Don't Worry Your Pretty Little Heart
Chapter 3
He's not sure how long he's been sitting there, observing his friend. Studying the way he breathes in through the oxygen supplying his nose and exhales in a soothing degree.
Wilson's been asleep for a few hours, though House hasn't been here that whole time. He has an image to uphold and bedside sitting with his self-proclaimed straight friend isn't it.
Cuddy wasn't pleased with his arguments on treatment for his patient, and she'll be less pleased when she realizes he's skirting his clinic duties but for the sake of his friendship with Wilson and being concerned about him only if he's unconscious and can't lecture him about it, well, it'd have to do.
While they'd still been hanging out, most of their conversations these days centered on House and Cuddy's relationship and Wilson dispensing advice despite his lack of a sex life. Either that or House complained about his team and the annoying habits of his patients hellbent on dying before he figures out the puzzle.
House sighed lightly.
Maybe it was the suddenness of Wilson's mortality, but he couldn't stop his eyes from being glued to Wilson's breath, the beeping of the heart monitor and trying desperately to figure out what the hell was happening.
In fact, in his catastrophizing, House was forgetting how often random flukes can occur in life. Maybe, and he was lying to himself, surely, this was a one-time random diagnostic mystery that didn't need solving because it would never happen again. Maybe everything was fine and the battery of tests Greg was planning to run would be for not, be for nothing all that serious.
But it was with bated breath that House even dared let himself believe any of that horse shit.
Greg House was a brilliant diagnostician, only ever dealing with zebras. That Wilson—bright, funny, considerate and pain in the ass Wilson—could be unwell was an anomaly to life as he knew it.
Sure, Wilson got the rounds of colds like any other human, but the oncologist wasn't meant, wasn't supposed to get any sicker than that. It wasn't right, it didn't make sense, it wasn't how their universe worked.
But Wilson had had cardiac syncope and that meant that whatever was wrong was not only bad but incredibly serious.
House had been matter of fact but he did mean what he said, Wilson could go into sudden cardiac arrest if his too big for his own good heart decided it was time to kick the metaphorical bucket and cease its recommended notion and allegiance to living by completely malfunctioning.
House's breath hitched in his throat, the knots in his stomach hardening, and before he had time to think, he was reaching out thin, pianist fingers and placing them to Wilson's right wrist. Particularly, his radial artery.
House needed to know, to be anchored, to be present.
He had to know Wilson was still alive and wasn't, well, dying. At least not in this present moment.
The beats were steady, smooth, strong.
His heart was beating. Wilson was alive.
It didn't answer what had happened, what was happening, but it lightened the burden on House's shoulders to figure out what was wrong. Even as he felt gratitude for Wilson's pulse to be there, he couldn't explain why he couldn't tear his fingers away.
Okay, so Wilson was alive. Check. Confirmed.
So why couldn't House let his fingers go?
He couldn't explain it. Couldn't think through the puzzle rationally.
Maybe this was a new trauma. Maybe House was traumatized, so he stuck with what he knew and counted: one beat, two beats, three.
He was a doctor; he could do the math.
Maybe his math wasn't mathing impeccably, but he got to 75 and the monitors confirmed it so now, finally, he could let go.
Except… he couldn't. Wouldn't. Could never dream of it.
He knew even less why he was doing his next action, but Wilson's stethoscope was already in his ears as he placed the cool metal to his best friend's chest. Through his clothes, of course, so he wouldn't completely awaken his friend, who would no doubt have questions, comments and jabs to expel to him.
House mouthed words that didn't fully form. He listened to Wilson's mitral, then tricuspid, then pulmonary valves.
Nothing sinister is what he came up with.
He was about to listen to the aortic when James began to stir.
Eyes wide like a child caught shoplifting, House quickly shed the medical device, placing it back on the chair next to him and sat back in his own, his own heart pounding, unsure as to what was yet to come.
Wilson's fingers twitched and he took in a sharp inhale, licking his lips and stirring.
He blinked, eyes finding House quicker than the diagnostician would have figured for a resting man.
His lips upturned into a small smile, as Wilson sighed dreamily and stated, "House?"
"Yeah," he murmured, like the words were too fat to escape from his mouth clearly.
"Whatcha doing?" James asked next, brown eyes curious.
He wasn't asking The Big Questions and House sighed in relief.
"Avoiding Cuddy."
He'd never admit to what he was doing before Wilson awoke or why he was avoiding Cuddy (but to be fair, the reasons were endless). Checking if you're breathing wasn't exactly in their bro code.
"Oh," Wilson didn't sound convinced but yawned instead. "How long have I been asleep?" Worry encircled his brown eyes again, no doubt thinking of all his cancer patients and their appointments to reschedule rather than worrying about himself, or, well, House for that matter.
House was starting to feel too seen under Wilson's gaze.
He shifted in the uncomfortable chair, tossing his head over one shoulder. "Dunno," he said instead, shrugging. "Haven't been here the whole time." He squinted. "That nurse with the mustache said it'd been a couple hours." House grimaced. "You haven't been sleeping well?" It was a weak retort but something had to give in their messed up friendship.
Wilson sighed, shaking his head. "Sarah's been struggling taking her injections again."
House stared blankly back at him.
Wilson rolled his eyes, "The cat."
House murmured in understanding, "That diabetic cat?" he asked but he already knew the answer.
"Sleep's been tough." Wilson said softly. "She kneads at my feet while I'm out and it wakes me up multiple times a night." He sighed, he opened his mouth to say something more when the door to the room opened and Chase came in with a sad expression.
"What do you want?" House scathed to his duckling and Chase rolled his eyes, "Hello to you, too."
House motioned for him to get on with it, hand flapping to Wilson, his latest patient implied when Chase said, "They can't do the stress test for Wilson today. Our actual patient was moved higher up the list and–"
"There aren't any other doctors?" House replied hotly.
"There aren't any other slots open for today." Chase stated and House exhaled roughly.
"So, the technicians and doctors are all on strike and Wilson could die at any moment but that's okay because it's not like he needs his heart to live and it's just more convenient on everyone else's schedule." He was arguing, his voice rising and he was glaring at Chase because Chase should know better and Wilson should be okay but Chase was an idiot and Wilson was a fool because he could already hear his best friend shushing him, telling Chase, "It's fine, I'm not dying, and I can wait."
House's glare found a new target.
"You're an idiot," he said firmly to Wilson. "We don't know what you have, and you could be dying. You need—"
"I don't need to be taking up a bed." Wilson stated instead and blue eyes flashed with more unquelled rage. "If I were dying, I'd already be dead. I didn't because I just passed out—"
House cut him off, "—because of cardiac syncope. You know, that thing in your chest you need to live, to breathe and get blood flowing to your brain otherwise you'd be dead?" Blue eyes narrowed significantly. "You can't be this dumb, Wilson."
"I'll be leaving," James said instead, and House felt his own heart rate increase.
"Against medical advice?" He roared, after which he forced his volume back down. "You're not only an idiot, you're one with a death wish!"
"Is there a difference in your world?" Wilson spat back and exhaled loudly. "I'll be back here tomorrow. I'm assuming a slot will be open by then?"
Chase nodded, though not without his own unease. He made to talk a second opinion of reason into this conversation but one glance at House made him sure he shouldn't dare. The two friends would be arguing about this for weeks to come.
"I'll see myself out," he shared awkwardly, catching from the corner of his eye, Wilson already sitting up in his patient bed.
No sooner than Chase was three steps out of the room did House continue his glare and snarls at Wilson.
"You could be dying," he said, and Wilson made a face.
"Say it enough times and it might come true," he responded pithily. "Is there something going on that I should know about?" Wilson was already removing his leads when House's hand shot out and caught his own in their calloused roughness.
"Don't."
He wanted it to be full of rage but it was a broken note, fear reflecting deeply in his blue eyes.
Brown eyes stared back and while there was some uncertainty there, it wasn't nearly enough to make a difference, to change the story.
Because if you die, I'm alone. Came back to Wilson's consciousness at that moment, and while he wasn't steadfast that all things would be okay, he also had a feeling House wasn't going to let him out of his sight and Wilson couldn't shake the feeling of being chosen and how giddy and special that made him feel.
He paused for another moment, in thought.
If he backed out of his assurances now that he was good enough to go home, would that make House less likely to follow him around like a lost puppy? Would House need not be with Wilson? Going home instead with Cuddy to have some of that ass?
Wilson felt his chest tighten, purely emotionally, as his mind zeroed in on the touch House was giving him.
Was Wilson that desperate for a little human contact he was willing to bet his life on it?
He shook his head.
He wasn't dying. One episode of cardiac syncope didn't translate so irrevocably into being a dead man, especially given he was without symptoms lingering and needed no cardioversion either chemically or mechanically.
Wilson caught himself for a moment looking at House's throat. He couldn't squelch the craving he had to place soft kisses along his jawline. He swallowed quickly, noticing for one breath in, that he could see the flickering of House's own pulse at his carotid.
Something in him shifted in that moment and he clambered for light in a dark hole to get back to what once was, when images of making out with his best friend didn't obscure his vision and for when his heart leapt in delight, he couldn't stop the yearning from wanting to feel House's pulse so clearly as he could feel his own.
He wanted House to care, care for him, take care of him.
He was so close to having all of House's attention, even if it was because Wilson was (not) dying and Wilson craved that more than he could ever realize.
He hadn't thought he'd ever stop this low for those blue eyes to look at him as long as they were, to feel House's hands in his, a place where he craved to hold him.
House was speaking, if the bobbing of his throat was any indication and Wilson mentally shook himself to root him back into the present, the juncture he was idiotically making in sheer desperate attention whoring fashion.
"—will you at least let me run some blood tests?" House inquired and his voice was just above a whisper.
Wilson's nose twitched but he relented with a small nod.
"We'll stop by phlebotomy, and I'll take you home myself." House was crooning, beginning to rise, his hands still on Wilson's. "There's no way in hell I'm letting you leave AMA to go home by yourself. What if—?" He sighed, and as he started to extricate his fingers, Wilson imagined grabbing them, holding on, kissing House, telling him to stay, forcing himself to stay here in the hospital of all places.
But none of that happened.
It couldn't.
Wilson was straight, he wasn't bi, and he wasn't saying goodbye either because he wasn't dying.
Wilson felt the air on his fingers again as House's grasp departed.
House gave him his clothes that Wilson addressed only after tearing off the last few leads. He made for the IV, but House was taking care of him already, holding gauze to the entry point, murmuring stuff beneath his breath.
But Wilson didn't care.
For once, he felt lighter than he had in months.
House was taking care of him.
He knew he'd be okay.
"Hungry?" House asked as he pointed a hand towards the cafeteria on their way out of the hospital.
He didn't like Wilson's plan, he didn't approve of it, and he hoped his best friend wouldn't say anything about how his stethoscope was hooked over the older man's neck, not leaving its place there for even a second.
If Wilson noticed, House thanked the heavens, because he didn't say anything.
House was also keeping a close eye on his friend, noticing how Wilson was walking slower than usual, enough that House had to lag behind a bit, diminishing the speed of which he wanted to rush out of the hospital before other female eyes landed on the two of them, especially since that one female would try to keep him here due to his actual patient of the week. But the ducklings had to learn how to fend for themselves at some point. And if his behavior was juvenile to punish the woman for taking Wilson's spot in a test, he'd only admit that to himself. No one else needed to know.
Wilson's facial expressions competed for dominance, part of him wanting to but another part feeling like he shouldn't.
He wasn't about to admit to House that he felt like vomiting on his shoes again even if the idea of something to drink was tantalizing.
"I have something at home," he said between gritted teeth, forcing his over-salivating mouth to cooperate. He could rest at home. Hell, he could vomit at home, too. He just needed to get out of this damn hospital.
House quirked a brow in his direction but didn't push the issue.
They weren't talking about a lot of things lately, it seemed.
The two men painstakingly left the hospital; that Wilson didn't notice how much House was still favoring his left leg sent sharp razor blades down against his nerves—Wilson wasn't feeling well still, and House would be damned if he'd let Wilson's own stubbornness be the death of him.
He suppressed a sigh (or a jab, he couldn't tell which anymore) when Wilson drifted to the driver's side of his Volvo, House immediately swung his cane to keep the door closed.
"No way I'm letting you drive," he deadpanned, expression serious.
Wilson growled beneath his breath. He turned on House within one swooping blink.
"Are you even planning on letting me leave?" He chewed on his lips. "Or was it just a rouse you had no intention of following through on?"
"You're sick." House easily pointed back, shoulder rolling to the hospital. "You shouldn't be here let alone trying to leave."
"I can take care of myself." Wilson ground out but his eyes begged to differ.
"Clearly not well enough."
"What's your problem, House?" Wilson challenged instead, and he could feel the sweat rolling down his armpits again.
His body was ramping up more than he'd like it to and the worry that entered House's gaze was simply excruciatingly rage inducing.
"You need to calm down," House instructed, and Wilson batted the diagnostician's hand away.
"I—I—need—" Wilson was gasping for air.
He couldn't quell the panic, couldn't shove it back down to where it had come from.
Terror made its way into his chest; he could feel his heart pounding like hoofbeats at the racetrack. He should be calming down, avoiding how much he wanted to both hug and slap House for being as nauseatingly attractive as he was.
He didn't want to feel this way. He didn't want to panic. But panic he did, and he was hurling intake after intake of breath, feeling like he'd never get enough again, and House was there again, all present, ever present, and he was saying things to him, Wilson was sure of it, but the language part of his brain wasn't working—nothing was working—he'd be—after—all.
"Wilson!" House's voice came to him through a tunnel, like an echo from the start of an avalanche. "Wilson, breathe with me."
And House placed one of Wilson's trembling hands to his own chest, the muscles broad for the older gentleman and Wilson tried to keep his focus on breathing but how could he breathe properly, ever again if this were to happen another time?
What if—what if House wasn't there next time?
What if he couldn't save Jimmy Wilson after all?
Wilson felt his heart gallop, skip, pause, run. He groaned, eyes swimming in darkness. He was hunched over his knees now, his forehead resting against his car's window.
"House," his voice sounded thin. "I can't—"
And there were harsh gasps at his mouth again, his lips were blue, he could imagine it so clearly.
Is this what cardiac arrest actually felt like?
Wilson had never had such serious health problems, let alone life-threatening ones. That was more House's and his patients' territories.
His heart beat erratically in his ears, closing in as the all and only sound he could hear, though he vaguely realized it was House at his side, stethoscope on his chest, his stethoscope, shouting something about a wheelchair and Wilson felt embarrassed that House was going to hear his heart stutter and stop and never beat again, he tried to push the diagnostician away, spare him the hurt, but he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, all he could hear, all he could feel was his world collapsing until, he, too, fell into darkness.
"Wilson? Wilson!" House cried out in a fear so grand, he was sure it blotted out the sun.
House was—well, honestly, terrified.
Wilson had started panicking after the rage and it went from not good to dangerous in a matter of seconds because the idiot was hyperventilating, breathless, and causing his heart to beat even faster because of the adrenaline.
House had unhooked the stethoscope and placed it to his friend's chest, hearing the blood swooshing through the beats before Wilson was bent over, coughing and still, the idiot, trying to push him away.
"Need a wheelchair over here!" House yelled for anyone who would listen. He glanced over his shoulder, spotting a blonde haired individual. "Get inside, grab me a wheelchair and any doctor you can find!" When the guy just stared back at him, wide-eyed, House shouted, "You! Now!"
The guy took off without a second thought.
"Come on, Wilson, work with me."
House felt tears pinprick his eyes, but he squashed them down. Wilson wasn't dead yet. He could cry and freak out himself, later. For now, he had to get his friend to the ground slowly. A softer impact because the concrete will be unforgiving.
"House," Wilson uttered in such a small voice. "I can't—"
But House wasn't going to let him go so easily.
"Breathe with me, Wilson." He's not even sure why he said it, or if he even said it at all.
He was bent beside his best friend until, nope, once more, Wilson's body collapsed like a ragdoll.
House was still getting over the first time, but he was more terrified of Wilson cracking his head open than he was about his own leg.
Wilson, having bent towards his car, dragged his head down the doorframe until House managed to catch part of his upper body and save him from faceplanting the gravel.
It wasn't pretty, it was far from good, and House found himself sprawled this time on top of his friend (the damn idiot).
He was instinctively placing fingers to his friend's neck when he gravely noticed Wilson's lips were turning a fair shade of blue and now House was contending with the Grim Reaper over his best friend.
"Not today, Death," House said firmly, though that solid notion vanished when there wasn't a rhythm that met his fingers.
House's own heart stopped short. He held his breath a moment, two, he almost held it for all of eternity except he still didn't feel a beat and oh god, was Wilson even breathing?
House immediately, thrown into sheer panic, started chest compressions, locking his elbows and sending the leftover blood in Wilson's heart to his brain and body.
House gazed at his friend's frozen face, hoping to gods he didn't believe in that Wilson's face wouldn't remain frozen like that forever, vaguely recalling noise around him to which, when he glanced up, he saw frantic bodies in the parking lot around them.
"Gonna need an AED over here!" he shouted, seeing a redhead hurl themselves back into the hospital to retrieve it.
"House?" It was her voice again, a streak of blue skirt in the crowd, her eyes worried and confused to find her two department heads in the parking lot.
He didn't have time to hold her hand through this as he panted over Wilson, sustaining his place as savior, being Wilson's external heart, wondering if he'd ever be chosen in this lifetime to win Wilson's internal heart.
"It's, different, then, before," he said in puffs of air, air that whistled out of him. "He's in v-fib."
He pumped harder into Wilson because even if he broke a rib, at least Wilson could complain about it later when he wasn't dead.
"Last time, was a-fib, I bet. I know it."
Did he? Did he know it?
Why did none of this make a lick of sense?
"Got it!"
Someone produced the glorious AED and House ripped open Wilson's shirt, placing the pads where they needed to go, and waiting for the machine to save Jimmy's life.
When the AED told everyone to stay back, House repeated it, almost mindlessly as he shifted away from his friend, and the first shock was delivered.
The machine didn't find a recognizable rhythm, so back to CPR it was for House. He was murmuring things beneath his breath, most of which didn't make any sense, all nonsensical, really, and Cuddy's hand was on his shoulder, she was talking about a gurney and getting others out there, but she could have been speaking a whole other language for all House's ears were aware of.
The AED called clear again and after Wilson's body jostled, life returned to him as he gasped a lungful of air in and House, fingers already at his friend's throat, felt the heartbeat there again that he could remember from earlier that day.
"Back in sinus!" He cried out and Cuddy was near Wilson's head, telling House they needed to go, but House wasn't sure how he could ever go again, that he wasn't ready, it wasn't time, but she placed a cool hand to his face and stated, "House, we're bringing him back into the hospital, okay? We'll figure this out. There's a room for him there." She sounded like she were trying to explain things to a toddler, slow, steady, (steady and strong like Wilson's heart beating beneath his fingers, the brown eyes shut from the world, unknowing of what was occurring around them).
"O-Okay," he distantly heard himself saying, whispering, really.
How was he going to tell Wilson about this later? His eyes blinked then shifted to Cuddy's, his voice firm, "We're gonna need an echo and an EKG. Be… be ready for another cardioversion if possible."
She nodded in understanding.
"We just have to go now."
House looked back, numbly, at Wilson, where people's hands were already bringing him back up on a gurney, House in tow, fingers still at his throat.
How could House ever imagine going again.
For now, he couldn't.
And he'd be damned if he let Wilson think he could waltz his way out the back door from this side of life.
He growled, lowly. Wilson was going to hear a god damn lengthy dissertation as to why House thought he was an incredible idiot (and how much he owed the diagnostician for scaring the crap out of him, twice in one day).
As his fingers slipped from their home, House realized the enormity of the situation before them.
He just really, really wished he hadn't. He just really, really wished Wilson was going to see reason and see the severity of things, before… before it was too late or too close to call next time.
House's stomach flipped and he vomited right there in the parking lot, Cuddy holding back his shoulders as the bile rose in his throat and out with a sickening slap.
It was too close this time. House would strangle Wilson himself if the oncologist pulled another similar stunt in the future. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, whispering to his girlfriend, "I need—"
"Whatever you need," she responded, her voice gentle.
Scotch. Bourbon. Tea. Tea would be the healthiest… he closed his eyes. Took a long breath in, and steadied himself for the evening they were all about to embark towards.
A/N: Womp womp. So, hi there! I can happily decree that I wrote predominantly this entire chapter all yesterday throughout my workday and this cardiac arrest scene was totally spur of the moment and not at all what I anticipated coming to be in this chapter, but, gotta obey the Muse sometimes!
I know this ending scene is a little rough around the edges, I just finished it up today and I'm not like 100% on it but it'll do for this new update (as it's been far too long since an update again, gwah).
I'm planning this holiday weekend to also update OMB as I wrote like seven pages of fic stuff a couple of weeks ago, plus, I'm going to be eventually posting some newer Loki centered stories too, so there's much in store in the writing realm lately! Honestly, I've been dreaming about House and Wilson and Loki, Thor and the Avengers lately and when that happens, it always means making some time for writing!
Share with me your thoughts in any reviews! I look forward to hearing the oh no's and the cursing of Wilson's bad decision skills and the franticness and intensity that this chapter bubbles up with. I can't wait to be rereading it in the future. Mmm. Such intimate bits, with budding romance and a lot of hurt/comfort! Haha. Also, I'm making this up as I go so my apologies for any glaring plot hole details.
Written: 5.24 & 5.25.2024
Typed: 5.25.2024
Edited: 5.24, 5.25.2024