Part 3
Wilson's exit was exactly the kind of thing that made House keep him around. As soon as House told him he could manage, he moved on from the fact that House had just fallen on his ass and passed out from pain. He may not have had a good grasp of the difference between dependence and addiction, but he always understood House's need for independence and space. House figured another five minutes for the Vicodin to take full effect and he'd be back on his feet.
Getting up was complicated by the pain in his shoulder, but now that it had been dialed back a few notches and the leg had quieted down he felt ready to venture on. He used his left side and back to sidle up the wall till he was sitting with his back against it. He then drew his legs up to his chest and brought the left one over the little raised edge of the shower turning his body with it and used his hands to help the right one along side it. He took a break before grabbing the cane and getting to his feet. He pulled on the robe Wilson had brought in and felt the warmth and security he had brought with it. He knew just how much worse this could have been if he were alone. It had happened before. He grabbed the cane, planted his left leg on the floor and struggled to his feet.
Wilson made his way to the phone to order them a pizza. He knew the best thing he could do for House, and himself, right now was give him space. He felt sick with himself. It wasn't that he had doubted that House was in pain, but he hadn't seen it up close like that in a long time. It was like a slap in the face. He felt cold inside. Here he was trying to get the man to take fewer pain killers when a simple slip and fall made him damn near pass out. A part of him knew that it was easier to think that House had a problem with the pills than to feel House really was in that much pain. None of that changed the fact that he had betrayed him, and was a self-centered ass one of the few times he actually needed him to make good on his end of their friendship though. He ran the fingers of his free hand back and forth across his forehead as he dialed the number to the pizzeria.
He turned on the TV and put it on mute so he'd be able to hear if House needed help. He idly flipped through the Tivo list to see if there was anything decent on it. He moved to the kitchen when he heard House emerge from the bathroom and enter his bedroom. Wilson put on a pot of coffee, more to busy his hands than anything else, all thoughts on House, and Stacy's impending visit.
Once in his room, House pulled on some clothes and lay down. He had renewed appreciation for his bed. He grabbed his alarm clock. Realizing he had about an hour before Stacy was set to arrive, he set an alarm for a forty five minute nap and lay back.
Wilson poured a cup of the freshly brewed coffee and filled a water glass. Despite himself, he wanted to make sure House was all right, and food and beverage were always useful aids. He couldn't stand the sight of the man at the moment, but that didn't mean he wasn't concerned. He figured the drinks would distract House and make him less likely to slam the door in his face.
House began drifting off immediately. Pain was exhausting. It was why he found himself forced to nap to get through the day more often than he cared for. He was enjoying the brief moments on the cusp of sleep when he heard an all too familiar knock and Wilson pushing open the slightly ajar door. House chided himself. Years of living alone had him out of practice at shutting and locking doors.
"Sleeping in here," he said without bothering to open his eyes.
"Thought you might want something to drink, just put on a fresh pot." House looked fine. He seemed tired and worn, but fine. The anger that the concern had overridden was edging forth again.
"Not thirsty, sleepy," House whined.
"Yes, well, next time put a picture on your door of which of the seven dwarves you're feeling at one with, and I won't have to bother you with trivial things like fluids," Wilson's tone was tinged with the anger he felt toward House and toward himself for having to fight to stay mad at the man.
"Oh please, I could get pictures of all the seven dwarves and wear one at all times and it probably wouldn't even put a dent in your mother-hen act." Wilson couldn't possibly think he'd believe this little visit was about coffee.
"Hmm…that might be hard considering sarcastic, caustic, and obsessive never made it into the famed seven. Poor dopey and grumpy would be overworked."
"Good thing cartoon labor laws aren't enforceable in New Jersey." House grabbed a pill bottle from his night stand and shook out a pill. "Coffee later, water now," he said extending his hand not bothering to look at Wilson. He didn't need to look at Wilson to know the expression he wore. "And don't give me that look. Yes, I had two pills a half hour ago, and I went from an eight to a six. No, I don't think that's a tolerable level, especially, when I have to strategize with my ex to try to keep my ass out of jail and your's in expensive pants. You get to be at a zero all damn day without having to endure hurt little 'how could you' and 'holier than thou' looks or snide comments." House rarely got into the details of his pain like this, but he knew all of the things he was going to have to tell Stacy for this to work. There was no reason to hold back now.
"Oh no," Wilson replied drawing out the words and gesticulating with his free hand. "You make damn sure I don't get to do anything without having to endure snide comments," there was a bite in Wilson's tone, but House's words had hit him. He wasn't a door mat, but the urge to smack House had dissipated after his body did such a bang up job of putting him in agony. "Do you want me to tell you when the pizza gets here?" he asked in a still sharp, but resigned tone.
House looked at him with 'What do you think?' written all over his face, "Just wake me when snow white arrives," he said shutting his eyes and leaning back.
Wilson couldn't shake what House had said as he walked back toward the living room. He was constantly trying to catch up to zero, to try to beat out the pain. The shorter time intervals between pills, the greater number of pills, it all made a hell of a lot more sense when he thought of it from the perspective of trying to reach zero.
Zero meant no pain. Zero was where everyone else got to be all the time. Zero was where House used to be, where he was when the Ketamine was working. Medically Wilson knew House wouldn't get there with Vicodin. That was why he had never looked at it that way. House was trying to catch up to a Ferrari that had a head start in a beat-up old jalopy, the Vicodin his only vehicle, the limp and the cane evidence that he hadn't caught it.
Damn it, he was supposed to be angry with House not feeling sympathy for him. This didn't mean he wasn't still abusing the pills. He had still stolen a prescription pad. House's apology, seeing him in pain, the fact that he said he was fighting for what Wilson had lost in this too, understanding his perspective better - none of it erased what he had done, but it did change things. Damn the man and his ability to worm his way back toward my good graces, Wilson thought to himself. He had perfectly valid reason to be totally pissed, but he was now only partially pissed. Tasting the loss of the friendship while sitting in his office and then at the bus stop earlier that evening had shown Wilson that as bitter and acerbic as House was, dissolving their friendship was downright nauseating. He was beginning to understand that sometimes we have to forgive others to save ourselves hurt.