darkdreamer | Dark Redux, Part 1.11 -- Detox

Hi, guys :) This one's a chapter I've been waiting on for a while, hope you guys like it :) Please let me know :)

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DoS

Title: Dark Redux
Episode: 1.11 -- Detox
Beta:

misanthropicobs
Disclaimer: House, Wilson, and all other characters/ideas taken from the show are not my own, and I'm making no profit from the writing of this fiction -- just for fun, I promise. :P (Some dialogue this chapter taken directly from the episode.)
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: In this particular 'verse, I've changed one thing about the canon timeline. At the beginning of the story, when House and Wilson first get together, Wilson is already recently divorced from Julie.
Story Warnings: slash, dark Wilson eventually -- specific warnings for each chapter as necessary
Chapter Warnings: none really
Story Summary: A darker version of how canon might have gone, if House and Wilson had entered into a relationship from the start -- and if that relationship took a gradually dark, disturbing turn.
Chapter Summary: Wilson's plan to make House face his addiction works as well as he planned -- and serves to make House even more isolated and dependent on Wilson than before.

Cuddy found herself hard-pressed to keep pace with House, despite his limp, as he stalked away from the elevator toward his office, clearly determined to evade her – and the lecture she was in the middle of giving. However, she had no intention whatsoever of backing down, not this time.

Wilson had advised her to wait for the right opportunity – and this appeared to be just such an opportunity.

House’s reaction to a simple hour’s wait for his Vicodin made his drug problem more obvious than ever to her, and she was determined to do something to get House to face his addiction. She followed the basic script Wilson had suggested as she followed House to his office doorway.

“You can’t go a week without your drugs.”

“No, I don’t want to go a week without the drugs. It’ll hurt.” Cuddy tried to keep arguing her point, but House finally brushed her off with a curt, dismissive, “Well, I guess we’ll never know.”

Cuddy had no intention of letting it go at that. “I’ll give you a week off clinic duty if you can go a week off narcotics.”

“No way!” House objected, a sarcastic grin on his face. “I love the clinic.”

“You love the pills,” Cuddy corrected without hesitation. “Two weeks.”

“The pills don’t make me high. They make me neutral…”

“A month.”

A whole month off clinic duty proved to be bait too enticing for House to resist. Cuddy walked away triumphant, the Vicodin bottle safely in her possession. A few yards down the hall, just out of sight of House’s office, Wilson fell into step beside her, eager expectation in his eyes.

“Well?” His voice was hushed and secretive, though there was no chance of House overhearing them. “How’d it go?”

“He bought it, completely. Agreed to go a week without the pills. If all goes according to plan, then no more than one week from today he’ll have to face the fact that he’s addicted and it’s definitely affecting his behavior.”

Wilson nodded with thoughtful satisfaction as they reached his office, and stopped at the door to finish their conversation. “Good,” he said quietly. “Hopefully, this will help him to realize that he needs help.”

As Cuddy walked away toward the elevators, Wilson watched her go for a moment before retreating into his office, his mind spinning with the various, glorious possibilities that this drug-free week for House might bring.

He’ll see how out of control he’s gotten… realize that he needs help, all right – my help. Maybe he’ll learn to appreciate my concern, and stop constantly pushing me away… constantly trying to subvert my every attempt to help him. By the time this week is over, he’ll see that I’m the only one who’s really there for him. And as for Cuddy, he won’t want anything more to do with her – ever.

***************************

“How long has it been?”

Wilson’s tone was deceptively mild as House limped heavily past him, headed back toward the shelter of his empty office. House barely acknowledged him, not even looking at him, and not slowing his pace.

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

Wilson turned toward House, watching as he walked away, and called out, “Are you sure this is worth it?”

House did not bother to respond, and Wilson sighed wearily, momentarily considering the answer to his own question, as his friend disappeared around the corner. House was not looking well at the moment. He had broken out in a cold sweat, his appearance more disheveled than usual, and his limp seemed more pronounced than usual.

When House’s team left the patient’s room to report the latest development to their boss, Wilson decided to accompany them. He wanted to keep an eye on House, make sure that he was all right – and that everything was going according to plan. House seemed irritated by Wilson’s presence, well aware that the oncologist had no valid medical reason to take part in the differential; but he did not insist that Wilson leave, so Wilson spent as much of his day as possible as close as possible to House.

Of course, the dictates of his own job required Wilson to be away from House for at least a small portion of the day – and it was during that brief increment of time that House managed to do far more physical damage to himself than Wilson had anticipated.

When House showed up in Wilson’s office, his hand a horrifying purple-black color and oozing blood from the broken places in the skin, Wilson immediately understood the reasons for House’s actions, even if he could only guess at the specifics of how he had shattered his hand so brutally.

“This is not worth it,” Wilson muttered, concern mingled with anger in his voice as he focused his attention on treating the badly broken hand. “Just to prove your point to Cuddy? House – why does her opinion matter so much, anyway? Who cares what she thinks? She’s playing a twisted, mean-spirited game with you – and you’re playing right into her hand.”

“Yeah, well, if she is,” House replied, his own gaze intently focused on what Wilson was doing to his hand, “I’m still gonna win.”

“I just… hate to see you in this much pain, House,” Wilson murmured as he finished wrapping the hand and laid it gently down on the exam table, looking up at last to meet House’s eyes. “It’s not worth it.” He paused a moment, reaching up a hand to tenderly touch House’s cheek as he added pointedly, “She’s not worth it.”

“It’s not… not about her,” House confessed softly, looking away. “I’m not… not an addict. The pain is the problem – not the pain management.”

“Yeah, well… maybe so. But she’s trying to make this out to look otherwise,” Wilson warned him softly. “You shouldn’t play her game – shouldn’t let her get to you like this. She’s trying to humiliate you, and I don’t think you should let…”

The exam room door opened abruptly, and Wilson swiftly dropped his hand from House’s face, as both men turned expectantly to see Cuddy stalking angrily into the room.

“Why did you tell Cameron to lie to Mr. Foster?”

“Excuse me.”

Wilson quietly dismissed himself from the conversation, rising to his feet and giving House a meaningful look as he headed out the door – but not going far. Wilson waited just outside the exam room, wincing slightly with embarrassment for House as he realized that, from his spot near the door, he could just barely make out Cuddy’s furious, words, as she berated House, accusing him of allowing his withdrawal from the Vicodin to affect his behavior with the patient and his family.

Verbally, House held his own; but when he stepped out of the exam room, mere moments after Cuddy stalked angrily away, Wilson could clearly see the weary, defeated expression in his bright, pain-filled eyes. Without a word, Wilson took House’s arm and began to lead him down the hall toward the elevators.

House put up a token protest, but seemed too thoroughly exhausted and distracted by his pain to resist much. Wilson remained firm, maintaining his gentle grip on House’s arm until they had reached Wilson’s office, and the door was securely locked behind them.

“What do you think you’re doing?” House demanded, though the irritation in his voice sounded forced, as if he was secretly grateful for the enforced escape, but unwilling to admit it.

Wilson’s voice was warm with compassion, yet softly commanding.

“Take off your clothes and lie down on the couch.”

House raised a single eyebrow in Wilson’s direction. “Why? Just what do you think you’re going to do?”

Wilson gave a soft, mysterious smile as he sidled slowly nearer to House, until he could place his hands gently on House’s hips, fingertips trailing idly along the line of his jeans as he answered with subtle suggestion in his voice.

“I’m going to help you manage your pain.”

House finally returned his smile, despite the obvious pain in the lines of his haggard face. He offered no resistance as Wilson slowly, gently unfastened his jeans, unbuttoned his shirt, and let them fall to the floor in a forgotten heap. Wilson led House by the hand to the sofa, and helped him to lie down on his back and get as comfortable as possible.

Working slowly upward from House’s feet, to his muscled calves, then finally, gradually, toward the aching source of his suffering, Wilson proceeded to administer a slow, soothing massage. There was a sensual patience in his every measured, lingering touch – but nothing in Wilson’s actions or demeanor suggested that he expected any kind of reciprocation for the relief he was offering.

There was nothing but tenderness and concern in Wilson’s voice as he worked over House’s body with protective, gentle focus.

“I just… can’t stand to see you hurting like this, House,” he murmured as he slid his hands slowly, gently, up the sides on House’s bare, quivering thighs. “I love you… and I just… just want to help you… want to make this… easier for you… if you’re determined to go through with it. There’s no shame in giving in, you know…”

“I’m not…” House’s words were interrupted by a low groan as Wilson’s fingers kneaded into the aching muscle above his scar. “… not an addict…”

Wilson allowed his hands to slide up to House’s hips, leaning down over him to press a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips, before reminding him softly, “I never said you were.”

**************************

The effects of the massage – and the accompanying blow job with which Wilson followed it up – seemed to last House for a little while. His pain was somewhat eased, and he managed to function a little better for close to an hour after that. Eventually, however, he found himself longing for the relief of his pills once more.

And when a frustrated Foreman handed him a bottle of Vicodin – that longing became an almost irresistible temptation.

House didn’t take any of the Vicodin – not yet. He couldn’t bring himself to admit the truth of how desperately he needed the pills – even to himself. He placed the bottle in his pocket, carrying it with him as he continued to work on diagnosing his patient, ever aware of the constant weight of its presence.

Still, somehow, he managed to resist, through the patient’s final, correct diagnosis, and the long, empty hours that followed it as he waited for the end of the week he had promised Cuddy to arrive.

The time just before the week was ended found House sitting alone in his office, eyes locked onto the clock in front of him, wrestling with himself even in those last moments as to whether or not to just go ahead and open the tiny, tempting bottle in his pocket.

No. You can do this. You said a week, and you can go a week. Come on, don’t let her do this to you… don’t let her humiliate you like that. You can show her that you’re not an addict… not pathetic and dependent and…

The thought cut off abruptly as the numbers on the clock switched to the next minute, and House was blissfully, blessedly free of his week-long, self-imposed self-denial. He tried not to think about the way his hand was violently shaking, so hard that he struggled to open the bottle in front of him. He swore softly under his breath, for one awful moment thinking he might cry from sheer frustration, as he fought with the cruel piece of plastic in his hand – until it was suddenly swept from his hand, caught in someone else’s.

Wilson’s.

House hadn’t even noticed Wilson come in.

He let out a soft, frustrated sound of protest that was somewhere between a growl and a whimper as he reached for the bottle – but Wilson was standing, and House lacked the strength to do so at the moment, his leg screaming in agony even from his seated position behind his desk. Wilson easily kept the bottle away from him, looking down at him in sorrowful, sympathetic scrutiny.

“Give it to me,” House mumbled the demand, reaching for the Vicodin again – to no avail.

Wilson ignored his words, reaching his free hand down to gently brush across the bruised place on House’s jaw, where the patient’s father had punched him. Wilson’s voice was soft, wondering, and sad.

“Why did you do this to yourself, House?”

“I don’t know,” House snapped, his hand twitching impatiently, his eyes locked onto the slight motion of the bottle in Wilson’s hand. “Suddenly I just got the impulse to punch myself in the face, so I….”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Wilson’s voice was unusually patient and gentle, as he easily blocked another attempt by House to get at the pills, catching House’s wrist and holding it as he stepped in closer to the older man. “You have a problem, House. You have to know that by now.”

“No,” House objected stubbornly, looking away for just a moment before his eyes were drawn helplessly to the Vicodin bottle again. “No, I… I made it a week…”

“Yeah. One week. And look at you,” Wilson pointed out. “Look how badly you need these – how desperate you are. You’re an addict, House.”

“No…”

“Yes, you are. Admit it.”

“No. Give me my damn pills, Wilson…”

House lunged for the pills again, but Wilson easily kept them away from him, leaning in close to his face to reiterate emphatically.

“You want them? Admit it.”

Desperate, the fiery agony in his leg intensified by the terrible nearness of the relief Wilson was withholding, House made one final, desperate attempt to get at the pills, before allowing his shoulders to slump in defeat, his hand still held up by Wilson’s, now limp and unresisting in his firm grasp.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay…”

“Okay, what?” Wilson pressed.

“Okay, I’m… I’m…”

Wilson waited in patient silence, releasing House’s hand to grasp the pill bottle in both hands, visibly preparing to open it. However, he didn’t open it, just waited expectantly for the required confession. House met his eyes for a moment, silently pleading for mercy, not to be forced to verbally accept the truth – but Wilson’s expression was unyielding. House looked away, his voice hoarse and thick with shame when at last he spoke again.

“I’m an addict.”

“Oh, House…” Wilson’s voice was soft with anguished understanding, as he swiftly relented and knelt on the floor in front of House’s chair, twisting open the pill bottle and shaking two of them into House’s waiting, trembling hand. “I know… I know…”

House dry-swallowed the pills, nearly frantic with the urgency of his need – then allowed his head to fall forward into his damp, shaking hands, closing his eyes with the expectation of soon-coming relief. His shoulders shook with dry, silent sobs of relief and frustration and defeat – and Wilson gently wrapped his arms around him, pulling his unresisting form close and holding him, rocking slightly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Wilson whispered, pressing a tender kiss into House’s damp, disheveled hair. “It doesn’t matter, House. I love you. I just… just can’t stand to see you hurting.”

Wilson drew back, his hands cupping House’s face and forcing him to meet his eyes, as he continued in a voice of fervent, intense affection.

“I will always be here for you, House – no matter what. I love you for who you are – and that means every flaw and weakness, as well as every strength. The Vicodin – it doesn’t matter to me. I just don’t want to see you in pain. I never want to see you hurting like this, never again. This whole thing was just – just cruel. She never should have put you through this, House – never should have forced you to go without it for so long…”

In his pain-induced confusion, combined with the haze of blissful relief the pills were gradually creating within him, House didn’t register the blatant contradiction of Wilson’s words and actions. He collapsed gratefully into Wilson’s steadying arms as they wrapped around him again, resting his head on Wilson’s shoulder as a warm, strong hand ran slowly, soothingly through his hair.

“It’s all right…”

Wilson’s warm, soft voice rumbling in his ear filled House with a nearly euphoric sense of safety and security, as the medication eased his physical suffering, the effects of both mingling in House’s mind until they were nearly indistinguishable, and lending an indelible weight of truth and meaning to Wilson’s quiet, simple words of reassurance.

“… it’s all right, House. I’m right here… and everything’s all right..."

TBC...