CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: Contemplation

The rest of the day passes quietly; both men have a lot of thinking to do, and each senses that the other needs room, and time, to assimilate all that's happened. So they supply that to each other, as best they can.

House's condition is stable, and he's relatively pain-free, so when he says he'd like to do some reading in the bedroom, Wilson disturbs him only when medically necessary—and never comments that House has no reading material around him.

And Wilson closets himself in the kitchen with House's chart, which he's studying intently—he's so absorbed in what he's doing that he scarcely notices that House isn't trying to find ways to interrupt him at regular intervals.

Wilson rereads the voice file of his first session with Dickinson—but this time it's different; this time he reads it with House's eye, trying to view it the way House would.

He doesn't understand why House is so quick to forgive; Wilson, himself, feels that some of the things he'd shared with Dickinson are events and feelings that would hurt or upset House—and rightly so, Wilson concludes. He puts himself as fully as he can in House's place.

How would it feel to read that my best—my only—friend has told a virtual stranger that he thought my pain was fake, all just a big game? To know that I'd suffered, needlessly, for months while that same best friend walked around smugly, thinking he was helping me? It's gotta hurt; wouldn't blame him for slamming that wall back up. And as if that weren't enough….

Wilson's mind wanders back to House's office, and the night he'd walked away from his friend's suffering. He says I did the right thing; I know I didn't. He knows about it now, and I guess he forgives me. Pity I can't forgive myself. And the newly lifted weight of guilt settles again on his shoulders. Still can't believe I did that to him; unforgivable. He's gotta be hurt.

Wilson would be surprised to learn that House's thoughts are mirroring his own; he'd be distressed to learn that some of House's earlier opinions are changing.

House leans back into the pillows and closes his eyes, allowing the scene to play in his mind. That was the day Wilson and Cuddy both told me that I was allowing the pills to run my life. Yeah, they knew how to phrase it, didn't they? Knew I'd have to prove 'em wrong; nothing—no one—runs my life but me. So I proved it, didn't I? House's hand slams down on the bed in frustration, but he's unaware he's even made the motion.

Wilson saw me fail. And he saw me cry. Bet that fed his 'need' fixation; he's probably still glowing over that one. And this whole thing with the new pain being fake—sure does validate him! Yeah, he's hiding it well, but he always has managed that. Saves the big secrets 'til he needs to pull me down a peg….

And so House continues down this road until he's reached the old, comfortable conclusion—the inevitable destination of such thoughts. Don't need him; don't need anybody. Got enough pain; all this messy 'caring' stuff just adds to it. May not be able to do anything about the physical garbage, but I sure as hell can put a stop to the rest of it.

House imagines he can literally hear the sounds of his strong, safe wall being rebuilt, and the image makes him smile, while the sounds help to drown out the heavy, resigned, lonely feeling that's being reborn in his chest, clamoring loudly for his attention.

The apartment's too quiet this afternoon, as the men struggle separately with their demons, each, in his own dark solitude, never guessing what the other is going through.

And neither would be able to guess how it'll end.

Wilson glances at his watch: 4:20pm. He's let himself get lost in House's chart, lost track of the time; he needs to go check on House, do an assessment. But he knows that first, he has to find a way to hide what he's feeling, these negative emotions he'd thought were finally fading. So for now, he just pushes them away. I'll pull a 'House,' just hide 'em, deal with 'em later—or not.

House has been struggling with the left thigh for almost five minutes when Wilson enters the room. House glances up, defiantly, and by sheer force of will manages to remove his hands from the leg, and compose his face. But Wilson isn't fooled.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Nothing I can't handle. Almost over, anyway," House lies.

Wilson reaches for a pulse. "No it isn't, not unless you've recently had a cardiac transplant, and they used a hummingbird's heart."

"I said I'll handle it." House is starting to sweat. He reminds himself of his resolve to be safe, to not need, and it gives him the energy to push Wilson's hand away from the edge of the blanket.

What's going on, House? Thought we were long past all these games. "Just wanna check it. That a problem?"

"If I need a doctor, I'll let you know." And if I need a friend, I'll remind myself of that transcript until the need passes.

Wilson thinks fast. "Okay, then. I need you in the living room. I'd like to change the dressing on the PICC line; light's better in there, and I want a good look at the site."

House thinks briefly of trying to fake it, then reluctantly concedes that he can't. He tips his head back and closes his eyes. "All right. Yeah, it's building. Spasm started about five minutes ago." They both know that any chance of aborting the spasm is gone now; it's gone on too long, and now it's going to have to play out.

"No meds," House says as he allows his hands to return to the cramped muscle.

"No meds," Wilson agrees, pulling the blankets back.

So Wilson sits on the edge of the bed, gently pushes House's hands out of the way, and begins to work the muscle. He tries to think of something, anything to say, that might distract House from his pain.

"Something you need to know, about that night I saw you in your office," he begins. He doesn't have to look at House; he's concentrating on the leg. "I admire what you tried to do, what you did. You kept trying; you didn't let it beat you down. You were in agony, but you kept going. Don't think I've ever met anyone as strong as you, don't think I ever will again." And as he says the words, Wilson realizes that they're all true.

Wilson continues. "And that's why I know that, whatever turns out to be wrong, you're not gonna let it get you. Gotta thank you, House. It's a real privilege to be allowed to be a part of that kind of… courage."

Wilson's focused completely on the knotted thigh; his own hands are cramping and uncomfortable from the work, but he won't acknowledge that. He believes what he's just said to House—to offer assistance to this man is an honor.

Damn you, Jimmy. Doesn't matter how strong I build the wall, you find a chink in it, and barrel on through. Hasn't even seemed to matter to you that I don't deserve it. And so, without even being aware of it, Wilson's taken House's afternoon of careful thought and dismantled both it, and the brand new wall it had created.

House notices the tight squint to Wilson's eyes, the occasional wince as he moves his fingers over the muscle, and the way Wilson's ignoring his own discomfort in an almost desperate attempt to bring relief to House.

"Yeah, well, as long as we're playing True Confessions here, got one of my own. I'm grateful that you left that night. Doesn't matter why you left; you gave me my privacy. That's one thing about you I can always count on; you understand the importance of a man's dignity. And you're willing to risk a lot to protect it. You risked everything this time around, in the name of my… dignity. No small thing, that." And as he speaks these words, House is acknowledging to himself the truth of them, and fully realizing the sacrifice that Wilson's made.

"Whatever you thought your reasons were doesn't matter, 'cuz we both know why you really left. I'll deny I ever said this, but don't know what I'd do without you—always lookin' out for me even when you think you're not."

Damn you, House! Even making my guilt sound altruistic…. But…. You do get it, don't you? And House will never know that Wilson's guilt has finally dissipated into a formless, thinning cloud that promises to disappear for good, once House is healthy again.

Wilson feels the muscle relax under his hands, and hears House's relieved sigh. He smiles up at House, and begins to lift his fingers, but they're stayed by House's hands.

"The heat." House says, by way of explanation. "Feels good," But he doesn't move his own hands from atop Wilson's; instead, he gently rubs the cramps from the tired, aching fingers.

"Yes," Wilson confirms, and smiles. "It does." There's something he's been denying himself all afternoon; now he grants himself permission. He takes his first full breath in what feels like forever; he allows himself to relax.