When we last left our heroes, House was being a self-destructive idiot, Wilson was busy guilting himself over being a crappy friend, and Cuddy was regretting some of the things she'd done. Same old same.

Chapter 32: Solipsism

Despite the emotional and psychological trauma typically associated with them, there was something peaceful about hospital rooms with sleeping patients inside. Not wanting to disturb that rare commodity, peace, Wilson carefully slid the door to House's room open, awkwardly clamping a few hours' worth of paperwork against his side and balancing a coffee container with one arm.

One of the nurses—probably one of the ones angry at Cuddy—had constructed a pillow fortress around House's right knee and ankle before turning him on his right side. Or trying to: House, it appeared, had tried to roll onto his back again, leaving him sprawled haphazardly with his head facing left, his torso raised slightly on a pillow placed behind his back to keep him from rolling over, and his hips facing right because his left leg hadn't obeyed the 'roll over' command. The only thing that hadn't moved was his right leg, encased as it was in five or six pillows.

Wilson cringed at the thought of House's twisted spine, put the paperwork and coffee down, and beckoned to one of the nurses to help him adjust the big sleeping lunk. Her sympathetic smile and the care with which she helped Wilson move House to realign his spine—really, the fact that she hadn't scowled at the sight of House—told Wilson she was one of the anti-Cuddy nurses. He tried to return her warm smile, but succeeded only in looking like he'd been chewing on dirt.

I'm not one of the good guys, he wanted to tell her, but the situation wouldn't allow it.

House snorted and mumbled and swatted weakly at the mattress but remained asleep. The nurse smiled at him like he'd done something cute. Wilson allowed himself to be sickened on House's behalf. House would have to work hard to alienate the nurses who'd protested Cuddy's treatment of him. Wilson told himself to remember to have a talk with them before House was conscious again; nice people—especially nice nurses—shouldn't suffer for being nice.

He found himself giving the nurse a real smile.

You're turning into Cameron, his internal House said. Just don't start hitting on me.

And promptly he stopped smiling.

The nurse straightened the fold on House's gown and gave his chest a little pat. Wilson flashed the dirt smile again and nodded a thank-you as she exited. Welcome to Bizarro World. Where else could nurses actually like House?

And where else could he, Wilson, be the villain?

He gripped the bed rail and sighed. House looked like crap, but still better than he had this weekend. After last night, during which he'd gotten no sleep according to the nurses, he'd be out most of the day.

He was out now—still out. They hadn't exactly manhandled him, but House was a light sleeper who wasn't on heavy meds. Wilson frowned.

But before he could run a cost-benefit analysis of waking House, his breakfast tray arrived.

Wilson helped set it up, and was pleased when the noise bothered House, who took too deep a breath and began coughing.

By the time he finished, he was red from face to chest, gripping his ribs protectively, and glowering at Wilson.

"You sound better," Wilson offered.

House continued to glower for effect, then grunted and closed his eyes.

"Hey," Wilson said, stepping next to the bed so he could snap his fingers in House's face, "breakfast time."

"Tired," House croaked.

"You need to eat," Wilson answered.

House didn't respond.

Wilson sighed heavily, very annoyed at House. Today was Wednesday. The fight had occurred on Friday night. Saturday's lunch was comprised of jello and broth; Saturday's dinner was Fentanyl for the late-presenting ligament strain. Sunday morning was the same cream of wheat probably lurking in one of the maroon containers right now, then jello, then the first real food House had had, a sandwich, but dinner was meds again: Levaquin, Versed, Demerol, other medication for the pneumonia he'd developed and the second surgery he'd required after tearing the stitches in his abdomen. Then back to liquids Monday morning, bland solids at noon and a full container of soup for dinner—good—a real breakfast on Tuesday which he'd only picked at—and that was it. From late yesterday morning until early this morning, he'd been in a non-responsive detox/sulk, ignoring everything and everyone, including lunch and dinner.

Added up, he'd gone over four days without adequate nutrition. So right now, he would eat, Wilson decided. He could sleep after he ate.

"Hey," Wilson said loudly. "You don't eat now, you get a feeding tube."

House scrunched his face petulantly, groaned, and pressed the button to raise the head of the bed.

Satisfied, Wilson began uncovering dishes. Yes, there was the cream of wheat, but House also got eggs, sausage, toast, pancakes, and a fruit medley.

Wilson shrugged, his own stomach growling at the sight and smell of food. "Looks decent."

House must have heard his stomach, because he slapped Wilson's hands, pulled the tray close, and stuffed three-quarters of the sausage patty into his mouth.

"Mine," he said half-around chewed sausage.

Wilson held his hands up and backed away, pleased at the sight of House trying to choke himself with food but smart enough to hide his pleasure.

House gestured toward the television with the remainder of the sausage patty. Feigning annoyance, Wilson nodded toward the remote control built into the rail of the bed.

"Or do you want me to do it for you?" Wilson asked snidely.

House swallowed and held up the sausage. "Only one working hand," he said.

"And you're using it as a shovel," Wilson commented with disgust as House crammed toast in with the rest of the sausage.

House rolled his eyes: duh.

So Wilson feigned more annoyance, found the right button, and turned the television on.

"Should I ask what you want to watch, or would I be wasting my time?"

"Oo awedy asted ur ime."

"What?"

House swallowed and glowered. "I'll tell you when to stop." Then he lifted half a handful of scrambled eggs to his mouth, spilling bits of yellow fluff on his chest.

"You're making a mess," Wilson carped, dividing his attention between House and his channel changing duties.

House ignored him, grabbing the rest of the eggs while he chewed.

In the time it took Wilson to cycle through the channels twice, House had eaten everything except one pancake and the cream of wheat.

"This is why I'm never up at 8 a.m.," House complained, biting into the last pancake.

"You want it off?" Wilson asked.

House just shrugged. Wilson took that as an okay to sit down and stare at a piece of paper.

House finished the pancake, drank the bottle of orange juice in three huge gulps, belched loudly, and pushed the tray away.

"Lovely," Wilson commented, not taking his eyes from the memo he hadn't managed to absorb yet. Secretly, he was very, very happy.

"What does Cuddy the Terrible have me doing today?" House asked. "Getting neutered? Or—"

"Double physical therapy," Wilson said before House could continue. He did his very best not to look uncomfortable, but House had picked up on his tone and—yes, House was scrutinizing him. To avoid squirming, Wilson reached into his pocket for the pill bottle Cuddy had given him and tossed it to House.

"Also from Cuddy," Wilson said.

House grunted as the bottle bounced into his lap.

"Cuddy's sticking with aspirin?" House asked as he read the label.

Wilson shrugged. "You can have it with ibuprofen if you want."

House sniffed. "And here I was the whole time, thinking hydrocodone was the problem."

Wilson shrugged again. "The anti-inflammatory and antiplatelet actions benefit you."

House closed a fist around the bottle, trying to stare down Wilson. "Ri-ight."

Wilson refused to meet his stare.

"So why detox me last night?" House asked rhetorically, squeezing the bottle.

Wilson bristled. "She felt it was the best course of action at the time," he said. "Then she realized that not only was it stupid, but it was also harmful, negligent—all of those bad words."

House was interested in Cuddy's move now, gazing off into the distance beyond Wilson's right shoulder. "But why not stick to her guns—detox me completely, prove her stupid, harmful, negligent Neurontin theory wrong?"

Wilson saw the realization coming and cringed.

"Thanks," House said in an uncharacteristically perky tone, then relaxed into the pillows and closed his eyes, the new pill bottle still in his hand.

Wilson frowned and cocked his head. Thanks? House clearly preferred to trust him.

He shook his head. Cuddy would be pleased that House still trusted him. House seemed pleased. Thanks? House never thanked anyone.

Of course, they'd had this conversation an hour and a half after House's first narcotic dose in almost twenty-four hours. After breakfast, too—a substantial breakfast which House needed and which had no doubt opened the endorphin flood-gates. House felt good, and attributed that good feeling to Wilson's intervention.

Crap.

A strange wheeze-snore emanated from the bed. Wilson glanced at House's slack face, weighing the need to unburden himself with House's need to believe he had an ally. The choice wasn't hard to make.

He closed his eyes, scratched his head, and blew out a breath. House was going to drive him to…to he didn't know what.

But this he knew: every last scrap of paperwork, here and in his office, he deserved.