It was one of those nights. Wilson sat as close as he dared to the bed, while House screamed and cursed in pain. He'd read, sometimes allowed, while House writhed on the bed. On these nights, he was helpless. Tonight was one of the worse of those nights. House's voice was hoarse from the constant grip of agony, his bed soiled from sweat. On nights like these, Wilson thought for sure House's chest would explode and he'd be put out of his misery, only House wasn't that lucky. House was always okay.
Wilson never dared to touch him, unless House reached for him. He did that tonight, reached a pale, shaking hand blindly in his direction. Wilson took it, gently holding it on the bed. That's how he knew it was bad, when House reached out for him. Wilson closed his eyes, hearing House's pain and picturing his mother in the living room hearing it too. He had insisted she stay in the other room on nights like these. House didn't want anyone to look at him since the infarction, let alone see him like this.
Wilson attempted to offer him a sip of water, but only managed to get House to dribble it down his chin and choke on the few drops that passed his lips. He couldn't take anymore morphine than he already was, Wilson reminded himself as his eyes flickered to the morphine pump he had connected at House's bed side. Just knowing that one more push of that button could end this, Wilson almost thought the overdose would be better than this. At least House wouldn't be in pain.
"My leg is on fire!" House shrieked, his hands throwing the blanket off as he struggled to sit up. Wilson quickly gathered himself and grabbed House, pushing him back down.
"Lay still, it's not on fire. You're going to be okay," he insisted calmly.
"It's bleeding," House whined, delirious from the fever he was now spiking. He had a minor infection at the site of the operation, because that was how House's luck was. When it rained, it poured, and it was always cloudy.
"No Greg, it's just a little infected and it's giving you a fever. You're in pain," Wilson explained gently, his hand reaching out to rest on House's bad leg, his hand gently covering his knee in a feather light touch. House's entire body jerked at the contact, his chest wheezing uncomfortably. "Do you feel that? Your leg is still here, it's not on fire, and it's not bleeding. You had surgery, you're confused because you have a fever from an infection at the site of the operation."
House thought for a moment before his eyes closed slowly and his head rolled to the side, "Sleep," he begged quietly, his voice breaking. Wilson touched House's face, his fingers twitching to caress him comfortingly. He settled for brushing the sticky hair off his face.
"Yeah, House. You can sleep," he assured equally as quietly. House's hand tangled in his shirt, and he added, "I'm not going to leave, I'll be here when you wake up." It was a promise he'd never break. House only held his shirt tighter. Wilson stared at him for awhile, watching as his face contorted in pain with each breath he took. He eventually fell into a trouble, restless sleep. That's when Wilson managed to tear his eyes away from House's body to glance up at the door. House's mother stood in the open doorway, her tear filled eyes fixated on her only son.
"He's just extremely weak and exhausted," Wilson whispered to Blythe, "He has a fever and he's on a lot of pain medication, he's not really coherent." She nodded mutely, flinching when House moaned in pain as he subconsciously re-positioned himself on the bed. Wilson could almost see the will in her to come closer to the bed and touch her son, yet he knew they were both on the same page. That wasn't okay with House. Even before the infarction, that wasn't okay with House. Wilson remembered the one and only time Blythe touched her son, as far as he could remember. It was Christmas, and Wilson always went wherever House went on that day. Greg bought his mother front row tickets to a play she wanted, and wrapped her arms around Greg's neck and pulled him down for a kiss. House's entire body tightened, and the look of distress on House's face even made Wilson feel uncomfortable. House's father just looked on, disapproving, and House backed away from his mother shyly. The rest of the evening House's eyes went from the clock to the door and back again, glancing very so often at whomever attempted to engage him in conversation. Wilson was always too afraid to bring the incident up.
"Even when he was very young, he never let people touch him," Blythe said, her voice deep and raspy, "He would let me on occasions, but never his father. He'd shy away from him and anyone else." He cringed a little at the mention of House's father, remembering one of the many drunken conversations him and his friend had had on House's couch. Completely smashed, House told Wilson everything. From the beatings, to the ice baths, to the belittling, and everything in between. House told him he hated himself over their 10th cup of scotch, and that sometimes he thought he deserved to be dead for his short comings over the 11th.
Wilson nearly told her that House let him touch him, he just needed time to adjust to someone in his personal space. It was another drunken night when he discovered this, a few weeks after the night he learned about House's secrets, and House was more trashed than Wilson, he always was. House could barely talk straight, and Wilson was forced to basically guess House's side of the conversation. When it came time for House to go in his room, Wilson moved to help him. House was frozen, not rejecting or accepting Wilson's help, and it made him freeze too. After a minute, Wilson gently took more of his weight and slowly helped him to the bed, even assisting him in tucking the covers around his face. House drunkenly mumbled and held Wilson's arm, "Room for more," he slurred. Dumbly, Wilson stood there until House patted the bed. Mechanically, he laid down, and House snuggled up against his side. "I think you'd miss me if I died," House stated, his alcohol scented breath swirling around Wilson's face.
"I would, so would Stacy, and your mother," Wilson agreed, shivering when House placed a sloppy kiss on his jaw.
"I'm lucky to have you," and it sent shivers down Wilson's spine. He tired to remember House saying that when that same night he woke up to House retching non stop in the bathroom at 3am. That sentence was what made him get up and get House some water and Tylenol.
House had gotten better with the touching in a sober state too. Wilson was the only one he'd allow to help him now that he needed it. In reality, he only had Wilson. Stacy was long gone and House couldn't even look his mother in the eye. Wilson held House up every time he walked around the house, sat by his bedside while he screamed and thrashed around, brought him his medication, and even cooked for him. He did his best not to increase House's shame by asking him for help on cases or to pass him the remote so House didn't feel completely useless. There was a rule though, no one was allowed to see House besides Wilson until House said it was okay. Wilson was breaking that rule right now by having Blythe here, and he wasn't sure why he invited her. She'd call House's phone and leave messages that Greg deleted without listening too. He made no move to inform her about the infarction, nothing. Wilson knew she needed to know, he needed her even if he didn't think so.
"Will he walk again?" She asked quietly, he eyes taking in her son's condition.
Wilson kept his eyes on House while he answered, "It'll take a long time, and he'll never be one hundred percent, but House is a fighter."
"Will he let me help?" She asked, and Wilson hated the hope in her voice.
"I'm not sure, but I invited you here in hopes that he would."
"Greg has always been like this, he used to keep his eyes closed a lot when he was very young. He told me it was because he hated people looking at him, and if he had his eyes closed he'd never know when they were," Blythe smiled at the memory, but it made Wilson's heart burn. House's breath hitched in his sleep, and Wilson was focused back on him again. Blythe came closer than, carefully sliding her hand into House's hair. Wilson sat back, watching as she gently shushed him when he mumbled incoherently. "He's so warm James," Wilson smiled slightly.
"I know, the antibiotics will bring it down." She caressed his sweaty face, reaching for the glass of water when she felt how dry his lips were. She wet her fingers, spreading the cool liquid around his face.
"Mph Wilson," House groaned, and Blythe was back in the door way in a blink of an eye, Wilson in her place.
"You can't have anymore Morphine, House. I'm going to fill your Vicodin script tomorrow, it'll take the edge off."
House shook his head weakly, slowly becoming more alert, "Not strong enough."
Wilson looked down at him sympathetically, "You can't be on Morphine long term, you need to learn pain management and how to regulate pain medication." House closed his eyes again, "I promise it wont be like this forever, you'll be able to walk and you wont be in so much pain."
House didn't say anything else, and when Wilson looked back up at the door way, it was empty. He glanced down at House to ensure his eyes were still closed before he slowly got up to find Blythe. He found the living room empty, a piece of paper and an empty glass left behind on the coffee table.
'I can't stay here and see him like this, knowing he wouldn't want me here.'