Accidents and Ativan 2/3
Title: Accidents and Ativan 2/3
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: 4,943
Summary: Wilson's in a car accident. House doesn't handle it well.
Disclaimer: This is where I think up a clever way of telling you they aren't mine.
Part One
When he wakes up, it takes Wilson a moment to reorient himself. He’s dreamed of the accident all night, but with various twists. Sometimes, they hit the front seat instead of the back. Sometimes, the kid died while he was trying to stabilize him. Once, it was House instead of him, on the bike. He woke up crying after that one. Trying to put the dreams out of his mind, he gets out of bed.
He starts a hot shower, stripping out of the scrubs while he waits for the water to reach temperature. When he finally got back to the hotel last night, he fell directly into bed, without even brushing his teeth. The stress of the crash, not to mention his argument with House, had totally drained him.
Remembering the night before, Wilson feels just as drained as he did when he fell asleep last night. He can’t believe House- first he accuses him of faking an injury, then he prescribes him anxiety meds! Wilson knows House deals with pain every day, but that doesn’t mean he’s the only one who’s ever suffered.
Frustrated, Wilson finishes rinsing off and gets out of the shower. He’s hurt that House reacted so cavalierly to his accident- he’d been terrified when the car hit him, even more so when he’d seen the other vehicle. The cut on his arm was actually from getting into the other car to help the boy. After he’d gotten the mother out, they’d realized the boy was trapped and he’d gone in to check on him, and managed to cut his arm on something. He arrived at the hospital having missed death by less than a second, covered in a teenage boy’s blood, and House accused him of whining.
Pulling on a pair of pants, Wilson decides the best thing to do is to pretend everything is okay. He doesn’t want to deal with House giving him any more crap about the accident. He was horribly embarrassed when House prescribed the Ativan, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stand it if House makes fun of him for “whining” about the accident in front of anyone else.
Resolved, Wilson pulls on a shirt and goes to dry his hair. Unfortunately, lifting the blowdryer over his head stretches one of the sore muscles in his neck painfully. Deciding it isn’t worth the discomfort to fix his hair, he combs through it with his fingers. He’ll just have to deal with looking like a resident for the day.
While tying his tie, Wilson notices the Ativan sitting on the bedside table. He’s tempted to throw it away- he does not need anxiety meds. Being upset, not to mention in pain, is normal after a car accident. But Ativan is a muscle relaxant, and it will probably help his neck. He’s not sure how it will affect him though. He fell asleep as soon as he got in last night, but was that exhaustion or the medication? He probably shouldn’t drive after taking it, but he could bring it to work and take one if he needs it.
Unfortunately, House has absolutely no sense of personal boundaries, and tends to go through Wilson’s desk when he’s bored. If he brings the pill bottle to work, there’s a good chance House will see it. And Wilson really doesn’t want House knowing he’s actually taking Ativan, even if his friend did prescribe it.
Deciding it’s not worth the risk, Wilson leaves the pill bottle, shrugging his suit jacket on with some effort and picking up the keys. He fingers the Volvo keys for a moment- not going to need those anymore- and examines the worn old key House loaned him last night. He’d been surprised by the offer. House may not care about his car- he hasn’t bothered replacing it in over a decade because it’s ‘too much trouble’- but he’s still not one for loaning things to other people, even Wilson.
After the way House treated him after the accident, Wilson was originally comforted by House loaning him his car. This morning, however, it occurs to him that House was most likely trying to avoid him calling for rides. House proved last night that driving Wilson around was too much effort.
Wilson had nearly stayed at House’s the night before, torn between needing his friend- the accident had been terrifying, and worry over the blood tests still plagued him- and being embarrassed and angry about the way House had treated him after he got to the hospital.
Eventually pride had won out. Wilson had known he would have nightmares, and while knowing House was in the next room would have been comforting, particularly when the nightmares involved his friend being hurt, being made fun of for his dreams would have been more than Wilson could bear. He’s mortified about his behavior at the pharmacy and in the car- he’s always kept a tight hold on his temper, and losing it like that is embarrassing- but breaking down in front of House would have been a whole new level of humiliation.
The drive in to work is painful, as turning the wheel puts extra stress on his sore neck, but he takes care to look as normal as possible as he walks into the hospital. He sees Cuddy across the lobby, and she waves him over.
“Wilson! How are you feeling?” Cuddy’s eyes are full of compassion and worry as she leads him to her office.
“I’m fine, Cuddy. I wasn’t even really hurt.” Wilson is more than a little uncomfortable with the attention. He’s resolved to pretend he’s fine, but Cuddy’s sharp, and the only person at the hospital who knows him better than she does is House.
“Oh really? Because the phlebotomist and the pharmacist saw you last night,” Wilson’s eyes widen at this, worrying that she knows about the Ativan, and she continues, “and while I didn’t ask either for specifics, House wouldn’t have run tests or treated you unless you needed it.”
Wilson forces a small laugh. “This is House we’re talking about. He loves having someone to poke and prod, the more unnecessary the test the better.”
Cuddy’s eyes are serious, “He wouldn’t have put you through anything else last night unless you needed it. And he definitely wouldn’t have scheduled you an MRI- by actually calling Radiology and asking instead of just showing up with a patient- unless he was worried.” Wilson’s torn between being vindicated that House seems to be taking him seriously and suspicious that House is just trying to prove he’s milking a nonexistent injury. Whiplash isn’t serious enough for an MRI. He’s stretched and irritated a few muscles and ligaments, but he’s certain nothing is torn, and an MRI will be a waste of time.
“He’s not worried, he’s mad, presumably because he had to treat me instead of going home last night. I’ll cancel the MRI as soon as I get to my office. I don’t need it.” Wilson tries to sound cool, as if House’s anger doesn’t bother him, but the look Cuddy gives him tells him he’s failed miserably.
“I’m not sure which of you was paler last night.” Wilson’s startled by Cuddy’s words- he doesn’t remember seeing her after the ambulance dropped him off. Noting his surprise, she continues, “I’m the one who paged him when the call came through. We were both waiting for you in the ambulance bay. I’ve never seen him so worried. When you got out of the ambulance and we saw you were okay, I thought he was going to collapse, he was so relieved. I wanted to talk to you, but he whisked you away before I got the chance, and I decided neither of you really needed me.”
Wilson shakes his head. “You should have stopped us. Would have been nice to see a friendly face.”
They’re sitting side by side on the couch in Cuddy’s office, and she reaches over to cover his hand, which is resting on his leg, with her own. “You know House. He hates feeling vulnerable. So he acted like a jerk to cover up how worried he was about you.”
Wilson doesn’t believe her for a second, but he lets it go. He knows House well enough to know when the snark is a cover for something else and when he’s really angry, and the other man was definitely angry last night. Forcing a smile, he gets up. “Well, I guess I’d better get back to work. I’ll see you in the clinic later?”
Cuddy rises to walk him out. “Are you sure? I can get your shift covered if you aren’t feeling up to it. You should take it easy for a couple of days.”
“It was just a headache and a scratch. I’m fine, I promise,” he tells her, giving her his most winning smile.
She relents. “Alright, but promise you’ll let me know if you change your mind. Or if you need anything.”
Wilson tells her he will and walks back out into the lobby. He thinks about what a good friend Cuddy is as he waits for the elevator, wishing he could have told her the truth. But if he’d told her how much pain he’s still in, she might have sent him home for the day, or worse, told House.
When he reaches his floor, Wilson is surprised to see that not only the lights in the Diagnostics conference room but the ones in House’s office are already on. House never gets in this early unless he’s in the middle of a case. He wonders if the patient House spent all day yesterday on had another crisis. He hopes not. House looked exhausted last night. Wilson was too caught up in his own problems to think much of it, but House had looked completely worn out when they separated outside his apartment.
Wilson settles down in his office chair, grateful that he got an ergonomic one. It’s perfectly set to take pressure off of his back, and today it reduces the strain on his sore neck considerably. Leaning over his computer and his paperwork still hurts, but it’s bearable. His first patient today isn’t until eleven, so Wilson decides to forego his morning rounds and work on paperwork until then.
He’s barely been working half an hour when Cameron pops in, with two styrofoam cups from the hospital coffee shop and a sympathetic expression. “Dr. Wilson?”
“Cameron, come in. Is everything alright?” He straightens up, trying not to wince as the movement sends sharp pain down his sore neck and into his back.
“Everything’s fine. I just thought you might like some peppermint tea.” Cameron hands him the cup, standing uncertainly in front of his desk. He doesn’t quite control his wince as he reaches out for it, and berates himself mentally. She’ll go straight back to House and tell him that Wilson’s in pain, and House will make fun of him some more.
Knowing it’s not Cameron’s fault he’s miserable, he makes sure his voice is kind when he says, “Thank you,” and gestures for her to take a seat.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, Cameron looks up at him earnestly. “I heard about yesterday. Or, well, House told me to pick up the first aid kit and the phlebotomy supplies. I just thought I’d come check on you.” As she finishes, she looks down at her hands, apparently overcome by shyness. Wilson isn’t surprised. While he interacts with House’s fellows almost daily, he doesn’t really know them. They come to him for advice about their boss, but his friendship with House makes him unapproachable to them.
“I’m okay, really. House should have told you that- he examined me. There was no need to worry you.” He’s using his oncologist voice- the comforting one he uses to reassure patients and their families.
“He said he patched you up and prescribed Ativan, and that you were waiting on blood tests. I know how scary that can be, especially having to wait before you can even get tested. If you ever need to talk...” Cameron trails off shyly, but Wilson is too angry to notice. How could he? House has done a lot of shitty things over the years, but Wilson still can’t believe House is telling people he’s on Ativan.
Part of him wants to storm into Diagnostics right now, to get in House’s face, demand to know how he could do this. Unfortunately, doing that will not only amuse House, it will convince everyone he needs the Ativan. His best course of action is to act completely normal.
With that in mind, he pastes on a small, shy smile, and, doing his best to keep his voice neutral, says, “It’s still all kind of a shock. The kid was only fifteen, so I’m hoping I’m in the clear, but you never know. We’ll have the results from all of the other tests soon, I hope.” He takes a sip of his tea, and is surprised at how good it is. It’s refreshing and soothing at the same time, and exactly what he needs. His smile is a little more genuine when he continues, “Thank you for the tea, Cameron, really. I needed it.”
She excuses herself, saying he looks busy, and once he’s alone in the office again, he allows the mask to drop. He can’t believe House would do this to him. The cracks about whining, faking it, those were bad enough. Prescribing the Ativan, treating him like a head case instead of an accident victim, was taking the joke too far. But telling people about it... Wilson thinks he might be sick.
Wilson’s anger and hurt manifest physically in a knot of tension in his neck, which, combined with the pain in his neck, shoulders, and back from the accident, is more than he can bear. He whimpers slightly, wishing desperately that he’d brought the Ativan. Whatever cruel remarks he would have had to put up with over it would have been worth it for a little relief.
He feels a migraine brewing and wants nothing more than to curl up on the couch with the lights off. But he has a patient in about an hour, and if he lets himself lie down, he’s not going to be in any shape to talk to her. He gives up on trying to sort out the department’s monthly budget, standing up to get his patient’s file out of the filing cabinet across the room.
The migraine is far enough along to cause dizziness, and he sways for a moment when he stands up. He has to reach out for the bookcase behind him to steady himself, and as he half falls into it he twists his back, crying out faintly in pain. The migraine, the whiplash, and the emotion are suddenly too much for him, and he realizes he’s going to be sick. He barely manages to fall to his knees and grab the trash can beside his desk before the peppermint tea starts coming back up.
He missed dinner last night and didn’t eat breakfast this morning, so there’s hardly anything in his stomach. He throws up the tea and a little bit of bile, then begins dry heaving. Each heave sends waves of agony up and down his back, and he curls into himself, trying to ride out the misery.
When he stops throwing up, almost five minutes later, he lies there for a minute trying to get his breath back and hoping a little of the pain will abate. It doesn’t, but he eventually manages to get to his feet, picking up his cell phone and moving unsteadily towards the couch. He collapses onto it and calls the departmental secretary.
“Amy, it’s Dr. Wilson. Could you do me a huge favor? I seem to be coming down with something, and I don’t want to pass it along to my patients. I’ve got an eleven o’clock and an eleven thirty. Could you call them for me?” Wilson’s proud of how steady his voice is, but it’s not enough to reassure the secretary.
“Of course, Dr. Wilson. Is there anything I can get you? You sound awful.” Her voice is full of syrupy sweet concern, and Wilson knows House would say she’s flirting with him. She isn’t; she and her husband just celebrated their first anniversary, and she’ll be going on maternity leave in a few months. It’s honest, heartfelt concern, and it makes Wilson feel a little better.
“Thanks, but I’m fine. I’ve got a cup of tea, and I’m going to stretch out and try to get some rest.”
“Well, take care of yourself. I’ll check everyone’s schedules and find someone to cover the clinic for you this afternoon, okay? You should go home, hun.” She’s trying to reassure Wilson, and make sure he doesn’t worry about his responsibilities, but her words have the opposite effect. He’d completely forgotten he was due in the clinic this afternoon. If he skips the shift, House will find out. He knows it.
“I’m on for two to five, right?” She makes a noise of assent, and he continues, “Well, if I’m still feeling under the weather at one, I’ll call Dr. Cuddy and find someone to cover for me. Diagnostics is between cases.” There’s no way he’s going to ask one of House’s fellows to cover his shift, but it pacifies Amy and she hangs up, admonishing him again to take care of himself.
Wilson lies back on the couch, doing his best to get comfortable. His office couch is nowhere near as comfortable as the one in House’s apartment, but it’s a vast improvement over his desk chair. He doesn’t want to walk all the way across the room just to turn off the lights, so he awkwardly raises his arm to cover his eyes and tries to sleep.
His head and his neck conspire to keep him awake, and he’s just dozing off when he hears a tentative knock at his door. He forces himself to sit up, calling, “Come in.”
It’s Chase, which doesn’t really surprise him. Chase is much less obvious about it, but he’s every bit as compassionate as Cameron. What does surprise him is that Foreman is with him, looking decidedly annoyed. House sent them, then. Just what he needs. He pastes a smile onto his face and is about to ask what they need when Foreman speaks.
“You’ve got an MRI in ten minutes. We’ve been sent to escort you.” Damn, he was so distracted by Cameron’s visit and the migraine, he forgot to call and cancel the MRI.
“It’s really unnecessary. I’ve just got whiplash. I’ll call Radiology and let them know.”
This time it’s Chase that speaks. “House said you’d say that. He also said you were full of it.” Wilson tries to hide how much that hurts. It’s one thing for House to mock him when they’re alone, but he’s horribly embarrassed that House has told his fellows that he’s faking. He isn’t! He opens his mouth to protest, but Foreman cuts him off.
“We’re under strict orders to bring you to Radiology and do an MRI. Or else.” Foreman repeat’s House’s orders with disdain, but it’s obvious that he’s not planning on disobeying his boss.
Chase’s voice is much gentler than Foreman’s when he adds, “And I, for one, really don’t want to find out what he meant by ‘or else’. Do you really want the deaths of two young doctors on your conscience? Just humor us, okay?”
Seeing that he’s not going to win the argument, and honestly too miserable to put much effort into it, he gets up, following them to Radiology. He convinces them to let him wear scrubs instead of a hospital gown, and they leave him in the small room set aside for patients to change and store their clothes.
As he pulls on the scrubs, he remembers the last time he wore a pair, and thinks back to the night before. He can’t figure out why House is so angry with him. Yes, he has shitty timing, but he didn’t mean to get in an accident when House wanted to go home, and he’s not the one who paged his friend.
He intended to let whoever was on duty in the ER take a look at him, write him a script for something for the pain, and send him home. He tried to convince the paramedics he didn’t even need to go in, but, despite his repeat assurances that the blood on his clothes belonged to the boy, they refused to let him leave.
Dressed in scrubs, he goes into the MRI room, allowing Chase to help him into the machine, and settles in to wait out the test. House’s behavior since the accident baffles him. He didn’t expect sympathy, but a little concern would have been nice. House never makes a big deal about it, but Wilson has always been sure the older man cared about him. He’s beginning to think he saw what he wanted to see, read meaning into the banter that wasn’t really there.
He’s nothing more than a casual amusement to House, someone to torture in between cases when General Hospital isn’t on. Someone to provide food, money, and distraction from whatever was annoying the diagnostician. An ATM with a built in verbal punching bag. It was stupid to think he was anything more.
He’s wanted House for so long, he’s convinced himself their friendship was much more than it truly was. He knows he’ll never win House’s heart, but he’d convinced himself he was further in than anyone else.
Chase’s voice interrupts his musings. “Doctor Wilson, are you alright? You’re shaking.” It’s only when Chase says it that Wilson realizes he’s crying quietly, tears running down his cheeks and pooling on the padding holding his head in place.
“I’m fine. Sorry about that.” His voice sounds choked to his own ears, but hopefully they’ll think the machine is distorting it. He spends the rest of the test focussing on not crying, and trying to school his features into an appropriate expression for when they let him out. He doesn’t want them to know he’s been crying.
When they finish the the scan, he gets up and goes straight into the changing room, telling them that he’s fine, of course he is, and they should go on back to Diagnostics. They obey, and he grabs his clothes from the locker he stashed them in and makes his way back to his office, still dressed in scrubs.
He checks the lock on his door and the one on the balcony door before closing his blinds and collapsing onto the couch. He can’t hold back the tears any longer. It’s stupid, mourning the loss of something he never had, but the pain and fear of the crash, combined with his migraine and humiliation over House’s treatment since the accident, have obliterated his emotional defenses. All he can do is sit on the couch and sob, feeling sorry for himself and wishing he weren’t alone.
He recognizes House’s distinct knock- not that he usually knocks- and bites his lip to quiet the sobs still wracking his body. “Wilson! I know you’re in there! Let me in! Wilson!” When the demands are ignored, Wilson hears the distinct sound of House’s cane tapping as the other man walks away, and can barely believe House is dropping it.
When a flood of pebbles bounce off of the balcony door, he knows House hasn’t given up, only varied his method of attack. But there’s no way he’s letting the other man in. For one thing, House would take one look at him and know he’d been crying. For another, he’s not ready to face House yet, too angry about the Ativan and hurt by his own realizations. So he stays quiet, not daring to move even when the pebbles stop.
After a moment, the handle to the balcony door moves, and House’s voice comes from the other side. “Wilson, I know you’re in there. Just open the damn door!” When Wilson ignores the summons, House whacks the door hard with his cane, making a noise of disgust that’s clearly audible through the glass.
When the door slides open to reveal House, keys in hand, Wilson’s dismayed, but not exactly surprised. It’s typical that House has keys to his office- he’s got no sense of boundaries. The lengths House goes to to get his attention used to make him feel special. Now, it just makes him angry.
“The door was locked for a reason. Now get out!” His voice is slightly rough from crying, but he hopes House won’t notice and keeps his face turned away, staring resolutely at the door on the other side of his office.
“You don’t want the results of the blood test then?” Wilson turns slightly towards House at that. He’s still not ready to look at the other man, but the blood tests have been in the back of his mind all day. He won’t be able to get an HIV test for a few weeks, and they won’t know for sure for three months, but there are a lot of other diseases he’d like to know whether he’s caught or not.
House hasn’t moved, but he doesn’t seem to be inclined to share the results either. Deciding that knowing is worth groveling a little, Wilson says, “Come on, House. What do they say?”
“You’re fine. Coincidentally, that’s what the MRI said too.” Wilson hears House move further into the room, closing the balcony door.
“Of course it did. I’m fine. Just faking for the attention, right?” Wilson’s surprised at the amount of bitterness that creeps into his voice, but House doesn’t seem to notice. He’s moved to stand in front of Wilson, and is examining him critically.
“Foreman and Chase said you were lying down before they came in, and that it looked like you were in a lot of pain. And your secretary said you cancelled all of your appointments. Stand up.” House is in doctor mode, obviously ready to examine him, but Wilson remains seated. He’s not in the mood to play along with House.
He reconsiders when the other man pokes him in the knee with his cane, hard. “Fine, fine, I’m getting up,” he grumbles, trying to hide a wince as he gets to his feet. House spins his forefinger around and Wilson turns obediently. House must have noticed how red his eyes are by now, but apparently he’s not going to say anything about it. Wilson’s ridiculously grateful. At least he gets to keep a little of his pride.
When his back is to House, the other man feels his neck experimentally, finding the knot. Wilson winces, only to hiss when House’s hand moves down to the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder and squeezes. He expects a remark about being a sissy, but House simply moves away, opening his desk.
Before he can demand to know what House is doing, the older man has fished out his keys. “Come on, I’m taking you home,” he says, and Wilson blinks at him in confusion. He sounds almost... worried. Why is House doing the concerned friend routine now? He made it clear last night that he thinks Wilson’s just being a baby.
Going home sounds amazing- Wilson thought about leaving when he cancelled his appointments, but decided he didn’t feel capable of driving. But he didn’t get anyone to cover his clinic hours. “I’ve got clinic!” he protests as House walks toward the door.
“So do I. I told Cuddy I’d send the kids down. Now come on.” Of course. That makes sense. Cuddy is worried about him, so she’s given House time off to look after him. House will drop him off at the hotel and have the whole afternoon free.
He follows House down to the parking lot, feeling guilty when the other doctor complains about having to walk so far out to the car, even though it’s ridiculous. Neither speaks as they get into the car, and House turns the radio up to a level that makes conversation difficult under the best circumstances. With a migraine, it’s all Wilson can do to bite his lip and not whimper when a particularly painful note plays. He didn’t bring his sunglasses today, so he closes his eyes against the bright sunlight, praying the ride will be over soon.
When the car comes to a stop, Wilson opens his eyes and is surprised to see that they’re at House’s apartment, not his hotel. Surely House isn’t going to make him call a cab? The bike is still at the hospital, so he couldn’t possibly take House’s car, even if he could drive.
“Come on, get out,” House says. The other man is already on his feet, and before Wilson can respond, he’s slammed his door. House walks towards the building, but when he sees that Wilson isn’t following he doubles back, pulling the passenger door open. “Come on Wilson.” He sounds annoyed, and Wilson obeys, not wanting to upset him further.
Part Three
**Edited to fix the link to part three. Sorry!**
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: 4,943
Summary: Wilson's in a car accident. House doesn't handle it well.
Disclaimer: This is where I think up a clever way of telling you they aren't mine.
Part One
When he wakes up, it takes Wilson a moment to reorient himself. He’s dreamed of the accident all night, but with various twists. Sometimes, they hit the front seat instead of the back. Sometimes, the kid died while he was trying to stabilize him. Once, it was House instead of him, on the bike. He woke up crying after that one. Trying to put the dreams out of his mind, he gets out of bed.
He starts a hot shower, stripping out of the scrubs while he waits for the water to reach temperature. When he finally got back to the hotel last night, he fell directly into bed, without even brushing his teeth. The stress of the crash, not to mention his argument with House, had totally drained him.
Remembering the night before, Wilson feels just as drained as he did when he fell asleep last night. He can’t believe House- first he accuses him of faking an injury, then he prescribes him anxiety meds! Wilson knows House deals with pain every day, but that doesn’t mean he’s the only one who’s ever suffered.
Frustrated, Wilson finishes rinsing off and gets out of the shower. He’s hurt that House reacted so cavalierly to his accident- he’d been terrified when the car hit him, even more so when he’d seen the other vehicle. The cut on his arm was actually from getting into the other car to help the boy. After he’d gotten the mother out, they’d realized the boy was trapped and he’d gone in to check on him, and managed to cut his arm on something. He arrived at the hospital having missed death by less than a second, covered in a teenage boy’s blood, and House accused him of whining.
Pulling on a pair of pants, Wilson decides the best thing to do is to pretend everything is okay. He doesn’t want to deal with House giving him any more crap about the accident. He was horribly embarrassed when House prescribed the Ativan, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stand it if House makes fun of him for “whining” about the accident in front of anyone else.
Resolved, Wilson pulls on a shirt and goes to dry his hair. Unfortunately, lifting the blowdryer over his head stretches one of the sore muscles in his neck painfully. Deciding it isn’t worth the discomfort to fix his hair, he combs through it with his fingers. He’ll just have to deal with looking like a resident for the day.
While tying his tie, Wilson notices the Ativan sitting on the bedside table. He’s tempted to throw it away- he does not need anxiety meds. Being upset, not to mention in pain, is normal after a car accident. But Ativan is a muscle relaxant, and it will probably help his neck. He’s not sure how it will affect him though. He fell asleep as soon as he got in last night, but was that exhaustion or the medication? He probably shouldn’t drive after taking it, but he could bring it to work and take one if he needs it.
Unfortunately, House has absolutely no sense of personal boundaries, and tends to go through Wilson’s desk when he’s bored. If he brings the pill bottle to work, there’s a good chance House will see it. And Wilson really doesn’t want House knowing he’s actually taking Ativan, even if his friend did prescribe it.
Deciding it’s not worth the risk, Wilson leaves the pill bottle, shrugging his suit jacket on with some effort and picking up the keys. He fingers the Volvo keys for a moment- not going to need those anymore- and examines the worn old key House loaned him last night. He’d been surprised by the offer. House may not care about his car- he hasn’t bothered replacing it in over a decade because it’s ‘too much trouble’- but he’s still not one for loaning things to other people, even Wilson.
After the way House treated him after the accident, Wilson was originally comforted by House loaning him his car. This morning, however, it occurs to him that House was most likely trying to avoid him calling for rides. House proved last night that driving Wilson around was too much effort.
Wilson had nearly stayed at House’s the night before, torn between needing his friend- the accident had been terrifying, and worry over the blood tests still plagued him- and being embarrassed and angry about the way House had treated him after he got to the hospital.
Eventually pride had won out. Wilson had known he would have nightmares, and while knowing House was in the next room would have been comforting, particularly when the nightmares involved his friend being hurt, being made fun of for his dreams would have been more than Wilson could bear. He’s mortified about his behavior at the pharmacy and in the car- he’s always kept a tight hold on his temper, and losing it like that is embarrassing- but breaking down in front of House would have been a whole new level of humiliation.
The drive in to work is painful, as turning the wheel puts extra stress on his sore neck, but he takes care to look as normal as possible as he walks into the hospital. He sees Cuddy across the lobby, and she waves him over.
“Wilson! How are you feeling?” Cuddy’s eyes are full of compassion and worry as she leads him to her office.
“I’m fine, Cuddy. I wasn’t even really hurt.” Wilson is more than a little uncomfortable with the attention. He’s resolved to pretend he’s fine, but Cuddy’s sharp, and the only person at the hospital who knows him better than she does is House.
“Oh really? Because the phlebotomist and the pharmacist saw you last night,” Wilson’s eyes widen at this, worrying that she knows about the Ativan, and she continues, “and while I didn’t ask either for specifics, House wouldn’t have run tests or treated you unless you needed it.”
Wilson forces a small laugh. “This is House we’re talking about. He loves having someone to poke and prod, the more unnecessary the test the better.”
Cuddy’s eyes are serious, “He wouldn’t have put you through anything else last night unless you needed it. And he definitely wouldn’t have scheduled you an MRI- by actually calling Radiology and asking instead of just showing up with a patient- unless he was worried.” Wilson’s torn between being vindicated that House seems to be taking him seriously and suspicious that House is just trying to prove he’s milking a nonexistent injury. Whiplash isn’t serious enough for an MRI. He’s stretched and irritated a few muscles and ligaments, but he’s certain nothing is torn, and an MRI will be a waste of time.
“He’s not worried, he’s mad, presumably because he had to treat me instead of going home last night. I’ll cancel the MRI as soon as I get to my office. I don’t need it.” Wilson tries to sound cool, as if House’s anger doesn’t bother him, but the look Cuddy gives him tells him he’s failed miserably.
“I’m not sure which of you was paler last night.” Wilson’s startled by Cuddy’s words- he doesn’t remember seeing her after the ambulance dropped him off. Noting his surprise, she continues, “I’m the one who paged him when the call came through. We were both waiting for you in the ambulance bay. I’ve never seen him so worried. When you got out of the ambulance and we saw you were okay, I thought he was going to collapse, he was so relieved. I wanted to talk to you, but he whisked you away before I got the chance, and I decided neither of you really needed me.”
Wilson shakes his head. “You should have stopped us. Would have been nice to see a friendly face.”
They’re sitting side by side on the couch in Cuddy’s office, and she reaches over to cover his hand, which is resting on his leg, with her own. “You know House. He hates feeling vulnerable. So he acted like a jerk to cover up how worried he was about you.”
Wilson doesn’t believe her for a second, but he lets it go. He knows House well enough to know when the snark is a cover for something else and when he’s really angry, and the other man was definitely angry last night. Forcing a smile, he gets up. “Well, I guess I’d better get back to work. I’ll see you in the clinic later?”
Cuddy rises to walk him out. “Are you sure? I can get your shift covered if you aren’t feeling up to it. You should take it easy for a couple of days.”
“It was just a headache and a scratch. I’m fine, I promise,” he tells her, giving her his most winning smile.
She relents. “Alright, but promise you’ll let me know if you change your mind. Or if you need anything.”
Wilson tells her he will and walks back out into the lobby. He thinks about what a good friend Cuddy is as he waits for the elevator, wishing he could have told her the truth. But if he’d told her how much pain he’s still in, she might have sent him home for the day, or worse, told House.
When he reaches his floor, Wilson is surprised to see that not only the lights in the Diagnostics conference room but the ones in House’s office are already on. House never gets in this early unless he’s in the middle of a case. He wonders if the patient House spent all day yesterday on had another crisis. He hopes not. House looked exhausted last night. Wilson was too caught up in his own problems to think much of it, but House had looked completely worn out when they separated outside his apartment.
Wilson settles down in his office chair, grateful that he got an ergonomic one. It’s perfectly set to take pressure off of his back, and today it reduces the strain on his sore neck considerably. Leaning over his computer and his paperwork still hurts, but it’s bearable. His first patient today isn’t until eleven, so Wilson decides to forego his morning rounds and work on paperwork until then.
He’s barely been working half an hour when Cameron pops in, with two styrofoam cups from the hospital coffee shop and a sympathetic expression. “Dr. Wilson?”
“Cameron, come in. Is everything alright?” He straightens up, trying not to wince as the movement sends sharp pain down his sore neck and into his back.
“Everything’s fine. I just thought you might like some peppermint tea.” Cameron hands him the cup, standing uncertainly in front of his desk. He doesn’t quite control his wince as he reaches out for it, and berates himself mentally. She’ll go straight back to House and tell him that Wilson’s in pain, and House will make fun of him some more.
Knowing it’s not Cameron’s fault he’s miserable, he makes sure his voice is kind when he says, “Thank you,” and gestures for her to take a seat.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, Cameron looks up at him earnestly. “I heard about yesterday. Or, well, House told me to pick up the first aid kit and the phlebotomy supplies. I just thought I’d come check on you.” As she finishes, she looks down at her hands, apparently overcome by shyness. Wilson isn’t surprised. While he interacts with House’s fellows almost daily, he doesn’t really know them. They come to him for advice about their boss, but his friendship with House makes him unapproachable to them.
“I’m okay, really. House should have told you that- he examined me. There was no need to worry you.” He’s using his oncologist voice- the comforting one he uses to reassure patients and their families.
“He said he patched you up and prescribed Ativan, and that you were waiting on blood tests. I know how scary that can be, especially having to wait before you can even get tested. If you ever need to talk...” Cameron trails off shyly, but Wilson is too angry to notice. How could he? House has done a lot of shitty things over the years, but Wilson still can’t believe House is telling people he’s on Ativan.
Part of him wants to storm into Diagnostics right now, to get in House’s face, demand to know how he could do this. Unfortunately, doing that will not only amuse House, it will convince everyone he needs the Ativan. His best course of action is to act completely normal.
With that in mind, he pastes on a small, shy smile, and, doing his best to keep his voice neutral, says, “It’s still all kind of a shock. The kid was only fifteen, so I’m hoping I’m in the clear, but you never know. We’ll have the results from all of the other tests soon, I hope.” He takes a sip of his tea, and is surprised at how good it is. It’s refreshing and soothing at the same time, and exactly what he needs. His smile is a little more genuine when he continues, “Thank you for the tea, Cameron, really. I needed it.”
She excuses herself, saying he looks busy, and once he’s alone in the office again, he allows the mask to drop. He can’t believe House would do this to him. The cracks about whining, faking it, those were bad enough. Prescribing the Ativan, treating him like a head case instead of an accident victim, was taking the joke too far. But telling people about it... Wilson thinks he might be sick.
Wilson’s anger and hurt manifest physically in a knot of tension in his neck, which, combined with the pain in his neck, shoulders, and back from the accident, is more than he can bear. He whimpers slightly, wishing desperately that he’d brought the Ativan. Whatever cruel remarks he would have had to put up with over it would have been worth it for a little relief.
He feels a migraine brewing and wants nothing more than to curl up on the couch with the lights off. But he has a patient in about an hour, and if he lets himself lie down, he’s not going to be in any shape to talk to her. He gives up on trying to sort out the department’s monthly budget, standing up to get his patient’s file out of the filing cabinet across the room.
The migraine is far enough along to cause dizziness, and he sways for a moment when he stands up. He has to reach out for the bookcase behind him to steady himself, and as he half falls into it he twists his back, crying out faintly in pain. The migraine, the whiplash, and the emotion are suddenly too much for him, and he realizes he’s going to be sick. He barely manages to fall to his knees and grab the trash can beside his desk before the peppermint tea starts coming back up.
He missed dinner last night and didn’t eat breakfast this morning, so there’s hardly anything in his stomach. He throws up the tea and a little bit of bile, then begins dry heaving. Each heave sends waves of agony up and down his back, and he curls into himself, trying to ride out the misery.
When he stops throwing up, almost five minutes later, he lies there for a minute trying to get his breath back and hoping a little of the pain will abate. It doesn’t, but he eventually manages to get to his feet, picking up his cell phone and moving unsteadily towards the couch. He collapses onto it and calls the departmental secretary.
“Amy, it’s Dr. Wilson. Could you do me a huge favor? I seem to be coming down with something, and I don’t want to pass it along to my patients. I’ve got an eleven o’clock and an eleven thirty. Could you call them for me?” Wilson’s proud of how steady his voice is, but it’s not enough to reassure the secretary.
“Of course, Dr. Wilson. Is there anything I can get you? You sound awful.” Her voice is full of syrupy sweet concern, and Wilson knows House would say she’s flirting with him. She isn’t; she and her husband just celebrated their first anniversary, and she’ll be going on maternity leave in a few months. It’s honest, heartfelt concern, and it makes Wilson feel a little better.
“Thanks, but I’m fine. I’ve got a cup of tea, and I’m going to stretch out and try to get some rest.”
“Well, take care of yourself. I’ll check everyone’s schedules and find someone to cover the clinic for you this afternoon, okay? You should go home, hun.” She’s trying to reassure Wilson, and make sure he doesn’t worry about his responsibilities, but her words have the opposite effect. He’d completely forgotten he was due in the clinic this afternoon. If he skips the shift, House will find out. He knows it.
“I’m on for two to five, right?” She makes a noise of assent, and he continues, “Well, if I’m still feeling under the weather at one, I’ll call Dr. Cuddy and find someone to cover for me. Diagnostics is between cases.” There’s no way he’s going to ask one of House’s fellows to cover his shift, but it pacifies Amy and she hangs up, admonishing him again to take care of himself.
Wilson lies back on the couch, doing his best to get comfortable. His office couch is nowhere near as comfortable as the one in House’s apartment, but it’s a vast improvement over his desk chair. He doesn’t want to walk all the way across the room just to turn off the lights, so he awkwardly raises his arm to cover his eyes and tries to sleep.
His head and his neck conspire to keep him awake, and he’s just dozing off when he hears a tentative knock at his door. He forces himself to sit up, calling, “Come in.”
It’s Chase, which doesn’t really surprise him. Chase is much less obvious about it, but he’s every bit as compassionate as Cameron. What does surprise him is that Foreman is with him, looking decidedly annoyed. House sent them, then. Just what he needs. He pastes a smile onto his face and is about to ask what they need when Foreman speaks.
“You’ve got an MRI in ten minutes. We’ve been sent to escort you.” Damn, he was so distracted by Cameron’s visit and the migraine, he forgot to call and cancel the MRI.
“It’s really unnecessary. I’ve just got whiplash. I’ll call Radiology and let them know.”
This time it’s Chase that speaks. “House said you’d say that. He also said you were full of it.” Wilson tries to hide how much that hurts. It’s one thing for House to mock him when they’re alone, but he’s horribly embarrassed that House has told his fellows that he’s faking. He isn’t! He opens his mouth to protest, but Foreman cuts him off.
“We’re under strict orders to bring you to Radiology and do an MRI. Or else.” Foreman repeat’s House’s orders with disdain, but it’s obvious that he’s not planning on disobeying his boss.
Chase’s voice is much gentler than Foreman’s when he adds, “And I, for one, really don’t want to find out what he meant by ‘or else’. Do you really want the deaths of two young doctors on your conscience? Just humor us, okay?”
Seeing that he’s not going to win the argument, and honestly too miserable to put much effort into it, he gets up, following them to Radiology. He convinces them to let him wear scrubs instead of a hospital gown, and they leave him in the small room set aside for patients to change and store their clothes.
As he pulls on the scrubs, he remembers the last time he wore a pair, and thinks back to the night before. He can’t figure out why House is so angry with him. Yes, he has shitty timing, but he didn’t mean to get in an accident when House wanted to go home, and he’s not the one who paged his friend.
He intended to let whoever was on duty in the ER take a look at him, write him a script for something for the pain, and send him home. He tried to convince the paramedics he didn’t even need to go in, but, despite his repeat assurances that the blood on his clothes belonged to the boy, they refused to let him leave.
Dressed in scrubs, he goes into the MRI room, allowing Chase to help him into the machine, and settles in to wait out the test. House’s behavior since the accident baffles him. He didn’t expect sympathy, but a little concern would have been nice. House never makes a big deal about it, but Wilson has always been sure the older man cared about him. He’s beginning to think he saw what he wanted to see, read meaning into the banter that wasn’t really there.
He’s nothing more than a casual amusement to House, someone to torture in between cases when General Hospital isn’t on. Someone to provide food, money, and distraction from whatever was annoying the diagnostician. An ATM with a built in verbal punching bag. It was stupid to think he was anything more.
He’s wanted House for so long, he’s convinced himself their friendship was much more than it truly was. He knows he’ll never win House’s heart, but he’d convinced himself he was further in than anyone else.
Chase’s voice interrupts his musings. “Doctor Wilson, are you alright? You’re shaking.” It’s only when Chase says it that Wilson realizes he’s crying quietly, tears running down his cheeks and pooling on the padding holding his head in place.
“I’m fine. Sorry about that.” His voice sounds choked to his own ears, but hopefully they’ll think the machine is distorting it. He spends the rest of the test focussing on not crying, and trying to school his features into an appropriate expression for when they let him out. He doesn’t want them to know he’s been crying.
When they finish the the scan, he gets up and goes straight into the changing room, telling them that he’s fine, of course he is, and they should go on back to Diagnostics. They obey, and he grabs his clothes from the locker he stashed them in and makes his way back to his office, still dressed in scrubs.
He checks the lock on his door and the one on the balcony door before closing his blinds and collapsing onto the couch. He can’t hold back the tears any longer. It’s stupid, mourning the loss of something he never had, but the pain and fear of the crash, combined with his migraine and humiliation over House’s treatment since the accident, have obliterated his emotional defenses. All he can do is sit on the couch and sob, feeling sorry for himself and wishing he weren’t alone.
He recognizes House’s distinct knock- not that he usually knocks- and bites his lip to quiet the sobs still wracking his body. “Wilson! I know you’re in there! Let me in! Wilson!” When the demands are ignored, Wilson hears the distinct sound of House’s cane tapping as the other man walks away, and can barely believe House is dropping it.
When a flood of pebbles bounce off of the balcony door, he knows House hasn’t given up, only varied his method of attack. But there’s no way he’s letting the other man in. For one thing, House would take one look at him and know he’d been crying. For another, he’s not ready to face House yet, too angry about the Ativan and hurt by his own realizations. So he stays quiet, not daring to move even when the pebbles stop.
After a moment, the handle to the balcony door moves, and House’s voice comes from the other side. “Wilson, I know you’re in there. Just open the damn door!” When Wilson ignores the summons, House whacks the door hard with his cane, making a noise of disgust that’s clearly audible through the glass.
When the door slides open to reveal House, keys in hand, Wilson’s dismayed, but not exactly surprised. It’s typical that House has keys to his office- he’s got no sense of boundaries. The lengths House goes to to get his attention used to make him feel special. Now, it just makes him angry.
“The door was locked for a reason. Now get out!” His voice is slightly rough from crying, but he hopes House won’t notice and keeps his face turned away, staring resolutely at the door on the other side of his office.
“You don’t want the results of the blood test then?” Wilson turns slightly towards House at that. He’s still not ready to look at the other man, but the blood tests have been in the back of his mind all day. He won’t be able to get an HIV test for a few weeks, and they won’t know for sure for three months, but there are a lot of other diseases he’d like to know whether he’s caught or not.
House hasn’t moved, but he doesn’t seem to be inclined to share the results either. Deciding that knowing is worth groveling a little, Wilson says, “Come on, House. What do they say?”
“You’re fine. Coincidentally, that’s what the MRI said too.” Wilson hears House move further into the room, closing the balcony door.
“Of course it did. I’m fine. Just faking for the attention, right?” Wilson’s surprised at the amount of bitterness that creeps into his voice, but House doesn’t seem to notice. He’s moved to stand in front of Wilson, and is examining him critically.
“Foreman and Chase said you were lying down before they came in, and that it looked like you were in a lot of pain. And your secretary said you cancelled all of your appointments. Stand up.” House is in doctor mode, obviously ready to examine him, but Wilson remains seated. He’s not in the mood to play along with House.
He reconsiders when the other man pokes him in the knee with his cane, hard. “Fine, fine, I’m getting up,” he grumbles, trying to hide a wince as he gets to his feet. House spins his forefinger around and Wilson turns obediently. House must have noticed how red his eyes are by now, but apparently he’s not going to say anything about it. Wilson’s ridiculously grateful. At least he gets to keep a little of his pride.
When his back is to House, the other man feels his neck experimentally, finding the knot. Wilson winces, only to hiss when House’s hand moves down to the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder and squeezes. He expects a remark about being a sissy, but House simply moves away, opening his desk.
Before he can demand to know what House is doing, the older man has fished out his keys. “Come on, I’m taking you home,” he says, and Wilson blinks at him in confusion. He sounds almost... worried. Why is House doing the concerned friend routine now? He made it clear last night that he thinks Wilson’s just being a baby.
Going home sounds amazing- Wilson thought about leaving when he cancelled his appointments, but decided he didn’t feel capable of driving. But he didn’t get anyone to cover his clinic hours. “I’ve got clinic!” he protests as House walks toward the door.
“So do I. I told Cuddy I’d send the kids down. Now come on.” Of course. That makes sense. Cuddy is worried about him, so she’s given House time off to look after him. House will drop him off at the hotel and have the whole afternoon free.
He follows House down to the parking lot, feeling guilty when the other doctor complains about having to walk so far out to the car, even though it’s ridiculous. Neither speaks as they get into the car, and House turns the radio up to a level that makes conversation difficult under the best circumstances. With a migraine, it’s all Wilson can do to bite his lip and not whimper when a particularly painful note plays. He didn’t bring his sunglasses today, so he closes his eyes against the bright sunlight, praying the ride will be over soon.
When the car comes to a stop, Wilson opens his eyes and is surprised to see that they’re at House’s apartment, not his hotel. Surely House isn’t going to make him call a cab? The bike is still at the hospital, so he couldn’t possibly take House’s car, even if he could drive.
“Come on, get out,” House says. The other man is already on his feet, and before Wilson can respond, he’s slammed his door. House walks towards the building, but when he sees that Wilson isn’t following he doubles back, pulling the passenger door open. “Come on Wilson.” He sounds annoyed, and Wilson obeys, not wanting to upset him further.
Part Three
**Edited to fix the link to part three. Sorry!**