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Chapter 5
The white coats pulled him away from Wilson's rigid, warm body. They pulled him away from the bed and its comforting sheets. They crowded around Wilson and blinded House, wouldn't let him see. No one listened to him.
"Wilson!" he screamed.
They were dragging him out.
"Wilson!"
The machines raged, cursing in their language that had been so soothing only moments ago. The fingers were curling into his arms, too tight and too cruel. The mouths babbled, and the legs stamped on. The door swung closed, and the noises diminished behind the glass. He glanced back. A wheelchair appeared. He jerked in their grasp and yelled for Wilson, sounding like a mad man.
"House?"
It was Cuddy.
"Wilson!" he screamed again. The white coats were staring at him, eyes all around him. Cuddy gave him an incredulous look.
"Calm down! What's gotten in to you?"
"Don't tell me to calm down," he snapped. "Wilson's in there and something's wrong and they won't let me go!"
She looked to the two nurses, as he seethed with crackling eyes. His leg was pathetic and collapsed beneath him, pulsing with pain. Cuddy didn't give him another word before striding toward Wilson's room briskly.
"Cuddy!" House yelled. She turned around. "Let me in!" She looked at him for a moment, exasperated, as another nurse edged the wheelchair closer to House's hanging body.
"You'll get in the way, House," she said. "We don't even know what's wrong yet. Go rest in your own room."
They pulled him back into the chair.
"You bitch!"
She continued on into Wilson's room. The three nurses restrained him, and his leg was dead anyway. They wrestled down the hall and into the elevator, all the way to House's room. He never shut up, cursing at them and calling them everything he could think of, beating on the elevator walls and not giving a damn if they thought he was crazy. He wasn't pleased, however, when they strapped him back into his bed.
"God damn it! Let me the fuck out now!" The nurses filed quietly out of his room, as his whole body hammered into the mattress. "Wilson! Wilson! Somebody let me out of this fucking bed!"
Cameron froze at the sound of his voice. She hurried in her heels toward his room, and the nurses gave her a warning look.
"I wouldn't go in there," one of them said. She was a middle-aged black woman.
"Why not?"
"Don't you hear him? He's not in the best mood."
"Dr. Cuddy notified me last night that something happened to Dr. House. What's going on?"
"You better talk to her. We just came to take him out of Dr. Wilson's room and put him back into his."
"Dr. Wilson?"
"He was in a car accident a few nights ago."
Her face fell further. "How bad is it? Is he going to be all right?"
"We don't know."
"Well – what is Dr. House yelling about? Is he all right?"
"We had to strap him to the bed."
Her lips formed a pretty o. "Strap him to the bed?"
"Dr. Cuddy's orders."
"I don't see how that's necessary."
The nurse shrugged. "Talk to Dr. Cuddy. That's all I can tell you." She left, and the others followed.
Cameron approached the door shyly and peeked in to see House lying livid. She was tempted to talk to him but decided that it would probably be better to speak with Cuddy after all. She noticed his white fists and left the door wordlessly.
Foreman and Chase strode up alongside Cameron just as she neared Cuddy's office. They were wearing those white coats that had become House's enemy, while Cameron remained an ordinary civilian in her jeans and striped blouse. Her hair bounced lightly, the coats swished around their legs, and she glanced at both of them with a hint of annoyance.
"What's up with House?" Foreman questioned.
"I don't know, that's why I'm going to Cuddy," Cameron answered.
"Have you seen him?" said Chase.
"Barely." Her face darkened.
"All Cuddy said in her message was that something had happened to House, not the slightest detail."
"Something happened to Wilson, too," Cameron supplied.
"Wilson?" Chase echoed. His nose crinkled.
"He was in a car accident." Her hand touched Cuddy's office door, and the men recoiled at the news. She led them in.
"Dr. Cuddy," she said. Said doctor looked up from a file she had been perusing. She stood behind her desk in the pale sunlight.
"Dr. Cameron."
"We're here about House."
"Of course." She closed the filed and set it down on her desk. "I've been expecting you. Have a seat." Foreman and Chase settled down onto Cuddy's couch, but Cameron lingered in Cuddy's gaze for an extra moment. She could see it in the elder woman's face – it was bad. Whatever it was. She sat in between the men.
"Dr. House – tried to commit suicide Friday night."
Cameron was a picture of shock. Foreman scoffed into a smile.
"What do you mean he tried to commit suicide?"
Cuddy kept her head bowed. "He overdosed on the Vicodin."
Foreman stopped smiling. Chase looked up at her like a little boy does at his mother when she tells him the dog has died.
"The only reason we were able to treat him was because he came in when he found out about Dr. Wilson."
"How – how is Dr. Wilson?" Cameron stuttered. Cuddy looked at her and sighed.
"His car was totaled," she began. "As far as we know, he suffered a concussion and some broken ribs. We've already operated to stop some internal bleeding in his abdomen, and so far, it looks like the surgery was successful. He had a slight complication a short time ago; his airway started to close up. We've stabilized him, and he's resting."
"Jesus," Foreman blurted somewhere in the middle of her explanation.
"So he's going to be okay?" Cameron pressed.
"Right now, we think so. If anything else goes wrong, we'll deal with it."
"And – and House?" said Chase.
She half-shrugged. "We did our best to pump the drugs out of his system while he was unconscious that first night, but the dosage was excessive enough that we probably didn't get all of it. He had a seizure, and that's why we initially had him strapped into bed. He did suffer the standard dizziness, nausea, etc., but nothing serious had turned up. I'm going to run some tests on his liver - " (she looked at her watch), "and I guess we'll go from there."
"Dr. Cuddy – I passed his room when I arrived here, and they had strapped him back into bed. He was really upset. Do you still think that's necessary?" Cameron stared with big eyes.
"I have a feeling Dr. House would leave his room without restraints. He threw a fit when today when I ordered him out of Wilson's room. He needs to rest, and so does Dr. Wilson. And until he can grow up and listen, he'll just have to stay strapped in."
Cameron lowered her gaze in defeat. Foreman sighed through pursed lips. Chase's eyes searched the empty space. Cuddy bit her lip and almost forgot about Wilson's file on her desk.
House's breaths sounded like the tide, seeping in and out of his nose in a forced manner. His hands remained curled into fists, arms trapped at his sides. He clenched those fists periodically, trying not to go bad again. He had worn himself out after twenty minutes of thrashing and shouting. Now, his blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling tiles.
Nothing. They had told him nothing. No one had come into his room again. No one had answered his incessant pages. No one had given him any word about Wilson. His sanity was crumbling. He was acutely aware of the strap and buckle across his chest every time he breathed. His mind was plagued with Wilson. If something was really wrong, wouldn't someone have come and told him? Then again, if everything were fine, wouldn't they have told him that? Damn it, how could he know and have peace of mind if no one said anything?
Wilson needed him. He needed Wilson. What fucking right did Cuddy have to separate them? To keep him in the dark? He deflated again. Clenched his fists. He needed to see Wilson. He needed to know what the hell was going on. He shut his eyes.
He remembered more of the days following his infarction, the days Wilson had been there, the days after Stacy had left. Only difference was that Wilson still hadn't left him.
Wilson stepped into House's room quietly, almost afraid. The lamp above the bed was the only light on in the room; otherwise, it was dark. The machines were beeping familiarly, and they glowed like little cities below an airplane. Wilson noticed the way House's chest rose and fell evenly, indicating sleep. He reached for the nearby chair and pulled it along behind him as quietly as possible. The plastic wrap around his bouquet crinkled when he sat down, and House opened his eyes.
"My God," he said. Wilson smiled. "No wonder Jennifer left you. You're the most obvious lover in the universe." Wilson almost chuckled, but he was afraid to get too happy. He stared at House for a long while, as the smile faded. His deep, brown eyes glowed in the shadows. He didn't know what to say – so he stared. He bit his lip, as House's blue eyes looked to him in defeat. It was the first time Wilson had seen him this tired, this beaten. It made him sad.
"How are you?" he said, finally. He felt stupid the second the sentence left his tongue.
"Alive," said House. Wilson gave a timid nod, eyes dropping. He looked at the wrinkles in his pants for a minute, before House spoke.
"So do they smell good?" Wilson looked up as if startled, nervous like a schoolboy with a crush.
"Uh, yeah, here." He held out the flowers and House sniffed.
"Not bad... Sunflowers? Did you think they'd cheer me up?"
Wilson couldn't even manage to shrug all the way. "I – just thought they were nice."
House looked at him and softened again. He was too tired and depressed to make Wilson feel bad.
"They are nice," he murmured. Wilson gave him a weak grin and set the bouquet on the table next to him.
"And I brought this..." He bent down and picked up a teddy bear from the dark floor, looking shyly to House and waiting for a response. House actually smiled a little.
"Cute," he said. "More proof to the fact that you're an unbelievable softy – but cute."
The dying light caressed Wilson's face as he smiled and put the teddy bear in the corner of House's bed, above the pillow. House smiled to himself for the sake of the moment and waited until Wilson was settled back in the chair.
"She had the surgery done," he said. Wilson didn't know what to say at once, and a pregnant silence followed. "I'm a cripple." The words were firm and flowing and connected – no hesitation or break or euphemisms.
"No, you're not," Wilson said, leaning forward and resisting the urge to touch House's hand.
"Yes, I am," said House, voice barely rising. "You'll see when they make me walk, if I don't die first."
"You're not going to die," said Wilson, frowning.
"I hope I do," said House bluntly. He said it to the air in the other direction, looking away from Wilson. He knew the frown deepened without seeing it, anyway. Wilson put his face in his hand, forcing his eyes closed.
"She was just worried about you. She didn't want to lose you."
"So she made me a cripple while I was in a coma because she knew I didn't want it done." He couldn't rise to rage yet. "You gotta admit that's pretty low."
"She saved your life."
"What life? What kind of fucking life do I have now?" He hissed a breath into his lungs as the pain jumped. He squeezed the metal armrest, and Wilson looked at him again. House tried to breathe through it. They'd given him some kind of drug, but every once in a while, the pain would bolt up anyway.
"Do you want me to get someone?" Wilson asked anxiously.
"If one more person in a lab coat comes in here, I'll introduce them to this pain in my leg."
"All right..."
"Fuck."
Wilson fidgeted. He didn't know what to do.
"She did lose me," House grunted.
"What?"
"She did lose me. It's over."
Wilson stared at him with his characteristic disbelief that made him resemble a puppy whose ball gets run over. His mouth didn't make an o. The space was more like a misshapen kiss, one that was never allowed to reach its destination.
"It's over?"
"It's done."
"What do you mean?" Wilson was growing flustered now. He straightened, perked up, leaned forward a little. House was still rigid, still gripping the metal; it was turning warm under his hand now, when it should have been cold, that perpetual cold of hospital metal.
"I dumped her," House almost screamed.
"No," Wilson retorted. "No, you didn't."
House sunk, exhaling as the pain began to fade. "No," he echoed. "I didn't. I just told her to go to hell, and she left me."
Wilson sunk back in his chair, eyes still wide and shock still freezing his face. He resisted the urge to tell House that he was an ass, that it was perhaps the most stupid thing he had ever heard of, and how the hell could House be that much of an ungrateful jerk to the woman he loved, who had just saved his life? No, Wilson didn't say anything, couldn't say anything. Meanwhile, House moaned.
"She left me," he said again. His voice cracked, and he was panting, pale face gleaming with sweat. "Oh, God. Stacy left me." Wilson blinked out of his reverie as House began to sob. He was absolutely startled now. He didn't think he had ever seen House cry.
"She made me a cripple, and she left," House shouted, slamming his fist into the metal he'd warmed. "God damn it!" He wept, his whole a body a heaving mass of despair, wracked with pain of every kind that no drug could dull. Wilson's tender eyes searched his friend's back, the wrinkles in the hospital gown, the sobs that never penetrated the glass wall. His heart was aching in a way that it rarely ever had. He stood without thinking and pushed the bar down and sat on the bed. He lay his hand on House's shoulder first, unsure, eyes shining. He didn't have the right to cry. He wasn't the one lying in this bed, good life shattered. But he was in pain too – a strange, new pain that he hadn't been expecting. Only House could do that to him.
Wilson gripped House's shoulder. House didn't acknowledge the gesture. He refused to look at Wilson, refused to let anyone see him cry. He was trying so hard to stop himself, but he had lost control over his own body, over his own life. At last, Wilson draped his arm over House, hugging him close. House whimpered, pain spiking in his heart. Wilson's arm was snug around his chest and Wilson's hand was squeezing his and Wilson's head was resting on his own at some awkward angle.
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."
House sobbed. Typical Wilson – always another apology.
"I'm sorry." Wilson's voice was filled with painful grief, helpless to save his friend and overwhelmed with a rare compassion and anguish because of House's suffering. His breath, his soft murmur, was hot in House's ear. What was he supposed to do? He realized now, in this moment, that House was his responsibility from here on out. The only person closer to House than Wilson was Stacy, and she was gone, as far as he could see. House was a wreck – an emotional and physical disaster. No way in hell he would pull through this alone. Someone had to be there for the physical therapy. Someone had to be there to hold his hand through the pain. Someone had to make sure that none of the doctors screwed up. Someone had to be there to tell him that his life wasn't over, that just because his life had changed didn't mean that he was suddenly worthless. Someone had to make sure he ate, slept, worked, functioned as he should. Someone had to pull him out of depression once the healthy period of grieving was over. Someone had to save him from killing himself. And Wilson, having a relatively normal and hassle-free life, decided that someone would be him from now on.
He was grateful when his one tear disappeared into House's unnoticed. He didn't say anymore, didn't move. He remained the cradle for House's body, the heart that told House's how to keep beating, the hand at his friend's disposal. And he let House cry; he knew the man probably wouldn't again for a long time. Wilson knew House wouldn't let anyone, not even him, give comfort like this again. Wilson somehow knew, in the nagging pocket of his heart, that House was going to go down a road of isolation. It had always been a shadow in his nature. The brilliant doctor wasn't going to let anyone treat him like crap just because his leg wouldn't work anymore, and consequently, he also wasn't going to accept much compassion from people either. Wilson took advantage of this precious, last chance.
He woke up the next morning somewhat stretched out, body still against House's back and fingers still tangled in his friend's. The twilight peeked through the blinds, and he wondered at how no one had woken him up and told him to go home. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped to God no one had walked past and gotten any ideas from his peculiar position on House's bed...
House stared back up at the ceiling tiles. Before last night, that had been the last time he and Wilson had really touched each other, taken comfort in each other. It seemed fitting that they had waited five years and for the near death of them both to do so again.
Suddenly, he wanted a smoke. He wanted a Vicodin. His hand twitched. He needed to go to the bathroom. He unclenched his hand and moved it over the bed until his fingers met the clicker. His thumb pushed the little, black button twice. He waited.
"House."
He looked over to the door.
"Cuddy."