I crave new Vast songs… All I have are Visual Audio Sensory Theater and Music For People. I can't even download Turquoise and Crimson from the site, even if I pay. Le sigh. Jon Crosby is practically writing this story for me. Without Jon and Twill inspiration, this story would be dust in the wind. And Tori Amos. And Rob Thomas. Thank you all. This chapter took so long because I decided to write all the flashbacks that are at the beginning of each chapter. On the upside, that means that the other chapters will probably come out somewhat faster than they would have if I wrote everything in order as it will appear in the finished product. I'm writing everything in order chronologically as it stands. I don't know what difference that will make other than some release date things. /babble

(Sabbath)

Oncologists. Masochists, the lot of them. They willingly went into what was probably the ugliest specialty. Not only do the patients have a habit of dying, before they do so there's a medley of other ailments plaguing them because of compromised immune systems, psychological issues, and hysterical family members. House couldn't imagine why anyone normal would even think about choosing such a specialty unless they liked pain in other people, liked feeling pain themselves, or somehow managed to delude themselves that they could change anything. True, medicine was getting better every day that passed, but the hopefuls who chose to take on cancer saw science evolving around them, but that didn't mean there was a magical serum, cancer wasn't any easier to control, nor would it be for some time to come.

The closest House had ever been to the Oncology Department was surgery, and fortunately that wasn't a place he needed to be for more than a few hours at a time. That entire area of the hospital had bad zen, it made his skin crawl. Actually meeting an oncologist… he felt as though a black cat had walked across his path, even though he wasn't superstitious at all. It left him jaded. Maybe he'd overreacted in front of the guy, but he'd hit an oncologist with his car. There was no worse omen. If the guy didn't want to sue, then it meant his bad luck was going to catch up to him in some other way. It had been…

…another stressful day…

…as Wilson sat in the lunchroom fiddling with his salad. It was the only thing he had bought, having not been in the mood for anything substantial, and even so he had hardly eaten any of it. Emily had come into his office asking only for the papers which, though she said didn't need to be signed until Friday, she wanted and expected in quick order. No doubt she already had a wedding date planned with whomever she had left him for, and he too would be waiting for the signed papers. To top it all off, some maniac had run him down with a car that day before and though he had no intention of suing, he had at least hoped for an apology. Lacking appetite he preferred to push it around his plate rather than worry anyone, for there were a number of nurses within sight who probably would have noticed him acting strangely. They seem to be keeping a close eye on him since he started working there which was more than a little unnerving, but it may have had something to do with the fact that he had been hired as the head of the Oncology department at such a young age. Wilson stood, unable to take the stares, and went to throw out the rest of his lunch, which was most of it.

He met resistance as he turned towards the trash, and ended up with the nearest table corner heaved into his stomach, and romaine lettuce in his hair as he was knocked aside by none other than his attempted murderer from the day before.

'Christ, don't tell me it's you again.' As Wilson turned to get a better look at this guy, he saw nothing new or different; he still had the same brown hobo coat over the same sky blue shirt. He saw no name tags or other forms of identification which was sometimes even required of visitors, and the guy obviously wasn't a patient. As Wilson attempted to recover scraps of dignity from where it fell shattered to the floor, the other man simply snorted and continued to a table. Wilson ignored several attempts from nurses to help him as he watched this guy sit with his tray of confections and assorted doughnuts, picking off romaine leaves and tossing them in the trash. He fought off his better instinct to pop the guy a good one. Just a combination of stress, no need to take it out on some person who now had a James Wilson shaped dent on his car to cherish forever.

Just stress, just stress, just stress. Fairly new job, brand new divorce, several new bruises, just stress.

He was glad that no one could see how much effort it took him to simply walk away without issue. That was something he was good at, understanding, tolerance… On the rooftop about fifteen minutes later, he dropped the picture of Emily he planned on keeping in his office off the alley side of the building, and it struck the pavement seven stories below. Though the crash was too distant to be truly satisfying, at least the glitter of broken glass gave him a moment of quiet joy.

oOo

Over the course of the morning, House heard Wilson's alarm go off a number of times, but always it was quickly silenced. After Wilson had come in the night before, House had not gone back to sleep, instead watching infomercials and Saturday morning cartoons. Bugs had come on just in time that morning, and had fortunately stopped House from calling in to buy a set of straightening irons that the host had done a most excellent job of convincing him he needed.

House was secure in the knowledge that he didn't need to go to work that day, but he knew that Wilson frequently went in on weekends, whether to make up clinic hours that he was allowed to neglect during the week, or to look in on some patient he was worried about. He certainly should have gotten up for that already, and it was unlike him to be late for work at all, no matter what the circumstances. House was quite certain that Wilson would abandon his car on the freeway in winter to walk just so he could get to work on time.

It was just about noon before House saw anything of Wilson, and even then it was his retreating back as he made his way to the washroom still dressed as he was the night before. House was about to make a comment about not needing to do laundry if he showered like that, but managed to stall himself long enough for Wilson to close the door between them, making the comment pointless. Even if he had said anything, it might not have made any difference, but House felt that poking fun at his friend was still inappropriate at that time. He had at least fifteen minutes' control of the television left, which gave him time to decide what channel to shock Wilson by watching. Something educational? What was the opposite of a soap opera, and cartoons at the same time?

He'd settled on a channel when Wilson emerged half an hour later, finally wearing fresh clothes, his hair still absurdly wet in House's opinion. He said nothing as he slumped into the seat beside House, and made no comment about the choice of programming. House was as likely to watch something like Die Hard as he was soaps anyhow.

'Just in time for the Doberman scene.'

'It's a Rottweiler.'

'Just in time for the dog scene,' House said without losing stride. The pair watched in silence before it felt just too awkward to House. Normally, he did everything in his power to avoid a situation like that but he refused to run away from this one. He couldn't remember Wilson being so dejected, and he was supposed to do something about it. 'So… not going to work today?'

'It's the Sabbath.' Wilson said with a dull tone.

'That never stopped you before. What's the repentance for working on the Sabbath? How about watching television?'

'You turned it on already.'

'Taking a shower? The alarm clock?'

'The shower isn't a muktzah, I didn't use a towel, the alarm clock is always on.'

'Tch. You're still inconsistent. I never break the laws of my religion.'

'What religion?'

'Exactly.'

'Haven't we had this conversation before?' Wilson turned to look at House almost accusingly, making eye contact for the first time since the day before.

House thought a moment. Had they? They held a discussion something like it ages ago when House had first discovered Wilson's Judaism, and that he was at work on a Saturday. 'What, you mean way back just after Cuddy became dean?'

'Yeah.'

'Well, we're due for conversations like these every eight years or so. Eight is the magic number.'

'That's three. Or maybe seven. Sometimes six. Never eight.'

'And which one are you shooting for?' There it was. He didn't really mean it in any malicious way, it merely slipped out in a bundle of what was House's nature.

Wilson immediately took it as a hit on his tendency to marry, which was how it was intended, but unfortunately Wilson wasn't in the mood to take it in stride. 'Drive me to work, House.'

'Yeah… sure.' Wilson fetched a tie and returned to stand at the door and performed a feat that House always looked forward to seeing; he watched his ambidextrous friend tie his tie, his shoes, and arrange his coat all at the same time. If ever there was a professional at getting dressed, it was Wilson. The choice of wardrobe the majority of the time… was another story. There was no doubt in House's mind though that Wilson could tie a sheepshank with his feet. While writing a different letter with each hand. Why he'd need to do that was not clear to House, but it was one of those things that one should be able to do just in case. He found it ironic how someone so expert at multitasking was so inept at balancing work and home life. House was thankful he was a large factor in the work spectrum, or else he'd probably divorce him too.

A mirror image of the evening before, they were silent as they went to House's car. House The worst part of it all was that watching cartoons all morning drilled a number of stupid songs in his head, the most prevalent being Duck Tails. A chorus of people singing 'A-woo-ooh' in his head wasn't going to help his prudence.

'Magic eight balls.' House said, in an attempt to clear his head with brilliant logic.

'What?' Was Wilson's reply, his voice indicating he'd already given up guessing what House was talking about.

'Eight's the magic number there.'

Wilson pushed the button to the ground floor idly. This wasn't working to loosen the tension; it might even have been making it worse. House swallowed his pride with difficulty. 'Sorry about that remark… er… earlier. It's…'

'It was funny.' Wilson said with a sigh. 'I took it too personally.' He muttered something then that was just barely intelligible. 'I shouldn't take anything you say personally.'

This was a standard thing that people understood when they interacted with House. They weren't really supposed to take his jives to heart. He had his fun with those that didn't know, patients for instance, and even those that did, engaging them in verbal sparring. Wilson needed to remind himself? It sounded almost like a mantra. Maybe it was just because he was in a dark hour that he needed to cite such a thing.

The elevator dinged, and Wilson was the first out. House trailed him out the door to his car, thinking about what he possibly could do to improve his friend's mood. It made him feel like crap to see Wilson in that state, especially knowing that probably no matter what he did to help, Wilson was probably on his own. He started the car.

'You can pick the station. Hey… we should totally take advantage of your special rules… hala…'

'Halakha.' Wilson looked at House, eyeing him with uncertainty. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know where this was going.

'Yeah. You know, harass the lunch lady, get her to make everything kosher, you and I could switch offices, but the balcony's too hazardous for that; we'd be moving boxes through the hall, but it won't be us because you're not supposed to carry anything and I'm taking a sympathy Sabbath. Man… that's an excellent way to get out of clinic duty.'

'You don't go to work on Saturday anyway. You'd have to make up a religion that has its Sabbath on a weekday, and that's…' Wilson trailed off with the look on House's face. It was one of enlightenment. Wilson knew that what he was about to say would be an 'ism' to rival all others.

'That's it… I'll make my own religion.'

'You'll have to figure out how to make it fly with Cuddy, though.'

'I always figured that that extra day in February during the leap year should be a vacation…. Frygya.'

'Frygya?'

'Frygya.' House confirmed.

'This obviously isn't the first time it's occurred to you to make your own religion. Was there a February twenty-ninth math exam you needed to get out of?'

'It worked, too. The guy was too scared of the consequences of religious ignorance. I don't think I was the only one in the class to take advantage of it, unless July eighteenth really has been Claumas all these years. The kid's name was Claudio. I think it was just his birthday.'

Wilson cracked a little smile, and House nodded internally to himself. Marital issues aside, Wilson must have had a killer headache. House was loath to do any such thing in any such state, so either he was absolutely outstanding at cheering people up, or Wilson was repressing again. Seeing as people who spent roughly five minutes and up with House were more predisposed to throwing things, the latter was likely the case.

Wilson chose some light music station House didn't know existed, and they continued in otherwise silence. House took his usual place beside Wilson's car which was still there, and powered off. House reached over and popped down the lock on Wilson's side and unbuckled his seatbelt with Wilson looking at him expectantly. 'Whatever you do today, make it quick. Only check on the patients of yours that are doing great, I'll cover the others.'

'By you, you mean Cameron, Chase or Foreman, right?'

'Sure do. I have someone else to look in on.' Wilson nodded and exited the vehicle, hopping over the door with the conclusion of House's little speech. Judging by the lack of reaction, House was subtle enough that Wilson didn't realize it was him that House was there to look in on.

oOo

A little A/N for Holbytan on muktzah- you're right about the towel. I edited it out, he can air-dry. Wilson doesn't break the rules, he just bends 'em- he and I both figure that if the alarm clock's already plugged in and on, hitting the snooze button won't hurt… (biting fingernails) And House was the one doing the driving… Wilson doesn't need to open the door to get in that car too, so it's a bonus. The towel and the spelling for the word 'prevalent' are my bad, though. Everything should be fixed now. Isn't Shabbat fun?