Chapter Two: good days

I know the House talking/ not talking thing is sort of confusing so I put all of what Wilson thinks he might say in italics and if House is actually talking, it's written normally.

"I never jumped in and rescued you,
But I wanted to
I didn't tell you which way to go,
cause I thought you'd know," The Barenaked Ladies

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On nights like this when House fell asleep on the couch, I hated having to take care of him more than I hated the cop for making him into a pathetic, weak, and terrified child. I hated having to wake him up, drag his body to the bedroom, and give him his nighttime pills all so h could go back to sleep, but I knew we couldn't spend the night on the couch. BT (before Tritter) I think he slept on his living room sofa on a regular basis, or at least passed out there, but now being here doubled up and bent over on lumpy, hard pillows caused his bones and muscles to cramp up, curve into awkward positions, stiffen, and when he woke up in the morning his pain would be a hundred times worse and for two or three days he'd be pulling on my shirt, his eyes begging me for extra pills every hour.

Even though I no longer saw patients I still wrote his prescriptions and took care of House when he got sick (he'd had two minor infections, the stomach flu, and a couple of serious colds) and watched over him, doing everything I could to minimize the amount of pain he was in, tried to decrease his anxiety, nervousness, panic attacks, and while he looked so peaceful and sweet laying there, sleeping on the couch just was not an option at the time.

"Hey, I know you're probably exhausted, but if we sleep on the sofa we're both gonna wake up with stiff necks and aching knees. There we go." House glared at me, while I pulled the chair up to his side. "I get it, you resent having to use that thing, not being able to do stuff yourself, but there's nothing I can do. If I could, I'd give you my legs, but they might look kind of silly." He sat up slowly, and pushed the wheelchair away with his good hand. "You can't walk. It would be excruciating, and if you fall I'd have to take you to the hospital to get x-rays, because I can't read your mind, not yet anyway.

Then he pushed me, pushed up against me actually, trying to support himself, and stand up. I wasn't sure if I should let him try and fail, help him get across the room, or push his body down into the chair, forcing him to not even try. While I knew it would help him to feel strong, useful, make him feel like he was capable of doing something I didn't want to let him do something that would do irreparable harm to his leg. If he crossed the room successfully I could give him a few extra pills, but if he fell, the fragile bones would almost certainly snap, making it even less likely for him to ever fully heal. "Let me help," I offered, "and if you need to stop, tell me, and I'll find a way to help. Now I know—this is really going to hurt. Do you really want to do this?"

House stood on wobbly legs, leaning up against me, and wrapped one arm around my shoulder. The instant he started to put weight on his right foot he looked like he might scream, his eyes wide open, teeth clenched. His nostrils flared open and I could almost hear his strained breath, and yet he did not stop. He didn't even ask me to stop didn't ask for pills. Every step seemed agonizing, like his leg was still broken, sharp bones rubbing and sticking into the sensitive nerves, but he didn't stop. It took us nearly an hour to hobble the twenty feet from the couch to the bed.

As I laid him down House almost seemed to be screaming, silently, and when I gave him his bedtime medicine (plus two extra painkillers) he popped them in his mouth and chewed, swallowing the dust, and draining the entire glass of water. His armpits, face, chest and hair were slick with salty tears and sweat. I gave him time so the pills could take effect, rolled the chair into the bedroom, got more water, and picked up the red journal. I'm not proud of what I did next, but I opened the book to that day's entry—the most recent block of text.

Don't be scared, don't be scared, idiot, i can do this, don't be scared, never was normal but now I don't know, pain still not better, DON"T BE SCARED, Wilson doesn't think the same as them, he still sees me don't be scared try for him. There was more but my eyes were burning with my own tears, a huge lump in my throat. I closed the book and brought it with me to the bedroom, wiping my face to make sure he wouldn't know I had been crying.

"Do you want me to help put your PJs on?" I somehow managed to ask, handing him the journal. House didn't need to nod; his eyes told me that the long walk from the living room had left him without an ounce of physical strengh. "Should I get a wash cloth? You know, sponge bath? No? Okay." I helped him change clothes and sat at his side—he slept better with me close by—promising myself that this time I'd stay awake all night, keep the nightmares away, but knowing that I wouldn't be any good to him sleep deprived or sick. "Time to sleep now," I whispered, trying to twist myself so as not to make let my body touch his in a dangerous way.

One morning, about a month after he was released from the hospital, I woke up to discover House, half sobbing/ half screaming into his pillow, his entire body quivering. At first I couldn't understand his behavior. That was when I realized what I had done, how my body had unintentionally poked him. He must have thought I was a monster, even if I was unconscious. It took a double dose of Xanax to get him calm again and for weeks, he cried if I came near. Now I made sure it would never happen again, or at least I tried. I learned to sleep sitting up, with my arms laid over his body, and he'd lay in-between the makeshift hug. This time he tried to pull me close, pressing up against me, curling on his left side as he often did, his eyes turned downward. "I don't think this is a good idea," I tried to tell him. House grabbed my wrist with the fingers of his right hand, pulling my arm round him, pulling me onto my side. When I tried to stop him. He clamped down on my wrist, tightly. "Don't do that, it hurts. I'll lay here if you want, but please try and be more gentle."

He rolled his eyes, but loosened his grip. "You are suffering from severe anxiety and post traumatic stress disorder. You were raped, and I can't guarantee that I'm not going to wake up with an—" House put his palm up over my mouth, a gesture I recognized as him trying to tell me to shut up. "What happens to you if I—you know?" He shrugged. "I'm gonna put a pillow right here, behind you, okay?" A nod. We were lying face to face now, and I could see how tired he was, but decided to ask one last question anyway. "I saw what you wrote for today—in your notebook—I know, you're mad at me because I read you're private journal. Get over it. I need to be sure you're not plotting to swallow a fist full of meds or something. You wrote, "don't be scared," about a dozen times. Was that, are you trying to control your fear or did you know I was reading it?"

He nodded, and then shook his head. "Yes you're trying to—" he nodded, put his hand over my mouth and closed his eyes. I gently peeled his fingers away. "Everyone gets scared sometimes. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Right now it might seem like you're scared all the time, but you are doing so much better. You don't need to beat yourself up over this." House nodded, but didn't open his eyes. "You can go back to sleep now, if you want. It's okay, I won't leave. I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight, not ever. I'm here now. I know you don't blame me, and I know I shouldn't, but this—I should have given you a ride that night. It's all my fault."

"No," House shouted, looking at me angrily. I knew instantly that this was in response to my feeling guilty, wishing I had been there, and not to the whole, I'm here and I won't ever go away thing.

These conversations, the saying "I'm sorry and I love you and it's okay," for hours, drinking a pot of coffee a day so I could be awake and aware for him all the time, him sitting there occasionally looking right at me, answering questions with nods, or a shrub, or a shake of his head, every so often saying, "don't," or "making pitiful sounds when he wants an extra pill, this was my life now, and the whole thing was strange, but also funny. As much as I worry about House, feel guilty and as much as it hurts me to see him in so much pain, scared all the time, I'm actually happy now. Greg needs me for basically everything. I have a purpose now, a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I exist for a reason. God, I'm way more fucked up than House, and yet if I weren't, he would have ended up in an institution, or dead, or both.

He needs me to take care of him and I need him to need me. Some how our screwed unless worked really well together. We fit each other. I love him and he loves my love, and (even though he's all but incapable of love) he loves me back. He needs someone who will love him uncontrollably and not care that he's a screwed up, beaten down, survivor who takes way too much Vicodin and AT (After Tritter) Xanax. If only that fucking cop hadn't come along we both could have been really happy.

We're still perfect for each other. After House fell asleep I'd put two pills in a paper cup on the bedside table, with a glass of water, because he always woke up in the middle of the night, needing another dose now, and I liked to have everything all set up and ready to go when he needed it. I'd convinced myself I could make his life manageable; make him feel safer, happy, if I was organized enough. If I could get a real, perfect schedule then he would get better, but part of me knew it would never ever happen. House lay in my arms sleeping, and I lay there just watching until I knew he was fully asleep, and he seemed safe. Then I slept too or half slept, keeping myself somewhat conscious because I knew Greg would never wake me up no matter how bad it got. That night I hardly slept because it was the first time I'd laid in bed with him since our own little incident and I was horribly terrified of hurting him. I woke up, several hours later, his eyes transfixed on my face, staring at me.

"You okay, Buddy?" I asked, sitting up, reaching for his pills." A nod, yes, "You're staring at me," I said, with a little smile. Another nod. "Sorry, I tend to state the obvious in stupid ways when I first wake up."

"I," he struggled, the words coming out, slow, and difficultly. "I want," House stopped, rubbing the sore fingers on his left hand. "Can I, have my," he croaked, biting down on his lower lip slightly. Seeing him struggling and suffering so much made me wish I were a mind reader. "Pills" this was the first time I'd looked at the clock since waking up. Five hours had passed since he had first fallen asleep. I nodded, handing him the mess and then his water glass. He looked back at me, staring again.

"When I said earlier that I need to figure out away to communicate, I didn't mean you have to force yourself to speak. It's not—you want to talk to me, don't you?" House responded by shrugging, and rubbing his bad leg. "Do you wanna talk to me or not?" When he shook his head I knew it was a lie. "How long have you been up, waiting for your—how long have you been up?" It took me nearly a full minute to realize he was answering me and not hitting me. "Sorry I lost count—start again?" One, two, three, four, five, six. "Six?" A nod. "Six minute?" No. "Six—six, six times around the clock? No that would be stupid, oh six places, thirty minutes right?" Finally he nodded. "Next time you can wake me, you know?"

He shook his head, pointed to me and then put his hands under his face, and shook his head again. "No, Jimmy, you don't sleep enough as is. I'm not gonna add to that anymore than I already have," I could almost hear his voice saying in my ear, and yet he didn't actually do it.

"IF I had been driving, even if the cop had been smart enough to find my car, he wouldn't have been able to even ask you for your license, let alone search you, or arrest you."

"Or he would have said I looked high, and asked if he could search your car for drugs," the BT House would have said. "He was gonna find a way to get me no matter what, maybe he would even hurt you to get to me," he didn't say it, but I knew this was somewhat close to what he was thinking.

"I never told you this before, because I knew you'd make fun of me, but I keep a can of pepper spray in my glove compartment." For a moment he just stared at me, then a small smile spread over his face and he laughed a little. "I mean this, House, I will do whatever it takes to protect you."

House nodded, "I know, Jimmy," he would have told me if he could have said anything. Unfortunately it wasn't enough. "You," the world broke through the silence of our bedroom awkwardly, "do a good job with me." It wasn't so much that he didn't know the words, or couldn't string them together, but instead he had been keeping himself in full shut down mode for so long that starting up again was like learning how to do it all over again. I also think he was scared, as always.

"You're doing a really good job too, House." He let me hug him, and hold him, a familiar smug smile (the one I hadn't seen in over a year) spread across his face. Then he fell asleep, again. Feeling like we had turned a corner, I went back k to bed and dreamed that Cuddy called to say she had a really big case and needed our help. SO I used a magic pill to bright House back but, unfortunately, the cure only lasted for twenty-four hours. When I woke up he was staring again, mouthing words I could not make out. "You need something, Buddy?"

No.

"I can't hear you, what are you—no—you're not talking to me? Oh, sorry. What do you want for breakfast?" I asked, with no real expectation of an answer. Being on a specific daily schedule (even eating the same things every week) seemed to help 1. Give him some control over his life and 2. Feel a sense that everything was normal, so he knew what was going on, whereas before I started the routines, not knowing what would happen next made him even more stressed out. House asked for his meds less often when he knew that things were happening the way they were supposed to. So I didn't expect for him to respond and when he tossed the journal (also kept on the bedside table) at me, it came a bit of a shock.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have read your private journal and I won't do it again," I said like a blathering idiot. House gave me the 'you're such an idiot,' look. "You wrote something in here and you want me to read it?" Yes. If he knew there was a sign for duh, he would have used it.

He had written Tuesday Pancake Day, but if you ask, pancakes. I smiled, and handed the notebook back to him. He nodded and didn't roll his eyes or give me any dirty looks as I helped him into the wheelchair and pushed him into the kitchen. I got started on breakfast, only to hear a soft thump, turned around and discovered that he had started throwing things to get my attention.

"Okay, new rule, don't throw things at me. If you need to talk to me, you can yell, scream, grab my hand or arm, or anything else, but you can not just throw things around inside the apartment, um, please."

You kinda folded at the end there didn't you, Jimmy? He taunted with his eyes, but didn't actually say something. His gaze met mine and then shifted downward. Pick up the goddamn notebook. I looked inside but he hadn't written anything.

"You want this back?" A shrug. "Just don't break anything, okay? I know, I'm pathetic! What the hell do you want from me?" I asked, starting to get frustrated, hating myself for yelling at him. "Sorry, I'm so sorry, Pal, my bad. I, this is hard for me too." House was silent, while I made breakfast, and quiet quietly we ate, and quiet again when we were watching his soap. For a while I thought he was mad or scared of me, but then about midway through General Hospital he tugged on my sleeve, and then reached to stroke my face. "You don't have to do that—I mean it's okay if you want to, but it's not—how's the other hand coming?" He let go of my cheek, and held out the other palm to be inspected. "Let me know if this hurts, alright?" I reminded him, and then started to examine his fingers, rolling my thumb over the joints, the bones, and his pale skin. "You're doing really good, Buddy. I'm almost finished. I know, I know it hurts. Almost finished. You are so brave. There we go, all done. It looks like it's doing better but I think we're still having problems.

"What we?" He snorted, pulling away. It wasn't as if he didn't have any physical therapy, but his hand, like the leg, had become more tender, sensitive, stiff and weak. There was only so much medical science could do, and unfortunately we were bumping up against those limits. The human body isn't designed to be stomped on and then re-built. He wanted to tell me that when it comes to pain there is never a we sort of thing. He was alone. There was no way for me to help. Nothing I could do to help.

"You want an extra pill, because I hurt you so much?" No? You're doing so great, being so brave and I'm extremely proud of this talking thing. It's okay. Don't worry about it. This is a we thing, and we have all the time in the world to get this figured out."

"Fuck time," he shouted, slamming his good hand against the couch, in a tight fist. "Doesn't help. Never helps." My plan evaporated at this point. House wanted to get well more than anything, but if his past experiences with his father molesting and beating him had taught the poor guy anything it was that you never really get over this sort of thing. Some people heal—to varying degrees—but we both knew the days of him calling up hookers, playing poker with random strangers, and laughing at Cuddy were over. No more jokes about sleeping with employees, no more lying, no more sex—probably. He would never steal my lunch, never spit food at me, or put my hand in a warm cup of water while I slept. Never again—not always such a good thing after all.

"It's not better, not even a little bit?" I asked, lifting his hand again, kissing it softly. "Not at all, since the—since you got out of the hospital?" Ehh, so-so, he said with the shaking of his hand. "Does this help, or am I hurting, or scaring you?" No. "Is it really so hard to talk to me? You were just doing it, like thirty seconds ago."

"Fuck you!" The words came out in a quick, sharp burst of pure anger. I wanted to keep pushing him, but knew the risks. If I went even the tiniest bit too far, I'd never get the old House back.

"I deserved that, and a whole lot worse. I know I screw up a lot, but I love you and I am willing to do whatever it takes to make you happy, to make you feel better, okay? I know you're having a hard time with your hand today, but how's the leg?"

"Hurts," he mumbled, and then, "wh-what if. What if I can't?" I wanted to say, of course you're gonna get better, promise to make him truly happy, promise to fix him but I knew better. We both knew he was never gonna walk again, never more than a little bit around the apartment with someone holding him up, supporting him. And with only one hand working, he couldn't even operate a manual wheelchair.

"I know it hurts. There's permanent damage and it's probably gonna hurt for the rest of your life. That's not what I meant. How bad is the pain today compared to other times?"

"'Bout usual," he said, and pressed his hand over my mouth.

"If I talk, but don't expect you to respond is it okay?" There was no response from House. He didn't even look in my direction for—three or four hours—a really long time. The rest of the day he was aware of me and his surroundings, but tired and unresponsive. He did write a few things in the journal and nodded or shook his head a few times. This was a good day. God help me it was one of the best we'd had so far. So you can see why his bad days were so difficult for the two of us.