FIC: Love And War - Part 2/3
Saturday Morning
House woke suddenly from his nightmare to the sound of somebody calling his name. Disoriented, he lay for a moment attempting to remember where he was. Then he opened his eyes to the sight of Wilson watching him from a hospital bed. Wilson was frowning, and pushing insistently on one end of House's cane.
The cane lay on the bed between them, threaded carefully through the bed rails, and House had secured it in place with a piece of rubber tubing. One end lay in Wilson's hand, and the other lay on House's lap.
"Hey. I'm sorry I woke you, but you were shouting. You woke me up. Bad dream?" Wilson's eyebrows rose as he spoke, and it looked to House as though they were in danger of disappearing into the bandage around his head.
"I was sleeping next to you,” House growled. “What do you expect?" Then he reached for the arms of his chair, and pushed himself to his feet.
The dream had indeed been a bad one. The details were already fading, but the last thing House remembered was standing in the observation room, screaming "Get a real surgeon! He's only an intensivist!" as Chase, masked and dressed in scrubs, had lowered a scalpel confidently towards Wilson's exposed brain.
House shuddered inwardly and raised his eyes to Wilson's monitor, and a moment later he reached across and took hold of Wilson by the wrist. This had become a familiar action during the course of the preceding days, and House was pretty sure that Wilson knew just as clearly as he did that it had little to do with checking a pulse. He was less sure about which one of them benefited more from the contact.
"How do you feel?" he asked. "Any headache, or pukiness?"
"A bit of a headache, but no nausea this morning."
Wilson looked almost well, and House intoned a quiet mental "Hallelujah!" as he composed his features into the mandatory frown.
Wilson's progress over the course of the preceding three days had been mixed. House had monitored him closely during the night of the accident, and his condition hadn't grown any worse. Nor had his level of consciousness improved, though, and the following morning the results of the second MRI had been similar to those of the first. Ultimately Arnold had decided to go ahead with insertion of the ICP monitor.
But pressure had dropped steadily from that point, and by late on Thursday afternoon Wilson had been conscious, and able to conduct a normal conversation. Well, normal by the standards of any conversation they'd ever had House reflected now, as he dropped Wilson's wrist and turned towards the bedside cabinet.
Progress on the amnesia front had been less encouraging. The good news was that the period involved was diminishing rapidly-if recovery of the memories of a third divorce, his best friend's shooting and suspension of a DEA license could properly be called 'good news', that is: and, considering it now, House wasn't sure they could. The bad news was that Arnold and Foreman had found evidence of semantic as well as episodic deficits.
“It's not just his autobiographical memory that's been affected,” Arnold had explained on Friday. “There seems to be a selective loss of factual information too. He didn't score well on Famous Names or Famous Events, and he's confused about some fairly simple aspects of his treatment.”
“Which aspects?” Cuddy had asked. They'd been standing in the corridor outside Wilson's room, and as she'd spoken she'd turned to look at Wilson, now dozing in his bed.
“Drugs, mainly,” Arnold had replied. “He's having difficulty remembering the names. Selective deficits like this are quite unusual, but they're not unknown. We'll know more when we've been able to carry out further tests.”
“Could it be permanent?” Cuddy had asked. She was still watching Wilson, and as she'd spoken House had looked up from his inspection of the floor, and moved across to join her at the window.
“It could be, but it could also be transient,” Arnold had replied, with a shrug. “Some people make a complete recovery as the swelling dies down. Others recover nothing. Most fall somewhere along the spectrum. But even if he doesn't recover the information he might be able to re-learn it. It all depends on how serious the underlying injury is. We should have a clearer picture in a week or so.”
“Well that's just great!” House had said, suddenly, turning towards Arnold on his cane. “Way to cover all the bases! I can totally see why they pay you the big bucks as Head of Neurology.”
“Hey, get off my back, House,” Arnold had responded, reddening. “What do you want me to say? Because it's Wilson he'll be back to normal by Monday morning? Well we're not talking about a broken ankle, here. It doesn't work that way.”
Cuddy had stepped between them and held up her hands. “All right!” she'd said. “Let's just leave it there. House...” She'd placed a hand on his arm and squeezed it, none too gently. “Go in and sit with Wilson. It looks like he's waking up.”
House had hesitated, but as the pressure from Cuddy's fingers had increased he'd felt his anger drain suddenly away. Arnold was an idiot, but he wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know, and so he'd pulled his arm back and pushed the door open, before crossing to Wilson's bed.
Wilson had looked up at him, sleepily: much as he was looking at him now, House realized, as he turned back to Wilson with a cup of water and held the straw to his lips.
"Drink some of this," he said, through an annoying tightness at the back of his throat.
As Wilson drank there was a noise at the side of the room, and Cuddy opened the door. She looked over, and smiled when she saw Wilson awake.
"Hey!" she said as she crossed to the bed. "How are you feeling this morning? Did you sleep okay?"
She unhooked the chart and glanced at it, still smiling, as Wilson passed the water back to House and grinned up at her.
"Better," he said. "No thanks to House, though."
"Really?"
Cuddy shot a quick look at House, and then turned back to Wilson.
"What's he been up to now?" she asked, lightly. "Swapping out your Mannitol for laxatives?"
As Cuddy named the drug Wilson's smile faded into a blank expression, and then his gaze dropped to the bed.
House rolled his eyes, and turned on Cuddy with a glare.
"Nice work!" he said, his face assuming a reddish hue. "That's exactly what Wilson needed. An early morning reminder that what was already a pathetic excuse for a brain is now scrambled!"
He turned back to Wilson, then, and took a deep breath. "Relax," he said. "Mannitol's a diuretic."
Wilson still looked blank, and so House continued.
"It makes you pee. Helps to reduce the swelling in your brain. We've been using it to stop your head from exploding."
Wilson looked alarmed, and it occurred to House that he hadn't struck quite the reassuring note he'd been seeking. He took another breath and tried again.
"Semantic amnesia's not uncommon after this kind of injury. It could well be temporary. There's no need to worry yet."
Now Wilson looked confused, and so House gave up in frustration.
"Look,” he said, “there's already been some improvement. Give it time." He glared at Cuddy again. "And in the meantime, just try to ignore everything Cuddy says. In fact," he concluded, “maybe you should just forget about Cuddy. Remember telling me last week what an idiot you thought she was?”
Wilson looked anxiously at Cuddy but she smiled back at him, and a moment later she threw a grudging smile towards House.
"Very funny!" she said, gathering her things together and bending to kiss Wilson's forehead. "I have a couple of meetings now, but I'll be up later to see how you're coming along. Try not to kill him in the meantime," was her parting shot to House, as she left the room.
As the door closed behind Cuddy, House turned back to Wilson. "Okay, Lurch," he said, reaching for an order form on the cabinet and starting to circle his preferences. "Let's order you some breakfast so I can get something to eat."
- ----- -
The Following Weekend
At two o'clock the following Friday afternoon House was sitting in his office with his feet up on the desk, flicking through case files.
He'd spent most of the previous week in Wilson's room, and as Wilson's condition had improved House had endured a steady stream of visits from his team, seeking advice and guidance in relation to ongoing cases.
Foreman had been delighted to take temporary charge, and fortunately the hospital hadn't been inundated with patients seeking urgent delivery from mysterious life-threatening illnesses. Still, though: there would always be some questions that only House was able to answer. All part of the heavy burden of genius, he mused, as he pushed back with his feet against the desk and balanced his chair on two legs.
"Careful, House," said a voice, suddenly, in front of him. House started, and looked up to find Cuddy in the doorway. His feet slipped, and the front two legs of his chair dropped to the floor with a crash. House's legs slid onto the desk and collided with the pile of case files that Thirteen had placed there, causing a minor landslide.
"Guilty conscience?" Cuddy threw House a wry smile as she crossed the room, and positioned herself carefully on the edge of the desk in front of him. "You should be more careful," she said again. "The last thing you need is to have an unfortunate accident, and end up like Wilson."
"Wilson's doing fine," House growled, and after a brief pause he leaned forwards and swept the scattered pile of case files into the trash. He sneaked a glance at Cuddy to gauge her reaction, but her expression remained calm.
"And so is my conscience,” he continued. “Anyway, did you actually want something?" He leered dramatically towards Cuddy's breasts. Cuddy was wearing a low-cut sweater, and House made it a point of principle always to draw attention to them. "Because I'm due to pick Wilson up in about five minutes, but if you let me off clinic duty for, let's say, six months we could stop at a closet on the way down. I'm sure Wilson won't mind if I'm a couple of minutes late."
He didn't wait for an answer, but instead leaned forwards and lifted his right leg off the desk, swinging his other leg down behind it.
Cuddy rolled her eyes but she ignored the invitation, and returned instead to the subject of Wilson.
"Are you sure Wilson's ready to go home?" she asked, her voice more serious now. "Glover's holding a room for him at the Anderson Center. I still think it makes more sense to keep him here over the weekend and transfer him on Monday morning. I know he's doing better now, but rehabilitation can make a big difference in a case like this. I don't like to think of the two of you alone together in his apartment."
Wilson's amnesia had begun to show clear signs of improvement, but the events of the preceding six months were still a complete blank. Arnold and Foreman were now optimistic, but as the days had passed Wilson had grown increasingly frustrated. His frustration was now verging on impatience, and at times it had been as much as House could manage to keep him in his room.
House had slipped his jacket off the back of his chair as Cuddy was speaking, and now he began to shrug it over his shoulders.
"Wilson's fine," he replied, reaching under the desk for his backpack. "Well okay: he's not exactly fine," he amended, "but you can't keep him shut up in the hospital forever. He needs rehabilitation in the real world. He'll do much better in his own place. The last thing he needs is a bunch of strangers waving cue cards at him, and asking what he had for breakfast two years ago." Then he picked up his cane, and began to walk towards the door.
Cuddy followed him. "Well just be careful, House. Seriously."
As they reached the door she took hold of his arm, and held him for a moment in the doorway. As she spoke she looked up at him, earnestly.
"Be careful, House. Wilson's not a toy."
She hesitated for a moment, but then she went on.
"I'm not sure what you did, and I'm almost sure you didn't mean to do it." She paused again. "And I definitely don't want to know," she continued. "But really, House. Be careful. You've already done more than enough damage."
House stared at her for a moment, as a series of potential responses flashed through his mind. For once it appeared to him that Cuddy might actually be right, though, and so he contented himself with a derisive snort and set off towards the elevator.
- ----- -
Five minutes later House arrived at Wilson's room and slid the door open. Wilson was seated on a chair, packing magazines into a duffel bag, and as the door opened he looked over at House and smiled broadly.
"So!" he said. "Cuddy caved in the end, huh? Well let's go before she changes her mind. I've been climbing the walls waiting for you to get here!" He zipped the bag shut at that, and jumped to his feet.
House hadn't yet grown used to the change in Wilson's behavior. He'd watched silently from the doorway a few nights earlier as Wilson had lain huddled under his blankets, trembling, his face turned towards the far wall. Other times--and it looked to House now as though maybe this might be one of them--Wilson had been agitated: impulsive, impatient, unable to sit still. It wasn't quite 'Wilson on speed' he reflected now, casting his mind back for a moment to an incident from more than a year before. It wasn't far off it, though, and it occurred to House that when he'd suggested to Wilson that he still wasn't boring this hadn't been quite what he'd had in mind.
The sight of Wilson suddenly clutching at the bed rail and dropping heavily back into the chair roused House from his reverie, and he moved urgently across the room and placed a steadying hand on Wilson's shoulder.
"Dizzy again?" he asked, although the inquiry was more about establishing contact than eliciting information. "Put your head down before you fall and break your skull," he ordered, and with his other hand he pushed Wilson's head towards the floor. "Breathe slowly," he said, and again Wilson did as he was told.
House knelt down then, grimacing a little as his right leg objected to the sudden change of position. He raised a hand to Wilson's neck, and a minute or two later, when Wilson's heart had slowed to a more normal rate, he spoke.
"I think it's coming out in Morse code," he said. "It reads I. Am. An. Idiot!---I. Am. An. Idiot!---I. Am. An. Idiot!"
House lowered his hand, then, and pulled himself back to his feet. "Sounds like you may have suffered some aphasia, Wilson. I'll get you a thesaurus for your birthday, but in the meantime try mixing that up a bit with 'moron', 'blockhead', 'nitwit' and 'jerk'. 'Bonehead' pretty much covers it too. See if you can manage to move a little slower this time."
House watched as Wilson rose to his feet; a little more carefully, now.
"Sorry," Wilson said, looking shamefaced. "It's just that I can't wait to get out of here."
House chose not to respond to that, and instead he took hold of the wheelchair at the foot of Wilson's bed. Then he spun the chair around and got in.
"Come on," he said, giving the chair a couple of experimental runs, and attempting a test wheelie. "You can push this easier than me. Let's take this baby for a spin."
- ----- -
They were waiting for the elevator when Wilson asked if they could visit his office.
“I know we told Cuddy we'd go straight back to my place,” he said. “I want to take a look, though.” His expression was difficult to read, and for a moment House wasn't sure how to respond. Perhaps Wilson noticed, because a moment later he pressed his point again. “Oh, come on, House. Where's the harm? It might just bring something back about the accident.”
House sincerely hoped it wouldn't, but for once he wasn't able to think of a convincing reason to say no. They left the elevator at the third floor, and House wheeled himself slowly towards Wilson's room as Wilson followed along behind. When they arrived at the office Wilson opened the door, and pushed House inside.
Housekeeping had been in since House's last visit, and no trace of the accident remained. Wilson stood in the doorway for a moment, and then walked across to his desk. Then he pulled out his chair and lowered himself into the seat. As he did so the chair slipped a little, as Wilson's weight forced the castor fully into place. Wilson didn't react, but House walked quickly across to the couch and sat down.
For several minutes Wilson sat silently at his desk, leafing through paperwork and inspecting the contents of his drawers. “It's... weird!” he said to House, eventually, closing a file and adding it to a small pile beneath the lamp. “I don't remember a single thing about it. What I was reading; what time I got in; whether I'd spoken to anyone...” He gazed at the floor for a moment, and then he looked back to House. “So where did you find me, exactly?”
House shifted uncomfortably on the couch. This wasn't a discussion he was ready to have. “Come on,” he said, a moment later. “Let's go. There's nothing to see.”
Wilson stayed where he was, though, and instead he reached for a fluffy miniature rabbit, and picked it up.
House recognized the rabbit. It had been a gift from Jenny; one of Wilson's former patients. In the course of her short life she'd spent more time in the hospital under Wilson's care than she had in North Princeton with her parents. When she'd finally died, some four months earlier, Wilson had shut up his office for the day, and gone home.
Amber had called House the following morning, and offered him an extra evening's visitation. She hadn't explained why, but House hadn't needed to ask. He'd taken Wilson bowling, and then to a bar, and as Wilson had worked his way steadily through a line of Martinis they'd both studiously avoided any reference to Jenny's death. He'd returned Wilson drunk, but for once Amber hadn't complained.
It had been the only truce in what had felt to House at the time like a battle for Wilson's... Affections? House still wasn't sure what label to apply to what he'd been afraid that Amber might steal from him. Or maybe he was, he thought now; maybe he simply wasn't comfortable admitting it to himself.
"Where did this come from?" House looked up to find that Wilson was still holding the rabbit. "I mean, I know it was probably a gift, but I can't remember who gave it to me." It occurred to House then that Wilson had almost certainly forgotten an event as recent as Jenny's death, although he was unlikely to have forgotten Jenny herself. Somehow, though, House didn't feel like reminding him.
"How the hell should I know?" he eventually replied. "All those fuzzy-headed cancer brats look the same to me." He stood up, and crossed to Wilson's desk, and there he took the rabbit from Wilson's hand and dropped it into the trash. "Come on," he said. "I need to eat, and it's your turn to pay. If you're a good boy, Mom'll buy you a new toy on the way home." Then he sat down in the wheelchair, again, and jerked it up onto its back wheels.
Wilson lingered a little longer, but eventually he turned to go. They met Cuddy as they emerged from the elevator on the ground floor, and at the sight of House in the wheelchair she rolled her eyes.
"This is exactly the sort of thing I was afraid of!" she said, pulling Wilson's hands away from the chair. "Get up, House. You're lucky I don't suspend your privileges for abusing a patient!"
"Wilson needs exercise!" House declared, as he applied the brake and stepped out. "Think of it as rehabilitation. Without a memory, pretty soon Wilson's going to need a new job. I'm just helping him re-train as..." House paused, and pretended to rack his brains for a suitable new career. "...a rickshaw driver!"
Cuddy rolled her eyes, but her expression softened as she turned to Wilson. "I'll be over to see you tomorrow," she said. "Call me if he pulls any more stunts like this." Then she reached up and kissed Wilson's face.
Cuddy didn't move as House walked Wilson towards the entrance, and as House ushered Wilson through the door he looked back and saw that she was still standing in Reception, watching them go.
On to Part 3