alanwolfmoon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alanwolfmoon) wrote2007-06-01 08:57 pm
alanwolfmoon) wrote2007-06-01 08:57 pm
Entry tags:
repost of "what the winter brings" ch 1 & 2
this was written in response to the "adopt a plot bunny" idea by the wonderful [Bad username or unknown identity: ]
“You are going.”
“But-”
“you are going and that is my final answer.”
“Even if I give you extra clinic hours?”
“Oh, is that in addition to making up for all the ones you missed for the last four months?”
“now, we don’t have to go that far...”
“Well?”
“Yes, I will make up the hours I missed”
“No, and before you ask, even if you do the hours yourself, you are going.” House stared at Cuddy.
Cuddy had stood up to him? She had actually refused an offer from him to do extra clinic hours. Something was either very wrong, or she was annoyed at him about the flowers. House wondered which one it was. “Ok....if I have to go, can I at least chose who I have to go with?”
“No, I already chose for you, the topic of the conference is diagnosing cancer, so I need to have you and Wilson there.”
“What? I have to go to the middle of a snow covered nowhere and I don’t even get to take a pretty girl?”
“I'm sure it will make calling hookers much less awkward.”
“You don’t seem to get the point, if I take a pretty girl, I don’t need a hooker. Well, until she gets mad at me. Then I'll need a hooker.”
“Out!”
“Or if you went, you would be mad at me from the start, thus facilitating my getting a hooker from the start. Unless you wanted to have sex with me. Then I wouldn’t need a hooker at all.”
“OUT!”
“Hey, you don’t want me to have sex with Wilson, do you? I mean, it does seem like a bit odd for you to send two department heads out at the same time, to the same conference...”
“House, you will even have separate hotel rooms, I just need you both to be there. It isn’t the middle of nowhere, it is one of the biggest research and development centers for cancer diagnostics in the country. There is no way anything could happen. Now go.”
“Ah, but if you were trying to get me to have sex with Wilson, you would say that too.” House said as he limped out, the glass door swinging shut, just as he finished talking.
“Too bad for you House. If you took some of those theories seriously, you might just have figured out my plans. Who’s the manipulative one now?” said Lisa Cuddy, her beautiful mouth bearing a wide grin.
“I have to go where with you?”
“Yes, well, it isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my week either, but at least there should be some new hookers there.”
“House....” Cuddy had told House that either he would tell Wilson where they were supposed to go, or she would actually start making him do his clinic hours. She had seemed just as determined to force him to do this as she had when she made him agree to go in the first place, that House had actually not fought that hard, and had gone to tell Wilson.
“Ok, it’s just for a week, right?” asked Wilson.
“Yeah, a whole week of hearing new ways to tell if some twenty year old will soon become bald and drooling.”
“House....” was all Wilson could think to say back.
“stupid plane. Stupid can-opener cane. Stupid rules. Stupid terrorists. Stupid stewardess. They are kinda hot tho.... stupid wheelchair. Stupid economy class seats. Stupid greedy airline companies.” Gregory House was not the happiest man in the world.
Ok, well he was significantly farther down the list of “non-happiest-men-in-world” then he usually was. Which was saying something.
He had not been allowed to take his cane on the plane, and they had had no canes for passengers who happened to have can openers in their own canes to use.
Also, some idiot had misplaced his cane in the cargo hold, and now that the he was off the plane, he had been kicked out of the wheelchair without a cane to walk with.
So, on top of having to be wheeled in and off the plane by Wilson, his right leg was now throbbing very painfully while Wilson went off to one of the travel shops to find a quick replacement.
“I guess I should be grateful it is him getting it though...he might be one of the few males I have ever heard of who blow-dry their hair, but he does have some measure of taste.” thought House.
Unfortunately, this rather un-characteristically appreciative train of thought was cut off by Wilson’s return with a cherry and ash cane, with a dark finish.
House liked it immediately, and was much too ashamed to admit, even to himself, that he was almost glad he that the older cane had been lost.
Wilson really did have some taste.
“Sorry, it was the best one they had, I couldn’t find one that looked like your old one.” said Wilson apologetically.
Wilson was rather surprised when, instead of calling him an idiot, House just grunted and started limping towards the baggage claim.
“Cant you go any faster?”
“No! If I got any faster, I’ll crash.”
“Well, given we cant see anything more than a few feet in front of the car no matter how fast you are going, getting there faster would minimize the risk of hitting any of the other crazy, idiot motorists who decided it was a good idea to be out in this storm.”
Wilson did not say anything, but he did step on the gas, just a little bit more, making House grin in triumph.
“There’s another one!”
said the unfortunate bellboy who had been stuck outside of the cozy, warm hotel he worked for, with the job of alerting the warm, cozy, staff inside the hotel when the next, ever so brilliant, non-Canadian, doctor, showed up in the middle of a snowstorm that even a retarded five year old with no common sense whatsoever would have known not to be out in.
When House and Wilson had been hurried hastily inside by the aforementioned unfortunate bellboy, they saw about twenty other middle aged men, and about five or six, middle aged women, lounging about in the warm, cozy, lounge of the hotel.
“Are you here for the digestive cancer diagnostics conference?” asked a pimply young man from behind the counter.
“Yes, we are.” said Wilson.
“Your names please...” said the pimply man, in a rather tired sort of way.
You couldn’t really blame him. For being such a bunch of brilliant people, the doctors who had been showing up today and yesterday had certainly had a tendency to lack basic conversational skills, and the man before him did not seem like an exception to that trend.
“Wilson, James, and House, Gregory.” said Wilson, watching House as he tried to shiver, hold his suitcase, rub his right thigh, glare at the bellboy, and stand up, all at the same time.
The bellboy finally stopped waiting for House to ask him to take his suitcase upstairs to their rooms, and resignedly headed back outside into the squall.
It was about seven o’clock, when House finally got up from where he had collapsed onto one of the red, green, and brown printed covers of the hotel beds. He limped heavily through the door dividing his room and Wilson’s and started to ask Wilson if he had seen a list of places to eat nearby, when a knock sounded at the door to Wilson’s room.
Wilson glanced at House, and then walked over to answer it.
“Hello?” he asked.
The same bellboy who had been waiting outside a few hours earlier stood in the doorway.
“I’m supposed to tell you that the digestive cancer diagnostic advancements conference has been canceled, and that we have arranged a shuttle system between here and the nearest ski resorts for your convenience and pleasure. Also, here is a pamphlet of nearby attractions, though most of them are not open this time of year.”
as soon as he finished, handed the pamphlet to Wilson, and shut the door behind him, House let out a cackle.
Wilson looked at House, confused as to why being stuck in a hotel with nothing much to do for a week was making him cackle like a tickled hyena.
“You do realize that Cuddy just paid for a vacation to a prime hotel, right near about ten ski resorts, and we don’t even have to take vacation leave, don’t you?” said House, by way of explanation.
“Oh...but you cant ski, what are you going to do?”
“....way to ruin the moment, Wilson.” said House.
“sorry.” said Wilson, and he looked like he meant it.
About an hour later, after the room service dinner the hotel provided for free, as compensation, House and Wilson decided to head down to the lounge, mostly because the cable had been knocked out by the storm, and they had nothing better to do.
Plus, Wilson had gotten tired of watching House pace, trying to relive the stiffness in his thigh from the long plane flight, and the tense and cramped car ride to the hotel.
“Hello, care to join us?” asked a friendly, light haired man, in his mid to late twenties.
He was sitting at a table of other, similarly aged men, about half of whom were reading the rain check pamphlets that had been distributed by the unfortunate bellboy.
The other half were sneaking glances at the few, non male, colleagues who were in attendance at the moment. They had obviously been stuck in the hotel for a while, because there were about five completed one thousand piece jigsaw puzzles on the table they were sitting at.
“Lets see...the one that talked to us looks like Chase, that one that keeps sneaking glances at the brunette in the corner is practically Foreman’s twin, and said brunette, is making the same sympathetic face as Cameron always makes. All we need is a large breasted, argumentive old lady to walk down here, and it’ll be like we never left. Oh, joy.” thought House,
looking around the room as Wilson accepted the blond man’s offer and sat down.
House turned and seeing Wilson sitting, sat down as well, though with a slightly less friendly air about him than the charismatic, dark haired, oncologist.
About half an hour later, after introductions had been made, and the other doctors had found out that it was much more pleasant to talk to the chocolate eyed man than his icy blue counterpart, the doctors and Wilson were deep in a discussion about which ski place had the best slopes for different skill levels. House was staring un-abashedly at the Cameron-twin in the corner, who was sending him occasional glares.
Or, more accurately, House was staring un-abashedly at the Cameron-twin’s cleavage, and her glares were, unfortunately coming from her eyes, not her breasts, so House had not seen them, not that he would have cared if he had.
“Anyway, I bet that nobody that hadn’t grown up skiing all the time could make it through the whole diamond trail at little winchester mountain.” said one of the doctors who lived near the convention site, but had stopped by to talk with his stranded brethren in the fight against severe-diarrhea-causing cancers.
“I’ll take that bet!” said Wilson, who, little known to most of his companions--and wives–,back in New Jersey, had actually skied quite a bit in his college days, and had gained quite a large reputation, along with House, back at med school for being able to ski just about any trail that someone laid out for them.
“Ok then, but don’t tell me I didn’t warn you when we have to pick you up with a snow-mobile because you passed out halfway down the trail.” said another native “I wont, believe me.” replied Wilson, confidently.
_________________________________________________________________________
Wilson was strapping on his skis at the top of the hill that marked the start of the diamond trail, when House limped up the slope towards him.
When House tapped Wilson on the shoulder, Wilson jumped and almost fell over.
House just raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
“You sure you can do this? You haven skied since, what? Your first year of being an intern?” said House after Wilson had regained his balance.
“Thanks for your concern, but im pretty sure I can handle it.” said Wilson looking surprised at House’s question.
“Im not concerned, I just want to know what to bet on.” said House.
“Oh...” said Wilson
. House turned and started limping back down the hill, towards the warm indoors of the ski resort’s lounge.
“Why did he come all the way up here just to ask me that? I have my phone, he could have just called....” thought Wilson as he started to ski down the small hill.
House had been in the lounge for about two hours, waiting for Wilson. Most of the other doctors had gone out to ski some on their own, but that wasn’t really an option for House.
He had just got up to start pacing again, when his phone rang.
It was Wilson’s ringtone.
He hurriedly picked it up, off of the coffee table he had set it on, and had been playing solitaire on for the last half hour.
“Wilson?” he asked as he answered the phone.
“House...thank....god.” said Wilson, pain in his voice.
“What, did the ever so great Wilson crash into a tree?” said House, sarcastically, though his heart was beating fast.
“No...I....forgot....my....goggles....got...snowblind...then...I crashed into...a tree.” said Wilson, a hint of humor creeping into his voice at the end of his sentence.
“Ok, well, are you ok?” asked House.
“No...I hurt my...leg.” said Wilson
“well, where are you?” said House, “I’ll call ski patrol to get you.”
“I don’t....know....everything....is purple and....green.” said Wilson.
“Did you notice any mile markers, oh, god of skiing?”
“No...not....for...a....ergh....while.” said Wilson, more pain in his voice now.
“You ok? Tree branch fall on you now?” said House with sarcasm, although his face betrayed his worry, not that Wilson could see House’s expression.
“No...I....moved.....to...try...and look....around...bad...idea...I guess” said Wilson, humor creeping into his voice again.
“Well I’ll call ski patrol, and tell them you are on that trail, two hours’ skiing into it. Ok?” said House. “Thank....you” said Wilson, tiredly.
House did not know the number for ski patrol, but he had noticed the first aid shack on his way up to the start of the trail, so he limped to the small building, and knocked on the door.
“Hello, may I help you?” asked the nurse who answered his knock, as she glanced at his cane, somewhat confused.
“My friend hurt his leg on one of the trails, he need someone to pick him up." said House, thinking that, unfortunately, this nurse could not have really made it if she had to deal with more than broken bones and sprains on a regular basis.
“Oh, then I’ll call ski patrol, do you know what trail the friend was on?” asked the nurse, looking much more comfortable now that the situation was seen to be one she was familiar with.
“The diamond trail, about two hours skiing into it.” House wondered if he should tell the nurse that Wilson was also snowblind, but decided it would probably make her head explode if she had to deal with more than one symptom.
House had always wanted to ride a ski patrol snowmobile, but oddly it wasn’t as fun as he had anticipated. Then again, he had never guessed that if he did get to ride one it would be on a pseudo search and rescue mission for Wilson.
That might have had something to do with his lessened enjoyment of the ride.
Or maybe not.
“That him?” asked the burly man on the snowmobile ahead of House.
“Let’s see, holding his leg, arm over eyes, pale, yeah, I’d say that’s him...” said House, sarcastically
. The ski patrol man glared at House, and got off his snowmobile.
House moved to get off of his, but his thigh was stiff from the forty five minute ride, and gave out the moment he put weight on it.
The burly ski patrol man glanced back at him, but did not help him up.
“Sir, are you alright?” asked the nurse who had been on the snowmobile behind House.
“I’m snowblind and I have a sprained knee. I would say not.” said Wilson, almost as sarcastic as House.
“Did House come?” asked Wilson, trying to look around, but failing miserably.
“House?” asked the nurse.
“Tall guy, cane, blue eyes, about my age, he said he’d call ski patrol, I guess he at least did that, even if he didn’t come out here.” said Wilson, sounding somewhat disappointed.
“Great, he left me to deal with a nurse who probably doesn’t know the front end of a stethoscope from the back, and Mr. Gorilla man here. Typical.” thought Wilson.
House, of course was still trying to stand up on the icy ground on the other side of the snowmobiles.
“If this House is a sarcastic bastard, then, yeah, he came...” said the burly ski patrol man.
“Oh...” said Wilson, managing a brief smile at the thought of House berating the man the whole way here.
“So, we wrapped his knee, but even so, he shouldn’t walk on it until it heals, and keep his eyes covered until the symptoms disappear.” said the nurse, eyeing House with doubtful eyes, clearly thinking that he would not be able to deal with even those simple instructions.
“I know, we *are* both doctors, I think we can handle a simple injuries like these.” said House, sarcastically.
“Well, ok then, but how are you going to get your friend to your car?” asked the nurse, slightly mischievously.
“You do have wheelchairs, don’t you?” asked House, more sarcastic than ever.
“Yes, but you need two hands to push a wheelchair.” said the nurse, reacting to House’s slight.
“Yes, your point being?” said House.
“Well, you don’t exactly look like you can push a wheel chair and stand up at the same time.” said the nurse, now abandoning all traces of politeness.
“I regret to inform you that your worries are baseless.” said House, with mock politeness.
Wilson, sitting on the examination table in the corner, sighed.
House glanced at Wilson, and amazingly ended the argument by telling the nurse to just go get a wheelchair.
When she came back, she brought the burly ski patrol man in with her, and he helped Wilson off the table, and into the chair.
House limped over to the Wilson and put his cane into Wilson’s lap.
“Don’t lose that, I’m gonna need it eventually.” said House, faking annoyance for Wilson’s benefit.
Then, without another word, he pushed Wilson, wheelchair and all out the door, surreptitiously grabbing the bottle of pain meds the nurse had left on the table as he went.
Wilson could hear House’s steps getting more and more ragged behind him, could feel the lurching of the wheelchair, and smell the sweat on the older man.
He was torn between just letting House do this for his pride, and the fact that House would not stop complaining after they got back to the hotel, about his leg hurting.
Wilson had just decided to tell House to stop it and get a nurse to push him, when House opened his mouth to speak over Wilson.
“Don’t be an idiot, idiot.” was all he said, and it left Wilson very confused.
By the time they got to the van, House was breathing heavily, Wilson was dreading the rest of the day, and the sky was getting very, very, gray.
It was about halfway through the ride back to the hotel, when House had been starting to fall asleep, and was sitting in a position that could only be described as the closest you could come to lying down, while still technically sitting up, when he heard Wilson groan.
“What’s his problem they gave him pain killers for his leg, and his eyes shouldn’t still hurt.” thought House, waking up a bit, but not yet opening his eyes.
Wilson groaned again, and House opened his eyes.
“What’s up with you?” asked House, annoyed.
“Migraine.” muttered Wilson.
“Don’t puke on me.” said House
. “Not that kind, just hurts.”
“Probably the stress from the snowblindness.” said House.
“Thanks, I really needed to know just what caused it this time.” snapped Wilson. “Just shut up, talking hurts.” he finished, slightly apologetically.
House didn’t reply. He was probably already asleep.
It was about ten minutes later, when the driver pulled over onto the side of the road.
House limped up to the front to ask what the deal was.
“This storm is too thick to see anything, and the wind is gusting so much I can barely keep on the road. This is the first parking lot since it got this bad, sorry, but I’m not driving anymore in this weather.” said the driver.
House looked out the window, and saw one fain neon sign through the storm, and that was it.
He was surprised they had made it into the parking lot at all.
The driver looked at House curiously. “Didn’t you notice the storm?” he asked.
“I was asleep. It’s kind of hard to notice much when you’re asleep.” replied House, scathingly, before turning to go back to tell Wilson what was up.
When House got back to Wilson, he found that Wilson was not in much shape to be told anything.
He was curled up on the seat, his fingers in his ears, his face pressed into his elbow.
“Wilson, we have to get off the bus.” said House, looking at his companion.
“Urghuah.” said Wilson.
“You conscious?” asked House.
Wilson made a non-committal noise and started to sit up.
He apparently soon found that to not be the best idea in the world, because as soon as he reached an upright position, he promptly curled up again, moaning.
“Wilson?” asked House, now sounding slightly more worried, and less annoyed.
“Migraine.” mumbled Wilson, and stuck his fingers back in his ears.
House sighed, annoyed, and went outside to browbeat the driver into helping Wilson out of the van.
As soon as House got inside the small, one room and a small bathroom motel room, set Wilson on the bed, and shooed the driver out, Wilson resumed moaning holding his head.
House looked at his disheveled friend, and sighed.
The room didn’t have a computer, tv, bookcase, or any other entertainment device.
It had a phone book, a bible, and a list of nearby attractions.
The same list of nearby attractions that the nice hotel they were supposed to be staying at had provided. House sighed again, and sat down in the chair next to the bed.
Or more accurately, the chair next to everything in the room, as there was almost no space that wasn’t taken up by the single bed.
There was only one bed, and Wilson was on it.
House tried to go to sleep in the chair, but Wilson’s moaning kept him awake.
He debated going out to the lobby, but decided against leaving Wilson in his current condition.
He didn’t want him puking on the bed after all.
Wilson’s migraines tended to go away within an hour after they started, but that was with the medication that was packed away, nice and neat and comfy, in Wilson’s suitcase at the nicer hotel.
Given that, House should not have been surprised that three hours after the storm had forced them off the road, Wilson was still completely out of it.
He wasn’t really surprised, just annoyed. Annoyed and bored.
He had been lazily flipping through the phonebook, wondering if anyone in it was worth prank calling.
He had already called, and annoyed, Cuddy, Foreman, Chase, and Cameron at least three times each, and they were no longer answering their phones.
After about another half hour of this, House realized he had to go to the bathroom. As he got up, he glanced at Wilson, pale, sweating, and only half conscious.
“You still there, Wilson?” he asked.
Wilson made no reply, but winced at the sound.
“Guess so.” said House, as he limped to the bathroom.
House was washing his hands, and thinking about the likelihood of managing to find a hooker desperate enough to go out in this storm for a customer with a groaning, half conscious guy on the only bed, when he heard a thump come from the bedroom, followed by an extra-loud groan, and a mumbled call of “House?” House would liked to have just ignored it, but there was another, slightly desperate call, and he decided he should probably see what had happened.
When he got out of the bathroom, at first he couldn’t see where Wilson was, but as he limped further into the dark room, he saw a huddled shape on the floor, in-between the bed and the wall.
“Wilson? You alive?” asked House.
“House....” groaned Wilson, and House heard the pain in his voice.
“Wilson?” asked House again, moving closer, and bending over to get a better look at Wilson.
Wilson was holding on to the bed sheets, white knuckled, and shaking, he seemed to be sitting in a awkward position, his right leg under him, his left up, and his forehead resting on his left knee.
His eyes were closed, and he was bitting his lip, hard enough to puncture the skin slightly.
“Wilson?” House asked a third time. “Wilson, what’s up?” House asked, looking worried.
“I...fell off....” said Wilson, his voice shaking.
“I can see that.” said House, with his usual bluntness, “I mean, why are you still sitting there?” “I...landed...on...my knee....”said Wilson, seeming to curl up even more.
“Yeah, you’re still sitting on it, why?”
“Every....every...every time...I move...it...hurts...” said Wilson, shaking even harder now.
“You are one screwed up guy.” said House, trying keep the worry out of his voice.
“House....help....”said Wilson, his brown eyes unfocused, but looking up at House.
“I can’t...” said House. “I’ll get the driver, or someone.”
“No!” said Wilson, sounding panicked.
“What? I can’t lift you without falling over, and you can’t get up by yourself or else you would have already, you want to stay that way?” asked House, sarcastically.
“No...just...don’t....it hurts....please...” said Wilson.
House could tell that Wilson wasn’t thinking straight, that he was probably only semi-conscious from the pain, that if he was thinking logically, he would be yelling at House to go get some help, but still, he looked so lost, and sounded so scared, that House couldn’t stop himself from kneeling down and putting a hand on Wilson’s shoulder.
Wilson reached out and grabbed House’s arm, holding on to it like a lifeline.
House almost pulled away, the contact was unfamiliar, after so many years of avoiding close company, but he didn’t.
He didn’t pull away. instead, he reached out to take hold of Wilson’s other shoulder, and, shifting his own weight, pulled Wilson forward, off his injured knee.
Unfortunately, this resulted in pulling Wilson onto his own painful leg, but as Wilson grabbed House’s shirt, and gasped at the pain of moving, House reflected that, at least he could get some sleep now, as he proved by passing out then and there.
“Ergh.”
“Wha?”
“What happened?”
House’s first thought was that he had been run over by a truck.
His second thought was that it had all been a very, very, long, and weird dream, and he was still twelve, still living with his dad.
His third thought was that he almost never remembered his dreams, so that couldn’t be it.
His fourth thought was that Wilson was lying on top of him, it was dark, and his leg hurt.
Man, his leg hurt a lot.
Wait.
Wilson was lying on top of him. That one didn’t make sense.
And why was the bed so hard?
Wilson on top of him?
His leg really did hurt a lot.
Wilson was on top of him, holding on to his shirt.
Oh, good, he was wearing a shirt. That meant nothing too weird was going on.
Why was his shirt wet though?
It was wet right near Wilson’s head too...gross....
oww...leg....
“House?”
“House?!”
“Come on, say something, House!”
“House?”
“House....come on...wake up....”
“House?”
“Urgh”
“finally!”
“What the heck? Why are you lying on top of me?”
“You don’t remember?”
“What?!”
“Er, sorry, that came out bad.”
“That’s the understatement of the century.”
“Sorry...look, could you possibly let go?”
“Let go?”
“Yes, you are hugging me.”
“I let go.”
“Um, right.”
“Why aren’t you getting off of me now?”
“Um, well, two reasons, first, my hands are kinda asleep from being under me, and seem to be tangled in your shirt, and second, because if I put any weight on my left leg, it will knee you in the groin, and my right leg is kinda out of commission at the moment.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“My leg hurts.”
“So does mine
” “you still have a migraine?”
“Not at the moment. They kept coming and going all night.”
“Oh.”
“Sooo...”
“My shirt’s wet....”
“Er, yeah, sorry about that.”
“Were you crying, drooling, or puking?”
“Um...crying.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Sorry.”
“For getting my shirt wet? You’d better be.”
“Heh, House...”
“I’m serious, if it’s stained, you’re buying me a new one.”
“Heh, ok.”
“Can you move your hands yet?
” “Let me see. No, not really.”
“Oh.”
“House....”
“What?” “I’m getting...another...migraine.”
“Bad?”
“Not...as bad... not as bad as...the first...one.”
“But bad.”
“...yeah”
“Damn.”
“Sorry.”
“Not the migraine, I have to pee.”
“You...do?”
“No.”
“House....”
“Heh.”
“Urguhg.”
“You ok?”
“Don’t...talk...so...loud.”
“Damn.”
“Eragh....”
“House?”
“I’m here.”
“Sorry.”
“Get off me, and we’ll call it even.”
“I’ll try.”
“Well?”
“Still the same problem with my legs, but I can at least move my hands now.”
“Ok.”
“right.”
“Ready?”
“No.”
“You gonna be ready?”
“No.”
“Ok then, on the count of three?”
“Ok.”
“One, two, three.”
“Owwww!”
A few hours later, House sat, flipping through the phonebook, Wilson lay on the bed, moaning, and the room was rather dark.
However, despite the similarities to the situation earlier, House was not debating leaving Wilson in the room alone, and Wilson was not going to fall off the bed, because House was sitting next to him on the bed and the wall was right up against the bed on the other side.
It was no longer dark because of the hour, but because there was a massive snowdrift right outside the window, and almost no light was coming in.
It was not a very big change, but it was a change.
____________________________________________________________________
chapter 2
__________________________________________________________________________
The next day, Wilson had stopped having migraines long enough for them to head out to the lobby of the
hotel, which was mercifully in the same building as their room, and get some food from the snack shop.
Wilson was looking pale, and tired, and was looking at the food with only mild interest, especially given that he hadn’t eaten anything for two days.
House on the other hand was scooping up three boxes of saltines and a box of camomile tea for Wilson and some random packaged foods for himself.
Although he was not giving the food that much more thought than Wilson, as he was spending most of the time glancing at the aforementioned chocolate eyed oncologist, in an effort to notice any signs of another migraine so he could herd him back to the room before he collapsed from it.
He couldn’t exactly carry him back, after all.
House also bought a package of paper, and when Wilson asked what that was about, House replied that he was bored, so he figured they could play hangman or something of the sort.
Wilson agreed, and suggested getting a package of pens as well, as the one in the room did not work.
House picked up the package of pens and dumped his load onto the counter.
The cashier rung him up, and he paid.
Then he and Wilson went back to their room, limping in almost identical fashions.
When they finished the short walk back to the room, Wilson laid down on the bed again and closed his eyes.
House waited until he heard the Wilson’s breathing slow, and become a steady rhythm.
Then he pulled out the package of paper, and started writing.
Under several crossed out scribbles, the paper now read:
snowblindness, sprained knee, extremely severe migraine, extremely frequent, severe migraines.
“Damn, there isn’t anything for it, there isn’t anything to diagnose, the migraines can all be explained by the residual effects of the snow blindness, and the tension from the pain of the sprained knee...” said House, looking at his now thoroughly scribbled on piece of paper.
He was feeling as though he should be able to do something other than keep Wilson from further injuring himself.
But he couldn’t.
He had already given Wilson the strongest medication available from the snack shop, plus slipped him two of the pills he had stolen from the ditzy nurse back at the ski resort.
None of which were helping much.
He wanted to give Wilson a Vicodin, but he knew he would notice, and object.
He, Gregory House, was helpless.
And he didn’t like it.
“Doing a differential on me?” asked Wilson, surprised.
House jumped, he hadn’t heard Wilson get up.
“Er, yeah, there isn’t much else to do...” said House.
Wilson raised his eyebrows.
It was a lame excuse and they both knew it.
House sighed. “Look, go back to sleep, ok?” said House, sounding tired, and worried.
“What, don’t want to talk to me?” asked Wilson, slightly taken aback.
“no, that’s not it....” said House
“then what is it?” said Wilson, sounding strained.
House turned to look at Wilson, and, seeing the dark eyes full of suppressed pain, he stood and sat Wilson back down on the bed.
“What, think I can’t stand on my own?” asked Wilson, his voice full of bitterness.
House looked at him, silent.
“Why don’t you say something?” asked Wilson, his voice starting to shake with pain.
“House?” he asked, his voice now not the only thing that was shaking.
House sat down next to him, ready for what he knew would come.
“House....” said Wilson again, now struggling to focus on his friend’s face.
“Calm down, I’m here.” said House, quietly.
Wilson was now holding his head and swaying.
House reached out and pulled the younger man close.
Wilson was shaking almost as hard as that first time, only this time it was just the migraine that was doing it, not his leg.
“Shhhh, calm down, you’ll only make it worse.” said House, with an amount of comfort in his voice that would have shocked Wilson or anyone else who knew him, only a few days ago.
“House....” mumbled Wilson, pressing his face into the blue eyed man’s shoulder, and grabbing his shirt with a white knuckled hand.
House pulled Wilson further onto the bed, so that they were both up against the pillows.
“Shhhhh.” House started to rub Wilson’s back, slowly, with large circles that touched all of the shaking man’s tense back.
Wilson was having a bad one this time, and it looked like it was getting worse.
House could feel his shirt getting wet again, but made no mention of it.
All he could do was hold his friend close, and hope the spell passed quickly this time.
It was humbling as nothing had ever humbled House before.
Not Cuddy’s schemes, nor Tritter’s actions, nor volgler’s threats.
No, this time something more than his ego was at stake, and it made all the difference in the world to him.
“In stories,” reflected House, “this would be the part where there would be a miracle, and he would stop hurting. For once in my life, let me be wrong, and let there be a god that cares enough to help.”
Of course, there was no flash, no sudden stop to the shaking of the man beside him on the bed. “Figures.” thought House. “Sometimes I hate being right.”
Wilson did not hear House’s thoughts, nor would he have cared if he had, all he could think of was an end to the pain.
House drew Wilson’s quivering form closer, and pulled the quilt up, over them, making sure it was tucked around Wilson tightly on the side farther from himself.
Wilson only groaned, and curled into a tighter ball on House’s shoulder.
When House woke up the next morning, Wilson looked like he had been running for days without sleep. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he was paler than House had ever seen him.
“Did you get any sleep at all?” asked House.
“I don’t know...” answered Wilson faintly.
House looked at him, wondering if he was in the middle of another migraine, or was just exhausted.
“You want a Vicodin?” asked House.
“N-no...” said Wilson.
It was yet another sign of how tired he was that he even hesitated at all.
House wondered if he was going to pass out again.
“You want some tea?”
“I’d just puke it up...” said Wilson.
“I didn’t ask if you could keep it down, I asked if you wanted some. You keep heaving no matter how little you have in your stomach, it would probably be less unpleasant to have something come up.” said House, with the experience of many a college hangover to base his opinion on.
Wilson looked up at House, his dark eyes hazy from the pain his body had been feeling for the last three days, attempted to say something, and collapsed against his friend’s chest with a sigh.
“Wilson?!” asked House, very worried.
He lifted Wilson’s eyelid.
He was just asleep.
House let out a quiet sigh of relief.
He did not want to disturb his friend so he gently let go of Wilson’s eyelid, and allowed the younger man to curl further onto his lanky form.
“You really need some medical attention, Wilson, but until they manage to clear the roads, I can’t do anything for you. I am really, really, sorry.” said House, and he looked it.
Not that Wilson heard his words or saw his expression.
It was a shame, really, because Wilson was missing the largest and longest display of the humanity he had always believed that House posessed, that he was ever likely to get.
When Wilson woke up around noon, he looked only slightly less dead, and his eyes were just as hazy, but at least he seemed to be able sit up for a little bit on his own.
House moved to slip out of the bed, but Wilson’s un-focused gaze stopped him. “Don’t...please....just...don’t...” was all he could manage to get out, before he started to lose consciousness again.
“Wilson?” asked House, sliding back over to his pale faced friend, clear, ice blue eyes, meeting pain-hazed, chocolate ones.
“I....I just....just don’t....don’t.....want.....don’t want....to be....alone...” Wilson said, his eyes struggling to focus enough to see the expression on House’s face, his mind struggling to form the words.
And then he lost the battle for consciousness again, falling back against House, who had put his arm around Wilson’s shoulders while he was trying to get his words out.
“You don’t have to be....you should never have to be. Not you.” said House holding Wilson’s limp form close, and with an amount of tenderness he had never given to anyone before, not even Stacy.
By the time Wilson woke again around three, House had only left his side to go to the bathroom once, and to eat some frozen beans which, due to his rather distracted shopping expedition, made up the majority of the things he had purchased.
That, along with about five cans of asparagus.
Which House was allergic to.
He wrote a note to remember not to eat them.
He wasn’t sure he would remember otherwise.
“Urgh.” said Wilson, and House looked up immediately from where he was attempting to lock the drawer on the offending cans of asparagus so he wouldn’t eat them by accident.
“You doing any better?” asked House.
“Not....much....” said Wilson, his voice faint.
“I have a question, and if I don’t ask it now, you might pass out again before I ask it. Do you usually get this many migraines if you don’t take your medication?
” “Not usually...this...constant...” Wilson stopped to try and sit up, but failed. “But...sometimes....like...this, if I...get....stressed....”
“oh.” said House, glad that this was not a new symptom.
“Is...just me, or....do you calm...down the...moment....things...get...complicated?” asked Wilson.
“Quite possibly.”said House.
Wilson thought he actually seemed happy at the fact that Wilson was managing to make conversation. Wait.
House.
Happy.
Did not compute.
Why was House even sitting next to him instead of having moved off the moment he saw he was awake? Another wave of pain rushed over him, and he started to shake again.
He convulsively reached out to hold on to something, and ended up grabbing House’s arm, which was supporting said, icy-eyed diagnostician.
He immediately expected House to draw away, but it didn’t happen.
Wilson looked up at House, confused.
House was looking down at him, with an expression of...was that...*concern*? Then the look changed to surprise, as House realized that Wilson had stayed conscious this time.
Wilson stared at House’s face for a moment more, and then asked, in a shaky, pain-filled voice, “How....how...long have...have we been....here?”
“Three days, you were only half conscious for most of it though.” replied House, evenly, the emotion that had been so clear on his face a moment before, now back behind the mask of sarcasm that he usually wore.
“Oh...” said Wilson, drawing his hand back, and grabbing the sheets instead, not wanting to make House too uncomfortable, and make him leave the bedside.
At this movement, House stood up.
Wilson was silently cursing himself for moving as if he wanted to draw away.
“I guess the fact you’re conscious means you’ll have to actually taste my cooking, instead of just having it poured down your throat.” said House, apparently annoyed.
“Um....” said Wilson. “I really....don’t think...i...can...keep anything...down. no matter....who......cooked...........it....” by the end of the sentence, Wilson’s vision had started to blur, and he was starting to shake violently, the migraine getting worse.
He realized why he had been mostly unconscious for the last three days. This was about the worst migraine he could remember ever having.
“Hey, are you allergic to asparagus?” House asked.
“What?......asparagus.....” said Wilson, confused and in pain.
House turned immediately, reacting to the pain in Wilson’s voice.
“Don’t pass out again, come on, you haven’t eaten anything solid for the last four days."
Wilson was shocked to hear the panic in his friend’s voice.
“House?...” he said, trying to focus on his friend’s blue eyes that usually held the only glimpses of the emotions House was feeling that were to be seen.
“What?” asked House.
Wilson was about to ask just how pathetic he had been acting over the last few days, when yet again, another wave of pain crashed over him, causing him to clench his jaw shut, shaking harder than ever.
He realized that he was not able to sit up anymore, and that the hard wooden headboard of the bed was going to hurt a lot when it made contact with his already swimming head.
But just before he hit it, House slipped in behind him.
It seemed that House had gotten a lot of practice in the last few days, because he was not all surprised when Wilson turned over and started to heave onto the floor next to the bed.
Wilson thought, as he was heaving, his right knee throbbing at the movement, with a hand running itself over his back in comforting circles, that the bucket that was in the exact correct place to catch his vomit from this particular position, that House was being extremely nice.
For House.
And that the hand that was clutching House’s shirt was not being pushed away.
This surprised him to no end, although he was not really able to communicate it to his worried friend.
“Are you sure you don’t want a Vicodin?” asked House.
“What?!” asked Wilson, sitting bolt upright.
Wilson groaned, and laid back against the warm form of they ice-eyed diagnostician.
“Why...why...would i...take...a Vicodin...now?” asked Wilson, wincing at every word.
“Because you are conscious at the moment, and because you are in pain." Whispered House, trying not to make Wilson’s migraine worse than it already was.
“Urgh.” said Wilson, pressing his face into House’s shoulder.
“Wilson?” asked House.
“I can’t...I can’t...deal...deal with...you...right...now.” muttered Wilson into his friend’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to “deal” with me, I was offering, not forcing.” said House, quietly.
Wilson pulled back to look at House with un-focused chocolate eyes.
What he saw, shocked him more than anything he had seen.
House was looking as though he was hurt by Wilson’s statement that he had to “deal” with him.
He looked hurt, and he looked like he actually regretted making Wilson uncomfortable.
“You knew...you knew what...the answer...would...be...before you...asked....why...why...ask...then?” asked Wilson, swaying from the effort of keeping himself upright.
“I asked you because...I don’t like seeing you like this.” said House, hesitantly. “I asked because I hoped you would say yes.”
Wilson looked at House for a moment longer, and then laid back against his friend’s shoulder, unable to sit up anymore.
“I...cant believe...you...just......said.........that.” said Wilson, his words quiet, and halting.
His breath was coming in ragged gasps, and he was shaking again.
“I did though.” said House, seeming surprised at his own words.
He put an arm around Wilson’s quivering shoulders, and Wilson realized that the hand that was now gently squeezing his shoulder was shaking almost as much as he was.
“House....” said Wilson, so faint that even from only a few inches away, House could barely hear him. “What?”
“I’m.....sorry....I....said.....that.” Wilson gasped.
“It’s ok. Calm down, it’s ok. If you get upset about that, you’ll hurt worse.” said House, in the quietest tone he could manage.
Wilson pressed himself closer to House.
House noticed that his shirt was getting wet again, but, again made no mention of it.
House was assuming that Wilson had lapsed back into semi-consciousness, as he had before, so he was unpleasantly surprised when the kept shaking harder and harder, and his shirt kept getting wetter.
Wilson was in agony, and he was powerless to help.
“House....”
“I’m here.”
“Sorry.”
“I think we already had this conversation.”
“Uruguh.”
“Wilson?”
“Wilson??”
“Are you asleep??”
“......No.”
“Oh.”
“House.....”
“What?”
“It...hurts....”
“I’m sorry.”
“....House”
“what?”
“It’s...not....not....your....fault.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not sorry.”
“Ergugah.” waves of pain were washing over Wilson, his words were becoming more and more quiet.
His shaking was not stopping, and House’s shirt kept getting wetter.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Wilson.” said House, knowing Wilson couldn’t hear him, but wiling him to.
It was at this point that House realized that his thigh hurt.
This was not surprising, given he had not taken a single vicoden since yesterday, he had been too worried that he might do something stupid, like leave Wilson to fall of the bed again, if he was high.
Now, however, if he didn’t want to move Wilson, probably waking him up, he needed to take one.
He reached for the bottle on the chair, and stopped.
If he moved anymore, he would wake up Wilson.
But he couldn’t reach the bottle without moving some more.
But he didn’t want to wake up Wilson.
But he needed a Vicodin.
House looked down at Wilson’s tear stained face, and then at the bottle of Vicodin.
He sighed.
“You have no idea how hard this is, Wilson.” he said to his pale faced friend, and leaned back against the pillows, brushing Wilson’s sticky, sweat soaked, light brown hair off the younger man’s face.
Wilson only groaned and shifted slightly in his sleep.
The next morning, Wilson awoke to the ringing of the phone.
He shoved his fingers in his ears and curled up onto the still sleeping House’s shoulder.
The icy-eyed man woke from this movement and hastily got up to answer the phone, gently pushing Wilson off him so he wouldn’t get joggled when House stood up.
“Hello?” said House, quietly into the phone.
“House, is that you? are you and Wilson ok? I haven’t been able to get through, I’ve been trying for two days, were you ignoring the phone? Why are you two still at the hotel? Do you know your flight is in an hour?” rushed Cuddy’s voice from the other end.
“Yes, Not exactly, I think the storm knocked out the phones, no, because we are snowed in, and, no, I was asleep, I did not notice the flight was in an hour.” said House, quietly.
“House, I can barely hear you, and what do you mean, “not exactly”, if you mean you ran out of Vicodin, I have no sympathy for you.”
“I do not mean that I ran out of Vicodin, and you cannot hear me, because I am talking quietly so Wilson doesn’t start crying.”
“What?! What did you do, House, why would Wilson be crying?”
“I did nothing, the fact that he left his migraine medication at the other hotel, and then went skiing and sprained his knee did it, and I think that explains why Wilson might cry if I talk too loud.” said House. “What? Is he ok? You haven’t just left him there or something, right?”
“No, he is not ok, and, no I have not just left him there.”
“What did you do then? Give him a Vicodin?” Asked Cuddy, accusingly.
“No, I offered, but he wouldn’t take it, there is a snack shop in the motel, and I gave him the strongest stuff they had, plus some stuff I stole from the ski place’s first aid kit. It just hasn’t helped.”
“House, you sound weird, are you ok?” asked Cuddy
“not, exactly.” said House, wincing as the bolts of pain shooting through his thigh got worse.
“What? You OD or something? Trying to sleep over Wilson’s moans?”
“No, in fact. Actually it is the exact...opposite.” House started to clench his teeth against the pain.
“House? What do you mean?”
“Wilson was lying on my leg and I couldn’t reach the bottle.” said House, forcing the words out in a rush. “And you didn’t move him?” asked Cuddy, incredulously.
“No, he...was finally...asleep.” said House.
“House?” asked Wilson, sitting up and looking blearily at his friend who was now hunched in the corner, with the phone, holding his leg.
“You feeling better?” asked House.
“What?” asked Cuddy.
“Not you, Wilson.” said House.
“Yeah, some, who is that?” asked Wilson.
“Cuddy.” said House.
“What?” asked Cuddy.
House sighed.
“Ok, look, can I call you back?” asked House to Cuddy.
“Um, yeah, but are you going to make your flight?”
“No, we are still snowed in, bye.” said House, and hung up.
“What? House? Are you there?” asked Cuddy, and then looked at the phone.
“Well, I guess something did happen. "
"If House didn’t take his Vicodin, just to not disturb Wilson, then something definitely happened.”
“What?!” asked Foreman, Chase, Cameron, and Mary, the new intern from gynecology who had walked in at that moment to deliver a message to Cuddy.
“Hello, that's a nice necklace.” said Chase.
“Chase!” said Cameron.
“Oh, boy, here we go again.” said Foreman.
Cuddy was still staring at the phone, and Mary was trying to get her attention so she could deliver the message.
“So, you’re feeling better?” asked House after hanging up on Cuddy.
“Yeah, some...are you ok?”
“Yeah, fine.” said House.
“Are you sure--” started Wilson.
“yeah, im sure, you want something to eat?” interrupted House, quickly.
“Um, what have we got? I wasn’t paying much attention when we went to the shop.” asked Wilson. “saltiness, tea, frozen beans, and canned asparagus.” said House, scratching the back of his head with his left hand.
His right hand remained on his thigh.
“Aren’t you allergic to asparagus?” asked Wilson.
“Yeah....” replied House.
Wilson stared at him.
“Um, moving on, we could go get something else from the shop.” said House, who immediately regretted this offer, as he realized it would require walking a considerable distance.
“No, I don’t think I’m hungry enough to care. I’ll just eat some saltines, I guess.” said Wilson, already tired. “You need to eat something more than that, you haven’t eaten anything solid for five days.” said House.
“Five days? I should be much more light headed if it’s been five days of this.” said Wilson, indicating his head.
“Well, I wasn’t counting the asparagus, saltine, and camomile paste I got you to eat two days ago.” said House.
“Asparagus, saltines and camomile? I think I’m glad I wasn’t really conscious.” replied Wilson, managing a laugh, although he didn’t immediately jump for the food.
“Come on, I can’t even eat the asparagus, and you need to eat something other than crackers.” said House, looking less than happy at Wilson’s lack of appetite after days of not eating or not keeping anything down.
“You want me to eat, and I want you to tell me why you are shaking, we’ll trade.” said Wilson.
“I’m not shaking.” said House.
“Yes you are.” said Wilson, fully expecting House to make a childish remark and escalate the argument.
“Fine, if it makes you happy, I’m shaking, now can we get to the part where you eat?” asked House, tiredly.
Wilson stared at him.
“Did you just end an argument...by...*losing*?” Asked Wilson, shocked.
“Yes, now will you please eat?”
“You, Mr. Must be right about everything, Mr. must solve the puzzle, Mr.--” Wilson was going to go on but stopped as House stuck a stalk of canned asparagus in his mouth.
“Eat, now.” said House, looking annoyed.
Wilson blinked, chewed, and swallowed.
“You do know that stuff tastes really bad, right?”
“At this point, I don’t care, as long as you’re eating something.” said House.
Wilson was starting to wonder just what House was on that was making him act like this.
Then he noticed the Vicodin bottle on the chair next to the bed.
It was still half full.
House hadn’t been taking it.
Wilson was getting very, very confused.
House wasn’t on anything.
He was in pain, more than usual, and he was hiding it.
Usually he would be complaining, loudly.
What was going on?
Wilson thought back to what he could remember of the last few days.
He remembered his head hurting, a lot.
And House taking him to the snack shop. He remembered House doing a differential on his symptoms, and seeing the upset look on his face when he realized there was nothing he could do.
He remembered yelling at House, and House not replying. And then House had tried to calm him down.
Then he could remember several times when he thought he had probably been awake, but given what he thought he had heard House say, and how he thought he remembered House acting, it was more likely he had been dreaming.
Then again, as he watched House favoring his right leg even more than usual, and attempting to work the can opener with just his left hand, because he was leaning heavily on the refrigerator with his right, Wilson thought that maybe, it hadn’t been a pain induced fantasy.
Maybe.
In any case, he realized that he actually was kind of hungry, and he should probably eat something before the next migraine hit.
please note: there is no cannon information that says House is allergic to asparagus. I am allergic to asparagus, and it about the most random and non-problematic food allergy you can have. Thus, it was perfect for this story.
“You are going.”
“But-”
“you are going and that is my final answer.”
“Even if I give you extra clinic hours?”
“Oh, is that in addition to making up for all the ones you missed for the last four months?”
“now, we don’t have to go that far...”
“Well?”
“Yes, I will make up the hours I missed”
“No, and before you ask, even if you do the hours yourself, you are going.” House stared at Cuddy.
Cuddy had stood up to him? She had actually refused an offer from him to do extra clinic hours. Something was either very wrong, or she was annoyed at him about the flowers. House wondered which one it was. “Ok....if I have to go, can I at least chose who I have to go with?”
“No, I already chose for you, the topic of the conference is diagnosing cancer, so I need to have you and Wilson there.”
“What? I have to go to the middle of a snow covered nowhere and I don’t even get to take a pretty girl?”
“I'm sure it will make calling hookers much less awkward.”
“You don’t seem to get the point, if I take a pretty girl, I don’t need a hooker. Well, until she gets mad at me. Then I'll need a hooker.”
“Out!”
“Or if you went, you would be mad at me from the start, thus facilitating my getting a hooker from the start. Unless you wanted to have sex with me. Then I wouldn’t need a hooker at all.”
“OUT!”
“Hey, you don’t want me to have sex with Wilson, do you? I mean, it does seem like a bit odd for you to send two department heads out at the same time, to the same conference...”
“House, you will even have separate hotel rooms, I just need you both to be there. It isn’t the middle of nowhere, it is one of the biggest research and development centers for cancer diagnostics in the country. There is no way anything could happen. Now go.”
“Ah, but if you were trying to get me to have sex with Wilson, you would say that too.” House said as he limped out, the glass door swinging shut, just as he finished talking.
“Too bad for you House. If you took some of those theories seriously, you might just have figured out my plans. Who’s the manipulative one now?” said Lisa Cuddy, her beautiful mouth bearing a wide grin.
“I have to go where with you?”
“Yes, well, it isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend my week either, but at least there should be some new hookers there.”
“House....” Cuddy had told House that either he would tell Wilson where they were supposed to go, or she would actually start making him do his clinic hours. She had seemed just as determined to force him to do this as she had when she made him agree to go in the first place, that House had actually not fought that hard, and had gone to tell Wilson.
“Ok, it’s just for a week, right?” asked Wilson.
“Yeah, a whole week of hearing new ways to tell if some twenty year old will soon become bald and drooling.”
“House....” was all Wilson could think to say back.
“stupid plane. Stupid can-opener cane. Stupid rules. Stupid terrorists. Stupid stewardess. They are kinda hot tho.... stupid wheelchair. Stupid economy class seats. Stupid greedy airline companies.” Gregory House was not the happiest man in the world.
Ok, well he was significantly farther down the list of “non-happiest-men-in-world” then he usually was. Which was saying something.
He had not been allowed to take his cane on the plane, and they had had no canes for passengers who happened to have can openers in their own canes to use.
Also, some idiot had misplaced his cane in the cargo hold, and now that the he was off the plane, he had been kicked out of the wheelchair without a cane to walk with.
So, on top of having to be wheeled in and off the plane by Wilson, his right leg was now throbbing very painfully while Wilson went off to one of the travel shops to find a quick replacement.
“I guess I should be grateful it is him getting it though...he might be one of the few males I have ever heard of who blow-dry their hair, but he does have some measure of taste.” thought House.
Unfortunately, this rather un-characteristically appreciative train of thought was cut off by Wilson’s return with a cherry and ash cane, with a dark finish.
House liked it immediately, and was much too ashamed to admit, even to himself, that he was almost glad he that the older cane had been lost.
Wilson really did have some taste.
“Sorry, it was the best one they had, I couldn’t find one that looked like your old one.” said Wilson apologetically.
Wilson was rather surprised when, instead of calling him an idiot, House just grunted and started limping towards the baggage claim.
“Cant you go any faster?”
“No! If I got any faster, I’ll crash.”
“Well, given we cant see anything more than a few feet in front of the car no matter how fast you are going, getting there faster would minimize the risk of hitting any of the other crazy, idiot motorists who decided it was a good idea to be out in this storm.”
Wilson did not say anything, but he did step on the gas, just a little bit more, making House grin in triumph.
“There’s another one!”
said the unfortunate bellboy who had been stuck outside of the cozy, warm hotel he worked for, with the job of alerting the warm, cozy, staff inside the hotel when the next, ever so brilliant, non-Canadian, doctor, showed up in the middle of a snowstorm that even a retarded five year old with no common sense whatsoever would have known not to be out in.
When House and Wilson had been hurried hastily inside by the aforementioned unfortunate bellboy, they saw about twenty other middle aged men, and about five or six, middle aged women, lounging about in the warm, cozy, lounge of the hotel.
“Are you here for the digestive cancer diagnostics conference?” asked a pimply young man from behind the counter.
“Yes, we are.” said Wilson.
“Your names please...” said the pimply man, in a rather tired sort of way.
You couldn’t really blame him. For being such a bunch of brilliant people, the doctors who had been showing up today and yesterday had certainly had a tendency to lack basic conversational skills, and the man before him did not seem like an exception to that trend.
“Wilson, James, and House, Gregory.” said Wilson, watching House as he tried to shiver, hold his suitcase, rub his right thigh, glare at the bellboy, and stand up, all at the same time.
The bellboy finally stopped waiting for House to ask him to take his suitcase upstairs to their rooms, and resignedly headed back outside into the squall.
It was about seven o’clock, when House finally got up from where he had collapsed onto one of the red, green, and brown printed covers of the hotel beds. He limped heavily through the door dividing his room and Wilson’s and started to ask Wilson if he had seen a list of places to eat nearby, when a knock sounded at the door to Wilson’s room.
Wilson glanced at House, and then walked over to answer it.
“Hello?” he asked.
The same bellboy who had been waiting outside a few hours earlier stood in the doorway.
“I’m supposed to tell you that the digestive cancer diagnostic advancements conference has been canceled, and that we have arranged a shuttle system between here and the nearest ski resorts for your convenience and pleasure. Also, here is a pamphlet of nearby attractions, though most of them are not open this time of year.”
as soon as he finished, handed the pamphlet to Wilson, and shut the door behind him, House let out a cackle.
Wilson looked at House, confused as to why being stuck in a hotel with nothing much to do for a week was making him cackle like a tickled hyena.
“You do realize that Cuddy just paid for a vacation to a prime hotel, right near about ten ski resorts, and we don’t even have to take vacation leave, don’t you?” said House, by way of explanation.
“Oh...but you cant ski, what are you going to do?”
“....way to ruin the moment, Wilson.” said House.
“sorry.” said Wilson, and he looked like he meant it.
About an hour later, after the room service dinner the hotel provided for free, as compensation, House and Wilson decided to head down to the lounge, mostly because the cable had been knocked out by the storm, and they had nothing better to do.
Plus, Wilson had gotten tired of watching House pace, trying to relive the stiffness in his thigh from the long plane flight, and the tense and cramped car ride to the hotel.
“Hello, care to join us?” asked a friendly, light haired man, in his mid to late twenties.
He was sitting at a table of other, similarly aged men, about half of whom were reading the rain check pamphlets that had been distributed by the unfortunate bellboy.
The other half were sneaking glances at the few, non male, colleagues who were in attendance at the moment. They had obviously been stuck in the hotel for a while, because there were about five completed one thousand piece jigsaw puzzles on the table they were sitting at.
“Lets see...the one that talked to us looks like Chase, that one that keeps sneaking glances at the brunette in the corner is practically Foreman’s twin, and said brunette, is making the same sympathetic face as Cameron always makes. All we need is a large breasted, argumentive old lady to walk down here, and it’ll be like we never left. Oh, joy.” thought House,
looking around the room as Wilson accepted the blond man’s offer and sat down.
House turned and seeing Wilson sitting, sat down as well, though with a slightly less friendly air about him than the charismatic, dark haired, oncologist.
About half an hour later, after introductions had been made, and the other doctors had found out that it was much more pleasant to talk to the chocolate eyed man than his icy blue counterpart, the doctors and Wilson were deep in a discussion about which ski place had the best slopes for different skill levels. House was staring un-abashedly at the Cameron-twin in the corner, who was sending him occasional glares.
Or, more accurately, House was staring un-abashedly at the Cameron-twin’s cleavage, and her glares were, unfortunately coming from her eyes, not her breasts, so House had not seen them, not that he would have cared if he had.
“Anyway, I bet that nobody that hadn’t grown up skiing all the time could make it through the whole diamond trail at little winchester mountain.” said one of the doctors who lived near the convention site, but had stopped by to talk with his stranded brethren in the fight against severe-diarrhea-causing cancers.
“I’ll take that bet!” said Wilson, who, little known to most of his companions--and wives–,back in New Jersey, had actually skied quite a bit in his college days, and had gained quite a large reputation, along with House, back at med school for being able to ski just about any trail that someone laid out for them.
“Ok then, but don’t tell me I didn’t warn you when we have to pick you up with a snow-mobile because you passed out halfway down the trail.” said another native “I wont, believe me.” replied Wilson, confidently.
_________________________________________________________________________
Wilson was strapping on his skis at the top of the hill that marked the start of the diamond trail, when House limped up the slope towards him.
When House tapped Wilson on the shoulder, Wilson jumped and almost fell over.
House just raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
“You sure you can do this? You haven skied since, what? Your first year of being an intern?” said House after Wilson had regained his balance.
“Thanks for your concern, but im pretty sure I can handle it.” said Wilson looking surprised at House’s question.
“Im not concerned, I just want to know what to bet on.” said House.
“Oh...” said Wilson
. House turned and started limping back down the hill, towards the warm indoors of the ski resort’s lounge.
“Why did he come all the way up here just to ask me that? I have my phone, he could have just called....” thought Wilson as he started to ski down the small hill.
House had been in the lounge for about two hours, waiting for Wilson. Most of the other doctors had gone out to ski some on their own, but that wasn’t really an option for House.
He had just got up to start pacing again, when his phone rang.
It was Wilson’s ringtone.
He hurriedly picked it up, off of the coffee table he had set it on, and had been playing solitaire on for the last half hour.
“Wilson?” he asked as he answered the phone.
“House...thank....god.” said Wilson, pain in his voice.
“What, did the ever so great Wilson crash into a tree?” said House, sarcastically, though his heart was beating fast.
“No...I....forgot....my....goggles....got...snowblind...then...I crashed into...a tree.” said Wilson, a hint of humor creeping into his voice at the end of his sentence.
“Ok, well, are you ok?” asked House.
“No...I hurt my...leg.” said Wilson
“well, where are you?” said House, “I’ll call ski patrol to get you.”
“I don’t....know....everything....is purple and....green.” said Wilson.
“Did you notice any mile markers, oh, god of skiing?”
“No...not....for...a....ergh....while.” said Wilson, more pain in his voice now.
“You ok? Tree branch fall on you now?” said House with sarcasm, although his face betrayed his worry, not that Wilson could see House’s expression.
“No...I....moved.....to...try...and look....around...bad...idea...I guess” said Wilson, humor creeping into his voice again.
“Well I’ll call ski patrol, and tell them you are on that trail, two hours’ skiing into it. Ok?” said House. “Thank....you” said Wilson, tiredly.
House did not know the number for ski patrol, but he had noticed the first aid shack on his way up to the start of the trail, so he limped to the small building, and knocked on the door.
“Hello, may I help you?” asked the nurse who answered his knock, as she glanced at his cane, somewhat confused.
“My friend hurt his leg on one of the trails, he need someone to pick him up." said House, thinking that, unfortunately, this nurse could not have really made it if she had to deal with more than broken bones and sprains on a regular basis.
“Oh, then I’ll call ski patrol, do you know what trail the friend was on?” asked the nurse, looking much more comfortable now that the situation was seen to be one she was familiar with.
“The diamond trail, about two hours skiing into it.” House wondered if he should tell the nurse that Wilson was also snowblind, but decided it would probably make her head explode if she had to deal with more than one symptom.
House had always wanted to ride a ski patrol snowmobile, but oddly it wasn’t as fun as he had anticipated. Then again, he had never guessed that if he did get to ride one it would be on a pseudo search and rescue mission for Wilson.
That might have had something to do with his lessened enjoyment of the ride.
Or maybe not.
“That him?” asked the burly man on the snowmobile ahead of House.
“Let’s see, holding his leg, arm over eyes, pale, yeah, I’d say that’s him...” said House, sarcastically
. The ski patrol man glared at House, and got off his snowmobile.
House moved to get off of his, but his thigh was stiff from the forty five minute ride, and gave out the moment he put weight on it.
The burly ski patrol man glanced back at him, but did not help him up.
“Sir, are you alright?” asked the nurse who had been on the snowmobile behind House.
“I’m snowblind and I have a sprained knee. I would say not.” said Wilson, almost as sarcastic as House.
“Did House come?” asked Wilson, trying to look around, but failing miserably.
“House?” asked the nurse.
“Tall guy, cane, blue eyes, about my age, he said he’d call ski patrol, I guess he at least did that, even if he didn’t come out here.” said Wilson, sounding somewhat disappointed.
“Great, he left me to deal with a nurse who probably doesn’t know the front end of a stethoscope from the back, and Mr. Gorilla man here. Typical.” thought Wilson.
House, of course was still trying to stand up on the icy ground on the other side of the snowmobiles.
“If this House is a sarcastic bastard, then, yeah, he came...” said the burly ski patrol man.
“Oh...” said Wilson, managing a brief smile at the thought of House berating the man the whole way here.
“So, we wrapped his knee, but even so, he shouldn’t walk on it until it heals, and keep his eyes covered until the symptoms disappear.” said the nurse, eyeing House with doubtful eyes, clearly thinking that he would not be able to deal with even those simple instructions.
“I know, we *are* both doctors, I think we can handle a simple injuries like these.” said House, sarcastically.
“Well, ok then, but how are you going to get your friend to your car?” asked the nurse, slightly mischievously.
“You do have wheelchairs, don’t you?” asked House, more sarcastic than ever.
“Yes, but you need two hands to push a wheelchair.” said the nurse, reacting to House’s slight.
“Yes, your point being?” said House.
“Well, you don’t exactly look like you can push a wheel chair and stand up at the same time.” said the nurse, now abandoning all traces of politeness.
“I regret to inform you that your worries are baseless.” said House, with mock politeness.
Wilson, sitting on the examination table in the corner, sighed.
House glanced at Wilson, and amazingly ended the argument by telling the nurse to just go get a wheelchair.
When she came back, she brought the burly ski patrol man in with her, and he helped Wilson off the table, and into the chair.
House limped over to the Wilson and put his cane into Wilson’s lap.
“Don’t lose that, I’m gonna need it eventually.” said House, faking annoyance for Wilson’s benefit.
Then, without another word, he pushed Wilson, wheelchair and all out the door, surreptitiously grabbing the bottle of pain meds the nurse had left on the table as he went.
Wilson could hear House’s steps getting more and more ragged behind him, could feel the lurching of the wheelchair, and smell the sweat on the older man.
He was torn between just letting House do this for his pride, and the fact that House would not stop complaining after they got back to the hotel, about his leg hurting.
Wilson had just decided to tell House to stop it and get a nurse to push him, when House opened his mouth to speak over Wilson.
“Don’t be an idiot, idiot.” was all he said, and it left Wilson very confused.
By the time they got to the van, House was breathing heavily, Wilson was dreading the rest of the day, and the sky was getting very, very, gray.
It was about halfway through the ride back to the hotel, when House had been starting to fall asleep, and was sitting in a position that could only be described as the closest you could come to lying down, while still technically sitting up, when he heard Wilson groan.
“What’s his problem they gave him pain killers for his leg, and his eyes shouldn’t still hurt.” thought House, waking up a bit, but not yet opening his eyes.
Wilson groaned again, and House opened his eyes.
“What’s up with you?” asked House, annoyed.
“Migraine.” muttered Wilson.
“Don’t puke on me.” said House
. “Not that kind, just hurts.”
“Probably the stress from the snowblindness.” said House.
“Thanks, I really needed to know just what caused it this time.” snapped Wilson. “Just shut up, talking hurts.” he finished, slightly apologetically.
House didn’t reply. He was probably already asleep.
It was about ten minutes later, when the driver pulled over onto the side of the road.
House limped up to the front to ask what the deal was.
“This storm is too thick to see anything, and the wind is gusting so much I can barely keep on the road. This is the first parking lot since it got this bad, sorry, but I’m not driving anymore in this weather.” said the driver.
House looked out the window, and saw one fain neon sign through the storm, and that was it.
He was surprised they had made it into the parking lot at all.
The driver looked at House curiously. “Didn’t you notice the storm?” he asked.
“I was asleep. It’s kind of hard to notice much when you’re asleep.” replied House, scathingly, before turning to go back to tell Wilson what was up.
When House got back to Wilson, he found that Wilson was not in much shape to be told anything.
He was curled up on the seat, his fingers in his ears, his face pressed into his elbow.
“Wilson, we have to get off the bus.” said House, looking at his companion.
“Urghuah.” said Wilson.
“You conscious?” asked House.
Wilson made a non-committal noise and started to sit up.
He apparently soon found that to not be the best idea in the world, because as soon as he reached an upright position, he promptly curled up again, moaning.
“Wilson?” asked House, now sounding slightly more worried, and less annoyed.
“Migraine.” mumbled Wilson, and stuck his fingers back in his ears.
House sighed, annoyed, and went outside to browbeat the driver into helping Wilson out of the van.
As soon as House got inside the small, one room and a small bathroom motel room, set Wilson on the bed, and shooed the driver out, Wilson resumed moaning holding his head.
House looked at his disheveled friend, and sighed.
The room didn’t have a computer, tv, bookcase, or any other entertainment device.
It had a phone book, a bible, and a list of nearby attractions.
The same list of nearby attractions that the nice hotel they were supposed to be staying at had provided. House sighed again, and sat down in the chair next to the bed.
Or more accurately, the chair next to everything in the room, as there was almost no space that wasn’t taken up by the single bed.
There was only one bed, and Wilson was on it.
House tried to go to sleep in the chair, but Wilson’s moaning kept him awake.
He debated going out to the lobby, but decided against leaving Wilson in his current condition.
He didn’t want him puking on the bed after all.
Wilson’s migraines tended to go away within an hour after they started, but that was with the medication that was packed away, nice and neat and comfy, in Wilson’s suitcase at the nicer hotel.
Given that, House should not have been surprised that three hours after the storm had forced them off the road, Wilson was still completely out of it.
He wasn’t really surprised, just annoyed. Annoyed and bored.
He had been lazily flipping through the phonebook, wondering if anyone in it was worth prank calling.
He had already called, and annoyed, Cuddy, Foreman, Chase, and Cameron at least three times each, and they were no longer answering their phones.
After about another half hour of this, House realized he had to go to the bathroom. As he got up, he glanced at Wilson, pale, sweating, and only half conscious.
“You still there, Wilson?” he asked.
Wilson made no reply, but winced at the sound.
“Guess so.” said House, as he limped to the bathroom.
House was washing his hands, and thinking about the likelihood of managing to find a hooker desperate enough to go out in this storm for a customer with a groaning, half conscious guy on the only bed, when he heard a thump come from the bedroom, followed by an extra-loud groan, and a mumbled call of “House?” House would liked to have just ignored it, but there was another, slightly desperate call, and he decided he should probably see what had happened.
When he got out of the bathroom, at first he couldn’t see where Wilson was, but as he limped further into the dark room, he saw a huddled shape on the floor, in-between the bed and the wall.
“Wilson? You alive?” asked House.
“House....” groaned Wilson, and House heard the pain in his voice.
“Wilson?” asked House again, moving closer, and bending over to get a better look at Wilson.
Wilson was holding on to the bed sheets, white knuckled, and shaking, he seemed to be sitting in a awkward position, his right leg under him, his left up, and his forehead resting on his left knee.
His eyes were closed, and he was bitting his lip, hard enough to puncture the skin slightly.
“Wilson?” House asked a third time. “Wilson, what’s up?” House asked, looking worried.
“I...fell off....” said Wilson, his voice shaking.
“I can see that.” said House, with his usual bluntness, “I mean, why are you still sitting there?” “I...landed...on...my knee....”said Wilson, seeming to curl up even more.
“Yeah, you’re still sitting on it, why?”
“Every....every...every time...I move...it...hurts...” said Wilson, shaking even harder now.
“You are one screwed up guy.” said House, trying keep the worry out of his voice.
“House....help....”said Wilson, his brown eyes unfocused, but looking up at House.
“I can’t...” said House. “I’ll get the driver, or someone.”
“No!” said Wilson, sounding panicked.
“What? I can’t lift you without falling over, and you can’t get up by yourself or else you would have already, you want to stay that way?” asked House, sarcastically.
“No...just...don’t....it hurts....please...” said Wilson.
House could tell that Wilson wasn’t thinking straight, that he was probably only semi-conscious from the pain, that if he was thinking logically, he would be yelling at House to go get some help, but still, he looked so lost, and sounded so scared, that House couldn’t stop himself from kneeling down and putting a hand on Wilson’s shoulder.
Wilson reached out and grabbed House’s arm, holding on to it like a lifeline.
House almost pulled away, the contact was unfamiliar, after so many years of avoiding close company, but he didn’t.
He didn’t pull away. instead, he reached out to take hold of Wilson’s other shoulder, and, shifting his own weight, pulled Wilson forward, off his injured knee.
Unfortunately, this resulted in pulling Wilson onto his own painful leg, but as Wilson grabbed House’s shirt, and gasped at the pain of moving, House reflected that, at least he could get some sleep now, as he proved by passing out then and there.
“Ergh.”
“Wha?”
“What happened?”
House’s first thought was that he had been run over by a truck.
His second thought was that it had all been a very, very, long, and weird dream, and he was still twelve, still living with his dad.
His third thought was that he almost never remembered his dreams, so that couldn’t be it.
His fourth thought was that Wilson was lying on top of him, it was dark, and his leg hurt.
Man, his leg hurt a lot.
Wait.
Wilson was lying on top of him. That one didn’t make sense.
And why was the bed so hard?
Wilson on top of him?
His leg really did hurt a lot.
Wilson was on top of him, holding on to his shirt.
Oh, good, he was wearing a shirt. That meant nothing too weird was going on.
Why was his shirt wet though?
It was wet right near Wilson’s head too...gross....
oww...leg....
“House?”
“House?!”
“Come on, say something, House!”
“House?”
“House....come on...wake up....”
“House?”
“Urgh”
“finally!”
“What the heck? Why are you lying on top of me?”
“You don’t remember?”
“What?!”
“Er, sorry, that came out bad.”
“That’s the understatement of the century.”
“Sorry...look, could you possibly let go?”
“Let go?”
“Yes, you are hugging me.”
“I let go.”
“Um, right.”
“Why aren’t you getting off of me now?”
“Um, well, two reasons, first, my hands are kinda asleep from being under me, and seem to be tangled in your shirt, and second, because if I put any weight on my left leg, it will knee you in the groin, and my right leg is kinda out of commission at the moment.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“My leg hurts.”
“So does mine
” “you still have a migraine?”
“Not at the moment. They kept coming and going all night.”
“Oh.”
“Sooo...”
“My shirt’s wet....”
“Er, yeah, sorry about that.”
“Were you crying, drooling, or puking?”
“Um...crying.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Sorry.”
“For getting my shirt wet? You’d better be.”
“Heh, House...”
“I’m serious, if it’s stained, you’re buying me a new one.”
“Heh, ok.”
“Can you move your hands yet?
” “Let me see. No, not really.”
“Oh.”
“House....”
“What?” “I’m getting...another...migraine.”
“Bad?”
“Not...as bad... not as bad as...the first...one.”
“But bad.”
“...yeah”
“Damn.”
“Sorry.”
“Not the migraine, I have to pee.”
“You...do?”
“No.”
“House....”
“Heh.”
“Urguhg.”
“You ok?”
“Don’t...talk...so...loud.”
“Damn.”
“Eragh....”
“House?”
“I’m here.”
“Sorry.”
“Get off me, and we’ll call it even.”
“I’ll try.”
“Well?”
“Still the same problem with my legs, but I can at least move my hands now.”
“Ok.”
“right.”
“Ready?”
“No.”
“You gonna be ready?”
“No.”
“Ok then, on the count of three?”
“Ok.”
“One, two, three.”
“Owwww!”
A few hours later, House sat, flipping through the phonebook, Wilson lay on the bed, moaning, and the room was rather dark.
However, despite the similarities to the situation earlier, House was not debating leaving Wilson in the room alone, and Wilson was not going to fall off the bed, because House was sitting next to him on the bed and the wall was right up against the bed on the other side.
It was no longer dark because of the hour, but because there was a massive snowdrift right outside the window, and almost no light was coming in.
It was not a very big change, but it was a change.
____________________________________________________________________
chapter 2
__________________________________________________________________________
The next day, Wilson had stopped having migraines long enough for them to head out to the lobby of the
hotel, which was mercifully in the same building as their room, and get some food from the snack shop.
Wilson was looking pale, and tired, and was looking at the food with only mild interest, especially given that he hadn’t eaten anything for two days.
House on the other hand was scooping up three boxes of saltines and a box of camomile tea for Wilson and some random packaged foods for himself.
Although he was not giving the food that much more thought than Wilson, as he was spending most of the time glancing at the aforementioned chocolate eyed oncologist, in an effort to notice any signs of another migraine so he could herd him back to the room before he collapsed from it.
He couldn’t exactly carry him back, after all.
House also bought a package of paper, and when Wilson asked what that was about, House replied that he was bored, so he figured they could play hangman or something of the sort.
Wilson agreed, and suggested getting a package of pens as well, as the one in the room did not work.
House picked up the package of pens and dumped his load onto the counter.
The cashier rung him up, and he paid.
Then he and Wilson went back to their room, limping in almost identical fashions.
When they finished the short walk back to the room, Wilson laid down on the bed again and closed his eyes.
House waited until he heard the Wilson’s breathing slow, and become a steady rhythm.
Then he pulled out the package of paper, and started writing.
Under several crossed out scribbles, the paper now read:
snowblindness, sprained knee, extremely severe migraine, extremely frequent, severe migraines.
“Damn, there isn’t anything for it, there isn’t anything to diagnose, the migraines can all be explained by the residual effects of the snow blindness, and the tension from the pain of the sprained knee...” said House, looking at his now thoroughly scribbled on piece of paper.
He was feeling as though he should be able to do something other than keep Wilson from further injuring himself.
But he couldn’t.
He had already given Wilson the strongest medication available from the snack shop, plus slipped him two of the pills he had stolen from the ditzy nurse back at the ski resort.
None of which were helping much.
He wanted to give Wilson a Vicodin, but he knew he would notice, and object.
He, Gregory House, was helpless.
And he didn’t like it.
“Doing a differential on me?” asked Wilson, surprised.
House jumped, he hadn’t heard Wilson get up.
“Er, yeah, there isn’t much else to do...” said House.
Wilson raised his eyebrows.
It was a lame excuse and they both knew it.
House sighed. “Look, go back to sleep, ok?” said House, sounding tired, and worried.
“What, don’t want to talk to me?” asked Wilson, slightly taken aback.
“no, that’s not it....” said House
“then what is it?” said Wilson, sounding strained.
House turned to look at Wilson, and, seeing the dark eyes full of suppressed pain, he stood and sat Wilson back down on the bed.
“What, think I can’t stand on my own?” asked Wilson, his voice full of bitterness.
House looked at him, silent.
“Why don’t you say something?” asked Wilson, his voice starting to shake with pain.
“House?” he asked, his voice now not the only thing that was shaking.
House sat down next to him, ready for what he knew would come.
“House....” said Wilson again, now struggling to focus on his friend’s face.
“Calm down, I’m here.” said House, quietly.
Wilson was now holding his head and swaying.
House reached out and pulled the younger man close.
Wilson was shaking almost as hard as that first time, only this time it was just the migraine that was doing it, not his leg.
“Shhhh, calm down, you’ll only make it worse.” said House, with an amount of comfort in his voice that would have shocked Wilson or anyone else who knew him, only a few days ago.
“House....” mumbled Wilson, pressing his face into the blue eyed man’s shoulder, and grabbing his shirt with a white knuckled hand.
House pulled Wilson further onto the bed, so that they were both up against the pillows.
“Shhhhh.” House started to rub Wilson’s back, slowly, with large circles that touched all of the shaking man’s tense back.
Wilson was having a bad one this time, and it looked like it was getting worse.
House could feel his shirt getting wet again, but made no mention of it.
All he could do was hold his friend close, and hope the spell passed quickly this time.
It was humbling as nothing had ever humbled House before.
Not Cuddy’s schemes, nor Tritter’s actions, nor volgler’s threats.
No, this time something more than his ego was at stake, and it made all the difference in the world to him.
“In stories,” reflected House, “this would be the part where there would be a miracle, and he would stop hurting. For once in my life, let me be wrong, and let there be a god that cares enough to help.”
Of course, there was no flash, no sudden stop to the shaking of the man beside him on the bed. “Figures.” thought House. “Sometimes I hate being right.”
Wilson did not hear House’s thoughts, nor would he have cared if he had, all he could think of was an end to the pain.
House drew Wilson’s quivering form closer, and pulled the quilt up, over them, making sure it was tucked around Wilson tightly on the side farther from himself.
Wilson only groaned, and curled into a tighter ball on House’s shoulder.
When House woke up the next morning, Wilson looked like he had been running for days without sleep. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he was paler than House had ever seen him.
“Did you get any sleep at all?” asked House.
“I don’t know...” answered Wilson faintly.
House looked at him, wondering if he was in the middle of another migraine, or was just exhausted.
“You want a Vicodin?” asked House.
“N-no...” said Wilson.
It was yet another sign of how tired he was that he even hesitated at all.
House wondered if he was going to pass out again.
“You want some tea?”
“I’d just puke it up...” said Wilson.
“I didn’t ask if you could keep it down, I asked if you wanted some. You keep heaving no matter how little you have in your stomach, it would probably be less unpleasant to have something come up.” said House, with the experience of many a college hangover to base his opinion on.
Wilson looked up at House, his dark eyes hazy from the pain his body had been feeling for the last three days, attempted to say something, and collapsed against his friend’s chest with a sigh.
“Wilson?!” asked House, very worried.
He lifted Wilson’s eyelid.
He was just asleep.
House let out a quiet sigh of relief.
He did not want to disturb his friend so he gently let go of Wilson’s eyelid, and allowed the younger man to curl further onto his lanky form.
“You really need some medical attention, Wilson, but until they manage to clear the roads, I can’t do anything for you. I am really, really, sorry.” said House, and he looked it.
Not that Wilson heard his words or saw his expression.
It was a shame, really, because Wilson was missing the largest and longest display of the humanity he had always believed that House posessed, that he was ever likely to get.
When Wilson woke up around noon, he looked only slightly less dead, and his eyes were just as hazy, but at least he seemed to be able sit up for a little bit on his own.
House moved to slip out of the bed, but Wilson’s un-focused gaze stopped him. “Don’t...please....just...don’t...” was all he could manage to get out, before he started to lose consciousness again.
“Wilson?” asked House, sliding back over to his pale faced friend, clear, ice blue eyes, meeting pain-hazed, chocolate ones.
“I....I just....just don’t....don’t.....want.....don’t want....to be....alone...” Wilson said, his eyes struggling to focus enough to see the expression on House’s face, his mind struggling to form the words.
And then he lost the battle for consciousness again, falling back against House, who had put his arm around Wilson’s shoulders while he was trying to get his words out.
“You don’t have to be....you should never have to be. Not you.” said House holding Wilson’s limp form close, and with an amount of tenderness he had never given to anyone before, not even Stacy.
By the time Wilson woke again around three, House had only left his side to go to the bathroom once, and to eat some frozen beans which, due to his rather distracted shopping expedition, made up the majority of the things he had purchased.
That, along with about five cans of asparagus.
Which House was allergic to.
He wrote a note to remember not to eat them.
He wasn’t sure he would remember otherwise.
“Urgh.” said Wilson, and House looked up immediately from where he was attempting to lock the drawer on the offending cans of asparagus so he wouldn’t eat them by accident.
“You doing any better?” asked House.
“Not....much....” said Wilson, his voice faint.
“I have a question, and if I don’t ask it now, you might pass out again before I ask it. Do you usually get this many migraines if you don’t take your medication?
” “Not usually...this...constant...” Wilson stopped to try and sit up, but failed. “But...sometimes....like...this, if I...get....stressed....”
“oh.” said House, glad that this was not a new symptom.
“Is...just me, or....do you calm...down the...moment....things...get...complicated?” asked Wilson.
“Quite possibly.”said House.
Wilson thought he actually seemed happy at the fact that Wilson was managing to make conversation. Wait.
House.
Happy.
Did not compute.
Why was House even sitting next to him instead of having moved off the moment he saw he was awake? Another wave of pain rushed over him, and he started to shake again.
He convulsively reached out to hold on to something, and ended up grabbing House’s arm, which was supporting said, icy-eyed diagnostician.
He immediately expected House to draw away, but it didn’t happen.
Wilson looked up at House, confused.
House was looking down at him, with an expression of...was that...*concern*? Then the look changed to surprise, as House realized that Wilson had stayed conscious this time.
Wilson stared at House’s face for a moment more, and then asked, in a shaky, pain-filled voice, “How....how...long have...have we been....here?”
“Three days, you were only half conscious for most of it though.” replied House, evenly, the emotion that had been so clear on his face a moment before, now back behind the mask of sarcasm that he usually wore.
“Oh...” said Wilson, drawing his hand back, and grabbing the sheets instead, not wanting to make House too uncomfortable, and make him leave the bedside.
At this movement, House stood up.
Wilson was silently cursing himself for moving as if he wanted to draw away.
“I guess the fact you’re conscious means you’ll have to actually taste my cooking, instead of just having it poured down your throat.” said House, apparently annoyed.
“Um....” said Wilson. “I really....don’t think...i...can...keep anything...down. no matter....who......cooked...........it....” by the end of the sentence, Wilson’s vision had started to blur, and he was starting to shake violently, the migraine getting worse.
He realized why he had been mostly unconscious for the last three days. This was about the worst migraine he could remember ever having.
“Hey, are you allergic to asparagus?” House asked.
“What?......asparagus.....” said Wilson, confused and in pain.
House turned immediately, reacting to the pain in Wilson’s voice.
“Don’t pass out again, come on, you haven’t eaten anything solid for the last four days."
Wilson was shocked to hear the panic in his friend’s voice.
“House?...” he said, trying to focus on his friend’s blue eyes that usually held the only glimpses of the emotions House was feeling that were to be seen.
“What?” asked House.
Wilson was about to ask just how pathetic he had been acting over the last few days, when yet again, another wave of pain crashed over him, causing him to clench his jaw shut, shaking harder than ever.
He realized that he was not able to sit up anymore, and that the hard wooden headboard of the bed was going to hurt a lot when it made contact with his already swimming head.
But just before he hit it, House slipped in behind him.
It seemed that House had gotten a lot of practice in the last few days, because he was not all surprised when Wilson turned over and started to heave onto the floor next to the bed.
Wilson thought, as he was heaving, his right knee throbbing at the movement, with a hand running itself over his back in comforting circles, that the bucket that was in the exact correct place to catch his vomit from this particular position, that House was being extremely nice.
For House.
And that the hand that was clutching House’s shirt was not being pushed away.
This surprised him to no end, although he was not really able to communicate it to his worried friend.
“Are you sure you don’t want a Vicodin?” asked House.
“What?!” asked Wilson, sitting bolt upright.
Wilson groaned, and laid back against the warm form of they ice-eyed diagnostician.
“Why...why...would i...take...a Vicodin...now?” asked Wilson, wincing at every word.
“Because you are conscious at the moment, and because you are in pain." Whispered House, trying not to make Wilson’s migraine worse than it already was.
“Urgh.” said Wilson, pressing his face into House’s shoulder.
“Wilson?” asked House.
“I can’t...I can’t...deal...deal with...you...right...now.” muttered Wilson into his friend’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to “deal” with me, I was offering, not forcing.” said House, quietly.
Wilson pulled back to look at House with un-focused chocolate eyes.
What he saw, shocked him more than anything he had seen.
House was looking as though he was hurt by Wilson’s statement that he had to “deal” with him.
He looked hurt, and he looked like he actually regretted making Wilson uncomfortable.
“You knew...you knew what...the answer...would...be...before you...asked....why...why...ask...then?” asked Wilson, swaying from the effort of keeping himself upright.
“I asked you because...I don’t like seeing you like this.” said House, hesitantly. “I asked because I hoped you would say yes.”
Wilson looked at House for a moment longer, and then laid back against his friend’s shoulder, unable to sit up anymore.
“I...cant believe...you...just......said.........that.” said Wilson, his words quiet, and halting.
His breath was coming in ragged gasps, and he was shaking again.
“I did though.” said House, seeming surprised at his own words.
He put an arm around Wilson’s quivering shoulders, and Wilson realized that the hand that was now gently squeezing his shoulder was shaking almost as much as he was.
“House....” said Wilson, so faint that even from only a few inches away, House could barely hear him. “What?”
“I’m.....sorry....I....said.....that.” Wilson gasped.
“It’s ok. Calm down, it’s ok. If you get upset about that, you’ll hurt worse.” said House, in the quietest tone he could manage.
Wilson pressed himself closer to House.
House noticed that his shirt was getting wet again, but, again made no mention of it.
House was assuming that Wilson had lapsed back into semi-consciousness, as he had before, so he was unpleasantly surprised when the kept shaking harder and harder, and his shirt kept getting wetter.
Wilson was in agony, and he was powerless to help.
“House....”
“I’m here.”
“Sorry.”
“I think we already had this conversation.”
“Uruguh.”
“Wilson?”
“Wilson??”
“Are you asleep??”
“......No.”
“Oh.”
“House.....”
“What?”
“It...hurts....”
“I’m sorry.”
“....House”
“what?”
“It’s...not....not....your....fault.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not sorry.”
“Ergugah.” waves of pain were washing over Wilson, his words were becoming more and more quiet.
His shaking was not stopping, and House’s shirt kept getting wetter.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Wilson.” said House, knowing Wilson couldn’t hear him, but wiling him to.
It was at this point that House realized that his thigh hurt.
This was not surprising, given he had not taken a single vicoden since yesterday, he had been too worried that he might do something stupid, like leave Wilson to fall of the bed again, if he was high.
Now, however, if he didn’t want to move Wilson, probably waking him up, he needed to take one.
He reached for the bottle on the chair, and stopped.
If he moved anymore, he would wake up Wilson.
But he couldn’t reach the bottle without moving some more.
But he didn’t want to wake up Wilson.
But he needed a Vicodin.
House looked down at Wilson’s tear stained face, and then at the bottle of Vicodin.
He sighed.
“You have no idea how hard this is, Wilson.” he said to his pale faced friend, and leaned back against the pillows, brushing Wilson’s sticky, sweat soaked, light brown hair off the younger man’s face.
Wilson only groaned and shifted slightly in his sleep.
The next morning, Wilson awoke to the ringing of the phone.
He shoved his fingers in his ears and curled up onto the still sleeping House’s shoulder.
The icy-eyed man woke from this movement and hastily got up to answer the phone, gently pushing Wilson off him so he wouldn’t get joggled when House stood up.
“Hello?” said House, quietly into the phone.
“House, is that you? are you and Wilson ok? I haven’t been able to get through, I’ve been trying for two days, were you ignoring the phone? Why are you two still at the hotel? Do you know your flight is in an hour?” rushed Cuddy’s voice from the other end.
“Yes, Not exactly, I think the storm knocked out the phones, no, because we are snowed in, and, no, I was asleep, I did not notice the flight was in an hour.” said House, quietly.
“House, I can barely hear you, and what do you mean, “not exactly”, if you mean you ran out of Vicodin, I have no sympathy for you.”
“I do not mean that I ran out of Vicodin, and you cannot hear me, because I am talking quietly so Wilson doesn’t start crying.”
“What?! What did you do, House, why would Wilson be crying?”
“I did nothing, the fact that he left his migraine medication at the other hotel, and then went skiing and sprained his knee did it, and I think that explains why Wilson might cry if I talk too loud.” said House. “What? Is he ok? You haven’t just left him there or something, right?”
“No, he is not ok, and, no I have not just left him there.”
“What did you do then? Give him a Vicodin?” Asked Cuddy, accusingly.
“No, I offered, but he wouldn’t take it, there is a snack shop in the motel, and I gave him the strongest stuff they had, plus some stuff I stole from the ski place’s first aid kit. It just hasn’t helped.”
“House, you sound weird, are you ok?” asked Cuddy
“not, exactly.” said House, wincing as the bolts of pain shooting through his thigh got worse.
“What? You OD or something? Trying to sleep over Wilson’s moans?”
“No, in fact. Actually it is the exact...opposite.” House started to clench his teeth against the pain.
“House? What do you mean?”
“Wilson was lying on my leg and I couldn’t reach the bottle.” said House, forcing the words out in a rush. “And you didn’t move him?” asked Cuddy, incredulously.
“No, he...was finally...asleep.” said House.
“House?” asked Wilson, sitting up and looking blearily at his friend who was now hunched in the corner, with the phone, holding his leg.
“You feeling better?” asked House.
“What?” asked Cuddy.
“Not you, Wilson.” said House.
“Yeah, some, who is that?” asked Wilson.
“Cuddy.” said House.
“What?” asked Cuddy.
House sighed.
“Ok, look, can I call you back?” asked House to Cuddy.
“Um, yeah, but are you going to make your flight?”
“No, we are still snowed in, bye.” said House, and hung up.
“What? House? Are you there?” asked Cuddy, and then looked at the phone.
“Well, I guess something did happen. "
"If House didn’t take his Vicodin, just to not disturb Wilson, then something definitely happened.”
“What?!” asked Foreman, Chase, Cameron, and Mary, the new intern from gynecology who had walked in at that moment to deliver a message to Cuddy.
“Hello, that's a nice necklace.” said Chase.
“Chase!” said Cameron.
“Oh, boy, here we go again.” said Foreman.
Cuddy was still staring at the phone, and Mary was trying to get her attention so she could deliver the message.
“So, you’re feeling better?” asked House after hanging up on Cuddy.
“Yeah, some...are you ok?”
“Yeah, fine.” said House.
“Are you sure--” started Wilson.
“yeah, im sure, you want something to eat?” interrupted House, quickly.
“Um, what have we got? I wasn’t paying much attention when we went to the shop.” asked Wilson. “saltiness, tea, frozen beans, and canned asparagus.” said House, scratching the back of his head with his left hand.
His right hand remained on his thigh.
“Aren’t you allergic to asparagus?” asked Wilson.
“Yeah....” replied House.
Wilson stared at him.
“Um, moving on, we could go get something else from the shop.” said House, who immediately regretted this offer, as he realized it would require walking a considerable distance.
“No, I don’t think I’m hungry enough to care. I’ll just eat some saltines, I guess.” said Wilson, already tired. “You need to eat something more than that, you haven’t eaten anything solid for five days.” said House.
“Five days? I should be much more light headed if it’s been five days of this.” said Wilson, indicating his head.
“Well, I wasn’t counting the asparagus, saltine, and camomile paste I got you to eat two days ago.” said House.
“Asparagus, saltines and camomile? I think I’m glad I wasn’t really conscious.” replied Wilson, managing a laugh, although he didn’t immediately jump for the food.
“Come on, I can’t even eat the asparagus, and you need to eat something other than crackers.” said House, looking less than happy at Wilson’s lack of appetite after days of not eating or not keeping anything down.
“You want me to eat, and I want you to tell me why you are shaking, we’ll trade.” said Wilson.
“I’m not shaking.” said House.
“Yes you are.” said Wilson, fully expecting House to make a childish remark and escalate the argument.
“Fine, if it makes you happy, I’m shaking, now can we get to the part where you eat?” asked House, tiredly.
Wilson stared at him.
“Did you just end an argument...by...*losing*?” Asked Wilson, shocked.
“Yes, now will you please eat?”
“You, Mr. Must be right about everything, Mr. must solve the puzzle, Mr.--” Wilson was going to go on but stopped as House stuck a stalk of canned asparagus in his mouth.
“Eat, now.” said House, looking annoyed.
Wilson blinked, chewed, and swallowed.
“You do know that stuff tastes really bad, right?”
“At this point, I don’t care, as long as you’re eating something.” said House.
Wilson was starting to wonder just what House was on that was making him act like this.
Then he noticed the Vicodin bottle on the chair next to the bed.
It was still half full.
House hadn’t been taking it.
Wilson was getting very, very confused.
House wasn’t on anything.
He was in pain, more than usual, and he was hiding it.
Usually he would be complaining, loudly.
What was going on?
Wilson thought back to what he could remember of the last few days.
He remembered his head hurting, a lot.
And House taking him to the snack shop. He remembered House doing a differential on his symptoms, and seeing the upset look on his face when he realized there was nothing he could do.
He remembered yelling at House, and House not replying. And then House had tried to calm him down.
Then he could remember several times when he thought he had probably been awake, but given what he thought he had heard House say, and how he thought he remembered House acting, it was more likely he had been dreaming.
Then again, as he watched House favoring his right leg even more than usual, and attempting to work the can opener with just his left hand, because he was leaning heavily on the refrigerator with his right, Wilson thought that maybe, it hadn’t been a pain induced fantasy.
Maybe.
In any case, he realized that he actually was kind of hungry, and he should probably eat something before the next migraine hit.
please note: there is no cannon information that says House is allergic to asparagus. I am allergic to asparagus, and it about the most random and non-problematic food allergy you can have. Thus, it was perfect for this story.