Disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Two weeks later.


The Monster

Thoroughly wrung-out, wasted, limp, Wilson cut the car engine and sagged forward, laying his head on the steering wheel. The little green monster he saw when he pictured worry had been gnawing larger and larger chunks from his patience and empathy reserves as the day had progressed. Now that he was almost home, it seemed to swallow them whole. He let out a tired sigh and got out of the car.

Worse than the increasing size of the monster was the fact that people were noticing the toll that worry was taking on him. Noticing and commenting. Pitying. He understood House a little better now.

Ascending the apartment steps, he recalled with annoyance the way Cuddy had all but forced him to leave work early when she'd seen him fidgeting and unable to concentrate in funding meeting this morning. Then Brown had offered to take on some of his cases and duties until, as he put it, things were more under control. Wilson appreciated the concern and kindly declined both accommodation attempts, but he knew that if this went on much longer, he wouldn't be able to say no again. He hated that fact. He didn't want to lose the control he had any more than House did, but he recognized that he would have to. Because if this went on much longer, he would lose his mind.

Much longer. He snorted at the idea. Only two weeks had passed since that early morning morphine dose—two weeks of mostly bad days where House needed two shots of morphine to keep the pain manageable. He'd had two good days where only one sufficed and four very bad days where he needed another booster. Yesterday had been a very bad day. Wilson was tired from having been awakened at 1 o'clock by a sweaty, shaking House who was barely in control of himself. If tonight was that bad, he'd determined to take the morning off. He would know soon after he entered the apartment just how bad today had been. But still, it had only been two weeks.

Two long weeks. He'd seen many patients and families through an extremely long fortnight, but he recognized that two weeks wasn't really that much time. Not when it could go on indefinitely. Not when House, stubborn, stubborn House, refused tests. House was scared to death, Wilson knew, and it was easier for him—for anyone—to take a shot of morphine and defer knowledge than it was to go find out what was going on. House, who was so rational he seemed non-human at times, wanted to know the truth about everything and everyone except himself. It was annoying. It made him understand Stacy better, too. But none of that was helpful to him. What he needed was for House to find some courage fast, because if he didn't, Wilson knew he was going turn into a jibbering ball of stress and worry who couldn't function any more than House could with the searing pain in his leg.

But he didn't really blame House for wussing out. Not really.

He let himself in, put his bag down, and headed straight for the bedroom. No lights were on. The worry monster chewed with abandon.

In the dim late afternoon light filtered through an overcast sky and gauzy curtains, House appeared to be asleep. But Wilson could hear thin, scratchy jazz from House's iPod headphones and see the tension in his body. As usual, his right hand was vice-gripped to his thigh. With a lick of its lips, the monster swallowed the last of Wilson's reserves. Utterly used up, he let himself drop on the bed and started working on his tie.

House breathed in suddenly and Wilson heard the zip of fingers moving through sheets, then the jazz became louder under the sound of House moving in the covers.

By the time Wilson had the knot undone, House's weight had shifted toward him. Wilson felt a warm hand on his shoulder. The tie pooled on the floor and Wilson leaned forward to rest an elbow on his leg and plant forehead to palm. Wilson raked his hand up to his hairline and House's hand slipped down his back and fell to the bed.

Wilson sat just long enough to take his shoes off, then stood and walked across the room to the dresser, untucking his shirt as he went. He could feel House watching him but he didn't know what to say.

For his part, House did what he did best: he acted on a conclusion he had already reached.

Wilson heard the crinkle of magazines being moved, then a whomp as a stack of them hit the floor. Shirt half-off, he glanced over his shoulder at House. House glanced up at him and over at the empty side of the bed, then began fiddling with his iPod. Getting the message that House wanted him to come to bed, Wilson went back to removing his shirt. The monster disgorged part of his sanity.

Wilson heard House get to his feet with a poorly-suppressed grunt and limp heavily out of the room. Fumbling with his pants, he listened hard until he heard something normal. The splash of water against water. Okay. He stepped out of his pants and rooted through a drawer for something comfortable to wear.

By the time House had washed his hands and limped heavily back to the bedroom, Wilson was putting away his shoes and tie. Neatly. Overly neatly. So he wouldn't have to watch House limp back to bed. House hated it, and Wilson didn't need to see the limp to know how bad it was. House's course breathing and lop-sided gait told Wilson that it wasn't a good day. But if House was up on his own, it wasn't a very bad day yet either.

House was arranging his legs on the bed when Wilson turned around. The monster bit off a small piece as Wilson dutifully rounded to his side of the bed and sat down. Not entirely sure what House wanted, he stayed in place, feet on the floor, and made no attempt to get into the bed.

House's warm hand appeared on his shoulder again and gently tugged. The monster gave the piece back.

After a series of shifts, Wilson found himself on his side with House's arm around his chest. He was restless and he wanted to pace and yell at the pain that had taken House away from him, but instead he let House's warmth and the soft sound of his breathing calm him.

Gradually, he was lulled into a half-sleep. Then House spoke, his voice reverberating through Wilson's body.

"I'm getting an MRI tomorrow."

Awakened, Wilson turned his head in confusion. "You made an appointment?"

"Just did," House answered, exerting more pressure with his arm to keep Wilson still. "With you. To squeeze me in."

Wilson settled back down. "What brought this on?"

"I miss sex," House replied. "Food. Pooping. You."

Wilson relaxed a little more. He'd been worried about House becoming psychologically dependent on morphine again. Vicodin was bad but manageable. Morphine would be too much.

"Morphine is great," House continued, as if he'd read Wilson's mind. "But sex is better. And you look like the walking dead."

"Says the Creature from the Black Lagoon," Wilson retorted.

The light jab of House's soft laugh made Wilson feel warmer. He reached up to grasp House's hand, holding it to his chest and gently rubbing the hard, calloused palm. He hadn't realized how badly he'd needed something as simple as this.

But someone had to articulate the big question and Wilson knew it had to be him. He waited a moment, savoring the quiet happiness. House would already have an answer, Wilson knew, but the quiet was good. He wanted it to last, even if he knew it couldn't.

Slowly, he spoke. "What if it's bad?"

House, who was half-asleep himself, waited until he inhaled to speak, not willing to break the even cycle of breathing. "Then something happens," he answered. "And if it's good, something else happens."

"How cavalier," Wilson quipped.

House shook against him briefly with another laugh. Wilson closed his eyes, smiling, and exhaled worry and fear. House could make him feel so bad unintentionally and then undo all of that badness with one intentionally good act. Relaxed and content, Wilson conceded that that was more than enough.

After a while, House reclaimed his hand from Wilson's and began moving it. Down. Wilson's body, which had been responding to his positive mood and the proximity of House for the past fifteen minutes, begged him to keep his mouth shut and let House do what he wanted, but the monster was still there, chewing, worrying.

He shifted slightly to indicate resistance. "You don't need a shot?" he asked.

Their unspoken agreement was that House would tell Wilson if he needed one. If he didn't need one now, nearly ten hours since his last, maybe today was a good day after all. On the other hand…

"I had one a few hours ago," House said. "Left a message with one of your nurses."

Wilson had received no such message. The monster grew, chanting he's using on his own again. He ignored the monster and made himself think of possible explanations.

"Was it in crypto-code?" he asked, starting to squirm in response to House's roving hand.

"If that's what the kids are calling metaphor now."

House's voice rumbling against his back. Hot breath on his neck. God.

"Oh, that's what that was," Wilson said, trying to keep his thoughts together. "She told me you didn't leave a name."

"She's an idiot," House replied. He shifted closer and pressed down on a special spot. "Shut up and let me enjoy this."

Wilson swallowed, wanting to protest, but House had a very well-trained right hand. He closed his eyes and let House work. The monster shrank as endorphin release increased.

Eight wonderful minutes later, both of them had sunk into sleep. The monster slept too.