Transfusions, Tampering, Tests... Tenderness and Trust [one-shot]

“I’m just gonna get a set of baseline vitals,” he tells House as he pulls out a blood pressure cuff.  “Assuming everything’s okay, I’ll help you get to bed.”

“I’m okay here; thanks anyway.”

“Couch isn’t big enough for two,” Wilson observes as he unwraps the BP cuff.

House makes a show of looking around the room.  “Could’ve sworn I cancelled tonight’s hooker.  Sad as that is, I therefore have no plans for sharing it.”

“Neither do I,” Wilson says firmly.  “You aren’t going to be alone tonight, and since I’m apparently the only one who hasn’t put a price on your head lately, seems I’m your best choice.  Safest, anyway.  Even your behavior doesn’t justify everything you were put through today.”

“Don’t need a sitter, don’t want one, either.  But I don’t suppose that matters, so why the hell not?” House says half-heartedly.  Wilson wonders at the note of resignation in his voice; he can almost hear House’s unspoken thought; ‘I’ve lost control of everything else; what’s the use?’

“You’re wrong, you know,” House continues.  “Karma’s a bitch.  I deserved everything I got."

“No great loss.  Matter of fact, some might’ve even found cause for celebration in my demise.”  House is obediently holding out his arm for the BP cuff, and  Wilson finds this even more worrisome than the statements he’s made.

“I expected at least a token argument to all the fussing,” Wilson notes quietly, careful to keep his tone neutral.  “You feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” House says shortly, not meeting  Wilson’s eyes.

Traditional House-speak for ‘let’s change the subject’; he must really feel like crap. 

The mild bruising at the sites doesn’t surprise him—but he is relieved.  His main concern had centered around the fact that, like most patients on opioids for treatment of chronic pain, House supplemented his Vicodin with large amounts of ibuprofen to take advantage of the synergistic effects of the two meds. And among the other stupid decisions House’s potential fellows had made, they’d apparently forgotten that House’s frequent ingestion of those NSAIDs affected his clotting ability. And of course, they’d completely disregarded the post-biopsy protocol for aftercare.  These things infuriate  Wilson—but House seems uncharacteristically accepting of this shoddy treatment.  Maybe he does believe he deserves it….

“House….”  Wilson begins tentatively.  “Those kids endangered you.  And they don’t even seem sorry.  Why are you taking this so calmly?”

House leans his head back, closes his eyes.  “I goaded them into it.  Gotta admit, I’m a little surprised they… went as far as they did.”  He smiles ruefully, waves his hand in the general direction of his liver, his chest.  “but hey,” he continues, “you’ve been bugging me for a liver biopsy for a couple years now; thought you’d be happy!”

“About the results, yes.  About the conditions under which it was performed, and the care you didn’t receive afterwards….”

House attempts to sit up straighter, and begins to cough.  Wilson watches helplessly as he ineffectually tries to splint his side with a trembling hand, finally winds up sighing and lying back again, lines of pain creasing his face.

“Let’s get you to bed.”  Wilson doesn’t hide the concern in his voice.  “I can finish checking you out once you’re comfortable.  Think you can make it?”

House nods dispiritedly, and grasps the hand  Wilson offers for a lift up.  “Need to make a pit stop first.” 

“Doing great,” House calls back.  “Mommy didn’t send you that celebratory email last week?  Those Cheerios targets floating in the bowl really did the trick; I can aim, and flush now, and everything!”

This glimpse of House’s normal demeanor makes  Wilson smile.  “Yeah, well… about the flushing.”  He hears House snort.

“Nephrologist in here, you know.  Amazingly, I know just what to look for after a kidney biopsy.  So I’ll spare you the sight of my pee.”

“Right now,”  Wilson points out, “I’d be thrilled with the sound of your pee!”

“Shy bladder,” House retorts.  “I don’t perform well under pressure.” 

When House opens the door, he reports, “Pale yellow.  Clear.  Boring.”

“Thank God for boring,”  Wilson mutters as he helps House into bed.

House lies quietly as  Wilson finishes his examination.  There’s no running narrative, no criticism, no sarcasm.  Wilson wonders if the narcotic overdose is still affecting him, making him appear subdued.  But—judging by the rapidity of House’s pulse, the frequent wincing, the swallowed groans—everything’s worn off now, and it doesn’t appear that House has taken his usual meds, either.  He’s moving as little as possible, and every movement of his leg is accompanied by a sharp intake of breath.

“Non-hemolytic transfusion reaction can result in fever of up to sixteen hours duration,” House recites dully.  He’s begun to shiver again, and he’s sweating. 

“What is it?”

“It’s water, House!  What’s it look like?”

House rolls his eyes.  “You’ll forgive my suspicion.  Lately, it seems anytime I’m handed a beverage, my state of mind is significantly altered.” 

House’s eyebrow climbs.  “Is that a threat?” 

House takes a long drink from the glass and almost smiles.  “Okay,” he says quietly.  “And that?” he asks, indicating the syringe.

“Meperidine.  Anti-pyretic, analgesic, and a nice, safe high.  What’s not to like?”

But that was his decision; everything that happened was planned, under his control.  This time, they stripped away his control, made him vulnerable.  He could’ve died, for real.  And whether or not he did was at the mercy of others.

After he’s administered the injection and turned out the light, he stops to smooth a perfectly straight blanket—an excuse to let his hand linger warmly on a trembling shoulder; his fingers squeeze the tense muscles.  “Get some rest,” he says gently as he walks to the door.

“Wilson?”

He turns.  “Yeah?”

“In the morning, I want breakfast in bed.  Three-cheese omelet.  And bacon.  Crisp.” 

And then he returns to the living room, ready to stand guard over his friend throughout the long night.  And happy to do it.