Pairing: Huddy
Author: Alanwolfmoon
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1){kind=small}
Rating: PG-13
Summary: House's leg has been getting worse and worse since Wilson stopped talking to him. eventually he can't get off his couch. Wilson finally comes.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Notes: Reviews and flames alike are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast) this one has been sitting around on my hardrive for ages, but originally, it had Wilson kind of getting caught up with some woman named Kate. that never seemed satisfactory as a reason for him to let house's pain get as bad as it gets in the story. then head&heart came, and....
TT
'You have reached Webber and Lieberman construction, we are no longer accepting contracts, as our entire staff has quit due to legal issues involving child pornography. We are sorry for the inconvenience. Beep. “House, pick up. I know you’re not feeling well, but I need you to consult on something. You don’t even have to take the case, just pick up the phone and talk, ten minutes at the mos–“'
“What?” House growled.
'forty-one year-old female, presented with nausea, variable blood pressure--'
“you're pregnant. Goodbye.”
House hung up.
The phone rang again.
House grabbed it.
“what?!”
'It's not me and she's not pregnant.'
House struggled towards his recliner, panting, focusing all his attention on staying upright.
He knew the kids and Foreman were staring at him, but he was past caring.
He finally managed to crumple onto the padded seat, lift his bad leg with both hands, and lean back in the chair with a long sigh.
It had taken him fifteen minutes to get from the elevator to his office. He was exhausted.
He opened his eyes a crack, as the door between his office and the differential room opened. The three musketeers. Great.
“what? I cured the patient, you don't need me for anything.” he snapped, still out of breath.
They looked at each other, sighed, and left, not wanting to get him more mad at them that he already was.
House looked at Foreman, as the younger diagnostician entered the room.
“what?! I'm sure you already told mommy, you don't have to keep glaring at me.”
“you're gonna die like this, House.” commented Foreman.
House shrugged.
“go away.”
Foreman sighed, shaking his head.
A week later, house stopped coming in an answering his phone.
His message informed them that he wasn't dead, that he was taking sick leave, and that he needed to get the pain under control before he could come back in. If it hadn't changed every day, letting them know he was still alive, they would have dragged him back to the hospital. That was probably why it changed.
Wilson unlocked the green door himself, knowing House couldn’t get up to answer it, even if he wanted to. He walked a few steps into the dark and messy apartment, then closed the door.
“House, it’s me.”
A gray shape on the couch shifted, and Wilson treaded carefully towards it.
“House? Are you awake?”
“Yes. What are you doing here?” Weak. Pained. Empty.
“Trying to help.”
“no you're not. You're trying to satisfy your conscience.” still frighteningly weak, but with a straining hint of sarcasm.
“not 'I'm too caring to stay away' trying to help, 'I can't believe I did this to you please let me back in’ trying to help.”
“Stupid.” Blunt. Slightly breathless.
“No, not stupid. Necessary.”
“Why?” Confused. Irritated. Strained.
“You're sick.”
“I don't want your pity.” More irritated. Slightly stronger.
“it's not pity.”
“You're gonna be miserable.” Exasperated. Very slightly unsure.
“You *are* miserable.”
“*I’m* not you. What have *I* got to do with... idiot.” Condescending. Annoyed. Stronger.
“Not an idiot, your friend. Only an idiot for not doing it sooner.”
“Go away. I don’t want your pity.” Bitter. Desperate. Scared.
“House, when have I ever pitied you?”
“Go away.” Very desperate. Much too fast.
Wilson reached the couch, stepping over the large jumble of books that were probably at one time stacked neatly. He saw that House’s back was to him. Wilson placed a hand on the older doctor’s shoulder, feeling tiny tremors running through his friend’s body. House tried to shake him off, jerking the offended joint, but Wilson didn’t remove his hand. House was so thin, he hadn’t been eating right, and Wilson doubted he was sleeping well. The pain alone would keep him up.
House didn’t looked at him, when Wilson knelt down, gently rubbing his friend’s sweat-soaked back.
“It’s gonna be ok now. I promise.”
“Go away.” Totally drained. Reflexive.
Wilson didn’t reply, he just continued rubbing his hand over the bony surface.
“Wilson?” House asked, over an hour later, Wilson still rubbing.
“Yeah?”
House didn’t say anything for a long time, but Wilson knew he was still going to reply.
“Don’t go.” Almost inaudible. Completely desperate.
Wilson closed his eyes, making no effort to stifle the silent tears that appeared on his cheeks.
“I won’t. I promise.”
Another long pause, then House nodded.
“Thank you...” Utterly exhausted. Calm.
Wilson waited until the jerky, uneven motions under his hand evened out, slowing into the calm rhythm of sleep.
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry.”
House didn’t hear him. He was finally and completely asleep.
He couldn’t have cut it closer. That was the conclusion Wilson was coming to, after two days of watching House struggle to do things like pick up a book on the coffee table, less than an inch out of arm’s reach. House was moving so gingerly, and being so careful to not move his leg, that Wilson wondered why he hadn’t starved to death over the last month. He got his answer, when a grocery delivery guy let himself in, jumped when he saw Wilson, recovered, and set his load down right next to the couch.
House refused to meet Wilson’s eyes, and Wilson didn’t say anything, instead reaching down to examine the contents of the bag. Everything in the kitchen was either rotten or stale. It contained prepackaged food, a few apples, and two bananas. The delivery guy came back in, this time bearing a large cardboard box, which he looked dubiously around for a place to put. Wilson took it, thanked the guy, and carried it to the kitchen.
Wilson smiled slightly, as he opened the top of the box. The very first thing he had seen was a large package of macadamia nuts. House must have changed his order after Wilson had come.
Less than half an hour later, Wilson entered the living room, carrying two plates of pancakes. House grinned.
“I knew you were good for something.”
Wilson smiled back.
“Thanks.” he said dryly.
House chuckled.
After two full batches of pancake batter had been cooked and consumed and the dishes dealt with, Wilson sat down in the comfy leather chair.
House glared at him, as though he knew what was coming.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Your ears wiggle when you’re serious. Kinda ruins the effect. That and you’re looking straight at me, which you haven’t done since you got here.”
Wilson sighed.
By unspoken communication, he had realized that House had really meant it when he had asked Wilson to not leave. Meant it in a literal sense. Wilson hadn’t left the apartment in three days, and his only communication with outside the green door had been to call Cuddy on House’s phone, telling her that he was taking time off.
Wilson hadn’t seen any vicodin in the apartment, and was sure there was none within House’s reach. House was not detoxing. This was bad and good. For bad, it meant that a, House had been in much more pain than he had to have been, and b, all of the pain was real and physical. For good, it meant that the situation could be immediately improved by the use of pain medication. The only flaw in that was that you couldn’t get narcotics in the mail. You had to go to a pharmacy.
“What–”
“No.”
Wilson blinked.
“No what?”
“Can’t be vicodin anymore.”
“I know it won’t help enough for–”
“That’s not why.”
Wilson tilted his head.
“What do you mean then?”
“Tolerance was getting too strong. The acetaminophen dose was bordering on overdose levels, never mind toxic ones.”
Wilson nodded, shocked but hiding it.
“Then something that’s just a narcotic, nothing toxic in it.”
House shook his head.
“Why not?”
“Hazy. Useless to be ok if I can’t think.”
“Then something like just hydrocodone with an anti-convulsant and NSAID?”
House shrugged.
“My liver’s probably about shot.”
Wilson nodded.
“It’s this bad because it’s atrophied. You think?”
“Mostly.”
Wilson frowned.
“Why else?”
“Nerve pain can’t be from that. It’s worse too.”
“Any idea why?”
“Been getting worse. Last two years. Faster in last three months.”
“How much faster?”
“I could stand up a month ago.”
Wilson winced.
“Right.”
House drew in a sharp breath, and Wilson was at his side in an instant.
“What? What is it House?”
“Noth– kyahhhh...”
Wilson sat, horrified, as House arched against the pain, then reached out, taking House’s hand.
House squeezed friend’s hand in a death grip, but Wilson ignored his own pain, watching House tremble uncontrollably.
Fifteen minutes later, House finally relaxed, collapsing back against the cushions with an exhausted grunt, his grip on Wilson’s hand sliding free.
“Later... please... talk... later...” he muttered, totally drained, near tears.
“Yeah House, later. Get some rest.”
House nodded, eyes closing.
Wilson sat back on his ankles, one hand rubbing House’s shoulder softly, the slow rhythm carrying his friend off to sleep. Except it didn’t, House’s breathing stayed ragged, gasping, his eyes continued to move beneath the lids, his right hand kept reflexively twitching toward his thigh.
Wilson could only watch, frozen by House’s dislike of contact and the fact that there was nothing he could do.
It was over two hours later, when House’s chest finally stopped its sporadic heaving, replaced by a slow rise and fall. Wilson gently stroked House’s sweaty hair, sad and worried for his friend. This was too much. House couldn’t take this, he was breaking, and Wilson knew it. Wilson had see it in the way House had gripped his hand, holding too tightly to be controlling his grip; in the way he had let Wilson cover him with a blanket, too desperate to protest that he didn’t need it; even in the way he had given up on finagling the remote back from Wilson only a few moments after he had started trying, too exhausted to waste energy on that much speech. But House would just give up if Wilson did anything drastic, like call ems to take him to the hospital, as probably should be done.
Wilson shook his head to himself. Did that mean he should just sit here and watch his friend die, either metaphorically or physically? Stacy hadn’t, and House had never been the same since. To Wilson, it would be well worth House’s eternal hatred to save his friend this pain. But he knew House could not take losing his one anchor. The one thing he had left. Even if it gave him back the other things, his job, the piano, he still would break before he got there, after Wilson was gone. No, anything he could do would have to happen here, between him and House. And it would have to happen fast.
House’s eyes opened slowly the next morning, revealing a view of Wilson asleep, leaning up against the couch, one hand tangled in House’s hair, the other resting on House’s forearm, his forehead resting on House’s elbow, cutting off some of the circulation. House felt a very small smile flicker across his lips. Wilson stirred as House removed his rather numb arm from its current capacity as a pillow.
“Goodmo-o-o-orning, House.” he said, unable to stifle a huge yawn.
“Morning Wilson.”
Wilson blinked. That was the first time House had said good morning to him in something like five years. The last time had been when he had gotten that horrific hangover the morning after his second wedding....
“What happened last night?”
House shrugged.
“Spasm.”
“Why was it so bad?”
“It’s so stiff any motion pretty much kills it.”
Wilson sighed.
House smirked a little.
Wilson blinked.
“Why’re you smiling?”
“Because I’m ready for a theory but you’re so worried about my mental state you’re not thinking objectively about the medicine. I’m touched.”
Wilson didn’t say or do anything for a long moment. Then a small smile formed on his lips, and he snorted.
“Yeah House. I’m sure you are...”
House snickered.
Wilson sat up, still wondering what had put House in such a good mood.
“Go think about it while you make breakfast.”
Wilson smiled wider, getting up.
“Will do, House.”
House shooed him out with a flap of his hand.
“More cooking, less talking.”
Wilson laughed, heading towards the kitchen.
When he came back, he discovered House retching miserably, his face contorted with pain as the spasms shifted his leg, tears running down his face.
Wilson set the plates down, walked over, and wrapped his arms around his friend’s shoulders, helping him stay still.
“House.” said Wilson quietly, as his friend finished, sinking back into the cushions with a groan and a soft whimper.
“Yeah?” answered House weakly, wiping his face and mouth on his sleeve.
“Sending me out of the room when something bad is going to happen is not the best way to improve communication.”
House snorted, panting.
“And not improving communication is not going to help you get better. And not getting better isn’t going to just leave things the same. It’s going to make things worse, because you can’t move, your thigh, and eventually the rest of your muscles will atrophy, and you’ll be in more pain than you are now. Things have to either get better or get worse. Which do you want to happen?”
House smirked faintly, though Wilson could see that he was exhausted and in a lot of pain.
“I think you can probably guess the answer to that one.”
“No. I can’t. Because you aren’t showing me any indication that you want to get better. I’m not expecting you to say much, but sending me out of the room doesn’t tell me you want to get better.”
House looked a him silently for a while.
“I’m pathetic. This whole thing, it’s pathetic. I’m stuck on my couch because I didn’t get up for a month. I’ve been peeing into a trashcan. I can’t get to the bathroom anymore. Not even crawling, and yes, I know that for a fact. I haven’t pooped in a week and a half. My apartment is a bio-hazzard. It’s pathetic. You don’t have to see how pathetic it is.”
Wilson, to House’s surprise, didn’t look away.
“Yes, I do. I have to know how bad this is. I have to know how much pain you’re in. I have to know that you haven’t pooped in a week and a half. I have to know that the situation is that bad. I have to know what the problems are, so I can have even a tiny chance of eventually knowing how to fix them.”
House swallowed, knowing full well that Wilson was right and hating that it meant he would have to let Wilson see everything.
“The base of that bookcase.”
Wilson blinked, looking over his shoulder at where House was pointing.
“Yeah?”
“On the side it’s got a little dent. It’s not a dent. There’s some files in there. They go up to when I was in the hospital, then there’s some after that, about two weeks.”
Wilson stared at him for a long time. Then he got up, opened the drawer, and flipped through the thick set of folders.
“You’ve actually been charting? This whole time? You’ve been tracking pain levels, tolerance, how much vicodin you were taking? You even tried other medications?”
House nodded, looking away.
Wilson stared down at the files he was holding.
He had pestered House for this kind of information almost daily, but had never gotten it. The few pain numbers and counts of vicodin in a day he *had* gotten House to tell him had been all over the map, and he hadn’t been able to find any trends or patterns in them. But right in front of him, written on slightly faded blue lined graph paper with a scale of one day per square was a chart mapping pain levels, vicodin intake, and a small note once a week marking a calculated tolerance level to the thousandth’s place. There were notes on each spike that didn’t fit with the trend–week Stacy left, PT day, fell down stairs out of apartment, got hit by patient, hit cane on doorway and tripped, no explanation, lost patient, slipped in shower, no explanation, took NSAIDs instead of vicodin, Wilson cut me off–they were all very explicit, but as a second graph, written in above the space where all the lines were at zero–during the ketamine–showed, the number of ‘no explanation’s was going steadily upwards, as were the three lines in the main graph.
Wilson swallowed, seeing that some of the biggest upward spikes were labeled “Wilson....” and followed by whatever he had done, most commonly refused to write a prescription. And in the time after House had been released from the hospital... 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.'
Midway though the last week recorded, there was a spike in the vicodin dosage that reached the top of the chart–marked as the highest non-overdose level–and stayed there to the last dot recorded. The pain line was hovering between eight and nine that entire time, but the tolerance values hadn’t been filled in.
Wilson turned around, looking at House, who wasn’t looking at him, then got up, kneeling next to the couch.
“Something strong until we can undo the atrophy. Then we’ll work on it. Ok?”
House finally turned towards him, nodding briefly before closing his eyes.
Wilson sighed, gently placing his hand on House’s shoulder.
“You ok?”
House swallowed, then leaned over the side of the couch.
Wilson sighed again, bracing him, and wondering if they were ever actually going to get a whole conversation in without House going through some kind of painful event.
“Hey, shhh, it’s ok. Shh, it’s ok. Shhhhh.” he said quietly, as House panted, gripping his friend’s shirt and coughing.
Wilson watched House slowly catch his breath, then gently, very gently, sat down in the depression House’s body had made over the past month.
House rolled back the rest of the way onto the couch, onto Wilson's lap, still panting a little, definitely trembling.
“Ok. It’s ok.”
House opened his eyes wearily, looking up at his friend, then nodded.
“Yeah. It is.”
House ignored the tears dripping onto his face from above.
House cried out involuntarily, as Wilson pulled his leg as quickly and carefully as possible off the couch.
Wilson caught him, as he went limp from the pain, nearly sliding off the edge of the couch.
“House?”
“Ahhh....”
Wilson sighed, thought for a while, then made a decision.
“You’re going to kill yourself like this.”
“I... know....” panted House through clenched teeth.
“I can’t help you without leaving or having someone else come by here.”
“Then... you can’t... help me....”
“What do you want me to do? There isn’t anything I *can* do.”
House just kept panting.
Wilson stood up, crossed his arms, and frowned down at his friend.
“Do you even *want* to get better? I thought we were past this, but....”
“Hang... hang on... a sec.” mumbled House, leaning forward, hands clenching his thigh, back and shoulders extremely tense.
Wilson sighed, sitting back down and pulling his friend close.
House cried out again, not from the movement, just from the pain that had caused him to lean forward in the first place.
Wilson bit his lip, watching in horror as House forced back a scream by shoving his face into his right elbow.
“Oh god, House....”
House reached across himself with his left hand, grabbing Wilson’s shirt and clenching it in his fist, so tightly his knuckles were white.
“House... can you tell me how bad it is?”
Another muffled scream.
“God... ok... ok, hey, it’s ok. It’s ok, House. It’ll be ok. Hang in there. It’s ok. It’s ok.”
“Rrnnggg!”
Wilson squeezed tighter, trying to help his friend through the pain.
Over the next ten minutes, House screamed sixteen more times, making Wilson close his eyes and grimace each time.
Twenty minutes after he had leaned forward, House finally relaxed, slumping against his friend and panting raggedly, right arm falling limply between his legs.
Wilson kept holding him, but shifted his grip a little, so that he could gently take House’s right wrist, measuring his friend’s pulse.
Dangerously high.
Wilson gently pulled House’s loose grip free of his shirt, slipped out from behind his friend, steeled himself as House cried out weakly, and walked to his backpack by the door.
He had thought the sedatives he had brought should be reserved for a few episodes of really severe pain. He had changed his mind when he had seen the state his friend was in. They were now being reserved for life-threatening episodes of pain.
House cried out again, as Wilson sitting back down caused the couch to shift under him.
“I’m sorry. Here, give me your arm.”
House didn’t do anything.
Wilson sighed, gently pulling his friend’s right arm into his lap.
“Ok, here. Don’t fight the sedative, and try to calm down.”
House nodded very weakly, still panting as quickly as he had been when he first relaxed.
Wilson carefully inserted the needle, injecting the sedative into his friend’s trembling arm.
“Hang in there, kay?”
House nodded again, this time so weakly Wilson had barely seen it.
“Ok.”
House slowly calmed, his trembling starting to subside as his eyes closed, and his head drooped to rest on Wilson’s shoulder.
Wilson smiled sadly, pulling his friend close and putting his arm around the older doctor’s shoulders.
“Ok, ok. Shhh. Ok, sleep.” he said, as House fought a little, confused.
House blinked slowly at him, then nodded, resting back against his friend.
Wilson gently took hold of House’s too-thin wrist again, and was relieved to find his friend’s pulse back within normal range.
House fell asleep after not too much more time, and Wilson let him.
God... House....
How many times had it gotten that bad before Wilson had come over? How had House not broken? Wilson had left him a phone message, saying he would never speak to him again, he had had *proof* that Wilson wasn't coming.
Why would House have held on?
Then it hit him.
House had trusted him.
House had believed he was coming, even if he had no evidence to base that belief on, had evidence to the contrary. House had... House had had faith in his friend. In Wilson.
Wilson hugged his friend closer, tears rolling down his cheeks.
“House... I’m sorry. I am *so* sorry.”
House’s eyes opened wearily, just a crack.
“I know. But it’s ok. You came.”
“Not before your pain had gotten this bad.”
“You came.” mumbled House again, as though that fact fixed everything that Wilson had inadvertently done to his best friend.
House closed his eyes again, looking almost... peaceful.
They didn’t open again.
an hour later, House jerked awake, frowning and blinking tiredly.
“Hey. It better?”
House nodded.
“Yeah. Sorry I worried you.”
Wilson stared at him. Then he laughed.
“And I’m sorry I left you to rot in your own excrement. I think you can worry me some without feeling guilty.”
House shook his head.
“Worrying you now, yeah, that’s not all my fault. But what I’m gonna ask you to do... I owe you an apology for that. A big one. Cus I promised you wouldn’t ever have to do it again, no matter what happened. I promised that if I got hit by a bus or whatever, I’d check myself into a recovery clinic and leave you out of the PT equation.”
“I don’t want you to do that, House. When you said that, I was so damn upset I needed you to promise me that, so I could see an end to the tunnel. But now, here? House, I wouldn’t forgive you if you *did* check yourself into a recovery clinic and completely cut me out of the cycle.”
House nodded, but still looked serious.
“That’s not the only issue. That’s not the only thing I’m asking you to do.”
“What, then?”
“I’m not strong enough.”
“For what?”
“I... I’m not strong enough to keep it inside. You saw what happened, it was pathetic. I can’t... I don’t want anybody else to see that. But I know what seeing it will do to you.”
“Ok, first, that was not pathetic; it was traumatic. Second, you–”
“I can’t stop it from being like that.” interrupted House, putting up a hand to stop Wilson from saying more, “I can’t. And that’s gonna hurt you, I know it will. It will hurt you a lot. But I need you to do it. And that’s why I’m sorry. Because I’m hurting you as much as it’s hurting me.”
“No. Hurting me as much as it’s hurting you would be if you shut me out. Seeing you in this much pain, *causing* you this much pain... that’s awful. But knowing I caused it, knowing you hate me for it, *and* knowing I can’t do anything to help you... that would be a thousand times worse.”
House smirked a little, utterly exhausted, weak, and nearly broken... but still... still House.
“Thanks. And I don’t hate you for it.”
Wilson nodded, watching his friend sadly.
“Well... we should probably do this while the sedative is still in effect, right?”
House nodded tiredly, and Wilson started lifting him to a sitting position.
holding his passed-out friend up on the toilet. Not really something Wilson had pictured himself doing two months ago.
House mumbled something, waking up.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
House groaned suddenly, and Wilson frowned, looking at his face.
“Are you ok?”
House snorted.
“I’m constipated.”
Wilson stared at him.
“You’re constipated.”
“Yes.”
Wilson laughed a little, in a slightly hysterical fashion.
“Great. You have any laxatives?”
House shook his head.
“Unfortunately, no.”
Wilson felt something akin to a giggle rising in his throat, and promptly squashed it.
“Well, what do you want to do, then? You can barely stay on the seat. I doubt you can just wait for it to all come out.”
House looked at him.
Then he swallowed.
“I... I think I should go to the hospital.”
Wilson stared at him.
House nodded, confirming that he was serious.
Wilson sighed, gently pulling House close against his chest.
“I'll call an ambulance”
House nodded into Wilson's shoulder.
“Thanks.”
Wilson sniffed, nodding.
'You have reached Webber and Lieberman construction, we are no longer accepting contracts, as our entire staff has quit due to legal issues involving child pornography. We are sorry for the inconvenience. Beep. “House, pick up. I know you’re not feeling well, but I need you to consult on something. You don’t even have to take the case, just pick up the phone and talk, ten minutes at the mos–“'
“What?” House growled.
'forty-one year-old female, presented with nausea, variable blood pressure--'
“you're pregnant. Goodbye.”
House hung up.
The phone rang again.
House grabbed it.
“what?!”
'It's not me and she's not pregnant.'
House struggled towards his recliner, panting, focusing all his attention on staying upright.
He knew the kids and Foreman were staring at him, but he was past caring.
He finally managed to crumple onto the padded seat, lift his bad leg with both hands, and lean back in the chair with a long sigh.
It had taken him fifteen minutes to get from the elevator to his office. He was exhausted.
He opened his eyes a crack, as the door between his office and the differential room opened. The three musketeers. Great.
“what? I cured the patient, you don't need me for anything.” he snapped, still out of breath.
They looked at each other, sighed, and left, not wanting to get him more mad at them that he already was.
House looked at Foreman, as the younger diagnostician entered the room.
“what?! I'm sure you already told mommy, you don't have to keep glaring at me.”
“you're gonna die like this, House.” commented Foreman.
House shrugged.
“go away.”
Foreman sighed, shaking his head.
A week later, house stopped coming in an answering his phone.
His message informed them that he wasn't dead, that he was taking sick leave, and that he needed to get the pain under control before he could come back in. If it hadn't changed every day, letting them know he was still alive, they would have dragged him back to the hospital. That was probably why it changed.
Wilson unlocked the green door himself, knowing House couldn’t get up to answer it, even if he wanted to. He walked a few steps into the dark and messy apartment, then closed the door.
“House, it’s me.”
A gray shape on the couch shifted, and Wilson treaded carefully towards it.
“House? Are you awake?”
“Yes. What are you doing here?” Weak. Pained. Empty.
“Trying to help.”
“no you're not. You're trying to satisfy your conscience.” still frighteningly weak, but with a straining hint of sarcasm.
“not 'I'm too caring to stay away' trying to help, 'I can't believe I did this to you please let me back in’ trying to help.”
“Stupid.” Blunt. Slightly breathless.
“No, not stupid. Necessary.”
“Why?” Confused. Irritated. Strained.
“You're sick.”
“I don't want your pity.” More irritated. Slightly stronger.
“it's not pity.”
“You're gonna be miserable.” Exasperated. Very slightly unsure.
“You *are* miserable.”
“*I’m* not you. What have *I* got to do with... idiot.” Condescending. Annoyed. Stronger.
“Not an idiot, your friend. Only an idiot for not doing it sooner.”
“Go away. I don’t want your pity.” Bitter. Desperate. Scared.
“House, when have I ever pitied you?”
“Go away.” Very desperate. Much too fast.
Wilson reached the couch, stepping over the large jumble of books that were probably at one time stacked neatly. He saw that House’s back was to him. Wilson placed a hand on the older doctor’s shoulder, feeling tiny tremors running through his friend’s body. House tried to shake him off, jerking the offended joint, but Wilson didn’t remove his hand. House was so thin, he hadn’t been eating right, and Wilson doubted he was sleeping well. The pain alone would keep him up.
House didn’t looked at him, when Wilson knelt down, gently rubbing his friend’s sweat-soaked back.
“It’s gonna be ok now. I promise.”
“Go away.” Totally drained. Reflexive.
Wilson didn’t reply, he just continued rubbing his hand over the bony surface.
“Wilson?” House asked, over an hour later, Wilson still rubbing.
“Yeah?”
House didn’t say anything for a long time, but Wilson knew he was still going to reply.
“Don’t go.” Almost inaudible. Completely desperate.
Wilson closed his eyes, making no effort to stifle the silent tears that appeared on his cheeks.
“I won’t. I promise.”
Another long pause, then House nodded.
“Thank you...” Utterly exhausted. Calm.
Wilson waited until the jerky, uneven motions under his hand evened out, slowing into the calm rhythm of sleep.
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry.”
House didn’t hear him. He was finally and completely asleep.
He couldn’t have cut it closer. That was the conclusion Wilson was coming to, after two days of watching House struggle to do things like pick up a book on the coffee table, less than an inch out of arm’s reach. House was moving so gingerly, and being so careful to not move his leg, that Wilson wondered why he hadn’t starved to death over the last month. He got his answer, when a grocery delivery guy let himself in, jumped when he saw Wilson, recovered, and set his load down right next to the couch.
House refused to meet Wilson’s eyes, and Wilson didn’t say anything, instead reaching down to examine the contents of the bag. Everything in the kitchen was either rotten or stale. It contained prepackaged food, a few apples, and two bananas. The delivery guy came back in, this time bearing a large cardboard box, which he looked dubiously around for a place to put. Wilson took it, thanked the guy, and carried it to the kitchen.
Wilson smiled slightly, as he opened the top of the box. The very first thing he had seen was a large package of macadamia nuts. House must have changed his order after Wilson had come.
Less than half an hour later, Wilson entered the living room, carrying two plates of pancakes. House grinned.
“I knew you were good for something.”
Wilson smiled back.
“Thanks.” he said dryly.
House chuckled.
After two full batches of pancake batter had been cooked and consumed and the dishes dealt with, Wilson sat down in the comfy leather chair.
House glared at him, as though he knew what was coming.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Your ears wiggle when you’re serious. Kinda ruins the effect. That and you’re looking straight at me, which you haven’t done since you got here.”
Wilson sighed.
By unspoken communication, he had realized that House had really meant it when he had asked Wilson to not leave. Meant it in a literal sense. Wilson hadn’t left the apartment in three days, and his only communication with outside the green door had been to call Cuddy on House’s phone, telling her that he was taking time off.
Wilson hadn’t seen any vicodin in the apartment, and was sure there was none within House’s reach. House was not detoxing. This was bad and good. For bad, it meant that a, House had been in much more pain than he had to have been, and b, all of the pain was real and physical. For good, it meant that the situation could be immediately improved by the use of pain medication. The only flaw in that was that you couldn’t get narcotics in the mail. You had to go to a pharmacy.
“What–”
“No.”
Wilson blinked.
“No what?”
“Can’t be vicodin anymore.”
“I know it won’t help enough for–”
“That’s not why.”
Wilson tilted his head.
“What do you mean then?”
“Tolerance was getting too strong. The acetaminophen dose was bordering on overdose levels, never mind toxic ones.”
Wilson nodded, shocked but hiding it.
“Then something that’s just a narcotic, nothing toxic in it.”
House shook his head.
“Why not?”
“Hazy. Useless to be ok if I can’t think.”
“Then something like just hydrocodone with an anti-convulsant and NSAID?”
House shrugged.
“My liver’s probably about shot.”
Wilson nodded.
“It’s this bad because it’s atrophied. You think?”
“Mostly.”
Wilson frowned.
“Why else?”
“Nerve pain can’t be from that. It’s worse too.”
“Any idea why?”
“Been getting worse. Last two years. Faster in last three months.”
“How much faster?”
“I could stand up a month ago.”
Wilson winced.
“Right.”
House drew in a sharp breath, and Wilson was at his side in an instant.
“What? What is it House?”
“Noth– kyahhhh...”
Wilson sat, horrified, as House arched against the pain, then reached out, taking House’s hand.
House squeezed friend’s hand in a death grip, but Wilson ignored his own pain, watching House tremble uncontrollably.
Fifteen minutes later, House finally relaxed, collapsing back against the cushions with an exhausted grunt, his grip on Wilson’s hand sliding free.
“Later... please... talk... later...” he muttered, totally drained, near tears.
“Yeah House, later. Get some rest.”
House nodded, eyes closing.
Wilson sat back on his ankles, one hand rubbing House’s shoulder softly, the slow rhythm carrying his friend off to sleep. Except it didn’t, House’s breathing stayed ragged, gasping, his eyes continued to move beneath the lids, his right hand kept reflexively twitching toward his thigh.
Wilson could only watch, frozen by House’s dislike of contact and the fact that there was nothing he could do.
It was over two hours later, when House’s chest finally stopped its sporadic heaving, replaced by a slow rise and fall. Wilson gently stroked House’s sweaty hair, sad and worried for his friend. This was too much. House couldn’t take this, he was breaking, and Wilson knew it. Wilson had see it in the way House had gripped his hand, holding too tightly to be controlling his grip; in the way he had let Wilson cover him with a blanket, too desperate to protest that he didn’t need it; even in the way he had given up on finagling the remote back from Wilson only a few moments after he had started trying, too exhausted to waste energy on that much speech. But House would just give up if Wilson did anything drastic, like call ems to take him to the hospital, as probably should be done.
Wilson shook his head to himself. Did that mean he should just sit here and watch his friend die, either metaphorically or physically? Stacy hadn’t, and House had never been the same since. To Wilson, it would be well worth House’s eternal hatred to save his friend this pain. But he knew House could not take losing his one anchor. The one thing he had left. Even if it gave him back the other things, his job, the piano, he still would break before he got there, after Wilson was gone. No, anything he could do would have to happen here, between him and House. And it would have to happen fast.
House’s eyes opened slowly the next morning, revealing a view of Wilson asleep, leaning up against the couch, one hand tangled in House’s hair, the other resting on House’s forearm, his forehead resting on House’s elbow, cutting off some of the circulation. House felt a very small smile flicker across his lips. Wilson stirred as House removed his rather numb arm from its current capacity as a pillow.
“Goodmo-o-o-orning, House.” he said, unable to stifle a huge yawn.
“Morning Wilson.”
Wilson blinked. That was the first time House had said good morning to him in something like five years. The last time had been when he had gotten that horrific hangover the morning after his second wedding....
“What happened last night?”
House shrugged.
“Spasm.”
“Why was it so bad?”
“It’s so stiff any motion pretty much kills it.”
Wilson sighed.
House smirked a little.
Wilson blinked.
“Why’re you smiling?”
“Because I’m ready for a theory but you’re so worried about my mental state you’re not thinking objectively about the medicine. I’m touched.”
Wilson didn’t say or do anything for a long moment. Then a small smile formed on his lips, and he snorted.
“Yeah House. I’m sure you are...”
House snickered.
Wilson sat up, still wondering what had put House in such a good mood.
“Go think about it while you make breakfast.”
Wilson smiled wider, getting up.
“Will do, House.”
House shooed him out with a flap of his hand.
“More cooking, less talking.”
Wilson laughed, heading towards the kitchen.
When he came back, he discovered House retching miserably, his face contorted with pain as the spasms shifted his leg, tears running down his face.
Wilson set the plates down, walked over, and wrapped his arms around his friend’s shoulders, helping him stay still.
“House.” said Wilson quietly, as his friend finished, sinking back into the cushions with a groan and a soft whimper.
“Yeah?” answered House weakly, wiping his face and mouth on his sleeve.
“Sending me out of the room when something bad is going to happen is not the best way to improve communication.”
House snorted, panting.
“And not improving communication is not going to help you get better. And not getting better isn’t going to just leave things the same. It’s going to make things worse, because you can’t move, your thigh, and eventually the rest of your muscles will atrophy, and you’ll be in more pain than you are now. Things have to either get better or get worse. Which do you want to happen?”
House smirked faintly, though Wilson could see that he was exhausted and in a lot of pain.
“I think you can probably guess the answer to that one.”
“No. I can’t. Because you aren’t showing me any indication that you want to get better. I’m not expecting you to say much, but sending me out of the room doesn’t tell me you want to get better.”
House looked a him silently for a while.
“I’m pathetic. This whole thing, it’s pathetic. I’m stuck on my couch because I didn’t get up for a month. I’ve been peeing into a trashcan. I can’t get to the bathroom anymore. Not even crawling, and yes, I know that for a fact. I haven’t pooped in a week and a half. My apartment is a bio-hazzard. It’s pathetic. You don’t have to see how pathetic it is.”
Wilson, to House’s surprise, didn’t look away.
“Yes, I do. I have to know how bad this is. I have to know how much pain you’re in. I have to know that you haven’t pooped in a week and a half. I have to know that the situation is that bad. I have to know what the problems are, so I can have even a tiny chance of eventually knowing how to fix them.”
House swallowed, knowing full well that Wilson was right and hating that it meant he would have to let Wilson see everything.
“The base of that bookcase.”
Wilson blinked, looking over his shoulder at where House was pointing.
“Yeah?”
“On the side it’s got a little dent. It’s not a dent. There’s some files in there. They go up to when I was in the hospital, then there’s some after that, about two weeks.”
Wilson stared at him for a long time. Then he got up, opened the drawer, and flipped through the thick set of folders.
“You’ve actually been charting? This whole time? You’ve been tracking pain levels, tolerance, how much vicodin you were taking? You even tried other medications?”
House nodded, looking away.
Wilson stared down at the files he was holding.
He had pestered House for this kind of information almost daily, but had never gotten it. The few pain numbers and counts of vicodin in a day he *had* gotten House to tell him had been all over the map, and he hadn’t been able to find any trends or patterns in them. But right in front of him, written on slightly faded blue lined graph paper with a scale of one day per square was a chart mapping pain levels, vicodin intake, and a small note once a week marking a calculated tolerance level to the thousandth’s place. There were notes on each spike that didn’t fit with the trend–week Stacy left, PT day, fell down stairs out of apartment, got hit by patient, hit cane on doorway and tripped, no explanation, lost patient, slipped in shower, no explanation, took NSAIDs instead of vicodin, Wilson cut me off–they were all very explicit, but as a second graph, written in above the space where all the lines were at zero–during the ketamine–showed, the number of ‘no explanation’s was going steadily upwards, as were the three lines in the main graph.
Wilson swallowed, seeing that some of the biggest upward spikes were labeled “Wilson....” and followed by whatever he had done, most commonly refused to write a prescription. And in the time after House had been released from the hospital... 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.' 'saw Wilson.'
Midway though the last week recorded, there was a spike in the vicodin dosage that reached the top of the chart–marked as the highest non-overdose level–and stayed there to the last dot recorded. The pain line was hovering between eight and nine that entire time, but the tolerance values hadn’t been filled in.
Wilson turned around, looking at House, who wasn’t looking at him, then got up, kneeling next to the couch.
“Something strong until we can undo the atrophy. Then we’ll work on it. Ok?”
House finally turned towards him, nodding briefly before closing his eyes.
Wilson sighed, gently placing his hand on House’s shoulder.
“You ok?”
House swallowed, then leaned over the side of the couch.
Wilson sighed again, bracing him, and wondering if they were ever actually going to get a whole conversation in without House going through some kind of painful event.
“Hey, shhh, it’s ok. Shh, it’s ok. Shhhhh.” he said quietly, as House panted, gripping his friend’s shirt and coughing.
Wilson watched House slowly catch his breath, then gently, very gently, sat down in the depression House’s body had made over the past month.
House rolled back the rest of the way onto the couch, onto Wilson's lap, still panting a little, definitely trembling.
“Ok. It’s ok.”
House opened his eyes wearily, looking up at his friend, then nodded.
“Yeah. It is.”
House ignored the tears dripping onto his face from above.
House cried out involuntarily, as Wilson pulled his leg as quickly and carefully as possible off the couch.
Wilson caught him, as he went limp from the pain, nearly sliding off the edge of the couch.
“House?”
“Ahhh....”
Wilson sighed, thought for a while, then made a decision.
“You’re going to kill yourself like this.”
“I... know....” panted House through clenched teeth.
“I can’t help you without leaving or having someone else come by here.”
“Then... you can’t... help me....”
“What do you want me to do? There isn’t anything I *can* do.”
House just kept panting.
Wilson stood up, crossed his arms, and frowned down at his friend.
“Do you even *want* to get better? I thought we were past this, but....”
“Hang... hang on... a sec.” mumbled House, leaning forward, hands clenching his thigh, back and shoulders extremely tense.
Wilson sighed, sitting back down and pulling his friend close.
House cried out again, not from the movement, just from the pain that had caused him to lean forward in the first place.
Wilson bit his lip, watching in horror as House forced back a scream by shoving his face into his right elbow.
“Oh god, House....”
House reached across himself with his left hand, grabbing Wilson’s shirt and clenching it in his fist, so tightly his knuckles were white.
“House... can you tell me how bad it is?”
Another muffled scream.
“God... ok... ok, hey, it’s ok. It’s ok, House. It’ll be ok. Hang in there. It’s ok. It’s ok.”
“Rrnnggg!”
Wilson squeezed tighter, trying to help his friend through the pain.
Over the next ten minutes, House screamed sixteen more times, making Wilson close his eyes and grimace each time.
Twenty minutes after he had leaned forward, House finally relaxed, slumping against his friend and panting raggedly, right arm falling limply between his legs.
Wilson kept holding him, but shifted his grip a little, so that he could gently take House’s right wrist, measuring his friend’s pulse.
Dangerously high.
Wilson gently pulled House’s loose grip free of his shirt, slipped out from behind his friend, steeled himself as House cried out weakly, and walked to his backpack by the door.
He had thought the sedatives he had brought should be reserved for a few episodes of really severe pain. He had changed his mind when he had seen the state his friend was in. They were now being reserved for life-threatening episodes of pain.
House cried out again, as Wilson sitting back down caused the couch to shift under him.
“I’m sorry. Here, give me your arm.”
House didn’t do anything.
Wilson sighed, gently pulling his friend’s right arm into his lap.
“Ok, here. Don’t fight the sedative, and try to calm down.”
House nodded very weakly, still panting as quickly as he had been when he first relaxed.
Wilson carefully inserted the needle, injecting the sedative into his friend’s trembling arm.
“Hang in there, kay?”
House nodded again, this time so weakly Wilson had barely seen it.
“Ok.”
House slowly calmed, his trembling starting to subside as his eyes closed, and his head drooped to rest on Wilson’s shoulder.
Wilson smiled sadly, pulling his friend close and putting his arm around the older doctor’s shoulders.
“Ok, ok. Shhh. Ok, sleep.” he said, as House fought a little, confused.
House blinked slowly at him, then nodded, resting back against his friend.
Wilson gently took hold of House’s too-thin wrist again, and was relieved to find his friend’s pulse back within normal range.
House fell asleep after not too much more time, and Wilson let him.
God... House....
How many times had it gotten that bad before Wilson had come over? How had House not broken? Wilson had left him a phone message, saying he would never speak to him again, he had had *proof* that Wilson wasn't coming.
Why would House have held on?
Then it hit him.
House had trusted him.
House had believed he was coming, even if he had no evidence to base that belief on, had evidence to the contrary. House had... House had had faith in his friend. In Wilson.
Wilson hugged his friend closer, tears rolling down his cheeks.
“House... I’m sorry. I am *so* sorry.”
House’s eyes opened wearily, just a crack.
“I know. But it’s ok. You came.”
“Not before your pain had gotten this bad.”
“You came.” mumbled House again, as though that fact fixed everything that Wilson had inadvertently done to his best friend.
House closed his eyes again, looking almost... peaceful.
They didn’t open again.
an hour later, House jerked awake, frowning and blinking tiredly.
“Hey. It better?”
House nodded.
“Yeah. Sorry I worried you.”
Wilson stared at him. Then he laughed.
“And I’m sorry I left you to rot in your own excrement. I think you can worry me some without feeling guilty.”
House shook his head.
“Worrying you now, yeah, that’s not all my fault. But what I’m gonna ask you to do... I owe you an apology for that. A big one. Cus I promised you wouldn’t ever have to do it again, no matter what happened. I promised that if I got hit by a bus or whatever, I’d check myself into a recovery clinic and leave you out of the PT equation.”
“I don’t want you to do that, House. When you said that, I was so damn upset I needed you to promise me that, so I could see an end to the tunnel. But now, here? House, I wouldn’t forgive you if you *did* check yourself into a recovery clinic and completely cut me out of the cycle.”
House nodded, but still looked serious.
“That’s not the only issue. That’s not the only thing I’m asking you to do.”
“What, then?”
“I’m not strong enough.”
“For what?”
“I... I’m not strong enough to keep it inside. You saw what happened, it was pathetic. I can’t... I don’t want anybody else to see that. But I know what seeing it will do to you.”
“Ok, first, that was not pathetic; it was traumatic. Second, you–”
“I can’t stop it from being like that.” interrupted House, putting up a hand to stop Wilson from saying more, “I can’t. And that’s gonna hurt you, I know it will. It will hurt you a lot. But I need you to do it. And that’s why I’m sorry. Because I’m hurting you as much as it’s hurting me.”
“No. Hurting me as much as it’s hurting you would be if you shut me out. Seeing you in this much pain, *causing* you this much pain... that’s awful. But knowing I caused it, knowing you hate me for it, *and* knowing I can’t do anything to help you... that would be a thousand times worse.”
House smirked a little, utterly exhausted, weak, and nearly broken... but still... still House.
“Thanks. And I don’t hate you for it.”
Wilson nodded, watching his friend sadly.
“Well... we should probably do this while the sedative is still in effect, right?”
House nodded tiredly, and Wilson started lifting him to a sitting position.
holding his passed-out friend up on the toilet. Not really something Wilson had pictured himself doing two months ago.
House mumbled something, waking up.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
House groaned suddenly, and Wilson frowned, looking at his face.
“Are you ok?”
House snorted.
“I’m constipated.”
Wilson stared at him.
“You’re constipated.”
“Yes.”
Wilson laughed a little, in a slightly hysterical fashion.
“Great. You have any laxatives?”
House shook his head.
“Unfortunately, no.”
Wilson felt something akin to a giggle rising in his throat, and promptly squashed it.
“Well, what do you want to do, then? You can barely stay on the seat. I doubt you can just wait for it to all come out.”
House looked at him.
Then he swallowed.
“I... I think I should go to the hospital.”
Wilson stared at him.
House nodded, confirming that he was serious.
Wilson sighed, gently pulling House close against his chest.
“I'll call an ambulance”
House nodded into Wilson's shoulder.
“Thanks.”
Wilson sniffed, nodding.
2008-06-16 04:32 pm (UTC)
*hopeful look*
2008-06-16 08:58 pm (UTC)
I've got another painbad!house story coming up, complete with recovery phase, and i dislike writing the same plot twice (thought you wouldn't guess that from the number of times I've given House and/or Wilson migraines....)
but given everyone who commented wants one... hmm...
2008-06-16 05:48 pm (UTC)
2008-06-16 07:40 pm (UTC)
2008-06-16 09:43 pm (UTC)
2008-06-17 12:17 am (UTC)
2008-06-17 04:31 pm (UTC)
More ? Please ?
2008-06-21 12:36 am (UTC)