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You're tired of being in pain. You tell this, repeatedly and with unrelenting aggression, to anyone who will listen, and plenty of people who won't. You're tired of the way your body trembles when it holds you up, and you're tired of the crutches and the wheelchair and the sadness.
He drives you to physical therapy and pretends he doesn't notice you crying in the passenger's seat. You spend two hours trying and failing to walk, and the physical therapist tells you you're doing "so good." You think that if this is "so good" you might as well die. It's exhausting and humiliating and leaves you feeling raw, like your skin has been torn from your body. He pretends he doesn't notice you crying on the way home, too. You spend a lot of time crying these days.
He makes you dinner when you get home, even though you tell him to leave you the fuck alone. He has a home of his own, a wife, even, but you can't remember the last time he left you for more than a few hours. You don't mention his wife except for when you want to hurt him enough that he'll leave. He doesn't leave even then.
The physical therapist says you'll be able to walk with just the aid of a cane, eventually. You don't believe her, really, but it's nice to pretend, sometimes. Your apartment isn't built for a wheelchair, the paths between furniture a little too small, everything slightly too high for you to reach. Every time you bump into a shelf and knock something to the ground you curse yourself, and him, and every doctor at the hospital. The forearm crutches make your leg hurt worse and make you dizzy with pain, but at least you can move without being propped on his shoulder.
You don't eat, even though he places a bowl in front of you and waits patiently at your side. You hate him for it. When he places a hand on your shoulder and says, "Come on, just one bite. Please?" you snarl and push him away. He'll wrap the plate for you anyway and leave it in the fridge for later.
"Go away," you tell him. "I don't fucking need you." There are a number of ways he could take this, but he looks you up and down and disappears, silently. You hear the water start in the bathroom and you wonder what he saw - was it your trembling hands? The sweat on the back of your neck? Could he see the way the fear in your eyes is giving way to numbness?
You grit your teeth and try to ignore the way your bones feel shifting under your skin, and you wait. You could rip him to shreds and he would still piece himself back together so he could carry you to the bathroom. He calls across the apartment to tell you that he's running you a hot bath, something you had already realized. You tell him this, biting out that you may be crippled but you're not a fucking idiot. He doesn't apologize, but to be honest you don't particularly want him to. Instead he slips back into the living room quietly and positions himself at your side without a question.
When you haul yourself to your feet, your leg buckles under your weight, and he catches you. You think that he should have let you fall. Maybe you would have hit your head and then you could finally rest, for once.
In the bathroom, he sits you down on the toilet and leans against the sink as you undress. He stands patiently, waiting to help if you need him, and you can see his muscles tensed slightly in case of emergency. You press your eyes shut as you stand, wobbling on one leg, and reach down to pull your pants and underwear off. Your reaction is out of instinct rather than from pain or shame - you'd lost all sense of dignity around him long ago, and in those first few weeks following the surgery he had wiped your ass and changed your clothes and mopped the sweat from your forehead. You don't think you can go any lower than that. You want to tell him to leave, or die, or maybe to lay down next to you and stay there for the rest of time. Instead of that, you grit your teeth and reach an arm out to him so he can support you.
The water stings as you settle into it. It hurts as much as it feels good. He reaches down and makes sure everything is within your reach, and then he crouches next to the tub, eye level with you.
"I'm gonna run to the store for groceries," he says. "We need them anyway and I think you and I both need some time away from each other, just to breathe." You roll your eyes at him.
"Yeah, I bet you're so tired of being here. You with your perfect body and your car and the fact that you can leave whenever you want. I'm sure I'm causing you so much trouble." He frowns at you, but he doesn't look that upset. It's a familiar look from him.
"You are, to be honest, driving me fucking insane, House. But I understand why, and so I don't mind. I just think a moment of silence for both of us would be nice." You're afraid, terrified even, of the idea of him leaving. You said it to get under his skin but you wonder if maybe he'll realize he shouldn't have to babysit a crippled, angry creature. You wonder if maybe he's been hungering to leave since you got home that first day. You don't nod or react or do much of anything, but he understands. "I'll be back in an hour at most. I promise. I'll have to pull you out of this tub eventually, before you turn into an actual raisin. And I'll leave your phone right next to you, so you can call me the minute you need me."
"I'm not a fucking child," you snarl, one of the phrases you like to throw at him when you're drowning in that feeling of weakness. He knows that, as always so in sync with you that you think he might be rooted inside your head. He leans over and kisses your forehead, and he leaves before you can react. The front door opens and closes.
You're alone, well and truly, for the first time in weeks. You're alone, and you take a deep breath, and you think you might fracture into bits or die or cry the kind of tears that burn and shake your body with the force of them and leave you feeling like a husk. You're alone, and it doesn't change anything, because you're still naked and broken and in so much fucking pain. When he gets back he'll know, because he always does, and he'll towel you dry and help you dress and wrap you in blankets in a failed attempt to soothe the trembling of your limbs. It won't make you any better. It won't fix you. It won't change the way you're rotting from the inside out, but he'll be there anyway.