A/N: Due to some confusion, I must clarify something here. Betz88 is quoting extensively from 'Details' in 'AP,' as she points out in her summary, and you will see much more of that as the chapters start lining up time-wise. However, the bulk of her Chapter Six is indeed my writing; the entire session between Wilson and Dickinson belongs to me, except for Dickinson's inner thoughts during the session, and Wilson's puzzlement at the end. The lovely descriptions and anything that didn't take place in the session itself (e.g. the lunch break) are Betz88's. I created a voicefile of Wilson's session, and gave her permission to use it. You'll be seeing that voicefile later in 'Details,' as I wrote it when I decided to do this story. mjf

CHAPTER FIVE: Discomfort

After Wilson gets the IV pump set up in the bedroom, he returns to the living room. House has somehow managed to swing his legs onto the couch, and he's moving restlessly beneath a thin blanket. Wilson watches for just a moment, then continues on to the kitchen. Although his instincts tell him to go to House's side, his respect for the privacy of House's pain is stronger; he forces himself to grant House that dignity.

When he's got a fresh pot of coffee brewing, several minutes have passed and his worry has grown. He stands quietly at the entryway, watching as House tries—and fails—to get comfortable.

House must sense the concerned eyes on him; he turns his head and fixes Wilson with a hard stare. But what could have been an awkward moment passes, when Wilson conversationally offers coffee and a snack. He's careful to hide his sympathy, his guilt at being the indirect cause of this new pain. And if House notices either, he pretends he doesn't.

They eat in companionable silence, and Wilson is happy to see that House appears to be enjoying the late meal. He's eaten half a muffin hungrily, and Wilson is just about to encourage him to eat the other half when the calm is shattered as House's coffee cup hits the floor, and he's unable to silence a strangled gasp.

His hands fly unsteadily to his left leg, but the pain of the needle sticks makes it impossible for him to massage the muscle. Each time he tries to touch the tender areas, he seems to cause himself more torment. Finally, he reaches out wildly towards Wilson, grasping his wrist as if reaching for an anchor.

Wilson gently untangles the sweaty fingers from his own already-bruised wrist and instinctively pulls the trembling body to him. He knows he can't touch the leg, so he tries to ease House's agony with a quiet, constant murmur of reassurance, and with the comfort of human contact. But even as he tries to help, Wilson's mind is telling him that this is everything House hates—and fears. I could be undoing everything here… but there's nothing else to do….

House's mind is as tormented right now as his body; he's railing against his own need for comfort as much as he's fighting the sudden physical agony. Then he catches a glimpse of Wilson's face, and in the one part of his brain that's always escaped, unscathed, from both the pain and the drugs, the analytical part, he notes something almost clinically; Anyone watching wouldn't be able to tell which of us was hurting more….

Wilson continues a stream of soothing words, and finally he feels House's grip relax on his arm, his head sag against his shoulder for just a moment before House pulls away from him, slowly. And without apology, without embarrassment.

Wilson, however, is still uncomfortable, so he falls back into more familiar territory—Dr. Wilson examines the left thigh for any medical indication of what might have caused the latest attack. Finding nothing, he reminds himself that an acute injury really is the best-case scenario; acute injuries heal, symptoms go away, things go back to normal.

"I'm gonna go get some more ice packs for your leg; then we'll get you settled for the night," he tells House, who nods and closes his eyes—the spasm has sapped his small store of strength.

After Wilson has everything set up in the bedroom, and he's given House 600mg of ibuprofen, he offers the cane to House, but House just shakes his head. Wilson briefly considers retrieving the wheelchair from the car, but quickly decides they'll deal with that tomorrow.

House allows Wilson to support most of his weight on the slow walk to the bedroom, and even offers a grumbled "thanks" after he's settled in bed. Wilson connects the TPN to the PICC line, fusses with the ice packs for a few minutes, straightens out the supplies on the nightstand—despite his own fatigue, he's clearly reluctant to leave the room. So House closes his eyes and feigns sleep, despite his discomfort and restlessness. And after just half a minute of pretending to be asleep, the real thing takes over, and he's out.

Wilson hears the subtle change in House's breathing, and smiles. Knowing that House is as comfortable as possible, he can now give in to his own weariness. He leaves the room quietly.

After cleaning up the spilled coffee in the living room, he returns to the kitchen, where he prepares another, smaller, ice pack. He takes it with him to the living room, collapses onto the couch, and turns on the television, muting the sound. The flickering images provide him a strange comfort as he gingerly ices his swollen, discolored left wrist. When some of the pain has been numbed by the cold, he's able to doze. But he doesn't allow himself to lie down, won't even allow himself a pillow. House might need him tonight, and he's going to be alert enough to be there for him.

At 4:20am, Wilson is glad of his determination not to sleep; he's been roused out of his light doze by an oddly familiar sound, and he realizes immediately that it's the heavy tap of House's cane hitting the floor. Wilson is up off the couch and headed towards the bedroom in an instant.

House is only four steps away from the bed; his body is folded over the cane, and his face is contorted with the effort of trying to straighten up to take the next step. Wilson approaches him slowly, and supports his elbows so he can stand upright.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks quietly.

"Just needed some more ibuprofen; thought I'd get it myself. Sorry I woke you." House's face is composed, but Wilson sees the squint of his eyes, the lines at their corners that indicate the pain's bad enough for House to risk this stupid move.

Wilson helps House turn around and take the few steps back to the bed. He knows that House is searching his face to determine how angry he is—but he isn't angry. Wilson is scared, and grateful that nothing bad happened, and aware that he's going to have to approach this carefully. "Be right back; gonna get that ibuprofen," he says.

In the kitchen, Wilson makes fresh ice packs and grabs the pill bottle. He takes a few deep breaths and prepares the opening line of the conversation they're going to have to have. Then he returns to the bedroom. He hands House the pills and waits for him to swallow them before he positions the fresh ice packs on the now obviously bruised thigh. Another deep breath. "House."

"Jimmy, I been thinking. Maybe we oughtta bring that chair in for a while. Leg's never gonna heal if I keep aggravating it."

Wilson stares at House; when he sees the right side of House's mouth quirk up, he realizes that House had known what was coming, and had made a decision not to fight it. So Wilson decides not to make a big deal out of this unexpected acquiescence. "Good thinking," he says. "Don't know why I didn't think of it myself. I'll make sure I get it out of the trunk first thing in the morning."

"Thanks," House says, as he leans his head into the pillows and closes his eyes, ready to go back to sleep. "Now leave me alone, need to sleep."

Wilson shuts out the light. As he's leaving, he hears House say quietly, into the sudden darkness, "And get some ice on that left wrist. Looks awful; it's gotta hurt. Ice it, okay?"

"Will do," Wilson almost whispers, as he walks away.