CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Chances

When they've almost finished their breakfast, Cuddy sets down her plate. "Today is Sunday," she announces. "So this evening, I'll be receiving a call from House, letting me know that Wilson's come down with the 'flu, and he needs IV hydration, so he's staying here. We'll give it to you first," she says, turning to Wilson, "so that when you guys return to work, House'll have just gotten over it. That'll explain the weight loss, and any lack of energy, or whatnot."

"There's a flaw in your plan," House asserts. "A little 'flu won't keep Cameron and her version of chicken soup away from here."

Cuddy smiles. "Oh yeah, it will. After I point out that you both got your 'flu shots, and appear to be suffering from the hybrid version, and issue orders that no one's to come within a mile of here, they'll get the message. I'm even planning to tell 'em that if you weren't both doctors, Wilson would have to be hospitalized. And then, as he makes his recovery, it'll be your turn. We can make yours even more dramatic. What with the hydrocodone suppressing your cough reflex, you're at high risk for influenza pneumonia. That could buy us a few extra days, if we need 'em." It's clear that Cuddy's quite pleased with her plan.

Wilson is impressed. "That's perfect! The hybrid version's been taking people outta the game for a good two weeks, and some of 'em are winding up having to be hospitalized. We're gonna be able to carry this off; good going."

The only one of the three who doesn't appear enthusiastic about the deception is House. As a matter of fact, he seems downright glum. Wilson and Cuddy exchange a look, and finally Cuddy asks, "Find another flaw?"

House doesn't answer right away. When he does speak, he doesn't make eye contact with either of them. "Didn't hear anything in there about how we're gonna explain away the left leg. Kinda hard to hide a wheelchair when you're sittin' in it."

Wilson regards him with surprise. "We'll have a diagnosis on that in a day or two, and we'll treat it. Won't even be an issue by the time we go back; you know that."

"I don't know that, and neither do you. None of the preliminary results found anything. Not likely the final results'll show anything different."

Wilson and Cuddy can tell immediately that House has been giving this a lot of thought, and that—while he'd never admit it—he's worried. So Cuddy gentles her voice, and approaches it from the 'compassionate doctor' angle. "If the final results don't show anything, that's good news, you know. A minor injury. Long gone by the time you return to work. Sometimes, these things happen. Nothing ever shows up in the tests, but the symptoms are severe. And then it clears up as mysteriously as it came. We don't know why; we don't have all the answers. It just… happens."

House looks angry now. "Forgive me if I don't get any reassurance from that canned 'relax and trust us' speech. Last time I bought into that garbage, I walked outta there with a third leg. Almost didn't walk out at all." He slams the tip of the cane down for emphasis, and Cuddy winces at the sound—and the memory. She looks helplessly at Wilson.

Wilson's doing some fast thinking; he's actually relieved that this is happening. House has been far too accepting of everything that's gone wrong the past several days, and this is the first time he's shown a real inclination to fight back. Wilson is also remembering what Dick had said; that House would lash out, that he sees Wilson as a secure sounding board, that Wilson needs to be there for him when it happens. Wilson's trying to think of the right thing to say when he notices that House is now rubbing absently at his left thigh. Then the gesture becomes more focused, and House looks down at his leg.

"Could someone bring that chair over here?" House asks, but it sounds like a command. "I'd like to go to my room. Alone."

Wilson decides to take a chance—a big one. Guess it's time to find out if all this trust-building will pay off.

Cuddy's already stood up to retrieve the wheelchair, and Wilson says quickly, "That's all right; I'll get it for him in a minute. Would you mind… uh… going to the newsstand for a Sunday paper?"

Cuddy catches on immediately. She grabs her purse and is out the door even before House has finished glaring at Wilson.

"What the hell was that about?" House all but snarls. "And I want the wheelchair. Now." Wilson sees that now he's rubbing at the leg in earnest, stopping only to grip the muscle in a futile attempt to break the growing spasms.

Wilson matter-of-factly gets up from the end of the couch and moves some of the pillows. "If you think you'd be more comfortable in bed, I'll help you get there," he says mildly. "But I don't want you to be alone right now, so I'll stay. Personally, I think you'd be better off right here. Why don't you just go ahead and lie down, and we'll talk? Maybe it won't be so bad this time, but if it is, not a problem, really. I'll get a syringe ready. If that's okay." The tone of his voice hasn't changed, and when he's finished speaking, he just stands there, calmly awaiting House's response.

When House angrily attempts to stand and the leg collapses, Wilson doesn't move, doesn't indicate any concern or impatience. He's simply waiting for House to respond. He doesn't wait long.

"Don't patronize me!" House yells at him, and Wilson can feel House's frustration, his fury, building. He's glowering at his left leg as if it's betrayed him; when he transfers the look to Wilson, Wilson continues to regard him impassively.

Finally, finally, just as Wilson's decided that there are still some walls that haven't yet crumbled, that maybe House's anger and distrust go deeper than even Wilson had suspected, House takes a deep, irregular breath, and lowers his head. When he lifts it, he meets Wilson's eyes.

"I could use some help here," House tells him quietly, dispassionately.

Wilson goes calmly to his side, gently helps him slide back on the couch, carefully, tenderly, lifts the traitorous legs and positions them as comfortably as he can. Then he sits on the edge of the couch beside his friend. Only then does he look at House's face.

"I'm not patronizing you. I'm asking my patient's permission to help him, medically. If he refuses, I'll respect that, because I respect him. And then, I'll ask my friend's permission to help him, to support him in any other way that I can. Because I want to be here for him. As his physician, as his friend. I'll be here, either way. Both ways. I'll be here." When he finishes speaking, he keeps his gaze locked with House's.

House takes another deep, shaky breath; the spasm's building, and speech is an effort now. But when he speaks, the words are sure. "Your patient trusts you to do what's best for him. Your friend is…." House's eyes close as the pain builds; the end of the sentence is an anguished whisper. "…glad you're here."

Before Wilson stands to prepare the medication, his hand finds House's shoulder, his eyes find House's eyes. "Me, too" is all he can manage with his voice, but that's all right; his touch, and his eyes, convey all the rest. Now they know—they both know—that they'll ride it out, whatever 'it' turns out to be, together.