A/N: So sorry for the delay; school started for the wee one yesterday, so currently things are a bit hectic! mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Child Psychology

House has slept peacefully through the night; at midnight, when Wilson had awakened him for his super-Vic, he'd taken the medication and immediately returned to sleep. So Wilson had quietly administered the Zofran via the IV port, and had let the monitors give him the vitals. It was always rare for House to be sleeping this well without additional chemical assistance.

Wilson wakes him at 7:00am. After House takes his meds, Wilson begins his assessment and casually asks about breakfast. "This is your third dose of the Zofran; temp's normal, no other side effects, right?" he asks House.

"No, but not real hungry right now; maybe a little later," House responds, not looking at Wilson. Just leave it alone for another day or two. Please.

"Yeah, maybe later," Wilson says, trying to sound like he believes it. We've gotta do the PICC, regardless of whether he wants breakfast or not. No sense giving him a hard time about eating at this point.

"Nice the nausea's gone," House offers, hoping to emphasize something positive. Pain's under control now, should be easier to eat. Been so long; forget what it's like to be hungry. Wilson's being way too calm lately about the whole food thing. He's got something up his sleeve, and I'm not gonna like it… no lectures, none of those disappointed looks—nope, not the usual Worried Wilson thing. So what's up?

"Glad to hear it." Wilson's afraid to ask the next question. "Any appetite at all?"

House considers how to answer this, decides on a half-truth. "I want to eat, yeah. Just don't want to rush it."

Wilson, of course, recognizes immediately that House didn't answer the actual question. Which is an answer in itself. Tells me that the PICC line's the right decision, at least. "Cuddy's gonna be here soon; let's do the lab draw, okay?"

"Sure. No problem." He sure dropped the subject fast.

Wilson draws the blood, and is labeling the tube when Cuddy arrives. He goes to the door to let her in, leaving House to ponder the conversation.

Cuddy's brought the kit for the PICC line. "How's he doing today?" she asks, handing the box of supplies to Wilson.

"Had a good night. Just had a pretty futile conversation about eating, and I think he knows something's up. Was gonna wait 'til the last possible minute, but I don't want him lying in there worrying about the unknown. So wish me luck," Wilson says. "Gotta go talk to him about the PICC." He grimaces in anticipation of a very loud conversation.

"I'm coming with you," Cuddy says. "You're gonna need reinforcements, and maybe first aid." She smiles, but Wilson is too tense to smile back.

When they enter the room together, House searches their serious faces, and knows immediately that something's up. "I take it this isn't a social call?" he asks suspiciously.

Wilson sits and takes a deep breath. "We have to talk some more about your nutritional status, House. It's not improving; it's getting worse. You're not really gonna start recovering until you gain some weight, give your body some reserves. So I've…." He glances over at Cuddy, who nods. "We've… decided to insert a PICC line." He crosses his arms and waits. He doesn't have to wait long.

"No! Not gonna happen. I'll start eating; gimme a day or two. No." Now House has his arms crossed as well.

"House, we don't have a choice; I wish we did, I wish there was another way. There isn't; you know that. You've lost maybe a quarter of your body weight these last few months, and the process has been accelerating in the past week. You're burning a lot more calories than you can take in on your own. I'm sorry, but it's our only option at this point." Wilson's trying to convey to House, as kindly as possible, that House isn't being asked for either his opinion or his permission.

"Ever hear of patient consent, Wilson?" House looks trapped; his eyes are darting around the room, and his heart rate is climbing. "This patient isn't consenting. At least if I were in the hospital, they'd ask me; they'd respect a 'no'."

Neither Wilson nor Cuddy thinks that this is a good time to point out that Dr. Gregory House has never respected a 'no' is his entire career.

Wilson starts to speak, but Cuddy holds up a warning hand. House has gone into 'child mode' again, and this is her area of expertise.

"I understand what you're saying, House," she says warmly, empathetically. "Wilson does five of these a week, and orders another ten. He's done it in the home care setting several times. But if you'd feel more comfortable having it done at the hospital, that's perfectly understandable. It won't take me even ten minutes to arrange a bed, if that's what you want; the choice is yours."

Wilson looks on in admiration. Cuddy's effectively closed off any further argument about permission, while presenting House with the one aspect of the situation he can have control over—although they both know what his choice will be.

House is silent for half a minute—Wilson's never realized just how long 30 seconds can be. Then House says, grudgingly, "Let's do it here." He looks at Wilson. "And you'd better get it right the first time."

Cuddy and Wilson look at each other for a long moment; they're concerned. House's heart rate is staying elevated, and he's pale now. Cuddy wonders if House is nervous about the procedure itself, but Wilson knows better. He knows that House is thinking about the implications of needing a PICC line; it's an acknowledgement that this is no short-term gig, and it's just one more thing that makes House more dependent, less in control.

Wilson thinks about his conversation with Dick, and he thinks that this might be a very good time to try to combine the friendship with the doctor-patient relationship. "Ya know, once the PICC's in, no more IV starts, no more blood draws—we'll be able to get the blood from the port. Your arms'll get a chance to heal. And inside of two, three days, you'll start getting some energy back. Then we can have some fun, do all the things that usually have to wait for the weekend when we're working. How 'bout we try to get tickets to a Monster Truck show, or—"

"How 'bout we don't pretend this is not a big deal?" House interrupts. "How 'bout we quit ignoring the fact that I refused it? And how 'bout you just admit that you're gonna do it anyway; what I say at this point doesn't matter."

Oh, boy. "What do you think is gonna happen if we don't do something?" Why am I trying to reason with him? He's right; I'm gonna do it anyway.

"I'll start eating. Tomorrow, next day. Soon. Weight'll come back."

"Yeah, maybe, in a few months. Maybe. It'll slow down your recovery, your return to work. The PICC'll let us get three months of progress in three weeks. How long you think we can hide this from your team? Soon as they find out you're not gonna be back next week, the questions'll start. Cuddy can hold'em off a few weeks telling 'em we've got the flu. We get it one at a time, that's at least three weeks right there; it's laying people low for close to two weeks. What do you want her to tell them if you're not back a month from now, just 'cuz you refused a simple little procedure?"

"None of their business."

Wilson doesn't respond; House knows that they'd ask, that an answer would have to be given.

Finally, House says, "Let's just do it, get it over with. You got an x-ray set up to check placement after it's in?"

Cuddy answers carefully; this will confirm for House that the procedure's been preplanned. "I've got the mobile van coming at 2:00."

So they decided this at least a day ago; probably more, House thinks. That's why Wilson was so calm about the eating thing. Well… they've been doing an okay job so far. And Wilson's… right. What the hell. He looks at Wilson. "Wasn't kidding. You get one shot; don't screw it up."

"House, I can do this with my eyes closed," Wilson says.

"Please don't," House responds dryly, and Cuddy and Wilson laugh.

"We can wait 'til noon, if you want to," Wilson says.

"No. Now works for me. Don't want it interfering with the soaps."

Wilson retrieves the PICC line kit from the box of supplies. "Just give me a few minutes to get set up, then. Any questions?"

"No," House answers shortly; he sounds tense.

As Wilson applies the skin-numbing patch to the only remaining decent large vein in the antecubital space on the inner part of House's left elbow, a glance at House's face tells him that he is tense. "You want some light sedation for this?"

"You're giving me a choice about something?"

"House…" Wilson says, warning—or begging—him to behave. "Do you want the sedation, or not?"

"Trust you."

"What?"

"I said I trust you. Reason I shouldn't?"

"Umm… no, of course not." It's just that I never expected that phrase to come outta your mouth, that's all. "I'm gonna go get washed up, and we'll get started."

When Wilson returns, Cuddy opens the sterile package for him. He dons the gloves and places the drape over the site after removing the patch. Wilson begins insertion of the long IV catheter which will lie in a chest vein, and thus permit infusion of nutritional fluids.

Cuddy moves to the other side of the bed, hoping to distract House. She knows this will work only if he wants to be distracted. And he doesn't; he's watching the procedure intently. Poor Wilson; nothing like having a knowledgeable audience with a big mouth.

But House remains silent, only shaking his head when Wilson asks if he's in any discomfort. As Wilson ties the last suture to hold the line in place, House finally has a comment. "Pretty good, but I would've waited on the sutures until we confirm placement."

Wilson not only refuses to be baited, he gives as good as he gets. Looking at House with a smug expression, he says, "Yeah, you would've had to wait. I, on the other hand, am just that good!"

Even House can't help grinning at that.