Title: Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 17
Author: hwshipper
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.
Beta: triedunture still persevering with me
A/N: Part of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon. Later parts drafted and emerging slowly.
Summary: The infarction.
Excerpt: Wilson leaned blearily over, to see House sitting on the floor clutching his leg.
Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 17
House dropped down into the seat opposite Wilson, grabbed the small steaming cup of espresso waiting for him, and downed it in a gulp.
"Needed a hit?" Wilson asked with a smile.
"Patient relapsed in the middle of the night and I had to go in. He's stable now... now it's practically lunchtime. So, what's up?" A waitress appeared, and House ordered another espresso.
Wilson sipped his cappuccino. "Cuddy called me into her office this morning."
"Ooh, summoned to the headmistress' office. Was she waiting to spank you with a ruler?" House glanced sideways, then drained his second espresso, closed his eyes and spoke loudly, "C'mon, caffeine, hit me."
Wilson looked around to see a doctor walk past and shoot House a disapproving glance. It was Dr. Gilbert, a colleague of House's who had found House smoking a cigarette a few weeks before and acted as if he'd caught House mainlining cocaine. Of course House hadn't helped matters by suggesting that perhaps it wasn't just tobacco in the cigarette.
"She wants to loan me to Stanford for six months," Wilson said.
House opened his eyes. "What, they have a shortage of oncologists?"
"No, but they've got someone who wants to come to Princeton Plainsboro and do a project with Brown, and suggested a skills swap. Cuddy's very enthusiastic." Wilson was watching House carefully.
"She would be." House drummed his fingers on the table. "You should go."
"You think?"
"Good résumé points. And you never know when you might need those." House was right; and Wilson knew exactly what he meant. Wilson's boss Dr. Collins, head of oncology, was now fifty-nine years old, and rumor said he wanted to retire at sixty. Wilson had everything going for him except his own age--he was now thirty-five, and any age under forty would be unprecedentedly young to be a department head--but even if he didn't get the top job, the odds would be good for some sort of other promotion at the same time.
"Yes," Wilson agreed.
"Six months is nothing in the grand scheme of things," House said briskly. He reached out, picked up Wilson's cappuccino and took a mouthful. Wilson interpreted this as I'm OK with this. "Tell Cuddy you'll go. Why are you asking me, anyway? Shouldn't you be talking to that girlfriend of yours?"
Wilson had started dating a new ER nurse a few months before, but they had drifted apart lately and he didn't want to talk about it. He sought to move the conversation on. "I will... Have you had any luck with Cuddy about your Diagnostics idea?
House had recently become evangelical on the subject of creating a specialist Diagnostics group within the Infectious Diseases Department, led by himself with dedicated staff. He was already effectively specializing in difficult diagnoses, as his colleagues simply kicked all the cases they couldn't solve over to him. But the lack of staff to support his work was a constant frustration, and House was seeking a solution.
"No. She's all hard-headed administrator about it. Told me to write a business case, which is her way of kicking it into the long grass." House finished Wilson's cappuccino and put the mug down. "Have to go now and see if my patient's died."
"Hold on a second." Wilson was coming to a belated realization. "This whole Stanford secondment thing--it came from you, didn't it?"
"What, little me?" House said in a tone of mock surprise.
"You thought I might be tempted by that job in Vancouver, the meet new people, develop new skills thing." It was all becoming clear now. "You suggested to Cuddy she send me on secondment instead."
"Not to Stanford. Cuddy obviously doesn't know the difference between west and east: I told her to find some hospital with a needy oncology department on the east coast. Instead of which she seized on this idea of Brown's." House rolled his eyes. "So it's further away than I figured... but you'll have to come back at the end, because the Stanford doc doesn't want to be away more than six months. He's got ties there, a fiancée with her own career and their wedding scheduled for next year."
Wilson couldn't help but smile: trust House to know more about this whole thing than he did.
So off Wilson went to Stanford. He did an apartment swap as well as a job swap with his opposite number in Stanford, and found himself living in a large well-furnished condo with two bedrooms. It was fun--it felt a bit like a vacation, albeit a hard working one. Wilson slotted in well with new colleagues in the Stanford oncology department, and found himself exchanging skills and expertise exactly as Cuddy had hoped.
Six months might not be a long time in the grand scheme of things, but it was longer than House and Wilson had ever been apart; Wilson was pleased but not at all surprised when, three months in, House found himself an excuse to visit. He persuaded Princeton Plainsboro to fund a trip for him to visit Stanford's infectious diseases department for a couple of days, and stayed in Wilson's spare room. During the daytime, House and Wilson spent as much time as possible having extended coffee breaks and lunch breaks with each other. The first evening House was out being entertained by the infectious diseases staff, and came back late simply to crash.
The second evening House was free; they met for a drink after Wilson finished work, and House regaled Wilson with Plainsboro gossip. The main item was a new hot woman in the accountancy department called Debbie; half the men in the hospital were finding reasons to query salaries or submit expenses, and some of the women too.
"If Cuddy meant us all to pay attention to our finances by employing Delicious Debs, she certainly succeeded," House concluded.
"Speaking of money, Cuddy find any for your diagnostic group idea?" Wilson asked.
House shook his head mournfully. "Nope, she slapped it down. Do you think three staff is too much to ask for?"
"That's what you asked for?"
"No, I asked for five. I figured she might settle on three. But no, she's full of excuses." House gulped beer. "My stupid fucking so-called colleagues are more impossible than ever. Gilbert caught me sniffing a Magic Marker the other day, and I thought he was going to report me to Cuddy. Stacy says I shouldn't tease him..."
"Good advice."
"Stacy says hello, by the way."
"And how is she?"
"Working too hard, of course," House replied. "But she's promised not to work this weekend after I get back; we've booked a game of golf for Sunday."
They left after one beer, at Wilson's insistence, to go out for dinner--a proper meal in a nice Italian restaurant. Wilson took off his tie, which he'd worn throughout their drink in the bar, and undid the top two buttons on his shirt. House ordered spaghetti and spattered pomodoro sauce around the table each time he sucked up a mouthful; Wilson had meatballs, and House periodically reached across the table to spear one for himself. They finished a decent bottle of wine between them, and set the world to rights in the process. They both laughed a lot, held each other's gazes for just a little longer than necessary, and made sweeping hand gestures to make points without ever quite touching each other. House twirled spaghetti around his fork and sucked sauce off his finger, and Wilson watched and grinned and dipped his eyes. Altogether, the evening had some of the frisson of a first date, but overlying a deep affectionate longtime understanding.
Leaving the restaurant, they bumped shoulders companionably as they strolled down to the street to their cab. Wilson hadn't been entirely sure if House would be willing to lift the Stacy Convention on this trip or not, and didn't want to push. But In the semi-darkness of the cab, House sprawled out a little more than necessary so his foot casually rested against Wilson's.
Wilson took that as a hint. Once they were back in his apartment and he'd locked the door behind them, he turned and reached out tentatively, hooking an arm around House's neck. House curled an arm around Wilson's waist in return, and the two of them moved slowly closer to each other until their foreheads were touching. House rubbed his nose a little against Wilson's, and Wilson rubbed back.
"House," Wilson breathed. He hadn't been so close to House for the a while, and the intimacy was so intense that he could hardly bear it.
House didn't make any sound, but his lips moved in a silent, "Wilson."
Then their lips met, and Wilson felt their kiss as a pulse directly connected to his groin.
They moved towards the living room in syncopated steps, as if dancing: a very slow, deliberate waltz in the direction of the couch. The couch was large and black and leather, full of feathers and air, with a tendency to swallow people who sat on it. Wilson was used to it, but it had given House a shock when he'd first sat on it the night before. They sank down onto the cushions now, and House let out an oof as leather rippled outwards from their bodies.
"What idiotic furniture designer thought this was a good idea?"
"It has some advantages. Like, um, it's wipe clean." Wilson kicked off his shoes and sprawled backwards, the cushions moving underneath him as if it were a giant air bag. House joined him, trying to crawl on hands and knees without much success. He lowered himself on top of Wilson, and Wilson groaned and twitched as he felt House's erection hard up against his leg. Wilson bucked his hips a little, as much as he could do on the couch, pushing his crotch against House's hip.
"Whoa, Jimmy," House muttered into Wilson's mouth, and Wilson clutched at House's shirt as they kissed again, pulling buttons undone and reaching inside to touch House's chest, tweaking chest hair between fingers while sucking on House's tongue. He felt House's hand groping between his legs, and tried to shift his weight a little to allow access. Then House's palm was inside his pants, resting directly on his cock.
"God, yes--" Wilson felt his breath shorten and quicken as his cock jumped underneath House's hand. He reached down to undo House's fly, and as he took House into his own hand, House moaned into his ear, then sucked on his earlobe.
Wilson shifted his weight sideways again and now their cocks were sliding together, both slippery with pre-come. House gasped, and Wilson stroked both of them together, then felt House's hand on his own. The two of them rubbed and stroked while the leather cushions ballooned around them; Wilson closed his eyes and rocked, aware of sweat beading on his brow and House's breathless moans on his neck, their cocks slipping and sliding until Wilson couldn't hold back any longer. He came with a cry and a shudder, gushing into House's groin. House followed suit barely a couple of seconds later, like a chain reaction.
As they both slumped down onto the sofa cushions, House let out a short sharp "Fuck!" and rolled away. There wasn't much room, and he fell right off the couch with another, "Fuck!"
"House?" Wilson leaned blearily over, to see House sitting on the floor clutching his leg.
"Cramp." House yanked his pants down and started kneading his right thigh. "Ouch. Glad that didn't happen a minute earlier."
Wilson was concerned, but after a minute the pain seemed to subside, and House clambered back onto the couch and relaxed down beside Wilson. They lay there comfortably for a while, and eventually both of them dozed off.
House flew home the next day. Wilson asked idly while they were waiting at the airport if the cramp had recurred, and House assured him it hadn't. Wilson thought no more of it.
The following day, House collapsed in agonizing pain during the game of golf. Stacy took him to Princeton Plainsboro, and of course House had had the misfortune to end up with Dr. Gilbert in the ER.
On the first of three days of pain and misdiagnosis, while House was gulping antibiotics and trying to rest, Stacy tentatively wondered aloud if House would like her to try and contact Wilson.
House was adamant that there was no need. "You know what he's like, if he thinks I need him then he'd come haring back across the country. Fucking waste of time for everyone."
Stacy quirked an eyebrow at him. "You don't need him?"
"It's not like he can do anything about it," House snapped. "I need a leg specialist, not an oncologist."
On the second day, House was sweating through pain and searching books and journal articles for possible answers, when he found an email from Wilson; "Hope Stacy didn't have to work and you enjoyed the golf. Everyone in infectious diseases here hates you BTW.
"
House smiled and hit reply, hesitated, then typed, "Stacy didn't have to work. I guess if I want to visit again I'll have to start courting the Stanford nephrology department." And he hit Send swiftly, before he was tempted to add, And it wasn't cramp, BTW... but I don't know what it is.
In a moment of agony soon afterwards House wished he hadn't done it, wished Wilson was there; but Stacy was there, supportive and strong. The moment passed, the pain eased briefly, and House reminded himself that there was no point worrying Wilson. Not now, anyway.
On the third day, House finally figured it out: an aneurysm in an artery in his leg. By this time the necrosis in the muscle tissue was immense, and yet House refused even to consider amputation.
Cuddy, now in charge of his case, said, "You know you're risking organ failure and cardiac arrest if you have bypass surgery instead. What does Wilson think? I can't believe he would--"
"He doesn't fucking know," House barked. "And you're not going to tell him."
"But..." Cuddy was bemused now. "House, he would want to know. Look, I can call--"
"No. The idiot would only want to travel three thousand miles or something, and he wouldn't arrive until after this operation anyway." House was definite. "Get rid of the damn clot and we'll talk about it then."
Waking after the operation, in excruciating pain, House screamed for Wilson in his delirium; Cuddy bit her lip and was glad that Stacy, pacing the corridor outside, couldn't hear. There were other things to worry about, though. Once House was conscious it became clear that his pain was almost unendurable; and then came his crash and the minute spent clinically dead.
After House had decided to go into the chemically induced coma, Cuddy said firmly, "I'm gonna call Wilson while you're under. He would definitely want to know you were dead and now about to go into a voluntary coma!"
"No, you are not calling him," House said strongly. "He doesn't need to see me like this."
Cuddy pondered this, and eventually decided not to call. The situation was complicated enough as it was, what with Stacy exercising her medical proxy and the second operation underway...
Wilson was doing not very much at home in Stanford one evening when the phone rang. "Hello?"
"Dr. Wilson, it's Nora."
"Nora?" Wilson was immediately concerned. Nora, the ever-reliable oncology department secretary at Princeton Plainsboro, would never have called for anything less than an emergency. His first thought was for her husband, who had lung cancer and was one of his patients. "Is Jack OK?"
"Jack's fine. I'm—I'm calling about Dr. House."
Wilson groaned. "Break it to me, what's he done?"
"He hasn't done anything. He's—he's sick, Dr. Wilson."
Wilson felt all the blood drain from his face as Nora struggled to explain, words tumbling out: an aneurysm in his leg. Clotting. Left for three days, muscle death. Dr. Cuddy in charge, two operations. Nora couldn't express the medical detail as a doctor would have done, but she made a brave stab at it, and Wilson got the picture; and with every word the seriousness of the situation elevated.
"One of the nurses..." Nora hesitated. "She may have been exaggerating, but she saw Dr. House's leg after the second operation, and thought maybe Dr. House wouldn't be able to walk again."
Wilson couldn't speak for a minute as the enormity of this washed around his brain. Nora said a little more, explained that Stacy and Dr. Cuddy had wanted to call him but House hadn't let them. This had a terrible ring of truth to it.
He put down the phone, intending to call Cuddy immediately: but instead he made a swift decision and didn't call Cuddy until he was at the airport, ticket in hand, waiting for his departure gate to come up.
"Cuddy? It's Wilson. I've heard about House."
"Wilson," Cuddy's voice was relieved. "I'm so glad--"
"How is he?" Wilson interrupted.
"He's... not good." Cuddy gave him a summary. Wilson listened, but didn't fully take in the detail about Stacy's decision-making process; he was too busy trying to focus on what physical state House was actually in. At the news that House had actually died on the operating table for more than a minute, Wilson felt his knees buckle. House had died. And Wilson hadn't been there.
"Are you coming back?" Cuddy ended by asking tentatively.
"Yes, I'm at the airport. Try and keep him alive for another eight hours," Wilson said tersely. "Cuddy, what day did this all start?"
"Last Sunday."
Wilson realized instantly that was the day after House had left Stanford. "Why wasn't I told earlier?" he asked in disbelief.
Cuddy tried to explain that House had refused to let them; Wilson was not impressed, until suddenly he recalled House's last email to him, a few days ago. The bastard had been concealing it from him then. God that was just so... House. Wilson ground his teeth.
His departure gate came up. Wilson hung up the phone and strode swiftly onwards.
On the plane, where he had more than enough time to think through everything while willing the plane on, he suddenly remembered the attack of cramp in House's leg. Wilson felt his stomach flip and turn over, and his heart plummet downwards and out of the plane. It hadn't been cramp. House must have known that, or at least suspected. And he hadn't said a damn thing. And he, Wilson, hadn't noticed, hadn't thought twice about it.
The self-recriminations came thick and fast. The problem had begun right in front of Wilson's nose and he hadn't noticed. And then House had been on an eight-hour flight, which must have exacerbated things. And House wouldn't have been on that flight in the first place, if he hadn't come down to visit Wilson. And then Wilson hadn't been there when House had needed him, had been in incredible pain, had died...
Wilson didn't think he could ever forgive himself. The fact that Wilson knew perfectly well that House would think this a ridiculous notion only served to remind him how important House was.
Back at Plainsboro at last, Wilson burst through the door of Cuddy's office unceremoniously, in a rather House-like way.
"Where is he?" Wilson demanded. "And where's his file?"
Cuddy hesitated and for a second Wilson thought she was about to make some bullshit excuse about doctor-patient confidentiality. Rage flared in his gut; but Cuddy stood up, picked a file up off her desk and handed it to him. She led him out of the room. While they walked, Wilson flipped through the file.
"So... where are we now?" he asked, unable to quickly see from the mass of papers.
"The second op to remove all the dead muscle tissue went well. Except there was a lot of dead muscle tissue. More than we realized... more than House can have realized. He's got a great big hole in his leg, basically. I would say it's fifty-fifty if he can walk again." Cuddy paused, then went on. "Since he woke after the second op and found out what happened he's been...upset. Angry. I've had him sedated, but he just won't sleep, he's fighting it subconsciously, exhausting himself trying to stay awake..."
Wilson swallowed and walked a little faster.
When Wilson came into the hospital room to see House lying unconscious in the bed, he felt as if his heart cracked open and gave him a brief out-of-body experience. On the one hand he was aware of himself being a doctor, grabbing House's chart, poring over it, barking questions at Cuddy.
On the other hand, he was distant from all that and totally focused on House: pale and helpless, small and vulnerable; a surreal sight. House as patient--it just looked so wrong. House was unconscious but not resting, eyes rolling around behind his eyelids, head moving from side to side. Wilson couldn't remember ever having seen House ill before, apart from minor ailments. Colds, headaches, flu (and Wilson remembered House had never been a good patient).
Cuddy left, shutting the door behind her. The blinds were closed: he was alone with House. Wilson stood for a few seconds, feeling his guts wrench, then took a deep breath; he had to be strong for House.
He sat down next to the bed, took House's hand and said gently, "House, it's me. I'm here."
House didn't respond.
"I love you," Wilson whispered, aware as he said it that in all the years he'd known House, he had never said anything like that to House before; a giant mental block usually fenced that sort of thing off. He knew House had said I love you to him before, but only on occasions when it could be taken in jest, or ironically. Wilson was only able to say it now himself because House was unconscious. Somehow it seemed important to utter the sentiment; maybe it could get through where words could not be heard.
Wilson settled down in his chair, and a few minutes later House jerked awake; panicking, gulping for air and sweating.
Wilson kept his cool, and leaned in as close as he could through all the tubes and wires, grasping House's shoulders and head. He put his face next to House's cheek, close enough so he could feel the stubble, and said, "House, I'm here. I'm looking after you now. Everything's going to be okay."
"Wilson," House managed to say, and Wilson's heart nearly burst. Then House clung to Wilson and sobbed on his shoulder. Wilson realized he'd never seen or heard House cry before; never ever seen him scared and helpless like this. Then Wilson realized that he'd never cried in front of House before either, but he was now.
After a few minutes, Wilson saw House's arm move, his hand groping air, and understood that House was feeling for his leg. Wilson placed House's hand on his damaged thigh, and lifted his head so he could see it.
House glanced downwards and gasped, "Every time I go to sleep--I think they've cut it off. I keep thinking--I'm going to wake up and find it gone."
"House, nothing like that is going to happen," Wilson said firmly, blinking back tears, and kept tight hold of House's shoulder.
And after a few minutes House fell asleep, and was resting properly for the first time in days.
Eventually Wilson composed himself enough to let go of House and sit back in the chair. He rubbed his eyes and tried to get his head around the situation. He had to understand it all so he could help House, but it was a lot to take in.
Nurses wandered in and out, but Wilson didn't move; he stayed very still, not touching House, just being there. After a while the door opened but nobody came in; he looked up to see Cuddy standing in the doorway. He nodded for her to come in.
"Well done, you got him to sleep," she said wonderingly, looking carefully at the monitors.
"He's having nightmares," Wilson explained. "He thinks he's going to wake up and find his leg's been cut off."
Cuddy looked at the floor, then said, "Can I talk to you outside for a minute?"
Wilson didn't want to get up, didn't want to leave House alone for a minute: but House was sleeping soundly. Wilson tweaked a blind open so he could keep an eye on the monitors from the corridor, and followed Cuddy out of the room.
They stood in the corridor, and she said, not meeting his eye, "Actually, Stacy and I have been discussing the amputation option. It will take a little while before we know how successful the debridement was, and he still seems to be in such pain... we did the papers permitting the amputation, just in case. Stacy has them."
Wilson was confused. "But he wouldn't agree. He wouldn't sign any papers like that. You know he'd rather have anything than that."
Cuddy was silent, and Wilson's mind flicked to House's patient file, to the form permitting the second operation. Signed by Stacy. Realization started to dawn, about why Cuddy and Stacy had done that operation while House was in the induced coma. "But... you've overridden him once already. He didn't want that second op, did he? He wanted to wait. He's furious with you, isn't he?"
"Wilson--"
"And now he's scared you'll do it again." Anger started to pulse through Wilson's body. "You've made him furious and you've made him terrified. No wonder he hasn't been sleeping--he's worried that you'll be doing God knows what operations while he's unconscious. And all that on top of agonizing chronic pain. How can you have done it? How can you put him in such a state?"
"Stacy did what she thought was right. She did what was right. She saved his life." Cuddy was firm. "House would probably be dead by now if he hadn't had the second op."
"That's his prerogative. Not yours." Wilson was trembling. "No wonder you didn't call me earlier."
"That's not fair!" Cuddy was stung.
"I may not be his medical proxy but I would never have let you do that, and you know it. And now that I'm here, you're not doing any amputations. Nor any other operations that House doesn't want. Or it'll be over my dead body."
Wilson stalked back into House's room. He had to take a moment to calm down before going over to sit next to House again.
Later that evening, Stacy appeared. By this time Wilson had had a comfy chair brought down from the oncology lounge and had entrenched himself in it next to House's bed. He had his eyes closed, trying to rest, although he wasn't tired: adrenalin from all the events of the day, all the new knowledge, was still pumping round his body. He opened his eyes when she came in, and tensed.
"James, you're back. It's good to see you."
He wondered if she could sense his hostility. "Stacy. Let's talk outside." He looked at House and said quietly, "I'm going out for a minute but I'll be right outside, OK?" There was no sign that House heard, but Wilson was sure the reassurance was important. Wilson and Stacy left the room.
"You got him to sleep," Stacy said, her voice full of relief. "It's been terrible the last couple of days, as if he's been fighting off sleep..."
"Yeah, I guess that's because he can relax with me, as he knows he doesn't have to worry about me amputating his leg."
Stacy grimaced. "Don't, James."
"What do you mean, don't?" Suddenly Wilson was furious again. "How can you even think about it? Against his absolute express wishes? After you've already done one operation he didn't want?"
"It's not that simple," Stacy said angrily. "You weren't here. You--"
"No I wasn't. Because nobody called me. I wonder why?"
They glared at each other.
"Give me those amputation papers," Wilson said quietly. Stacy hesitated, then reached into her briefcase and took out a form. Wilson looked at it just long enough to check what it was--the word amputation jumped out at him--then walked off down the corridor to Cuddy's office.
"James!" Stacy followed him.
Wilson went into Cuddy's office without knocking, went straight to the shredder behind her desk, turned it on and fed the papers through. Cuddy watched, agape. Stacy turned and walked away.
Wilson went back to House's room. He knew the problem wasn't solved, Stacy and Cuddy could organize new papers if they wanted... but he'd made his point, and hoped this was enough to ensure this wouldn't be discussed again unless House went seriously downhill. Which Wilson feared did seem like a real possibility.
Wilson spent almost all his time by House's bed for the next few days. House found enough comfort in Wilson's presence to relax a bit and sleep, and started to recover. Stacy came to see House every day, but each time House was either asleep when she arrived or got sufficiently agitated by her presence for her to leave after a short while. House wasn't lucid enough to have any kind of argument with her, but each time he saw her his heart rate shot up and his body started trembling, as if he was having a panic attack; the symptoms eased when she left the room. Wilson saw she was greatly distressed by this. He couldn't yet bring himself to feel sorry for her.
Very late in the third evening, Wilson was coming out of a nearby bathroom and heading back towards House when he met Cuddy, in her coat, clearly on her way home and walking past House's room en route. She stopped and looked at him, and asked, "Dr. Wilson, how are you?"
Wilson stopped and stared at her, as if the question was an entirely alien concept. "Me? I'm fine."
In fact, Wilson was so tired that he could barely walk. He couldn't sleep properly in the chair next to House's bed. He woke up every time House's hand twitched, every time House muttered under his breath, every time a monitor beeped unexpectedly. In fact, House was sleeping considerably better than Wilson was now. Wilson was also eating very little, shoveling some hospital cafeteria junk down periodically when he spared a thought for it. He was pale and drawn, and had already lost some weight.
"You look like crap." Cuddy was blunt. "Why don't you go lie down somewhere and take a rest? House is sleeping okay now."
"No. I'm staying," Wilson stated. "I have to be here whenever he wakes up."
"It won't make any difference if you leave just for a few hours--"
At the word leave, Wilson flinched visibly, and said much too loudly, "I'm not leaving him!"
Cuddy looked around. The room across the hall from House's room was empty; it also had glass walls. She grabbed Wilson by the elbow and steered him inside. "You can see House from here. Sit down and talk to me."
Wilson sat down, and not averting his gaze from the room opposite, said in a small, tight voice, "I can't let him wake up and think I've left, not even for a minute. I--I wasn't here before when he needed me. I have to be here now." He swallowed, and now his tone was accusatory. "You should have told me earlier."
"You know House didn't want--"
"House is an ass! Surely you and Stacy should have known me better than that."
"I am sorry," Cuddy said quietly. "But there was nothing you could have done--"
"I would have come back," Wilson said, as if this were so obvious he didn't need to say it. "It happened the day after he left. If I'd come back then, I would have been here--in time--"
"You'd have come three thousand miles when we didn't even know what was wrong?" Cuddy asked, sounding a little surprised.
Wilson turned his head and stared at her. "It's House! He's--" Wilson paused, searching for words. My best friend? My occasional lover? My soulmate? The one who steals my food as a sign of affection? The genius doctor? The selfish bastard who thinks nothing of lying, cheating and stealing to get his way, or just to satisfy his curiosity? The person I care about more than anyone in the world? All would sound trite, or reveal too much.
"He's--he's been stealing my food for ten years now." He looked at Cuddy and tried to express what else he felt with his eyes. Apparently he succeeded, as her own eyes suddenly filled with tears and she looked away.
"What if--" Wilson hesitated, then plunged on. "He crashed on the table, he was clinically dead for more than a minute. What if he hadn't come back--what if he'd died?" There, he'd said it. "Could I have lived with myself, if I hadn't been there?"
Cuddy opened her mouth to speak, but then shut it again. Instead she reached out and patted Wilson lightly on the shoulder, then got up and left. Wilson sat alone for a moment, then got up and went back into House's room.
Later Wilson thought of it as the moment House returned from the dead; the moment when he was woken from his doze by a familiar voice saying, "Wilson, you're dribbling. If you don't stop soon, one of the nurses will take a picture of you and put it on the hospital intranet."
Wilson opened his eyes, and House was looking right at him with those blue eyes finally clear and compus mentis, and oh God it was almost as if the last dreadful week hadn't happened at all. Except that it had, and House was still in the hospital bed, covered in tubes.
Wilson smiled broadly. "How are you feeling?"
"My leg hurts. What goddamn pathetic morphine dose am I on anyway?"
Wilson picked up House's chart and held it up in front of him. House looked at it and grimaced. "You've got to be kidding me."
"No." Wilson didn't need to explain. House had been on the absolute maximum Cuddy had dared give him for a while now; it couldn't go on much longer and House knew it. 'If you're through this first phase now Cuddy will start cutting down soon. Have...have the nightmares stopped?"
House frowned, and when he spoke it was in a deliberately light-hearted way. "You know, I kept dreaming that my leg was going to be cut off while I was asleep. Paranoia or whatever."
House was fishing. Wilson couldn't bring himself to be light-hearted back. "It's not paranoia if they really were out to get you." Wilson explained what had happened with the amputation discussion, trying to be factual, trying not to be judgmental. He hadn't meant for it all to spill out, not so soon, but he really couldn't stand the idea that House thought himself paranoid.
House was amused by the story of the shredded papers, but otherwise not amused at all. Wilson could see him thinking, evaluating, and then--typically--changing the subject. "Wilson, isn't it awfully late? And don't you have a day job to do here, in oncology or somewhere? Go home. And tomorrow, go back to work. Come and see me during your lunch break or something."
Wilson was slightly hurt but mainly relieved that House was starting to show signs of being his old self again. He didn't actually have a home to go to, as the Stanford doctor was living in his apartment. So he checked into a hotel for the night, and fell into a deep sleep for the first time in more than a week.
Wilson woke early the next day and came promptly into work. It became apparent soon after he arrived in Oncology that things weren't going to be straightforward. Cuddy had contacted Stanford and smoothed things over regarding Wilson's unexpected departure; and although Wilson was technically now working back at Princeton Plainsboro, the Stanford swap doctor was still around to cover the slack. Unfortunately this also meant Wilson didn't have his office or computer. Nora found him a laptop, and Wilson did his best to catch up on email in a conference room.
Cuddy arrived later that morning to update him on events. House had got her to find a lawyer who wasn't Stacy, and made a new medical proxy document. Wilson was now House's medical proxy; Stacy was in Cuddy's office in floods of tears. Wilson was amazed and flattered, and relieved too, but concerned for Stacy.
He didn't feel able to face Stacy right now, so he went to see House. House was looking better: he had a little color in his face now.
Wilson sat down next to the bed, and said, "My first action as your medical proxy will be to put you in another coma, so I can ravage your body."
House looked amused and relieved, but his reply showed that Wilson had inadvertently hit on another touchy subject. "Like anyone will want to ravage my body again."
"House, don't be ridiculous."
"Have you seen it?"
"Your leg? Yes."
"Then you'll know it's repulsive."
Wilson was taken aback. "Well, you're not going to win a Mr. Lovely Legs contest anytime soon. But... it's part of you. It could never be repulsive--"
"I don't believe you. It repulsed Stacy. I saw her face when I woke up after the first op. And the second op."
Wilson got up, walked to the window and flipped the blinds shut. He came back to the bed and whisked the bed covers off House's leg.
"Wilson, get the fuck away from me!"
Wilson placed both hands firmly on House's damaged thigh. House tried to knock him away, but was too weak still to do such a thing. Wilson massaged the tissue around the wound gently.
"That hurts," House complained, but Wilson knew House was full of painkillers, and carried on kneading. Eventually House closed his eyes. Wilson kept one hand on the leg, and moved the other up to touch House's face, and then kissed him on the mouth.
Eventually House mumbled, "You'd better stop that before the nurses start to wonder."
Wilson nodded reluctantly and got up to pull the blinds back. As he sat down again, House said abruptly, "I can't forgive her. I don't think I can ever trust her again."
"You have to try," Wilson said, surprising himself slightly with his own vehemence. "She loves you. You still love her. You've been together five years. You don't want to give all that up in a hurry."
House sighed, closed his eyes, and didn't reply.
END OF PART 17
TBC. Next part: aftermath.
A/N: The infarction is also told from Nora's point of view in Memoirs of an Oncology Department Secretary, chapter 2: and from Nurse Brenda's point of view in The Most Eligible Man in Princeton Plainsboro. And you can read more about the times House & Wilson said I love you in Just the Pain Meds Talking. Click on my profile for my fic list.