CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: Recovery

In the next week, following House's first session with Dick, things don't seem to be a whole lot different. House's left thigh still bothers him at intervals, and a couple of times it's necessary to use morphine to control the pain. Dick comes by every other day, and he and House closet themselves in House's room for a couple of hours each time. Then Dick comes out, and—on House's orders—tells Wilson, and Cuddy, when she's there, what went on in their session. But by the end of the week, Wilson's realizing that he's hearing a bit more laughter coming from behind the closed door, and by the weekend, he's able to point out to House that they haven't needed to utilize the morphine for four days.

So what transpires the following Tuesday night comes as a surprise to both of them, and a real disappointment to House.

"Hey," Wilson says. "Gotta put in a call to your team, let 'em know that I lived through the 'flu, despite your best efforts otherwise. And, of course, I'm gonna have to tell them that now you have it. This should be… fun. Hope Foreman answers the phone. Hope Chase answers the phone. Hell, I hope the janitor answers the phone!"

House smirks. "And I hope Cameron answers. You've been tellin' me for years that I'm too tough on our starry-eyed little idealist; this'll serve you right, having to deal with her in full 'nurture poor, wounded House' mode. Just stand back when you tell her how miserable I'm feeling, wouldn't wanna get spattered!"

"Huh?"

"Cameron's bleeding heart—makes quite a mess when it really gets pumping." House leans back on the couch with an anticipatory, smug smile, as Wilson reluctantly dials the number.

"Oh… uh… Hi, Dr. Cameron, how are you?" Wilson scowls at House, and deliberately turns his back on House's laughing eyes and evil grin. "I'm feeling much better, thanks. Almost like a human being again…. Yes, we miss you too. Can hardly wait to get back there. But I'm afraid that's not gonna be happening for a while. Seems that cold-hearted meanness isn't quite as protective against the influenza virus as House claimed it was…."

Wilson ignores House, who's sticking his tongue out at him. "Yeah, he's got it, all right. Just started, so he's still blaming it on food poisoning—my cooking, of course."

Wilson listens for quite some time, and by the time Cameron's through speaking, he can't help it—he's rolling his eyes. "No, Cameron, I really don't think that Cuddy'll make an exception because it's House. No, not even if you agreed to wear isolation gear."

House laughs aloud, and Wilson glares, picks up a pillow, and stuffs it in his face. "That sound? House retching, of course. But you know him, doesn't trust anybody to help 'im. 'Course, he'll trust me just fine to do the clean-up, I'm afraid." Wilson tosses a second pillow as House's snickering continues unabated.

"Why should I check on him? He'll just throw me out. Swears he's got it all under control, little bit of Wilson-induced food poisoning, gone by tomorrow. You know the drill. And when he wakes up in the morning with a high fever, that'll be my fault too, for thoughtlessly allowing my germs to replicate in his apartment. You know him; not a sympathetic, concerned bone in his body." Wilson's enjoying himself now, and easily ducks the pillow House has aimed at his head.

"You know me better than that! Would I treat him the way he's treated me these past two weeks?" With compassion, empathy, patience—forgiveness? You bet!

Wilson listens again, patiently, and finally sighs—even he has his limits. "Look, I don't know how much clearer I can make this. The man won't even trust me to get a temp. He's probably gonna want to start his own IV, if it comes to that. House trusts House. Period. All I, or anyone else, is gonna be good for, for the next week or so, is vomit patrol. So just thank your lucky stars that Cuddy's got us quarantined. And don't worry; I won't let him die. Why would I want to deprive the world of its fair share of House-created misery?"

This time the pillow makes a direct hit to Wilson's head. "Gotta go, Cameron. The 'flu must really be settling in; his sense of humor seems to have died." This time, it's Wilson who sticks his tongue out, as he hangs up the phone.

"Now that was unnecessary," Wilson says, indicating the last pillow-shaped missile. "I was just trying to keep you in character; wouldn't want her showing up here with Child Protective Services in tow, claiming I was neglecting you! Could happen; they've just finished up a case. Too much time on their hands. I think she was hoping to make you their next project."

Wilson grins, but House's expression has suddenly grown very serious. "Keeping busy is good," he mumbles. "They should find something to do."

"Like your clinic hours, maybe?" Wilson asks. House doesn't smile, just shakes his head almost impatiently. He appears pensive, even introspective. This is uncharted territory, even for Wilson. "You, uh… wanna talk?" he asks. House had had a session with Dick earlier, and he's been a little moodier than usual today. Wilson knows that House and Dickinson had discussed coping mechanisms, and that House hadn't been too receptive to Dick's suggestions.

"The shrink says I gotta find ways to keep myself occupied when I don't have a case. Says I think the pain's safer than anything else."

"I know," Wilson says quietly. "He told me. Given any thought to… uh… actually interacting with other people? Finding out what they think, how they feel? May not be as—pardon the expression—painful as you think."

"I'm no good at that." House begins to run his hand lightly over the left thigh. Wilson, hoping that it's just some sort of habit by now, decides not to call attention to it.

"But you could practice; start with your team. Get to know 'em, as people, actual human beings, instead of some sort of diagnostic equipment that happens to breathe. They're really pretty interesting, ya know."

"I start doing that, they're liable to think something's wrong with me." House changes position on the couch, so that his weight isn't on the left leg. The mindless rubbing of the thigh continues.

Wilson smiles. "They already think something's wrong with you; this'll just be something new for them to add to the list; shouldn't be a problem." Maybe I should say something about the leg, at least point out to him what he's doing.

"By the time we go back, we'll have been gone over a month. What's everyone gonna think?" House has started pressing firmly into the quad with his fingers. He looks down at his hand, shakes his head, and with determination, lifts his hand up, and away from his leg.

Wilson frowns; this isn't like House. "Since when have you cared what anyone else thought, much less everyone else?"

"You're right." The fingers have gone back to the muscle. "I don't care. Doesn't matter. So what, right?" Both hands are now working the quadriceps; House still hasn't acknowledged it to Wilson, and Wilson isn't sure how best to handle this.

"No, it does matter, of course. Most of us care what other people think of us. If nothing else, it helps to… temper our behavior, make it fit into societal norms. Whatever those are." Wilson smiles faintly.

House bends his upper body over his legs, and Wilson hears the sharp intake of breath that lets him know this has already gone on too long. But instinct tells him that this one needs to be House's call, all the way. So he says nothing.

House looks up. "Gonna get a shower."

Wilson closes his eyes briefly. It takes all of his self-control, but he simply nods, and removes the tubing from the PICC port. He doesn't follow House out of the room, just watches his pained, halting progress. He's just gotta trust that the sessions with Dick are helping. He's gotta trust that all that he and Cuddy have done has made a difference. He's gotta trust House.

Wilson remains seated on the couch, hands fisted in his lap, eyes fixed towards the hall, where he can hear the heavy, unsteady progress of the cane. When the sound stops, Wilson realizes he's been holding his breath. And when the call comes, quiet and accepting, "Jimmy, need some help here," Wilson breathes again, and knows that things will be all right, soon.

House gives him a grateful, sarcasm-free smile when he appears with the wheelchair. Wilson marvels at how far they've come in just a few weeks. It's been difficult and painful for all of them. But it's paid off, better than he could've hoped. He feels sad, though, that only he and Cuddy will probably ever be privileged to know this gentler side of House—but he takes that for what it is; the spoils of a hard-fought, hard-won battle—an honor. Sure hope I can remember that the next time he pisses me off; hate to have to kill 'im after all the work we've put in!

After House has been settled into bed, and Wilson's administered the morphine, both men wait in silence for the medication to take effect. Finally, House speaks. "Should've been able to talk myself outta that one. Shouldn't have needed the med."

Wilson knows that whatever he chooses to say now will matter—a lot. He rises from the chair and sits on the side of the bed, next to House. He goes through the motions of taking a pulse—but he doesn't move his hand from its gentle circle around House's wrist when he's finished counting. "All in good time, House," he tells him quietly. "Changes take time; the results of those changes take even more time. You want everything five minutes ago—lab numbers, medication responses, all of it. But, clichéd as it is, if something's worth having, it really is worth waiting for. And believe me, this is worth it. And just maybe, you're worth it, too. So give it the time it needs. You won't be waiting alone." He looks earnestly at House, hopes he's found the right words.

House smiles faintly. "Hey, thought I was the big brother in this outfit! I'm supposed to be the one giving you all this sound, philosophical advice. You're way too young to be makin' this much sense."

Wilson smiles too; he's deeply touched that House has so clearly acknowledged their bond. "Yeah, well," he teases, "Out of the mouths of babes comes wisdom. Or so I'm told."

House turns to him, the old sardonic grin firmly in place. "Hate to be the bearer of bad news, Jimmy, but you so do not qualify as a babe!"

Wilson laughs as he rises to turn out the light. "Maybe not," he says. "But if you'd let me have my blow-dryer, I could be!" He winks, and turns away from the door. There'll be time enough in the next two weeks for Dickinson to work on coping mechanisms with House, time enough for House's family to reinforce those coping mechanisms, and their love—and the trust, too.

Wilson walks down the hallway still smiling, and listening to the sound of House's warm, appreciative chuckle.