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When the light turns off, you realize you're scared. You're alone, and you're in pain, and you're terrified because you're alive and you don't want to be.
If you opened your mouth and called out he would come back, would be at your side in an instant. He would turn on the lamp on your bedside table and slide into bed next to you, limbs warm and solid against yours. You don't make a noise. Instead, you clench your eyes shut against the silence and pretend you don't notice the tear snaking its way down your face.
You fall asleep without noticing it happen. Your mind skips from panic to pain in what seems like an instant, and your eyes crash open so hard it nearly hurts. If you knew less, you'd think you're dying. If this didn't happen every night, you'd be more afraid. Just like you predicted, he's next to your bed in seconds, summoned by the harsh inhale that rattles through your lungs. You're so tired.
"Come on, House, I need you to breathe with me." His voice is quiet but insistent. He guides your hand to his chest and you realize with a start that you're hyperventilating, gasping for air. The pain has filled up your body, solid in your lungs in a way that makes breath feel impossible. Under your hand, you can feel his heartbeat. You'd growl at him if you could feel your face. Instead, you close your eyes again and force yourself to suck in a breath, and again, and again, and again. You can hear his smile when he says, "That's it. You're okay. You're going to be okay."
He knows the drill by now. He smooths the sweat-soaked hair from your forehead and waits next to you until your breath settles somewhat. You're lying prostrate on your mattress because if you move you think you might shake apart into tiny pieces. When he deems you recovered enough, he lifts your hand from his chest and rests it gently on your stomach. He stretches slightly and you can see the tiredness on his face.
He's unwavering, though. He's here and he's the only sense of consistency you have right now and you want to kill him, you want him to leave so you can die in peace. You want to close your eyes and never open them and you think, for a second, that his face would be a good last view. Then he's speaking, words hushed and fast.
"I'm gonna get you a glass of water and the heating pad. You'll be okay until I get back?" You make a sound like a groan, like a cry of anguish that you can't quite contain, and you think he gets the message, because his footsteps are quick as he leaves. You call out to him when he hits the door.
"Can you..." He spins on his feet. You don't ask him for much, far more likely to tell him to go fuck himself. Far more likely to cry alone in your room after he half-carries you to bed. "Can you turn the light on?" Your voice is barely audible, but he hears. He always hears.
"Of course. Of course, House. Do you want the lamp or the ceiling light?"
"I want to die," you tell him. "I want my leg back." He's heard this before, and so he simply blinks.
"Okay, ceiling light it is. Far more difficult to ponder death under the light of day." He might be gone for 15 seconds or 15 minutes, for all you know. You can't track the time when it feels like each muscle fiber in your leg is being torn apart, flayed open for the world to see. You meet his gaze and he doesn't look away, despite the agony you know must show on your face. Then again, he's used to it. He's seen the pit in your leg that is slowly driving you crazy more times than you can count. He's watched you dangle over the edge and pulled you back, kicking and screaming.
He presses a hand against your lips and you can feel the shape of Vicodin. For a second, you consider refusing to open your mouth in protest of being treated so preciously, but then your leg screams and you scream too, and you don't have a choice anymore. He slides an arm under your shoulders and lifts you into a seated position. You tremble and curse and clench your fists against the sheets. You pray to whatever god there is that this will end somehow. As he presses a glass to your mouth, you realize you're exhausted. Pain is tiring, you know this, you've seen patients collapse into a pitiful, anguished sleep thousands of times, but it's different experiencing it. It's different, the way your body feels like lead and you aren't sure you could move even if you weren't in agony.
The Vicodin starts to kick in while he's running his hand through your hair. It's not enough, never enough, but you press into the touch anyway. You open your mouth with the intent to tell him to leave and, as if he can sense it, he lifts himself to his feet.
"I'm staying here tonight." It's a game you play almost every night, him settling on the couch and pretending like you'll make it through the night. You haven't made it yet, in the two months since the surgery. You have a part in the game, too - you open your mouth routinely and tell him, "Fuck off. Leave me alone." and you almost mean it this time. There's a resting sizzle of anger under your skin, a restlessness at the thought of needing him. You're weak and you know it and you'd rather die than admit it out loud. You'd rather die than do a lot of things, nowadays.
He smiles at you. The look on his face is almost too much for your eyes, a kind of softness that makes you writhe in your skin. He settles the heating pad on your thigh and places the remote within your reach, and he pauses before he makes his way to the other side of the bed.
"Do you need me to leave the light on? Or will you be okay without it?" Since I'm here is the unspoken end of his sentence, and both of you know it. "Fuck OFF," you tell him again, putting more force into it this time, and he nods, recognizing it for what it is. He turns the light off silently and comes back to you as eagerly as if you'd invited him, because you can't hide anything from him. He's seen every part of you and stayed. He can read the fear in your voice even when you try your hardest to mask it. You can't hide from him, not anymore.
His body is warm under the covers and you resist the urge to wriggle closer to him. You close your eyes as he pulls you in anyway, gently tucking you against his side. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, safely wrapped in the dark of your room. You're so tired.
"Wilson?" Your voice is so very quiet. You can feel the way he leans in slightly to hear you. You turn your head into him and press your face against his chest. You're crying. "I want to die," you say, and he sighs, because he knows. Because he felt the way your body bent until it broke and he's been trying to put back the pieces ever since. He doesn't say anything, just pulls you in tighter, but you can feel his tears against your skin, and that's enough.