Accidents and Ativan 1/3
Title: Accidents and Ativan 1/3
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.
House is sitting in his office contemplating going home. The patient has been saved in the eleventh hour, again, and is improving rapidly. He sent his team home a few minutes ago, and now he’s trying to work up the energy to leave.
When his pager beeps, House contemplates not answering it. He isn’t on duty. He’s been at the hospital since the patient crashed at five this morning, and fourteen hours is more than enough for one day.
But curiosity leads him to glance at the display, and the message- 911 Cuddy- makes him pause. She might want him to take a new case, or help with an overflow in the ER or something. But it could be important. In all the time he’s known her, Cuddy has never 911’d him. So he calls her back.
“House, where are you?” Cuddy’s voice has an undercurrent of stress- no, is that fear?
“My office.”
“Come down to the ER. I just got a call. There was an MVA-”
“I’ve been here since five. Find someone else to help. I’m done for the day.”
“It’s Wilson.” House nearly drops the phone. He stays silent for a minute, not trusting his voice. “House, are you still there?”
“What happened?” His voice is steady, but he notes distantly that his hands are shaking when he picks up his cane.
“I don’t know. The report just said MVA, three injuries, one critical. One of the names was James Wilson. Someone somewhere along the line recognized the name and had me paged. I’m on my way to the ambulance bay now.”
House has been walking while he listened, and is now waiting impatiently for the elevator. He nods, realizes Cuddy can’t see him, and says, “I’ll meet you there,” disconnecting the phone as he steps into the elevator.
Wilson’s been in a car crash... House can barely process the news. Cuddy said one of the patients was critical. The odds are one to two that it isn’t Wilson, but House doesn’t like the thirty-three percent chance that it is. He forces himself to remain calm as the elevator descends. Showing up in a panic won’t help anyone. He needs to be able to take care of Wilson.
House walks into the ambulance bay and heads straight for Cuddy. She’s wearing her Dean-of-Medicine face, but he can see that she’s as worried as he is. He nods at her perfunctorily, but neither speaks. There’s nothing to say, until they’ve got more information.
All hell breaks loose as the ambulances arrive. The first quickly dispatches a passenger on a gurney, who is being rushed straight to an OR. As it goes by, House glances at it. A woman, 40ish, Hispanic. Not Wilson. Thank God.
The second ambulance unloads another gurney. This one holds a teenage boy, possibly the woman’s son. He’s bleeding heavily and on a back board. House takes in the pair’s injuries, still looking for Wilson. It was obviously a bad accident.
House breathes a sigh of relief when Wilson emerges from the second ambulance. He’s covered in blood and moving very stiffly, but he’s walking under his own power.
House is so relieved that, when Cuddy puts her hand on his shoulder, he covers it with his own instead of shrugging it off. The moment barely lasts a second, but they release their worry together, relieved that Wilson seems to be relatively alright.
The man in question hasn’t noticed them yet, and appears to be arguing with the paramedics. “I don’t need a wheelchair, or a gurney! I’ve got whiplash. Just give me a muscle relaxant and a hot pack and let me go home.” The paramedic says something House doesn’t catch, and Wilson clenches his hands in annoyance. “It’s not my blood!”
Wilson’s getting agitated, and House is suddenly desperate to see for himself that his friend is okay. “It’s alright, boys. I’ll take it from here. I’m his physician.” Wilson visibly starts at House’s voice, wincing painfully as he does so.
“House! What are you doing here?”
“I was on my way out when I heard the commotion and I decided to drop by and see what all the fuss was about.” They walk back towards the main hospital, and House can’t help but notice that Wilson doesn’t fall into step with his usual ease. He’s obviously in pain.
Making the decision to forgo an exam room, House leads Wilson towards the elevator, taking him up to their offices. Wilson is going to want to change out of his bloody clothes, and he’ll be more comfortable upstairs. “What happened?” he asks, visually scanning Wilson for injuries as they wait for the elevator. There’s a long cut on his arm and he’s moving as if his back or neck hurts, but it looks like he’s right and he doesn’t have anything worse than whiplash.
“The kid was driving. I guess he’s still learning how. He ran a red light and t-boned me. They hit the back driver’s side of my car. If I’d been going any slower, I would have been hit dead on.” Wilson is visibly shaken, and House tries to hide his own reaction.
“Lucky you drive that Volvo. Imagine if you’d been hit in a real car.” Though he’s always made fun of his friend’s taste in vehicles, he’s suddenly ridiculously grateful to whatever god looks out for overcautious oncologists. If Wilson had accelerated any slower, if he’d taken a half a second longer to start across the intersection, if he didn’t drive a Volvo... the ways it could have been worse flit through House’s mind, one after the other, and he resists the urge to reach out and touch Wilson, to verify that he’s there, that he’s real, that he’s alive.
When they reach their floor, Wilson heads straight for the restrooms. “I’ve got to get this blood off,” he tells House, wetting a paper towel and scrubbing at his hands.
The sight of the blood running down the drain is almost too much for House. “I’ll go grab your spare clothes,” he says, desperate to get out of the bathroom.
Once he’s in Wilson’s office, he allows himself a moment, leaning against his friend’s door, to collect himself. Wilson is okay. The blood isn’t his. It’s not his. House repeats it over and over in his head, trying to remain calm. It’s ridiculous to be this upset. Wilson’s not even really injured- House has seen worse cuts from gardening accidents.
Then another thought occurs to him. Wilson is cut, and covered in someone else’s blood. He could have been infected with Hepatitis. Or HIV. House’s knees almost buckle when he thinks it. Wilson survived the accident, but it could still be killing him. House is well on his way to a total freak-out, but he forces himself to calm down. Wilson needs him. He can panic later.
House knows that Wilson keeps a spare shirt in the bottom drawer of his desk. Well, he usually does. The dress shirt isn’t in it’s usual place, and House suddenly remembers that Wilson changed clothes yesterday afternoon. The look on Wilson’s face had said quite plainly that he didn’t want to talk about it, so House hadn’t asked, settling for a remark about Wilson’s tie inducing nausea.
Wilson hasn’t replaced the dress shirt yet, so there’s nothing in his office to wear. Not wanting to examine a bloody Wilson, House thinks for a moment before remembering the scrubs Chase keeps in the diagnostics conference room. For some reason, patients always seem to pick Chase to excrete bodily fluids on, and after the third time he changed clothes one day, he began keeping scrubs in the conference room so he didn’t have to go downstairs covered in vomit, or blood, or whatever else the patient had gotten on him.
Closing Wilson’s desk drawer, House gets to his feet and walks over to his own department. The scrubs are filed- rather unimaginatively- under “s”, and he takes them, making a mental note to mention their absence to Chase. Eventually. Coming out of the conference room, he meets Wilson, who has just exited the bathroom.
The other man follows House back into Diagnostics. “You didn’t come back.”
“Your shirt wasn’t in the drawer, so I had to raid Chase’s scrubs stash.” House passes Wilson the scrubs. “Get changed, already. Not even blood spatters can make that outfit cool.” And looking at the blood is making me sick, he adds silently. Wilson shoots him a glare, but takes the scrubs.
They’re in House’s office now, and Wilson turns to leave. “Don’t bother. I need to check you over anyway. Make sure you don’t have any other cuts, or a broken rib or something that you haven’t noticed.”
Wilson begins removing his already-loosened tie as he argues, “My ribs are fine. It’s my neck-”
“I know, I know, you’ve got whiplash. I heard you tell the paramedic,” House scoffs. “Nobody but chiropractors diagnoses whiplash. You’re just whining.” As Wilson pulls his shirt off, House cuts off the younger man’s protest by gesturing for him to turn around, so that House can continue his visual inspection.
There’s a bruise on the left side of Wilson’s collar bone, where the seatbelt would have been, but it and the cut on his arm appear to be his only injuries. Seeing Wilson, knowing he’s still whole, relaxes him exponentially.
He nods for the oncologist to begin redressing, continuing, “Stupid idea, really. If that ER nurse doesn’t want to date you as a doctor, odds are she’s not going to like you any better as a patient. Faking an injury just to get her attention is ridiculous.” He knows Wilson isn’t really faking, but having spent several minutes thinking his friend might be seriously injured- dying even- and knowing that he might still, no matter what he does, he needs to make light of what’s happened.
House begins digging around in his desk as Wilson changes pants, coming up with a pen light as the other man puts his shoes back on. He’s fairly certain Wilson’s head is okay, but it never hurts to check. The diagnostician walks around his desk, sitting on the edge of it as he holds up the light. “Headache?” he asks, leaning in to examine Wilson’s eyes. His pupils are equal and reactive, but it’s obvious that the light hurts him.
“Not horrible, but yeah. No nausea, I didn’t black out, and I haven’t been dizzy. I don’t have a concussion.”
“I take it you want a ride home?” House asks, getting up and putting the pen light in his pencil cup.
“If you brought a car. I’m not getting on the bike.” Wilson’s voice is still tense, and House wonders briefly if something else is wrong. Probably just shock from the accident, he thinks, going into the conference room to get the first aid kit Cameron insists they keep for emergencies.
A little digging turns up the equipment for a blood draw. And a code box. There’s a ridiculous amount of medical supplies in here. You’d think they were in a hospital or something. He takes the first aid kit and the blood draw things and goes back into his office.
“As a matter of a fact, at five this morning, when my patient decided to code, it was raining. So lucky you, I brought the car.” Wilson grunts in acknowledgement as House settles back on the edge of the desk, beside the open first aid kit.
He’s gentle as he disinfects the cut, knowing it stings. Usually he doesn’t care, but this is Wilson, and he’s in enough pain already. His concern doesn’t keep him from snapping at Wilson when he makes a strange, pained little noise and winces away from the antiseptic. “Hold still and stop whining. It’s barely even a scratch.” His tone is harsher than he intends, but it covers his guilt at causing Wilson more discomfort.
When he finishes, he pulls out the blood draw kit, selecting a needle with a multiple sample sleeve. “Turn your arm,” he tells Wilson, tearing open an alcohol wipe.
“What are you doing?” Wilson’s voice is high with surprise and fright, and as House watches, Wilson realizes exactly why House is drawing blood. He jerks his arm back. “No! No way. He’s fifteen. There’s no way he...”
House knows Wilson isn’t refusing the test- he’s simply horrified that it might come back positive. “You work in the clinic too. Kids that age come in all the time for STD and pregnancy tests. Actually, if you bled on him, we should probably test him too. However early he started, there’s no way this kid has anything on you,” House jokes, trying to lighten the mood. They both know Wilson’s clean.
Wilson gives him a betrayed look, but turns the chair so that he can rest his arm on the desk, positioned where House can draw the blood. House ties the tourniquet carefully, his hands gentle as he wipes alcohol over the vein. He hates the idea of causing Wilson more pain after everything he’s been through today, and knows the younger doctor hates having his blood drawn.
But they have to know. So, doing his best to convey regret with his movements but unable to look Wilson in the eye, he inserts the needle. He’s quick, switching out the vials as soon as they’re ready, wanting to spare Wilson as much discomfort as possible, but while his right hand works, his left stays gently on the other man’s forearm, trying to comfort him.
Once the blood is drawn, he labels the test tubes and slides them into his jacket pocket. Leaving the first aid kit and the blood draw supplies for one of the kids to deal with tomorrow, he turns to Wilson. “Let’s go.”
The two men get in the elevator in silence. They go all the way down to phlebotomy, where House leaves Wilson’s blood, hoping the other man doesn’t notice the rush order he puts on it. As he signs the paperwork, House finds himself watching Wilson.
The oncologist looks drawn, exhaustion and pain conspiring to make him look much older than he normally does. House recognizes his expression, and the fine lines around his mouth and eyes. He sees both in the mirror every morning. It’s the look of a man in pain. He never wants to see that look on Wilson.
“Stop pouting and come on,” he says, regretting, for once in his life, that he’s unable to comfort his friend. There are some things he can do though, so when they get back to the ground floor, they detour to the pharmacy on the way out the door.
“Twelve 1 mg lorazepams for James Wilson,” he tells the pharmacist. House prescribing for Wilson is a reversal of their usual procedure, but the pharmacist doesn’t blink, moving to fill the order.
“Ativan? I get in a car accident and your prescribe anxiety meds? I’m not going to freak out like a teenage girl, House. I’m dealing with it fine.” Wilson paces a few steps, gesturing angrily only to abort the move with a wince of pain. His tone is laced with frustration and anger, and House notes that his response is out of proportion to the situation. It’s a delayed reaction to the stress of the evening, and House doesn’t let it bother him.
“Yes, you’re perfectly calm,” House retorts. Truthfully, he’s not prescribing it as an anti-anxiety med. Lorazepam is a mild muscle relaxant, and it should help with the pain and the tension in Wilson’s neck from the crash. It’s a logical prescription for someone suffering from whiplash. Wilson knows that, so House doesn’t bother reminding him as he takes the bottle from the pharmacist.
“One pill, two times daily.” He tries to hand Wilson the meds, but the other man refuses to take them. “Wilson.” He injects a note of warning into his voice, although he’s not sure what he’s warning Wilson about- he’s not going to make today any worse- and Wilson reluctantly takes the bottle, glaring at it murderously. “Now,” House prompts, when the younger man makes no move to take a pill.
“I haven’t got anything to drink. Unlike some people I don’t take enough drugs to be able to swallow them dry.” Wilson’s sulky look turns triumphant, but instead of responding to the pointed barb, House walks over to the vending machine. He gets a water bottle, and he’s about to hand it to Wilson when he sees the look on the younger man’s face.
Instead of giving him the water, he jerks his head slightly, indicating that Wilson should follow him outside. This isn’t going to be pretty, and Wilson will be mortified later if he loses his temper in front of the pharmacist. The oncologist rarely gets angry- House has seen him truly furious only a handful times in the years he’s known him, and given that pissing people off is House’s specialty, that’s saying something- but when he does, the fireworks are spectacular.
Only when they’re in the car does House try again, handing Wilson the water bottle. “Take the damn pills,” he says, forcing eye contact and refusing to look away. He doesn’t understand why Wilson is being so stubborn. He’s acting insulted that House is trying to treat him.
Finally, the battered oncologist breaks eye contact, wrenching the pills open and shaking one out. He twists the water bottle’s lid off with just as much force, throwing the pill back before chugging some water, his grip so tight the bottle is crushed in the middle. Capping the water bottle and putting it forcefully into the cup holder, Wilson turns to his friend, glaring. “Happy?”
“I’ve never seen someone take a pill so passive aggressively before,” House comments. They ride in silence for awhile, while House works out logistics in his head. He doesn’t particularly want to leave Wilson alone tonight, but his friend is going to be sore enough in the morning without having to spend the night on his couch. And House can’t sleep on the couch- his leg would give him hell. So they’ll have to share the bed. Which will be awkward, but it’s preferable to leaving Wilson alone at the hotel. They’ve done it before when they’ve traveled. With that in mind, House makes the turn for his apartment.
“My hotel’s the other way,” Wilson says, his tone belligerent. Having known Wilson well over a decade, House has catalogued all of his moods, and he can tell without looking that Wilson is sulking intensely. He’ll be leaning back hard against the seat, hands fisted and arms crossed, doing a rather pitiful impression of an angry teenager.
House looks over to verify his hypothesis, and sure enough, his passenger’s seat contains one sulking oncologist. Dressed in the baggy scrubs, his hair falling around his eyes, Wilson is doing a convincing impression of a pouting twelve year old. House resists the urge to smile. “But my apartment is this way,” he reminds Wilson, trying not to sound like an indulgent parent with a cranky toddler.
“You said you would give me a ride home.”
“I am. To my home. If I take you by the hotel tonight, I have to pick you back up in the morning. You don’t have a car anymore, remember?”
“No you don’t. I’ll find my own way in to work tomorrow. Just take me to the hotel.” House is briefly startled. He knows Wilson is upset over the Ativan, but his reaction seems ridiculous. He can’t imagine that his friend wants to be alone tonight, and not driving Wilson in to work tomorrow never occurred to him. He’d thought it was assumed that the younger man would be riding around with him until his car was replaced.
But Wilson’s jaw is set, the way it always is when he’s made up his mind about something, and House knows better than to argue. Wilson will stick to his declaration no matter what, out of sheer stubbornness. With that in mind, House begins coming up with a contingency plan. He’ll continue to his apartment, and if Wilson still refuses to spend the night, he’ll give his friend his car keys. He rarely uses the car anyway- he prefers the bike. Wilson is feeling stubborn right now, but that doesn’t mean House is going to abandon him.
When they pull up in front of 221 Baker Street, Wilson gapes at him. “Did you not hear me? I want to go home.”
“Well, I am home. I worked fourteen hours today, and I don’t feel like driving anywhere else tonight.”
Wilson gets out of the car, slamming the door and pulling out his phone. “Fine. I’ll call a cab. You’re being ridiculous.”
House decides it’s probably better not to point out that Wilson’s the one who practically had a tantrum in the car, pulling the car key off of his key ring instead. “Here. I’ll take the bike tomorrow. You can use my car until you get a new one or a rental or whatever.”
Wilson looks at him oddly for a moment before nodding slightly and accepting the key. “Thanks.” House notes that the Ativan seems to have kicked in- Wilson wouldn’t have been able to nod like that without wincing back at the hospital.
He watches Wilson get into the car, knowing he’s done all he can for his friend, but still wary of leaving him alone like this. A part of him acknowledges that his desire to keep Wilson nearby is at least partially selfish- a combination of always wanting Wilson nearby and a desperation to reassure himself that his friend is okay- and it’s the fact that he’s not sure that, if his feelings for Wilson were all platonic, he would want him to stay so badly that makes him let the oncologist go.
Part Two
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.
House is sitting in his office contemplating going home. The patient has been saved in the eleventh hour, again, and is improving rapidly. He sent his team home a few minutes ago, and now he’s trying to work up the energy to leave.
When his pager beeps, House contemplates not answering it. He isn’t on duty. He’s been at the hospital since the patient crashed at five this morning, and fourteen hours is more than enough for one day.
But curiosity leads him to glance at the display, and the message- 911 Cuddy- makes him pause. She might want him to take a new case, or help with an overflow in the ER or something. But it could be important. In all the time he’s known her, Cuddy has never 911’d him. So he calls her back.
“House, where are you?” Cuddy’s voice has an undercurrent of stress- no, is that fear?
“My office.”
“Come down to the ER. I just got a call. There was an MVA-”
“I’ve been here since five. Find someone else to help. I’m done for the day.”
“It’s Wilson.” House nearly drops the phone. He stays silent for a minute, not trusting his voice. “House, are you still there?”
“What happened?” His voice is steady, but he notes distantly that his hands are shaking when he picks up his cane.
“I don’t know. The report just said MVA, three injuries, one critical. One of the names was James Wilson. Someone somewhere along the line recognized the name and had me paged. I’m on my way to the ambulance bay now.”
House has been walking while he listened, and is now waiting impatiently for the elevator. He nods, realizes Cuddy can’t see him, and says, “I’ll meet you there,” disconnecting the phone as he steps into the elevator.
Wilson’s been in a car crash... House can barely process the news. Cuddy said one of the patients was critical. The odds are one to two that it isn’t Wilson, but House doesn’t like the thirty-three percent chance that it is. He forces himself to remain calm as the elevator descends. Showing up in a panic won’t help anyone. He needs to be able to take care of Wilson.
House walks into the ambulance bay and heads straight for Cuddy. She’s wearing her Dean-of-Medicine face, but he can see that she’s as worried as he is. He nods at her perfunctorily, but neither speaks. There’s nothing to say, until they’ve got more information.
All hell breaks loose as the ambulances arrive. The first quickly dispatches a passenger on a gurney, who is being rushed straight to an OR. As it goes by, House glances at it. A woman, 40ish, Hispanic. Not Wilson. Thank God.
The second ambulance unloads another gurney. This one holds a teenage boy, possibly the woman’s son. He’s bleeding heavily and on a back board. House takes in the pair’s injuries, still looking for Wilson. It was obviously a bad accident.
House breathes a sigh of relief when Wilson emerges from the second ambulance. He’s covered in blood and moving very stiffly, but he’s walking under his own power.
House is so relieved that, when Cuddy puts her hand on his shoulder, he covers it with his own instead of shrugging it off. The moment barely lasts a second, but they release their worry together, relieved that Wilson seems to be relatively alright.
The man in question hasn’t noticed them yet, and appears to be arguing with the paramedics. “I don’t need a wheelchair, or a gurney! I’ve got whiplash. Just give me a muscle relaxant and a hot pack and let me go home.” The paramedic says something House doesn’t catch, and Wilson clenches his hands in annoyance. “It’s not my blood!”
Wilson’s getting agitated, and House is suddenly desperate to see for himself that his friend is okay. “It’s alright, boys. I’ll take it from here. I’m his physician.” Wilson visibly starts at House’s voice, wincing painfully as he does so.
“House! What are you doing here?”
“I was on my way out when I heard the commotion and I decided to drop by and see what all the fuss was about.” They walk back towards the main hospital, and House can’t help but notice that Wilson doesn’t fall into step with his usual ease. He’s obviously in pain.
Making the decision to forgo an exam room, House leads Wilson towards the elevator, taking him up to their offices. Wilson is going to want to change out of his bloody clothes, and he’ll be more comfortable upstairs. “What happened?” he asks, visually scanning Wilson for injuries as they wait for the elevator. There’s a long cut on his arm and he’s moving as if his back or neck hurts, but it looks like he’s right and he doesn’t have anything worse than whiplash.
“The kid was driving. I guess he’s still learning how. He ran a red light and t-boned me. They hit the back driver’s side of my car. If I’d been going any slower, I would have been hit dead on.” Wilson is visibly shaken, and House tries to hide his own reaction.
“Lucky you drive that Volvo. Imagine if you’d been hit in a real car.” Though he’s always made fun of his friend’s taste in vehicles, he’s suddenly ridiculously grateful to whatever god looks out for overcautious oncologists. If Wilson had accelerated any slower, if he’d taken a half a second longer to start across the intersection, if he didn’t drive a Volvo... the ways it could have been worse flit through House’s mind, one after the other, and he resists the urge to reach out and touch Wilson, to verify that he’s there, that he’s real, that he’s alive.
When they reach their floor, Wilson heads straight for the restrooms. “I’ve got to get this blood off,” he tells House, wetting a paper towel and scrubbing at his hands.
The sight of the blood running down the drain is almost too much for House. “I’ll go grab your spare clothes,” he says, desperate to get out of the bathroom.
Once he’s in Wilson’s office, he allows himself a moment, leaning against his friend’s door, to collect himself. Wilson is okay. The blood isn’t his. It’s not his. House repeats it over and over in his head, trying to remain calm. It’s ridiculous to be this upset. Wilson’s not even really injured- House has seen worse cuts from gardening accidents.
Then another thought occurs to him. Wilson is cut, and covered in someone else’s blood. He could have been infected with Hepatitis. Or HIV. House’s knees almost buckle when he thinks it. Wilson survived the accident, but it could still be killing him. House is well on his way to a total freak-out, but he forces himself to calm down. Wilson needs him. He can panic later.
House knows that Wilson keeps a spare shirt in the bottom drawer of his desk. Well, he usually does. The dress shirt isn’t in it’s usual place, and House suddenly remembers that Wilson changed clothes yesterday afternoon. The look on Wilson’s face had said quite plainly that he didn’t want to talk about it, so House hadn’t asked, settling for a remark about Wilson’s tie inducing nausea.
Wilson hasn’t replaced the dress shirt yet, so there’s nothing in his office to wear. Not wanting to examine a bloody Wilson, House thinks for a moment before remembering the scrubs Chase keeps in the diagnostics conference room. For some reason, patients always seem to pick Chase to excrete bodily fluids on, and after the third time he changed clothes one day, he began keeping scrubs in the conference room so he didn’t have to go downstairs covered in vomit, or blood, or whatever else the patient had gotten on him.
Closing Wilson’s desk drawer, House gets to his feet and walks over to his own department. The scrubs are filed- rather unimaginatively- under “s”, and he takes them, making a mental note to mention their absence to Chase. Eventually. Coming out of the conference room, he meets Wilson, who has just exited the bathroom.
The other man follows House back into Diagnostics. “You didn’t come back.”
“Your shirt wasn’t in the drawer, so I had to raid Chase’s scrubs stash.” House passes Wilson the scrubs. “Get changed, already. Not even blood spatters can make that outfit cool.” And looking at the blood is making me sick, he adds silently. Wilson shoots him a glare, but takes the scrubs.
They’re in House’s office now, and Wilson turns to leave. “Don’t bother. I need to check you over anyway. Make sure you don’t have any other cuts, or a broken rib or something that you haven’t noticed.”
Wilson begins removing his already-loosened tie as he argues, “My ribs are fine. It’s my neck-”
“I know, I know, you’ve got whiplash. I heard you tell the paramedic,” House scoffs. “Nobody but chiropractors diagnoses whiplash. You’re just whining.” As Wilson pulls his shirt off, House cuts off the younger man’s protest by gesturing for him to turn around, so that House can continue his visual inspection.
There’s a bruise on the left side of Wilson’s collar bone, where the seatbelt would have been, but it and the cut on his arm appear to be his only injuries. Seeing Wilson, knowing he’s still whole, relaxes him exponentially.
He nods for the oncologist to begin redressing, continuing, “Stupid idea, really. If that ER nurse doesn’t want to date you as a doctor, odds are she’s not going to like you any better as a patient. Faking an injury just to get her attention is ridiculous.” He knows Wilson isn’t really faking, but having spent several minutes thinking his friend might be seriously injured- dying even- and knowing that he might still, no matter what he does, he needs to make light of what’s happened.
House begins digging around in his desk as Wilson changes pants, coming up with a pen light as the other man puts his shoes back on. He’s fairly certain Wilson’s head is okay, but it never hurts to check. The diagnostician walks around his desk, sitting on the edge of it as he holds up the light. “Headache?” he asks, leaning in to examine Wilson’s eyes. His pupils are equal and reactive, but it’s obvious that the light hurts him.
“Not horrible, but yeah. No nausea, I didn’t black out, and I haven’t been dizzy. I don’t have a concussion.”
“I take it you want a ride home?” House asks, getting up and putting the pen light in his pencil cup.
“If you brought a car. I’m not getting on the bike.” Wilson’s voice is still tense, and House wonders briefly if something else is wrong. Probably just shock from the accident, he thinks, going into the conference room to get the first aid kit Cameron insists they keep for emergencies.
A little digging turns up the equipment for a blood draw. And a code box. There’s a ridiculous amount of medical supplies in here. You’d think they were in a hospital or something. He takes the first aid kit and the blood draw things and goes back into his office.
“As a matter of a fact, at five this morning, when my patient decided to code, it was raining. So lucky you, I brought the car.” Wilson grunts in acknowledgement as House settles back on the edge of the desk, beside the open first aid kit.
He’s gentle as he disinfects the cut, knowing it stings. Usually he doesn’t care, but this is Wilson, and he’s in enough pain already. His concern doesn’t keep him from snapping at Wilson when he makes a strange, pained little noise and winces away from the antiseptic. “Hold still and stop whining. It’s barely even a scratch.” His tone is harsher than he intends, but it covers his guilt at causing Wilson more discomfort.
When he finishes, he pulls out the blood draw kit, selecting a needle with a multiple sample sleeve. “Turn your arm,” he tells Wilson, tearing open an alcohol wipe.
“What are you doing?” Wilson’s voice is high with surprise and fright, and as House watches, Wilson realizes exactly why House is drawing blood. He jerks his arm back. “No! No way. He’s fifteen. There’s no way he...”
House knows Wilson isn’t refusing the test- he’s simply horrified that it might come back positive. “You work in the clinic too. Kids that age come in all the time for STD and pregnancy tests. Actually, if you bled on him, we should probably test him too. However early he started, there’s no way this kid has anything on you,” House jokes, trying to lighten the mood. They both know Wilson’s clean.
Wilson gives him a betrayed look, but turns the chair so that he can rest his arm on the desk, positioned where House can draw the blood. House ties the tourniquet carefully, his hands gentle as he wipes alcohol over the vein. He hates the idea of causing Wilson more pain after everything he’s been through today, and knows the younger doctor hates having his blood drawn.
But they have to know. So, doing his best to convey regret with his movements but unable to look Wilson in the eye, he inserts the needle. He’s quick, switching out the vials as soon as they’re ready, wanting to spare Wilson as much discomfort as possible, but while his right hand works, his left stays gently on the other man’s forearm, trying to comfort him.
Once the blood is drawn, he labels the test tubes and slides them into his jacket pocket. Leaving the first aid kit and the blood draw supplies for one of the kids to deal with tomorrow, he turns to Wilson. “Let’s go.”
The two men get in the elevator in silence. They go all the way down to phlebotomy, where House leaves Wilson’s blood, hoping the other man doesn’t notice the rush order he puts on it. As he signs the paperwork, House finds himself watching Wilson.
The oncologist looks drawn, exhaustion and pain conspiring to make him look much older than he normally does. House recognizes his expression, and the fine lines around his mouth and eyes. He sees both in the mirror every morning. It’s the look of a man in pain. He never wants to see that look on Wilson.
“Stop pouting and come on,” he says, regretting, for once in his life, that he’s unable to comfort his friend. There are some things he can do though, so when they get back to the ground floor, they detour to the pharmacy on the way out the door.
“Twelve 1 mg lorazepams for James Wilson,” he tells the pharmacist. House prescribing for Wilson is a reversal of their usual procedure, but the pharmacist doesn’t blink, moving to fill the order.
“Ativan? I get in a car accident and your prescribe anxiety meds? I’m not going to freak out like a teenage girl, House. I’m dealing with it fine.” Wilson paces a few steps, gesturing angrily only to abort the move with a wince of pain. His tone is laced with frustration and anger, and House notes that his response is out of proportion to the situation. It’s a delayed reaction to the stress of the evening, and House doesn’t let it bother him.
“Yes, you’re perfectly calm,” House retorts. Truthfully, he’s not prescribing it as an anti-anxiety med. Lorazepam is a mild muscle relaxant, and it should help with the pain and the tension in Wilson’s neck from the crash. It’s a logical prescription for someone suffering from whiplash. Wilson knows that, so House doesn’t bother reminding him as he takes the bottle from the pharmacist.
“One pill, two times daily.” He tries to hand Wilson the meds, but the other man refuses to take them. “Wilson.” He injects a note of warning into his voice, although he’s not sure what he’s warning Wilson about- he’s not going to make today any worse- and Wilson reluctantly takes the bottle, glaring at it murderously. “Now,” House prompts, when the younger man makes no move to take a pill.
“I haven’t got anything to drink. Unlike some people I don’t take enough drugs to be able to swallow them dry.” Wilson’s sulky look turns triumphant, but instead of responding to the pointed barb, House walks over to the vending machine. He gets a water bottle, and he’s about to hand it to Wilson when he sees the look on the younger man’s face.
Instead of giving him the water, he jerks his head slightly, indicating that Wilson should follow him outside. This isn’t going to be pretty, and Wilson will be mortified later if he loses his temper in front of the pharmacist. The oncologist rarely gets angry- House has seen him truly furious only a handful times in the years he’s known him, and given that pissing people off is House’s specialty, that’s saying something- but when he does, the fireworks are spectacular.
Only when they’re in the car does House try again, handing Wilson the water bottle. “Take the damn pills,” he says, forcing eye contact and refusing to look away. He doesn’t understand why Wilson is being so stubborn. He’s acting insulted that House is trying to treat him.
Finally, the battered oncologist breaks eye contact, wrenching the pills open and shaking one out. He twists the water bottle’s lid off with just as much force, throwing the pill back before chugging some water, his grip so tight the bottle is crushed in the middle. Capping the water bottle and putting it forcefully into the cup holder, Wilson turns to his friend, glaring. “Happy?”
“I’ve never seen someone take a pill so passive aggressively before,” House comments. They ride in silence for awhile, while House works out logistics in his head. He doesn’t particularly want to leave Wilson alone tonight, but his friend is going to be sore enough in the morning without having to spend the night on his couch. And House can’t sleep on the couch- his leg would give him hell. So they’ll have to share the bed. Which will be awkward, but it’s preferable to leaving Wilson alone at the hotel. They’ve done it before when they’ve traveled. With that in mind, House makes the turn for his apartment.
“My hotel’s the other way,” Wilson says, his tone belligerent. Having known Wilson well over a decade, House has catalogued all of his moods, and he can tell without looking that Wilson is sulking intensely. He’ll be leaning back hard against the seat, hands fisted and arms crossed, doing a rather pitiful impression of an angry teenager.
House looks over to verify his hypothesis, and sure enough, his passenger’s seat contains one sulking oncologist. Dressed in the baggy scrubs, his hair falling around his eyes, Wilson is doing a convincing impression of a pouting twelve year old. House resists the urge to smile. “But my apartment is this way,” he reminds Wilson, trying not to sound like an indulgent parent with a cranky toddler.
“You said you would give me a ride home.”
“I am. To my home. If I take you by the hotel tonight, I have to pick you back up in the morning. You don’t have a car anymore, remember?”
“No you don’t. I’ll find my own way in to work tomorrow. Just take me to the hotel.” House is briefly startled. He knows Wilson is upset over the Ativan, but his reaction seems ridiculous. He can’t imagine that his friend wants to be alone tonight, and not driving Wilson in to work tomorrow never occurred to him. He’d thought it was assumed that the younger man would be riding around with him until his car was replaced.
But Wilson’s jaw is set, the way it always is when he’s made up his mind about something, and House knows better than to argue. Wilson will stick to his declaration no matter what, out of sheer stubbornness. With that in mind, House begins coming up with a contingency plan. He’ll continue to his apartment, and if Wilson still refuses to spend the night, he’ll give his friend his car keys. He rarely uses the car anyway- he prefers the bike. Wilson is feeling stubborn right now, but that doesn’t mean House is going to abandon him.
When they pull up in front of 221 Baker Street, Wilson gapes at him. “Did you not hear me? I want to go home.”
“Well, I am home. I worked fourteen hours today, and I don’t feel like driving anywhere else tonight.”
Wilson gets out of the car, slamming the door and pulling out his phone. “Fine. I’ll call a cab. You’re being ridiculous.”
House decides it’s probably better not to point out that Wilson’s the one who practically had a tantrum in the car, pulling the car key off of his key ring instead. “Here. I’ll take the bike tomorrow. You can use my car until you get a new one or a rental or whatever.”
Wilson looks at him oddly for a moment before nodding slightly and accepting the key. “Thanks.” House notes that the Ativan seems to have kicked in- Wilson wouldn’t have been able to nod like that without wincing back at the hospital.
He watches Wilson get into the car, knowing he’s done all he can for his friend, but still wary of leaving him alone like this. A part of him acknowledges that his desire to keep Wilson nearby is at least partially selfish- a combination of always wanting Wilson nearby and a desperation to reassure himself that his friend is okay- and it’s the fact that he’s not sure that, if his feelings for Wilson were all platonic, he would want him to stay so badly that makes him let the oncologist go.
Part Two