Disclaimer: Don't own. Just playing with my House and Wilson dolls. I feel like Gillie on SNL. I broke Wilson...Sorry. ;)
A/N: Written for sickwilson_fest
All medical information was researched, but is only as accurate as the internet and my comprehension.
Thanks to my beta, bookfan85, for all her help
Thanks everyone for commenting. I wasn't sure if anyone would like this story.
Within minutes House had made himself at home in a guest room reserved for visiting family members. Not bad, compared to the hospital-like setting for the patients. The room was decorated in a "motherly" fashion, probably to calm distressed relatives. Matching muted cabbage roses floated over the thin drapes and quilted bedspread. House felt like a chocolate rabbit in an Easter basket.
Checking Wilson's schedule, he made several calls, adding a few surprises to his friend's routine for tomorrow. He automatically set his alarm for 9:00 AM and inwardly sighed. Late mornings were over, at least temporarily. He changed the time to coincide with sunrise. Wilson needed to get a jumpstart on the morning and get with the program.
Stretching his long frame over the rose garden, House stared at the ceiling and formulated a plan.
Before going to sleep, Wilson could not wrap his mind around the fact that House had proclaimed to be his personal slave-driver. He was sure this was some warped joke. House was sure to get bored.
After breaking into locked offices, ranking the females in order of cup size, insulting and embarrassing him in front of staff and patients, and scarfing down all the food in the kitchen, he'd disappear like the Cat in the Hat.
But Wilson was dead wrong. He had not taken into account House's obsessive need to surround himself with his toys. Evidently, Wilson was House's Velveteen Rabbit.
The following morning, before birds had sucked down the first worms of the day, House was in Wilson's room, noisily drawing back the blinds so the sun's first rays smacked him awake.
Scrunching his eyes and pulling the covers over his head, Wilson tried going back to sleep, but House would not hear of it.
"Wakey! Wakey! Wilson! I can smell breakfast."
"Get out." Was the grumbled reply.
"After you eat, you can go to PT.
"Go away."
"No time to waste. You have a full schedule. Remember what a full day was like?" House was looking at a piece of paper.
"Fuck you, House." A billowing of the sheet accompanied the heartfelt emotion.
"After lunch, you meet with Miss Nancy for your lifestyle class. She's dying to meet you."
"Fuck Miss Nancy."
"I'll pass. I'm not into women over sixty.
"After that, you're taking a meeting with someone else you've been avoiding."
House tugged the covering away from Wilson's head.
"Dr. Welch, your psychiatrist."
Cold thunder rumbled through Wilson. "How many times do I have to say 'no.' I'm not seeing another shrink who wants to know how I'm feeling. It's simple. I'm paralyzed. I can't feel or do anything.
"You're wasting your time here, House. There's no Chinese food for twenty miles around, and the kitchen only serves tofu burgers and veggie pizza."
Wilson huffed before covering his head with his arms. "You made it clear a long time ago you don't do heart-to-hearts, but I'll call Cuddy and let her know you made a valiant effort and earned a cut in clinic hours."
"Cuddy didn't send me. Besides, you know I never listen to her." House sat down on the edge of the bed.
"I was wrong yesterday. You're doing a cool impersonation of me. You're stubborn and capable of making yourself miserable." House said quietly.
"Yeah, two-of-a-kind. Twins. Haven't you been listening? You deal with pain, and I deal with the lack thereof." Wilson explained with a twisted laugh from beneath his tangled arms.
"Seriously? You can't remember my behavior after the infarction? Compared to back then, I'm fucking Mother Teresa."
House paused for Wilson to protest, but he heard nothing.
"You can't walk, and my leg throws a protest march every time I want to. We're both dealing with loss. My life was never the same, and yours won't be either."
"Thanks. I feel so much better after that pep talk." Wilson muttered.
"After my surgery, I'd still be lying in bed, if it wasn't for a know-it-all friend who dispensed advice faster than he wrote prescriptions. He reminded me I hadn't lost everything. I could solve puzzles and coincidentally, save lives.
"Now, it's my turn to remind that self-righteous bastard that his patients don't want to puke their guts out unless he's holding their hand. You have nothing to fear, Moron. The world will never run out of people needier than you."
"I don't care if it does."
"Then you're not interested in these." House dropped the contents of bag on Wilson's chest.
Wilson finally removed his arms to see what was going on. There were two small teddy bears and a half-dozen "get well" cards. He opened a couple. They were from his patients. He pushed them aside, and turned his head away. A disbelieving smile flickered on his face. "Is this your lame attempt to cheer me up? I saw these when I was in the hospital."
"Thought you should read them again, Numbnuts, and I'm not talking about your IQ. These were from the patients that died while you've been away feeling sorry for yourself."
Wilson turned his face back to House. His brows wrinkled in sorrow.
The words were beginning to sink in.
While he had Wilson's attention, he moved in for the kill. "You need to discuss your depression with Dr. Raquel."
"You mean Dr. Welch."
House stood up. "I mean both of them. Raquel specializes in antidepressants. You need your meds evaluated." House pulled the paper out of his pocket. "I made an appointment for you right after Welch."
"Damn it, House." Wilson wielded an angry finger as House walked away from the bed.
"Get a move on Wilson. I'm sending in a nursing assistant in fifteen minutes to check on you. If you're not out of bed, you can eat your breakfast in bed…in the lunchroom."
Could House be bluffing? Wilson gathered up the cards and teddy bears, moving them out of harm's way before throwing back the covers. He wasn't going to waste any time finding out. He had lost too much money playing poker with his friend to take a chance.
The next two weeks flew by. With the new meds, the upswing in Wilson's personality and outlook was remarkable. House was in his element too, devising schedules that pushed, pulled, pinched, and probed every inch of Wilson's body, and he still found time to shoehorn meetings with psychiatrists, therapy groups, and lifestyle classes.
One evening they sat in the community room, Wilson transferred to the couch, leaning his neck against the sofa's back. He could barely stay awake after coming from the last two sessions: hydrotherapy and massage.
House occupied Wilson's wheelchair, trying a few maneuvers before going back to scrutinizing his file.
"Your evaluations are improving Jimmy."
Wilson's head nodded, not in agreement, but overcome by sleep.
"It's time to add items from column 'B' to keep you on your metaphoric toes."
On the alert, Wilson opened his eyes and glared, "You're a sadist."
"You're gonna need a faster set of wheels to get around. I'm not hauling you all over New Jersey when you get back. Monday you'll begin driver's training…and…basketball. You're one-on-one game was pretty good for a Jew. There's also tennis…"
House was engrossed in checking boxes on the form. Wilson's remark was completely lost on him.
"Driving and basketball." Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to get behind a steering wheel, but perhaps he could deal with it in a structured environment, and he had almost forgotten the pre-infarction years when he and House played sports together instead of watching them.
Wilson's pointed and wagged his finger with excitement. "Why don't you join me for basketball?"
House cocked an eyebrow.
"Why not? Borrow one of the extra chairs. Let's see if you remember how to play." When House didn't immediately reply, Wilson challenged, "Or are you afraid?"
"Afraid? You're gonna be sorry you ever said that, Buddy," House replied, but for the first time since he arrived, both found something to smile about.
Not every moment between them went so smoothly.
Wilson had his dark moments. Waking up and facing his limited mobility overwhelmed him. He took his anger out through passive-aggressive behavior, half-heartedly transferring from his bed to his wheelchair, tarrying through every step in his grooming ritual, and preserving his homeless look.
Most of the time he missed breakfast and was often tardy to his first PT session.
No one understood better than House what mornings were like for a cripple, but Wilson's dawdling was holding them captive in rehab hell, and he wanted to break them out of there as fast as possible.
House preferred to be far away and back in his apartment playing his piano and running his team ragged demanding improbable tests on uncooperative patients. But he had to admit Wilson's problems challenged his ingenuity.
Back among the municipal gardens of his guest room, he hatched another insidious plan that would make a Republican smile.
tbc…
Thank you for reading. All comments welcome.