CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Battle

"Don't look like you're in front of a firing squad without a blindfold, House. Just a few things to talk over, get straight. That's all." Wilson feels bad already—House looks so drawn, so vulnerable right now. He needs to be sleeping. But he has a right to know how this is gonna play out.

House looks almost amused. "You haven't noticed, after all these years, that these little 'talks' rarely end well? I haven't been a captive audience since the infarct, though—I like being able to make a dramatic exit. Not gonna be happenin' today, I guess." He sighs.

Wilson smiles. "Why do you think we're doing this while you're still hooked up? If I'd wanted to give a soliloquy, I'd find an empty room. Or knock you out again."

"Yeah…that 'knocking out' part…might not spare me the soliloquy. Something real interesting about level 3; ya don't read about it much from the patient's point of view; it was kind of… interesting, getting to live it...I heard you earlier, you know. The 'brothers' thing. All that family crap."

"Uh-huh," Wilson says, tentatively. He thinks it's crap?

"I just wanted to let you know, you're a little slow on the uptake, Jimmy. I figured all that out years ago. Second time I opened my door and there you were, looking all pathetic, needing to bunk on my couch again. Yup, knew it right then. Remember like it was yesterday. Always wanted a little bro, someone to keep in line. Glad you finally figured it out, though."

Wilson is more than touched by this, but their rules say he's not allowed to show it. So instead, he asks, "Remember anything else?"

"Bits and pieces." House thinks he knows what Wilson is asking. "I remember most of that cheap-budget horror flick this morning." His mouth twists as he thinks about it. "That one's destined to become a cult classic for sure... Couldn't have been fun for you."

Wilson knows that this last line is House-speak for, "Are you okay with it?" so he answers in the same language. "Just real happy I was there; no one should have to watch that kind of movie alone."

"Yeah, and you did really good, Jimmy. Really good. Couldn't ask for better company. But remember the popcorn next time, 'k?"

"You've got it." They're both silent a moment, each reliving their own memories of the nightmare.

House finally breaks the silence. "Still listening. Still waiting for you to spill."

When Wilson raises his head, meets his eyes, House can read the determination there. I knew I wasn't gonna like this.

"In a couple hours, I'll disconnect you from all this junk. You'll take your Vicodin, we'll wait a while, I'll take ya home. And things will change."

"Change…how?" House asks, suspiciously.

"Hear me out, okay? I've given this a lot of thought, and I need to just say it—so please, save your comments, questions, and applause for the end, all right?" He smiles weakly. House doesn't speak, just stares at him, waiting.

"First off—I'm moving back in for a couple of months. I'm not gonna ask you if that's okay—it's gonna have to be. But if you can see your way clear to putting up with it, with me, I'll consider not bringing the blow dryer—no promises." House doesn't smile, just keeps that unnerving stare fixed on Wilson's face.

"I'm gonna cook, and you're gonna eat. You must've lost 25 pounds, maybe more, in the last few months. I cook. You eat. And clean up." He looks at House, takes a deep breath; House hasn't started bellowing yet, maybe they'd be okay.

"This next one's a biggie, House. Really important. I made a big mistake for the last four, five months. I didn't listen to you. Maybe we could've prevented a lot of this if I'd listened, maybe not, doesn't matter now. So I'll be listening—but you need to be talking. I know it's hard. Not asking you to be Oprah, turn 'sharing' into an art form, or anything—but you've gotta talk to me, let me know what's going on with you physically."

House shifts uncomfortably in the bed, but remains silent.

"I don't care how you let me know something's wrong, something's changing, just so you let me know. Just tell me, make a joke, hell—couch it as an insult, I don't care. I'll translate it into English, and I'll get on it. I…decided I don't want to kill the diabetic, okay?"

He sees House's eyes widen at the reference, knows he's got his attention. "I'm switching the Vicodin; staying with the hydrocodone, getting rid of the acetaminophen. We need to raise your therapeutic dose of the hydrocodone without destroying your liver. We'll start you at 80mg a day. Same stuff you're on now, higher dose, just with aspirin instead. We can go as high as 120mg a day, if we need to. But you're gonna need to tell me as soon as the 80mg stops controlling the pain. And you'll have the lab pull a liver profile every three months. The results will be sent to my office."

He locks eyes with House. "If I'm going to be your physician, I'm going to be your physician. Not just a scribble on a prescription."

House finally speaks. "I didn't ask you to be my physician. You got a problem with my scrips, fine—I'll get Chase to do it. Not a prob, wouldn't wanna put you out."

Wilson can tell he's angry—and hurt. "House, you need a doctor. I didn't ask for this, but now that I've…won the role by default, I guess, we're gonna do it right."

"You're just not getting it, are ya, Jimmy? I'm not looking for a doctor; I can handle this myself, got the letters after my name, and everything. Thought you were my friend, though. Didn't realize my scrips were such an ethical dilemma for you. Didn't know it was such a hardship, being friends with me. Tell ya what, make it easy for you. I'm releasing you from all your heavy responsibilities. You're not my doctor. Not my friend. I'll find another doctor; never needed a friend in the first place. Now call Cuddy, and get out—you're upsetting the patient, and you're such a fine, compassionate physician I know you wouldn't wanna do that."

Wilson is up, pacing the room. He's too angry to be hurt, too upset to weigh his words. "Do yourself a favor, House—when you find that other doctor. Get a stupid one this time, one who'll just let you talk circles around him with your brilliance, while he smiles and scribbles the magic letters on his prescription pad. And I'll start working on your eulogy."

Wilson can't believe what he's just heard himself say. He turns, stricken by his own vicious words, to see how much fresh damage he's inflicted on his wounded friend. The apology is already in his eyes, and forming on his lips.

House is regarding him impassively—face blank, eyes hooded and unreadable.

"Oh, my God. House, I…I didn't mean that. I'm sorry." He returns to the chair by the bed, sinks into it, lowers his head into his hands. I blew it, he thinks, miserably. He'll never forgive this….

And House, still unreadable, states flatly, "Call Cuddy. And then go to hell."