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![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) gotcanewillpoke | |
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He'd pulled a bottle of Vicodin out of the lock up before he went back to his apartment. He hadn't taken one, had only kept the bottle close by, on the table by his bed where he'd kept the bottle when he was actively addicted. He'd come so far, he'd fought so hard to get off the pills. Detox had been hell, he remembered well how he'd done nothing but sit around and sweat and shake. He didn't want to go through that again. The alternative seemed slightly worse. Because, without the pills he was sitting around, yelling at kids in the clinic, thinking about the pills. He didn't want to walk in to town, he didn't want to bother Aziraphale. He wanted to handle his pain on his own, and one small white pill could take care of it for him. It was his pain, his problem, his responsibility. He didn't toss and turn during the night only because every move pulled on his thigh. He lay as still as he could, and stared at the ceiling. Or the wall. He pet Cash, and the puppy nuzzled up to him, paws and head on his chest. When morning came, his leg was stiff and unyeilding to his fingers. He pulled himself to sitting up, and knew tere was only one thing to do. He uncapped the bottle and poured one pill in his hand. He caressed it, fingers tracing the smooth arc of its form. He toosed it ip, caught it in his mouth effortlrssly. His tongue rubbed around it before he shifted it to the back of his throat and swallowed. Liver be damned. The only thing left to do was wait for it to kick in and pacify his leg. The first effects were instant, a warmth spreading through him. The throbbing decreased considerably, as if his thigh knew sweet relief was on the way. He hadn't swallowed a Vicodin for more than a month. The last time had been in Michigan, and he'd forcibly puked the pills up. He wasn't going to puke it up this time. No. He was going to let it work its magic. Tags: crutches, vicodin, wilson
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He was still laying in the bed, despite Cash's whimperings to get up and outside. He was humming softly to himself, literally feeling his leg loosen up.He didn't want to take another pill too soon, and thought he might just lay in bed for a couple more hours until he let himself have one.
Except that someone was pounding on the door and Cash was up and barking and he had to get up to let the dog out, if nothing else.
He eased out of bed, tested his leg. It felt better, but he didn't think it wa quite ready to take his weight. He grumbled at the rutches, and stuffed them under his arms. Right about then, he heard Wilson's voice, and considered laying back down and pulling the covers over his head.
"I'm coming!" He barked, and side stepped to the courtyard door to let Cash out before ambling across the small apartment. If he could have managed it, he would have ditched the crutches, but he still needed them.
"Why didn't you let yourself in?" He asked, yanking the door and struggling with the crutches to get it open far enough. "Don't tell me you lost m damn key."
[OOC: He didn't think to put the bottle away, it's still on his bedside table, yeah.]
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[ooc: Not to mention, doctor...can see it in his eyes...oooooo are you in twubble luuucccccyyy!!]
Hearing the almost hyperactive barking from Cash, Wilson looked over towards the courtyard where the puppy appeared to be peeing far more than any puppy should hold pee and he frowned a little as he stepped on through the door.
"Well that was my next move but I figured I'd be polite. What the hell was I thinking."
At first, it took his eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darker light in the apartment but as they did he took in the crutches, frowning gently.
"Why are you on the crutches?" Looking from the hated crutches up towards House's face...
Those laser like blue eyes were incredibly intense, they tended to always draw the eye. Wilson had often considered telling House that people rarely noticed the leg when they first met him because they were too busy looking at his eyes. They drew his focus...especially the slightly glazed...dilated pupils and just...that look.
That look, Wilson had lived with for so many years.
His own expression fell and he worked his jaw, as if swallowing back words...or perhaps bile. Throwing the magazines down on the couch he began to look around the apartment, moving quickly when he didn't see them in the living room, he tore through to the bedroom.
"SONOFA..."
The pill bottle rattled as Wilson grabbed it up, the plastic cracking in protest beneath the strength of his hold.
"How many..."
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"Yes!" Wilson was doing enough yelling for both of them at the moment anyway.
"You're killing yourself." Pill bottle still in his hand, the jagged edges of the fracturing plastic dug into his palm as Wilson gesticulated with his other hand wildly.
"I've seen your test results. You were DAMN LUCKY to have the liver damage stop and even show signs of reversing. Every.Single.God.Damn.Pill you swallow kills a little bit more of your liver and my friend...they will NOT give you a new one. Not with your history."
Wilson was trembling, with fear...with panic, with complete helplessness. He'd gotten to points where he'd exploded at House in the past, though they were very rare but this felt even beyond that point, Wilson wasn't entirely certain that he wasn't suffering a sort of PTSD attack as he felt like his voice was suddenly far away from his body.
All the helplessness as those children afflicted with cancer perished. All the uselessness that was all his skills when he treated the adults, held their hands as they perished. Julie's words...in the end...all the love in the world he'd held for a little girl not even born hadn't been enough to save her life....and the cycle was swirling around, right in front of him, in this man he tried so desperately to hold safe and who was so steadily...slowly...quickly...slowly slipping away from him.
Wilson's control shattered and if asked after the fact, he might not have been able to remember what all he said.
"How CAN you keep doing this? Why won't you listen to me...to Aziraphale, to your doctors. Why can't you listen to anyone...you've got to LISTEN to us."
Flinging the hand with the pills outwards, little droplets of crimson flashed from his closed fist, splattering across the small room.
"These kids love you and look up to you and think you are fantastic and...you SHIT on them with this. You turn your back on everyone who cares about you. Me, your mother. What would you say if you learned that she stopped her heart medication or took back up the lifestyle habits that lead to the heart attack in the first place you utter SELFISH PRICK!"
It was rather impressive, Wilson even managed to get his voice to crack.
"Do you know what it's going to do to HER to put you in the ground? Do you have any FUCKING idea what it feels like to put your child in the ground?"
As if he could read House's mind...and really after how many times they'd had this conversation he probably could, Wilson spun that bloodied hand, some of the Vicodin disolving in the hold so that white and red seeped through his clenched fist.
"And don't you dare stand there and feed me the 'it's just one pill' BULLSHIT! YOU'RE A FUCKING ADDICT. One pill becomes two and then two becomes three because YOU'RE AN ADDICT!"
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He felt less than two inches tall. Helpless. Hopeless. Worthless.
He could literally see Wilson's composure falling, cracking, discintigrating.
He could feel the agony of the pills crushed and ruined in his hand, fine powder mixing with blood. Life blood dripping from his hand.
He said nothing, only slinked further back into the dark shadows of the small room. The only light came from the courtyard, and the small window in the kitchen.
He had no argument. Nothing he could say to justify what he had done, because there was no justification. He'd taken the pill because he knew it would help his leg. It did help his leg, at the price of destroying his best friend.
Would you give up your leg to save my life? Stacy asked him once. So long ago. So very long ago. Of course I would. "Of course I would," He muttered, half under his breath.
Bright eyes turned upward, looking helplessly at Wilson. "I know. I fucking know I'm a god damn addict. Isn't that why you fucking left me? Because I don't know the god damn difference between loving you and swallowing a fucking little white pill. News flash, Jimmy. My leg fucking dictates every god damn move I make, and with no one here to be brave for, it's fucking hard to get out of the god damn bed."
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Wilson didn't think it was possible to shatter further but some how, House was managing it.
As he'd always been able to get in past the doctor's defenses. Dark eyes were near wild, pupils wide and black as if it were Wilson himself who had taken the drugs and honestly, who knew what was happening at the points where the crushed white pills were mingling with the slices in his palm.
"YOUR LEG, YOUR LEG, YOUR LEG. ALL YOUR LEG IS IS A GODDAMN EXCUSE FOR YOUR OWN PRIVATE PITY PARTY."
Wilson was close to hyperventalating he was so wound up.
"What about CASH? Why is he out in the courtyard, looking as if he hadn't been allowed to pee for a day? What, you took your little happy pill and laid around and didn't give a FUCK about him, didn't you? It doesn't matter if anyone is here for you or not on the pills off the pills you fall into the same self-centered addict's focus of ME ME ME."
Trembling with rage, Wilson stayed glued to his spot least he start tearing the place apart.
"I left you so that you could STAND on your OWN. So that you could be a WHOLE GODDMAN PERSON and not a broken, miserable FUCK who is limping through his life exchanging crutch for crutch for crutch."
Wilson's voice broken again and he was panting at this point, sweat beading on his forehead...all together possible that he'd reblown his fever.
"People care about you. I care about you, Dorothy cares about you, Aziraphale, cares about you, these kids....Allison, Blair, Alanna, Lisa, Parker, Angel, Paige, Stark, CJ, DEATH, Rory, Susan... all of them care about you. Stacy, Chase, the Cuddys, Cash." Pausing to catch his breath, Wilson lifted his hand, drawing a streak of crimson across his forehead, certain he'd probably missed names like...ohhh.. Geoff, Pippi, Justin.
"You have more friends and people who care about you and what happens to you around here then I do and you stand there telling me you have no one here to be brave for? No one to get out of bed for?"
Wilson's jaw trembled as he fought with his emotions.
"Fuck you, you utterly selfish, miserable prick."
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Wilson may have been tying to control himself and keep from tearing the place a part, but House had no such control. He threw the crutches first, sent them sailing off to Wilson's left, nowhere close to hitting him, but close enough that intent could have been there.
With a growl of rage, he went for the nearest surface, which happened to be the table. He over turned it easily, and stumbled, lost his balance, and fell onto the hard wood. He had enough sense and balance to go down on his left leg, though his right took a hard hit.
He scrambled to try to get back on his feet, even though he knew the probability of getting up was less than none. He used the upended table leg for stability, but half way up he lost his grip and slid back down to the floor.
He was grunting and cursing between breaths, and tears welled in his eyes. Tears of anger, tears of rage, wich looped back and circled in on himself and back around. "Get. Out." He hissed, his body trembling with repressed sobs.
Cash had wisely retreated to a corner of the courtyard, as far from the door as he could be.
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Wilson flinched when the crutches came flying his way, bracing for an impact that didn't come, obviously reading the intent and now...for the first time, taking it seriously that House could physically hurt him.
Because leg or no leg, House carried the height, weight and muscle to put a hell of a hurting on Wilson if he ever took it into his mind to do it.
Part of Wilson wanted to back off. Wanted to run up to his friend, wrap his arms around him, soften the hard words, soothe the pain he could feel radiating off the other man.
Just as he had, so many times in the past.
Pushing and then retreating...and where had it gotten them? No where. House would apologize and then slide right back into the same patterns, again... and again. All because Wilson wasn't strong enough to keep pushing.
Not this time.
"You.Don't.Tell.Me.What.To.Do." Wilson ground out.
Stalking towards the other man, Wilson was visably trembling, leaving little droplets of blood on the floor behind him as he walked the short distance.
"Get.Up." He ground out. "Get.Your.Selfish.Pathetic.Ass.UP and throw me out yourself if that's what you want but you GET UP!"
Yelling once more, Wilson stood over House.
"GET UP and throw me out...then go kick your puppy. Won't that feel good? A nice solid body shot to his little ribs. Bet you could get some air on him if you tried. Hear his yelp...see his eyes looking at you wondering what he did so wrong, wanting to please you. You LIKE that look don't you? Makes you feel in control. Makes the pain in your leg WORK for you, doesn't it. Hurt those around you, using the leg as an excuse as a justification and if the leg fails...use the drugs...use the addiction."
Wilson cracked with bitter laughter.
"I was wrong...it's not the Vicodin you're addicted to. It's the PAIN. It's the little thrills you get out of the control and attention you garner from hurting anyone and anything that comes near you."
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The brain was a beautiful machine, capable of over riding itself when properly motivated. He by passed the pain in his leg, or rode the high of it, and pulled himself up using the table leg and the nearby counter to counter his weight until he was on his feet. it wasn't graceful and it wasn't easy, but he managed because he focused his energy on the task.
"I. Have. Never. Hurt. My. Dog." He spat, each word wrestled from his throat. His eyes burned with a darkness he hadn't felt since he'd been flat on his back with an uncertain future ahead of him.
In all the world, there had been only one person who didn't cower from him then. One man who kept coming back. Reading to him, holding his hand without touching him.
He couldn't say he'd never deliberately hurt Wilson. He had. He'd deliberately hurt him countless times throughout the years they had known each other. More deliberately in the six years since his infarction, because he'd taken for granted that Wilson would always be there. Wilson would put up with his crap, and Wilson would keep the peace. That's just what Wilson did, and House simply took advantage of it.
He surged forward with a primitive growl, though the effect of it was somewhat ruined when he went down again, his leg unable to take the strain of his weight. Reduced to his hands and knees, he heaved and gagged and finally coughed up the pill he'd swallowed only a little while ago among bile that clearly revealed he hadn't eaten much recently.
Blue eyes blazing, he looked up at Wilson. So many times he'd been on the floor looking up at Wilson. The one man who could inspire him to get back on his feet and try again.
He grabbed for the table leg once more, to haul himself up. Both his legs were screaming at him, but he ignored the pain until his legs simply gave out and refused to take his weight.
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"I'm...I'm fine." House said softly. "I'll be better if I know he's all right. He knew, the second I opened the door. There was enough time for him to realise I was using the crutches, but he knew, as soon as he looked in my eyes. He doesn't...For all we've been through, he can't know what it feels like. I didn't want to call you because, damn it, I'm as dependant on you now as I am the damn pills. And what's the difference? The pills will always be there. I can keep them by my bed. In my pocket. You aren't always around, and you've said yourself, someday you might be gone. And then what, Phale? I took one lousy pill. One. And you know what? It helped. Instantly. So I know a lot of it's psychological. Maybe I should talk to Dr Pevensie. I don't know. But I want you to go check on him and make sure he's all right, because I'm fine. Now."
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