"Family for Wilson. Family for James Wilson?"

House would have jumped up but could only manage to straighten in his chair and raise a hand. The large clock above the empty intake station indicated that just over an hour had passed since they'd arrived.

A young doctor in scrubs, younger than Wilson, House noted automatically, strode toward him. Seeing the cane, the man motioned House to stay seated and folded himself into the adjoining chair. "I'm Dr. Drake. I've been taking care of Dr. Wilson. Are you a relative?"

"Friend. We work together."

"Of course. You're the doctor the EMTs mentioned. Dr. House, right? Some of your articles were mandatory reading when I was in residency. Nice job on the thoracostomy, by the way."

House merely nodded. Quit sucking up and get on with it, he thought.

"Dr. Wilson's doing fine. The chest tube perked him right up."

House's eyebrows climbed at the image of a perky Wilson, but whatever.

Drake rubbed a hand across his forehead. "His bloodwork looks good; no hematuria, which is also good. I don't think there's any internal bleeding, but we'll do an ultrasound to confirm. And we'll have someone from ortho look at his wrist and knee in the morning. X-rays were negative. He'll need an MRI but there's no rush and I'd rather wait until his cardiac situation has fully stabilized." The doctor smiled. "Considering the circumstances, he's in good shape."

House merely nodded, sinking deeper into the chair as tension flowed out of his body.

"We'll admit him, of course. Probably keep him a few days, until we're comfortable pulling the chest tube."

House observed the ER doc carefully. Experience had taught him that you could learn more about a patient's condition by watching rather than listening to the medical staff. This Drake fellow was clearly relaxed and that stopped House from asking all the questions that raced through his mind. That and—

"Want to see him?" Drake asked. The man was a mind-reader.

After more than twenty-five years of practicing medicine, House thought he'd seen it all. But nothing quite prepared him for the sight of Wilson flat on his back, in a faded hospital gown and attached to a maze of tubes and wires. The beeps, hums, digital printouts, bags of fluids and lines of tubing that intimidated most ER visitors were assessed in an instant. Wilson was stable.

Their implicit rule was no touching. Not that there was much uncovered skin to touch between the IV lines, pulsox meter, BP cuff, bandages, and blankets. His fingers snaked toward Wilson's hand, stopping millimeters from making contact. "You look . . . ."

"Like shit," Wilson finished for him.

House allowed his head to jiggle as if he were seriously considering the statement. "Close enough." Wilson had aged a lot in less than a day.

"Feel like shit."

"That's what happens when you get yourself stabbed twice in one day."

Wilson's eyes scrutinized him. "You look worse than I feel. Leg still hurting?"

"Carpal tunnel." House held up his wrist. "Too many admitting forms."

"Oh. Thanks."

"Had fun with your medical history."

It was Wilson's turn to look worried. "You didn't—"

"Hemorrhoids or herpes, which was it? So hard to tell them apart."

The ER nurse gave him a disapproving look, which House promptly returned.

"They're gonna admit me, aren't they?" Wilson asked.

Wilson knew better than to ask that. He had a chest tube for Christ's sake. He rolled his eyes. "There's a big sucking sound coming from that tube in your chest. What do you think?"

"You call Cuddy?"

"Told her you got drunk, tried to hit on a biker chick---"

"You—" Wilson sputtered.

"Don't complain. She gave you the day off."

Wilson's eyes took in his surroundings. "I feel like an idiot."

"If you don't learn to feed yourself right-handed, you're going to look like one too." The comment earned him another glare from the nurse. "Don't you have bedpans that need changing?" House challenged.

"I need to stay with my patient."

"He's hooked to a dozen monitors. I guarantee that if he sneezes at least a couple will go off."

When she still remained dubious, he exchanged a pointed look with Wilson. Suddenly, he sneezed. Equally suddenly, alerts sounded from at least two of the machines to which he was attached.

House couldn't resist an I told you so stare. The nurse huffed loudly, silenced the alarms, checked the seal of the chest tube, and, with a thinly veiled threat to return in a few minutes, left them alone.

"House, you gotta be nice. I have to live here for a few days."

"That was my nice." He nodded at the machinery. "You okay?"

"Yeah. They did a good job. You did a good job."

Wilson had just broken the no compliments rule. "Self preservation. Who else would buy me lunch?"

"Glad your priorities are in order."

"The way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

"Knew I was on the right track."

"Don't do that again, Wilson."

Wilson seemed momentarily confused. The meds were obviously interfering with his ability to keep up with the verbal repartee. "Seduce you with lunch?" he finally asked.

"Make me play doctor."

Another, longer pause. "It's good for you. Practice for . . . next time . . . piss off . . . team." The words were slurred. Wilson was tiring and the meds were kicking in.

House remained quiet, allowing his fingers to inch forward until they met the coolness of Wilson's skin. There was a slight jerk and then Wilson's body relaxed; his eyes closed and there was no sound in the room other than the monotonous beeping that assured House his friend was alive and well.