Poison and Wine
Chapter 8
He dreams of House in the bed, machines whirring in the quiet and tubes slithering across the darkness. A whisper slices through the still air, cutting into his skin, and it takes him a moment to realize that it's coming from his own lips.
"I'm leaving."
House struggles to sit up further and Wilson cringes at his pain, pain that he caused for the sake of another whom he's not even sure is worth it.
"What do you mean?"
Strings of words leave his mouth and form a reply before he can even think. Something about Amber responding to treatment, and wanting to get away. Something about moving.
"So take a vacation," House says carefully. "How long? A week? Two?"
"It's not a vacation, House. We're moving. Permanently."
It's the same dream every time – the way House's eyes grow dark with the deep blue of stormy ocean waves, the way the bed inches closer and closer as it threatens to push Wilson through the glass, the way the room begins to spin until suddenly House is standing before him, and it's Wilson in the hospital bed.
"I'm leaving," House says.
Wilson nods at him sadly. "I'm leaving, too."
"Wilson. Wilson, snap out of it. Wilson!"
Wilson opened his eyes, gasping, brown eyes searching frantically for the blue. "House – "
"Get a hold of yourself. I'm right here." House's hand came up to gently move his hair back, not seeming to mind the sweat dripping from his bangs. "Same dream?"
"Yeah," Wilson whispered hoarsely. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in through his nose to steady himself. "Sorry."
"It's been a week of this. You've gotta get a grip."
"I know."
"It's also been a week of mind-blowing sex," House mused. "And given that the nightmares started around the same time…"
"Don't. It's not funny. You're lucky I've been able to last this long as it is."
"Now that's not funny." House sighed, waiting for Wilson to calm down and open his eyes again before he continued. "I'm not leaving, you know," he said.
"I know, House."
"But I don't think that's what's making you lose your mind every night."
"Right. One stint in crazytown and suddenly you're an expert."
"I think you're afraid of dying."
"And why shouldn't I be?" Wilson countered wearily.
"I never said you shouldn't be," House pointed out. "I just said that you are so that you'll finally admit it to yourself."
Wilson cringed, pushing himself into a sitting position. "I think I'm gonna be sick."
"Sick because you're nauseous or sick because you hate yourself for being human and afraid of the unknown?"
"The former, thanks. But I'm not denying the latter."
House grabbed the garbage bin from the floor, setting it in Wilson's lap just in time. "You need real pain meds, Wilson, not the random crap you've been downing from my stash."
"You just want to keep the Vicodin all to yourself," Wilson managed as he finished heaving.
House sighed, taking the garbage bin and getting out of bed to empty it. "What do you have against a lousy antiemetic?" he called back as he limped out of the room.
"Don't need it."
"God, would you listen to yourself? All you do is screw me and vomit afterwards."
"Maybe it's you, then."
"Yeah," House scoffed, returning and climbing back into bed. "That's why you're practically begging for it every night."
"Hey! I do not beg, and you want it just as much as I do," Wilson retorted.
"I also want you not to be in pain."
"Yeah, well, that's going to be a little difficult under the circumstances."
"It'd be easier if you took some damn pills." House grabbed the Vicodin bottle from the nightstand, taking a couple for himself and shaking the rest in Wilson's face. "If you're so gung ho about my addiction, I'm pretty sure terminal cancer beats bum leg."
Wilson shrugged, rolling his eyes to the ceiling to avoid House's bait. "I can wait it out."
House frowned, studying him. "You still feel guilty, don't you," he finally accused.
"What?"
"That's why you won't take any meds. You think you actually deserve the pain."
"House, don't be ridiculous."
"Or maybe it's that combined with the fact that you used to be an oncologist," House mused.
"So what?"
"So, you served up death sentences like you served up margaritas. You watched people go through hell day in and day out, and now you think karma has a right to bite you in the ass."
Wilson didn't answer, and House gently poked him in the ribs.
"I'm usually right," he reminded him. "It's kind of a thing with me."
Wilson rolled over with a heavy sigh, finding a comfortable crook in House's arm to lay his head. "It isn't just all of that," he admitted. "I shouldn't be so afraid."
"You're human, Wilson, not Superman."
"I treated terminal ten-year-olds who were braver than me. I'm pathetic. And I was fine when I was first diagnosed, but then I came back here, and now…"
Wilson's voice trailed away, and House nuzzled closer to him. "Maybe that's the difference between you and the superhero kids," he murmured. "Because life's a bitch and let you see exactly what you'd be missing."
A grimace suddenly crossed Wilson's face, and House's free hand instinctively went to Wilson's stomach.
"How bad?"
"It's…tolerable."
House gently examined the area, frowning, and then laid a hand on his forehead. "You're distended and feverish – probably those stupid dreams. You can't go on like this. We can drive to the hospital right now and – "
"House. Stop. We'll go to Princeton General and take care of it tomorrow, okay? Let's just…sleep. Please."
"Fine. But there's no way in hell you're going to that garbage dump."
"It's not a garbage dump; it's a good hospital."
"Yeah, that must be why everyone's always scrambling for an appointment at Princeton-Plainsboro instead."
"You know exactly why I can't go there, House."
"Well, maybe it's time to tell Cuddy," House shrugged.
Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?"
"Why not? She keeps asking about you, anyway."
"Well…okay. If you're sure."
"It's your secret, not mine."
"And she's your ex-girlfriend, not mine."
"Wilson," House sighed, "if that's the only reason why you haven't told her, then you seriously need to get a grip and realize that I really don't give a crap."
"I know, I know. But I've done enough damage by coming back as it is, and I don't want to – "
"Bring that up one more time and see if I don't kill you myself." House reached over to the newer cluster of pills by the Vicodin, picking out one of the bottles and the cup of water he'd learned to have handy at night. "Here," he said. "Take some Tylenol for the fever and get some sleep."
Wilson did as he was told, burrowing further under the covers. "So," he murmured tiredly. "Tomorrow. Cuddy."
"Yeah. And we'll call your parents, and whoever else you want. Stacy, too, for the legal stuff."
"Like we talked about last week?"
House tucked the blankets around him and drew him closer. "Exactly like that."
"Okay."
Nodding in agreement, House kissed his forehead and closed his own eyes to sleep. "Okay."
TBC