Title: Intervention
By: Sy Dedalus
Rating: Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.
Paring: Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)
Spoilers: Season One.
Summary: The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. All quotes belong to the people who are credited for them, not to me. Please don't sue me, etc.

Night Two: Red Jello

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.

—Theodore Roethke, "The Waking"

He was aware of a few things.

1. Pain. Everywhere.

2. Breathing.

3. Breathing sucked.

4. Silence was unbelievably loud.

5. This is what limbo must be like.

He'd somehow managed to get his feet up on the ottoman and was sprawling in the chair, unable to move, unwilling to move, waiting on a goddamn dead cat. He couldn't process what he didn't know—i.e., how the cat died—so his brain was free to float around. Owing to a want of energy to function, it was hanging limp doing nothing.

Years passed. Eons. He kept breathing.

Wilson tapped on his door again around 6:30 and he was startled but didn't move. His muscles were too overworked to correctly interpret neural signals now.

Wilson glanced into the conference room, confused that House wasn't in his regular spot.

"Cameron send you?" House said from the corner of the room and it was Wilson's turn to jump.

"There you are," he said under his breath, noticing that House was slurring his words.

Aloud he said, "Yeah, but I would've come anyway."

"I'm touched," House said, exhaling the words. The buzz of talking that reverberated in his chest had become too much.

Wilson stepped closer to the chair, letting the door close. "Come on," he said. "Time for your treatment."

"That sounds really scary," House said tiredly. "Do your patients run away when you say that?"

He was not in the mood for more compassion from Mr. Sunshine. He just wanted to stay where he was and...whatever. "I'm—"

"Don't say it," Wilson interrupted. "Look at yourself," he said. "You're about to collapse. Actually, I think you have collapsed."

"Which is why I'm sitting here and not standing there. Ergo..." he gestured meaninglessly in the air.

"Aw come on" Wilson persisted, "I got us a room with a TV. It gets E!"

"You sure know how to treat a guy," House said dully.

"Don't say I never did nothin' for ya," Wilson said and extended his hand.

"Don' wanna go anywhere," House said sleepily.

"Well...you can either walk," Wilson said, "or I can get some burly orderlies to toss you onto a gurney and you can ride. And if you go that way, there'll be paperwork involved."

"Damn you," House said. "I'm waiting on a cat."

Wilson nodded. "Cameron told me."

When House didn't hear him leaving, he looked up. "Well? You're still here?"

"You can't autopsy a cat if you can't sit up," Wilson pointed out.

"I think," House said, "it's within the realm of possibility."

"And you also think Keith doesn't have lupus," Wilson said incredulously.

"And I'm right," House answered, more strongly than he would have thought possible. Why wouldn't Wilson just go away and let him lie?

"You're not twenty-five anymore," Wilson said, a plaintive edge creeping into his voice. "You can't do this."

House sighed. "I really don't want to go anywhere," he mumbled and let his eyelids fall down.

"It's just down the hall," Wilson persisted.

"Too far," House groaned.

"Wimp," Wilson goaded.

"Am not," House said. He didn't want to play games right now.

"Are to," Wilson nagged.

House opened his eyes and looked up at Wilson.

"I'd like to see you do this," he said.

"I wouldn't be dumb enough to go cold turkey," Wilson replied.

"Cause you'd never make it," House muttered.

"Cause it would hurt," Wilson said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah," House said softly. "It would."

Wilson waited.

House took a deep breath. "All right, all right, you win."

Wilson grinned and stuck out his right hand to pull House out of his reclining position. He found himself taking on most of House's weight since House couldn't use his left hand.

House groaned long and deep as Wilson pulled him up. His vision swam with the motion and his abdominal muscles protested the work they had to do. His stomach felt sucked in, as if it had been vacuum sealed.

He got his bearings and grabbed his jeans to put his right foot on the floor. The fillings in his teeth jarred when it connected with the ground. Maybe he could bang his hand against something when Wilson wasn't looking. He brought his left foot down and hunched forward, breathing harshly.

"Okay, let's go," he said, eyes closed tight, not wanting to rest.

Wilson fumbled, "Are you sure you can—"

"This was your idea," House snarled. "Let's go." If he sat like this for a few more seconds, he'd fall back into the chair and crash completely.

Wilson sensed that it wasn't the time to argue. He bent down and put House's right arm over his shoulders, braced himself, and lifted up. For a guy who'd been losing weight all week, he sure was heavy.

House wobbled and Wilson held him up until he stopped wobbling. Wilson then handed him his cane and switched to his left side.

"Ow ow ow," House said as Wilson lifted his left arm. "Not gonna work."

Wilson moved back over to House's right side, not sure what to do.

"Just...stay close," House said, eyes still shut. Pain no longer meant anything to him.

"This...better not...be far," he gasped.

"It's not," Wilson said trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

"Better not...be."

And it wasn't: Wilson made good on his word.

House balked at the sight of an empty hospital bed. "I'll...take...the chair," he said, trying to move for it.

Wilson stopped him easily. "No, you need to lie down."

"Don't...tell me...what I need."

But he was trembling, leaning on Wilson. Realizing he had no choice, he said reluctantly, "All right, but I'm not staying here. The minute that cat arrives—"

"Yes, yes, but that won't be for a while," Wilson said, trying not to sound patronizing.

"Fine," House said, lowering himself onto the bed. He strained to pull his right leg up, reaching across his body, and it was all Wilson could do not to step in.

The muscles of his back sighed happily and released their tension as he lay back, aching slightly as they did. He winced a little at the relief of it. Even when he was back on the Vicodin, he could tell it would take at least a week to get his body back in order. Probably more. God, he'd gotten old. When had that happened?

He didn't have much time for reflection because as soon as he was settled on the bed, Wilson produced a pair of gloves from no where. House looked around and noticed that he had everything set up.

"All ready to go this time, Dr. Frankenstein?" he said. "Ten bucks says you were an eagle scout."

Wilson laughed quietly. "Why would you bet on something I can lie about?"

"Don't kid yourself," House said, "you can't lie your way out of a wet paper bag."

Wilson smiled at the thought. "Under what circumstances would I ever be trapped in a wet paper bag?"

"I can think of some," House said.

"Sure you can," Wilson replied. "Right or left?"

He didn't have to think about that one. His left hand had had enough punishment for one day.

"Right."

Wilson set about putting the IV in.

House's mind wandered. He'd been a student trainer one year for the football team in high school. It had gotten him out of gym. He looked at Wilson and he was reminded of his job back then: standing over a player, sticking him, squeezing the bag to get as much fluid in before the second half because they played better after an intravenous infusion. Some of them used to whimper when he stuck them. Wussies. Now here he was getting the same treatment so he could stay in the game. But at least he wasn't whimpering.

He felt himself getting whimsical and snapped back to reality, realizing Wilson had a syringe in his hand and was wiping the injection port with an alcohol pad.

"What?" he said. "No, not now."

Wilson sighed. He'd hoped to avoid having this argument again. "You've got to eat something," he said. "Drink something at least."

"No," House said, "I've got to stay awake. You hit me with that and I'll be out again."

"It'll take them at least three hours to dig that cat up and get it back here," Wilson said.

"Two young, strong, strapping fellows like Chase and Foreman?" House said. He waved his good hand. "Nah. Hour and a half tops."

"Have you been outside?" Wilson said. "It's February. The ground's frozen."

House considered it, cocking his head. "And Chase probably doesn't know what a shovel is. Okay, push it," he said and lay back.

Wilson complied, then discarded the syringe and his gloves and turned the TV on.

House felt the drug in his system and felt himself sinking under it. He relaxed and faded in the noise of television.

Wilson watched House fall asleep. He turned the TV volume down, leaned back, and let himself drift off as well.

He dreamed. Of her.

She was back from Berkley, in his apartment, talking, she wouldn't look at him, he wanted to touch her so badly but he couldn't reach, something was stopping him, she was yelling at him about smoking cigars inside, she was walking away, he couldn't get up to follow her, he was stuck in the chair, she was gone.

They were sailing in the Atlantic, she was sitting next to him and he had his arm around her and they were laughing and talking and he wanted to say something to her but it wouldn't come out, he wanted to fuck her so bad, he was so hard, but she just laughed and looked away and he couldn't do anything but hold her tighter to him with his arm.

They were in bed in the old apartment, he was naked, she was dressed, asleep, back turned to him, he couldn't get her to turn over, could only see her outline through the gauzy nightgown she wore, could only remember the feel of her breasts in his hands, could only remember what she smelled like, couldn't reach her, couldn't talk to her, couldn't do anything but feel his body tight with need.

He jerked awake, erection straining against the fly of his jeans, and moaned pitifully, thick with unsatisfied desire.

Pain came flooding back in the next instant and he lost it. Just as well. Couldn't do anything about it.

The room was dark except for the blue flash of the television. Night. Wilson was gone too.

He looked up at the IV pole to see how much time had passed. He guessed about forty-five minutes based on the amount of fluid left.

He felt much better despite the pain in his bones and muscles. His body was relaxed with sleep and relatively content, but his mind, those dreams...

Stacy. He hadn't dreamed about her in months. Not like that, anyway. Not that vividly.

Stacy. He missed her, though he didn't think of her often. It had been too long for that. Hearing something at work or on TV that he knew she'd love that he remembered to tell her before he remembered that she was gone, the things she'd gotten him into when they were dating—law dramas on TV (he couldn't hear the opening notes of the Law and Order theme song without his muscles clenching and ice running down his spine), the New Yorker (he stopped reading the articles long ago-they used to debate the issues surrounding a particular article, half-bantering, half-serious, a practice that almost always ended in kissing-something that had dropped off in the months before he...well, before; he kept the subscription up for the cartoons), newspaper editorials (she believed in things so much, was so passionate about them-it was part of the reason he'd loved her the way he did), news in general (which he now avoided-any mention of politics, government, law was a reminder; lying in the hospital for so long, feeling so many conflicting emotions about their relationship, he'd become addicted to soap operas then, he couldn't stomach the news anymore...it was too much a part of the reality she still lived in, far away from him), suits (the way she'd look at him sometimes when he'd just finished dressing for a dinner or a conference and the way they'd sometimes skip those events, deciding without words...), martinis (her lips touching the rim of the glass, leaving a trace of lipstick, sucking on the olive later...), children (they'd discussed it, even to the point of names), conferences (because he liked going to hers, to listen to her talk in front of a bunch of idiots who weren't even in the same intellectual ballpark as she was, because she was so smart and sexy it killed him), the smoothness of his face after he shaved (because she liked a timely five o'clock shadow, no more than that), certain brands of after-shave (because she liked them so much and he wore them for her), John Grisham novels (which he still read anyway, even if she had introduced them to him, because they'd been part of the happy times at the beginning), Harrison Ford (because she confessed she thought he was dead sexy and House never got over hating him for it), her perfume (Cuddy had worn it for a few months until his insults about how much she stank made her quit, because he couldn't stand such a strong reminder of her filling the air like that, stinging him so deeply), and other things, many other things—all of these small things, they didn't hurt him so much anymore he thought.

It had been nearly six years since they'd broken the engagement. She left Princeton-Plainsboro for greener pastures. They didn't keep in touch. He hadn't spoken to her in at least three years. Probably more like four. Almost five now. After a while, the years passed without his noticing their passing. You couldn't mourn the death of a year if you didn't acknowledge that it was gone. As far as he was concerned, it was still 1999. Thinking about time made him feel helpless and old. Thinking about Stacy…well, he liked to think that he thought about her less and less, remembered things for her and about her less and less. One thing time did do was ease the shock of memory. Not the pain of memory, no, but the shock of it, yes. And drugs too. Drugs really helped. God, he wanted a Vicodin, not just for his leg and hand but because it made memories of her easier to dismiss, blurring the edges of thought.

God, he missed her. She was...

She was. Just that. She was.

Over.

He couldn't stand to think about her now, not when he was already hurting so much. He couldn't stand to think about any of it. Which was probably why he was dreaming it. He cursed his subconscious for wanting to air itself out. Go on, let him go crazy with repression. Why not. Why the fuck not.

But not right now. He was busy.

He rubbed a sleepy, heavy hand over his face, feeling the course hair on his face scratch against his calloused palm. Old, calloused, and prickly. Yep, that was him.

Dwelling, though. What use in dwelling. So he looked around for the television remote instead. He spied it in the chair next to him and ignored the loud protests of his muscles as he reached for it. He channel surfed for a while, finally settling on a show about Oscar nominees.

But he couldn't shake her.

Why now. Of all the times, why now. Why.

And this, this lying on a bed in the dark with only the TV on, exhausted, hurting, humiliated, disgusted, trying not to think so much, having nothing to do but think, wondering why he kept going when he could see his future so clearly and it looked so bleak, feeling broken, breathing in the scent of hospital, of dried sweat, the cool drift of fluid in his arm, and waiting, waiting—this was still too familiar, still too fresh, despite the years.

Five years ago, almost six years now. Long years. God, he was old. And getting older.

Two months. It had been two months since they'd broken the engagement, terminated the lease, taken their leave. He'd worked hard, staying long hours, juggling an immense case load, gone to the gym and worked out hard, happy to feel his muscles burn, hit the bottle hard, always around for last call, sometimes picking fights, he'd even gotten banned from one place—anything so that he could sleep as soon as he got home and not dream, not think about the way things had gone, not agonize over where things had gone wrong, not feel anything at all.

Wilson had only been around so much. He'd broken up with what's-her-name a year earlier and was courting Julie heavily by the time they called it quits.

Then she'd come back. Or maybe he'd gone back to her. What did it matter. The point was that they'd been happy again for a while, falling back into the old rhythm. Then another fight, both declaring they were leaving for good, and he'd gone back to punishing himself in earnest. Anything to sleep and not feel.

And then his leg started hurting. Easy. Pulled a muscle doing too many reps, darting too quickly after a tennis ball. Wasn't that young anymore. Got tossed by a guy into the corner of a pool table in a bar fight and got a deep bruise. Simple. Pain could be anything but was probably something simple. Occam's razor. Easy.

Didn't go away. Didn't stop pushing himself. Drinking, fighting, long hours, running, anything to sleep like the dead at night. Let it be pulled, bruised. Let it not go away. Let the flesh reflect the spirit.

Then Wilson noticed. Nagged him. Another doc checked it. Pulled, torn. Stop the exercise, let it heal. Let it be torn. Anything to sleep. Anything to not dream.

Then that night. It had been building all day, his lumbering walk, questioning glances from everyone, should get that checked out right away. Went out instead. Couldn't drink it away. Sweated out the drink. Couldn't sleep. Was too bad. Biting his pillow to keep from screaming. Calling Wilson when he couldn't scream anymore.

Then pain. Confusion. Realization. Surgeries. Hopelessness.

Then this. Months of this. Useless lying around. Useless taking up space. Time. Money.

Then she'd come. He'd been there a few days, maybe a week. Getting used to this new reality where a day didn't mean solving another complicated case but the hours in between pain meds and dinner, shitting in a bucket, pissing in a tube, waking for rounds, sleeping after Leno, PT to keep his left leg in shape while the right one healed, vitals checks every four hours, too much time locked inside himself, weighed down by tissue. He still didn't know how she'd found out. Probably Wilson. He never asked, never wanted to know.

Mid-afternoon. Lunch had sucked. Lack of selection. Lack of appetite. He'd been gauging the relative merits of Montel, Geraldo, Rikki Lake, Maury, Sally Jesse, and Jenny Jones, and was in the middle of a compelling Rikki Lake when he heard the door open. Not time for vitals or meds. Must be Wilson.

"Hey," he said without looking away from the TV, "Rikki's got this guy who-"

"Greg," he heard a woman say softly.

That wasn't Wilson. It was her. Oh shit, it was her. She'd come back. Even after what she'd said, what he'd said.

"Oh," he said, feeling chest and stomach tighten, the rush of adrenaline, the shock of it, instantly self-conscious, wishing he were cleaner, wishing tubes weren't snaking in and out of him, "it's you."

She was dressed for work. She still looked so stunning he'd be knocked of his feet if he could stand.

"What're you doing here?" he said stupidly.

"What am I doing here," she repeated flatly. She didn't put up with any bullshit when she was in certain moods. Like the mood where she stuck her neck out. He liked that, of course. It was part of the attraction. They were a matched pair. But not anymore and he was drugged and fuzzy and hurting and despondent.

He turned his attention back to the television, tense.

"That's what I said," he replied.

The television audience applauded wildly, filling the room with noise.

She didn't say anything.

"Whatever you have to say," he said, "I can't deal with it right now." He caught a whiff of her perfume. God. Blood rushed to his groin despite the thousand things trying to stop it.

"I don't have anything to say," she said carefully, testing the waters. "I just came to see if you were all right."

"Well, I'm not," he said, sullen and angry. "I'm a long, long way from all right. You should know all about that."

She paused, aware that he was baiting her. "I was worried about you," she said softly.

"Yeah, well, don't be," he growled.

She persisted. "The nurses said that they weren't sure if-"

"They don't know anything," he snapped.

"Anything?" she said incredulously.

"That's right, anything," he said, frustrated, not knowing how to feel, wishing she'd go away, wishing he didn't want her to run across the room and hold him and tell him it would be all right after all.

"What happened?" she asked. "They said you had a blood clot in your leg."

"That's it," he said.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Now she was getting frustrated. He could hear it in her voice. "Look, you know I'm not a doctor, what does that mean?"

"It means I had a blood clot in my leg," he said bitterly. "They got it out. I'm fine and dandy. Be dancing a jig in no time."

"Stop it," she said. He could hear her getting angry. Fine. He knew how to deal with her when she was angry.

"You stop it," he snapped back, "you started it."

He'd never really looked at her since he first saw her enter the room. If he looked at her, he might do something he'd regret. He blamed it on the pain meds making him dopey. It wasn't that he still loved her. It wasn't that at all. He gazed even more assiduously at the television.

"Don't get juvenile," she said.

"Don't go accusing me of anything," he said angrily. "I told you I couldn't do this right now. Jesus, what do you want!"

"Nothing," she said softly. "Just to check on you."

"Yeah, well, we've been over that already," he said, jaw clenched.

"Fine," she said. "I'll see you later."

And she was gone. Just like that. Before he could get a word out.

He was wrecked for the rest of the day.

Thinking about now, he felt wrecked again. Shit. All this over a dream. An arbitrary chain of neurochemical reactions.

Too many emotions ran through him. He didn't want to think about them or about her or about anything at all. He was wrecked enough as it was. God, he wanted a Vicodin. Or a drink. Or a hard surface to smack his hand against.

Where was Wilson? Where was that cat?

Shouldn't have sent Chase and Foreman. Should've hired real lackeys instead.

The Oscars. He didn't care. He channel surfed again. News. Sitcom. Commercial. Jeopardy. Sitcom. News. News. Law and Order. Sitcom. Commercial. Cartoon. News. Emeril. Hitler. Sitcom. Airplanes. Turtles. News. Fear Factor. Sitcom. Commercial. Oscars. Sitcom. Wrestling. Jackass.

Wrestling, Fear Factor, or Jackass.

Wrestling or Jackass.

Wrestling.

Weird that Jesse The Body Ventura was Jesse The Former Governor of Minnesota. And Ah-nald. That entire state was baked on medicinal marijuana. Right now he could just stand to join them under the Terminator for a little bud in return. Mudslides and forest fires he could deal with.

Mad Dog and Meatball Mulligan were tag teaming against Roy The Face and Kaptain Kill. They had just started throwing chairs when the door opened and Wilson walked in with another stack of boxes.

"Hey," House said, "you're just in time. They're about to go after the owners."

Wilson set the boxes down and turned on a lamp. "Wrestling's rigged," he said.

House squinted in the light and shrugged his right shoulder. "Doesn't make it any less entertaining."

"That's true," Wilson said, sitting down, distributing drinks and cutlery. He surreptitiously glanced at House's hand. Swollen. Great.

"Did you use that ice pack I gave you earlier?" he asked.

"Yeah, it melted," House said sarcastically.

"Right," Wilson said, getting up.

"No," House said, trying to stop him, "I kind of like them like this." He regarded his fingers. "Like beanie weenies."

When Wilson didn't stop, he said quickly, "Let's eat first."

Wilson looked at him.

Sensing he was about to protest, House said jovially, "Come on, what'd ya get me?"

He wasn't interested in eating, but he was even less interested in having his leg hurt more than his hand again.

A smile tugged at Wilson's lips. "You're not gonna like it," he said, moving back to the chair.

"Can't be worse than the stroganoff yesterday," House said. "That was, hands down, the worst meal of my life."

Wilson handed him a box. "See for yourself," he said.

House finagled the box open and was disappointed. Soup. Jello. Milk. Shit.

"Aww, come on," he griped, putting on his best puppy dog face and trying to catch Wilson's eye, "What's this? You better be having Jello too."

"Foreman came to see me," Wilson said, carefully avoiding meeting House's gaze.

"The rat," House grumbled, and turned his attention back to the measly offering before him.

"You should be thankful I didn't listen to him," Wilson said, digging into the chicken-fried steak in his box. "He wanted to bum rush you and ship you up to psych."

"He did not say that," House said incredulously, eyes narrowing at Wilson's dinner.

Wilson laughed around a bite. "You're right, he didn't, but I think he wanted to."

House paused. "If you didn't give him the Vicodin and Cuddy didn't give him the Vicodin, where'd he get it?" he asked, looking puzzled.

"Last time I checked he was a doctor and there's a pharmacy down stairs," Wilson deadpanned.

"Nah," House said, "probably turned tricks on the street for it. Gotta keep in practice."

"Aw come on, he's a good guy," Wilson said. "Don't know what you have against him."

"Juvenile records say a lot about a person," House said.

He gestured to the jello and milk on his lap. "You gonna open this or what?" he said. "Cause I can probably get the jello with my teeth but the milk would be messy."

"Sorry," Wilson said and opened the containers. "I thought juvenile records were sealed."

"They are," House said, tapping at the hard-yet-not-hard-at-all surface of the jello with his spoon. What to do with it.

"The amount of trust you display is refreshing," Wilson said. "Can't hire the guy with a perfect GPA from Hopkins without digging into his past, now can you?"

"It's a pretty prestigious fellowship he's got," House said, scooping out a mound of jello and letting it plop in the box. "Wouldn't want to go tarnishing it by hiring a burglar unless you knew he was your kind of burglar."

"You have a 'kind' of burglar?" Wilson asked, eyebrows raised, mixed vegetables on his fork.

"Of course," House said, not really paying attention anymore. "Don't you?"

He spooned soup around the mound of jello, scooped out a small hole in the top of it and carefully poured a few drops of milk into the hole so they flowed down the mound.

"What're you doing?" Wilson asked.

"Making an island in the sun," House said without looking up from his creation.

"I would've gone with milk for the sea and soup for the lava," Wilson said nonchalantly.

"Nah," House said. "Soup wouldn't show up against the red of the jello as well."

"Pour some juice on there and five bucks says you won't eat it," Wilson taunted.

"Nice try," House said, slicing the jello to make rivulets before pouring more milk on. "Do you have some vinegar and baking soda? This is fun."

Wilson sighed. "Do I have to threaten you again?"

"No, you don't have to, but you could," House said. "I don't mind."

"Obviously not," Wilson muttered.

"When did you get a dog?" House asked.

"I'm serious about this," Wilson said.

"And I'm serious about the dog," House said. "What kind is he? Is he a he?"

"House," he said.

"You named him after me?" House said, eyes lighting up. He frowned at the next thought. "That's...kinda weird," he said.

Wilson stood quickly and made for the door, not having any more of House's stalling.

"All right, all right," House said, frustrated. "All right. Fine."

Wilson placed his hands on his hips and squared his gaze on House.

"I'm serious," he said.

"I said okay. You win. Sit down," House said.

He turned his attention back to the television. "I knew Roy and Kaptain Kill would win. What kind of a wrestler can a guy called Meatball Mulligan be, anyway?"

Wilson just looked harder at him.

House rolled his eyes and put a scrape of jello in his mouth, feeling it dissolve.

Wilson sat down.

"His name's Charlie," Wilson said.

"Yeah?" House said, playing with the jello again.

"Yeah," Wilson said. "Got him for Christmas. From Julie. I think it was a hint." He paused for a second, noting that House hadn't followed up on that first tiny bite of jello. Imagine having to wheedle a middle-aged man to eat like he was a child who'd turned his nose up at broccoli. But this was House. It came with the territory. He would give him another minute or so.

"He's a shelter animal," Wilson continued. "Part lab, part German Shepherd, part something else. Giddy as hell."

"Sounds like fun," House said.

"He's a regular riot," Wilson said.

House pushed the jello around some more and Wilson said, "You're gonna have to do better than that."

House sighed. "I really don't want to," he mumbled.

"Why?"

"Sore," House said quietly, almost to himself. Then louder, "I don't see the point anyway. Not when there's this," he gestured to the IV.

"You know damn well what the point is," Wilson growled.

"I know that that cat better show up soon," House evaded. "Wrestling's over. Lois and Clark. No way," he said and started channel surfing again.

"House..."

"The soup's cold, the milk's warm and I don't like red jello," House said in a huff.

"Everyone likes red jello," Wilson said.

"Apparently not," House said, "because I don't."

Wilson was out the door before House could try to stop him.

Shit.

Double shit.

He was in for it.

But until 'it' came back, he might as well find a more suitable program. He flipped around and finally settled on detective drama. Not his favorite but he wasn't in the mood to watch anything anyway.

Wilson came back with his hands full: a new pack of fluids, an ice pack, and two cups of jello, orange and green.

He put the ice pack on House's hand before House could protest. "Don't move that," he said.

He opened the two cups of jello and put them in front of House.

"You're going to eat one of these," he said, "or I'm going to tell Cuddy about last night. Even if you win, she'd knock a week or two off on principle."

House stared at him, slightly shocked and very impressed. "O...kay," he said and dug his spoon into one of the cups as Wilson changed the IV bag.

"You could've gotten red," House said sulkily as Wilson sat down next to him again. "I like red."

"Shut up," Wilson said. "I'm watching television."

They watched the detective show in silence, Wilson glancing at House every now and then to make sure he was eating. He didn't like threatening House but there were times when it was the only way to get through to him.

There'd been times just like this in the months after the infarction. He'd come off rounds and pop into House's room to check on him, keep him company—he wasn't exactly fending visitors off with a stick—sit through part of an A.M. show with him, bring him magazines or journals, anything he could do. After House had been there a little over a week, he started hearing from the nurses that his friend was eating less. He hadn't been eating much as it was, being on so much pain medication, but they were beginning to worry. No pain, no nausea, he said, felt fine, just wasn't hungry. He said he'd talk to him about it.

He came in one evening to find House channel surfing, dinner tray untouched.

"Hey," Wilson said softly, closing the door. House didn't acknowledge him.

He sat down and watched House pass show after show on TV.

When he flipped past Animal Planet, Wilson said, "Stop there, that's the Crocodile Hunter. Have you seen that yet?"

House shook his head and turned back to the Animal Planet.

"Julie loves it," Wilson said. "The guy's crazy, he wrestles crocodiles and picks up poisonous snakes like they're pieces of rope."

House said nothing. They watched for a time in silence.

Wilson could tell House wasn't paying attention. "Not hungry?" he asked.

House shook his head again.

"The nurses are starting to talk," Wilson said.

"Let them," House said quietly, his voice rusty.

They were silent again.

After a while, Wilson said softly, "She came to see you yesterday."

One of the nurses had mentioned House's female visitor, happy to see him getting a visit from someone other than Wilson.

House nodded, unable to speak.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked.

"I don't know," House whispered, looking at the floor.

Wilson didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. House had been there for him in the same situation many times, but now he was happy, things were going well with Julie, and he didn't know what to do, other than wish fervently that all of this crap hadn't hit House at once.

He opened his bag and saw House look up out of the corner of his eye at the unmistakable rustling sound of a fast food bag.

"Contraband," House said and sniffed the air hopefully.

Wilson smiled. "Yep," he said, handing him a cheeseburger.

"You're my hero," House said, greedily unwrapping the burger and taking a big bite.

Wilson unwrapped another burger. "You're my excuse," he said.

House looked at him in puzzlement, sauce on his chin.

"It's contraband for me too," Wilson explained. "If Julie finds out, you've got to back me up, say I could only get you to eat it if I ate one too."

"She's henpecking you already?" House asked around a mouthful of food. "You're not even married to her yet."

Wilson shrugged.

"You are so whipped," he said, taking another bite. "Think she'd buy that?"

"She already knows you haven't been eating much," Wilson said.

House shrugged. "The food here's definitely not McDonald's quality," House said. "And lying around all day doesn't exactly build up the appetite."

"Yeah," Wilson said, letting it go. He wasn't going to push the issue; he was happy to see House scarfing the burger now. "They're starting PT tomorrow," he said.

House swallowed. "I thought that wasn't for a few days," he said.

"It's been a few days," Wilson said, fishing another burger out of the bag and handing it to him.

"Oh," House said, finishing the first burger and unwrapping the second.

"Slow down," Wilson said. He was only half-way through his first burger. "You're gonna make yourself sick."

"Don't care," House said, biting into the second. "I'm starving."

Wilson laughed and shook his head. "You look like that crocodile," he said, pointing to the TV.

House looked up and saw Steve Irwin toss the animal a chunk of meat. "Nah," he said, "I'm chewing, the crocodile isn't."

"I don't think what you're doing qualifies as chewing," Wilson said.

House looked exasperated. "First you hound me for not eating, then you hound me for eating too much. Does Julie like that quality in you?" House asked.

"She doesn't mind," Wilson said defensively.

"Sure she doesn't," House said, smiling around a mouthful of food.

"Shut up," Wilson said, also smiling.

"Oooo, touched a nerve, did I?" House said wickedly.

Wilson sent him a smoldering look.

House feigned being stung. "Got any beer in that bag?" he asked.

"Nope," Wilson said. "I'm only breaking one rule at a time today."

"That's too bad," House said. "It's much more fun when you disregard the rules entirely."

"I'll keep that in mind," Wilson said. He smiled to himself. Things had gone better than he'd hoped.

Thinking about that day now, Wilson wished he had a bag full of cheeseburgers, that things were as simple now as they were then—which was saying a lot, because things certainly hadn't been simple then.

He looked over at House. Asleep. Most of the jello gone.

Sleep wasn't a bad idea. It had been a long day. Wilson leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.