Disclaimer – So I woke up one morning, and there was this little angel sitting at the foot of my bed, and standing next to it was this little punk. And I knew there had to be some significance there. So I asked them about House. And the little white fluffy one said I ought to work on my stories and write to make people happy. And the spiky one said he could give me House

How was I supposed to know that they had swapped outfits while I was deciding?

So, er… Here I am. And House is not mine.

Damn.


EDIT: Yeah, I'm typing this during the showing of House, a commercial break, Feb 5, 2008. 'Cos if you saw this episode, you know what I'm thinkin'... One little step for Wilson, one gleeful moment for shippers:) My god, you can read deep into that...


"I slept, I woke up. I recovered. I'm fine." House swung his legs out of the hospital bed, scowling down at the standard-issue gown he wore. One hand found the IV stand, and the other held him steady. "I'm going to see him."

"You're not going anywhere." Lisa Cuddy fixed him with a disapproving look from the doorway. "You couldn't walk. The pain would be unbearable."

He turned his head, ever so slightly, his eye glinting. "What pain?"

"Bruised rib, pulled muscles, enough bruises to –" She broke off, attention fixed on a monitor's readings. She immediately busied herself changing settings. "You've upped your morphine. That's dangerously high!"

Pulling himself to his feet, he grinned at her. "So am I. And I'm going." He paused. "Going as in the, 'you tell me the room I can find James Wilson in and I'll get out of your way' way.

"No."

"What, no argument?"

"No."

He sighed quietly, wishing that there were an easier way to get out of the conversation and where he wanted to go. Morphine made his Vicodin pale by comparison, but it was hardly good for the concentration. "I'm tired."

"Yes, that's why we provided you with a bed." She seemed to be enjoying the exchange.

"No, sorry, misunderstanding. See, there's two kinds of tired I'm feeling right now. One, there's physical, and yeah, it's high up on the list. Two, there's emotional. I'm tired of standing here and getting nothing done. I'm tired of lying in a bed and wondering how my friend is doing; tired of half-wit all-rule nurses telling me it's against regulations to see the chart of another patient. I'm tired of waiting. I've done enough of that, and I'd like to take some action."

She crossed her arms, and House swore silently. What the hell's wrong with me? I can't read her body language, and her face doesn't betray any visible emotion. The nuances of human communication were lost to him, and he was forced to rely on old-fashioned power of speech. And words could deceive.

"All right," she said, "Tell me why it's so important. I know he's your friend, but –"

"Exactly. He's my friend." Not pausing to read into her expression, he continued on. "Besides, Wilson's patients are cancer kids. You know, all cute, break your heart, dote on me cases. They've got this great program that gives dying kids a last wish. So what does a cancer doctor's friend get?"

"He gets a yes."

House smiled slightly. "Should have asked a different question, then. Can I hear that more often?"

"You should be asking yourself that," came the reply. "Oh, and by the way…"

He glanced sideways at her.

"You're going in a wheelchair."

- - - - -o

Of course she'd given up too easily, House sighed. It was the wheelchair. It was as if he was on display for the hospital. Adding insult to injury. Of course, he knew Cuddy. She didn't mean harm – well, permanent harm. Still, if embarrassment was the key, it was happening. I hate being mistaken for a patient. He clenched his eyes shut and leaned back, wincing as he felt a tightness in his ribs. It was enough to make him open his eyes, and he found himself looking up at the face of a male nurse.

The man grinned down at him. "Hello, Doctor House. Enjoying the ride?"

He growled. "Not when I know there's a tie like that hanging over my head. However did you get that past security?" Leaving him to ponder the puce tartan, House slouched forwards in the wheelchair, noting the hall they had just entered. "ICU," he whispered, and readjusted his expression, scrunching up his eyes and raising his eyebrows before relaxing. One hand gripped the armrest of the chair, and the other rested instinctively on his leg. As they approached the room he had been told was Wilson's, he forced himself to relax. Still, he couldn't help but shift uncomfortably as the attending pulled open the sliding doors and allowed him inside.

He threw another glance back over his shoulder at the man who had wheeled him in, and behind him, the one with the IV drip. "Thank you," he said sharply, "Go on now." One left, but the unfamiliar one hesitated. New, huh. "I'm a doctor. The fact that I'm injured doesn't change that." That, thankfully, was enough to send him off.

He didn't rise right away, yesterday's events still stuck in his mind. He hardly remembered arriving at Princeton-Plainsboro, the memory merely a blur. He remembered paramedics, Cuddy's concerned expression, the cold white of the ER and Wilson, pale, silent, wheeled through a set of double-doors and out of sight. And then it was his turn, and there were masks, steel, and darkness.

House shook the memory from his head and winced. He wouldn't be doing that again anytime soon. Cuddy limited my morphine, and there just isn't enough for me, my leg, and everything else that came along for the ride after the accident.

And then again, I could be a little more upbeat.

He braced himself against the side of the bed and pulled himself upright, ignoring the muffled throb in his leg. Levering himself to the side, he managed to sit by Wilson's feet, looking down at him. House was acutely aware of every scratch, bruise, bump and twist that he bore, but looking at his friend, all these slipped easily from his mind. It was not surprising to him that between the two of them, he would have the worst injuries. In the light of things, it was damn near a miracle as House was willing to admit, that he hadn't outright died.

Injuries were easy to deal with on a day-to-day basis, but that was in the case of patients. Patients were independent integers, and their cases, mere equations to be solved with cold logic. The moment emotion factored in, objectivity ceased. Completely. House found it easy to spend what hours his leg would allow him in an operating room, sifting through a patient's internal organs with the greatest attention to detail. He did not have any objection to entering situations that would stretch his Hippocratic Oath to the limits, provided he was in charge and aware of the repercussions. He wasn't afraid to tread on the wrong side of the law in order to obtain the information he needed for one case or another. And yet, looking at Wilson's motionless form laid out on the hospital bed, he couldn't help but feel his stomach turn at the sight of his friend's battered form. Professionalism ended when his friend was on the other side of the clipboard.

House chastised himself for his reaction. All signs pointed to his recovery, he noted, flipping through the conveniently 'forgotten' folder. Two broken ribs, contusions, abrasions, cuts and weals… Nothing that wouldn't heal, given time. Nothing serious. The physical conditions were listed were less of a concern than what he expected to see, what he knew he would see, as he scanned the chart.

Point oh-nine blood alcohol level. The words twisted in his gut, dragging him backwards through a wave of apprehension. There's no way that it would be overlooked. It might as well have been written in red ink – the words had burned their way into his memory. Wilson had been driving drunk, and whatever it was that had caused the ever-cautious doctor to do such an irrational thing, it no longer mattered. He had taken his own life in his hands, and that being spared, it was his job on the line instead. There'll be an inquiry. There'll be trouble. Hours of explanation, hours of –

Wilson stirred. It was only a flutter of his eyelids, an unconscious twitch, but it was enough to pull House out of his thoughts. His lips parted and he nearly spoke, but he caught himself. The man was still asleep. And until he woke, the world of troubles he'd be facing would wait. It would better to let him sleep in as much peace as he could get until then.

And I envy him that peace. House turned and stared off into space. I still have the Cathanis case to diagnose. Forty-six year old woman presenting with high fever, chills, hemolytic anemia and dark orange-colored urine. Two days in and we've only figured out what it isn't. And at the rate of deterioration, she'll be dead in a week.

And, he realized, one day shot, and I don't know how things progressed.

Conscious of the impact it would have on him, House pulled the morphine drip closer, decreasing the amount that the machine dispensed. He wasn't used to it. Unlike his Vicodin, it impaired his perception in the dosage he needed. I'll deal with the pain. It won't be easy, but it'll be significantly easier than weathering a tornado.

Damn. I'm never gonna live this one out in peace.

- - - - -o

"The worst tornado New Jersey's seen in twelve years, and you weathered it?"

House leaned back in his chair, wincing. "Appreciate the pun." He nodded to Chase. "But yeah, apparently we did."

"Are you sure you should be here?" Cameron gave him a concerned look, and he shrugged it off.

"Absolutely. Sick person dying… that's our job, right? To cure people?"

"Well, yes, but –"

"No issue there, then."

"You're injured –"

"Barely. My life is already assured, whereas this woman's is not. Much more interesting to diagnose than to mope. Now quick, quick, let's get some work done before Cuddy discovers I'm gone." He paused. "And speaking of absences, where's Foreman?"

"Couldn't make it," the young man said. "He was coming in late today, but got caught on the edge of the storm. Had to turn back."

House sighed, running the edge of his cane around the length of the IV stand. He drew one hand along the cold metal and blinked distractedly. "Get him on the phone then. Phones are up, right?" Watching Cameron rise to dial Foreman's cell phone, he stopped her momentarily. "There's a red duffel bag under the desk. Toss it here. I don't want to wear this all day. I see enough of these baggy outfits on patients."

With the bag on his lap, he began sorting through it, pulling out odds and ends until he had the makings of a casual suit on the table in front of him. "I'm going off to change. When I get back I want Foreman on speakerphone, and I want to know what I missed." He rose to his feet, cane firmly in hand, and limped over to the door, the bundle of clothes under his arm keeping him slightly off-balance. Once at the doors, he paused. "If Cuddy asks if you saw me, you didn't."

Ten minutes later, he was back, fully dressed, the IV trailing after him, and a decidedly tired expression on his face. "I'm back," he said quietly. "Did I miss anything?"

"No, but –"

House caught Chase's glance at the phone and cut him off loudly. "Hello, Foreman! Enjoying the day off?"

"Hello, House," came the slightly distorted reply.

"Glad you could make it. So, I want to know – What did I miss?" He could swear he heard a small sigh through the speaker, but he chose to ignore it. "One day passes. Either Andrea Cathanis is well on the way to recovery or she's a-knocking on death's door. I'm guessing it's the second choice." He leaned forwards and raised his eyebrows, his tone confidential. "I'm betting nothing big got done without me. Typical Wednesday."

"Actually," Chase corrected him, "Yesterday was a Thursday."

The pause in House's response was noticeable, but he appreciated the fact that none of them chose to comment. He drew a deep breath. "Okay, then. Thursday. Can I have an answer to the question?" He waited a few seconds, and then sighed quietly. "No answer. Interesting. She's getting worse, very quickly, and none of you want to say it out loud… She's only got a few days left. Am I right?"

Cameron caught his eye. "Yes," she said simply. "And so does her boyfriend."

House looked up sharply. "What boyfriend?"


Author's Note – Yeah, as many of you pointed out, there really was no relevance to the placing of chapter seven, INTERLUDE. Honestly and truly, I only put it there to catch attentions, fill up space, and motivate myself. Well, it was actually a writing exercise, a device to allow me to get back into writing Wilson. See, I'm not as good at writing him as I'd like to be. It was mildly related, being Wilson's backstory, so I figured, why not put it in? It detracts from the pacing, though, and I'm considering deleting it or making it into its own separate story, like a prelude, or something.

I should have named it 'INTERMISSION…"

Okay, now here come the thanks! UBER- thanks to 'The Anonymous One,'Wuchel1, and Miyth, for reviewing, though it seemed futile, and convincing me to return. And, I suppose, for reintroducing me to House. I mean, I've still been watching the show, but I never looked back at old episodes after I left… I'd stopped investing myself in the characters. So you won't believe how grateful I am to you, not just for renewing my interest in this story, but for renewing my enjoyment of the show.

Also, mega-thanks to Aqua Mage, IceStar4621, Emerald124, 'The Anonymous One,' and Blackrose Kitsune, for coming back, even after all this time, and reviewing. You who care are those who keep me here. I love familiar names! (And to any of you who came back to read, but never reviewed, your name is written here, - in invisible ink.) Sorry if I missed anyone…

And 'normal-but-still-very-fluffy' thanks to all who have reviewed since the revival- Aqua Mage, 'The Anonymous One,' Miyth, IceStar4621, Bloody Koalas, fox4mel, SJ-88, Emerald124, BlkDiamond, thatonegirl005, leana9101, Boys Don't Cry, and Blackrose Kitsune. And no, Blackrose, no review is too long! Reviews are chocolate, and chocolate helps me write faster!

Oh, and I'd like to thank you all, readers, for allowing me two weeks to get back 'into the groove' as it were. My ideal updating schedule is twice a week, maybe three times – now that I've figured out what Andrea Cathanis has, the words should come easier. sighs I'm doing a lot of research on this story, went to the library and took out stacks of books on Spanish, diagnostics, legal stuff, and diseases… Am I taking it too seriously?

I don't care if I am :) And I apologize for the size of this A/N! To make up for it, I'll bring in the medical stuff next chapter. And speaking of next chapter, here's some words from the next chapter: imposter, banana, hero, and a random phrase is "No, I don't think it's Lupus, I just wanted to throw it out there, get it over with..."

P'Bantonox.