misanthrope_md

It wasn't exactly a bad pain day. It was a bad pain month.

There were two things that helped with the pain, that had once been in House's life and no longer were: the first was drugs, and the second was sex. He blamed the island for both. No pharmacies and no prostitutes.

He wouldn't blame Pam for the second, since he knew she was a hell of a lot better off without him, especially since she'd gone back on the wagon. He'd been a bad influence on her, and though he didn't want to admit to himself that he was actually doing a selfless act, making himself scarce after what had happened on New Years was probably the best thing he could have done for her. After all, he hadn't had sex sober since before he'd gone off the heroin, and he had no intention of starting now.

Of course, that would presume that he was having sex with anyone. Well, anyone besides his right hand. Besides, he'd seen Pam with that guy. He should have known she was a cougar at heart.

So. Bad pain month. But it was the middle of the night and he couldn't sleep and it was the last fucking straw. "Come on, Fucker," he muttered, slipping into his shoes and watching the big dog run in a circle in the hut and then taking him outside into the night air.

It was one of those nights when it seemed like walking was better than being still, if only because the movement in his muscles distracted him from the aching in them. He didn't really have a destination in mind, so he just let Padfoot lead him. It wasn't until they were halfway up the path toward it that he realized the dog was leading him straight to Bohemia.

"Traiter," he muttered to the dog, and started to yank on his leash and turn them back around, but his eye caught sight of the bathhouse. The one he hadn't been in because, well fuck, because Jack built it.

But it was the middle of the damned night and if walking didn't help his leg, maybe hot water would. So he walked over and tied Padfoot's leash to a skinny tree. The dog immediately lay down, looking as if he were just as happy to go back to sleep.

House slipped into the bathhouse then. It was empty, obviously, and so he turned on the water and watched the tub fill and heat. He had to hand it to Jack, really. Okay, no he didn't. But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it.

He slipped out of his clothes and sank into the water then, trying to force his body to relax. All he wanted was to be something other than one big knot of pain.

House walked back to the hut from the ball. His leg didn't even hurt, because he mostly felt numb.

He'd gone outside for some air, and that's when he'd heard Jack's voice from the shadows. Not just Jack's voice, but Jack's moan, a sound he recognized all too well. And so he'd gotten only close enough to see Jack and Alcuin making out against a wall. And it wasn't even just that they were kissing, it was the sheer intimacy of it, the way Jack's lips brushed across the boy's forehead, the way Alcuin was softly saying, "so beautiful, my love" in French.

House would have rather seen him fucking most other people than to see that. Why him? What was it about that fucking kid? Was he really that goddamned pretty? ... okay, he was. But there had to be more to it than that!

As much as House had wanted to stalk over there and grab the kid by his hair and tell him to stay the hell away from Jack, and anyone else that House loved for that matter, he'd actually just felt nauseated instead. He'd started walking away, afraid that he might throw up, and then eventually he was just back at their hut.

He sat on the bed, waiting, each minute that passed thinking how much further things could have gotten between Jack and Alcuin.

The night of the Mardi Gras party:

House had just left Jack and Maureen and was busily reminding himself just how much he trusted Jack, and the fact that his boyfriend was feeling up some woman did not mean that it was going to go any farther than that. He was planning to head back to the hut, as he was much drunker than he liked to be in public, and though he had that nice 'hey, I'm too drunk to feel my leg!' thing going on, he figured he was a few conversations away from making a complete idiot of himself.

Of course, as he approached the edge of the crowd, he happened to notice one person that he was definitely bound to make an idiot of himself with, and yet he felt compelled to walk over to her anyway.

He came up beside Phedre, laying a hand lightly on her waist, barely touching. "So where's Fabio?"

It had taken House a while to make his way back from the clinic, but he finally did, albeit painfully. When he got back to the hut, he stripped off his clothes and climbed into the bed in his boxers, trying to squelch a new wave of nausea. Apparently the distraction of conversation and getting out had actually lessened the pain for a while, but now his leg was throbbing again, great sparks of pain in a maddening rhythm.

It had been days since House had seen Jack, and speaking with Daniel hadn't exactly made him feel better about the situation. Not only had Jack not bothered to tell him that he was leaving (did sending the dog back really count?), but whatever had set him off had happened before he'd last seen House, and he hadn't said a fucking word.

It wasn't like House was some insane overprotective person. He didn't ask much. Just to tell him first, that's all, before taking off into the unknown for some undisclosed period of time. So House knew when he should start to worry, because no one can take care of himself better than Jack, but god knows, shit happens. House wasn't going to be like the fucking Doctor and take off running into the jungle (even figuratively) after Jack every time he disappeared. But it sure would be nice to know when it was disappearing and when it was one of his fucking sabbaticals.

And a why would be nice. Just to know that maybe, just maybe, he means something more to Jack than Ace or Ianto or Daniel.

Not to mention that, on just the principle of the thing, House didn't ask for a whole fucking lot. It seemed like Jack could at least manage to deal with one thing that he did.

After a couple of days, Padfoot had started sleeping on Jack's spot on the bed. House's first instinct had been to kick him out, but then he decided he actually kind of liked him there. Evened out the weight of the mattress or something. So as long as he didn't smell, House let him stay. And now, they were both sound asleep.

[taking place on the night of all this]

House didn't have much of a sense of time on the island, generally, but he did know when it was getting to be really late. Still, he knew Jack, and his bizarre sleeping habits, and so usually wasn't that surprised if he came back to the hut late, just having been visiting friends or in the compound and not really caring that it was midnight.

But House did like sleep, and so it was probably around midnight when he zonked out, arm splayed out across Jack's pillow.

House woke up feeling odd.

It took him a moment of lying there in bed to figure out what seemed so off, but then it hit him: his leg didn't hurt. And perhaps it was a testament to just how fucked up this place was that his first thought was: oh hell, I've gone and switched bodies or turned into a girl or something again.

He lifted the blanket and looked underneath, just to make sure his dick was still there. It was. Though... huh. He'd stopped getting morning wood regularly when he was about thirty.

And his leg still didn't hurt.

Not caring whether Jack was asleep or not, he climbed on top of him, amazed that there wasn't even a stab of pain when he put weight on his bad leg.

When House woke up, he felt a great deal of trepidation before opening his eyes... then was immediately relieved to find himself in his bed in Princeton rather than back on the island. The first thing he'd done was swallow two Vicodin. Then, surprised to find Jack asleep, he'd just let him sleep. He got up and took a shower, dressed, and started making breakfast. Omelettes again, as it was really the only thing he could cook. And coffee.

[OOC Note: This medical mystery is brought to you by the House episode 3x04, "Lines in the Sand."]

So it was starting out to be a weird day. House and Jack were in Princeton, but at least House knew that it wasn't real. Still, it certainly did feel real (especially real was what had happened an hour or so before on his piano), but he knew better than to get his hopes up. A couple of days at the most, and they were going to make the most of it... which for House included going to the hospital to see about a case that Cameron had called and told him about.

They'd stopped on the way at an upscale clothing store and bought Jack an expensive suit. Why an expensive suit? Well, because they could - this not being real and all meant that House had no qualms about blowing through money like it was nothing. And Jack looked really, really good in that suit.

And so they blew through the streets of Princeton in House's sports car, and House had just finished animatedly telling the story of how he'd gotten it from a mobster when he screeched into his parking space at the hospital.

House was sitting on the bed in his room in the treehouse, thinking that maybe to fill some of the boredom he should start a diary. Except he was afraid anything he wrote would smack of twelve year old girls and heart-shaped locks. Dear diary, Today my boyfriend left me for an older guy. 900 years older. Before long he'd be scrawling No one understands me! while listening to Death Cab for Cutie.