Shut Your Eyes (rp for The Eighth Doctor)
Wilson coughed a little and grimaced. He knew he should've been in the dining room by now, according to when he'd told the Doctor they'd meet for lunch. It was certainly around lunch time now, he was sure. It wasn't that bad, he told himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and gripping onto the counter with his other hand. It'd go away
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Suddenly it hit him, upon seeing his friend's expression, what he must look like. Pale and sweaty, dishevelled and strained. Wilson didn't pull away from the hand on his forehead immediately, too focused on how cold the Doctor's palm was against his own feverish skin. It wasn't that bad. He'd be fine.
"I'm alright..." he managed, and tried to sit up once again. His arm shook as he tried to push up from the mattress. "Just not feeling too great. It's nothing to--" He stopped and took a deep breath, a grimace falling over his face. His muscles didn't want to work and he ached more than he'd realized. What was worse, his brain knew all too well that a few swallows of scotch would stop this. It would stop and he'd feel warm and satisfied. Wilson tried to push the thought away and shifted with a grunt onto his back after failing to sit up.
"Doctor, you don't have to..." Wilson paused and shut his eyes, trying to remember what he was saying as the sharp pain behind his temples travelled along the top of his skull and down into his neck. "There's nothing to be done. Don't trouble yourself. I don't want you to--" He screwed one eye shut tightly and took a few deep breaths.
"Sorry about missing lunch," he finally said instead, a humorless smile on his lips.
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He returned with a damp, cold washrag and a glass of water, picking his way easily in the grey half-light. Sitting on the bed again, he set the glass on the table and gently laid the folded rag across Wilson's closed eyes, a makeshift compress. "Don't think about lunch," he said quiet, low in his throat, nothing as harsh as a whisper. "I don't think your stomach could handle it. Tell me what you've taken thus far."
His hand crept downwards and enclosed Wilson's own, reassuring the now-sightless man with contact.
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He could hear the drapes being shut and sensed the lights dissapearing. Wilson tried to relax, but between how awkward this felt and how his muscles twitched and ached, it was wholly impossible. His eyes opened momentarily when he sensed the Doctor near him again and he heard his glass being set on the dresser. Wilson swallowed thickly and ran his teeth over his lower lip, not sure he wanted to be laying there with a rag over his face on top of everything else. But then, as the Doctor placed it over his eyes, the wet cold seeped into his skin and felt so good. He let out a shaky breath and tried to still the trembling in his hands and make his muscles unclench. Self-conscious wasn't the right word. They hadn't made a proper word for how he was feeling, yet.
He opened his mouth and tried to speak, coughing in his nervousness, and then felt a familiar hand grasping his own. Wilson's chest rose and fell heavily and he licked his lips, trying again.
"Enough aspirin to ruin the lining of my stomach for a few years," Wilson admitted, his head moving slightly toward the sound of the Doctor's voice even though he couldn't see. "...You don't need to do this. Don't feel obligated. It's my fault, after all, and you r-reap what you sow," he said quietly, his free hand clenching the sheets close to his leg.
The pure and almost desperate need, the exhaustion, the burning...he'd done this to himself. And to Wilson that was a bit terrifying. Behind all the shame and guilt, he'd be lying to himself if he tried to say he wasn't soothed by the hand clasping his own.
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"Hush," the Doctor said, laying a finger of his free hand over Wilson's lips. "None of that, now. I am exactly where I want to be, so I want you to put it out of your mind and concentrate on feeling better."
The Doctor sat quietly for a few moments, one hand holding Wilson's, the other hand rubbing slowly up and down the other man's side, distractedly comforting as he thought. Put it out of your mind... out of mind... With his usual alacrity, the Doctor had an idea, a wonderful, problem-solving idea. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure if Wilson would be so keen for it.
"Wilson?" the Doctor asked tentatively. "I have a plan that might help ease your symptoms, and possibly ease them if they recur. I'd like to hypnotize you, if I may." It was a question he asked with some trepidation. Hypnotism required a great deal of trust, and was not to be undertaken lightly; he had seen too much of the Master's handiwork to not be careful. "If you would rather I don't, I understand. But... I'd like to help."
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Without thinking much on it, Wilson's fingers squeezed the Doctor's a bit as he squeezed his eyes shut more tightly underneath the cold compress. God, his head. He licked his lips again, feeling how dry they were, and the memory of tipping back a bottle as he laid in this very bed overcame him. The bitter but comforting taste, the way it made his throat tingle and warmed his body as it pooled in his gut. Wilson swallowed unwillingly and felt almost afraid of just how much he wanted it. How much he felt like he needed it. If a bottle was put in his hand right now, there wasn't a doubt in his mind that he'd drink from it. Needily.
He tried to take deep, slow breaths and focused on the Doctor's touch running back and forth along his side. His skin felt like it was burning, the fever causing everything to throb painfully, and his stomach was cramping from lack of food as well as in outrage for lack of other things. His face turned toward the Doctor's voice once more, sweat glistening on his skin, and the awareness of his friend made him lessen his grip on the Doctor's hand. He listened without interrupting.
Of course Wilson knew that there were things this man was capable of that were astounding. He'd said before he could assume many things about the Doctor, and that was one of them. Something told him that whatever silly ideas he had regarding hypnotism weren't accurate where this was concerned.
"Ease...Ease them?" Wilson repeated, his voice wavering. "Will I - I mean, will I know what I'm doing? Or will you just..." His voice trailed off as his head pulsated with pain and he squeezed the Doctor's hand again without meaning to, a small grunt escaping his throat before he could stop it. The weight on his chest made it hard to breathe and he raised his free hand up to the rag and pulled it away for a moment so he could see the Doctor's eyes.
It wasn't surprising that he could see them, bright as ever, despite how dark the room was. He examined his friend's face closely and swallowed again, his whole body trembling obviously now. He didn't need to know the answers to those questions. Wilson knew, without a single doubt, that the Doctor would never hurt him. Or cause any harm to come to him. Wilson...trusted him. Almost implicitly. Which made no sense. But he couldn't think about that right now. He was in too much pain and the burning of need was too overbearing.
"Alright." He nodded, running his tongue over his upper lip and trying to steady his breathing so he didn't look so out of control of himself. "Yeah, alright."
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"I'm afraid that you'll have to sit up for this, Wilson," the Doctor said, kicking off his shoes and taking off his frock coat, leaving the garment to puddle in a heap on the floor. "May I help?" Without really waiting for an answer, the Time Lord hooked his friend under his arms, pulling him gently into a sitting position.
He could feel Wilson trying to help him along, but the exertion proved too much for the other man; Wilson slumped forward limply into the embrace, pale and shaking, his head resting in the crook of the Doctor's shoulder, too weak to do much more good. Still, the Doctor reasoned ruefully, arm encircling his friend, free hand smoothing up and down the broad, trembling back. At least he's sitting up. When the tremors eased, the Doctor pushed him back until he was able to look into glazed, over-bright eyes. His patient seemed white to the lips, but resolute. No reason not to press on, then.
"Hypnotism is a relatively simple procedure," he said, gentling with his voice as deft, clinical fingers undid the buttons of Wilson's constrictive Oxford shirt, easing the garment down his shoulders and discarding it on the floor, leaving Wilson in his white T-shirt. "The patient descends into a substate of relaxed passivity, while remaining fully cognizant. Look at me, Wilson."
Holding Wilson's gaze in his own bright blue one, the Doctor took his left arm, the dominant, and with one finger, drew a feather-touch from the tip of Wilson's middle finger up the back of his arm, drawing the psychic energies along the length, speaking softly all the while. "The patient says or does nothing that he doesn't wish, but it becomes easier for both parties to identify and overcome physical and mental traumas." The touch traveled from the elbow to the shoulder. "All it takes is a little help to go down... to finally relax." With the final word, the Doctor touched his first two fingers to Wilson's forehead and pressed gently, rewarded with the telltale flutter in Wilson's eyes. He was under.
Lowering his hands, the Doctor ran a contemplative finger across his lower lip, pondering what to do with his suddenly still and peaceful subject. The easy route would be to implement a mental block and send Wilson to sleep, but the Doctor's curiosity was too great. "I'm going to ask you some questions, Wilson," he said finally. "If you do not wish to answer, you may abstain, but if you do, you must be completely honest." He took a deep breath. "Tell me what you are thinking, Wilson, right now."
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The hot and cold was tiring and Wilson shivered when his bare arms were free of his sleeves, crossing them over his chest almost protectively. His eyes drifted, feeling so strained and tired of hurting, until the Doctor called his attention. With a half-lidded gaze, Wilson was easily transfixed on the brilliant blue, only partially taking in what his friend was saying. His throat contracted at the feeling of a finger caressing over the back of his hand and along his arm, but Wilson could feel something more...almost akin to the blood rushing back into veins after a long absence, his muscles trembling a bit less. He tried focusing on the feeling but found himself lost in the depthless eyes he was staring back into, until he just couldn't...keep...
A low, gentle voice melted over him and Wilson felt slightly weightless, incapable of focusing on anything. Not the trembling or the aches, not even the need. Oh, god, why did he do this to himself? The Head of Oncology in one of Princeton's finest teaching hospitals had turned drunk. House was right to-- what was the voice saying? Wilson was aware of still being there, in the bed. Still aware of the person at his side. The Doctor. He just felt at ease, now. Like a person between sleep and waking feels.
"I didn't try," he said softly, his lips moving slowly and his face serenely relaxed. "House knew I didn't try. I just didn't want to. Lost everything." Wilson's breathing wasn't as violent or heavy now, and he paused to exhale. "I used to be a lot of things. Don't have them any more. Just this room."
Thoughts of House, the two of them watching television and being okay. Thoughts of Grace. Drinking. Sex with House and how confusing that was. Cuddy and House.
"I don't know...who I am now. House said he doesn't know me, either. He knows Cuddy instead." Wilson's head was relaxed, his neck slack, and he turned his face to the side a bit, taking another breath. "I wish I still knew him. Or someone. You, maybe." He was still trembling slightly, but not as much now, and a small smile graced his lips. "I think you know me. Even without the nameplate on my office door. And the drinking. God, I'd give anything for a glass of scotch."
Wilson knew what he was saying, and said it freely. He was too relaxed to keep up walls that needn't be there. The Doctor didn't make him feel afraid. He wasn't afraid of what his friend would think, even moreso now that he was so relaxed and the pounding was duller, so he answered him without fear. After all, the Doctor was looking at him. Had been looking at him when he broke down in the Conservatory, too. Saw him then. Wilson didn't mind being seen by him now.
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"Tell me more about House and Cuddy," the Doctor prompted. "Have you spoken with them, and if so, what happened?" He wasn't going to touch the drinking; that would hopefully be resolved by the end of the session. And as for the assertion that he knew Wilson, without pretense... the Doctor tried to put that out of his mind, to stay objective, ignoring the suddenly, pleasantly warm sensation around his hearts.
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"Cuddy," he began, running his teeth over his bottom lip for a moment. "She wasn't angry at me for not trying this time. I think she knows I've always tried...she knows what losing work meant. It was all I had and she felt like that about work, too. We're not very good at the rest, her and I." Wilson paused and furrowed his brow slightly. "Although she hasn't gotten divorced three times, yet. So maybe she's better at the rest than I am."
Wilson sniffed and flared his nostrils again, his head sinking further into the pillow and his fingers flexing at his sides as his arms trembled a bit. "House..." Lines deepened in Wilson's expression, almost as if in momentary confusion. "Alice told House I was in love with him so he came and we yelled. Our voices are always loud, ever since the Hotel. I told him it wasn't true..." The frown went away and Wilson took another deep breath.
"But then I told him that I didn't want to lose him. I don't...want to lose him. He said he doesn't want to lose me." Wilson squeezed his eyes shut tighter for a moment before speaking again. "We're still confused, but I'll try and help him. Wasn't there for him. Too busy drinking. He needed me.
"No one should be here now. I wasn't there for him. But you're here. Just like before, when we sang." The smile returned. "You shouldn't be here, but I'm glad you are. Didn't want to be alone like before."
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Wilson's last comments, however, confused the Doctor even more. It didn't make sense. He couldn't understand why Wilson had this insistence that he was meant to be alone in the world. The Doctor half-stretched out a hand, reaching for the other man's face, but thought better of it and withdrew; physical contact could be disorienting in a hypnotic state. Instead, the Doctor cleared his throat.
"Wilson, I want you to listen for a moment. Can you hear me clearly?" As Wilson's assent, the Doctor rubbed a hand over his face and tried again. "Wilson, I... I want you to know this, and know it well. You do not deserve to be alone. You deserve a friend, someone to understand and care for you, someone to be there for you. And... as long as both you and I are here, I will be that friend for you. Do you understand? You need feel no guilt for asking my aid, nor do you need to reciprocate out of obligation. I am your friend because I am fond of you, because I wish to be, and because you deserve one."
But why-? Oh, he shouldn't ask that, he really shouldn't. That was personal, that was deep into the psyche, that was a great big button not to be pressed under any circumstances...
"Why on earth do you think yourself unworthy of friendship? Why do you think you should be alone?"
...well, damn.
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Thoughts shifted at the next question, and Wilson frowned for a moment and turned his head to the side. Then lowered his face a bit.
"When I'm with them," he started quietly, lifting his face slightly. He paused and swallowed before continuing. "I'm not happy. I should be happy - they're happy. House knows. He knows and that's why he hasn't left. Why I haven't left, too."
The frown returned and Wilson lifted his head up completely. "I've failed so many times. Not sure I can do anything but fail again. Think it's best to just...think it's best. For everyone else. Maybe me, too."
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"What would make you happy?" he whispered despite himself. Deeper and deeper he dug, not entirely sure how he would climb out when this was over.
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His mouth opened and shut. Then he looked almost pained for a second before letting out another breath as if resigned.
"I don't know," he said, sounding detached from himself and speaking softly.
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"Wilson, it's almost time to sleep," the Doctor said, his voice betraying none of his frustration, "but there's just one more thing to do. I want you to picture something in your mind. Picture something that pleases you, something that you care about. Hold that image in your mind, let it mold to your subconscious. After you wake up again, if you ever feel the urge to drink, let your mind think about the picture, and not about drinking." The subliminal shift wouldn't eradicate future cravings, but with luck, it would reduce their intensity.
"And now," the Doctor sighed, replacing his two fingers on Wilson's forehead, "it's time to go to sleep. Sleep as long as you choose. When you wake, you will feel rested and refreshed, as if you've slept all night. Rest now, Wilson. Sleep." With a slight push, the Doctor felt Wilson go limp and boneless, relaxed in slumber rather than trance. At peace.
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Wilson's thoughts weren't as they were normally. Normally, he didn't stop and wrap his mind around one thing. His train of thought was fast-paced and came in bundles, like wires that twisted from a beginning and found an end that he paid little attention to, instead circling around the curve of the problem or the subject's center and not allowing any one thought to process fully. But in this state, he was perfectly able and allowed to follow the straight line of the voice to the end of the question and search for the answer.
Instead of an image, Wilson at first heard sound. It took a moment for him to realize what it was. A figure was sitting down, his back to Wilson, and it was as if this person knew he was there. Standing at their side. And they didn't mind. The figure turned his head, acknowledging that Wilson was there, and then faced foward again. Knew he was there and didn't mind. Wanted him there. The image set Wilson at ease - there was a certainty to it. He'd always have it. Always have something, never have nothing...which was the fear that led him to shut down and give in to alcohol in the first place. The person wasn't ever going to stand up and the sound would never stop. It brought Wilson comfort of an undefinable sort.
Then the voice replaced the sound again. The Doctor's voice, Wilson thought. That was fine. He was so tired. The aches and need were still there, just quieter, and he'd answered questions. So now he could sleep.
And he felt the Doctor's touch again, only aware of it for a moment before he did sleep. Drifting into unconsciousness with a feeling of security and solace.
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What an informative day, even if the Doctor wasn't especially pleased with the information. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, forgetting how much hypnotism could take from the practitioner. That Wilson would sound so hopeless, so lost... At least his original purpose was fulfilled, and Wilson's symptoms were dealt with. If all went according to plan, the oncologist would wake with only the barest of symptoms. Shaking his head, the Doctor rose from the bed and began to collect his discarded things. However, he kept glancing back at the sleeping figure, peaceful for the moment. What other secrets are you hiding, I wonder? How many times have you been alone?
Replacing his things on the floor, the Doctor sat on the bed again, frowning. He'd never heard of someone experiencing ill aftereffects from a controlled hypnosis... but still, it was better to be safe than sorry, wasn't it? He'd stay for a bit, bide his time, just until Wilson woke up. Just to make sure that he was all right. Swinging his legs up onto the bed, the Doctor laid back, fingers laced over his stomach, acutely aware of the form beside him. He was only here to observe his patient, and then he'd take his leave. It wasn't as if he would fall asleep. He wasn't tired in the least; he'd slept briefly the night before last. He wasn't tired at all... not at all...
The Doctor fell fast asleep.
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