Wilson gave a small, sympathetic smile. “I get it,” he said. “Believe me, I do. I’ve had patients do all kinds of things between treatments, work, teach, write, parent… and some of them did more than just get through it. They thrived.”

He leaned back slightly, pausing.

“But I’m going to be honest with you, because better to hear it from me than crash into it later: you’re already running on fumes.”

House had a feeling he knew what Wilson was about to say; he'd already suspected, but hadn't say taken Nyx's blood pressure to confirm.

“Your heart rate’s elevated, your blood pressure dips when you shift, and you’re showing the early signs of dehydration. Which means right now, before we’ve even started chemo, your body’s telling me it’s already in a deficit. And that's not just the disease."

A pause. Just enough to give Nyx a chance to fill in the blank.

Then, gently, “Whatever you’ve been using to cope—it might’ve worked for a while. But this is a different kind of fight. And we need your body clear enough to handle what’s coming.”

His expression didn't show a hint of judgment, which House found a bit ironic considering expressions he'd gotten from Wilson over the years.

"We need a plan that keeps you on your feet without hollowing you out," Wilson continued. "You can keep working. But only if we make your health part of that schedule, not an afterthought. That means fluids. Real meals. Sleep that lasts longer than a nap in a trailer between takes. And maybe also we need to get you support—medical, therapeutic, human—whatever makes the most sense."

He glanced at House, and House imagined that he was biting back some kind of comment about House's appropriateness as a sober companion.