A/N: This chapter was interesting… House and Wilson actually wrote it; I was simply along for the ride—and the typing! (Yes, Angelfirenze, it's the Voices, the Voices!) mjf
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Fight
House is picking unenthusiastically at his dinner when the phone rings. Wilson glances at the caller ID; the call's coming from the Diagnostics department at PPTH.
"You up to answering that?" Wilson asks. "It's one of your people; I'm supposed to be busy wishing I were dead."
House picks up the receiver, listens, and makes a face. "Cameron," he mouths to Wilson. "What are you doing there so late? Got a case?" House looks hopeful as he listens, and then his face falls. "I don't care what Cuddy said about not bothering me with cases. Wilson's got the 'flu. 'Flu's boring…. No, of course I wouldn't want you to defy Cuddy's order. You know me; I'm all about the rules." House sighs, resigned. "He's not doing well, no," House says into the phone as he looks at Wilson. "High fever, givin' him some really crazy ideas. Seems to think all this is a game of 'Let's Pretend.'"
Wilson widens his eyes and then shoots House a dirty look. House's own expression is mischievous, but there's a bit of anger hidden behind the humor.
"Me? Just great…. 'Course I sound 'funny'; I'm a funny guy! No, not getting the 'flu. Tiring work, keepin' him oriented to the reality of his illness."
Wilson's becoming annoyed with House's not-so-subtle digs, but he's also concerned; House looks flushed, and Wilson doesn't like the way he's breathing. "Get her off the phone; hang up now," Wilson whispers.
"He'll be fine; got a great doctor…. Not necessary; this is my bestest bud—don't trust anyone but me…. 'Course I'm not insulting you, would I do that? This is Jimmy—I'll handle it. Wouldn't trust his care to Albert Schweitzer himself…. Look, Cameron, Cuddy's got us quarantined anyway. The rules, remember? Don't mess with the boss lady. Gotta go; I'm hearing some really unattractive retching noises, need to toss a barf bucket in his general direction. Bye." House hangs up the phone and begins to cough.
Wilson forgets his annoyance. "I think your fever's on its way up again; let's get a temp." When the reading is just over 101 degrees, and a pulse ox is 91 percent, Wilson frowns. "I'm gonna call Princeton General; we should at least have preliminary culture results by now."
The cultures show that the PICC line's clean, so Wilson decides to try a broader-spectrum antibiotic, in case the pneumonia's resistant to the ceftriaxone. He calls the Hospice pharmacy and places an order for cefepime—because House had initially shown improvement on the ceftriaxone, Wilson's thinking that they might be dealing with mixed organisms. And now, they could really use that sputum specimen.
"House, just talked with the lab over at PG; we're clear on the PICC. Gonna switch you to cefepime, but a specimen would really help. Think you can manage it?"
The fever's still on its way up, and House isn't feeling so great. "No," he answers, and closes his eyes.
"Let's try an aerosol, see if that helps bring anything up, okay?" House doesn't respond. Wilson sighs, and goes to collect the equipment and a sterile container. When he returns, House is feigning sleep.
"C'mon; let's try and get this done. Almost time for your evening neb anyway." House just flings an arm over his eyes and shakes his head.
Wilson's trying hard to be patient. "Look, if you're feeling that lousy, let's just get you into bed. I'll bring you some ibuprofen for the fever, and we'll try this in an hour or so."
House gives no indication that he's even heard Wilson, just tugs up a blanket and turns his head towards the back of the couch.
Trying to ignore the worry that's starting to twist in his stomach, Wilson picks up the tympanic thermometer. He moves the blanket away from House's face. "Lemme get a temp."
As he inserts the probe into House's ear canal, an arm flies up and knocks the thermometer from his hand; it clatters to the floor as Wilson, stunned, stares at House.
House turns around quickly and sits up. His fever-bright eyes are angry; his jaw is set, and his respirations are rapid. "Just get the hell away from me! Go away! I'm sick of this, all of it. What are you worried about, anyway? Probably brought the pneumonia on myself, 'cuz I'm too dumb to know the difference between pain and emotions, follows that I gotta be too dumb to understand my own health, right? So it's all in my head, doesn't matter what you do; gonna either get better or die anyway!" House, out of breath now, continues to glare at Wilson as he starts rubbing the left thigh almost frenetically.
"What's the matter with your leg?" Wilson tries to say it calmly; he needs to bring this situation down a few notches—this isn't good for House. But somehow, Wilson's concern and fear, his frustration, make the question come out sounding angry, challenging.
"Absolutely nothing!" House is starting to dig his fingers into the muscle. "Told ya, I'm just too stupid to know I'm perfectly healthy. Let's just forget that I might be too smart to create pain!"
Wilson's scared now; House's breathing is labored, he's clearly in pain, and he's showing no signs of even beginning to calm down. Wilson puts both trembling hands out, palms up, in a calming gesture—and House grabs his wrists and pushes him back.
The adrenaline's given House's meager strength a boost; Wilson falls backward, but the coffee table's behind him, and he winds up sitting down, hard, instead of falling. And Wilson snaps.
He forgets House's fragility, he forgets the building spasm, the labored respirations, the rising fever. He forgets his own medical training. He's not a doctor now; he's not even a rational human being. He's simply a frightened family member who's finally, completely, overwhelmed by it all, and angry that it's happening, and feeling powerless to stop it. So he lashes out.
"You're right; absolutely correct, as usual! The brilliant Dr. House has it all figured out. We don't need to treat anything; we're just wasting our time, because you can just will yourself well! Or dead. Let's not forget that option." Now Wilson's breathing rapidly too, and he's shaking as he stands. And the very small corner of his mind that's still rational tells him that he's not making sense, not helping the situation, tells him that he's over the top. And he doesn't care. Wilson's done trying to be diplomatic. His patience has worn thin, and he knows that they shouldn't be having this argument right now. But here they are, and he's gotta get House to start facing the truth.
"Don't try to tell me that you're too smart to be having psychosomatic pain! That argument would be a lot more credible if I hadn't seen you self-induce a migraine, just so you could tell yourself that a twenty year grudge was valid! Or fracture your own fingers to win a damned bet! And just last week you let yourself get to the brink of hypovolemic shock rather than admit that you were having trouble with your meds. Yeah, House, you're smart. And you're also self-destructive. Dangerous combination, buddy. Makes you a prime candidate for psychosomatic pain, ya know that?"
House looks up from the left leg; his efforts to calm the spasm have been fruitless, and the pain's building quickly. But anger's driving him now, and he yells viciously, "Do us both a favor. Get the hell out of here! And you're right; friends like you, I don't need to be holding onto twenty year grudges."
He's right, Wilson thinks. Gotta get out of here; gotta calm down. Wilson takes a step towards the kitchen, but suddenly sways, and grabs at the edge of a bookcase to keep from falling. He notes that his fingertips are tingling, he's dizzy, and then he realizes he's been hyperventilating. He forces himself to slow his breathing. As House, eyes narrowing, watches him, he makes his way unsteadily out of the room.
As Wilson enters the kitchen, another wave of dizziness overtakes him. He puts both hands on the counter's edge and leans over the sink. When he hears the sound of House's cane behind him, he hasn't the strength to turn, or stand upright, or even to speak.
"What's the matter with you?" House demands. When Wilson doesn't answer, House moves closer. Wilson lifts a hand to wave him away, to try to indicate that he's all right, but the hand's still shaking visibly, so he quickly lowers it back to the counter's edge, and then lowers his head to rest there too. He's dimly aware that House is moving around, but doesn't lift his head until House taps his arm.
House reaches over him to fill a glass with water. "Here," he says, thrusting the glass into Wilson's numb, unresisting fingers. When the glass falls from Wilson's hand and shatters in the sink, House sighs, fills a second glass, and sets it on the table. Then he sets down his cane and grabs Wilson's shoulders, propelling him to a chair.
Wilson doesn't try to gather the strength to resist; he sits. House hands him the glass again, then a small white pill—lorazepam. "Take it," House orders. When Wilson just looks at him blankly, House bends down until he's meeting Wilson's eyes. "Take. It." House waits until Wilson's swallowed the pill, then retrieves his cane and exits the kitchen.
Wilson sits there for fifteen minutes, twenty—he isn't certain. But once the quiet solitude and the medication do their work, and reason returns, he remembers the seriously ill man, the pain, the fever, the respiratory distress.
He goes rapidly to the living room, and feels a moment of panic when House isn't there. He heads to the bedroom, and stops short in the doorway.
House is lying on the bed, propped up on several pillows. He's clearly just finished an aerosol treatment, and on his bedside table sits the sterile cup—with a sputum specimen in it. And House is currently engaged in putting on the nasal cannula for the O2.
"Forgot to get the ibuprofen when I was in the kitchen," House tells him; his voice is matter-of-fact. "And of course, I had to disconnect the IV, so ya might wanna get that, too. If you wouldn't mind."
Wilson nods wordlessly and turns from the doorway. When he returns, he hands House the pills and reconnects the TPN without speaking. Then he sits in the bedside chair. "How's the leg?" he asks quietly.
"Fine. Must've been a false alarm."
"Good. That's… good." Wilson stands and picks up his stethoscope, and he's even more gentle than usual as he assesses House's breath sounds. He sees the way House's limbs have melted, unmoving, into the pillows, and how his head seems too heavy to lift, and he knows how much strength House had had to martial, to do everything he'd managed to do in the last half hour. And Wilson knows better than to try to thank him, or even to mention it. He ends his assessment with a hand on House's shoulder, and a question. "Can I… get you anything?"
House smiles, just a bit. "A doughnut would really taste good, about now."
Wilson looks at the frail patient, lying so still in the bed—this stubborn child, this loving friend, this concerned physician; this complex, frustrating man, who had willingly put Wilson's needs ahead of his own, more dire, problems tonight. House may have created the awful situation they'd both just suffered through, but he'd also done his damnedest to try to make it right again. And he had.
"I'll bet two doughnuts would taste even better," Wilson says softly, and leaves to get him the treat.