Fifteen minutes into “Avatar,” Sam was snoring.
David was disappointed, but consoled himself with the thought that they would have time tomorrow to hang out together before he and Wilson drove Sammy back home. Wilson put Sammy into David's lower bunk, and the three watched the rest of the film together.
House waited half an hour after David was in bed before he slipped into his son's room, using the slice of nightlight from the hallway. It took only seconds to spot Sammy's backpack. He hooked the handle-strap on its top with his cane, and made his way out of the room.
In the master bedroom, House searched through the backpack. A pair of jeans, a long-sleeved polo shirt, underwear, one dose of Ritalin in a little pillbox for the next morning. A small stash of comic books, and two action figures.
Wilson was sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching his partner. He knew it was useless to protest this invasion of Sammy's privacy, not when the boy's health was in question. He took the backpack from House and started rummaging through the outer pockets. There in a side pocket, inside a pair of rolled-up tube socks was the old Ritalin bottle. His heart sank when he saw the brown substance, thinking that it might actually be an illegal hard drug.
House grabbed the bottle from his partner and opened it unceremoniously. He nodded to himself with satisfaction. He tasted the stuff, and felt it melt on his tongue. “Instant coffee,” he told Wilson. “Sammy was having a caffeine withdrawal headache tonight.”
By two-thirty, Sammy's headache had intensified, and woke him from fitful dreams. He thought maybe he could take his coffee, force himself to lie in bed, and be fine by morning. He slid out of the lower bunk and groped his way to the sliver of light that came in under David's door. He opened the door a little, and started groping around for his backpack.
After searching for five minutes in the semi-darkness, Sammy figured that he must have left his backpack in the great room or something. He slipped out the door and padded down the hallway. There, on the arm of the sofa. What in the heck was it doing there? He didn't care. His head hurt way too much. He headed right over and grabbed the handle on his backpack. What he didn't count on was that House's arm was attached to the backpack. House was sleeping on the sofa, lying in wait for Sammy.
Sammy let out a short scream.
“Shh!” House said in a sharp whisper. “You trying to wake the dead?”
“Oh...” was all Sammy could think to say.
House reached into the pocket of his bathrobe and pulled out the little plastic vial of coffee. “Looking for this?” he asked.
Sammy turned white.
House set the backpack down on the floor. He regarded his son's friend for a moment. “I guess that means your headache hasn't gone away on its own.”
Sammy's mouth fell open.
“You were rubbing your forehead all evening,” he told the boy. Then he handed Sammy the vial. “This usually make it go away?”
Scared now, Sammy just came clean. “Yeah.”
“You're having something called 'caffeine withdrawal,'” he told Sam. You've had so much caffeine that your body needs it, or some really nasty things happen, like headaches. How long have you been doing this?”
Sammy couldn't think, not when his head was pounding worse than before, and the remedy was so, so close.
House nodded towards the boy and gave a permissive little wave. “Go ahead. It'll make your head better, and then we're gonna talk about this.”
Sammy didn't hesitate, not when his head was about to explode. He opened the child-proof bottle and tipped half of the Taster's Choice onto the back of his tongue. He'd grown accustomed to the dark, bitter taste, welcomed it, even.
House got to see Sam as Wilson sometimes saw him, House. No wonder his partner sometimes recoiled when he watched him take a couple Vicodin. This was, in part, ritualistic behavior - the way Sammy put his lips around the whole bottle, tossed the grounds back, and knew just how to get the right amount into his mouth on the first toss, without over or under- doing it. Then the grimace as the saliva in his mouth dissolved the crystals so the could swallow them. Damn creepy.
House waited a bit, observing the boy, who wasn't doing much of anything except sitting next to him on the sofa and looking scared.
“How's your head?”
“Getting better,” Sammy told him.
“Sit down right there.” House pointed at the coffee table, the usual place where David sat when a serious talk was necessary.
The boy obeyed. He was scared, but not as much as if his father had caught him. “Are you going to tell my parents?” Sammy asked.
“Don't you think I should?”
No, of course not - Sammy wanted to say, but he already knew the right answer. “I guess so.”