CHAPTER FIVE: Lies… and Truths

Wilson awakens and peers at his watch; 6:25am. House is due for his 6:00am med, and he hasn't heard any activity from the bedroom. He rises from the couch and stretches, pleased that he's actually feeling rested, and walks to the bedroom door. It's ajar, and he can see House sleeping peacefully on one side of the bed—and Cuddy lying on the other, nodding off over some papers. He grins and pushes the door open. Cuddy looks up at the movement, smiles and puts a finger to her lips. She carefully lifts her foot from where it's been resting across House's ankle, sets the papers down, and comes to the door. She motions to the kitchen, pulling the bedroom door almost closed behind her.

When they reach the kitchen, Wilson turns on the coffee pot and says, "Well, that was a cozy little scene. How'd you get him to sleep?"

Cuddy laughs. "Let's just say that you and I have been instructed to give up our 'new-age' medical journals."

"You didn't! That therapeutic touch method? No! I would've paid to see that! How'd you get him to agree to it?" Wilson's laughing.

"Cost me two weeks of clinic hours and a lot of fast talking. I used a bunch of words like 'medical procedure' and 'purely clinical' and 'investigative,' you know, stuff he understands." She's laughing too.

Then her face grows serious. "He's still not eating or drinking, and his B/P's dropping. He's getting dehydrated, and that super-Vic on an empty stomach…."

"Damn. I'll work on him today, try to talk some sense into him. Now that I've had some sleep I'm House-proof again; he doesn't like it when I yell." The worried look is already returning to Wilson's face. "Has he had his 6:00am meds yet?"

"No, figured you could be a little late with that; he needs the sleep more. And I got the last set of vitals at midnight—same reasoning. So you're gonna need to wake him up soon, I'm afraid." Cuddy smiles sympathetically. She drains her coffee cup and stands. "I've gotta get my stuff together, run home and get a shower; got a meeting at the hospital at 8:00am. Keep me posted."

---

Wilson is in the kitchen, trying to figure out what House might eat, when he hears Cuddy's name being bellowed from the bedroom. So he takes a deep breath, sends a pleading glance skyward, grabs the pills and the water, and goes in to face House.

House is sitting on the edge of the bed, and he isn't happy. He glowers at Wilson. "Did you sleep? Where's Cuddy? Where's my cane?"

"In that order; yes, very well thank you, she's got a meeting at the hospital, and it's right here," Wilson says, taking the cane from the closet. He hands House his cane and the pills. When House shakes his head at the water, Wilson grabs the cane back and replaces it with the cup in one quick move.

"Should've let you die of sleep deprivation. You're just way too chipper this morning," House grumbles. He swallows the pills, drinks less than an ounce of water. "Why'd you hide my cane?"

"It's akin to hiding the car keys from an unpredictable teenager; just call it 'preventative medicine'." Wilson hands the cane back. "Need to get to the bathroom?"

"No. Just the couch, and I don't need my hand held."

The frown on House's face lets Wilson know it's gonna be a very long day, but right now Wilson's more concerned with the mental calculations he's just done. House hasn't peed since Wilson helped him get settled in the bedroom yesterday evening, almost 12 hours.

He follows House out to the living room, careful to stay far enough away that he doesn't appear to be hovering. House's gait is still unstable, but he doesn't seem to be in too much pain.

Once House is safely on the couch, Wilson returns to the bedroom to collect the things he needs for vitals. He looks thoughtfully at the contents of the box that Cuddy's hidden beside the dresser.

He returns to the living room, where House is idly thumbing through the journal Wilson had been reading yesterday. Wilson briefly considers bringing up the article on therapeutic touch, decides discretion is the better part of valor, discards the idea. "Okay, you know the drill," he says, wrapping the B/P cuff around House's arm. "How's the pain?"

"Still more than bearable. About like a year ago."

"Good. Any nausea?"

"Nope." The answer comes too quickly, and Wilson frowns. House's B/P has fallen a few more points since last night, and it's no longer low-normal. A B/P of 98/62 is, for House, just plain low. Wilson unwraps the cuff, continues the assessment. Breath and cardiac sounds are good. When he moves the stethoscope to House's abdomen, his frown deepens. He listens for quite a while before straightening up and fixing House with a very serious gaze.

"Sounds like you've got an organ recital going on in there. Bowel sounds hyperactive in the extreme. Let's try the question again, in layman's terms. Is your tummy upset, House?"

"And I will answer in layman's terms," House says. "No."

Wilson sighs. "Let's examine the evidence, oh great diagnostician. Not eating. Not drinking. Hyperactive bowel sounds. Switch, in the last 24 hours, to a med which has, as its number one side effect, nausea. Let's not leave out your own personal hatred of anti-emetics. Have I covered everything?"

House doesn't answer.

"C'mon, House. Let me get you a Compazine cap. Take it, wait 20 minutes. Eat some breakfast, have a nice cup of coffee. You'll feel like a new man." Wilson realizes that there's a begging quality to his voice, but at this point he doesn't much care. He's trying not to threaten House with the IV that's beginning to appear inevitable. House doesn't respond well to threats.

"Jimmy, your concern is, as always, touching. Also annoying. And not appreciated. Bring me breakfast; I'll eat." House leans forward to grab the TV remote, finds himself gripping the edge of the table, hard, to keep from falling face down onto it. Wilson's right there, grabbing his shoulders and easing him back onto the couch. House brushes the hands away as soon as the room stops spinning. "It's nothing. Just a little dizzy. Normal after a few days in bed."

Wilson flops down onto the couch beside him. Might as well have this conversation now. "Also normal when your blood pressure's tanking." He grabs House's hand, pinches the skin up and watches it stay tented for too long. "And your skin turgor's crap. And you haven't needed to pee in twelve hours. All of which points to dehydration."

House says nothing, just develops a serious interest in the TV screen. Except that the TV's off. Wilson continues. "It's probably nothing that couldn't be fixed if we get the nausea under control. Just take the med, House. One little capsule. Please."

When House turns to look at him, the resentment is clearly evident in his eyes. "And if I don't? Dr. Wilson's gonna threaten me with his trusty needle again? You get off on assault and battery?"

Here we go. "You know that injection was necessary. You were in incredible pain; add intractable nausea to that, and you weren't thinking straight. I had to think for you."

House is sneering now. "Yeah, thanks, Stacy."

"Aw, c'mon, House. You're overreacting. It's not the same thing."

"No, it was worse. This time I was conscious. This time I said no."

Wilson takes a deep breath, gives himself some time to figure out what he's going to say. "I'm sorry for what Stacy did; we're all still paying for it, you most of all. And I'm sorry you feel… betrayed… by what I did. If I had it to do over again, I'd…." He can't make himself say it, won't lie to House about this.

"You'd do the same thing," House supplies quietly after a moment. "Because you're a good physician. A half-way decent friend." He says it grudgingly, but he forces himself to say it because Wilson needs to hear it.

Wilson sighs in acknowledgement. "I'd do the same thing. I had the means to stop your suffering; I couldn't just…." His voice trails off. He'd thought this conversation would make him feel better. He'd hurt House, but he'd helped him too. He tries to focus on the helping part.

"You knew I might not forgive you?" House is eyeing Wilson intently.

Wilson nods. "Yeah. It was a chance I had to take. You were… hurting." His tone had been firm, decisive—but his voice catches on the last word.

House remembers another time Wilson's voice had caught on a word, and he asks Wilson now, "You'd risk this 'stupid, screwed-up friendship' just to save me?"

He's mocking Wilson's own words, but somehow his voice is gentle, so gentle. Because he remembers. That other word Wilson's voice had once broken on had been 'friendship.'

Wilson looks at him, looks away quickly. "Yes," he says simply, because it's the truth.

But both men are uncomfortable with this much truth. So House rolls up the journal and hits Wilson with it smartly on the back of the head.

"Hey, didn't you say something about breakfast?" House asks.

Wilson smiles and heads to the kitchen. He thinks he's got a sure-fire plan to get some food into House.