Title: Of a Thursday
Author: Sy Dedalus
Rating: T, TV-14, PG-13
Pairing: House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship
Spoilers: Season One
Warnings: WIP
Summary: House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction.
Disclaimer: Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass. Bloc Party's lyrics belong to them.
Credits: To Auditrix for beta duties.
A/N: Glad you guys enjoyed the last installment. Here be more. WARNING: Some language toward the end of this chapter. If language offends you, please look away.
Chapter 11: No Second Chances
Summertime has come and gone
All used up with wishful thinking
Get sussed out, get cynical
In this world there are no second chances
—Bloc Party, "Always New Depths"
Stacy was examining her fingernails, trying to decide whether to paint them or not and if so, what color, because she couldn't concentrate on anything that wasn't small and inconsequential right now. Wilson had brought lunch and they'd both half-heartedly poked at it, Greg's heart rate had improved to a steady 63, and Larson, the nephro doc, was tickled pink at how much better his urine looked (for once, she understood why he was the way he was: that much excitement over pee was more than a little strange), but it was almost two p.m. and he still hadn't stirred. She'd turned to contemplating her fingernails—anything to keep fear and anxiety at bay—when she heard his breathing change. A deep breath. A consciously taken deep breath.
Before she could look up, a rusty voice said, "Oh crap. I was right. I was hoping I wasn't right."
Her heart leapt into her throat and a half-laugh, half-cry came out from behind the hands she'd clamped over her mouth. There he was, looking like absolute crap, blinking heavily and tiredly, a faint grin on his pale face and that bemused glint in his eyes: awake. At last.
She was out of the chair and at the side of the bed, holding his hand so fast she didn't know how she'd gotten there. "Greg," she said squeezing his hand, "you're awake. Thank God."
"Atheist says 'what'?" he teased hoarsely, a smile spreading across his dry lips.
"You really scared me," she said squeezing his hand again, so happy when he squeezed back: it had seemed like his hand would stay limp forever. "Don't ever do that again," she said, voice choked.
"Yes ma'am," he teased hoarsely and smiled.
She held his hand up and kissed it, closing her eyes for a moment and thanking a deity she didn't believe in. Tears had somehow gotten in her eyes; she took a deep breath to steady herself and drew the chair up next to the bed, not letting his hand go for a second.
He tried to clear his throat and coughed a little. His eyes lit on a pitcher of water and he raised his eyebrows in silent questioning. She hesitated and he saw how reluctant she was to let go of his hand. Surely it wasn't that bad…
You're overreacting.
But before he could get the words out, she was offering him a cup of water and he was propping himself up to drink it, tossing the straw aside with a disdainful glare. He drained the cup and returned it to her, lying back down.
"Mmm, thank you," he murmured, rubbing a hand tiredly across his face. "Much better."
She smiled down at him with a look mixed with such raw fear, concern, relief, and joy that he immediately took her hand in his and patted it reassuringly with his free hand. Surely it wasn't that bad…but the way she looked…
He turned his eyes away for a moment and knew his heart rate had just shot up, but she wouldn't notice that. Not that bad. He ran his tongue along the top row of his teeth. "I need to brush my teeth," he said contemplatively. "They've grown fur." He turned to her, blue eyes piercing, and searched her face for some clue. He'd never been afraid of knowing something before. This wasn't a hard question to ask. The hard questions would come later, he imagined. The way she looked. He took a deep breath, trying not to seem shaken. That bad…
"How long was I out?" he asked, willing himself to feel nothing. It was a simple question. He wouldn't look nervous; he wouldn't look scared. He wasn't nervous or scared.
"It's about 2 o'clock," she said, noting the change in his expression but not quite able to read it. He could be so good at hiding what he was thinking. She tried to keep her tone light so it would match his. "About nine hours, give or take."
"Wow," he said making an impressed face. "Guess I missed lunch."
Stacy was so happy to hear another quick come-back. He was himself; he was okay. As long as he had his humor he was all right. She shrugged. "Monday's lasagna day," she said. "Saved yourself a nasty case of heartburn."
House snorted, smile still on his face. "I would've taken the heartburn," he muttered, eyes warm.
She winced a little, unable to avoid being hurt by his words. Of course she meant— she never would've suggested— No, she stopped herself. He was just being himself and she was just strung out from hours of waiting. Nothing more.
She put on a smile—a sad smile, but it the best she could do. "How are you feeling?" she asked, brushing his hair back with her free hand, distraught at how limp it felt now and trying not to show it.
"Tired," he said honestly and closed his eyes for a moment. Her fingers in his hair always felt so good. He felt like sleeping again, it would be so easy, so nice to go back to sleep now…she was there with him, everything was all right… No. He had to know. No matter how much he didn't want to know, he had to know. But he'd restrain himself. He wouldn't bark it out or hammer the call button until he had answers.
He took her hand instead and kissed it. "Tired," he repeated, "but better. Much better. You made the right call." He smiled warmly, pushing away the thought, if she hadn't.
Stacy breathed out a laugh, shaky with relief. "I had to," she said. "You wouldn't stop yelling at me."
His grin turned slightly sheepish. "Sorry about that." He could tell he'd really upset her. She was always so good in a crisis situation…it must have been—but no, it wasn't that bad.
"Everyone here is amazed," she said.
He rolled his eyes: duh.
"More amazed than usual," she clarified, rolling her eyes too. "I'd ask how you figured it out but I doubt I'd understand it."
She reached out to touch his cheek with her free hand, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to be closer to him, to know he was really okay. "You need to shave," she added.
House rubbed his face. "I do," he said, surprised at the amount of stubble he'd accumulated and aware now that it had been mentioned how much it itched. He stopped rubbing his chin and realized she was waiting for answer about how he'd reached the diagnosis. "Came to me in a dream," he said mystically.
"Well," Stacy said with a snort and an eye roll belied by her relieved smile, "not a moment too soon." Her expression softened and she kissed his hand again. "It's a good thing you were right. They won't tell me anything, but they were all on edge, especially James." All of the fear and worry from a seemingly incessant morning of waiting edged into her voice. "It was too close."
"They would've gotten it eventually," House said nonchalantly.
That's not what James said, Stacy thought, but she knew he knew that. Of course he knew that. He'd made the urgency of the situation abundantly clear this morning—this morning? was it really this morning? It felt like ages ago.
Sensing a pause in the conversation, House took a deep, steadying breath, feeling more awake now, and sat up a little to look around. The heart monitor was beeping steadily at 71. The oxygen mixture in his annoying nasal cannula smelled higher than he thought it should be; a quick glance at his O2 saturation rate confirmed that he was getting plenty of oxygen. He grumbled briefly to himself before continuing the check. Regular IV line; he didn't see anything but saline hanging above him. His left wrist was really sore; he glanced down. ABG. Of course. His right wrist hurt too. Multiple ABGs. No surprise there, though. He continued down and felt an expected tell-tale sensation in his lower region. He leaned over to get a look: orange. An improvement. His leg felt…heavy. Like it wasn't really there. It didn't hurt. He couldn't feel any dressing against his skin or any sore spots…but that was for later. Right now, he looked good. He felt good. Too good to be cooped up in the ICU.
He lay back again and looked at her. "I look good," he said aloud, satisfied with his present condition.
She took his right hand in hers and kissed it. "I know," she said smiling.
"Good enough that I shouldn't be on this floor," he said and pressed the call button.
"Greg, you don't know how bad it was," she protested, though she knew he'd do something like this. "It's too soon."
He brushed her off with empty platitudes, looking expectantly at the open door and the nurse coming toward it.
"I'd like to speak to my doctor," he said to her. "And bring me my chart."
He expected a rebuttal or an attempt to coddle him, but she merely nodded curtly and said, "I'll call her."
Well. She seemed to think he was okay too. …or had she been on the receiving end of another of Stacy's rants? He didn't doubt it.
"Have you been talking to them?" House asked with an approving grin.
"James has," she said. "Speeding to his friend's apartment at five in the morning makes him cranky apparently. Who knew?"
House snorted and scratched vacantly at one of the EKG leads on his chest. "He's not going to let me forget that one. He'll pick something simple, too, like saying I owe him lunch for a year. Daily reminder."
"Do you have to be irascible all the time?" she asked. "He saved your neck."
"You saved my neck," House replied, "but you won't go asking for something like that."
"Because I've already got it," she said meaningfully.
"So does he!" House protested.
"Men!" Stacy said to herself. "What is it about having a penis that inclines you to measure and compare all the time?"
House sniffed. "You're working on a case of penis envy Freud himself would be proud of," he said.
"I have only one word for you, mister," she said, the devilish gleam that meant trouble he was going to like a whole lot back in her eyes. "Inadequacy."
"Ohhh," House replied, "that hits hard below the belt." He looked at the ceiling. "When will I learn?" he said to himself. "Never fight with girls. They don't play fair."
He glanced at Stacy quickly and smiled, then craned his neck, looking through the glass wall toward the nurse's station. The nurse who'd come in earlier was on the phone and two others were milling about.
"Would you go get my chart?" he asked.
Her left eyebrow went up. "Impatient?"
"I've been very patient considering what a terrible patient I am," House said. "C'mon," he wheedled, "I'd get it myself but I'm sick and…" he considered how best to put it, holding up his arm to illustrate his point, really thinking of the Foley, "tethered." He put on his best exaggerated puppy dog expression.
Stacy rolled her eyes and stood up, smoothing out the wrinkles in her suit. "Yes, master," she said. "You wish is my command."
"That's right," he said as she rolled her eyes and left the room.
He dug around until he found the bed control and raised the head of the bed up until he could see his surroundings more easily. Much better. He glanced at a monitor to his left—98—and pulled the oxygen cannula out of his nose. Hospital air smelled much better than canned O2. He sniffed hopefully at the air to his right but couldn't detect any perfume. Damn. That would've been a nice smell to catch in the air after metallic, stinging oxygen.
He saw Stacy talking to one of the nurses. Good. He really needed to look at his chart. He was going nuts, not knowing what was wrong with him. His leg. He could feel that something was seriously wrong, primarily because he couldn't feel part of it. He felt around under the blanket, checking again for any sign of invasive treatment. No dressing, no surgery.
What caused ischemia but wasn't operable?
Infection.
They would've treated that already.
A tumor.
He shuddered. No. Not cancer.
Then again, he was currently parked in the ICU and Stacy had said it was bad…it…it what? His electrolytes had been seriously messed up—that could produce frightening symptoms. He remembered slow heart rate he'd felt before he passed out, but his chest didn't hurt so the arrhythmia must have been corrected chemically: no scary-looking equipment involved. She was smart, though, and she knew how to read people, especially Wilson. And if Wilson had been worried… Maybe they hadn't fixed it yet. And maybe—he glowered mentally at the idea—maybe they hadn't figured it out at all yet. He seriously hoped that wasn't the case. Not after all the incompetence he'd already endured.
He realized suddenly, just as Stacy returned to the room, that they hadn't even biopsied his leg. So they hadn't done anything. He cursed to himself as he took the chart.
"What is it?" she asked, standing next to him with worried look on her face.
"They haven't checked my leg out at all, have they?" he asked in a flat tone. The question was almost rhetorical since he had his chart now. He didn't look up at her. Labs, diagnostic notes, treatment notes, recommendations, results, more labs, more notes. Wow. He had been in bad shape. "Biopsy? MRI? CT scan? Anything?"
"No," Stacy said, brow furrowed. "Nothing. You were really sick."
House glanced at the remaining sheets—he'd improved rapidly, looking good, boring: that told him nothing—and shoved the chart at her in frustration. "Not that sick," he growled.
He was struggling to get up when a short, stout woman he recognized all-too-well breezed into the room. Larson. He didn't like her very much. Too peppy.
"Dr. House," she said brightly. "Nice to have you back with us."
She grasped House's hand and shook it, ignoring the fact that he was trying to get up and leave. "Feeling better now that your lytes aren't out of whack I bet," she said and smiled at Stacy. "Seen your chart, huh?" she said as Stacy offered it to her. "New labs to add." She brandished the papers. "Your creatine kinase level is still through the roof but your BUN and creatinine levels have both dropped significantly since you were admitted thanks to quick alkalinization—how'd you figure that out, by the way? probably saved yourself an hour's worth of damage or more—so I don't think you'll have much if any permanent kidney damage."
House, who'd lain back down while she spoke and let a sneer distort his features, tried to interrupt her throughout, finally succeeding when she stopped to take a breath.
"I know all that," he said, waving his hand impatiently. "What I'm more interested in is the source of the problem, i.e., my leg."
"We were waiting until you were in the clear to get—"
"I'm in the clear," House said angrily. "I've been in the clear." He propped himself up on his elbows, flushing with anger. "Run the tests," he said. "Now. Imaging studies until you find it, starting with an MRI. I assume you've already checked out bacterial and viral causes—"
Larson nodded.
"—and they're negative."
Larson nodded again.
"Too severe to be metabolic," House continued. "I assure you there's no trauma, though I'd like to think you actually examined me and came to that conclusion yourself, and I haven't been knocking back ethanol, though I know the labs told you I'm negative for it." The volume of his voice rose and it picked up speed as he spoke. "I'm thinking severe ischemia, I'm thinking thrombosis or tumor, I'm thinking my leg started hurting Thursday and no one caught it, and I'm thinking lawsuit unless you move your ass RIGHT NOW." He glared hard and let himself fall back, tired.
Larson squeaked.
"You're scheduled for an MRI and a CT scan in a half an hour," she said meekly. She tried to pep back up. "Good thing you woke up when you did," she said trying to be cheery. She'd never liked House.
"Yeah, that's great, but I know you can get me in now, so go do it," House growled. "If you're not back here in ten minutes with a wheelchair, I'm getting up and going down there as I am even if I have to crawl."
Larson squeaked again and nodded. "I'll go do that," she said backing quickly out of the room.
"Spineless," House muttered after her and rubbed his face again. Tired. His body had taken a beating, though, so it wasn't surprising.
"You don't have to be so mean," Stacy reproved, sitting back down next to him.
"They should've had these scans done hours ago," he said angrily. "I was never bad enough that they couldn't take me down there."
"You just read your chart," she pointed out. "I saw your face. You know that's not true."
"Who's the doctor here?" he snapped. She glared at him and he glared back for a moment. He sighed angrily, knowing she was right, and waved an apologetic hand. He wasn't mad at her. "They were just treating the symptoms—doing nothing to find the cause," he said, voice full of frustration. "The symptoms aren't going to magically disappear just because you throw a few chemicals at them."
"He lives!"
Two pairs of eyes snapped to the door to find a smiling James Wilson greeting them.
"I could hear you all the way down the hall," he said as he entered the room.
He squeezed Stacy's shoulder, exchanging a brief, meaningful look with her, then moved to the bed, holding his hand out to House.
House clapped it and squeezed hard, smiling broadly. "Barbaric conditions, man, sheer barbarism." He noticed Wilson had ditched the lab coat and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow already. His tie was loose. It was bad.
"He must be feeling better," Wilson said to Stacy, "he's complaining already."
Wilson turned back to House, their hands still locked together. "And you. Never do that again." His smile turned shaky. "Next time you want out of a match, fake your death and save yourself the trouble of nearly dying."
"You're just pissed because Nate gave you an earful," House said. He squeezed Wilson's hand again, hard, and let it go. "So what's this about pussyfooting over a few scans? Tell me you weren't a part of that."
"You weren't there—okay, you were there but not really," Wilson said. "Caution was the order of the day."
"That's crap," House said.
Wilson turned to Stacy. "Oh yeah, he's back."
"Will you two stop that," House said. "Go steal a wheelchair from one your dying kids, pronto. I need to be microwaved now."
He pushed himself up until he was sitting, left leg drawn up, right leg still stretched out.
Wilson watched him, noting how he moved. "Did Larson look at your leg?"
"Of course not," House said, clearly annoyed. "Nephrologists don't give a damn about limbs."
"Let me look at it first, okay?" Wilson said, hands on his hips. "Then I'll go knock someone out of their wheelchair. Physical exam comes first, remember?"
"Should've been done hours ago," House muttered, hand going to his hair, then rubbing his face. "Barbarism," he repeated.
"Uh, hello, you just woke up," Wilson said. "Consciousness kinda makes a difference when evaluating pain, sensation, uh, nearly everything."
House rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw: if you must.
Wilson's eyes flickered to Stacy.
"She stays," House said immediately.
Wilson gave him a long, searching look. House returned it without backing down and flipped the blanket away, exposing his leg. When he did look down, he blurted an obscenity.
"How long has it looked like that!" he asked. His leg was ashen grey, several shades paler than the rest of him.
"You see why we were being cautious," Wilson said.
"No, this is all the more reason to get a scan asap," House said angrily.
"Let's do this first and argue about it later, okay?" Wilson said. He nodded at House. "Whenever you're ready."
House glared at him again to register his annoyance, then stretched his left leg out again until it was flat against the mattress, gripped the bed rails, and tried to draw his right leg up. He grunted with effort but couldn't lift it past a certain point. His physiology training told him which muscles weren't working, though he knew ahead of time that his thigh was the problem.
"How does it feel?" Wilson asked, watching House closely for any sign of discomfort.
"Asleep," House said in a flat tone, staring blankly at his thigh. "Heavy. Dead. It tingles a little, but I can't feel most of it."
"The whole thing?" Wilson asked, trying to conceal his concern.
"No," House said, still staring at his leg. "Just the thigh. The quad." He drew an invisible oval around the area. "There."
"All of that?" Wilson said incredulously. That was most of the muscle group.
House nodded, trying not to look as scared as he felt.
"All right," Wilson said. "Lift it up with your hands. Bend it at the knee. Okay?"
House grabbed his leg under the knee pulled it up, left hand on the bed rail to keep himself balanced. He started struggling, unable to pull it all the way up, and Wilson carefully helped him until his foot was planted on the mattress. House kept staring blankly at his leg like it wasn't a part of him any longer, as though it had become an alien attachment that was hindering him. That wasn't his leg. His leg worked. He felt himself start to panic—muscle death, widespread muscle death—and pushed it down.
Wilson let go of House's leg.
"Did that hurt at all?" Wilson asked.
"No," House answered hollowly. "No change." He wiggled his toes and noticed a delay in sending the order out and having it filled. Impaired circulation, damaged nerves, dead muscle. His mind flashed options, most of which ended in him missing his right leg entirely. He tried to focus on the present instead. "It's uncomfortable but it doesn't hurt."
House and Wilson both noticed at the same time that House was still holding his leg in place.
Their eyes met.
"Let go," Wilson said, voice strained.
House did and from the hip to the knee, his leg sagged to the right. He tried to correct it, grunting with effort, feeling muscles near his hip joint and groin strain to hold the limb straight, and didn't stop until his leg was visibly shaking.
"That's enough," Wilson said and reached out to support it with his hand.
House let out the breath he'd been holding as he concentrated on making his muscles work and fell back on his elbows, breathing hard. "Shit," he said. "I was right again." He looked anxiously from Wilson to Stacy, realization and fear naked on his face. "Shit."
"Try to straighten it back out," Wilson said, not willing to believe what he saw.
"I can't," House said pitifully.
"Try," Wilson challenged.
"What's going on?" Stacy interjected. She knew something was wrong—he couldn't move his leg very well—but they were both acting like they'd discovered something life-threatening.
"You do it," House said petulantly and flopped back against the mattress, angrily shutting himself off, ignoring both Stacy and Wilson.
Wilson carefully extended House's leg until it was safely on the mattress again. He sighed deeply and glanced at House. House glared back angrily, then looked away: you tell her.
"The muscle in his thigh is compromised," Wilson said slowly, reluctantly meeting Stacy's gaze. "Severely compromised from the look of things." He blew out a breath and looked down, left hand going to the back of his neck.
"Say it," House mumbled, head turned away from them.
"It's dead," Wilson said softly, eyes on the floor. "It seems to be dead."
"No 'seems to be'," House snapped, turning back to them. "It's dead. That's it. MRI it now. Now. Every second that we wait…"
"Yeah," Wilson said quietly, gaze still fixed on the floor. He shook himself, snapping out of the daze he was in. "Do you know Lisa Cuddy?" he asked.
"Unless she works in radiology, I don't really care right now," House said, bitterness and anger vying for primacy in his voice.
"Do you?" Wilson pressed.
"Should I?" House sneered. "She's the associate dean. I try to stay as far away from management as I can."
"She's also the former head of vascular," Wilson said. "She's good. Obviously, you have your pick, but once the administration hears about this—and knowing you, that will be very soon—they'll want someone on damage control. McAllister's out of town—he's a gastro guy anyway—so she'll be paying you a visit either way. I'd recommend her."
"Fine," House said, "whatever."
"Damn right she's going to be hearing about this," Stacy muttered. Both men looked at her. "I was waiting for you to wake up before I went to anyone," she explained.
"Huh," House said, "I knew something was missing. The smell of litigation," he said, inhaling deeply, "invigorating."
"I have to do something," Stacy said. "This is the definition of malpractice."
"Let's wait until we know what's wrong before we—"
"Greg," Stacy said warningly.
Wilson held up his hands and started backing out of the room. "You guys work this out between yourselves," he said in a strained voice. "I'm going to go knock an old man out of his wheelchair."
House banged his left fist hard against the mattress and cursed loudly.
"You're scared," Stacy said softly.
"I'm pissed off," he all but shouted. "I'm really pissed the hell off. They fucked up big time."
"But you're okay now," she said vehemently, "and you weren't earlier. Whatever it is, it's not killing you anymore."
"It's not dying I'm worried about," he said, grinding his teeth and staring at the ceiling.
"Then what is it?" she said. "Look at me. Greg."
He turned to her, face red with anger.
She stared him down. "You know," she said. "I know you know. I know you've thought of all the hundreds of things it could be and you've got a few you think it is, or maybe just one. Tell me." She tried to take his hand but he jerked it away. "Tell me what you think it is."
He looked away, frustrated and annoyed.
"Okay," she said. "My knowing won't help the fact that you know. You're still burdened with knowledge and it sucks. But if you tell me, I can help."
He gave her an angry, doubting glance and looked away again.
"I can—hold your hand and tell you things you know aren't true," she said haltingly. "I'd do that anyway. But I'm going to be anxious until you tell me and that's not going to help you at all."
"I don't know anything," House said, cold rage in his voice. "I don't know anything because they don't know anything because they really fucked up." He slammed his left fist into the mattress again. "They should've done this hours ago. They should know what it is and be treating it." He took a deep breath, so angry that he felt like strangling someone. "Goddammit!" he shouted, "Every second counts!"
"Why?" Stacy asked, close to tears, anxiety overcoming her again. "What's wrong?"
"Muscle doesn't grow back," House snarled. "Once it's gone, it's gone and it's never coming back."
"What does that mean?" she asked despairingly. "Why are you so upset? If it's just your leg—"
"It's not just my leg!" he snapped.
"Where else is it?" she asked in a small, frightened voice.
"I don't know," House said, grinding his teeth again. "Maybe nowhere. That's why I need the damn MRI."
"So it may be just in your leg—"
"It's not just a leg, okay?" he snapped. "It may only be in the leg, but it's not just a leg, it's my leg."
"Greg," she said calmly, "what are you trying to say?"
He expelled an angry, frustrated breath and looked away.
"They might have to cut off my leg," he said, not looking at her. "Whatever it is, it's in the thigh. The whole leg." He paused and turned his head back to her, his eyes meeting hers. "They'd have to take the whole leg. All of it."
Stacy let out a sigh and looked down.
"I know," he said, reading it as a gesture of disappointment, "it really sucks." He blew out a shaky breath, anger fading, knowing that he had no right to take this out on her. "It really, really sucks." He covered his face with his hands, shaking. "Oh God, it sucks so much."
Her head snapped up. "Are you kidding?" she said incredulously. His hands fell away and he looked at her uncomprehendingly. "This is great news!" she exclaimed and took his hand in both of hers and kissed it. "I thought you were going to die, but if it's just you're leg, you'll be all right. Oh my God, I am so relieved."
"You don't get it," House snapped, snatching his hand back. "My whole leg! All of it! Gone! I'll have a bloody fucking stump!"
"You'll be alive!" she exclaimed. "Doesn't that matter to you! It's just a leg! Legs are replaceable; you're not!"
"Easy for you to say," he growled. "You're not the one whose life has just been seriously fucked."
"You're alive," she said, unable to understand why he was so upset. He almost died this morning and now he was fine. "Isn't that enough?"
"It shouldn't have to be," he said through clenched teeth and looked away again.
Stacy sighed. "Okay," she said. "This is getting us nowhere."
They both paused, neither looking at the other.
"You said might," she said after a moment. "Might also means might not."
"It does," he grudgingly conceded, "but until the results come back…I don't know. There's no way to know."
"Do you want me to call your parents?" she asked. "I know you have your issues, but your mother would want to know."
"No," House said. "They can't do anything. It's pointless… it'll only— No. Don't worry them."
"They've only got one son," she said. "Are you—"
"Yes, I'm sure," he interrupted. "Knowing them, they're in Finland or Estonia or the fucking South Pacific living it up. There's no point."
Stacy started to protest again.
"End of discussion," House said. "I don't want to hear any more about it."
Stacy allowed him that. They were his parents after all.
House grabbed both rails and pulled himself up. "Give me a hand," he said. "If they're not back by the time I'm up, I'm walking down there. Limping. Whatever."
She gave him a disapproving look but helped him anyway. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, right leg dangling off the side, wondering if he could lean back far enough to reach the Foley bag on the other side of the bed when Larson showed up with a wheelchair and Wilson tailing her.
Larson set about readying him for a ride to radiology while Wilson stood by, looking helpless.
"I paged Dr. Cuddy," he said. "If she doesn't call back in ten minutes, I'm going down there."
House nodded his approval. Larson signaled that he was ready and Wilson went to his right side without saying a word. House put his arm around Wilson's shoulders and hoisted himself up.
When he was standing, right foot just touching the floor, the ball and heel connecting lightly, he paused for a moment, glancing at Wilson.
Wilson read his body language and took his left hand, ready to duck from under House's right arm when House gave the signal.
"Now," House said and took his weight off of Wilson as Wilson moved just enough to let House try to stand on his own, hand tensing on House's left wrist in case House fell.
House laughed shortly. He could do it. He could stand. He could stand on his own.
Everyone in the room let out the breath they'd been holding.
Wilson let go of House's left hand and positioned the wheelchair so House would only have to pivot on his left foot and take a small step to the right to sit down. House turned, taking the hand Stacy offered on his right side, and managed the small step, catching himself as he fell, then let Wilson help him lower himself into the chair.
He went limp with relief for a moment, head falling forward, letting a deep breath out. Larson had picked up on the problem and bent to lift House's right foot on to the foot rest. House stayed as he was for a moment longer, then lifted his head and looked from Stacy on his right to Wilson behind him on his left, relieved, nearly smiling and very determined.
"Let's go," he said and they started forward.