About three weeks later, Wilson was discharged and, purely medically speaking, fit to go home - in a wheelchair, the low-slung kind occupational therapists didn't usually prescribe for temporary impairments. From an actual living his life perspective, though... Hm... He was able to sit up straight and stand up for limited periods of time, just about enough to attend to the basics of life without help, and he had graduated to pureed food. His right hand was nearly back to normal, his speech had become more articulate, but still not articulate enough to actually get out there without the help of surfer dude, who'd they'd baptised Dennis in the mean time. "We'll have to call off my volunteer night", he said before they'd even got to the sofa. "What's the point if I can't actually talk to people?" House tried to be constructive. "You could take Dennis..." "He'd creep them out. As would the drooling thing." "It's still you behind it..." Wilson gave him a sad smile. "Thanks! But who knows that except for you? These people want their superhero oncologist who'll make them all better, and superheroes don't drool." "You're beginning to sound like me." "Crippledom - the side-effects... We could co-author a paper." House laughed. "That's my wonderboy. Sit down..." "I AM sitting down. And don't I wish I wasn't!" "WAH, he's turning into me! Sit down ON THE SOFA, I'll make us a coffee. Let's just play normal for a bit..." "Ok..." Wilson heaved himself onto the sofa. "Is there still chicken-soup in the freezer?" "I think so. But can you have that?" Wilson gawked theatrically. "This is getting creepy, now you're turning into me! I guess you could thicken it..." "Ok..." House microwaved some chicken-soup and diligently thickened it according to the instructions on the jar of weird powder carol had pressed onto them, feeling glad to be able to help at least in some way. And another spoonful into the coffee. URGH! The very idea of thickened coffee creeped him out, but if it was medically necessary... His heart went out to Wilson.
when they had finished their meal, House tried to remember what things had been like all those years ago, when it had hit him he would never finish that round of golf, would never be out of pain again, would probably never kiss Stacy again. It had been a shitty time, he remembered that. And Wilson had been by his side day and night, picking up the pieces for him and putting them back together. It was payback time, he knew that, and he wrecked his mind how to go about it. "What's up?" Wilson had obviously noticed his more than usually furrowed brow. "Nothing..." "House..." "Fine, just trying to remember how you went about putting me back together back when it happened to me." "I didn't really go about it, it just happened. You could start with a hug, though..." He was only too happy to pull Wilson closer and they sat in a silent embrace for a while.
Eventually Wilson restarted the conversation. "We'll have to decide on a home help, this place is not gonna clean itself." "We'll be fine..." "No, we won't be, and you know it." "Look, I'm perfectly able to fill a dish-washer and vacuum a floor." "Which is of course why Rachel and Mrs Garrison shared these tasks you're so able to perform out between them in my absence. Hi Henry!" Their cat was obviously overjoyed to see his senior can-opener again and lay down on his lap purring like a diesel. "Fine, we'll get the cleaner to come three times a week instead of once." "House, it's more than that. Have you ever tried to go grocery shopping in a wheelchair?" "I'm sure there's a way of doing it!" "There might be, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to go down that route of exploration. We. Need. A. Home help!" In fact, they had already interviewed seven candidates for the job, but House had found fault with every single one of them. Ok, they were pretty much agreed about the ones on a mission. One had actually said it was God's will that she should help them carry their burden, to which they had replied almost in unison that it was their will she shouldn't. But the other ones... Wilson seemed to be happy to let just about anyone fuss around with their dirty laundry. "What about that kid, Joe?" "The social work student?" "Uhu..." "He'll probably make us his term project." "So what if he does? As long as he cleans the litter box everyday I'm happy to be undergrad research." "Do I get a say?" "Only because this is a democracy..." "Just as long as I know what I'm at. Fine, hire him. But don't expect me to be polite!"
Wilson turned out to be right about Joe, he was a cool kid, bright and funny, and a deft hand with all things related to cleaning, but he made House feel paranoid anyway. His enthusiasm about the old Flying V made House wonder why he was being so nice, on laundry day he thought he saw him giggling about his less than fashionable boxer shorts and on the whole he just couldn't relax with a stranger around the place for two hours every day. He was a creature of habit after all, and feeling he could be himself in the presence of anyone but Wilson always took him a very long time indeed. And then... Well, it was great to have Wilson home again, to help him a bit more than he was used to around the kitchen, to snuggle up to him at night, but, HELL, he hardly ever got to see him anymore. Wilson's entire schedule seemed to consist of rehab appointments of some sort or other right now, when he wasn't having speech-therapy he was with the physical therapists, and when he wasn't there he was seeing to his self-imposed getting back on his feet exercise regimen with a personal trainer. Finally he confronted him one night during the commercial break: "What the hell are you running away from?" "Erm... Nothing? Can't run, as you would usually point out." "You still are, and I'm fucking sure it's from me. I spend more time with Joe than with you at the moment. Look, if you want carol just be honest and get it over with, I can live with it!" "WHAT? You honestly think I'm seeing Carol when I say I'm at the gym?" "No normal person spends that amount of time at the gym, if it's for medical reasons or not!" "So... I'm a normal person now..." "You are within the parameters of this debate. What the hell is going on?" Wilson looked surprised and slightly hurt. "Nothing, I promise, I'm just trying to get better. Strange concept to you I guess." "Leave me out of this!" "How, given that you instigated it? Look, you're just being paranoid and you know it." "Even if I was, can you blame me? We see less of each other now than we did before you retired." "But it's for a good reason, for God's sake! I just want to get back on my feet so we can run our own lives again. Do you think I like having some kid check out my dirty underpants?" House felt a surge of love, Wilson had said exactly what he felt himself. "Guess not..." He pulled him into a hug.
Over the next few weeks, the hemiplegia kept improving steadily and Wilson was now managing quite well on crutches around the apartment. But still his tongue would not move; it might as well have been smoked and served with potato salad. They were watching the Food Network one night when he irritably snatched the remote and changed channels. "Hey, I was watching that!" House complained. "Watch it somewhere else then, I'm sick of it!" "What? This is your favourite cookery show!" "It was up to 30 seconds ago!" "What the..." "Do you know what it actually feels like not to be able to eat any of that stuff?" "Well, I know what it feels like to watch Augusta unable to walk a par 3 hole, if that helps." "No, it doesn't!" "Whatevah..." "Of course whatevah, what else would it be with you! Can you ever, just once in your life, look beyond your own crippled ass?" Wow... For a moment they just sat there in silence, seemingly both shocked by that sudden eruption. Finally, Wilson began to speak, sounding lower than House had ever known him. "I'm sorry, maybe it does help. It's bound to I guess. But..." He bit his lip. "It's just... This sucks really hard." "I know it does, I've been there." "I never knew how hard I've been on you all these years. I'm sorry..." "It's ok, you couldn't know." "House, I'm disgusting! I have to use my fingers to shove food around my mouth and I need a fucking bib, for God's sake!" Hm yes, that was essentially what they had bought the scarf he was wearing for. "And I'd happily choke to death on a bone just for some texture. The liquidiser is probably gonna break down from wear and tear before lunch tomorrow." House ruffled his hair that was growing back as thick and glossy as ever. "I wish I could tell you something helpful right now, but I can't. All I can say is that you won't notice people staring as much over time. And that... I love you." He had meant to say something rather more intelligent than that, but then it had just slipped out. And it was true, too. Wilson smiled. "You said it in English..." He felt himself pulled into a kiss. Carefully, experimentally he poked his tongue in, exploring that new, passive Wilson. He gently felt his way round his mouth, tickling and stroking. And then... Was that a flicker? He pulled back. "Wilson, it moved!" "What?" "Your tongue, there was a flicker there!" "No there wasn't!" "Yes there was." They went straight back to kissing, and this time Wilson noticed it, too. YES! It was still going to be a while, but he would probably be fine. Later that night, it was payback time. House woke up feeling Wilson's hand on his bad thigh, lightly, gently touching the scar, playing with it, making it prickle and tingle just this side of pain. Then he worked his way upwards and shot him straight into orbit.