“True,” he admitted. “Do you think this needs more chervil?”

“I don’t know, or care, what chervil is, but it’s fine the way it is.”

“I know it’s fine,” Wilson answered.

House took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Okay, fine, it’s sublime. Exquisite. A joy to be around. Happy?” He took a giant bite.

“Yes.”

They finished their dinner. House ate all of his, which didn’t always happen. Maybe the mental exertion had sharpened his appetite--or maybe he was making an effort to lay down a base for the drinking he wanted to do.

Wilson knew better than to ask House if he was sure he really wanted to go out--it would only make him dig in his heels, as Wilson had learned over the meeting with Mrs. Thompson. But he did want to revisit the issue. “Maybe I should check the website and see who’s playing at Tony’s.”

“It’s Saturday; there’ll be somebody,” House argued.

“Maybe it’ll be somebody better a different day,” he suggested.

“I didn’t realize we weren’t allowed to go twice.”

“Well, true,” Wilson allowed, stacking the plates.

After a moment House said, “So we’re still going?”

“If you want. We could just have some beers at home.”

“No, I’m still up for going out.”

“Okay then. As soon as I get these in the dishwasher, we’ll get ready.”

True to his word, a few minutes later he helped House out of the sweats he’d been wearing all day and into jeans and a button-down shirt. He paused in House’s bathroom, wondering if he should take any of the emergency drugs. He felt they were likely to need them--but a pocket full of disposable syringes would be difficult to explain. He left the drugs behind.

The first part of the expedition actually went pretty well. Wilson loaded House into the car to drive to Tony’s, in House’s old neighborhood. They actually had to drive past his old building on the way--Wilson superstitiously averted his eyes from the lighted windows. Reminders of House’s old life weren’t quite as painful as they’d been when he was in prison, but certain things still gave him a tight ache in the back of his throat.

Parking wasn’t a problem. Tony’s had a tiny lot, and the one handicapped spot was vacant. Before lifting House out of the wheelchair, Wilson asked, “Ready?”

“Sure. This’ll be fun,” House added unconvincingly.

“Sure,” Wilson agreed.

A down side to House’s weight gain was that he was getting harder to lift. But Wilson got him slopped into the chair somehow, and they went inside.

#

House realized what a monumentally bad idea this was as soon as Wilson opened the door to the bar. Voices, laughter, the clink of glasses, blended in with the music to make an impenetrable stew. He winced, turning his head away from the din. Holding up one hand, he told Wilson, “Wait.”

“’kay.” Wilson stood behind him, endlessly patient. If anyone else was in a hurry to get in or out, that was their tough luck.

After at least a few minutes, House said, “Okay.”

Wilson pushed him in, chanting to all and sundry, “Excuse us. Coming through. If you could just step--thank you. Excuse us. Pardon me. Sorry.” House was pretty sure they ran over at least two separate feet, but he didn’t much care. If people were occupied with their sore toes, they weren’t staring at him.

#

Wilson found an empty table tucked away in a corner by the bar, and pushed some chairs away to make room for House’s wheelchair. “This okay?” he asked House.

“Yeah.” House’s head was down and his voice almost inaudible, but Wilson decided to take him at his word.

The cocktail waitress--a pony tailed blonde college student--came over a bit more quickly than Wilson would have liked. Under the circumstances, he’d have welcomed slow service, since it would give House more time to get oriented before adding an extra person to the equation. She looked cautiously at House, as if Wilson had brought in some kind of dangerous pet, before pasting on a professional smile and asking, “What can I get for you?”

“Uh--Sam Adams.”

“We have the pale ale and the winter ale right now.”

Wilson wanted to say, “Just bring me a fucking beer, okay?” but he was himself, and not, say, House, so he said, “Winter Ale, thanks.”

“Okay, and does he…want….?” She looked at House and trailed off meaningfully.

“I don’t know; why don’t you ask him?” Wilson suggested pleasantly.

“Okay…uh, sir, what would you like?” she asked, her voice as stilted as if she were taking part in a middle-school play.

“The same,” House said.

Wilson wasn’t entirely sure he had any idea what he was ordering--may he should have just ordered for him, after all. “Do you want some fried calamari?” he suggested.

“Yeah, okay,” House answered distantly.

“One order of the calamari?” the waitress asked.

“Please,” Wilson told her.

#

The waitress brought their food and beer in what had to be record time. House found that once he had something to concentrate on, his anxiety eased, and he was able to push the chaotic stew of sound into the background, where it belonged. Besides that, picking up an individual ring of calamari, dipping it in the spicy sauce, and getting both calamari and sauce into his mouth required enough effort that it really ought to count as fine-motor OT.

“So is this guy any good?” Wilson asked.

“Who?”

“The piano player.”

He listened. Picking the music out from the rest of the noise was harder than he remembered it having been before. Giving up, he answered, “I guess he’s all right.”

Wilson said--irrelevantly, House thought--“Yeah, but watch him try to diagnose a guy with a rare liver parasite.”

After a moment, he realized that Wilson must’ve thought he was thinking about how he couldn’t play anymore. He considered whether to try to explain, but decided not to. “Just wait till I’m back at work. I’ll be doing awesome things all the time.”

“It’s good that you’re working up to that gradually, so the rest of us can adjust.”

“I hope it doesn’t take too long for the people with interesting diseases to find out I’m back.” On the other hand, if the people with boring diseases never found out, that would be okay too.

#

Wilson was surprised to realize that this was actually working. Here he was, in a bar, having a drink with his best friend, almost as if their lives hadn’t been completely destroyed five, almost six, years ago. He found himself grinning like an idiot. The people at the next table probably thought they were both on a day pass from the home.

“You’re such a gigantic dork,” House pointed out.

“I know.” Wilson began wondering whether next time--he actually thought there might be a next time--he’d be able to just have fun, instead of thinking, how cool is it that we’re in a bar? That House is in a bar? I’m in a bar with House!

They ate some more calamari, and House had another beer. Wilson got a Coke, since he was driving.

But when they were only halfway through their second drinks, a heavily intoxicated woman swung her glass in an arc to emphasize some point, and at the apogee of her dramatic gesture, the glass slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor with a spectacular crash.

The room fell silent, and for a half-second Wilson wondered if everyone was about to start cheering and hooting, like in a high school cafeteria. Then he turned his attention to House, who had gone absolutely still. He might even have recovered and been all right, Wilson thought, if the woman hadn’t then let out a piercing shriek of laughter.

House crumpled forward, banging his head on the table in his haste to curl into a ball. Wilson managed to yank the table out of the way before he hurt himself. House fell forward into his own lap, whimpering softly.

The path to the door was blocked with tables, chairs, and people. How long had it taken them to get to their table? It looked like it would take twice as long to get out. Why hadn’t he brought a syringe of Ativan with him?

“It’s okay, House. You’re okay. We’re just going to…get out of here…”

House started sliding out of the chair--slithering down toward the floor, so that he could crawl off into a corner and hide. Wilson couldn’t let that happen--the obvious reasons aside, there was a good chance he’d crawl through the broken glass and cut his hands to shreds. “Hey, buddy, it’s okay. Just stay in the chair, okay? I’ve got you.”

The waitress turned up, carrying a dustpan and mop. Her eyes widened with concern when she saw House. “Is he okay? Should I call an ambulance?”

“I just need to get him home,” Wilson said apologetically. “Do you think you could sort of…clear a path?”

“Um…sure!” She left the mop and started telling people, “The handicapped man there needs to get out, can you clear the way? Thank you!”

She must’ve said it at least a dozen times, and House would have hated it, if he had much idea what was going on, but Wilson couldn’t find the energy or attention to care. He pushed House’s chair through the path she cleared, pausing a few times to haul House back up onto the seat, and again at the door to press a handful of money into the waitress’s hand.

“Okay, House, we’re outside. We just have to get into the car--we’ll be home in a few minutes. You’re going to be okay. Car’s just over here….”

They’d had a good forty-five minutes before everything went south. With any luck, House would want to try this again sometime.