alanwolfmoon

Title: Bad Shape
Pairing: House/Foreman
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: PG-13-ish
Warnings: Hurting!House, slash, mentions of sex though nothing particuarily graphic
Summary: House's leg hurts after he falls. Post s4 finale, pre birthmarks.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes: This was sitting around for a long time. dunno why i couldn't finish it 'till now.

T








Foreman has seen House in bad shape before.

A lot.

He’s seen House beaten up, shot, punched, kneed, high out of his mind, drunk out of his mind, in severe withdrawal, in pain, frustrated, pissed off, emotionally shattered, concussed, seizing, comatose, drugged, technically dead, hallucinating, and quite a few other non-pleasant states of being.

But he has never, ever, seen House like this.

At first, as he enters the office, he thinks House is taking a nap on the floor.

But he’s breathing too fast, and his muscles look tight.

Foreman walks further in, and feels a jolt.

House is crying.

Silently.

And it’s not emotional.

His face is twisted with an expression of agony.

His hands are clutching his bad leg.

Foreman kneels, hurriedly, and checks House’s pulse.

House whines, weakly, and tries to lift his head to look, but the pain makes him too weak.

Foreman shakes him, “House? House, what happened?”

Another weak whimper.

“House. Pay attention. What happened?”

“Hurts,” mumbles House, voice barely audible, “mak’t stop…”

Foreman frowns.

“Did you take something?”

“No. can’t *RRRNG!*”

House opens his mouth, breathing rapid and uneven as his entire frame trembles uncontrollably.

Foreman gets up, and calls Cameron.

Then he kneels again, and carefully puts his hand on House’s arm.

“Hang in there, House.”

He gets only a whine in return. House seems weaker even than he was when Foreman found him.


Cameron brought chase with her, and together, they lift House onto a stretcher.

House just whimpers, faintly, as they move his bad leg.


By the time they get him down to the emergency room, he’s barely even conscious.

The pain meds they give him knock him out, and chase and Cameron eventually have to go.

Foreman is left sitting on an uncomfortable stool, wondering what the hell House did to himself this time.


Eventually, House wakes up.

He looks absolutely miserable.

Foreman pours him a cup of water, and sighs, handing it to him.

“What did you do?”

House looks at him, sipping the water.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says, and Foreman blinks.

His voice is still soft… weak.

“You’re okay now, though?”

House looks away, “yeah.”

Foreman doesn’t believe him in the slightest.
He brushes his hand, as lightly as he can, over House’s leg.

House drops the cup, spilling water down his front as he gasps with pain.

He glares at Foreman, breathing heavily.

Foreman just hands him a paper towel, and re-fills the cup.

House finishes moping up the water, and sighs.

Foreman throws the towel away, and hands House the cup again.

House finally looks at Foreman, unhappily.

“Nothing happened,” he says, and his voice still sounds much too weak for Foreman’s liking, “it’s been worse. Since the crash. I guess getting tossed around screwed it up some more.”

“Not this bad.”

House closes his eyes, “it just hurt. Yesterday afternoon, after we… started the patient on the right treatment. I just… fell.”

Foreman sighs, as he realizes House is struggling to stay with it.

He takes the cup out of House’s hand, and sets it on the table.

“Get some more rest, House,” he says, and pushes House’s head forward, not all that gently, to tug one of the pillows from where it has migrated to between the bed and the mattress.

House nods, as Foreman lets him rest his head back.

“Good idea,” he mumbles, and is almost immediately asleep.


Their patient had cancer.


They called Wilson in for a consult.


He finished the diagnosis.


And left.

And everyone else left.

And House was alone for the last eighteen or so hours.


Damn.


Foreman tugs House’s sheets up a bit, and sighs.

God, he’s pathetic.

Hovering, like this.

But he’s worried.

And he’s pretty sure nobody else even cares.


House wakes again, after a while.

He’s clearly in pain, but won’t talk about it.

Eventually, he moves the wrong way, and ends up only half-conscious, panting, tears he’s probably not even aware of running down his cheeks.

Foreman gives him some meds, and he sleeps again.

Foreman wipes the tears away, sighing.



It’s a day later, when House is discharged from the hospital.

He sits on the edge of the bed, after Foreman leaves to get him some fresh clothes out of the duffle in his office, because his old ones smell rather strongly of pain-sweat.

He slowly, carefully eases himself off the bed, and stands on his left leg, holding himself up by the rail of the bed.

He tries putting a little bit of weight on his bad leg.

It holds, though it hurts. A lot.

He hesitantly starts to take a step, still putting very little weight on the damaged thigh muscles.

But it’s too much, and he cries out, as he falls.


That’s where Foreman finds him, a few minutes later.

Curled on the floor again, overwhelmed by the pain.

Awesome, awesome Foreman says nothing, just drags him up into a wheelchair, and lets himself leave the room under his own power. Although it’s a rather pathetic amount of power.

And he’s exhausted by the time he’s halfway down the hall.

But Foreman seems to understand this, and starts pushing.

Not all the way.

House is still controlling the wheels.

But most of the effort is coming from Foreman.


He looks up at Foreman, as the younger doctor presses the down button.

“Where are we going?” he asks, suspiciously.

“I’m driving you home. Then I’m crashing on your couch for a week. And you’re not going to argue, because I won’t listen, and it’ll be pointless.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll be a pain in the ass if you die.”

House seems to consider for a moment.

Then he shrugs, “whatever.”

Foreman snorts, as the elevator arrives.


That night, he hears sounds from House’s room.

Moaning, sobbing, and other unhappy sounds.

He tries to wake House, but although he seems somewhat conscious, he won’t stop fighting.

He’s having a night terror.

Foreman sighs, and gives up on actually waking him, settling for making sure he doesn’t hurt himself.

Eventually, House drifts back into normal sleep.

Foreman sighs, and hopes that little wrestling session didn’t screw up House’s leg any more than it already was.

House whines a little in his sleep, but that’s all.

Foreman sits on the edge of the bed, and watches him, intending to stay until he’s satisfied that he isn’t going to start screaming.


The next thing he knows, he’s waking up with someone drooling on his neck.

He gently eases the head off, and discovers that it’s attached to House, who is also half sprawled across Foreman.

Foreman smiles a little, and gently shakes House’s shoulder.

House groans a little, and raises his head.

“You were screaming. I must have fallen asleep.”

“I know,” mumbles House, “you woke me up when you fell over.”

“Oh.”

House grunts, and shifts his hips slightly, so his leg is pressed tightly against Foreman. And something else as well.

Foreman stares at him, “are you *hard*?”

House nods, sleepily, “yeah.”

“Stop rubbing.”
 
“I’m not rubbing. You’re warm, my leg hurts, and there’s no way I’m getting all the way across the room for the heating pad.”

Foreman looks at him.

House doesn’t look like he’s enjoying anything.

“Jerk off.”

House looks at him, and for a moment, he thinks Foreman is yelling at him.

Then he snorts, realizing Foreman meant it in a literal way.

But… he still doesn’t want to do it. Because then he’ll have to move his leg away from the nice, soothing heat, and it’ll hurt. But if Foreman shoves him off, it’ll hurt more.

Foreman sighs, as he reads the expressions traveling over House’s face.

He finally rolls his eyes, and moves slightly.

House gasps, and Foreman can tell it isn’t from pain.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing? Taking pity on you.”

For a moment, House is about to start yelling his head off.

But…

Foreman is offering *that*, and he’s offering to let House keep using him as a heating pad, and the only reason he said that was to keep something incredibly intimate from being… well, intimate.

House nods.

Foreman reaches down.

House grits his teeth—he is *not* gonna moan—and thinks that Foreman is too good at this to not have a lot of practice.

He realizes that Foreman is going hard from giving the handjob, so House reaches over, and from that moment, it’s a competition.

A… rather fun competition, which Foreman wins, when House finally moans, loudly, throwing his head back, the motion of his own hand stopping.

Foreman grips his hand, and makes it keep moving.

About five minutes after Foreman comes, House lifts his head off Foreman’s nice, warm, Foreman-smelling shoulder.

The cum formed a kind of sticky puddle between them, and it’s drying.

House sighs, and carefully shifts away from Foreman, who stirs slightly, and lifts his head off the pillow, looking at House.

House reaches for the box of tissues on the bedside table, but it’s empty.

He needs a shower.

Foreman seems to be sharing his opinion.

This is awkward.

They just got each other off, and it started for practical reasons, but now neither of them are sure.

Because it sure as hell didn’t *feel* practical.

House finally gives up on trying to not screw up whatever’s going on, and basically smashes his mouth against Foreman’s.

Foreman is immediately open, and they spend a good minute exploring each other’s mouths.

Then the finally have to come up for air, and by that time, taking a shower together no longer seems like it would be awkward.


Except, Foreman still hasn’t seen House’s leg.

And House is upset, as he sits on the edge of the wheelchair.

Whatever’s just happened….

It felt so unbelievably right.

But it’s so *ugly*. He… he doesn’t want… what if Foreman… 

Foreman can read House’s mind with out even trying.

He starts the flow into the tub, and pulls House’s shirt off.

Then he gives House a hand up, and keeps his arm around the older doctor’s waist, so he doesn’t have to put any weight on his bad leg.

Foreman slowly, carefully eases House’s pants down over his hips.

Then they fall, and House instinctively shoves his bad leg into Foreman’s crotch. The stress on the leg from even that light pressure hurts.

He closes his eyes, and he *knows* he’s blushing.

Dammit!

Foreman gently eases his body away from House’s, though still maintaining the arm keeping House upright.

Then he looks down, and takes a good look.

It is ugly, and somewhat swollen and puffy. And he understands why House would be upset about someone seeing it.

But, come on. Like he cares.

He look back at House’s face.

“It’s a surgical scar. A big, nasty one. It’s supposed to look like that. What did you think I was expecting?”

House doesn’t say anything, but the look on his face, though guarded as always, lets Foreman know that House is incredibly relieved.

That’s… touching, actually.

House cared enough about what he thought to be relived.

Foreman helps House sit on the edge of the tub without falling, and, carefully, they get House into the water.

Foreman sits down behind him, and House leans back against him, as the water slowly creeps up their bodies.


While he’s getting dressed, Foreman wonders how the hell that just happened. How the hell it’s still happening.

But he wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t high. And neither was House.

They’re two adults, and they knew what was going on when it was happening.

The only thing they don’t know is…

What happens now?



Foreman walks into House’s bedroom, and finds House sitting miserably on the bed.

But he doesn’t look like his leg is giving him too much grief, so Foreman sits down next to him, and leans into his shoulder.

House looks at him, startled.

They look at each other, for a long moment.

“You’re not running away?” asks House, quietly.

Foreman shakes his head, “nope.”

House sighs, a little, and rests his head against Foreman’s.

“Okay,” he mumbles.

Foreman smiles, “we should get to work.”

“I know,” says House, “but my leg hurts.”

Foreman hesitates.

House’s leg does hurt.

He can tell that.

But he would be able to tell if it were too bad for House to go in… and it’s not.

“Um… just so I can be clear… what are you testing? Because if it’s whether I’ll play hooky with you… I will, if I don’t have a patient, or have to work the trial. If it’s whether I pity you, I don’t. If it’s whether I can tell if you’re lying, sometimes I can. If it’s whether I can tell how much pain you’re in, I can. If it’s something else, I don’t know what you’re asking.”

House looks at him.

“I was making sure you weren’t Wilson.”

Foreman blinks at him.

Then he nods.

“Good idea. Answer is—I’m not anything like Wilson.”

House smiles, a little.

“You’re right. You’re not.”

Foreman knows that’s important to House, right now.

House needs to know for absolute sure that Foreman isn’t abandoning him anytime soon.

Foreman blinks, as House wraps his arms around the younger doctor’s waist, and shoulders him onto the bed.

He smiles a little, though, as House curls half on top of him, like a very large cat. He winces, as he moves his leg.

“I never pegged you for a cuddler.”

“I never pegged you for gay.”

Foreman laughs, “neither did I, until recently.”

House yawns.

“Are we staying here?”

“Your leg hurts.”

House smiles, and buries his face in Foreman’s neck.

He seems to like doing that.


House’s leg *does* hurt, though.

He’s clearly in a lot of pain, and although he’s struggling to keep up his half of the conversations they have, he’s having a lot of trouble doing it.

Foreman finally sighs, and, knowing the only way he’ll ever be allowed to do this is if he just *does* it, and doesn’t talk, kneels on the bed, and grips House’s thigh with both hands.

House mouth opens slightly, and his expression is a mix of shock, anger, and curiosity.

Foreman starts to rub, and he’s just as good at this as he was at the other kind of rubbing.

He rubs, and kneads, and fights the battle House no longer has the energy to fight.

House’s eyes are half closed now, and there’s an erection visible through his PJ pants.

Foreman keeps rubbing.

And then, as he presses his thumbs into the muscle, House’s eyes snap open.

Foreman immediately takes the pressure off, but House grabs his hand, and pushes it back down.

Foreman blinks, and presses again.

House’s expression is…

He looks incredibly sad, but at the same time blissful.

Foreman realizes.

House isn’t feeling any pain.

And it’s probably the first time since the ketamine.

He keeps his thumbs where they are, moving in small, firm circles.

Eventually, Foreman’s hands start to cramp, and he grimaces.

House’s hand reaches over, touching Foreman’s.

“Stop,” he says, quietly, “thank you.”

Foreman rubs for a few moments more, then gently eases off the pressure.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

Eventually, the pain comes back into House’s face.

But there’s also wistfulness there, and gratitude.

The happiness is fading, though.

So Foreman does what he can think of.

He slides both his and House’s pants off.

House pulls his shirt over his head, and Foreman unbuttons his own.


They spend the day like that.

Alternating between pain and pleasure.

Not always physical pleasure.

Mostly just the pleasure of exploring each other in ways they never thought to before.

But physical pain.

When House trails off in the middle of a sentence on the way to the kitchen, and Foreman grabs his arm, keeping him upright as he drops the crutches.

When they’re sitting on the couch, and Foreman’s half asleep, and suddenly, after shifting slightly, House is throwing up onto the floor, hands clenched on his bad leg.

They spent the entire day fighting with House’s pain, and by the end, Foreman’s exhausted.

But House doesn’t look much worse than usual.

Foreman finds that extremely worrying.

House just lies on the bed, and closes his eyes.

Foreman sits next to him.

An arm extends from under the blankets, and tugs on Foreman’s wrist.

Foreman smiles, tiredly, and lies down on the bed next to House.


It’s an hour later, when he’s woken by a soft noise.

He rolls over, and pulls House’s head onto his shoulder, as the older doctor pants.


The rest of the night, they don’t get any sleep.

House keeps yelling at Foreman to leave him alone and get some sleep, and Foreman keeps sitting next to him on the bed, and occasionally reaching over to touch him, just a light brush of fingers against his cheek, or a hand on his arm.

Just small touches, that he thinks at first are stupid and awkward and unwelcome, but sees the first times he reaches over instinctively, that the tension in House’s body lessens, slightly, at the contact.

So he keeps doing it, every so often, and lets the touch linger until House shakes him off.

Eventually, House doesn’t shake him off.

He just lays there, breath fast and uneven, a small pained sound coming out with every exhale, Foreman’s hand on his arm.

Foreman traces his hand up, until his palm and fingers are lying along House’s jaw, and the side of his face.

House is warm and sweaty beneath his hand.

“You gonna be okay?” he asks, quietly.

House doesn’t reply, other than to make a small, pained whine.

Foreman frowns, “House?”

House opens his eyes, and looks up at the younger doctor.

Now, he looks exhausted.

“When’s the last time you got a decent amount of sleep?” asks Foreman, suspiciously.

House shrugs, slightly.

“Dunno,” he says.

Then, his eyes widen, and he struggles to lean over Foreman, throwing up off the side of the bed. The pain intensifies, as he moves.

He slumps over Foreman’s stomach, head hanging down, panting.

Foreman gently eases him off, and kneels by his leg again.

House is visibly trembling from the pain.

Foreman starts to rub, and, remembering what happened before, uses his thumbs to press deep into the muscles and tendons.

House lets out a sound that’s halfway between a whimper and a moan, and Foreman looks at his face, worried he’s made it worse.

But House’s face shows only relief. Relief, and exhaustion.

Foreman keeps rubbing, even after House drifts off, asleep. It’s almost time for them to get up.

Eventually, he stops, and cleans up the vomit on the floor.

House would hate to know this… but seeing the older doctor suffering like this… it hurts Foreman, as well.

Foreman himself is surprised by this.

He’s not exactly the most empathetic person who ever lived…


House thinks it’s okay to go to work the next day, but just riding over the speed bumps on the street they turn off his onto makes him go pale and grip the cup holder, knuckles white.

Foreman doesn’t turn around, though.

House only got two hours sleep last night.

And Foreman doesn’t have sedatives in House’s apartment.

House can’t walk.

Foreman gets him crutches—they left the other set at home, and House refuses to enter the hospital in a wheelchair.

House makes it to the elevator, and he and Foreman are inside it, alone, Foreman basically holding House up, when Cuddy slides in just before the door closes.

She looks at them, and, ignoring the fact that it’s Foreman on the other side, grips House’s arm, as he tries to not pass out.

Her floor comes, but she doesn’t get out.

House let go of the crutches a while ago, he’s slumped in their grip, struggling to stay conscious.

The elevator opens on the fourth floor, just as House passes out.

Cuddy gets a nurse, and the three of them lift House into a wheelchair.
Foreman pushes House to the differential room, and Kutner and Taub, surprised but helpful, help get the unconscious doctor onto the recliner.

Cuddy comes back with painkillers, and injects them into House’s arm.

Foreman sighs, and sits on a chair to wait until House recovers.

House wakes, after a while, but doesn’t move.

Eventually, he sits up.

But only so he can throw up without getting it on himself.

Foreman stands and grips his shoulders, keeping him from falling out of the chair.

He finishes, and slumps in Foreman’s grasp, pale and sweaty and breathing hard.

Foreman looks over his shoulder, and the kids leave.

Foreman eases House back into recliner.

He pulls his own chair closer, and grips House’s hand, as the older doctor drifts back off into restless sleep.


When House wakes again, he’s in an apartment he doesn’t recognize, but figures he knows who it belongs to.

Foreman comes in when he hears House call his name, and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Any better?”

House frowns, nodding. It feels a *lot* better. He looks confused.

Foreman sighs, and reaches over to entangle his fingers with House’s.

“You went into severe tachycardia, and we did an MRI hoping to find a fixable cause.”

House nodded, “okay…”

His leg felt weird.

He lifted the sheet.

There was a cast on it, reaching from his foot almost up to his hip.

“Your femur was broken.”

House blinked, “what?”

“It was probably only cracked after the crash. When you fell, it snapped along the crack. The irregular shape of the break held it together and kept it from being displaced. When I pushed my thumbs in like I did, I was trapping the nerves in the top of the longitudinal cracks, numbing the area below them. I had Henderson set it.”

House looked at Foreman, then at the cast, then back at Foreman.

Then he laughed, quietly, and Foreman smirked.

House reached up, and dragged Foreman down on top of him.

“Thanks,” he said, quietly, his head right next to Foreman’s ear.

Foreman pushed himself up a bit on his elbows, so he could see House’s face.

He nodded, and leaned down for a kiss.