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Chapter 6
Cuddy stared at House warily. She was extremely flustered.
"Just came to make sure the nurses had done their job without getting assaulted."
"Oh, yeah, they're the ones that need to be worried over. As you can see, they
successfully strapped me in. You have no need to worry."
She had never heard that much scorn in one person's tone. He was so angry, he didn't even think to ask her about Wilson yet.
"Have fun," she said before walking out. She didn't look back to meet his snarling glare.
Cameron stopped mid-step when she heard House's breathing. It sunk into place with the heart monitor beeping, though whether it was the harmony or the melody, she couldn't tell. It was soft and constant, like the sound of the tide in a seashell. Besides the monitor, it was the only sound in the room, and she didn't put forth any effort to drown it out with her own noise. No, she was still. She was silent. She stood only three steps ahead of the door, listening, watching him sleep. He probably didn't know he was sleeping, hadn't planned on it. She wondered what he was dreaming of.
She stepped again. Closer. She noticed wrinkles sprinkled on his face, some faint, some more defined. Not too many. Even in sleep, he didn't look tender. But there was a soft quality to him that she couldn't ignore. His lips were set in a naturally sad line, maybe more dissatisfied than sad. His eyelashes were hazel. His brow was haunted with anxiety, even its undisturbed state.
She stepped closer. His shoulders were somewhere in between broad and hungry. Cameron had wondered a few times before if he ate well. She could tell that in the past, his body had been that of an athlete, but the muscles were weakened now, loosened. They clung to him only as a reminder of his former self, little touches in his arms and his chest.
Ah, his chest. She watched rise and fall with his tide breaths. It was an intriguing shape – almost like the top half of an hourglass and yet not so narrow when it turned into his belly. It was a steady flat land from breastbone to hips, but something about that land was warm and inviting. Something about that place that rose and fell with his breathing seemed like a home of love, the kind of love that few people in the world still believed in or possessed. She stepped closer and wondered at his heart and the way it beat and what it really looked like at the core of his torso.
She wanted to know who had known that place, his chest. She wanted to know who had traveled his shoulders, the muscles in his arms, his belly, his hips. She wanted to know who had felt warmth come from his hands because she knew that regardless of the man he was now, his hands had once been warm. She fluttered to know who had spent time in his embrace. She wanted to know who had made him happy and who made him happy now, if anybody did. She wanted to know why.
And then she remembered Wilson. She remembered that House had come down here for him and him alone. She remembered that Wilson was the only reason House was alive. She remembered the way Wilson could walk at House's side and the way Wilson was the only one who ever spent real time in House's office, the only one welcome to. She remembered all the times she had watched them leave together or arrive on their floor in the elevator together. She remembered catching the two of them murmuring to each other in a hallway or in an empty corner and emerging from a patient-less exam room together. She remembered all the times Wilson had loitered amongst Foreman, Chase, and herself when House was leading them in a diagnostic quest.
"Yeah, why are you here?"
"I was lonely."
And she almost wanted to smack herself when she realized she had forgotten about Wilson's visit to her on the day of her date with House. Wilson had been worried for House, not her. And he had expressed his concern with a sensitive integrity that she'd never before seen in a man. It had startled then, and it startled her now.
She looked at House. She saw Wilson in his wrinkles. She heard Wilson in his heart monitor. She heard him in House's breathing, too. She pursed her lips, gripped House's file a little. She didn't know whether to be grateful for Wilson saving House's life or to be jealous of the way House loved him. Even if it was only a friendship, it was more than she had with House, much more. It was more than what anyone had with House.
Her eyes lingered on him for a stretched moment, before she finally tore them away and left him sleeping and oblivious to her visit.
"Dr. House."
He looked to the door. Cuddy.
"Oh, God."
"Glad you're so happy to see me."
"Should I be?"
"I was thinking apologetic more than anything, but then, expecting an apology from you is like waiting for God to come down to our place."
"Apologetic? What the hell should I be sorry for?"
"Well, there was that 'bitch' comment, but you know, maybe I'm being uptight."
"Maybe you should be apologizing for getting your cronies to haul me away from my best friend and strap me back into this bed."
She glared at him narrowly. "You would have gotten in the way. You're not the only one who needs to do his job around here. But I'm not going to have this discussion with you. That's not what I came for."
His blue eyes resented her, but she continued.
"You want to know about Wilson."
He nodded shortly. She challenged him with her own gaze.
"He needs a blood transfusion."
"Blood?"
"Yes – apparently, he lost more than we thought, more than he should have. It wouldn't be a direct cause of death now, but he's weak. He needs the blood for a better recovery."
"When do you have him scheduled?"
She grimaced. Odd, House thought.
"There's a problem," she said. He looked at her expectantly. She pursed her lips. "We're all out of his blood type."
His eyebrows rose.
"All out of his blood type?"
She shut her eyes painfully. "Yes. He's type O, and we just used our last bag, if you can believe it."
"You're out of type O? Christ, what kind of hospital is this?"
"It's Monday. A new shipment comes in tomorrow."
"Wilson may not have until tomorrow," House said darkly.
"Oh, come on, House. We're only giving him a transfusion as a leg-up on recovery. He's not dying."
"I don't want to take any chances, Cuddy. Every day, he loses a little more strength fighting. He needs the blood today."
"Well, that's not going to happen." She crossed her arms and looked sympathetically at him. She knew how much Wilson worried him. She paced, turning away from him, and he thought.
"Take mine," he said.
She faced him. "Excuse me?"
"Take mine," he said gently. "I'm type O."
She blinked at him. "You're kidding."
"Nope," he said. "O as the sound you made when we had sex."
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I think you're getting your fantasies mixed up with reality."
He grinned. "Well?"
She sighed. "I don't know, House. You've still got drugs in your system, and you're not in much better shape then he is. I'd say it's too risky."
"Too risky?" he echoed indignantly. "Lisa, this is James, we're talking about here."
She softened at the sound of her name. He never used her first name. Not since before his infarction. It reminded her of when they had been friends – real friends.
"I know who it is, Greg. But I don't think it's necessary to jeopardize your health when he has no immediate need."
"Cuddy, listen to me. I've got a feeling about this, okay? Just take my blood and give it to him before the day's over."
Her lips twitched. "A feeling?" she mused.
"Yeah, like the ones you have for me."
She made a "tiff" sound.
"But seriously," he said. "Do it, Cuddy. Please."
Again, she was taken by surprise. If that wasn't the first time House had used the word "please" in regards to herself, in a non-sarcastic way, then she really must be getting old and losing her memory. She sighed.
"Fine," she said. "But you've just bought yourself more mothering."
She stepped to the door, and he stared at her gratefully. She smiled before leaving.
"I'll be back with a nurse."
Cameron pushed the door open slowly, leaning in to glance at Wilson. She was glad to find him awake, though visibly tired. No sign of the customary neck brace that concussion victims wore, but he was wearing an oxygen mask.
"Dr. Wilson," she said, her voice and face pleasant to him.
"Dr. Cameron," he said, muffled in the mask. He fogged up the plastic when he spoke.
"How are you?" she asked. The afternoon sun shone on her back, diminished and cut up through the blinds.
He reached up with the bracelet arm, drawing up the IV tubes, and pulled off the mask. Her lips parted a little.
"I've been better," he said, offering a smile.
"Should you really be taking that off?" she said. She was tentative as always, and he just grinned at her.
"I think I can spare a few minutes without it."
She nodded, bouncing up once on her feet, eyes wandering the floor.
"Why does House love you so much?"
Her voice was soft. Wilson recoiled, failing to hide his surprise. She stared steadily at him, but he couldn't meet her gaze.
"Uh," he sounded unintelligibly. "I – I wouldn't say he loves me."
"He loves you. If you can't see that, then – I don't know what to think of you."
His expression somehow matched hers in that moment. He searched the empty space.
"You really think he does?"
"No one would know better than you," she said. He thought again, troubled.
"I guess he does," he admitted quietly. She nodded.
"Why?" she asked again.
He shook his head. "I don't know." He looked up at her. "I don't know."
"Because you love him?"
Wilson stared at her for a long while, his brown eyes glowing with more than he could ever put into words. And she never looked away. She read him.
"I don't know," he said again, softly.
"You love him," she said, after a moment. It wasn't a question but an observation. He didn't know whether to drop his gaze or not. He did after a minute. He wasn't trying to figure out if he loved House or not. He already knew he did.
"I do," he said. They shared eyes for another long pause of silence. She nodded briefly, before turning away and leaving Wilson still thinking in the silence.
"Okay, stretch out your arm."
Cuddy had brought a black nurse along, young and tall and probably an ex-convict, in House's opinion. As such, you'd think he'd recoil from offering his vein to her needle, but he decided it was better to be noble. And plus, he could hold it over Wilson later.
She sat boyishly on the stool, the armrest having been pushed down, and he obeyed her cool command with a glance at a Cuddy, who looked bored. He noticed the way the ivory, surgical gloves looked like the cream center of an expensive, dark chocolate when it changed into the nurse's arm. She stuck the needle in his vein unceremoniously, and he resisted the temptation to cry out in mock agony and have her arrested for medical malpractice. Could they even charge nurses with that?
"Tanya." He read her name tag, which wasn't something House usually did with personnel. Or anyone in this hospital, for that matter. She looked up at him only for an instant. "Nice name. It – fits."
She glanced at him again, her black eyes forewarning. He grinned, and Cuddy shook her head. Once Tanya had filled two bags, she pulled the needle out and pressed a cotton ball to his vein, wrapping it tightly in place. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything about her name. She snapped the gloves off and threw them in the can. Cuddy smiled and thanked her, as she handed over the bags. She wasted no time leaving.
"Not quite your overweight, gospel-singing black woman, huh?" said House.
Cuddy glared. "I'll be back," she said, swishing her hips to the beat of her heels. First, she would have to take the blood to the lab and have it run through the system for safety. After, it was off to deliver it to Wilson's nurses.
House called out to her, "Oh, they so should've cast you in Terminator."
But he shut his eyes against the dizziness once she was gone.
Wilson woke up from his light sleep at the sound of rolling wheels. Two nurses had arrived. One seated herself promptly on the stool and pushed down the arm bar, taking Wilson's wrist.
"How are you today, Dr. Wilson?" she asked, checking his pulse before looking to the monitors.
"Uh – fine," he said in confusion.
"You're having a transfusion today."
"But – but I thought we had to wait for the new shipment."
"Dr. House has donated his blood."
He didn't answer, but his eyes glimmered. House. His heart fluttered with his breath, and he didn't know why. Cuddy slipped in and handed over two bags of blood to the nearest nurse. She gave him a smile before sliding away again.
House vomited into the trash can. It seemed to be mostly water, since he hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours. He sighed, half-leaning over the arm bar, holding up the trash can with his quickly tiring arm. He had a cold sweat, and the nausea still hadn't dissipated. It had come back around the time Cuddy and the nurse left with his blood an hour or two ago. And of course, he wouldn't say anything. He was hoping he could get up and sneak the trash bag out the next time he was alone. After retching once more, he wiped his mouth with the napkin Cuddy had left with a glass of water and threw it away. Drying his face as best he could, he reached for his magazine and took the wrapper off the lollipop Chase had left him. It had been waiting in his office with a purpose.
Cuddy had lost count of how many times she'd walked into House's room that day. She should never have to see him this much in a twenty-four hour period. He looked up from the latest issue of People magazine, even though she could have sworn she'd seen him reading it last week, and took the lollipop out of his mouth.
"Well?"
"They're prepping for the transfusion."
He nodded. "How is he?"
"He's fine. Where did you get that?" She indicated the bright, red sucker.
"I told the nurse I'd do her in my car if she brought me one from reception."
"Right," Cuddy said, half-disgusted and half-amused.
"Hey, my car is hot," he retorted. "How are his vitals?"
"Your car's? I don't know, I'd have to go out to parking and check."
"Nice. I mean Wilson." As if he needed to specify.
"I told you he was fine."
"And besides, my car is a she, thank you."
"Oh, well, excuse me."
"How are his vitals?"
"You're being difficult."
"Cuddy," he whined.
"House," she mimicked. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, sighed, and looked at House.
"How are his vitals?" House repeated.
"His BP's a little low, normal temperature, weak pulse. He's back on oxygen, until the transfusion's complete. There's some abdominal swelling, but nothing out of the ordinary. He's on Percocet right now and -- "
"Percocet? The man's just had a major abdominal injury and surgery, a concussion, and broken ribs. He should be on Demerol, at least. Or oxycodone."
"We're giving him a continuous dosage, don't worry. He doesn't want a lot of drugs; he says he can handle the pain."
"Dick."
Cuddy leered as if House was her teenage son. House was quiet, though. His blue eyes wandered, and she knew he was worried for Wilson, no matter what he said.
"He's fine, Greg," she said softly. "He's going to be fine. You should be more worried about yourself."
He scoffed. "Yeah, whatever."
"We still haven't gotten your test results back," she warned.
"Does it matter either way?"
"Well, considering you're the one who will have to put up with any treatment, I would care if I were you."
He exhaled through his nose audibly, his arms crossed. She stared at him relentlessly but with compassion.
"You can see him," she murmured. He looked to her. Suddenly, her pager went off.
"What is it?" he asked, as her face fell. She dashed out of his room without a word.
"Cuddy! Cuddy!" He had a bad feeling about this.
"He went into hypovolemic shock," she said quietly. "We don't think there's any brain damage, we had the blood ready. We were lucky. Damn lucky."
House felt his heart stop after the first five words. Shock. Wilson. Brain damage. Oh, God.
"There was a pocket – that they didn't find when they operated. He's been bleeding this whole time..."
House had his face buried in his hands. He wanted to scream at Cuddy for her stupidity, even though he knew it wasn't her fault. He wanted to find the surgeon and kick his ass.
"We've put him on a ventilator. He wasn't woken up yet."
Shit, shit, shit.
"Your blood is sustaining him for now, but we need to operate as soon as possible."
"When is he scheduled for surgery?"
"In a few hours. He's not quite done with the transfusion yet."
He nodded against his hand.
"House," she said. "I – I don't know if he's going to make it. He's lost so much blood and even with the transfusion, surgery's just --"
"He'll make it," said House, looking up at her, eyes piercing. She knew she couldn't say anymore. "He'll make it."
House wheeled himself into Wilson's room for the third time. His face grew sad; Wilson was hooked up to more machines now than he had been the last time. It made House's heart clench, though he'd never admit it to anyone. He sighed. The sound of the heart monitor, the music, was almost drowned out by the slower chugging of the ventilator. Wilson cracked open his eyes and looked over at House. Even through all the noise, he didn't miss the sound of the wheel chair approaching. He gave his friend a faint smile. His hand twitched on the bed, asking for the other doctor's, and House answered its call without hesitation. He gave it a squeeze.
House offered him a pursed smile. He was more troubled than Wilson, which didn't surprise either of them. Wilson lowered his eyes for a moment. He wanted to say so much. God damn his breathing. He looked back up at House, and blue eyes held on to brown, held close – in the place of a hug that the tubes and Wilson's body wouldn't allow for. They understood. Wilson was glad.
"You don't have to thank me," said House. Wilson grinned to himself. House knew him too well.
"It's you," House added. "I hope you didn't expect any less."
He searched Wilson's eyes again, gripped his hand a little harder.
"You really will be okay this time," House said. It sounded pathetic to him, but he didn't stop believing in it. He needed to – more than anything else. Wilson didn't bother nodding. He just looked. The only one he was afraid for was House. If he wasn't so damn tired and beat up, he would have argued over the blood donation forever. House needed to recover. That's what Wilson needed. More than anything else.
Goddamn. He wanted to tell House to take care of himself, to rest and eat and do what Cuddy and the nurses told him to do. He wanted to be there, monitoring him and mothering him and making sure House was going along. He didn't completely trust anyone else to do it. Even with Cuddy in charge, he couldn't help but worry. No one would tell him how House was really holding up because they didn't want to burden him.
House squeezed Wilson's hand and stroked Wilson's fingers with his thumb. For a fleeting moment, he considered saying goodbye for some reason. He refused.
"I'll see you after, okay?"
Wilson looked at him and nodded after a pregnant pause. House dropped his gaze into his lap. He didn't let go of Wilson's hand until Cuddy stepped in and told him his time was up.
House was quiet but restless back in his room. 9:02. He rocked his leg back and forth. His head was too right for the pillow. He wanted another lollipop to suck on. He wanted to get the hell out of here and go to Wilson's OR. Cuddy would stop him, though; she was pacing, looking at his charts and the monitors. He was still showing signs of the overdose, and she didn't like it.
"Your breathing's slow, House," she said. "I think I'm going to start you on oxygen. You're not going anywhere until I see some improvement."
She turned and approached the door, heels clicking on the tile, but stopped when House didn't respond. She peered over her shoulder at him. He was staring blankly into space.
"House?"
She returned to her place against the metal armrest and touched his arm. Her eyes widened when she realized he'd slipped into a coma.