The Wilson charm was in full force when House returned to his hospital room the following afternoon. Two attractive female nurses hovered, one kneeling down to remove his IV and the other towering above him while reviewing discharge instructions.

"Working 'em high and low, eh?" House asked, earning angry stares from the two women. That seemed to happen a lot lately.

Wilson gave him an amused look over the head of the IV nurse. "Afternoon, House."

"Ready to blow this joint or . . . something else?"

Wilson rolled his eyes in amusement, disapproval, or both. Almost immediately, those same eyes dropped eagerly to the bag in House's left hand. "Those my clothes?"

House swung the bag behind his back. "I'm kind of partial to that blue and white number," he said, nodding at Wilson's checked hospital gown.

"I'm sure Karen here could get you one of your own," Wilson responded.

A coy smile from the IV nurse. Wilson probably had her phone number, if not a date already lined up.

"Dr. Wilson," the paperwork nurse said sternly, clearly annoyed at having her practiced discharge routine interrupted. "We need to finish this so we can get you out of here. This is your prescription for physical therapy." She handed him a form. "Normally, we set up the first appointment, but given that you don't live here, you'll need to follow up with the social worker at your hospital—"

"Got it," House interrupted.

She gave him another nasty look then handed Wilson another scrip. "This is for Percocet. It's important that you take it before you—"

"Got it," House repeated, stepping forward and reaching for the papers in her hand. "He's a doctor. I'm a doctor. I'm his doctor. Just give him the damned pen and let him sign his life away."

House gave Wilson a wink; the nurse gave House a snort. For a moment, Wilson tried placating her then gave up and awkwardly signed with his right hand whatever she put in front of him. A simple "X" would have looked more legible. The instant he'd finished, the nurse collected her paperwork and stomped out of the room.

The IV nurse gave it one more try. "Dr. Wilson, it's been a pleasure having you here. I only wish all of our patients—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," House interjected, motioning impatiently for her to finish.

"Keep pressure on this until it stops bleeding," she said, her tone a little miffed as she pressed a gauze pad against the back of Wilson's hand. "I'll call for a wheelchair." She turned to House. "If you bring your car around to the front, we'll meet you there."

"You didn't have to be so rude," Wilson said half-heartedly when she'd left. He reached for the bag of clothes. "Close the curtain, will you?"

"And spoil the view?"

House pulled the curtain around the bed and leaned against the wall as Wilson changed. Trained eyes searched for any sign of lingering distress. Given what Wilson had been through the past few days, he looked surprisingly good. Still, the minimal effort of dressing clearly tired him because, once Wilson had pulled on his pants, he sat down heavily to work on his shirt and shoes.

"Sure you're up to driving?" Wilson asked, pulling on his socks. "It's gonna take close to four hours if we don't hit traffic. And we still have to go back to the cabin--"

"Done."

"What's done?"

"Packed up your stuff," House announced proudly.

"House!" Wilson's voice was filled with despair. "Your leg . . ."

"I'll be all noble now and you can be all thankful later."

Wilson finished tying his shoes. "House, I'm sorry this weekend got so – messed up."

"Yeah, four days of no GameBoy was a real killer. I was at level 45."

"No way."

"It'll take me weeks to get back in top form."

"No way, you're not at 45."

"I so totally am."

The banter continued all the way to the car.