CHAPTER THIRTY: Fever

Wilson returns to the bedroom with four doughnuts, and two glasses of milk. House smirks at him.

"Just couldn't resist those amazing little multi-colored sprinkles, could ya?" House asks.

Wilson smiles back. "Well, actually, I was having one of those life-threatening sugar deficiencies myself. That, and I figure my cholesterol's probably too low."

"So they're medicinal doughnuts." House nods sagely. "Now there's a rationalization worthy of the great Gregory House himself; you're learnin', Jimmy."

"I'm trying, God knows, I'm trying…." Wilson mutters, as he bites into the doughnut. Then he notices that, while House is contentedly watching him enjoy the junk food, he hasn't touched his own snack. "Hey, how come I'm the only one eating?"

"Antibiotic's messing with my stomach, I guess. Not as hungry as I thought I was. I'll eat 'em later." House sets his plate next to the milk on the bedside table, and leans back into the pillows.

Wilson regards him thoughtfully; skin's still flushed, lips are dry and chapped, eyes red-rimmed. "Fever's still high, too; ibuprofen hasn't kicked in yet. Hospice should be here shortly with the cefepime; by this time tomorrow, you'll be feeling well enough to win a doughnut-eating contest. And the lab courier'll be here soon; I'll get the blood now, then I'll let you rest a little while."

After he draws the blood, Wilson bags the tubes and the sputum specimen for the courier. The messenger from Hospice arrives shortly after the courier, and Wilson's anxious to hang the new antibiotic.

When he enters the bedroom, he initially thinks House is awake; he's turned his head towards the door, and is moving about in bed. But when Wilson turns on the light, it's evident that House isn't conscious; he's lost inside a fever-induced dream.

Wilson quickly hangs the cefepime and reaches for the tympanic thermometer. The 103.5 reading surprises him; it's been over an hour, and the Motrin should be working by now.

He sits cautiously on the edge of the bed; House is mumbling in his sleep, and Wilson doesn't want to startle him. He places a gentle hand on his arm, an arm so hot it's uncomfortable under his fingers. "House, wake up. House."

House's eyes open wide, dazed, and he tries to sit up.

"Easy, buddy, it's okay. Your fever's way up, gonna try some acetaminophen. I need to get a listen to your lungs, too. Just relax; it's okay." House is still struggling to sit up, and when Wilson notes the sibilant sound of his breathing, he stops trying to restrain him and instead helps him to a sitting position, propped against the pillows.

House is more alert now, but he doesn't seem to be fully oriented. "What's going on? Hot in here; hard to breathe." He looks around the room. "Can you open a window?" he rasps out.

"I'm gonna do better than that. Gonna get you some Tylenol, and some cool cloths. And let's go up to three liters on the O2, okay?" Wilson's voice is soothing, assured, and House has focused in on it, and on Wilson's face, and is nodding obediently at him like a kid, like Wilson has all the answers right now.

Wilson takes advantage of House's acquiescence to prepare an extra aerosol treatment. He hands it to House. "Breathe as deep as you can; we need to get some of that junk broken up. Already have the first dose of cefepime running; we'll be on top of this inside of twelve hours or so. Keep it up with the deep breaths; I've gotta go get the Tylenol. Be right back; you be okay?"

House nods and continues to inhale the neb, so Wilson hurries to the kitchen. He grabs a bowl, fills it with cool water and several washcloths. Then he gets the bottle of acetaminophen and returns to the bedroom.

House has dozed off, the mouthpiece still clenched in his teeth. The treatment's finished, so Wilson gently removes it and shuts off the machine. House stirs and opens his eyes, reaches for the pills that Wilson's holding.

"Let's wait just a minute on that," Wilson tells him. "Try and give me some good coughs first." He sets the medication down and reaches for his stethoscope. He listens carefully as House coughs, and finally Wilson looks up, satisfied. "Good job. Breathing easier now?"

House takes a few more breaths. When he speaks, he sounds more like himself. "Well, I'm not suffocating anymore, if that's what you mean. But it's still too hot in here."

Wilson hands him two Tylenol, and wrings out one of the washcloths. After House has swallowed the pills, Wilson offers him the cool cloth. House takes it, swipes it half-heartedly, weakly, across his forehead, then closes his eyes and lets his arm drop heavily. "That's better," he whispers, handing the cloth back to Wilson.

"Liar." Wilson smiles, rewets the cloth, and sponges it across House's face. When House doesn't object, Wilson then leans him forward and removes his T-shirt. He places one of the cloths around his neck and another over his chest, then continues to bathe his face and arms with the cool water.

"You make a damn fine nurse," House mumbles. "May not be much to look at, but you sure have that 'bedside manner' thingy down pat." He sighs, finally starting to feel comfortable.

"Did I hear that right? You're actually saying something that borders on nice? Must be delirious from the fever."

"Yup, that's it. Fever. Delirious," House agrees contentedly. The lines of his face have relaxed, and he hasn't even bothered to open his eyes.

"Too bad we can't find a way to get rid of the pneumonia, keep the fever. You're much easier to deal with when your brain's frying."

"Uh-huh. Easier. Fried brain," House parrots pleasantly.

Wilson shakes his head, both amused and concerned. A 'nice' House is… interesting, but I think I'd prefer a little griping right now.

When the fever finally breaks, half an hour later, Wilson doesn't need a thermometer to tell him the news. House is bathed in sweat, his teeth are chattering, and he's complaining loudly that it's too cold, and what moron opened the window?

Wilson hides the cane, and gets the wheelchair. "C'mon. A nice, tepid shower will make you feel better. I'll get your sheets changed, we'll do your meds, and you'll get some sleep." He disconnects the IV, removes the O2, and helps House transfer to the wheelchair. House is steadier than Wilson expected him to be, but still, the fever, and all his activity earlier in the evening, have left him without much energy.

When they reach the bathroom, Wilson chances asking House if he needs help. And House's "Hell, no!" which he accompanies with an indignant glare, lets Wilson know he's turned the corner. Just a little bit of sweet, docile House goes a very long way; Wilson's glad to have his sarcastic, cranky friend back. He's smiling as he heads down the hall to find clean linens.