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Title: Best It Can Be
Pairing: House/Foreman
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: pg-13-ish
Warnings: sick house, f-words
Summary: Foreman takes House to the hospital after House's "flu" has lasted three weeks. It isn't the flu. stuff happens.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes and Previous Chapters: 1 2
T
Foreman got up, as House’s limbs stiffened, and a loud moan came out of his mouth.
He held the older doctor on his side, and put down the rails, so House wouldn’t hit anything when the clonic part of the seizure started.
Driscol, the nurse from before, came in, and sighed, getting the suction hose out of a cart next to House’s bed, and siphoning away the frothy saliva coming out of his mouth.
Eventually, the convulsions ended, and House lay still, breathing in loud, shaking gasps, eyes half open and blank.
Foreman held an oxygen mask over his mouth, sighing.
Driscol left, knowing Foreman was capable of handling someone coming out of a seizure.
Foreman put the bar up on the side away from him, so House couldn’t roll off, and waited.
House’s eyes slowly focused, and he looked around, confused and disoriented.
“Nuh… uh… fmn…”
Foreman gripped his arm, “hey, House. You know where you are? Can you tell me your name? What’s your name?”
House groaned, and reached clumsily over, tangling his hand in Foreman’s shirt.
“Yeah, I’m here,” said Foreman, “you’re okay. Can you tell me your name?”
“Uh?”
“Can you tell me your name?”
“Nnn…. Grg…”
“There we go,” said Foreman, rubbing House’s arm, “what’s your name?”
“Greg House.”
“You know where you are?”
House looked at the younger doctor, sleepily.
“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, “tir’d…”
“Okay,” said Foreman, as House closed his eyes, “get some rest…”
House nodded tiredly, and closed his eyes.
Later, he moaned himself awake.
“Owww….”
“You had a tonic-clonic seizure, House,” said Foreman.
“Uhn… no kih… kidding….”
“You okay?”
“Hurts…”
Foreman sighed.
“You need anything?”
“No.”
Foreman nodded, sitting back in his chair.
His pager went off.
He looked at it.
“Damn… patient. See you later, House.”
“Nnn,” grunted House.
Foreman rolled his eyes, and left.
Foreman was kept busy for over a week, with first one emergency, then another.
By the time he was able to visit again, he was exhausted, and really just wanted to go home.
But he figured it would be better if he told House that, rather than going home without explaining he was just tired, not avoiding visiting.
So he walked to House’s hospital room, only to find House curled with a pillow over his face, heartrate quite high.
“Headache?” asked Foreman, quietly.
“Uh-huh,” came the muffled response.
“How long?”
“Days. Won’t quit. Won’t go away,” House sounded upset.
“I just came to tell you I’m going home to get some rest,” said Foreman, walking in and standing close to House’s bed, “but I’ll be by again tomorrow.”
He started to leave, but a hand clumsily gripped his wrist.
Foreman sighed.
“Okay,” he said, quietly, “hang in there.”
A soft, pained sound, muffled by the pillow, was the only response he got.
Foreman sat down in the chair, and leaned against the bed.
“Driscol hasn’t been by?” he asked, only a whisper.
“Got assigned to anther… another floor, or something,” said House, weakly.
“Ah,” said Foreman, resting his elbows on the mattress, and his chin on his palms, “when’s the last time you ate?”
“Keep puking. Doesn’t matter. Nothing sais… stays down.”
Foreman sighed.
“When’s the last time you had PT? You’re going to end up too weak to walk even if you get over the infection.”
“Hurts.”
“So will severe muscle atrophy.”
“You know what won’t hurt? Yoush… you shutting up.”
Foreman snorted.
“Come on,” he said, pulling the pillow off, “I know you’ve got a headache. But you’re acting like you’ve given up.”
House put his hands over his eyes, whispering vehemently, “now is not the best time!”
Foreman gripped him under the armpit, pulling him to a sitting position.
“Come on. Fight, dammit.”
House pushed his face into Foreman’s shoulder.
“Hurts,” he mumbled, “can’t…”
He clenched his hand in Foreman’s sleeve, still mumbling, “not giving up. Just hurts. Feels like my deh… head is gonna crack open. Just can’t now. Not now. Hurts.”
Foreman sighed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly.
House shook his head, still pressing his face into Foreman’s chest, “’sok. Didn’t know. No harm. Know I’m not actig… acting normal.”
House was still acting really weird.
Finally, as Foreman started to help him ease back into the pillows, two of his fingers catch in the cuff of Foreman’s sleeve.
They pull free, as Foreman straightens, but the tug was enough.
Something that might have been accidental, except this is House.
House doesn’t want to be alone, while he’s feeling this bad. He’s sick of fighting through it on his own. Even though he’s House, he’s been suffering, and he’s sick of it.
So, although Foreman leaves the room, it’s only to get something, and then he comes back, and sits on the edge of the bed.
House grunts, a pillow once again shoved over his face.
“Thirty-one year-old male, presenting with cardiogenic shock, no heart attack, and right ankle pain.”
House pulled the pillow off, squinting at Foreman.
“Is this a real case?”
“It’s an already solved one—the one I’ve been working for the last week, actually.”
House put the pillow back over his face.
Foreman blinked, “House?”
“Shut up. I’m thinking.”
Foreman smirked, and opened the file.
The next day, Foreman was walking towards House’s room, when he ran straight into the man himself—or rather, over.
House was sitting on the floor of the mostly empty hallway, leaning against the wall.
“House?”
House looked up at him, squinting slightly.
“Hi,” he mumbled.
Foreman snorted, “you need a hand up?”
House shook his head.
Foreman rolled his eyes, “yes you do.”
“I don’t if I’m not going to get up.”
Foreman blinked, “soo… you’re just going to sit there.”
House nodded.
Foreman left to get a wheelchair because he’d translated that into House couldn’t walk.
Later, when House was back in the hospital bed, Foreman brought out another file.
House grinned, tiredly, and sat with his hands in his lap, as Foreman read off the symptoms.
They went back and forth for a long time, until House gestured for the water cup, and winced.
Foreman looked at him.
“Joint pain?” he asked.
House nodded, silently.
“How bad?”
“A bit better than my leg.”
Foreman nodded, “that’s too bad.”
He handed House the cup, and House drank from it, then handed it back to Foreman.
“Your speech is getting better, though,” he said, quietly.
House nodded, “yeah.”
House didn’t mention that he’d been supposed to be going to a session with a speech therapist, when he fell in the hallway. She’d understand, and if she didn’t, House didn’t really care. Although, she had said she would come here, since House could barely get to the bathroom on his own… but he had gotten slightly pissed at the offer.
He could feel an ‘I told you so’ coming…
“House?” asked Foreman, voice soft and gentle.
House looked at Foreman, wondering what the hell was up with Foreman’s tone, as he studied the younger doctor for a hint. Foreman looked… exhausted. It made sense, he had been tired yesterday, and had stuck around anyway.
“Yeah,” he said, “thinking.”
“Oh,” said Foreman, shrugging, “thought you were having a seizure.”
“Oh,” said House as well, snorting. That explained the gentle tone, anyway.
Foreman sighed, scooting up to lean against the wall behind the bed, so he was parallel with House.
House looked at him, “why are you sitting on the bed, anyway? There’s a perfectly good chair.”
“No, there’s a really uncomfortable chair designed to keep people from sitting in them too long so it’s easier for the nurses to kick them out after visiting hours are over.”
House laughed.
Foreman opened the file again.
Eventually, House fell asleep, while Foreman was listing the results of a blood panel.
Foreman smiled a little, as House’s hand unconsciously tangled itself a bit in Foreman’s shirt, and his head migrated over to rest on Foreman’s shoulder.
Foreman later woke to find House’s laptop sitting on his thighs, playing a movie with the brightness level of the screen turned down low, and House still using his chest as a pillow.
Foreman rolled his eyes, and poked House’s head, right in the middle of the bald spot on the top.
House looked at him, yawning, “you make a good pillow.”
Foreman snorted.
House rested his head back down.
Foreman watched him for a while, enjoying the contact—and the thought that House was lying right next to him in a bed.
House enjoyed the fact that Foreman wasn’t annoyed, the thought that he was lying in a bed right next to Foreman, and the soft warmth of Foreman against his aching body.
He glanced up at Foreman, briefly, then stopped, blinking.
He was *smiling*.
House looked at the movie, which he hadn’t been paying all that much attention to.
Some guy was being strangled to death, so House doubted it was the movie.
With that realization, House started to smile, too. That was… interesting. Very interesting. And… kind of nice, too.
He looked back at the movie, but he didn’t see it.
He just kept smiling, as Foreman wondered why House had kept squirming around.
They watched until the end of the movie, then Foreman needed the bathroom.
House decided that was a good idea, and Foreman gave him a hand getting down from the bed.
House started to shuffle towards the bathroom, stumbled, and sighed.
Foreman took his cue from House’s sidelong glance, and gripped the older doctor’s arm, making sure he didn’t fall.
It was a good thing, too.
House ended up leaning against the wall next to the bathroom doorway, trying his best to stay upright.
Foreman sighed.
House looked at him, silently.
“You’re sick,” said Foreman, “why are you ashamed of being ill?”
House shook his head, and looked away.
Foreman pulled House’s arm over his shoulders, and helped him back to the bed, then got the bedpan from the set of drawers across the room.
Later, they were watching another movie—the same way as before.
House suddenly pushed his face into Foreman’s chest, and moaned for Foreman to mute the computer.
“headache?”
House nodded, into Foreman’s chest.
Foreman shut the top of the laptop, and, hesitantly, rested his hand on House’s shoulder.
House grunted, and Foreman went to remove the hand, but House shook his head, mumbling, “no… warm. Feels good.”
Foreman let the hand rest where it was.
House scooted up a bit, so his face was pressed in the corner between Foreman’s shoulder and neck.
Foreman brushed a hand through House’s hair without thought.
They both froze.
Then, slowly, House eased himself painfully up on his elbows, so his face was directly above Foreman’s in the darkened room.
Foreman reached up, and laid his hand along the side of House’s face.
House lowered himself back down, lying with a good deal of his body overlapping Foreman’s, his head on Foreman’s chest just below Foreman’s chin.
Foreman smiled, and pressed his nose into House’s bald spot.
House grunted a little, and shifted so he was slightly more comfortable.
Later, when House was lying on his back, his head resting sideways against Foreman’s shoulder, he mumbled, “I wanna go home.”
Foreman sighed.
“I know. But with the infection affecting your heart, brain and liver… not to mention that the seizures stress your heart….”
House sighed.
“I know. But I still wanna go home.”
Foreman rolled his eyes.
Foreman started sleeping in the hospital bed with House, and since none of the nurses dared to enter House’s room, he never get kicked out.
And House, though he never said it, slept a lot better when Foreman was there.
Foreman comes to the hospital room one day, after finishing a case, to find House gone.
He asks the nurses, but they of course know nothing.
He is about to call security, when he sees House slowly shuffling down the hall towards the hospital room, steadying himself with a hand on the wall, and carrying a ginger ale in the other.
Foreman sighs, and joins him, walking next to him at his slow pace.
“I was thirsty,” said House, before Foreman says anything, “I’m tired of water, and I just puke up fruit juice. I thought I might give this a try.”
Foreman nods, and, recognizing House’s downcast eyes, takes the soda out of House’s hand and lifts the older doctor’s arm over his shoulders.
He doesn’t know if it’s House’s leg bothering him, or he’s just weak, but he’s ready to offer support.
House continues to shuffle along, and he’s getting slower the closer they get to the room.
Finally, when they’re a few feet away from the door, he stops, and Foreman drops the soda to keep him from falling as he collapses against Foreman’s side. Foreman lowers House to the floor, and sits beside him, as he tries to keep from passing out.
House suddenly lashes out, but he’s weak, and he overbalances, and slumps over Foreman’s lap.
Foreman looks down at him, for a long time.
House finally drags himself off, and flops back on the cold tile floor.
Foreman shakes his head at the raised eyebrow of a doctor passing by.
House rolls onto his side, and buries his face in the crook of his elbow.
Foreman reaches over, and rubs House’s shoulder.
They stay there like that for a long time, and Foreman ignores all the passersby.
Eventually, House sits, and Foreman gives him a hand up, and helps him into the hospital room.
House curls up on his side, and puts the pillow over his face.
Foreman can’t tell if it’s a headache, photophobia, or just not wanting to deal with another person.
He gets the ginger ale from the hallway, and gently places it in House’s hand.
House pulls the pillow off, and, gesturing for the emesis basin, pops it open.
Foam spills out, and by the time it’s finished spewing, only about half the drink is left.
House sits and watches the bubbles in the basin for a while, silent.
Foreman sits on the foot of the bed, and doesn’t say anything.
House sets the can on the table next to the bed, and continues to watch the bubbles slowly pop. He looks slightly nauseous.
He finally looks up at Foreman, and hands him the basin.
Foreman gets off the bed and puts it on the cabinet across the room.
There’s an empty one on the table, in case House needs one.
House lies down again, and puts the pillow back over his head.
“I want to go home,” he says, voice muffled by the pillow.
Foreman sighs, and rubs House’s arm.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I hate pointless apologies.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
House chuckles a little, but says no more.
Two days later, House is gone from the hospital room again.
Foreman waits in the hall, and eventually sees House shuffling out of the elevator.
Foreman starts to feel a sense of dread at this.
House is going further and further away from his room.
And he keeps saying he wants to go home.
He’s irritable and pissy and keeps snapping angry things and then looking like he regrets them.
Three days after that, Foreman waits for an hour in House’s empty room, and then calls security.
House isn’t in the hospital—but when they scan the video tapes, they find him leaving in a hospital gown.
Foreman walks around the hospital grounds, and the area shared by Princeton school of medicine.
Foreman finally finds House sitting on a picnic table overlooking an asphalt jogging track.
It’s cool out, and House is in the shade, the spring breeze ruffling his hospital robe and hair.
Foreman walks over, and sits down on the table next to him.
House looks at the younger doctor, but Foreman does nothing except hold out a pair of scrub pants.
House gets up and puts them on, though Foreman can tell it hurts.
House sits down again, and sighs.
“I assume you lugged a stethoscope out here to see if I’m dead or not.”
Foreman shakes his head.
He knows House is at the breaking point.
“Either you run a risk of a cardiac incident outside the hospital, or you run the much higher risk of a cardiac incident while being dragged kicking and screaming back inside it by a bunch of burly guys with guns. I had cuddy sign your discharge papers. Just promise you’ll at least try to take it easy.”
“It’s hard to not take it easy when my top speed is slower than a snail’s.”
Foreman snorts.
House leans into his shoulder, sighing.
“I don’t think I can make it back to the hospital, even with help.”
“That’s okay. You’re not going back to the hospital. I parked in the university lot when I came looking for you over here.”
House nods, and closes his eyes, letting out a slow breath.
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.”
House eventually gets up, and Foreman walks beside him as he slowly shuffles towards the parking lot they can see at the bottom of the hill.
He knows every step is painful for the older doctor, but House keeps taking them.
He’s glad.
He’s glad that House is the kind of person who will strand himself on a park bench and risk a cardiac incident alone, rather than resign himself to being hospitalized for the entirety of the foreseeable future.
Foreman takes his arm, as he stumbles, and House leans into him, as they continue to walk.
It’s not great, it’s barely even okay. Foreman is still worried about House. But it is what it is, and it’s the best thing it can be.
Pairing: House/Foreman
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: pg-13-ish
Warnings: sick house, f-words
Summary: Foreman takes House to the hospital after House's "flu" has lasted three weeks. It isn't the flu. stuff happens.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes and Previous Chapters: 1 2
T
Foreman got up, as House’s limbs stiffened, and a loud moan came out of his mouth.
He held the older doctor on his side, and put down the rails, so House wouldn’t hit anything when the clonic part of the seizure started.
Driscol, the nurse from before, came in, and sighed, getting the suction hose out of a cart next to House’s bed, and siphoning away the frothy saliva coming out of his mouth.
Eventually, the convulsions ended, and House lay still, breathing in loud, shaking gasps, eyes half open and blank.
Foreman held an oxygen mask over his mouth, sighing.
Driscol left, knowing Foreman was capable of handling someone coming out of a seizure.
Foreman put the bar up on the side away from him, so House couldn’t roll off, and waited.
House’s eyes slowly focused, and he looked around, confused and disoriented.
“Nuh… uh… fmn…”
Foreman gripped his arm, “hey, House. You know where you are? Can you tell me your name? What’s your name?”
House groaned, and reached clumsily over, tangling his hand in Foreman’s shirt.
“Yeah, I’m here,” said Foreman, “you’re okay. Can you tell me your name?”
“Uh?”
“Can you tell me your name?”
“Nnn…. Grg…”
“There we go,” said Foreman, rubbing House’s arm, “what’s your name?”
“Greg House.”
“You know where you are?”
House looked at the younger doctor, sleepily.
“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, “tir’d…”
“Okay,” said Foreman, as House closed his eyes, “get some rest…”
House nodded tiredly, and closed his eyes.
Later, he moaned himself awake.
“Owww….”
“You had a tonic-clonic seizure, House,” said Foreman.
“Uhn… no kih… kidding….”
“You okay?”
“Hurts…”
Foreman sighed.
“You need anything?”
“No.”
Foreman nodded, sitting back in his chair.
His pager went off.
He looked at it.
“Damn… patient. See you later, House.”
“Nnn,” grunted House.
Foreman rolled his eyes, and left.
Foreman was kept busy for over a week, with first one emergency, then another.
By the time he was able to visit again, he was exhausted, and really just wanted to go home.
But he figured it would be better if he told House that, rather than going home without explaining he was just tired, not avoiding visiting.
So he walked to House’s hospital room, only to find House curled with a pillow over his face, heartrate quite high.
“Headache?” asked Foreman, quietly.
“Uh-huh,” came the muffled response.
“How long?”
“Days. Won’t quit. Won’t go away,” House sounded upset.
“I just came to tell you I’m going home to get some rest,” said Foreman, walking in and standing close to House’s bed, “but I’ll be by again tomorrow.”
He started to leave, but a hand clumsily gripped his wrist.
Foreman sighed.
“Okay,” he said, quietly, “hang in there.”
A soft, pained sound, muffled by the pillow, was the only response he got.
Foreman sat down in the chair, and leaned against the bed.
“Driscol hasn’t been by?” he asked, only a whisper.
“Got assigned to anther… another floor, or something,” said House, weakly.
“Ah,” said Foreman, resting his elbows on the mattress, and his chin on his palms, “when’s the last time you ate?”
“Keep puking. Doesn’t matter. Nothing sais… stays down.”
Foreman sighed.
“When’s the last time you had PT? You’re going to end up too weak to walk even if you get over the infection.”
“Hurts.”
“So will severe muscle atrophy.”
“You know what won’t hurt? Yoush… you shutting up.”
Foreman snorted.
“Come on,” he said, pulling the pillow off, “I know you’ve got a headache. But you’re acting like you’ve given up.”
House put his hands over his eyes, whispering vehemently, “now is not the best time!”
Foreman gripped him under the armpit, pulling him to a sitting position.
“Come on. Fight, dammit.”
House pushed his face into Foreman’s shoulder.
“Hurts,” he mumbled, “can’t…”
He clenched his hand in Foreman’s sleeve, still mumbling, “not giving up. Just hurts. Feels like my deh… head is gonna crack open. Just can’t now. Not now. Hurts.”
Foreman sighed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly.
House shook his head, still pressing his face into Foreman’s chest, “’sok. Didn’t know. No harm. Know I’m not actig… acting normal.”
House was still acting really weird.
Finally, as Foreman started to help him ease back into the pillows, two of his fingers catch in the cuff of Foreman’s sleeve.
They pull free, as Foreman straightens, but the tug was enough.
Something that might have been accidental, except this is House.
House doesn’t want to be alone, while he’s feeling this bad. He’s sick of fighting through it on his own. Even though he’s House, he’s been suffering, and he’s sick of it.
So, although Foreman leaves the room, it’s only to get something, and then he comes back, and sits on the edge of the bed.
House grunts, a pillow once again shoved over his face.
“Thirty-one year-old male, presenting with cardiogenic shock, no heart attack, and right ankle pain.”
House pulled the pillow off, squinting at Foreman.
“Is this a real case?”
“It’s an already solved one—the one I’ve been working for the last week, actually.”
House put the pillow back over his face.
Foreman blinked, “House?”
“Shut up. I’m thinking.”
Foreman smirked, and opened the file.
The next day, Foreman was walking towards House’s room, when he ran straight into the man himself—or rather, over.
House was sitting on the floor of the mostly empty hallway, leaning against the wall.
“House?”
House looked up at him, squinting slightly.
“Hi,” he mumbled.
Foreman snorted, “you need a hand up?”
House shook his head.
Foreman rolled his eyes, “yes you do.”
“I don’t if I’m not going to get up.”
Foreman blinked, “soo… you’re just going to sit there.”
House nodded.
Foreman left to get a wheelchair because he’d translated that into House couldn’t walk.
Later, when House was back in the hospital bed, Foreman brought out another file.
House grinned, tiredly, and sat with his hands in his lap, as Foreman read off the symptoms.
They went back and forth for a long time, until House gestured for the water cup, and winced.
Foreman looked at him.
“Joint pain?” he asked.
House nodded, silently.
“How bad?”
“A bit better than my leg.”
Foreman nodded, “that’s too bad.”
He handed House the cup, and House drank from it, then handed it back to Foreman.
“Your speech is getting better, though,” he said, quietly.
House nodded, “yeah.”
House didn’t mention that he’d been supposed to be going to a session with a speech therapist, when he fell in the hallway. She’d understand, and if she didn’t, House didn’t really care. Although, she had said she would come here, since House could barely get to the bathroom on his own… but he had gotten slightly pissed at the offer.
He could feel an ‘I told you so’ coming…
“House?” asked Foreman, voice soft and gentle.
House looked at Foreman, wondering what the hell was up with Foreman’s tone, as he studied the younger doctor for a hint. Foreman looked… exhausted. It made sense, he had been tired yesterday, and had stuck around anyway.
“Yeah,” he said, “thinking.”
“Oh,” said Foreman, shrugging, “thought you were having a seizure.”
“Oh,” said House as well, snorting. That explained the gentle tone, anyway.
Foreman sighed, scooting up to lean against the wall behind the bed, so he was parallel with House.
House looked at him, “why are you sitting on the bed, anyway? There’s a perfectly good chair.”
“No, there’s a really uncomfortable chair designed to keep people from sitting in them too long so it’s easier for the nurses to kick them out after visiting hours are over.”
House laughed.
Foreman opened the file again.
Eventually, House fell asleep, while Foreman was listing the results of a blood panel.
Foreman smiled a little, as House’s hand unconsciously tangled itself a bit in Foreman’s shirt, and his head migrated over to rest on Foreman’s shoulder.
Foreman later woke to find House’s laptop sitting on his thighs, playing a movie with the brightness level of the screen turned down low, and House still using his chest as a pillow.
Foreman rolled his eyes, and poked House’s head, right in the middle of the bald spot on the top.
House looked at him, yawning, “you make a good pillow.”
Foreman snorted.
House rested his head back down.
Foreman watched him for a while, enjoying the contact—and the thought that House was lying right next to him in a bed.
House enjoyed the fact that Foreman wasn’t annoyed, the thought that he was lying in a bed right next to Foreman, and the soft warmth of Foreman against his aching body.
He glanced up at Foreman, briefly, then stopped, blinking.
He was *smiling*.
House looked at the movie, which he hadn’t been paying all that much attention to.
Some guy was being strangled to death, so House doubted it was the movie.
With that realization, House started to smile, too. That was… interesting. Very interesting. And… kind of nice, too.
He looked back at the movie, but he didn’t see it.
He just kept smiling, as Foreman wondered why House had kept squirming around.
They watched until the end of the movie, then Foreman needed the bathroom.
House decided that was a good idea, and Foreman gave him a hand getting down from the bed.
House started to shuffle towards the bathroom, stumbled, and sighed.
Foreman took his cue from House’s sidelong glance, and gripped the older doctor’s arm, making sure he didn’t fall.
It was a good thing, too.
House ended up leaning against the wall next to the bathroom doorway, trying his best to stay upright.
Foreman sighed.
House looked at him, silently.
“You’re sick,” said Foreman, “why are you ashamed of being ill?”
House shook his head, and looked away.
Foreman pulled House’s arm over his shoulders, and helped him back to the bed, then got the bedpan from the set of drawers across the room.
Later, they were watching another movie—the same way as before.
House suddenly pushed his face into Foreman’s chest, and moaned for Foreman to mute the computer.
“headache?”
House nodded, into Foreman’s chest.
Foreman shut the top of the laptop, and, hesitantly, rested his hand on House’s shoulder.
House grunted, and Foreman went to remove the hand, but House shook his head, mumbling, “no… warm. Feels good.”
Foreman let the hand rest where it was.
House scooted up a bit, so his face was pressed in the corner between Foreman’s shoulder and neck.
Foreman brushed a hand through House’s hair without thought.
They both froze.
Then, slowly, House eased himself painfully up on his elbows, so his face was directly above Foreman’s in the darkened room.
Foreman reached up, and laid his hand along the side of House’s face.
House lowered himself back down, lying with a good deal of his body overlapping Foreman’s, his head on Foreman’s chest just below Foreman’s chin.
Foreman smiled, and pressed his nose into House’s bald spot.
House grunted a little, and shifted so he was slightly more comfortable.
Later, when House was lying on his back, his head resting sideways against Foreman’s shoulder, he mumbled, “I wanna go home.”
Foreman sighed.
“I know. But with the infection affecting your heart, brain and liver… not to mention that the seizures stress your heart….”
House sighed.
“I know. But I still wanna go home.”
Foreman rolled his eyes.
Foreman started sleeping in the hospital bed with House, and since none of the nurses dared to enter House’s room, he never get kicked out.
And House, though he never said it, slept a lot better when Foreman was there.
Foreman comes to the hospital room one day, after finishing a case, to find House gone.
He asks the nurses, but they of course know nothing.
He is about to call security, when he sees House slowly shuffling down the hall towards the hospital room, steadying himself with a hand on the wall, and carrying a ginger ale in the other.
Foreman sighs, and joins him, walking next to him at his slow pace.
“I was thirsty,” said House, before Foreman says anything, “I’m tired of water, and I just puke up fruit juice. I thought I might give this a try.”
Foreman nods, and, recognizing House’s downcast eyes, takes the soda out of House’s hand and lifts the older doctor’s arm over his shoulders.
He doesn’t know if it’s House’s leg bothering him, or he’s just weak, but he’s ready to offer support.
House continues to shuffle along, and he’s getting slower the closer they get to the room.
Finally, when they’re a few feet away from the door, he stops, and Foreman drops the soda to keep him from falling as he collapses against Foreman’s side. Foreman lowers House to the floor, and sits beside him, as he tries to keep from passing out.
House suddenly lashes out, but he’s weak, and he overbalances, and slumps over Foreman’s lap.
Foreman looks down at him, for a long time.
House finally drags himself off, and flops back on the cold tile floor.
Foreman shakes his head at the raised eyebrow of a doctor passing by.
House rolls onto his side, and buries his face in the crook of his elbow.
Foreman reaches over, and rubs House’s shoulder.
They stay there like that for a long time, and Foreman ignores all the passersby.
Eventually, House sits, and Foreman gives him a hand up, and helps him into the hospital room.
House curls up on his side, and puts the pillow over his face.
Foreman can’t tell if it’s a headache, photophobia, or just not wanting to deal with another person.
He gets the ginger ale from the hallway, and gently places it in House’s hand.
House pulls the pillow off, and, gesturing for the emesis basin, pops it open.
Foam spills out, and by the time it’s finished spewing, only about half the drink is left.
House sits and watches the bubbles in the basin for a while, silent.
Foreman sits on the foot of the bed, and doesn’t say anything.
House sets the can on the table next to the bed, and continues to watch the bubbles slowly pop. He looks slightly nauseous.
He finally looks up at Foreman, and hands him the basin.
Foreman gets off the bed and puts it on the cabinet across the room.
There’s an empty one on the table, in case House needs one.
House lies down again, and puts the pillow back over his head.
“I want to go home,” he says, voice muffled by the pillow.
Foreman sighs, and rubs House’s arm.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I hate pointless apologies.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
House chuckles a little, but says no more.
Two days later, House is gone from the hospital room again.
Foreman waits in the hall, and eventually sees House shuffling out of the elevator.
Foreman starts to feel a sense of dread at this.
House is going further and further away from his room.
And he keeps saying he wants to go home.
He’s irritable and pissy and keeps snapping angry things and then looking like he regrets them.
Three days after that, Foreman waits for an hour in House’s empty room, and then calls security.
House isn’t in the hospital—but when they scan the video tapes, they find him leaving in a hospital gown.
Foreman walks around the hospital grounds, and the area shared by Princeton school of medicine.
Foreman finally finds House sitting on a picnic table overlooking an asphalt jogging track.
It’s cool out, and House is in the shade, the spring breeze ruffling his hospital robe and hair.
Foreman walks over, and sits down on the table next to him.
House looks at the younger doctor, but Foreman does nothing except hold out a pair of scrub pants.
House gets up and puts them on, though Foreman can tell it hurts.
House sits down again, and sighs.
“I assume you lugged a stethoscope out here to see if I’m dead or not.”
Foreman shakes his head.
He knows House is at the breaking point.
“Either you run a risk of a cardiac incident outside the hospital, or you run the much higher risk of a cardiac incident while being dragged kicking and screaming back inside it by a bunch of burly guys with guns. I had cuddy sign your discharge papers. Just promise you’ll at least try to take it easy.”
“It’s hard to not take it easy when my top speed is slower than a snail’s.”
Foreman snorts.
House leans into his shoulder, sighing.
“I don’t think I can make it back to the hospital, even with help.”
“That’s okay. You’re not going back to the hospital. I parked in the university lot when I came looking for you over here.”
House nods, and closes his eyes, letting out a slow breath.
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.”
House eventually gets up, and Foreman walks beside him as he slowly shuffles towards the parking lot they can see at the bottom of the hill.
He knows every step is painful for the older doctor, but House keeps taking them.
He’s glad.
He’s glad that House is the kind of person who will strand himself on a park bench and risk a cardiac incident alone, rather than resign himself to being hospitalized for the entirety of the foreseeable future.
Foreman takes his arm, as he stumbles, and House leans into him, as they continue to walk.
It’s not great, it’s barely even okay. Foreman is still worried about House. But it is what it is, and it’s the best thing it can be.
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