House lost track of the time after his mind slipped into unconsciousness inside that cold tent, with Wilson softly caressing his face. The hours that followed that bright point in time could easily be defined as the worst of his life. Everything became a blurred memory of unforgivable pain, and he lost count of how many times he wished to be dead already. Some hours after the last shot of morphine, House woke up with his own groans of pain, and every single moment after that was hell until it was too much for him to bear, and he passed out, the first of uncountable times. He could feel Wilson's hand on his own, until he couldn't anymore; maybe the doctor had left the tent to keep his sanity far from that disturbing scene. But then, all of a sudden, he was being carried by faceless men, strangers in uniforms. His heart seemed to try to leave his chest, beating impossibly fast out of fear and irrational panic, and he hyperventilated for some moments before being sucked into darkness again. Voices surrounded him, but he couldn't understand their words. "Is he dead?" "Not yet." "...wounded leg..." "...may have hit the bone...". The putrid smell of rotten flesh invaded his nostrils, and he opened his eyes and tried to get up to check that it wasn't his leg, but strong arms held him in place, and he gave in to the chloroform taking over his lungs. When he finally opens his eyes, a bit dizzy but wide awake, there's a blanket covering his legs, and he doesn't have the heart to check if his leg was still there. Slowly, he stretches his arm until his hand touches his bandaged wound. His heart lightens a bit, and he dares to have hope. The unfamiliar ceiling greets him, and he asks himself if Wilson is near him, not having the courage to look around and find out that he was alone in every possible way.
The world itself, however, was twisted in Wilson's perception, too - mainly for the unmerciful lack of sleep. The screams were everywhere, even though they were involved by such a deep silence it could be frightening. That much silence in a place destined to the sick and wounded sounded like death, and every time Wilson blinked and remained close-eyed for more than five seconds, the smell of blood came up to his nostrils and the screams howled inside his skull, like he was in the middle of a campaign hospital, in the front, when it wasn't. They've won that battle, it was said, but the meaning was miles away for Wilson. The injured were not that many and he could afford some sleep, but the nightmares would be ready to claim war inside a place Wilson couldn't defend.
There he was, then; sitting on a chair, leaning his head on the only wall they had there, while surrounded by thin white sheets and waiting by the bed for House to wake up and end his madness. At some point, he thought he'd heard something - a grunt, a groan, something. Even though it wasn't the first time in those hours, he wouldn't give up trying "House?" he leaned on his knees and forced himself to get up. "Are you awake?"
"Wilson." his voice sounds hoarse, and he realizes he can't remember the last time he actually spoke. He clears his throat. "What... What day is it?" There's a fog in his mind, and he asks himself if he's on morphine again, the characteristic numbness on his limbs. House rubs his eyes with his hand, and it seems it had become a part of his natural traits, to clear his eyes trying to clear his mind. 'Another battle wound', he thinks, the voice in his head sounding sarcastic and bitter.
Wilson approaches the bed and leans his hands on the mattress, smiling. He wanted to place them on House, but something stopped him; it could have been the place they were in, the fear that everything was just some morphine delusion for House, something like that. Wilson couldn't tell; he was really too tired to do so. It felt like there was sand inside his eyelashes and his eye rings were deep and dark. But the image of his lieutenant was quite worse; worse, but he could tell it wasn't too worse. They were both exhausted, but they'd survive. So, despite all that, the dizziness, the weariness, the smile he gave was solid and strong, warming himself. "It's been two days since we left the woods. The third is beginning, actually."
"Three days..." The hours of excruciating pain were part of the past now, and though they had looked endless, it seemed to House that he had been sleeping forever, with his memories of the past days blurred and incomplete. Wilson looked completely drained of all energy, and he felt his heart sting with some nameless feeling, a mix of genuine compassion and selfish gratitude "And haven't you slept ever since?"
The remembrance of the sensation of that now worn out body so close to his own comes alive into his mind, and he asks himself if it had actually happened or if it was just a fantastic creation of his desperation. After all, it was very human to hold onto something dear to overcome suffering, and it would be understandable... though disappointing.
"I have slept, don't worry" he lies "It's just hard to get some rest here." He says within a chuckle. With his knuckles, he touches House's arm. "And how are you feeling?" lets his fingertips touch the skin, hesitantly.
House shivers slightly, as if he had just touched a cold surface accidentally - but Wilson's fingers are warm, so warm they could have left a burn. "I'm feeling... as if I had been hit by a tank." He chuckles weakly "And a bit dazed too. More than a bit actually." He frowns vaguely, observing the dark shades on Wilson's eyes, and his already pale complexion looking ivory. "...Wilson, lying is stupidity when it's written 'exhausted' all over your face."
Wilson sighs heavily. "It's nothing. It's just..." after some seconds staring at House, he swallows hard, then walks to the nightstand. "It's been some tough couple of days, hun?" he says while opening the drawer and taking the aid kid out of it. His voice is actually filled with some strong sorrow. "You know this better than I do. Besides? I'm a doctor, I didn't use to sleep even when I was back in college." when he stands back by the bed, he tries to fondly smile, but it comes out as a incoherent smirk. "Would you let me take a look at your leg?" he holds the blankets.
The unnamed feeling takes over his heart, and it's like it have always been there. But suddenly, House feels afraid to look at his own leg. Afraid of what was waiting for him under that blanket. After all, it was something he would carry for his whole life. "Yes... Please." inhales so deeply he could almost pass out with that amount of air inside his lungs. "What... What do you say about it? How bad was the wound?"
"You will walk." Wilson answers, a little too quickly, and pulls the blanket to the side. It's not something he could ensure, and he knew it was meaningless to lie to House. "You know we can't be completely sure of anything, but I have no reason to believe otherwise. There is no sign of gangrene or any infection." there was a 'but' waiting to be said; however, Wilson just mutes and proceeds to check the response of the muscles and the state around the wound.
House tries to sit to be able to take a look, but the numbness on his body makes him give up. "Am I on morphine again? I'm feeling all dizzy and drowsy." He frowns slightly, feeling there is something weird in the whole situation. Wilson was too concentrated on checking his leg, and avoiding his gaze. Instead of asking directly, he decides to try a subtler way "Have you seen the surgery?" he sounds just barely interested, as if he didn't understand completely what was happening.
"Yes, you are sort of doped." Wilson covers House's leg again, picking and shaking a thermometer, to lower the mercury level "And yes, I was here. They say you shouldn't be involved when you are too emotionally compromised, but I did it anyway." he holds House's arm and lifts it, to place the glass stick under his armpit. "It's not like they have plenty of doctors available here."
"And was it too hard to remove the bullet?" His eyes searches for uncommon signs on Wilson's face,trying to find the answers still hidden behind those warm brown eyes. Those words, 'too emotionally compromised', caught his attention, but the way they were said was too vague and impersonal, and it could mean anything.
"Yes. There was a small splinter in your bone. Not enough to break it, though." Wilson sighed what could be a laugh, and, since none if it was even near to funny, it led to how confused the doctor was. Putting the stethoscope around the neck, he looked at the blue eyes. "You know what will happen now, House. You have always been such a great commander for the troops here. It won't be forgotten." You've always been so great for me here.', he thought, swallowing hard, not realizing he had held House's arm again "But you are alive. And you will walk." He puts the stethoscope in his ears and listens to House's chest. "That's the best I could ever ask." He leans throat and corrects "We could." Sighing, he shakes his head slowly and corrects again. "That I could ask."
A little bent over House and closer, he whispers, breathing heavily, forgetting for some seconds what he was supposed to do.
House is sure Wilson can hear his heart beating a bit faster when he slowly moves his hand to rest it over Wilson's,as if it is the very first time. "Thanks, Wilson." his voice is low, barely audible "Thanks for everything. I'll miss you. You've been a great companion." smiles weakly "You almost make me wish I could stay."
House could already feel the weight of waiting and fearing the war would take Wilson mercilessly. He would be back to a life of comfort and peace, while his dearest friend would stay there, living between mud and blood, bombs and screams. It didn't seem fair. If places could be exchanged... But there was only three ways for an honored soldier to go home: dead, injured or if the war was over. So he'd wait and hope for the best. As Wilson had said, he was alive. All the possibilities were still available for him. 'And when we meet again we'll sort everything out. Time will be ours to savor.'
In the doctor's ears, House's heart was beating loud, and his words scratched and reverberated in between shorter breaths. So, though Wilson was silent, there was a military marching band inside his skull, playing such a sad song that no actual music could reach so far. Maybe the screams in the front, raised to one improbable harmonic tone, could match its pain; but only House's eyes by now could match its beauty. Wilson held House's hand back, and tightened the grip as if he could wring it like his heart was feeling right now - then he stopped, because if he was really able to do so, he'd break every single bone in House's hand. The rhythm inside his ears turned louder and faster, and Wilson was pretty sure his own heartbeats were trying to accompany the orchestra. "You remember it, don't you?" he finally whispers, voiceless.
"At first I thought it had been just a vivid dream. But it was just too good to be just a dream, a creation of my mind. Plus, I never remember my dreams. So... it could only be true. Just reality becoming surreal." His eyes never leaving Wilson's, his thumb gently stroking the skin covering the hand of the doctor. "And now you just have confirmed." Every movement and every word coming from House's mouth has that veil of bittersweetness, peace and happiness blending with fear and sorrow. "I just don't know yet if all these memories will make me feel better while you're away or if they will make me miss you even more. Probably both."
Wilson knew House probably couldn't have forgotten, but he could surely have pretended to, and he didn't. The invisible wound opened again in his own chest, and the warmness around his heart could as well be its hemorrhage. The heartbeats were so loud he took the stethoscope out - in the next second, he regretted it. Hearing the sounds of the hospital, such as the movement of soldiers and nurses outside filled his throat with a doleful perception of reality. "The next truck will come next week. I'm not sure you will walk properly until there, but we'll go back to the headquarters for a while. I'll be with you, for now, for you, if you need me or want me to." Missing those heartbeats, he places his other hand in House's chest. "Actually, I... I don't intend to leave your side for as long as I can." the sour chuckle hiccoughs in his lungs and he smiles as much as he is able to. He wouldn't ever seem so fragile as he felt, but those hushed words were tearing too many walls down for some structure to uphold. He needed to hold on, and he would. Mainly because he was happy, that underhand, undue feeling. He was, for what he felt was the best happiness one can have while the world is killing itself on the outside.
House mirrors the doctor's smile, with eyes full of longing. "As long as you can sounds good." He couldn't say aloud the terrifying thoughts crossing his mind against his will, all of them involving the death of the one who had become so dear and close to him. It was better to pretend the world wasn't tumbling down above them and enjoy every moment to the fullest. To keep thousands of frames of Wilson's face in his mind. To record carefully each sigh, each whisper, each laugh and word with the highest fidelity possible in every cell of his brain. To never let the marks left by those gentle hands on his skin fade away. "I want you near." the words are said under his breath "I need you near." the will to touch those lips again, with his fingertips, with his own lips, was trying to take over him, but sadly, it couldn't be. Not in that cold place, not when so many people were watching or dying in the rooms silently, alone. "Now. Before." Hands are clasped together as if they were one entity, heat flowing through them just as before inside that tent, in the middle of nowhere. "For as long as I live."
It sounds a bit pathetic to his own ears, a bit artificial. Too romantic perhaps, too Sturm und Drang. But it was the best he could do. Unspoken words hurt more than bullets and knives, and he couldn't let them have reasons to torture him. Not when so many precious things were in so much danger.
The first thought of Wilson in between that piercing words were 'The last one I can't promise'. But what was it for, now? Again, what help was the outside truth for them, when they could take those white sheets as the fortress of their particular dream? All he did was looking around carefully, trying to define silhouettes or anything unreasonably dangerous for what he was about to do. His own pulse pounds even louder inside the ears than when he was hearing House's; as if the stethoscope was placed right on the muscles of his own heart. He'd lose it. He'd lose it soon, so he couldn't lose it while he had it. In a sudden movement, he leans both hands on the mattress and bends a little more, finding House's lips with his. For one or two seconds, only, and he breaks it, swallowing hard and straightening his spine, dizzy on how sleepless he was, how reckless he felt and how delicious that sort of nervousness could be, that vicious, that maddening.
It was merely a press of lips to lips - and still, House felt adrenaline being shot straight to his heart, as if he had never taken any morphine. He wanted more, but he knew they should be careful. The recklessness in that act showed how Wilson needed to sleep and eat properly, to rest his brain and body. House fondles the doctor's face lovingly. "Mein Gott, you're mad." He smirks "I like that. But I really think you should try to get some sleep, mein lieber Freund." 'How I wished you could sleep here, by my side, taking away the cold and the pain.', he thinks, but even in his mind the words sound absurd. They don't have any excuse there, and there was no use in wishing impossible things. Nevertheless, he sighs softly, the smirk turning into a gentle smile.
Wilson closes his eyes and shakes his head. "Entschuldigung." he breathes heavily, and repeats. "I am sorry. I won't risk it again, I promise. I just couldn't miss it now. It feels... surreal." Wilson hears his own voice and, in that moment, he becomes fully aware of how much that sounded like the speech of one beginning to be delusional by the lack of sleep. All he had thought, that amount of things and metaphors about reality and dreams, seemed a product of a restless mind in the edge of crazy. Blinking heavily, he walks to the chair he'd spent the most of the night on "We don't have... enough beds here. I'll have to wait for the next shift" he drags the chair to the side of the bed. With a smile, he sits and crosses his arms on the mattress, beside House's waist. "You can tell people I just happened to fall asleep here." He leans head on the back of his own fists, "What a lousy doctor."
House's lips twist into a fond smile "All I see is a great man distressed by the weight of too many worries." House moves his hand to Wilson's hair, and it feels like it belongs there somehow. Just a minor sign of his affection that was meant to make the doctor fall asleep more easily, to calm him down; but it ended up soothing himself as well. "Just sleep and don't worry about anything."
For Wilson, the feeling was overwhelming, and the caressing was slowly removing everything cruel and sad in the situation and replacing it with a strong, relaxing sensation, putting in his limbs and mind the heaviness that once was inside this shoulders and heart. "If that's a characteristic of a lieutenant I don't know" he sighed deeply "but you really make things feel just alright when everything screams it's not. I convince myself it's safe even when the world is raging." the last words turn mumbled, as he was sinking into the sweetest unconsciousness. House watches as the doctor fall asleep fastly, his words floating on the air around them, causing weird sensations on his own skin, not unpleasant at all.
