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House had gotten used to Wilson’s voice routinely disrupting a richly deserved deep sleep, or a deeply hot dream where he was sandwiched between Halle Berry and…someone else. The third party was always a bit fuzzy.
That was why, this time, he chose to ignore the familiar, hoarse whisper. Wilson had been having trouble sleeping lately and was resorting to waking him with pathetic pleas for water or trumped up charges of blanket hogging.
House’s capacity to be the semi-patient caregiver was just about tapped out. It wouldn’t kill Wilson to lie awake on his own.
He heard his name again, louder this time and a bit breathless, and paused to consider whether he should hold his ground. That was when he felt Wilson’s hand on his arm—and that was not normal.
“What?” House rasped, instantly sitting up.
Wilson took a shaky breath. “Tachycardia.”
House switched on the bedside lamp. “You sure?” he questioned, leaning over and putting two fingers on Wilson’s carotid.
“Chest pain,” Wilson choked out. “Heart’s beating in my throat.” He shut his eyes tightly and pursed his lips to slow his breathing.
“Yeah, I can feel that,” House said, abandoning the pulse check to reach for his phone on the nightstand. They hadn’t faced a real emergency yet, but he’d mentally prepared his course of action: Call it in before Wilson could stop him.
“Wait,” came the predictable order.
“Can’t,” House replied. If it was V-tach, it might progress to V-fib and dead Wilson.
“Probably A-fib,” Wilson grunted, as if reading his mind. “Might pass.”
“And we’ll let it pass in the hospital.” House paused, expecting Wilson to beg him not to call an ambulance. To just let this play out however it would.
But Wilson said nothing, and House allowed a small sigh of relief as he called 911. When he hung up, he turned back to Wilson, who was now staring at the ceiling. “They’re coming,” he said needlessly.
“A-fib,” Wilson whispered again. “Got cisplatin today.”
House cursed under his breath. “Your cancer drugs are really something.”
Wilson closed his eyes. “Could stop.”
No, House thought, but stopped short of saying it out loud.
“Turn your head away from me,” he said instead.
Wilson obeyed, and House used two fingers to massage his neck, above the carotid sinus. “Might bring your heart rate down,” he muttered—again, needlessly. But he felt like he had to explain himself.
They were silent then, and House sensed himself settling a little, from the contact and the simple, repetitive movement. Or maybe from the feeling that he was at least doing something.
True to form, though, Wilson decided to break the quiet. “You can’t come,” he mumbled into his pillow.
House kept massaging slow circles as he scowled. “You really think some ER hack is gonna recognize me? I’m a genius, not a rock star.”
Wilson didn’t say anything, possibly because House’s fingers were pressing harder, or because he couldn’t, or because he knew he didn’t have to. House hadn’t stepped foot in the hospital during the few months they’d been in Houston. They both knew it was a chance not worth taking.
They fell back into silence until the paramedics arrived and efficiently packed Wilson up and carried him away. And House was left in the silence again.
*******
House studied his reflection. It had been a while since he’d done that; these days, even when he brushed his teeth he kept his head down. It was illogical, but mirror avoidance made it somewhat easier to believe he was Greg Daniels, non-M.D., like his fake driver’s license said.
He rubbed a hand over his face, and what was now a full-on beard—since he’d long since given up on maintaining his carefully calibrated stubble level. The bags under his eyes were bigger than he remembered, and he vaguely wondered how he’d gotten so old. On the other hand, he looked pretty fucking fantastic for a dead guy.
That sent his mind, inevitably, to Wilson. He wasn’t dead or even dying, just yet. It had indeed been A-fib, courtesy of the drugs that were supposed to extend his life.
They’d known, of course, that Wilson’s heart would be a big question mark. Even if they managed to shrink-n-snip Toomy, there was no guarantee Wilson’s heart would withstand the barrage of chest radiation and cardiotoxic drugs. He could drop dead of a heart attack at his “You Beat Cancer” surprise party—which would basically consist of House jumping out from the living room closet and yelling.
He scratched at his beard. Maybe I’ll skip the surprise.
They could just go out to eat or something. That would be a treat, actually. Wilson was no longer doing take-out, since his immune system was so compromised he couldn’t rely on the hygiene practices of minimum-wage kitchen staff. So he relied on House.
Except right now. Right now he was alone. They both were.
House stopped scratching at his beard and pondered his reflection. He needed a shave, he decided—a close one. He needed a complete change. He needed to be Greg Daniels.
*******
“What? You…” Wilson blinked owlishly, and House wondered how he could stand—let alone miss—that dopey mug.
“Yes,” House said slowly, approaching the hospital bed. “It’s me, Greg.”
Wilson just stared for a few moments then licked his lips. “You look like, um, what’s his name?…The Wayne’s World guy. But not Wayne.”
“Garth.”
A drunken-looking smile spread across Wilson’s face, and House rolled his eyes. He knew he looked like an idiot. He’d shaven his face clean, and donned a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and a blond wig, which was currently secured under Wilson’s Astros cap. But really, the wig was more mullet than Garth-like.
Wilson’s smile faded and was replaced with his standard look of confused concern.
“You did that?”
House sighed testily. “No. I was attacked by a gang of thug barbers.”
Wilson nodded. “Their brutality is shocking.”
House frowned so he wouldn’t smile. “At least I’m not bald and wearing a gown.” He plopped down in the chair by the bed. “You look dumber than usual. What kind of drugs are you on?”
Wilson sighed. “Just ibuprofen. Chest still hurts a little.”
They’d done an electrical cardioversion to stop the A-fib, since Chiu didn’t want him getting any heavy-duty drugs. That much, House knew.
“Why are you here?” Wilson whispered a moment later. “They’re probably letting me go home tomorrow.”
“I was really anxious to see what you think of my new wig.”
Wilson shook his head. “Hou—Greg. This is a bad idea. What if—”
“No one saw me. Snuck in through the back door.” House waved a hand. “Texas hospitals.”
“There’s no reason to take a chance.”
“Well,” House chirped. “it’s done. No amount of nagging can undo it. Though I’m sure you’ll try.”
Wilson pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. House noticed for the first time how gray his skin was. “So,” he said, softening his tone. “What did Chiu say about all this?”
Wilson opened his eyes and held House’s gaze. “He said we could keep going as planned. But…he thinks I should consider taking a break. And maybe cut out the cisplatin or doxorubicin.”
House felt his stomach drop, but managed to nod coolly. “That could help with the neuropathy, too,” he said, wondering if Wilson noticed the hesitation.
Wilson just kept looking at him, so House cleared his throat. “What did you decide?”
“Nothing,” Wilson said simply. “I wanted to talk to you. When I got home.”
That was not the answer House was expecting. He peered at Wilson. “You don’t need my opinion.”
Wilson licked his lips again. “I want it.”
“Since when?” House blurted before he could stop himself.
Wilson lifted a hand, like he wanted to rub the back of his neck, then let it fall back to the bed. “I…trust it more now. You won’t just tell me what you want me to do.”
Wilson looked at him then, with such plain honesty that House had to turn away. “I can’t tell you what to do,” he muttered. “I’m dressed like the guy from Wayne’s World.”
Wilson huffed a little laugh that turned into a coughing fit. House got him some water then waited.
Once Wilson caught his breath, he nodded in agreement. “Um…That’s true. But I still wanna know.”
House shook his head. “My answer still stands.” He looked Wilson in the eyes. “Your options suck. The only right decision is the one you think you can live with.”
Wilson gave him a small nod then looked down at his hands. “What—what about you? What can you live with?”
House felt his jaw tighten as he gripped his cane. He hated these direct questions. But he also knew Wilson deserved an answer.
“I…You’ve tried your best. I know you’ve…” Wilson looked up at him, and House took a deep breath. “You don’t have to keep trying.”
Wilson’s eyes were suddenly huge in his drawn, gray face. He looked like ET. House refrained from telling him that, even when the silence between them grew uncomfortably long.
“I’m tired,” Wilson said finally, quietly.
And despite all of House’s stoic words, that acknowledgement hit him in the gut. He bit his lip until he trusted himself to speak. “I know,” he assured. “It’s OK.”
Wilson blinked. “No,” he said wearily, tugging his blanket up. “I mean just right now. Need to sleep.”
Oh.
House watched as Wilson settled against his pillows and let out a soft sigh. “You gonna be here?” he murmured, already slipping away.
“Yeah,” House said. “I’ll be here.”
Wilson mumbled something that sounded like, “Mmm.”
House slid his chair closer to the bed and propped his feet up. “I’ll be here,” he repeated, to no one and anyone. He had all the time in the world.