Here’s a fic that became something much longer and more complex than I ever imagined when I began it: A look at House and Wilson’s friendship and how it developed, with glimpses and points of their lives over the past eight years or so.
With much help to Auditrix for her suggetions and betas and the folks at HT&M for their feedback as I was writing it.
For folks who read it as a WIP, there are a few minor changes and a couple of added lines, paragraphs and even a scene or two.


Tracking Time


2005

When Cuddy first offered House his own department and all the perks that came with it, he had demanded possession of the connecting rooms in the hospital’s new wing. He’d been ready to play the cripple card, and argue that the faculty offices in the older part of the hospital where Wilson hung his lab coat were too far to walk on his painful leg.

Cuddy had agreed quickly, though, muttering something under her breath that led House to believe that her real reasoning was the same one that had prompted his third grade teacher to seat him and Tony Clarke on opposite sides of the room after the first two weeks of class.

Truth was, he liked the view. The glass walls of the office and conference room looked out on a main hallway leading to the labs. Anyone needing tests, x-rays or scans passed by, some under their own power, some in wheelchairs, others on gurneys.

And House would sometimes test himself. He’d see a patient passing by, and come up with a diagnosis before they’d moved beyond his eyesight, then he’d send Chase or Cameron out to confirm it. Foreman had rolled his eyes the first time House tried sending him out, agreeing only after setting a $50 wager on it. Since then, Forman had refused, saying he couldn’t afford to lose any more bets.

House rarely looked out the windows looking to the outside world. The glass there faced out to the parking lot and main road, a sea of asphalt, concrete and late-model cars.

“God, but this is a depressing view,” Wilson often commented whenever he’d part the blinds. The older wing housing Wilson’s office looked out at a green field and trees. A corner of the old fieldhouse and track were visible off to the left.

House met Wilson on that track. Wilson had been a resident, House already on tenure track when he’d felt a need to work off a rising level of frustration with the young doctors he had been ordered to supervise.

He’d just spotted Chilton at the nurses’ station, chatting with a brunette. House had already been in a foul mood, and now seeing Chilton there -- rather than running the blood test he’d been ordered to do -- set him off.

“I wrote up the lab order,” Chilton had whined. “They’ll get to it soon enough.”

“I didn’t tell you to order it,” House had said. “I’m pretty sure I ordered you to do it.”

“Why should I? The lab can ...”

“Because as far as you are concerned I am your lord and master.” House ignored the floor nurse trying to get him to lower his voice. “I am God. And the lord your God demands it. Also because the lab has a limited staff on overnights and it’ll take them at least four hours to get to something you can finish in 15 minutes.”

Even then Chilton hadn’t budged until House stared him down, then he moved only grudgingly down the hall.

House was fairly certain if he didn’t pound some pavement, he’d pound Chilton instead -- and that wouldn’t do either of them any favors.

He would have preferred a long run on the trails down the road, but at 3 a.m., you take what you can get, and there was enough ambient light at the nearby fieldhouse to make the track runable even in a total eclipse.

Someone else was already on the track when he got there, but in the dim light couldn’t make out who. House waited until the other runner passed him, then waited until the man rounded the first turn before he stepped onto the surface himself. House would have preferred to have the track to himself, but if he couldn’t do that, at least he could turn the man into his rabbit, using him as an incentive to keep the pace fast, to catch the other runner, pass him.

But more than a mile in, House wasn’t making any headway. He was in a comfortable pace for him, easily less than a six-and-a-half-minute mile, he guessed, a pace that the bulk of the bulk working at the hospital couldn’t match, but he wasn’t gaining on this runner. The white t-shirt bouncing along the track in front of him almost seemed to be mocking him.

He stepped it up, felt his breath come a little faster as he picked up the cadence. Another mile in, he could sense he was gaining again. One more lap and he knew it, the white shirt growing closer with every step. As the front runner cleared the third turn, though, he looked back over his shoulder, eyed House and picked up his own pace. House was certain he’d seen a smile on that face as the man began to pull away.

House grunted, glad for the challenge, and responded to the change in tempo, first settling into the new pace set by the runner, then pushing it up another notch.

Lap by lap, House and the man took turns setting the pace. House had a sudden image of the two of locked into this contest forever. He was closing slowly, but they’d matched speeds for more than five miles now. House knew it had been too long since he’d really pushed it on a long run to keep up for much longer. Too many long shifts, sleepy days and bar nights.

He fell back on an old trick, and began to whistle, as if the pace was no more than an easy stroll. The maneuver would mean he’d have to slow down, he knew, but House also had seen more than one running on the track or trails back in college fall victim to the simple psych out.

Half a lap more, and the other man finally slowed, stopped, than lay on his back on the damp grass of the infield.

He was still breathing heavily when House passed him, then stopped and walked over to stand over him.

“I surrender!” the other man said, holding out both hands.

“Damn straight,” House plopped down onto the grass beside him, sucked in the damp night air. “Know when you’re licked.”

“Self awareness,” the younger man said, still panting heavily. “Is the key.”

“Unless you’ve got a good disguise.”

“So they’ll never know it’s you.”

“Then I’m all about the deception.”

“Deceit does have its benefits.” The other man pushed himself up to his elbows, looked over at House in the dim light. “James Wilson,” he said, reaching over with his right hand.

“Yeah, like I’m supposed to believe a word you say now.” He pushed himself to his feet, reached down and gave Wilson a hand up. “Gregory House. If you can believe that.”

“Nah, can’t be. Chilton says House is a self-absorbed prick. Of course, Chilton is an ass with so few signs of intelligence, I’m not sure he actually counts as a sentient being.”

“It has been my finding that most air headed imbeciles spend their lives in fear of sharp objects.”

“Understandable, since the slightest pin prick could be fatal.”

Both men turned back toward the lights, and House could feel his mood definitely improved.

“Just do me a favor, and tell me you hadn’t already finished 10k before I showed up,” he said. “Not that my ego couldn’t take it, but it would take some of the joy out of running you into the ground.”

“I’m not saying anything. Just try and catch up some day when I haven’t pulled 36 hours straight.”

“Is that an invitation, or a challenge, Wilson -- if that is your real name?”

“What makes you think it’s not a warning?” Wilson smiled as he headed toward the parking lot, leaving House alone in the pool of light at the ER entrance.



--------------
1997
-------------

House made the time for a long run next time he saw Wilson on the track, this time running with him, rather than in competition. When their conversation veered effortlessly from favorite routes to preferred spots to filch coffee with sidetracks into pop culture, he was satisfied. When Wilson threw out a quick, but thorough, comparison between Pearl Jam and Black Flag, he was pleased. When the younger doctor kept up his end when the conversation turned to the history of supporting the arts through all its twists and turns, House believed he was actually happy.

“So when Lorenzo the Magnificent bankrolled Michelangelo, that was just swell, but somehow Miller Brewing sponsoring Bon Jovi is the end of civilization as we know it?” Wilson said as they rounded another turn, side by side.

“Glad you see it my way,” House said. “And I’ll try to overlook your taste in both music and beer.”

Within a month, they were setting regular times to meet for a run, finding time to squeeze in daytime haunts along both trails -- House’s favorite -- and Wilson’s preferred road routes.

House checked out Wilson’s history at the hospital, and heard nothing but praise for the oncologist. That made him vaguely suspicious until one day when he was slouched in comfortable chair in a staff room and overheard Wilson taking a stand against a recommended treatment by a more experienced doctor. He remained where he was, hidden from the view of the gaggle of residents by a column.

Wilson laid out his case well, offered strong reasons for his preferred treatment and did not back down when the other doctor tried to laugh him off as an inexperienced practitioner. The chief agreed to take both under consideration. Curious, House checked it out for himself, passing off his clinic hours on one of his own residents while he did his research, and came down firmly on Wilson’s side.

He soon discovered Wilson had been checking him out as well. The younger doctor appeared at House’s elbow one afternoon, appearing far too young to irredeemably optimistic to House’s eyes. It had been a bad day and House was in a foul mood, backed up with a monotony of cases, feeble residents and no way out of clinic duty.

At least the rest of the staff had taken the hint and steered clear of him. Wilson either did not know how dark House’s moods could turn, or simply ignored the possibility.

“And you’re here, why?”

To his credit, Wilson didn’t flinch, and returned House’s direct gaze. He held out a manila folder.

“Got a weird case.”

House made no response, didn’t even acknowledge the file.

“A 49-year-old female, not responding to the radiation or chemo. At least not in expected ways.”

“You’re surprised that when you fill a body with poison that it reacts strangely? I thought unusual reactions were what the cancer guys thrived on. Good for the research papers and all that. Publish or perish you know. Hell, play your cards right and you might even get a research grant out of it. Impress the folks back home without the necessity of actually curing anything.”

Wilson didn’t back off. Instead, he moved in closer, leaning against the side of House’s desk, keeping the file well within House’s sight.

“I don’t think it’s cancer,” he said softly. “Or at least not just cancer. We’ve got good people, but they’re all looking at the tumor. She needs someone who can see what else is going on.”

House studied the young man again. Brown hair cut simply. Plain white shirt. Dark pants. Tasteful if forgettable tie. Dressed as if he was trying to blend in. But there was something else. Something that made him stand out despite every intention. House could see it now. An intensity. A sureness -- not like a surgeon’s belief in his own infallibility, but rather in something bigger: In the cause of his patient, and finding the right answer.

“This isn’t my field,” House said, though he took the folder.

“Neither is Australian rules football, but that doesn’t seem to stop you from offering your opinion.”

It was Wilson who introduced House to monster trucks. It was House who schooled Wilson on the finer points of scotch and Irish whiskey.

Wilson was already married then, to his first wife Amy, but House knew it wouldn’t last. She had left her family and friends in St. Louis, traveled more than 1,500 miles to live with the man she’d met her freshman year of college. Amy loved the idea of being married to a doctor more than the reality of it. In Princeton, she knew no one except a husband who spent the bulk of his time at the hospital, even when he wasn’t on call if he was working on a particularly interesting case.

She began traveling back to St. Louis for holidays and birthdays. She took advantage of air price wars to make weekend trips. She’d extend her stay by a day or two, then begin staying for up to a week each time she flew out. House began to notice things missing from the apartment when he’d stop by to pick up Wilson. Photos. Mementos. Amy was erasing herself from Princeton with every trip home.

When Wilson told him he was afraid it was over, he seemed shocked, and House managed to to fight his own first instincts for a scathing reply and keep his mouth shut. He offered Wilson an understated support instead. This time, for this person, it seemed to be the right thing to do.

-------------
1998
------------

Following the first divorce, Wilson began pushing himself harder on the runs. He entered more and more road races, collecting medals for good showings in everything from 5K fun runs to a hilly 20K. Sometimes House joined him -- in training if not in the actual competition. He’d had enough of that in high school and college, both track and cross country. Now, he told Wilson, he ran solely for his own enjoyment, and took note of his times just to prove something to himself. How he measured up against others, he said, didn’t matter.

House stuck with Wilson’s increased pace and mileage in training, though, knowing that the long conversations kept Wilson’s inner thoughts off the legal ending of his marriage at least for a short time. The distances, he assumed, would fall back into more leisurely ones once Wilson no longer needed to exhaust himself just to get a good night’s sleep.

At the hospital, Wilson volunteered to take the toughest cases. Those that were emotionally draining -- dying babies and the good people suffering with no good alternatives -- reminded him that his divorce was nothing compared to the lives his patients faced. The most confusing to diagnose and treat presented him with puzzles to keep his mind occupied.

More and more often, Wilson would talk those cases over with House, using him as a sounding board while also looking into avenues House might suggest. Even if House had no immediate thoughts on the case, he generally knew about some obscure medical journal that had addressed it.

House, meanwhile, would talk over his more interesting cases with Wilson and found that the oncologist had an innate ability to connect dots that others rarely saw.

He also found, to his surprise, that his friendship with Wilson somehow boosted his own image at PPTH. House knew his medical abilities had always been respected, but now the staff actually began to seek him out, ask his opinions on their own bizarre cases.

“What the hell have you been telling people?” House shouted from halfway across the cafeteria on the day he’d chased two residents from his office and ducked another three by making a fast turn into the stairway.

“Just in the past five minutes or are you looking at a wider time frame?” Wilson leaned back in his chair as two other doctors and a nurse at his table picked up their trays and left. “Because my mother says I was a real motor mouth when I was three, and I’d need time to track down those conversations.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time building up my reputation, and you’re ruining it.” House nabbed a handful of french fries off Wilson’s tray as he sat down.

“I was eating those,” Wilson protested. “And what reputation? The one that you’re a complete ass?”

“That’s the one. I’ve spent a lot of years on it.”

“I didn’t think you cared what people thought about you.” Wilson grabbed his soft drink cup away, before House could take a drink.

“I don’t care what they think of my medical decisions,” House clarified. “But if they start thinking I’ve got a soft and chewy center, they start thinking it’s fine to talk to me.”

“And that would be bad?”

“Precisely.”

“Exchanging pleasantries with your peers is a bad thing?”

“You think McIntyre is actually my equal?”

Wilson considered the concept for a moment before answering.

“As a doctor? Well, no. He gives Caribbean medical schools a bad reputation, so you’ve definitely got him there,” he conceded. “But on the other hand, he’s generally pleasant to talk to, so that’s one in his favor.”

“Exactly. You find him not inoffensive, he finds you not inoffensive, and then somehow that miniscule brain of his puts two and two together and begins to think that if you’re inoffensive and spend time with me, that somehow I must also be inoffensive.”

“What did he do, try to talk to you?”

House didn’t answer.

“Seriously.”

Still no reply.

“He talked to you.”

“He wanted to.”

Now Wilson was the one to hold his silence.

“I can tell these things. There’s this look ...”

“Seriously, man, have you finally gone insane or have I? Must be one of us, because if I understand this correctly you’re pissed as hell because someone looked at you?”

“Not just someone,” House protested. “McIntyre.”

Wilson opened his mouth, but could find no words.

“OK, so maybe I can put up with the friendly chitchat without my brains beginning to ooze out of my ears, but it’s not just that.”

“Please continue,” Wilson closed his eyes, rubbed at his temples trying to ease the headache that had suddenly announced its presence.

“He and the other half-wits have gotten it into their heads that I can solve their cases,” House protested. “And it’s your fault.”

“First off, my fault? And second, may I remind you that you bitch whenever there’s a decent case you don’t get to butt in on?”

“Of course it’s your fault. It’s that damn JAMA article of yours.”

“I thought you liked that article,” Wilson interrupted. “Hell, you were the one who told me to submit it.”

“Submit it, sure, but ever since they saw that I consulted on your case, every ambitious resident in the hospital sees me as their ticket to publishing their own paper,” House said.

“And that would bad.”

“Of course it would.” House paused in mid-fry theft and studied Wilson. “Oh don’t do that.”

“What now?”

“That. Get that look on your face. All wide eyed and innocent. Makes me feel like I’ve just kicked a puppy. They’re idiots. Ninety percent of the residents out there couldn’t find their own asses in a house of mirrors if they used both hands. You’re not an idiot. You did good work on that case. You deserve the attention.”

“But I couldn’t have done it without your help,” Wilson protested. “What makes them so different?”

“There’s a difference between asking for a consult when you need information, and wanting someone else to do the work for you,” House insisted. “You do your own homework. You know what you’re doing. A good three-quarters of the calls I get are from people who could figure it out themselves if they’d just care to put in an effort on their own.”

He paused, looked Wilson straight in the eye. An intense gaze Wilson neither wanted -- nor could -- look away from.

“They annoy me. You don’t.”

Wilson blinked. Considered the words. Blinked again.

“Uh, thanks?”

“You’re welcome.”

Neither man said anything for a few moments. House watched the television across the room for a bit. Wilson finished what fries were left, then tidied his tray.

“So if anyone asks, I should deny talking to you?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” House said. He rose from the seat, tossed a few used napkins onto Wilson’s tray. “Tell them anything you like. Just make sure they stay away.”

“Play up your finer qualities, then.” Wilson grabbed his tray, carried it over to the trash bin and sorted out the plates from the garbage. “Point out that you’re a condescending bastard who thinks he’s better than they are and can’t wait to provide them with precise examples of their ineptitude.”

House nodded. “That should do it.”

“What if they’ve actually got a decent case?” Wilson questioned as they walked together out of the cafeteria.

“Then send ‘em my way. Or better yet, just get the information from them and give it to me.”

“Why am I picturing a Wizard of Oz scenario?” Wilson asked as he waited with House near the elevators. “Except instead of paying no attention to the man behind the curtain, you’re hiding behind me?”

A bell rang and the elevator door opened. House stepped in while Wilson waited behind, headed instead for the clinic.

“Stick to oncology, Wilson,” he called just before the doors closed. “You’d make a lousy psychiatrist.”


-----------
1999
----------


On the day Wilson signed the papers for his second divorce -- less than two years after the wedding -- House took him to Rio. Carnivale was in full swing and if Wilson was ever going to go, he insisted, this was the time to do it.

“Just remember, it’s your job to smile and blush at the women. I’ll do the talking,” House insisted.

“What am I, bait?”

“Got it in one.”

Wilson pulled him to a stop in the middle of the Newark terminal. “And what, cheap meaningless sex with a beautiful woman is supposed to make me feel better?”

“Cheap, meaningless sex with unbelievably gorgeous women,” House clarified. “Trust me on this.”

Unlike Amy, House had never approved of Wilson’s second wife, Tonya. She was on the rebound, and so was Wilson.

When they returned from Vegas, married just a month after meeting, House had wished Wilson luck, but added that he’d need it. The first six months were very good, the second six mediocre. The night of their first anniversary Wilson spent getting drunk at House’s place and crashing on the couch.

“Not a word,” Wilson warned him when he showed up with a six-pack of Grolsch.

House merely stood aside with the door open, then grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels before finally addressing Wilson from the kitchen doorway.

“Should we even bother with the glasses?”

House heard him out that night, and the days and nights that followed. He sympathized. He empathized. Tonya was a bitch. Tonya didn’t know better. Tonya was an accident waiting to happen. He drew the line when Wilson began blaming himself.

“Where the hell did that come from?” He interrupted Wilson before he could even finish the sentence. “First off, I believe we already agreed that it’s obvious she was meant to play the part of the Queen of Hearts.”

“Off with his head!” Wilson downed another shot and poured another.

“Just because she screwed you over, doesn’t make you a screw-up,” House finished, then drank down his own shot.

“Two marriages and two divorces inside of three years,” Wilson countered. “If that doesn’t make me a screw up, then what am I?”

“Available.”

Wilson knew that House spoke more than five languages fluently. He had seen him perusing journals in German and French. He even knew that House had spent time in Brazil through his specialty in infectious diseases. But he was still astounded by House’s ease with Portuguese.

In Rio, as the hot sun and humidity seeped into bones and joints made stiff by a New Jersey winter, Wilson watched as House chatted with the cab driver, directing him from the airport to the up-class hotel he had booked overlooking the water. He let House handle the check-in, then waited in the room, listening in as House skipped from Portuguese to English and back again as he checked in with local contacts while also keeping Wilson updated about their plans.

By that night, or perhaps it was early the next morning by then, they had settled into a routine, with House firmly in the lead.

Wilson followed, tagging along from the beach to a private party, to a street party to a bar to another private party. House was right. The women were unbelievably beautiful. Bodies tan. Hips swaying. The rhythm of the samba built into their every move.

One woman, with eyes as brilliant a green as House’s were blue walked up to him, speaking softly. Wilson stammered out an apology in English.

“So you are American,” she replied with a smile.

“You think he was lying?” Wilson nodded toward House who glanced in his direction, smiled and gestured that he was going out onto the balcony with another woman, just as beautiful.

“He has a good accent,” the woman said. “Most Americans don’t even bother to learn Portuguese, never mind how to use the -- let’s say colloquial expressions -- so appropriately.”

She put her hand on his, brushed her thumb lightly across his skin. Curled her fingers into his palm. That night, Wilson forgot about Tonya. For a while, he forgot himself.

Late the next afternoon, he found a note from House. He followed it out to the beach where he found House lying in the sun. Wilson sat beside him, arms loosely wrapped around his knees and glanced down at his friend before looking out at the water.

“You’re getting a sun burn.”

“I like living on the edge,” House said. “I see you made it home all right.”

“Yep.” Wilson watched two women passing between him and the water and wished he’d worn his sunglasses. “Do I even want to know what you told her about me?”

“Probably not,” House admitted. “But I didn’t have to say much at all, really. She was the one with all the questions.”

“I wasn’t looking for an ego boost.”

“Wasn’t trying to give you one. Unless you needed one, in which case you probably came to the wrong person. I’m not really in to faint praise, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Wilson knew most people could not understand House. For that matter they didn’t try to. More than one doctor had pulled him aside, tried to act as the mentor and warn him away. No one likes House, they’d say. Hang around him, and he’ll poison you, poison your reputation. The new administrator is planning to get rid of him, they’d confide. If he sees the two of you together too much, he may just try to get rid of you too.

Sometimes Wilson felt like House was his own foreign language, one only Wilson could understand.

From the start, though, House had pushed him to push himself, both mentally and physically. He dared him to keep up -- just as Wilson’s brother had done when they were growing up. Being around House sharpened his wit, focused his attention, quickened his pace. Despite that, though, House made no demands that he conform. Where Wilson’s parents had taught him to edit his every word, House did not believe in an internal sensor. He did not expect Wilson to live up to someone else’s idea of how a gentleman or doctor should act.

For that matter, House reveled in finding flaws, poking at them, seeing what made Wilson tick, rather than expecting him to change. House did not expect to find perfection, except, it sometimes seemed to Wilson, from himself.

Not that House was ever easy. That lack of a censor meant that he not only meant what he said, but he also said what he meant. They’d argue -- about office politics, about patient treatment, hell even about the NFL playoffs -- and House would take his argument too far, start pushing at those cracks in the psyche Wilson was all too aware of. Wilson would call him an ass. Walk off.

Three days later, four at the most, and they’d find themselves at lunch together. No apologies needed. Regret, House said, was a wasted emotion. Instead they’d fight over who’s turn it was to pick up the bill.

“I don’t expect you to agree with me,” House had told him once. “Hell, sometimes I don’t agree with me either. Sometimes maybe I just love a good fight.”

And sometimes Wilson didn’t know if he liked House despite his challenging nature, or because of it.

A shadow blocked the sun, and Wilson broke out of his thoughts, looking up to notice House standing there, studying him.

“You still thinking you should take the earlier flight out to catch that symposium?”

“I should,” Wilson admitted as he pushed himself up to his feet. “But I won’t.”

House responded with a genuine smile. “Good,” he said. “I’d hate to see you waste your time on some idle pursuit like medical ethics. I know of something that’s far more educational.”

“Lord knows I wouldn’t want to miss out on an important lesson from the master.” Wilson pushed himself to his feet. “Lead on.”

----------
2000
----------


When word came down that Wilson had been granted tenure -- becoming the youngest tenured doctor on staff -- House was still an inpatient at PPTH’s rehab wing.

“Don’t you have something else you should be doing, like moving into your new office?” House asked when Wilson showed up that night.

Wilson knew he shouldn’t have been surprised that House had heard. House may not have many friends, but he always had an inside line on hospital gossip, much of it garnered by loitering around various nurses’ stations and doctors’ lounges. But that system had been shut down to him for weeks now. Stacy may have told him, but then the official list wouldn’t be sent out until the first of the month.

“Do you know, it turns out there’s something called ‘staff’ at the hospital that can actually do things for you,” Wilson replied, settling down into his usual seat and dropping his bag onto a table. “Some people actually prefer to delegate responsibilities.”

“Sure, but then you never know where they’ll put your stuff.”

“If you didn’t try so hard to piss off the janitors, they might not try so hard to lose your toys.”

“I prefer to think of it as a little game we play. I say something, they take offense, they somehow forget where they’ve moved something during cleaning and I have to find it. It’s not retribution, it’s a challenge.” House was silent for a moment, shifted slightly in the chair. “God, it’s going to be a bitch finding anything when I get back.”

At least today House was talking about when he’d return to work, rather than if he would. Wilson took that as a sign that the therapy had gone well today. House had also opted for one of the easy chairs in his room. Some nights Wilson would come in to find House stretched out on the bed, awake but barely responding unless asked a direct question. Those nights, they’d both stare at the television, Wilson occasionally making a comment on whatever show happened to be on the screen, House grunting out an answer, if he bothered to take note of it at all.

House had the set tuned in to a reality show Wilson knew had been in the news. He turned his attention away from Wilson to comment at the naked man on the screen and Wilson took the opportunity to study his friend.

Wilson had been at a conference when the infarction was diagnosed. He and House were supposed to go for a run the morning he left, but House begged off, saying his leg was a bit stiff.

“You gonna wuss out on me?” Wilson taunted.

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted me to take your place in the foursome at the tournament, and I don’t want you bitching that I didn’t come through,” House said. “I’m just trying to collect on your bet with McGreevy.”

“A hundred bucks,” Wilson reminded him. “Cash. Ignore him if he says he’ll pay up later. It took me six weeks to collect last time.”

Stacy called four days later, catching him just before he was slated to give his presentation. House was in surgery -- his first surgery, the one to remove the clot. It was clear from the moment she said Wilson’s name that something was wrong. She stammered out an apology, began one sentence, stopped herself, and started over. He could scarcely believe it was the same woman who had always spoken directly, who prided herself on her ability to think on her feet and win over every jury during closing arguments.

Wilson got the story in bits and pieces. Stacy apologized again.

“I wanted to call you,” she said. “But Greg said I shouldn’t bother you, that you were giving a keynote and that there was nothing you could do anyway.”

“Who’s overseeing his treatment now?” One of the conference organizers was signaling to him, trying to get his attention.

“Lisa Cuddy. I don’t know her that well, neither does Greg.” Wilson could hear her take a drink of something, and waited her out while Stacy paused. “She said he might be better off with an amputation.”

The word echoed through Wilson’s head for a few moments and he leaned forward, rested his head against his hand, elbow propped up on his knee. He could see the conference organizer pacing the length of the speaker ready room, glancing at his watch.

“And Greg refused,” Wilson said.

“Mmm hmm. Said he stood a better chance of saving his leg this way.”

“He’s right, but then depending on the extent of muscle damage, Cuddy may be right too.” Wilson considered his options, gestured again to the organizer to keep the man calm.

“Listen, I’ll check on flights, see how soon I can get back there. It probably won’t be until tomorrow, though,” Wilson warned. “In the meantime, just hang in there. Greg’s a better doctor even doped up than a lot of other ones sober.”

“What about Dr. Cuddy? Can I trust her?”

“Yeah, sure,” Wilson reassured her. “I’ve worked with her before, and we’re on some committees together. She knows what she’s doing, but if you're worried, call me. Hell, call me once House is out of surgery. And I’ll give you a call once I’ve got a flight booked.”

“OK.”

“And tell House I’m going to kick his ass when I get back. He could have given me the perfect opportunity to get out of this gig, if he’d just let you call.”

“You’ll have to stand in line.” Stacy seemed calmer now, but Wilson knew she could hide her emotions nearly as well as House. “And it’s a very long line.”

“Yeah, well you and I get special dispensation to cut into the front of the line, just for putting him with him on a daily basis.”

Neither of them said anything for a few moments, and Wilson saw the organizer headed his way.

“Listen, I’ve got to go, but I’ll be there soon, OK?”

“Yeah.”

“And thanks for the call.”

Wilson was right. He wouldn’t be able to get a flight out of the resort town until morning, and even then had to pull strings to get a seat, using the excuse of a medical emergency requiring his attention. He barely remembered giving the speech, thinking only about how House had told him to spice up a section here or trim another part later on. His colleagues praised it regardless. He only remembered the brief message handed to him just before the panel discussion: “Out of surgery. Looks good so far.”

He packed and repacked that night, trying to make sure he was carrying nothing that would slow him down in the airport. He ditched the thank you gift the organizers gave him to make sure he wouldn’t have to waste time checking luggage. He left a message for Stacy with his flight plans. She answered the third time he called.

“How’s he doing?”

“God, James, it’s ...”

“Stace? You OK?” Wilson could hear her breathing, shaky. He heard her draw in one quick breath, then another.

“I’m here. It’s just ... I didn’t think it would be this bad. God, James, he’s in so much pain. I’ve never ...” she trailed off again.

“They’ve got him on IV morphine?”

“Yeah. They say they can’t give him any more.”

“It’s going to take time,” Wilson tried to reassure her with words he wasn’t certain he could believe himself. “Greg’s tough, you know that.”

“James, you don’t know. You can’t see him.”

Wilson felt a chill. He wondered again whether he should just rent a car, drive through the night to get someplace else, someplace he could gain an hour or two on the travel time.

“I’m sorry.” Stacy interrupted his thoughts. “I know you’d be here if you could. I don’t think you could do anything different, but it’d be good to have you here, you know?”

Wilson sank down onto the bed in his empty hotel room, looked out the window at the deepening darkness in the surrounding mountains.
“Yeah, I know.”

“Listen, I’m going to head back in there. I’ll have my cell, but I won’t be able to keep it on all the time. I’ll let you know if anything changes, though.”

“Or just call if you need to talk,” Wilson said. “Don’t worry about what time it is. Greg never does.”

“Thanks, James. I’ll see you soon.”

Wilson listened to her line disconnect. He held the phone in his hand a minute longer before hanging it up. Nearly 9 p.m. there. Nearly 11 p.m. in Princeton. The flight wouldn’t leave until 6:30 a.m.

He counted down the hours, then dug into his bag again, looking for something to do. He found sneakers, shorts and a t-shirt and headed to the gym. Five treadmills, no waiting.

It was 2 a.m. before he dropped into anything like sleep. He tossed and turned for maybe an hour before bolting awake, something prodding him up, a half-remembered dream of House, running along one of Wilson’s favorite street loops and a car veering off the pavement, straight in his direction as Wilson watched, and Wilson unable to reach House in time to pull him out of the way. He lay back down, staring at the blank ceiling, willing his heart rate to slow. Another 20 minutes and he gave up, started the in-room coffee maker and hit the shower.

Wilson successfully fought the urge the pick up the phone and call a half-dozen times. He actually made the call just as often. He’d ring through to Stacy’s cell phone, only to have it bump into voice mail. He left a message the first two times, but didn’t bother after that. He tried not to let his imagination run away with him. He knew the cell wouldn’t be allowed in the ICU.

Too often in his career, Wilson had needed to calm down a parent, a spouse, a daughter or son. He’d convince them they needed to let the doctors do their work, and assure them that they should try to relax and instead focus their energy on positive thoughts, prayers, whichever seemed more appropriate. Now here he was, with a friend who needed him, and nothing he could do.

He left for the airport more than two hours early, and the terminal wasn’t even open yet when he arrived. He paced the sidewalk in front and watched the lights come on inside. He saw the ticket agents open up. He was first to the counter, with nothing to check in. Even the tiny coffee shop was closed and Wilson settled for walking loops around the tiny baggage claim area. He tried Stacy’s number again. Listened to it ring: four times, five times. He was about to hang up when he heard her answer, her voice soft and uncertain.

“Stacy? It’s James. I’m at the airport and I should be headed your way soon. How’s he doing?”

“I’m going to lose him James,” her voice came back thin and distorted over the cellular connection. “God. I think I’m going to lose him.”

“What? What happened? What’s going on?”

Stacy’s answers came back in a combination of layman’s terms and clinical language, but it was clear that the muscle death was worse than House had hoped and the delicate balance of medications he needed was overwhelming his team. Wilson could feel the waves of despair building one after another. He knew it would be worse for Stacy, but could barely manage to keep his own head above the flood.

“A minute,” he said.

“At least,” Stacy confirmed. “Felt like forever.”

Cardiac arrest. House had left him -- had left them all -- for a minute. Wilson could picture the familiar outlines of a treatment room, he knew where the equipment would have been stored. He knew the process of running a code, he could the medical team working to restart a patient’s heart, but he couldn’t bring himself to picture House as the patient.

Wilson could sense that the airport was beginning to buzz with the start of a new day. He knew there were other people around him, but felt alone and adrift. The telephone and the voice on the other end the only things that were real.

“How is he now? Has he been awake?”

“They’ve got him stabilized again, but James, he’s in so much pain. It’s not getting better and he still won’t authorize the surgery. He’s got this idea about a chemically-induced coma, to let him sleep through the pain.”

“It could work.” Wilson considered the concept. “At least it might give him a chance to ride it out, if they can keep everything else monitored.”

“But they couldn’t handle it last time. He was the one who caught it and God only knows what will happen now.”

Wilson could see the case laid out for him. The alternatives. The best chance for the limb. The best chance for survival. He knew what he would recommend.

“He’s still against the, the ,,,” Wilson couldn’t bring himself to say the word: Amputation. Instead he let the sentence hang there, but Stacy caught his meaning.

“No. I’ve tried. I’ve begged.”

“Try again.”

“James, he won’t listen to me.”

“Don’t give him a choice. Tell him he’s going to have to have the surgery. He may back off if you force him into a corner.”

“Or he may fight harder.”

“Stacy, listen. He could do it for you. You’re the only one who could force him into it. He listens to you. Just don’t let him think he’s got a choice.”

“If I don’t give him a choice.”

“Exactly.”

Wilson would replay the conversation later in his head, consider what he’d said. What she’d decided. He was certain now that something in her tone had changed just there. That she’d made up her mind. Become certain about something. At the time, he passed it off as confidence, that she’d seen how she could talk into the amputation and save his life.

As it was, he’d hung up when Stacy said she needed to get back to House, continued pacing until the flight and spent half the air time standing near the galley, tapping at the plastic trim and trying to distract his imagination.

He had a text message from Cuddy waiting for him when he turned on his cell phone at the airport in Newark that House had gone into surgery. He ignored every speed limit on the drive back to Princeton, constantly changing lanes to try and get to the hospital a few minutes faster.

He grabbed the closest space in the parking garage, not caring who it belonged to, and raced up to the surgical floor, still unable to decide if he was grateful his friend was alive, or horrified at the thought of House undergoing amputation. He saw Cuddy first. She was dressed in scrubs and sneakers, so different from her normal power suits or lab coat.

She told him about Stacy’s decision, how she had used her medical power of attorney and taken charge for House’s care and that he was undergoing debridement as they were speaking. Wilson had thought nothing could shock him any more. He was wrong.

“And you just, what, went along with this?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Cuddy protested. “I got her to wait for a while, see if his stats improved, but they were getting worse, and she has the power of attorney.”

Wilson knew she was right. Knew he would have been forced into the same action, at least legally.

“Besides,” Cuddy continued. “Whether I agree with her or not, she probably saved his life.”

He and Stacy were both with House when he woke up. He watched House’s face from across the room. Saw him go through the post-anesthesia fog, saw his eyes register confusion and surprise, then lock on Stacy’s face as Cuddy was left to explain what had happened, the extent of muscle removed. House said nothing until Cuddy asked him about his pain level. He seemed to consider it for a minute, closing his eyes and finally turning away from Stacy.

“It’s better,” he said. “Not bad. Maybe, I guess, a three.”

“OK. I’ll see about adjusting the morphine again, see where we need to take it from here.”

House just nodded and Cuddy gathered up her files and excused herself.

Wilson didn’t know what kind of a reaction he expected from House. Anger? Resentment? But he saw nothing -- not then anyway. Whatever was going through House just now, he wasn’t telegraphing any signs. Stacy wasn’t saying anything either. Just sat next to the bed, watching him, holding his hand.

Wilson wanted to stay, but could see that Stacy was desperate for time alone with House. “I better check in at my office.” He pushed himself away from the window where he’d been leaning.

“You were someplace,” House said, searching his memory past the confusion of the past week. “Conference. Idaho? Someplace with fly fishing rather than golf.”

“Wyoming.”

“Hmmm. Catch anything?”

“Would you believe me if I said I did?”

“Maybe. You’re a lousy liar.”

“I never lie about the important stuff.” Wilson hesitated a moment or two longer before heading to the door. “Anyway, gotta make some calls.”

“See?” House’s voice was soft but Wilson could still hear it as he slipped out the door. “Lousy liar.”


Two days later, House asked Wilson to stay behind when Stacy left after her lunch break.
With House stable and in recovery, Stacy had even returned to work, but begged off any potential court time to instead stick close to House from her office.

He was doing better. Looking better, too, although they were still trying to find the right combination of medications to control his pain. Wilson was beginning to believe that the pain could no longer be written off as post-op, but rather a chronic condition, though he hadn’t discussed it yet with House, Stacy or Cuddy.

For that matter, he hadn’t had time to speak to House alone. Either Stacy was there, one of the nursing staff interrupted or -- often -- House was asleep or so zoned out that he could barely follow the conversation.

Stacy looked back from the door at the bed when House asked Wilson if he had a minute, shifting her gaze between the two of them.

“Go ahead,” House told her. “We’ve got important stuff to talk about. Guy stuff.”

“It may involve fart jokes,” Wilson added. “Action movies. Blowing stuff up.”

“Carmen Electra.”

Stacy rolled her eyes and walked off. House watched her leave before turning to Wilson.

“Don’t ask,” House warned.

“OK. Don’t ask what exactly?”

“How I’m doing, how I’m feeling. How I’m,” House let out an exaggerated sigh. “Coping.”

“OK.”

“Because everyone asks. Everyone. Nurses, doctors, surgeons, Cuddy. I feel like I have to have a nine-page statement ready on my state of health -- both mental and physical -- every time Stacy walks in the room.”

Wilson settled himself into the chair Stacy normally occupied, slouched down and propped his feet up on the edge of the mattress.

“Hate to break it to you, pal, but in case you haven’t noticed, this is a hospital. You’ve got to expect a few health questions to pop up from time to time.”

“Yes, thank you, Doctor Obvious, I had taken that into account.”

“So, what, you want to talk sports? Because the Mets still can’t beat the Braves, and that’d actually be a depressing subject. I don’t think I could handle that.”

“Or maybe college football,” House suggested. “But then sooner or later someone would bring up Princeton, and I’m not about to enter that tunnel of suckitude without some decent tequila at hand.”

“Or indecent tequila.”

“The best kind.”

Wilson looked out the window through the half-open blinds. Blue sky, a few clouds. Heat was building up with predictions of temperatures in the 90s before the afternoon was out. He stole a quick glance at House. House was staring up at the ceiling. His face was thinner than normal, almost gaunt. Stacy had worried that he wasn’t eating and Wilson had tried to assure her that he would, once his appetite returned.

“I need to see it,” House said, turning from the ceiling to Wilson. “My leg. To really see it, without nurses or Cuddy or Stacy standing there, waiting to see what kind of a reaction I’d have. I’ll need some help.”

Wilson nodded. “I’ll get some supplies.” He put his feet on the floor, pushed himself out of the chair. “If you’re ready now?”

House was looking up at the ceiling again, but nodded. Wilson gathered everything he’d need to remove the bandages and replace them, then stopped off at the nurses station to warn them not to disturb them.

House had raised the head of the bed, so he was sitting nearly upright. Wilson slid the door closed behind him, closed the blinds.

Wilson placed the supplies on the bedside table, went into the bathroom and washed his hands. Everything done according to procedure, but he realized he was also delaying the moment. If House was ready, though, he would be too.

He moved the table up to the side of the bed. House had already pulled the sheets back. Wilson could see the remnants of an inked message along the length of the limb, appearing out from the edge of the bandage that covered much of the thigh, extending down to House’s ankle.

Wilson picked up the scissors and looked at House. House just nodded.

A few moments later, the gauze was stripped back and there it was. The long line of the incision, the cross-tie of black stitches. Medically speaking, it looked good. No sign of infection. Everything as he would have expected it.

But forget expectations. The leg looked pale, the shaved skin only adding to its alien nature. There was a depression where there should be a swell of muscle. House slid his hand down along the edge of his thigh, gingerly touching the flesh on either side of the incision.

Wilson stepped back to the end of the bed, giving House what privacy he could. On the other side of the door, he could see someone going over charts at the nurses’ station. Another nurse was walking slowly down the hall with a patient, guiding him while wheeling the IV pole along. He looked across the room again at the window. Clouds were beginning to form, raising the chance of a summer thunderstorm.

He heard House shift and looked back at the bed. House was sitting back now. Eyes closed, his jaw clenched tight.

“Done?”

House just nodded. Wilson reapplied the bandages and wrapped the leg with gauze, apologizing when he heard House grunt as he shifted the leg.

“It’s OK,” House said. He didn’t bother opening his eyes.

Wilson finished his work, gathered up the supplies , and paused at the door.

“I need to get back to work,” he said. “I’ll stop by again later.”

House nodded again, and Wilson slid the door shut behind him.


A week after House’s final surgery, he was released to the PT specialists. Stacy had questioned the move, since Cuddy’s team was still trying to find the right pain medication, but both Cuddy and Wilson assured her that it was time.

“Rehab’s all about pain,” House muttered as the staff settled him into his new room. “I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”

Wilson wasn’t certain who he was trying to convince. He had scouted out the staff before House even arrived. He’d seen most of them around the medical complex before, knew their reputations. Had even handed off patient care to them often enough -- bone cancer survivors trying to balance their joy at still being alive with the reality that they’d lost a limb in the process.

He’d brought the head of the department over to meet House a few days before the transfer, then bought him lunch as they compared notes about the team.

“What about Ford?” Wilson had suggested. “I’ve heard good feedback from patients about him.”

“Ford’s good,” Ed Ransom agreed. “But his style tends to be a little heavy on the motivational speeches. Something tells me that’s definitely ...”

“Not House,” Wilson agreed.

House had banned everyone from his therapy sessions. Wilson obeyed. Stacy snuck in one time, only to end up crying on Wilson’s shoulder when he found her hiding out in House’s empty office.

A day later, he took her to Ransom’s office where together they talked about ways they’d need to adapt the condo, about construction companies that specialized in retrofitting bathrooms.

Wilson concentrated on getting his work done during regular work hours -- a schedule either of his wives would have admired if he’d managed it for them. He’d clock out at a little past 7 p.m., paperwork in order. He got into the habit of driving offsite to pick up either fast food or take-out at some of House’s favorite haunts in case he’d be able to tempt him into eating.

House’s appetite had suffered with every change in his pain medication. One dosage might leave him nauseated, another strip away any sense of hunger at all, a third leave him in so much pain he didn’t want to eat, and yet another make him so groggy he rather sleep than eat.

Wilson made it to House’s room a little before 8 o’clock most nights, about the time Stacy headed home. Sometimes they crossed paths, but it seemed lately that Wilson was seeing less of her. He assumed she was overseeing the renovations.

“I smell something fried,” House said from his chair as the television show went to a commercial break, forcing Wilson’s attention back to the present. “Nothing good, I hope.”

“I’ve been reading up on the latest research on deep-fried cheese products. It’s all the rage.” Wilson handed over the bag from the Wok-Thru, a cheap Chinese take-out House had introduced him to shortly after they’d met. “Don’t eat all the General Tso’s.”

“You always wimp out on the spices anyway,” House said as he dug through the bag. “Did you get the crab meat?”

“You didn’t notice the grease blot the size of Jersey?”

“A lot of things could have done that,” House protested, then pulled out a waxed paper container, nearly transparent from the oil. “This is more like it.”

He broke apart the crisp won ton to reveal the center, then popped it into his mouth.

Wilson opened a foam clamshell and the smell of chilis and MSG spilled out, temporarily overwhelming the odor of antiseptic cleaners and medical supplies. He dug into the chicken and tried not to let House catch him as he monitored how much House ate. Most nights he took home nearly as much as he brought. He’d need to clean out his refrigerator soon.

“There’s hot and sour soup too,” Wilson pointed out as House broke open another won ton. He was satisfied to see House reach for the bag to root out the cup and a plastic spoon.

“So where’s the new office going to be?”

“I’m not sure. It’s not even official for a couple of weeks.” He considered the possibilities and took another bite of the chicken. “Probably on the sixth floor, though.”

“God, those ones are tiny,” House said, setting the cup down. Wilson fought the urge to nag him to eat more. He’d heard enough Jewish mother comments already. “The admin assistants on five have more space.”

“They have ...” Wilson considered his words. “Character.”

“They have crappy ventilation systems.”

“The windows actually open.”

“Which will come in handy in January when the boiler starts pumping all the heat for the entire wing into your closet.”

“Office.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

“Keep it up, pal, and I won’t invite you to the office warming party.”

House quieted for a bit, began tearing the napkin into long strips. “I don’t know if I’ll be ready by the time you move in.”

“I’m not in any rush.” Wilson set aside his own food and stretched out his legs. “It’ll wait.”

“The department will want to mark the occasion right away,” House pointed out. “You should celebrate. You did good.”

“Thanks.”

House picked up the soup again, took another spoonful, “Of course if you really want to impress them, I’d suggest having the party at that strip club over on Fourth.”

“I thought for sure you would have gone for Chesty LaRue’s on 12th.”

“Nah, Deja Va Voom’s got a third pole installed now I hear. Now they’re pulling in all the high class acts.”

“Strippers with a heart of gold.”

“And breasts of saline.”

“The wonders of modern medicine.”

“Yeah.” Wilson saw the emotion flash across House’s face -- anger, frustration -- for just a moment. “Where would we be without it?”



------------------
April 2001
-----------------
“Psssst.”

Wilson was dictating some notes into his microcasette recorder when he heard it. He barely paused as he glanced up, catching sight of House at his office door. He looked down at the chart, continued talking into the recorder.

“Pssssssssst.”

He looked up again. House was gesturing broadly to Wilson urging him out into the hallway. Wilson rolled his eyes, and continued with his notes. A few moments later he heard his office door close, then the sound of the syncopated tap and step of House crossing the room. He heard the squeak of the chair as House lowered himself into it. He finished his notes, turned off the recorder and closed the file.

“You hissed?”

“That’s usually a signal,” House said. “Supposed to get your attention, but all stealth-like. Y’know, get you to do something.”

“I must have missed that class at super secret spy school, what with all that time spent at medical school instead.”

“And here you’ve got everyone believing you’re some kind of a super genius who knows everything.” House stretched out his legs, sneaking the left one under the right to give it a little extra height. “They’d be so disappointed if someone were to let it slip that you weren’t perfect.”

Wilson leaned back, elbows propped on the arm rests, hands resting on his stomach. “I’m busy,” he said. “Paperwork. What do you want?”

“I’m not,” House said. “Bored. Want to play hooky.”

House spun his cane as it rested upright under his right hand, playing with the handle between his thumb, index finger and middle finger. He’d always had the unconscious habit of playing with any little object at hand -- paper clips, a rubber band, pens, paper. Now it was often the cane.

Wilson glanced at his watch, noting both the time and the day.

“You know Cuddy only lets you off clinic duty because she thinks you’re in PT. If she finds out you’ve been skipping ...”

“She’ll what, make me write 100 times on a blackboard: ‘I will not have any fun?’ Besides, she’s only interim dean. Not like she can really do anything.”

“For now,” Wilson warned. “A lot of the committee members have been impressed with how she’s been handling things. She’ll have the inside track if they decide to go with an internal candidate.”

“Then I’d better make sure she doesn’t find out. Be all stealthy and stuff.”

“How about you just, I don’t know, go to PT like you’re supposed to.”

House’s face took on the narrow-eyed squint it usually did when he was judging some person or topic unworthy of his time.

“Don’t have to. All better now. I keep this around just so I can get the good parking spots,” he said, rapping his cane on the edge of Wilson’s desk.

For the first few months, House had been dedicated to his therapy, and his efforts paid off as he progressed from crutches to cane. As he gained strength and learned how to use his remaining muscles to help take up some of the slack from the missing chunk of quad muscle, he could walk further with the cane. He leaned less on it now than he had even four months earlier.

But when Stacy left for good, he became less likely to doing any extra exercises at home. As it became clear that he’d always need the cane, House took less and less notice of his scheduled PT, his therapy becoming like one of those games that he discarded as soon as he figured out the final solution.

“Whatever, fine.” Wilson let the topic drop for now. “But I’m still busy.”

“It’s important,” House said. “I’ve got something to show you.”

“Last time you said that, it turned out you’d found a web cam link for Amsterdam’s Red Light district.”

“As if you didn’t enjoy that.”

Wilson didn’t argue the point. “What is it?”

“Can’t tell you. It’s a surprise.”

Wilson hesitated. Looked at House, then at the stack of charts he needed to finish going through.

“It’ll be worth it,” House promised. “And it won’t take long.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“Nope. We’ve got to be there before 5.”

Wilson looked at his watch. “Give me a half-hour,” he said, finally giving in.

“Twenty minutes,” House pushed himself up out of the chair, eased the office door open and took a quick look down both sides of the hallway before walking out. “You’re driving.”

House was leaning up against the car when Wilson made it out there 30 minutes later, his weight carefully distributed between his left leg, cane and the fender of Wilson’s BMW. Wilson gave himself a mental kick for taking the extra time to finish that last file. If he’d set it aside, House wouldn’t have had to stand there waiting for him.

“Sorry,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual. “Got a call. Been waiting long?”

House glanced at his watch. “Oh yeah, ‘bout a good two minutes, I’d say. I knew you’d be late. You always are when you’ve got your head in a case file. I figured if I gave you 30 minutes, you’d take at least 45.”

Wilson just rolled his eyes and hit the key fob to unlock the doors, tossing his jacket and briefcase in the back seat.

“You going to tell me where we’re going or should I just guess?”

“Patience young Padawan, all will become clear.”

“God, I knew I shouldn’t have given you that DVD.”

“Of course you shouldn’t have. I asked you to bring me the complete set of ‘Naughty Nurses,’ what do I get? Jar-Jar Binks. At which point did you think I’d lost every sense of taste I’ve ever had?”

“Jesus, House, Julie was with me. I was trying to make a good impression.”

Julie had also been the most recent passenger in Wilson’s car and House had to adjust the seat all the way back before he pulled his right leg up into the car, then reached over and closed the door.

Wilson backed out the space and headed down the ramp.

“How about a hint as to the general direction we’re heading,” he said as he neared the exit, the gate automatically rising at the car’s arrival.

“Take the River Road north. It’s a nice day, might as well enjoy it.”

Wilson stole a good look at House as he looked right, waiting for the traffic to clear. A strong spring sun was shining down, bathing House in the afternoon rays. The bright light seemed to accentuate the dark circles under House’s eyes, the pale skin. Before the infarction, House’s face was always tan, the result of time spent outside -- winter or summer.

He knew that House often had problems sleeping, though he’d never mention it. Of course, he’d never needed much sleep before, but Wilson knew that back then, when he slept, he slept soundly. Now, unless he gave in a took a sedative, his leg made it harder for him to get to sleep and stay asleep. If the pain didn’t wake him, the sounds outside did -- passing sirens, a car door slamming, a fight next door.

Of course, Wilson mused as he pulled out into traffic, he’d had his own sleep issues, recurring dreams that interrupted his nights. He expected they’d fade, eventually. They had before. When his brother had disappeared, he’d see him in his dreams, always in trouble. He’d see Jack stepping off a curb into the path of a speeding car, or tumbling off a bridge or walking into a dark alley where Wilson just knew a madman lurked.

And each time, in each dream, Wilson had seen himself as well. Always two steps too slow to stop Jack no matter how hard he tried. His entire body held back by some somnambulant version of quicksand. He’d reach out and touch only empty air, unable to pull him back from the edge.

The dreams had grown less frequent in the months after Jack’s disappearance, but resurfaced on occasion -- near Jack’s birthday, following a conversation about him with their parents or when the weather turned cold and Wilson remembered how Jack had refused to take James’ coat the last time they met.

Now the dreams were back, but he saw House in them, rather than Jack.

Wilson didn’t know if bad dreams were part of House’s sleep problems, though he suspected they were. He knew House had met with a psychiatrist at least a few times as part of his therapy. He had heard him bitch about it often enough, although House had never hinted at what went on during the few sessions he’d had before he canceled them -- despite Stacy begging him to continue.

Wilson had sat quietly in a corner of the living room soon after House had returned home, trying not to listen to House and Stacy argue in the bedroom.

“It’s important,” she’d said, her voice raising in volume to match his. “Things are different for you now, your life is different. You have to accept that you can’t do everything you used to.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think that somehow I don’t have a reminder every second of the day?”

“You’ve adapted,” she said. “You haven’t accepted it.”

“Oh God, you’ve been reading their literature haven’t you?” Wilson could hear House’s voice move from the bedroom to the hallway. “At least this isn’t something you can force me to do without my permission.”

Stacy left a few weeks later, first asking Wilson to keep an eye on him while she took a break, then calling a few weeks later to ask him to send a few of her belongings to a new address.

“Have you told Greg?” Wilson could hear a mixture of voices in the background, but couldn’t make out where she was.

“Yes.” She was quiet for maybe 20 seconds, only the sound of the background voices coming through the line. “It didn’t go well.”

“Will you be coming back?”

More silence. The background noise was upbeat. If he were forced to, Wilson would have guessed she was at a restaurant or bar.

“I don’t know. A friend of mine says his practice is looking for someone new. It’d be a good opportunity. I might look into it.”

“Don’t make any rash decisions.”

“Any other rash decisions, you mean.” When she wanted to, Stacy could give House’s sarcastic tone some serious competition.

“That’s, that’s not what I mean.” Wilson knew his track record on convincing Stacy to see his point of view was far from stellar. “You’re good for him. He may not say that now, but he knows it.”

“I wish I was as sure as you are.”

Wilson had gone to House’s, uncertain if his friend would even answer the door. He did, eventually. Wilson heard the uneven step and tap of the cane through the door before the lock even turned.

“Checking up on the cripple? Here I am, still in one piece -- what’s left of me anyway.” House stood in the narrow gap between the partially opened door and the frame, the room behind him dark. “You’ve done your good deed. Now go home.”

“But I’ve got beer.” Wilson hefted a six-pack of Sam Adams. “And I don’t feel like drinking alone.”

“I do. Go home Wilson.”

“No.”

“I don’t need you here, got it? You’re absolved of any responsibilities. Guilt free. Go find yourself a willing blonde and let her make a man out of you.”

“No.”

Wilson stared House down. He still had a spare key and knew House couldn’t keep him out, but was hoping he wouldn’t have to use it.

“You’re going to need more than a lousy six-pack,” House said, moving slightly to the left.

“I’ve also got Jameson’s.”

“Should have mentioned that to start with.” House stepped back, allowing the door to swing open a little wider. Wilson took the space he was offered, and slid past House into the room.

“Turn left on Main.” House’s voice from the passenger side interrupted Wilson’s thoughts, drawing back to the sunny spring afternoon. “If we’re lucky, there’ll be some parking open on the street at the end of the block.”

Wilson stole a quick look at House, but House was looking out the window for signs of an open spot. “Where, exactly, are we going?”

“Restaurant. Name of Anton’s.”

“Yeah, I know Anton’s. I took Julie there on our first date.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

“But you hate Anton’s.”

House winced. “I never said I hated it.”

“Pretentious? Overpriced? Big on presentation and short on taste? Any of that sound familiar?“

“Ah, but I never said I hated it,” House clarified. “But Julie loves it, and -- apparently -- you love Julie.”

“Yes.” Wilson found a spot and nosed the car in, turning off the engine. He remained in his seat, wondering what he could decipher from his friend’s hints. “She even wanted Anton’s to cater the wedding, but he said he’s completely booked.”

“Now he’s not.” House swung open the door and began the procedure of exiting the car -- moving his leg onto the concrete sidewalk, swiveling to get his second leg out and placed alongside the right leg, then positioning the cane and finally shoving himself up by pushing down on both the car door and the cane. He paused for a moment before taking a small step to the side, making room for the door to close.

“And you know this how?” Wilson paused at the front of the car for House to move up to his side before heading toward the restaurant.

“His partner’s been sick. Everyone thought it was something he picked up on vacation in Belize, but no one could figure out what.”

“Wait.” Wilson put his hand on House’s arm, drawing his attention. “Was this that case you handled last week? The allergic reactions to the mold from a rehabbed house?”

“Two-century old farmhouse,” House confirmed. “All kinds of nasty bugs been living there for a long time, waiting for the right candidate to attack.”

House turned back toward the restaurant, slowly moving toward the front entrance. Wilson could see movement behind the windows, someone making their way towards the door.

“They were grateful,” House said. “Wanted to show their appreciation.”

The locked door opened and Wilson recognized the chef pushing it out so they could enter.
“Dr. House! Good to see you made it. This must be your friend, Dr. Wilson?”

“James Wilson.” He held out his hand for a quick handshake before Anton went back to the door to lock it behind them. House settled himself into the closest booth and reached into his pocket.

“I’ve got some proposed menus I could show you,” Anton said. Wilson could hear House shaking out a Vicodin from the bottle. “Or are we waiting for your fiancee?”

“Wilson wanted to surprise her,” House interjected. “I’m sure she’ll be happy with anything he chooses, right?”

“Absolutely,” Wilson said. “Surprises can be a good thing, sometimes.”

“OK, I’ll get the paperwork and be right back. Make yourself comfortable. There’s coffee over there, if you want some.” Anton gestured toward the long wooden bar at the side of the room, then headed out of the back of the room.

“Black, two sugars.”

Wilson stared at the doorway the chef had gone through for a moment, before crossing over to the bar, too stunned to say anything. He found the coffee behind the bar, found two cups and poured them each some. He dug around for a moment longer to find sugar and two spoons and give himself a moment to think.

He put both cups on the table and sat across from House, staring at him and trying to find the right words.

“Um, you, uh.”

“It’s so hard to know what’s the appropriate gift for a third wedding, don’t you think?” House came to his rescue. “God knows I wanted to stay away from anything monogrammed -- for reasons beyond the obvious taste issue.”

“House,” Wilson finally managed. “Thanks. Julie is going to flip out.”

“I figured. Think she’ll be grateful enough to forget about ...”

“No way. Not even close.”

“Ah well.” House shrugged, stirred his coffee. “But maybe you’ll be grateful enough to drop all this best man business.”

“Nope. You are not getting it out of it that easy, House. I’m counting on you.”

“But there’s that whole tux issue. I sent mine to the cleaners years ago and never got it back.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“And the last time I went into a church, they had this whole ‘No talking’ thing going. They practically threw me out. I’m probably on some black list and won’t be able to get in the door.”

“It’s at a synagogue.”

“Even worse. I pissed off every mohel in town when I told a couple it was more hygienic to have their son circumcised at the hospital than at home.”

“I’ll bribe the rabbi.”

“I might have to hock your rings to pay for my drug habit.”

“I’ll get some replicas made, just in case.”

“Isn’t this something that brothers usually do? Why can’t Dan do it?”

“He was the best man at my first wedding. And I want you there.” Wilson took a drink of the coffee, the rich taste he’d remembered from his dinners here with Julie. “Besides, I want to make a good impression on my new in-laws.”

House swallowed his coffee down quickly, coughed for a moment and set down the cup before taking a look at Wilson, seeing the hint of a smile on his face, but unable to figure out exactly why.

“And how, precisely would I do that?”

“You wouldn’t. Not directly,” Wilson said. “But I figure anyone is going to look good in comparison to you.”

House picked up his cup again, stared down Wilson over the rim as Anton reentered the room, grabbing a chair to join them at the booth.

“Don’t look so smug, pal. I haven’t written my toast yet.”




--------------

October 2001
-------------


The rain that House knew was on its way began while he slept. He woke in the darkness -- dark inside, smudgy gray dawn outside -- to the sound of water pinging off the glass. The last gasp of the Vicodin he’d downed at 3 a.m. provided a barely adequate mask to the pain radiating up from his leg.

He rubbed at his face and turned to look at the clock. Still a half-hour to go until the alarm. He was surprised he’d slept this long. He threw his left arm over his eyes, and fumbled for the bedside lamp with the right. Once, he would have rolled over, grateful for the 30 minutes still available to him, and grateful for the clouds dimming the sun. No such pleasure now. Now pain set the clock. Putting off the morning routine meant putting off his meds, and he’d learned in the past few months that pain was not a patient passenger in his body. Soothe it before it reached full steam, and he could keep it under control, if not completely quiet.

Mornings it always made its presence known. Always. As soon as he shifted the leg, it would wake up, pissed off that House had disturbed it. His first few stuttering steps -- hand on cane, cane firmly against the hardwood floor -- let him know what kind of mood the pain was in for the day.

His damaged nerves sparked out a warning as he sat up and moved his leg over and off the bed. He shook out a Vicodin from the bedside table bottle and downed it quickly before beginning to push himself onto his feet. The muscles trembled in tune with the thunder rumbling outside and he stood. Rainy days were always bad, he’d learned. Autumn storms, with their promise of falling temperatures and bone-chilling dampness even worse.

He moved slowly, bringing the right leg forward in shorter steps than normal, trying to ease it into action. It was always a tradeoff. Short steps meant there was less pressure on the leg for a shorter time. But shorter steps also meant it took longer to reach any destination. The bathroom was 12 steps away on a decent morning. House stopped counting after 15 this morning.

He turned on the shower, knowing the hot moisture would help relax the tightened muscles. He considered his options, took measure of his leg’s responses so far and lifted the small plastic step stool inside the tub. He’d hated when he first got home and saw it there, waiting for him. But he’d needed it then. Now it still came in handy when his leg was particularly grouchy or he simply wanted a longer soak. He still hated it, but at least it wasn’t as ugly as the grab bar Stacy had installed in his absence.

Twenty minutes later, hot water beginning to cool, House turned off the shower, dried off and made his way back to the bedroom. His leg was doing better now, but was still worse than most days, and began the process of dressing -- jeans, t-shirt, button-down shirt --- all within reach from one spot at the edge of the closet. Then he hobbled back for socks and sneakers, sitting on an old kitchen chair Wilson had moved into the bedroom for him, its hard surface easier to push up out of than the bed.

The coffee maker had dutifully started up at 5:45 a.m. and House poured himself a mug. He opted to add sugar this time, wanting the extra buzz along with the caffeine and topped it all off with a Pop-Tart. Strawberry. With icing. Just so he wouldn’t have to lie if Wilson asked if he’d had breakfast.

The wind blasted the side of the building, sending sheets of rain with it, ticking against the glass with a fresh gust. House carefully balanced the coffee and pastry in his left hand and made his way into the living room, preferring the low lights there to the bright ones of the kitchen. Lightning flashed again and he swore he could feel his damaged nerves flicker, the electrical pulse traveling through the atmosphere and into his own body where it echoed out a response.

He stood before the window, looking down at the pavement. Someone was running down in the street, dodging puddles. House took in the dress shoes, the gray pants and long raincoat, a briefcase serving as an inadequate umbrella and looked down to the end of the block where a bus was just pulling up to the stop. He took another sip of the sweet coffee as the man waved to the driver and the doors swung open.

Another flash of lightning, a warning shudder from his tiring muscles and House shifted away from the window as the thunder rumbled again. He took another sip of the hot coffee, remembering the training runs the coach used to send them out on back in college, ignoring the weather and conditions. Cross-country runs in a cold fall rain with his shoes soaked through and mud splattered on his legs -- then the wonderful heat seeping through the coffee cup when he’d finished, his fingers wrapped around the ceramic.

For just a moment, he forgot himself and took too big of a step, turning too quickly for his damaged leg to handle. Pain screamed along the length of his leg and up his back. His knee threatened to buckle and House dropped the coffee to grab the windowsill instead for support. The mug hit the hardwood floor with a heavy klunk, and he felt hot liquid splash onto his left ankle.

“Fuck!” House held himself there, willing his knee to hold, hoping the pain would subside quickly. He knew better than that. He knew he wasn’t that person any more, that he never would be again. Stupid mistakes pissed him off, and there were so many to choose from. He wanted to hit something, hear something smash, but that would have meant giving up the support under either hand, and he wasn’t sure he could stay upright. “Fuck!”

He could feel the coffee soaking now through the mesh outer layer of his sneaker. Another flash of lightning, another shock of pain. The muscles beginning to tremble so hard he could feel his entire leg beginning to shake, the knee still quaking, ready to give in. He knew he couldn’t stay where he was.

House braced his left hand on the sill, moved the cane a few inches to the right as quickly as possible, careful to set it down on a dry spot. He pivoted his right leg on his heel, hissing at the renewed pain, then spun on the left foot, fearing what would happen if he took all of his weight off the left. He could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead, repeated the procedure again and again until he was finally facing the living room.

The chair was maybe five steps away. Five of his normal steps. House took a breath. The pain hadn’t eased, and it was about to get worse.

Hand on the cane, cane on the hardwood. He shifted his weight onto his right side, stepped forward with the left. Nerves and muscles screamed on the right. Not as bad as it could have been, House mused, but not as good as he’d hoped. He considered the distance. Maybe a quarter of his normal step. Nineteen more steps to go.

Maybe less, he thought. Maybe more, an inner voice responded.

Ten steps down. Right leg nearly in full revolt and House could feel sweat running down the side of his face. He was nearly close enough now to touch the arm of the chair. House tightened his grip on the cane, ready to move forward again. He jerked to a stop as the ring of the telephone cut through the room. The phone was in the charger on the far side of the room. Nothing to do for it now.

Hand tight around the cane. Cane on the hardwood. He heard the machine click on.

“House, it’s me.” Wilson. Of course.

“Just checking if you wanted a ride in this morning. Give me a call. I’ll try your cell if I don’t hear back.”

Two more steps. Two more and he could ease down into the chair. He bribed his leg with the promise of the footstool if it could get him there. One more step. House could hear the faint tones of his cell phone ringing from the side pocket of his bag, near the front door. He reached down. Left hand on leather. He dropped down to the cushion, finally allowing his right hand to ease its grip on the cane. He leaned back and allowed his head to drop back between his shoulders, onto the overstuffed surface.

He wanted to breathe, to just be. The pain wouldn’t let him go. Muscles newly released from service let him know just how pissed they were. Hamstring cramping. The remaining quad screaming for his attention. House used both hands to lift his leg onto the stool and tried to massage the muscles into surrender. He registered the sound of the phone again.

“You there House? Seriously, pick up.” A pause, maybe 20 seconds. “Come on, man, I’m serious. Pick up.”

House glared at the handset and the blinking red light. “Got my hands full,” he grumbled.

“Ten minutes,” Wilson’s voice continued. “You’ve got 10 minutes, then I come over there, got it?”

House wasn’t certain if he was more pissed that Wilson was on his way, relieved that he was, or pissed at himself for feeling relieved. Then the muscles spasmed again and he couldn’t concentrate on anything but the pain.

House heard the knock at the door, and heard Wilson call out as the key turned in the lock, but didn’t bother answering, he didn’t even bother to look up. He concentrated on his leg, working his hands along the length of it, feeling the muscle fibers tense and tremble. The door opened and light from the condo hallway spilled into the dim living room.

“House?” Wilson stood in the doorway for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He saw House’s shape, hunched over on the chair.

“You’re early,” House grunted out in greeting.

“So sue me.” Wilson crossed the room, turning on a lamp as he did, his attention on House. He could see House’s leg propped up awkwardly on a corner of the stool, cane haphazardly dropped on the floor. Sweat was visible on his pale skin, and it had soaked the collar of his t-shirt.

Wilson shed his coat on the couch and grabbed two pillows. He carefully lifted House’s leg and pushed the stool in closer, adding the pillows for extra support before gently lowering his leg back down. He kneeled down next to the chair and moved his hands up to where House’s had been, taking over the massage, and allowing House to lean back, and try to relax.

“This OK?” he asked.

House nodded. “It helps.”

Wilson didn’t say anything else, just concentrated on working the muscle groups, trying to break their grip. He glanced around the room, and tried to put together what happened. He saw the mug on the floor, the coffee, the pastry.

He kept at the massage until he felt the trembling begin to subside, and could see House begin to relax. He slowed, but let his hands rest on House’s leg for a moment. He could feel the deformation of the leg through the denim. He could feel where the muscle was missing and where the nearby muscle had been worked into steel bands to try and compensate.

“Better?”

“That’s all relative, isn’t it?” House said, but then nodded. “Thanks.”

Wilson stood up, walked over to the window and picked up the mug.

“It’s not broken, at least.”

“Well thank God. I was so worried.”

Wilson didn’t bother responding, just took it into the kitchen, returned with a handful of paper towels and mopped up the coffee, swept up the chunks of Pop-Tart.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

He went back into the kitchen and House could hear him puttering around. Cabinet doors opening. Drawers closing. He stared off at the window, his own reflection looking back at him. Older. Thinner. Pale. Gaunt. Unhealthy.

When he’d first let his beard begin to grow out, it was because he was too busy to shave. Then someone told him it made him look older. Stacy said she loved the feel of the rough texture against her own flawless skin. Now it hid the lines that seemed to appear from nowhere. That seemed to deepen with every step he took. With every wince.

He closed his eyes and listened to Wilson, hearing cabinet doors closing.

A moment later, and Wilson was next to him. House opened his eyes to see him with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, a plate in the other. He held the plate out.

“Eat this.” Wheat toast. Strawberry jam.

House didn’t take it. “I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were.” Wilson still held the plate above House’s lap, waiting, expecting him to give in. “How many did you take this morning?”

“One.”

“Eat this and I’ll get you another one.”

House knew the pills were still in the bedroom. He took the plate. “Cheese at the end of the maze,” he said. “I’m just a lab rat.”

Wilson set the coffee mug down on the table next to House, then settled himself on the couch, picking up his own mug from the table. “Better a maze than a dissection.”

“That depends on your point of view,” House bit into the toast, crumbs falling onto his shirt. He brushed them off. “You gonna want to clean that up too?”

“Nah, I specialize in liquid spills only.” He took a sip of his coffee. “You want to tell me what happened?”

“Not particularly.” House set the plate with the half-eaten toast on his lap. Picked up his coffee. “You forgot sugar.”

“If you’d just settle on one way to take your coffee, this wouldn’t come up.” Wilson didn’t bother getting any sweetener. He knew House would drink it either way.

House stared at the toast for a moment before picking it up again, taking another bite. He listened to the rain against the window. His leg was still a mass of angry nerve endings and raw muscles, but the worst should be over. He still didn’t want to move though. He knew the pain was just in hiding. It would be back at the slightest opportunity. At any opportunity. His stomach clenched at the thought and he put the toast back down. He used the cuff of his shirt sleeve to wipe the sweat off his face.

“What are you doing here anyway?”

“Thought you might want a ride in, but now I’m guessing I can just tell O’Neal you’ll be taking the day off.”

“That’s not what I mean,” House grumbled.

“Y’know, I really haven’t had enough coffee to get into an existential discussion on the meaning of life.”

“You’ve got a beautiful wife back home, I’m sure you’d rather be getting in a quickie with her than be here.”

“Who says I didn’t? Besides, Julie knows why I came. She’s cool with it. And if I wasn’t here, I’d probably just be getting some work done at the hospital before rounds.”

“And doing better for yourself there than when you’re here.” House pulled the toast apart into smaller pieces. “They already hate me, you’re not doing yourself any good.”

“Now you sound like them.”

“You’ve got better things to do with your life than play nursemaid to a cripple.”

“You’re not a cri...”

“Yes. I am. I’m fucking useless. I don’t know why they haven’t given my office away to someone else. I’ve been on leave more than I’ve been in. O’Neal doesn’t even bother scheduling me on the rotation anymore.”

“They probably keep you around because you still have this habit of saving lives,” Wilson pointed out.

“If it weren’t for the tenure, they’d have kicked me out on my ass a year ago,” House said, ignoring him. “Hell, Stacy would have kicked me out if it weren’t just easier to move herself out instead.”

“Ah, there’s that mournful refrain I’ve missed so much.” Wilson snatched the coffee mug out of House’s hand. “You want more coffee, or should we go straight to the Scotch?”

House knew this look. It was the one that most people never saw, the one they assumed Wilson didn’t possess because all they saw was the smile, the affability, and the gentle manner and believed he was a pushover.

“Don’t give me any shit, Wilson. I’m not in the mood.”

“Neither am I,” Wilson stood over him. He didn’t bother to raise his voice. “You’re having a lousy day? Yeah, looks like you are. You’ve had a lousy year or so? You’ll get no argument from me.”

“This where you’re going to give some inspiring cancer patient story? Because I love those,” House said, trying to stare Wilson down despite the fact that he was still seated. “Can’t get enough of them.”

“I’m not here to give you a lecture House, and I’m not your whipping boy. I’m your friend. I hate seeing you like this -- and I don’t mean just your leg. You don’t deserve this, any of this. No one does. So you want to have a pity party? Fine. Go ahead. But here’s the deal. You’re allowed one every six months, so you better make it count.”

“What if I want to have more than one?”

“Then you’ll have to fetch your own damn coffee,” Wilson said. “And you’ll drink it the way I make it.” He headed back into the kitchen, leaving House in the suddenly quiet living room.

House looked back at the window. The rain was beginning to lessen, the skies growing a bit lighter. He heard another bus on the corner.

In the kitchen, he heard Wilson running water, moving something on the counter. He heard a cabinet door slam. Heard something hit the wall. Something heavy. Heard it break. Then quiet. Nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the coffee pot gurgling to life.

Ten minutes later and Wilson was back at his side, a cup of coffee in each hand. “Don’t bitch and say you didn’t want sugar this time,” he warned.

House took the cup, the heat radiating out to warm his hand. He rested it on his right knee, let the heat soak in there too.

“Seems I was wrong about that mug,” Wilson said as he settled into the couch again. “Guess it was broken after all.”

“And you’re always here to pick up the pieces.” House took a sip of the coffee. Strong. Sweet. Two sugars.

It was quiet now. The lightning had passed on. There was just an occasional rumble, and House wasn’t certain if that was the distant thunder or the delivery trucks in the alley.

“I was serious about that you know,” Wilson nodded at the remains of the toast. “If you don’t finish, you won’t get any dessert.”

“But it’s cold,” House whined. “And Mom said I only had to take three bites. I had at least four.”

“All of it,” Wilson said. “Or I’ll hide the remote.”

“Now that’s just cruel.”

“I’ll leave it on Lifetime and lock out the other channels.”

House shoved the last pieces into his mouth. “You’ve got a mean streak,” he said as he chewed.

“You’re the only one who can bring it out in me.” Wilson pushed himself to his feet and headed back into the kitchen, taking the empty plate with him.

House heard the dishes clink into the sink. Wilson passed back through the living room and into the hall. He saw the light go on in the bedroom, then Wilson was there with the familiar amber pill bottle, handing it over.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Wilson waited while House shook out one pill and downed it dry. “I should head in for rounds,” he said. “You good there, or would you prefer the couch?”

House considered the options, leaned forward and lifted his leg up off the pillows and the stool. He set it carefully on the floor, biting back a curse with the movement. “Couch.”

Wilson waited at House’s right side until he was ready, then reached his arm around and under House’s shoulder. House took the cane in his left hand, leaning onto Wilson on his right side. House’s foot barely touching the floor as he hobbled the few feet over to the couch. Only four steps with Wilson’s help. Then Wilson was back with the pillows, propping his leg up again.

House could feel the extra dose of Vicodin beginning to hit as he lay back, a narcotic buzz that had become all too familiar.

“I’ll stop back later,” Wilson was saying. “Call me if you need anything.”

House nodded. “Thanks.”

“You already said that.”

“Thought I’d say it again. Now I’ll be one up next time I need something,”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Wilson collected his jacket from the couch, his keys jangling as he took them out of his pocket. “See you later.”

House watched the door swing shut and heard the sound of the dead bolt clicking into place before Wilson’s steps faded down the hall. He turned on the TV. The weather report was up. Lines of thunderstorms and dropping temperatures.

“Coming up next, sports,” the blonde anchor was saying. House turned the volume down and listened to the rain.


-------------
2002
------------

Wilson could hear House’s voice seeping out into the hallway before he even opened the door to the outer office. He stepped in and closed it quickly behind him. Cuddy’s new admin assistant was on the phone, balancing the handset on one shoulder and rapidly taking notes. She nodded her head to indicate he should head in.

“The real problem,” House was saying as Wilson walked in, “is that HMO’s haven’t figured out how to bill for curiosity. Jerk a patient from one useless specialist to another, and great, fine, they’ve got all the paperwork in order. Another test? Why not? We’ll toss another claim in the file. But let a doctor take an interest in actually finding out what’s wrong, and they’re lost.”

Cuddy offered an occasional nod in response, but otherwise concentrated on unpacking her boxes. She had been acting dean for more than a year, but played the smart political card and stayed in her old office until the new position was official -- no use upsetting some committee or board member into thinking she was somehow taking the post as a given.

“How long does this rant usually last?” she asked Wilson in greeting.

“Tough to say. It’s one of his favorites and he’s got a number of points he tries to hit before allowing anyone to get a word in.”

“I told him I agreed with him five minutes ago, but that didn’t even slow him down.” She cleared out one box, dropped it neatly into a waiting bin, then opened another.

“Oooh, that’s a nice one,” Wilson commented as she hefted a tall trophy from the next box, and unwrapped the figure from beneath its protective bubble wrap. “Real metal, not painted plastic.”

“Thanks. Mixed doubles at last year’s charity tournament.”

“You were matched with Fred Newcombe, weren’t you? Julie says he has a lousy backhand.”

“Let’s just say I got my exercise that day and leave it at that.”

“Hello? Talking here,” House’s cane broke between Cuddy and Wilson to tap the desk surface.

“Now he notices,” Cuddy muttered to Wilson before turning to face House.

House had taken on the stance that he’d adopted in the years since the injury and surgery, the one meant to display pure nonchalance, but Wilson knew had taken practice to develop -- weight casually placed on his left leg, his right knee bent and right elbow locked into place, his hand on the cane and the cane firmly pushed into his right hip.

“As I was saying before you so rudely, well, wouldn’t shut up, I agree with you,” Cuddy leaned back against her desk. “But I’m not the one you have to convince. You need to get the board to sign on.”

“You can tell them to do it, though,” House countered. “put that power suit to use for something other than impressing rich new donors.”

“I can make recommendations, but I’m only one vote. Yes, a diagnostics department would be an important addition, but it’ll be expensive. We’ve got a limited budget and every specialty and subspecialty out there has their own claim on next year’s expenditures. Bring me some numbers, some statistics, some case histories. Get me some results from other diagnostics units.”

“This may seem like a somewhat stupid question, but don’t we have, oh, I don’t know, staff to do that?”

Cuddy crossed her arms across her chest, leaned back on the desk.

“Yes, and in this case, that would be you.”

“But I’m lousy with paperwork, you said so yourself.”

“Excuse me, but do I need to be here?” Wilson asked. “Because I can come back.”

Cuddy gave him a smile and walked around to her chair, removing another empty box in the process. “Dr. Wilson, please stay,” she said. “Dr. House, please leave, but remember I’ll need that paperwork in time for Tuesday’s meeting.”

“That’s only five days,” House complained. “including the weekend.”

“And since you’re looking at an interdisciplinary approach, it’ll look better if you can get multiple departments to sign on to the concept -- more than Wilson,” Cuddy continued. “Three departments would be better. Four would be ideal.”

“And that’s why the abuse of power is a bad thing,” House said to Wilson, ignoring Cuddy.

“Unless you’re the one taking advantage of the situation,” Wilson said.

“I’ve told you, then it’s not abuse. It’s a rightful display of the natural order of things.”

“Go. Now,” Cuddy said. “And close the door on your way out.”

House rolled his eyes, and limped out, but the door remained open. Cuddy’s assistant rose from her desk to close it on her way to the filing cabinets.

“Let me take a wild stab at what that was about,” Wilson said as he settled into one of the open chairs.

“House says we need to start a diagnostics department,” Cuddy said, pulling a notebook from beneath a pile of other papers.

“He’s right,” Wilson said. “But he’s been saying that for a long time. What’s different now?”

“Me.” Cuddy said, looking Wilson in the eye. It wasn’t ego, he knew, but a simple statement of fact. Cuddy may have moved into administration, but she was still a doctor, not an accountant. “And the letter we got from the family of one of his former patients promising a $10,000 grant to help finance one.”

“That’s a nice start.”

“But not enough,” Cuddy admitted. “We’ll need more backing than that. I know of a couple other sources, but we’ll still have a hard sell. This is why I needed to talk to you.”

“I hate fundraising,” Wilson protested.

“You’re good at it though,” she said. “But it’s not that.” Cuddy put down her pen, leaned back. “Do you think House is up this?”

“Well, obviously this isn’t about money. Then the proposal? Sure, he hates paperwork, but it’s important to him. It’ll be done.”

“Not the proposal.”

“You want him to run the department,” Wilson picked up the unspoken half of the statement. “God knows he can handle the medical side of things.”

House had picked up his board certification in diagnostics after the infarction, a way to keep his mind occupied while he trained his newly-rebellious body. Long before that was even official though, he was already the man to see for every mysterious ailment, with doctors from inside and outside PPTH calling on him for help. He’d contributed to a half-dozen medical journals in the past two years alone, cementing his reputation.

“But he’d have to do more than solve cases,” Cuddy pointed out. “There are budgets, personnel issues, supervising staff. I shudder at the thought of him filling out a performance review -- or, God forbid, doing hiring interviews.”

“That ... could be a problem,” Wilson conceded.

“And he’d have to put in a lot more hours. A lot more time at a desk, and a lot of time with patients and their families, on his feet,” Cuddy said. “And I’m going to get him back into clinic duty.”

“That should be entertaining.”

Cuddy nodded.

“Technically I can’t ask him if he’s physically capable,” she said. “But I’d hate to see him go through anything more than he can handle.”

Wilson suspected that Cuddy carried some residual guilt from the infarction. Although she’d had nothing to do with the original misdiagnosis, the department had been her responsibility. And although Stacy made the call on the surgery, Cuddy had given her the idea. Despite that, though, he thought she had handled House well so far -- both as his doctor as his boss.

“He can handle it,” Wilson said. “No problem. He’s ready. The question is, are you?”

“I have no idea,” she admitted. “Handling the board should be a breeze compared to handling House.”

Wilson was out when House came by his office that afternoon, but his assistant told him she’d given him copies of the budget request forms he’d been looking for. When Wilson swung by House’s office late that afternoon, it was empty, but his computer was still on, papers and books spread across the surface. It was a familiar enough sight, but usually it was medical journals. This time he recognized PPTH’s own annual report along with those from at least two other hospitals.

He jotted down a note telling House to call him by 7 if he needed a ride home. He passed by House’s office again anyway on his way out. It was still empty, but Wilson noticed his note was gone.

--------


The digital clock on the microwave read 6:30 as Wilson came in from a run the next morning. He grabbed a bottle of cold water, downing half of it at once. It wasn’t too hot yet, but the end-of-summer humidity was in high gear and everything stuck tight to his skin. He kicked off his shoes and tossed them in the mud room before heading upstairs. Julie had just finished her shower and they met between the closet and the bathroom door.

“Don’t get too close,” he warned her. “I stink.”

“I’ll take my chances,” she said, and he leaned down to kiss her, lingering there for a moment, his sweat-damp hair brushing against her wet hair, the smell of her shampoo and soap filling his senses.

“You really need a shower,” she said, finally stepping back.

Wilson nodded and pulled off his shirt. “Warned you.”

“You have time for breakfast at home today, or you going to grab something at the hospital?”

Wilson stepped into the walk-in closet, tossing more clothes into the hamper and pulling out clean underwear. “No early meetings today, so I should be good,” he called out to the room. “Let me just check if Greg needs a ride.”

“He called while you were out. He said he was going in early.” Julie was standing near the closet entrance, waiting for him. “So I guess he’ll drive himself today then, right?”

“I guess.”

“So he’s probably feeling pretty good today?”

“Probably,” Wilson paused, leaning against the door jamb, his wife leaning back against the other side of the frame. “Sometimes he’ll take the bus if he doesn’t feel up to driving, though.”

“Well I know he has more problems on rainy days, and when it’s cold...”

“And if he’s been on his feet too much, and sometimes for reasons he can’t even figure out.” Wilson tried to guess from her expression what was going through her mind, but she turned away. He followed her out into the bedroom. “Why do you want to know?”

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Just trying to figure out if there’s a pattern is all. Seems like it’d be easier to figure out a schedule if I knew when you were going to be tied up. So ... eggs OK?”

“Sure. Fine.” Wilson watched Julie walk out the door. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

House was at his desk when Wilson got to the hospital, a small desk lamp adding its light to the overhead fluorescents and even more papers strewn across its surface.

“Maybe I should take a picture for Cuddy. She’ll never believe me when I tell her you’re at,” Wilson checked his watch. “7:30.”

“Go ahead,” House said, barely glancing up. “Then I’ll have the evidence to go after her for some serious overtime.”

Wilson set his coffee down on the desk while he cleared off one of the chairs.

“Hey, gimme,” he protested, snatching the cup back out of House’s hand. “That’s mine.”

“You’d begrudge a crippled man one simple pleasure?”

“You’ve got your own already,” Wilson said, pointing out the half-filled mug already on the desk.

“It’s cold.”

“The coffeepot’s just across the hall,” Wilson pointed out. House let out a sigh, but stood and took his cup out to the department coffee maker. Wilson took the opportunity to see how House was moving. A longer protest would be a clue the pain level was up today. The fact he went at all was the first good sign, and the relative ease of House’s steps calmed his remaining worries.

After some tough days and a few slips and stumbles early in the winter, House had taken up PT again seriously. Ransom was ready, personally overseeing his treatment along with his latest employee -- a retired drill sergeant that Wilson suspected had been recruited specifically for House. .

Maybe others didn’t notice the changes, but Wilson could see that House was steadier on his feet, more comfortable. He was walking more surely and could raise and lower himself out of chairs more easily. There were still bad days, still times when a muscle spasm caught him hard, but there were either fewer of them or House was learning to disguise them even from Wilson.

“So what’s got you off to such an early start anyway?”

House eased himself back down into the chair. It was a high level executive one that Wilson knew House’s department head had openly lusted after, but House got it instead, citing the ergonomic adjustments that would help him cope.

“Lisbon,” House said, lifted one set of papers. “Latvia.” He motioned to another pile, then a third. “London.” The fax machine beeped to life and House rolled his chair over to inspect the first sheet. “And Amsterdam.” He looked up at Wilson. “Sorry, no alliteration grand slam today.”

“Studies for the proposal?”

“Yep,” House was looking over the papers as they emerged from the fax. “I was on the phone to half of Europe this morning asking for whatever they could send me on their diagnostics programs. I was able to track some of them down before the weekend. Thank God it’s not August, or I’d really be in trouble.”

“I could give you a hand later, if you want,” Wilson said.

“Don’t you have the personnel committee meeting this afternoon?”

Wilson should have known House would remember his schedule. “It won’t take that long.”

“Since when do personnel issues not take long?” House rolled back over to his desk and dug a metal binder out of a tray, then pushed himself back over to the still-busy fax machine. “Don’t worry about it. This is the easy part. I may ask you put me out of my misery, though, once I start crunching numbers.”

“You’ll do fine.” Wilson checked his watch again and grabbed his bag from the floor. “I’d better go. I’ve got my own paperwork waiting for me.”

“OK.” House had all the papers now and had rolled back to his desk once more. He grabbed a highlighter from beneath one of the piles.

He was slouched over the desk, scribbling notes as Wilson closed the door.

-----

Charts done, rounds over. Wilson checked his watch. It was closing in on 1 p.m., which would leave him a little more than an hour before the personnel meeting. He switched off his computer and headed out, giving some notes to the department assistant to type up. He headed down the stairs, stopping after two flights. Down the hall and then left. He knocked on House’s door before trying the handle. It opened to his touch.

Little had changed from the morning. House was still at his desk, though he had switched over to the computer. At some point he’d closed the blinds. He glanced up. “Hang on,” he said, then continued typing.

A few moments later and he turned away from the monitor. “What’s up?”

“I was just going to grab some lunch and was wondering if you wanted to join me.”

“Is it that time already?” House checked his watch.

“A little past that time, actually. Want to take a break?”

House seemed to consider it. Wilson knew he’d often skip meals whenever he was in the middle of something, even before the meds were there to disrupt his eating patterns . It wasn’t that he didn’t notice he was hungry, House would say, just that he had other things to do first.

“Maybe you can grab me something,” House said. “A sandwich or something.”

“Define ‘something.’”

“Just for that, you can pay.”

“When do I not?” Wilson was out the door and down the hall before House could respond.

Wilson was back 15 minutes later, sandwiches -- one roast beef, one turkey -- chips and a couple of glasses of iced tea balanced on a tray. House cleared a corner of the desk and grabbed the roast beef.

“You forgot the mustard,” he said with his mouth full.

Wilson pulled a handful of condiment packets from his pocket and tossed them on the tray. House rooted through the pile and grabbed a mustard and mayo.

Wilson turned his chair on an angle, then propped his feet up on the other chair stationed in front of the desk, avoiding a stack of journals stacked on it. House swung his left leg up onto a corner of the desk, then used his right hand to help bring his right leg onto it, a quick movement that was easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.

“So how’s it going?”

“All right, I think,” House said. “I got some good comparative stats from Lisbon and some good case studies from some other places. You going to have time to write up some backing documents?”

Wilson nodded as he took a sip of his iced tea. “You know, I was thinking I might talk to Chen in cardiology, see if he could sign on too. We teamed up on the Flores treatment a couple of months back.”

House grunted and checked his watch. As Wilson opened one of the chip bags, he heard the pill bottle open. He glanced up to see House shake one out. “Cuddy was right, you know,” Wilson said. “Four departments would be even better. Any ideas?”

“Already done.” House popped a Vicodin in his mouth, washed it down with the iced tea. “Simpson said he’d help out.”

“Simpson?”

“Well, maybe not help out, but he’ll let us toss his name on it.”

“Simpson from orthopedics Simpson?”

“There are more?”

“Simpson hates you.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say hate.” House shoved three potato chips in his mouth. “Besides there’s something he hates more -- me as a patient.”

“Which is why you switched to Laszlo.”

“This is true, but even Simpson could see the logic at work: better diagnostics means fewer misdiagnoses. Fewer misdiagnoses means ...”

“Less chance he ever would have had you as a patient in the first place,” Wilson concluded. “Getting hate to work for you. That’s a real skill.”

“Thank you.” House picked up the last chunk of his sandwich. “You should always know how to play to your strengths.”


------

Wilson had intended to sit in on Tuesday’s board meeting, and give House’s plan whatever support he could. But Monday found him with a new referral -- a 24-year-old with testicular cancer that had spread throughout his body. He spent the morning with the patient and his family, getting them settled, setting up tests.

He had just a few minutes before the meeting to check in with House.

“I look ridiculous,” House said as Wilson entered. He was wearing a gray suit, an Armani that Stacy had insisted he buy years ago. A classic cut combined with a white shirt and maroon-patterned tie that Stacy had also selected.

Wilson had a flash of memory. House wearing the same outfit, one arm around Stacy’s shoulder during a dinner in the city soon after the start of his brief marriage to Tonya. He tried not to linger on the fact now that it hung loosely off House’s tall frame, the tie only emphasizing the fact that he’d lost weight in the past two years.

“You look fine.”

“No I don’t,” House said. “I didn’t think to grab anything else this morning.”

“Don’t worry about it. Cuddy will appreciate the effort, even if nobody else does.”

“Then I should definitely change back into jeans,” House threatened, moving toward the clothes piled on a chair. “Otherwise she might start picturing us in matching power suits, and pink is definitely not my color.”

Wilson nodded at the clock. “No time. I guess you’ll just have to take the risk.”

Two hours later, and Wilson had gone over the newest test results with his newest patient, laying out a treatment plan starting with surgery first thing in the morning. The kid had a chance, he knew, but a small one. He laid things out as clearly as he could. The parents sat on either side of their son, each holding a hand, his mother absently running her other hand up and down his arm. Wilson had witnessed the scene more times than he could count, but could call up each face, each name.

He signed off on the chart, then headed down to the board room, hoping to catch at least some of the session. He spotted House leaving the room and weaved his way through the elevator traffic.

“House!” Wilson raised his voice enough that House turned and looked back his way, but then kept going. “House! Wait up!”

The boardroom door opened as he passed by and Cuddy stepped out, signaling him over.

“I take it it didn’t go well.”

“It could have been worse,” she said softly. Wilson could see past her to other board members chatting between themselves, the meeting apparently still in session.

“They turned him down.”

“Not completely,” she clarified. “They approved a six-month pilot program -- but no funds for staffing. They’ll reevaluate by spring.”

“But how’s he supposed to accomplish anything in six months, without ...”

“Not my idea,” Cuddy said. “I’ve got to get back to this.”

Wilson nodded as she closed the door, then looked up ahead, caught a glimpse of House’s head making its way out the door. He rushed after him.

There was no sign of House straight ahead, toward the bus stop, and they were far enough away from the staff parking lot that Wilson didn’t think he would head that way. He considered his options, then went left. Past the corner of the building, he spotted House, still moving as fast as he’d seen him move since the infarction.

Wilson broke into a sprint and caught up with him just as the pathway split, one walkway heading up toward the main campus, another toward the river. He wasn’t surprised when House turned left. It had always been one of his preferred routes.

“What’s up?” House made no reply, just pushed on. Wilson could feel sweat beginning to collect on his own body, the humidity of last week still at play.

“House?” Wilson knew the other man would be feeling the heat as well, and House had always hated running in summer heat.

“Maybe we should head back,” he suggested, putting one hand lightly on House’s arm.

“Either come, or don’t come, but at least shut up.” Wilson had seen the look a few times when he’d seen House playing lacrosse, or when they occasionally joined in the hospital’s annual cutthroat softball game between residents and and attendings. The look that meant he was now officially pissed off. The look that meant trouble for anyone who crossed House. The look that meant he was ready to inflict some pain.

Wilson said nothing, but kept pace and switched to House’s right side, just in case.

They were down at the river now, the pathway rising and falling with the terrain along the riverbank. Wilson could hear House breathing deeply, an occasional gasp. He nearly lost his balance once, but caught himself before Wilson could touch him.

When his leg finally gave out,