“Chicago,” Wilson says finally one day. Months have stretched into a little more than two years, and he counts every day as a blessing.
But he knows he’s come to the end, and he’s made preparations. Somehow, he just knows.
“Seriously?” House grumbles in reply. “You want to die in Chicago? Home of deep dish pizza? You could die literally anywhere else in the world and you choose Chicago?”
“Yes,” he says with the finality of the situation. “Yes, Chicago. And I have a hospital in mind too. You’re not allowed to judge or argue. These are my dying wishes.”
“It’ll only be for a few months.”
“Yeah, but still…it’s Chicago.”
“I think you’ll survive.”
“You’re lucky I love you,” House mutters, but there’s no bite to his words.
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