Fun With Dick and Cane REDUX 4

[verbal_kint]

Chapter Four: See Dick Care

 

House slid the glass door closed behind him. He was now in room 109, Tom Mix’s room. Tom Mix was snoring.

“What’s up, Quicks?”

Tom stirred slightly, but remained asleep as House repeated himself.

“What’s up, Quicks?”

No answer.

House sighed and hobbled over to Tom’s bed where he proceeded to hit the metal railing with his cane. This time, he found, he had Tom’s strict attention.

“What’s up, Quicks?” The question had lost the zest of its first use. Tom, however, didn’t seem to mind.

“Why are you in here?” he asked groggily.

“To say hi,” said House through a plastic grin.

Tom rubbed his eyes and scratched his head. “No, I mean I thought you hate talking to patients, so why are you in here?”

“Wilson said we looked alike, so I figured I’d prove once and for all that I’m way hotter by comparison.”

This deflection was…deflected by Tom’s own comedic shield, one that was currently stronger than House’s. “Wilson’s your best friend, right?”

Crap.

This meant Wilson had been talking to House’s patient. And not just talking—talking talking—the kind of talking where Wilson shared insights on House’s less charming qualities in the hopes of bringing more numbers to the cause. The cause, of course, being to get House more than one friend. Luckily, Wilson was about as bad at unprompted insights as therapists with a fondness for their own voices.

“Okay, here’s how this typically goes. I ask you about any recent dangerous, possibly life-threatening activities. You lie, but sooner or later the truth spawns from the ashes of those lies and you admit to participating in those dangerous, possibly life-threatening actives, and using that information, I save your life. Sound like a plan?”

Tom blinked. “I threw up…It may have been after I climbed Mt. Everest without an oxygen tank, drank a gallon of bleach, and had unprotected sex with sixty prostitutes…but I don’t remember on account of being an alcoholic.”

Ah yes, not even the posterchild of crippledom was immune from House’s ‘charm.’

“Gosh, no need to get sarcastic,” said House with a smirk as he threw two pills in his mouth.

“That’s Vicodin,” stated Tom.

“Yeah. Want one, or six?”

“No, thanks.” The apologetic tone was back in Tom’s voice.

“Did one of my lackeys put you on morphine?”

“No. Why?”

House seemed puzzled. “Well, what are you taking?”

“Um, Gabapentin. Does this have something to do with—“

“You’re an RSD patient,” House grabbed a chair and sat down, continuing, “and you’re telling me all you take is Gabapentin?”

Tom narrowed his eyes, seeing the checkpoint of this conversation. “With all due respect, Dr. House, not all pain patients are addicts looking for a fix.”

“Clearly.” House put the pill bottle back in his coat pocket.

“Uh,” Tom said, not sure he should proceed with the next part, “Dr. Wilson told me about your problem with…that.”

Which, of course, he didn’t.

“Yeah, I’m sure he did,” House whispered. “Now, on to all that important medical stuff…”

House picked up Tom’s chart and began reading his history, keeping his eyes averted from his patient. Tom understood. After all, talking was only entertaining under the right circumstances. He imagined that for a guy like House, those circumstances were wrong more often than not. Like right now.

“So, let’s see, appendicitis at age 12, bronchitis, ear infection…” House half mumbled bits of childhood illnesses and run-of-the-mill bumps and bruises until he reached something that interested him. Tom already knew what it was.

House let his voice carry a bit more, as if to make sure Tom was listening. “Age 22, spiral fractures of the right tib and fib. How’d you manage that?”

Tom cleared his throat. “Golfing.”

House’s eyes darkened, and he elaborated. “Well, I was hit by a golf cart. Some stupid kids driving it I guess.” He smiled awkwardly.

House began to wonder just how much Wilson had told him.

He read on, “Two days after that you had a fasciotomy for compartment syndrome.” House whistled, “Bet that left a gnarly scar.”

“Yeah,” said Tom grimly.

“Can I see it?”

“Only if I can see yours.”

This was the second time today Tom said something that caught his doctor off guard. He tilted his head, ready for a stare-down, when he lost any desire for one. It didn’t matter to him whether this kid thought he was a badass. He glanced at the floor in a look somewhat resembling defeat…somewhat.

“Nevermind,” he muttered.

Tom knew him too well, and it scared House. A lot. And what scared him more was how little House knew about Tom. He was used to reading people like instruction manuals. With this guy though, House couldn’t tell if he was seeing the summary on the back cover, or the whole text. Or worse, whether Wilson had told Tom things like this, or if the punk had figured them out for himself.

And despite all of this, House couldn’t bring himself to leave the room.

He coughed, allowing the tension to be directed at Tom. “After the surgery, your pain never subsided, your leg became cold, blueish, swollen…yep, well that definitely sounds like RSD, doesn’t it?”

It was now Tom’s turn to look down. “Four doctors didn’t think so. Took me a year to get diagnosed. They said it was all in my head, and after a while, I started to believe them. I mean, I guess technically they were right, but you can’t just ‘imagine’ that kind of pain, and…I was right.” He told his story like a war veteran recalling the loss of a close friend, adding pauses and dropping his voice as necessary. In a way, it was fitting.

He gave an insincere chuckle. “Funny, isn’t it? I spend six months going from specialist to specialist for something you diagnosed me with in 30 seconds at a walk-in clinic.”

House shrugged. “Specialists are idiots.” He eyed the monitor. Tom’s temperature was 102 and starting to rise. MS didn’t do that.

He didn’t mention it. “And when did you start taking the Gabapentin?”

Tom thought a minute, “about a week after I got diagnosed, so four years ago.”

Again, House seemed incredulous. “Does it work for you?”

“No,” he said honestly.

House shook his head. “Idiot. There’s a hundred different kinds of pain meds out there.”

“And none of them are going to work.”

“Well how would you know, you haven’t tried them, you haven’t worked out combinations, you—“

“You wouldn’t know either, Dr. House. All you have is Vicodin.”

House’s right thigh began to twinge, but he defended himself out of habit. “That’s because it works for me.”

Tom calmed down slightly. He had a killer’s patience with the personality of a hamster, and House didn’t quite understand why.

Tom gave him a hard stare. “But it doesn’t work, does it? You use painkillers like an alcoholic uses booze. Vicodin’s just your emotional crutch for stuff you don’t want to deal with. It barely takes the edge off your leg.”

It didn’t occur to House that with this guy, the skills in observation worked both ways. He was being read at the same time he was trying to read, and for reasons he’d soon ponder over for another sleepless night, his instruction manual was currently easier to read.

“Okay,” said House, “so if none of them work, then why not pick Vicodin? Why pick the one drug that doesn’t do anything at all?”

Tom paused for a moment, as if the answer was just coming to him, though it obviously wasn’t. “Because I don’t need it. I don’t need an emotional crutch to be happy.”

House leered, “you’re a happy…cripple?” In a stampede of career-born instincts, the medical conjectures started pouring in. Euphoria. Is that a symptom? No, no this isn’t euphoria; this is just contentment, happiness. That’s not a symptom…unless whatever he’s happy about causes him harm. But happiness about life? Life’s not a disease….yet. Shit, shit, shit, this isn’t making sense.

House’s thoughts were interrupted by a beep on Tom’s monitor. Tom’s heart rate had increased, though not by enough to induce a care by Gregory House.

Tom put a hand over his knee. This was the kind of pain that made Marines cry, and yet he kept staring at House. This accounted for the change in heart rate. “Yeah. I’m happy.”

House scratched his temple as his pain ran up a couple notches as well. “Any particular reason for that?” He stood up to stretch his leg.

“It’s a basic human emotion. Do I need a reason to feel it?”

House took a step and found that his leg was not there. It was there physically, of course, as it’s rather hard to misplace a limb while sitting down, but as soon as his right foot touched the ground it was about as useless as a CD to an iPod.

His left leg recognized the blunder before he did, and, as it had done too many times before, it caught the rest of his body with the help of his arms and Tom’s bed post.

House said the F-word.

Tom sat up surprisingly fast for a man with a fever and disorientation. “Shit, are you okay?”

House was perplexed. Throughout this entire conversation, he’d been under the impression that he was talking with someone as cold and calculating as himself. With Tom’s deliberate choices in words and conversation topic, it was understandable. However, those words were proof that not only was Tom Mix happy, but he was a human being. And right now, that human being wanted to know if House was okay.

Trouble was, House didn’t know if House was okay. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he lied. He sat down again, breathing fast and squeezing the life out of his arm rest.

“Amazing how the only other person in here is also a chronic pain patient and yet you still think people believe you when you tell them you’re fine.”

House got his breathing under control and looked Tom in the eye.

“It’s not a crime to feel pain,” said Tom, dangerously close to rolling his eyes. He snorted, “And you thought I was having a bad day.”

For the first time in 20 minutes, House was able to turn something Tom said against him.

“If nothing works, then why bother telling the truth?”

Tom turned it back. “So you’re not alone.”

“We are alone. You can share poignancies with your family, friends, and coworkers all you like, but at the end of the day—at the end of you life, it’s just you and your own head.”

“So we don’t feel alone. You tell one person, and that’s doing something.”

House didn’t pretend that his entire outlook on life would be changed by a 20 minute lecture disguised as a friendly chat. If that were true, he’d walk out of Wilson’s office every day a new man.

House didn’t know it, but he regarded every conversation as a battle yet to be won, and though he was older, smarter, and wiser to the woes of the world…somehow, he was losing this one.

And this battle probably couldn’t be won using his specialized methods of ‘guerilla warfare.’ Tom was immune to observation and manipulative quips, so House went at it the old fashioned way.

“Okie doke. We’re going to play a little game.”

“Like in ‘Saw’?” asked Tom, not amused.

“I was thinking more like the Joker, but if you’re still sad about Heath, then that’s cool.” House grinned out his best Cheshire cat impression. “I ask you a question. You answer it in two words or less.”

Tom squinted. “What do I get if I play your game?”

“Dude, I’m saving your life. What else do you need?”

“Dude, I’m not dying!”

“Says you.” House clicked his tongue. “You get my respect—the illusion of it,” he corrected.

“Fine. Only, whenever I answer a question, you have to answer one too.”

“Oops, sorry, I only do that with coma patients.”

Tom looked confused. After all, it’s unusual that one makes references to their own life. Tom didn’t falter though. “Then I won’t do it,” he said.

House exhaled sharply. “One question. We each get to ask each other one question. Sound like a deal, Quicks?”

Tom smiled slightly and sat up straight. “Alright, do you—“

“NOOO!”

Tom jumped approximately two feet in the air. Approximately. “What—what’s wrong?” he looked desperately at the source of the noise, House, who still sat calmly in the chair next to the bed.

“I get to go first,” he said softly. Tom sunk back in his bed like a kid who’s just seen Santa get stabbed.

House waited a long time before asking his question, as if watching the words in space before they reached his tongue. “What do you do on bad days?”

Tom seemed unaffected by the power this question held over House. “I get two words, right?”

House nodded instinctually, but then said “Whatever you want.”

“I meditate.”

A long silence filled the room like a noxious gas. Finally, House spoke. “You fucking kidding me?”

“Yes.”

House was unaware of how big his eyes had gotten until he blinked in some odd form of relief.

Tom continued, “I do the same thing you do. I shut down. I lock myself away. I avoid all human contact and scream into a pillow. I do anything and everything to take my mind off the pain. An, like you, it normally doesn’t work.”

House sneered as though this somehow pleased him to hear. “So, no secret yoga poses? No magic pill you take while putting up this front of kindness and understanding?”

Tom laughed. “Like your magic pill?”

“Aww, now you’ve hurt Mr. Vico’s feelings.” House was thinking about reaching for Mr. Vico right about now, but didn’t want to face the lecture from Wilson Jr. here.

“I’m not like you, Dr. House.”

“Of course not. If you were like me, I’d like you.”

“No you wouldn’t.” This time Tom was very serious. “The biggest difference between me and you is that I know, without a doubt, that I don’t deserve to be in pain. You, on the other hand…you wonder. You think, ‘Damn, I must have done something really wrong, or else God wouldn’t punish me like this.’”

“I don’t believe in God,” said House, jumping on the rebound.

“But you believe in cause and consequence, don’t you? You believe everything has a reason, right?”

“YES!”

House yelled. He never yelled at other patients. Other patients didn’t deserve the effort. But at this moment, Tom Mix deserved the full attention of Gregory House.

House was standing again. “And that’s why I know there’s a reason you’re happy. And that’s why I’m trying to find what that reason is.”

Tom sunk back into himself, but didn’t stop talking. “And we’re also kinda similar, Dr—“

“Cut the bullshit. You don’t know me. This isn’t some major epiphany. I’m trying to know you so I can save your life!”

Tom was blinking a lot now. “You know what it’s like to wish you were dead…” His voice broke, and was now just a hoarse remnant of what it had been. “…because even if you went to the deepest, hottest circle of Hell, it couldn’t possibly be worse than the Hell we experience on a daily basis.”

House gave a humorless laugh. “And that makes you happy?”

“It makes me fearless, and that makes me happy.”

“Do you know what Counterphobia is?” House sat back down.

“No.”

“It’s fear of fear, and it’s what you’ve got beneath that charming Evel Knievel mask of yours. Now, if that diagnosis could solve disorientation and nausea…” House trailed off and stared at the floor.

After a minute, Tom spoke again. “What about Cherophobia?”

House looked up. “That’s—“

“Fear of happiness.”

House let the words sit on the room like a loaded gun on a table. No one knew who would fire first. It became a standoff, and silence was the ammunition.

They sighed audibly at the same time, displaying how much House and irony were screwing with each other.

“Do I still get to ask you a question?”

The voice was Tom’s.

“Yeah,” said House.

“Do you remember what it’s like to ride a bike?”

House put his head down on the post of Tom’s bed, debating whether or not to lie, when he felt shaking. Not the shivery, post-cold swimming pool shaking, but rather the San Francisco World Series earthquake kind of shaking.

His eyes darted to the now rapidly beeping monitor and then to Tom, who was seizing and currently didn’t care whether House answered him or not.

“A little help here!”

As the nurses raced to Tom’s bedside and chaos began to choke the little room that surrounded him, House could not help but be relieved that he didn’t have to answer Tom’s question.

Not yet, anyway.


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