CHAPTER NINETEEN: Trials
Throughout the spasm, Wilson sits on the edge of the couch, doing what he can with soothing words. And when that no longer seems enough, he places his hands above the knotted muscle and looks to House for permission. House nods at him, and Wilson firmly works the muscle until he sees House's face relax, his breathing even out again. And so the pain in House's left leg eases without the need for morphine, and that makes House and Wilson happy; they both feel as if they've somehow won a battle, in a war whose rules are yet unknown to them.
The rest of the day passes quietly. Cuddy senses that something important's happened in her absence, and that it was good. But she doesn't question either man; she knows only that both seem more comfortable with one another, that Wilson seems relieved, that House is less distant.
After a quiet dinner, she draws blood for the evening labs; she'll drop it off at Princeton General on her way home. House has had no further problems with the left thigh since this morning, and Wilson isn't as weary, as close to the edge, as he's been the past several days. Cuddy feels comfortable leaving them. When she bids them good night, they scarcely pause in the heated discussion they're having about tonight's television schedule. Both voices are good-natured, though, and she can tell they're having fun.
Several hours later, Wilson's getting House's meds and TPN ready for the night. He's got an ear out for House, who's in the shower, and he's thinking that it's been a good evening; gonna be a good night.
A few minutes later, House is settled in bed, and Wilson's preparing to hook up his total parenteral nutrition. He checks the insertion site for the PICC line, and looks up at House. "How long has this been red?"
"I dunno. Cuddy did the dressing change yesterday; she didn't say anything about it." House studies the site. "Maybe it's just from the hot water. Doesn't look too bad to me."
"We'll just keep an eye on it. Let me know if it starts to hurt, or if the erythema spreads, okay?" Wilson makes a mental note to run a blood culture in the morning.
"Will do. Hey, weighed myself, up ten pounds now! Five more, I'll only be tethered to this thing at night." He glances sidelong at Wilson.
Wilson grins at him. "Good try. I seem to recall that math was never your strong suit, and this one involves double digits, so I'll help ya out here. Ten plus five equals fifteen. We're going for twenty." Wilson's grin grows wider. "That would be ten plus ten," he adds helpfully.
"Yeah, I knew that. Just doin' a little check to see if that lorazepam's affecting your memory. Or your math skills."
"No such luck. All it's affecting is my ability to put up with you. And speaking of pills, here ya go," Wilson says as he hands House the Zofran and hydrocodone.
"And speaking of lorazepam," House says, "you taken it yet tonight?"
Wilson feels a quick flash of defensiveness. I'm a big boy; I can see to my own dosing schedule. Before he can say the words aloud, though, he realizes that maybe it's good for House to be concerned about someone other than himself; maybe it's even good to let House issue a medical order or two. So, instead of the sharp retort, he answers, "Not yet; I'll get to it."
"Why don't you 'get to it' now?" House asks. "We'll have a regular pill poppin' party," he says, indicating the Zofran and the super-Vic still in his hand. "Go get it; I'll wait 'til you get back. We can toast 'better living through chemistry' together."
Wilson laughs, nods, and goes to get the little white pill that's helping him hold it all together. When he returns, he asks, "'Better living through chemistry.' Very amusing.Original line?"
House shakes his head, "No, commercial slogan. Before your time, kid." House rolls his eyes like a weary old man; Wilson can tell that he's in a good mood. "But it was funny then, too. So, uh…." He indicates the pill that Wilson's still holding, as he takes his own medication.
Because he knows that House expects it, Wilson makes a face at him before putting the pill in his mouth. After he swallows it, House regards him with satisfaction, and it dawns on Wilson that House might actually miss caring for others. Maybe it isn't all about the puzzle for him; maybe some of it, a little of it, could be the pleasure of help-- nah, this is House. But just in case….
"Hey, could you do me a favor and take a look at my wrist? Lemme know if it's okay to get rid of this bandage now?" He sees House's eyes light up as he reaches for Wilson's wrist. Well, I'll be damned! He actually does get some fulfillment from the caring. Learn something new every day.
House removes the elastic bandage, checks for swelling, manipulates the wrist gently. "That hurt?" he asks, and Wilson shakes his head. "Should be okay without the Ace. I'll check it again in the morning," House says. Then he turns the wrist over, and regards the fading thumbprint-shaped bruise for a while before releasing Wilson's hand. You never said a word when I did that, Jimmy. Must've hurt like hell, and you just stood there. Almost like you deserved it. Wish you'd quit beating yourself up for what came before. And now you're even feeling guilty in your sleep….
As if Wilson's read his mind, he says hesitantly to House, "Think I'm ready to tell you the rest of that nightmare now. Wanna hear it?"
"Sure; I love bedtime stories," House says. Then he sees the serious, almost fearful expression on Wilson's face. "Sure you're ready?" he asks, almost kindly.
Wilson nods tersely, but he doesn't begin speaking right away, and House is beginning to wish he'd told Wilson he was too tired, or something.
Once Wilson does start to talk, though, he appears driven—as if he must get through the horrific story, as if survival depends on it. But whose survival? House wonders as he listens.
"And then, you brought the pestle down on your left thigh. You did it again and again, until there was… nothing left." Wilson's voice is faint; his eyes are focused on the awful mental images. House wants to stop him, wants to find a way to chase the nightmare from his friend's mind. But all he can do is listen.
"I wanted to help you. I tried to help you. I couldn't. I couldn't even get to you… and then, when I did…." Wilson closes his eyes briefly; when he resumes speaking, his voice is almost inaudible, and House has to strain to hear the next words. "The muscle was gone; it was dead…. And you laughed." Wilson shakes his head, as if to clear the memory away, and then he looks at House with eyes that hold an unformed plea, and the vestiges of Wilson's helplessness.
"Doesn't take a shrink to analyze that," House says softly. "Look at me, Jimmy. And listen to me." House waits until he's certain that Wilson has come far enough out of the awful story that he's focused fully on House, in the here and now.
"I am not suicidal; I told you that a week ago, and it's the truth. Told you I'm not going anywhere 'til you've been raised properly." House stops speaking a moment, and smiles. "And I'm revising the estimate of how long that's gonna take upwards every day. I'll be around to make your life hell for a good long time yet."
Wilson smiles at that, but the plea is still in his eyes.
House continues, "And you're doing a good job. The best. Should've told you sooner. Should've told you better. But I'm telling you now, and I want you to believe it. Dragged you to Hell with me, and you've stood guard the whole way. 'Whatever it takes,' you told me, and that's what you've done. What you're doing. So do me another favor, all right?"
House waits for Wilson to nod at him, and he sees that the plea is gone from Wilson's eyes, sees that he's answered Wilson's unspoken question. "It's a really big favor, but I know you won't let me down; I want you to get outta here before I get all mushy on ya, okay? And get some sleep. Wait—that's two favors. You're right; my math is lousy. Try to handle it." He shoots Wilson a mock glare.
Wilson is shaking his head and smiling as he shuts out the light. He waits until he's almost out of the room before he says softly, "Thanks, House." He closes the door quietly.