A/N: Here's another chapter for all of you patient readers. I can't thank you all enough for your kind reviews. Also, thanks to Magie05 for putting up with me.
Chapter 12
"Payback's a bitch. Just remember that," House threatened as he prepared to swing himself into the awaiting wheelchair.
"You're right. It is. And I still owe you big time," Wilson retorted.
"For what?"
"Hmmm." Wilson wielded a thinking man's pose. "Where do I start?"
Ignoring Wilson's idle threat, House looked back at the giant of a doctor looming over his shoulder.
"You've got the wheels locked, right?" House stammered as his hands remained firmly planted next to his hips. He didn't remember being this stressed over a simple wheelchair transfer, but then again he didn't remember ever having to do this with two useless legs, either.
Images came to mind of the chair shooting out from under him, throwing him to the floor like a discarded rag doll. Then he'd have to deal with the complete humiliation of ending up in a heap on the floor, unable to pick himself up, ending up like one of those ancient invalids from that bad infomercial: "I've fallen and I can't get up."
"Brakes are on. I've got it," Masterson reassured him with a wiggle of the chair, "Now push up and swing your rear into the chair."
Yeah, sure. He wasn't the one sitting here, shaking like a goddamn leaf, feeling about as useless as a... he couldn't think of a metaphor that came close to how pathetic he was feeling right now.
Trying to gain some leverage, he instinctively pushed with his right leg, instantly regretting it as pain shot through his thigh, setting off fireworks throughout the damaged muscle.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He gasped through clenched teeth as Wilson made a lunge for him. "No...don't! Just...let me do it." He had to do it, especially with Masterson staring over him like a vulture ready to feed on his carcass as soon as his ass landed on the cold tile floor.
Stealing a move from a gymnast's pommel horse routine, House slammed his right hand on the right armrest of the chair, his left hand followed onto the other armrest as he plopped into the seat with a groan.
His hands grasped his right leg under his thigh, swung it off the bed and lowered it on the footrest, the metal cold against his bare foot. He bent over to prop up the leg rest, thankful for his long arms and decent flexibility to be able to reach that low. The least Masterson could have done was prop up the damn leg rest for him.
Sliding one hand under his left leg while the other grasped one of the thick Velcro straps on the brace, he swung it smoothly and swiftly onto the raised footrest with a grunt. He eased it down gently onto the large vinyl covered pad.
Surprisingly, the process was quicker than he expected and he succeeded with no more than a few twinges of discomfort. Nothing a Vicodin or so couldn't handle... or a hefty dose of morphine.
"Piece of cake," House remarked with an air of smugness, smirking up at the other two doctors as his tongue ran over his lower lip in triumph.
"I can't believe you just said that." Wilson shook his head in disbelief.
"Would you prefer 'easy as pie, a can of corn, like a hot knife through butter'?"
"I meant that you thought it was... forget it," Wilson replied, raising his hands in defeat. Masterson's shoulders shook as a muffled snicker escaped through his nose.
"How bout 'a walk in the park'...no...forget that last one...scratch that." House grabbed the hand rims and prepared to propel himself...somewhere. Anywhere but stuck in this room another minute. "Where to?" House asked, rolling back and forth like an overeager racehorse in the starting gate.
"Back into bed." Masterson motioned with a wave of his hand.
"What? Why?"
"I want to see you get yourself back into bed. Getting in the chair was half the test, getting out is the other half."
"I haven't studied for that part yet." He spun his head to face Wilson. "Can I cheat off you?"
Masterson's eyes never wavered as his arms crossed in front of him, "C'mon. Show me."
"Oh, come on!" House whined, trying to inch his way stealthily toward the door before Wilson or Masterson caught on to his attempted to block his escape route. "I've proven I can do this all by myself like a big boy. Now just grab that little paper with discharge orders and scribble your signature on it and I'll be on my way."
Too late. Masterson's large frame occupied the space between his sterile prison and freedom. "The longer you sit here and try to finagle your way out of this, the longer you get to spend in this hospital."
House rolled up to the six-foot-plus ex-lineman and stared up at the menacing figure. He had to admit, Masterson looked much more intimidating from this angle. He looked up with angelic eyes and batted them for effect. "Does that mean I'm grounded, daddy?" his voice rising an octave.
"Yes, until you can prove you can do this. I'm not letting you go home without knowing you'll be able to function on your own."
"Oh, please. You know Wilson won't let me out of his sight." House surrendered and wheeled himself back toward the bed.
"Try me," Wilson added, following House to the side of the bed to act as his safety net, no doubt.
"I know you. You'll get me home, change me, feed me, tuck me into bed like the little rugrat you never had. You'll keep asking me about twenty times if I'm okay. Then you'll reluctantly let yourself out, go back to your hotel room and lie awake, worried if I somehow ended up on the floor with a cracked skull or unconscious from too much Vicodin." House had already started lifting his feet one at a time back onto the bed, "then you'll get back in your car in the middle of the night and come back to check on me because you couldn't live with yourself if something happened to me after you left me all by myself."
"Okay. Then how about this scenario," Wilson answered curtly, "I'll stop in front of your place, kick you out the door and leave you on the goddamn sidewalk to drag your own sorry ass to your front door."
"You wouldn't even do that to your ex-ex mother-in-law, Beetlejuice."
"Beatrice," Wilson corrected with fire in his eyes.
"Whatever. Maybe it was the hair...or her voice. Always reminded me of Beetlejuice."
With that, House heaved himself out of the chair once again and nearly rolled onto the bed, landing on his left side.
Grimacing, he bit back a yelp as his left leg rolled onto its side, pain engulfing him from knee to toes.
He lay on his side a few moments, face buried in the pillow as his breathing evened out. It was probably a good idea to wait until the pain subsided enough before he jarred anything else that would send him to the ceiling. Okay, maybe this wasn't going to be the piece of cake he insisted it was.
"You okay?" There it was. The ever-present voice of concern.
"See? Told you. Just can't...help himself. It's like some kind of disorder. He's a pathological carer," House breathed out as he rolled onto his back, got up on his elbows and sat up, rearranging his legs into some kind of orderly fashion. He might as well have been a paraplegic, considering how useless his lower body was at the moment. At least then it wouldn't hurt like hell every time he made a wrong move.
"Yeah, and you're just the picture of mental health." Wilson stood back and watched House struggle with his uncooperative limbs.
Masterson eyed the exchange with an amused smirk on his face. "How long have you two known each other?"
"Too long..." Wilson sighed, rubbing his forehead.
"Well?" House sat up, supporting his weight on the palms of his hands, "Do I pass?" He wasn't about to acknowledge that he was nearly screaming from the lack of pain meds to soothe his angry nerves. There had to be some Vicodin in his pants from Saturday, now if he only knew where his clothes were...
"Yes, you pass. Are you sure you want to go home with him?" indicating Wilson with a thumb, "I'm not sure you'd survive the trip right now."
His comment gained him two glares. "I'll go get the discharge papers."
"Just gimme my clothes," House demanded, waggling his fingers.
Wilson was the last person he worried about ever hurting him. The man was a total pushover and was still harboring some guilt from this whole incident. Right now he could probably ask Wilson to give him a foot massage and he'd do it.
Wilson threw open the bureau drawer. The sound of cheap pressboard slammed against the stops, preventing the drawer from sailing across the room. House would've found it amusing to see it fall out and onto Wilson's foot, but then he'd be even more pissed off and that might not be a good-
House's thoughts were interrupted when he caught sight of a wince from Wilson. He had tried to picked up the bag with his right hand, obviously in some kind of discomfort, then quickly switched it to his left hand, wiping away any indications from his face that something was wrong.
House had forgotten about that arm problem during the previous night, blaming his poor memory on his own pain and the drugs. He felt a slight twinge of...was that guilt? No. Not guilt. Maybe it was empathy. No, it wasn't that either. Something was twisting his insides into a knot. Maybe it was the rubber eggs and the hockey puck doubling as a sausage patty he had for breakfast. The unfamiliar feelings were swept aside and he returned to the subject at hand. "Where are my-"
Suddenly, he had a close-up view of the red leaves of the Princeton-Plainsboro logo as the plastic bag hit him on the side of his face. His hand shot up and caught the bag as it slid down his chest. "Thanks," he grumbled as the drawer to his right was slammed shut with a ithwack/i.
The bag was turned upside down and the clothing rained into his lap, a cloud of dust billowing up from the filthy remains of his run-in with Gravedigger.
He fished through the pile and grabbed some denim as he searched for a pocket only to realize it was part of one of his pant legs. The other three pieces of material that had once been his jeans lay scattered amongst his T-shirt, socks and button down shirt which had all somehow remained intact.
Rummaging through the multicolored pile, he listened for the familiar rattle of the pill bottle but heard nothing but the soft rustle of fabric on fabric. Dammit. The last thing he wanted to do right now was to ask Wilson for a prescription. The man was trying to stare holes through the top of his head right now as it was.
A piece of black cotton caught his attention. He picked up what remained of his boxer briefs and held them between his finger and thumb, imagining how close the scissors had come to his groin. Way too close for comfort.
"Since Edward Scissorhands had his way with my clothes, I'm gonna need some pants." He hadn't even considered the fact that there was no way he'd get a pair of jeans around his left leg right now.
Wilson volunteered himself, a scowl on his face as he turned to leave. "Oh, please. Allow me."
"No pink!" House yelled after him as the door slid shut with authority.
"I believe I've seen you wear pink before."
"That was a shirt, not pants. Save the pink pants for the extras in the next Wham! video." Masterson took the bag of clothes from House and went to set them back on top of the bureau when he saw the R/C Gravedigger sitting next to the flowers from Kutner.
"Cute toy," Masterson noted as he put the bag back in the drawer.
"It's NOT a toy. It's a 1/12th scale remote controlled replica of Gravedigger given to me personally by Dennis Anderson and no, you can't play with it."
"Wilson told me about your special visitor last night."
"Did he also tell you how he turned into a stuttering idiot in front of Dennis?"
"First name basis, huh? No, but he did tell me how you turned into a, how did he put it? A 'total fangirl'."
"Did not!" He defended himself while he struggled with his T-shirt, making sure not to snag the disconnected IV cannula taped to his left hand or the sutures on his forehead. "He must've been talking about Kutner's uncanny ability to be a total moron when in the presence of greatness. Hmmm, must be why he turns into a total fuck-up around me."
Masterson slowly walked toward the foot of the bed, bending to examine the bottom of House's foot. "So, what's this?"
"The guy wouldn't leave until I let him sign something. You know how those big stars are, they run you over then think they can make up for it by scribbling their name somewhere." He wasn't about to tell Masterson how he was going to put that signed brace someplace safe and preferably under glass once his leg healed.
"Riiight," was Masterson's deadpan reply.
A witty retort was about to roll off his tongue when Wilson entered the room carrying a pair of blue scrub pants under his arm.
"Yes. My escape duds have arrived."
"And so has your ride, so hurry up. I've only got an hour to get you home and situated," Wilson added, tossing them on House's lap.
House shook out the pants and held them up in front of him. His entire body could fit into one leg of the size XXL pants. He found himself wondering how large someone had to be to wear those size scrubs. "I think you brought me Jabba the Hutt's pants."
"He doesn't even have legs. He has a tail." Wilson busied himself with trivial things, such as gathering House's new toys and the bag of shredded denim House insisted on keeping for 'sentimental reasons.'
House threw a suspicious look at Wilson as he bent his long frame at the waist and struggled to get the gigantic pants over his toes. Pinching the fabric between his middle fingers, he was able to toss the open waistband over his feet, keeping a hold of the drawstring as a tether. He swore, once he got these pants on, they were staying on until he could either bend his knee or the pants got tired of him and walked away on their own.
"Just let me-" Wilson offered a helping hand, unable to restrain himself.
"Stop it!" slapping at his hand, "How am I supposed to prove myself to the coach if you keep intercepting my passes?"
"Excuse me for wanting to help." Wilson stepped back and watched with amusement as House wriggled and wiggled the oversized pants up his legs and eventually tied the drawstring around his waist. He leaned back, baring his teeth as he panted from the exertion and the increased pain.
The sooner he got out of this place and home, the sooner he could get some Vicodin in his system and ease the growing throb in his leg. His right thigh was also gently tapping him on the shoulder, making sure it wasn't forgotten. Soon that tap would turn into a sledge hammer if the damaged nerves and muscles weren't appeased with some good drugs.
"At least let me get that IV out, or are you gonna do that yourself, too? Maybe use your teeth?"
"If I have to."
After a brief stare down, House grudgingly surrendered his left hand to Wilson with an exaggerated eye roll. The man obviously lived for this stuff. Who was he to deny his friend this simple pleasure?
After the tape was hastily ripped off, along with every hair unfortunate enough to be caught under the powerful adhesive, House yelped and glared at his friend who seemed to be enjoying this far more than he should.
"Baby."
"You only completely removed my epidermis. Now it's gonna be sore and irritated." He examined the perfect pink square on the back of his hand, touching it gingerly with a fingertip.
"Just like the rest of you," Wilson added, glancing at his watch and motioning House to climb back in the wheelchair. "Would you mind hurrying it up?" he complained, "I've got appointments this afternoon."
"Excuse me for interrupting your precious schedule. Just leave me your keys and I'll drive myself. You think I wanna be around when my team finds out I'm here?"
"In your dreams. You're not touching my car."
"Actually, my dreams consist more of seeing Cuddy without her-"
"Stop." A hand came up as Wilson's eyes squeezed closed, trying to block out the image before House had a chance to finish his sentence. "I'm going to pull the car around. I'm sure you can handle this all on your own, since you clearly don't need anyone's help." He hefted the two plastic bags of clothing and souvenirs then turned for the door.
"Wait."
"What now?"
"Let me see your shoes."
"My what?"
"Shoes. You know those things you wear on your feet, usually made out of some kind of animal hide? Just move away from the bed so I can see. Pretty easy."
Wilson continued to stare at him with those wrinkled eyebrows, probably wondering if he'd received a concussion some time between his visits.
The shiny black dress shoes shone reflected the fluorescent lights above as Wilson held his questioning stare. "Do they meet your approval?"
"They're...fine. You can go now." What was he going to say? He wanted to make sure that Wilson was real and not some twisted illusion or part of a warped nightmare?
"Hey! Don't forget Mini Gravedigger." House motioned with his head toward the R/C truck on the bureau as he continued to manipulate his legs into place before transferring back to the wheelchair. This was wearing him out but at least he'd grown a bit of confidence in his ability to maneuver on his own.
Wilson sighed as he turned around and grabbed the black truck, slung it under his left arm, and hurriedly exited the room.
"And I'm gonna check your car to make sure you didn't toss it in the trash on your way out!" House yelled at Wilson's back, hoping he hadn't just given him any ideas.
