Chapter 31

Wilson slowly pushed open the door and entered the room cautiously. It was the end of House's first punishing week in rehab. His friend was sat by the window in his darkened room, his back to the door, his head lay heavily on folded arms, resting on the window ledge. Heavy breathing told Wilson he was asleep. He paused for a moment, running an appraising eye over his friend. His previously salt and pepper hair sported much more grey than brown, revealing the toll the last few weeks had taken on him. His baggy sweatshirt hung loosely on his lean frame. He looked thoroughly exhausted.

Deciding to let his friend rest, he quietly entered the room, but as he moved from the heavy door, he stumbled and kicked the door stop away, a thunderous crack reverberated around the small room as the door swung shut. House started heavily at the noise, his hand automatically covering his sensitive ears as the noise overwhelmed him, his entire body suddenly tensed as his senses were overwhelmed.

Guilt washed over the younger doctor; he knew his friend had struggled to sleep since checking in to the hospital at the other side of Princeton. He still found eating a chore and seemed to dislike the entirety of the menu offered. On top of that, as he was driving over Wilson received a phone call from one of the nurses warning him that House had had a rough day. Physio had been frustrating and painful, and his other therapies had yielded no results, despite a punishing regimen of activities which promised to show results.

"I'm so sorry, I…I…I tripped and the door…" Slowly House relaxed and lowered his arms as Wilson stumbled over his apology, but he didn't turn to face his friend. "Are you ok?" He asked eventually, when House made no attempt to greet him.

House shifted slightly his hand drifting down to his right leg and began rubbing it in a stilted clumsy motion, not taking his eyes from the window he was looking out of. It was a familiar scene, one Wilson had witnessed more times than he could count over the years, but never before had House's efforts looked so ineffectual. His right hand was encased in a tight neoprene glove. Since entering rehab it became evident that House was struggling with the burn scar more than anyone had realised. The scar tissue contracted the skin as it healed, making it impossible for him to straighten his fingers. The physiotherapist recommended the compression glove along with daily massages designed to stretch the scar tissue and soften the skin, something House found incredibly painful. I'd they weren't successful he would need surgery to release the scars. All in all, there was no chance his fumbling massages would be able to make much difference to the pain levels in his leg.

He approached his friend, his voice soft. "Does your leg hurt?" He asked. Again, there was no response. The lack of a reply was frustrating, Wilson had no way of knowing whether the lack of response was due to him hiding the pain, his anger at the day rendering him unwilling to talk to anyone or because he just didn't know how to respond. "House, I need an answer, I can't help if I don't know what's wrong." Again, House shifted, raising his head slightly, but keeping his eyes trained on his thigh. "Let's just try for a yes or no. Does your leg hurt?"

"Yes." Came the soft answer after a pregnant pause.

Buoyed by the progress Wilson assessed the situation. "Ok, I'll see if we can get a top up on your meds. First, I think we should move you to the bed, that wheelchair can't be helping. Ok?" He waited for House to respond.

With effort House managed another quiet yes. But continued rubbing at his leg, making no effort to move himself. Wilson reached down and disengaged the break before taking the handles and pulled him backwards away from the window and rolled him next to the bed then put the brakes on again, stabilising the chair.

He looked from the chair to the bed, calculating how much assistance House could need. "Do you need help?" He asked, standing back. A small nod signalled just how much the day had taken out of him. "Ok." He bent his knees so his shoulders were level with House's. Gently he reached down and grasped his friend's arm, pulling it around his shoulder and stood up in one fluid motion, perfected many years ago following the infarction. Once up, House put a shaking hand on the bed bracing himself before scooting over. Wilson supported his right leg under the knee, gliding it over the space before gently setting it onto the bed.

"I'll see what I can do about the meds." He announced as House made himself comfortable.

When he came back in a few minutes later, plastic cup in hand House had relaxed, his head settled on raised pillows, his eyes closed. He would almost have appeared to be sleeping, but for the tension in his jaw and the frown playing over his face. Wilson rattled the cup making a gentle sound, then went to the jug on the bedside table and poured some water. "I've got your pills." He said softly.

House opened his eyes slowly and took the cup, avoiding Wilson's concerned gaze. He took the cup in his right hand fumbling a moment before he awkwardly manoeuvred the cup to his lips and tried to tip it back but couldn't get the angle, by the third attempt he grunted in frustration, "Here," Wilson offered, he gently took the cup, tipping the contents onto his own palm then held his hand up. "Open your mouth." He uttered when his friend just stared at the hand. House parted his lips, they were tipped in, Wilson grabbed the water and also brought it to the parted lips, House drained most of the cup, drinking thirstily before pulling away, then let his head fall back onto the bed.

Remembering the bag on the table Wilson decided to see if he could find a way to sooth his friend. "Hey, you hungry? I brought you some food. Snuck it past the nurses." He tried to inject a conspiratorial tone into his voice. The prospect of breaking a rule always seemed to rouse house. It didn't get the reaction he wanted, Wilson dropped a take-out container on the bed next to House, who opened the lid and peered suspiciously at the contents.

"What is it?" He asked, his face wary.

"Thai. Don't worry, I know your order. Go ahead, try some." He said when his friend made no further move to sample the food. "We'll, if you don't want it, I'll have some." He declared and began pulling more boxes out of the bag. Watching Wilson tucking in with gusto he picked up his own container. "Fork or chopsticks?" The younger man asked, holding the implements up for him to select.

Without a word House reached out and grabbed the proffered fork. Again, Wilson felt disappointed by the lack of a response or snarky comment at the question. "You know, Thai people don't actually use chopstick when eating." Wilson stated, filling the void that was usually filled by his friend's excessive chatter.

"They do when eating noodles." House corrected quietly, eyeing the food in his container. There was no hint of mockery in his tone, he was simply stating a fact.

"Oh." Wilson acknowledged, not knowing whether to feel reassured that he had been corrected or disappointment at the lack of derision. "How's the food? Better that the stuff they serve here."

House shrugged, not taking his eyes of his dinner. "I really like this stuff?" He asked finally.

"Yeah." Wilson said. "You do."

House picked up the fork from where he had laid it on the bed. It was only then that Wilson noticed how much the scarring and the glove limited his movement. House slowly manoeuvred it over the container, his hand shaking slightly. "Um, do you want me to help with that?"

House curtly cut him off. "No." His eyes still on his food as he concentrated on steadying his hand.

The fork finally made contact with the meal and was slowly raised, before rice and vegetables fell from the implement, landing with a small plop. Again, Wilson couldn't restrain himself. "Really, it's no bother. I could just…"

"I said no!" House almost shouted, finally looking at the other man. His breathing had increased, red patches coloured is cheeks. He dug the fork savagely into the mound of food and levered hard, his hand shaking, food and sauce flicked out, splattering House's sweatshirt and landing in greasy puddles in the bed.

House paused a moment, eyeing the mess in dismay, before his face hardened. "Dammit!" He bellowed and launched the container at the wall before hauling himself off the bed, the plastic fork still in his hand. When he realised he still held it he threw that too causing him to over balance and grab the bedside table, wobbling precariously for a moment, he paused once he gained his footing, breathing heavily, then swept the contents to the floor.

Wilson froze. He hadn't seen such a display of emotion in his friend since before the accident. When House began to stumble across the room gripping his hair in a state of agitation, the younger doctor left his own meal, walking cautiously to his friend.

"House..? You ok?" House shook his head convulsively but continued to lurch around the room. "It's ok. We can clean all of this up."

"It's not ok! None of this is ok!" His voice cracked. "You think it's ok that I can't walk? That I can't dress myself or even use a god damn fork?" He whirled around to face Wilson, his face screwed up in misery, but his right leg collapsed, sending him tumbling violently to the floor. Wilson suddenly found himself looking down at his friend sprawled on the floor, stunned for a moment. House appeared dazed for a moment before he began to push himself roughly up, the anger suddenly drained from him His breath began to hitch, he turned his face away before pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, desperate to stop the inevitable.

"No, House. I don't think this is ok. None of it." He sighed, approaching the man as he began to shake. "It's not fair that this happened to you." Hesitating, slid to the floor and reached out a hand, gently laying it on his friend's shoulder. House flinched at the contact and pulled away, shrugging him off. "It's not fair." Wilson uttered again, his voice firm. House suppressed a sob and tried to scramble away, trying frantically to hide the sudden emotions that overwhelmed him. Desperate to show House that he wasn't alone in this, Wilson again reached over a put a gentle hand on his shoulder. This time House didn't flinch away, another strangled sob escaped from his lips. Bracing himself Wilson scooted closer, reaching his other arm around the distraught man, so it cradled his friend's chest, supporting his weight and pulled him close pulling House in a long overdue embrace and began to gently rock him.

"I hate it here... I wish everything could go back to normal." House whispered, as tears began to spill from his eyes. "I want to go home."