CHAPTER TEN: Apologies

One look at House, the pallor of his skin, the set of his face, the awkward position of his left leg, and Wilson knows what's going on here. He takes the syringe from Cuddy's hand, glances at it, and shakes his head. "No," he whispers urgently. "Ten milligrams."

Cuddy starts to argue, to tell him that House has already refused the 5mg dose, but something in Wilson's face stops her, and she leaves to draw up the larger dose.

Wilson approaches the bed ready to lay down the law—and he's not intending to be pleasant about it. But when he takes a good look at House's eyes, his resolve to be firm dissolves into sorrow. He sinks into the chair, and says gently, "What are you trying to do to yourself?"

"You're wrong," House whispers to him. "I want a healthy leg. You're wrong." House is becoming agitated; his head moves restlessly on the pillows.

Wilson is confused. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't define myself that way… wrong…." House is swept up in the pain again, and now Wilson sees something even more worrisome; House's attempts to ease the spasms in the left leg have been derailed. Now he's grabbing at the right leg.

"Cuddy!" Wilson calls, as she reenters the room. "We've gotta do something; he's not making sense, and his brain's gonna undo everything we did to control his breakthroughs if we don't get a handle on his pain now." Cuddy hands him the syringe.

Wilson leans down in an attempt to focus House's attention on what he's saying, what he's doing. "House, listen to me. Can't let this go any further; we gotta do the morphine."

House is still out of it, still whispering "Wrong… you're wrong, Jimmy…."

"Okay, I'm wrong; I'm sorry, all right? Really sorry. Gonna make you feel better now. And I'm sorry I was wrong. Sorry." When House smiles and nods with satisfaction at the apology, Wilson says, "You'll feel better in a minute, and then we can talk," and injects the medication into the port. As he flushes it through the line, he wonders, peripherally, just what he'd apologized so emphatically for.

Wilson hands the syringes to Cuddy, and takes House's wrist to begin monitoring his pulse. He frowns, and lays his other hand across House's forehead. "He feels feverish," he tells Cuddy.

She finds the tympanic thermometer they've been using at night to monitor his temperature without waking him; he's just barely cognizant now, and she doubts he'd be able to hold the oral thermometer. She places it gently in his ear canal, and when it beeps she looks at the readout. "A hundred point four," she tells Wilson. "Probably just the result of the spasms, the pain going on so long. If that's it, we'll know soon enough; it'll start coming down as he relaxes."

"How long has he been like this?" Wilson is careful to keep any accusation out of his voice, but Cuddy's response is regretful anyway.

"He's been in some degree of discomfort since you left. But as I told you on the phone, he was refusing the morphine. I didn't realize how bad it had gotten until shortly before you arrived… sorry." She looks down guiltily.

"Cuddy, don't feel bad, please. You can't punish yourself for his decisions. Been there, done that. I know how… formidable he can be, and I can't say I'd have handled it any differently."

Cuddy nods, and Wilson knows she's feeling responsible for having let the situation get out of hand. But he just doesn't have the energy to reassure her right now. "Do you know what he was talking about?" he asks her; the best he can do is change the subject. "What am I wrong about?"

"I have no idea. He didn't say anything about it to me, didn't seem upset about anything in particular—just generally unhappy."

Wilson looks at House, who's finally relaxed and sleeping. "When he wakes up, I guess I'd better find out," he says with a wry smile. "I could've apologized for anything from ordering Chinese instead of pizza to voting wrong in the last election. With House, ya never know what'll set him off…."

Cuddy and Wilson share a smile, and Cuddy really looks at Wilson for the first time since he arrived home. "Are you all right?" she asks. "You look like you've been through the wringer."

"I'm okay now. Had a little… incident, on the way home. Car took the worst of it."

"What happened?" she asks, alarmed.

"Between the rain, the traffic, and my own… inattention… I ran the car off the road. Wound up in a ditch. Managed to get it home, but just barely." Wilson isn't about to tell the exhausted, wrung-out friend, standing worriedly before him, that the 'incident' had occurred as a result of her call to him. His worry about what was happening at the apartment, combined with fatigue and his weakened left wrist, had caused him to lose control of the steering wheel just long enough to cause a very close call.

But he's home now, and safe. And so is House. And Cuddy's forgetting her own long day to go into mother-hen mode. For once, he appreciates it. He allows her to bring him ibuprofen and water, lets her examine his wrist. He even agrees to lie down for a while, after she promises not to leave House's side.

Cuddy's managed to find an old elastic bandage somewhere, and insists on wrapping Wilson's wrist. He submits gratefully to her ministrations, and has to admit, when she's done, that the extra support feels good. Not just the support from an old Ace bandage, either. Just couldn't do this without her. He gives Cuddy the best tired smile he can muster. "Thanks, Cuddy. For… all of it."

"No thanks necessary. Wait… no, just thought of how you can thank me; go get some rest now, and trust that I really can handle things with House for a while, okay?"

Cuddy had been correct; House's temperature is returning to normal. His vital signs are good, and the pain's clearly under control for the time being; House is sleeping comfortably, and both legs are relaxed.

Wilson heads to the couch and settles in. When Cuddy hands him a cup of tea, he's surprised at how soothing the warm liquid is. He knows he has a lot of thinking to do—and a lot of talking to do, both with House and with Cuddy. He also knows he's probably going to wake up sore, and that this nap is just a band-aid over a week's worth of fatigue. For right now, though, he decides to simply appreciate the comforts of the moment. He closes his eyes gratefully and gives in quickly to the unaccustomed luxury of sleep.