A/N: Short scene. I really had intended this and the last chapter to be one chapter, but that was all I had time to write yesterday. Next up is Jensen. Thanks for the reviews. The FDR book is quite thought-provoking, and while he does have his pet theory, he isn't pulling things out of thin air, and his presentation of his case is extensively footnoted and documented. The book is chock full of direct quotes from contemporary sources with immediate access about how FDR was actually doing as it tracks him through the years, and there is in-depth analysis of the few medical records available. Yes, it's true that almost all of his health records are missing from his official hospital, Bethesda, and the Navy has never been able to explain what happened to them. It's an interesting book. I also had fun imagining what today's less-cooperative press might have made of some of FDR's firm rules for how he appeared in pictures and his equally firm rules for how they were allowed to quote him.

(H/C)

House entered Wilson's office without knocking. "Lunch time!"

The oncologist was at his desk writing up notes from his morning's appointments. "Hang on a minute. Let me finish this chart."

House obligingly flopped down onto the couch, but he couldn't stay silent for more than a few seconds before interrupting his friend's task. "What killed Franklin Roosevelt?"

Wilson sighed. "You still haven't found a good case, have you?"

"No. The entire medical world is boring right now. So we're left with history. You didn't answer my question."

"Roosevelt died of a cerebral hemorrhage while he was on vacation." Wilson's lips quirked as he remembered reading once that FDR, who had quite an extramarital track record, had had his long-time mistress also present on that fatal vacation, the mistress he had sworn to Eleanor decades earlier that he would never see again. In the next moment, Wilson looked at his own wedding ring, and his smile widened. It had been three weeks since his marriage, and the novelty of looking at the ring hadn't worn off. This one seemed so much different than the previous rings. His family, Sandra and Daniel.

His hand had stilled in its charting, and House interrupted his thoughts. "Yes, FDR cheated. Practically all of them have cheated. And yes, you are now a card-carrying member of the married and not cheating club. But how do you know that's what killed him?"

Wilson doggedly resumed writing. "Because I read it in the history books, House, and that's enough for me. Even if he died of something else, at this point, it doesn't matter."

House shook his head at this lack of interest. "Wilson, you shouldn't just accept what you read in the history books. They were wrong sometimes."

"But regardless of accuracy, provided you and the teacher read the same history books, they gave you passing grades on the tests. That's what really mattered."

"The truth is more important than passing a test."

Wilson shrugged. "Speak for yourself. So is Cuddy convinced by now that everybody survived Tuesday night?" That question was left open-ended, letting House fill in as much or as little as he wished. Wilson was slowly learning that giving House some space on the subject of his father worked a lot better than pushing or advising him, and House was correspondingly sharing more with him, though still with defenses in place. He had told Wilson about the sleeping bag plans on their weekly guys-night-out Tuesday, but he hadn't been around the hospital for lunch yesterday, and Wednesdays were Wilson's tightest day schedule-wise anyway due to his sessions with Jensen. So Wilson hadn't had a chance for an in-depth report yet.

"Yeah." House had tensed up a little, but it was getting better. Wilson could tell that ever so slowly, he was starting to accept the idea of a father, not only in conversation with Wilson but in his own thoughts. The oncologist still marveled at Thornton's patience and persistence. The pen moved across the chart in silence for a minute, and then House went on. "Cuddy had to call him first thing the next morning to check on him, of course." And you eavesdropped, Wilson thought. "He was tied up with his truck of stuff yesterday, but he came over last night to eat with us. Little bit stiff, not that he admitted it, but he said he'd slept just fine."

"If he spent all day dealing with moving the furniture in, he might have been stiff from that, too."

"He was paying people, Wilson, not moving it himself."

"I'm sure he did his share. He has to sort it all out still, too, and he isn't as young as he used to be." Wilson finished the chart. "So is Rachel all revved up for the horse on Saturday?"

House sat up, massaging his leg for a moment before standing. "She can't wait. She's even getting Abby excited about it." He looked at his watch. "Sandra isn't joining us today?"

"No, she's tied up. They've got one nurse out in ICU." Cuddy, Wilson knew, had a business lunch today. He pushed back from the desk as House hauled himself to his feet.

"Before we head down there, I need a refill," House said quickly.

Wilson sat back down and unlocked the desk drawer he'd just locked, extracting a prescription pad. Jensen prescribed the sleeping pills and p.r.n. Ativan, but Wilson was still handling the various pain meds. "On which ones?"

"Vicodin and Voltaren."

Wilson started writing. House's Vicodin use was much more regular than it had been in his pre-Cuddy years, and he never exceeded 4000 mg of acetaminophen in a day now. Marriage had been good for him. Of course, he hadn't had supplemental and breakthrough meds prescribed in those days, either. He had higher steps available if needed now without having to hide them in a box on a top shelf. But Voltaren was fairly new in his regimen, a higher-powered anti-inflammatory that he had been prescribed in the hospital after the racetrack explosion, a step up from the former prescription-strength ibuprofen. This was the second refill he'd asked Wilson for on that. The first time, a month after the track, he'd still been healing, but now, eight weeks out, he was 98% back to his baseline. He apparently didn't want to switch back to ibuprofen. "Is the Voltaren helping your leg more in general, not just with the healing from the track?"

House tightened up, and his voice was sharp. "Are you going to give it to me or not? That's not a narcotic, Wilson."

"Settle down. I was just asking. As your prescribing doctor, I'm supposed to keep tabs on how the meds are working." And House really ought to have a pain management specialist doing this and maybe even suggesting better strategies. It was something Wilson had often thought, but suggesting it was a quick route to getting his head bitten off. He wasn't sure of everything that had happened between House and the pain doctor he'd seen back soon after the infarction, but he knew something had. House never referred to the specialty since without sarcasm on high. Wilson knew that Cuddy wanted him to see a pain doctor, ironically because she now thought he needed to be on more treatment, not less. Wilson, too, had changed judgments on that in recent years. There was occasionally some psychosomatic overlay, but he had no doubts now that the vast majority of the pain was physical. He sighed and mentally wished Cuddy luck. "I know you need the meds, House. I was just asking if that was doing better than the ibuprofen did for you." He tore off the two prescriptions and handed them across the desk.

House paused for a moment, his piercing blue eyes studying Wilson as if he were doing a differential on him, and then he took the prescriptions. "It helps some," he said, so softly the words might have been lost if Wilson hadn't been paying attention.

"Good." Wilson stood back up. "Now come on. Let's head for lunch. Maybe you can even enlighten me on what really killed FDR. I won't care, but I'll listen."

House relaxed. "Not in the cafeteria, Wilson. The egglings might overhear us, and I want them to work on it themselves." Together, the two left the office.