Author's Notes: Trying new things... Sweet_Pants says I can control minds... I crawled into Wilson's for good measure. I am not him and thus I am unsure about this thing. But I always am when I do something new.
It's one of the worst things to see. I honestly don't know how I ever grew able to just... watch it. I guess he trained me: Through years of seeing this, I kind of started to remember when to do whatever it is I do... some call me a Saint for it. I'm not. I'm a horrible man. A sadist.
House is on the couch watching some shady B-movie, or, pretending to, anyway... and I was pretending to be washing our dishes earlier.
Neither of us have to really pretend around each other, that's why this works... and we don't, except when something is wrong. When something is wrong with me, I try to hide it. House will find out, but I think he can appreciate the puzzle.
When it's him, we... both pretend: I pretend not to see and... he pretends not to feel.
Before this whole thing with the leg he was already as rude and unthoughtful as I was annoying... all it really did was give us both an excuse to kick it up a notch. Now I've gone from annoying to cruel, because I watch this like it's new. It's not. I've not only seen it before, I've seen it too many times as well.
I'm currently placed strategically between the kitchen and the living room, and I'm waiting: House's body is rigid, but not too rigid, he's looking at the television (though he's not watching), rather than through it... he's still hiding part of his pain and that doesn't work for me: I'll help him when he's open, then it might actually do something. Judging by what he's letting on and the amount of pain he can usually... spirit out of the back door, it's a nine.
A Nine.
The pain scale measures pain from the worst pain imaginable to... to a pinch, but that's just it: what House imagines to be a nine would kill me! We've used the scale a lot... I can identify a nine because I've seen tens and... fives; I've forgotten what one looks like. I think it looks like a glass of bourbon and a piano key, both of which I've seen here today, so that's good.
House is staring at me now. He's inviting me to lecture him, which I won't... like I said: I'm annoying, not cruel. Sometimes I push him just to see if he'll still push back, his emotional state is as big a mystery as his brain, after all, but if he can't push back (which he certainly won't do today) I'll... just wait.
And what I've waiting for, is this:
He brings his legs up to the couch, squeezes his eyes shut, digs his chin in between his knees and admits he needs help. He needs me... and he's accused me of enjoying that.
I.Do.Not.
It's horrible.
I know he needs the morphine, even though I hate it... his need for control has always been greater, though: I'll go there and ask what he wants.
As soon as I'm crouched down next to him, he lunges forward so... impulsively to grab my wrist, so uncontrolled and raw that I'm crying as he grinds out between his teeth that he needs the box.
I know... it looks like I've been waiting too long. I might have if this wasn't House. I can't force sedation upon House! That's... betrayal to him... I need to be there. I need to be allowed close: That's how I know the box is somewhere only Holmes can find it. Typical. Sometimes I think I'm Watson.
His eyes go different places than the syringes and vials, almost as if to show me that they still can. He doesn't have to. I was there for the first vicodin... he was in his bedroom, alone, it was dark and moist and he didn't even move. I honestly thought he was dead... he was already depressed, he couldn't accept his new handicap and Stacy left: he looked ready to go most days. I'd thrown out all the knives (he didn't really eat any more than soup anyway), controlled the drug supply and... fought him every day, to humour him, keep him... alive, I guess.
And he was.
And then... I... placed the vial in front of him, just like that: this is it, the rest of your life.
I can't describe the look he gave me... he... wanted me to die, he wanted to strangle me... but, he just looked at me, buried his head in his hands and cried... I remember he told me to fuck off once, I think he wanted the opposite of that... that's what I gave him, anyway.
That's all I see when I look at any kind of drug: loss and lethargy. Yet, I am now searching for a vein. His blood pressure is through the roof, though, it doesn't take an expert effort to find one.
He curses... and cries, and laughs at me for being such a girl because I'm moving to cover him with a blanket when he falls asleep. I love him. Even more when he's asleep, really. Because we're not playing: I can cry for him, he can... just... relax and stop caring about the fact that I'm watching him.
I am.
I've started wondering how he coped with this while I was dating Amber... I know what happens when he doesn't get help long enough: he gets... desperate and just breaks down. Everything he keeps inside him spills out at once and it's... not pretty.
He has breakthrough pains like this at least two times a month... but since he was depressed (more than usual, anyway) in those four months, he has had them eleven times... he called me all eleven of them and I didn't come... and if it's not me, it's no one, we both know that. Cuddy stopped by the last three times and caught him in this state. The other eight... he was alone. I made him cry eight times and when he cries it's like dam breaking.
He wanted to get away from that and drank. That's all it was. She... picked him up because she was a nice person and he got on the bus because he just wanted me and... like I said: if it isn't me, it's no one. I guess that's left over from the time after the infarction... I'm actually the one who instilled that in him: I was oddly protective over him back then. One could say I still am now. I'm... gay that way, or at least House would say so.
All the things he's done for me... I...
I'm sorry House.
I am.
And... the reason I hate these nights so much? It's because... one moment he's sarcastically insulting everyone he's met that day, and then that all collapses. I'm never prepared... and I can't stand that.
I admit it.
Author's Notes: So that's it... I don't know! Hope you can appreciate the attempt at least. What am I saying? I don't know what to think!
*hides somewhere*
It's one of the worst things to see. I honestly don't know how I ever grew able to just... watch it. I guess he trained me: Through years of seeing this, I kind of started to remember when to do whatever it is I do... some call me a Saint for it. I'm not. I'm a horrible man. A sadist.
House is on the couch watching some shady B-movie, or, pretending to, anyway... and I was pretending to be washing our dishes earlier.
Neither of us have to really pretend around each other, that's why this works... and we don't, except when something is wrong. When something is wrong with me, I try to hide it. House will find out, but I think he can appreciate the puzzle.
When it's him, we... both pretend: I pretend not to see and... he pretends not to feel.
Before this whole thing with the leg he was already as rude and unthoughtful as I was annoying... all it really did was give us both an excuse to kick it up a notch. Now I've gone from annoying to cruel, because I watch this like it's new. It's not. I've not only seen it before, I've seen it too many times as well.
I'm currently placed strategically between the kitchen and the living room, and I'm waiting: House's body is rigid, but not too rigid, he's looking at the television (though he's not watching), rather than through it... he's still hiding part of his pain and that doesn't work for me: I'll help him when he's open, then it might actually do something. Judging by what he's letting on and the amount of pain he can usually... spirit out of the back door, it's a nine.
A Nine.
The pain scale measures pain from the worst pain imaginable to... to a pinch, but that's just it: what House imagines to be a nine would kill me! We've used the scale a lot... I can identify a nine because I've seen tens and... fives; I've forgotten what one looks like. I think it looks like a glass of bourbon and a piano key, both of which I've seen here today, so that's good.
House is staring at me now. He's inviting me to lecture him, which I won't... like I said: I'm annoying, not cruel. Sometimes I push him just to see if he'll still push back, his emotional state is as big a mystery as his brain, after all, but if he can't push back (which he certainly won't do today) I'll... just wait.
And what I've waiting for, is this:
He brings his legs up to the couch, squeezes his eyes shut, digs his chin in between his knees and admits he needs help. He needs me... and he's accused me of enjoying that.
I.Do.Not.
It's horrible.
I know he needs the morphine, even though I hate it... his need for control has always been greater, though: I'll go there and ask what he wants.
As soon as I'm crouched down next to him, he lunges forward so... impulsively to grab my wrist, so uncontrolled and raw that I'm crying as he grinds out between his teeth that he needs the box.
I know... it looks like I've been waiting too long. I might have if this wasn't House. I can't force sedation upon House! That's... betrayal to him... I need to be there. I need to be allowed close: That's how I know the box is somewhere only Holmes can find it. Typical. Sometimes I think I'm Watson.
His eyes go different places than the syringes and vials, almost as if to show me that they still can. He doesn't have to. I was there for the first vicodin... he was in his bedroom, alone, it was dark and moist and he didn't even move. I honestly thought he was dead... he was already depressed, he couldn't accept his new handicap and Stacy left: he looked ready to go most days. I'd thrown out all the knives (he didn't really eat any more than soup anyway), controlled the drug supply and... fought him every day, to humour him, keep him... alive, I guess.
And he was.
And then... I... placed the vial in front of him, just like that: this is it, the rest of your life.
I can't describe the look he gave me... he... wanted me to die, he wanted to strangle me... but, he just looked at me, buried his head in his hands and cried... I remember he told me to fuck off once, I think he wanted the opposite of that... that's what I gave him, anyway.
That's all I see when I look at any kind of drug: loss and lethargy. Yet, I am now searching for a vein. His blood pressure is through the roof, though, it doesn't take an expert effort to find one.
He curses... and cries, and laughs at me for being such a girl because I'm moving to cover him with a blanket when he falls asleep. I love him. Even more when he's asleep, really. Because we're not playing: I can cry for him, he can... just... relax and stop caring about the fact that I'm watching him.
I am.
I've started wondering how he coped with this while I was dating Amber... I know what happens when he doesn't get help long enough: he gets... desperate and just breaks down. Everything he keeps inside him spills out at once and it's... not pretty.
He has breakthrough pains like this at least two times a month... but since he was depressed (more than usual, anyway) in those four months, he has had them eleven times... he called me all eleven of them and I didn't come... and if it's not me, it's no one, we both know that. Cuddy stopped by the last three times and caught him in this state. The other eight... he was alone. I made him cry eight times and when he cries it's like dam breaking.
He wanted to get away from that and drank. That's all it was. She... picked him up because she was a nice person and he got on the bus because he just wanted me and... like I said: if it isn't me, it's no one. I guess that's left over from the time after the infarction... I'm actually the one who instilled that in him: I was oddly protective over him back then. One could say I still am now. I'm... gay that way, or at least House would say so.
All the things he's done for me... I...
I'm sorry House.
I am.
And... the reason I hate these nights so much? It's because... one moment he's sarcastically insulting everyone he's met that day, and then that all collapses. I'm never prepared... and I can't stand that.
I admit it.
Author's Notes: So that's it... I don't know! Hope you can appreciate the attempt at least. What am I saying? I don't know what to think!
*hides somewhere*