CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Touched

Before Cuddy is forced to make the impossible decision of which man to go to, Wilson appears in front of her. He's breathing rapidly, as if he'd run a long distance, and there's fear in his eyes. He pushes her out of his way, not roughly, but urgently, and goes straight to House's bedside.

House, still sitting upright, is also struggling to catch his breath, but turns his head immediately toward Wilson as his friend approaches the bed. He's the first to speak. "Are you all right?"

Wilson swallows, takes in a breath before answering. "Yeah. Bad dream. Did I wake you?"

"How'd you know I had a nightmare?" House asks him.

Wilson's confused. "No, I meant I had a nightmare, and I… well, I shouted, and you're awake, so I thought…."

House frowns. "I shouted. Thought I woke you."

Cuddy's had enough of this macabre ping-pong match. She crosses the room and, as her adrenaline ebbs, collapses into the bedside chair. "You both yelled. Loudly." She lowers her own voice when she says, "The same word. At the same time." She rests her forehead in her hand as both men stare at each other, then turn to stare at her.

Cuddy raises her head to look at them. "You both said 'no.' She focuses on House. "Didn't see what was happening with Wilson, but before you shouted, you'd become restless. You were mumbling, and just before you woke up, you said something about… stopping yourself from hitting Wilson."

"Yeah, I… know," House says. He looks at Wilson. "I guess… we need to talk," he says reluctantly.

"Yeah. We do," Wilson says, with even less enthusiasm. They both look at Cuddy.

"I'll just go… uh… do whatever one does at 1:00 in the morning, when one happens to be awake. You're both okay?"

They nod at her. After she leaves, Wilson takes her place in the chair. He watches House shift uncomfortably in bed, stands again and gets a couple of pillows. He goes to the bedside. "Let me help you get settled." Ridiculous as it is, need to see for myself that the leg's all right.

Wilson moves the blankets back. "Mind if I just do a quick check on that left thigh?" he asks.

House looks at him oddly, but shakes his head, and undoes the tie on his scrub pants and lowers the left side so that Wilson can see the thigh.

"Punctures still bothering you?" Wilson asks him; he's noted that while the many tiny bruises are already beginning to fade, the muscle's currently so tight it almost feels knotted. But it's there; the muscle's there, and it's whole. Just a stupid dream.

"A little. Nothing I can't live with." House sees Wilson frown as he gently palpates the muscle. "It's getting ready to spasm; that's why it's tight. Nothing to worry about; gettin' used to it."

Wilson raises the pant leg and begins to arrange the pillows to support the leg while House tries to find the most comfortable position to ride out the spasm.

"You shouldn't have to get used to it," Wilson says. "We need to talk about that, too. You're in pain, we treat the pain. You know as well as I do that we're monitoring your doses, and that allowing the pain to go untreated could cause problems with the right thigh again. Tell ya what. The muscle needs another twenty-four hours to recover from the trauma of the EMG, right?"

House nods, cautiously, and wonders how he can know he's going to lose an argument before the argument even starts.

"So here's the deal. You allow the morphine for another day, and then we'll reassess the situation. I'll use the lowest possible doses, and I'll give you a fair chance to ride out the spasm first. But I won't watch you suffer; not an option. Got it?"

I was right; Wilson had it won before he started it. Worst part is, he knows it. "Guess that's… almost fair. But I want it on record that I--" House can't help it; he gasps, and his body curls itself around the left leg. Even through the haze of pain, he's able to appreciate the irony of the lousy timing.

Wilson watches silently. He doesn't like the cruelty of having to wait for House to cry 'uncle' against the vicious pain, and he wonders if he's given House too much control over the situation.

Just as Wilson's decided to give the morphine now, and deal with the consequences later, House nods his head at him and says, biting off each word, "Can't. Take. The pain."

Wilson quickly prepares the syringe. "It's okay," he says calmly as he pushes the medication. "We'll know soon what's causing this, and we'll treat it. Things'll get straightened out, you'll see. You made the right decision." He finishes pushing the med, disposes of the syringe, and sits down. As he circles House's wrist with his fingers and silently counts the rise and fall of House's chest, he watches first the leg, and then the patient, begin to relax.

After a couple of minutes, House says quietly, "Ready to have that talk now. You?"

Wilson notes that House now appears willing, even anxious, to share whatever his frightening adventure was. Wilson, however, would prefer not to tell House about his own nightmare, at least not while he himself is still suffering its aftereffects. And, now that the crisis is over, Wilson notices a throbbing in his injured wrist; he senses that it's been going on for quite a while. "Can you hold on a minute while I go get some ice?" he asks House, holding up the wrist in explanation.

"Sure. Uh… take some more ibuprofen too. Bandage too tight, maybe?"

Wilson, remembering House's awkward attempts at gratitude and concern, smiles to himself as he offers his wrist for examination. House unwraps the elastic brace carefully. He checks out the wrist thoughtfully, and pronounces it healing. Then he slowly, clumsily, gently rewraps it and releases it back to its stunned owner.

"Never was too good at those things," House says, indicating the bandage. "But I think that's okay."

"It's… better than okay. You were right; must've been too tight. Feels much better; thanks." The sudden lump in Wilson's throat makes further speech impossible, so he just smiles at House and leaves to get the ice.

When he enters the kitchen, he's surprised to find Cuddy there, industriously cleaning out a cabinet.

"Old family tradition," Cuddy explains. "When I was little, my mother was a terrible insomniac. She told me once that if you have to be up in the middle of the night, might as well have something to show for it in the morning. Swore she did her best cleaning at 2:00am."

Wilson rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and opens the freezer door. And Cuddy gets a good look at his sloppily wrapped wrist. "What'd you do, rewrap that with your teeth?" she asks.

Wilson looks down at the bandage and smiles. "House thought it might be too tight, rewrapped it for me," he tells her quietly.

Cuddy's already holding the wrist, prepared to wrap it properly. At this astounding piece of news, however, she instead looks it over carefully, and says, "Well, won't win any awards for neatness, but it's providing adequate support. So let's just leave the artist's work undisturbed, shall we?"

"Yeah… thanks." Wilson looks at the bandage, and then at her. "Pretty amazing, huh?"

"You're both pretty amazing," Cuddy says. "Heard just a bit of you talking him into the morphine; impressive. Now, you wanna tell me about those nightmares?"

"We're just getting ready to get to those. Need to get back in there, but first I'd better take some ibuprofen. Dr. House's orders."

Cuddy smiles and hands him the bottle.