“Okay,” House said. Clarence told him the same thing pretty much every afternoon.

“You have yourself a nice rest.” Clarence left, closing the bedroom door behind him.

He often dropped off for his nap immediately, especially now that he’d cut out his midmorning one. His lunchtime meds helped with that, as did the exertion of the morning’s activities. But today he didn’t feel like going to sleep just yet. It was good to lie down for a while, warm and surrounded by soft things, but he didn’t exactly feel sleepy.

Another good sign. In a few months, when he was back at work, he’d be expected to stay awake all day most of the time. He wasn’t quite there yet, but maybe soon.

He thought about the article he’d been listening to earlier in the day. It was about a new drug to prevent and slow the progress of diabetic nephropathy. The study was reporting promising results, but there was something about it that seemed off. He tried to remember what he could. The sample was a bit on the small side for a preventative treatment, but that wasn’t unusual. Was there something wonky with the way they’d chosen subjects? The sample had included diabetics at low-, medium-, and high risk of renal complications. Of course they had cherry-picked the patients most likely to have a positive outcome within each category, but that was normal too. There was something wrong, though. It would come to him.

He was still mulling it over when he heard the front door open and Wilson’s voice. “Hi, Clarence.”

“Hey, Doc Wilson. He’s down, for about an hour now.”

An hour? Maybe he had fallen asleep. Not for long, though.

“Any problems?” Wilson asked. There was a metallic clatter as he tossed his keys on the hall table.

“No, just a regular day. Work go okay?”

“Um-hm. Pretty good.”

“Guess I’ll take off, then.”

“See you tomorrow.”

When House heard the front door close behind Clarence, he called, “Wilson!”

His bedroom door opened. “Hey, buddy. You’re up early.”

“Yeah. You want to read to me?”

“Sure.” Wilson sat down on the air mattress next to him. “Do you want “Normotensive Ischemic Acute Renal Failure,” or “A Decade of Direct-to-Consumer Advertising of Prescription Drugs,” from the New England Journal of Medicine, or No Deals, Mr. Bond?”

“Bond,” he decided. He didn’t want to confuse himself with another medical journal article until he’d figured out what was bothering him about the diabetic nephropathy study.

Wilson read for about an hour, checking frequently to make sure House was still awake. His voice was scratchy by the time he said, “Okay, I think that’s all I can read for now. Do you feel like resting for a while longer?”

House considered. “No, I think I’m up. What’s for dinner? Did you get my Reuben?” Wilson usually brought him one on Mondays, unless the hospital cafeteria ran out before he got there.

“I sure did. C’mon, let’s get you up.” Wilson hauled him into the wheelchair.

“Did Stacy find out anything?” he asked as Wilson pushed him to the dining room.

“Not really. They raised the offer to $17 million. I’m supposed to pass along that Mrs. Thompson is very eager to put this all behind her. Apparently access to her husband’s funds is limited until your case is settled. She’s had to take her daughters out of private school and go stay with her parents to reduce expenses.”

“I don’t know how she manages,” House scoffed. “If she’s that anxious to settle, she should tell me what I want to know.”

“I think Stacy told her that, but I’ll make sure she gets that message.” Wilson positioned him at the table. “Your sandwich is in the fridge. I’ll be right back.” Wilson left him for a moment and came back. House heard him unwrapping the sandwich and spreading the paper out in front of him. “Here.” He took House’s hand and put it on the sandwich, which was already cut into small pieces.

He took a bite. No dressing, light kraut--just the way he liked them. “What about the estate? Did she find out the total?”

“Oh, yeah. It was about $42 million. Do you want to talk about this while you’re eating?”

There must be more. “I’m okay. What?” He took another bite.

“Stacy checked what other claims had been made against the estate. It looks like there were a few other…well, Thompson had had three other innocent men put in prison. She followed up and found that two of them were released shortly after his death, with vague explanations from the DA about new evidence coming to light. The other one had already gotten out through normal channels. They each got between one and a half and three million dollars.”

“That doesn’t seem like much.”

“They were in the general population, it looks like. Not….”

Oh.

Wilson continued, “Their settlements seemed to be based on how long they were in prison. All three of them went in before you did.”

So he’d had practice. That made sense. “Do we know why?” It might give him a clue as to why he had been singled out for the special treatment, although he doubted it.

“No. One went in for embezzlement, another one for armed robbery, the third one for the murder of a prostitute. They all confessed and gave details of the crimes that only the person who did it--or someone who’d been coached by the person who did it--would know. But Stacy couldn’t find out what he had on them to force them to confess, or why he made them do it. They all had business dealings with him. One had actually worked for him up until the arrest.”

He bracketed that to come back to it. “So it’s forty-two million minus what the other guys got?”

“Well, there were a couple of other settlements.” Wilson hesitated. “Stacy said…said the lawyer hinted that they were from other…other contracts.”

Shit.

“But they were…were apparently less….” Wilson trailed off.

House nodded to show that he knew what Wilson meant.

“So they each got a couple million, and there were some bequests to employees and a couple of charities. With all that taken off, it’s about $29 million, with four or five million of that being the family house and cars, artwork, electronics, that kind of thing. The cash, stocks, bonds, investment property--liquid and semi-liquid stuff--comes to around $25 million, so that’s about as high as you could go and have even a chance of her agreeing to it.”

So the original offer had been about half of what Mrs. Thompson could readily put her hands on. That told him something, but he wasn’t sure what. Maybe it was just the amount she felt she could comfortably part with. “Okay.” He selected a chip from the pile near his sandwich and popped it into his mouth. “What charities?”

“Children’s Miracle Network and the ASPCA.”

House paused in chewing. “Oh, Christ, that’s rich.”

“I know.” Wilson stood up. “Are you thirsty? I’m getting a Coke.”

“I’ll take one.”

A moment later, Wilson put one of his plastic thermal mugs in his hand, then took his seat again and unwrapped something.

House sniffed. “What are you eating?”

“Turkey club. You know I don’t like corned beef.”

That sounded good. He put down the mug and extended his hand in Wilson’s direction.

“What?” Wilson asked.

“Give me some.”

Wilson sighed and put a quarter of the sandwich in his hand.

House took a big bite, shoving the sandwich in the side of his mouth so he could tear off a bite with the teeth he still had. It was good, but he liked his better. He put it down and ate another chip.

“You aren’t even going to eat that, are you?” Wilson accused. “You just didn’t want me to have it.”

House shrugged. “I wanted it until I got it. Then I didn’t anymore.”

“I see.”

House ate several more pieces of sandwich. “I think we should have Cuddy over for dinner,” he said.

“Hm?” Wilson mumbled around a mouthful of turkey club. “Why? Do you want to tell her about…the thing?”

It wasn’t a “thing,” it was a plan. “Not yet. Laying the groundwork, sort of thing.” Cuddy was less likely to take him seriously if, when he told her he wanted his job back, she’d last seen him as a patient propped up in a hospital bed.

“Okay,” Wilson said suspiciously. “When?”

He thought. “Friday?” Wilson would be home that day, so he could cook something extra-nice.

“That soon?” Wilson’s tone was dubious.

“Why wait?” He’d done pretty well with Stacy’s visit, and Chase’s.

“Are you sure you can handle…if we invite her to dinner, she’ll be here for a couple of hours, at least.”

Chase’s visit had lasted maybe twenty minutes; Stacy’s about forty-five. He wavered.

“We could just have her over for coffee and dessert,” Wilson suggested. “Or put it off a few more weeks. You might be…stronger.”

“Dinner on Friday will be fine,” House said firmly.

#

“Pardon?” Cuddy was almost sure she’d just heard James Wilson ask her if she was free for dinner on Friday. Was he asking her on a date?

“Dinner,” James said again. “House asked me to ask you. He’s…he’s looking to get out more. Well, metaphorically. Socialize.”

“Dinner with House?” She was still stuck thinking of it as a date. “Or both of you?” That would make a little more sense.

“Right. At our place. Bring Lily, if you want.”

Definitely not a date, then.

“He’s getting better at…being around people,” Wilson said. “We had Stacy over the other day.”

So now she was part of House’s rehab plan. How flattering.

Still, it was the best offer she’d had in a while. “What can I bring?”

#

Inviting Cuddy to dinner had gone smoothly enough. He’d been afraid that she’d realize House had something up his sleeve and ask a lot of awkward questions, but it turned out he needn’t have worried.

When he got back to his office, with about ten minutes to spare before his next appointment, there was a message from Stacy, who he‘d talked to earlier in the day. Deciding he had just enough time to return it, he dialed.

“Hi, James,” Stacy said. “Mrs. Thompson and her legal representative agreed to meet with me next week to answer House’s questions.”

“Great!”

“So how are we going to do it? Does House want me to make a tape, or just tell him what she said…or maybe he wants you there…? We said Monday at ten, but we could change it if he wants you there, and it doesn’t fit your schedule.”

“I didn’t ask,” he admitted. “I’ll find out.”

“Can you do it today? The other guy is going to be in court the rest of the week.”

Wilson hesitated. “I’d have to call home.”

“Okay, great. I’ll be by the phone for a while. Just let me know!” She hung up.

Damn. He didn’t even know if House was awake. Or he and Clarence could be out on a walk. Still, he called home.

Clarence answered. “Asleep? No, he’s up. We’re just doing some PT. Hey Doc, it’s Wilson.”

Wilson explained the situation, and listened as Clarence relayed the information to House. There was an answering murmur from House--too far from the phone for Wilson to make out the words--then a reply of, “Sure thing, Doc.”

A moment of static, then, “Wilson.” House was breathing hard. Clarence probably worked him harder during his PT sessions than Wilson did. “Yeah,” House continued. “I want to be there. At the meeting.”

Wilson winced. “Are you sure that’s….I really don’t think--”

“I want her to have to look at me while she tells me why,” House elaborated.

“Yeah,” Wilson muttered. “That’ll be awkward, all right.” House liked awkward. “But you’re going to be a lot more uncomfortable than she will,” he pointed out.

“Yeah. Don’t care. Set it up.”

“Where? Not the apartment….”

“Stacy’s office is fine. We’ll get there early, get me settled.”

At least he was giving some thought to his physical and psychological limitations. “I think this is a really bad idea,” Wilson said. He wanted that on record.

“Noted.”

“It might not even be that interesting,” he suggested. “Maybe she doesn’t know why. Maybe he picked you out of the phone book.”

“She’d have just said that to begin with. There’s a reason,” House insisted.

Wilson knew that if he argued, House would just dig his heels in further. If he gave in now, maybe there was a small chance House would rethink his decision. “Okay. I’ll set it up.”

“Okay. See you tonight,” House said.

Maybe calling home from work reminded him of being married, because Wilson said automatically, “See you. Love you.”

House coughed. “Right back at you, big guy.”