He was home. No more hospital beds, no more white walls, no more nurses, no more drugged haze...well, actually the haze was still there. Wilson had been dispensing endless medications, and for that he was grateful because otherwise he wouldn't be able to lie in bed nearly as comfortably. Not that he was necessarily comfortable. His leg still ached, and every time he shifted he was forced to let out an inhuman shriek. Every time this happened, Wilson ran to his bedside.
"Are you OK? Do you need medicine? How bad is the pain? Can you give me a number?"
It was annoying. He wished he could just be alone, but he had to depend on Wilson for everything. He couldn't even get up to piss. Instead, it was a long process of pulling his broken body into a wheelchair, accompanied with lots of screaming and Wilson's platitudes.
He had only been home for a day, but he knew this wouldn't change for awhile. Right now, he was lying in bed with his leg propped, something that Wilson stressed.
"We need to get the swelling down," he urged. House didn't say anything. He wasn't really talking to his de-facto nurse. Every time he saw the oncologist, a new wave of rage overtook him. How could Wilson do this to his friend? House had said what he wanted and he had ignored it. Stacey he could understand, but Wilson was a doctor and had known him since medical school. He had had thousands of dying patients, and House could not remember a time when Wilson had gone against their wishes. It wasn't fair. He shouldn't have begged to be put into that coma. He shouldn't have showed them how much pain he was in.
"House?" Wilson said, leaning against the doorframe.
"Is that...a question...or do you want something?" House asked, trying to be snide, but all that he managed to be was pathetic. He was so pathetic.
"It's time to change your dressings. How are you feeling?"
House groaned, this time not from pain. This was his least favorite part of the day. Every day around noon, Wilson would come in and say the same thing. Then he would change the dressings, which was excruciating for House, especially when Wilson put the antibiotic ointment on his stitched, scarring wound. The worst part, though, was that he could see in Wilson's brown eyes that he felt sorry for this friend. He would try to distract him during the process with discussion of wrestling, or the latest football game, but House only answered in grunts. How could Wilson talk about these things when his life was falling apart? He would probably never walk again, and Wilson wanted to talk about sports.
"Bad...just get it over with…"
"Do you want your meds first or do you want them after?"
"Before…"
Wilson gave House the pills and he barely swallowed them. Seeing his friend's struggle, Wilson suggested, "If you can't keep those down I can give you a shot."
House really couldn't keep much down these days. Pain tended to cause everything to come up. Sure enough, within the first few minutes of Wilson unwrapping the bandages, House gagged and threw up. He missed the trash can this time. Serves him right, House thought.
"It's OK...I'll clean it up in a minute. Give me your arm." Wilson said it like a suggestion, but he took his friend's limp arm and injected the morphine without any input. House relaxed a little. Wilson continued to change the bandages.
"How's your pain today?"
House grunted.
"Can you give me a number?"
House started to tell him off, but all that came out was a shriek as Wilson moved his leg to get the last of the bandages off. Tears sprung to his eyes and fell onto his cheeks.
"It's alright...it's OK. Almost done."
House shook his head. "Leave it...needs some air…"
"I can't...it'll get infected. Sorry. Just sit tight."
House clenched the sheets with pale knuckles as Wilson put on the antibiotics. He couldn't hold it in anymore let out a strangled scream, leaning his head back on the pillow.
"House?" Wilson was by his head now, stroking House's damp hair. House was panting.
"No...more...just...go…"
"I'm almost done. I can't just leave it."
"GO!"
Wilson sighed and gingerly lifted his friend's leg and wrapped bandages around it. Tight, but not too tight. House continued to shriek and moan. When he was finished, the younger doctor went back to the head of his friend's bed.
"House…? Pain scale?"
He was tired of that question. "T-TEN! IT'S ALWAYS AT FUCKING TEN!"
Wilson backed up. "Always? Even with the meds?"
"YES! ALWAYS! AND YOU DID THIS TO ME! I'M NEVER GOING TO WALK AGAIN AND IT'S YOUR GODDAMN FAULT!" House was crying harder now,clutching the sheets.
"House...there was nothing we could do...I'm so sorry. I really am."
"JUST GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
Wilson sighed and left the room. This was not the Gregory House he knew. The Gregory House he knew was sarcastic. The Gregory House he knew was ornery but caring, even if he wouldn't admit it. The Gregory House he knew was not in this much pain. He couldn't even imagine.