Don't Worry Your Pretty Little Heart
Chapter 5
He'd been sleeping soundly, thoughts drifting over one another like water in a brook of rocks. The gurgling was soothing as sunlight drifted through the golden leaves. He watched as a child's hand, small and curious, rolled across the water's edge, the flow lapping at their tan skin. A giggle or two escaped their lips as the perspective panned up to wondering green eyes set in the expanse of a face, features small across plump skin.
He felt warmth in his own hand as he reached out to the child, but he hadn't yet made contact.
Suddenly, the child's face warped, tears falling down the hills of their cheeks. A cry then three escaped their mouth and the boy began to sob.
He wasn't sure what had happened. Did he do something wrong? But the cries got louder until the boy didn't seem to be the one making any sound at all.
Confused, brown eyes searched the scene, and he could hear the sound of the brook fading, replaced by a soothing beeping that he recognized immediately.
He wasn't opening his eyes yet, but he could feel a hand in his, and though he didn't often hear it or witness it, he knew this person crying was his best friend House.
Memories flitted back over the shield provided by his closed lids and the drop in his chest reminded him of how dire and serious a medical ailment was now plaguing him and, with that, his misanthropic friend.
He didn't know why, yet, that House was crying, but he could hasten a guess or two.
He frowned slightly and while he thought for a second that Greg would see, he also realized the older man was feeling such despair that he wouldn't actually notice—which felt so wrong and so foreign for the diagnostician.
What Wilson would give to have those blue eyes looking back at him, studying him, assessing.
Soon, House was hiccupping, snot likely down his nose, and a silence grew between them.
He must feel like such crap, Wilson thought.
For House to have a breakdown… the older man was really going through it.
James ached for him and did the only thing he could think of to remind Greg that he was also not alone, and he was safe with the oncologist:
He squeezed House's hand.
A small gasp came from House, clearly having thought Wilson wouldn't have awoken to see him struggle.
But it was only human to feel pain and to feel love.
Wilson wanted to assure House of that, even if it was only in movement and not in words. House would have probably slapped him if he'd used words.
He was certain that House would dismantle himself, but his hand didn't waver and as he wiped the tear streaks from his face, he said lowly, "How long?"
Wilson opened the curtains from his eyes, brown eyes looking back at House as he shared, "Since the child passed their hand through the brook."
House stared blankly and incredulously back at Wilson, teeth nipping at his bottom lip, but he didn't say anything although he certainly looked like he wanted to. Instead, he laughed at himself and stated, "You probably think—"
But Wilson interrupted, "You're going through a lot."
The validation seemed equally as foreign.
"You, of all people, don't have to feel pity for me." House wiped his face with a gruff hand and sleeve.
Wilson's lip frowned. "I don't," but before he could say much more, House went on, "God, you probably think—" he laughed and shook his head with flickers of disdain, clearly more for himself than the younger man.
"Since when do you care?" He said it with more of a bite than he had intended, and a flash of disbelief and mild annoyance existed in the face he was staring back at.
"Seriously?" House replied and confusion twisted Wilson's features. House continued, as though he hadn't seen, "Don't be an idiot, Wilson." Something changed, molted in his gaze again, like caterpillars shedding their cocoons.
Maybe Wilson's mind had taken a hit more than he had initially realized as it dawned on him that his Language Decoder of House was rather misaligned and raising far more questions now than it would answer.
"I just mean—" the gears spun slowly but House sighed.
"It's different, now." He said ominously.
Wilson blurted out, "It'll be okay."
House's face reflected annoyance again. "Don't say that."
Wilson blinked, but this time he just waited.
House continued, "You don't know that for sure." He looked back at his best friend, his face contorting as his mind spun.
Do I tell him? The thought whispered in his mind.
He imagined it, a caved-in expression as James would melt under the news that House was newly single and facing a medical hardship he had no way of healthily coping through. But would that stress just compound Wilson's health? Adding weight to his shoulders and an effort of responsibility he always owes to House that maybe now the older man cannot, should not, reasonably deposit there?
Was it worth it?
To tell? When lying would just be so much easier?
Maybe it was time for House to protect Wilson for once.
His stare was long, his teeth grinding into each other, jaw tightening, lips pursed. His stare turned him into stone, even, and Wilson's face began to flicker with unease.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" The oncologist stated unsteadily.
House smiled. "I always look at you like this."
Wilson let out a chuckle. "No, you don't, but I'll cave."
It appears they had reached an impasse: their relationship wouldn't do with serious, heartfelt conversations. Wilson couldn't reassure House emotionally without risking the older man from shutting down. And, House had secrets he fought to keep, so, Wilson would just have to have his faith that one day House would break apart just enough to let him in without having an entire mental breakdown.
It was a dance he knew well, and he couldn't help but feel anticipation at the next shot of it.
"So," he began instead, because they were here, and they might as well fill the silence. "When's the next test?"
House's face shone in gratitude, clearly at ease that the medicine was back on the table and in focus.
He shifted in his chair, a small hiss at his lips for the continued pain in his leg, but his hand never left Wilson's alone again and maybe that meant everything, Wilson realized.
House didn't mesh well with empty, comforting platitudes that exuded from people's mouths, but actions, and observable ones at that, communicated more loudly, more substantially, told him everything he needed to know.
It took all of Wilson's strength to not squeeze back House's hand, that deep, pressurized love for his best friend right in his throat, threatening to explode outwards like a can of confetti.
Keep it together, James. Keep it together.
Now was not the time for love confessions. He could wait a while longer.
House's eyes narrowed at Wilson, his voice breaking through the oncologist's love thoughts, "If you're gonna ask questions, at least have the decency to pretend to listen to the answers."
Wilson blinked back at him, stunned into silence.
House sighed, almost pulling his hand away, but something in him kept it frozen there. Like if he let go now, he'd be letting go forever, and that was not a present moment he ever wanted to exist in.
"As I was saying," he relented, this time waiting for Wilson's gaze to become more fixed, an observation only House could pick. "It's the middle of the night and some people think it's okay for you to have to wait until morning. Which, frankly, I think is moronic. But Cuddy won't let me into the electronic records so I can't track them down to hit them with my cane and demand they see you sooner, so, we're at a stalemate."
Wilson nodded slowly. "And you've appointed yourself as babysitter here for the night?"
House's eyes sparkled for a moment, a smile on his lips. "There were worse places to be." He eyed the other doctor. "I also can't trust you won't try to elope again, or work yourself up to a heart attack, so, frankly staying here tonight is more for me than for you. That way I can ensure I'll have a friend to still buy me lunch next week." House shrugged.
Wilson laughed this time. "Purely a selfish enforced endeavor, then." He eyed his friend. "Nothing more to it than that."
"God, no," House implored, a smile set upon his own face. "We can't have the newest gossip be something about how I care." He rolled his eyes.
Wilson snorted lightly, a yawn escaping his mouth. "The world couldn't handle that…" tired eyes began to close again as he soothed himself with every light beep of the monitor, his attention at his calming breaths, not having to fight to take them. He centered on the smooth rise and fall of his chest, the other hand grasping his in warmth.
What else could he do but rest?
The notion felt endlessly comforting as he drifted off again, knowing he was safe.
God was he an idiot.
He wasn't great at words or expressing concern, let alone deeper levels of feelings than that.
How could he say: You're an idiot and I care about you; I need you; you're all I have now; there is nothing left for me but you; I need you here and alive with me. Please, don't go.
Greg was at a loss, fighting between confessing his deepest, darkest secrets or pretending everything was okay despite the very real reality now that it was anything but.
He was still reeling from his sudden, unexpected breakup.
What had Cuddy meant? What secret did she know about him, about Wilson, that she wasn't letting show?
She had the answers and Greg had the questions, but he couldn't bear the thought of ever asking them of her.
He was in pain.
Deep, dark chasms of pain.
He wasn't sure he'd ever make it out.
And if there was one thing House did not do, it was to admit defeat and ask for help. He'd rather be completely stranded on this Alone Island than grovel for hope and aid he didn't even believe would come.
He didn't deserve it.
Wilson deserved better than him.
Yet, House was all that Wilson had left, too. Even his diabetic cat wasn't here to comfort him. He'd had no visitors (even if that was because House glared long enough at those who dared come near the door before seeing House, eyes widening and scampering away to leave hastily) and that didn't look to be changing soon.
If House was stranded on the island, it helped that Wilson had been involved in the shipwreck, too.
House peeked out from over his reading glasses again at his best friend sleeping. It was early morning hours, the clock having just ticked to 2AM and the curtains partially closed on the windows with the dark expanse of night hiding away the moon and the stars, large clouds blocking their view.
House would be lying if he admitted he wasn't tired but after nightmare number two, he couldn't imagine trying to rest again, not for a while.
He'd delivered Chase to bring him some further ounce of entertainment, sent Thirteen to inject Wilson's cat and Foreman and Taub, he'd learned, were busy with the mostly forgotten about patient.
After his conversation with Wilson, he couldn't bring himself to study the case, no matter how much guilt played with his conscience. Which meant he was trying to sleep and rest, too, but dreams of Wilson dying—bleeding out from an aortic dissection; his heart throwing a clot leading to a stroke; another cardiac arrest event except this time they got him back and he was brain damaged secondary to becoming a living zombie that kept trying to eat House—meant he'd never get the chance to sleep peacefully and maintain his own sanity.
House, in a valiant attempt at even just resting, closed his eyes and leaned back, muttering to himself the information he did know:
Nausea. Dizziness. Syncope. Shortness of breath. Tachycardia. A-fib then later V-fib. Sudden cardiac arrest. Irregular heart rhythms. Sweating.
Cardiac, cardiac, cardiac events.
Why didn't this many any sense?
Why now? Did Wilson have another set of family histories lined up that he'd never informed House about? Because from what he did know, and granted he'd retrieved that information illegally, the only family history for cardiovascular events was that one instance where Wilson's paternal grandfather had a stroke that nearly killed him.
Something wasn't adding up.
And House couldn't make sense of it.
Which was irritating beyond belief—and entirely frightening.
He pictured Wilson again: lying on the gravel, lips cyanotic, eyes closed, no pulse, the group of people coming to his aid, the only reason his body was moving was because House was supplying chest compressions.
What if he had stayed that way?
Forevermore?
One day, he would.
When either House was there or if House wasn't there.
One day, Wilson would die.
Why did that truth now suck the air out of House's lungs? Something he wasn't telling, some truth he was hiding behind—but what was it? What could it be?
The answer so close, yet still so far.
Wilson: dead.
House startled awake—limbs free, glancing around haphazardly, where was he, where was he—?
Blue eyes discovered the body in the bed, still strapped in.
"Wilson." He whispered and he looked up at the monitors.
Beep… beep… beep.
He is alive.
Thank you.
House should be able to rest now.
Except he couldn't.
Wouldn't.
Not when his best friend just wasn't himself.
5:47AM.
He'd managed to get in an hour of sleep even though the last ten minutes felt like absolute hell—Wilson's heart had stopped, stuttered and uniquely exploded during a test and scan and House had hurled back a scream so loud that when he jerked in his sleep, the pain in his leg was what had woken him up so fiercely.
Sheer hot, white pain meant he'd swallowed a pain med and forced himself to pace the room, eyes all the while glued to the oncologist, who damningly rested and slept through it all.
If this is what being either Cuddy or Wilson meant when they spent sleepless nights looking after another broken, self-destructing House, they could have back the experience because House hated it and didn't want it ever again.
Cardiac, cardiac, cardiac, House chanted with every painful step, swinging his cane around in circles, trying to decode and decipher early morning thoughts in a brain that felt permanently shut off.
Think, damn it. Differential diagnosis.
What diseases fit?
He shivered. Okay, fine, what tests need to be run?
Already did an echo, heart is structurally fine.
That wasn't the problem, anyways, but good, information is good, tangible, real.
EKG is great, though House could already access this based off the vital signs machine in current use.
Stress test will be especially important.
Except I hope Jimmy won't die during it.
Anxiety peaked in House's bloodstream, cortisol roaming free.
He took a breath.
Think. Puzzle. Medical mystery.
What else?
House, I—can't.
An image of Wilson breathless, caved over himself, panting, struggling—it came unwanted to House's mind.
He staggered over, interposing images of Wilson stacked upon themselves, House unable to separate what was real and what was fiction.
He saw Wilson's hands restrained, then shaking, and did what he maybe should have done hours ago and released the fabric binding them to his bed.
"Wilson," House murmured, craving to desperately see those warm brown eyes looking back at him.
Would it be cruel? To wake him up? To rip him from his dreams or dreamless sleep just for House to confirm that he was real, he was alive, he was on the right side of living?
House licked his lips with a dry tongue.
He's done worse before.
He placed a hand on Wilson's shoulder, lightly shaking his friend.
Wilson didn't respond—like how he hadn't been breathing before, like how he had been d—
House's grip tightened and nudged Wilson, harder.
A groan came from the bed as Wilson's face scrunched up, lines around his eyes, aging him.
"Wilson?" House breathed and brown eyes parted, a yawn separating his lips.
"House?" he asked, confusion and worry fighting for dominance. "What's wrong?"
Everything. House immediately thought.
Instead, he said, "Just checking."
Maybe he could have, or should have, said more but it seemed like it was all that he was capable of at this time.
"You need something?" Wilson asked tentatively, immediately moving his hand, which a soft smile came to his face when he realized he had his freedom back, and raised it to House, grasp clasping the elbow that had made its own contact with the oncologist.
It shouldn't have meant anything. Three weeks ago and it wouldn't have. But time had changed, things were different now, and so the symbolism of it meant everything.
"I have it," House said, the latter implied: I have everything I need right here.
Wilson seemed to understand with that small smile still on his lips as he shifted in the bed. "You wanna lay down?" He asked suddenly and the question flew over House's heart, causing it to beat a little quicker. "Chair can't be comfortable," Wilson added, sleepiness still in his features.
House wanted to say no. Really, he did.
Maybe he should have thought about what it would mean, that he'd be in bed with his best friend and not his now ex-girlfriend, what other people might think or say, or how he was going to reasonably maneuver with his leg—but all of that paled in comparison to Wilson moving over to make space on the right side of his hospital bed and House found himself setting down his cane and climbing in.
He was tentative at first, then more confident as he rested his open palm against Wilson's chest, confirming the heartbeat there that the monitors were tracking, that pulsated his hand as the one inside his own chest galloped.
God, he loved this man.
He nestled his head into the crook of Wilson's neck and Wilson set his own warm and real hand over the one House held on his chest.
"Mmm," Wilson hummed. "That's better."
House observed Wilson's chest rising and falling, the beat rhythmic, thinking to his own self: Better, indeed.
Chase had one plan in mind, and it was after curing their patient, which Foreman and Taub had somehow managed to do and were now back at home in their respective places sleeping, was to tell Wilson that his bloodwork had come back unremarkable and his slot for the stress test had been moved up to 9:00AM.
That was, of course, what he meant to go do when he eyed two occupants in the hospital bed instead of one. His brows furrowed as his head tilted to one side before a knowing look crossed his features.
He glanced at his watch which read the ungodly hour of 7:00AM.
He could let the two of them have some more sleep.
It wasn't unreasonable.
He chuckled on his way back to the Diagnostics office.
Efforts of tomfoolery hot on his mind.
Just a little, nothing too intense. Tame for the diagnostician's standards but foolish enough regardless.
He would be lying to himself and anyone else if having House be this close to him wasn't the blissful torture he ever could have imagined. The self-control he had to exert and power through to neither envelope him in a hug, kiss him, or make further contact was nearly excruciating as it was so natural and, god, yeah, arousing.
But arousing in a cathartic, intimate and meaningful way. Stimulating, really.
He wanted to just hold House so close and never have to let him go again.
The older man's breath puffed warmly against Wilson's neck, at first hesitant then relaxing as he was comforted to sleep by something as simple and humanizing as the red organ in his friend's chest that beat to a soothing tune.
Now that Wilson was more alert, attempting to savor every moment he had House resting against him, memorizing the way the older man felt against his body like he had always belonged there, feeling him breathe, reminding Wilson that he is now safe, he had more time to process and be aghast at what had happened and what could still come to pass.
It wasn't everyday that James Wilson nearly died and the concept of such a potential reality took his breath away, forcing him to have to sift through his panic and anxieties all by himself.
Except he wasn't by himself. He had to keep reminding himself of that. There was another on his life raft and together they'd figure it out.
But it was Wilson's own medical knowledge that gave him a sense of foreboding: once there is one instance of V-fib, the potential for more is ever present.
If dying—or almost dying—once was not enough, Wilson was now staring down a future that could have much more of the same. It just wasn't really something he wanted to think too hard about. It would be difficult to on a good day and today might not be faring as too good of a day.
Wilson suppressed the groan he wanted to make beneath his breath of how the day ahead would be filled with tests and how he'd have to shoulder some of the weight of House into such measures because although being madly in love with the older man, witnessing threefold how badly this was affecting him riddled James Boy Wonder Oncologist with guilt.
It wasn't like he could cut him off of his case, either. Because even Wilson didn't want that, but it scared him how much of a toll it was taking on House and it scared Wilson more how this was a new life trajectory he had never planned for, for himself even.
Damn, if it wasn't the case again that Wilson's need for control meant he had to be prepared for all worst-case scenarios. Except a heart problem was one he never realized he'd need a backup plan and three to navigate through.
He let out a long breath, his hand was still over House's, and he found himself subconsciously strolling his fingers over House's veins.
If he could just figure out a way forwards where House was the least damaged by Wilson's own mortality, the better.
Wilson turned his head a little, brown eyes watching through the room's window. The sky was pinking up, yellow light streaming over tree's branches. Wilson smiled a little and took in a long deep breath, recognizing the smells that were uniquely House's, as he contemplated this was the closest they had ever been to one another, trying to quell the emotion lingering in his chest that the worst had yet to come and the dread of how he, let alone the two of them, were going to get through this and out the other side in one piece.
He shifted his focus again to the thrumming in his chest. He could feel the weight and warmth of House's hand. He tried to drench himself in the experience. He felt House's breath on his body and emotionally he ached and longed for House and himself to be okay. He wasn't sure how to make that happen, it wasn't like he had willed himself into sudden cardiac arrest but if he did have that power, he'd have willed himself back into the land of good health and cheer and backing away slowly from this unfolding disaster.
He sighed. He was most terrified for the stress test.
It felt like he'd already experienced that, and it hadn't gone so well for either him or House, given that Wilson was still in a hospital bed and House lay curled up against him.
Another attack and—would Wilson even make it out alive?
Then there was the notion: Should Wilson even tell House?
If there weren't any platitudes and House didn't know how badly Wilson wanted to kiss him, what other bodily actions were at their disposal?
Wilson felt his heartrate quicken, the slew of anxiety filling up his chest cavity. Brown eyes glanced over the measurements of his vitals machine.
Don't stress. He thought.
Yeah, if it were that easy.
Don't stress about being stressed.
He let out a slow breath, just as he was drifting his eyes closed, he felt that uncomfortable sensation back in his chest as a stutter-stop-back in sinus beat came.
As he inhaled, another asymmetry came into existence.
His breath grew ragged for a moment, as his eyes opened wide, that same sensation that he was about to pass out on the floor, but he was lying in a bed, and luckily, it never came.
He exhaled.
Another breath in.
Out.
…A sequence or misstep occurred.
This was his life now.
He waited for the other round, but it didn't come. As ominous as it was, it was also pretty random.
A stress test under these conditions?
Yeah, he was so fucked.
A/N: Hahaha, here I am! I'm so happy to be getting out another chapter for this story, and the next chapter will begin again right from here so that's already making my work a little bit easier haha
Also, can any other writers relate to when you're cooking up a new chapter and you go to your story to read it and relish in it, before you realize you haven't actually edited or put it up yet? Hahaha, that was me today!
There's just so much ooey gooey goodness of hurt/comfort and love in this chapter, it makes me smile and feel comforted. 😊
Any who, many more stories to come and be updated in the future! I've started a new House fic where Wilson is struggling with substance use himself and I'm planning to have that up and ready to go out very soon. Let me know what you thought of this chapter down in the comments! I'd love to chat with you all and for those whom have left messages that I have yet to respond to, I still will! You did nothing wrong; time is just not my entire forte. But I'll respond as soon as I can!
Thanks so much for reading! I love writing for this story because every time I do it just expunges from me spectacularly and I'm in love with the ride! Also, when I first started this story, I had guessed it'd be 10 chapters long, but I changed that later on, so I have no idea how long it'll be but we'll see through Wilson and testing, their confessing their love for one another, recovery and lifestyle changes and so forth thereafter. I'm cooking up some research for it all, of course. Beyond hurt/comfort but still a good dose of hurt/comfort. 💚💚
Written: 6.23.24, 7.7, 8.11, 8.13, 8.15-8.17.2024
Edited: 8.11, 8.15, 8.17.2024
Typed: 8.15-8.17.2024
Music soundtrack for this chapter: "Temporary" by Eminem ft. Skylar Grey & "Please, Don't Go" by Stephanie Rainey