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Title: Caring
Pairing: House/+Wilson
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: not much, just sick!wilson
Summary: Wilson comes to House for some help. Months later, after the bus crash, the thing he needed help with is getting worse.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes: I did a lot of research for this one, but I'm sure there's stuff I didn't read, so it might not be perfectly accurate.
T
“House,” said Wilson, quietly, as he entered the older doctor's office.
House looked wearily up at him.
“What?” he was obviously tired.
Wilson frowned, “bad day with the leg?”
House nodded.
Wilson sighed.
“Look... I... Stevenson quit. I... I need... just one time.”
House raised an eyebrow.
“Stevenson in gynecology Stevenson? Cool.”
Wilson grimaced, “uh, no. Stevenson in neurology.”
House tilted his head.
“What...?”
“Botox.”
House laughed, “aha! So that's why you look so young!”
Wilson rolled his eyes, “dystonia. Cervical. I need a routine injection, that's all.”
House frowned.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I didn't hide it, it just never came up.”
House was frowning at Wilson's shoes.
All those times Wilson rubbed his neck... it made sense.
He looked back up at his friend's face, and nodded.
Wilson smiled weakly, obviously relived.
House got up, grimacing as he stood, and followed Wilson out of the room.
Several months and a bus crash later...
House grunted, reaching blindly for the phone as it rang into the darkness of the bedroom.
“Uh?” he asked, very articulately.
“House?” Wilson's voice.
“Uh-huh,” responded House, voice thick with sleep.
“Can... I... can you please come over? Please?”
House frowned, starting to wake up a little more.
Wilson's voice was tight, stressed.
“What’s up?”
“I... just come.”
A click, followed by a beep.
Wilson had hung up.
House groaned again, rolling out of bed.
“Wilson, open the door!”
“Use your key!”
“That’s my line!”
“House!”
House rolled his eyes, and opened the unlocked door. Something must be really wrong, if Wilson wasn't being polite.
“Where are you?”
“Bedroom.”
House followed the voice into the bedroom.
Wilson was on the bed, curled on his side, back facing House.
“What’s up?” asked House, irritated, “having nightmares? Need to sleep in bed with daddy?” his voice sounded bitter to his own ears. He had never been able to get enough sleep, and the nightmares of the bus crash had caused him to be constantly exhausted.
Wilson's hand, resting on the blankets, tightened, until the knuckles went white.
House frowned, limping further into the room, rounding the bed, and stopped, facing his friend.
The right side of Wilson's face was contorted, his head, which House had originally thought was just buried in the pillows, seemed to be at an odd angle, and his shoulder was pressed against his ear.
House sat on the edge of the bed, sighing heavily.
Wilson looked at him with his one open eye, the brown orb filled with pain.
“I'm sorGK--” Wilson stopped.
House helped him roll onto his stomach, and rubbed the rock-hard muscles, the same firm, kneading strokes he used on his own leg when it was cramping.
“How long has it been this bad?”
Wilson tried to answer, but only an unpleasant croak came out.
House kept rubbing, pressing more and more firmly.
Wilson gasped, and House stopped.
“Is that helping, or hurting?”
“Helping,” choked Wilson, then gripped the edge of the bed.
House started again, feeling the muscles start to ease, just a bit, though he knew it wasn’t because of his rubbing.
Dystonia resulted from a disconnect between the nerve cells in the basal ganglea, a massage wasn’t going to fix that.
Eventually the spasms ended, and left Wilson lying face down on the bed, breathing heavily and trembling.
He struggled to roll over, and felt hands on his side and shoulder, helping him turn.
“How often has that been happening?”
Wilson looked up at the older doctor, exhausted.
“Unless you count the other three tonight, I haven't had a spasm this bad since I was twenty-four.”
House nodded, frowning as Wilson reached with his left hand, rubbing his right shoulder.
“Take a bath.”
Wilson looked at him, now rubbing the right side of his face.
“I'm ok now. I'm sorry I woke you up... I just... it's...”
House shrugged.
“Take a bath,” he repeated.
Wilson blinked.
“Seriously. I'm ok.”
House shook his head.
“You’re sore. Take a bath.”
Wilson closed his eyes.
“I... can't.”
“Why not?”
“I just... I mean, I can, I just... I don't want to.”
“You mean you can't. Why can't you?”
Wilson grimaced.
“Every time I try to sit up, it sets off another spasm.”
“Every time you bend your neck.”
“Yes.”
House sighed.
“I can get you a cervical collar from the hospital.”
“No,” said Wilson, looking grateful but exhausted, “I'm ok. Thank you, House. I know you hate taking care of people.”
House nodded, getting up. Wilson had it slightly wrong, though. He didn't hate taking care of people. He hated people witnessing him taking care of people. Which, typically, was required for taking care of people.
Two weeks later, a knock sounded on the balcony door.
House looked over at the person knocking.
Some bald lady.
He nodded, and she opened the door.
“Um, something's wrong with Dr. Wilson. His eyes... they're shut and he can't open them.”
House sighed, “yeah. It's ok, it's just a muscles spasm. He gets those, sometimes. It’s not serious, just annoying.”
Wilson's patient nodded, looking relieved.
House got up, climbing awkwardly over the wall and signaling the woman to wait on the balcony.
Wilson was hunched forward over his desk, head in his hands.
“Hey, Jimmy,” said House, quietly, “lemme see?”
Wilson raised his head, and House saw that the patient had been right, Wilson's eyes were scrunched tightly shut, and the rest of his face was contorted slightly as well.
“It hurt?”
Wilson shook his head, carefully.
Then he gasped, left hand reaching to grip his neck.
House touched the younger doctor's shoulder.
“Hold on. I'll tell your patient to reschedule.”
“Thank you,” mumbled Wilson, weakly.
Wilson heard House leave, then come back, and the lighter footsteps of Mrs. Andrews leaving as the door opened and shut.
House sat on the desk, watching his friend.
Wilson wasn't quite so desperate, this time, so he was reluctant to break their barrier. His barrier, actually, but Wilson understood, and over time it had become a mutual wall of personal space.
Unfortunately, touching soon became necessary, as the spasm caused Wilson to twist awkwardly, overbalance, and fall out of the chair.
House knelt on the floor, gripping his friend's shoulder and bracing him, helping support his head and neck.
Wilson gasped, and started panting.
House continued to support him, until the spasms ended.
Wilson laid on the floor, liquid brown eyes that were finally open looking up at House in absolute misery.
“House,” he said, quietly, “I... it's getting worse.”
House nodded.
Wilson closed his eyes.
“When’s your next patient coming in?”
“Noon.”
“Got two hours, then.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Come on.”
“What?”
House stood, reaching down to give Wilson a hand up.
Wilson swallowed, feeling ridiculously useless, “if I get up, it'll set off another spasm.”
House shrugged, knelt awkwardly, and placed his hands under Wilson's neck.
“Sit.”
Wilson slowly worked his way up.
House supported his neck, keeping him from having to hold his head up with the sensitive muscle group and setting off a spasm.
House told him to stay put, turned, and hopped over the balcony.
“Kutner. Heel.”
Amusingly, Kutner complied.
When they reached Wilson's office, House turned to the young doctor.
“Take him down to the PT lab, set up a hot tub, make sure he doesn't drown, and get him back up here by noon so he can meet with his patient.”
Kutner nodded.
“And be careful. He's breakable.”
Wilson smiled weakly, as House met his eyes.
House turned, and limped away back into his office.
Wilson looked at Kutner, who looked incredibly cheerful.
“Right,” said the younger doctor, “ready to go?”
“Yeah,” said Wilson, quietly.
Kutner walked over to the hall door, and held it open, waiting for Wilson to follow.
House sighed, tapping his cane on the floor as he stood outside cuddy's office.
She was meeting with someone—he couldn't see who.
Too bad for them.
He limped in, pushing the doors open with his cane.
“Wilson, James.”
Cuddy looked wearily at him.
“I'm a little busy here, House.”
“Presenting with painful dystonia originating in the cervical region and spreading throughout the upper right quadrant, including the facial and vocal muscles. Apparently with a history of focal cervical dystonia, but not this severe since age 24.”
Cuddy frowned.
“Wilson... as in Wilson, Wilson?”
House nodded, looking at the person sitting across from Cuddy.
They nodded to him, stiffly.
He looked back at Cuddy.
“I will talk to you in ten minutes, House. I just have to wrap this up.”
House rolled his eyes, limping out.
Cuddy turned back to the donor.
“Sorry about that.”
He nodded.
House limped back inside Cuddy's office as soon as the man left.
“I already know about the cervical dystonia, House. He told Matheson when he got basic health clearance to work here.”
“Yeah, but this was worse.”
“How bad?”
“Bad.”
Cuddy rolled her eyes, “specifics?”
House looked at her.
“Bad.”
She frowned.
Then sighed, and nodded.
Bad enough it had made House uncomfortable.
That was bad.
“Where is he?”
“Kutner’s giving him a bath.”
Cuddy gave him an odd look.
“In the PT hot tub. He’s sore.”
“Oh. Well... look, there isn't anything *I* can do...”
House shrugged, “I know. But if it gets worse, which is what it seems to be doing, it might affect his job. But you know he's obsessive about his patients—he'll try to hide it as long as he can.”
Cuddy nodded.
House left.
House looked down, as his beeper went off.
Kutner.
He changed direction, limping quickly towards the elevators.
By the time he got to the PT lab, there were quite a few people in it, all surrounding something on the floor.
House shoved everyone out of the way with his cane, and sighed, as he caught sight of the center of attention.
Wilson was on the padded floor, naked, a towel draped over his nether regions.
His upper body was twisted, his face scrunched up, and his right arm looked like it was about to punch him in the face.
Kutner was kneeling on the floor next to him, keeping the towel in place and trying to rub the muscles out of the spasm. It wasn't working.
“Hey, buddy,” said House, quietly, lowering himself awkwardly down, “listen. It's gonna be ok.”
A soft whimper was all the answer he got.
House looked at Kutner.
“Get a stretcher.”
Kutner left.
House took over rubbing, but it only seemed to make the spasms a miniscule amount more bearable.
Cuddy arrived before Kutner got back, and ordered everyone out of the room.
Kutner finally returned, and together with House and Cuddy, helped get Wilson onto it.
The sheet Kutner had gotten on the way was draped over Wilson, and House supported Wilson's head and neck as Cuddy slipped a pillow underneath.
House nodded to Kutner, who left.
Two hours and a consult with the only neurologist in the entire hospital that House trusted—foreman—later, Wilson had been prescribed some medications that they all knew were unlikely to help, and sent home for the day.
He curled on House's couch, exhausted.
House sat down next to Wilson's bare feet, sighing heavily.
“Maybe it'll go away.”
“Do you actually think that, or are you just trying to not be an ass?”
“Is there a trigger?” House asked, changing the subject.
“As far as I know, just stress,” said Wilson, tiredly.
“Ah. Yeah. That... makes sense.”
Wilson laughed, quietly.
When Wilson woke the next morning, he couldn't sit up.
“I'll call Cuddy,” he said, very quietly.
“Thank you,” replied Wilson, just audible.
Wilson's right shoulder was trembling.
House picked up the phone.
“I… I can’t believe it spread this fast… it’s just been my neck, one damn muscle group, for my entire life…. Now it’s all in my back and arm, and… dammit…”
House looked down at him, as Wilson's head rested on House's hip, expression solemn.
“I'm sorry,” he said, and meant it.
“Yeah. I know. And it's freaking me out. You don't feel bad for people, House. You don't feel sorry. So stoGK—” Wilson had to stop talking briefly, as the spasm hit his neck and face.
House was silent for a while, until the facial spasm passed.
“Yeah.”
Wilson looked at him.
“I know what you mean.”
Wilson smiled, weakly.
The doorbell rang.
House gently slid a pillow under Wilson's head in place of House's leg, and limped to answer it.
Cuddy, standing there and looking extremely upset.
House stepped back, letting her in.
Cuddy followed him over to the couch, biting her lip upon seeing Wilson.
Wilson forced a smile, “hi Cuddy.”
Cuddy swallowed.
“I... I am *so* sorry, Wilson.”
“He knows,” said House, gruffly, “he knows everybody's gonna be sorry.”
Cuddy looked at him.
“Shut up, House.”
House smirked.
Cuddy knelt next to the couch, so she was level with Wilson.
“Hey,” she said, quietly, “how do you want to handle this?”
“I… I’ll take sick leave for two weeks, maybe it’ll calm down, I’ll stay with my brother. If it doesn’t go away…”
“Well, you're not doing the second part,” said House, firmly.
Wilson blinked at him.
“Don’t be stupid, House.”
House blinked.
“What?”
“I can't sit up on my own, I can barely wipe my own ass. I really appreciate the offer, but... there's just no way...” no way you can be provide enough physical help with your bad leg.
House glowered.
“Yes-huh.”
Cuddy snorted.
“Look... I'll just need someone to drive me to the airport. That's all.”
House looked pissed off.
“No way in hell.”
Wilson looked at him.
“What is your problem, House?!” he said, irritated.
“Me doctor,” he said, “Matt architect. There problem.”
Wilson rolled his eyes.
“You ass, Matt decent human being. *There* problem.”
“Wilson...” said House, sighing, “give it a chance. That's all I'm asking.”
Wilson blinked.
The uncharacteristic reasonableness threw him off, slightly.
“I... why do you *want* to take care of me?
“So you'll stop whining about how you had to drag me around nine years ago.” Because I owe you. Because I can’t stand if you cut me out of your life again.
Wilson looked at him for a long moment.
If he really could stay with his friend, stay in Princeton, not have to feel like an incredible burden to his brother...
“Okay,” he said, quietly, “I'll give it a shot.”
House nodded.
Cuddy smiled, gripping Wilson's arm briefly, then standing up.
“Alright,” she said, “I'll make all the arrangements.”
“Thank you, Cuddy.”
She shook her head, “just get some rest.”
Wilson blinked in acknowledgment, given nodding wouldn't work too well.
Cuddy left.
House sat back down on the couch, sighing heavily and watching his friend.
Wilson seemed fairly relaxed, at the moment. The spasms didn't look too bad.
House scooted over, gently lifting Wilson's head, supporting the younger doctor's neck with both hands.
Wilson smiled, tiredly.
“House.”
House looked down at him.
“I... thank you.”
House nodded.
Wilson closed his eyes, allowing himself to slowly drift off close against his friend.
A few hours later, House helped Wilson onto the bed, making the brown eyes fill with confusion.
“Your bed?”
House shrugged, “muscle aches and lumpy couches don't mix. Neither do missing thighs, so scoot over.”
Wilson thought about arguing, but... if the cramping got really bad while he slept, House being right next to him was... a comforting thought.
It turned out to be a good idea.
“House.... House.... House.... HouGK.... House.... please.... House.... wake up.... House....”
House grunted, opening his eyes.
Uh?
He looked around, unable to find the source of the voice.
Then he looked over the side of the bed, and spotted Wilson twisted on the floor, obviously in a lot of pain, clearly upset.
House got off the bed, gripping his friend around the shoulders and heaving him upright.
Wilson sat, his twisting torso leaning back against House's chest, House's arms forward under his armpits, holding him up, as his head crunched his ear against his shoulder.
House grunted, a little, as Wilson's arm squeezed down over his, and pulled it out of the way.
Wilson was breathing heavily, pain and frustration getting the better of him.
House heaved him back onto the bed, which, though what Wilson had wanted him to do, had disastrous results that neither of them could have predicted.
Wilson cried out, as his shoulder and neck muscles started cramping furiously and his face contorted.
House, at a complete loss for what else to do, started rubbing his left hand over the cramping muscles, his right hand pressed against the left side of Wilson's face, his thumb rubbing over the high cheekbone.
Wilson's left eye was still open, and he kept it fixed, desperately, on House's twin blue orbs.
“It's ok,” said House, not sure who was controlling his mouth, since it certainly wasn't him—not with what was coming out of it—“it's gonna be ok. Shh, come on. Hang in there, shhh. Look at me, okay? Stay with me, Wilson. Stay here, don't get lost. It's gonna be okay.”
Wilson sobbed in response.
House shifted his position, laying down to the left of his friend, close against him.
He put his right arm under Wilson's neck, his hand snaking around to rub Wilson's cramping shoulder.
His left hand stroked Wilson's cheek, as he tried to bring some small measure of comfort to the miserable doctor. He had to fight to stay awake... he hadn't been sleeping well. Every time Wilson moved, he let out a small whine. And House's subconscious, which knew perfectly well how worried he was about his friend, woke him up every time there was evidence Wilson was in pain. Which was about every five minutes. And this, along with his usual insomnia, and the grief his leg was giving him. How he had missed Wilson falling off the bed was a mystery to him.
Twenty minutes later, Wilson fell asleep, his head resting close against House's, as the older doctor slept, his arms wrapped around his friend.
When Wilson woke, the baseline cramping was better than usual.
There were also arms around him, and a snoring head resting its chin on the top of his head.
House was basically hugging him in his sleep.
Wilson smiled a little, trying to gently push the older doctor's left hand, which was dangling across Wilson's neck, off.
House grunted, at the movement, and the weight on the top of Wilson's head lifted, as House raised his chin, looking at the younger doctor blearily.
“Good morning,” said Wilson, smiling.
“Morning,” grunted House in reply, then shifted himself so his head was resting on Wilson's left shoulder, and his arms were still wrapped around his friend.
Wilson found this unbelievably amusing.
House was completely unaware how many of his own rules he was breaking.
Eventually, House woke again, and looked at Wilson in confusion.
Wilson smiled.
House shrugged to himself, and carefully let go, sliding a pillow under Wilson's head in place of his quite respectable biceps.
“I think you were keeping me from falling off the bed again,” said Wilson.
House looked at him.
“Yeah. That's probably it.”
Wilson smiled.
House snorted, and gently touched Wilson's shoulder.
“How’re you doin'?” he asked, quietly, shifting tones in a millisecond.
Wilson sighed a little, “better than yesterday. I think the warmth helped.”
House grinned, “glad I'm useful for something!”
Wilson laughed.
Wilson grunted, struggling.... dammit!
He couldn't get the fork to go into his mouth.
He could get it in the vicinity with his left hand, but the way his head was turned, made it impossible to get the damn food in his mouth.
He tried with his right hand, but didn’t manage to keep food on his fork.
House sighed, sitting down at the table next to him, and taking the fork.
Wilson looked at him.
“I...”
House shook his head.
“Remember that time my hands were shaking so bad, after the bypass?”
Wilson blinked.
“Yeah.”
“And I kept dropping the fork.”
“Uh-huh.”
“This is just for longer.”
Wilson closed his eyes.
Then he opened them, and blinked, once.
House smirked, a little, and got the food into his friend's mouth.
Wilson closed his eyes, panting, as his head pressed into the pillows.
House sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and reaching over to gently brush the fingers over Wilson’s cheek.
Wilson looked at his friend, liquid brown eyes filled with pain.
“Hey,” said House, softly, “can you speak?”
Wilson blinked twice in a row, but did not answer.
House nodded… two blinks was standard for no.
“Hurts?”
One blink.
House sighed again, as Wilson jerked slightly, twisting.
Wilson whined deep in his throat.
House brushed a few strands of brown hair out of Wilson’s eyes.
“You hungry?”
Blink.
House nodded, “I’ll get you something. Takeout? The other choices are pb and j, and canned soup.”
Wilson blinked once.
House nodded, getting to his feet.
When he came back a half hour later, Wilson was crying.
He sighed, and set the takeout bag on the bedside table.
“Hang in there, Jimmy,” he said, pulling a box out from under the bed, and taking out a syringe and bottle.
“No,” rasped Wilson, quietly, “it’s okay. Upset. Not in pain.”
House sighed, putting them back in the box and sliding it under the bed.
“Great. You just wanted me to show off my stash.”
Wilson laughed, quietly.
House grinned, opening the bag and pulling out the styrafoam containers, setting them on the bed.
He pulled out two cartons of breaded chicken, and accompanying containers of sauce.
Wilson blinked.
Then struggled to make a small smile.
Wilson loved lemon chicken. House almost never ordered it, but he obviously knew Wilson liked it.
House looked at him, “you gonna choke?”
“No.”
“Good.”
House dipped a piece of chicken into the sauce, carefully maneuvering it into Wilson’s mouth.
Later, Wilson laid on the couch, eyes closed, fairly relaxed, as House played on the piano.
House rarely played while Wilson was there… or if he did, it was more likely guitar.
But Wilson loved it when he did.
Suddenly, a note didn’t hold as long as it should have, and the music came to an abrupt end.
Wilson opened his eyes, trying to look over towards his friend.
He managed to get a glimpse of House’s arms stretched over the top of the piano, hands balled into fists, head down where Wilson couldn’t see it.
Eventually, Wilson heard House sigh, heavily.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” grunted House, wearily, as he limped painfully over, to sit in the armchair, watching his friend, where Wilson could see him, “just a spasm. It’s fine…. How about you?”
Wilson blinked, “did you seriously just ask if I’m okay?”
“Yes. Because I doubt the answer is yes.”
Wilson smiled, weakly.
House watched him, from across the room.
He didn’t seem inclined to get any closer.
Wilson was okay with that.
They slept in the same bed. House helped him eat.
That was more than enough intimacy than was needed to show him that House cared.
Wilson’s lips curved into a slight smile.
House cared.
Pairing: House/+Wilson
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: not much, just sick!wilson
Summary: Wilson comes to House for some help. Months later, after the bus crash, the thing he needed help with is getting worse.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes: I did a lot of research for this one, but I'm sure there's stuff I didn't read, so it might not be perfectly accurate.
T
“House,” said Wilson, quietly, as he entered the older doctor's office.
House looked wearily up at him.
“What?” he was obviously tired.
Wilson frowned, “bad day with the leg?”
House nodded.
Wilson sighed.
“Look... I... Stevenson quit. I... I need... just one time.”
House raised an eyebrow.
“Stevenson in gynecology Stevenson? Cool.”
Wilson grimaced, “uh, no. Stevenson in neurology.”
House tilted his head.
“What...?”
“Botox.”
House laughed, “aha! So that's why you look so young!”
Wilson rolled his eyes, “dystonia. Cervical. I need a routine injection, that's all.”
House frowned.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I didn't hide it, it just never came up.”
House was frowning at Wilson's shoes.
All those times Wilson rubbed his neck... it made sense.
He looked back up at his friend's face, and nodded.
Wilson smiled weakly, obviously relived.
House got up, grimacing as he stood, and followed Wilson out of the room.
Several months and a bus crash later...
House grunted, reaching blindly for the phone as it rang into the darkness of the bedroom.
“Uh?” he asked, very articulately.
“House?” Wilson's voice.
“Uh-huh,” responded House, voice thick with sleep.
“Can... I... can you please come over? Please?”
House frowned, starting to wake up a little more.
Wilson's voice was tight, stressed.
“What’s up?”
“I... just come.”
A click, followed by a beep.
Wilson had hung up.
House groaned again, rolling out of bed.
“Wilson, open the door!”
“Use your key!”
“That’s my line!”
“House!”
House rolled his eyes, and opened the unlocked door. Something must be really wrong, if Wilson wasn't being polite.
“Where are you?”
“Bedroom.”
House followed the voice into the bedroom.
Wilson was on the bed, curled on his side, back facing House.
“What’s up?” asked House, irritated, “having nightmares? Need to sleep in bed with daddy?” his voice sounded bitter to his own ears. He had never been able to get enough sleep, and the nightmares of the bus crash had caused him to be constantly exhausted.
Wilson's hand, resting on the blankets, tightened, until the knuckles went white.
House frowned, limping further into the room, rounding the bed, and stopped, facing his friend.
The right side of Wilson's face was contorted, his head, which House had originally thought was just buried in the pillows, seemed to be at an odd angle, and his shoulder was pressed against his ear.
House sat on the edge of the bed, sighing heavily.
Wilson looked at him with his one open eye, the brown orb filled with pain.
“I'm sorGK--” Wilson stopped.
House helped him roll onto his stomach, and rubbed the rock-hard muscles, the same firm, kneading strokes he used on his own leg when it was cramping.
“How long has it been this bad?”
Wilson tried to answer, but only an unpleasant croak came out.
House kept rubbing, pressing more and more firmly.
Wilson gasped, and House stopped.
“Is that helping, or hurting?”
“Helping,” choked Wilson, then gripped the edge of the bed.
House started again, feeling the muscles start to ease, just a bit, though he knew it wasn’t because of his rubbing.
Dystonia resulted from a disconnect between the nerve cells in the basal ganglea, a massage wasn’t going to fix that.
Eventually the spasms ended, and left Wilson lying face down on the bed, breathing heavily and trembling.
He struggled to roll over, and felt hands on his side and shoulder, helping him turn.
“How often has that been happening?”
Wilson looked up at the older doctor, exhausted.
“Unless you count the other three tonight, I haven't had a spasm this bad since I was twenty-four.”
House nodded, frowning as Wilson reached with his left hand, rubbing his right shoulder.
“Take a bath.”
Wilson looked at him, now rubbing the right side of his face.
“I'm ok now. I'm sorry I woke you up... I just... it's...”
House shrugged.
“Take a bath,” he repeated.
Wilson blinked.
“Seriously. I'm ok.”
House shook his head.
“You’re sore. Take a bath.”
Wilson closed his eyes.
“I... can't.”
“Why not?”
“I just... I mean, I can, I just... I don't want to.”
“You mean you can't. Why can't you?”
Wilson grimaced.
“Every time I try to sit up, it sets off another spasm.”
“Every time you bend your neck.”
“Yes.”
House sighed.
“I can get you a cervical collar from the hospital.”
“No,” said Wilson, looking grateful but exhausted, “I'm ok. Thank you, House. I know you hate taking care of people.”
House nodded, getting up. Wilson had it slightly wrong, though. He didn't hate taking care of people. He hated people witnessing him taking care of people. Which, typically, was required for taking care of people.
Two weeks later, a knock sounded on the balcony door.
House looked over at the person knocking.
Some bald lady.
He nodded, and she opened the door.
“Um, something's wrong with Dr. Wilson. His eyes... they're shut and he can't open them.”
House sighed, “yeah. It's ok, it's just a muscles spasm. He gets those, sometimes. It’s not serious, just annoying.”
Wilson's patient nodded, looking relieved.
House got up, climbing awkwardly over the wall and signaling the woman to wait on the balcony.
Wilson was hunched forward over his desk, head in his hands.
“Hey, Jimmy,” said House, quietly, “lemme see?”
Wilson raised his head, and House saw that the patient had been right, Wilson's eyes were scrunched tightly shut, and the rest of his face was contorted slightly as well.
“It hurt?”
Wilson shook his head, carefully.
Then he gasped, left hand reaching to grip his neck.
House touched the younger doctor's shoulder.
“Hold on. I'll tell your patient to reschedule.”
“Thank you,” mumbled Wilson, weakly.
Wilson heard House leave, then come back, and the lighter footsteps of Mrs. Andrews leaving as the door opened and shut.
House sat on the desk, watching his friend.
Wilson wasn't quite so desperate, this time, so he was reluctant to break their barrier. His barrier, actually, but Wilson understood, and over time it had become a mutual wall of personal space.
Unfortunately, touching soon became necessary, as the spasm caused Wilson to twist awkwardly, overbalance, and fall out of the chair.
House knelt on the floor, gripping his friend's shoulder and bracing him, helping support his head and neck.
Wilson gasped, and started panting.
House continued to support him, until the spasms ended.
Wilson laid on the floor, liquid brown eyes that were finally open looking up at House in absolute misery.
“House,” he said, quietly, “I... it's getting worse.”
House nodded.
Wilson closed his eyes.
“When’s your next patient coming in?”
“Noon.”
“Got two hours, then.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Come on.”
“What?”
House stood, reaching down to give Wilson a hand up.
Wilson swallowed, feeling ridiculously useless, “if I get up, it'll set off another spasm.”
House shrugged, knelt awkwardly, and placed his hands under Wilson's neck.
“Sit.”
Wilson slowly worked his way up.
House supported his neck, keeping him from having to hold his head up with the sensitive muscle group and setting off a spasm.
House told him to stay put, turned, and hopped over the balcony.
“Kutner. Heel.”
Amusingly, Kutner complied.
When they reached Wilson's office, House turned to the young doctor.
“Take him down to the PT lab, set up a hot tub, make sure he doesn't drown, and get him back up here by noon so he can meet with his patient.”
Kutner nodded.
“And be careful. He's breakable.”
Wilson smiled weakly, as House met his eyes.
House turned, and limped away back into his office.
Wilson looked at Kutner, who looked incredibly cheerful.
“Right,” said the younger doctor, “ready to go?”
“Yeah,” said Wilson, quietly.
Kutner walked over to the hall door, and held it open, waiting for Wilson to follow.
House sighed, tapping his cane on the floor as he stood outside cuddy's office.
She was meeting with someone—he couldn't see who.
Too bad for them.
He limped in, pushing the doors open with his cane.
“Wilson, James.”
Cuddy looked wearily at him.
“I'm a little busy here, House.”
“Presenting with painful dystonia originating in the cervical region and spreading throughout the upper right quadrant, including the facial and vocal muscles. Apparently with a history of focal cervical dystonia, but not this severe since age 24.”
Cuddy frowned.
“Wilson... as in Wilson, Wilson?”
House nodded, looking at the person sitting across from Cuddy.
They nodded to him, stiffly.
He looked back at Cuddy.
“I will talk to you in ten minutes, House. I just have to wrap this up.”
House rolled his eyes, limping out.
Cuddy turned back to the donor.
“Sorry about that.”
He nodded.
House limped back inside Cuddy's office as soon as the man left.
“I already know about the cervical dystonia, House. He told Matheson when he got basic health clearance to work here.”
“Yeah, but this was worse.”
“How bad?”
“Bad.”
Cuddy rolled her eyes, “specifics?”
House looked at her.
“Bad.”
She frowned.
Then sighed, and nodded.
Bad enough it had made House uncomfortable.
That was bad.
“Where is he?”
“Kutner’s giving him a bath.”
Cuddy gave him an odd look.
“In the PT hot tub. He’s sore.”
“Oh. Well... look, there isn't anything *I* can do...”
House shrugged, “I know. But if it gets worse, which is what it seems to be doing, it might affect his job. But you know he's obsessive about his patients—he'll try to hide it as long as he can.”
Cuddy nodded.
House left.
House looked down, as his beeper went off.
Kutner.
He changed direction, limping quickly towards the elevators.
By the time he got to the PT lab, there were quite a few people in it, all surrounding something on the floor.
House shoved everyone out of the way with his cane, and sighed, as he caught sight of the center of attention.
Wilson was on the padded floor, naked, a towel draped over his nether regions.
His upper body was twisted, his face scrunched up, and his right arm looked like it was about to punch him in the face.
Kutner was kneeling on the floor next to him, keeping the towel in place and trying to rub the muscles out of the spasm. It wasn't working.
“Hey, buddy,” said House, quietly, lowering himself awkwardly down, “listen. It's gonna be ok.”
A soft whimper was all the answer he got.
House looked at Kutner.
“Get a stretcher.”
Kutner left.
House took over rubbing, but it only seemed to make the spasms a miniscule amount more bearable.
Cuddy arrived before Kutner got back, and ordered everyone out of the room.
Kutner finally returned, and together with House and Cuddy, helped get Wilson onto it.
The sheet Kutner had gotten on the way was draped over Wilson, and House supported Wilson's head and neck as Cuddy slipped a pillow underneath.
House nodded to Kutner, who left.
Two hours and a consult with the only neurologist in the entire hospital that House trusted—foreman—later, Wilson had been prescribed some medications that they all knew were unlikely to help, and sent home for the day.
He curled on House's couch, exhausted.
House sat down next to Wilson's bare feet, sighing heavily.
“Maybe it'll go away.”
“Do you actually think that, or are you just trying to not be an ass?”
“Is there a trigger?” House asked, changing the subject.
“As far as I know, just stress,” said Wilson, tiredly.
“Ah. Yeah. That... makes sense.”
Wilson laughed, quietly.
When Wilson woke the next morning, he couldn't sit up.
“I'll call Cuddy,” he said, very quietly.
“Thank you,” replied Wilson, just audible.
Wilson's right shoulder was trembling.
House picked up the phone.
“I… I can’t believe it spread this fast… it’s just been my neck, one damn muscle group, for my entire life…. Now it’s all in my back and arm, and… dammit…”
House looked down at him, as Wilson's head rested on House's hip, expression solemn.
“I'm sorry,” he said, and meant it.
“Yeah. I know. And it's freaking me out. You don't feel bad for people, House. You don't feel sorry. So stoGK—” Wilson had to stop talking briefly, as the spasm hit his neck and face.
House was silent for a while, until the facial spasm passed.
“Yeah.”
Wilson looked at him.
“I know what you mean.”
Wilson smiled, weakly.
The doorbell rang.
House gently slid a pillow under Wilson's head in place of House's leg, and limped to answer it.
Cuddy, standing there and looking extremely upset.
House stepped back, letting her in.
Cuddy followed him over to the couch, biting her lip upon seeing Wilson.
Wilson forced a smile, “hi Cuddy.”
Cuddy swallowed.
“I... I am *so* sorry, Wilson.”
“He knows,” said House, gruffly, “he knows everybody's gonna be sorry.”
Cuddy looked at him.
“Shut up, House.”
House smirked.
Cuddy knelt next to the couch, so she was level with Wilson.
“Hey,” she said, quietly, “how do you want to handle this?”
“I… I’ll take sick leave for two weeks, maybe it’ll calm down, I’ll stay with my brother. If it doesn’t go away…”
“Well, you're not doing the second part,” said House, firmly.
Wilson blinked at him.
“Don’t be stupid, House.”
House blinked.
“What?”
“I can't sit up on my own, I can barely wipe my own ass. I really appreciate the offer, but... there's just no way...” no way you can be provide enough physical help with your bad leg.
House glowered.
“Yes-huh.”
Cuddy snorted.
“Look... I'll just need someone to drive me to the airport. That's all.”
House looked pissed off.
“No way in hell.”
Wilson looked at him.
“What is your problem, House?!” he said, irritated.
“Me doctor,” he said, “Matt architect. There problem.”
Wilson rolled his eyes.
“You ass, Matt decent human being. *There* problem.”
“Wilson...” said House, sighing, “give it a chance. That's all I'm asking.”
Wilson blinked.
The uncharacteristic reasonableness threw him off, slightly.
“I... why do you *want* to take care of me?
“So you'll stop whining about how you had to drag me around nine years ago.” Because I owe you. Because I can’t stand if you cut me out of your life again.
Wilson looked at him for a long moment.
If he really could stay with his friend, stay in Princeton, not have to feel like an incredible burden to his brother...
“Okay,” he said, quietly, “I'll give it a shot.”
House nodded.
Cuddy smiled, gripping Wilson's arm briefly, then standing up.
“Alright,” she said, “I'll make all the arrangements.”
“Thank you, Cuddy.”
She shook her head, “just get some rest.”
Wilson blinked in acknowledgment, given nodding wouldn't work too well.
Cuddy left.
House sat back down on the couch, sighing heavily and watching his friend.
Wilson seemed fairly relaxed, at the moment. The spasms didn't look too bad.
House scooted over, gently lifting Wilson's head, supporting the younger doctor's neck with both hands.
Wilson smiled, tiredly.
“House.”
House looked down at him.
“I... thank you.”
House nodded.
Wilson closed his eyes, allowing himself to slowly drift off close against his friend.
A few hours later, House helped Wilson onto the bed, making the brown eyes fill with confusion.
“Your bed?”
House shrugged, “muscle aches and lumpy couches don't mix. Neither do missing thighs, so scoot over.”
Wilson thought about arguing, but... if the cramping got really bad while he slept, House being right next to him was... a comforting thought.
It turned out to be a good idea.
“House.... House.... House.... HouGK.... House.... please.... House.... wake up.... House....”
House grunted, opening his eyes.
Uh?
He looked around, unable to find the source of the voice.
Then he looked over the side of the bed, and spotted Wilson twisted on the floor, obviously in a lot of pain, clearly upset.
House got off the bed, gripping his friend around the shoulders and heaving him upright.
Wilson sat, his twisting torso leaning back against House's chest, House's arms forward under his armpits, holding him up, as his head crunched his ear against his shoulder.
House grunted, a little, as Wilson's arm squeezed down over his, and pulled it out of the way.
Wilson was breathing heavily, pain and frustration getting the better of him.
House heaved him back onto the bed, which, though what Wilson had wanted him to do, had disastrous results that neither of them could have predicted.
Wilson cried out, as his shoulder and neck muscles started cramping furiously and his face contorted.
House, at a complete loss for what else to do, started rubbing his left hand over the cramping muscles, his right hand pressed against the left side of Wilson's face, his thumb rubbing over the high cheekbone.
Wilson's left eye was still open, and he kept it fixed, desperately, on House's twin blue orbs.
“It's ok,” said House, not sure who was controlling his mouth, since it certainly wasn't him—not with what was coming out of it—“it's gonna be ok. Shh, come on. Hang in there, shhh. Look at me, okay? Stay with me, Wilson. Stay here, don't get lost. It's gonna be okay.”
Wilson sobbed in response.
House shifted his position, laying down to the left of his friend, close against him.
He put his right arm under Wilson's neck, his hand snaking around to rub Wilson's cramping shoulder.
His left hand stroked Wilson's cheek, as he tried to bring some small measure of comfort to the miserable doctor. He had to fight to stay awake... he hadn't been sleeping well. Every time Wilson moved, he let out a small whine. And House's subconscious, which knew perfectly well how worried he was about his friend, woke him up every time there was evidence Wilson was in pain. Which was about every five minutes. And this, along with his usual insomnia, and the grief his leg was giving him. How he had missed Wilson falling off the bed was a mystery to him.
Twenty minutes later, Wilson fell asleep, his head resting close against House's, as the older doctor slept, his arms wrapped around his friend.
When Wilson woke, the baseline cramping was better than usual.
There were also arms around him, and a snoring head resting its chin on the top of his head.
House was basically hugging him in his sleep.
Wilson smiled a little, trying to gently push the older doctor's left hand, which was dangling across Wilson's neck, off.
House grunted, at the movement, and the weight on the top of Wilson's head lifted, as House raised his chin, looking at the younger doctor blearily.
“Good morning,” said Wilson, smiling.
“Morning,” grunted House in reply, then shifted himself so his head was resting on Wilson's left shoulder, and his arms were still wrapped around his friend.
Wilson found this unbelievably amusing.
House was completely unaware how many of his own rules he was breaking.
Eventually, House woke again, and looked at Wilson in confusion.
Wilson smiled.
House shrugged to himself, and carefully let go, sliding a pillow under Wilson's head in place of his quite respectable biceps.
“I think you were keeping me from falling off the bed again,” said Wilson.
House looked at him.
“Yeah. That's probably it.”
Wilson smiled.
House snorted, and gently touched Wilson's shoulder.
“How’re you doin'?” he asked, quietly, shifting tones in a millisecond.
Wilson sighed a little, “better than yesterday. I think the warmth helped.”
House grinned, “glad I'm useful for something!”
Wilson laughed.
Wilson grunted, struggling.... dammit!
He couldn't get the fork to go into his mouth.
He could get it in the vicinity with his left hand, but the way his head was turned, made it impossible to get the damn food in his mouth.
He tried with his right hand, but didn’t manage to keep food on his fork.
House sighed, sitting down at the table next to him, and taking the fork.
Wilson looked at him.
“I...”
House shook his head.
“Remember that time my hands were shaking so bad, after the bypass?”
Wilson blinked.
“Yeah.”
“And I kept dropping the fork.”
“Uh-huh.”
“This is just for longer.”
Wilson closed his eyes.
Then he opened them, and blinked, once.
House smirked, a little, and got the food into his friend's mouth.
Wilson closed his eyes, panting, as his head pressed into the pillows.
House sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and reaching over to gently brush the fingers over Wilson’s cheek.
Wilson looked at his friend, liquid brown eyes filled with pain.
“Hey,” said House, softly, “can you speak?”
Wilson blinked twice in a row, but did not answer.
House nodded… two blinks was standard for no.
“Hurts?”
One blink.
House sighed again, as Wilson jerked slightly, twisting.
Wilson whined deep in his throat.
House brushed a few strands of brown hair out of Wilson’s eyes.
“You hungry?”
Blink.
House nodded, “I’ll get you something. Takeout? The other choices are pb and j, and canned soup.”
Wilson blinked once.
House nodded, getting to his feet.
When he came back a half hour later, Wilson was crying.
He sighed, and set the takeout bag on the bedside table.
“Hang in there, Jimmy,” he said, pulling a box out from under the bed, and taking out a syringe and bottle.
“No,” rasped Wilson, quietly, “it’s okay. Upset. Not in pain.”
House sighed, putting them back in the box and sliding it under the bed.
“Great. You just wanted me to show off my stash.”
Wilson laughed, quietly.
House grinned, opening the bag and pulling out the styrafoam containers, setting them on the bed.
He pulled out two cartons of breaded chicken, and accompanying containers of sauce.
Wilson blinked.
Then struggled to make a small smile.
Wilson loved lemon chicken. House almost never ordered it, but he obviously knew Wilson liked it.
House looked at him, “you gonna choke?”
“No.”
“Good.”
House dipped a piece of chicken into the sauce, carefully maneuvering it into Wilson’s mouth.
Later, Wilson laid on the couch, eyes closed, fairly relaxed, as House played on the piano.
House rarely played while Wilson was there… or if he did, it was more likely guitar.
But Wilson loved it when he did.
Suddenly, a note didn’t hold as long as it should have, and the music came to an abrupt end.
Wilson opened his eyes, trying to look over towards his friend.
He managed to get a glimpse of House’s arms stretched over the top of the piano, hands balled into fists, head down where Wilson couldn’t see it.
Eventually, Wilson heard House sigh, heavily.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” grunted House, wearily, as he limped painfully over, to sit in the armchair, watching his friend, where Wilson could see him, “just a spasm. It’s fine…. How about you?”
Wilson blinked, “did you seriously just ask if I’m okay?”
“Yes. Because I doubt the answer is yes.”
Wilson smiled, weakly.
House watched him, from across the room.
He didn’t seem inclined to get any closer.
Wilson was okay with that.
They slept in the same bed. House helped him eat.
That was more than enough intimacy than was needed to show him that House cared.
Wilson’s lips curved into a slight smile.
House cared.
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Do you think you'll write a sequel? It would be really interesting to see where you take it from here :)
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Though I guess we wouldn't have one without the other.
Great Job.
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<3 great job as always.
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It's also spelled "through" not "throgh".
Nibis
My apologies if I'm out of line alanwolfmoon, feel free to delete this.
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Additionally, the author herself stated that while she had done lots of research, not everything was perfect, and I was merely giving her suggestions on how she could better improve her story and her explanation of the underlying mechanism of the ailment. Which is why I stated that she could completely ignore the second paragraph, if she so chose. I wrote that more for the sake of completion than anything else. However, the two points that I made in the beginning still stand. Yes, neither one of us is writing a dissertation. However, she is producing a piece of work, and if she can polish it up a bit more, well, why shouldn't she? I thought the whole point was self-improvement. I know that if I wrote a fic and people just gave positive comments on a fic that I knew could be improved, I'd be miffed and wonder if they were actually actively reading the fic, or just commenting for the sake of being polite.
Also, I do believe that the author is a mature individual who does not need others to come to her rescue, especially when she is not even under attack.
And, to the author, you are more than free to delete my comments if they offend you. My point was to aid you, and, if possible, further your knowledge. It was never to offend you, nor attack you, and I sincerely apologize if I came off that way.
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edited to correct my mistakes
2) Saying that there's a 'disconnect between the nerve cells in the basal ganglea', isn't quite accurate. You might want to say that 'synaptic transmission within the basal ganglia' was interrupted, and that would be more accurate.
Feel free to ignore the next paragraph, if you want to.
I do not know the mechanism behind dystonia, and would have to look into that. However, what I can tell you is the following: Neurons connect with each other, not neuronal cells, since when you say nerve cells, it sounds like you're talking about the cell body, which is important, but is not the part of the nervous system directly used for transmission. You do make neurotransmitters in the cell body, however, synaptic transmissions are from axons onto dendrites, and depending on the strength of the transmission, you generate an action potential, which travels down the axon to innervate subsequent neurons. That's the basic schema. You do get more complex organization, but that is the basis onto which complexity is added, such as more than one axon synapsing onto a single dendrite, more than one axon being present at the synaptic cleft between axon and dendrite, resulting in signal modulation, etc. I could add more information, if you wanted, however, I think that this would suffice for now. You don't really need to mention how synaptic transmission was interrupted, though it can happen in one of several ways, not the least of which is autoimmune disease that can lead to neuronal degeneration, but you can also get selective cell death. Just as an example, basal ganglia are composed of caudate, putamen, globus pallidum, substantia niagra and subthalamic nucleus. Now substantia niagra neurons are dopaminergic neurons, and if these neurons degenerate, Parkinson's results. In fact, basal ganglia are important for the initiation and suppression of movement, so you can see why problems with synaptic transmission, or neuronal cell death, would lead to problems with movement.
This latter stuff is just for your information, you're quite free to ignore it if you want. Just keep in mind, the two points that I made, and I'll give you further feedback, once I get some more free time. And again, good job on the plot and style. Gotta go study now. Bye!
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Re: edited to correct my mistakes
And I'm not asking you to do it(I'm spanish, and write in spanish), I' just appreciate that kind of helpful comments =)
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I just really enjoy medical stuff, spend a lot of my time reading about it--and writing about it, as you've noticed.
And, yeah, I appreciated your comment before. I'm always open to learning, and definitely appreciate anyone taking the time to give a long review.
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This story made me wonder the enormous variety of awful illnesses that one can suffer, ow. I've never heard of this one, but seems to be really crap xD
Loved House in this one. It's a pity that... well. We will never see something like this in the series, and this make me kind of sad.
Faved this ^^