"You never thought of
anyone else
You just saw your pain
And now I cry
In the
middle of the night
For the same damn thing,"
House gave me an extra key last year, when I moved in and even after I left, he never asked for it back and I've kept it, for personal reasons and even though I've tried telling myself that I only keep it for his safety, and only so I can look in on him when he's doing really badly, I know that's not the least bit true. I'm still in love with him and he knows it. When I finish with the detective, I speed over to his place, perfectly ready to yell at him, or kill him, or kick his ass, or worse. Then I open the door and step inside.
The TV is on so loud it covers up the door slamming. He doesn't even stir, but based on the number of empty beer bottles and the bright orange bottle of Vicodin on the table by the couch, I don't think an elephant crashing through the ceiling would wake him up. No matter how gentle I'd like to be, I'm still pissed. So, I walk to his side, lean over the couch, and shout in his face.
"HOUSE!" My voice carries across the apartment and he bolts upright, looking around confused.
"Hmmm," he mummers quietly, reaching for the prescription bottle. Luckily, I'm faster. "Whatever I did can't be that bad can it?"
"Why the Hell did you do it?" I demand, slipping the pills into my pocket. House scratches his head.
"You're going to need to give me more of a clue than that. I'm not going to confesses to anything unless I already know that you know about it." When he looks around a bit, trying to get out of this I start feeling desperate.
"Maybe you should just start talking and I'll stop when it starts to sound familiar."
"Let's see, you know about the thermometer, the pills, ohh great. He found the box from the top of the book case didn't he?"
"No, at least, if he did, he didn't tell me about it," I say as our eyes lock and suddenly he starts to get up. It's not even a close race, and I have the bottles of morphine in my hands before he's even all the way off the couch. "I'm going to pretend I didn't see these, if you can pretend they were never here."
"How about a trade?" He asks, his eyes glancing at my waist.
"You can have the pills back when we finish talking," I offer, whishing that he wanted something else from me. House sits down, propping his legs up on the table.
"Come on, Jimmy, sit down, grab a beer. We're gonna be here for a while," House calls over his shoulder.
"You forged my signature on a prescription, more than once. Why would you do that?" House turns away from me, running his left hand over his face and hair. "Don't insult my intelligence on top of everything else. I could lose my license over this."
"You've got to be kidding me, Jimmy. Even if he can prove that you didn't write those, what is the worst he can do?"
"All he has to do is look into my history, talk to the wrong patient. There are plenty of things that could—Jesus House! How did you think I was going to react?"
"He's not going to do anything, just relax and ride it out. All you have to do is say you wrote those prescriptions and I get off. What's he gonna do, come after you for enabling me?" He reaches for my hand. I'm not even that mad about the prescriptions. As usual with him, there are a dozen other things that have me worried, mad or scared, but that I'm afraid to speak to him about.
"There were enough pills stashed around this place to…why did you need that many?" I sit down on the couch, but I'm not taking his hand. I won't. "You had to be planning something. What was it?" This time when he looks away, I know it's not an act. "I—how—I can't believe you."
"Do you have any idea what it's like to be me? To wake up in the morning unable to think about anything but how much pain you're in? To know that the only reason nobody's killed me is because I'm a cripple? To know that even your best friend can't stand you?"
"Here. Take your fucking pills. You can even have these. See how much I care!" I shout tossing the pills and the morphine onto the couch. Some of his rant was real and I know it but mostly he's playing up the guilt angle.
"That's exactly what I'm talking about," he says dry swallowing way too many pills. "You didn't even try to tell me that you don't hate me."
"How many times are we going to have this argument—how the Hell do you do that?" House lets out a deep sigh, laying his head against my shoulder. "I don't hate you." I wrap my arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer to me.
"What do you want me to say," he asks, lifting his head a little.
"The truth would be nice, for a change. I know it's not really your style when it comes to the personal stuff but this is me. We've known each other forever and I will walk out that door if you start in with your usual bullshit." House closes his eyes, wincing and clenching his teeth. "I'm standing up," I tell him but don't move. I know I can't leave him like this. I just have to get him talking. So, I let go, standing slowly. "I'm walking to the door. I've got my hand on the doorknob." As the words leave my mouth and my body follows along, tears stream down my face. "I'm opening the door…"
"Okay," he shouts at last. "Just give me a minute, okay? This isn't easy for me."
"And you think it's easy for me? The things I do for you." He reaches for me slowly, his hand going for the buttons on my shirt. "Do we have to talk about this right now, James? Come on," he says, as I brush his hand away. "Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. I know you've been getting even less than I have. You must have missed it."
"What I want right now is for you to knock it off and just fucking talk to me." House gives me that look. The sad, pathetic one, not the angry look. This is what we call the 'have pity on me I'm a fucking cripple,' look. "Why did you need that many pills? Just tell me, please." House sighs again and I could almost swear I see a tear rolling down his cheek.
"Or you're gonna leave?" His voice is soft and sad and I can tell that this isn't an act.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I love you. I'm not going anywhere, but we need to talk.
"Fine," House sighs, staring straight ahead. "Fine."