Title: In His Footsteps
Author: srsly_yes
Summary: After years apart, Wilson has changed, becoming more like House. House wants to know why. Part 5: West recalls when Wilson was in physical therapy. House leaves a second message.
Characters: House/Wilson, Wilson/OC, LLB (he's aliiiive!!)
Rating: R for Language
Warning: Future AU, Angst. Slash. Still quite sad, but not as bad as part 4. It will improve after this.
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be.
Medical Disclaimer: While I researched what happened to Wilson, I'm not a medical professional. Can't even recommend a bandage without the internet.
A/N: The sequel to "Freeze Out." I want to thank everyone for expressing an interest in a continuation of this story. This fic also encompasses, "A Glassful of Shattered Hope" (slight allusions to DCE) which should be read before part 8.
In addition, I want to extend a big thank you to both my betas, bishojo_kitsune and bookfan85 for keen eyesight, great suggestions and encouragement.
Concrit welcome.
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West sat in Wilson's living room surrounded by silence, remembering the weeks and months following the nightmare at Mercy Hospital.
Normally predictable, the anesthetic lay siege to Wilson's body. Fortunately, the sharp-eyed nurse in post-op spotted the spike in temperature and the brown-tinged urine signifying muscle necrosis. If the discovery was any further delayed, it would have cost Wilson his life, not just his leg.
At the beginning, West never left Wilson's side, paying for round after round of rides on a never-ending physical and emotional roller coaster. Making the sofa his base camp, he nursed him through the first weeks of recovery. Frequently, he woke up to hear Wilson cry out House's name during agitated dreams. By the time he made it to the bedroom, Wilson was downing a pill, claiming that he was in pain. Sometimes Wilson spoke the truth.
That period was the last time West brought up the subject of House. It was during one of Wilson's first physical therapy sessions when he began walking on his temporary prosthetic with the aid of parallel bars…
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Leftright… leftright…
"Good! You're doing great." West was the official pep squad leader.
leftright…"Yeah"…letftright…"Won't have to ask"…lef—"Ugh!…Damnit!" Wilson stumbled as the joint buckled…right. He stopped and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his arm…"Ask for a refund on my New York Marathon application"…leftright…
The physical therapist interrupted, "Lift and swing forward, Dr. Wilson, then the prosthetic "knee" won't cave. Falls can be risky."
Nodding curtly, "But I don't want to miss out on the complete amp experience, Cora." …leftright…
"Hear that West? You win our bet. I'm not supposed to trip and fall every few feet while wearing this hardware. Who'd of thought?" …leftright…"Better see about that marathon refund after all, so I can afford to pay you."
…leftright…
"Hey? Did my cheerleading team go home?"… leftright …"Is it time for you to watch Hanna Montana?"
West was mulling over what he wanted to ask, "Don't you think House should know?"
The physical therapist discreetly broke into the conversation, "Dr. Wilson, you need to even out your stride. Don't favor your right leg."
There was no answer. Only the sound of footsteps.
…left…right…left…right…West watched as Wilson negotiated a clumsy pivot at the end of the bars, beginning the journey again.
"Very good, Dr. Wilson, you're into the last stretch. Get to the end, and you can work on your upper body."
"Last stretch, West"...left…right…"I'll give you a little tip. I'm not about to finish the race in 'win, place, or show.' Don't throw away the money you just won from me."…leftright…There was an attempt at a laugh but without any heart, "I'm handicapped with the longest odds."…Leftright…
"You're deflecting, Jimmy. If you won't tell House, let me tell him for you."
The off-kilter rhythm stopped.
Brown eyes darkened with anger. It surfaced quickly during those days, and hung on like a nicotine habit.
"No."
White knuckles clutched at the bars, "And, stop calling me Jimmy. Call me anything else, Jim, James, Wilson, Obama. Not Jimmy."
"Excuse me? My decoder ring hasn't arrived from eBay. Am I missing something?"
Another couple of awkward steps and shaking from the recent exertion, Wilson expelled a soft grunt, positioning himself in the waiting wheelchair. Grabbing a towel from a welcoming stack beside him, he began wiping down the sweat from his face, neck and arms.
Before answering, Wilson looked around to see if the PT was near, but she was absorbed talking to another patient. He spoke under his breath in a hoarse whisper, "There is no more 'my' in my name. Jimmy was someone who existed before that fucked up operation. I'm not that person anymore."
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West could testify to that. For the first couple of months Wilson lived in a room of his own creation. Each wall painted a different emotion: anger, depression, self-loathing and bitterness. He didn't come out until he was as hardened as the callused palms on his hands caused from his crutches. He ensured his privacy by safe-proofing the room with a brand of sarcasm that laid his wit to shame, and sealed all the cracks around the windows and door with air-tight silence.
The nuclear winter lasted long after West applied and was hired by Trinity. Not untl Wilson was ready to go back to work was there the slightest improvement.
When West saw the posting for the head of oncology he thought it was exactly tailor-made for Wilson. It was a pairing worthy of . The director needed someone to reorganize the poorly managed budget and staff, and was agreeable to Wilson's terms. He was thrilled to get an experienced department head, and the damaged doctor was able to lose himself in his work.
While there was a a change for the better, West missed the man he first met. Now, Wilson was encrusted in permafrost that was impossible to chip away. The excessive drinking after work hours wasn't helping either. It certainly wasn't working as anti-freeze.
Then, there was the whole subject of pain killers. Wilson had a legitimate need, but not a daily one, and the supply kept running out far earlier than expected.
West sighed. He gave, he helped, he nagged, but the little good he did was like suturing a heart transplant with a band-aid. It was a temporary to non-existent fix.
Wilson consistently locked him out. Sex was long and far between. West stopped making overtures when Wilson laughed saying he found an agency with hookers that satisfied most of his needs with only a small additional surcharge for cripples.
He lived on hope, and was finding you couldn't eat, sleep or love it.
Startled out of his reverie by Wilson's phone, West looked down to see there was another call from House. What the hell?! Wilson was right, the man was a pitbull with a T-bone steak. That short meeting this morning spawned Godzilla. Now there were two voice mails. Another gulp of beer, and he made a decision. Why not hear what House had to say? Wilson would probably never notice. If he did, he would make up some excuse or beg forgiveness. So what would one more scathing barb do? His hide was already covered in toughened scar tissue.
Listening to the first message, he was taken aback, "Wilson! Have you turned into a moron?! Something's up your ass, and I know it's not me. We need to talk. Call."
West wondered if he should save Wilson the trouble and throw the phone across the room now. He'd never put up with that.
He tapped the second message. This one troubled him more. It started out just as abrasive, but morphed into what? A lover's plea? "Why haven't you called back, you idiot!? I saw you at the airport today...Don't you know you have nothing to hide from me? Call me, you...you putz...please…If not...I won't bother you again."
He had no idea how Wilson would handle the second message. What was House talking about? Did he see Wilson limping through the airport or downing one beer after another, albeit without the sting? Would this unleash Wilson's bitter fury? How would he react to the tone of House's voice? He spoke tenderly like a parent cajoling a scared child to come out from beneath the protection of a dining room table "clubhouse."
West turned his diagnostic skill toward Wilson's heart and made his decision.
Moving his fingertips over the surface, all trace of the voice mails vanished. If House made good on his second message, Wilson would never know. He was convinced he did it for Wilson's sake while stubbornly ignoring the voice in his head that said a physician should never treat a loved one.
He dropped the empty bottle off in the kitchen and returned to the bedroom. He wished he felt better about his decision. Maybe he'd look down the shotgun barrel of his own conscience and confess about the phone calls tomorrow. He needed time to think on it. Slipping the cell phone back in the slack's pocket, he glanced at Wilson. Hair falling into his eyes he was sleeping comfortably on his side. West walked over, and before turning off the light, bent over the slumbering man, sweeping the hair aside and brushing a gentle kiss on the temple. "Goodnight, Jimmy."
tbc
Thank you for reading. Comments always welcome.