CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Spilled

House and Cuddy continue to banter as Wilson sips at his coffee, attempting to shake off the Ativan fog. As soon as he feels capable of forming a coherent sentence, he says, "I'm really enjoying the perverted 'George and Gracie' routine, but, uh… anybody get the morning labs yet? A sat reading? A temp?"

House scowls at him. "Don't you ever go off duty? I'm doing great; even cooked breakfast!"

Wilson eyes the coffee cake dubiously. "Yeah, you and Sara Lee slaved away all morning."

"I'm hurt!" House pouts, and reaches over to grab the piece of cake Cuddy's just put in front of Wilson. "You don't deserve this tasty slice of heaven," he says, taking a large bite out of it, and making exaggerated sounds of enjoyment as he chews.

"Appetite's back," Wilson observes dryly to Cuddy as she gently cuffs the back of House's head, and puts more coffee cake in front of Wilson. Both Cuddy and Wilson are more appreciative of House's antics this morning than he'll ever know—neither can remember the last time House had stolen Wilson's food; this is a milestone.

Cuddy sets down her mug. "I'll draw the blood and drop it off on my way in. I'll get a little extra; now that you're afebrile, we should get a repeat CBC."

"Vampire," House mumbles around another huge bite of cake. "Always after me for my bodily fluids. No, wait… that'd be an embalmer."

Wilson and Cuddy exchange 'the look;' House seems more like his old self this morning than at any other time in the past two weeks. Cuddy's even more pleased than Wilson is, because she knows he's read the transcript of the voice file. Just wish I could let Wilson know what happened; I'll try and call him from the car.

After Cuddy leaves, House and Wilson move into the living room with their coffee. Wilson does the morning meds, and gets a quick assessment; he's satisfied with the results. "No fever, and you're maintaining a normal O2 sat on room air. Your lungs are even beginning to sound functional again."

"That mean we can dispense with those nasty little aerosols?"

"I said beginning to sound good; you're still pretty junky."

"That's a no, then?"

"Yes. Uh, no. I mean yes, that's a no. A couple more days of aerosols won't kill you," Wilson says, successfully ignoring the fact that House is sticking out his tongue and crossing his eyes. He leaves to chart the vital signs and straighten up the kitchen.

When Wilson returns, he's carrying House's chart, and there's an odd, indecipherable expression on his face. He sits down on the couch and looks at House, but he doesn't say anything.

Finally, House can't take the strained silence anymore. "What's up? You look like you just ate something nasty. Wasn't my colossal coffee cake, I know that!" House grins, but Wilson doesn't smile back.

"Spill, Jimmy. What's buggin' you?"

Wilson takes a deep breath. "Speaking of spills. Seems to be a coffee stain on one of these files."

"So you're a little clumsy; not like it's an official chart or anything, anyway."

"I didn't spill any coffee. Not this morning. This is fresh."

"So Cuddy's a little clumsy."

"Cuddy takes cream in her coffee. This," he sniffs at the stain, "is black. And she cleans up after herself. Also, she has her own copy of this particular file."

"A doctor, a chef, and a detective. Jimmy, you're a man of many talents."

Wilson is silent, and House still can't read his face. Then, he looks directly into House's eyes. "I'm sorry; I'm really sorry. Can… will you forgive me?"

House knows this isn't the time to joke around. "There's nothing to forgive," he says firmly.

"But I saw you that night, on the floor in your office. And I… walked away." He pauses, biting at his lower lip. "I shouldn't ask you to excuse what I did, though, when I can't condone it myself." Wilson looks shame-faced, and now he's having trouble meeting House's eyes. "I know I told you that you could listen to the session, that I wasn't ashamed of anything I'd said. And it's true. But I thought we'd listen to it together, that I'd… maybe get a chance to… talk to you about it first. I am ashamed of what I did, that night."

"You did the right thing." House's voice is unexpectedly gentle. "What would've happened if you'd come in?"

Wilson thinks about this, and says with a faint smile, "You would have yelled at me to get out, and insulted me. And I would've ignored you."

House smiles too. "Preferable to passing a tear-soaked tissue back and forth. Which would have been our only other option." He looks at Wilson, and waits for him to meet his gaze. "You did the right thing," he repeats emphatically, and watches as some long-held guilt evaporates from Wilson's eyes.

"And anyway," House continues cheerfully, "this transcript is great! Now I have an actual doctor's note giving me permission to give you a hard time. Your shrink approved it; how cool is that?"

"What are you talking about?"

House leans over and takes the chart from Wilson's lap. He rifles through the transcript of the voice file until he finds what he's looking for. Then, doing a bad imitation of Sigmund Freud, he reads in a booming voice, "He's literally programmed to fight you."

Wilson stares at him, mouth open, while House continues happily, "That's like a blank check to star in my own episode of Boys Behaving Badly. Ya know, The Incredible Shrinking Dick may be an okay fella after all!" House grins maniacally at Wilson.

Wilson takes a deep breath while he tries not to smile. "Two things. First, call him 'The Incredible Shrinking Dick' tomorrow night, and I'll put the Parental Control lock on your porn channels—all of 'em. Got me?"

"You're no fun," House sulks. Wilson crosses his arms and continues to wait. "Oh, fine," House says, "Got it; no nicknames. And the second thing?"

"Just think it's only fair to tell you that you may be 'programmed to fight me,' but I've recently programmed myself to fight back," Wilson says smugly.

"And a damned fine job you're doing, too," House's voice is low—and serious. "Lucky for me," he adds even more quietly.

"One more thing about this," House says, and Wilson braces himself as House turns the transcript to the last page. "Your last line here? You know, the poetic, mushy one?"

House pauses as Wilson waits silently. "History doesn't always repeat itself, Jimmy. You remember what you said—and you believe it. Take it to the bank, bro."

House closes the chart slowly, then hands it back to Wilson. "Hey, I ate all my breakfast, and yours too—that means I can have a Twinkie for dessert!" House grins, and Wilson grins right back.