Accidents And Ativan 3/3
Title: Accidents and Ativan 3/3
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Prompt: Wilson suffers from a wicked case of whiplash after a car accident, and when House cracks a few jokes intended to convey his relief that he wasn't more seriously hurt, Wilson takes it the wrong way and assumes House thinks he's exaggerating his injuries just to get attention. So he starts trying to hide how much pain he's really in so House won't tease him about it.
Pairing: House/Wilson Friendship (Pre-slash)
Category: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Pre-slash
Rating/Warnings: PG-13
Words: Total: 16,135 Part: 3,743
Summary: Wilson's in a car accident. House doesn't handle it well.
Disclaimer: This is where I think up a clever way of telling you they aren't mine.
Part One
Part Two
Once they’re inside, House pushes Wilson gently towards the couch and goes into the kitchen. He’s got some of those gel packs you can microwave, and he pops one in for fifteen seconds, hoping it will help with the tension in Wilson’s neck. When the timer goes off, he feels it, flips it over, and heats it for another fifteen seconds, going to the hall closet and finding a hand towel to wrap it in.
He brings the towel-clad hot pack into the living room and puts it gently on Wilson’s neck. The other man is sitting stiffly on his couch, looking completely miserable. His eyes are still red, and House knows his friend must have been crying before he broke into his office. Wilson leans forward slightly to keep the gel pack from falling off his neck, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge House’s presence.
House is worried about his friend. He gave Cameron money for tea and sent her in on reconnaissance this morning, and she reported that Wilson was obviously in pain but seemed fine. Then Chase and Foreman reported he’d been lying down when they came to get him for the MRI, and moving like every step hurt. When Chase pulled him aside and added that he thought Wilson had been crying in the MRI machine, House decided enough was enough.
The lab results came back while Wilson was in the MRI, showing that everything was fine. So he called Wilson’s secretary to get his schedule cleared, and was even more concerned when he found out Wilson had already cancelled his appointments. Presented with Wilson’s pained behavior and cancelled appointments, Cuddy had readily agreed to give both of them the afternoon off.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, Wilson shifts, leaning back against the couch with a groan. He’s obviously still in pain, but he doesn’t seem inclined to do anything about it. Deciding to take matters into his own hands, House goes into the bathroom, searching the medicine cabinet for painkillers of the non-narcotic variety. He’d give Wilson a Vicodin if he thought he’d take it, but he knows better than to try.
Finally finding some Aleve and Tylenol mixed in a Tylenol bottle, he palms two Aleve and goes into the kitchen for a glass of water. Naproxen is better than acetaminophen for migraines, and it’s an anti-inflammatory, so it should help with his headache and the pain from the whiplash. And naproxen won’t react badly with the lorazepam already in his system.
Armed with water and pills, he comes back into the living room, sitting beside Wilson. “Here.” The younger man looks at him confusedly, taking the pills and water and swallowing obediently.
“Umm, do you mind taking me home?” Wilson’s rubbing his neck, his voice quiet and uncertain. House is startled by the request. Wilson’s obviously miserable, and there’s no way he’s leaving the oncologist on his own like this. He should never have let Wilson go back to the hotel last night.
“Not going to happen,” he tells Wilson nonchalantly, and he’s surprised again by the flash of pure misery that crosses Wilson’s face.
“I’ll call a cab then.” Wilson pulls his cell out and begins to dial, but House intercepts it, slipping it into his own jeans pocket.
“I don’t think so,” he says, and now Wilson’s looking at him, confusion evident in his eyes.
“Why are you doing this?” The words are barely a whisper, but the pain is easy to hear. Obviously, there’s more going on with Wilson than a sore neck. House just doesn’t know what.
“You were in a car accident yesterday.” Until he knows what’s going on, his best bet is to stick to the obvious and hope Wilson will fill in the blanks.
“I’m fine, remember? Just a scratch.” The comment reminds House of Wilson’s other injury, and he decides he should probably check it, to make sure it isn’t getting infected. If he happens to get Wilson’s pulse while he’s looking at it, well, that’s just a side benefit.
“Speaking of which.” Wilson is wearing scrubs for some reason, so the cut is easily visible. House keeps two fingers of his left hand on Wilson’s pulse point while his right hand removes the butterfly bandages holding it closed, doing a quick visual exam to verify that it isn’t swollen or red.
He’s just counted twenty-six beats, in fifteen seconds according to the clock behind Wilson, when the younger man jerks his hand away. “I’m not a nutcase!” Wilson exclaims angrily, shifting further away from House.
He’s calculating in his head as he answers. Wilson’s pulse is 104 bpm. He normally averages around 80. Not dangerous, but not good either. “I never said you were. I was checking your arm.” House tries to keep his tone soothing, making no move to touch Wilson again.
“Checking my pulse, you mean.” House isn’t sure what to say to that. It’s true, but he’s not sure why it’s upset Wilson. He was trying to get a sense of how much pain the younger man is in, since he knows better than to expect a straight answer from Wilson about it.
“It’s 104,” he offers, seeing no point in lying to his friend.
“It’s high. Because I’m in pain. I’ve got a migraine, I’ve got whiplash, I’m being held against my will by someone who thinks I’m faking. It’s perfectly normal to have an elevated pulse.” Wilson’s eyes have that hurt look again, and the sheer pain in them briefly distracts House from Wilson’s words. When he processes Wilson’s said, House has a hard time believing he’s heard him correctly.
“No you aren’t-”
“I was in a car accident! My car was hit by a vehicle going forty miles an hour! Of course I’m in pain.” Wilson interrupts House indignantly, completely misunderstanding what House is trying to say.
“I know,” he deliberately tries to make his voice as gentle as possible. “I was going to say, you aren’t being held against your will by someone who doesn’t believe you. You’re with a friend who’s worried about you and trying to help.”
“Some friend,” Wilson snorts, and House is surprised at how much those words hurt. “Treating me like I’m losing it because I’m in pain. Prescribing anxiety meds for a car crash and then telling your fellows I’m unstable! Did you tell Cuddy too? Are you trying to discredit me, get me fired?”
Finally, House understands. Wilson was out of sorts last night. Obviously, he took House’s relieved joking to mean he wasn’t taking the accident seriously. The near-tantrum over the Ativan makes more sense now. It’s usually used for anxiety these days. Wilson must have forgotten it was originally for muscle pain, and he thought House was mocking him when he prescribed it.
But there are still some things that don’t make sense. “Unstable?”
“You told Dr. Cameron about the Ativan. Presumably, Chase and Foreman too.” Wilson’s voice is full of betrayal and hurt, and House feels awful. How did they get their wires so crossed?
“Yeah, I told the kids what I prescribed. Because they all jumped down my throat when they found out what happened, wanting to know what I’d done for you. Apparently, I’m more of an ass than usual for letting you go home alone last night. Although I have to agree with them there.”
“Yeah, not a good idea to send a basket case home alone, or let them drive right after an accident. I could have hurt someone.” Wilson’s sarcasm is one of House’s favorite things about him- it’s rare that House finds someone who can hold his own against him in that respect. But now, hearing Wilson mock himself- mock what he thinks House thinks of him- it makes him faintly sick.
“No, not a good to make someone with severe neck and shoulder pain drive. That’s what Chase said at least. And Foreman pointed out that it wasn’t such a great idea to let you drive right after you took the Ativan.” House makes eye contact with Wilson and holds it for the next part.
“Cameron, on the other hand, told me in no uncertain terms what a horrible person I am for letting my best friend go home alone after a car accident that could have killed him, when he was not only in pain but probably extremely upset.”
House swallows before continuing. The rest of what he has to say isn’t easy. “They were all right. Particularly Cameron. In my defense, I was pretty shaken up myself. When you got out of the ambulance covered in blood... I went to go get your clothes because I didn’t want you to see how upset I was. Not that it’s an excuse. I should have taken better care of you. I dealt with the tangible issues- the injuries, the transportation problems- but I didn’t stop to think about how you felt. I’m sorry.”
“Why would you?” Wilson’s voice is still bitter. House is a little hurt- Wilson should know how hard it is for him to admit to making a mistake, much less to apologize. He wouldn’t have, if it were anyone but Wilson sitting across from him.
“I’m supposed to be your best friend.” And I’ve royally fucked that up in the past twenty four hours, he adds in his head. Wilson went through hell last night, and all House has done is make it worse.
“I’ve done some thinking about that this morning.” The resigned, sad tone of Wilson’s voice makes House nervous. Wilson’s done some thinking about their friendship? This doesn’t sound good. “I don’t- You don’t- We’re- I’ve got a bad habit of caring about other people more than they care about me.” Wilson chuckles self depreciatingly, continuing, “And I think that’s what happened here. I was hurt that you weren’t upset, because if it’d been you, I would have been... hysterical.”
Wilson looks so small and miserable it almost breaks House’s heart. He’s wearing baggy scrubs again- House makes a mental note to find out why- and with his hair falling freely over his forehead, he looks ridiculously young and vulnerable. The instinct to comfort him somehow is overwhelming, and House scoots closer so that their shoulders are touching. He can’t quite make himself hug Wilson, but he needs the younger man to know he’s there.
“You think I wasn’t upset? Ask Cuddy. She’s the one who called me. I was shaking when she told me. I’ve never been as relieved as I was when you walked out of that ambulance. Looking at you covered in blood like that made me sick, even though I knew it wasn’t yours, because it could have been. If you’d been going any slower, if you’d taken any longer to start across, if he’d been going any faster, if he’d been a lane over, if you didn’t drive a Volvo- the ways it could have been worse are exponential. And I thought of every one of them while I was fixing you up. I ordered an MRI because I’d convinced myself the seatbelt could have caused internal bleeding, even though I knew it was ridiculous, and I needed to know you were okay.”
The look Wilson fixes him with is wary but hopeful, as if he can scarcely believe what House is telling him and thinks it might be a cruel joke. “You kept saying I was whining, or faking it, or that nothing was really wrong.”
For the first time in his life, House regrets his habit of making jokes at inappropriate moments. “I say stupid shit when I’m upset. You know that. I’m the guy at the funeral joking that at least Great Aunt Martha doesn’t have to eat the weird fruit filled jello.” That gets a smile out of Wilson, at least, which makes him feel a little better.
“If you didn’t think I was faking, why the anxiety meds?”
“I thought you were supposed to be a doctor,” House jokes, but it falls flat. “Ativan is a muscle relaxant, remember? I thought it’d help with the whiplash.”
“Oh.” Wilson’s voice is small, his tone surprised and a little embarrassed.
“Yeah, ‘oh’,” House repeats sarcastically. He’s more than a little hurt that Wilson honestly thought he didn’t care that his friend had been in an accident, even though a part of him knows it’s his own fault for being such a jerk about the whole thing.
Deciding that the emotional side of things is as resolved as it’s going to get, House goes back to worrying about the medical end, which he’s much more comfortable with. He gets up and goes into the bedroom, digging around for a few minutes before he finds the first aid kit Wilson insists he keeps on hand. He brings it back into the living room, putting it on the coffee table. “I should re-bandage your arm.”
Wilson holds his arm out without comment, biting his lip when House pours hydrogen peroxide on the healing cut. The antiseptic bubbles, and House wipes it away before using a few butterfly bandages to make sure the cut will stay closed.
Once he’s closed the first aid kit up, he looks over at Wilson critically. His friend is sitting stiffly, and he winces every time he moves his neck. The combination of the naproxen and the lorazepam should be helping more than this. The MRI came back clean, but maybe there’s a tear or something it missed. Wanting Wilson’s opinion, he remarks, “You shouldn’t be in this much pain with Aleve and Ativan in your system.”
Wilson blushes scarlet, turning away instead of answering House. He says something, but his tone is so quiet House can’t hear him. “What?” he prompts the younger man.
“I might not have taken the Ativan this morning,” he says, glancing shamefacedly at House as if gauging the other man’s reaction to this piece of information before looking down at his hands.
House is beyond angry. Wilson’s been in horrible pain all day, and it infuriates him that it’s because the younger man was too stubborn to take his medicine. His voice is coldly furious when he asks, “You’re a doctor, Wilson. What would you say, if, for instance, you prescribed chemo pills to a patient and they refused to take them?”
“That’s not the same thing at all!”
“No? Okay, how about this. You’ve got a patient who’s going through chemo. Your patient is really sick, so you prescribe lorazepam for the nausea.” Wilson looks like he’s going to interrupt, so House fixes him with a glare, continuing, “I know you’ve done it before. Well, this patient knows Ativan is used to treat anxiety, and decides, for no real reason, that you think they’re a basket case and are freaking out over nothing, when they have cancer. So they don’t take the medicine. The nausea is awful, they spend all of their time throwing up, and they have to be hospitalized because they’re so dehydrated. What would you say?”
Wilson looks even more ashamed when he answers. “I’d tell them that they were being an idiot, that even if they don’t like the stigma associated with Ativan, they need it, and it’s stupid to let it bother them that it’s sometimes used to treat anxiety. I’d tell them that even if they needed it for anxiety, there’s nothing wrong with taking medicine you need, and anyone who has a problem with that is just a small minded bigot. I’d tell them that it’s better to take a drug they’re embarrassed by than make their self sick for pride.”
As House watches, Wilson realizes how stupid he’s been. He looks so pitiful, sitting there beating himself up, that part of House wants to shush him, to tell him it’s okay and not to worry about it. But the fine lines around Wilson’s eyes and mouth remind House of how much his friend has suffered, needlessly. House doesn’t tolerate anyone hurting Wilson, and that includes the oncologist himself.
“I don’t suppose you were at least smart enough to bring the pills with you, in case you needed them?” Wilson shakes his head, and House lets out an explosive breath, barely resisting the urge to yell at the younger man, reminding himself Wilson has a migraine.
House starts coming up with a plan. He doesn’t want to drag Wilson back to the hotel or the hospital to get the medicine, but he’s not keen on the idea of leaving him alone either. He decides that the best thing to do is give Wilson Vicodin for now and ask Cuddy to drop by with an Ativan prescription on her way home tonight.
He’s not looking forward to either conversation- Cuddy is going to want to know why Wilson doesn’t have his medicine, and probably let House have it for not taking better care of him, and Wilson is going to freak out when House suggests Vicodin. Deciding that, scary as that thought is, Cuddy is the lesser of two evils in this situation, he calls her first, calling her cell so that he doesn’t have to talk to her receptionist.
“Cuddy, it’s House. I need you to do me a favor.”
“Must be big if you’re actually asking. Are you in jail? Did you kill someone?” Normally, House loves verbally sparring with the Dean of Medicine, but today he’s too worried about Wilson to bother.
“I’m at home with Wilson. You know that. Look, the idiot left his lorazepam at the hotel, and he’s in a lot of pain. Can you fill a prescription and bring some by when you get off of work?” House notes the concern in his voice and curses himself. He hates sounding vulnerable.
“Of course. Will he be okay until five thirty or so?” Cuddy sounds at least as worried as he does, which makes him feel a little bit better.
“He’ll be fine. Thanks, Lisa.” House surprises himself by thanking her.
“Of course he will. He’s got you looking after him.” House hears the smile in Cuddy’s voice, the strange mix of amusement and honest affection. She really does care about both of them.
Remembering her behavior at the ambulance bay last night, House concedes that, underneath the evil witch persona she projects, she’s still the girl he used to know. He’s mildly surprised to get off without a lecture about taking better care of Wilson, but he’s not about to question his good fortune.
“See you later,” he says, flipping his phone shut and turning to Wilson, who is still sitting beside him on the couch. “Cuddy’s going to bring your Ativan when she gets off of work.”
Wilson nods miserably, apparently resigned to dealing with the pain until then. Given that it’ll be almost six hours until Cuddy arrives, House doesn’t consider that an option. “Until then,” he says, opening the vial of pills that he always keeps in his pocket and handing Wilson one.
The younger man takes the pill without comment, picking up his glass of water to wash it down. That, more than anything else, worries House. Wilson hates pain medication. It’s a battle to get him to take headache medicine, and House has never seen him take anything that can’t be bought over the counter for pain. He’s terrified of becoming addicted.
Some of that, House is sure, is the result of watching his best friend become dependent on Vicodin, but Wilson was like that before the infarction. House suspects it has something to do with his brother. He assumed last night that that was why Wilson was so upset about the Ativan- he didn’t want to get addicted. That he just willingly took a Vicodin tells House a lot about Wilson’s pain level, and it’s not anything good.
“How bad is it, honestly?” he asks, torn between needing to know and really not wanting to find out.
“Awful. A seven, I think. I’ve never been good with the pain scale. The migraine isn’t helping.” Wilson sounds miserable, and it’s all House can do not to hug him, but a lifetime of habit is hard to break, and it’d probably freak Wilson out more than it would help anyway.
“How long?” House asks, hoping his worry isn’t obvious.
“Since not long after Cameron came by. I threw up right after she left.” It’s a perfect opening for a sarcastic remark about Cameron’s diabetes inducing personality, but House doesn’t take it.
“And you were going to stay at work?” It takes all of House’s willpower not to shout, but he doesn’t want to make Wilson’s headache worse.
“I knew I couldn’t drive,” the oncologist tells him miserably.
“And it didn’t occur to you to ask me for a ride home?” There it is again- that strange, gnawing pain in his chest, that he’s gotten several times since they got home. He’s trying to convince himself it’s heartburn, but House has always been an expert on rejection.
“You wouldn’t take me home last night. I figured you wouldn’t want to be bothered.” Wilson sounds horribly sad.
“I thought if I refused to take you home, you’d stay here. I didn’t like the idea of leaving you on your own,” House admits. “I should have known you’d be stubborn,” he adds with a wry smile.
“I learned from the best,” Wilson counters, a small smile on his own face.
“You did.” House’s tone grows serious once more. “And I’m laying down the law, right now.” Wilson looks vaguely disturbed, obviously having no idea where this is going. “From now on, if you’re hurt or sick, you come get me. Or call me. I don’t care what’s going on, you will never hide something like this from me again. Understood?”
Wilson’s voice is quiet. “Understood.” He makes eye contact with House before continuing. “And House? Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Ever.” House says, feeling more at ease than he has all day. They’re okay, and Wilson’s going to be fine. They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes. House is missing his soaps, but he knows the TV would hurt Wilson’s head. Thinking of his soaps reminds him that it’s lunch time, and he goes into the kitchen to see if he’s got anything edible.
He finds sandwich bread, peanut butter, American cheese, and a multi-pack of lunch meat that smells alright. Deciding it’s the best he can do, he fixes himself a couple of peanut butter sandwiches, making Wilson two turkey and cheese’s with mustard. He doesn’t have lettuce or tomatoes for them, but he figures Wilson will prefer turkey to peanut butter.
He contemplates beer, but figures Wilson will have a fit about drinking in the middle of the day and grabs a couple of cans of Dr. Pepper instead. He has to hook his cane onto his arm so he can use both hands, but he manages to get everything into the living room in one trip.
Wilson thanks him for the sandwiches but picks at them listlessly. By the time House has finished his first sandwich and started on the second, Wilson’s barely had a full bite of his own. “I’m no chef, but surely they aren’t that bad,” House jokes.
“No, the sandwiches are fine, it’s just... I’m still kind of nauseous.” Wilson tells him.
“And sleepy,” House notes. Wilson’s eyes have been drooping since the Vicodin kicked in. “The exhaustion is the Vicodin, the nausea is either the medicine or the pain. Speaking of which, number?”
“Three-ish. I’m mostly just stiff, but there’s a jolt of pain if I move.” House isn’t particularly pleased by that, but it’s a huge improvement.
Deciding there’s no way Wilson’s going to be able to eat a decent meal right now, he finishes his own sandwiches, taking the oncologist’s nearly untouched plate and setting both of them down on the coffee table. “You should get some rest,” he says.
“Umm, do you mind moving so I can stretch out?” Wilson asks, a little subduedly. House doesn’t like how hesitant he’s being, but figures it’s a combination of lethargy from the drugs and the after effects of the huge misunderstanding they had last night. If Wilson doesn’t snap out of it tonight, he’ll have to think of something, but for now, it probably isn’t an issue.
“Actually, I do. This is my couch.” The emphasis is on ‘couch’ not ‘my’, but Wilson misunderstands, kicking his shoes off and moving to curl up awkwardly across the two couch cushions House isn’t using. House pushes his feet back off the couch. “That’s what beds are for,” he tells the younger man, when he looks at him in confusion.
“You want me to go back to the hotel? I thought I was staying, since Cuddy’s bringing my medicine over.” Wilson sounds sad and a little hurt, but resigned, and House really wants to shake him. James Wilson is one of the smartest people House has ever met, but he can be a total idiot sometimes.
“I’ve got a perfectly good bed. No one’s using it right now.” Wilson makes another of his quiet, surprised “oh”s, getting up and obediently walking back into the bedroom. The scrubs he’s wearing are comfortable enough to sleep in, so House doesn’t bother digging up pajamas for him, watching silently as he disappears down the hallway.
Not wanting to turn on the TV in case it disturbs Wilson, House begins digging around the living room for something to read. His book is on his bedside table, and he’s afraid he’ll wake Wilson up if he goes in to get it.
Finally settling down with a spanish medical journal, House manages to concentrate on his reading for all of twenty minutes before the desire to check on Wilson becomes nearly overpowering. He stalls for another five minutes before a small cry from the bedroom spurs him into action.
Wilson is still asleep, obviously in the throws of a nightmare. He’s crying and occasionally calling out, “No!” House is frozen in the doorway for a moment, unable to figure out what he should do, but a particularly pitiful sob pulls him out of his own fear and he walks into the room, sitting down tentatively beside Wilson and shaking his friend’s shoulder.
“Wilson, Wilson wake up. It’s okay, it’s just a nightmare. You’re fine, I promise. Wake up.” House continues, alternating reassurance and pleas, and he thinks he’s gotten through to Wilson when the other man turns to him, crying out his name in a broken, terrified voice.
Wilson continues sobbing, crying out “No!” and “House!” periodically, and House realizes that, while the oncologist’s eyes are open, he’s still very much trapped in the nightmare. Suddenly realizing that the way Wilson’s moving must be hell on his back and neck, House does the only thing he can think of.
He slips into the bed beside Wilson, still sitting up, and pulls the younger man into his arms, holding him still and speaking gently into his ear, “It’s okay, Wilson. I’ve got you. I’m right here, and it’s gonna be alright.” When the sobbing eventually stops, House is too relieved to care how awkward the situation is.
“House?” Wilson’s voice is confused, and a little rough from crying, but it’s lost the heartbroken desperation it had while he was asleep. Unable to resist, House runs his fingers gently through Wilson’s hair before he answers.
“You were having a nightmare.” He keeps his voice soothing, resisting the urge to make a joke. His ill-timed jokes have done enough damage in the past twenty four hours.
“Oh. Sorry.” Wilson sounds ashamed as he pulls away. House lets him, but makes no move to get out of the bed. Wilson’s lying down on the left hand side, and House is sitting on top of the covers on the right, beside his bedside table, prepared to wait his friend out.
“Do you want to talk about it?” The incredulous look Wilson gives him makes him laugh, which sets Wilson off too, and it takes a few minutes for them to calm down. “Seriously. Telling someone about nightmares is supposed to help. And I know it had something to do with me.” Wilson’s deer in headlights look causes him to elaborate, “You kept saying ‘No!’ and ‘House!’, and you were crying.”
Wilson looks ridiculously humiliated, but after a moment, he speaks. “I dreamed the accident, but...” He trails off, and House decides to help him out.
“Was I with you?” Wilson shakes his head mutely. “Where was I?”
“You were where I was. And I was where they were. And I hit you, and you were on the bike, and I was covered in blood again, but this time it was yours, and you were dead and it was all my fault.” Wilson’s crying again, and House does the only thing he can think of, grabbing his friend and pulling him close. The embrace is desperate, Wilson clinging to him, repeating, “My fault,” over and over again and House unable to do anything but hold on, finally acknowledging his own fears.
When Wilson has quieted down, House begins to speak. “I dreamed about it last night too. Sometimes I was there, and I saw you get hit. Sometimes you died on impact, sometimes you died while I was trying to save you, sometimes people were screaming ‘We need a doctor!’ and I couldn’t move. Sometimes I was at the hospital when the ambulance got in. You were DOA, or you died in surgery.
“Once, I dreamed it happened again while you were on the way home. I called your hotel after that one, and asked the receptionist if you had made it in. I got to work at eight this morning, because I couldn’t stand the idea of having another nightmare, and I wanted to see you the second you got in.” Finished confessing their nightmares, they both sit for a few minutes, just holding each other. It should feel odd- House doesn’t touch people- but it’s the most natural, comfortable thing in the world.
After a little while, House asks, “You think you can go back to sleep?” Wilson nods from his position against House’s chest, disentangling himself and lying down. Instead of getting up, House reaches over and picks up his book from the nightstand, remarking, “Bed’s big enough for two.” At Wilson’s questioning look, he says, “You’ll sleep better if I’m here.” Wilson nods, looking embarrassed, and House forces himself to add the rest of the truth, “And I don’t exactly want you out of my sight right now.”
They spend the afternoon like that, Wilson sleeping and House reading. When Wilson starts getting restless, House reaches over, running his fingers through his hair or holding his hand, comforting him until the nightmare goes away. The nightmares don’t go beyond mild discomfort again, thankfully, and, even more thankfully, Wilson doesn’t wake up.
Even though he knows he’s the one who’s weird about touching, he doesn’t like the idea of Wilson waking up while he’s petting him or holding his hand. The whole thing feels a bit surreal, and this couldn’t be less like all of the fantasies he’s had about getting Wilson into bed with him. But his friend needs him, so House pushes aside his own tangled web of feelings and stays at his side.
When Cuddy knocks on the door, House is startled. He can barely believe it’s been over four hours since he sat down with Wilson, but a glance at his watch shows that it has. He gets up gingerly, trying not to disturb the sleeping man, and goes to let Cuddy in.
She immediately passes him the bag from the pharmacy, asking, “How is he?”
“Alright for now. He’s sleeping.” He turns away under the guise of leading her into the living room as he adds, “I made him take a Vicodin.” He expected protest from Wilson, just like he expected a lecture from Cuddy about letting Wilson off on his own in the first place, and while he got lucky earlier, he’s sure he won’t this time.
“He actually took it?” Cuddy asks as they sit down on the couch, disbelief clear in her voice. When he nods, she continues, “Did you grind it up and put it in his tea or something?”
A little stung, he replies, “No, I just handed it to him and he swallowed it. Didn’t argue at all.”
His own concern from earlier is reflected in Cuddy’s eyes. “How bad was it?”
“He said about a seven. The fact that he answered that question at all, not to mention took the medicine, means it was bad. He said he went down to three-ish after the Vicodin kicked in, but it left him really sleepy. He’s been asleep for the past four hours or so.”
“Nightmares?” Her voice is full of quiet concern, and he decides to tell her the truth.
“One really bad one that woke him up. I’ve been staying in there with him since then, and he hasn’t woken up again.” He sees Cuddy’s smile and bristles for a moment, but she’s not laughing at them, she’s genuinely pleased, so he doesn’t say anything.
“I’ll let you get back to him then. Call me if either of you needs anything.” Cuddy gets up, walking to the door, but pauses before opening it. “I’m glad he’s got you.” Her voice is quiet, but sincere. “There’s no one else I’d trust with him.”
House gapes at her for a minute, but before he can think of a response, she’s gone. He looks around the room helplessly for a moment, medicine bag still in hand. He gave Wilson the Vicodin around 12:15, so he should wait until at least 6:00 to give him the Ativan. 6:15 would be safer. And he should make him eat something. The Vicodin knocked him out because he took it on an empty stomach.
That gives him a purpose to keep him busy for the next half hour. Deciding to check on Wilson before he does anything else, he goes into the bedroom and is pleased to see the oncologist sleeping quietly, although the look on his face tells House he’s probably in pain. There’s nothing to be done yet, though, so House goes back into the kitchen to begin sorting out dinner.
His first thought is to order pizza, but remembering that Wilson couldn’t even handle a sandwich earlier, he decides something bland is probably a better idea. He’s got bread, so he can fix toast, but he’d rather get a little protein into his friend. There’s Gatorade he doesn’t remember buying shoved into the back of the fridge, and he figures Wilson got it for him last time he was sick.
Thinking back, he remembers exactly when Wilson got it for him. The pain was spiraling out of control, and he couldn’t keep anything down. Wilson showed up with Gatorade, chicken soup, an anti-emetic, and a saline IV hookup, hoping to spare House a trip to the hospital. They wound up having to use the IV, but after the second shot of the anti-emetic, he started feeling a little better. He ended up drinking some of the Gatorade and eating a little soup, but he remembers distinctly joking that Wilson brought enough food for an army.
If he’s still got Gatorade, he should still have soup. He rummages around the cupboards for a few minutes before coming up with a couple of cans of soup. One claims to be 99% fat free chicken noodle, while another has chicken with wild rice and a third contains chicken (of course) and herb dumplings. Of course Wilson couldn’t just get regular Campbell’s chicken noodle like everyone else, he had to get the fancy Progresso kind.
The kind with the wild rice has the most carbs and protein, so that’s what he decides to make. By the time he’s found the soup, which was in a cupboard above his head where Wilson apparently keeps all of the canned goods (House is briefly amused by the fact that, while this is his apartment, it’s definitely Wilson’s kitchen) it’s 5:45, so he figures he might as well go ahead and make Wilson’s dinner. He’ll figure out what he’s having after he’s fed his friend and gotten the Ativan into him.
He tries pouring the soup into a regular cereal bowl, but only about half of it fits. He pokes around for a few minutes before finding a larger bowl he thinks he recognizes, and luckily, it holds all of the soup. He puts it into the microwave, remembering to take the spoon out only as he’s punching in the time but thankfully before it’s started, and sets about fixing toast.
Toast is, like canned soup, what House calls “bachelor food”- the kind of thing just about anyone can make and Wilson very rarely lowers himself to eating. He teases Wilson about being a food snob, but his friend always jokes back that he’s just jealous because Wilson can cook. He really isn’t- that’s what he’s got Wilson for after all- but waiting for his pathetic attempt at dinner to finish, he can’t help wishing he could make Wilson something a little more substantial.
Wilson may have brought over canned soup, but he intended those for once he’d left. While he was there, he made the soup himself, although he insisted it wasn’t from “scratch” because he used pre-made noodles. House knows that, even if he had ingredients, he couldn’t fix Wilson anything more complicated than the meal he’s putting together right now, and he can’t help feeling a little inferior.
Wilson always takes care of him, whether he’s in pain, sick, or just in a bad mood. And the one time Wilson needed him, he was too busy trying to hide his feelings to be there for his friend. The toaster finishes first, and House lightly butters the finished toast, taking some pride in the fact that they’re at least the perfect golden brown color. When the microwave goes off, he opens it to let the soup cool for a moment while he looks for a tray. He knows he has one- Wilson uses it when he’s in pain or sick and staying in bed- but he has no idea where it is.
He finally finds it in the cabinet beside the oven which contains an assortment of pots and pans House never uses. Wilson’s stashed all of the things House never uses in the cabinets it’s harder for him to get to, so that the things he needs, like plates and prepackaged foodstuffs, are within easy reach.
He puts the plate with the toast on the tray, feeling the soup bowl and deciding it’s cool enough before adding it. He almost puts the whole jug of Gatorade on, but it’s intimidatingly large, so he gets a cup and pours some in, adding a straw because that’s what Wilson does.
He brings the tray into the bedroom with some difficulty, hating how hard it is for him to do even the simplest things. He’s just put it down on the nightstand and is about to wake Wilson up when it occurs to him that after he rescued the spoon from the microwave, he never put it back with the food. He goes back for it, and when he returns to the bedroom, he’s surprised to see Wilson sitting up.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks, putting the spoon on the tray and passing the whole thing to his friend.
“Sore,” Wilson admits with a slight grimace, looking over the tray before remarking with obvious surprise, “You have soup?”
“You bought it awhile ago,” House admits, wondering why he’s embarrassed by that. He’s always taken pride in getting Wilson to take care of him. “Cuddy brought your meds, but I thought you should eat something before you took them. The Vicodin probably wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t taken it on an empty stomach. You’re supposed to take this sort of stuff with food-” House realizes he’s babbling and forces himself to shut up. He sounds like an idiot.
“Yeah.” Wilson’s voice is kind, the way it always is, and it’s ridiculous, because Wilson was just in a car accident, he’s miserable and in pain, and yet House is the one who can’t keep it together, and Wilson’s the one doing the comforting.
Once Wilson’s eaten both pieces of toast and most of the soup, House gives him an Ativan. He takes it with a huge gulp of Gatorade, making a self conscious face as he swallows. “I can’t believe I made such a big deal out of these,” he says.
House really isn’t sure what to say to that, so he decides to move the conversation along. “Do you feel like getting up? You should move around a little, or the muscles will get stuck in position.” Wilson nods and gets to his feet. He takes the tray himself and follows House back into the kitchen.
“Have you eaten? Of course you haven’t. There’s nothing here to eat!” Wilson’s in full mother hen mode as he checks the fridge for food.
“I’ll order something. Go sit down.” The two men leave the tray on the counter and walk into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. House orders a pizza, then begins flipping through his TV stations. He’s not in the mood for anything involving violence, particularly of the destroyed vehicle variety, so they eventually wind up on some station that’s showing reruns of old game shows.
When the pizza arrives, House offers some to Wilson, but the younger man looks like he might be sick at the mere thought of pizza, so House leaves him alone. They continue watching game shows for a while, and around nine thirty, in the middle of an episode of Wheel of Fortune, House realizes Wilson’s fallen asleep.
The oncologist tips over so that his head is resting on House’s shoulder, snoring faintly. Not wanting to wake him up, House sits through the rest of Wheel of Fortune and nearly an entire episode of The Price Is Right before beginning to nod off himself and deciding it’s time for bed.
It takes several pokes to get Wilson’s attention, and even when he wakes up, it’s obvious that the Ativan’s affecting him. He’s groggy and slightly out of it, and when House tells him it’s time for bed, he leans over and tries to stretch out on the couch.
House manhandles him into the bathroom, putting the spare toothbrush he keeps for Wilson into the sleepy oncologist’s hand before leaving him to get ready for bed. House is grateful once again that Wilson’s already in scrubs, although he still doesn’t know why, because he’s not sure he could keep the younger doctor awake long enough to get him to change clothes. Once he’s brushed his teeth, Wilson tries to go back into the living room, and has to be redirected into House’s bedroom.
Once he’s got Wilson settled in bed, House goes to handle his own nightly routine. After brushing his teeth and turning all of the lights in the apartment off, House returns to his bedroom, where Wilson is fast asleep in bed. He looks impossibly young and vulnerable splayed out across the bed, and as House climbs into bed beside him and turns on the lights, he realizes how lucky he is to still have his friend.
He’s almost lost him twice in the past day, once to a car accident and once to his own callous stupidity, but in the end, everything has worked out, and he’s glad. As long as Wilson’s here, whole and by his side, the rest can wait. They’ll sort it out eventually.
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Prompt: Wilson suffers from a wicked case of whiplash after a car accident, and when House cracks a few jokes intended to convey his relief that he wasn't more seriously hurt, Wilson takes it the wrong way and assumes House thinks he's exaggerating his injuries just to get attention. So he starts trying to hide how much pain he's really in so House won't tease him about it.
Pairing: House/Wilson Friendship (Pre-slash)
Category: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Pre-slash
Rating/Warnings: PG-13
Words: Total: 16,135 Part: 3,743
Summary: Wilson's in a car accident. House doesn't handle it well.
Disclaimer: This is where I think up a clever way of telling you they aren't mine.
Part One
Part Two
Once they’re inside, House pushes Wilson gently towards the couch and goes into the kitchen. He’s got some of those gel packs you can microwave, and he pops one in for fifteen seconds, hoping it will help with the tension in Wilson’s neck. When the timer goes off, he feels it, flips it over, and heats it for another fifteen seconds, going to the hall closet and finding a hand towel to wrap it in.
He brings the towel-clad hot pack into the living room and puts it gently on Wilson’s neck. The other man is sitting stiffly on his couch, looking completely miserable. His eyes are still red, and House knows his friend must have been crying before he broke into his office. Wilson leans forward slightly to keep the gel pack from falling off his neck, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge House’s presence.
House is worried about his friend. He gave Cameron money for tea and sent her in on reconnaissance this morning, and she reported that Wilson was obviously in pain but seemed fine. Then Chase and Foreman reported he’d been lying down when they came to get him for the MRI, and moving like every step hurt. When Chase pulled him aside and added that he thought Wilson had been crying in the MRI machine, House decided enough was enough.
The lab results came back while Wilson was in the MRI, showing that everything was fine. So he called Wilson’s secretary to get his schedule cleared, and was even more concerned when he found out Wilson had already cancelled his appointments. Presented with Wilson’s pained behavior and cancelled appointments, Cuddy had readily agreed to give both of them the afternoon off.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, Wilson shifts, leaning back against the couch with a groan. He’s obviously still in pain, but he doesn’t seem inclined to do anything about it. Deciding to take matters into his own hands, House goes into the bathroom, searching the medicine cabinet for painkillers of the non-narcotic variety. He’d give Wilson a Vicodin if he thought he’d take it, but he knows better than to try.
Finally finding some Aleve and Tylenol mixed in a Tylenol bottle, he palms two Aleve and goes into the kitchen for a glass of water. Naproxen is better than acetaminophen for migraines, and it’s an anti-inflammatory, so it should help with his headache and the pain from the whiplash. And naproxen won’t react badly with the lorazepam already in his system.
Armed with water and pills, he comes back into the living room, sitting beside Wilson. “Here.” The younger man looks at him confusedly, taking the pills and water and swallowing obediently.
“Umm, do you mind taking me home?” Wilson’s rubbing his neck, his voice quiet and uncertain. House is startled by the request. Wilson’s obviously miserable, and there’s no way he’s leaving the oncologist on his own like this. He should never have let Wilson go back to the hotel last night.
“Not going to happen,” he tells Wilson nonchalantly, and he’s surprised again by the flash of pure misery that crosses Wilson’s face.
“I’ll call a cab then.” Wilson pulls his cell out and begins to dial, but House intercepts it, slipping it into his own jeans pocket.
“I don’t think so,” he says, and now Wilson’s looking at him, confusion evident in his eyes.
“Why are you doing this?” The words are barely a whisper, but the pain is easy to hear. Obviously, there’s more going on with Wilson than a sore neck. House just doesn’t know what.
“You were in a car accident yesterday.” Until he knows what’s going on, his best bet is to stick to the obvious and hope Wilson will fill in the blanks.
“I’m fine, remember? Just a scratch.” The comment reminds House of Wilson’s other injury, and he decides he should probably check it, to make sure it isn’t getting infected. If he happens to get Wilson’s pulse while he’s looking at it, well, that’s just a side benefit.
“Speaking of which.” Wilson is wearing scrubs for some reason, so the cut is easily visible. House keeps two fingers of his left hand on Wilson’s pulse point while his right hand removes the butterfly bandages holding it closed, doing a quick visual exam to verify that it isn’t swollen or red.
He’s just counted twenty-six beats, in fifteen seconds according to the clock behind Wilson, when the younger man jerks his hand away. “I’m not a nutcase!” Wilson exclaims angrily, shifting further away from House.
He’s calculating in his head as he answers. Wilson’s pulse is 104 bpm. He normally averages around 80. Not dangerous, but not good either. “I never said you were. I was checking your arm.” House tries to keep his tone soothing, making no move to touch Wilson again.
“Checking my pulse, you mean.” House isn’t sure what to say to that. It’s true, but he’s not sure why it’s upset Wilson. He was trying to get a sense of how much pain the younger man is in, since he knows better than to expect a straight answer from Wilson about it.
“It’s 104,” he offers, seeing no point in lying to his friend.
“It’s high. Because I’m in pain. I’ve got a migraine, I’ve got whiplash, I’m being held against my will by someone who thinks I’m faking. It’s perfectly normal to have an elevated pulse.” Wilson’s eyes have that hurt look again, and the sheer pain in them briefly distracts House from Wilson’s words. When he processes Wilson’s said, House has a hard time believing he’s heard him correctly.
“No you aren’t-”
“I was in a car accident! My car was hit by a vehicle going forty miles an hour! Of course I’m in pain.” Wilson interrupts House indignantly, completely misunderstanding what House is trying to say.
“I know,” he deliberately tries to make his voice as gentle as possible. “I was going to say, you aren’t being held against your will by someone who doesn’t believe you. You’re with a friend who’s worried about you and trying to help.”
“Some friend,” Wilson snorts, and House is surprised at how much those words hurt. “Treating me like I’m losing it because I’m in pain. Prescribing anxiety meds for a car crash and then telling your fellows I’m unstable! Did you tell Cuddy too? Are you trying to discredit me, get me fired?”
Finally, House understands. Wilson was out of sorts last night. Obviously, he took House’s relieved joking to mean he wasn’t taking the accident seriously. The near-tantrum over the Ativan makes more sense now. It’s usually used for anxiety these days. Wilson must have forgotten it was originally for muscle pain, and he thought House was mocking him when he prescribed it.
But there are still some things that don’t make sense. “Unstable?”
“You told Dr. Cameron about the Ativan. Presumably, Chase and Foreman too.” Wilson’s voice is full of betrayal and hurt, and House feels awful. How did they get their wires so crossed?
“Yeah, I told the kids what I prescribed. Because they all jumped down my throat when they found out what happened, wanting to know what I’d done for you. Apparently, I’m more of an ass than usual for letting you go home alone last night. Although I have to agree with them there.”
“Yeah, not a good idea to send a basket case home alone, or let them drive right after an accident. I could have hurt someone.” Wilson’s sarcasm is one of House’s favorite things about him- it’s rare that House finds someone who can hold his own against him in that respect. But now, hearing Wilson mock himself- mock what he thinks House thinks of him- it makes him faintly sick.
“No, not a good to make someone with severe neck and shoulder pain drive. That’s what Chase said at least. And Foreman pointed out that it wasn’t such a great idea to let you drive right after you took the Ativan.” House makes eye contact with Wilson and holds it for the next part.
“Cameron, on the other hand, told me in no uncertain terms what a horrible person I am for letting my best friend go home alone after a car accident that could have killed him, when he was not only in pain but probably extremely upset.”
House swallows before continuing. The rest of what he has to say isn’t easy. “They were all right. Particularly Cameron. In my defense, I was pretty shaken up myself. When you got out of the ambulance covered in blood... I went to go get your clothes because I didn’t want you to see how upset I was. Not that it’s an excuse. I should have taken better care of you. I dealt with the tangible issues- the injuries, the transportation problems- but I didn’t stop to think about how you felt. I’m sorry.”
“Why would you?” Wilson’s voice is still bitter. House is a little hurt- Wilson should know how hard it is for him to admit to making a mistake, much less to apologize. He wouldn’t have, if it were anyone but Wilson sitting across from him.
“I’m supposed to be your best friend.” And I’ve royally fucked that up in the past twenty four hours, he adds in his head. Wilson went through hell last night, and all House has done is make it worse.
“I’ve done some thinking about that this morning.” The resigned, sad tone of Wilson’s voice makes House nervous. Wilson’s done some thinking about their friendship? This doesn’t sound good. “I don’t- You don’t- We’re- I’ve got a bad habit of caring about other people more than they care about me.” Wilson chuckles self depreciatingly, continuing, “And I think that’s what happened here. I was hurt that you weren’t upset, because if it’d been you, I would have been... hysterical.”
Wilson looks so small and miserable it almost breaks House’s heart. He’s wearing baggy scrubs again- House makes a mental note to find out why- and with his hair falling freely over his forehead, he looks ridiculously young and vulnerable. The instinct to comfort him somehow is overwhelming, and House scoots closer so that their shoulders are touching. He can’t quite make himself hug Wilson, but he needs the younger man to know he’s there.
“You think I wasn’t upset? Ask Cuddy. She’s the one who called me. I was shaking when she told me. I’ve never been as relieved as I was when you walked out of that ambulance. Looking at you covered in blood like that made me sick, even though I knew it wasn’t yours, because it could have been. If you’d been going any slower, if you’d taken any longer to start across, if he’d been going any faster, if he’d been a lane over, if you didn’t drive a Volvo- the ways it could have been worse are exponential. And I thought of every one of them while I was fixing you up. I ordered an MRI because I’d convinced myself the seatbelt could have caused internal bleeding, even though I knew it was ridiculous, and I needed to know you were okay.”
The look Wilson fixes him with is wary but hopeful, as if he can scarcely believe what House is telling him and thinks it might be a cruel joke. “You kept saying I was whining, or faking it, or that nothing was really wrong.”
For the first time in his life, House regrets his habit of making jokes at inappropriate moments. “I say stupid shit when I’m upset. You know that. I’m the guy at the funeral joking that at least Great Aunt Martha doesn’t have to eat the weird fruit filled jello.” That gets a smile out of Wilson, at least, which makes him feel a little better.
“If you didn’t think I was faking, why the anxiety meds?”
“I thought you were supposed to be a doctor,” House jokes, but it falls flat. “Ativan is a muscle relaxant, remember? I thought it’d help with the whiplash.”
“Oh.” Wilson’s voice is small, his tone surprised and a little embarrassed.
“Yeah, ‘oh’,” House repeats sarcastically. He’s more than a little hurt that Wilson honestly thought he didn’t care that his friend had been in an accident, even though a part of him knows it’s his own fault for being such a jerk about the whole thing.
Deciding that the emotional side of things is as resolved as it’s going to get, House goes back to worrying about the medical end, which he’s much more comfortable with. He gets up and goes into the bedroom, digging around for a few minutes before he finds the first aid kit Wilson insists he keeps on hand. He brings it back into the living room, putting it on the coffee table. “I should re-bandage your arm.”
Wilson holds his arm out without comment, biting his lip when House pours hydrogen peroxide on the healing cut. The antiseptic bubbles, and House wipes it away before using a few butterfly bandages to make sure the cut will stay closed.
Once he’s closed the first aid kit up, he looks over at Wilson critically. His friend is sitting stiffly, and he winces every time he moves his neck. The combination of the naproxen and the lorazepam should be helping more than this. The MRI came back clean, but maybe there’s a tear or something it missed. Wanting Wilson’s opinion, he remarks, “You shouldn’t be in this much pain with Aleve and Ativan in your system.”
Wilson blushes scarlet, turning away instead of answering House. He says something, but his tone is so quiet House can’t hear him. “What?” he prompts the younger man.
“I might not have taken the Ativan this morning,” he says, glancing shamefacedly at House as if gauging the other man’s reaction to this piece of information before looking down at his hands.
House is beyond angry. Wilson’s been in horrible pain all day, and it infuriates him that it’s because the younger man was too stubborn to take his medicine. His voice is coldly furious when he asks, “You’re a doctor, Wilson. What would you say, if, for instance, you prescribed chemo pills to a patient and they refused to take them?”
“That’s not the same thing at all!”
“No? Okay, how about this. You’ve got a patient who’s going through chemo. Your patient is really sick, so you prescribe lorazepam for the nausea.” Wilson looks like he’s going to interrupt, so House fixes him with a glare, continuing, “I know you’ve done it before. Well, this patient knows Ativan is used to treat anxiety, and decides, for no real reason, that you think they’re a basket case and are freaking out over nothing, when they have cancer. So they don’t take the medicine. The nausea is awful, they spend all of their time throwing up, and they have to be hospitalized because they’re so dehydrated. What would you say?”
Wilson looks even more ashamed when he answers. “I’d tell them that they were being an idiot, that even if they don’t like the stigma associated with Ativan, they need it, and it’s stupid to let it bother them that it’s sometimes used to treat anxiety. I’d tell them that even if they needed it for anxiety, there’s nothing wrong with taking medicine you need, and anyone who has a problem with that is just a small minded bigot. I’d tell them that it’s better to take a drug they’re embarrassed by than make their self sick for pride.”
As House watches, Wilson realizes how stupid he’s been. He looks so pitiful, sitting there beating himself up, that part of House wants to shush him, to tell him it’s okay and not to worry about it. But the fine lines around Wilson’s eyes and mouth remind House of how much his friend has suffered, needlessly. House doesn’t tolerate anyone hurting Wilson, and that includes the oncologist himself.
“I don’t suppose you were at least smart enough to bring the pills with you, in case you needed them?” Wilson shakes his head, and House lets out an explosive breath, barely resisting the urge to yell at the younger man, reminding himself Wilson has a migraine.
House starts coming up with a plan. He doesn’t want to drag Wilson back to the hotel or the hospital to get the medicine, but he’s not keen on the idea of leaving him alone either. He decides that the best thing to do is give Wilson Vicodin for now and ask Cuddy to drop by with an Ativan prescription on her way home tonight.
He’s not looking forward to either conversation- Cuddy is going to want to know why Wilson doesn’t have his medicine, and probably let House have it for not taking better care of him, and Wilson is going to freak out when House suggests Vicodin. Deciding that, scary as that thought is, Cuddy is the lesser of two evils in this situation, he calls her first, calling her cell so that he doesn’t have to talk to her receptionist.
“Cuddy, it’s House. I need you to do me a favor.”
“Must be big if you’re actually asking. Are you in jail? Did you kill someone?” Normally, House loves verbally sparring with the Dean of Medicine, but today he’s too worried about Wilson to bother.
“I’m at home with Wilson. You know that. Look, the idiot left his lorazepam at the hotel, and he’s in a lot of pain. Can you fill a prescription and bring some by when you get off of work?” House notes the concern in his voice and curses himself. He hates sounding vulnerable.
“Of course. Will he be okay until five thirty or so?” Cuddy sounds at least as worried as he does, which makes him feel a little bit better.
“He’ll be fine. Thanks, Lisa.” House surprises himself by thanking her.
“Of course he will. He’s got you looking after him.” House hears the smile in Cuddy’s voice, the strange mix of amusement and honest affection. She really does care about both of them.
Remembering her behavior at the ambulance bay last night, House concedes that, underneath the evil witch persona she projects, she’s still the girl he used to know. He’s mildly surprised to get off without a lecture about taking better care of Wilson, but he’s not about to question his good fortune.
“See you later,” he says, flipping his phone shut and turning to Wilson, who is still sitting beside him on the couch. “Cuddy’s going to bring your Ativan when she gets off of work.”
Wilson nods miserably, apparently resigned to dealing with the pain until then. Given that it’ll be almost six hours until Cuddy arrives, House doesn’t consider that an option. “Until then,” he says, opening the vial of pills that he always keeps in his pocket and handing Wilson one.
The younger man takes the pill without comment, picking up his glass of water to wash it down. That, more than anything else, worries House. Wilson hates pain medication. It’s a battle to get him to take headache medicine, and House has never seen him take anything that can’t be bought over the counter for pain. He’s terrified of becoming addicted.
Some of that, House is sure, is the result of watching his best friend become dependent on Vicodin, but Wilson was like that before the infarction. House suspects it has something to do with his brother. He assumed last night that that was why Wilson was so upset about the Ativan- he didn’t want to get addicted. That he just willingly took a Vicodin tells House a lot about Wilson’s pain level, and it’s not anything good.
“How bad is it, honestly?” he asks, torn between needing to know and really not wanting to find out.
“Awful. A seven, I think. I’ve never been good with the pain scale. The migraine isn’t helping.” Wilson sounds miserable, and it’s all House can do not to hug him, but a lifetime of habit is hard to break, and it’d probably freak Wilson out more than it would help anyway.
“How long?” House asks, hoping his worry isn’t obvious.
“Since not long after Cameron came by. I threw up right after she left.” It’s a perfect opening for a sarcastic remark about Cameron’s diabetes inducing personality, but House doesn’t take it.
“And you were going to stay at work?” It takes all of House’s willpower not to shout, but he doesn’t want to make Wilson’s headache worse.
“I knew I couldn’t drive,” the oncologist tells him miserably.
“And it didn’t occur to you to ask me for a ride home?” There it is again- that strange, gnawing pain in his chest, that he’s gotten several times since they got home. He’s trying to convince himself it’s heartburn, but House has always been an expert on rejection.
“You wouldn’t take me home last night. I figured you wouldn’t want to be bothered.” Wilson sounds horribly sad.
“I thought if I refused to take you home, you’d stay here. I didn’t like the idea of leaving you on your own,” House admits. “I should have known you’d be stubborn,” he adds with a wry smile.
“I learned from the best,” Wilson counters, a small smile on his own face.
“You did.” House’s tone grows serious once more. “And I’m laying down the law, right now.” Wilson looks vaguely disturbed, obviously having no idea where this is going. “From now on, if you’re hurt or sick, you come get me. Or call me. I don’t care what’s going on, you will never hide something like this from me again. Understood?”
Wilson’s voice is quiet. “Understood.” He makes eye contact with House before continuing. “And House? Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Ever.” House says, feeling more at ease than he has all day. They’re okay, and Wilson’s going to be fine. They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes. House is missing his soaps, but he knows the TV would hurt Wilson’s head. Thinking of his soaps reminds him that it’s lunch time, and he goes into the kitchen to see if he’s got anything edible.
He finds sandwich bread, peanut butter, American cheese, and a multi-pack of lunch meat that smells alright. Deciding it’s the best he can do, he fixes himself a couple of peanut butter sandwiches, making Wilson two turkey and cheese’s with mustard. He doesn’t have lettuce or tomatoes for them, but he figures Wilson will prefer turkey to peanut butter.
He contemplates beer, but figures Wilson will have a fit about drinking in the middle of the day and grabs a couple of cans of Dr. Pepper instead. He has to hook his cane onto his arm so he can use both hands, but he manages to get everything into the living room in one trip.
Wilson thanks him for the sandwiches but picks at them listlessly. By the time House has finished his first sandwich and started on the second, Wilson’s barely had a full bite of his own. “I’m no chef, but surely they aren’t that bad,” House jokes.
“No, the sandwiches are fine, it’s just... I’m still kind of nauseous.” Wilson tells him.
“And sleepy,” House notes. Wilson’s eyes have been drooping since the Vicodin kicked in. “The exhaustion is the Vicodin, the nausea is either the medicine or the pain. Speaking of which, number?”
“Three-ish. I’m mostly just stiff, but there’s a jolt of pain if I move.” House isn’t particularly pleased by that, but it’s a huge improvement.
Deciding there’s no way Wilson’s going to be able to eat a decent meal right now, he finishes his own sandwiches, taking the oncologist’s nearly untouched plate and setting both of them down on the coffee table. “You should get some rest,” he says.
“Umm, do you mind moving so I can stretch out?” Wilson asks, a little subduedly. House doesn’t like how hesitant he’s being, but figures it’s a combination of lethargy from the drugs and the after effects of the huge misunderstanding they had last night. If Wilson doesn’t snap out of it tonight, he’ll have to think of something, but for now, it probably isn’t an issue.
“Actually, I do. This is my couch.” The emphasis is on ‘couch’ not ‘my’, but Wilson misunderstands, kicking his shoes off and moving to curl up awkwardly across the two couch cushions House isn’t using. House pushes his feet back off the couch. “That’s what beds are for,” he tells the younger man, when he looks at him in confusion.
“You want me to go back to the hotel? I thought I was staying, since Cuddy’s bringing my medicine over.” Wilson sounds sad and a little hurt, but resigned, and House really wants to shake him. James Wilson is one of the smartest people House has ever met, but he can be a total idiot sometimes.
“I’ve got a perfectly good bed. No one’s using it right now.” Wilson makes another of his quiet, surprised “oh”s, getting up and obediently walking back into the bedroom. The scrubs he’s wearing are comfortable enough to sleep in, so House doesn’t bother digging up pajamas for him, watching silently as he disappears down the hallway.
Not wanting to turn on the TV in case it disturbs Wilson, House begins digging around the living room for something to read. His book is on his bedside table, and he’s afraid he’ll wake Wilson up if he goes in to get it.
Finally settling down with a spanish medical journal, House manages to concentrate on his reading for all of twenty minutes before the desire to check on Wilson becomes nearly overpowering. He stalls for another five minutes before a small cry from the bedroom spurs him into action.
Wilson is still asleep, obviously in the throws of a nightmare. He’s crying and occasionally calling out, “No!” House is frozen in the doorway for a moment, unable to figure out what he should do, but a particularly pitiful sob pulls him out of his own fear and he walks into the room, sitting down tentatively beside Wilson and shaking his friend’s shoulder.
“Wilson, Wilson wake up. It’s okay, it’s just a nightmare. You’re fine, I promise. Wake up.” House continues, alternating reassurance and pleas, and he thinks he’s gotten through to Wilson when the other man turns to him, crying out his name in a broken, terrified voice.
Wilson continues sobbing, crying out “No!” and “House!” periodically, and House realizes that, while the oncologist’s eyes are open, he’s still very much trapped in the nightmare. Suddenly realizing that the way Wilson’s moving must be hell on his back and neck, House does the only thing he can think of.
He slips into the bed beside Wilson, still sitting up, and pulls the younger man into his arms, holding him still and speaking gently into his ear, “It’s okay, Wilson. I’ve got you. I’m right here, and it’s gonna be alright.” When the sobbing eventually stops, House is too relieved to care how awkward the situation is.
“House?” Wilson’s voice is confused, and a little rough from crying, but it’s lost the heartbroken desperation it had while he was asleep. Unable to resist, House runs his fingers gently through Wilson’s hair before he answers.
“You were having a nightmare.” He keeps his voice soothing, resisting the urge to make a joke. His ill-timed jokes have done enough damage in the past twenty four hours.
“Oh. Sorry.” Wilson sounds ashamed as he pulls away. House lets him, but makes no move to get out of the bed. Wilson’s lying down on the left hand side, and House is sitting on top of the covers on the right, beside his bedside table, prepared to wait his friend out.
“Do you want to talk about it?” The incredulous look Wilson gives him makes him laugh, which sets Wilson off too, and it takes a few minutes for them to calm down. “Seriously. Telling someone about nightmares is supposed to help. And I know it had something to do with me.” Wilson’s deer in headlights look causes him to elaborate, “You kept saying ‘No!’ and ‘House!’, and you were crying.”
Wilson looks ridiculously humiliated, but after a moment, he speaks. “I dreamed the accident, but...” He trails off, and House decides to help him out.
“Was I with you?” Wilson shakes his head mutely. “Where was I?”
“You were where I was. And I was where they were. And I hit you, and you were on the bike, and I was covered in blood again, but this time it was yours, and you were dead and it was all my fault.” Wilson’s crying again, and House does the only thing he can think of, grabbing his friend and pulling him close. The embrace is desperate, Wilson clinging to him, repeating, “My fault,” over and over again and House unable to do anything but hold on, finally acknowledging his own fears.
When Wilson has quieted down, House begins to speak. “I dreamed about it last night too. Sometimes I was there, and I saw you get hit. Sometimes you died on impact, sometimes you died while I was trying to save you, sometimes people were screaming ‘We need a doctor!’ and I couldn’t move. Sometimes I was at the hospital when the ambulance got in. You were DOA, or you died in surgery.
“Once, I dreamed it happened again while you were on the way home. I called your hotel after that one, and asked the receptionist if you had made it in. I got to work at eight this morning, because I couldn’t stand the idea of having another nightmare, and I wanted to see you the second you got in.” Finished confessing their nightmares, they both sit for a few minutes, just holding each other. It should feel odd- House doesn’t touch people- but it’s the most natural, comfortable thing in the world.
After a little while, House asks, “You think you can go back to sleep?” Wilson nods from his position against House’s chest, disentangling himself and lying down. Instead of getting up, House reaches over and picks up his book from the nightstand, remarking, “Bed’s big enough for two.” At Wilson’s questioning look, he says, “You’ll sleep better if I’m here.” Wilson nods, looking embarrassed, and House forces himself to add the rest of the truth, “And I don’t exactly want you out of my sight right now.”
They spend the afternoon like that, Wilson sleeping and House reading. When Wilson starts getting restless, House reaches over, running his fingers through his hair or holding his hand, comforting him until the nightmare goes away. The nightmares don’t go beyond mild discomfort again, thankfully, and, even more thankfully, Wilson doesn’t wake up.
Even though he knows he’s the one who’s weird about touching, he doesn’t like the idea of Wilson waking up while he’s petting him or holding his hand. The whole thing feels a bit surreal, and this couldn’t be less like all of the fantasies he’s had about getting Wilson into bed with him. But his friend needs him, so House pushes aside his own tangled web of feelings and stays at his side.
When Cuddy knocks on the door, House is startled. He can barely believe it’s been over four hours since he sat down with Wilson, but a glance at his watch shows that it has. He gets up gingerly, trying not to disturb the sleeping man, and goes to let Cuddy in.
She immediately passes him the bag from the pharmacy, asking, “How is he?”
“Alright for now. He’s sleeping.” He turns away under the guise of leading her into the living room as he adds, “I made him take a Vicodin.” He expected protest from Wilson, just like he expected a lecture from Cuddy about letting Wilson off on his own in the first place, and while he got lucky earlier, he’s sure he won’t this time.
“He actually took it?” Cuddy asks as they sit down on the couch, disbelief clear in her voice. When he nods, she continues, “Did you grind it up and put it in his tea or something?”
A little stung, he replies, “No, I just handed it to him and he swallowed it. Didn’t argue at all.”
His own concern from earlier is reflected in Cuddy’s eyes. “How bad was it?”
“He said about a seven. The fact that he answered that question at all, not to mention took the medicine, means it was bad. He said he went down to three-ish after the Vicodin kicked in, but it left him really sleepy. He’s been asleep for the past four hours or so.”
“Nightmares?” Her voice is full of quiet concern, and he decides to tell her the truth.
“One really bad one that woke him up. I’ve been staying in there with him since then, and he hasn’t woken up again.” He sees Cuddy’s smile and bristles for a moment, but she’s not laughing at them, she’s genuinely pleased, so he doesn’t say anything.
“I’ll let you get back to him then. Call me if either of you needs anything.” Cuddy gets up, walking to the door, but pauses before opening it. “I’m glad he’s got you.” Her voice is quiet, but sincere. “There’s no one else I’d trust with him.”
House gapes at her for a minute, but before he can think of a response, she’s gone. He looks around the room helplessly for a moment, medicine bag still in hand. He gave Wilson the Vicodin around 12:15, so he should wait until at least 6:00 to give him the Ativan. 6:15 would be safer. And he should make him eat something. The Vicodin knocked him out because he took it on an empty stomach.
That gives him a purpose to keep him busy for the next half hour. Deciding to check on Wilson before he does anything else, he goes into the bedroom and is pleased to see the oncologist sleeping quietly, although the look on his face tells House he’s probably in pain. There’s nothing to be done yet, though, so House goes back into the kitchen to begin sorting out dinner.
His first thought is to order pizza, but remembering that Wilson couldn’t even handle a sandwich earlier, he decides something bland is probably a better idea. He’s got bread, so he can fix toast, but he’d rather get a little protein into his friend. There’s Gatorade he doesn’t remember buying shoved into the back of the fridge, and he figures Wilson got it for him last time he was sick.
Thinking back, he remembers exactly when Wilson got it for him. The pain was spiraling out of control, and he couldn’t keep anything down. Wilson showed up with Gatorade, chicken soup, an anti-emetic, and a saline IV hookup, hoping to spare House a trip to the hospital. They wound up having to use the IV, but after the second shot of the anti-emetic, he started feeling a little better. He ended up drinking some of the Gatorade and eating a little soup, but he remembers distinctly joking that Wilson brought enough food for an army.
If he’s still got Gatorade, he should still have soup. He rummages around the cupboards for a few minutes before coming up with a couple of cans of soup. One claims to be 99% fat free chicken noodle, while another has chicken with wild rice and a third contains chicken (of course) and herb dumplings. Of course Wilson couldn’t just get regular Campbell’s chicken noodle like everyone else, he had to get the fancy Progresso kind.
The kind with the wild rice has the most carbs and protein, so that’s what he decides to make. By the time he’s found the soup, which was in a cupboard above his head where Wilson apparently keeps all of the canned goods (House is briefly amused by the fact that, while this is his apartment, it’s definitely Wilson’s kitchen) it’s 5:45, so he figures he might as well go ahead and make Wilson’s dinner. He’ll figure out what he’s having after he’s fed his friend and gotten the Ativan into him.
He tries pouring the soup into a regular cereal bowl, but only about half of it fits. He pokes around for a few minutes before finding a larger bowl he thinks he recognizes, and luckily, it holds all of the soup. He puts it into the microwave, remembering to take the spoon out only as he’s punching in the time but thankfully before it’s started, and sets about fixing toast.
Toast is, like canned soup, what House calls “bachelor food”- the kind of thing just about anyone can make and Wilson very rarely lowers himself to eating. He teases Wilson about being a food snob, but his friend always jokes back that he’s just jealous because Wilson can cook. He really isn’t- that’s what he’s got Wilson for after all- but waiting for his pathetic attempt at dinner to finish, he can’t help wishing he could make Wilson something a little more substantial.
Wilson may have brought over canned soup, but he intended those for once he’d left. While he was there, he made the soup himself, although he insisted it wasn’t from “scratch” because he used pre-made noodles. House knows that, even if he had ingredients, he couldn’t fix Wilson anything more complicated than the meal he’s putting together right now, and he can’t help feeling a little inferior.
Wilson always takes care of him, whether he’s in pain, sick, or just in a bad mood. And the one time Wilson needed him, he was too busy trying to hide his feelings to be there for his friend. The toaster finishes first, and House lightly butters the finished toast, taking some pride in the fact that they’re at least the perfect golden brown color. When the microwave goes off, he opens it to let the soup cool for a moment while he looks for a tray. He knows he has one- Wilson uses it when he’s in pain or sick and staying in bed- but he has no idea where it is.
He finally finds it in the cabinet beside the oven which contains an assortment of pots and pans House never uses. Wilson’s stashed all of the things House never uses in the cabinets it’s harder for him to get to, so that the things he needs, like plates and prepackaged foodstuffs, are within easy reach.
He puts the plate with the toast on the tray, feeling the soup bowl and deciding it’s cool enough before adding it. He almost puts the whole jug of Gatorade on, but it’s intimidatingly large, so he gets a cup and pours some in, adding a straw because that’s what Wilson does.
He brings the tray into the bedroom with some difficulty, hating how hard it is for him to do even the simplest things. He’s just put it down on the nightstand and is about to wake Wilson up when it occurs to him that after he rescued the spoon from the microwave, he never put it back with the food. He goes back for it, and when he returns to the bedroom, he’s surprised to see Wilson sitting up.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks, putting the spoon on the tray and passing the whole thing to his friend.
“Sore,” Wilson admits with a slight grimace, looking over the tray before remarking with obvious surprise, “You have soup?”
“You bought it awhile ago,” House admits, wondering why he’s embarrassed by that. He’s always taken pride in getting Wilson to take care of him. “Cuddy brought your meds, but I thought you should eat something before you took them. The Vicodin probably wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t taken it on an empty stomach. You’re supposed to take this sort of stuff with food-” House realizes he’s babbling and forces himself to shut up. He sounds like an idiot.
“Yeah.” Wilson’s voice is kind, the way it always is, and it’s ridiculous, because Wilson was just in a car accident, he’s miserable and in pain, and yet House is the one who can’t keep it together, and Wilson’s the one doing the comforting.
Once Wilson’s eaten both pieces of toast and most of the soup, House gives him an Ativan. He takes it with a huge gulp of Gatorade, making a self conscious face as he swallows. “I can’t believe I made such a big deal out of these,” he says.
House really isn’t sure what to say to that, so he decides to move the conversation along. “Do you feel like getting up? You should move around a little, or the muscles will get stuck in position.” Wilson nods and gets to his feet. He takes the tray himself and follows House back into the kitchen.
“Have you eaten? Of course you haven’t. There’s nothing here to eat!” Wilson’s in full mother hen mode as he checks the fridge for food.
“I’ll order something. Go sit down.” The two men leave the tray on the counter and walk into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. House orders a pizza, then begins flipping through his TV stations. He’s not in the mood for anything involving violence, particularly of the destroyed vehicle variety, so they eventually wind up on some station that’s showing reruns of old game shows.
When the pizza arrives, House offers some to Wilson, but the younger man looks like he might be sick at the mere thought of pizza, so House leaves him alone. They continue watching game shows for a while, and around nine thirty, in the middle of an episode of Wheel of Fortune, House realizes Wilson’s fallen asleep.
The oncologist tips over so that his head is resting on House’s shoulder, snoring faintly. Not wanting to wake him up, House sits through the rest of Wheel of Fortune and nearly an entire episode of The Price Is Right before beginning to nod off himself and deciding it’s time for bed.
It takes several pokes to get Wilson’s attention, and even when he wakes up, it’s obvious that the Ativan’s affecting him. He’s groggy and slightly out of it, and when House tells him it’s time for bed, he leans over and tries to stretch out on the couch.
House manhandles him into the bathroom, putting the spare toothbrush he keeps for Wilson into the sleepy oncologist’s hand before leaving him to get ready for bed. House is grateful once again that Wilson’s already in scrubs, although he still doesn’t know why, because he’s not sure he could keep the younger doctor awake long enough to get him to change clothes. Once he’s brushed his teeth, Wilson tries to go back into the living room, and has to be redirected into House’s bedroom.
Once he’s got Wilson settled in bed, House goes to handle his own nightly routine. After brushing his teeth and turning all of the lights in the apartment off, House returns to his bedroom, where Wilson is fast asleep in bed. He looks impossibly young and vulnerable splayed out across the bed, and as House climbs into bed beside him and turns on the lights, he realizes how lucky he is to still have his friend.
He’s almost lost him twice in the past day, once to a car accident and once to his own callous stupidity, but in the end, everything has worked out, and he’s glad. As long as Wilson’s here, whole and by his side, the rest can wait. They’ll sort it out eventually.