Sunday

The first step to getting the things you want out of life is this: Decide what you want.
- Ben Stein

House awoke slowly; grateful that Wilson had thought to bring a pair of boxers and a sweatshirt to the hospital; he'd spent far too much time in hospital gowns in recent months. He shifted, inhaling deeply as he surfaced to consciousness. He was warm and comfortable, for once; which he attributed to the remnants of his morphine hit before leaving the ICU for the floor. He was grateful, too, for the removal of the 12-lead cardiac monitor, catheter, and the transfusion lines; though, at his request, the CVC remained. Just in case. The TV droned in the background, and he turned his face instinctively to the screen; letting the flickering glow bathe the inside of his eyelids a faint pink before he opened them to squint at it. It was late, he decided. Though not too late; given that there was still daylight from the window beyond. Barely. Rustling drew his attention, and he slowly turned his head to find Wilson, sans lab coat, tie askew; reading a paper in the armchair next to him. Sighing faintly, he gingerly began to raise the head of the bed and shrugged deeper into the extra blanket Wilson had thrown on top of him earlier.

"Thought you had to work." he murmured quietly. Wilson had received a code some time ago, and had disappeared as House had settled into his new room and a morphine induced nap.

"I did." Wilson kept up the pretense of reading the paper for a time longer before laying it aside and leaning forward. "He didn't make it."

"Sorry." House muttered, feeling his eyes flutter closed. He lay still for a long moment; enjoying the delicious sensation of sleep stealing over him. He was very nearly asleep again when Wilson cleared his throat.

"House?"

He started then, eyes popping open to dart about in confusion before he settled back on Wilson, eagerly leaning forward in his chair.

"Yeah?" he asked groggily. Still feeling stupefyingly tired, he gingerly shifted his leg so he could lie on his back and see Wilson. Yawning, he rubbed his eyes and squinted blearily at Wilson in the growing red-orange of twilight.

"What did Coleman say?" Wilson asked finally.

House was silent for a few minutes; his fingers worrying at a ball of lint trapped on the fabric of the blanket. Wilson waited too; knowing House had come to regard his pain as a very integral part of himself. House wasn't in the habit of sharing anything he didn't have to.

"The same thing Morris and Simpson said. That my mobility is shot, I have a clotting disorder and will continue to be in chronic pain." House said finally.

"What'd he decide to go with?" Wilson folded the paper and lay it on the floor beside his chair.

"You don't need me to tell you." House prompted, dipping a shoulder pointedly at Wilson. He had access to House's chart—no doubt Wilson already knew everything he needed to know. He just wanted to hear House say it. "Coleman agreed with me that the Embeda isn't working—"

"You can't practice on morphine—" Wilson started to say, and House continued doggedly.

"—and he thought I should switch to something that will help manage my pain long term and allow me to work. Like Vicodin."

"Vicodin? You still won't be able to perform procedures." Wilson said flatly.

House shrugged. There wasn't anything else to say, really—and truthfully, he didn't want to talk about it. Not anymore. He shifted his leg with both hands before reaching the bed controls to raise the head of the bed up a little.

"What will you do, then? About your practice?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "What can I do?"

"You can't do procedures now. And we all know how much you like doing your own testing." Wilson put his hands on his knees and sought House's gaze with an intense look of his own.

"I like not being in pain." House said glibly, though he wasn't able to look Wilson in the eye. He picked idly at the blanket, arranging it just so.

"House—"

He sighed, loudly; rolling his eyes at the ceiling. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about it. He just didn't want to talk about it. Talking about it made it more…real. Tangible.

"No, I won't be able to do my own procedures." he said softly; his fingers continued to pluck the edge of the blanket and smoothed it out. "Cuddy suggested transitioning to a teaching role; hiring some fellows to do the scut work."

"Teaching?" Wilson echoed, and House looked up to see Wilson thoughtfully considering it. "I know you get requests, but I didn't think you'd be happy doing lectures."

"I won't be lecturing. I'll be overseeing my team working on my cases. I just won't be doing my own procedures."

"Won't that drive you nuts?"

"Better to train my own monkeys than to rely on the ones the hospital provides." He pointed out sagely. Settling back into his nest of pillows, he stared moodily up at the ceiling.

"House?"

"What?" he demanded irritably. He'd done his part in the conversation he'd never-wanted-to-have, and if Wilson thought he'd get so much as one more thing—

"You hungry?" he asked lightly. Curious, House turned to look at him. Wilson was sitting back in his chair again, having given in relatively quickly—for him. Still unsure, House nodded once and tracked Wilson as he rose to his feet.

"No hospital food." he said hoarsely. "Something good."

"Chinese? Thai, pizza,Vietnamese? Sushi?…"

"Pizza." House decided quietly. "Deep dish meat lover's from Sal's."

"Right, thin crust cheese with a salad. Will master be wanting anything else?" Wilson asked dryly, even as he reached for his phone and began scrolling through his pre-programmed contacts.

"No." House said hoarsely, and drew the fleece blanket up over his chest. He snuggled down into the folds, hiding his face from the flickering glare of the TV screen. "Wake me up when it gets here." he ordered sleepily as he closed his eyes and listened to Wilson rustling around in the drawer before shutting it. He heard the electronic beep of the phone as Wilson speed dialed. The murmur from the TV and Wilson's voice faded slowly as though the sound had been slowly turned off, and he knew nothing more.

oOo

"House? Hey, House." Wilson was squeezing his shoulder, and he woke with a start to find the overhead lights blazing and Wilson standing beside him. He grunted as his leg twinged unhappily at being awakened.

"What?"

"Pizza's here." Wilson eased away as House struggled to engage his sleep-fogged brain.

"Okay." He murmured sleepily.

Wilson dug into the paper bag with gusto, and produced a box of breadsticks along with a pre-packaged salad he'd obviously bought for himself. He set both items down along with a bottle of water before he left House to his own devices. Staring blankly into the distance for a few minutes, House let his thoughts drift for a few minutes before his brain kicked in, and he remembered why he was awake.

Pizza. Right. Glancing at his watch, he yawned before hitting the button to raise the head of the bed. As he came upright, he surveyed the nearby bedside table intently.

"Hey, need a plate." He said pointedly.

Wilson shrugged; though secretly pleased to find House interested in eating. "Didn't come with one. Just eat it."

Seeing no contradiction to Wilson's logic, he obediently dug out a slice of pizza with cheese oozing from the crust. He slapped a napkin beneath the greasy crust and tore a sizable chunk out of the triangular end. Wilson blinked at him in surprise, but he ignored the man in favor of unwrapping his plasticware and leaned back to pick at his salad absently.

"House?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you watching this?" Wilson asked, using his salad fork to point at the screen. House followed his gaze and found a thoroughly boring episode of Law and Order playing. He bit off another mouthful of pizza and shook his head as he chewed.

"Nah. You can change it."

Wilson snatched the remote off the Velcro strip on the bedrail and began changing channels rapidly. House watched the images change in succession; from Law and Order to The Simpsons, and then to the nightly news. Ugh. Wilson was nothing if not predictable.

"Seriously?" he whined, even though he didn't really mind. He kept eating, mechanically chewing and swallowing even as he watched one pointless story after another. God, the news was boring. Still, he watched and ate; though he was surprised to realize he'd eaten two huge slices.

"Want more?" Wilson asked casually, and House rolled his eyes. Trust Ma Wilson to push more food even though he'd finished everything.

"No." he said flatly, even as he leaned slightly forward and lobbed his soiled napkin toward the trash. Content, comfortable, and more importantly, full; he listened to Wilson finishing his own meal as he settled back into his pillows. The news droned in the background, and House found his eyes slipping closed once more. He briefly considered staying up; Wilson was still there—he probably wanted to talk, but in the end, the need for sleep won out. His eyes stayed closed, his head sank, and he fell backwards into oblivion.

oOo

It had been a very long time since House had eaten a full meal—but Wilson had been pleased to see it at last. He watched in secret amusement as House scowled at him in mock anger before he tossed his empty salad container in the trash can and settled back in bed. Judging by the glazed look in House's eyes, his slumped posture, the combination of a full belly and a week's worth of weariness; he was going to be out for the count within minutes. He busied himself with finishing his own dinner even as he kept an eye on House. Yep. House's eyes drooped closed; his head sank, and his breathing evened out. He was asleep once more.

It was just as well, he decided. House still wasn't ready to talk about…his long term prognosis. He might not ever be, really. Wilson stared moodily at the TV without really seeing it; hating the combination of pain and opiates that prevented House from the life that he had enjoyed before. He had come a long way since the initial infarction: two months bound to a hospital bed in the cardiac ICU, another four months in a wheelchair before finally gaining enough mobility to get on his feet with crutches. He'd survived so much; coming back to work had been a huge step toward regaining normalcy. And then he'd gone down again with breakthrough pain and the lion's share of complications. House's luck was less than stellar, of late.

He sighed deeply; watching House sleep for a moment before gathering up the detritus from their meal and throwing it away. Sinking back into his chair, he contemplated leaving; his wife would certainly be happy to see him home early for once. He chanced another look at House, who was lying on his back with his head at an awkward angle; open mouthed and snoring. He smiled despite himself as he found the bed controls and eased the bed back down so House wouldn't wake up with a pain in his neck to rival the one in his leg.

House was irritating and annoying, condescending and arrogant; he was always going to be an ass—but he was still the closest friend Wilson had ever had. These past few months had been hard—to watch House come so close to death—so many times—and to know that nothing was ever going to be the same. Well, of course it was harder on House. Understandably so. But House was still here, and that was all that really mattered. He selfishly wished House would stop sleeping so much, or hurting so much; that he'd bounce on the balls of his feet like he used to at the end of a long day before dragging Wilson out to the tennis courts and kicking his ass. Or out to the park for a run. They'd played pick-up games of basketball or football and now—House would never do those things again. Not with Wilson. Not with anyone. He was sidelined. Permanently.

Wilson shook his head and turned to stare at the TV screen blankly. House would make it through this rough patch and then he'd get back up on his feet again. They'd just have to find new things to do. Just because House couldn't participate in sports didn't mean they couldn't watch. House liked going to baseball and hockey games. He even watched Nascar; although Wilson still couldn't fathom why. So they'd find something new to do. He looked at House again; still deeply asleep despite all of Wilson's musing. It was only mid-February, but he could recall hearing recent radio ads for baseball season tickets. All the teams were already down in Florida for training camp. House was a big Yankees fan; why not pop for some box seats? He smiled at the thought of an afternoon spent in Yankee stadium with House; drinking beer while lobbing peanuts at the people sitting below them. Getting to his feet, he reached back and tugged his lab coat off the back of the chair. It was time to go home, then. He'd put a call into his guy—see what kind of tickets he could come up with. He slipped into his lab coat; smoothed the wrinkles with his hands and straightened his tie before gently patting House's shoulder.

"Hey. House."

House woke rapidly, mid-snore. He blinked comically as he lifted his head, and swiped a hand in disgust at the drool that had accumulated on his cheek and dribbled down along his collar bone.

"Hey." House gave him a sleepy look, and stretched cautiously; always mindful of moving his leg. "What time is it?"

"8:30."

"You going home?" House asked, even as he yawned.

"Yeah." Wilson hesitated, then smiled sadly. "You need anything before I go?"

"No." House yawned again. "I'm fine. Go home. See your wife."

Wilson nodded, and made a show of buttoning up the last two buttons of his coat. "If you need anything, have them page me."

"Wilson, go home." House slid down in his bed, and fussed with his blankets; pulling them up to his shoulder. He slid one hand beneath his leg and lifted it free of the mattress before rolling onto his left side. His back to Wilson, he tugged the blanket a few more times until he was satisfied and made a show of settling into the pillow. "Hit the lights on your way out, would you?"

"Sure." Wilson crossed to the sliding door and tugged the blinds to the edge of the door frame and twisted them closed before slapping the light switch. In the sudden darkness, he gathered his courage and asked the one question he'd wanted to ask for months; "House?" he asked, almost timidly; "Are you going to be okay?"

House rolled his head toward Wilson; his eyes glowing softly in the mostly-dark of the room. Wilson could just make out his startled expression before he schooled it into his usual scowl.

"I'm okay." he said finally, his blue eyes looking up into Wilson's sincerely. "I'll always be okay. And since when am I ever wrong about anything?" he asked smugly, and Wilson rolled his eyes and let his hand grasp the door handle and slide it open. He should have known. Really, he should have known.

"Good night, House." he said fondly.

"Night, Wilson."