A/N: Before I go any further I must thank Magdala, Brynaea, and Ataea for so patiently allowing themselves to be tortured repeatedly with the first several chapters , and offering suggestions, criticism, humor, and endless support as I strived (strove?) to get this thing off the ground; I'm lucky they haven't killed me… yet. And reviewers—I read everything, and many times something in a review will suggest a scene or even alter a plotline; my thanks to you, as well. mjf
CHAPTER TWO: Talk Time
House eyes Wilson cautiously. There's a new look in Wilson's eyes, and there's nothing soft, nothing concerned about it. Yup, pissed him off good this time, House thinks.
"Not talk time for me—Tivo time." House tries a charming smile.
"You wanna watch TV? There's the remote—get it." Wilson gestures to the remote lying on the floor an impossible distance away. He doesn't notice the tremble in his hand as he waves his arm, but House does, and a little of House's own frustration is replaced with concern.
"Oh, that's funny. And cruel. Proud of you, Jimmy." House tries again; this time, the trademark sardonic grin. He figures that should elicit at least an eye roll, some indication of forgiveness. This new adult-type Wilson is making him nervous.
Wilson isn't taking the bait. "If we'd hospitalized you for the pain management procedure, you'd still be there. Another two days. At least two days, considering everything that happened. Right now, you'd be getting vitals every hour. You'd be getting IV hydration. You'd be pretty much confined to bed another 24 hours." Wilson rubs at his gritty eyes.
"So this is the way it's gonna be. You're gonna go to bed. I'll set you up on the couch, if that's what you want, but you're lying down. You're gonna eat something, and you'll let me know if you're nauseated. You'll put up with the vitals. You'll let me know if you need to get up, and you'll accept my help when you do. Or I'm calling an ambulance, informing them that—in my professional opinion—you pose a danger to yourself;" he looks pointedly at the mess on the floor. "And I'm having you admitted." He stops speaking and looks at House.
House doesn't answer right away, and Wilson can tell he's examining the statement for an escape hatch, a loophole. Finally, House speaks. "Couch." Just the one word, and he doesn't sound as angry as Wilson expected.
Wilson stands tiredly and goes to collect pillows and blankets. "Just play the game, House," he calls over his shoulder. "Forty-eight hours." When he returns, he says. "Now I'm going to get you something to eat. Again. And this time, don't turn it into a slalom course, okay?"
"Yeah… about the pudding."
"It's over. And I'd say you got your just desserts."
House groans, and Wilson smiles.
---
The next several hours pass without incident. House's vitals are stable, and he doesn't fight so hard against playing patient. The only thing he's fighting is sleep, Wilson thinks. He's seen House close his eyes a few times, watched as House jerked himself to alertness each time it happened.
House isn't eating well, and getting any fluids down him is a battle. But Wilson's far more concerned right now with the apparent aversion to sleep. He's learned over the years that the problems House presents never come one at a time, so he's learned to prioritize.
Wilson tries to approach the sleep problem from several different angles—and House has every one of them covered. When Wilson tries humorous, House's comeback is wittier. When Wilson generalizes the situation, House deflects into an 'insomniac patient' story. And when Wilson tries the direct approach, House simply feigns deafness. And mutism. Finally, Wilson decides to take the focus off of it, just be casual about it until House decides he'll talk. After all, even House has to sleep eventually, right? Right?
"Let me get you your pills, then you take a little nap. Any nausea?"
"No, and I don't need a nap." House takes the pills, swallows them with a minimum of water.
"Well, I'm just gonna sit here and read. The super-Vic's gonna be rougher on your stomach for a while; let me know, okay?"
Wilson settles in the chair with a journal, kicks off his shoes and puts his feet up. House watches as he massages his temples and rubs the back of his neck. "Why don't you take the nap and I'll read the journal?" he says to Wilson.
"You wouldn't like it, House. Deals with therapeutic touch. Involves actually interacting with the patient. Now shut up and let me read."
When he sees that Wilson's involved in the article and isn't going anywhere anytime soon, House finally allows his eyes to close, and he sleeps without dreaming for the next two and a half hours.
---
The sound of the doorbell wakes him. Wilson lets Cuddy in, and House hears them discussing him in undertones before they enter the living room. "What, no coloring book and crayons?" he asks Cuddy.
"No, but I did bring your dinner," she says, showing him a bowl containing something definitely soft and probably tasteless. "And if you're a good boy, tomorrow I'll get you a comic book."
House watches Wilson smile tiredly, sees him pinch the bridge of his nose, and hears the quiet, weary sigh. "Cuddy, can you stay the night?" House asks, not taking his eyes off Wilson.
"Why, House, that's forward even for you!" Cuddy smiles, but her eyes have followed House's to the sight of Wilson, three days without proper rest. "I'd already planned on it," she says. She's concerned about Wilson too; at this point, he doesn't look much better than House, and she knows he won't rest at all tonight if she doesn't intervene.
"And I want you to call the hospital, order something for him, knock him out. They can send it over." House sounds like the doctor, not the patient.
"No!" Wilson's finally focused on the conversation. "House, are you worried about me? That's… uncharacteristic. And unnecessary." He figures that if he openly accuses House of caring, House'll back down and leave him alone. "Cuddy, you've got to work tomorrow. And I've gotta be alert; meds are out of the question."
"I've gotten at least triple the sleep you have," Cuddy tells Wilson. "And for once I'm in agreement with House—and one step ahead of him." She removes a prescription bottle from her purse and holds it up.
"Why is everybody threatening to shove pills down my throat lately? I'm fine; I don't want anything. Give it up." Wilson is feeling sorely aggrieved.
"When the patient is resistant to what's best for him, there are other ways of administering it." House says this lightly to Cuddy, but he's almost glaring at Wilson. Wilson sees a brief flare of anger in House's eyes, knows he's remembering that first dose of Compazine. House had fought the injection, hadn't wanted the loss of control it would cost him. Wilson had ignored him; he'd had to. And House knew it. Wilson realizes that they're going to have to revisit that incident again. Damn. Suddenly, Wilson's just too tired to argue with both of them.
"Fine. I'll take it," Wilson says almost resentfully. He may not have the energy to argue, but he wants to make it clear that he's not happy.
"What've you got?" House asks Cuddy.
"Ativan." She figures the anti-anxiety component of the drug can only help; the stress Wilson's been under is contributing to his fatigue.
"That'll work," House says, still in doctor mode. "Two milligrams, at least; we'll go up to three if he needs it. Can you bring him some water?"
"Will do," she says, and shakes two of the tiny pills into Wilson's reluctantly outstretched hand, then goes to the kitchen. When she returns with the water, Wilson's got his head tipped back and his eyes closed. House is looking at him; Cuddy notes the worry in his eyes—which he immediately masks when he sees her watching.
"After he takes that, can you help me to the bedroom so he can lie down here? Apparently, there's some sort of rule that I can't walk unless there's a grownup holding my hand."
"Not a problem," she says, handing Wilson the water. He swallows the pills under House's keenly watchful eye.
"C'mon, I'll help you get settled. It's gonna take a few minutes to kick in anyway," he says to House.
It takes them a good fifteen minutes to get House set up in the bedroom, and when Wilson returns to the couch, he lies down gratefully and closes his eyes. He feels the fatigue and the first rush of sedation wash over him. Damn, need to let Cuddy know about him not wanting to sleep—she needs…. He's out before he can finish the thought.