CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Questions
At lunchtime, House picks at his meal. All Wilson's attempts at conversation are met with monosyllabic answers. When Wilson questions his increasingly listless behavior, House says he feels all right, claims to be enjoying the taco salad he'd asked for but hasn't touched. He denies nausea, but something just isn't right.
As the afternoon progresses, House's mood becomes apathetic. And when Cuddy comes by after work with a new video game, House's eyes brighten briefly, but he just thanks her and sets it aside. Cuddy then produces a get-well card for Wilson from the team, and it raises no sarcastic crack out of House. Wilson decides then that something's up, and it can't be good.
Cuddy senses that something's wrong, too, and tries to make House laugh by telling him about Cameron's reaction to Wilson's supposed 'flu. "The first thing she said was, 'Oh, poor House; he'll probably get it too. Wouldn't it be safer to just admit Dr. Wilson?' And then, of course, Chase pointed out that if you do get it, you'll need someone to soothe your fevered brow. That cheered her up considerably!"
Wilson laughs; House forces a small smile, but there's no humor in it— he doesn't seem interested in the conversation. Cuddy looks a question at Wilson, who can only shrug back at her and shake his head. But there's no question, to either of them, that even the small effort he's putting forth is tiring House, so Cuddy cuts her visit short. "Let me know what's going on with him," she whispers to Wilson at the door; he assures her he will, as soon as he knows.
After seeing Cuddy out, Wilson goes to sit beside House. "Leg bothering you? Either of them?" he asks.
"No. Just lazy today, I guess. Matter of fact, I think I'd like to catch a nap," House says.
"Wait a second. Lemme just get a quick set of vitals, okay?" Wilson's concern is growing; House looks flushed, and his eyes are almost glassy. Wilson reaches for his wrist to get a pulse, and is surprised at how warm the skin is. He turns the arm to see if the erythema at the PICC site has worsened, and is relieved to see that the site is actually clear again. But House's pulse is slightly elevated. "Gonna get the thermometer; be right back," Wilson says. While he's in the bedroom, he also grabs a stethoscope and the pulse oximeter.
As Wilson approaches the couch, he notes that House's respiratory rate is too rapid, and the effort's somewhat shallow. He hands House the thermometer. House rolls his eyes, but puts it in his mouth. When it signals, he doesn't even glance at the reading, just hands it back to Wilson.
"You've got a fever. Just 100.8, but enough to make you feel under the weather. Can ya sit up a little? I wanna get a good listen to your lungs."
Wilson listens closely to the breath sounds. They're clear, but he thinks they might be slightly diminished on the right. He's not reassured when the pulse ox result is only 92 percent. He frowns down at House, who's already lain back and closed his eyes. "I'm not gonna medicate for the temp right now," he says. "I'd like to watch it a little while."
House flings an arm over his eyes and nods, clearly disinterested. "Just let me get some rest; I'll be fine," he mumbles.
"Okay; here if you need me," Wilson tells him quietly as he settles himself in the chair with a medical journal he knows he's too distracted to read. What now? If it's not the PICC site, could be pneumonia. He's not been moving around much on his own, especially since the wheelchair. With the larger doses of hydrocodone, his cough reflex is even more suppressed. And as rundown as he is….
Wilson looks over at House, who's already fallen asleep. He looks better than he did a week ago, and the weight gain's starting to show. But he still appears too frail to Wilson's discerning eye. If his temp goes up, or the pulse ox goes down, not gonna wait on the blood cultures. I'll start a broad spectrum antibiotic tonight. Pneumonia right now could kill him.
Wilson watches House for several more minutes; he's sleeping soundly now, but his respiratory rate hasn't slowed, and the effort is still too shallow. Finally, Wilson sighs and opens the journal, trying to keep his eyes on the words, and off of the worrisome human puzzle across the room.
When an hour has passed, Wilson rises from the chair and goes to stand over House. It's 6:30pm, time to check his temp again. "House, wake up; dinner time." House shifts position, and turns over so that his back is to Wilson.
"Go 'way. Not hungry," he says.
Wilson puts a hand on one thin shoulder, and his lips purse with worry. He draws his hand back and reaches for the thermometer. "You're burning up. C'mon, I need to get a temp."
House grumbles, but reaches blearily for the thermometer Wilson's holding out, and puts it in his mouth. When it beeps, Wilson takes it out. "Almost one-oh-two," he tells House. "I'm gonna go order a few doses of ceftriaxone from the hospice pharmacy, have 'em deliver it tonight. And I'm gonna get you some ibuprofen. Don't go back to sleep now; you need to take it."
"Uh-huh," House mumbles, unimpressed.
"I mean it," Wilson says. "Stay awake a few minutes. Looks like you might have a touch of pneumonia brewing. I need you to take the ibuprofen, and then we'll get you back to bed. You're gonna eat some soup, at least; not putting that super-Vic into an empty stomach. You didn't eat lunch. House, are you listening to me?"
House doesn't open his eyes, but he actually smiles as he responds. "If I repeat it all back to you, will you go the hell away and let me sleep?"
Wilson can't help smiling, too; nice to know that House isn't too ill to give him a hard time. "If you can repeat it all back to me, then you already know the answer to that. So sit up and stop being difficult, or I'll be forced to throw your GameBoy through the TV screen. Then, you won't be able to play your new game—which, Cuddy tells me, has fifty-eight levels. Naked girls on level 58. You also won't be able to watch TV. So we'll have plenty of time to talk, get in touch with our feelings. All that really fun stuff."
House's grin widens, and he opens his eyes. "You really know how to hit a guy where it hurts," he says, as he struggles to a sitting position.
"Yeah. I lie awake at night, just thinking of ever-more-inventive ways to torture you," Wilson says dryly. "Glad you liked that one; it's my own personal favorite." He heads off to the kitchen to get the Motrin as he allows House's laughter to ease his own anxiety.