Fic: Pain Relief
I wrote House/Foreman hurt/comfort! :O Yeah, no, I'm shocked too. I've been stuck on a different House/Foreman story for like months, and then out of nowhere, the idea for this one came to me and I wrote it in like a day. Funny how that works...
Title: Pain Relief
Rating: G
Pairing: House/Foreman
Word Count: 1006
Notes: Set in early season 5, spoilers for the Amber arc.
Summary: Pain, House had told him once, years ago when he’d been dying in the basement of the hospital, takes away trivialities. It makes us focus on the important things.
House has a request and Foreman makes a decision.
“House?” Foreman calls out into the dark office. There’s no response so he turns to leave, but then he catches a glimpse of a pair of jean-clad legs stretched out behind the desk. He hurries inside, feeling a twinge of panic.
“House! What-” He steps around the desk to find House-not dead, not unconscious, not even sleeping. He’s wide awake, glaring up at Foreman, but he looks terrible: pale and sweating, eyes rimmed red, and he’s gripping his thigh with his right hand.
“Present,” he says through gritted teeth and even his voice sounds terrible, too tightly controlled, like he’s about to go postal any minute.
Foreman raises his eyebrows and kneels down in the narrow space between the desk and balcony door, beside House. He gently pries House’s hand off his leg and notes how clammy the skin feels. House lets him touch more easily than he should have and this worries Foreman more than anything else.
“I take it the new weaning-off-Vicodin plan isn’t going well?” he asks, feeling for House’s pulse and shaking out his other wrist to look at his watch. The plan is Wilson’s latest venture in his quest to save House’s life. How he convinced House to agree to it, Foreman doesn’t know, but he suspects that part of House’s motivation is probably guilt over Amber, or maybe it was a condition of Wilson’s return to the hospital.
“I’m fine. How’s the patient?” House grunts, leaning his head back against the bookshelf and watching him as he counts heartbeats. 183: his heart is racing.
“He’s doing well on the Rifampin. No cardiac incident yet,” Foreman says. “You on the other hand-” He reaches out to House’s forehead to check for a temperature, but this time House bats his hand away.
“You came to tell me the patient’s fine just to waste my time?” House sneers at him.
“I thought you’d want to know that your diagnosis was right. Kutner just confirmed brucellosis from a blood sample,” Foreman says, frowning. “And I have to check if you have a fever.”
“I have one,” House says shortly. “Big surprise. And I’m always right, another big surprise.”
Foreman rocks back onto his heels and studies him. “The sarcasm tells me you’re not suffering as much as you probably should be. But I have to let Wilson know about the fever.”
“No,” House says sharply and grabs the sleeve of his jacket as he starts to get up.
Foreman stares at the fabric twisted between his fingers and then at House. He looks slightly panicked, the thin veneer of disdain gone from his expression.
“Just-get me some Tramadol,” he says, sounding desperate.
“I can’t,” Foreman says slowly. “You’re supposed to be on-”
House shakes his head hurriedly. “It’s a non-narcotic. There are no drug interactions, I checked. Come on.”
The plea in House’s voice unsettles him-he’s seen House detox before, but usually not to the point when he’s desperate enough to ask for drugs, especially non-narcotic drugs. This is more of Cameron’s territory, or Wilson’s. He doesn’t know how to talk to House when he’s like this, but he figures pity or sympathy would be the wrong way to go.
“No,” he says firmly. “If you can’t do this, just tell Wilson. There’s no point pretending-”
He sees something flicker in House’s eyes but has no other warning before House lets go of his arm and grabs the lapels of his blazer with both hands to pull him in to a bruising kiss. Foreman falls forward off-balance and braces himself just in time with his hands on the carpet. He’s startled but mostly he’s annoyed; they’d decided they weren’t doing this; House had made it pretty clear the last time. It takes him a few seconds of fumbling before he regains his balance enough to break the kiss.
“What are you doing?” Foreman asks angrily, trying to pull away, but House tightens his hold on his collar and pulls him close so he can see House’s narrowed eyes in huge definition, ordinarily bright blues washed out and glassy, and feel his quick, heavy breaths.
“My leg is on fire,” House hisses, mouth inches away from his, and then closes the distance again, teeth scraping painfully against his lower lip, as if to punctuate his point.
“House,” Foreman says against his lips, and this time House allows him to break the kiss, pulling away to rest his burning forehead against Foreman’s and sighs into his skin.
Foreman slowly extricates himself from House’s embrace and House’s hands slide away: one moves back to grip his thigh once more, and the other curls loosely around Foreman’s wrist, to keep him from leaving. House doesn’t look at him, but stares instead at his leg, at the spot where his scar must be, where his knuckles are white against the blue denim. He looks defeated.
“I’m not going to do this just to distract you from the pain,” Foreman says quietly.
House looks up at him then, sharp and clear-eyed for the first time that day, and Foreman stares at the way his lips are curling into a little smile. He looks almost fond. “You idiot,” he says softly. “The pain is the distraction.”
Pain, House had told him once, years ago when he’d been dying in the basement of the hospital, takes away trivialities. It makes us focus on the important things. And then he’d said, so shut up and take the drug cocktail, but Foreman had leaned against the cool glass wall of the isolation chamber and turned those words over and over in his mind. He’d thought about what was important, and had called his father, and had signed away his medical proxy to Cameron when the time came. He looks at House now, at the fingers that are tapping a mute rhythm into his wrist, and understands what House is actually saying. He hesitates for only a moment.
“I’ll get the Tramadol,” he says, and when he gets up this time, House lets him go.
*
Thanks for reading!
Title: Pain Relief
Rating: G
Pairing: House/Foreman
Word Count: 1006
Notes: Set in early season 5, spoilers for the Amber arc.
Summary: Pain, House had told him once, years ago when he’d been dying in the basement of the hospital, takes away trivialities. It makes us focus on the important things.
House has a request and Foreman makes a decision.
“House?” Foreman calls out into the dark office. There’s no response so he turns to leave, but then he catches a glimpse of a pair of jean-clad legs stretched out behind the desk. He hurries inside, feeling a twinge of panic.
“House! What-” He steps around the desk to find House-not dead, not unconscious, not even sleeping. He’s wide awake, glaring up at Foreman, but he looks terrible: pale and sweating, eyes rimmed red, and he’s gripping his thigh with his right hand.
“Present,” he says through gritted teeth and even his voice sounds terrible, too tightly controlled, like he’s about to go postal any minute.
Foreman raises his eyebrows and kneels down in the narrow space between the desk and balcony door, beside House. He gently pries House’s hand off his leg and notes how clammy the skin feels. House lets him touch more easily than he should have and this worries Foreman more than anything else.
“I take it the new weaning-off-Vicodin plan isn’t going well?” he asks, feeling for House’s pulse and shaking out his other wrist to look at his watch. The plan is Wilson’s latest venture in his quest to save House’s life. How he convinced House to agree to it, Foreman doesn’t know, but he suspects that part of House’s motivation is probably guilt over Amber, or maybe it was a condition of Wilson’s return to the hospital.
“I’m fine. How’s the patient?” House grunts, leaning his head back against the bookshelf and watching him as he counts heartbeats. 183: his heart is racing.
“He’s doing well on the Rifampin. No cardiac incident yet,” Foreman says. “You on the other hand-” He reaches out to House’s forehead to check for a temperature, but this time House bats his hand away.
“You came to tell me the patient’s fine just to waste my time?” House sneers at him.
“I thought you’d want to know that your diagnosis was right. Kutner just confirmed brucellosis from a blood sample,” Foreman says, frowning. “And I have to check if you have a fever.”
“I have one,” House says shortly. “Big surprise. And I’m always right, another big surprise.”
Foreman rocks back onto his heels and studies him. “The sarcasm tells me you’re not suffering as much as you probably should be. But I have to let Wilson know about the fever.”
“No,” House says sharply and grabs the sleeve of his jacket as he starts to get up.
Foreman stares at the fabric twisted between his fingers and then at House. He looks slightly panicked, the thin veneer of disdain gone from his expression.
“Just-get me some Tramadol,” he says, sounding desperate.
“I can’t,” Foreman says slowly. “You’re supposed to be on-”
House shakes his head hurriedly. “It’s a non-narcotic. There are no drug interactions, I checked. Come on.”
The plea in House’s voice unsettles him-he’s seen House detox before, but usually not to the point when he’s desperate enough to ask for drugs, especially non-narcotic drugs. This is more of Cameron’s territory, or Wilson’s. He doesn’t know how to talk to House when he’s like this, but he figures pity or sympathy would be the wrong way to go.
“No,” he says firmly. “If you can’t do this, just tell Wilson. There’s no point pretending-”
He sees something flicker in House’s eyes but has no other warning before House lets go of his arm and grabs the lapels of his blazer with both hands to pull him in to a bruising kiss. Foreman falls forward off-balance and braces himself just in time with his hands on the carpet. He’s startled but mostly he’s annoyed; they’d decided they weren’t doing this; House had made it pretty clear the last time. It takes him a few seconds of fumbling before he regains his balance enough to break the kiss.
“What are you doing?” Foreman asks angrily, trying to pull away, but House tightens his hold on his collar and pulls him close so he can see House’s narrowed eyes in huge definition, ordinarily bright blues washed out and glassy, and feel his quick, heavy breaths.
“My leg is on fire,” House hisses, mouth inches away from his, and then closes the distance again, teeth scraping painfully against his lower lip, as if to punctuate his point.
“House,” Foreman says against his lips, and this time House allows him to break the kiss, pulling away to rest his burning forehead against Foreman’s and sighs into his skin.
Foreman slowly extricates himself from House’s embrace and House’s hands slide away: one moves back to grip his thigh once more, and the other curls loosely around Foreman’s wrist, to keep him from leaving. House doesn’t look at him, but stares instead at his leg, at the spot where his scar must be, where his knuckles are white against the blue denim. He looks defeated.
“I’m not going to do this just to distract you from the pain,” Foreman says quietly.
House looks up at him then, sharp and clear-eyed for the first time that day, and Foreman stares at the way his lips are curling into a little smile. He looks almost fond. “You idiot,” he says softly. “The pain is the distraction.”
Pain, House had told him once, years ago when he’d been dying in the basement of the hospital, takes away trivialities. It makes us focus on the important things. And then he’d said, so shut up and take the drug cocktail, but Foreman had leaned against the cool glass wall of the isolation chamber and turned those words over and over in his mind. He’d thought about what was important, and had called his father, and had signed away his medical proxy to Cameron when the time came. He looks at House now, at the fingers that are tapping a mute rhythm into his wrist, and understands what House is actually saying. He hesitates for only a moment.
“I’ll get the Tramadol,” he says, and when he gets up this time, House lets him go.
*
Thanks for reading!