Analysis: Analgesia (post-ep ficlet).
Feb. 23rd, 2009 11:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lit_luminaryTitle: Analysis: Analgesia
Author: dominus_trinus
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen.
Summary: "He knows I'm in pain." Just who did prescribe the methadone?
“Methadone?”
Chase looks up from the cup of coffee he’s drinking in the surgeon’s lounge at the sound of Wilson’s voice, tight with anger. Turns to face him. “He asked me for the scrip. I didn’t see a reason to say no.”
“You—you didn’t see a reason?” Wilson sputters. “You worked under him for four years! You know how reckless he is with—”
“He was in pain,” Chase says.
“He stopped breathing!” Wilson counters. “Dammit, Chase! If he stays on methadone, he could kill himself!”
He’d heard whispers on the grapevine about House’s respiratory arrest, and though it scares him to think of, he also knows he did the right thing. “I don’t want that, either,” he says quietly. “But at a certain point…quality of life has to matter more than quantity, and he knows the risks.”
Wilson moves to sit in the chair opposite him. “He could have died today. He could die next week, next month—”
“The Vicodin would probably have boxed his liver within the next few years, anyway,” Chase breaks in, and Wilson falls silent. “Look. Isn’t it more important that he’s not abjectly miserable in whatever time he’s got?”
Wilson holds his gaze. “There’re only so many people in this building he’d even have considered asking, and Cameron or Foreman would never have gone along. You were a good choice because you’ve never gotten involved with his pain management: not when he was detoxing; not when he was popping pills like Tic-Tacs.”
“He’s dependent.” A pause. He’s seen the struggle over the meds from the periphery, and if he didn’t dare say anything while he was House’s subordinate, it’s different now. “He’s functional—more than functional; he’s brilliant at what he does. If the pills ran his life the way you think, he wouldn’t be.”
“I’ve prescribed for him for years. He admits he’s addicted—”
“He says he’s addicted. Presumably to avoid conversations like this.” He aimed that to sting a little—not exactly fair, but Wilson is working from faulty logic. “The fact that he switched voluntarily to the methadone means the pain was the problem.”
Wilson raises his eyebrows. “And what’s your authority on this? Neither of your specialties has to do with pain management.”
“I don’t need to have a specialty in pain management,” he says, holding Wilson’s gaze. “I wouldn’t have a bloody clue what it’s like to deal with that kind of pain every day even if I did. If this is what House thinks is right…” He shrugs. “He’s a doctor and an adult. I’m not going to tell him what he can or can’t do with his own body.” He stands up, starts to turn to go. “I’m not saying it’s not dangerous. But it’s his choice.”
He leaves the lounge with Wilson’s eyes on his back.
Experience has taught him what addiction looks like, what depression and self-destruction look like, and he knows better than to mistake House’s various mad stunts for suicide bids: if they had been, he wouldn’t have failed. And the Vicodin roulette, the ketamine coma, that time he faked cancer…
To tell the truth, Chase doesn’t much like this methadone treatment, either, but if it does House any good, he’ll put aside his scruples.
Working so long under the man taught him that there are times the ends justify the means.
END.
Author: dominus_trinus
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen.
Summary: "He knows I'm in pain." Just who did prescribe the methadone?
“Methadone?”
Chase looks up from the cup of coffee he’s drinking in the surgeon’s lounge at the sound of Wilson’s voice, tight with anger. Turns to face him. “He asked me for the scrip. I didn’t see a reason to say no.”
“You—you didn’t see a reason?” Wilson sputters. “You worked under him for four years! You know how reckless he is with—”
“He was in pain,” Chase says.
“He stopped breathing!” Wilson counters. “Dammit, Chase! If he stays on methadone, he could kill himself!”
He’d heard whispers on the grapevine about House’s respiratory arrest, and though it scares him to think of, he also knows he did the right thing. “I don’t want that, either,” he says quietly. “But at a certain point…quality of life has to matter more than quantity, and he knows the risks.”
Wilson moves to sit in the chair opposite him. “He could have died today. He could die next week, next month—”
“The Vicodin would probably have boxed his liver within the next few years, anyway,” Chase breaks in, and Wilson falls silent. “Look. Isn’t it more important that he’s not abjectly miserable in whatever time he’s got?”
Wilson holds his gaze. “There’re only so many people in this building he’d even have considered asking, and Cameron or Foreman would never have gone along. You were a good choice because you’ve never gotten involved with his pain management: not when he was detoxing; not when he was popping pills like Tic-Tacs.”
“He’s dependent.” A pause. He’s seen the struggle over the meds from the periphery, and if he didn’t dare say anything while he was House’s subordinate, it’s different now. “He’s functional—more than functional; he’s brilliant at what he does. If the pills ran his life the way you think, he wouldn’t be.”
“I’ve prescribed for him for years. He admits he’s addicted—”
“He says he’s addicted. Presumably to avoid conversations like this.” He aimed that to sting a little—not exactly fair, but Wilson is working from faulty logic. “The fact that he switched voluntarily to the methadone means the pain was the problem.”
Wilson raises his eyebrows. “And what’s your authority on this? Neither of your specialties has to do with pain management.”
“I don’t need to have a specialty in pain management,” he says, holding Wilson’s gaze. “I wouldn’t have a bloody clue what it’s like to deal with that kind of pain every day even if I did. If this is what House thinks is right…” He shrugs. “He’s a doctor and an adult. I’m not going to tell him what he can or can’t do with his own body.” He stands up, starts to turn to go. “I’m not saying it’s not dangerous. But it’s his choice.”
He leaves the lounge with Wilson’s eyes on his back.
Experience has taught him what addiction looks like, what depression and self-destruction look like, and he knows better than to mistake House’s various mad stunts for suicide bids: if they had been, he wouldn’t have failed. And the Vicodin roulette, the ketamine coma, that time he faked cancer…
To tell the truth, Chase doesn’t much like this methadone treatment, either, but if it does House any good, he’ll put aside his scruples.
Working so long under the man taught him that there are times the ends justify the means.
END.
