Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story! It is greatly appreciated :) This is quite a quiet chapter, I don't know if people will find it a little odd. I just wrote it this evening because I thought the story could use a section like this as a bridge, a little rest before the upcoming drama. As ever, let me know what you think.


Wilson didn't notice House's silent materialisation in the doorway of his hospital room. He was sat on the edge of the bed, finally dressed in his own clothes, and concentrating with comical intensity upon unbuttoning the jacket that was folded over his knees. With only one hand, he hadn't gotten very far.

"You make a lousy cripple," House observed.

Wilson glanced up at him, and completely failed to look offended; he was still obviously far too buoyed by the promise of freedom.

"In which case, I'll bow to your expertise," he said dryly. He flung the jacket at House with his good arm, who snatched it out of the air and threw his cane back in return. Wilson twiddled the shaft inexpertly between his fingers while House undid the jacket. Buttons and a zipper. He rolled his eyes.

"And for my first tip - don't button up jackets on the hanger!" House said in disgust. "Seriously, how anal are you? How many hours of your life have you wasted buttoning up jackets to just hang in your closet?!"

"Ironing isn't actually one of the deadly sins," Wilson pointed out, with longsuffering patience. He cast a carefully impassive look at House's current attire (which was, admittedly, somewhat rumpled - the case wasn't going well). "Some people don't want to look as if they slept in their shirt -- or under a bridge," he added. House shot him an irate glance and tossed the jacket back at Wilson's grinning face.

"I wasn't aware that pushing your ass down the hallway classed as a black tie event." Judging from Wilson's unflappable good cheer, being released from the hospital probably did rank up there with cocktail parties and free booze.

He jiggled the wheelchair impatiently on its back wheels and waited while Wilson painstakingly arranged the jacket over his shoulders, and impressively refrained from mocking him. Better to wait until Wilson was committed and installed in his apartment, House decided. He didn't want to give him a new excuse to make another moronic call about his living arrangements. A smirk uncurled from the corners of his mouth.

He wasn't a saint, though, for Christ's sake -- "Come on! I could have lapped the hospital twice by now," he declared, bumping the wheelchair against the bed. Wilson gave him an exasperated look, but finally moved from the bed. House noticed the slightly stiff way he held his torso, and the fading bruise on his jaw that he hadn't paid attention to before, against the vent and the IV and the sling. Wilson slid into the seat with satisfaction.

"Ok." Wilson grabbed the bag of his stuff and the cane once again, and relaxed, waiting for House to steer.

Just for a second, as House gripped the handles, he felt Wilson's good mood warm him as well. He grinned behind Wilson's head.

"Alright then." He pushed forwards. "Home, James."


Despite House's best efforts, he had been unable to convince Wilson to use his cane in a jousting match against the Wheelchair Doc who'd tried to steal his parking space; nor had he convinced him that House had organised for him to get home by riding side-saddle on his motorbike. Wilson hadn't even expressed any curiosity over how his car had materialised in the parking lot; he had simply climbed in, waited while House returned the wheelchair to the lobby, and was now basking like a cat in the rosy haze of the sunset as House drove. Even when a traffic queue unrolled in front of them and House played Frank Zappa too loudly on the car stereo, he didn't complain - maybe he was asleep. House glanced sideways. Wilson was pinned against his seat by a fat golden stripe of sun, and he looked blurry through the thousands of dust motes drifting across the light-ray dividing them. House squinted painfully through the glow and hit his horn, for no real reason other than it was uncomfortably hot and sweat was prickling his collar.

"It's like we've driven into the heart of the sun," he grumbled, inching forwards in the traffic.

"Damn. Must have taken a wrong turn," murmured Wilson. So he wasn't asleep: just irritatingly content. And House would be sleeping on the couch tonight. He glared and hit the horn again, but Wilson didn't even frown.

He barked out news of their arrival when they finally pulled up outside his apartment, and Wilson twitched back into alertness. House had grabbed Wilson's bag and was halfway to the door before he remembered the fact that his friend still reeled with vertigo on every third step, and he swivelled round. Wilson was leaning against the closed car door with his eyes shut.

" . . . Coming?"

"Mmm." Wilson exhaled and opened his eyes, as if he was waking up. "Give me a minute." House turned around again and stumped laboriously towards the door. He'd drop the bag and go back in a minute; extra walking at this point in the day was never a good thing, but if Wilson wanted to barf in private he should probably allow him that.

He still hadn't moved when House emerged two minutes later, but he didn't look sick. Somehow divining his presence, Wilson squinted one eye open again and gave him a small smile. "Haven't been outside for a while. Just thought I'd enjoy some fresh air."

"Sure. And sunlight, the laughter of small children," nodded House, limping up to him. "You going to burst into song now?"

"I might if you don't shut up," countered Wilson mildly. He tilted his head skywards again, and House valiantly managed not to roll his eyes. It was pretty cold outside the car, he realised suddenly. The flu was an extra problem that Wilson could probably do without right now, besides his own company and a mangled shoulder. House nudged him gently on his uninjured arm and tilted his head towards the open door. "Come on. You can watch the Discovery Channel inside." He was surprised to find that his voice sounded much softer than it had inside his head, and his forehead furrowed in annoyance.

Wilson nodded and stepped unsteadily away from the car, House following just behind him. He remembered how Wilson had walked beside him after the infarction, hovering around the periphery of his space in a way that had made House want to club him with his crutch. The remembrance did nothing to alter his current position.

"So, . . . do I actually get control of the remote?" asked Wilson, with what House considered foolish optimism.

"No. That was obviously a lie," he said breezily. "First person to the couch gets control of the remote." On cue he nimbly overtook Wilson, and rested against the door while he caught up, propping it open for his entrance. "How much do you want to bet that today, I can outrun you?"


To Wilson's complete lack of surprise, they ended up watching some Australian soap opera that House had been idly following for a shameful number of weeks. The cast was made up entirely of wide-eyed teen models, flinging themselves around a beach and at each other, while House made gleefully disparaging remarks about Chase's homeland and, inevitably, Chase himself. Wilson found himself smiling along with House's commentary as a blonde surfer tossed his hair dramatically on the edge of the sand, and within an hour, feet carefully propped up on the coffee table and back resting against a small stack of cushions, he was saying "Oh ho!" knowingly as Cassie kissed Jason, but looked longingly at Seth.

His mental powers must have weakened in the hospital.

But it was so good to do this - to enjoy something mindless and casual in the company of someone else; to be relaxed and free from the scrutiny of the staff and the police and himself. House's house wasn't the same cold, stretching space as a hospital room or a parking lot; all the shadows were warm and worn and shaped around a human presence. It smelt of leather and coffee - it was un-clinical, private, - wonderful.

However, in an unfair twist, the laughter was making his side hurt with a steady throb that made him nauseous. He glanced around for his bag, dumped carelessly on the other side of the table beyond his reach, and quashed the immediate groan that threatened to rise out of him. Pain was a small price to pay for the change of scenery, . . . and House had already made enough withering comments against his declarations of independence.

"Meds?" asked House lazily. He was hopping channels before the credits had time to finish rolling.

"Yeah." Wilson glanced at him in surprise. Maybe five years of feeling constant pain had given House some sort of radar, he mused absently, as House leaned forward and hooked the handle of the holdall with his cane. Like a really depressing superpower.

House tossed him bag and then swiped his own pills from his pocket. He held up the little yellow bottle in a toast and quirked an eyebrow at Wilson. "Santé!"

Or -- maybe House is incapable of forgetting about drugs for more than an hour at a time, Wilson amended. He'd noticed that House had started synchronising his Vicodin doses with Wilson's own meds, clearly operating under the assumption that it was harder for Wilson to comment on his drug use when he was popping pills himself. Wilson fought down a burst of exasperation; it was irrelevant and illogical, but as happened so often with House's little schemes, it was also weirdly true, and House knew it

. . . Damn. He dropped the bottles onto his lap and pursed his lips in vexation. Perfect.

House blinked at him curiously. "Saint Jimmy saying 'no' to drugs?"

"No," said Wilson, suppressing an urge to sigh. He surrendered himself to the situation. "Childproof caps."

House stared for a second, and then snorted with mirth, while Wilson nodded resignedly and rolled his eyes.

"Yes, hilarious. I always forget; it's your bedside manner that marks you out from the common herd," he said, his voice laden with irony. House, grinning wolfishly, finally reached over and popped the caps with ostentatious ease, unashamedly tickled by Wilson's irked expression and the hospital's prescription policies. "Got any water?"

House stopped smirking, and muttered something that sounded distinctly like 'amateur' before heading into the kitchen.

"Last time I checked," he shouted from somewhere near the fridge, "you can still walk." Wilson sank slightly deeper into the cushions.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to deprive you of an excuse to exercise your caring side," he said charitably. A glass was suddenly thrust under his nose; Wilson had to stop himself from inspecting if it had been washed. While he was too dizzy to stand long at the sink, what he didn't know couldn't hurt him.

"Smugness doesn't become you," House informed him, but his eyes still looked amused when he slouched back onto the couch and swiped the remote.

Within ten minutes everything was slightly misty again; Wilson's side hurt less, and his shoulder too, but he felt the same lethargy and heaviness he would now forever associate with being a patient, and he had a horrible feeling that the vertigo might return when he got to his feet. He didn't even notice the tv turning off until someone was shaking his arm. "What?"

"No passing out in my bed," said House, looking at him appraisingly. Wilson blinked groggily, and then realised; he'd be taking the bedroom.

"Oh," he said, stupidly. "Yeah." He stood up slightly too fast and clutched the top of the couch, trying to remember which direction he was meant to be facing. House had already vanished into the bathroom, and he made his way down the hall, into House's bedroom, suddenly feeling intrusive and out of place.

He had to sit down on the bed before he did anything else; and then he noticed that at some point while he'd been on the couch, House had put his meds (caps off) and a glass of water on the dresser, and his clothes (from his hotel room? he realised blearily), were in a suitcase at the foot of the bed. He blinked at the pile of his stuff and tried to snap his brain out of the fog. House must have sent a member of his team to pick his case up, he realised belatedly. He hadn't really thought about any of this. It suddenly dawned on him - he hadn't really thought about anything practical since House had offered him an alternative from isolation; he'd just seized on it and handed over the reigns, and hadn't thought about House and his leg on the couch, or his stuff and his car magically appearing where they were supposed to be . . .

He buried his face in his hands for a minute and breathed deeply. When he sat up again, his brain felt much clearer and he felt a lot more depressed, at this close of what had felt like a casual evening. He'd never felt like a guest when he'd been here before. Obviously, that was always what he'd been, but --

Wilson shook himself and reached down gingerly towards the suitcase. Sweatpants first. Changing was slow, and laborious, and made him hiss his breath out with his teeth. Then a t-shirt. This was the part he hadn't exactly figured out yet. He stared at the cloth scrunched in his hand; his arm was in his shirt, which was in the sling; so to take off the shirt, he had to take off the sling; and then put on a shirt; and then redo the sling, none of which was possible without having his good arm stir his ribs and stitches into a vicious ache. It had buckles that were practically on the back, for God's sake. It was designed by sadists.

Wilson looked around for a mirror, but of course House wouldn't have anything as obvious as a mirror in his bedroom. He needed to fathom the logistics; he could sleep in the shirt he was wearing, but then there was tomorrow - eventually he'd have to change. He didn't want to call House for help either, after sprawling around drugged in the man's living room. He bit his lip and stared down at himself. Crap. It was obvious now he thought about it, and they were both professionals, (yes, he reminded himself, even House,) but -- but he couldn't quite bring himself to step into the hall and yell for his friend to undress him.

"Hey!" Wilson jumped slightly as House rapped sharply on the door, and then let himself in, limping towards the bed. "Pillow," he muttered, swiping one off the bed and returning to the doorway to hurl it in the general direction of the couch. Wilson licked his lips nervously as House turned back and looked at him.

"Er --"

"Good Lord, how long does it take you to get undressed?" asked House incredulously. "It's not that difficult." He stepped forwards and started unbuttoning Wilson's shirt with irritated efficiency. "Not even one button down?"

"Uh, -- " Wilson felt incredibly awkward now, with his good arm hanging uselessly at his side, and House's face only an intimate space of inches from his own, frowning down in concentration. He swallowed.

House paused, and sniffed. "Are you wearing cologne?"

" . . . What?"

"You're wearing cologne, on the day you get discharged from hospital?" Wilson briefly forgot to feel embarrassed, and bristled instead.

"And?"

House's hands went to his shoulders, flipping him round and starting on the sling. "And, who the hell were you trying to impress? Did you think it would add to your charm while you drooled on my couch?"

"House, I did not - "

"Was it one of the nurses? Alice, whatever her name is?" guessed House, and Wilson gave a small gasp of pain as his arm was manoeuvred out of the immobiliser.

"It's Alicia, and I wasn't trying to impress anybody! Not everyone seizes on physical injury as an excuse to regress to caveman standards of hygiene," he snapped pointedly. He could feel House rolling his eyes behind him, more certainly than he could feel his arm being guided into a sleeve.

"Please, the one bonus of winding up in hospital - arm there, - is that you don't have to give a crap about what you look like." House paused. "That, and not having to get up to pee."

"Like you give a damn about -- ow!" God, that hurt, " - how you look on a normal day?!"

"I have animal magnetism," House informed him, yanking the strap tight around his torso again with a decisive wrench. "I don't need fancy ties and three-hundred dollar French shoes." Wilson suddenly realised he hadn't been prodded for several seconds, and turned around. Then he looked down. And frowned.

"House -- this is not a t-shirt." How it had mysteriously appeared on his body in the last few seconds of sniping and discomfort was another mystery entirely. House shrugged.

"I'd like to see you get a t-shirt on without lifting your arm over your head. It's a thin sweater. It has a front. With a zipper." He grinned. "Think you can handle a zipper?"

Wilson put his hand on his hip, and ignored House's mounting amusement. "Funny."

"How's that feel?" House picked up his cane and jabbed it towards the sling; Wilson swatted it away. He tried to wiggle his arm.

"Good, . . . I can't move it."

House nodded in satisfaction. "Good." He still looked utterly unfazed as he turned back towards the door, while Wilson suddenly realised that he had somehow made a successful transition into his pyjamas without any apparent input from his own brain.

"By the way," added House in the doorway, "if you decide you do need anything - just try to suffer quietly. I actually have to go to work in the morning."

"Right," said Wilson, blinking after him. "Um, - "

"'Night." The door swung closed.

" . . . Goodnight," called Wilson. He stood facing the door for several seconds, finally kicking his discarded shirt into the corner and sitting on the side of the bed. Only House could simultaneously help you and make you want to throttle him. Today the familiar reflection felt bittersweet in his tired brain.

He lay back slowly, until he was staring up at the shadowy ceiling, and then raised his head and looked at his left hand. There was something weirdly fetal about his loosely-curled fingers as they rested on his chest. He tried to move them. His hand tingled as if static was earthing on his skin, but nothing else happened.

Wilson flopped his head back against the bed. Time, he told himself. It just takes time.

From down the hallway, diluted by the distance, came the step-thump of House moving around. On his back, the dizziness stopped, and the nausea. He didn't reel: he floated. His eyes closed and his chest rose and fell with a steady, heavy rhythm; and in time, he could feel his heart inside him, clenching and unclenching like a fist. And a sense of solidity smoothed over all of him; not the heaviness of lethargy, or the sickening lightness of his meds; he felt held fast, centred firm.

Somewhere, beyond the epicentre of House's bed and his body, there were officers who wanted to talk to him; surgeons who needed to fix him; people and patients and three men in particular, caught up inextricably in his orbit until some future trial. They didn't feel like his problems.

He knew they were; he knew they had to be faced, but right now, for the first time, that didn't bother him either. Not right now, half-wrapped in sleep, tipping on the edge of unconsciousness. Now there was just the physical pull of exhaustion; a feeling of relaxing muscle, sealed-shut eyes, lungs filling and his body pulling him down, deeper and deeper into the bed. It was such a strange feeling: a deliberate weight spreading and creeping through every limb, . . . weight like a ball must feel, he thought drowsily, at the zenith, suspended; in that moment of reprieve before it starts to fall.

Time. Space. Shelter. This was refuge. It was temporary, and it was weird, but right now it was perfect. This was all he wanted.