Time Marches On, Chapter Seven: Wilson
Apr. 7th, 2008 11:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: Time Marches On Chapter Seven: Wilson
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, PG
Length: About 23,500 words
Spoilers: Through "Don't Ever Change," fourth season.
Author's Note: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pwcorgigirl, silja_b and topaz_eyes for beta and feedback duties.
Previous chapters here: Chapter One: Cameron, Chapter Two: Taub, Chapter Three: Thirteen, Chapter Four: Foreman, Chapter Five: Chase, Chapter Six: Kutner
Wilson
House’s office was dark the first time Wilson went past. He’d stepped inside anyway, looking to the right to check if House was slouched down in the lounge chair. It was empty, and he headed out again.
He’d had two patient conferences and a personnel committee meeting during the morning, and it was well past noon by the time he checked his watch. He was only a few hundred feet from the cafeteria, but headed upstairs instead.
He stopped in his office first, half expecting to find House stretched out on the couch, getting some sleep or bitching that he was hungry. It was empty.
He closed the door behind him, rounded the corner. The shelves blocked his view from the hallway, and he caught only brief glimpse inside the diagnostics conference room. He could see someone standing against one of the shelves near the hallway, but only a shoulder and part of an arm in a white coat were visible, not even enough to let him see which one of House’s team was there.
He pushed open the door and walked into the middle of the room. Thirteen and Taub were standing next to the table, reading book titles and arranging the books in some kind of order. Foreman was sitting on the far side of the room, writing something. He glanced up at Wilson, but then went back to his papers. Wilson half wondered if he was writing a report for Cuddy.
The white board was still in the center of the room, still covered with black ink, so the case hadn’t been solved. Not yet.
He watched Thirteen move a stack of books from one end of the table to the other. “Why haven’t you put those on the shelves yet?” he asked.
“House told us to wait,” Taub said. “He said he has an idea about how to arrange them.”
“Yeah, because ‘by disease’ makes no sense whatsoever,” Foreman muttered.
“House in his office?” Wilson asked.
Thirteen nodded, but Foreman shook his head. “He left about ten minutes ago,” he said.
“You know where he went?”
“I figured he was looking for you to buy him lunch.”
“He’s in the hall.” Kutner’s voice came from behind him, and Wilson turned to see him step out from between the shelves. He had a book in each hand.
“I was just out there,” Wilson pointed out.
Kutner shook his head. “He’s making the circuit,” he said. “He’ll be around again in a few seconds, unless he’s slowed down.”
Wilson took a few steps back until he could see into the hallway. After a few moments House came around the corner. “Thanks,” Wilson said, and Kutner nodded.
House was moving in tight, measured steps, leaning heavily onto the cane, his right arm locked tight against his body and his shoulder hunched high as it took his body weight with every step. By tonight, his shoulder and back would gnarled masses of muscle, if they weren’t already.
House nodded at Wilson as he came closer, but didn’t stop or slow down. He didn’t change his course, kept walking. Wilson caught up with him, then slowed his pace to match House’s as they passed House’s office.
“I think Foreman’s writing your psych referral,” Wilson said. “He was muttering something about restraints.”
“Nah, it’s research for his next journal article, on the cognitive impairments of long term Vicodin use,” House said.
“Interesting topic. Maybe I should give him some input.”
“As long as you don’t expect any credit when it’s published.” House slowed as he came to the corner, turned right. Wilson adjusted his pace again.
After the Ketamine failed, House had managed to hang onto some of the muscle strength he’d gained during the summer, when he could move without pain, when he’d been able to stretch out ligaments and tendons tightened by years of misuse. Even once the pain returned, it had seemed like he could step just a little bit easier than he had before the Ketamine. But now he’d lost even those slight gains, his heel not quite making contact with the floor as he walked, his gait just a little less steady than it had been. Wilson had been hoping that it was his imagination, that House hadn’t gotten worse, but he could see the signs more clearly when House was tired, like today, when the pain seemed to cut through everything. Nearly everything.
“You really going to leave the conference room like that?” Wilson asked.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re making a mistake.”
“It was not a mistake,” House said. “You’re the one making the mistake. A really big one.”
“Dating Amber is not a mistake.”
They rounded another corner. House slowed again, then stopped and leaned against the wall. He switched his cane into his left hand, reached down with his right to grip high on his thigh, above the scar tissue.
Wilson leaned against the wall next to him. “You know what I think?” he asked.
“No idea, but I’m afraid you’re about to tell me.” House moved his hand up to work at his hip, pushing deep into the joint.
“I think that despite everything, you enjoyed hiring your new team. You had fun with the game. The game was a distraction. It let you forget about your pain for a while.”
House groaned. “I wish.”
“Change can be a distraction, but your pain doesn’t change. And now that the game’s over and you have a new team, you need a new distraction.” House pushed off from the wall and started down the hall again. Wilson let House set the pace. “Hence, the interior decorating. It gives you something different to think about.”
“Rearranging the deck chairs didn’t stop the Titanic from sinking,” House said. “I’m in pain. Everyday. You think I’m going to forget about that just by moving a table by a few feet?”
They rounded another corner, made their way past the elevators.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” House said. “When you live with pain every day you ...” House stopped. He was still looking at Wilson, but Wilson knew he wasn’t seeing him. Not now.
After a moment, House turned and moved with a speed he hadn’t had just a few seconds earlier. Wilson followed him as he pushed through the door. He crossed the room, tossed his cane onto the table and picked up the marker.
“Joint pain,” he said, and added it to the list of symptoms.
“He said he doesn’t ...” Kutner started to say, but House cut him off.
“This guy works construction, right? He’s hauling fifty pounds of shingles onto a roof one day, laying tile the next, crawling under the foundation the day after that. He’s always sore.”
“He said he has muscle strains, not joint pain,” Thirteen said. “No swelling.”
“That’s because he’s an idiot. His shoulder hurts and he thinks its coming from the muscle, not the joint.” House stared at his team. “He doesn’t know his body as well as he thinks he does.”
“You’re thinking rheumatoid arthritis?” Foreman asked.
“Close.” House turned back to the white board. “Adult Onset Still’s Disease.” He wrote the words across the top of the board.
“Fevers, difficulty breathing, pericardial effusion,” he put a check mark next to each symptom as he counted them down. “And joint pain.”
“No rash,” Thirteen said.
“About 2 percent of cases present without a rash,” House said.
“I thought Still’s just affected children,” Kutner said.
“It’s rare in adults, but it happens,” House said. “And it’s intermittent, which is why it went away after he showed up at the ER last week. I’ll bet that every time this guy thought he had a bad case of the flu in the past five years, it’s been a Still’s flare-up.”
“Too bad for him that it’s chronic,” Wilson pointed out. “There’s no cure.”
“But he can be treated,” House said. “We find the right combination of drugs, and maybe he can bring the symptoms under control.”
House stared at the board a moment longer, then nodded and capped the pen. He looked at Thirteen. “Give him the good news,” he said.
He turned toward the table. Kutner handed him his cane. House took it, then looked at the room, at the empty shelves.
“Foreman,” he said, “call maintenance. Tell them put the room back the way it was.” House walked across the room toward Wilson. “I’ll be at lunch.”
---
The light had leaked out of the sky without Wilson noticing it. It was dark beyond the windows, the snow still coming down, though not as hard as it had been a few hours ago.
He checked his watch. It was just after five o’clock. He knew Amber would be tied up until nearly eight, and he’d told her he’d cook. He had some chicken in the refrigerator, and a few fresh herbs, some wine. She loved watching him cook, and he loved having someone new to cook for.
He still had time to pick up some fresh vegetables if he left soon. Maybe some asparagus to remind them both that spring was only a couple of months away. She’d like that.
He’d been surprised how easy it had been to fall into another relationship, even as he told himself that it would never happen again. Even as he promised himself that he wasn’t looking for anything when he saw Amber.
This time it felt different. It felt right. Wilson ignored the voice in his head reminding him that it had felt good with Julie too, at first.
He heard steps outside the door, then the knob turned and the door opened without a knock. House walked through. He almost seemed to ignore Wilson as he crossed the room, then stood at the other door leading out to the balcony.
“I thought you’d left,” Wilson said.
“Car’s still blocked in,” House said. “I thought I’d let you offer to give me a ride.”
“Sure.”
House nodded, but didn’t leave, didn’t even move. He stood there, staring at the dark outside, at his own reflection in the glass.
“You were wrong, you know,” House said. “It’s not just pain that I can’t change,” He didn’t look at Wilson.
He was quiet, watching the snow and his own shape in the window.
“When I was a kid, we went through a hurricane,” he finally said. “We didn’t get much of a warning, and we didn’t have time to evacuate. My mom and I ended up at a shelter. It was dark, and I could hear the wind. Sometimes we’d hear a window break. It was like ...”
He paused for a moment, seemed to lose himself in the story. Wilson kept quiet.
“It was like there was a monster somewhere outside, and it wanted in,” House finally said, then fell silent again.
Wilson waited, leaned back in his chair. House just stared at the glass.
“Is that what the pain’s like, on days like this?” Wilson finally asked.
House turned to him, shook his head. “Every day,” he said, and walked out.
Chapter Eight: House
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, PG
Length: About 23,500 words
Spoilers: Through "Don't Ever Change," fourth season.
Author's Note: Thanks to
pwcorgigirl, silja_b and topaz_eyes for beta and feedback duties.Previous chapters here: Chapter One: Cameron, Chapter Two: Taub, Chapter Three: Thirteen, Chapter Four: Foreman, Chapter Five: Chase, Chapter Six: Kutner
Wilson
House’s office was dark the first time Wilson went past. He’d stepped inside anyway, looking to the right to check if House was slouched down in the lounge chair. It was empty, and he headed out again.
He’d had two patient conferences and a personnel committee meeting during the morning, and it was well past noon by the time he checked his watch. He was only a few hundred feet from the cafeteria, but headed upstairs instead.
He stopped in his office first, half expecting to find House stretched out on the couch, getting some sleep or bitching that he was hungry. It was empty.
He closed the door behind him, rounded the corner. The shelves blocked his view from the hallway, and he caught only brief glimpse inside the diagnostics conference room. He could see someone standing against one of the shelves near the hallway, but only a shoulder and part of an arm in a white coat were visible, not even enough to let him see which one of House’s team was there.
He pushed open the door and walked into the middle of the room. Thirteen and Taub were standing next to the table, reading book titles and arranging the books in some kind of order. Foreman was sitting on the far side of the room, writing something. He glanced up at Wilson, but then went back to his papers. Wilson half wondered if he was writing a report for Cuddy.
The white board was still in the center of the room, still covered with black ink, so the case hadn’t been solved. Not yet.
He watched Thirteen move a stack of books from one end of the table to the other. “Why haven’t you put those on the shelves yet?” he asked.
“House told us to wait,” Taub said. “He said he has an idea about how to arrange them.”
“Yeah, because ‘by disease’ makes no sense whatsoever,” Foreman muttered.
“House in his office?” Wilson asked.
Thirteen nodded, but Foreman shook his head. “He left about ten minutes ago,” he said.
“You know where he went?”
“I figured he was looking for you to buy him lunch.”
“He’s in the hall.” Kutner’s voice came from behind him, and Wilson turned to see him step out from between the shelves. He had a book in each hand.
“I was just out there,” Wilson pointed out.
Kutner shook his head. “He’s making the circuit,” he said. “He’ll be around again in a few seconds, unless he’s slowed down.”
Wilson took a few steps back until he could see into the hallway. After a few moments House came around the corner. “Thanks,” Wilson said, and Kutner nodded.
House was moving in tight, measured steps, leaning heavily onto the cane, his right arm locked tight against his body and his shoulder hunched high as it took his body weight with every step. By tonight, his shoulder and back would gnarled masses of muscle, if they weren’t already.
House nodded at Wilson as he came closer, but didn’t stop or slow down. He didn’t change his course, kept walking. Wilson caught up with him, then slowed his pace to match House’s as they passed House’s office.
“I think Foreman’s writing your psych referral,” Wilson said. “He was muttering something about restraints.”
“Nah, it’s research for his next journal article, on the cognitive impairments of long term Vicodin use,” House said.
“Interesting topic. Maybe I should give him some input.”
“As long as you don’t expect any credit when it’s published.” House slowed as he came to the corner, turned right. Wilson adjusted his pace again.
After the Ketamine failed, House had managed to hang onto some of the muscle strength he’d gained during the summer, when he could move without pain, when he’d been able to stretch out ligaments and tendons tightened by years of misuse. Even once the pain returned, it had seemed like he could step just a little bit easier than he had before the Ketamine. But now he’d lost even those slight gains, his heel not quite making contact with the floor as he walked, his gait just a little less steady than it had been. Wilson had been hoping that it was his imagination, that House hadn’t gotten worse, but he could see the signs more clearly when House was tired, like today, when the pain seemed to cut through everything. Nearly everything.
“You really going to leave the conference room like that?” Wilson asked.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re making a mistake.”
“It was not a mistake,” House said. “You’re the one making the mistake. A really big one.”
“Dating Amber is not a mistake.”
They rounded another corner. House slowed again, then stopped and leaned against the wall. He switched his cane into his left hand, reached down with his right to grip high on his thigh, above the scar tissue.
Wilson leaned against the wall next to him. “You know what I think?” he asked.
“No idea, but I’m afraid you’re about to tell me.” House moved his hand up to work at his hip, pushing deep into the joint.
“I think that despite everything, you enjoyed hiring your new team. You had fun with the game. The game was a distraction. It let you forget about your pain for a while.”
House groaned. “I wish.”
“Change can be a distraction, but your pain doesn’t change. And now that the game’s over and you have a new team, you need a new distraction.” House pushed off from the wall and started down the hall again. Wilson let House set the pace. “Hence, the interior decorating. It gives you something different to think about.”
“Rearranging the deck chairs didn’t stop the Titanic from sinking,” House said. “I’m in pain. Everyday. You think I’m going to forget about that just by moving a table by a few feet?”
They rounded another corner, made their way past the elevators.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” House said. “When you live with pain every day you ...” House stopped. He was still looking at Wilson, but Wilson knew he wasn’t seeing him. Not now.
After a moment, House turned and moved with a speed he hadn’t had just a few seconds earlier. Wilson followed him as he pushed through the door. He crossed the room, tossed his cane onto the table and picked up the marker.
“Joint pain,” he said, and added it to the list of symptoms.
“He said he doesn’t ...” Kutner started to say, but House cut him off.
“This guy works construction, right? He’s hauling fifty pounds of shingles onto a roof one day, laying tile the next, crawling under the foundation the day after that. He’s always sore.”
“He said he has muscle strains, not joint pain,” Thirteen said. “No swelling.”
“That’s because he’s an idiot. His shoulder hurts and he thinks its coming from the muscle, not the joint.” House stared at his team. “He doesn’t know his body as well as he thinks he does.”
“You’re thinking rheumatoid arthritis?” Foreman asked.
“Close.” House turned back to the white board. “Adult Onset Still’s Disease.” He wrote the words across the top of the board.
“Fevers, difficulty breathing, pericardial effusion,” he put a check mark next to each symptom as he counted them down. “And joint pain.”
“No rash,” Thirteen said.
“About 2 percent of cases present without a rash,” House said.
“I thought Still’s just affected children,” Kutner said.
“It’s rare in adults, but it happens,” House said. “And it’s intermittent, which is why it went away after he showed up at the ER last week. I’ll bet that every time this guy thought he had a bad case of the flu in the past five years, it’s been a Still’s flare-up.”
“Too bad for him that it’s chronic,” Wilson pointed out. “There’s no cure.”
“But he can be treated,” House said. “We find the right combination of drugs, and maybe he can bring the symptoms under control.”
House stared at the board a moment longer, then nodded and capped the pen. He looked at Thirteen. “Give him the good news,” he said.
He turned toward the table. Kutner handed him his cane. House took it, then looked at the room, at the empty shelves.
“Foreman,” he said, “call maintenance. Tell them put the room back the way it was.” House walked across the room toward Wilson. “I’ll be at lunch.”
---
The light had leaked out of the sky without Wilson noticing it. It was dark beyond the windows, the snow still coming down, though not as hard as it had been a few hours ago.
He checked his watch. It was just after five o’clock. He knew Amber would be tied up until nearly eight, and he’d told her he’d cook. He had some chicken in the refrigerator, and a few fresh herbs, some wine. She loved watching him cook, and he loved having someone new to cook for.
He still had time to pick up some fresh vegetables if he left soon. Maybe some asparagus to remind them both that spring was only a couple of months away. She’d like that.
He’d been surprised how easy it had been to fall into another relationship, even as he told himself that it would never happen again. Even as he promised himself that he wasn’t looking for anything when he saw Amber.
This time it felt different. It felt right. Wilson ignored the voice in his head reminding him that it had felt good with Julie too, at first.
He heard steps outside the door, then the knob turned and the door opened without a knock. House walked through. He almost seemed to ignore Wilson as he crossed the room, then stood at the other door leading out to the balcony.
“I thought you’d left,” Wilson said.
“Car’s still blocked in,” House said. “I thought I’d let you offer to give me a ride.”
“Sure.”
House nodded, but didn’t leave, didn’t even move. He stood there, staring at the dark outside, at his own reflection in the glass.
“You were wrong, you know,” House said. “It’s not just pain that I can’t change,” He didn’t look at Wilson.
He was quiet, watching the snow and his own shape in the window.
“When I was a kid, we went through a hurricane,” he finally said. “We didn’t get much of a warning, and we didn’t have time to evacuate. My mom and I ended up at a shelter. It was dark, and I could hear the wind. Sometimes we’d hear a window break. It was like ...”
He paused for a moment, seemed to lose himself in the story. Wilson kept quiet.
“It was like there was a monster somewhere outside, and it wanted in,” House finally said, then fell silent again.
Wilson waited, leaned back in his chair. House just stared at the glass.
“Is that what the pain’s like, on days like this?” Wilson finally asked.
House turned to him, shook his head. “Every day,” he said, and walked out.
Chapter Eight: House