A/N: Just a calm little interlude—action returns next chapter—really. And there's a bit of foreshadowing here….

CHAPTER TWENTY: Hours

It's 2:00pm, House has been out about two hours, and it's going well. Wilson looks at his watch and realizes that—other than the hour and a half's sleep he got at House's place—he's been awake for thirty-two hours. Just like residency. But I was younger then.

At Cuddy's insistence, they've arranged for her to return at 4:00pm to care for House and allow Wilson to rest for a while. He'd have refused, but he's not going to do anything to endanger House—and an overly fatigued physician can be dangerous.

He takes a moment to study House's face in repose. Even in deep sleep—especially in deep sleep—there's a vulnerability there that twists at Wilson's heart. It's not so noticeable, normally. When House has his walls up, which is pretty much every waking minute, he's able to hide the vulnerability beneath his quick intelligence and cynical, often cruel, humor. It keeps the focus off of him. But the undercurrent is always there, easy to read, in his eyes. Because his eyes say everything he can't, if you just take the time to read them. That's something I haven't been taking the time to do. Won't let that happen again.

Wilson continues the 2:00pm assessment. Urine output's low; he calculates, then raises the rate on the saline drip. He gently turns House to his right side, places a pillow between his legs to keep the pressure of the left leg off the right. He reaches for a glycerin swab, moves it carefully over House's lips, smiles when House reflexively tries to suck the moisture from the swab.

Wilson had upped the rate on the morphine to 40mg, the low therapeutic rate for this procedure, an hour ago, and House's gesture lets him know that his level of unconsciousness is just right—sucking is a rudimentary reflex, left over from infancy, which indicates that the brain is still aware of what the body needs, but not aware of much else. And that's just as it needs to be. That's good—looks like they'll be able to stay at 40mg.

The pulse ox monitor beeps—O2 saturation is down; it's 92. Wilson frowns and adjusts the oxygen flow. After a few minutes, it's back up to 96. Gonna have to watch that—shouldn't be dropping at all. But House's lungs are clear, air movement's good, so Wilson relaxes.

---

It's 4:00pm; Cuddy's here, and she's trying to get Wilson to go to his own office to lie down. Wilson is having none of it. "I promised him I wouldn't leave 'til he did. It's okay; I'll just stretch out over there." He indicates the yellow lounge in the corner.

Cuddy realizes that this will be a losing argument, so she nods reluctantly, and picks up the unofficial chart they've been keeping. "Everything looks good; no problems so far?"

"I've had to increase the IV; his output was down. And the O2—his sats dropped to 92 for a while. You're gonna have to watch that; make sure you turn him every 30 minutes, all he needs is a nice case of pneumonia. Watch that leg when you turn him. He's due for artificial tears at 5:00; you can swab his lips then, too.

Cuddy smiles. "Wilson, you sound like a parent leaving a newborn with a sitter for the first time. Guess what—I'm a doctor, I think I've got this covered."

Wilson laughs at his own protectiveness, but that doesn't stop him from reminding her to keep the right leg in proper postural alignment, and to do some range of motion when she repositions him. "He's not moving at all on his own, and I don't want it stiffening up on him."

Cuddy knows that Wilson won't be able to rest well until he covers all his concerns, so she listens patiently, and hides her amusement—he's acting as if she's never cared for an unconscious patient before. But she understands, and agrees that it's not often that she cares for an unconscious patient who's so important to both of them.

Wilson finally heads over to the lounge and stretches out. "Wake me if anything changes--anything. Or even if you want help turning him. Please, Cuddy, don't hesitate—promise me."

She walks over to him with a pillow and blanket from the lower shelf of the cart. "I'll promise to wake you if I need you, and that's the best you're gonna get. So take this—" she holds out the pillow, "and get comfortable, and quit worrying." She shakes out the blanket and drapes it over him. She can tell that everything's catching up with him all at once, and even before she's finished straightening the blanket, Wilson's asleep.

She looks down at him, over at House; her smile is warm and fond—not an expression that too many people have ever seen on her face. But these two men mean a lot to her. Usually, she watches their incredible friendship from a distance, and envies them their easy comfort with one another. They've let her in this time, though, and she's touched by that. She feels honored, somehow, that House has allowed her in.

His relationship with her is complex, for both of them. Much of the time, he's operating out of anger, and she's operating out of guilt. This could make for real unpleasantness, but it rarely does—underlying his anger, her guilt, is a mutual respect that runs deep. Neither has ever acknowledged it aloud to the other, but both know it's there. And so, somehow, they've carved a friendship out of it.

Her friendship with Wilson came about slowly. Before House's infarction, she and Wilson scarcely knew each other. He did his job well, he was respected by his colleagues, and he never caused the kind of trouble that would bring him to her attention. After House's surgery, though, they got to know each other because once Wilson returned to town, he was always at House's side. He stayed even when Stacy would flee in tears or anger. He stayed even when House wouldn't talk, wouldn't acknowledge anyone's presence.

He stayed, even when House's verbal abuse became so bad that no staff would enter his room, and at those times Wilson would take over even the routine nursing care. When that happened, House would focus all that abuse at Wilson, all the cruel words raining down on the one person who never gave up on him. And Wilson's brown eyes would be sad, mostly; once in a while he'd get angry and yell back. But he always stayed. And so her respect for him turned to admiration and then to friendship. Eventually, and without any words, she and Wilson became the only support system that House would allow.

She looks again at the sleeping men, and—despite the circumstances—she likes the feeling of being able to protect both of them, for at least a little while.