-------------

2002

------------

Wilson could hear House's voice seeping out into the hallway before he even opened the door to the outer office. He stepped in and closed it quickly behind him. Cuddy's new admin assistant was on the phone, balancing the handset on one shoulder and rapidly taking notes. She nodded her head to indicate he should head in.

"The real problem," House was saying as Wilson walked in, "is that HMO's haven't figured out how to bill for curiosity. Jerk a patient from one useless specialist to another, and great, fine, they've got all the paperwork in order. Another test? Why not? We'll toss another claim in the file. But let a doctor take an interest in actually finding out what's wrong, and they're lost."

Cuddy offered an occasional nod in response, but otherwise concentrated on unpacking her boxes. She had been acting dean for more than a year, but played the smart political card and stayed in her old office until the new position was official -- no use upsetting some committee or board member into thinking she was somehow taking the post as a given.

"How long does this rant usually last?" she asked Wilson in greeting.

"Tough to say. It's one of his favorites and he's got a number of points he tries to hit before allowing anyone to get a word in."

"I told him I agreed with him five minutes ago, but that didn't even slow him down." She cleared out one box, dropped it neatly into a waiting bin, then opened another.

"Oooh, that's a nice one," Wilson commented as she hefted a tall trophy from the next box, and unwrapped the figure from beneath its protective bubble wrap. "Real metal, not painted plastic."

"Thanks. Mixed doubles at last year's charity tournament."

"You were matched with Fred Newcombe, weren't you? Julie says he has a lousy backhand."

"Let's just say I got my exercise that day and leave it at that."

"Hello? Talking here," House's cane broke between Cuddy and Wilson to tap the desk surface.

"Now he notices," Cuddy muttered to Wilson before turning to face House.

House had taken on the stance that he'd adopted in the years since the injury and surgery, the one meant to display pure nonchalance, but Wilson knew had taken practice to develop -- weight casually placed on his left leg, his right knee bent and right elbow locked into place, his hand on the cane and the cane firmly pushed into his right hip.

"As I was saying before you so rudely, well, wouldn't shut up, I agree with you," Cuddy leaned back against her desk. "But I'm not the one you have to convince. You need to get the board to sign on."

"You can tell them to do it, though," House countered. "Put that power suit to use for something other than impressing rich new donors."

"I can make recommendations, but I'm only one vote. Yes, a diagnostics department would be an important addition, but it'll be expensive. We've got a limited budget and every specialty and subspecialty out there has their own claim on next year's expenditures. Bring me some numbers, some statistics, some case histories. Get me some results from other diagnostics units."

"This may seem like a somewhat stupid question, but don't we have, oh, I don't know, staff to do that?"

Cuddy crossed her arms across her chest, leaned back on the desk.

"Yes, and in this case, that would be you."

"But I'm lousy with paperwork, you said so yourself."

"Excuse me, but do I need to be here?" Wilson asked. "Because I can come back."

Cuddy gave him a smile and walked around to her chair, removing another empty box in the process. "Dr. Wilson, please stay," she said. "Dr. House, please leave, but remember I'll need that paperwork in time for Tuesday's meeting."

"That's only five days," House complained. "including the weekend."

"And since you're looking at an interdisciplinary approach, it'll look better if you can get multiple departments to sign on to the concept -- more than Wilson," Cuddy continued. "Three departments would be better. Four would be ideal."

"And that's why the abuse of power is a bad thing," House said to Wilson, ignoring Cuddy.

"Unless you're the one taking advantage of the situation," Wilson said.

"I've told you, then it's not abuse. It's a rightful display of the natural order of things."

"Go. Now," Cuddy said. "And close the door on your way out."

House rolled his eyes, and limped out, but the door remained open. Cuddy's assistant rose from her desk to close it on her way to the filing cabinets.

"Let me take a wild stab at what that was about," Wilson said as he settled into one of the open chairs.

"House says we need to start a diagnostics department," Cuddy said, pulling a notebook from beneath a pile of other papers.

"He's right," Wilson said. "But he's been saying that for a long time. What's different now?"

"Me." Cuddy said, looking Wilson in the eye. It wasn't ego, he knew, but a simple statement of fact. Cuddy may have moved into administration, but she was still a doctor, not an accountant. "And the letter we got from the family of one of his former patients promising a $10,000 grant to help finance one."

"That's a nice start."

"But not enough," Cuddy admitted. "We'll need more backing than that. I know of a couple other sources, but we'll still have a hard sell. This is why I needed to talk to you."

"I hate fundraising," Wilson protested.

"You're good at it though," she said. "But it's not that." Cuddy put down her pen, leaned back. "Do you think House is up to this?"

"Well, obviously this isn't about money. Then the proposal? Sure, he hates paperwork, but it's important to him. It'll be done."

"Not the proposal."

"You want him to run the department," Wilson picked up the unspoken half of the statement. "God knows he can handle the medical side of things."

House had picked up his board certification in diagnostics after the infarction, a way to keep his mind occupied while he trained his newly-rebellious body. Long before that was even official though, he was already the man to see for every mysterious ailment, with doctors from inside and outside PPTH calling on him for help. He'd contributed to a half-dozen medical journals in the past two years alone, cementing his reputation.

"But he'd have to do more than solve cases," Cuddy pointed out. "There are budgets, personnel issues, supervising staff. I shudder at the thought of him filling out a performance review -- or, God forbid, doing hiring interviews."

"That ... could be a problem," Wilson conceded.

"And he'd have to put in a lot more hours. A lot more time at a desk, and a lot of time with patients and their families, on his feet," Cuddy said. "And I'm going to get him back into clinic duty."

"That should be entertaining."

Cuddy nodded.

"Technically I can't ask him if he's physically capable," she said. "But I'd hate to see him go through anything more than he can handle."

Wilson suspected that Cuddy carried some residual guilt from the infarction. Although she'd had nothing to do with the original misdiagnosis, the department had been her responsibility. And although Stacy made the call on the surgery, Cuddy had given her the idea. Despite that, though, he thought she had handled House well so far -- both as his doctor as his boss.

"He can handle it," Wilson said. "No problem. He's ready. The question is, are you?"

"I have no idea," she admitted. "Handling the board should be a breeze compared to handling House."

Wilson was out when House stopped by his office that afternoon, but when he got to his own office, the department's assistant told him she'd given him copies of the budget request forms House had been looking for. When Wilson swung by House's office late that afternoon, it was empty, but his computer was still on, papers and books spread across the surface. It was a familiar enough sight, but usually it was medical journals. This time he recognized PPTH's own annual report along with those from at least two other hospitals.

He jotted down a note telling House to call him by 7 if he needed a ride home. He passed by House's office again anyway on his way out. It was still empty, but Wilson noticed his note was gone.

--------

The digital clock on the microwave read 6:30 as Wilson came in from a run the next morning. He grabbed a bottle of cold water, downing half of it at once. It wasn't too hot yet, but the end-of-summer humidity was in high gear and everything stuck tight to his skin. He kicked off his shoes and tossed them in the mud room before heading upstairs. Julie had just finished her shower and they met between the closet and the bathroom door.

"Don't get too close," he warned her. "I stink."

"I'll take my chances," she said, and he leaned down to kiss her, lingering there for a moment, his sweat-damp hair brushing against her wet hair, the smell of her shampoo and soap filling his senses.

"You really need a shower," she said, finally stepping back.

Wilson nodded and pulled off his shirt. "Warned you."

"You have time for breakfast at home today, or you going to grab something at the hospital?"

Wilson stepped into the walk-in closet, tossing more clothes into the hamper and pulling out clean underwear. "No early meetings today, so I should be good," he called out to the room. "Let me just check if Greg needs a ride."

"He called while you were out. He said he was going in early." Julie was standing near the closet entrance, waiting for him. "So I guess he'll drive himself today then, right?"

"I guess."

"So he's probably feeling pretty good today?"

"Probably," Wilson paused, leaning against the door jamb, his wife leaning back against the other side of the frame. "Sometimes he'll take the bus if he doesn't feel up to driving, though."

"Well I know he has more problems on rainy days, and when it's cold..."

"And if he's been on his feet too much, and sometimes for reasons he can't even figure out." Wilson tried to guess from her expression what was going through her mind, but she turned away. He followed her out into the bedroom. "Why do you want to know?"

"It's nothing," she said. "Just trying to figure out if there's a pattern is all. Seems like it'd be easier to figure out a schedule if I knew when you were going to be tied up. So ... eggs OK?"

"Sure. Fine." Wilson watched Julie walk out the door. "I'll be down in a few minutes."

House was at his desk when Wilson got to the hospital, a small desk lamp adding its light to the overhead fluorescents and even more papers strewn across the wooden surface.

"Maybe I should take a picture for Cuddy. She'll never believe me when I tell her you're at," Wilson checked his watch. "7:30."

"Go ahead," House said, barely glancing up. "Then I'll have the evidence to go after her for some serious overtime."

Wilson set his coffee down on the desk while he cleared off one of the chairs.

"Hey, gimme," he protested, snatching the cup back out of House's hand. "That's mine."

"You'd begrudge a crippled man one simple pleasure?"

"You've got your own already," Wilson said, pointing out the half-filled mug already on the desk.

"It's cold."

"The coffeepot's just across the hall," Wilson pointed out. House let out a sigh, but stood and took his cup out to the department coffee maker. Wilson took the opportunity to see how House was moving. A longer protest would be a clue the pain level was up today. The fact he went at all was the first good sign, and the relative ease of House's steps calmed his remaining worries.

After some tough days and a few slips and stumbles early in the winter, House had taken up PT again seriously. Ransom was ready, personally overseeing his treatment along with his latest employee -- a retired drill sergeant that Wilson suspected had been recruited specifically for House. .

Maybe others didn't notice the changes, but Wilson could see that House was steadier on his feet, more comfortable. He was walking more surely and could raise and lower himself out of chairs more easily. There were still bad days, still times when a muscle spasm caught him hard, but there were either fewer of them or House was learning to disguise them even from Wilson.

"So what's got you off to such an early start anyway?"

House eased himself back down into the chair. It was a high level executive one that Wilson knew House's department head had openly lusted after, but House got it instead, citing the ergonomic adjustments that would help him cope.

"Lisbon," House said, lifted one set of papers. "Latvia." He motioned to another pile, then a third. "London." The fax machine beeped to life and House rolled his chair over to inspect the first sheet. "And Amsterdam." He looked up at Wilson. "Sorry, no alliteration grand slam today."

"Studies for the proposal?"

"Yep," House was looking over the papers as they emerged from the fax. "I was on the phone to half of Europe this morning asking for whatever they could send me on their diagnostics programs. I was able to track some of them down before the weekend. Thank God it's not August, or I'd really be in trouble."

"I could give you a hand later, if you want," Wilson said.

"Don't you have the personnel committee meeting this afternoon?"

Wilson should have known House would remember his schedule. "It won't take that long."

"Since when do personnel issues not take long?" House rolled back over to his desk and dug a metal binder out of a tray, then pushed himself back over to the still-busy fax machine. "Don't worry about it. This is the easy part. I may ask you put me out of my misery, though, once I start crunching numbers."

"You'll do fine." Wilson checked his watch again and grabbed his bag from the floor. "I'd better go. I've got my own paperwork waiting for me."

"OK." House had all the papers now and had rolled back to his desk once more. He grabbed a highlighter from beneath one of the piles.

He was slouched over the desk, scribbling notes as Wilson closed the door.

-----

Charts done, rounds over. Wilson checked his watch. It was closing in on 1 p.m., which would leave him a little more than an hour before the personnel meeting. He switched off his computer and headed out, giving some notes to the department assistant to type up. He headed down the stairs, stopping after two flights. Down the hall and then left. He knocked on House's door before trying the handle. It opened to his touch.

Little had changed from the morning. House was still at his desk, though he had switched over to the computer. At some point he'd closed the blinds. He glanced up. "Hang on," he said, then continued typing.

A few moments later he turned away from the monitor. "What's up?"

"I was just going to grab some lunch and was wondering if you wanted to join me."

"Is it that time already?" House checked his watch.

"A little past that time, actually. Want to take a break?"

House seemed to consider it. Wilson knew he'd often skip meals whenever he was in the middle of something, even before the meds were there to disrupt his eating patterns . It wasn't that he didn't notice he was hungry, House would say, just that he had other things to do first.

"Maybe you can grab me something," House said. "A sandwich or something."

"Define 'something.'"

"Just for that, you can pay."

"When do I not?" Wilson was out the door and down the hall before House could respond.

Wilson was back 15 minutes later, sandwiches -- one roast beef, one turkey -- chips and a couple of glasses of iced tea balanced on a tray. House cleared a corner of the desk and grabbed the roast beef.

"You forgot the mustard," he said with his mouth full.

Wilson pulled a handful of condiment packets from his pocket and tossed them on the tray. House rooted through the pile and grabbed a mustard and mayo.

Wilson turned his chair on an angle, then propped his feet up on the other chair stationed in front of the desk, avoiding a stack of journals stacked on it. House swung his left leg up onto a corner of the desk, then used his right hand to help bring his right leg onto it, a quick movement that was easy to miss if you weren't paying attention.

"So how's it going?"

"All right, I think," House said. "I got some good comparative stats from Lisbon and some good case studies from some other places. You going to have time to write up some backing documents?"

Wilson nodded as he took a sip of his iced tea. "You know, I was thinking I might talk to Chen in cardiology, see if he could sign on too. We teamed up on the Flores treatment a couple of months back."

House grunted and checked his watch. As Wilson opened one of the chip bags, he heard the pill bottle open. He glanced up to see House shake one out. "Cuddy was right, you know," Wilson said. "Four departments would be even better. Any ideas?"

"Already done." House popped a Vicodin in his mouth, washed it down with the iced tea. "Simpson said he'd help out."

"Simpson?"

"Well, maybe not help out, but he'll let us toss his name on it."

"Simpson from orthopedics Simpson?"

"There are more?"

"Simpson hates you."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say hate." House shoved three potato chips in his mouth. "Besides there's something he hates more -- me as a patient."

"Which is why you switched to Laszlo."

"This is true, but even Simpson could see the logic at work: better diagnostics means fewer misdiagnoses. Fewer misdiagnoses means ..."

"Less chance he ever would have had you as a patient in the first place," Wilson concluded. "Getting hate to work for you. That's a real skill."

"Thank you." House picked up the last chunk of his sandwich. "You should always know how to play to your strengths."

------

Wilson had intended to sit in on Tuesday's board meeting, and give House's plan whatever support he could. But Monday found him with a new referral -- a 24-year-old with testicular cancer that had spread throughout his body. He spent the morning with the patient and his family, getting them settled, setting up tests.

He had just a few minutes before the meeting to check in with House.

"I look ridiculous," House said as Wilson entered. He was wearing a gray suit, an Armani that Stacy had insisted he buy years ago. A classic cut combined with a white shirt and maroon-patterned tie that Stacy had also selected.

Wilson had a flash of memory. House wearing the same outfit, one arm around Stacy's shoulder during a dinner in the city soon after the start of his brief marriage to Tonya. He tried not to linger on the fact now that it hung loosely off House's tall frame, the tie only emphasizing the fact that he'd lost weight in the past two years.

"You look fine."

"No I don't," House said. "I didn't think to grab anything else this morning."

"Don't worry about it. Cuddy will appreciate the effort, even if nobody else does."

"Then I should definitely change back into jeans," House threatened, moving toward the clothes piled on a chair. "Otherwise she might start picturing us in matching power suits, and pink is definitely not my color."

Wilson nodded at the clock. "No time. I guess you'll just have to take the risk."

Two hours later, and Wilson had gone over the newest test results with his newest patient, laying out a treatment plan starting with surgery first thing in the morning. The kid had a chance, he knew, but a small one. He laid things out as clearly as he could. The parents sat on either side of their son, each holding a hand, his mother absently running her other hand up and down his arm. Wilson had witnessed the scene more times than he could count, but could call up each face, each name.

He signed off on the chart, then headed down to the board room, hoping to catch at least some of the session. He spotted House leaving the room and weaved his way through the elevator traffic.

"House!" Wilson raised his voice enough that House turned and looked back his way, but then kept going. "House! Wait up!"

The boardroom door opened as he passed by and Cuddy stepped out, signaling him over.

"I take it it didn't go well."

"It could have been worse," she said softly. Wilson could see past her to other board members chatting between themselves, the meeting apparently still in session.

"They turned him down."

"Not completely," she clarified. "They approved a six-month pilot program -- but no funds for staffing. They'll reevaluate by spring."

"But how's he supposed to accomplish anything in six months, without ..."

"Not my idea," Cuddy said. "I've got to get back to this."

Wilson nodded as she closed the door, then looked up ahead, caught a glimpse of House's head making its way out the door. He rushed after him.

There was no sign of House straight ahead, toward the bus stop, and they were far enough away from the staff parking lot that Wilson didn't think he would head that way. He considered his options, then went left. Past the corner of the building, he spotted House, still moving as fast as he'd seen him move since the infarction.

Wilson broke into a sprint and caught up with him just as the pathway split, one walkway heading up toward the main campus, another toward the river. He wasn't surprised when House turned left. It had always been one of his preferred routes.

"What's up?" House made no reply, just pushed on. Wilson could feel sweat beginning to collect on his own body, the humidity of last week still at play.

"House?" Wilson knew the other man would be feeling the heat as well, and House had always hated running in summer heat.

"Maybe we should head back," he suggested, putting one hand lightly on House's arm.

"Either come, or don't come, but at least shut up." Wilson had seen the look a few times when he'd seen House playing lacrosse, or when they occasionally joined in the hospital's annual cutthroat softball game between residents and and attendings. The look that meant he was now officially pissed off. The look that meant trouble for anyone who crossed House. The look that meant he was ready to inflict some pain.

Wilson said nothing, but kept pace and switched to House's right side, just in case.

They were down at the river now, the pathway rising and falling with the terrain along the riverbank. Wilson could hear House breathing deeply, an occasional gasp. He nearly lost his balance once, but caught himself before Wilson could touch him.

When his leg finally gave out, House couldn't completely hold back a yell. Wilson grabbed for him, managing to pulled the bulk of House's weight onto himself, the cane falling onto the broken concrete. It was good timing at least, with a bench just a few steps away.

Wilson moved them both slowly toward it. They were both drenched in sweat by the time he got House to it and managed to lower him down. He started to reach down to massage the muscles when House stopped him. "Don't touch it," he warned. "Not yet. Give me a minute."

He nodded and went back for the cane, then sat beside House. Wilson could see him swallow hard, trembling all over. He waited him out and looked out at the river where a pair of sculls were gliding along the water.

"That was really stupid," Wilson said once House's breathing had settled down.

"Yeah."

"I mean really stupid." Now that they'd stopped, Wilson couldn't fight his own anger from bubbling up. "What would you have done if I hadn't been here?"

House opened his eyes and looked over at him. "Then I wouldn't have tried it."

"You ready now?" Wilson asked, and moved around to House's side when he nodded.

It had been a struggle to get House to accept his help -- or any help for that matter, Wilson recalled. He'd tolerated the dressings and medical checks only because they were necessary. Once he'd recovered enough to exert his will, he did his best to keep Stacy or anyone else out of his room whenever his leg was exposed.

In rehab, he permitted required poking or prodding, but no more. When one of the therapists suggested Stacy learn some massage techniques that could help, House responded by throwing a water pitcher across the room.

He allowed Wilson and Stacy to get things for him, but balked if they tried to do anything else, even when it was clear he was having problems

Stacy said it was a sign he was improving. Wilson wasn't so certain.

"I don't need any help," House would say, again and again.

"Yes," Wilson said one night when they were alone in House's rehab center room and he'd seen House make three failed attempts to raise himself from his chair. "You do."

He took a firm and steady grip under House's upper right arm, ready to support him up out of the chair, ignoring House's attempt to push him away.

"Lemme go. I can do it myself."

"Not tonight you can't," Wilson pointed out.

"Let. Me. Go."

"No. I'm not going anywhere, so we can either stay here all night or you can let me help you. Your choice."

House glared at him, but Wilson could see the anger begin to dim and something else, resignation or gratitude -- he wasn't certain which at the time -- begin to take its place.

"Would you prefer we both pretend that you're fine and wait until I leave and the nurse gets here?" Wilson didn't move from his spot. "I'm here now. Let me help."

"Don't you have some baldheaded kid to torment?"

"Not at the moment, no."

House shifted forward.

"What about some blonde to wine and dine?" He pushed down on the chair arm with his left hand taking hold of Wilson's shoulder with his right. Wilson provided extra support as House put his weight on his left leg, maneuvering a crutch under his left arm.

"She's waiting back at my office," Wilson said. He kept one hand on House's back, helping to keep him steady while he arranged the second crutch.

"She's going to be hungry by the time you get there." House made his way toward the bed, Wilson following just closely enough to step in and help if needed, but far enough back to allow House his own space.

"I gave her a roll of quarters and directions to the vending machine."

"Classy. She's going to expect you to put out, you know." House settled back against the bed, allowing Wilson to lift his right leg onto the mattress before he'd even thought to protest.

"I'm counting on it."

Wilson presented himself to House's therapist first thing the next morning to learn everything he could. If he could force House to accept his help once, he reasoned, he could do it again.

It hadn't been easy. He'd been at their place, a basic dinner -- pasta and a salad. Wilson had insisted on helping by putting the dishes in the dishwasher once House excused himself from the table. Stacy followed when he didn't return when expected, and called to Wilson from the bedroom, her voice immediately followed by House's ordering him to stay put.

House was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands pressed down into his thigh. Stacy standing beside him, arms crossed in front of her chest. She gave Wilson a hopeful look when he entered.

"He won't let me do anything," she said.

"Because there's nothing else you can do." House's voice was strained.

"Let me try." Wilson gently moved Stacy to the side.

"No."

"Maybe I can help."

"No."

"I want to try. Please."

House looked up at him, glanced at Stacy and then back again. "No."

Wilson placed an arm around Stacy's shoulder, led her toward the door. "Let me have a minute with him, OK?"

"I can handle this."

"Maybe he can't," Wilson murmured to her. She finally nodded and left the room.

Wilson walked back to House, lowered himself to his knees in front of his friend. "I can reach it from a different angle," he said. "Please. I can help."

He saw House clench his jaw and consider it. Wilson thought he was about to turn him down again, but the muscles spasmed once more and he gave a slight nod.

Wilson supplied a slight pressure at first, finding the trouble spots, working to release the tension as he tried not to think too much about the misshapen contours of the leg.

House eased himself back until he was lying across the bed, willing the rest of his body to relax while Wilson worked.

"I hate this," he said quietly.

"I know."

"Not just the pain."

Wilson concentrated on the last of the knotted muscles. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

House never called Wilson when he needed help, and Wilson suspected he still suffered through most of the spasms on his own. But he let Wilson help if he was there -- if they were alone.

Back at the river, Wilson helped House out of the suit coat and helped him swing his legs over onto the bench. He wasn't surprised to find House's shirt soaked through. He'd ditched the tie sometime before Wilson had caught up with him. He folded the coat over and added his own lab coat for a makeshift pillow which he propped under House's knee, his foot hanging off the end of the bench. He could see the muscles trembling beneath the layer of fine fabric even before he placed his hand on House's leg.

"Six months, huh?" he said, softly applying pressure, adapting the massage according to how the muscle reacted.

"Couldn't give a straightforward yes or no," House said. "Back to the goddamned middle ground. Everyone's so afraid of taking a chance, they miss an opportunity to do something good."

"Not everyone is cut out to make tough choices."

"Then they shouldn't put themselves in a place where they have to make them." House reached down for a moment, stopping Wilson's hands. He swallowed hard a few times, then nodded, taking his hand away to rest it across his stomach. "But show them a shiny new piece of equipment, and they're ready to play."

"What?"

"Didn't you hear? A whole body scanner. The latest in diagnostics equipment. We'll have one by February." There was no mistaking the anger and sarcasm in House's voice. "Us and the New You Health Clinic at the Princeton Mall. Don't want to let those private industry guys get the jump on us. Just think of all the insurance billings we'd miss out on."

"Never mind that they're useless."

"Useless but profitable."

The trembling seemed to be letting up and Wilson adjusted the pressure of the massage.

"You've got six months, though, right?"

"With no staff," House said. "And it's all contingent on O'Neal agreeing to give up my hours."

"I'm sure you can work something out."

"Probably."

Wilson finally stopped, satisfied he'd done all he could for now and sat on the ground, leaning back against the bench. "A lot could happen in six months, you know."

"Sure, why not," House waved at the idea. He sounded tired, and no longer quite as angry as he had even 15 minutes earlier. "Maybe we should get you on the board, let you sweet talk them into it."

"No way."

"Why not? They like you. Everybody likes you."

"And I like the way things are, thank you very much. As it is I practically have more committee paperwork than patient charts."

"And whose fault is that? I told you to sign up for the Video Vixens screening club. You're the one who insisted you had better things to do with your Thursdays."

"That was bowling," Wilson clarified. "And you just wanted me to sign up so you could rag on me about the rented shoes."

"You could buy your own."

"And that's better how?"

"You could get a little monogram on it where the sizes go on the rentals. Plus there's the snazzy shirt. They're the latest in fashion. I'm thinking lime green, with 'Jimmy' stitched on it in red."

Wilson tilted his head up to look at House. "Either you need more drugs or I do, because I can actually picture that."

"See, it's a dream we both can share. We'll ditch medicine and follow the PBA."

"Like the Deadheads, but with more balls."

"Ah, you got there before I did."

"Well you did set it up. All I had to do was pick up the spare."

Wilson settled back again and closed his eyes. A cool breeze blew in off the water, promising a break in the temperatures before long.

"So you give any thought as to how you're going to get back?"

"A few. Not many solutions yet. I didn't actually have a long-term plan in mind when I started."

"So why did you?" Wilson turned toward House again. "Start in the first place?"

House shrugged. "Because I was stupid." He returned Wilson's gaze.

"Fine."

Wilson went back to looking out at the river, feeling the sun on his face as it broke through the leaves. He turned his attention back to House when he felt a nudge on his back.

"OK, move it." House was pushing himself upright and waited for Wilson to remove the jackets before swinging his leg onto the ground.

"You sure you're ready?"

"If I wait any longer, it'll just stiffen up on me." House took the cane from where Wilson had leaned it against the bench and pushed himself up to his feet.

"I could go get a wheelchair," Wilson volunteered.

"No. No chair," House said. "Not yet anyway. I got myself into this mess, I might as well try to get myself out of it."

He turned back toward the hospital, took one step, then another, leaning heavily onto the cane. He seemed satisfied enough with the way his leg responded, and he settled into a steady -- if slow -- pace. "Try to keep up, will you?" he called back to Wilson, who was busy trying to shake the wrinkles out of his lab coat.

"Don't I always?"