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Title: Okay
Pairing: House+Wilson close friendship
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Depressing plot
Summary: Wilson develops MS
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes: This was inspired by a prompt I saw but never claimed during Sick!Wilson Fest. And, yes, I know House's current piano is an upright, but I liked the baby grand better.
T
Wilson blinked, unhappily, at his desk. This has happened before, but it had eventually gone away each time, within a month. He felt dizzy and he didn’t seem to be able to get his eyes to focus on anything for more than a split second.
He got up, sighing.
He would do rounds and go home, probably take a cab.
He walked out into the hallway, and was hurrying, because he felt a little sick to his stomach, and wanted to make it to the bathroom, when he fell.
Just… fell.
Someone crouched, there, next to him, as he curled, cradling the arm he had fallen on close to his chest.
“Wilson?”
“Uh,” he said, “ear infection. Dizzy…”
“Wilson, look at me.”
He knew that voice. If the world weren’t so fuzzy, he’d know exactly who that was.
It was as familiar as his mother.
“Wilson. Stop staring at the floor and look at me.”
Wilson obediently raised his eyes, following the sound of the familiar voice.
“Shit, you’ve got a nystagmus, Wilson.” well that ruled his mother out—he seriously doubted she knew what a nystagmus was. Plus, his mom wasn’t male and didn’t call him Wilson.
Call him Wilson.
“House?” he mumbled, stupidly.
“Yeah, Jimmy. Think you’ve got yourself a pretty good concussion.”
Wilson nodded, and felt his head drop to his chest, dimly hearing, “Wilson!” in the background.
Wilson slowly opened his eyes.
His wrist hurt. His left one.
His right hand was encased in something warm.
He blinked a few times, and then turned his head toward the warm side.
House was there, hand wrapped around his, watching him. He still couldn’t keep his eyes on any one spot.
“Wilson, you’ve got scarring in your brain.”
Wilson blinked at him, “I’ve had a few concussions. Probably nothing to worry about.”
“This concussion isn’t causing a nystagmus. Or the dizziness that caused the fall that caused the concussion.”
“…so I have an ear infection. I think I mentioned that before I passed out.”
“You don’t have an ear infection.”
“…yes, I do….”
“No, you don’t.”
“You can’t know that, House. Just because you’re a diagnostician, doesn’t mean that *everyone* has some rare disease. It’s just a damn ear infection.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Something was off about House’s voice, though his face was utterly impassive.
“Again, House, just because it doesn’t fit your—“
“I checked. I was really hoping you did have an ear infection. But you don’t. You have dizziness, like you had two months ago, and six months before that. That went into remission between episodes. Now you have that, and nystagmus.”
Wilson stopped mid-eye-roll.
“Remission… I have cancer?!”
“…no. Not cancer.”
Wilson stared at his friend as best he could.
“…what… what is it, House?”
“The specialist should probably talk to you—“
“House!”
House sighed, taking a deep breath, and squeezed Wilson’s hand, “you’ve got MS, Jimmy.”
Wilson closed his eyes.
The room was utterly silent for a while.
Then he opened them again, and spoke, voice shaking, “how bad is it?”
“Not too bad. It’s not primary progressive, I can tell you that much. But any of the other three types are still possible.”
Wilson stared at his friend, lungs seemingly empty of air.
Then he sat up, and pulled House close to the bed, wrapping his arms around his friend’s shoulders, and starting to cry.
House stiffened, awkwardly patting Wilson’s back, as his friend’s breathing dissolved into hiccupping sobs.
“Okay, Jimmy. Okay,” he said, quietly, and allowed Wilson to hold on, holding his friend close.
Wilson slowly eased himself off the bed, slipping a little, and nearly fell.
House grabbed his arm, keeping him upright.
Wilson leaned against him, carefully, and they headed towards the door of the hospital room.
Cuddy appeared in the hallway, and came in, smiling sadly and gently taking Wilson’s other arm.
House let go, and grabbed Wilson’s bag, slinging it over his shoulder. Then he stopped.
Cuddy was holding Wilson’s arm, gently but with enough strength to keep him steady.
But even with her support, Wilson could still barely walk.
This really sucked.
Wilson slowly lowered himself onto the couch, holding on to his friend’s arm to steady himself.
House plopped down next to him, smirking, “so… you up for pizza? Or Chinese?”
Wilson looked at him, tiredly.
House frowned, “what?”
“I’m sorry…” said Wilson, giving a small, careful shake of his head, “I’m just really tired…not really hungry, either. Little nauseous.”
House shrugged, and ordered pizza for just himself.
Wilson sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, “look… I don’t know what… why I’m so tired right now.”
“Wilson, you cried for like two days, and you can barely stand. You’re supposed to be exhausted.”
“I should be tired. Not exhausted.”
“Well then it’s maybe the concussion.”
Wilson leaned against House’s shoulder, making his friend blink at him.
“What?”
“Can… can I stay with you for a while?”
“…yeah. Yeah, you can stay.”
House got up, and limped to the closet, pulling out the blankets and pillows he kept there for when Wilson stayed over. They smelled horrible—he hadn’t washed them since the last time Wilson stayed.
He sighed, and went to get some of the extra ones from his own room.
When he got back, Wilson was leaning up against one of the couch pillows, asleep.
House snorted, shook his head, and tossed a blanket over his friend.
The pizza came, he paid with Wilson’s wallet, and sat in the armchair, watching a movie on low volume.
Wilson finally stirred, and slowly sat up, rubbing his face with one hand as he steadied himself with the other.
“What happened?” he mumbled, sleepily.
“You fell asleep.”
“Oh.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“Okay.”
“Wilson.”
“Mmmh.”
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“Mmm.”
“You need to get up.”
“Mmm.”
“Wilson.”
“Hmm?”
“Get up.”
“Mmm.”
House rolled his eyes, pulling the pillow off his friend’s face, where the younger doctor had been holding it, in a vain attempt to block House out.
“You have a patient meeting in twenty minutes.”
Wilson glared, and tried to snatch the pillow back, “fuck off.”
“Hey, don’t yell at me. You haven’t gone to work in two days. Cuddy threatened to march over here herself, but I got her to let me give it another try.”
“Don’t care. Fuck off.”
Wilson grabbed again for the pillow, but only succeeded in tipping himself off the couch, landing in a tangle of blankets, pillows, and, unfortunately, his glasses—the vision in his right eye was permanently bad since the attack three months ago.
House sighed, shaking his head, and sat on the coffee table, as Wilson tried to untangle himself.
It was not at all unusual for Wilson to be constantly exhausted and depressed during the attacks, but between them, he was almost never like this.
House pulled himself out of his thoughts long enough to give Wilson a hand with the blankets, and keep his friend from cutting himself on the broken glass and metal frames.
“You okay?”
Wilson nodded, miserably, as he climbed back onto the couch.
It’s been three years since the diagnosis, and they still aren’t used to it.
Wilson seems to think he’s going to get used to it.
House doesn’t tell him that he’s not going to get used to it.
Sure, they adapted, learned to deal, when Wilson’s balance problems became permanent.
They will learn to deal, with each new problem.
But Wilson’s always going to dread the next attack.
Just like House always dreads the steady incline of pain he seems to be on.
Of course, House has a plan, for that.
He figured it out a while ago, the first time Wilson had parensthesia during an attack, and had spent a week waking up in the middle of the night, sure his arm was on fire. Ketamine, though he knew it wouldn’t work long-term, could get the nerves to stop feeling pain for a while—long enough for an amputation that hopefully wouldn’t leave his brain still thinking it had a leg sending pain signals attached.
But Wilson doesn’t have that kind of plan.
Because there isn’t any plan he can make.
There’s no cure, there’s no last-ditch effort to be made.
Wilson goes to a group, and House sees, since he takes his friend there, that so far, Wilson is doing pretty well, relatively.
He knew, as a doctor, what MS entailed, but knowing it and seeing it are two different things. He’s never had a patient with MS, at least not one he treated past the diagnosis. He’s never seen it up close.
Of course, Wilson’s only been affected for three years—actually, seven, since the “ear infections” he’d been getting prior to the diagnosis count.
He’s just dizzy and has bad vision in one eye, most of the time.
But whatever’s going on with his friend right now, shouldn’t be an attack.
One just finished two weeks ago, with the end of the parenthesias in his left arm, and Wilson finally getting out of bed to make himself breakfast—House finally broke down and let Wilson sleep on the other half of the bed during the attacks about a year ago, when they started getting painful.
In fact, Wilson’s been pretty energetic, the last two weeks.
So whatever’s going on, Wilson should be able to get up and go to work.
“You need new glasses.”
Wilson looked at his friend, tiredly.
“I know,” he said, quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? Falling on your glasses? You’re the one that’s got to pay for a new pair.”
“Sorry for not getting up. I… was scheduling checkups for this week, yesterday…”
“Okaaay…”
“And… six of my patients died. When I wasn’t at work, six people I’ve been treating for years… died. With some other doctor there, someone they didn’t even know. Three of them didn’t even have any family.”
House sighed, picking bits of broken glass out of one of the blankets, as he listened to his friend.
“So you decided you wanted to not be there if more of them died?”
House glanced up at Wilson’s face, in time to see utter shock and anger flash in his friend’s usually soft brown eyes.
“That’s what it boils down to, jimmy. Staying home is a really stupid reaction to losing people because you stayed home.”
“House!”
“What?”
“Fuck you!”
“Very eloquent.”
Wilson glared.
House handed him the newly glass-free blanket.
Wilson sighed, reluctantly taking it.
House had a point.
“I guess… I should go in.”
House nodded, getting to his feet, “good.”
House pulled back the covers over the slumbering form of his friend—attack or not, it was time for Wilson to eat something.
He blinked a bit.
The toes of Wilson’s right foot were caught in rips in the sheet—five rips for five toes.
House sat on the end of the bed, gently bending Wilson’s right knee, easing the foot out of the holes.
There were sheet fibers caught in Wilson’s toenails.
There were some rather thread-bare looking spots near Wilson’s left foot, as well.
House sighed. Wilson had a habit of digging into the bed with his feet when he was in pain, but he’d never damaged the sheets before.
Wilson stirred, a small whine escaping his throat, as he slowly woke.
House waited, watching Wilson’s unhappy transition to wakefulness.
“You tore through the sheets,” he said, as soon as Wilson’s eyes—technically eye, since he wasn’t wearing his glasses—focused on him as best it could, given how much both his eyes were twitching.
Wilson didn’t respond verbally, just looked at his friend with soft brown pools of glistening misery, but the way he was holding his hand and arm on the left side told House enough that Wilson didn’t have to speak.
“House,” said Wilson, voice wavering, as House sat on the edge of the bed, watching Wilson slowly sit up, and scoot back to lean against the pillows.
House tilted his head a little, as Wilson tugged the blankets up with his right hand.
“What?”
“I…I can’t…”
“You can’t what?”
“I can’t brush my hair.”
House looked at him, blinking, for a moment.
“You can’t brush your hair.”
Wilson nodded, flushing bright red, “I never brush it with my right hand, and I tried…I know it’s ridiculous, but…”
House shook his head, “you’re right, it’s ridiculous.”
He got up, limped out, and came back with Wilson’s hairbrush.
“Scootch forward.”
Wilson blinked, but did as House told him, and House sat behind him with the hair brush, and started to carefully brush his friend’s hair.
“Just don’t complain if you end up looking like a porcupine with a bad hair day. I haven’t actually touched a hairbrush since I was fifteen and my eight-year-old cousin declared it was my fault her hair was full of pickers from hide and seek.”
Wilson laughed, quietly, and closed his eyes.
House finished brushing, and gently touched his friend’s shoulder.
Wilson leaned back against House’s chest.
House stiffened, “what are you doing?”
“I’m tired…sorry.”
“Just… stop, okay?”
Wilson awkwardly shifted to sit forward again.
House got out from behind him, and went into the kitchen, then came back out with the IV bag, hanging it on the nail above the bed.
Wilson sighed, sitting still as House pulled his pajama shirt to the side to expose the central line catheter.
“House.”
“Hmm?”
“Um, thanks….”
House blinked at him, as he connected the IV line to the catheter.
“For giving you your meds?”
“For… you know, everything.”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
House checked the connection to make sure it wasn’t leaking, “what do you wanna eat? Cereal? Oatmeal? Grits? Cuddy brought a bunch of stuff yesterday after I called you in sick.”
“Um... just cereal, you don’t need to go to a lot of trouble…”
“You need to eat something. It’d be better if it was something you’d actually finish and keep down.”
“…I guess grits.”
“Good choice. I actually know how to make that.”
Wilson laughed, softly.
House rolled his eyes, and limped out into the kitchen.
Wilson was curled on his right side, when House came back awkwardly carrying the bowl of hot cereal, left arm close to his chest.
“Come on,” said House, sitting on the edge of the bed, “Wilson.”
His friend’s eyes were closed, and he was clearly in a lot of pain.
“Wilson. Hey, come on. I actually cooked something. You should be dying of shock, not sleeping.”
Wilson shook his head, tiredly, “it’s worse.”
“How? Intensity?”
Wilson shook his head again, “area… whole left side…. From the shoulder down.”
House sighed, “okay. I’ll call Stevenson after you eat.”
“Not hungry… hurts. Dizzy.”
“I know. I don’t give a shit. You need to eat.”
Wilson sighed, and slowly scooted himself to sit up.
“I hate this.”
“I know. Eat.”
Wilson nodded, and started to awkwardly eat the hot cereal.
House put butter and brown sugar in it, but not so much it made his stomach rebel with the dizziness and pain he was experiencing.
Just enough to make it palatable, because Wilson actually hates how grits taste, but it’s one of the few things, that, when he’s nauseous from the vertigo, he can still keep down.
Thankfully, his appetite tends to improve after the first dose of steroids, and by the third day, he’s usually stuffing his face—though that isn’t a guarantee that he’ll keep everything down, especially since the steroids also give him an upset stomach.
House sits with him, usually, during the infusions, ostensibly to monitor them, but also because Wilson’s his friend, and miserable and usually pretty upset.
Cuddy lets House came in late, and sometimes leave in the middle of the day, come back, and leave early, but he does have to come in, and do clinic at the very least.
Wilson’s had four attacks since the diagnosis, which isn’t great.
More than one a year.
And this is the fifth.
Which makes it almost twice a year—not that they occurred in an even pattern.
Wilson distracts House from his musings, by starting to gag.
House grabbed the empty grits bowl, and held his friend around the shoulders, as Wilson heaved.
Wilson ended up utterly miserable, crying a little, though House wasn’t sure if he was actually crying, or his eyes were just watering from throwing up.
House sighed, and rubbed his friend’s back, awkwardly, as Wilson wiped his mouth.
This sucked.
Wilson hated the walker.
He kept protesting that he could walk, he didn’t need to look like a geriatric patient.
House yelled at him that he was an idiot and that if he thought canes and walkers were pathetic, he’d made a strange choice of a friend.
Wilson had said he didn’t mean it applied to House, and House had yelled at him some more.
Finally, Wilson had just given up arguing, and resigned himself, after three falls in one day, to the damned walker.
His balance is shot completely by this point, and his left foot drags a little, which really doesn’t help.
The thing folds up, and fits under his desk, and he just doesn’t get up when talking to patients, anymore, unless he absolutely has to.
He hates rounds with a passion.
If House were a better person, he would have been empathetic.
But, being an asshole, he wasn’t.
That had led to an argument of massive proportions, and House had slept in his office for three nights, before the janitor finally got fed up with him being there, and complained to cuddy.
Cuddy had yelled at him, and he had yelled back.
She’d finally gotten to the truth of why he was there, and dragged House back to his own apartment, threatening him with a week of pure clinic duty if he didn’t make up with Wilson.
Two hours later, Brenda was yelling at cuddy for saddling her with House for an entire week.
After two days, House lied and said he’d made up with Wilson, then rented a hotel room.
Which was why he was on a bed not his own, which was why his leg and back were incredibly stiff and painful, which was why he couldn’t get out of the way of the gurney…which was why he ended up in a hospital bed overnight with a grade three concussion.
He’d also sustained a bad sprain and a torn tendon in his knee—the left one.
Which…sucked, really.
He was asleep, when shuffling, unsteady footsteps, interspersed with a slight squeaking sound, woke him.
He didn’t open his eyes, though.
He knew those footsteps as well as he knew Cuddy’s or his own.
And given what, apparently, Wilson’s real opinion on disabilities was, House had no interest in speaking to him. He was not less of a man because he was anatomically missing a few muscles.
He understood Wilson being frustrated and hating how people looked at him and reacted to the walker.
He didn’t have a problem with that.
But he did have a problem with some of the things Wilson had said when they were arguing.
“You’re pathetic.”
House gritted his teeth. *He* was pathetic?
“A pathetic cripple that can’t get along with anyone anymore, even your best friend.”
House opened his eyes, ready to snap at the younger doctor—even though at the moment, thanks to the intubation for the surgery to repair the tendon, he’s so hoarse he can’t hear himself.
Wilson wasn’t even looking at him.
“Lecture everyone, never think to lecture yourself…”
House blinked at the younger doctor, watching him curiously.
“Just ‘cause he’s been doing his best, you suddenly expect him to be a different person? You should be happy he’s even your friend at all.”
Wilson seems completely absorbed in his conversation with himself, unaware that House is listening.
“You barely managed to stick with him, and you knew he was getting better. He knows you’re getting worse, and he as good as promised to help you through it.”
House tilts his head, slightly.
“Just apologize, you idiot. Just turn around and say sorry. Tell him the truth, you know damn well you only said those things to make him mad…”
Wilson turns, and blinks, as he sees that House is watching him.
“House! You… you… should have said you were awake!”
“Couldn’t,” rasps House, “even if I wanted to.”
Wilson frowns, “I couldn’t hear you, what?”
House rolls his eyes, and points at the chart at the end of his bed.
Wilson shuffles over to it, and picks it up, flipping through it.
He sees, there, ‘hoarse speech, diagnosis=difficult intubation.’
Then he puts the chart down, and shuffles back to stand next to House.
“Sorry,” he says, quietly, “guess you couldn’t have told me you were awake…”
House shrugs.
Wilson sighs, “I guess you heard…?”
House nods.
“I’m… sorry.”
House shakes his head, and reaches out, covering Wilson’s hand with his own.
Wilson smiles, shakily, “it’s okay?”
House nods.
Wilson smiles a little more, and awkwardly lowers himself into the visitor’s chair.
House smirks, and grabs Wilson’s hand again, though this time much less gently.
Wilson blinks at him, “what?”
House sighed, rolling his eyes.
Wilson smiled, slowly, and nodded.
“Okay.”
House’s hand tightened around Wilsons, briefly, then tugged.
Wilson blinked, but got to his feet again, swaying slightly, and bracing himself on the bed rail.
House reached, pulling Wilson’s head down.
Wilson blinked, but bent over, almost falling.
“You’re in pain.”
It wasn’t a question.
Wilson sighed, straightening, then stumbled a bit, and caught himself on the bed again.
“So are you.”
House looked at him, tiredly, and reached to pull him back down, but Wilson stepped back, out of his reach.
House scowled.
Wilson sighed, and spoke, “yeah, I’m in pain. a little. You’ve been sleeping in a hotel room and in your office. You got hurt because—“
House held his hand up, “stop.”
Wilson blinked, “what? I couldn’t hear you.”
House rolled his eyes.
Wilson sighed, sinking back down into the chair, “I’m in your apartment. I said things that hurt you, and you’re the one who got hurt.”
House said something, but of course it failed to be audible.
“What?”
House grabbed Wilson’s left hand and pinched his fingernails into the web between the younger doctor’s thumb and forefinger.
Wilson yelped, “what the hell?!”
House glared, steadily.
“What…pain?”
House nodded, letting go.
“Pain…I’m in pain? That’s what you’re getting at?”
House nodded again.
“I’m hurt too?”
House nodded a third time, impatiently.
“My disease is not relevant to this discussion.”
House rolled his eyes, pointing to his injured ankle.
“That’s an injury, not a disease. An injury that happened because I said something…”
House rolled his eyes, clearly irritated, but unable to reply with his usual caustic wit.
Wilson smiled, “I think I like you better like this.”
House blinked, clearly annoyed, for a moment, and Wilson thought he had said the wrong thing—again.
But then his friend cracked a grin.
Wilson smiled back.
Wilson whined, quietly, in the back of his throat.
House sighed, rubbing his friend’s arm, as the younger doctor laid curled on the couch, his head resting on House’s bad leg.
It had been four years since they’d fought, and they knew, now, Wilson’s progression had steadied, no longer relapsing-recurring.
The pain is constant now, and Wilson can’t walk, or use his left side almost at all, or read visually, because the nystagmus is constant and severe.
He’s having seizures and in a lot of pain, but he’s still working, and House is actually kind of proud of him for that.
Wilson made another soft sound, and House gently stroked his soft chestnut hair.
“You wanna watch some TV? Take your mind off it?”
Wilson shook his head a little, spoke quietly, “no… I’m tired… headache. Just…wanna rest.”
“Okay.”
Wilson looked up at the older doctor, face showing his weariness, but also good humor.
“Um…music, though…that’d be nice. Something soft… I think there’s some classical stuff on my ipod.”
House nodded, getting up, and limping across the room.
Wilson blinks his eyes open, as the sound of House’s baby grand fills the room.
He shuffles to rest his head on a pillow, closes his eyes, and listens to his friend play.
House smiles a bit, sadly, as he watches his friend.
Wilson smiles, too, but not a trace of sadness can be seen on his face, as he listens to the soft, sweet tune of friendship his friend is playing.
Pairing: House+Wilson close friendship
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Depressing plot
Summary: Wilson develops MS
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes: This was inspired by a prompt I saw but never claimed during Sick!Wilson Fest. And, yes, I know House's current piano is an upright, but I liked the baby grand better.
T
Wilson blinked, unhappily, at his desk. This has happened before, but it had eventually gone away each time, within a month. He felt dizzy and he didn’t seem to be able to get his eyes to focus on anything for more than a split second.
He got up, sighing.
He would do rounds and go home, probably take a cab.
He walked out into the hallway, and was hurrying, because he felt a little sick to his stomach, and wanted to make it to the bathroom, when he fell.
Just… fell.
Someone crouched, there, next to him, as he curled, cradling the arm he had fallen on close to his chest.
“Wilson?”
“Uh,” he said, “ear infection. Dizzy…”
“Wilson, look at me.”
He knew that voice. If the world weren’t so fuzzy, he’d know exactly who that was.
It was as familiar as his mother.
“Wilson. Stop staring at the floor and look at me.”
Wilson obediently raised his eyes, following the sound of the familiar voice.
“Shit, you’ve got a nystagmus, Wilson.” well that ruled his mother out—he seriously doubted she knew what a nystagmus was. Plus, his mom wasn’t male and didn’t call him Wilson.
Call him Wilson.
“House?” he mumbled, stupidly.
“Yeah, Jimmy. Think you’ve got yourself a pretty good concussion.”
Wilson nodded, and felt his head drop to his chest, dimly hearing, “Wilson!” in the background.
Wilson slowly opened his eyes.
His wrist hurt. His left one.
His right hand was encased in something warm.
He blinked a few times, and then turned his head toward the warm side.
House was there, hand wrapped around his, watching him. He still couldn’t keep his eyes on any one spot.
“Wilson, you’ve got scarring in your brain.”
Wilson blinked at him, “I’ve had a few concussions. Probably nothing to worry about.”
“This concussion isn’t causing a nystagmus. Or the dizziness that caused the fall that caused the concussion.”
“…so I have an ear infection. I think I mentioned that before I passed out.”
“You don’t have an ear infection.”
“…yes, I do….”
“No, you don’t.”
“You can’t know that, House. Just because you’re a diagnostician, doesn’t mean that *everyone* has some rare disease. It’s just a damn ear infection.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Something was off about House’s voice, though his face was utterly impassive.
“Again, House, just because it doesn’t fit your—“
“I checked. I was really hoping you did have an ear infection. But you don’t. You have dizziness, like you had two months ago, and six months before that. That went into remission between episodes. Now you have that, and nystagmus.”
Wilson stopped mid-eye-roll.
“Remission… I have cancer?!”
“…no. Not cancer.”
Wilson stared at his friend as best he could.
“…what… what is it, House?”
“The specialist should probably talk to you—“
“House!”
House sighed, taking a deep breath, and squeezed Wilson’s hand, “you’ve got MS, Jimmy.”
Wilson closed his eyes.
The room was utterly silent for a while.
Then he opened them again, and spoke, voice shaking, “how bad is it?”
“Not too bad. It’s not primary progressive, I can tell you that much. But any of the other three types are still possible.”
Wilson stared at his friend, lungs seemingly empty of air.
Then he sat up, and pulled House close to the bed, wrapping his arms around his friend’s shoulders, and starting to cry.
House stiffened, awkwardly patting Wilson’s back, as his friend’s breathing dissolved into hiccupping sobs.
“Okay, Jimmy. Okay,” he said, quietly, and allowed Wilson to hold on, holding his friend close.
Wilson slowly eased himself off the bed, slipping a little, and nearly fell.
House grabbed his arm, keeping him upright.
Wilson leaned against him, carefully, and they headed towards the door of the hospital room.
Cuddy appeared in the hallway, and came in, smiling sadly and gently taking Wilson’s other arm.
House let go, and grabbed Wilson’s bag, slinging it over his shoulder. Then he stopped.
Cuddy was holding Wilson’s arm, gently but with enough strength to keep him steady.
But even with her support, Wilson could still barely walk.
This really sucked.
Wilson slowly lowered himself onto the couch, holding on to his friend’s arm to steady himself.
House plopped down next to him, smirking, “so… you up for pizza? Or Chinese?”
Wilson looked at him, tiredly.
House frowned, “what?”
“I’m sorry…” said Wilson, giving a small, careful shake of his head, “I’m just really tired…not really hungry, either. Little nauseous.”
House shrugged, and ordered pizza for just himself.
Wilson sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, “look… I don’t know what… why I’m so tired right now.”
“Wilson, you cried for like two days, and you can barely stand. You’re supposed to be exhausted.”
“I should be tired. Not exhausted.”
“Well then it’s maybe the concussion.”
Wilson leaned against House’s shoulder, making his friend blink at him.
“What?”
“Can… can I stay with you for a while?”
“…yeah. Yeah, you can stay.”
House got up, and limped to the closet, pulling out the blankets and pillows he kept there for when Wilson stayed over. They smelled horrible—he hadn’t washed them since the last time Wilson stayed.
He sighed, and went to get some of the extra ones from his own room.
When he got back, Wilson was leaning up against one of the couch pillows, asleep.
House snorted, shook his head, and tossed a blanket over his friend.
The pizza came, he paid with Wilson’s wallet, and sat in the armchair, watching a movie on low volume.
Wilson finally stirred, and slowly sat up, rubbing his face with one hand as he steadied himself with the other.
“What happened?” he mumbled, sleepily.
“You fell asleep.”
“Oh.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“Okay.”
“Wilson.”
“Mmmh.”
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“Mmm.”
“You need to get up.”
“Mmm.”
“Wilson.”
“Hmm?”
“Get up.”
“Mmm.”
House rolled his eyes, pulling the pillow off his friend’s face, where the younger doctor had been holding it, in a vain attempt to block House out.
“You have a patient meeting in twenty minutes.”
Wilson glared, and tried to snatch the pillow back, “fuck off.”
“Hey, don’t yell at me. You haven’t gone to work in two days. Cuddy threatened to march over here herself, but I got her to let me give it another try.”
“Don’t care. Fuck off.”
Wilson grabbed again for the pillow, but only succeeded in tipping himself off the couch, landing in a tangle of blankets, pillows, and, unfortunately, his glasses—the vision in his right eye was permanently bad since the attack three months ago.
House sighed, shaking his head, and sat on the coffee table, as Wilson tried to untangle himself.
It was not at all unusual for Wilson to be constantly exhausted and depressed during the attacks, but between them, he was almost never like this.
House pulled himself out of his thoughts long enough to give Wilson a hand with the blankets, and keep his friend from cutting himself on the broken glass and metal frames.
“You okay?”
Wilson nodded, miserably, as he climbed back onto the couch.
It’s been three years since the diagnosis, and they still aren’t used to it.
Wilson seems to think he’s going to get used to it.
House doesn’t tell him that he’s not going to get used to it.
Sure, they adapted, learned to deal, when Wilson’s balance problems became permanent.
They will learn to deal, with each new problem.
But Wilson’s always going to dread the next attack.
Just like House always dreads the steady incline of pain he seems to be on.
Of course, House has a plan, for that.
He figured it out a while ago, the first time Wilson had parensthesia during an attack, and had spent a week waking up in the middle of the night, sure his arm was on fire. Ketamine, though he knew it wouldn’t work long-term, could get the nerves to stop feeling pain for a while—long enough for an amputation that hopefully wouldn’t leave his brain still thinking it had a leg sending pain signals attached.
But Wilson doesn’t have that kind of plan.
Because there isn’t any plan he can make.
There’s no cure, there’s no last-ditch effort to be made.
Wilson goes to a group, and House sees, since he takes his friend there, that so far, Wilson is doing pretty well, relatively.
He knew, as a doctor, what MS entailed, but knowing it and seeing it are two different things. He’s never had a patient with MS, at least not one he treated past the diagnosis. He’s never seen it up close.
Of course, Wilson’s only been affected for three years—actually, seven, since the “ear infections” he’d been getting prior to the diagnosis count.
He’s just dizzy and has bad vision in one eye, most of the time.
But whatever’s going on with his friend right now, shouldn’t be an attack.
One just finished two weeks ago, with the end of the parenthesias in his left arm, and Wilson finally getting out of bed to make himself breakfast—House finally broke down and let Wilson sleep on the other half of the bed during the attacks about a year ago, when they started getting painful.
In fact, Wilson’s been pretty energetic, the last two weeks.
So whatever’s going on, Wilson should be able to get up and go to work.
“You need new glasses.”
Wilson looked at his friend, tiredly.
“I know,” he said, quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? Falling on your glasses? You’re the one that’s got to pay for a new pair.”
“Sorry for not getting up. I… was scheduling checkups for this week, yesterday…”
“Okaaay…”
“And… six of my patients died. When I wasn’t at work, six people I’ve been treating for years… died. With some other doctor there, someone they didn’t even know. Three of them didn’t even have any family.”
House sighed, picking bits of broken glass out of one of the blankets, as he listened to his friend.
“So you decided you wanted to not be there if more of them died?”
House glanced up at Wilson’s face, in time to see utter shock and anger flash in his friend’s usually soft brown eyes.
“That’s what it boils down to, jimmy. Staying home is a really stupid reaction to losing people because you stayed home.”
“House!”
“What?”
“Fuck you!”
“Very eloquent.”
Wilson glared.
House handed him the newly glass-free blanket.
Wilson sighed, reluctantly taking it.
House had a point.
“I guess… I should go in.”
House nodded, getting to his feet, “good.”
House pulled back the covers over the slumbering form of his friend—attack or not, it was time for Wilson to eat something.
He blinked a bit.
The toes of Wilson’s right foot were caught in rips in the sheet—five rips for five toes.
House sat on the end of the bed, gently bending Wilson’s right knee, easing the foot out of the holes.
There were sheet fibers caught in Wilson’s toenails.
There were some rather thread-bare looking spots near Wilson’s left foot, as well.
House sighed. Wilson had a habit of digging into the bed with his feet when he was in pain, but he’d never damaged the sheets before.
Wilson stirred, a small whine escaping his throat, as he slowly woke.
House waited, watching Wilson’s unhappy transition to wakefulness.
“You tore through the sheets,” he said, as soon as Wilson’s eyes—technically eye, since he wasn’t wearing his glasses—focused on him as best it could, given how much both his eyes were twitching.
Wilson didn’t respond verbally, just looked at his friend with soft brown pools of glistening misery, but the way he was holding his hand and arm on the left side told House enough that Wilson didn’t have to speak.
“House,” said Wilson, voice wavering, as House sat on the edge of the bed, watching Wilson slowly sit up, and scoot back to lean against the pillows.
House tilted his head a little, as Wilson tugged the blankets up with his right hand.
“What?”
“I…I can’t…”
“You can’t what?”
“I can’t brush my hair.”
House looked at him, blinking, for a moment.
“You can’t brush your hair.”
Wilson nodded, flushing bright red, “I never brush it with my right hand, and I tried…I know it’s ridiculous, but…”
House shook his head, “you’re right, it’s ridiculous.”
He got up, limped out, and came back with Wilson’s hairbrush.
“Scootch forward.”
Wilson blinked, but did as House told him, and House sat behind him with the hair brush, and started to carefully brush his friend’s hair.
“Just don’t complain if you end up looking like a porcupine with a bad hair day. I haven’t actually touched a hairbrush since I was fifteen and my eight-year-old cousin declared it was my fault her hair was full of pickers from hide and seek.”
Wilson laughed, quietly, and closed his eyes.
House finished brushing, and gently touched his friend’s shoulder.
Wilson leaned back against House’s chest.
House stiffened, “what are you doing?”
“I’m tired…sorry.”
“Just… stop, okay?”
Wilson awkwardly shifted to sit forward again.
House got out from behind him, and went into the kitchen, then came back out with the IV bag, hanging it on the nail above the bed.
Wilson sighed, sitting still as House pulled his pajama shirt to the side to expose the central line catheter.
“House.”
“Hmm?”
“Um, thanks….”
House blinked at him, as he connected the IV line to the catheter.
“For giving you your meds?”
“For… you know, everything.”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
House checked the connection to make sure it wasn’t leaking, “what do you wanna eat? Cereal? Oatmeal? Grits? Cuddy brought a bunch of stuff yesterday after I called you in sick.”
“Um... just cereal, you don’t need to go to a lot of trouble…”
“You need to eat something. It’d be better if it was something you’d actually finish and keep down.”
“…I guess grits.”
“Good choice. I actually know how to make that.”
Wilson laughed, softly.
House rolled his eyes, and limped out into the kitchen.
Wilson was curled on his right side, when House came back awkwardly carrying the bowl of hot cereal, left arm close to his chest.
“Come on,” said House, sitting on the edge of the bed, “Wilson.”
His friend’s eyes were closed, and he was clearly in a lot of pain.
“Wilson. Hey, come on. I actually cooked something. You should be dying of shock, not sleeping.”
Wilson shook his head, tiredly, “it’s worse.”
“How? Intensity?”
Wilson shook his head again, “area… whole left side…. From the shoulder down.”
House sighed, “okay. I’ll call Stevenson after you eat.”
“Not hungry… hurts. Dizzy.”
“I know. I don’t give a shit. You need to eat.”
Wilson sighed, and slowly scooted himself to sit up.
“I hate this.”
“I know. Eat.”
Wilson nodded, and started to awkwardly eat the hot cereal.
House put butter and brown sugar in it, but not so much it made his stomach rebel with the dizziness and pain he was experiencing.
Just enough to make it palatable, because Wilson actually hates how grits taste, but it’s one of the few things, that, when he’s nauseous from the vertigo, he can still keep down.
Thankfully, his appetite tends to improve after the first dose of steroids, and by the third day, he’s usually stuffing his face—though that isn’t a guarantee that he’ll keep everything down, especially since the steroids also give him an upset stomach.
House sits with him, usually, during the infusions, ostensibly to monitor them, but also because Wilson’s his friend, and miserable and usually pretty upset.
Cuddy lets House came in late, and sometimes leave in the middle of the day, come back, and leave early, but he does have to come in, and do clinic at the very least.
Wilson’s had four attacks since the diagnosis, which isn’t great.
More than one a year.
And this is the fifth.
Which makes it almost twice a year—not that they occurred in an even pattern.
Wilson distracts House from his musings, by starting to gag.
House grabbed the empty grits bowl, and held his friend around the shoulders, as Wilson heaved.
Wilson ended up utterly miserable, crying a little, though House wasn’t sure if he was actually crying, or his eyes were just watering from throwing up.
House sighed, and rubbed his friend’s back, awkwardly, as Wilson wiped his mouth.
This sucked.
Wilson hated the walker.
He kept protesting that he could walk, he didn’t need to look like a geriatric patient.
House yelled at him that he was an idiot and that if he thought canes and walkers were pathetic, he’d made a strange choice of a friend.
Wilson had said he didn’t mean it applied to House, and House had yelled at him some more.
Finally, Wilson had just given up arguing, and resigned himself, after three falls in one day, to the damned walker.
His balance is shot completely by this point, and his left foot drags a little, which really doesn’t help.
The thing folds up, and fits under his desk, and he just doesn’t get up when talking to patients, anymore, unless he absolutely has to.
He hates rounds with a passion.
If House were a better person, he would have been empathetic.
But, being an asshole, he wasn’t.
That had led to an argument of massive proportions, and House had slept in his office for three nights, before the janitor finally got fed up with him being there, and complained to cuddy.
Cuddy had yelled at him, and he had yelled back.
She’d finally gotten to the truth of why he was there, and dragged House back to his own apartment, threatening him with a week of pure clinic duty if he didn’t make up with Wilson.
Two hours later, Brenda was yelling at cuddy for saddling her with House for an entire week.
After two days, House lied and said he’d made up with Wilson, then rented a hotel room.
Which was why he was on a bed not his own, which was why his leg and back were incredibly stiff and painful, which was why he couldn’t get out of the way of the gurney…which was why he ended up in a hospital bed overnight with a grade three concussion.
He’d also sustained a bad sprain and a torn tendon in his knee—the left one.
Which…sucked, really.
He was asleep, when shuffling, unsteady footsteps, interspersed with a slight squeaking sound, woke him.
He didn’t open his eyes, though.
He knew those footsteps as well as he knew Cuddy’s or his own.
And given what, apparently, Wilson’s real opinion on disabilities was, House had no interest in speaking to him. He was not less of a man because he was anatomically missing a few muscles.
He understood Wilson being frustrated and hating how people looked at him and reacted to the walker.
He didn’t have a problem with that.
But he did have a problem with some of the things Wilson had said when they were arguing.
“You’re pathetic.”
House gritted his teeth. *He* was pathetic?
“A pathetic cripple that can’t get along with anyone anymore, even your best friend.”
House opened his eyes, ready to snap at the younger doctor—even though at the moment, thanks to the intubation for the surgery to repair the tendon, he’s so hoarse he can’t hear himself.
Wilson wasn’t even looking at him.
“Lecture everyone, never think to lecture yourself…”
House blinked at the younger doctor, watching him curiously.
“Just ‘cause he’s been doing his best, you suddenly expect him to be a different person? You should be happy he’s even your friend at all.”
Wilson seems completely absorbed in his conversation with himself, unaware that House is listening.
“You barely managed to stick with him, and you knew he was getting better. He knows you’re getting worse, and he as good as promised to help you through it.”
House tilts his head, slightly.
“Just apologize, you idiot. Just turn around and say sorry. Tell him the truth, you know damn well you only said those things to make him mad…”
Wilson turns, and blinks, as he sees that House is watching him.
“House! You… you… should have said you were awake!”
“Couldn’t,” rasps House, “even if I wanted to.”
Wilson frowns, “I couldn’t hear you, what?”
House rolls his eyes, and points at the chart at the end of his bed.
Wilson shuffles over to it, and picks it up, flipping through it.
He sees, there, ‘hoarse speech, diagnosis=difficult intubation.’
Then he puts the chart down, and shuffles back to stand next to House.
“Sorry,” he says, quietly, “guess you couldn’t have told me you were awake…”
House shrugs.
Wilson sighs, “I guess you heard…?”
House nods.
“I’m… sorry.”
House shakes his head, and reaches out, covering Wilson’s hand with his own.
Wilson smiles, shakily, “it’s okay?”
House nods.
Wilson smiles a little more, and awkwardly lowers himself into the visitor’s chair.
House smirks, and grabs Wilson’s hand again, though this time much less gently.
Wilson blinks at him, “what?”
House sighed, rolling his eyes.
Wilson smiled, slowly, and nodded.
“Okay.”
House’s hand tightened around Wilsons, briefly, then tugged.
Wilson blinked, but got to his feet again, swaying slightly, and bracing himself on the bed rail.
House reached, pulling Wilson’s head down.
Wilson blinked, but bent over, almost falling.
“You’re in pain.”
It wasn’t a question.
Wilson sighed, straightening, then stumbled a bit, and caught himself on the bed again.
“So are you.”
House looked at him, tiredly, and reached to pull him back down, but Wilson stepped back, out of his reach.
House scowled.
Wilson sighed, and spoke, “yeah, I’m in pain. a little. You’ve been sleeping in a hotel room and in your office. You got hurt because—“
House held his hand up, “stop.”
Wilson blinked, “what? I couldn’t hear you.”
House rolled his eyes.
Wilson sighed, sinking back down into the chair, “I’m in your apartment. I said things that hurt you, and you’re the one who got hurt.”
House said something, but of course it failed to be audible.
“What?”
House grabbed Wilson’s left hand and pinched his fingernails into the web between the younger doctor’s thumb and forefinger.
Wilson yelped, “what the hell?!”
House glared, steadily.
“What…pain?”
House nodded, letting go.
“Pain…I’m in pain? That’s what you’re getting at?”
House nodded again.
“I’m hurt too?”
House nodded a third time, impatiently.
“My disease is not relevant to this discussion.”
House rolled his eyes, pointing to his injured ankle.
“That’s an injury, not a disease. An injury that happened because I said something…”
House rolled his eyes, clearly irritated, but unable to reply with his usual caustic wit.
Wilson smiled, “I think I like you better like this.”
House blinked, clearly annoyed, for a moment, and Wilson thought he had said the wrong thing—again.
But then his friend cracked a grin.
Wilson smiled back.
Wilson whined, quietly, in the back of his throat.
House sighed, rubbing his friend’s arm, as the younger doctor laid curled on the couch, his head resting on House’s bad leg.
It had been four years since they’d fought, and they knew, now, Wilson’s progression had steadied, no longer relapsing-recurring.
The pain is constant now, and Wilson can’t walk, or use his left side almost at all, or read visually, because the nystagmus is constant and severe.
He’s having seizures and in a lot of pain, but he’s still working, and House is actually kind of proud of him for that.
Wilson made another soft sound, and House gently stroked his soft chestnut hair.
“You wanna watch some TV? Take your mind off it?”
Wilson shook his head a little, spoke quietly, “no… I’m tired… headache. Just…wanna rest.”
“Okay.”
Wilson looked up at the older doctor, face showing his weariness, but also good humor.
“Um…music, though…that’d be nice. Something soft… I think there’s some classical stuff on my ipod.”
House nodded, getting up, and limping across the room.
Wilson blinks his eyes open, as the sound of House’s baby grand fills the room.
He shuffles to rest his head on a pillow, closes his eyes, and listens to his friend play.
House smiles a bit, sadly, as he watches his friend.
Wilson smiles, too, but not a trace of sadness can be seen on his face, as he listens to the soft, sweet tune of friendship his friend is playing.
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I also thought House brushing Wilson's hair was cute, but would have prefered if Wilson had been fussier, and maybe if House still stuffed it up despite his best efforts.
Bad grammar was annoying, but bearable.