alanwolfmoon

Title: One Painful Morning
Pairing: House/Wilson
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: House in a severe amount of pain, slight dark!Wilson but not really
Summary: House wakes up in pain one morning, and breaks one of the picture frames in Wilson's guest room falling.
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 is a lot different than anything I've written before now, it's some combination of the style I've been using for my NaNoWriMo, and a stream-of-consciousness piece. I might use it for something else I'm writing, if it doesn't suck too bad.

T




    House grunted, as his bad leg gave out beneath him, as he tried to stand. He knocked into a table, on the way down, and heard it fall, and the sound of shattering glass. His leg hurt, so bad.... he could barely move. He tried to sit up, but stopped, gasping, curling around his bad leg.
       
The door to his room opened, and he tried to sit up again, but really couldn’t move, it hurt too much. Wilson was there, then, and he for once actually hoped his friend would lecture him. He needed to hear Wilson’s voice, then. He really needed Wilson to be in control enough to lecture, because House didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t move. He’d woken up, and barely been able to breathe, the pain had been so bad.    

    He turned his head, feeling glass sticking into his cheek. Wet glass, red glass. He was crying, and he was bleeding. There was nothing he could take, he wasn’t allowed in the same room as narcotics. Wilson wasn’t talking. He swallowed, hard, “Wilson...” it hurt, he couldn’t think. Why wasn’t Wilson... Wilson, Wilson, Jimmy Wilson... no... pay attention. Wilson. Why... it hurt, he couldn’t think.

    “House?” the voice sounded fuzzy, and wrong, and it hurt his head, and then he was throwing up. Wilson pushed him onto his side, and he started to cry again, he didn’t know when he had stopped. Wilson still wasn’t talking.

    “Wilson,” he gasped, and then yelled, as the ruined muscles clamped down so hard his leg started trembling of its own accord.

    He managed to look at his friend, and found two pieces of ripped paper blocking his view, as he whimpered. Why wasn’t Wilson doing anything? He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. Wilson. Wilson, right. Why... he was sick, again. It hurt so much... he was crying, hard, and whimpering pathetically. But he didn’t know that, all he knew was that it hurt so bad, and Wilson wasn’t talking, and Wilson wasn’t moving, and Wilson wasn’t doing anything except look at the two pieces of torn white paper.

    His body shuddered, and he started to sob, it hurt so bad. Everything was dark and swimy, and his stomach was rolling, and his leg was killing him, literally killing him, or at least he hoped it was, because it hurt so much he wanted, hoped, to die.

    “Wilson,” he cried, pitifully, “please....” he yelled, and started digging at his thigh, it hurt so badly, he was crying Wilson’s name, over and over, crying hard and everything was blurry and dark and he couldn’t really see, and Wilson wasn’t talking and oh god it hurt so much.

---
   
    Wilson glared at his friend, as he finally put down the ruined picture of amber. He sighed, seeing how badly House was doing, the other man was crying in a puddle of his own vomit, and whimpering Wilson’s name, over and over. Wilson sighed again, and knew he couldn’t not do anything. Yeah, House had ruined the picture, his favorite, but he hadn’t meant to. Wilson wasn’t going to pretend that House even close to deserved this much pain... for that.

    He might have deserved to suffer for some other things he had done, but those had been things he could control, like getting drunk and calling people he shouldn’t have been calling for a ride. Like stealing a dead patient’s pills. Like forging signatures, and... Wilson wasn’t going to even start to list them all. But this, the torn photograph and broken frame, House had done completely by accident.        

    Wilson wrapped his arms around his trembling, crying friend, and heaved hin back onto the bed. House pretty much screamed, and started scrabbling at his bad leg, eyes wild and full of tears and pain and desperation. Wilson hurriedly gripped his friend’s wrists, seeing that House was only hurting himself more as his body thrashed. He didn’t speak, just held House down, held him still, kept him from hurting himself, with his hands, at least.        

    He kept thrashing, kept fighting, kept crying out. He kneed Wilson in the side, as he screamed again. Wilson grunted, and let go, and stood up off the bed, and grabbed the phone. He called for an ambulance, because if they could get House to the hospital, they could give him and epidural, and he would be freed from the pain at least for until they could figure out it was so bad right then. But right now, House was screaming again, and Wilson couldn’t hear the operator, and he tried to plug his free ear, but it didn’t help.    

    Wilson turned on House, and yelled, loudly, “shut up!” House didn’t, didn’t seem to even react. Just like he hadn’t seemed to care about the broken frame, or the torn photo. Too caught up in his own problems. Wilson knew, really, that none of it was House’s fault, that the man was in too much pain to care if someone was about to kill him–actually he’d probably welcome that, right now. He knew that, in the back of his head. But right then, House was annoying, and House had broken the frame and torn the photograph, and Wilson just snapped.

    It wasn’t a huge thing. It was just a punch and a yell, and god knew they had exchanged a few of those over the years. But the thing was that House was crying and screaming in pain, and Wilson had just yelled at him and punched him, and it was so horribly wrong. Wilson turned away, and stared at his hand, as his knuckles stung and ached from where they had contacted House’s cheekbone. He turned back to the other man, and House had barely reacted, was still crying, was still sobbing and whimpering and far too often. But he had turned his head away, and he had curled in on himself, and he was crying harder than he had been before, and Wilson knew he had felt it. And worse than that, Wilson could see that House was ducking his head down, scared of another yell, another blow.

    Wilson knelt on the bed, and House flinched away from him, weakly, but he persisted, and drew the pained man into his arms. House curled, defensively, and tried to squirm free, but was interrupted by another scream of pain, this time muffled by Wilson’s shoulder, as Wilson held him tight. House screamed, again, and his fingers were scrabbling for purchase on Wilson’s arm, and Wilson grabbed his hand, and gritted his teeth, as House squeezed it into a pulpy mess of aching flesh and bone.                        

    House screamed again, and again, and Wilson buried his face in House’s hair, and closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth, and tried to ride out the pain he felt at his friend’s pain. House seemed past fear, past fighting, past caring. Was sobbing brokenly into Wilson’s shirt, his body limp, his shoulders shaking, his leg trembling without him moving it.

    Wilson tightened the arms encircling his friend, as the door opened, and the paramedics came in. They went to knock House out, and Wilson didn’t tell them that House was not allowed to have narcotics. He told them House had an opiate tolerance, and told them to use a high dosage of the drugs. He told them to take care of his friend, while he grabbed his shoes, and he hoped they didn’t notice the bruise already blossoming on his best friend’s face.