Disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.


Home

Wilson sat on the couch, comfortable in his McGill alumni t-shirt and sweatpants after his second long full day back at work, chewing handfuls of peanuts and doing his best to watch the evening news despite the loud noises coming from the bathroom. They really should move into a bigger apartment, he reflected. Maybe a small house. But every time he got married, he moved into a house. Houses represented failure more than anything else. They'd talked it over one night and decided that neither of them did very well once something was "official." That didn't preclude moving to a bigger apartment though, Wilson concluded.

The news was almost over by the time the noises finally stopped and Wilson heard the door open.

"Cuddy was less dramatic when she had her kid," Wilson commented as House dropped down next to him on the couch.

House stretched both legs out on the coffee table and let his head dangle from the back of the couch, breathing heavily and shaking a little.

"Cuddy's kid was smaller," he countered breathlessly.

"What did you eat?" Wilson asked around half-chewed peanuts, "An extra-large pizza? An entire cow?"

"Half a sandwich," House returned sullenly. He put a hand on his abdomen and sat forward. "Oww," he whined. "You and Cuddy didn't have to use a full tank on me."

"Your anesthesia was normal, House, I keep telling you that," Wilson returned. "You didn't have to wait two weeks for an MRI. Morphine put your gut to sleep, not the anesthesia."

House just grunted, rubbing his bowel.

Suddenly Wilson made a horrified face. "Oh. No. House!"

House shook with silent laughter.

Wilson pulled his shirt collar up to his nose. "I put new air freshener in there yesterday. House!"

House hugged his gut, trying not to hurt himself. "I s-shouldn't be the o-only one to s-suffer," he choked out between spasms of laughter.

Wilson fairly leapt from the couch. House banged his fist against the cushion at Wilson's "oh"s and "no"s and "House!"s and the sound of Mountain Forest Fresh hissing from an aerosol can.

Wilson pointedly sprayed House before returning the can to the bathroom.

"Hey," House protested, feeble with laughter.

"Bad," Wilson said when he returned. "Bad House. Bad."

House sighed in the aftermath of the fit. He took a deep breath as Wilson settled in next to him. "Mmm, chemical fresh."

Wilson picked up his beer and took a swig. "If there's one thing I miss about women," he began, "it's that they don't revel in their own offal."

When House turned his head to make a rebuttal, Wilson belched copiously in his face. House shoved him, laughing in spite of himself.

They calmed down and began making rude comments about the Wheel of Fortune contestants.

House got up for a glass of water when the show went to the commercial. Wilson watched his gait (and his ass) as he walked to the kitchen. Better today than it had been yesterday. He could tell by the way House depended on the cane that he was sore, but he didn't see the kind of pain only narcotics could touch in the limp. Not today. Not yesterday. Not even the first time House had done a lap around the floor after surgery. The worry that had built up in him all day at work flattened out to calm.

"Earth to Jimmy."

Wilson blinked. His gaze had been fixed blankly on the space House had last occupied before he'd disappeared into the kitchen. Now House was back in that space.

"What are you staring at?"

Your crotch, Wilson realized in the same moment House began to hula carefully.

Wilson chuckled with appreciation. "Turn around," he commanded.

House obliged, wiggling his ass as he turned.

"Gotta fill those jeans out," Wilson commented, patting the couch cushion next to him. "I'm gonna cut myself on that bony ass of yours."

"Well, if you and Cuddy hadn't—"

"House," Wilson warned.

House rolled his eyes and plopped back down. Wilson put a hand on House's left leg. House responded by hooking Wilson's neck with his arm and pulling him into a half-headlock to give him a nuggie. Wilson took the opportunity to tickle House's ribs until House let him go, laughing helplessly. Wilson leaned in and kissed House's neck lightly. He pulled back to his own space before House could reciprocate. Dinner first.

"What's for dinner?" Wilson asked.

"That can't be it," House replied, gesturing toward the television, "it's a Household Item, not a Phrase."

"Not the game," Wilson said with an eye roll, nudging House in the ribs again.

House shoved him in return. "I dunno."

"Soup?"

House groaned. "I've got soup dribbling out of my ears. I'm sick of soup."

"So am I," Wilson said. But you're still having trouble with food and I want to get laid tonight, so it has to be something light. "Stew?"

House grunted.

"With big chunks of meat and potatoes?" Wilson added.

House still had a grumpy face on. "Won't that take a long time?" he complained. "Can't we just order a pizza?"

"About an hour," Wilson replied. "And pizza would interfere with my master plan for the evening."

House's eyebrow jumped. "What master plan is that?"

"Maybe you'll find out," Wilson answered coyly, "and maybe you won't."

House kept his eyes firmly trained on Wilson's. "I think stew would be delicious."

Wilson smiled. "Stew it is."

He finished his beer and got up.

"You don't miss tits?" House called as Wilson left the room.

"Yeah, I miss tits," Wilson called back amid the clatter of cabinets. "I was thinking of getting you implants for your birthday."

"Bad idea," House returned. "I'd never leave the house if you did. And I definitely wouldn't share."

"Spoil sport."

House smiled and turned his attention back to Wheel of Fortune. Wilson was great to have around. He'd missed Wilson today and yesterday, as much as he'd enjoyed having the apartment to himself for once. What he needed was to go back to work. But he recognized that he didn't have the strength yet. Crashing after PT, then another crash he just couldn't fight off in the early afternoon. Then the late afternoon crash. And his sluggish digestive system. The strange thing was that his leg hardly bothered him at all. His leg…

"Hey," House called, getting to his feet, "did Cuddy hear back from that guy?" He crossed the living room quickly. "The pig guy," he clarified.

Wilson looked up from the carrot he was chopping. "Yeah," he answered. "He won't do it. Says it's not ready for human testing yet."

"Duh," House returned, rolling his eyes and leaning on the door frame. "Did she tell him I don't care if it's ready?"

"Yes," Wilson replied slowly. He stopped chopping and turned to House. "Do you really think he's going to say yes? He wouldn't be able to get funding to go to the bathroom, much less work with stem cells again if this got out. He has no incentive."

House made a disappointed, disagreeing face.

"But that isn't what's important," Wilson continued, leaning on the counter now in an exact mirror of House's posture. "If they're still regenerating spontaneously…" he trailed off into a question and waited for House to answer.

House was still displeased. He took his time answering, eyes on a spot on the floor that wasn't in Wilson's direction.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I think they are." Unconsciously, his hand filled in the hollow crescent. "The…tingling…is different. In new places." He glanced at Wilson. "Annoying as hell."

Wilson studied him. "But no more burning."

House shook his head slightly. "No. Every other kind of neurasthesia, but no burning."

Wilson nodded. The surgeon had found four neuromas instead of two, and the pathology report indicated that the two that didn't show up on the MRI were old. How old, the pathologist couldn't tell, but he'd concluded—and he knew House had concluded too—that they'd been responsible for a lot of his bad days over the past…year? years? It was impossible to tell. But the important thing was that House was doing much better now. Wilson hadn't asked about how much Vicodin House was taking—it hadn't even been a week since his surgery and Wilson knew the incision site was still sore—but he sensed that it wasn't very much. His estimate was thirty to forty milligrams per day—and that was with the rigors of daily physical therapy. The most important thing, though, was that House seemed happier overall than he'd been in two or three months. Except for the slow-to-wake digestive system, he reminded himself.

"Good," Wilson replied simply and smiled. He returned to the carrot.

House lingered in the doorway. "Get that guy's number from Cuddy, will you?"

Wilson stopped chopping again and thought for a long moment. He searched House's eyes. House really wanted this. House believed in this. He didn't just want to cause trouble—though he would enjoy any trouble he caused, Wilson knew—he really did believe it would work.

"Okay," he agreed. "Tomorrow. Now get out of here or we'll never get to bed tonight."

House's eyebrow shot up. "As master wishes." He bowed slightly and returned to the living room to watch Jeopardy.