A/N: For those of you who've not read 'The Devil, You Say,' the promise Wilson references in the previous chapter that House made to him is near the end of Chapter 14 (Questions… and Answers) in 'Devil.' I should've made the reference clearer; sorry! mjf
CHAPTER TWENTY: Diagnostics
Wilson scrubs at his wet face with hands that are just as wet, and steals a look at the monitor; if he's upset House, he'll never forgive himself. Cardiac status pretty much the same, but respirations are too shallow, too rapid. Damn. "It's okay, House; I'm okay."
House is watching him appraisingly; his gaze is so intense that Wilson looks uncomfortably away. When he's able to look back, House's eyes are still on him. "I said I'm fine; you need to calm down, you can't afford to get upset right now. Take a few slow, deep breaths for me, okay?" House still hasn't spoken, just continues to watch Wilson. "Look, it was a dream, a bad dream, that's all. Sorry I disturbed you."
Wilson knows the technique House is using; he's employed it himself, many times. Just gaze, wordlessly, at the patient until the silence makes him so uncomfortable, and he's babbling so much to fill it, that the truth slips out, finally. But Wilson's never been 'the patient' with the embarrassing information before; it's not a role he's enjoying. And he knows that House is the undisputed master of this particular diagnostic game. So he's glad of the distraction when Cuddy enters the room, wearing a stethoscope, carrying a package of syringes.
"Leave us," House says to her.
"But I need to do the assessment, give you your noon meds," Cuddy protests, puzzled. What the hell has happened now? Last time I checked, they were both asleep. Why won't Wilson look at me? And House looks just this side of upset; surely Wilson knows better than to argue with him right now—
"Five minutes. Please." House says. He still hasn't looked toward her; he hasn't looked away from Wilson's face.
"Is everything all right? Because this isn't really a good time to be arguing politics, or even discussing the deeper meanings of life, and I'd prefer—"
"Cuddy…." She hears an undisguised plea, and a demand, in House's voice, and when a check of the monitor assures her that nothing too terrible is happening, she nods at House. "Five minutes; I'll be back."
House isn't going to give up until Wilson gives him something. "I dreamed about… my brother." Still with the unnerving gaze. "He was… dying." No go; damn, House is good at this. "I was there; I held him while he…." The tears are threatening again, and Wilson stops speaking, glares almost defiantly at House.
But House has heard what he needs. He finally looks away from Wilson, and says, casually, to the ceiling, "Did you know you talk in your sleep? Pretty lucid, too—none of the usual indistinct mumbling."
So you knew all along; you just needed to confirm your diagnosis, you… you… limping twerp. And don't you ever forget what that translates into, House. Now it's Wilson's turn; he looks at House and waits. Just waits.
House finally takes that long, slow, deep breath before turning his head back towards his friend. When he speaks, the words are carefully measured. "I'm not gonna die. At least not until you've been raised properly." He looks, hard, at Wilson. "Figure that's gonna take a long, long time. Now, go wash your face before Cuddy comes back and thinks I've been verbally abusing you again; it'll make her jealous." His voice is rough, dismissive, but Wilson hears the caring hidden beneath the words and allows himself to take comfort from it.
"Holding you to that," he says as he rises from the chair.
When Wilson returns, Cuddy's just finished injecting the morphine into the IV port. She studies Wilson's face carefully, and widens her eyes in a question. He smiles at her. "Just had to clear up a few… family matters that came up… unexpectedly. We're okay; no blood was shed." Wilson closes his eyes briefly to rid his mind of the picture that's popped up. "How's the patient, Dr. Cuddy?" Cuddy frowns at him, and Wilson wonders if he shouldn't have saved the question until they were out of House's hearing.
"I'd planned on running repeat 'lytes at 2:00, but… he's not progressing. As a matter of fact, the premature ventricular contractions are increasing in frequency. So I'm gonna get the blood now; we'll continue to monitor the PVCs, but—dependent on the results of the labs—I'd really like to up the rate on the potassium."
Wilson and Cuddy look at House to see how he's responding to this news. The morphine's kicking in, and he's got an air of detachment about the whole thing. "Sounds good to me," he says.
"I'll just draw the blood, then, find out where we are." Cuddy locates a smaller vein that hasn't previously been punctured, and successfully draws off 3cc.
"We'll be okay while you get that to the lab," Wilson says.
"No, I'm not leaving. Thought I made it clear that you're not to play doctor for a while, and I've—"
"Then I'll take it and run it," Wilson interrupts; it's important that there are no records in the lab or on the computers at PPTH.
"If you'd let me finish," Cuddy says pointedly, "I've made arrangements for a courier from Princeton General to pick it up. No one has to leave. House needs his physician here, but it's just as important that he's got his… family… too. So everybody just relax."
"I'm plenty relaxed," House chimes in, clearly floating on the morphine. "I'm so relaxed I'm gonna let you two finish this fight without a referee…." His voice fades away; he's gone to sleep.
Cuddy and Wilson look at each other and step out of the room. "How bad is it?" Wilson asks.
"Not dangerous yet, and maybe it's still too early to be expecting an improvement. I'm being cautious with the potassium, maybe too cautious, but I don't like the fact that he's getting any worse, even marginally."
The doorbell rings, and Cuddy answers it. She hands the small bag of labeled tubes to the courier. "Have them call me with those results the minute they have them," she tells him. She closes the door and turns back to Wilson. "I hope he stays asleep until we find out where we stand; it's the safest thing for him right now."
The words are scarcely out of her mouth when a weak, hesitant voice says, barely audibly, from the bedroom, "Feel… funny… something's big time not… right… help?" The last word is little more than a whispered question. And they run.