Disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.
More. The research in this is real, except that it hasn't been done on pigs yet. Just rats so far. But pigs are next.
Pig
"Hey."
Wilson's voice sounded excited, happy. Calm, too. Sort of. If he could be calm and excited at once. House liked to hear it. Most of the time. Most of the time Wilson's proximity relaxed him. He relaxed.
"House? You there?"
Right. Wilson hadn't learned the telepathy trick yet.
House struggled to open his eyes—or his mouth—or both. Glue. Something like glue. Something like his face was glued shut.
Right. Surgery. Drugs. Lots of drugs.
He tried to speak but only succeeded in making an inarticulate noise.
"Mmphn."
"You okay?"
Wilson's tone shifted. Cautious but not alarmed. But quickly escalating to alarm if he wasn't mollified.
House yelled commands at his body. Slowly, his tongue began to obey. Very slowly. Who'd done his anesthesia, Kevorkian?
"Whuzza…mean…howmuch…n-nesthsia?"
The words sounded jumbled even to his ears.
"What?"
He could sense Wilson shifting, but his eyes remained stubbornly shut. He wanted to pry them open with his hands, but for that to happen, his hands would have to be obeying him. He could move a few fingers—he thought he could, he wasn't totally sure about that—but lifting an arm was impossible.
Wilson should really work on that telepathy trick.
Slowly still but steadily his tongue became looser. His eyelids were starting to crack, too. He could make out dim light and something that might be a form.
"Drugs," he managed to say. "Whatthehell? Too much."
Wilson shifted again. House recognized relaxation.
"You were in pain when you woke up earlier," Wilson explained.
"Don'…remember…that," House mumbled.
What he did remember was so vague it might have been a dream.
"Any pain now?"
He became aware of Wilson's hands on his arm and he forced his head to loll to the right. His eyelids would flutter but refused to stay open.
"No," he answered thickly. "Nothing…can't feel."
"The biopsy was negative," Wilson relayed.
A light squeeze of his arm. Wilson was excited because of the biopsy result. Now he remembered.
"And the surgery went very well."
Yes, Wilson was excited and happy and calm and relaxed.
House tried to make his lips form a smile.
"Great."
He moved the fingers of his right hand, trying to get Wilson's attention.
"Hey…wake me up."
"You need to rest," Wilson countered.
Conservative Wilson. Always conservative.
"No," House responded. "Thought of something…but…I can't…" He sighed impatiently. "C'mon…wake me up."
"It can wait," Wilson said.
House made an annoyed noise. A displeased toddler.
"I'm awake," he said heavily, "can think…just can't move."
"There's a reason for that," Wilson said sardonically. He gently squeezed House's arm and removed his hands. "Be quiet and you'll go back to sleep."
House grunted unhappily and shifted everything that would respond to him: fingers and toes mostly.
"Come back," he mumbled.
Wilson's hands reappeared, settling lightly on his arm. House relaxed.
"What time is it?" he asked, his tongue sticking on the words.
"Time for you to sleep," Wilson responded.
House groaned heavily and shifted again to indicate his displeasure with the answer.
Wilson got the message. "Almost seven."
"'S late," House said. "You eat?"
Wilson laughed lightly. "I'm going to."
House shifted. "You better," he mumbled. "Skipped lunch…need to eat."
He could sense Wilson hesitating, deflecting.
"I was nervous," Wilson answered. "You know I can't eat when I'm nervous."
"Should eat," House slurred. "Don' need two of me."
"I'll get something when you go to sleep," Wilson said.
House sniffed. "'S not fair."
"That's life," Wilson replied.
"Jimmy…" House whined.
"Okay, okay," Wilson relented, his voice smiling, laughing. "Tell me what you're thinking about so you can go back to sleep and I can get dinner."
House gathered his thoughts, which took an effort since they were beginning to float away. Suddenly they'd become very slippery, too.
"Stem cells," he began. "With the…ah…nano thingies."
House sensed Wilson grow serious. Good. He was serious and wanted to be taken seriously. Even if he couldn't keep his eyes open.
"That hasn't been tested on humans yet."
"Pigs," House mumbled.
House could hear the sarcasm drift onto Wilson's face, just from the quick, soft way he breathed in to speak.
"Just because I tell you you're a pig doesn't mean you're really a pig," Wilson countered.
"It'll work."
"And the nerves might keep regenerating on their own," Wilson pointed out.
"But not…" the word fled for a moment "…muscles."
Wilson was silent. Thinking. Weighing his options. House felt himself becoming heavier.
Finally, Wilson's hands squeezed lightly again.
"I'll review the literature and talk to Cuddy," he said. "You sleep. We'll talk about it when you wake up again."
House grunted softly, satisfied with the answer, knowing also that he had little choice with the way the drugs were tugging at his consciousness. He didn't remember waking up in pain. But he didn't remember being prepped for surgery either. He told himself to remember to ask Wilson later why he didn't remember being prepped. But now…now he was going to say…he was going to say…oh, right.
"Go eat a pig," he mumbled, sinking, sinking.
Wilson sniffed. "Hilarious."
House's mouth pulled up slightly, he mumbled something incoherent, and then he was gone.
Wilson sat quietly, one thumb stroking House's forearm, for a very long time.
