Chapter 14

"An Accounting of Hours"

The couch in Wilson's office was an old Kroehler Convertible, left over from the days when James' parents had first "taken up housekeeping", as they used to say. It was ugly, and all the stuffing had long since fallen away from the tattered material of the arms, but it was big and long and comfortable, and it had two pillows, one of which propped up Gregg's head and the other one propped up his leg.

He'd taken his own key and opened Wilson's office, knowing the couch was there and that it was tall-person compatible. Actually, he had the keys to all Wilson's sanctuaries: office, house, car, pickup … just as Wilson had all of his … except the Envoy. He hadn't gotten around to that one yet. That last key though, the one for the old Ford pickup, sadly, was kind of an historical artifact now.

Changing back to his own clothing had been a chore, and House forgot where the hell he'd left his shoes. They had been gone from the RN–LPN (female) locker room when he went back there, added to the fact that the place was now occupied, and he was unable to search for them. He was wearing one damn white sneaker, and Billy Travis had finally gone home to bed, so he couldn't ask him.

Maneuvering the black wheelchair through the hallways at five in the morning had been a pain in the ass, but he'd done it, keeping his head down and spinning the big chrome rims like a bat out of hell. There was certainly nothing wrong with his arms!

Gregg was tired beyond measure. His body was one gigantic ache. He hoped he would be able to snatch a few hours' sleep before heading back to the ICU. He wanted to be there when they moved James Wilson to a private room. Not just wanted to be there … had to be there! He needed to talk to his friend and stand beside him when James came fully to consciousness and found out the extent of his injuries. House needed to hold his friend's hand if he had to, even though that kind of stuff in the cold light of day would look really bad for his reputation as a "miserable bastard".

For once this scenario wasn't about him, and that admission, even inside his own head at this God-awful hour of the morning, was a revelation. He hadn't done one single thing for another person, of his own accord, that he could remember, for more years than he could count on both hands and both feet. He only used the "bedside manner" crap when absolutely necessary. It always rang a sour note with him, even though he was being paid a princely sum for saying such shit to people he didn't even like.

Every decision, every choice, every declaration and its result had been about a benefit of some kind for Gregory House. Once he'd gotten into this rut, he'd quickly learned that it kept people away from him and effectively squelched the "awww" factor of his disability. He decided he liked that. Sometimes the thought also occurred to him to wonder where this destructive path might eventually lead him, and what payment would finally be extracted in blood at the end of that long and lonely road. He didn't feel that way about Wilson though … and he didn't know why.

So damn tired! He wasn't making sense, even to himself. His last Vicodin was finally taking hold. Daylight was breaking through Wilson's vertical blinds. Three more Sudafed let him breathe a little easier.

Wilson's clock read 5:38 a.m., and in his befogged mind, he needed to move the Envoy off the street so the street sweeper wouldn't put a ticket on it … but wait! The Envoy was in the parking garage right next to Wilson's F-150 … except that the F-150 was in the junkyard … and he was on the couch in Wilson's office. He had to be up by eight. And he was so fucking tired!

The last thing he remembered before finally closing his eyes, was looking at the shadow of the wheelchair looming a few feet from him, and laughing inside because he didn't really need to use it. He could walk by himself … if he could dig the other shoe out of the back of the wheelchair … and if he could stand to put any weight on the bum leg … and if the pain just wouldn't buzz around in there like a ricocheting bullet looking to explode outward through every orifice in his body.

Oh God! If I can't walk, how the hell can I take care of Wilson?

Restlessly he slept. His eyes would not stay open any longer.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Cuddy and the Wilsons were waiting outside the ICU observation port at 7:45 a.m. Inside the room, a team of nurses replaced depleted IVs and the Foley bag, meticulously cleaning the drain port and sterilizing connections and surrounding skin areas. While they watched, someone upped the morphine drip and someone else lowered James' legs to the mattress in order to change the soiled bandages, check the swelling and search for any sign of infection.

Claire Wilson had to turn away after a first glimpse at the devastation, but her husband and older son stared in morbid fascination while the team worked gently and efficiently to swab the wounds with antiseptic, reposition new bandages and replace the padding and the wide Ace bandages to give support to Wilson's fractured legs.

The swelling was still too extensive to consider surgery, and the bruising and blood leakage from the wounds had turned dark and black and ugly. By the time Wilson's injured limbs had been placed carefully back in the traction slings and slightly elevated, more than three quarters of an hour had passed.

One of the Attendings entered the cubicle and checked things out, seeming satisfied at the results, and nodded toward the morphine drip. The same nurse who had intensified the increase in dosage, now turned the port to reduce it.

James was restless. He had been asleep though all the ministrations, but was now awakening and about to discover all the things which had happened to his body during the last twenty-four hours. The brown eyes opened, glittering with pain, but he was coming fully awake and aware of where he was, and fully cognizant of how he'd come to be there.

The whole story sprang instantly to his eyes as they widened with the discovery that he could not move. His mouth thinned to a straight line across his face, and sudden apprehension replaced the pain for a moment. He was frightened, and rightfully so.

His family and Dr. Cuddy watched him, aching for him.

They heard the clump of House's cane before they saw him. He turned the corner and limped toward the others in the corridor. He was haggard and pale, his face set in a grimace, and the tiny hairs at the back of Cuddy's neck stood quickly on end.

In a sweeping glance of appraisal, she learned everything she had hoped against. House hadn't been home, but holed up somewhere in the hospital to grab a few hours' sleep. His clothing was rumpled, his face looked like a scrub brush, and the glitter of pain in his eyes nearly matched those of Jim Wilson. He still wore the cheap white sneakers she'd seen him wearing yesterday, and wondered where his fancy grey ones were. The right one was unlaced and gapped. He hadn't eaten, hadn't showered, hadn't slept much, if at all, and his foot was turning slightly at the ankle. It was becoming a problem for him. He saw her scrutiny and straightened his posture to the best of his ability to do so.

House's first move was to gaze into the observation window and search out Wilson, whose attention turned immediately to his friend when he saw the movement. House recognized the look. "When are they moving him out?" He shifted all his weight onto the left side, cocked his right leg and sprung the hip. He'd left the wheelchair in Wilson's office, and now he wished he hadn't.

Cuddy felt for the man, but professionalism came first. "They just finished replacing all the meds and changed the bandages on his legs …"

"How's it look?" Not a question; a demand.

Not wanting to alarm the Wilsons, Cuddy shrugged noncommittally. "I've seen better. They should bring him out soon. He's awake and functioning, and he's going to want some answers. I thought I'd leave that to you. I heard what you did last night … and you're to be commended. Night shift saw it all. Joe Arthur said he's sorry he jumped at you."

"Yeah … well … Joe Arthur is an asshole." He swayed for a moment, then caught himself with the cane.

"House, are you all right?

"I didn't sleep much last night."

Under her breath she muttered: "I could tell! But that wasn't the question, was it?"

House didn't bother to answer. He kept his attention to the man in the cubicle.

Their collective gaze was drawn to the window again. Wilson's bed was moving. One person on each of the four corners prevented bumps and pain. The doors opened and the bed was rolling out, heading up the hall past the elevator. House turned to follow. His fatigue was becoming overpowering.

Luther Wilson left his wife and son and walked up to House and Cuddy, even as the procession of his younger son's medi-bed and entourage passed slowly by. He held out a hand. "Hello Dr. House. How are you? It's been a long time."

Gregg switched his cane to the left hand and returned the handshake. "Hello Luther. I'm in pretty good shape for the shape I'm in," he said. "And you?"

"Not bad … at least until all this …"

"I'm sorry we had to meet again like this. By the way, I'd like to take over your son's care, if you don't mind."

"We'd be grateful if you would, Dr. House. Thank you for asking."

House nodded and switched his cane back. The five of them followed the medi-bed past the elevator, past the nurses' station, around the corner to the first room on the right. Gregg knew he would be spending a lot of time there.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

House paused outside the door to Wilson's room, number 344, he noted, and took advantage of these moments to swallow a Vicodin and a couple of Sudafed. He lagged behind, leaning into the wall, supposedly to give the Wilsons a few more moments of privacy with their son and allow Cuddy to visit briefly and assure him that his medical paperwork was being taken care of for insurance purposes.

House felt lousy again. Did he really believe he could keep this up? Was he actually going to be physically capable of doing all the things he expected of himself to remain at Wilson's side in the same manner in which Wilson had always been at his? Or was this some huge cosmic joke he was getting ready to play on himself?

Out of the blue he thought back to "Bones" McCoy and his miracles: "By golly, Jim, I'm beginning to think I can cure a rainy day!"

Oh yeah … doctors always made with the heroics on TV and in the movies. Real life doctors had limitations. He, Gregg House, was probably more of a "Galactic Quack" than a "Miracle Worker". But then, after all, that had been Scotty, hadn't it?

"House? Dr. House?" Cuddy touched his arm lightly and a static shock rippled through his body, startling him back to reality.

"Unhh …" His voice was unintelligible, harsh and scratchy, and his mind a blank. He cleared his throat and focused on her. "What?"

"I was going to ask you if you were okay, but I don't want you to hit me with your cane, so I won't. Besides, you look like hell, and I already know the answer to the question. I just wanted to say two things."

He cocked his chin and looked down at her disparagingly. "And those things are?"

"I want you to give the Wilsons a little more time with their son, and then you must ask them to leave because he's been asking for you. God knows why … you look like the Wicked Witch of the West.

"Then, I want you to sit down before you fall down. Then I want you in Orthopedics. I called Dr. Lyons and he's expecting you. I want him to try to find out why your foot has been a problem lately. These aren't requests, Dr. House. They're orders."

House pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling. "I counted three things, Dr. Cuddy, not two, and I will not be able to comply with the third. My foot swells, from time to time, when I overextend. There is no cure for that … and I will not be going to Orthopedics."

"House!" If it were possible to shout in a whisper, Cuddy had just mastered the technique. Her face was bright pink, her teeth clenched and her cheeks puffed out in agitation. "I've already called him!"

"Call him back! I'm not going."

Gregory House smiled down at her with wide, snapping eyes, although his face was perfectly straight. He could do this stuff too. He hadn't watched Mr. Spock all those years for nothing.

Cuddy turned on her heel and stalked away down the hall.

He turned around gingerly and limped the short distance to the huddled family by the bedside of James Wilson. Reaching into his jacket pocket for a surgical mask, he slipped it in place over his nose and mouth. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "but I have to ask you to leave. James needs rest and medical attention. He will probably be in considerable discomfort this afternoon, but you can be with him during visiting hours this evening."

Blah-blah-blah …

Numbly, the Wilsons complied. After a few added moments of careful and loving caresses, they came around and filed out, dropping their own surgical masks into the bin near the doorway. "Thank you, Dr. House," Luther said as they exited.

"Certainly," Gregg replied.

"House …"

His name, coming weakly from the man in the bed, made him cringe and close his eyes to gather strength. He turned and met the look in the large brown eyes. "You called?"

"Come here!"

Overwhelmed, House did. He reached down and caught a fine strand of auburn hair between his fingers. "Hey Wilson …"

"You were with me … all night … weren't you? Above and beyond the call of duty." There was a smile there, but you had to squint to see it.

"Yeah. Didn't want you croaking on me …"

"Julie … not here, huh? Dad told me."

"I don't know. They can't get in touch with her."

"Doesn't matter. We were washed up anyway. I was mad when I left the house. I was coming to your place." His eyes closed momentarily. The small amount of talking had tired him.

Gregg placed a finger to the mask. "Shhhh! … don't talk. It's hurting you." He eased down into the visitors' chair and leaned across to touch the left hand. "I'll talk and you squeeze … once for yes, two for no." He'd seen this on TV a hundred times.

"House?" There was definite humor in the dark eyes now.

"What?"

"I can talk. No 'Marcus Welby' crap, okay?"

"You sure?"

"Yeah. No melodrama, dammit!"

"But you always put up with mine …"

"I know. I'm just waiting for you to get tired of it."

"What if I don't?"

"I'll probably hang around anyway."

"Even a garbage truck couldn't put you out of your misery, huh?"

"Nah … just gave me a little more …"

"I know." The gruff voice softened. "Are you in pain?"

"Some."

"Scale of one to ten?"

"Six, maybe."

"Hold on." House levered down hard, pushing himself out of the chair. He placed his weight on the good leg and hobbled over to adjust the morphine drip. Hop-stepped back again, lowered himself to the chair. "Better?"

House's pronounced lameness was not lost on Wilson. He stared at his friend hard, evaluating. He did not give ground until Gregg became uneasy with the silence.

"What?"

"You know what. I'm okay. Don't make me ask. You wouldn't like what I have to say."

"Hold on, big guy … we're not going to make this about me!"

"Why not? I'll be okay until they take me off the morphine. I'll do my screaming then. But this has been hard on you, hasn't it?"

"I'm fine."

"Liar!"

"You're changing the subject."

"I didn't realize there was one."

Gregg's voice turned gruff. "Listen. I don't want to play games. I'm tired, okay? I have a cold. We can hash this out later when my ass isn't dragging my tracks shut. I'll have had a night's sleep instead of worrying whether you're going to heaven or coming back here to hell … and I'll be back to my usual miserable self."

"Actually, I didn't see much difference." The hint of another smile hung off the corners of Wilson's mouth.

Gregg knew his friend was tired beyond measure. They both were. Wilson needed sleep as much as he did himself, and it was still the middle of the day. His gaze flicked to the ceiling as it did sometimes when he was thinking of a snarky reply. But his brain was not working on all cylinders, and the retort never came.

"I need permission to go out to your house and check on things. Jule was expecting you to go back there, so she may not have battened things down the way they should be. You need to have the utilities turned off, mail and newspaper deliveries suspended. From the looks of you, you won't be going back there anytime soon. Do I have your permission?"

Wilson nodded. "Since when do you, of all people, need permission to go into my house?"

"Since you're not there, Wilson. Since I have no business going in there when you're not with me. Since it's a courtesy I would pay anyone."

Wilson's expression softened. This was House's way of showing concern, perhaps his only method of demonstrating his feelings of friendship … even love. Wilson had known him long enough to be able to translate House's words from House's concern. "You have my permission, of course. You always have. Thanks." He didn't gush. Didn't over-react. Never let House know that he knew that House had anything resembling a heart.

"Okay. I'll go out there tonight. Might even sleep on your couch and raid your refrigerator. But I won't eat your gefilte fish or matzo balls. Yuk! Is your pain receding?"

"Yeah, it is. And while you're there, drink a beer for me. That stuff isn't kosher, so you should be all right."

"Smartass!" House looked over to study the hurt face. James was fading away toward sleep again. He looked young and vulnerable. House wondered if ever in his own life he had looked like that. Sweet and innocent. He doubted it. Never could he remember looking or feeling anything but angry.

The anger pulled at his heart now, all over again. Why James? What had this kind man ever done to bring down the wrath of that damned "God Person"?

In his tired mind, the image of a white-robed figure stalked a green golf course with a nine iron across one shoulder. Uncaring. Oblivious.

He struggled painfully back to Wilson's office, flopped down on the old couch and slept again.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

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