A/N: I'm putting this up early today; I live in central Florida, and we're currently being pounded by tropical storm Alberto—I've already lost my home network once this morning. :(
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Going Under
House has never eased into anything in his life; he either jumps in without a backward glance, or refuses to budge—a two-year-old in the middle of his favorite Barney video when it's time to leave for preschool. Wilson suspects that they're going to be dealing with the latter situation this morning. He doesn't feel like he's preparing the patient for treatment; it's far closer, he thinks, to what a parent with a recalcitrant child must feel.
He's just finished getting House hooked up to every single piece of equipment when House announces, "I need to pee."
"And you couldn't have mentioned this before we got you tethered to all this stuff? Why didn't you tell me before?"
House pouts. "You didn't ask."
"Don't pout; you don't do 'cute' well. Kinda frightening, actually. Use the urinal, House; you're attached to this bed."
"Nope. If I'm gonna be stuck here for 24 hours, I wanna get up and walk to the bathroom and piss in the porcelain. C'mon, let's go."
Wilson rests his head in his hand and says through his teeth, "Use the urinal, House. Please."
"C'mon, I really gotta go." Wilson has never heard a grown man whine so annoyingly, hadn't known that a two-year-old's voice could issue from a six-foot body.
"Use. The. Urinal. House." Wilson drops his head down to the recliner's armrest, pressing hard against it with his forehead, trying to stop the dull throb that's taken up residence behind his eyes. "Are you for real?" he mutters to House.
"You said I was calling the shots. I wanna call the shots. You said I could call the shots."
"The procedural shots, House; you're not old enough yet for the decisions that require adult input, we've discussed this."
"But I gotta pee. Now."
Wilson forces himself to take the deepest breath he's ever taken in his life, lifts his head, smiles at House, and picks up the catheter kit.
"I have a great idea, Jimmy--I'll use the urinal!"
---
Cuddy sits alone in her office, staring out the window and thinking. Remembering. She doesn't want to remember; the images come without her permission. I should really be downstairs helping House through this. And poor Wilson; who's supporting him? But she can't make herself move. She won't go down there; she can't watch House as he goes under again. Yet here she is, watching it anyway, seeing House six years ago lying vulnerable, and in pain, and trusting, in a hospital bed—that was the last time I saw him trust—and she's the one by his bedside, the one holding the syringe that would ruin his life—and save it. The movie playing in her head is oddly compelling, like watching the aftermath of a traffic accident; she knows she should look away, but her eyes keep returning to the wreck, the bodies. Oh, Lisa, you know that Stacy did what had to be done to save his life—why can't you grant yourself the same understanding?
"You know why," she says aloud. "You were the one who had a damned good idea what kind of life you were sentencing him to. And you knew him, so you didn't just have an idea how he'd feel about spending the rest of his life like this, you knew how he'd feel. And you let it happen—no, you made it happen!"
Rationally, she knows that this time it'll be different; no coma, no surgery, no standing unseen in the door to House's room as he lies in there all alone, crying soundlessly two days after the surgery. That's the image that stays with her—that, and her hand pressing the plunger on the syringe as House goes under willingly, trusting her. So she won't be there for this. She can't.
---
House has worn himself out with his antics, and the thigh spasms must be returning, because his eyes are squeezed tightly shut and a glance at the monitor shows his respiratory rate is climbing fast. Wilson checks his watch; 11:20am. Time to get this show on the road.
Wilson's hanging the first bag, and House is realizing that this is really happening. Wilson looks down at him as he connects the line to the heplock, says gently, "You hangin' in there?"
House opens his eyes. Yeah, there's the pain, Wilson thinks. The monitors can't lie, and neither can House's eyes.
"I wanna do this slow. Can we skip the bolus?" House asks.
"House, you're spasming again. Twenty milligrams of morphine will stop it from getting worse, and you'll be out before you know it."
"But I want to know it. Goin' down fast, it's just creepy. I wanna do this slow, have a little time to talk, make my deathbed proclamations, all that neat stuff." A thinly drawn smile quirks the corner of his mouth. Wilson sees through the smile, sees the plea and the fear.
"Of course." Wilson puts down the syringe. "I'm starting the drip now. We'll start with 30mg an hour, that'll give you a good ten minutes to issue those proclamations. I'll titrate up from there once you're asleep, okay?" He punches the settings into the pump, then presses 'run'.
House nods. "Where's Cuddy? Doesn't she wanna be here, see me helpless? It'll turn her on; she's hot for me. Hides it well, but still. I know these things."
"I'll page her." If House wants Cuddy here for this, he'll have her here. Hell, if he wants a few dancing girls and a live band, I'll find a way to get those too.
Wilson starts to go to the phone, but House, looking suddenly thoughtful and sad, stops him. "No, wait. I can't do….Never mind, stinkin' idea. Just us guys, okay?"
Instinct tells Wilson not to question this sudden change of heart. "Sure, House, just us guys. It'll be fun, just like a Friday night. Just pretend you're taking your beer IV. It's the latest in beer delivery systems."
House doesn't smile, and he doesn't respond right away. As Wilson is trying to think of a way to take his mind off of what's happening, House asks quietly, "What if this fails?"
"When have you and I ever failed at anything?" asks Wilson.
"Well, if you don't count marriages, relationships…"
"As a team, House; I meant as a team."
"There's no 'I' in team, ya know; but there's—" Oh, joy, here comes one of those freaky mood changes. Wilson grimaces.
"House, I know the rest. Boy, you're really going under if the best you can do is recycle your old one-liners."
House, eyes closed, snickers. He's apparently pretty impressed with his own one-liner, recycled or not, because he continues to laugh silently. Wilson looks down at him and can't help smiling back at the grin on his face. Cuddy's right; he really is an eight year old boy in men's clothing. Then House's mood changes again; his face has grown serious.
"You're a good friend, Jimmy, really good…never told you that, I should've…not sure I deserve you…pretty sure I don't. All this must be hell for you…Hell's not a nice place, devil's mean…took my leg away again…sorry I'm putting you through hell too….
Wilson thinks maybe he'd better recheck the label on that drip; maybe they'd sent sodium pentothal instead. Now there's a scary thought; House on truth serum. He shudders at the image.
"You're a good friend too, House. Maybe not in the traditional way, maybe not even in a way anyone else can understand. But you've always provided a home for me, on a lot of levels, and I'm just starting to understand that myself. Just so you know…thanks."
House nods his head in sleepy acknowledgement. It won't be long now, House. Sleep well, my friend. Sweet dreams.
"Do I get a bedtime story, mommy?" House murmurs. His respiratory rate is slowing, each breath a little deeper.
"Yes, as a matter of fact you do. Once upon a time there was a dedicated young oncologist--" House snorts. "Okay, okay, don't interrupt. The dedicated oncologist was younger than the jaded old diagnostician. Better?" House smiles drowsily. "And they had a lot of really cool adventures together, and routinely solved the world's problems, even though they couldn't solve their own."
House laughs softly as the sedation picks him up and takes him to a place without pain, and a faint smile remains on his face, even after the laughter's been gently silenced. Wilson lets out the breath he hasn't been aware he was holding. House had gone under easily, even willingly. Wilson couldn't have asked for better.