Wilson started to turn over, but it hurt, and then he woke all the way up. He was lying in a hospital bed at PPTH, muzzy-headed and hurting. House sat beside him.
Wilson went dizzy with relief. He'd been so worried. "House? Where have you been?"
House looked startled. He folded up his reading glasses. "Right here."
"I--appreciate you being here," Wilson's voice caught a little. After House had walked away from the wreckage Wilson had thought he was finally, irreversibly alone. "I really do. But the police are looking for you. It won't take them long to look here."
House got up and shone his penlight into Wilson's eyes. Wilson tried to wave him off, but House wasn't groggy from anesthesia. House ran him through a quick mental status exam.
"Okay," House said, moving Wilson's legs to sit beside him on the bed. "Why are the police looking for me?"
"You--crashed your car into Cuddy's house. You could have killed five people, including her daughter. You broke my wrist. You don't remember that? You...you'd been guzzling Vicodin. If you were in an altered state of consciousness that could keep you out of jail! This is great. You still need rehab, but this is good news."
"Interesting. You say I broke your wrist? Which one."
Wilson looked down at his hands. There was no cast, no brace, no pain. His eyes flew to House.
"You went hunting with that jerk Tucker this morning. He had a seizure and shot you in the back. He's now an oncology patient again. Your kidney suffered major trauma. You had emergency surgery to remove it, and a very interesting dream."
"A dream? You mean you didn't take out Cuddy's house?"
House shook his head.
"You didn't shoot a hooker with an arrow and jump off a third floor balcony into a pool?"
"I seem to have had a lot of fun in your dream, but no."
So it had really been a dream? Everything since Tucker? Wilson thought back over everything he remembered, everything that hadn't happened. Or hadn't happened yet.
"House--are you still pining over Cuddy?"
House paused, and Wilson braced himself for a scathing joke and a quick exit.
"I was. I have been. But she's with Lucas. I'm pretty sure that the only reason I want her is that I can't have her. It'd probably be pretty awful if we actually got together, the control freak and the rebel. That never works. I need to move on."
Wilson nodded. "We're going to need a bigger apartment," he said tentatively.
"If you're ready to move on too, I hear Cuddy's been looking at a loft to move into. Some place smaller and with no yard. We could find out where and bid on it."
Wilson shook his head. "Trust me, we want a place with two bathrooms."
"You're serious about this," House asked, and under the humor was a note of very frightened hope that Wilson had probably missed hearing a thousand times before. But he'd seen the future and he was determined not to allow his restless libido to tip over the dominoes this time.
"I'm serious," Wilson said, and yawned.
"Go back to sleep. Try to dream up a good condo for us to buy. And a flatscreen."
Wilson smiled, and murmured into his pillow, "You're going to love my decorator."
no subject
Wilson started to turn over, but it hurt, and then he woke all the way up. He was lying in a hospital bed at PPTH, muzzy-headed and hurting. House sat beside him.
Wilson went dizzy with relief. He'd been so worried. "House? Where have you been?"
House looked startled. He folded up his reading glasses. "Right here."
"I--appreciate you being here," Wilson's voice caught a little. After House had walked away from the wreckage Wilson had thought he was finally, irreversibly alone. "I really do. But the police are looking for you. It won't take them long to look here."
House got up and shone his penlight into Wilson's eyes. Wilson tried to wave him off, but House wasn't groggy from anesthesia. House ran him through a quick mental status exam.
"Okay," House said, moving Wilson's legs to sit beside him on the bed. "Why are the police looking for me?"
"You--crashed your car into Cuddy's house. You could have killed five people, including her daughter. You broke my wrist. You don't remember that? You...you'd been guzzling Vicodin. If you were in an altered state of consciousness that could keep you out of jail! This is great. You still need rehab, but this is good news."
"Interesting. You say I broke your wrist? Which one."
Wilson looked down at his hands. There was no cast, no brace, no pain. His eyes flew to House.
"You went hunting with that jerk Tucker this morning. He had a seizure and shot you in the back. He's now an oncology patient again. Your kidney suffered major trauma. You had emergency surgery to remove it, and a very interesting dream."
"A dream? You mean you didn't take out Cuddy's house?"
House shook his head.
"You didn't shoot a hooker with an arrow and jump off a third floor balcony into a pool?"
"I seem to have had a lot of fun in your dream, but no."
So it had really been a dream? Everything since Tucker? Wilson thought back over everything he remembered, everything that hadn't happened. Or hadn't happened yet.
"House--are you still pining over Cuddy?"
House paused, and Wilson braced himself for a scathing joke and a quick exit.
"I was. I have been. But she's with Lucas. I'm pretty sure that the only reason I want her is that I can't have her. It'd probably be pretty awful if we actually got together, the control freak and the rebel. That never works. I need to move on."
Wilson nodded. "We're going to need a bigger apartment," he said tentatively.
"If you're ready to move on too, I hear Cuddy's been looking at a loft to move into. Some place smaller and with no yard. We could find out where and bid on it."
Wilson shook his head. "Trust me, we want a place with two bathrooms."
"You're serious about this," House asked, and under the humor was a note of very frightened hope that Wilson had probably missed hearing a thousand times before. But he'd seen the future and he was determined not to allow his restless libido to tip over the dominoes this time.
"I'm serious," Wilson said, and yawned.
"Go back to sleep. Try to dream up a good condo for us to buy. And a flatscreen."
Wilson smiled, and murmured into his pillow, "You're going to love my decorator."