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Chase picked the lock on the clinic room door, and called as he opened it, “House, say something if you’re masturbating in there, I’m coming in.”
The door swung open to reveal House just sitting up, having clearly been laying on the clinic floor moments before. A clinic stool was nearby, missing a wheel.
“I thought I locked that,” grumbled House.
“You did. But you made breaking into places part of my job, so…”
“What do you want?”
“Brenda told me to clear the clinic room or she was calling the police and telling them some scruffy guy was in here pretending to be a doctor and refusing to leave.”
House snorted.
Chase looked House over. Besides the obvious fact he had fallen and was still on the floor, his right hand was squeezed into a fist, as he tried to hold back signs of pain from being visible.
“Crutches?” asked Chase, flatly.
House relaxed, and nodded.
T
“Alright, I got the crutches–” Chase opened the door and stopped.
House was still on the floor, but he had scooted back to lean against the side of the exam table. He was holding his bad leg with both hands, head back, eyes squeezed shut, breathing labored.
“House?”
“Condo,” ground out House, then opened his eyes and looked up at Chase, “your turn.”
“Cabin,” said Chase, dryly, kneeling beside House on the floor.
House closed his eyes again, unable to stop soft grunts of pain from escaping a few times as he sat there, and something tensed up in his leg.
“Wheelchair instead?” Asked Chase.
House nodded, grinding out, “yeah, gotta…gotta impress the babes with…wheels…”
Chase, in the process of getting up to go find one, knelt back down.
House’s respirations were rising, he was getting sweaty.
“Hey, what's happening?”
“It hurts,” spat House.
Chase briefly patted House’s upper arm, which earned him a glare, then went to get a wheelchair.
When he returned the second time, House was visibly pale. Chase locked the chair, and picked up House’s cane, holding it upright for him to pull himself up on.
House stayed leaning against the table, watching Chase with defiance but also exhaustion.
“Look man, Brenda is gonna kill me or you or both of us, if I don't clear this room out soon. If I have to get a stretcher I will, but you gotta leave here somehow.”
House took a big breath and let it out, and then admitted quietly, “I need a hand.”
Chase nodded, and put the cane down. He leaned down and offered House his hands.
House looked away in misery and resignation, and mumbled, “I can't…”
Chase got close in, standing over his ex boss. He grasped under House’s armpits, around his body. He had to kind of squat which put him very much in House’s personal space. Most worryingly yet, House made no jokes or complaints.
Chase lifted him as House did his best to get his feet under him. Moving his leg making the rest of him nearly collapse right back down. He howled and grabbed at Chase's arm for stability. Chase quickly swiveled him to fall into the wheelchair instead of back onto the floor.
House landed with a thump, which was expected, and a second loud cry of pain, which was startling and unexpected.
Chase carefully let go as House doubled over, clutching his leg and gasping.
“You're not…supposed to be here…for this.” House ground out, his whole body starting to shake.
Chase crouched in front of House and the chair, “yeah, but I am, so you're stuck with me. Nobody else has to know, but I already do, so it would be stupid not to take advantage of that, right?”
House gave a shaky, ironic chuckle, “trained you too well.”
“Yeah, well. I am who I am. You just made me more effective.”
House actually did manage a full laugh at that, if a weak one.
Chase got up, put the crutches in a corner, hooked the cane on the back of the wheelchair, and opened the clinic door.
“Hey we've got someone in here, itchy all over, allergic to everything it seems. She's been in here nine times, reacted to hand sanitizer in front of me…”
House could barely look up from holding his leg long enough to answer but “Mast Cell Activation Syndrome. Was only discovered in 2007. Pump her full of benadryl and loratadine.”
Brenda went to get meds.
Chase looked back down at House. He was still leaning forward holding his leg. His head was hanging more and more, though he kept jerking it back up. Sweat was soaking through his shirt at his collar and the small of his back.
Chase pushed him quickly out of the hospital into the cool night. Even if the jostling over the threshold hurt, House would definitely rather be out of his co-workers' sight for this.
House shivered, sweaty and now chilled by the cold air. But he still seemed relieved. He finally grumbled, “I'm good now.”
Chase snorted, “sit upright, then. If you're good.”
House defiantly tried, and then immediately hunched back over, gasping, one hand clutching his thigh, the other the arm of the wheelchair, stifling a cry of pain into a groan.
Chase has expected that. He hadn't expected House to then grab Chase by the front of his scrubs with the hand that had initially grabbed the armrest.
Chase crouched beside the older doctor, in front of the chair, “what?”
“Get your car. I need to go home. No way I'm riding…”
Chase snorted, “you can get up the steps to your apartment, can you?”
House closed his eyes, wincing in realization that Chase was right.
“Look, I can take you to my place. No stairs. Nice couch. Big television.”
House seemed to have to take a minute to accept it, but as people came out the doors behind him, finally did nod.
Chase pushed House towards the parking lot. He was as careful as possible pushing his ex boss down the cutout off the curb. House still made a soft grunt.
House barely managed to make it into Chase’s car, scooting over first and then extremely carefully lifting his bad leg in after the rest of him, using both hands and bracing himself with his left knee jammed into the dash.
He laid back in the seat, panting, for a minute. Then he put his seatbelt on with shaky hands.
Chase pulled away from the curb, and drove out of the hospital parking lot, pulling into the road. House tried to reposition himself in the seat, but then suddenly let out a guttural moan and clutched his leg again.
“Are you sure we should be leaving the hospital?” asked Chase.
“Rarely more certain.”
Chase snorted, “you're certain a lot. Sometimes you're still wrong.”
“This is my body.”
“Yeah, and my car. So like, don't barf in it.”
House snorted, “I'm not nauseous. I just need to lay down.”
T
Chase came back from going out for beer and takeout. Oddly, House wasn't on the couch.
Chase started to look for him. Then heard a pained sound, quickly set everything down on the floor and rushed to where his ex boss was collapsed in the kitchen with a broken glass and spilled water.
House was wet, bleeding, rigid, shivering, clutching his thigh, each labored, rapid breath hissing through his teeth. Small, tense whimpers were escaping occasionally, that had been what Chase had heard.
Chase grabbed his broom and swept most of the glass away and knelt, checking the blood on House’s arm. For once he hadn't really hurt himself, it was a small scratch from the broken glass and it just looked like more blood because everything was wet.
Then he turned his attention to the pain crisis.
House was trying futilely to massage his thigh with his hands but he could barely touch it.
Chase went and got a few things. He plugged a heating pad in and offered it to House. House snatched it and frantically wrapped it around his leg.
Chase offered House a TENS unit, House shook his head, then moaned thickly, “messes with…nerves…nnngh!”
House turned over in place, trying to find a position that caused him less pain. He sat up, and rubbed over the heating pad.
“Fuck,” grunted House, “it won't…ease up…”
Chase grabbed House’s jacket and the Vicodin out of it, “I'll get you some water.”
House snorted tightly and downed two pills dry, threw the bottle at Chase. Chase rolled his eyes, caught it, put it back in House’s jacket.
House laid back down and closed his eyes, chest heaving, body exhausted but rigid.
Chase sat down beside him, waiting and hoping that the meds kicked in enough for a House to get some relief.
House squinted up at him, “what are you…doing?”
“Monitoring. Would be awkward at work if you died on my floor.”
House snorted, weakly, and closed his eyes again. He seemed to be losing some sort of internal fight, his body going increasingly limp with exhaustion.
House eventually seemed to fall asleep, or pass out. Chase got up, and went to read in the living room.
He was there for maybe half an hour, when he heard quiet, annoyed calls of his name.
He got up and went back to the kitchen.
House was sitting up, leaning against the cabinets. He was still clearly tired and in pain, but he looked much more like himself.
“Bring the wheelchair and then go away.”
Chase shrugged, “fair enough.”
House had left the wheelchair next to the couch, Chase went and got it. He parked it with the brakes locked beside House and went back to his book.
Eventually he heard House go back to the couch, and lay down.
Chase went to bed.
T
Chase woke up. There were soft but intense sounds from the living room. He got up, and padded sleepily out, “if you're gonna jerk off on my couch, at least do it qui–”
Chase stopped mid sentence and raced to where House was laying on the ground between the couch and the coffee table. House was curled up, and too exhausted to do more than lie there panting.
He had pulled his jeans off to put the heating pad closer to his leg, and Chase could now see the muscles above and below it rolling and cramping.
House seemed out of it and in agony.
“Hey. Where's your Vicodin?” Asked Chase, kneeling beside House.
“It's…I'm maxed. Even for me, I'm maxed…liver…”
Chase rubbed his face, thought for a moment. Then he got up and jogged into his bedroom, and dug in a box.
He found what he was looking for and snatched it, then ran back to the living room. He knelt beside House again.
Chase offered him a syringe filled with brown goo, “hey, I got this when I sprained my back on vacation last year, but it knocks me on my ass. It's RSO oil, a dose is the size of a grain of rice, so–”
House grabbed it, squeezed the whole syringe into his mouth and quickly swallowed the funky tasting goo.
Chase blinked at him, “okay, well. I know you have a tolerance for these things. But just so you know, you're definitely gonna be either stupendously baked, or asleep, for the rest of the day.”
House shrugged a tiny bit, “case is over..”
House kept holding his leg with the heating pad around it, eyes shut tightly, trying to ignore everything Chase was doing.
“Chase,” said House, grinding out the name, but somewhat urgently.
“Yeah?”
“Being on the floor is making it worse…”
Chase wordlessly got the wheelchair from where House had abandoned it by the door. He had to lift House up, and this time House was so bad off he could only barely touch the toes of his right foot to the floor.
House managed to sit down but he couldn't bend his leg so he couldn't get it on the footrest. Chase went behind him and pulled House backwards so his leg was pulled forward instead of jammed backwards, by the motion.
“St-stop!” barked House, suddenly, and then made a disturbing near-scream as he bent over his leg, holding it with both hands shaking badly.
“I’m sorry, I thought it would be better.”
“It was,” gasped House, shakily, “the sneaker back caught…it cramped…”
House rocked slightly in place, then leaned back and stared at the ceiling, hyperventilating.
“Hey man, you're gonna pass out–”
“Promise?” Asked House breathlessly, still just looking upwards, hand trying to rub his thigh, and mostly unable to even touch it.
“What should I do?”
“Nothing,” grunted House, “chair is better…better than floor. Give it time to…”
House failed to stifle another sound, a surprised yelp as his leg kind of jerked straighter.
“It's just…nerve shit…it…it…”
House couldn't keep talking through the pain, and when he saw how concerned Chase was by that, he shut his eyes against the worried look. Or possibly just against the pain, because right after that he grabbed the arm of the chair again, bracing himself as he clutched at his leg with the other.
House leaned forward, rubbing and rubbing his leg, above and below the injury, and on the sides, where he could actually touch it.
“The more stressed you are, the more the pain will hurt. The med will kick in in like ten or twenty more minutes. It’ll help with that too. You’ll feel at least somewhat better soon no matter what.”
“The more it hurts…the more…stress…” House winced hard and had to stop talking, shoulders visibly shuddering.
Chase sighed, “I’m actually kind of surprised you don’t use weed more often. Don’t tell me you’re anti-drug…”
House snorted tightly, but didn’t answer, just kept rubbing and rubbing and breathing way too fast.
It took a while. But eventually House got a little calmer. He finally seemed mostly tired and in pain, rather than worked up and in agony.
“You wanna try again to get somewhere you can actually lay down flat? I can set up a bed in my office.”
House blinked sleepily at him, then chuckled softly, “can't get my shoes off. It'll catch again…”
Chase rolled his eyes, “you could have asked.”
“No I couldn't have,” said House, deadpan.
Chase blinked at him, but just knelt and undid House’s shoes. He took the left one off, then very carefully supported House’s right ankle. He found it swollen, the whole leg warm to the touch.
House seemed to be too exhausted or too out of it to help much even on the left. Chase took off his right shoe and carefully let his foot rest back down on the floor
“Ready?”
“No. It's gonna hurt like a bitch. But I'm gonna tell you yes anyway because there's no other choice and also I don't want to just sit here with you fussing at me.”
Chase blinked at House, but nodded. He rolled House backwards very carefully. House whimpered audibly, and reached back with his left hand to grab Chase's arm, “stop. Stop, I'll just lay down here. Just sitting here is…”
He held his thigh with increasingly shaky hands.
Chase got House lined up as close to the couch as he could. House seemed uncoordinated, but was at least able to move without screaming. He tried to scoot over, but stopped. He held the front of the chair and the side of his thigh, frustrated and impatient.
“Want a hand?”
House glared at him, but did slowly nod.
Chase ended up helping him scoot his butt over, and then House moved his legs himself, moving the right one with both hands.
House laid down, panting, holding his leg.
“Do you want water, or something?”
“No, I want a shot of bourbon and a mountain of Chinese food.”
Chase laughed, “well, at least some of that can probably be arranged.”
House laid back on the cushions a little, relaxing and trying to rest.
T
Chase came back into the living room. House was lying down fully on the couch, right arm extended and hand gripping the top of his thigh. However he was almost totally asleep, eyes opened to slits, not moving, chest rising and falling slowly.
“Hey, here.”
House jerked, and looked up at Chase, “ah, huh?”
“I got the Chinese food at least. No bourbon. Can get you beer?”
House put the plate on his stomach and grumbled while dangling lo mein into his mouth with chopsticks, “only if you've got a straw for it. Every time I sit up it cramps again.”
Chase went to his kitchen and dug through the soy sauce and salt and pepper packet drawer, finding a fast food straw in the midst.
He opened two beers, plopped the straw in one, and came back to sit beside his ex-boss.
House took it, almost gratefully.
He sipped from it, ate some food, drank some more, laid his head and arms back down, taking a break.
Chase subtly watched him while also eating food and drinking beer.
“Can you…move the food and then get me off the couch? I gotta pee,” House asked, with a much less pissed off tone than usual.
“Sure,” said Chase, pleasantly surprised.
He put the food in the kitchen and then returned to help House up. Chase was much less pleasantly surprised by the cry of pain that occured when he helped House get to his feet.
House grabbed onto him, standing on just his left leg.
“Stupid, fucking…” House muttered, as he stabilized himself against Chase.
“I got you, man,” said Chase, neutrally, “just hang onto me, I'll get you to the chair.”
“Don’t want to use the chair.”
“Okay, well, you can barely stand, much less walk. I can grab your cane but…”
“Where are the crutches?”
“...we left them in the clinic. Do you not remember?”
“I was a little distracted. Fine. Then just…help me over there, I guess.”
Chase shrugged a little, “okay?”
He moved around, pulled House’s arm over his shoulders, and put his own arm around the older man's waist. House leaned on him, basically not putting any weight on his right leg at all, hopping along.
Chase got him to the bathroom and House slammed the door in Chase’s face. Chase rolled his eyes and walked away. He picked up the heating pad off the floor, and turned it off while it wasn't in use.
He heard a thud and a crash from inside the bathroom, ran back over and burst inside.
House was laying over the toilet seat, clearly having fallen, the plunger and toilet paper holder knocked over nearby. At least his pants were zipped.
“I've fallen and I can't get up!” cried House sarcastically.
“Yeah, I can see that,” said Chase, dryly.
House struggled to get up before Chase tried to help him, but he moved either wrong or too quickly and ended up falling back down on the floor beside the toilet, breath hissing through his teeth as he tried to stabilize his leg.
“This is stupid,” said Chase, “just let me get you off the floor.”
“I don't want you to do that because it feels nice to have someone help me but I'm alone most of the time so it just feels like an insult when it does happen.”
Chase blinked at the older man. Something dawned on him, “hey House, why don't you use weed for pain control more often?”
“Because I turn into an effusive baby.”
Chase snorted, “you mean you actually communicate for once in your life.”
“Effusive baby is catchier.”
Chase knelt beside the toilet and other man, offering his hand. House took it, let Chase help him sit up.
“Should I get you all the way up?”
“Not unless you're gonna follow through once I'm aroused.”
Chase rolled his eyes, and shook his head, “House, do you wanna get off the floor or not?”
“Yeah I wanna get off the floor. But I'm gonna make embarrassing noises when I do. So I don't want you here. But I can't get off the floor without help. So you're stuck with helping me and ignoring me sounding like an effusive baby.”
Chase snorted. He got to his feet and reached down, offering his hands.
House took them, and hung on trying to get up. He couldn't get past being on his knees, ending up letting go and hunching forward over his thigh, making sounds close to whimpering.
Chase went around behind House and grasped around his chest, lifting him up that way instead.
House grunted in pain, but let it happen.
Chase managed to get up him all the way upright, standing on his left foot, right foot sort of pushed against the floor as the muscles protested too much for him to even keep it lifted up.
“I–oh-fuck,” grunted House almost falling back down. Chase managed to hold him up around the ribs, albeit narrowly.
“I got you,” said Chase, “lean on me when you step, I'll get you back to the couch.”
House struggled to do so, it was clear pain and exhaustion were making it difficult.
“Easy, easy,” said Chase, as House tried too hard to put weight on both feet and almost crumpled again.
“Not easy on my end,” grunted House.
“No, I mean, take it easy. Let me help you, don't try to walk on it. Seriously, how are you so stupid and so smart at the same time?”
House snorted.
Chase helped House basically hop to the couch, and sit down. House sat and immediately started rubbing his leg.
“Ice or heat?” Asked Chase.
“Don't know,” admitted House, “tried heat, maybe try ice…”
Chase went to the freezer and found a gel pack. He came back out and offered it to House. The older man took it, put it against the outside of his leg rather than on top of the thigh.
“There’s a big band of connective tissue where you're putting that, is that tight too?”
House nodded, “it gets extra stress compensating for the front…can't even touch the front but this usually will calm down, and that helps overall, at least…”
Chase went and dug in his closet and came back with a cardboard and styrofoam box of cups and a pump.
He knelt next to House again, and offered the kit, and a bottle of avocado oil, “here, this should help it ease up.”
House frowned for a second, seeming to be thinking. Then he sat up, and took one of the middle sized cups, put it on the pump. He spread oil on his leg, put three along the outside of his thigh, then laid back down, relatively exhausted, but sliding the top cup back and forth slowly.
“Thanks,” mumbled House, tiredly, “feels better.”
“Yeah,” said Chase, watching his ex boss try to hickey his leg into submission.
House finally did manage to relax a bit. As soon as he did, exhaustion took over. He fell asleep with the cups on his leg and his hand resting on the top one.
Chase stared at him, uncertain if it was over.
He finally just snorted quietly to himself, got silently to his feet, and went to make some food.
T
Chase wandered back into the living room. House was out like a rock, and hadn't moved an inch.
He was pale, and even more disheveled than usual. Chase sat on the chair nearby and ate the sandwich he had made.
“Chase…?”
Chase, surprised, looked back over at the older man, and said through sandwich, “wha?”
“Switch to heat…I think…can you…the…mmm…”
House was definitely barely awake, and baked as hell. But Chase would absolutely prefer that to House writhing in pain on Chase's floor, so.
He got the heating pad and tried to hand it to House. The older man had passed back out entirely.
Chase very gently laid the pad over House’s leg, and went back to his sandwich.
T
Chase must have fallen asleep himself in the living room recliner, because the next thing he was aware of was a frustrated, repeating call of his name.
He sat up, and looked at House. The older man was also sitting up, rubbing his leg through the heating pad.
“Need something?” Asked Chase.
“Need…I don't know, more food. I couldn't keep anything down recently. Takeout you got was the first I’ve kept down in two days. Think I have the munchies and finally have an appetite. Feel like hypoglycemic crap and need to eat while I can.”
“Sure, I'll go figure out some food,” said Chase, relieved the problem was that simple.
“Chase.” Said house
Caught crossing the room to go to the kitchen, Chase paused, “yeah?”
“Easy on the stomach, please.”
“Did you just say please?”
“I don't know. Go away.”
Chase snorted and went to the kitchen to make another sandwich.
T
Chase came back in and found House half dozing, hand on his leg.
“Got your sandwich,” said Chase.
“Mmm, is it cold?”
“Yeah. It's cheese and turkey.”
House nodded a little bit, sleepily, “mmkay…”
Chase put it on House's stomach. House started to reach for it, then his eyes snapped open, he quickly sat up, tried to get up, fell on the floor, grabbed Chase's trash can, and started throwing up into it, still half collapsed, holding himself up on the rim.
He finally stopped barfing but fell onto his side as soon as he let go. When his leg hit the floor he screamed out, and clutched at it, struggling to roll onto the other side.
Chase quickly knelt and got him laying on his left, but even that movement hurt him and he screamed again. He grabbed at Chase's arm, arching desperately back against the pain, which only seemed to make things worse.
Chase grabbed him, and held him still, “alright, alright, just stop moving. You gotta stop moving.”
“Can't!”
House reached out and grabbed at the trash bin again, Chase pulled it close and lifted him up enough to get his chin over the edge, as he alternately dry heaved and cried out.
The heaving finally stopped again and he slumped back down, ending up essentially on the floor in Chase's arms and lap. He was panting, shaking all over, whimpering.
Chase just stayed where he was, alarmed but hiding it. House pulled on Chase's arm again, gasping between words, “it's…can you…pillow…”
Chase pulled one off the couch, and held it out.
“Can you…between it and…I can't lift it…”
Chase leaned forward and very, very carefully slid it under House’s thigh and knee. House squeezed Chase's arm, “better…”
Chase nodded, watching his boss slowly calm back down as the pain faded, at least somewhat.
“Pressure from the plate…upset stomach” murmured House, sounding so tired he was barely coherent, “irony…some bland food would have helped.”
He groaned, and rubbed at his leg.
“Do you want to try and get back on the couch?”
House shook his head a little side to side, “no. Just gonna rest here. If I move I'll either scream again or barf again or both.”
Given Chase was pinned underneath the older man, he wasn't sure what to do.
House closed his eyes, rested his head down against Chase's chest.
“S getting…a little…better now…” he mumbled, slurring with exhaustion
“Okay,” said Chase gently, deciding to just stay put. He could still feel the pain tremors running through House’s body and see the leg visibly cramping.
Chase rubbed House's arm very slightly, “okay man. Just try and rest.”
House nodded a tiny bit against Chase, “trying…”
House suddenly sat up again, with another round of dry heaving.
“Would drinking some water help?” Asked Chase, starting to get concerned.
“No, it–” House heaved again.
House's leg started to spasm again as the throwing up set it off. He howled into the trashcan and then was cut off heaving.
“House, has this been what's been happening all week? Is that why you've been hiding in the clinic?”
House nodded, and then cried out weakly and collapsed back against Chase, his leg visibly jerking. Chase was alarmed to hear a couple soft sobs escape his ex boss.
“I think we should go back to the hospital.”
House shook his head weakly into Chase's shoulder, “I'll…murder you…if you–”
House was cut off by another spasm and another cry of pain.
He was past exhaustion at this point, Chase was starting to get worried about how fast his respirations were, how fast the pulse pounding in his neck was, how weak his body movements were getting.
“House, I really think…”
House shook his head again but he could barely do so.
“It…I'll…” House whimpered quietly, “just…dehydrated…just get a…banana bag…”
“They keep those at the hospital, House…”
“Then go…get…”
“You want me to leave you screaming in pain on my floor to go get a banana bag? I don't think I can even get out from under you without pushing your body.”
“Call…someone…get…banana…zofran…pain…S-something…”
Chase pulled out his phone and called Foreman, figuring House would in fact make his life hell if Cameron saw House like this.
After a brief argument about morphine, Chase finally just said, letting stress into his voice, “look, I'm worried. It's really bad. Just bring it.”
He snapped his phone shut and looked back down at House. The older man was extremely pale and looked like garbage. Sweaty and…yeah those were tears.
“Okay. Meds on the way.”
House didn't answer, he just sobbed again a little and turned his head a little bit to press his face more against Chase's shoulder.
Chase blinked down at him. Hesitantly, but firmly, he grabbed House’s hand. House squeezed it weakly as his leg spasmed, hanging onto the anchor.
“Ah,” panted House, “hah, ah…it's…”
“I know,” said Chase, gently, “I know, just hang in there. Hang in there, Foreman is on his way.”
About fifteen minutes later, Chase's apartment door was opened and Foreman came in with a box of supplies and a collapsed IV stand.
Foreman actually stopped cold for a moment, seeing House and Chase on the floor, the state House was in, and House hanging onto Chase's hand.
“I shouldn't have argued about the morphine,” said Foreman, snapping out of his shock and going to work getting the IV stand set up.
“Who…” mumbled House, weakly turning his head, but not enough to see who was behind him.
“Foreman,” said Chase, concerned that House didn't remember, “figured he'd be less annoying than Cameron and you wouldn't want the kids to see this.”
House nodded the tiniest bit, he was half passed out. Then another spasm hit, and he sobbed, gasped, cried out, and squeezed and pulled against Chase's hand, fingers shaking.
Foreman again stopped and stared. Then shook his head, and hung the banana bag and spiked it. He took House’s free arm and tied a band around his arm. He frowned, trying to find a vein in the elbow. He checked the back of the hand instead.
“House, can you squeeze your hand a few times, I can't find a vein…”
House did, very weakly and slowly. Something finally seemed to pop up, and Foreman got the needle in and taped it and put the sharp in a bin in the box of supplies.
He got the IV line attached, flushed saline into it, put the zofran on board first, and then the morphine, so the nausea meds would hit before the morphine could cause any possible further nausea.
House groaned quietly. Chase and Foreman watched in silence, waiting.
As the morphine kicked in enough he could succumb to exhaustion, he fell immediately and deeply asleep.
Both Chase and Foreman let out big sighs when he did.
“How long was he like that?” Asked Foreman, standing up and opening the IV drip a little more, since House had been so dehydrated he almost hadn't had a findable vein.
“He fell in an exam room at the end of the day. It was bad then but not this bad. I could at least get him up and into a wheelchair. Then he was a stubborn idiot and fell again in my kitchen and then again in my bathroom. Then nausea got to him and the barfing set off a pain spiral.”
“Yr n idiot,” slurred House, apparently waking up through pain and nausea and morphine and weed and beer and dehydration and exhaustion just enough to be bitchy.
“Did he hit his head when he fell? Is it a concussion?”
“He said he hasn't been able to eat all week, I don't think so. I think he's just exhausted and stoned.”
“Still, we should take him in, get a CT scan…”
“No hospital,” said Chase
“Nnn Hosp’t’l,” said House at the same time.
Foreman snorted, “uh, yes. Hospital.”
“Foreman I'm not actually sure how we'd get him there without making it worse. Moving him at all has set it off even worse every time.”
Foreman considered, “I could go back to the hospital and get a body board. We'd have to move him but only once.”
“F you…do that…m g’nna…”
House trailed off before finishing the threat, but his point was clear.
Foreman hesitated, then stood up, “I'm gonna go get a spinal cath kit. We can give him an epidural.”
Chase nodded, relieved at the suggestion. House was already mostly curled in the right position, Chase would just have to scoot out from under him so his back was in line.
Foreman left.
T
Chase looked up when the door opened. Foreman came in, but so did Cuddy.
“I got caught trying to borrow the portable CT,” said Foreman, sounding more annoyed with himself for getting caught than mad at Cuddy.
“Did you at least get the–”
Cuddy held out the kit and another box. She had looked annoyed and skeptical when she had arrived. The minute she had stepped around Foreman and seen House on the ground, essentially unconscious in Chase's lap, her expression had changed.
Foreman had looked shocked when he saw House. She looked guilty.
She knelt, and took the sterile field supplies out and started setting up without a word.
As Chase carefully slipped out from under House, the other man stirred a little.
“Whas…happen…”
“It's okay man,” said Chase, “we're gonna give you an epidural. Stop the pain cycle for a bit, let you get some rest.”
“Mm…Kay…”
“It's gonna hurt to get you the rest of the way into position. But you're gonna have to hold still,” said Cuddy, as Chase also got himself sanitized.
Foreman carefully curled House's legs, just a little bit more towards his chest.
House's eyes snapped open, he cried out, and grabbed at Cuddy in front of him, hands squeezing on her arm, though his grip was barely anything at this point.
Cuddy looked at Chase, “can you do it, and I'll…”
Chase nodded. He and Foreman gave House the epidural. Chase glanced at Cuddy. She was holding House in position, but she was also holding his hand.
When it finally kicked in, House passed back out, hands loose on Cuddy's hand and arm. He was pasty white, sweaty, dehydrated, and not wearing pants.
Chase sighed in relief, ducking his head, tired out himself by the events of the last day.
Cuddy carefully extracted herself, she and Foreman gingerly moved House’s unconscious body until he was lying on his back, flat after getting the epidural.
She got him a pillow off the couch, and got his head resting on it.
Chase finally looked up again, “that was insane. I've seen it bad before, I've never seen him like this.”
Cuddy sighed, brushing her fingers lightly against House's mussed, damp hair, “I haven't for a long time. Not since right after Stacy left.”
Foreman got some of the supplies cleaned up and out of the way, then carefully pinched the skin on the back of House’s hand. It tented and didn't go back down.
Foreman hung another bag of fluids, and swapped the line over, “we should move him while he's unconscious.”
“Move him where? If we take him to the hospital he'll either escape, fall on his face, or set something on fire in protest,” said Chase.
“Maybe at least onto the sofa?” Asked Cuddy, looking uncertain about it herself.
“I’ve got a roll up futon for having guests, if we lay that down next to him, get him onto some bedsheets, maybe we slide him onto that?” suggested Chase
They looked at each other, Foreman shrugged, “seems like the best plan so far.”
Chase went and got a flat sheet, and then laid it out beside House on the floor. They carefully rolled him into one side, slipped it under, and then rolled him to the other side.
Sheet fully underneath, Chase went for the futon. He pulled it in and laid it down beside his ex boss. The three of them gripped the sheet, and slid and lifted him up and onto it.
House groaned as they settled him on the futon, eyes half opening, “wha’s…stopit…no…kidnap…”
“Easy, House. You're still in my apartment. We just got you off the floor a little bit.”
House sighed a little, and seemed to relax, “it…doesn't hurt.”
“Yeah, man. You had an epidural.”
House sighed, loosely, “nice…can you…something…might be able…eat…”
Chase looked up at the other two. Foreman was stoic, if concerned. Cuddy stood up, “Chase, ya got any canned soup?”
Chase nodded, “you know my schedule. That's most of my pantry.”
Foreman snorted, looked back down at House, and frowned. House was back out, still looking like crap, mouth now open and slack.
“How long has he been hiding this?” asked Foreman.
“Probably been getting worse since Wilson left,” guessed Chase.
Cuddy left to heat up food, stress on her face.
Chase looked at Foreman. Foreman met his gaze.
“If we can get him more awake then we can stay here. But he's too out of it for just morphine and being worn out.”
“He had who knows how much vicodin, had a beer, took an absurd amount of weed concentrate, had morphine, and then an epidural. I'm honestly surprised he's conscious at all with everything he's got on board.”
Foreman sighed, thankfully not asking where House had gotten the concentrate, “okay, that's better. Still worried about how dehydrated he is, but…”
Foreman looked up at the bag, checking how much was still in it.
Chase looked down at House. The older man's eyes were open to slits, he was sort of gazing up at Chase.
“What's up?” Asked Chase.
House lifted his hand and sloppily, weakly gripped Chase's wrist, “whrs m…the…”
“What?”
House's eyes opened wider suddenly, “Up.”
Chase and Foreman got the urgency in even his drugged out speech and lifted his upper body to sit and got the trash can again.
House dry heaved over it, and moaned.
“I'll get more zofran on board,” said Foreman.
Chase nodded, and held House’s floppy, exhausted form in place.
House sobbed audibly into the trash can. Foreman froze and looked down at him.
Cuddy came back in, having heard the heaving.
“What's happening? Is he in pain again?”
“No,” grunted House, “too much…NSAID…empty…”
Cuddy went back to get the soup heated up even faster. Foreman pushed the zofran.
House almost collapsed headfirst into the trash can, Chase quickly grabbed him under the chest as well.
Cuddy came back with a mug. They got House sitting up with his back to Chase's chest. He was panting, a hand on his stomach.
“House, can you try and eat?” Asked Chase.
House looked at Cuddy holding the soup, shrugged tiredly. The bout of nausea over, he was quickly falling back asleep.
“Hey, House. If you want to stay out of the hospital, you're going to eat something,” said Foreman.
“Fuck…you…”
“House, eat or I'll tell them about a time you were nice to me,” directed Cuddy.
House groaned and looked at her, struggling to focus. She held out the soup, he took it with his right hand. He started drawing it to him but his hand was sinking instead of rising.
Chase quickly put a hand under the cup, taking the weight. It was hot, but not unbearable. House managed to drink some of it, then groaned and moved it away from himself. Cuddy took it back.
House let his head fall back, panting, “En…enough.”
He closed his eyes and moved his left hand to his right shoulder.
“What's wrong?”
“Needs to settle. And shoulder hurts,” he said, actually seeming maybe a little more with them for a moment, “always does…but leg…it's always worse.”
“Hey, there's a heating pad, there's ice,” said Chase.
“Mmm,” said House, adrenaline fading fast.
“Can we try ice on the shoulder and keep heat on the leg so when the epidural wears off it won’t be stiffened up?”
House shrugged very slightly with his left shoulder, “mmm-hmm…*
He closed his eyes, and turned his face slightly.
Foreman went and got an ice pack from Chase’s freezer. Cuddy got the heating pad on House’s leg, touching it very gingerly. The muscles were still visibly bunching. The epidural only stopped the pain signals from reaching his brain, not the cramping that was causing it.
“Here, man,” said Foreman, returning with a large gel pack. He put it on House’s shoulder. House seemed to be entirely out, though.
“Okay, so what now?” Asked Chase, “we can do this for a day, maybe two. But nothing we have here is going to stop the pain crisis unless that thigh calms down.”
“A muscle relaxant?” Asked Cuddy.
Chase looked at House’s chest, counting against the clock on the wall, and shook his head, “he's had a whole pharmacy of respiratory depressants. His breathing rate is already slow.”
“What about a neuromuscular block and lidocane. Stop the cramping, stop the nerve pain?” Suggested Foreman.
They looked around at each other, and seemed to agree.
“I have to check back in at the hospital, I'll go get the meds,” said Cuddy, getting to her feet, “if he wakes up again, keep trying to get him to eat. I'm gonna get a urinal too, but I'm the meantime someone should find a big jar or something before he wakes up and tries to drag himself to the bathroom.”
Cuddy strode quickly out the door.
Chase looked at Foreman, Foreman looked at Chase, they both snorted and shrugged.
Foreman got up to look for a makeshift urinal. Chase looked back down at House. The older man was out cold. Chase noticed how greasy his hair was, the smell of unshowered human mixed with deodorant and stale coffee and an unfortunate hint of stomach acid.
Foreman came back with a medium sized watering can from the office, “should hold enough, and be able to tip some without spilling.”
Chase snorted, but it seemed like a decent solution at least until Cuddy came back.
Foreman sat down on the floor, looking House and Chase over, “I can't believe he's actually laying on you like that. He must be stoned out of his mind.”
“Apparently it's the weed. Makes him open up a little. So of course he hates using it with someone else around, but he was desperate.”
Foreman leaned his head back a bit in revelation and understanding, “we’ll have to remember that the next time.”
“Yeah,” said Chase, “give him some in his coffee the next time he's limping extra, actually be able to help him, and drive him home once he passes out,..”
“I can…hear you…” grumbled House sleepily.
“Yeah, I'm shaking in my boots,” said Chase with a snort, “what are you gonna do, fire me?”
“No…I’ll…laxative…coffee…”
Chase patted House’s chest, “if you even remember what I said, I'll take my chances. I've been a little blocked up anyway.”
Foreman snorted.
House started to nod back off.
“Hey, since you're awake, Cuddy is gonna set you up with a neuromuscular block and lidocane. It's just temporary but it should give you some relief.”
House groaned slightly, “leg’ll be…useless.”
“That muscle is still cramping. The epidural wears off, you're gonna be in agony again. Nerve block is less invasive than a spinal block. Your leg might not work but you'll be able to sit and use the chair, maybe crunches,” said Chase.
House sighed tiredly, laid his head back down all the way, and mumbled, “won’t end the…that wears off…right back to…”
House seemed to get actually a little worked up, frustrated, and something else. He reached clumsily down towards his leg, squeezing the numb, but rolling muscles.
“Maybe it'll give you a chance to work on it,” said Chase, “there's some massage…hooker woman you call, isn't there?”
House shook his head tiredly, still squeezing his leg weakly, “cramping, yeah…but it's nerves making it…”
“There's a chance a nerve block will reset that,” said Foreman, “and it'll at least give you some continued relief with a little more function, and get you off Chase's floor.”
House seemed to notice more about where he was again. He noticed the ice pack on his shoulder, “when did this…”
“You've been in and out,” said Chase, “it's okay, you need rest, and you're on a lot of meds.”
House sighed a little, “I need to pee.”
Foreman held out the watering can. House blinked tiredly at Foreman, then reached out to take it. He had reached with his left hand, but he had still stopped to grab his right shoulder.
“Ahhh…” he cried out quietly, then arched his head back against Chase, eyes shut tight.
Chase was sitting there essentially holding someone, who had become somehow despite being an utter asshole, someone he cared for. That person was miserable and upset and in pain.
So Chase rubbed House’s upper arm, and suggested, “we can call Cuddy. If she's still in the hospital she can grab something to stabilize that shoulder.”
House didn't answer the question. But he did lean into the hand on his arm for a moment. Then he grunted, “no, just…move more…forward…”
He struggled to lean forward, Chase helped push him up. House was able to piss into the watering can. The can was light beige plastic, the urine was visibly dark orange through the sides.
Foreman opened his phone and dialed, “hey, Cuddy. Yeah, are you still at the hospital? Okay good. Can you bring more fluids? And I don't know, maybe…PPN.”
Chase looked up at Foreman, “IV nutrition?”
“Look,” said Foreman, “the weed is gonna wear off. All he's kept down is a quarter of a can of soup. He's gonna be more nauseous, and hangry.”
Chase winced. Foreman was right.
Chase looked back down at House. Having finally managed to use the bathroom, he was falling quickly back asleep. The chances of actually getting a real meal in him seemed low.
“Yeah. Okay. And, hey, let's move him off me. He won't be happy when he wakes up sober and cuddling.”
Chase started to move. A sloppy, shaky, weak grip on his arm stopped him.
“Don't,” said House, “don't move…hurts…”
“Your shoulder?”
House nodded. Chase lifted the ice pack and carefully prodded House’s shoulder. It was angry, and swollen, but generally intact.
“Your leg has been worse, so you've been putting all your weight on your shoulder? And that's why you've been eating more ibuprofen than Vicodin?” asked Foreman, guessing.
House nodded.
Chase put the ice pack back in place.
“Okay, I don't have to move you right now. But you can't yell at me if you wake up later like this.”
“Have you…met me…”
Chase snorted, “look, we are gonna have to move you when Cuddy gets back here.”
House squeezed Chase's arm, weakly, “I'll deal…then…right now…it hurts enough…”
Chase pressed his lips together and sighed, nodding, “alright.”
T
Chase looked up, as his apartment door opened. Foreman was sitting on the couch reading one of the journals Chase had on his coffee table. House was asleep, drugged but fitful, still pretty much in Chase's lap and arms.
Cuddy slipped her shoes off. She came over with her box of supplies and set it quietly down. She took a pulse ox, and put it on House’s index finger. Then she hung another bag of fluids, and connected it.
She knelt again and checked the pulse ox. The O2 saturation was good if a tiny bit low from the depressed CNS. The heart rate was 102 lying down asleep.
Cuddy bit her lip and met Chase's eyes, and hung the IV nutrition solution as well.
House moaned slightly, shivering a little as cold fluid went into him.
“Okay House,” said Chase, “we've only got about an hour left on the epidural, you're going to start feeling your thigh again soon. I gotta lay you down and prep your leg for the nerve block, okay?”
“Nnnh…” he groaned in semi-conscious protest.
“I know it's gonna hurt,” said Chase, “I'm sorry. We can try and stabilize your arm.”
Foreman got up, and came over. Cuddy took Chase's cue, and carefully pinned House’s arm against his body. Chase started to scoot out.
House hissed between his teeth, his body tensing up. Chase tried to be more gradual, but that didn't seem to make it hurt less, and was just prolonging the moving part. He scooted the rest of the way carefully but quickly and helped House lay down.
House kind of whimpered, a soft series of “mmh, ahh, nnngh…”
“It's over,” said Cuddy, comfortingly, “the hard part is over.”
House closed his eyes, chest heaving, but nodded.
Chase got everything Cuddy had brought together and prepped. She had set him up with the little catheter and pump that could keep the block going for days if necessary. Chase approved. Getting House to let them keep sticking him with needles seemed unlikely once all the drugs wore off.
Chase put the lidocaine in first, in and around the nerves in House’s leg. He had to be careful. Some anatomy definitely wasn't where it had been. Trying to figure out exactly where to place the needle, he really looked at the damage from the first time. He felt a sick, sinking feeling in his stomach, almost chilled, as he got a real understanding of the damage and trauma.
He finished putting the lidocaine in, then got the nerve block set. He looked up, meeting Cuddy's eyes. She seemed to be able to read his feelings, but said nothing. Just nodded, and looked down at House, “I brought the portable ultrasound, it's in my car. Foreman, could you help me bring it up here?”
Foreman nodded, seeming glad to do something other than watch his boss suffer on the floor. He and Cuddy left to get the machine.
“Okay. A little bit longer to place the cath, and then you can rest.”
“What…no…no cath…” groaned House
“Not in your junk,” said Chase, “for the nerve block.”
House relaxed back down, panting.
Chase looked at the door. It was the first time he'd been alone with the other man since calling Foreman.
“I have more of of the RSO oil. I can grab it while they're out. The morphine is gonna wear off soon, I don't know if Cuddy will okay more with the nerve block in place. But you're obviously hurting regardless.”
House looked at Chase, seeming a little surprised, “why?”
Chase hesitated. The truth was, House had almost died in front of him multiple times and then spent the last day, possibly week or more, in intractable pain. And that was upsetting. But that wouldn't be how House wanted to hear it phrased.
“It’s much funnier to see you stoned than to see you hurting.”
House snorted a little.
He looked at Chase, frowning, “why do I feel…”
House looked up at the IV stand, and saw the two bags, “what is that?”
“IV nutrition. It seemed like you hadn't kept anything down recently. Is something wrong?”
House shook his head a little, and closed his eyes, “no, I think I've just been really hypoglycemic.”
Chase blinked. The sudden return to coherence was surprising. He did some mental math. Everything should be wearing off roughly at once, yeah. But not this quickly or synched up.
“House, how long has it been since you were able to actually keep food down?”
“Like…I got half a sandwich to stay down yesterday. Other than that…”
Chase sighed, having confirmed that House had been not just fucked up on drugs but also basically half conscious from not eating, “okay, I’m gonna go grab more. So you don't start puking again. And you don't end up collapsing in my kitchen again.”
House looked up at him, evaluating.
“It's not gonna take that long to get an ultrasound machine.”
“Fine,” said House.
Chase got up and jogged out and back in with the syringe, “here.”
House tried to reach up, and gasped, grabbing his shoulder again.
“I got it,” said Chase, “how much?”
“Whole thing.”
“You sure? You were pretty, uh…”
“Foreman will leave…as soon as I'm stable. Cuddy will try to…try to stay. But she'll get guilty and leave…to bury it in work…”
“And me? I’m not leaving my apartment so you can have a weed bender on my livingroom floor.”
“I don't care. You were already…here for it…worst you did was conspire…to get me stoned…help with the–”
“Okay, shut up and take it before they get back,” said Chase.
House opened his mouth, but the door opened and Cuddy and Foreman came in with the ultrasound. House groaned, as Chase quickly slipped the syringe into his pocket.
T
House wasn’t completely on point in his predictions, but he wasn’t completely wrong either. Cuddy did get stressed and guilty as she watched House lay on the floor slowly fading in and out, increasingly uncomfortable as the morphine and weed wore off, and eventually made an excuse and left.
Foreman, though, sat back down on the couch to read medical Chase’s random literature some more.
“Hey, so it’s like, eleven at night,” said Chase, “we should figure out a plan for tonight.”
Foreman looked up from the journal he was reading, “well, maybe trade off in shifts?”
Chase and House both looked surprised at that one.
Foreman looked from Chase to House, and snorted, “look, I know, we don’t always get along.
But even if you look at it from a fully selfish angle, it’s good for me if you’re okay. It takes more than one person to do this level of medical support around the clock. Cuddy obviously has her own baggage about it, but as far as I’m concerned this is just…looking out for you, looking out for me. Win win. So who takes the first shift?”
“I will,” said Chase, “I’m too wired to sleep anyway. You can use my bed if you want.”
Foreman nodded, “sounds good. Mind if I borrow this to read while I fall asleep?”
Chase shook his head, “be my guest.”
Foreman grinned a bit, took the journal, and headed into the bedroom.
Chase looked back down at House. He was holding his shoulder, swallowing repeatedly.
Chase knelt and offered the syringe. House grabbed it and squeezed half in, then stopped, turned his head to the side, hand over his mouth.
“Easy,” said Chase, “take what you can for now, it’ll start to kick in, then we can get more on board.”
House closed his eyes, swallowing over and over.
Thankfully, eventually, the med kicked in before the nausea rejected it. House didn’t ask for more, though. He just fell immediately, and deeply asleep.
Chase checked his responsiveness with a gentle pinch to the finger, and House was out cold. That seemed as good as it was going to get, so Chase carefully lifted the heating pad on House’s bad thigh. There was still some tension above the nerve block, but the damaged area and the rest of his leg was fully loose. Chase settled the heating pad back in place.
He sat down on the couch, and started to reflect on what had happened over the course of the day. The one thing that was really sticking with him was the revelation that House, given the correct cocktail of drugs, had expressed that he actually did need and want support, but was just too burned and messed up to receive it.
Not that Chase hadn't known it, he had just deeply doubted House knew it. But he supposed it made more sense that House at least occasionally knew shit and just…was still an asshole. House was fucked up, not stupid.
Chase got his laptop and sat down to get some of his CME shit done.
T
Chase looked up, as he heard a soft sound from down on the floor. House was reaching for the urinal Cuddy had left beside him, but couldn't quite get it.
Chase got up and handed it to him, “need help sitting up?”
House looked up at him, holding the urinal. He looked so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open.
“I don't want to move,” he said, quietly.
“Do you want…help?”
House nodded and handed Chase the urinal back. Chase went and washed his hands, dried his hands, found gloves, and helped.
House sighed as he was able to relieve himself. This time the urine was merely deep yellow, not dark and nearly orange. Progress, at least.
Chase went and dumped the urinal in the toilet and washed it out in the shower. He came back to the living room. House was back asleep, his left hand gripping his right shoulder.
Chase sat back down. Foreman appeared in the doorway in boxers and no shirt, “I heard stuff…something happening?”
“He just had to pee.”
Foreman nodded, “urine?”
“Dark yellow, but better.”
Foreman, “you wanna trade off?”
Chase hesitated.
Foreman sighed, and walked over to Chase, rubbing his face to wake up, “look, you've been with him longer than anyone else. You saw him almost die. Again. I get wanting to keep an eye on him. But you also need sleep.”
Chase stared at Foreman. He wasn't wrong, but Chase hadn't been expecting to be called out.
“It's late, or at this point early,” said Foreman, “go get some rest.”
Chase gave up. He took the syringe out of his pocket and handed it to Foreman, “he had more on him. It really seems to be helping. If he wakes up sick, or really hurting…”
Foreman nodded, taking it, and placing it with the zofran and other rescue meds, “got it. Glad at least something works. Have to take a road trip, get more of the stuff and have it on hand…”
Chase nodded and went to bed.
T
Chase woke up. Foreman was standing over him, lightly shaking his arm.
“W’s happ’n?” grunted Chase.
“It's not an emergency, but I think you should come and maybe we should call Cuddy back in.
Chase scrambled out of bed and went with Foreman back to the living room.
House was sitting in the wheelchair. He was leaning forward, holding himself up with hands on the edge of the seat to either side of his right leg, bracing himself with white knuckles.
He looked like he was going to fall out of the chair.
“What's going on?” Asked Chase.
“Tried to get to the bathroom,” grunted House, “but my body just…I think I went too long not eating, and pain stressed…my body just feels like crap…shitting acid…”
“Well you still haven't eaten. Your body needs your digestive system moving. Do you think we can try more soup?”
House shrugged a little on the left but he didn't say no.
“What about the other half of the stuff you gave Chase to help you take?” Asked Foreman.
House glanced at Foreman, then at Chase. He snorted a little, “yeah. That would be good.”
Foreman got it, and gave it to House. He also pushed Zofran, while Chase went and heated up more soup.
House seemed to be feeling a little loopy and a little less miserable by the time Chase came back.
House slumped back in the chair, and Chase handed him the mug of sort of yellow-green soup in his left hand.
“What is it?” Asked House.
“Cheddar broccoli but it was kind of chunky to drink so I put it in the blender for a moment before I heated it.”
House seemed satisfied with that answer, and started to work on the soup. It seemed much more difficult for him than it should have been, and his head kept sinking forward and then being jerked back up.
Chase looked at Foreman. The other man was watching House struggle to sit in a wheelchair and drink soup with not quite anxiety, but at least some concern.
“Do you want to lie back down?” Asked Chase.
House swallowed his mouthful, and said into the cup, “think that's inevitable…”
Foreman quickly took the soup, and Chase helped House try to sit forward. He stopped, panting, and held his shoulder. Foreman set the soup down and helped stabilize, while Chase helped House scoot, dragging his leg, onto the couch.
Chase lifted House’s numbed out leg up for him, House dragged the left one up as well, laying against the arm of the couch.
Chase tried to hand him back the soup, but House waved him off, “‘s enough.”
“It was half a mug. A third, even.”
“It's. Enough.” Repeated House much more strongly.
Chase sighed and looked at Foreman, Foreman shrugged.
“I can hear you looking at each other,” said House, “I'm incapacitated, not stupid.”
“House, you're in bad shape. I know–”
“What part of no hospital…” House grunted, forced himself to sit up to start yelling, but stupidly tried to use his right arm to push up as well, and ended up collapsing back, holding it and groaning thickly.
Chase snatched a bowl and ran back in time to catch the soup coming up. Just like it had with the leg, the vomiting was causing a worse and worse crisis with the shoulder. Chase tried his best to stabilize, wrinkling his nose at the contents of the bowl next to his knee.
House finally stopped, but was twisting in pain as he clutched his arm.
Foreman was suddenly there, pushing a med.
“What was that?” Asked Chase
Foreman flushed the line, shaking his head.
House looked up at Foreman with a heroic effort, and mumbled, “what..mwas ih…”
Then House was unconscious.
“Gave him a sedative. We're taking him to the hospital, getting him stabilized, and taking him back here before we wake him up. I'll go call Cuddy to arrange a transport ambulance.”
Chase sighed, in relief at having a plan, and not having been the one who made the call to drug and kidnap House. Not that House hadn't done the same or worse many times.
T
Chase and Foreman were met by Cuddy and Cameron at the ambulance bay doors. Cameron and Foreman unloaded the stretcher, Chase followed with the IV bag. It was the third one, and House’s pee was still way too yellow.
Cameron grabbed Chase an IV pole to hang it on.
“How is he doing?” Asked Cuddy, hand on the rail of the stretcher.
“BP is in the tank, he can't keep food down, something's wrong with his shoulder, he's barely eaten in a week,” said Chase, urgent and grim.
Cuddy looked stricken, Cameron looked worried.
“Okay, let's get him in the back,” said Cameron.
T
Almost a full day later, Chase was sitting in his armchair reading, when he heard House groan.
He looked up. House was moving on the couch, turning his head. He grunted in confusion, finding his arm restrained and his leg numb.
“Hey. Your shoulder was partially out of the socket, and your collarbone was jammed out of place. Orthopedist reduced it. Your leg still has a cath in. You've had a lot of fluids, had an NG tube in breifly, anti-inflammatories. You're on muscle relaxants and morphine. Don't get up, it will go poorly.”
House rubbed his face with his left hand and then stared at Chase, “you drugged me.”
“Technically Foreman. But I was close to it. Again, I can't have you die on my floor.”
House snorted. He looked himself over, “well you didn't take any bits of me?”
Chase shook his head, “you're as there as you were yesterday.”
House sighed and laid his head back. He seemed too tired to be annoyed.
“You feel any better?”
House nodded a little, his eyes closing fast, “gonna get you back…for this?”
“You're gonna see me almost die on the floor and take extreme measures to help me?” Snorted Chase, “I think that's unlikely.”