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April 2001

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"Psssst."

Wilson was dictating some notes into his microcasette recorder when he heard it. He barely paused as he glanced up, catching sight of House at his office door. He looked down at the chart, and continued talking into the recorder.

"Pssssssssst."

He looked up again. House was gesturing broadly to Wilson urging him out into the hallway. Wilson rolled his eyes, and continued with his notes. A few moments later he heard his office door close, then the sound of the syncopated tap and step of House crossing the room. He heard the squeak of the chair as House lowered himself into it. He finished his notes, turned off the recorder and closed the file.

"You hissed?"

"That's usually a signal," House said. "Supposed to get your attention, but all stealth-like. Y'know, get you to do something."

"I must have missed that class at super secret spy school, what with all that time spent at medical school instead."

"And here you've got everyone believing you're some kind of a super genius who knows everything." House stretched out his legs, sneaking the left one under the right to give it a little extra height. "They'd be so disappointed if someone were to let it slip that you weren't perfect."

Wilson leaned back, elbows propped on the arm rests, hands resting on his stomach. "I'm busy," he said. "Paperwork. What do you want?"

"I'm not," House said. "Bored. Want to play hooky."

House spun his cane as it rested upright under his right hand, playing with the handle between his thumb, index finger and middle finger. He'd always had the unconscious habit of playing with any little object at hand -- paper clips, a rubber band, pens, paper. Now it was often the cane.

Wilson glanced at his watch, noting both the time and the day.

"You know Cuddy only lets you off clinic duty because she thinks you're in PT. If she finds out you've been skipping ..."

"She'll what, make me write 100 times on a blackboard: 'I will not have any fun?' Besides, she's only interim dean. Not like she can really do anything."

"For now," Wilson warned. "A lot of the committee members have been impressed with how she's been handling things. She'll have the inside track if they decide to go with an internal candidate."

"Then I'd better make sure she doesn't find out. Be all stealthy and stuff."

"How about you just, I don't know, go to PT like you're supposed to."

House's face took on the narrow-eyed squint it usually did when he was judging some person or topic unworthy of his time.

"Don't have to. All better now. I keep this around just so I can get the good parking spots," he said, rapping his cane on the edge of Wilson's desk.

For the first few months, House had been dedicated to his therapy, and his efforts paid off as he progressed from crutches to cane. As he gained strength and learned how to use his remaining muscles to help take up some of the slack from the missing chunk of quad muscle, he could walk further with the cane. He leaned less on it now than he had even four months earlier.

But when Stacy left for good, he became less likely to doing any extra exercises at home. As it became clear that he'd always need the cane, House took less and less notice of his scheduled PT, his therapy becoming like one of those games that he discarded as soon as he figured out the final solution.

"Whatever, fine." Wilson let the topic drop for now. "But I'm still busy."

"It's important," House said. "I've got something to show you."

"Last time you said that, it turned out you'd found a web cam link for Amsterdam's Red Light district."

"As if you didn't enjoy that."

Wilson didn't argue the point. "What is it?"

"Can't tell you. It's a surprise."

Wilson hesitated. Looked at House, then at the stack of charts he needed to finish going through.

"It'll be worth it," House promised. "And it won't take long."

"Can't it wait?"

"Nope. We've got to be there before 5."

Wilson looked at his watch. "Give me a half-hour," he said, finally giving in.

"Twenty minutes," House pushed himself up out of the chair, eased the office door open and took a quick look down both sides of the hallway before walking out. "You're driving."

House was leaning up against the car when Wilson made it out there 30 minutes later, his weight carefully distributed between his left leg, cane and the fender of Wilson's BMW. Wilson gave himself a mental kick for taking the extra time to finish that last file. If he'd set it aside, House wouldn't have had to stand there waiting for him.

"Sorry," he said, trying to keep his tone casual. "Got a call. Been waiting long?"

House glanced at his watch. "Oh yeah, 'bout a good two minutes, I'd say. I knew you'd be late. You always are when you've got your head in a case file. I figured if I gave you 30 minutes, you'd take at least 45."

Wilson just rolled his eyes and hit the key fob to unlock the doors, tossing his jacket and briefcase in the back seat.

"You going to tell me where we're going or should I just guess?"

"Patience young Padawan, all will become clear."

"God, I knew I shouldn't have given you that DVD."

"Of course you shouldn't have. I asked you to bring me the complete set of 'Naughty Nurses,' what do I get? Jar-Jar Binks. At which point did you think I'd lost every sense of taste I've ever had?"

"Jesus, House, Julie was with me. I was trying to make a good impression."

Julie had also been the most recent passenger in Wilson's car and House had to adjust the seat all the way back before he pulled his right leg up into the car, then reached over and closed the door.

Wilson backed out the space and headed down the ramp.

"How about a hint as to the general direction we're heading," he said as he neared the exit, the gate automatically rising at the car's arrival.

"Take the River Road north. It's a nice day, might as well enjoy it."

Wilson stole a good look at House as he looked right, waiting for the traffic to clear. A strong spring sun was shining down, bathing House in the afternoon rays. The bright light seemed to accentuate the dark circles under House's eyes, the pale skin. Before the infarction, House's face was always tan, the result of time spent outside -- winter or summer.

He knew that House often had problems sleeping, though he'd never mention it. Of course, he'd never needed much sleep before, but Wilson knew that back then, when he slept, he slept soundly. Now, unless he gave in a took a sedative, his leg made it harder for him to get to sleep and stay asleep. If the pain didn't wake him, the sounds outside did -- passing sirens, a car door slamming, a fight next door.

Of course, Wilson mused as he pulled out into traffic, he'd had his own sleep issues, recurring dreams that interrupted his nights. He expected they'd fade, eventually. They had before. When his brother had disappeared, he'd see him in his dreams, always in trouble. He'd see Jack stepping off a curb into the path of a speeding car, or tumbling off a bridge or walking into a dark alley where Wilson just knew a madman lurked.

And each time, in each dream, Wilson had seen himself as well. Always two steps too slow to stop Jack no matter how hard he tried. His entire body held back by some somnambulant version of quicksand. He'd reach out and touch only empty air, unable to pull him back from the edge.

The dreams had grown less frequent in the months after Jack's disappearance, but resurfaced on occasion -- near Jack's birthday, following a conversation about him with their parents or when the weather turned cold and Wilson remembered how Jack had refused to take James' coat the last time they met.

Now the dreams were back, but he saw House in them, rather than Jack.

Wilson didn't know if bad dreams were part of House's sleep problems, though he suspected they were. He knew House had met with a psychiatrist at least a few times as part of his therapy. He had heard him bitch about it often enough, although House had never hinted at what went on during the few sessions he'd had before he canceled them -- despite Stacy begging him to continue.

Wilson had sat quietly in a corner of the living room soon after House had returned home, trying not to listen to House and Stacy argue in the bedroom.

"It's important," she'd said, her voice raising in volume to match his. "Things are different for you now, your life is different. You have to accept that you can't do everything you used to."

"You think I don't know that? You think that somehow I don't have a reminder every second of the day?"

"You've adapted," she said. "You haven't accepted it."

"Oh God, you've been reading their literature haven't you?" Wilson could hear House's voice move from the bedroom to the hallway. "At least this isn't something you can force me to do without my permission."

Stacy left a few weeks later, first asking Wilson to keep an eye on him while she took a break, then calling a few weeks later to ask him to send a few of her belongings to a new address.

"Have you told Greg?" Wilson could hear a mixture of voices in the background, but couldn't make out where she was.

"Yes." She was quiet for maybe 20 seconds, only the sound of the background voices coming through the line. "It didn't go well."

"Will you be coming back?"

More silence. The background noise was upbeat. If he were forced to, Wilson would have guessed she was at a restaurant or bar.

"I don't know. A friend of mine says his practice is looking for someone new. It'd be a good opportunity. I might look into it."

"Don't make any rash decisions."

"Any other rash decisions, you mean." When she wanted to, Stacy could give House's sarcastic tone some serious competition.

"That's ... that's not what I mean." Wilson knew his track record on convincing Stacy to see his point of view was far from stellar. "You're good for him. He may not say that now, but he knows it."

"I wish I was as sure as you are."

Wilson had gone to House's, uncertain if his friend would even answer the door. He did, eventually. Wilson heard the uneven step and tap of the cane through the door before the lock even turned.

"Checking up on the cripple? Here I am, still in one piece -- what's left of me anyway." House stood in the narrow gap between the partially opened door and the frame, the room behind him dark. "You've done your good deed. Now go home."

"But I've got beer." Wilson hefted a six-pack of Sam Adams. "And I don't feel like drinking alone."

"I do. Go home Wilson."

"No."

"I don't need you here, got it? You're absolved of any responsibilities. Guilt free. Go find yourself a willing blonde and let her make a man out of you."

"No."

Wilson stared House down. He still had a spare key and knew House couldn't keep him out, but was hoping he wouldn't have to use it.

"You're going to need more than a lousy six-pack," House said, moving slightly to the left.

"I've also got Jameson's."

"Should have mentioned that to start with." House stepped back, allowing the door to swing open a little wider. Wilson took the space he was offered, and slid past House into the room.

"Turn left on Main." House's voice from the passenger side interrupted Wilson's thoughts, drawing back to the sunny spring afternoon. "If we're lucky, there'll be some parking open on the street at the end of the block."

Wilson stole a quick look at House, but House was looking out the window for signs of an open spot. "Where, exactly, are we going?"

"Restaurant. Name of Anton's."

"Yeah, I know Anton's. I took Julie there on our first date."

"You've mentioned."

"But you hate Anton's."

House winced. "I never said I hated it."

"Pretentious? Overpriced? Big on presentation and short on taste? Any of that sound familiar?"

"Ah, but I never said I hated it," House clarified. "But Julie loves it, and -- apparently -- you love Julie."

"Yes." Wilson found a spot and nosed the car in, turning off the engine. He remained in his seat, wondering what he could decipher from his friend's hints. "She even wanted Anton's to cater the wedding, but he said he's completely booked."

"Now he's not." House swung open the door and began the procedure of exiting the car -- moving his leg onto the concrete sidewalk, swiveling to get his second leg out and placed alongside the right leg, then positioning the cane and finally shoving himself up by pushing down on both the car door and the cane. He paused for a moment before taking a small step to the side, making room for the door to close.

"And you know this how?" Wilson paused at the front of the car for House to move up to his side before heading toward the restaurant.

"His partner's been sick. Everyone thought it was something he picked up on vacation in Belize, but no one could figure out what."

"Wait." Wilson put his hand on House's arm, drawing his attention. "Was this that case you handled last week? The allergic reactions to the mold from a rehabbed house?"

"Two-century old farmhouse," House confirmed. "All kinds of nasty bugs been living there for a long time, waiting for the right candidate to attack."

House turned back toward the restaurant, slowly moving toward the front entrance. Wilson could see movement behind the windows, someone making their way towards the door.

"They were grateful," House said. "Wanted to show their appreciation."

The locked door opened and Wilson recognized the chef pushing it out so they could enter.

"Dr. House! Good to see you made it. This must be your friend, Dr. Wilson?"

"James Wilson." He held out his hand for a quick handshake before Anton went back to the door to lock it behind them. House settled himself into the closest booth and reached into his pocket.

"I've got some proposed menus I could show you," Anton said. Wilson could hear House shaking out a Vicodin from the bottle. "Or are we waiting for your fiancee?"

"Wilson wanted to surprise her," House interjected. "I'm sure she'll be happy with anything he chooses, right?"

"Absolutely," Wilson said. "Surprises can be a good thing, sometimes."

"OK, I'll get the paperwork and be right back. Make yourself comfortable. There's coffee over there, if you want some." Anton gestured toward the long wooden bar at the side of the room, then headed out through a back door.

"Black, two sugars."

Wilson stared at the doorway the chef had gone through for a moment, before crossing over to the bar, too stunned to say anything. He found the coffee behind the bar, found two cups and poured them each some. He dug around for a moment longer to find sugar and two spoons and give himself a moment to think.

He put both cups on the table and sat across from House, staring at him and trying to find the right words.

"Um, you, uh."

"It's so hard to know what's the appropriate gift for a third wedding, don't you think?" House came to his rescue. "God knows I wanted to stay away from anything monogrammed -- for reasons beyond the obvious taste issue."

"House," Wilson finally managed. "Thanks. Julie is going to flip out."

"I figured. Think she'll be grateful enough to forget about ..."

"No way. Not even close."

"Ah well." House shrugged, stirred his coffee. "But maybe you'll be grateful enough to drop all this best man business."

"Nope. You are not getting it out of it that easy, House. I'm counting on you."

"But there's that whole tux issue. I sent mine to the cleaners years ago and never got it back."

"I'll buy you a new one."

"And the last time I went into a church, they had this whole 'No talking' thing going. They practically threw me out. I'm probably on some black list and won't be able to get in the door."

"It's at a synagogue."

"Even worse. I pissed off every mohel in town when I told a couple it was more hygienic to have their son circumcised at the hospital than at home."

"I'll bribe the rabbi."

"I might have to hock your rings to pay for my drug habit."

"I'll get some replicas made, just in case."

"Isn't this something that brothers usually do? Why can't Dan do it?"

"He was the best man at my first wedding. And I want you there." Wilson took a drink of the coffee, the rich taste he'd remembered from his dinners here with Julie. "Besides, I want to make a good impression on my new in-laws."

House swallowed his coffee down quickly, coughed for a moment and set down the cup before taking a look at Wilson, seeing the hint of a smile on his face, but unable to figure out exactly why.

"And how, precisely would I do that?"

"You wouldn't. Not directly," Wilson said. "But I figure anyone is going to look good in comparison to you."

House picked up his cup again, stared down Wilson over the rim as Anton reentered the room, grabbing a chair to join them at the booth.

"Don't look so smug, pal. I haven't written my toast yet."