Post-Trauma 5.2 of 6 or 7
House gets up earlier than Wilson would have liked, considering their late night. Stumbling blearily into the kitchen, Wilson finds half a jar of Sanka in the cupboard and makes them each a cup.
“It’s a work day,” House points out worriedly. “We’re supposed to be at work.”
“I left messages last night, explaining we wouldn’t be in,” Wilson tells him. “It’s fine.”
“I’m not sick. You’re supposed to go to work unless you’re sick,” he reminds Wilson. “And is this supposed to be coffee? It tastes like mud. Very thin mud.”
“I know. Get your shoes, and we’ll go somewhere with real coffee.”
Wilson stops at the motel office to ask where they should go for supplies. He half-expects to be directed to an Amish market or an old-fashioned general store, but the clerk directs them to the Super Wal-Mart ten minutes up the road. “Or there’s the other one, out on 422. Some people say that one’s a little nicer.”
Wilson thanks her, and opts for the closer Wal-Mart. Not very picturesque, but it’ll have everything they need-not just groceries, but toothbrushes and clean socks and a heating pad. Probably even a pharmacy. “Breakfast first, or shopping first?” he asks House in the car. Wilson’s hungry, but when they go shopping, they’ll get House’s meds, and it would be understandable if he was in the hurry to have those.
“Breakfast,” House answers. “Can I have an egg McMuffin?”
“Sure.” Luckily, there’s a McDonalds on the way to the Wal-Mart.
Wilson’s phone rings while they’re eating. He checks the caller ID before answering-Cuddy. “Hello?”
“Hi, Wilson. Is everything all right?” Her tone hovers somewhere between “friend” and “boss.” “You left with House yesterday, and then I heard both of you were out today.”
“Uh, yes. We’re both okay. House just needed to get away for a little while.” He catches House’s eye and mouths, “Cuddy.”
“Is he….?” Cuddy doesn’t seem to know how to finish that sentence.
“He’s House. Sometimes.”
Through the phone, there’s a sudden intake of breath, and a “Damn,” that somehow manages to sound like a prayer.
“Yeah.” Watching House, Wilson says, “I gather he had kind of a breakthrough in therapy yesterday, which is basically good, but he’s a little…freaked out.” House nods slowly at this way of summing up the situation. “We’ll probably be back in time for work Monday; if not, definitely Tuesday.”
“Okay. Take all the time you need.”
“House, do you want to talk to Cuddy?” Wilson hands him the phone.
“Hey,” House says, aiming for casual and missing. “Okay. I don’t know, middle of nowhere. Wilson can tell you about it later. Hurts like a sonofabitch. No. Not yet. Gabapentin. Yeah. Okay, bye.” He folds the phone and gives it back to Wilson. “She wants to know what happened to me. I said you’d tell her.”
Wilson thinks for a moment before pointing out, “I don’t exactly know what happened to you.”
“That’s okay,” says House. “Neither do I.”
House stands in line at the pharmacy, prescription clutched in his hand so tightly the paper’s getting wrinkled. The woman ahead of him has a lot of questions for the pharmacist. House has a vague idea that ordinarily he’d point out to her that she didn’t have carpal tunnel, she had rheumatoid arthritis, and either way there was no kind of medicated cream that would help, but he just stands there quietly. It’s all he can do not to bolt before his turn comes.
When the woman finally gathers up her packages and leaves, he steps forward.
“I’ll call you when I’m ready, sir,” the pharmacist says reprovingly.
“Sorry,” House mutters, stepping back.
The pharmacist spends several careful minutes rearranging the work area before saying, “Next.”
House hands him the prescription.
“Gabapentin. You should have called ahead for this,” he says, as though House should have known. “We might not have it.”
House folds his hands on top of his cane. “Sorry.”
“I’ll check if it’s in stock.” He taps away at the computer keyboard, then wanders off to check several places on the shelves. “We have enough to do a partial.”
“Okay.”
“We can fill the balance on Tuesday after six.”
“I’ll be back home on Tuesday,” House points out, then bites his tongue. He should have just said, “Okay.” All he’s managed to do is draw out this encounter.
“If we do a partial fill now, you probably won’t be able to get the balance at another pharmacy.”
“That’s fine. I can just get another scrip.”
“You’ll have to see your doctor again,” the man points out.
“Yeah. That’s fine.”
“Well…if you’re sure.” House stands there for an interminably long time while the pharmacist accomplishes the extremely complex task of transferring some pills from one bottle to another. Finally, he returns. “Do you have any drug allergies?”
“Yes,” House says. “I’m allergic to Gabapentin. Thank God you asked!”
He holds the bottle just out of reach. “Sir, I’m required to ask, and if you tell me you’re allergic to it, I can’t give it to you. Would you like to try again?”
House grits his teeth. “No allergies.”
“Do you have any history of addiction or adverse reactions to any medication?”
Nobody trusts an addict, something inside his head reminds him, unbidden. “Yes.”
The pharmacist hesitates. “Really?”
He’s just a pharmacist. He doesn’t have any power. He can’t send House back. Wilson won’t let him. “Yes.”
“Which?”
“Addiction. Vicodin. It’s not relevant.” He’s disgusted with himself for the pleading edge in his voice.
“Have you discussed this with your doctor?”
“Yes.” Has he ever. Several of them.
Oblivious to House’s distress, the pharmacist moves on. “Do you have a prescription plan card?”
House hands it over, then puts the co-pay on his credit card, and receives in exchange a blue and white paper bag with a brown vial in it. The click of pills against plastic is at once familiar and terrifying.
Wilson’s standing not far away, looking at heating pads. “Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to take one now? I can get you some water out of the machine.”
“No. I’ll take it later.” Just holding the bottle is making his mouth go dry and his palms sweat.
“Okay. Let’s get some of these disposable heat wraps, for your leg.”
He notices that Wilson’s already put an electric heating pad in the cart. “Do we need both?”
“Well, these you can use in the car or wherever.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want any Tylenol or anything like that? Ibuprofen?”
He rubs his leg. His leg that doesn’t hurt. Isn’t supposed to hurt. You’re supposed to use the program to deal with your feelings, not drugs. “No.”
“Okay. Let’s see, I got us toothbrushes, toothpaste…do we need anything else from this section? Is this brand of shampoo okay?” Wilson peers worriedly into the cart.
“It’s fine,” House says, without looking at it.
Wilson picks out socks and underwear, jeans and t-shirts, while House wanders around and stares at things like he’s never been in a store before. “Do you want blue jeans or black?” he asks.
House, trying on a straw cowboy hat, doesn’t answer.
“I’m getting blue, then. And put that back; it’s really not you.”
House puts the hat back, and follows at Wilson’s heels.
“What should I cook?” he asks as he steers them toward the grocery section.
“Pancakes,” House says promptly.
“Okay. What about for dinner?”
“More pancakes?”
“We’re not eating pancakes for every meal on this trip. We can have pancakes for both breakfasts, if that’s what you want, but we’re having other things for the rest of the meals.”
House sniffs a little and says sadly, “Normal people don’t eat pancakes for dinner. I forgot. I’m sorry.” There’s a little quaver in his voice on the last word.
Wilson’s on the verge of saying that it’s all right, House can have all the pancakes he wants, when something makes him turn and take a hard look at him.
House hangs his head and looks up with just his eyes, the very picture of dejection. He lets out a heavy sigh.
Wilson rubs the back of his neck and waits.
House can’t help it any more, and grins. “I almost had you.”
“Almost,” Wilson agrees, grinning back at him.
“Are we done?” House asks, jiggling a little on his feet.
“Not quite. Do you need to pee or something?”
“No. What else do we need?”
“I’ll need a decent knife, with all of the cooking I’m going to be doing,” Wilson explains. “Unless you need us to be done?”
“I’m okay. Knock yourself out.”
Wilson spends a few minutes scanning the knife selections, while House looks at the kitchen gadgets.
“What’s this?” House asks.
“Potato masher.”
“Do we need one?”
“No.”
“What about this?”
“Melon baller. We don’t need one of those, either.”
“This?”
“Garlic press. No. I can’t decide what to get,” Wilson explains. “And I can’t think about it if you keep asking what things are.”
“Here, you can get eight different knives for thirteen dollars,” House suggests. “Plus a block to store them in.”
“Those are no good.” He points to a chef’s knife and a paring knife. “It’s between these two.”
“Get both,” House tells him. “Why not treat yourself?”
“I have plenty of much better knives at home. I can make do with one.”
“They’re six bucks each.”
He has a point. Wilson throws them in the cart. “Okay, now we’re done.”
“Nope. If you get two brand-new knives, I want a toy too.”
He should have known House had some kind of ulterior motive.
On the other hand, pod-House wouldn’t have. “Okay. What do you want?”
In the toy department, House immediately picks out a yo-yo and then lingers around the Legos and other building toys.
“Get two things, if you want,” Wilson says wearily.
“I’m thinking.”
“The jumbo assortment is a good value.”
“I think I want these,” House answers, selecting a magnetic building set.
“It’s being recalled!” Wilson points to the sign taped to the shelf. “‘Magnets may become detached and pose a choking hazard.’”
“I think I manage to resist the temptation to put them in my mouth,” House says dryly.
“Good point,” Wilson admits.
“It’s a work day,” House points out worriedly. “We’re supposed to be at work.”
“I left messages last night, explaining we wouldn’t be in,” Wilson tells him. “It’s fine.”
“I’m not sick. You’re supposed to go to work unless you’re sick,” he reminds Wilson. “And is this supposed to be coffee? It tastes like mud. Very thin mud.”
“I know. Get your shoes, and we’ll go somewhere with real coffee.”
Wilson stops at the motel office to ask where they should go for supplies. He half-expects to be directed to an Amish market or an old-fashioned general store, but the clerk directs them to the Super Wal-Mart ten minutes up the road. “Or there’s the other one, out on 422. Some people say that one’s a little nicer.”
Wilson thanks her, and opts for the closer Wal-Mart. Not very picturesque, but it’ll have everything they need-not just groceries, but toothbrushes and clean socks and a heating pad. Probably even a pharmacy. “Breakfast first, or shopping first?” he asks House in the car. Wilson’s hungry, but when they go shopping, they’ll get House’s meds, and it would be understandable if he was in the hurry to have those.
“Breakfast,” House answers. “Can I have an egg McMuffin?”
“Sure.” Luckily, there’s a McDonalds on the way to the Wal-Mart.
Wilson’s phone rings while they’re eating. He checks the caller ID before answering-Cuddy. “Hello?”
“Hi, Wilson. Is everything all right?” Her tone hovers somewhere between “friend” and “boss.” “You left with House yesterday, and then I heard both of you were out today.”
“Uh, yes. We’re both okay. House just needed to get away for a little while.” He catches House’s eye and mouths, “Cuddy.”
“Is he….?” Cuddy doesn’t seem to know how to finish that sentence.
“He’s House. Sometimes.”
Through the phone, there’s a sudden intake of breath, and a “Damn,” that somehow manages to sound like a prayer.
“Yeah.” Watching House, Wilson says, “I gather he had kind of a breakthrough in therapy yesterday, which is basically good, but he’s a little…freaked out.” House nods slowly at this way of summing up the situation. “We’ll probably be back in time for work Monday; if not, definitely Tuesday.”
“Okay. Take all the time you need.”
“House, do you want to talk to Cuddy?” Wilson hands him the phone.
“Hey,” House says, aiming for casual and missing. “Okay. I don’t know, middle of nowhere. Wilson can tell you about it later. Hurts like a sonofabitch. No. Not yet. Gabapentin. Yeah. Okay, bye.” He folds the phone and gives it back to Wilson. “She wants to know what happened to me. I said you’d tell her.”
Wilson thinks for a moment before pointing out, “I don’t exactly know what happened to you.”
“That’s okay,” says House. “Neither do I.”
House stands in line at the pharmacy, prescription clutched in his hand so tightly the paper’s getting wrinkled. The woman ahead of him has a lot of questions for the pharmacist. House has a vague idea that ordinarily he’d point out to her that she didn’t have carpal tunnel, she had rheumatoid arthritis, and either way there was no kind of medicated cream that would help, but he just stands there quietly. It’s all he can do not to bolt before his turn comes.
When the woman finally gathers up her packages and leaves, he steps forward.
“I’ll call you when I’m ready, sir,” the pharmacist says reprovingly.
“Sorry,” House mutters, stepping back.
The pharmacist spends several careful minutes rearranging the work area before saying, “Next.”
House hands him the prescription.
“Gabapentin. You should have called ahead for this,” he says, as though House should have known. “We might not have it.”
House folds his hands on top of his cane. “Sorry.”
“I’ll check if it’s in stock.” He taps away at the computer keyboard, then wanders off to check several places on the shelves. “We have enough to do a partial.”
“Okay.”
“We can fill the balance on Tuesday after six.”
“I’ll be back home on Tuesday,” House points out, then bites his tongue. He should have just said, “Okay.” All he’s managed to do is draw out this encounter.
“If we do a partial fill now, you probably won’t be able to get the balance at another pharmacy.”
“That’s fine. I can just get another scrip.”
“You’ll have to see your doctor again,” the man points out.
“Yeah. That’s fine.”
“Well…if you’re sure.” House stands there for an interminably long time while the pharmacist accomplishes the extremely complex task of transferring some pills from one bottle to another. Finally, he returns. “Do you have any drug allergies?”
“Yes,” House says. “I’m allergic to Gabapentin. Thank God you asked!”
He holds the bottle just out of reach. “Sir, I’m required to ask, and if you tell me you’re allergic to it, I can’t give it to you. Would you like to try again?”
House grits his teeth. “No allergies.”
“Do you have any history of addiction or adverse reactions to any medication?”
Nobody trusts an addict, something inside his head reminds him, unbidden. “Yes.”
The pharmacist hesitates. “Really?”
He’s just a pharmacist. He doesn’t have any power. He can’t send House back. Wilson won’t let him. “Yes.”
“Which?”
“Addiction. Vicodin. It’s not relevant.” He’s disgusted with himself for the pleading edge in his voice.
“Have you discussed this with your doctor?”
“Yes.” Has he ever. Several of them.
Oblivious to House’s distress, the pharmacist moves on. “Do you have a prescription plan card?”
House hands it over, then puts the co-pay on his credit card, and receives in exchange a blue and white paper bag with a brown vial in it. The click of pills against plastic is at once familiar and terrifying.
Wilson’s standing not far away, looking at heating pads. “Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to take one now? I can get you some water out of the machine.”
“No. I’ll take it later.” Just holding the bottle is making his mouth go dry and his palms sweat.
“Okay. Let’s get some of these disposable heat wraps, for your leg.”
He notices that Wilson’s already put an electric heating pad in the cart. “Do we need both?”
“Well, these you can use in the car or wherever.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want any Tylenol or anything like that? Ibuprofen?”
He rubs his leg. His leg that doesn’t hurt. Isn’t supposed to hurt. You’re supposed to use the program to deal with your feelings, not drugs. “No.”
“Okay. Let’s see, I got us toothbrushes, toothpaste…do we need anything else from this section? Is this brand of shampoo okay?” Wilson peers worriedly into the cart.
“It’s fine,” House says, without looking at it.
Wilson picks out socks and underwear, jeans and t-shirts, while House wanders around and stares at things like he’s never been in a store before. “Do you want blue jeans or black?” he asks.
House, trying on a straw cowboy hat, doesn’t answer.
“I’m getting blue, then. And put that back; it’s really not you.”
House puts the hat back, and follows at Wilson’s heels.
“What should I cook?” he asks as he steers them toward the grocery section.
“Pancakes,” House says promptly.
“Okay. What about for dinner?”
“More pancakes?”
“We’re not eating pancakes for every meal on this trip. We can have pancakes for both breakfasts, if that’s what you want, but we’re having other things for the rest of the meals.”
House sniffs a little and says sadly, “Normal people don’t eat pancakes for dinner. I forgot. I’m sorry.” There’s a little quaver in his voice on the last word.
Wilson’s on the verge of saying that it’s all right, House can have all the pancakes he wants, when something makes him turn and take a hard look at him.
House hangs his head and looks up with just his eyes, the very picture of dejection. He lets out a heavy sigh.
Wilson rubs the back of his neck and waits.
House can’t help it any more, and grins. “I almost had you.”
“Almost,” Wilson agrees, grinning back at him.
“Are we done?” House asks, jiggling a little on his feet.
“Not quite. Do you need to pee or something?”
“No. What else do we need?”
“I’ll need a decent knife, with all of the cooking I’m going to be doing,” Wilson explains. “Unless you need us to be done?”
“I’m okay. Knock yourself out.”
Wilson spends a few minutes scanning the knife selections, while House looks at the kitchen gadgets.
“What’s this?” House asks.
“Potato masher.”
“Do we need one?”
“No.”
“What about this?”
“Melon baller. We don’t need one of those, either.”
“This?”
“Garlic press. No. I can’t decide what to get,” Wilson explains. “And I can’t think about it if you keep asking what things are.”
“Here, you can get eight different knives for thirteen dollars,” House suggests. “Plus a block to store them in.”
“Those are no good.” He points to a chef’s knife and a paring knife. “It’s between these two.”
“Get both,” House tells him. “Why not treat yourself?”
“I have plenty of much better knives at home. I can make do with one.”
“They’re six bucks each.”
He has a point. Wilson throws them in the cart. “Okay, now we’re done.”
“Nope. If you get two brand-new knives, I want a toy too.”
He should have known House had some kind of ulterior motive.
On the other hand, pod-House wouldn’t have. “Okay. What do you want?”
In the toy department, House immediately picks out a yo-yo and then lingers around the Legos and other building toys.
“Get two things, if you want,” Wilson says wearily.
“I’m thinking.”
“The jumbo assortment is a good value.”
“I think I want these,” House answers, selecting a magnetic building set.
“It’s being recalled!” Wilson points to the sign taped to the shelf. “‘Magnets may become detached and pose a choking hazard.’”
“I think I manage to resist the temptation to put them in my mouth,” House says dryly.
“Good point,” Wilson admits.