Broken - 2/3
Jun. 20th, 2011 12:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
damigellaTitle: Broken
Summary: After 7x23 House lands in jail, and risks losing his license, his freedom, and his mental sanity. To save him Wilson has to face a terrible choice.
Warning: Angst. Dark. No dark!house or dark!wilson. H/W strong friendship, preslash. Highlight here for triggers: torture, sadism. And schmoop.
Note: Written for camp![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sick_wilson and to fill in my kink_bingo card. Prompt: painplay (other). Three chapters.
Rating: R for violence. No sex or swearwords.
Word count: Verbose. As in >2000.
Extra Note: I mention Sekret Woid 3, Insomnia.
ETA: Improvements in my English are due to the patience of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
menolly_au.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the House, MD characters, which is good since I tend to kill them.
Chapter 2
"Hi, House."
"Hi, Wilson. We're back with a glass wall between us, I see."
"I get a personal physician visit, as they call it, once a week. This is a visit as a friend."
"Yes, Thirteen has been here twice already."
"Who else?"
House tried to keep his voice quiet, and hoped that no bitterness escaped. "No one. Except you."
"No one?" Wilson's eyebrows skyrocketed.
"Who should I have expected? My mother's too sick for such a trip, and who else cares for me? Thirteen looked quite disgusted by what I'd done, but she just said I had helped her when in prison and it was her turn now."
"No one else? What about the rest of your team? C..." Wilson stopped abruptly.
"Cuddy won't see me ever again, Wilson. She's obtained a restraining order. Which means I also will have to change my job. In the assumption that I get out of jail alive and I get my license back, neither of which is likely at the moment."
This time House knew he had sounded bitter. He was bitter, damn it. His life lay broken around him, and while he had a lot of responsibility, he also had had a lot of very bad luck. Including Cuddy's decision to dump Lucas for him, then to dump him for failing to be what she knew from the beginning he wasn't. It all had started when Wilson had thrown him out
of the condo, breaking his post-Mayfield promise; had he been living with Wilson at the time of the crane collapse…
House forced himself to go back to the present, and to the fact that now Wilson was there for him. He looked sick and desperate, actually, and he had been behaving strangely - but maybe this was just a misperception, everything seemed strange in jail.
"House, how's detox going?"
"Well, two days are a bit early to say, but it's much better than Mayfield. At least now I'm just scared of doing time, not of the detox. You said you had to work hard to obtain it. I'll repay you any expenses, that is, assuming I have any money left when they unfreeze my account - at the moment it's blocked until the civil court trial about Cuddy's damages is over."
There was deep pain in Wilson's eyes. Could he be worried about his money? He should have been, of course, but he never really seemed to care how much he gave House. "Wilson?"
Wilson shook his head, his vacant expression became focused on House again. "Sorry, I'm… I'm very tired. I'm glad to know the protocol works so far. I brought you some frozen home-made pancakes. They told me they'll warm them up for you and you can have two a day. Please be very polite, you don't have a right to warm non-prison food and they made a special exception."
House smiled and thanked him, just as the guard came and touched his shoulder: the interview was over. Wilson put his fingertips on the partition glass, and House spread his own to match them, mimicking a physical contact they couldn't have. As he walked away, he turned one last time and saw Wilson staring at him. Weird. He was smiling but his eyes seemed brimming with tears.
*****
"How come you're wearing a cast now?"
Wilson winced. He looked very tired.
"I already had it last time, you just couldn't see it in the visiting room. I fell in the shower, broke a couple of fingers, and worsened the sprain. I'll be wearing a cast for a while."
"Thirteen told me you're on sick leave."
"Yes, I find it hard to sleep with the cast on and am too tired to work properly. Besides, this way I have more time to talk with your lawyer. But let's stop talking about me. How are you?"
"The detox is going very well. I'm now at little above half my original methadone dose, and I use Ibuprofen instead, plus physical therapy. And Dr. Nolan has met me twice. He's writing a report together with the court-appointed psychiatrist and the one you hired for me, saying that PPTH should have had me on suicide watch or at least requested a psych consult before allowing me to leave AMA. I might even get my license back, if nothing new… comes out."
House looked at Wilson. He knew they shouldn't speak about this, but he was worried about the forged signatures. That wasn't a crime like trying to murder four people, but it had been done when he was sound of mind and would be enough to lose him his license.
Wilson sighed, and seemed unable to really smile. Maybe because he was so tired. "That's great, House. I hope… I hope your detox ends soon."
House looked at him with surprise. "Is there some other problem, Wilson? Something else wrong with your life?"
"I… oh, it's nothing. I had to give away Sarah. You know, the cat. I couldn't very well take care of her one-handed."
"I'm sorry. Did you find a shelter?"
"No, one of the nurses." Wilson finally smiled a bit. "I actually had more than enough volunteers, Sarah's so cute."
"I think it's high time for you to be spending the nights with someone other than a cat, anyway."
This time there was definitely pain in Wilson's eyes. "I… I don't mind being alone, House. I've had so many failed relationships."
"Wilson, would you like me to, uh, touch your fingers again?" House hoped Wilson wouldn't remark the non sequitur. Or, worse, understand the connection.
Wilson nodded, and gave House his left hand.
"Oh yes, too bad you can't take off the cast, I'm sure your injured hand could use some comforting, too."
House avoided looking Wilson in the face, and concentrated on the hand between his. Too soon a knock on the door announced the visit was over. When he let the hand go, he tried looking at Wilson but he had hidden his face in a handkerchief, blaming hay fever.
*****
"Good evening, Dr. Wilson."
"Dr. Collins."
"I trust you're now familiar with our little routine."
"Dr. Collins, I… how far do you want to go with this?"
"As long as you'll let me, Dr. Wilson. You can stop it anytime you like."
"I know. But if I stop now, will you… will House keep his license?"
"This doesn't depend on me. But my promise of destroying the forged signatures only holds if you stay in this with me until the end."
"That's… another ten days."
"Yes." The gleam in Collins' eyes was unmistakable.
"I… I don't know that I can do that."
"You don't have to. I'm so pleased with you that I'll let him slow detox to the end even if you pull out this very moment."
"Really?" Wilson was tempted. He so much wanted to close this chapter of his life. Forget about Collins. Then his brain unhelpfully supplied an image of House nodding his assent to the deep brain stimulation. Of smiling faces of patients that House had saved from death.
"I… I will think about it. For tonight I think I'm good to go."
"Excellent, Dr. Wilson! I wish I could dare to hope that you will enjoy this evening as much as I will."
*****
When the door to his cell closed, House let out a sigh of relief, and tried to recall everything his lawyer had been telling him. He definitely had been uncharacteristically optimistic. Cuddy had accepted his written apology, and acknowledged that he couldn't really be held responsible for his actions. It now looked likely that PPTH's malpractice insurance would end up paying her damages, since they were a consequence of the lack of proper care. Even though she had had the restraining order rescinded, House knew he could never go back to working with her: neither he nor Cuddy could forget.
Still, the situation wasn't bad, especially as compared to what it could have been: the detox was almost over, and he realized how much more clearly he could think now that Vicodin and alcohol abuse no longer clouded his judgement. If it weren't for the faked signatures, he would have good chances of being out of prison and into gainful employment again in a matter of weeks.
Apparently sharing his desire to avoid Cuddy, Wilson had resigned from PPTH and got himself a new job at Saint Sebastian's, starting with the coming month; he was negotiating with the Dean there the possibility of creating a diagnostic department with House at its head. If everything went well he would be able to work with Wilson again. And he had apparently forgiven him for the sprained wrist and… well, everything else.
Wilson. Wilson worried him. He briefly wondered whether he might be hiding some devastating sickness from him. An oncologist dying from cancer in his forties would be a very bad advertisement for Saint Sebastian's. Or maybe it was something psychological? Wilson had obviously been missing both food and sleep since House was in prison. Of course he was worried, and he had hinted at having to do unsavory stuff to give House a pain-free detox, but still… the man looked like he was in continuous pain, it was unclear whether physical or psychological.
Luckily the next day they were to meet again in person, for the last time in prison hopefully. House's pre-trial audience was scheduled for the following week, and if everything went as his lawyer expected he would be a free man after it.
*****
"Good morning, House."
"Hi, Wilson."
"How's detox going?"
"Very well, actually. I have been opiate-free for two days now."
"Sounds great. My new boss has already scheduled a meeting with you. Apparently he has someone with insider info, and they said money is on you having your freedom and your license back in less than ten days."
"Wilson… give me your hand again, please."
Wilson blushed, but he didn't refuse. The small physical comfort helped him go through a life that had become a nightmare of pain. He wondered whether he could now understand House's repeated, desperate attempts to make that pain cease.
"Are you sick?"
"Uh… not that I know of, apart from the broken bones in my right hand."
"Wilson, I feel you're hiding something from me. You lost weight, and you look like you haven't slept a full night since I ended up here."
"Don't worry about me, House. I'll be fine. Just a bit of insomnia."
"I am worried. Wilson, I'm grateful to you. I… I care for you. Please. If there's a problem, we can face it together."
Wilson was tempted, but of course he couldn't speak. How he wished he could. On the other hand, there was something they could and should be talking about.
"House, how important is it for you to get your license back?"
House sighed. "I guess I should already feel happy that I'm going to get out of here, and have detoxed safely and painlessly. But… Wilson, my job is my life. I have no close connection with my mother, I will probably never be in a relationship again, and you've seen how many friends I have. All I have is my job, and you. And it's a miracle you're still there. That's why I'm so worried that you may be sick."
"House, don't worry. There may be something I'm keeping from you, but it's not serious, just something I'd rather not discuss where we can easily be overheard. I promise that it's not life-threatening."
At least, I hope it isn't.
*****
Wilson was sitting on House's couch. He had removed the cast, and was looking at his right hand, trying to find the courage to touch the twisted fingers, comparing the healthy thumb and forefinger with the maimed rest. He told himself he didn't have to do this. He wouldn't even have to call or see Collins again: just call a taxi, and get driven to the nearest ER. Preferably one where no one knew him, and with a good surgeon. Although probably the small finger was beyond salvation. The dark hue near the nail looked suspiciously like a beginning of gangrene.
He wasn't in pain at the moment - there was still morphine in his system, luckily he had stolen enough from the oncology ward before leaving PPTH. Being pain free was good for thinking, but it might lead him to some spectacularly stupid decision. And yet, what were the choices? He had heard that since the Diagnostics Department was headed by Foreman, the success rate had plummeted; slowly at first, than more decidedly the number of admissions had decreased as well. Chase had accepted a job in Sydney, Taub had gone back to cosmetic surgery. Hospital gossip was betting on Foreman moving to California with his old boss, and Diagnostics being officially closed at the end of the fiscal year.
Wilson thought of the many patients that only House had been able to save. Where would they go now? He got up and moved to the piano, no longer dusty after the cleaning up of the whole apartment. Maybe he should have had the piano tuned? At least the cleaning company had done a good job.The lawyer had been sure: on Monday House would be able to sit on his couch, play his piano, sleep in his bed.
He opened the cover, sat down on the bench, and one-handedly played what he remembered of the easiest piano exercise of his childhood. Better him than House, he wouldn't miss playing the piano.
Better him than House.
*****
"Dr. Wilson? It's time. Yes or no. You do it, or you don't. Dr. House gets his medical license back, or he doesn't."
"Can I trust you, Dr. Collins?"
"I gave you my word, and I'll give it again. Once this weekend is over, you will not hear from me again, and you'll be able to start your new job at Saint Sebastian's."
Wilson felt shivers going down his back. As he had done almost full-time for a month, he imagined his life with a physical handicap. No golf, a hard time cooking. Simple, everyday tasks becoming difficult. People looking at him with disgust and pity. Then he thought of House, of the rehab and the cane. Of more than a decade of pain. Of his face when he said "my job is my life". House trusted him; he wouldn't let him down.
"It's a yes, Dr. Collins."
Summary: After 7x23 House lands in jail, and risks losing his license, his freedom, and his mental sanity. To save him Wilson has to face a terrible choice.
Warning: Angst. Dark. No dark!house or dark!wilson. H/W strong friendship, preslash. Highlight here for triggers: torture, sadism. And schmoop.
Note: Written for camp
sick_wilson and to fill in my kink_bingo card. Prompt: painplay (other). Three chapters.Rating: R for violence. No sex or swearwords.
Word count: Verbose. As in >2000.
Extra Note: I mention Sekret Woid 3, Insomnia.
ETA: Improvements in my English are due to the patience of
menolly_au. Disclaimer: I don't own any of the House, MD characters, which is good since I tend to kill them.
Chapter 2
"Hi, House."
"Hi, Wilson. We're back with a glass wall between us, I see."
"I get a personal physician visit, as they call it, once a week. This is a visit as a friend."
"Yes, Thirteen has been here twice already."
"Who else?"
House tried to keep his voice quiet, and hoped that no bitterness escaped. "No one. Except you."
"No one?" Wilson's eyebrows skyrocketed.
"Who should I have expected? My mother's too sick for such a trip, and who else cares for me? Thirteen looked quite disgusted by what I'd done, but she just said I had helped her when in prison and it was her turn now."
"No one else? What about the rest of your team? C..." Wilson stopped abruptly.
"Cuddy won't see me ever again, Wilson. She's obtained a restraining order. Which means I also will have to change my job. In the assumption that I get out of jail alive and I get my license back, neither of which is likely at the moment."
This time House knew he had sounded bitter. He was bitter, damn it. His life lay broken around him, and while he had a lot of responsibility, he also had had a lot of very bad luck. Including Cuddy's decision to dump Lucas for him, then to dump him for failing to be what she knew from the beginning he wasn't. It all had started when Wilson had thrown him out
of the condo, breaking his post-Mayfield promise; had he been living with Wilson at the time of the crane collapse…
House forced himself to go back to the present, and to the fact that now Wilson was there for him. He looked sick and desperate, actually, and he had been behaving strangely - but maybe this was just a misperception, everything seemed strange in jail.
"House, how's detox going?"
"Well, two days are a bit early to say, but it's much better than Mayfield. At least now I'm just scared of doing time, not of the detox. You said you had to work hard to obtain it. I'll repay you any expenses, that is, assuming I have any money left when they unfreeze my account - at the moment it's blocked until the civil court trial about Cuddy's damages is over."
There was deep pain in Wilson's eyes. Could he be worried about his money? He should have been, of course, but he never really seemed to care how much he gave House. "Wilson?"
Wilson shook his head, his vacant expression became focused on House again. "Sorry, I'm… I'm very tired. I'm glad to know the protocol works so far. I brought you some frozen home-made pancakes. They told me they'll warm them up for you and you can have two a day. Please be very polite, you don't have a right to warm non-prison food and they made a special exception."
House smiled and thanked him, just as the guard came and touched his shoulder: the interview was over. Wilson put his fingertips on the partition glass, and House spread his own to match them, mimicking a physical contact they couldn't have. As he walked away, he turned one last time and saw Wilson staring at him. Weird. He was smiling but his eyes seemed brimming with tears.
*****
"How come you're wearing a cast now?"
Wilson winced. He looked very tired.
"I already had it last time, you just couldn't see it in the visiting room. I fell in the shower, broke a couple of fingers, and worsened the sprain. I'll be wearing a cast for a while."
"Thirteen told me you're on sick leave."
"Yes, I find it hard to sleep with the cast on and am too tired to work properly. Besides, this way I have more time to talk with your lawyer. But let's stop talking about me. How are you?"
"The detox is going very well. I'm now at little above half my original methadone dose, and I use Ibuprofen instead, plus physical therapy. And Dr. Nolan has met me twice. He's writing a report together with the court-appointed psychiatrist and the one you hired for me, saying that PPTH should have had me on suicide watch or at least requested a psych consult before allowing me to leave AMA. I might even get my license back, if nothing new… comes out."
House looked at Wilson. He knew they shouldn't speak about this, but he was worried about the forged signatures. That wasn't a crime like trying to murder four people, but it had been done when he was sound of mind and would be enough to lose him his license.
Wilson sighed, and seemed unable to really smile. Maybe because he was so tired. "That's great, House. I hope… I hope your detox ends soon."
House looked at him with surprise. "Is there some other problem, Wilson? Something else wrong with your life?"
"I… oh, it's nothing. I had to give away Sarah. You know, the cat. I couldn't very well take care of her one-handed."
"I'm sorry. Did you find a shelter?"
"No, one of the nurses." Wilson finally smiled a bit. "I actually had more than enough volunteers, Sarah's so cute."
"I think it's high time for you to be spending the nights with someone other than a cat, anyway."
This time there was definitely pain in Wilson's eyes. "I… I don't mind being alone, House. I've had so many failed relationships."
"Wilson, would you like me to, uh, touch your fingers again?" House hoped Wilson wouldn't remark the non sequitur. Or, worse, understand the connection.
Wilson nodded, and gave House his left hand.
"Oh yes, too bad you can't take off the cast, I'm sure your injured hand could use some comforting, too."
House avoided looking Wilson in the face, and concentrated on the hand between his. Too soon a knock on the door announced the visit was over. When he let the hand go, he tried looking at Wilson but he had hidden his face in a handkerchief, blaming hay fever.
*****
"Good evening, Dr. Wilson."
"Dr. Collins."
"I trust you're now familiar with our little routine."
"Dr. Collins, I… how far do you want to go with this?"
"As long as you'll let me, Dr. Wilson. You can stop it anytime you like."
"I know. But if I stop now, will you… will House keep his license?"
"This doesn't depend on me. But my promise of destroying the forged signatures only holds if you stay in this with me until the end."
"That's… another ten days."
"Yes." The gleam in Collins' eyes was unmistakable.
"I… I don't know that I can do that."
"You don't have to. I'm so pleased with you that I'll let him slow detox to the end even if you pull out this very moment."
"Really?" Wilson was tempted. He so much wanted to close this chapter of his life. Forget about Collins. Then his brain unhelpfully supplied an image of House nodding his assent to the deep brain stimulation. Of smiling faces of patients that House had saved from death.
"I… I will think about it. For tonight I think I'm good to go."
"Excellent, Dr. Wilson! I wish I could dare to hope that you will enjoy this evening as much as I will."
*****
When the door to his cell closed, House let out a sigh of relief, and tried to recall everything his lawyer had been telling him. He definitely had been uncharacteristically optimistic. Cuddy had accepted his written apology, and acknowledged that he couldn't really be held responsible for his actions. It now looked likely that PPTH's malpractice insurance would end up paying her damages, since they were a consequence of the lack of proper care. Even though she had had the restraining order rescinded, House knew he could never go back to working with her: neither he nor Cuddy could forget.
Still, the situation wasn't bad, especially as compared to what it could have been: the detox was almost over, and he realized how much more clearly he could think now that Vicodin and alcohol abuse no longer clouded his judgement. If it weren't for the faked signatures, he would have good chances of being out of prison and into gainful employment again in a matter of weeks.
Apparently sharing his desire to avoid Cuddy, Wilson had resigned from PPTH and got himself a new job at Saint Sebastian's, starting with the coming month; he was negotiating with the Dean there the possibility of creating a diagnostic department with House at its head. If everything went well he would be able to work with Wilson again. And he had apparently forgiven him for the sprained wrist and… well, everything else.
Wilson. Wilson worried him. He briefly wondered whether he might be hiding some devastating sickness from him. An oncologist dying from cancer in his forties would be a very bad advertisement for Saint Sebastian's. Or maybe it was something psychological? Wilson had obviously been missing both food and sleep since House was in prison. Of course he was worried, and he had hinted at having to do unsavory stuff to give House a pain-free detox, but still… the man looked like he was in continuous pain, it was unclear whether physical or psychological.
Luckily the next day they were to meet again in person, for the last time in prison hopefully. House's pre-trial audience was scheduled for the following week, and if everything went as his lawyer expected he would be a free man after it.
*****
"Good morning, House."
"Hi, Wilson."
"How's detox going?"
"Very well, actually. I have been opiate-free for two days now."
"Sounds great. My new boss has already scheduled a meeting with you. Apparently he has someone with insider info, and they said money is on you having your freedom and your license back in less than ten days."
"Wilson… give me your hand again, please."
Wilson blushed, but he didn't refuse. The small physical comfort helped him go through a life that had become a nightmare of pain. He wondered whether he could now understand House's repeated, desperate attempts to make that pain cease.
"Are you sick?"
"Uh… not that I know of, apart from the broken bones in my right hand."
"Wilson, I feel you're hiding something from me. You lost weight, and you look like you haven't slept a full night since I ended up here."
"Don't worry about me, House. I'll be fine. Just a bit of insomnia."
"I am worried. Wilson, I'm grateful to you. I… I care for you. Please. If there's a problem, we can face it together."
Wilson was tempted, but of course he couldn't speak. How he wished he could. On the other hand, there was something they could and should be talking about.
"House, how important is it for you to get your license back?"
House sighed. "I guess I should already feel happy that I'm going to get out of here, and have detoxed safely and painlessly. But… Wilson, my job is my life. I have no close connection with my mother, I will probably never be in a relationship again, and you've seen how many friends I have. All I have is my job, and you. And it's a miracle you're still there. That's why I'm so worried that you may be sick."
"House, don't worry. There may be something I'm keeping from you, but it's not serious, just something I'd rather not discuss where we can easily be overheard. I promise that it's not life-threatening."
At least, I hope it isn't.
*****
Wilson was sitting on House's couch. He had removed the cast, and was looking at his right hand, trying to find the courage to touch the twisted fingers, comparing the healthy thumb and forefinger with the maimed rest. He told himself he didn't have to do this. He wouldn't even have to call or see Collins again: just call a taxi, and get driven to the nearest ER. Preferably one where no one knew him, and with a good surgeon. Although probably the small finger was beyond salvation. The dark hue near the nail looked suspiciously like a beginning of gangrene.
He wasn't in pain at the moment - there was still morphine in his system, luckily he had stolen enough from the oncology ward before leaving PPTH. Being pain free was good for thinking, but it might lead him to some spectacularly stupid decision. And yet, what were the choices? He had heard that since the Diagnostics Department was headed by Foreman, the success rate had plummeted; slowly at first, than more decidedly the number of admissions had decreased as well. Chase had accepted a job in Sydney, Taub had gone back to cosmetic surgery. Hospital gossip was betting on Foreman moving to California with his old boss, and Diagnostics being officially closed at the end of the fiscal year.
Wilson thought of the many patients that only House had been able to save. Where would they go now? He got up and moved to the piano, no longer dusty after the cleaning up of the whole apartment. Maybe he should have had the piano tuned? At least the cleaning company had done a good job.The lawyer had been sure: on Monday House would be able to sit on his couch, play his piano, sleep in his bed.
He opened the cover, sat down on the bench, and one-handedly played what he remembered of the easiest piano exercise of his childhood. Better him than House, he wouldn't miss playing the piano.
Better him than House.
*****
"Dr. Wilson? It's time. Yes or no. You do it, or you don't. Dr. House gets his medical license back, or he doesn't."
"Can I trust you, Dr. Collins?"
"I gave you my word, and I'll give it again. Once this weekend is over, you will not hear from me again, and you'll be able to start your new job at Saint Sebastian's."
Wilson felt shivers going down his back. As he had done almost full-time for a month, he imagined his life with a physical handicap. No golf, a hard time cooking. Simple, everyday tasks becoming difficult. People looking at him with disgust and pity. Then he thought of House, of the rehab and the cane. Of more than a decade of pain. Of his face when he said "my job is my life". House trusted him; he wouldn't let him down.
"It's a yes, Dr. Collins."