Post-Trauma 9.1
Here's a half-chapter of Post-Trauma!
I'm trying not to let the drama of the last few days suck up so much time I don't get any writing done--the rest of Chapter Nine should be up tomorrow or Saturday.
Chapter Nine
House manages to hold it together until he gets home. Part of him wishes that Wilson would stay late at work, so that he can fall apart in decent privacy, but he knows that Wilson wouldn’t leave him alone in the circumstances, and most of him is glad of it.
Still, he insists on something complicated for dinner-a stir-fry that will require lots of chopping and mixing, and constant attention during the cooking phase. Keeping Wilson tied up in the kitchen will give him some time to himself.
“You sure you’re okay?” Wilson asks, before going into the kitchen.
“Yeah. Just hungry. Really hungry,” he adds, doing his best to look pathetic.
“Okay.” Wilson pats his arm. “I’ll get cooking.”
House waits until he hears cooking noises coming from the kitchen, then curls up in a corner of the sofa and puts his head in his hands.
He hopes, most of all, that Luerssen doesn’t turn up at work. Him showing up in the office in front of the kids would be the worst of all. He’s pretty sure that one word out of the man will turn him into a gibbering mess, and the fewer people that see that, the better. Anywhere else, Wilson will probably witness it-which he can just about handle, almost. Wilson’s seen him screaming in agony, covered in vomit--hell, he’s even seen him happy. Seeing him pissing himself in terror won’t give Wilson much leverage he doesn’t already have.
His leg hurts. He rubs at it, anxiously. “Wilson, where’s the heating pad?” he calls.
“In your room where you left it, I guess,” Wilson calls back. “Do you want me to get it for you?”
“No.” He goes into the bedroom and finds the heating pad. It’s still plugged in; he decides to just lie down and use it there. Once the pain has eased off, he can deal with the hassle of unplugging it, taking it back to the living room and plugging it in again.
The gabapentin bottle, in his jacket pocket, gets stuck under him when he lays down. He shifts around to dislodge it, finally taking the bottle out of his pocket.
He’d been just about to take his afternoon dose when the call came in. With all the confusion, he never got around to taking it.
No. He ought to be honest about it, at least inside his own head. He’d been unable to take it, fearing that Luerssen would come and see him taking a pill and put him away again. No wonder his leg hurts.
He shakes out a pill and looks at it. It looks pretty innocuous. But then, so did the Vicodin.
Damn, but he still misses Vicodin. He bets that if he took one now, this crushing load of anxiety would lighten.
The hell of it is, he knows perfectly well that none of what happened to him had anything to do with Vicodin. Maybe he was an addict, but it wasn’t harming anyone. He’d been sent on a one-way trip to hell because he couldn’t submit quietly to authority. He’s always been that way-just being told to do something is enough to make him not want to do it.
But even though he knows it’s not about the Vicodin, the very though of taking one makes his palms sweat, his heart pound, and his gorge rise. Even the gabapentin, he doesn’t think he can get down.
He’s pretty sure, that if Luerssen does manage to send him back, he’ll fall back into the old zombie routine pretty quickly. He’s not sure if that’s a relief or not. Submitting quickly will save him a lot of pain, but it’s frightening to think how fragile his sense of self really is.
Yeah, so fragile that all it takes to shatter it is an experimental cocktail of mind-altering drugs and two months of pain and humiliation. He’s such a pansy.
Still. Maybe if he’s cooperative from the start this time, they’ll let him keep his cane.
It’s a very subdued House that emerges from his bedroom when Wilson calls that dinner’s ready. Despite his earlier claims that he was hungry, he only picks at the orange-beef-broccoli stir-fry that Wilson fixed.
“How is it?” he asks, gesturing toward House’s full plate.
“It’s good. I’m just not as hungry as I thought, I guess.”
That’s weird. It’s much more usual for House to shovel down anything Wilson cooks, while insisting that it looks, taste, and smells like crap.
House spears a piece of broccoli and nibbles at it. “Luerssen told Temas he was going to have me sent back to New Horizons,” he says suddenly.
This day just keeps getting better and better. “How? He’s not even your doctor anymore.”
“He’s going to deny giving me any of the drugs and say I must’ve stolen them,” House says. “And apparently he thinks he can get me to recant on the stand during the cross-questioning. Somehow.”
“No judge would buy that. What about the fact that you and the dead girl and the other patients who are involved in the investigation all have the same drugs in their systems? Were you supposed to be supplying everybody?”
House shrugs. “He didn’t explain that part.”
“He just wants to scare you out of testifying,” Wilson says.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” House snaps. “I know that. I just can’t stop thinking, what if he does have some way to make me dance to his tune? Some kind of post-hypnotic suggestion sleeper thing?”
“What, like he’ll show you the Queen of Hearts and all of the sudden you’ll say whatever he wants you to say?”
“Pretty much,” House says glumly.
“I don’t think he can do that,” Wilson says doubtfully. Because who really knows? Most of what’s happened to House so far, he would have thought was impossible. “You should talk to Temas about it when you have your appointment tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Cause it’s a good idea to tell your shrink about all your paranoid fantasies. He’ll probably want to lock me up for my own protection.”
“I think he knows you better than that,” Wilson says.
“I hate shrinks,” House moans.
The next day, House is scheduled for clinic in the morning. Wilson frets about having him out of his sight, and, when the end of his shift comes, goes over to his office with coffee and sandwiches.
“Is he back yet?” he asks the fellows, who are all sitting around the conference table. House is nowhere to be seen, and there are no sounds of music or ball-throwing coming from the inner office.
“Yeah,” Chase says. “In his office.”
Wilson juggles the cups and sandwiches for a bit, before giving up and knocking on the door with his elbow.
“Come in,” House says politely.
Wilson frowns. That’s no even remotely normal. House is more likely to answer a knock on his door with “fuck off,” than “come in.”
He manages to open the door, also with his elbow, and goes in. House is sitting at his desk, a pile of paperwork in front of him. Wilson stops and stares at him for a moment. House is moving through the files at a rapid clip, not pausing to mock or complain or select a new song on his I pod-which is nowhere to be seen anyway.
“I brought you some lunch,” Wilson says.
“Thanks. I’m kind of busy right now.” He doesn’t even look up.
“It’s your favorite-Reuben with extra dressing.”
“Great. I’ll eat it later.”
It’s not a Reuben with extra dressing, of course-House hates soggy sandwiches and always orders his Reubens dry. “House, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m completely normal.”
Oh, sweet fucking Jesus. “What the hell happened?” He steps into House’s line of sight, forcing him to look up at him. House stares blankly at a point slightly over Wilson’s left shoulder.
“Nothing happened. I worked my clinic shift, and now I’m here doing paperwork. I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Yeah,” Wilson sighs. “Yeah, you are.” Fighting down panic, he takes a deep breath, giving himself a moment to think about what to do next. “C’mon, let’s go out on the balcony for a minute.”
“What for?”
“Just…let’s.” Luckily, House doesn’t argue any more. Wilson grabs his yo-yo and his cigarettes before escorting House outside.
Wilson extracts a cigarette out of the pack and hands it to House, along with the lighter. House lights up obediently.
“Did anything unusual happen when you were in the Clinic?” Wilson essays.
“No, just the usual things. Ear infections, STDs, addicts looking for a fix. You know.”
“Uh-huh.” Wilson presses the yo-yo in his hand.
House looks down at it vaguely. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Walk the dog?” Wilson suggests.
“We’re at work,” House points out. “I’m supposed to be working.”
“Yeah, but….” Wilson can’t quite think how to finish that sentence.
He smokes the rest of his cigarette and stubs it out. “If you’re finished, I’m going to go back in and do my work,” he says.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you later, okay?” He’s tried everything he knows to bring House back, and it hasn’t worked. The next thing, he guesses, is to go down to the clinic and see if anything unusual had, in fact, happened.
The first thing he does is ask Brenda, who’s manning the Clinic intake desk, if she had noticed anything during House’s shift.
“Unusual? No. He was a half hour late, but stayed the whole time he was on the schedule.”
“Did he seem…okay?”
“He was his usual obnoxious self, if that’s what you mean. For the first two hours, anyway. He settled down for the second half of the shift.”
Wilson pulls over the rack of file folders. “Are the charts for the patients he saw still out?” he asks, beginning to rifle through them.
“Yeah, most of them.” She takes over. “This was one of his…and this one…”
Wilson scans the files Brenda gives him, looking for something that would have set House off. He said something about drug seekers-maybe an encounter with an addict had upset him? But there aren’t any notes about drug-seeking behavior in any of the files he looks at.
“Here, he was with this one for a while. Half an hour, at least.” Brenda hands him another file.
The name on the file is “John Smith.” Wilson’s stomach goes cold. John Smith presented with a sore throat; the chart shows that House did a throat culture and gave him some lozenges. Nothing that would take five minutes, let alone thirty. “What did this guy look like? Do you remember?” Of course she doesn’t-how many patients come in to the Clinic every day?
“I do.” She frowns. “He was…normal looking. Average height, average weight, brown hair. Dressed nicer than a lot of people who come in here-suit, tie, camel-hair coat.”
Wilson realizes that he doesn’t actually know what Luerssen looks like. “Why do you remember him?”
“There was…something weird about him. When he walked in the door I thought ‘he’s going to be trouble.’ I don’t know why.” She shrugs. “He wasn’t any trouble. I don’t know why I thought he would be.”
“I think maybe he was.” Wilson closes the folder. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Brenda says, clearly confused.
Wilson hurries back upstairs to House’s office. “House? Was Luerssen in the Clinic?”
“No,” House says. “Why would he come to the Clinic? He’s not a homeless addict or a welfare queen.”
“Right,” Wilson mutters. He pushes House’s chair away from the desk and kneels in front of him. House, oddly, doesn’t protest, even when Wilson rolls up his sleeves and examines his forearms.
Just inside House’s right elbow, he finds what he feared he would-a tiny needle puncture, surrounded by a dime-sized bruise.
House stares at it in dismay. “I don’t know what that is. I didn’t-I didn’t do anything.” There’s an edge of panic in his voice.
“I know,” Wilson says. “It’s okay.”
“I didn’t,” House insists.
“I know.” He hurries back to the outer office, where the three fellows are trying, with various degrees of success, to look like they aren’t desperate to know what the hell is going on. “Chase, Cameron, go down to the Clinic and ask Brenda what exam room House was in when he saw John Smith. Get the trash and the sharps container from that room and bring them up here. Foreman, I need you to do a blood draw.” House has let Foreman do minor procedures on him before; Wilson has a vague sense that House, if he were himself, would object less strenuously to Foreman doing it than anyone else.
“What’s going on?” Cameron asks. “Is House…?”
“I’ll explain later. Go.”
They scatter. Wilson goes back into House’s office, where House has gone back to his paperwork as if nothing had happened.
Wilson pulls a chair up to his desk and locates the coffee and sandwiches, which he’d abandoned on a bookcase earlier. Unwrapping one of the sandwiches, he puts it in front of House. “Try to eat that,” he says. “You need to keep your strength up.”
House glances over at him with something that’s almost curiosity, but picks up the sandwich and bites into it. Wilson passes him one of the now-lukewarm coffees; he drinks that, too.
He’s half done with the sandwich when Foreman comes in, carrying a tray with the things he needs to do the blood draw.
House doesn’t put up much of a protest when Foreman takes the sample. He does say, “I didn’t take anything,” but he says it in a weak, defeated tone, like he’s sure he’s not going to be believed.
“I know you didn’t,” Wilson says again.
“What do you want me to test these for?” Foreman asks, once he’s drawn three vials.
“Everything we found in the samples we took last month, and anything else you can think of. Do it personally; I don’t want to hear any gossip about this.”
Foreman goes off, with the samples.
House tucks his chin against his chest and mutters, “I didn’t take anything. I’m better now.”
“I know,” Wilson says again.
“Stop saying that,” House says quietly. “I know you can’t trust me. It’s okay. But stop lying about it. Please.”
“House, I’m not lying. I know you didn’t take anything. I think Luerssen came into the Clinic and injected you with something.”
House wavers, and it seems for a second like the shell that House is trapped inside is going to split wide open and give him his friend back again. But the moment passes and House says, “Why would Doctor Luerssen do something like that? He’s the one who helped me get better.”
I'm trying not to let the drama of the last few days suck up so much time I don't get any writing done--the rest of Chapter Nine should be up tomorrow or Saturday.
Chapter Nine
House manages to hold it together until he gets home. Part of him wishes that Wilson would stay late at work, so that he can fall apart in decent privacy, but he knows that Wilson wouldn’t leave him alone in the circumstances, and most of him is glad of it.
Still, he insists on something complicated for dinner-a stir-fry that will require lots of chopping and mixing, and constant attention during the cooking phase. Keeping Wilson tied up in the kitchen will give him some time to himself.
“You sure you’re okay?” Wilson asks, before going into the kitchen.
“Yeah. Just hungry. Really hungry,” he adds, doing his best to look pathetic.
“Okay.” Wilson pats his arm. “I’ll get cooking.”
House waits until he hears cooking noises coming from the kitchen, then curls up in a corner of the sofa and puts his head in his hands.
He hopes, most of all, that Luerssen doesn’t turn up at work. Him showing up in the office in front of the kids would be the worst of all. He’s pretty sure that one word out of the man will turn him into a gibbering mess, and the fewer people that see that, the better. Anywhere else, Wilson will probably witness it-which he can just about handle, almost. Wilson’s seen him screaming in agony, covered in vomit--hell, he’s even seen him happy. Seeing him pissing himself in terror won’t give Wilson much leverage he doesn’t already have.
His leg hurts. He rubs at it, anxiously. “Wilson, where’s the heating pad?” he calls.
“In your room where you left it, I guess,” Wilson calls back. “Do you want me to get it for you?”
“No.” He goes into the bedroom and finds the heating pad. It’s still plugged in; he decides to just lie down and use it there. Once the pain has eased off, he can deal with the hassle of unplugging it, taking it back to the living room and plugging it in again.
The gabapentin bottle, in his jacket pocket, gets stuck under him when he lays down. He shifts around to dislodge it, finally taking the bottle out of his pocket.
He’d been just about to take his afternoon dose when the call came in. With all the confusion, he never got around to taking it.
No. He ought to be honest about it, at least inside his own head. He’d been unable to take it, fearing that Luerssen would come and see him taking a pill and put him away again. No wonder his leg hurts.
He shakes out a pill and looks at it. It looks pretty innocuous. But then, so did the Vicodin.
Damn, but he still misses Vicodin. He bets that if he took one now, this crushing load of anxiety would lighten.
The hell of it is, he knows perfectly well that none of what happened to him had anything to do with Vicodin. Maybe he was an addict, but it wasn’t harming anyone. He’d been sent on a one-way trip to hell because he couldn’t submit quietly to authority. He’s always been that way-just being told to do something is enough to make him not want to do it.
But even though he knows it’s not about the Vicodin, the very though of taking one makes his palms sweat, his heart pound, and his gorge rise. Even the gabapentin, he doesn’t think he can get down.
He’s pretty sure, that if Luerssen does manage to send him back, he’ll fall back into the old zombie routine pretty quickly. He’s not sure if that’s a relief or not. Submitting quickly will save him a lot of pain, but it’s frightening to think how fragile his sense of self really is.
Yeah, so fragile that all it takes to shatter it is an experimental cocktail of mind-altering drugs and two months of pain and humiliation. He’s such a pansy.
Still. Maybe if he’s cooperative from the start this time, they’ll let him keep his cane.
It’s a very subdued House that emerges from his bedroom when Wilson calls that dinner’s ready. Despite his earlier claims that he was hungry, he only picks at the orange-beef-broccoli stir-fry that Wilson fixed.
“How is it?” he asks, gesturing toward House’s full plate.
“It’s good. I’m just not as hungry as I thought, I guess.”
That’s weird. It’s much more usual for House to shovel down anything Wilson cooks, while insisting that it looks, taste, and smells like crap.
House spears a piece of broccoli and nibbles at it. “Luerssen told Temas he was going to have me sent back to New Horizons,” he says suddenly.
This day just keeps getting better and better. “How? He’s not even your doctor anymore.”
“He’s going to deny giving me any of the drugs and say I must’ve stolen them,” House says. “And apparently he thinks he can get me to recant on the stand during the cross-questioning. Somehow.”
“No judge would buy that. What about the fact that you and the dead girl and the other patients who are involved in the investigation all have the same drugs in their systems? Were you supposed to be supplying everybody?”
House shrugs. “He didn’t explain that part.”
“He just wants to scare you out of testifying,” Wilson says.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” House snaps. “I know that. I just can’t stop thinking, what if he does have some way to make me dance to his tune? Some kind of post-hypnotic suggestion sleeper thing?”
“What, like he’ll show you the Queen of Hearts and all of the sudden you’ll say whatever he wants you to say?”
“Pretty much,” House says glumly.
“I don’t think he can do that,” Wilson says doubtfully. Because who really knows? Most of what’s happened to House so far, he would have thought was impossible. “You should talk to Temas about it when you have your appointment tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Cause it’s a good idea to tell your shrink about all your paranoid fantasies. He’ll probably want to lock me up for my own protection.”
“I think he knows you better than that,” Wilson says.
“I hate shrinks,” House moans.
The next day, House is scheduled for clinic in the morning. Wilson frets about having him out of his sight, and, when the end of his shift comes, goes over to his office with coffee and sandwiches.
“Is he back yet?” he asks the fellows, who are all sitting around the conference table. House is nowhere to be seen, and there are no sounds of music or ball-throwing coming from the inner office.
“Yeah,” Chase says. “In his office.”
Wilson juggles the cups and sandwiches for a bit, before giving up and knocking on the door with his elbow.
“Come in,” House says politely.
Wilson frowns. That’s no even remotely normal. House is more likely to answer a knock on his door with “fuck off,” than “come in.”
He manages to open the door, also with his elbow, and goes in. House is sitting at his desk, a pile of paperwork in front of him. Wilson stops and stares at him for a moment. House is moving through the files at a rapid clip, not pausing to mock or complain or select a new song on his I pod-which is nowhere to be seen anyway.
“I brought you some lunch,” Wilson says.
“Thanks. I’m kind of busy right now.” He doesn’t even look up.
“It’s your favorite-Reuben with extra dressing.”
“Great. I’ll eat it later.”
It’s not a Reuben with extra dressing, of course-House hates soggy sandwiches and always orders his Reubens dry. “House, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m completely normal.”
Oh, sweet fucking Jesus. “What the hell happened?” He steps into House’s line of sight, forcing him to look up at him. House stares blankly at a point slightly over Wilson’s left shoulder.
“Nothing happened. I worked my clinic shift, and now I’m here doing paperwork. I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Yeah,” Wilson sighs. “Yeah, you are.” Fighting down panic, he takes a deep breath, giving himself a moment to think about what to do next. “C’mon, let’s go out on the balcony for a minute.”
“What for?”
“Just…let’s.” Luckily, House doesn’t argue any more. Wilson grabs his yo-yo and his cigarettes before escorting House outside.
Wilson extracts a cigarette out of the pack and hands it to House, along with the lighter. House lights up obediently.
“Did anything unusual happen when you were in the Clinic?” Wilson essays.
“No, just the usual things. Ear infections, STDs, addicts looking for a fix. You know.”
“Uh-huh.” Wilson presses the yo-yo in his hand.
House looks down at it vaguely. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Walk the dog?” Wilson suggests.
“We’re at work,” House points out. “I’m supposed to be working.”
“Yeah, but….” Wilson can’t quite think how to finish that sentence.
He smokes the rest of his cigarette and stubs it out. “If you’re finished, I’m going to go back in and do my work,” he says.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you later, okay?” He’s tried everything he knows to bring House back, and it hasn’t worked. The next thing, he guesses, is to go down to the clinic and see if anything unusual had, in fact, happened.
The first thing he does is ask Brenda, who’s manning the Clinic intake desk, if she had noticed anything during House’s shift.
“Unusual? No. He was a half hour late, but stayed the whole time he was on the schedule.”
“Did he seem…okay?”
“He was his usual obnoxious self, if that’s what you mean. For the first two hours, anyway. He settled down for the second half of the shift.”
Wilson pulls over the rack of file folders. “Are the charts for the patients he saw still out?” he asks, beginning to rifle through them.
“Yeah, most of them.” She takes over. “This was one of his…and this one…”
Wilson scans the files Brenda gives him, looking for something that would have set House off. He said something about drug seekers-maybe an encounter with an addict had upset him? But there aren’t any notes about drug-seeking behavior in any of the files he looks at.
“Here, he was with this one for a while. Half an hour, at least.” Brenda hands him another file.
The name on the file is “John Smith.” Wilson’s stomach goes cold. John Smith presented with a sore throat; the chart shows that House did a throat culture and gave him some lozenges. Nothing that would take five minutes, let alone thirty. “What did this guy look like? Do you remember?” Of course she doesn’t-how many patients come in to the Clinic every day?
“I do.” She frowns. “He was…normal looking. Average height, average weight, brown hair. Dressed nicer than a lot of people who come in here-suit, tie, camel-hair coat.”
Wilson realizes that he doesn’t actually know what Luerssen looks like. “Why do you remember him?”
“There was…something weird about him. When he walked in the door I thought ‘he’s going to be trouble.’ I don’t know why.” She shrugs. “He wasn’t any trouble. I don’t know why I thought he would be.”
“I think maybe he was.” Wilson closes the folder. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Brenda says, clearly confused.
Wilson hurries back upstairs to House’s office. “House? Was Luerssen in the Clinic?”
“No,” House says. “Why would he come to the Clinic? He’s not a homeless addict or a welfare queen.”
“Right,” Wilson mutters. He pushes House’s chair away from the desk and kneels in front of him. House, oddly, doesn’t protest, even when Wilson rolls up his sleeves and examines his forearms.
Just inside House’s right elbow, he finds what he feared he would-a tiny needle puncture, surrounded by a dime-sized bruise.
House stares at it in dismay. “I don’t know what that is. I didn’t-I didn’t do anything.” There’s an edge of panic in his voice.
“I know,” Wilson says. “It’s okay.”
“I didn’t,” House insists.
“I know.” He hurries back to the outer office, where the three fellows are trying, with various degrees of success, to look like they aren’t desperate to know what the hell is going on. “Chase, Cameron, go down to the Clinic and ask Brenda what exam room House was in when he saw John Smith. Get the trash and the sharps container from that room and bring them up here. Foreman, I need you to do a blood draw.” House has let Foreman do minor procedures on him before; Wilson has a vague sense that House, if he were himself, would object less strenuously to Foreman doing it than anyone else.
“What’s going on?” Cameron asks. “Is House…?”
“I’ll explain later. Go.”
They scatter. Wilson goes back into House’s office, where House has gone back to his paperwork as if nothing had happened.
Wilson pulls a chair up to his desk and locates the coffee and sandwiches, which he’d abandoned on a bookcase earlier. Unwrapping one of the sandwiches, he puts it in front of House. “Try to eat that,” he says. “You need to keep your strength up.”
House glances over at him with something that’s almost curiosity, but picks up the sandwich and bites into it. Wilson passes him one of the now-lukewarm coffees; he drinks that, too.
He’s half done with the sandwich when Foreman comes in, carrying a tray with the things he needs to do the blood draw.
House doesn’t put up much of a protest when Foreman takes the sample. He does say, “I didn’t take anything,” but he says it in a weak, defeated tone, like he’s sure he’s not going to be believed.
“I know you didn’t,” Wilson says again.
“What do you want me to test these for?” Foreman asks, once he’s drawn three vials.
“Everything we found in the samples we took last month, and anything else you can think of. Do it personally; I don’t want to hear any gossip about this.”
Foreman goes off, with the samples.
House tucks his chin against his chest and mutters, “I didn’t take anything. I’m better now.”
“I know,” Wilson says again.
“Stop saying that,” House says quietly. “I know you can’t trust me. It’s okay. But stop lying about it. Please.”
“House, I’m not lying. I know you didn’t take anything. I think Luerssen came into the Clinic and injected you with something.”
House wavers, and it seems for a second like the shell that House is trapped inside is going to split wide open and give him his friend back again. But the moment passes and House says, “Why would Doctor Luerssen do something like that? He’s the one who helped me get better.”