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House groaned, his eyes flickering open just enough to be able to peer around his dark room. He swallowed, his mouth dry. Running a hand across his forehead, he huffed and readjusted his body on the bed, unsure as to what had woken him in the middle of his deep slumber. He rubbed a soothing hand over his thigh in case that was the source, but it hurt no worse than it always did. He could feel sleep tugging him back under, covering him like a thick blanket. Just as he let his eyes fall shut again, three loud knocks on the front door echoed through the condo.
"Wha-?" Wilson slurred, lifting his head from where it was smushed, face-down into the pillow next to House's own. House sat up slowly, wanting nothing but to relax back into the mattress.
"G' back to sleep," he grumbled, pushing Wilson's head back into the pillow, face first; the other man going willingly and making a placated sound of agreement muffled by the cotton. The older man pulled back the covers of his side of the bed and stood, grabbing his cane from where it was propped up against the nightstand. Soft light from the moon filtered in between the blinds and lit House's motions as he pulled on a sweatshirt that had been discarded at the end of the bed and a pair of knee-length shorts that were on the floor. A few more urgent knocks resounded from the door. Who would be knocking this late at night? Glancing blearily at the clock as he made his way out of their room, House registered the red numbers: 2:46 AM. Reaching the door, House made quick work of the security chain and deadbolt before flinging it open.
"What?" he said angrily. Taking in the three figures in his doorway, House rolled his eyes and leaned against the doorframe, stifling a yawn.
"I can't imagine what's so important that all of you needed to show up on my doorstep at nearly three in the morning."
"The patient is threatening to kill himself if you don't talk to him immediately," Chase announced, face grim. He looked as though he'd like to go to bed, dark circles under his eyes, but alert. His eyes glimmered in the light of the hallway, light and shadow over his body creating a sharp duality.
"If only I employed three young people who could restrain him and keep an eye on him until the morning. Unfortunately, for some reason, these three young people decided their pagers apparently wouldn't cut it anymore, and decided to drive halfway across town," House said unimpressed, and began to shut the door. Foreman took a step forward and pushed back, keeping it open.
"He's got a gun," Foreman told him. House's mouth dropped open, and he fluttered his eyelashes girlishly.
“Wow," he breathed. Foreman clenched his jaw, annoyed.
"Cuddy knew you wouldn't willingly come into the hospital, so she sent us to... collect you."
"Come and get me," House told him, holding his arms out.
"Just know, I've got a cane and I'm not afraid to use it," House said as he held his cane up in the air, presenting it like a magician shows off the saw he'll use to cut a young woman in half.
"Just come with us," Cameron said, speaking for the first time.
"No."
"You'd rather have him shoot himself in the head than lose a little bit of rest to speak to him for a few minutes?" Chase asked, throwing his hands up.
"Tests are so much easier to run on a dead body; no consent forms, no chance of them denying tox screens. Really, I should think about switching to morgue full time," House said as he looked into the distance, pretending to ponder his career path. The warm, summer night air drifted in through the open door, swathing House's uncovered shins and knees.
"House!" Cameron said, appalled, "That's terrible!"
"Yes. But that's not the point," House said, sobering, "The point is that you're lying to me. Maybe if I weren't half asleep right now, I'd be able to figure out why. I'm assuming that was your intention, visiting me in the night."
"What?" Cameron said, defensive. She opened her mouth as if to protest, both for herself and the other two doctors, but House had already watched Foreman and Chase exchange a quick glance, so he knew he was right on the money.
"Get out of my hallway. I'll be in tomorrow at eleven, maybe ten if I get some pre-work action to get me going," House told them with finality. He pushed the door again, which Foreman had gone lax on, and it shut with a bang. However, before he could lock it, Foreman reopened it.
"You've got to be kidding me," House said, mostly to himself. Chase and Cameron's gazes were focused over his shoulder, so House turned to see Wilson trudging into the living room, squinting against the artificial light of the hallway flooding in. He was wearing House's Aerosmith t-shirt and an old pair of boxers. House grinned softly despite himself as he took in his lover, the oncologist's hair sticking up in odd places.
"What's going on?" the younger man asked, settling behind House and scanning over the ducklings inquisitively.
"The kids are trying to get me to come into the hospital. Apparently, Cuddy has fallen asleep at her desk and is moaning my name. Strange, I know, how the mind knows what it wants when unconscious," House told him. Wilson glared at him. Fully facing those at the door, Wilson asked the same question, this time directed at them.
"Our patient has a gun and says he's going to shoot himself if House doesn't come in to talk to him. I think he doesn't believe we're really trying to diagnose him. I'm not totally sure. Anyway, House is refusing to come with us," Cameron answered, putting on her best innocent, House-is-being-ridiculous look.
"Because..." Wilson said, addressing House again.
"Because my patient is 23 and a nerd, and I don't think he even knows how to turn off the safety on a gun, let alone have the balls to point one at himself. So, I'm led to believe, for some reason, my kids are lying to me," House said. Wilson's brows furrowed.
"So what's really happening?" he asked, absently scratching the back of his neck.
"Great question, anyone care to answer?" House asked the three intruders. Cameron, Chase, and Foreman stood firm and silent.
"Well, don't all go at once," Wilson said, finally seeming to realize he was sort of underdressed for this party and tried to pull down his shirt to cover a little bit more. Catching the motion out of the corner of his eye, House reached over and flicked his partner's hand.
"Stop stretching it out, or stop wearing my clothes," House chided. Cameron huffed a laugh, looking down at House's chest. House joined her gaze to see that the sweatshirt he had chosen from the foot of the bed was Wilson's token McGill.
"Okay, shut up. Here's what's going to happen. Either you three are gonna leave, and we're gonna go back to bed. Or, you're going to tell me what's going on... and we're gonna go back to bed," House said, tilting his head. No one spoke for a moment.
"Fine. House-" Chase started, slowly, before Cameron cut him off.
"Chase!" she yelled.
"Shh!" Wilson shushed her, "You're going to wake up the people in the other condo."
"And considering we were being pretty loud until, I don't know, 11:30..." the older man started.
"House, stop," Wilson scolded, blushing. House rolled his eyes and turned back to the matter at hand.
"You were saying?" House said, gesturing to Chase. Chase looked apologetically at Foreman and Cameron before tentatively beginning to speak again.
"Just. Keep an open mind. A few weeks ago, when you ordered us to stay with Marcia all night, even though she was perfectly fine at that point, we were very tired and bored. We decided to... pass the time by looking through your medical history," Chase said, making defiant eye contact with House, almost as if he were daring House to object. Wilson sucked an unhappy breath in through his mouth.
"We saw the way your pain has been managed, through the years. It's... well, it's not normal, even as far as chronic pain goes. One of us, not naming any names, had heard of an experimental drug for," he paused. "Separating real from psychosomatic pain. However, it's not compatible with everyone. So, we needed a sample of your blood, but we didn't know how to get that, subtly. So, we told Cuddy that we suspected you were on something other than Vicodin during work hours. Which is why she ordered that blood test last week. We felt bad, well, some of us did, but we didn't really have another choice. Anyway, while we were at the hospital tonight, the results came back that said you were suitable for the injection. We needed to get you inside to Princeton-Plainsboro so one of us could inject you, just in case anything went wrong since the drug is experimental," Chase finished quickly. The room was quiet, House's heartbeat and the sound of the air-con blowing sounding comically loud in his ears. He felt betrayed; his fellows, his minions, his team had betrayed him. Everything always came back to his leg. It was the one thing no one could seem to look past. The thing that would wreck his every waking moment.
"Separating real from psychosomatic pain."
"Psychosomatic pain."
“Psychosomatic.”
"How dare you?" he said lowly. No one moved for a minute. Then, Wilson grabbed House's waist and pointed with his other hand toward the bottom of the stairwell.
"Get back to the hospital," Wilson said, voice oozing with anger.
"We know you don't think any of your pain is psychosomatic, but if it is, this could help so much," Cameron pleaded.
"You think I don't know my own pain after living with it for seven constant years?" House yelled, clenching his fists, face dark. "I should fire you all. You should be ashamed of yourselves. You knew what you were doing was wrong, that's why you didn't just say what you were doing like big boys and girls."
"No, we kept it from you because we knew you'd never agree to get any sort of help willingly. We want you better, House!" Chase said loudly, not quite yelling.
"And what do you think I want? You know nothing about me. You don't know what help I've gotten. You don't know what growth I've made. Because it's none of your business. You aren't my family, you aren't my physician, and you aren't my goddamn shrink. You work for me. Know your place, and don't ever pull something like this again or I. Will. Not. Hesitate. To fire you," House spat, venomous. Chase took a long look at House. Finally, he turned and started down the stairs. Foreman and Cameron followed after him, Cameron at least having the decency to look ashamed. Wilson stepped forward and closed the door, relocking the deadbolt and reattaching the security chain. House stepped away from Wilson's hand that was on his hip and hurried to the bedroom. Taking a deep breath, Wilson leaned against the door for a moment and let his head thunk backward onto it. He knew House would need a moment to himself. So did Wilson. He felt like throttling Chase and the others; if he went into the bedroom now, he'd only tell House to fire them.
Wilson wasn't sure how long he stood there, eyes closed, before he heard the sound of the bed creaking and pushed off the door, finally heading to the bedroom. He found House lying facing the opposite wall, muscles fully tensed. Wilson slid under under the covers, resting his hand lightly on House's good thigh.
"Don't touch me," House said, voice filled with leashed anger. Wilson withdrew his hand, and House let out a breath.
"I'm surprised you didn't tell me to let them try it," House said. Wilson's anger spiked again. House could never let anyone see him hurting. House let Wilson see the most he ever let anyone see, but it was never all of himself.
"Don't do this, House," Wilson said tiredly.
"I know what they did was wrong, and you know I know what they did was wrong. So why are we doing this?" he said. House shrugged minutely. Wilson felt like crying. He wanted, no, needed to comfort House. He knew he was hurting. But House wouldn't let him in.
"House," he said, pleading.
"What?"
"Let me touch you, please," Wilson asked. The room was silent, but alive with tension thick enough to smother someone with.
"Fine," House said, barely loud enough to hear. Wilson didn't wait for House to take it back, immediately scooting closer to his lover, putting an arm around his middle and his face in the crook of his neck. He breathed him in for a moment, and then began to sweep his hand up; over his chest, across his shoulders, skating over his collarbone, and down; over his good thigh, his knee, barely ghosting over his injured thigh, neither ignoring it nor lingering on it. Wilson lost himself in the repetition of the motions, in the smell and all-consuming feeling of his House. Maybe seconds passed, maybe hours, and Wilson felt House's body begin to shake, angry, tear-filled breaths huffing out of his mouth.
"Baby," Wilson said softly, drawing impossibly nearer to House, his front plastered to the diagnostician's back. House said nothing. Wilson held House until his crying became audible, until they were both this side of too warm, until House's breathing finally evened out into blissful sleep. Moving as gently as humanly possible, Wilson covered House's scar with his hand through the thin material of the basketball shorts. He would never know the extent of House's pain. He would never be able to say exactly what House needed to hear, or even be exactly what House needed. But he would try.