| |
Into the Fire
by Mer
There were days when Robert Chase hated his boss. Gregory House was a brilliant doctor, but he was a difficult person. He could be charming, amusing, and entertaining, but he could also be a right bastard when he chose - and he chose often. Chase had lived the first fifteen years of his life with a brilliant doctor, who was - coincidentally - a right bastard. He often thought that gave him an understanding of House - or at the very least, a certain degree of immunity. He wasn't blinded to House's flaws by devotion like Cameron, but nor was he blinded to his strengths by resentment like Foreman.
Still, there were days when he would happily strangle House, and this was one of them. House had been riding them all morning, shooting down everything they said or did with the smug satisfaction that meant he knew the answer to the puzzle and was waiting not very patiently for the rest of them to catch up. Chase wished they hadn't already ruled out cancer, because then they could have called in Wilson for a consult and to run interference with House. But Wilson, he remembered, had taken the morning off, which hadn't improved House's mood. House liked his rituals and lunch with Wilson was one of the most important in his day. As the seconds crept closer to noon, House grew more irritable and impatient.
Foreman was glaring at House's cane, as if he'd like to use it to brain House, and Chase was beginning to consider holding House down for the braining, when House's cell phone rang.
"What?" House snapped.
Chase was studying Cameron to determine if she was frustrated enough to at least turn a blind eye when they brained House, but he still listened to the conversation. At best, something had come up that would distract House. At worst, it would piss him off further and it was always best to prepare for the worst.
"Why would I want to come down to the ER?" House was arguing. "You can force me into the clinic, but that's as far as your powers go."
Cuddy, obviously. It was too early to tell if that were good or bad. House often came out of his battles with the Dean of Medicine strangely cheered, even if he lost, as if the fight itself was all he needed.
Foreman and Cameron were studying the whiteboard, searching the symptoms desperately for whatever they'd missed, so it was only Chase who saw House suddenly pale and snap the phone closed without another word. In the time it took Chase to stand up, he was already at the door, moving faster than Chase had ever seen him. The others stood up, startled, as he flung open the door and hurried off at as close to a run as a man with crippling leg pain could come.
"What the hell?" Foreman muttered. "Where's he off to?"
"The ER," Chase replied. "Something's wrong." That was stating the obvious, but Chase didn't know what else to say. Instinctively he followed House, the others right behind him. They caught up to him at the elevator.
House was jabbing the down button viciously, glancing up to watch the slow progress of the numbers. There was something close to panic on his face and when the elevator stopped two floors below them, he swore and headed for the stairs. Chase followed him into the stairwell in time to see House drop his cane down the gap between landings, grab hold of the railings, and swing himself downwards, his right foot barely skimming the stairs. He tried to stay close, hoping he could grab House if he lost his grip and fell, but he could barely keep up.
House grunted thanks when Chase collected his cane on the ground level landing and handed it to him, but said nothing else as he headed for the ER. Chase was strangely reluctant to follow, afraid to discover whatever it was that had sent House rushing headlong like that, but Foreman pushed him forward and he reached the ER wing in time to see Cuddy intercept House.
"He's going to be all right," she was saying as the three fellows hurried up.
"Forgive me if I have less than full confidence in the medical judgment of the ER staff in this hospital," House snapped back, pushing past her.
Cuddy started to follow, but then seemed to notice the three younger doctors for the first time. When she looked at him, Chase could see fear in her eyes. "What's going on?" he asked, knowing already that he didn't want to hear the answer.
Cuddy was just as reluctant to say anything. "Dr. Wilson was brought into the ER a few minutes ago. One of the paramedics found his ID badge and called ahead to alert me."
"Wilson? What happened?"
Cuddy shook her head, torn between answering their questions and following House. "The paramedics said smoke inhalation and partial thickness burns. Possible concussion as well." She flinched at the unmistakable sound of an angry House and hurried into the ER.
Chase followed. He was a trained intensivist and even if House didn't fully trust him, he trusted him more than the ER staff. He could hear House arguing with the attending doctor on duty and then a sharp cry that chilled his blood. He dealt daily with people in pain, but it was so much easier to remain disassociated when it was a stranger. Wilson wasn't family, but Chase was 10,000 miles from home and the people at Princeton Plainsboro were all he had.
An orderly was holding onto House, who was fighting to get to Wilson's side. He had lost hold of his cane, which was probably a good thing for the orderly. Chase didn't think House would hesitate to swing it at anybody who stood in his way. His earlier frustration had disappeared entirely. There were times when he hated House, but this wasn't one of them.
Cuddy was arguing with the doctor on duty and Cameron was trying to convince the orderly to let House go. Chase looked for Foreman and saw that he had taken one of the paramedics aside. Chase took advantage of the distraction to slip into the treatment area.
A nurse and a medical student were ignoring the melee about them and continuing to prep their patient for treatment. Wilson was lying on his back, his shirt cut away. The nurse was attempting to clean soot and ash off Wilson's exposed skin, revealing burns and abrasions. Wilson's eyes were closed, but he was conscious and moving his head away as the student tried to check his pupils.
"I'll do it," Chase said, taking the penlight from the younger man. He leaned over the hospital's Head of Oncology. "Dr. Wilson? It's Robert Chase. I need to clear you of a concussion before I can get you something for the pain."
Wilson gnashed his teeth, but nodded and held himself rigidly still.
"Pupils even and reactive," Chase noted. "Push 100 milligrams of Tramadol." Morphine or Demerol was more effective, but Wilson's breathing was already laboured and Chase could see a bluish tinge to his lips. "He's cyanotic. We need to get him back on oxygen stat."
The nurse already had an oxygen mask ready to fit over Wilson's face. But Wilson was panting desperately, close to hyperventilation and Chase tried to calm him. "Dr. Wilson. Listen to me. You need to breathe slowly. Do you understand?" Chase knew he wasn't getting through. "Let House go," he ordered, even as House tore free and stumbled to Wilson's side.
He leaned over into Wilson's sightline. "Look at me, Wilson," he said. "I'm here. I'm going to look after you. I won't let anything happen to you." Wilson's eyes focussed on the face above him. "That's it. Breathe with me. Can you breathe with me?"
Wilson nodded his head in a tight jerk, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes, streaking the soot on his cheeks. His breathing slowed perceptibly and his body relaxed.
"That's it, Jimmy. You're doing great."
Wilson closed his eyes, but he reached out and grabbed at House's hand as the nurse continued cleaning the blistering skin on his chest and right arm.
Chase stood aside, his eyes moving from the machines monitoring Wilson's vitals to House's face. He knew House was capable of compassion in his own fashion, but he had never seen it displayed so publicly. But House was oblivious to anyone in the room besides Wilson. Someone brought him a chair and he lowered himself awkwardly into it, his face dropping level with Wilson's.
"He has appointments this afternoon," House observed quietly. "Somebody better let his assistant know." It surprised nobody that he knew Wilson's schedule.
"I'll make sure everything's covered," Cuddy said quickly.
Wilson's breathing steadied as the Tramadol took effect. "What about the boy?" he asked suddenly. "Is the boy all right?" He coughed harshly.
There was no answer as the circle of medical personnel looked at each other in confusion. "What boy?" Chase asked hesitantly, wondering if this were a sign of mental confusion. He checked the flow of oxygen.
"The boy," Wilson repeated, coughing harder as he became agitated. "I don't remember what happened to the boy."
Chase ordered two milligrams of Ativan as Foreman hurried up. "He's all right," he said, bending down over Wilson. "You got him out, he's doing just fine. Just a touch of smoke inhalation."
Chase stared at Foreman, his confusion deepening, but Wilson relaxed. His breathing evened again and his grip on House's hand relaxed as he slipped under the sedation. House pushed himself upright once he was certain Wilson was out. "Get a chest X-ray and bronchoscopy," he ordered. "Monitor his breathing. He may need to be intubated." He glared at Foreman. "What boy?"
Foreman didn't back down. Chase occasionally envied his ability to stand firm against House. "The boy whose life he saved," he snapped back. He turned away and nodded at a cubicle across the room. A young woman was sitting on a chair next to the bed where a doctor was examining a small boy. She was crying softly and holding the boy's hand, but even from a distance the child appeared fine.
House looked back down at Wilson and rubbed a hand over his face. "What did he do?" he asked wearily.
Foreman's glare softened when he looked at Wilson. "According to the paramedics, he was just walking by when he heard the mother screaming for help. There was a fire in one of those flop houses down by State. He called 911, but when he realised the boy was trapped, he went in after him. By the time the fire department showed up, he'd found the boy and was bringing him out. He passed the kid off to a fireman, but before he could get out part of the ceiling fell around him. Knocked him down and into a section of burning carpet. The firemen got to him right away, but he'd wrapped the boy in his jacket to protect him, so there wasn't much between him and the flames."
Chase looked over at the child and realised he was still clutching the jacket, like a security blanket. "Jesus," he murmured. "Dr. Wilson's a hero." He started when House turned and glared at him.
"Dr. Wilson's an idiot," he retorted and grabbed his cane, hobbling away. He slowed as he passed by the woman and child. When the woman, seeing where he'd come from, clutched at his shirtsleeve and asked him a question in broken English, he stopped and replied in fluent Spanish. It amazed Chase that House could sound almost kind in another language
There was a collective gasp when House turned to the little boy, although none of them truly believed House would harm a child, and Cameron even took a step forward. But House merely examined the boy briefly and then - something infinitely more shocking - gave the boy a pat on the head and a lollipop from his pocket.
"And they say that the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day," Foreman muttered.
Cameron sputtered a choked giggle and even Cuddy chuckled. Chase decided it must be an American pop culture reference he'd missed somehow. Once Dr. Wilson was settled in a room, he'd Google it.
---
Chase was delighted with the results of his Internet search, singing, "You're a Mean One, Dr. House," under his breath, but his colleagues were less happy. It had been six hours since James Wilson was brought into the ER, and just less than six hours since House barricaded himself in his office, refusing to talk to anybody. He'd given them the diagnosis for their patient, without any more games, and at 5pm exactly turned off his computer, put on his jacket, and left without a word.
Wilson was doing well, breathing without assistance, though his blood ox levels were still low. The extent of the burns was less than they'd initially feared and though he had a couple of nasty bruises, there were no broken bones.
He woke up on Cameron's watch. The three fellows were taking turns sitting with him, since House had - in Foreman's words - abandoned ship. Each had reacted in their own way to House's departure: Foreman was angry, Cameron was disappointed, and Chase was curious.
Cameron was going through her charts when she heard a heavily exhaled breath. When she looked up, Wilson had turned his head in her direction and was watching her write, smiling slightly. She immediately stood up and checked his vitals, before rearranging his blankets and pillows.
"Sit down, Cameron," he whispered. "Don't fuss."
She could feel his eyes on her, but couldn't meet his gaze. His eyes weren't as penetrating as House's, but she knew if she looked at him, he'd see everything in a glance.
"I take it House has locked himself away in his office," he said, his voice slightly stronger. He laughed at the surprise on her face when she finally looked at him, then paused to cough. He smiled gratefully at her when she helped him sit up and take a sip of water. "Don't worry. He'll get over it."
"I'm not worried about him," she retorted, outrage causing her voice to rise in pitch. "I'm mad. He should be here with you."
Wilson took another sip of water. "Since when has House sat with a patient?"
"You're his friend!"
Wilson laughed and coughed again. "Right now I'm a patient. I don't imagine he'll forgive me for that any time soon."
"Forgive you!" Cameron was nearly shouting now. "Why should he forgive you? You saved a little boy's life. You're a hero."
Wilson winced. "House doesn't believe in heroes. And if that's your definition, neither do I. I did what anybody would under the same circumstances."
"It's still no reason to be mad at you," Cameron said, quieting her voice. She sat down, wondering why she was arguing with him.
"He's scared," Wilson replied. "And he's pissed at me for making him scared." He lowered his head, his expression sombre. "Besides. He was there when it mattered. I remember that." His face brightened with a smile. "And he had the foresight to hire a beautiful, kind woman who would tend to me in my need."
She knew he was trying to distract her, and struggled not to be swayed by his charm. "He ran when Cuddy called him," she said. He deserved to know how much House had cared. "As much as he could. And when the elevator didn't come, he swung himself down the stairs. We couldn't keep up."
This time it was Wilson who couldn't look at her and she wondered if she'd done the wrong thing by telling him. "I was in London, at a conference, when it happened," he said finally.
There was no need for him to say what "it" was. Cameron had always wondered where Wilson had been during the infarction.
"His leg was bothering him before I left, but it wasn't that bad at first. Nobody told me when it got bad. Stacy didn't call me until after the surgery. I thought at first it was because she didn't want me to talk her out of her decision, but now I think she wanted there to be someone left that House wouldn't blame." He laid gingerly back on the bed, careful not to stress the burns. "I got the first flight back I could, but it wasn't fast enough. The Concorde wouldn't have been fast enough."
His voice was getting hoarse, and when Cameron looked closely, she could see tears shimmering in his eyes. It moved her to see how affected he still was, even now. But of course he had a daily reminder of what he hadn't been able to prevent. She couldn't stop herself from brushing his hair off his forehead. His skin was warm beneath her touch and she made a note to watch for fever.
"Is the boy all right?" he asked suddenly. "I remember somebody telling me he was, but it might have been a dream."
Cameron brightened. "Treated and released. His name is Alejandro Santiago and he's two years old. His mother's name is Maria." She pulled out her cell phone and showed him a picture she'd taken of mother and son. "They wanted to visit you, but we thought it might upset the boy to see you when you weren't awake. I'll sneak him in for a visit tomorrow if that's all right with you."
Wilson took the phone from her and studied the image. "Santiago." He smiled and shook his head. "House is never going to let me live that down."
"I don't understand."
"Santiago is Spanish for Saint James. House likes to call me that when he thinks I'm being particularly sanctimonious." He ran his finger over the boy's face, as if committing it to memory. He looked up suddenly, his eyes wide with panic. "Where did they go? Their home... They had nowhere to go." He sat up, as if he intended to find a home for them himself.
Cameron tried to hold him back without aggravating his injuries. "It's all right, Wilson. Dr. Cuddy called the Mother Superior. They're staying at the monastery until we can find a home for them."
All the fight went out of Wilson at once and he slumped back onto his pillow. Cameron reached down and stroked a hand through his hair comfortingly. "You don't have to worry about anything. All you need to do is rest and get better." He was trembling and she pulled the covers back around him. "Let me get you something for the pain."
Wilson shook his head. "I can tough it out a little longer. It's not too bad yet."
"It doesn't have to be bad at all," she replied.
Wilson's mouth quirked upwards in a slight smile. "I have a freakishly high pain threshold," he replied. "House says it's why I have no sympathy for him." They both knew it was a joke. House deliberately drove any thought of sympathy out of people's minds. Not even Wilson was allowed to show concern.
"You'll ask when you need something?" She wasn't sure he would. He had watched his best friend become addicted to painkillers.
He seemed to understand the question beneath the question. "I promise." He closed his eyes, his reserves running dry. "Don't be too hard on House. He's doing the best he can."
She watched him drift to sleep, the lines of pain in his face smoothing out. When Chase came to relieve her, she told him she'd stay the night. It hurt her to think of Wilson alone.
---
Wilson's temperature rose overnight and he was disoriented by morning. There was no sign of infection in the burns, but they placed him on a wide-spectrum antibiotic to kill off anything brewing. His blood ox levels were still low, but a CT scan and a second bronchoscopy revealed only minimal damage to his lungs. He started showing improvement, however, after a hyperbaric treatment, and by early afternoon was alert and awake.
It galled Foreman that House had been right. He still refused to see Wilson, and yet he knew every detail of his charts. Foreman suspected Cameron slipped him copies when no one was looking. It was Cuddy who ordered the hyperbaric treatment, but Foreman knew the suggestion had come from House.
Foreman had been the one to sit with Wilson during the worst of the fever. He had listened to his semi-conscious ramblings and felt dirty. He liked Dr. Wilson. He even respected him, though not unconditionally, because it was difficult to completely respect somebody who counted Greg House as his best friend. But it was a character flaw Foreman usually overlooked.
Cuddy came to relieve him about an hour after Wilson's fever finally broke. Foreman thought about what he'd heard and walked directly into House's office. House hadn't moved from his desk since he'd arrived that morning. Foreman wondered why he'd even bothered coming in at all. He waited patiently for House to acknowledge his presence, but House didn't even look up from the file he was pretending to read.
"I know you're getting copies of Wilson's charts," Foreman said finally. "You probably already know his latest blood ox readings. And you can guess what the next one will be. I thought you might want to know what he says when his internal censor is turned off."
House didn't look up.
"He told Cameron that he understands why you aren't there. Maybe he does. That doesn't mean he doesn't need you. Funny thing about delirium. You can't stop yourself from asking for the things you know you'll never get. I sat there and listened while he called for you. I even tried to pretend to be you, but it didn't fool him. He knew what he needed wasn't there."
Foreman knew he should leave, his message delivered. But he had always been driven by a need to know, a need to understand. He knew it made him more like House than he wanted to be. "I know it's not because you don't care. I thought maybe it was because you care too much."
House finally looked up. "Has it occurred to you that maybe I have enough pain in my life? I don't need to witness his."
"Good try. Except you were there for the worst of it. You only abandoned him after you found out what happened. Most people are praised for saving someone's life. You punish him. Why?"
"You want me to pat him on the head and give him a lollipop for acting like a self-sacrificing moron?" House curled his lip in a disgusted sneer.
"He saved a child's life," Foreman retorted, stunned that even House could disapprove.
"And what about all those bald-headed freaks that would have died if he'd been killed?"
"You can't make a comparison like that," Foreman replied, rolling his eyes. "There are other oncologists. There wasn't anybody else to save the boy."
"Somebody would have come along." But he didn't sound convinced. "You've said your piece. Now scat."
There wasn't anything else to say, so Foreman turned to leave. His eyes widened when he saw Cuddy outside the glass doors. The expression on her face was grim. He hoped it was just because she was annoyed with House.
"He's not responding to the antibiotics," she said, even before she was through the door. "His temperature is spiking again and his lung function is seriously compromised."
"The bronchoscopy and CT scans were clear," House protested. "He was fine an hour ago."
"You know the effects of smoke inhalation can take days to fully present," Cuddy retorted. "Or it could be oxygen toxicity. It's always a risk with hyperbaric treatment. He's in respiratory failure, House. I don't know what else to do."
"Then it's a good thing that some of us are real doctors," House snapped, grabbing his cane and pushing himself upright. "I don't know why I have to do everything myself," he grumbled, but Foreman could see fear in his eyes.
As House disappeared out the door and down the hallway, Foreman started to follow. A touch on his arm stopped him and he turned to look at Cuddy, who just smiled at him and winked.
---
This time House didn't rush. The fear that had pushed him into a reckless lurch the day before now held him back. He should never have believed the information Chase text-messaged to him. The British wannabe couldn't read charts to save his life. Or Wilson's.
He ran through treatment options for oxygen toxicity. Sudden onset pneumonia was another possibility, despite the antibiotics. He made a note to schedule another chest x-ray and run a full range of blood tests. Hopefully Cuddy had already had the presence of mind to intubate.
He pushed open the door to Wilson's room and froze. Wilson was sitting up in bed, reading charts, not in distress, respiratory or otherwise. He looked up when the door slid closed behind House. "What did Cuddy do? Tell you I was dying?"
The only person having respiratory problems, apparently, was House. He nodded, unable to speak.
"Sorry about that." Wilson didn't look repentant at all. He did look happy to see House, though.
House cleared his throat. "Yeah, well. You're still breathing. That's good. I'll go, then." He didn't leave, however, because the disappointment that Wilson desperately tried to conceal prevented him from moving. He hated it when Foreman was right. He inched closer to the bed.
Now Wilson tried not to look hopeful. "Y&R's on in a few minutes," he said casually, reaching for the remote. "I can pretend to be in a coma if you want to watch my TV."
"I suppose Cuddy can't complain since she sent me here." He took another step towards the bed. "And it would serve her right if you did pretend to be in a coma."
"I told them not to bother you," Wilson said, this time truly apologetic.
The hell of it was House knew he had. "Why?" he demanded.
Wilson blinked. "Why what?"
"Why did you tell them not to bother me?" He didn't give Wilson a chance to answer. "I'm supposed to be your friend. Why would it be a bother?"
"I don't know," Wilson said softly, looking away. "But obviously it is."
Stung, House took a step forward. "What do you want from me?"
"If you have to ask, you can't give it to me." He sighed and looked back at House. "Which is why I don't ask." He started to say something else, but coughed instead. He covered his mouth with one hand and fisted the other against his chest, grimacing.
House frowned and grabbed a stethoscope off the bedside table as Wilson continued to cough without respite. It was a dry cough, but the slight wheeze on each indrawn breath worried him. House slipped the stethoscope under Wilson's thin hospital gown; the shock of the cold metal against his back startled Wilson out of his coughing jag.
"You couldn't have warmed it up? Or warned me?" he protested, sputtering a bit.
"Don't be such a sissy," House retorted. He fumbled in the drawer for a spirometer. "Take a deep breath," he ordered, measuring the exhaled breath. He showed the results to Wilson.
"Normal range," Wilson observed.
"Barely," House retorted.
"You sound disappointed," Wilson said dryly. "I think you were happier when you thought I was dying."
The spirometer dropped out of suddenly nerveless fingers. "Shut up," House hissed. "Don't even joke about that. You have no idea how I felt."
"No, of course not. I've never nearly lost my best friend." Wilson looked away, but not before House saw the pain in his eyes. "At least you were here. At least you could do something."
House put the spirometer back in the drawer and grabbed the remote. "Show's on," he muttered, pulling a chair next to the bed. He thought he saw a tiny smile on Wilson's face before he leaned back and closed his eyes, letting his features go slack. "And you don't have to pretend to be in a coma, either."
Wilson grinned and sat up again. "You didn't bring lunch," he observed.
"I was in a bit of a rush," House replied darkly. "No talking during the show," he said, fixing his gaze on the screen.
"Julie was by earlier," Wilson said at the first commercial break. "She's almost as mad at me as you are." He smiled to take the bite out of his words. "She thinks I did this to make her look bad. Apparently wounded hero beats out neglected wife in the divorce stakes."
"How inconsiderate of you," House replied, smirking. "But doesn't cuckolded husband beat out cheating spouse anyway?" He glanced at Wilson, saw him take the direct hit, and looked away. "And I'm not mad at you."
Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, you are. You've just got better reasons than Julie."
House pretended to be engrossed in a commercial for panty liners. "You seem pretty sure about that."
"I've had some time to think." Wilson waited until the commercial was over, a slight smirk on his face. "Are you worried about spotting?" he asked.
It was hard to stay mad at Wilson, but he made the effort. The show started up again, which helped distract him. "Quiet, I'm watching TV."
Wilson didn't say anything until the next break. "Not that different, though," he mused. He shrugged when House scowled at him and pointed at the screen. "Neither of you would have been mad if I'd just been hit by a bus, or was mugged, or accidentally caught in a fire." He continued, pretending not to see how House involuntarily flinched. "It was the act that pissed you off."
"What's pissing me off is you talking through my show."
"Commercial," Wilson retorted. "Julie's mad because she's losing sympathy in the divorce. Apparently I'm not a complete shit after all."
"Could have fooled me," House grumbled. "What the hell were you doing down there anyway? You told me you had an appointment with the mediator."
Now Wilson pretended to watch the television. "I was looking for my brother," he said softly.
Of course. House kicked himself for not figuring that out sooner. "Oh, Jimmy," he sighed.
There was a tap on the door and Cameron stuck her head in, smiling when she saw House. "You have visitors," she said to Wilson, stepping inside to let the woman from the emergency room past. She was young, barely out of her teens, and she was holding the hand of a small boy, who looked terrified. When he saw Wilson, however, he pulled free of his mother's hand and ran over to the bed.
House barely restrained a shudder, and Cameron a laugh, when the child climbed on his lap to get closer to Wilson. Acknowledging House's discomfort with a smirk, Wilson leaned over and lifted the little boy onto the side of the bed. House didn't smirk at the obvious pain the movement caused and made a note to move up Wilson's next dose of painkillers.
Suddenly shy again, the boy curled up at the foot of the bed. Wilson smiled at him, the smile he reserved for the youngest patients in his department. "Buenas tardes, Alejandro," he said. His Spanish was fairly limited - he understood more than he spoke - but House had taught him the basics.
Alejandro smiled back and crawled up the length of the bed until he could reach out and touch the bruise on Wilson's face. "Ouch," he said.
"Ouch," Wilson agreed. He smiled again.
Wilson's smile had enchanted most of the women - and more than a few men - at the hospital. A small child was no match for it, and before House could do anything, Alejandro had wrapped his arms around Wilson's neck and burrowed into his chest.
Wilson shook his head when House moved to pull the boy away. "It's okay, buddy, everything's okay," he murmured into the little boy's hair, hugging back when the boy's mother nodded her approval. "You're a very brave boy, Alejandro. Do you know that? Very brave."
House translated softly, unaccountably moved by the scene. Despite the pain it had to be causing, Wilson seemed to need the hug even more than Alejandro.
After a moment, the mother reached out and lifted Alejandro into her arms. He snuggled against her, but turned his head so that he could still see Wilson. She spoke rapidly in Spanish, trusting House to translate for her, pouring out her gratitude and worry. Wilson listened gravely, giving her a kind smile and making comforting noises and gestures in return.
House was fascinated. He watched Maria Santiago blush and stammer under Wilson's sympathetic attention, and finally understood how Wilson's innocent lunches ballooned into so much more. Even Cameron was looking speculatively at Wilson and she should have built up immunity to his charms by now. "Tone it down, big guy," he growled. "You're not ready for wife number four yet."
Wilson blinked in surprise and then scowled at House. "Remind me again why we're friends?" He smiled reassuringly at Maria, but the spell had been broken. "Ask her if she needs any help finding a new home. If there's anything I can do..."
House translated, wondering what he would have to do to keep Wilson from getting too involved. He was reassured by her answer. "Her husband's found a job in Atlantic City. They were only staying there until he found a place for them to live. They'll be leaving tomorrow." He saw disappointment flash across Wilson's features and knew he was already too involved.
"Do they have enough money to get to Atlantic City?" Wilson asked. "What about clothes? Books? Toys?" He looked entreatingly at Cameron. "I hate to ask, Cameron..."
"I'd love to take them shopping," Cameron replied before he stammered out a request.
"You can't order my staff around," House retorted, but Cameron stared him down.
"And you can't tell me what to do outside of work." She glanced at her watch. "My shift is over. We'll stop at a department store on the way back to the monastery."
Maria was looking at them with a confused expression on her face and House translated rapidly while Wilson looked for his wallet in the bedside table. "I've got it," House told him before he started to panic. "You don't think I'd leave it lying around where any nurse could go through it and find your address. If you think Julie is mad now, wait until she starts dealing with your stalkers."
He received twin death glares from Wilson and Cameron for that piece of witticism. "Take my VISA," Wilson said to Cameron. "Spend whatever you need. The store can call me to authorize the purchase."
Giving a woman carte blanche and a platinum credit card was asking for trouble, House thought, but he knew Cameron well enough not to worry. He pulled the wallet out of his pocket and gave her the credit card. "Get him a new tie while you're at it. If he's back on the market, he's going to need to look pretty."
"I hate you," Wilson muttered. He smiled broadly, though, when Maria held Alejandro out to give him a goodbye hug and the little boy kissed him on the cheek. "Be safe and happy," he told Maria, blushing when she kissed his cheek as well. Alejandro twisted in her arms to watch him all the way out the door.
House waited until they were out of earshot. "Santiago de Princeton," he said smirking. "I never thought I'd say this, but I empathise with Julie. It was hard enough being your friend before, but now that you're a bona fide hero, it's going to be unbearable."
"Don't blow it out of proportion," Wilson warned. "I did what anybody would have done."
"Not me," House replied flippantly, but with an edge that caught Wilson's attention.
"Yes, you would," Wilson said confidently. "You like everybody to think you're a complete bastard, but when it comes down to it, you always do what you know is right. That's what makes you better than me." Wilson shook his head fiercely when House opened his mouth to protest. "Don't deny it. I wouldn't have sent Stacy away. I wouldn't even have given her an ultimatum. I would have just slept with her and destroyed her marriage, the same way I destroy my marriages."
"I thought I sent her away because I wanted to be miserable." House couldn't help turning the argument back on Wilson.
"You did. But you also did it so that Mark wouldn't be miserable. I get that now." He rubbed his finger lightly over the bruise on his cheekbone, as if testing the limits of his pain. "Julie was miserable with me. My brother told me he never wanted to see me again. What does it say about me that most of the people in my life are happier without me?"
"Normally I wouldn't dignify a ridiculous statement like that with a response," House retorted, "but I actually think you believe it. It's not true."
"Three wives, all my patients..."
"You're an oncologist. Of course they're happier without a generic you in their lives. But I'll bet you a week of clinic duty that at least 90% of them are glad that it's the specific you they have to deal with."
Wilson usually knew better than to argue with House when clinic duty was involved, but apparently he had lost the internal censor that usually helped him stay in control of their conversations. "Eight out of 12 board members would beg to differ," he said bitterly. House knew the pain of that vote hadn't faded with time.
"And four of them thought you were worth more than $100 million. Including your boss and the guy next in line for your job." House looked away, wishing the soap were still on. "You told me the only things that worked for you were your job and our stupid, screwed-up friendship. Why do you think it's any different for me?"
"House..."
"Shut up. Just shut up. I'm sick of your idiotic self-pity."
"I'm lying in a hospital bed with second degree burns and the crumbled ruins of another marriage. I think I'm entitled to a little self-pity," Wilson retorted, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward and this time the smile hit his eyes. Then the smile turned to a grimace and Wilson curled his fingers around the blanket, gripping tightly as he rode out a wave of pain.
House reached for the call button, but Wilson grabbed it away from him. "I'm okay," he muttered.
"You're not okay. You're in pain."
"Leave me alone," Wilson groaned, turned his head away.
"Gladly," House retorted. "That's what I was trying to do before Cuddy tricked me into coming down here." He pushed himself upright, then sat down again when he saw Wilson bite down on his lower lip. He took the call button out of Wilson's unresisting hand. "You're an idiot." When the nurse came in, he ordered a half-dose of morphine, strong enough to dull the pain, but not enough to knock Wilson out.
Wilson still refused to look at him. "You've done your duty now," he said flatly. "Cuddy will be satisfied, your show's over. May as well leave."
House glanced at Wilson's vitals. His pulse rate and respiration were up, despite the morphine. "Take it easy," he soothed. "You're getting upset."
"Why would I be upset?" Wilson's voice was shaking and his fingers opened and closed convulsively. "My wife hates me. I haven't seen my brother in ten years - for all I know he's dead in a pauper's grave somewhere. I've got no kids, and my best friend has to be tricked to come and see me." His breathing was shallow now and House wondered if he would have to call for an order of Ativan. But then Wilson took a deep breath and relaxed his body.
House had seen him do this before - in the middle of a fight he would suddenly calm down and back off - but seeing it charted by machines was eerie. In less than a minute, Wilson's pulse and respiration had levelled off within normal ranges.
"I'm tired," Wilson said softly. "I'm going to try and get some sleep."
It was a dismissal, but House never did what people wanted. He wasn't about to start now. "Then sleep. I won't bother you."
Wilson closed his eyes, but after a moment opened them again and looked at House. "Why are you doing this? First you won't come, now you won't go. Do you enjoy messing with me?" He shook his head quickly. "Don't answer that. Look, forget what I said. I didn't mean it."
"Yes, you did. And if you didn't, you should." House leaned forward, resting his hands on the top of his cane and propping his chin on his hands. "I'm never going to be the kind of friend you deserve. I'm too fucked up to do the right thing at the right time, but it doesn't mean I don't care."
"I know. It's just sometimes..." Wilson's voice trailed away. "Sometimes I just feel so damn alone."
House knew that was his fault. He had hijacked Wilson's life, driven away all but casual acquaintances and contributed to the demise of at least two out of three marriages. "You're not alone, Jimmy."
Wilson managed a slight smile. "Are you sure I'm not dying? You've called me 'Jimmy' twice without even a shred of sarcasm."
House shrugged. "See. That proves how much you mean to me. I don't just call anybody 'Jimmy', you know."
"Who else would you call 'Jimmy'?" Wilson retorted, the smile broadening. "Eric Foreman? Robert Chase? Lisa Cuddy?"
House pretended to consider it. "That could really screw with her mind," he said, revelling briefly in the possibilities. "But no. That's your secret friendship club name."
"That's my first name," Wilson pointed out, "which I share with thousands of other people."
"None of whom I will ever call 'Jimmy'," House proclaimed. "Except Jimmy Olsen. And Jimmy Fallon." He thought about continuing the list, but Wilson was still smiling and he didn't want to push the joke. He grabbed the remote and found another soap opera.
Wilson chuckled at a particularly egregious line of dialogue, and House was surprised by the warm surge of affection it sparked in him. After the infarction, after Stacy left, House had sworn never to care about anyone or anything again. But somehow Wilson had snuck past his defences. Or perhaps he had just never left.
But then Wilson coughed, and House remembered that Wilson nearly had left him the day before. He shifted uncomfortably when Wilson coughed again and turned to glare at him. "Stop it," he snapped, "I'm trying to watch."
"God forbid I should disturb you during your soap," Wilson commented, reaching for some water. He gulped down half a glass, spluttering a bit through another cough.
"I said, stop it," House snarled, surprising even himself by the anger in his voice.
Wilson stared at him and then smirked. "I thought you weren't mad at me," he teased.
"Of course I'm mad at you," House shouted. He had forgotten the soap opera, forgotten everything except Wilson lying in a hospital bed and how easily he could have been lying in the morgue. He stood up and pushed away the chair. The infarction hadn't impaired his ability to stalk - if anything, the limp made it more dramatic. "What the hell did you think you were doing, running into a burning building like that?"
"There was a little boy in danger. What did you expect me to do?"
"I expect you to wait for the fire department. I expect you to let professionals handle it."
"There wasn't time. The boy would have died."
"You nearly died."
"I didn't go in there to die," Wilson replied gently.
"No, you went in there to prove you aren't a complete shit. You went in there to make up for the fact that you screwed up another marriage. You went in there because you couldn't save your brother, so you needed to save someone else." House knew he had struck home when Wilson stared down at his hands and played with the edge of the blanket, picking at a loose thread. "You weren't thinking about anybody but yourself when you went in there." And with those words, the last of House's anger burned away.
"I'm sorry," Wilson whispered. "I should have been thinking about you. You're the only one who cares."
"You know that's not true," House chided. "Cameron sat with you most of the night so you wouldn't be alone. Cuddy's been putting off the press, because she knows that's what you'd want, even though it's a PR wet dream. Foreman took his life in his own hands trying to drag me down here, because he thought you needed me." His voice trailed away, as he realised he'd admitted too much.
It snapped Wilson out of his mood, though. "What are you talking about? I told him to leave you alone."
Which meant that Foreman had suggested getting House and been shot down. House wondered which was worse - that Wilson had been unwilling to disturb him or that he hadn't wanted to be disturbed. "When you were awake, maybe. Apparently you don't have as much self-control when you're unconscious." He watched the long fingers twitch and clutch at the blanket. "Between the meds and the fever you were pretty out of it earlier." He risked looking up at Wilson. His cheeks were stained red with embarrassment, but House's eyes instinctively flashed to the monitors to check for fever. "You called for me. I wasn't here."
Wilson didn't say anything, but his restless fingers stilled and he reached out and wrapped them around House's wrist. The blush slowly faded away and was replaced by a soft smile. "I guess I was thinking about you after all." He glanced up at the TV. "Show's on," he said, but he didn't let go of House's wrist.
House turned his full attention to the television screen. "You scared me," he said.
Wilson glanced at him, the corners of his mouth pulling down in an apologetic grimace. "I know."
"No you don't," House retorted. "Who am I going to steal lunch from if you get yourself killed?"
Wilson stared at him, his dark eyes nearly black. For a long time he didn't say anything, and then he nodded and looked away, chewing on his lower lip. "See? I knew you had a better reason than Julie," he said
House let out the breath he'd been holding. Message received. They watched the rest of the show in silence, but it was a comfortable silence and Wilson never let go of House's wrist.
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
|
|
|