CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Agonies

After Cuddy leaves for work, Wilson wonders if House's playful mood will continue, or if Cuddy's presence was simply a buffer for two friends who find themselves on opposite sides of a diagnosis.

But House continues to behave as if this morning's conversation had never taken place. While the low-grade fever has him a bit subdued, he still jokes with Wilson about Wilson's current losing streak in their most recent video poker contest. And he gets in a couple more digs about the new diagnosis, even suggesting that he might have 'psychosomatic sputum' in his lungs, thereby causing a 'conversion cough.' And Wilson has to laugh, because it's funny. And because it's further proof that House continues to examine and consider the diagnosis, which feeds Wilson's hope of a positive—and peaceful—outcome.

At lunchtime, House eats just enough soup to keep Wilson's concern about his appetite at bay, and then challenges Wilson to another game of video poker. When it's clear that Wilson's losing streak is going to continue uninterrupted, House remarks casually, "Sure hope your luck is better Friday night."

Of course; he heard us arrange the game on the voice file. Surprised he's decided to allow Dick's visit. Probably just wants to 'prove' that the diagnosis is wrong, but that's okay; it's better than I'd hoped for. I guess I thought he'd just refuse to let Dick come.

"I don't think it's gonna matter how good my luck is," he tells House with a grin. "Dick might even have you beat with his 'bluff detection' skills; never could pull anything over on him in college. Reads people the way we read x-rays; analyzes every angle." Wilson doesn't miss the dark frown that this statement puts on House's face, but decides that House just doesn't like the possibility of losing at poker.

When the game ends, House decides to take a shower. But he looks tired, washed out from the fever. "Why not take a nap first?" Wilson suggests. "Give that temp a chance to go down on its own."

House shakes his head. "I feel okay; think I'd feel even better after a shower. Mind disconnecting me?"

Wilson decides not to argue; House does seem to be doing all right. He's been making his trips to the bathroom today using only his cane, hasn't even requested the wheelchair at all. And all he's gotta do is get safely to the shower chair; it's not like there's major physical exertion involved. Gotta stop worrying so much, start giving him back some control. Even more important now, to reinforce the trust.

Wilson disconnects the TPN, hands House his cane, and even refrains from saying, "Call me if you need me." He does, however, find plenty of things to do in the vicinity of the bathroom for the next twenty minutes.

When he hears the water shut off, he waits a few more minutes, then starts towards the kitchen—he'd prefer not to be accused of hovering when House comes out. But he's still close enough to the bathroom to hear the quiet, grudging call through the door, "Wilson…."

Wilson goes back towards the bathroom. "House, you okay?"

The door opens slowly, and Wilson notes immediately how heavily House is leaning on his cane. "Gonna just… go to the bedroom. Take… that nap now. Might… want the chair, though," House says. He's trying hard to keep the tone of his voice casual, but Wilson recognizes the strain behind the words, and the pattern of the pauses, and the pull of stress at the corners of his eyes.

"Just stay right there. Won't take me two seconds to get the wheelchair. I'll be right back," he assures House calmly.

As Wilson retrieves the wheelchair from the bedroom, he remembers the disconcerted look on House's face when he'd mentioned how well Dick could 'read' people. If that comment made him work himself into this state, what the hell will happen on Friday? House likes to solve the puzzle; he's not going to be comfortable with being the puzzle.

Wilson hasn't had much time to decide how to handle the spasms in light of the new diagnosis. As he goes back to House, he's trying to figure out how much help House will accept, how much help he should offer.

House is gripping the doorframe with his free hand; the other is clenched around the handle of the cane, and the cane itself is trembling. So Wilson takes both of House's elbows in a firm, reassuring hold, and then lowers House carefully into the wheelchair, and moves quickly to the bedroom. He's thankful that he's able to transfer House to the bed before the spasm builds any more.

"Gonna nap now," House's voice is rough; he's using all his energy to try to sound as if nothing's wrong. "Shut the door on your way out, will ya?"

"Fat chance, buddy." Wilson almost whispers the words as he sits down on the edge of the bed next to House.

House's eyes close tightly. He's got both hands balled into tight fists at his sides to keep them from going to the muscle, and the beads of sweat on his forehead have nothing to do with fever. When he speaks, the word is pulled from him in anguished desperation. "Please."

Wilson knows how much that one word cost him, and the heaviness in his own chest makes speaking difficult. But he says the words in a firm, measured tone. "Nope. I'm staying, pal, and the deal's the same. Medical help, or the support of a friend, or both. Up to you."

House opens his eyes to look up at Wilson. He can actually feel the compassion radiating from the empathetic brown eyes. House reminds himself that things are different now, that feeling cared-for doesn't suck, and in that moment, his resolve to hide the pain breaks. "Both, Jimmy… both."

Wilson's glad that he'd thought to pre-draw several 5mg syringes; he doesn't want to leave House's side right now, there's too much at stake. He retrieves the medication and a flush from the drug box, and sits back down at House's side to administer it.

Neither man speaks while Wilson pushes the med. House's eyes are closed; he's concentrating on breathing his way through it. And Wilson knows that no words will bring reassurance this time; he maintains a warm, respectful silence, offering comfort with the touch of his free hand on House's arm. Wilson finishes with the flush, sets the syringes down, and reaches for a pulse. He's surprised when House opens his eyes and clasps his fingers around Wilson's wrist.

"Why?" House asks, looking directly at him.

"Why what?" Wilson responds—but he thinks he knows what the question is, and he's afraid he doesn't have an answer for it.

"For years, you told me the pain was all in my head. You said I was just an addict. You wanted me to see a shrink. Now, you think you've had your diagnosis confirmed. Yet here you are. Treating my pain. Why now?" Although the spasm is ebbing, House's voice remains strained; this question—and Wilson's response—are important to him.

And as the last words leave House's lips, Wilson knows the answer. "For years, I watched what you were going through. That's all I did; I watched you suffer. Guess I… didn't wanna think about it too much. Twelve days ago, when you collapsed, I opened my eyes, for the first time, and…." He pauses, not quite trusting himself to go on.

Wilson bows his head, rubs a hand across his face, tries to compose himself before he speaks again. It's only a few words, but they're the most honest, most heart-wrenching words he'll ever speak. And the most difficult. So he takes a deep breath, and tells himself that he owes this truth to House. But still, the next four painful words come out as two separate, broken sentences.

"I saw. You suffer."

And House understands. He knows that inside those four ragged words, choked out over a swallowed sob, are all the honesty that Wilson can offer, and the regret for what House has been through, and the guilt that Wilson's been dealing with.

House acknowledges Wilson's words with a brief squeeze of the wrist he still holds, and an oddly apologetic look in his eyes. Then he says, hesitantly, "It's real, you know. The pain."

Wilson doesn't even have to think about the answer to that. His voice is strong again as he answers, "I know. Whatever the cause, the pain is real. And it will be treated."

"Glad we're on the same page there, anyway," House says, and although his voice is weak, he tries for a sardonic tone—he still wants Wilson to know that he disagrees with the diagnosis. So Wilson nods, acknowledging it.

But Wilson hears the relief behind the words; House knows that his pain's being taken seriously. And now that this hurdle's been crossed, and the tension has ebbed, he sees that the morphine and the relief are conspiring to lull House to sleep. But House is fighting it. He's still watching Wilson; he almost seems to be awaiting his permission to give in to it. So Wilson says brusquely, "Catch that nap now; you're a handful, ya know, and I could use the break."

House smiles faintly, and closes his eyes. And all Wilson has the energy to do is shake his head in fond exasperation, and silently leave the room.