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Title: Broken Road
Pairing: House+Wilson
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: PG-13 ish
Warnings: a bit of swearing, traumatic events, messing with the timeline/universe)
Summary: The road to recovery after a car crash that left Amber dead and Wilson paralyzed and unable to speak isn't going to be an easy one.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes: The bus crash never happened.
T
Wilson looked up, as House limped into the room, and sat down on the couch next to him.
“How’re you doing?”
Wilson didn’t answer, just shifted, and laid down, resting his head on his friend’s good leg.
House sighed, and touched Wilson’s shoulder, gently.
Wilson looked up at the older doctor, briefly, then away.
House gritted his teeth.
“Wilson,” he said, “come on.”
Wilson shook his head, reaching to grip House’s hand, and pull it down against his own cheek.
House sighed, and let Wilson hold on to the hand.
Hours later, House got up, and limped to the kitchen.
Wilson pulled a pillow over, and put under his head.
House came back in, carrying a box of crackers.
Wilson sat up, and let House sit down again before leaning against him again.
House put his arm around Wilson’s shoulders, pulling the younger doctor closer.
Wilson sighed, reaching for a cracker.
House turned the TV on, and they stayed there, watching, for a long time.
Wilson eventually fell asleep, and House turned off the TV, and simply watched his exhausted friend.
Eventually, Wilson woke again, and House got the blanket and pillows from the closet.
House handed the blankets to Wilson, and the younger doctor pulled them over himself, then put the pillow beneath his head.
“You okay?”
Wilson sighed, nodding reluctantly.
“Come on, buddy. Give me a word, here.”
Wilson glared at him, disbelievingly.
House rolled his eyes, “I don’t mean out loud…”
Wilson sighed, and spelled, ‘stop pushing.’
House nodded, reluctantly, briefly gripping his friend’s shoulder, before limping around the room to get the lights.
Wilson had slept in the bed up until the last week, when House honestly hadn’t been able to sleep on the couch any longer without suffering real amounts of pain.
House turned the lights off, and then started to limp to the bedroom, but ran into the wheelchair, and got himself tangled up with the footrests, crying out in pain as he fell, wrenching his bad leg.
There was a concerned grunt from the direction of the couch, and then, Wilson’s quiet, disused voice, saying the only word it had said since the accident, “House?”
“It’s okay, Wilson,” said House, gingerly extracting his ankle from the clutches of the wheelchair, “just tripped.”
“House.”
“What?”
“House.”
House dragged himself up on the coffee table, and limped over, turning on the light next to the couch, “what?”
‘What was the crashing sound?’
“I tripped over the wheelchair, is all. It was just loud, I’m not hurt.”
Wilson looked up at him, large brown eyes catching the reflection of the light, worry filling the space around the twin bright spots.
“Wilson,” said House, gripping his friend’s hand, “I’m fine.”
Wilson nodded, slowly, and House let go of his hand.
The next morning, House gave his naked friend a hand into the wheelchair from the bed, and stood, ready to play catcher, if Wilson slipped on the way into the tub.
But the young doctor didn’t, and House didn’t interfere.
Wilson watched, gloomily, as the water spread from near the drain towards his feet.
Wilson looked away, up at his friend.
He didn’t say or sign anything, but House didn’t need him too.
Wilson reached up, and House gripped his hand; a silent simile of a hug.
The touching barrier is gone, now.
Wilson continues to hold on, and House reaches in, wrapping his arms around his friend’s torso, as Wilson starts to cry.
Wilson holds on to him, and House closes his eyes in a grimace.
He hates it when Wilson cries.
They can’t tell if Wilson’s clinginess for House is a symptom of his brain getting bounced around in his skull, or if it’s a symptom of him being really screwed up.
Wilson hasn’t said a word out loud, except House’s name. His neurologist says it’s probably neurological, but they can’t tell for sure.
House taught him the sign language alphabet, and Wilson does use that when House prods him enough.
But the rest of the time, Wilson sits and won’t communicate at all.
Wilson finally finishes crying, and House pulls away, gently smoothing Wilson’s hair out of the younger doctor’s eyes.
Wilson looks at him, face wet and eyes red.
House sighs, and continues to run his hand through his friend’s hair.
“We’ll get you back to work soon, kay Wilson?”
Wilson’s eyes darken, but he keeps looking at his friend.
“You do wanna go back to work, right?”
Wilson looks away, down at himself, pale under the water.
Eventually he looks up at House again, and spells, ‘I do not know.’
House sighs, and cups his hand along the side of Wilson’s face.
Wilson leans his head against the hand, closing his eyes.
House sits with him, until he finishes the bath, and then helps him out of the tub.
Wilson sits on the floor, as House hands him the towel, and steadies him with a hand on his shoulder.
House is leaning over the bath to let the water out, when a towel slaps across his calves.
He turns around, blinking, at his friend.
Wilson is curled on the floor, hands tangled in his hair, frustration evident in every inch of his body language.
House sighs, and sits next to him on the floor, “what didn’t work?”
Wilson’s response to that does involve his fingers—or, at least, one finger—, but it isn’t a letter.
House shakes his head, “whatever.”
If Wilson wanted to sulk, he could go ahead and sulk.
It had been over a month, and Wilson hadn’t gone to a single occupational therapy session. He’d gone to physical therapy, because House made him, but he absolutely refused to do more than that.
House gripped Wilson’s now-dry armpits, and got him up into the wheelchair.
Wilson folded his arms, and refused to communicate.
House rolled his eyes, and pushed the chair into the bedroom.
He tossed Wilson a shirt, boxers, and pants.
Wilson put the shirt on, and the boxers, but refused to touch the pants.
He looked at his friend, sulking in the chair, and sighed.
“You can move yourself, Wilson.”
Wilson glared at House’s back, as the older doctor left the room.
Half an hour later, Wilson wheeled himself out of the bedroom, over to the couch, and looked at his friend, who had just gotten out of the shower.
House nodded, and made sure he didn’t fall between the chair and the couch.
Wilson laid on his back, his head resting on his friend’s good leg, and spelled, ‘sorry.’
House shook his head, sprinkling Wilson with a few droplets of water from his just-washed hair.
Wilson wiped his face, but didn’t seem to mind.
“Why don’t you want to go back to work?”
Wilson looked away.
House sighed, and rubbed Wilson’s shoulder, absently.
“PT is at ten. You gonna be ready to go by then?”
Wilson nodded.
“Ready to go means wearing pants.”
Wilson flushed slightly, nodding.
House smirked.
“Good.”
That day went better than yesterday, which House could tell because Wilson didn’t scream in frustration.
However, by the time they got back in the car, Wilson was trembling with exhaustion.
House reached over, and brushed his fingers against his friend’s cheek.
Wilson closed his eyes, as the cool fingers pressed against his scrambled and fried egg of a body.
House started the car, and Wilson opened his eyes.
“House.”
House looked at him, eyebrows raised.
Wilson reached over, and pulled House across the space between the two seats, burying his face briefly in the older doctor’s shoulder, then letting go.
House straightened, and sighed.
“Yeah, buddy,” he said, quietly, recognizing the silent thank you for what it was, “you’re welcome.”
Wilson managed a small smile in response to House’s words.
Wilson slept in the bed next to House that night, his arm across his friend’s chest, his head resting over his friend’s heart.
He doesn’t get the nightmares, on nights like this.
When he closes his eyes and drifts off, and the last thing he hears before he’s asleep is the steady beating of House’s heart.
House puts an arm around his shoulders, and he shifts himself so he’s lying even more snuggly against his friend.
He closes his eyes, tightly, and waits for sleep to take him.
House watches Wilson’s face, runs his fingers through Wilson’s hair.
There are strands of grey there, that shouldn’t be there. That weren’t there, until the accident.
He pulls his sleeping friend tighter against himself, as though if he doesn’t let go, Wilson won’t keep falling apart.
As though House can hold his broken friend together with just the strength of his arm.
House sleeps, and Wilson doesn’t dream.
House woke to soft sniffing.
He sat up.
Wilson was on the other half of the bed, curled on his side and facing away from House, crying nearly silently. So much for no nightmares—he must have rolled away in his sleep, and the lost contact provoked whatever bad dream he was having.
House scooted over, and put his arm over Wilson’s waist, pulling the younger doctor up against his chest.
Wilson sniffed.
“House.”
“Yeah, Jimmy,” whispered House, “don’t hold back on my account.”
Wilson laughed, tearfully, and then started sobbing.
House held him tighter, as he cried.
He really, really hated this.
It’s not just the legs that’ve got Wilson this screwed up.
It’s whatever got messed up in his brain… or maybe his mind… in the accident.
Wilson was trapped for a long time, hours.
Utterly alone, in agony, and probably believing he was going to die there.
When the rescue workers had gotten to him, he had been sobbing out the one word he had said since.
House.
Wilson turned over, and held on to House’s nightshirt, crying until his face was red and he was out of tears, breath still coming in loud, sobbing gasps.
House laid still, and finally pulled Wilson in closer, and Wilson buried his face in House’s shoulder, and slept again, as House smoothed back his hair.
House only has an hour of clinic a week, now, and isn’t required to come in except to do it or if his team has a case.
Wilson is on disability, and they’re okay right now, but House knows this can’t go on forever.
Sooner or later, Wilson either has to go back to work, or House actually has to do his job—there’s only so long Cuddy can hold off the board.
House drives Wilson to PT again, and again, and again.
Wilson gets freaked out when they pass a car wreck on the interstate, and House has to swerve and pull over into the shoulder when the younger doctor grabs his arm.
House reaches over, and smoothes back Wilson’s hair, as Wilson tries to calm down.
House was there, when they brought Wilson out of the wreck.
He was standing on a ledge along the side of a fire truck, so he could see what the rescue workers were doing.
He saw them bring in a stretcher, and blood transfusions, and for the first time since he had gotten that call from Cuddy, he had hope that his friend was alive.
They brought out the battered, bloody body, and House’s breath had caught in his chest.
It had been raining, that day. Blood, mud, and rain had soaked everything in sight, including Wilson.
He heard it, a weak, rasping call, as they lifted the stretcher out.
House jumped off the truck, and did the closest thing he was able to running, and reached the stretcher as they carried it off the wreck.
But as he stared, the call came again, and he turned his head to look at his friend’s face.
Wilson eyes were closed, the younger doctor was barely even conscious.
House limped beside the stretcher, gripping his friend’s hand, and climbed into the ambulance with the paramedics.
He sat there, holding Wilson’s hand, and talked.
They were almost to the hospital, when Wilson’s eyes finally fluttered open, and he saw his friend leaning over him.
He reached up, touched House’s face with one muddy, bloody hand.
House reached up and gripped the hand, holding on even as Wilson’s head lolled to the side, as he passed out.
Wilson finally calms, and looks at House apologetically.
“House,” he says, and House can tell it’s an apology.
House nods, “not a problem,” and pulls back out into traffic.
It was only after they got to the hospital, that they found the spinal damage.
Wilson looked at House as the older doctor put the wheelchair in front of him, and he looked clearer than he had in a while.
“House.”
House raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah?”
‘I am sorry I made you pull over.’
House rolled his eyes, “dude, you’re screwed up. I know that. It’s not your fault, so you don’t need to apologize for it.”
Wilson nodded, and reached up for House’s shoulder, as he swiveled himself into the chair.
House closed the car door, and Wilson wheeled himself up the ramp.
House followed him up, and they entered the apartment.
The day after that, House left Wilson, who seemed fairly stable today, at PT for half an hour to get some of his clinic in.
He sat on a stool, and a man paced back and forth in front of the table, not saying what was wrong with him.
“Look,” said House, irritated, “if you’ve got something shoved up your ass, you are most definitely not the first person I’ve seen with whatever it is up there.”
The man looked at him, “it’s not that.”
“Then what is it.”
“You… it’s… I…”
“Look, I can’t treat you unless I know what’s wrong. I’ve been a doctor twenty years, you’re not gonna surprise me.”
The man dropped his pants.
House tilted his head, blinking a bit.
That was…certainly interesting…
“Just curious, why did you feel the need to stick something through your dick…without sterilizing it…”
The next patient was decidedly more annoying, and for significantly less valid reasons.
She had a cold and thought she was dying.
House was cranky that day, so she left in tears.
Pairing: House+Wilson
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: PG-13 ish
Warnings: a bit of swearing, traumatic events, messing with the timeline/universe)
Summary: The road to recovery after a car crash that left Amber dead and Wilson paralyzed and unable to speak isn't going to be an easy one.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes: The bus crash never happened.
T
Wilson looked up, as House limped into the room, and sat down on the couch next to him.
“How’re you doing?”
Wilson didn’t answer, just shifted, and laid down, resting his head on his friend’s good leg.
House sighed, and touched Wilson’s shoulder, gently.
Wilson looked up at the older doctor, briefly, then away.
House gritted his teeth.
“Wilson,” he said, “come on.”
Wilson shook his head, reaching to grip House’s hand, and pull it down against his own cheek.
House sighed, and let Wilson hold on to the hand.
Hours later, House got up, and limped to the kitchen.
Wilson pulled a pillow over, and put under his head.
House came back in, carrying a box of crackers.
Wilson sat up, and let House sit down again before leaning against him again.
House put his arm around Wilson’s shoulders, pulling the younger doctor closer.
Wilson sighed, reaching for a cracker.
House turned the TV on, and they stayed there, watching, for a long time.
Wilson eventually fell asleep, and House turned off the TV, and simply watched his exhausted friend.
Eventually, Wilson woke again, and House got the blanket and pillows from the closet.
House handed the blankets to Wilson, and the younger doctor pulled them over himself, then put the pillow beneath his head.
“You okay?”
Wilson sighed, nodding reluctantly.
“Come on, buddy. Give me a word, here.”
Wilson glared at him, disbelievingly.
House rolled his eyes, “I don’t mean out loud…”
Wilson sighed, and spelled, ‘stop pushing.’
House nodded, reluctantly, briefly gripping his friend’s shoulder, before limping around the room to get the lights.
Wilson had slept in the bed up until the last week, when House honestly hadn’t been able to sleep on the couch any longer without suffering real amounts of pain.
House turned the lights off, and then started to limp to the bedroom, but ran into the wheelchair, and got himself tangled up with the footrests, crying out in pain as he fell, wrenching his bad leg.
There was a concerned grunt from the direction of the couch, and then, Wilson’s quiet, disused voice, saying the only word it had said since the accident, “House?”
“It’s okay, Wilson,” said House, gingerly extracting his ankle from the clutches of the wheelchair, “just tripped.”
“House.”
“What?”
“House.”
House dragged himself up on the coffee table, and limped over, turning on the light next to the couch, “what?”
‘What was the crashing sound?’
“I tripped over the wheelchair, is all. It was just loud, I’m not hurt.”
Wilson looked up at him, large brown eyes catching the reflection of the light, worry filling the space around the twin bright spots.
“Wilson,” said House, gripping his friend’s hand, “I’m fine.”
Wilson nodded, slowly, and House let go of his hand.
The next morning, House gave his naked friend a hand into the wheelchair from the bed, and stood, ready to play catcher, if Wilson slipped on the way into the tub.
But the young doctor didn’t, and House didn’t interfere.
Wilson watched, gloomily, as the water spread from near the drain towards his feet.
Wilson looked away, up at his friend.
He didn’t say or sign anything, but House didn’t need him too.
Wilson reached up, and House gripped his hand; a silent simile of a hug.
The touching barrier is gone, now.
Wilson continues to hold on, and House reaches in, wrapping his arms around his friend’s torso, as Wilson starts to cry.
Wilson holds on to him, and House closes his eyes in a grimace.
He hates it when Wilson cries.
They can’t tell if Wilson’s clinginess for House is a symptom of his brain getting bounced around in his skull, or if it’s a symptom of him being really screwed up.
Wilson hasn’t said a word out loud, except House’s name. His neurologist says it’s probably neurological, but they can’t tell for sure.
House taught him the sign language alphabet, and Wilson does use that when House prods him enough.
But the rest of the time, Wilson sits and won’t communicate at all.
Wilson finally finishes crying, and House pulls away, gently smoothing Wilson’s hair out of the younger doctor’s eyes.
Wilson looks at him, face wet and eyes red.
House sighs, and continues to run his hand through his friend’s hair.
“We’ll get you back to work soon, kay Wilson?”
Wilson’s eyes darken, but he keeps looking at his friend.
“You do wanna go back to work, right?”
Wilson looks away, down at himself, pale under the water.
Eventually he looks up at House again, and spells, ‘I do not know.’
House sighs, and cups his hand along the side of Wilson’s face.
Wilson leans his head against the hand, closing his eyes.
House sits with him, until he finishes the bath, and then helps him out of the tub.
Wilson sits on the floor, as House hands him the towel, and steadies him with a hand on his shoulder.
House is leaning over the bath to let the water out, when a towel slaps across his calves.
He turns around, blinking, at his friend.
Wilson is curled on the floor, hands tangled in his hair, frustration evident in every inch of his body language.
House sighs, and sits next to him on the floor, “what didn’t work?”
Wilson’s response to that does involve his fingers—or, at least, one finger—, but it isn’t a letter.
House shakes his head, “whatever.”
If Wilson wanted to sulk, he could go ahead and sulk.
It had been over a month, and Wilson hadn’t gone to a single occupational therapy session. He’d gone to physical therapy, because House made him, but he absolutely refused to do more than that.
House gripped Wilson’s now-dry armpits, and got him up into the wheelchair.
Wilson folded his arms, and refused to communicate.
House rolled his eyes, and pushed the chair into the bedroom.
He tossed Wilson a shirt, boxers, and pants.
Wilson put the shirt on, and the boxers, but refused to touch the pants.
He looked at his friend, sulking in the chair, and sighed.
“You can move yourself, Wilson.”
Wilson glared at House’s back, as the older doctor left the room.
Half an hour later, Wilson wheeled himself out of the bedroom, over to the couch, and looked at his friend, who had just gotten out of the shower.
House nodded, and made sure he didn’t fall between the chair and the couch.
Wilson laid on his back, his head resting on his friend’s good leg, and spelled, ‘sorry.’
House shook his head, sprinkling Wilson with a few droplets of water from his just-washed hair.
Wilson wiped his face, but didn’t seem to mind.
“Why don’t you want to go back to work?”
Wilson looked away.
House sighed, and rubbed Wilson’s shoulder, absently.
“PT is at ten. You gonna be ready to go by then?”
Wilson nodded.
“Ready to go means wearing pants.”
Wilson flushed slightly, nodding.
House smirked.
“Good.”
That day went better than yesterday, which House could tell because Wilson didn’t scream in frustration.
However, by the time they got back in the car, Wilson was trembling with exhaustion.
House reached over, and brushed his fingers against his friend’s cheek.
Wilson closed his eyes, as the cool fingers pressed against his scrambled and fried egg of a body.
House started the car, and Wilson opened his eyes.
“House.”
House looked at him, eyebrows raised.
Wilson reached over, and pulled House across the space between the two seats, burying his face briefly in the older doctor’s shoulder, then letting go.
House straightened, and sighed.
“Yeah, buddy,” he said, quietly, recognizing the silent thank you for what it was, “you’re welcome.”
Wilson managed a small smile in response to House’s words.
Wilson slept in the bed next to House that night, his arm across his friend’s chest, his head resting over his friend’s heart.
He doesn’t get the nightmares, on nights like this.
When he closes his eyes and drifts off, and the last thing he hears before he’s asleep is the steady beating of House’s heart.
House puts an arm around his shoulders, and he shifts himself so he’s lying even more snuggly against his friend.
He closes his eyes, tightly, and waits for sleep to take him.
House watches Wilson’s face, runs his fingers through Wilson’s hair.
There are strands of grey there, that shouldn’t be there. That weren’t there, until the accident.
He pulls his sleeping friend tighter against himself, as though if he doesn’t let go, Wilson won’t keep falling apart.
As though House can hold his broken friend together with just the strength of his arm.
House sleeps, and Wilson doesn’t dream.
House woke to soft sniffing.
He sat up.
Wilson was on the other half of the bed, curled on his side and facing away from House, crying nearly silently. So much for no nightmares—he must have rolled away in his sleep, and the lost contact provoked whatever bad dream he was having.
House scooted over, and put his arm over Wilson’s waist, pulling the younger doctor up against his chest.
Wilson sniffed.
“House.”
“Yeah, Jimmy,” whispered House, “don’t hold back on my account.”
Wilson laughed, tearfully, and then started sobbing.
House held him tighter, as he cried.
He really, really hated this.
It’s not just the legs that’ve got Wilson this screwed up.
It’s whatever got messed up in his brain… or maybe his mind… in the accident.
Wilson was trapped for a long time, hours.
Utterly alone, in agony, and probably believing he was going to die there.
When the rescue workers had gotten to him, he had been sobbing out the one word he had said since.
House.
Wilson turned over, and held on to House’s nightshirt, crying until his face was red and he was out of tears, breath still coming in loud, sobbing gasps.
House laid still, and finally pulled Wilson in closer, and Wilson buried his face in House’s shoulder, and slept again, as House smoothed back his hair.
House only has an hour of clinic a week, now, and isn’t required to come in except to do it or if his team has a case.
Wilson is on disability, and they’re okay right now, but House knows this can’t go on forever.
Sooner or later, Wilson either has to go back to work, or House actually has to do his job—there’s only so long Cuddy can hold off the board.
House drives Wilson to PT again, and again, and again.
Wilson gets freaked out when they pass a car wreck on the interstate, and House has to swerve and pull over into the shoulder when the younger doctor grabs his arm.
House reaches over, and smoothes back Wilson’s hair, as Wilson tries to calm down.
House was there, when they brought Wilson out of the wreck.
He was standing on a ledge along the side of a fire truck, so he could see what the rescue workers were doing.
He saw them bring in a stretcher, and blood transfusions, and for the first time since he had gotten that call from Cuddy, he had hope that his friend was alive.
They brought out the battered, bloody body, and House’s breath had caught in his chest.
It had been raining, that day. Blood, mud, and rain had soaked everything in sight, including Wilson.
He heard it, a weak, rasping call, as they lifted the stretcher out.
House jumped off the truck, and did the closest thing he was able to running, and reached the stretcher as they carried it off the wreck.
But as he stared, the call came again, and he turned his head to look at his friend’s face.
Wilson eyes were closed, the younger doctor was barely even conscious.
House limped beside the stretcher, gripping his friend’s hand, and climbed into the ambulance with the paramedics.
He sat there, holding Wilson’s hand, and talked.
They were almost to the hospital, when Wilson’s eyes finally fluttered open, and he saw his friend leaning over him.
He reached up, touched House’s face with one muddy, bloody hand.
House reached up and gripped the hand, holding on even as Wilson’s head lolled to the side, as he passed out.
Wilson finally calms, and looks at House apologetically.
“House,” he says, and House can tell it’s an apology.
House nods, “not a problem,” and pulls back out into traffic.
It was only after they got to the hospital, that they found the spinal damage.
Wilson looked at House as the older doctor put the wheelchair in front of him, and he looked clearer than he had in a while.
“House.”
House raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah?”
‘I am sorry I made you pull over.’
House rolled his eyes, “dude, you’re screwed up. I know that. It’s not your fault, so you don’t need to apologize for it.”
Wilson nodded, and reached up for House’s shoulder, as he swiveled himself into the chair.
House closed the car door, and Wilson wheeled himself up the ramp.
House followed him up, and they entered the apartment.
The day after that, House left Wilson, who seemed fairly stable today, at PT for half an hour to get some of his clinic in.
He sat on a stool, and a man paced back and forth in front of the table, not saying what was wrong with him.
“Look,” said House, irritated, “if you’ve got something shoved up your ass, you are most definitely not the first person I’ve seen with whatever it is up there.”
The man looked at him, “it’s not that.”
“Then what is it.”
“You… it’s… I…”
“Look, I can’t treat you unless I know what’s wrong. I’ve been a doctor twenty years, you’re not gonna surprise me.”
The man dropped his pants.
House tilted his head, blinking a bit.
That was…certainly interesting…
“Just curious, why did you feel the need to stick something through your dick…without sterilizing it…”
The next patient was decidedly more annoying, and for significantly less valid reasons.
She had a cold and thought she was dying.
House was cranky that day, so she left in tears.
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