Angels (they say) don't know whether it is the living
they are moving among, or the dead.

-- Rainer Maria Rilke
Duino Elegies: The First Elegy

Wilson

The bar was smoky, loud, and rough, filled with Jersey rednecks, longnecks, and no-necks. Wilson still wasn't entirely sure why he and House were there, but his feeling of discomfort increased with every passing hour. House, of course, didn't seem to notice.

"Isn't this great?" he shouted into Wilson's ear. "A real bar, not like those ferny places you like to go to!"

Wilson moved away a little from House's closeness. "At least those ferny places are safe," he hissed. He looked around the room again. From their tiny corner table, he'd seen the unfriendly glances and stares directed their way the whole night. The only person who'd given them a friendly smile had been a woman behind the bar, but the bartender had shaken his head and said something Wilson couldn't quite catch, and she'd turned away quickly after that.

They were out of place here, and Wilson knew it even if House didn't.

"Aw, Jimmy," House smirked. "Don't tell me you're afraid."

"Not afraid," Wilson mumbled, even though he was pretty sure he was. "Realistic." He scanned the room again. The bar was like a few of the places he'd gone to as a student at McGill; a working-class tavern in a gritty part of town, where -- what was that line again? They served hard drinks for men who want to get drunk fast. The bartender didn't look as friendly as Nick Martini, though, and the single strand of red and green Christmas lights twinkling above the bar didn't promote any holiday spirit. Memories of It's A Wonderful Life faded as House ordered another beer. "House, c'mon ..."

House shook his head and Wilson sighed. House was on one of his stubborn streaks again. "Celebrating," House said. "It's Christmas Eve eve. Mangers and reindeer and jolly fat men who should be on Jenny Craig." He leaned closer to Wilson. "Santa was so doing it with the elves. Prancer too. Gayest reindeer name ever." He laughed as Wilson choked on his beer. "Course, being Jewish you missed out on all that."

In one of those peculiar tidal falls of noise level, House's last two sentences seemed to echo loudly in the room. Two tables over, five guys (large guys, Wilson noted) stared at them with narrowed eyes.

House laughed again, a low, aggressive sound, and Wilson suddenly realized his friend was much drunker than he appeared.

"You probably missed out on a lot, Jimmy," House continued. "You strike me as the kind of guy who followed all the rules when he was a kid. Every single rule. Must've made your parents proud."

Wilson stared. "House, what the hell --"

"Got to break the rules sometimes, Jimmy. Break 'em into little pieces and live a little. Like this."

And without further ado, one strong hand snaked around Wilson's neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

All conversation in the bar stopped. Out of the corner of his eye and trying to escape House's grip, Wilson saw the five (extremely large) guys slam their beer glasses down on the table in disgust and push their chairs back. Oh, shit -- this is so not good. House and his idiotic mind games. Two of the men were shaking their heads, and none of them would look in House and Wilson's direction.

Breaking free at last, Wilson spluttered and swiped at his lips. "God damn it, House," he growled. "What are you trying to do?"

House's mouth opened, but whatever answer he was about to make was overridden by a woman's voice.

"You boys need to leave."

Wilson looked up. It was their waitress, a short woman with mousy brown hair and a slight overbite. House leered at her and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. She gazed back stoically.

"We'll be glad to leave, just as soon --"

"No," she interrupted, cutting off Wilson's words. "You need to leave now. We don't want no trouble inside here."

Wilson stared at her.

"But you ... " He could tell he was making no impression, and worse, sounding like a coward. The room was ominously quiet, and the bartender seemed to be looking for something under the long wooden counter. Shotgun, Wilson thought. A supply of torches. Pitchforks. Stakes and silver bullets.

"Fine," he said. Standing up, he pulled at House's arm. "Come on, we're leaving."

"But we haven't gotten our wings yet!"

"I'm going to clip your fucking wings if you don't get up," Wilson muttered. "Now come on."

With a theatrical sigh of resentment, House pushed back his chair and balanced carefully on unsteady legs.

"He never lets me have any fun," he explained to the truckers at the next table, who glared back as Wilson laid two twenties and a ten on the table. It was too much, but maybe it would help ensure their safe departure. "Never any fun," House kept mumbling as they headed for the door, the waitress standing aside. "Never any fun. Never any fun. Never any --" His voice trailed off as they stepped outside and Wilson put his arm in front of him, barring his path and bringing him to a sudden stop.

The five (enormous) guys from the bar were standing beside Wilson's Volvo. One of them was holding an aluminum baseball bat, tapping it in an almost thoughtful manner against his other hand.

"Going somewhere, faggots?" the man asked.

There was a soft click. The door had been locked behind them.

House

"How'd they know it was your friend's vehicle?" the cop asked, licking the tip of his pen before setting it against the pad. "Tell me again exactly what happened, sir."

House didn't answer. The ambulance had pulled away over an hour ago with Wilson inside, and the words of the EMTs were still tumbling around in his head. Broken arm, fingers, leg, ribs, both lungs punctured, internal bleeding, uneven, unresponsive pupils indicative of possible skull fracture ...

"I've told you already," House snarled. "It was the only nice car in the lot." He waved one hand at the now almost-empty parking area. "Everything else was either some old beater or a pick-up with a gun rack and a 'What Would Jesus Do?' sticker. How many times do I have to go over this?"

It had become obvious early on that the cop wasn't interested in the assault at all. The instant House had mentioned their assailants' use of the word "faggot" he'd dropped all pretense at involvement and now seemed determined to get House to admit he actually was gay. The cop lifted the pen and gave it another swipe, and House wondered momentarily if the guy had a permanent blue dot on his tongue.

"Until I'm satisfied that you've told me everything," the cop said. "Now how much did you and your ... friend have to drink tonight?" He looked at House expectantly.

House stared at him. "I'll bet you're a barrel of laughs with the rape victims," he said. "What's your next question? If we led them on? If Dr. Wilson was dressed provocatively?" He leaned in close to the cop, fixing him with a piercing blue gaze. "If we were cock teases?" The cop blinked and House snapped his fingers. "Oh, wait -- you probably don't have time to talk to rape victims around here. What's the point? They're obviously just asking for it, and besides, it's a lot more fun for you and your good buddies to beat up the fags!"

"My buddies?"

House kneels over Wilson's limp body, searches frantically for a pulse. Finds one, too slow, too thready, a woman's shoes appear in his line of sight. Looking up -- the woman who'd smiled at them. "Call 911!" House barely recognizes his own voice. "Call the cops!" The woman regards him with a terrible sadness in her eyes. "Oh, honey," she says. "Two of them boys was the cops."

"Your best buds." House's voice was low and steady. "Now either let me go so I can get to the hospital and see about my friend, or arrest me on some ridiculously trumped-up charge -- in which case I promise you the hospital lawyers will make your life a living legal hell and you will end up a security guard at a kiddie carnival in Hoboken."

For a long moment, the two men stared at each other, the cop only looking away when another officer waved a piece of paper in front of him. The cop took it and read it over quickly. A look of irritation was replaced by a fleeting glance of sly amusement.

"Gosh," the cop said. "Sorry I kept you here so long, sir." He folded the piece of paper and stuck it in a uniform pocket. "Looks like your friend was DOA at Princeton General." His smile was wide and hideously insincere as his gaze slid away. "I'm really sorry."

vvvvv

House sat on his couch and stared at the ceiling. He'd had to take a cab to get back; the cop wouldn't let him take Wilson's car, said it was impounded as evidence. Evidence of what, House wasn't sure -- all the blood on the Volvo belonged to Wilson. He should know. He'd been forced to watch the whole thing, and Wilson hadn't gotten one good swing in before he'd been sucker-punched to his knees.

The five guys surround them, close to the Volvo -- Wilson spreading his hands wide. "Hey," he says, "it's all cool. We're not looking for trouble; it's Christmas --" House grunts as his cane is kicked out from under him, grabbed, arms pinned behind his back, watches helplessly as the first blow drives Wilson down. The raucous laughter, muttered curses -- "Fucking Jew fags. Own everything in the Jew-nited States. Jew queers."

He hadn't bothered going to Princeton General or PPTH. There was nothing at either place for him now. He took another sip of scotch.

House, trying to break free. Wilson, gasping out "House! No!" even as the blows continued to land.

What had he been thinking, going to that bar? He'd wanted to shock Wilson, shake him out of that perpetually cool composure.

What was he going to tell Cuddy? "Gosh Lisa, I'm sorry -- I got Wilson killed this weekend. Hope you weren't planning on using him as a donor."

Wilson, on the ground, breath coming in rasping gasps.

Another sip trickled down his throat.

What was he going to tell Wilson's brother? His parents? They'd already lost one son -- Wilson had never even told him his name. There were so many mysteries now he'd never solve.

Wilson, struggling to his knees. The flat crack of the aluminum bat hitting the back of Wilson's head.

Another sip. First he'd killed Wilson's marriages. That wasn't enough so he killed his livelihood in that nightmare of Tritter's police investigation. But still he wasn't satisfied so he killed him.

House set the glass down. He'd fucked up every relationship he had ever been in. Wilson was just the latest victim. He was a gimp whose only benefit right now was diagnosing a few patients a month, and the way he was going that could disappear tomorrow. All he was really good for was breaking the people around him.

"It would've been better if he'd never met me," he said out loud. Hell, better if he'd never been born.

And with that, House nodded. Once he came to a decision, he always carried it out immediately. It was one of the few things his father had taught him that had stuck. This decision was no different.

Using the arm of the sofa as leverage, he pushed himself up carefully and stood for a moment, swaying. When he was sure he wasn't going to fall over, he retrieved the small stepladder from the closet. Climbing on, he stretched out his arm and felt around the top of the bookcase. Dust sifted down and his eyes watered, but he found what he wanted and stepped down with the small wooden box in his hand.

Sitting back down on the couch, he opened the box. The syringe and glass vials of morphine glittered up at him. He moved quickly now, removing the rubber tubing from the box and looping it around his left bicep. Knotting the tourniquet, he pulled it tight with his right hand and his teeth. He flexed his arm as he filled the syringe with a lethal dose and squirted a tiny fountain into the air to clear any bubbles. Still holding the syringe in his right hand, he began tapping at the inside of his elbow, looking for a vein to raise.

He was so intent on his actions he almost didn't hear the knock at the door.

At first he ignored it, concentrating on the task at hand, but the knocking grew louder and more insistent. "Go away!" House yelled. The knocking stopped for a moment, then started again. House cursed and stopped searching for a vein. There was a paperback book on the coffee table; he threw it violently at the door. "I said, go away!"

The knocking stopped. House waited a moment, then re-tightened the tourniquet. The knocking came again, this time quickly escalating to a pounding that seemed to shake the door on its hinges.

"Fuck!" Furious, House yanked off the rubber tubing and grabbed his cane. He limped to the door and opened it.

The man on the other side grinned at him. "Heard you were having some problems tonight, Dr. House." He held up a greasy bag, and the scent of take-away Chinese food filled the apartment.

vvvvv

House's visitor leaned forward on the couch, propping his elbows on his knees and spooning hot and sour soup into his mouth. House poked at the tinfoil container of Orange Beef, watching the stranger eat.

The man was tall, with a lean strong face and piercing ice-blue eyes set above high cheekbones. His coarse brown hair was graying at the temples. He appeared to be about House's age, but with a few more wrinkles and stress lines. Dressed in faded jeans and a plain gray t-shirt, he grimaced when a drop of soup escaped the spoon and spilled onto the jeans.

"Have we met?" House finally asked.

The man put down the soup and dabbed at his pants leg with a napkin. After a moment he settled back, an easy smile spreading across his face. "Actually, yes," he said. "We've met lots of times, you just haven't been aware of it."

House tapped his cane on the floor. "Mmmmm hmmmm. And this would be possible because ..."

The man's smile grew wider, showing even white teeth. "I'm your Guardian Angel."

Sighing loudly, House stood up. "And here I thought you might be somebody even mildly entertaining, like a Jehovah's Witness or someone preaching the ascendancy of the Flying Spaghetti Monster." He pointed with his cane towards the door. "You. Out."

The smile faltered. "No -- uh, wait a minute."

House shook his head. "No waiting. Out."

"I'll prove it to you! You're miserable, you're alone --"

"Sounds like somebody I used to know. Didn't work for him, not working for you. Out."

The visitor shook his head, his lips thinning into a sharp line.

"Your father is named John, your mother Blythe. You were born at Pensacola Naval Station, June 11th, 1959."

House hesitated. "Public knowledge," he said. "Doesn't prove a thing."

"You moved around so many times as a kid you hardly knew where you were one year to the next. You stopped making friends because you'd just leave them behind. You built walls around yourself because it was easier that way. Johns Hopkins. The University of Michigan. A cheating scandal. Conflicts. The walls got higher and higher, stone by stone, bastions and ramparts. You've only let a few people over those walls, Greg. Stacy was one. James was another. She betrayed you. He didn't."

The visitor's eyes were steady. "You think your best friend got killed tonight because of you, and you were going to kill yourself as some kind of insane penance. You believe everyone would be better off if you hadn't been born."

He stopped talking and picked up his soup again.

"Who are you?" House whispered.

"David," the stranger said. "Your Guardian Angel. You're a difficult case, Dr. House. But then you always have been."

vvvvv

House watched as David speared the last piece of Orange Beef, and thought about wings. Weren't Angels supposed to have wings? Did they have to earn them? Or was that only in old Frank Capra movies? David caught his glance and wiped his mouth, setting the container back down on the table.

"You're wondering why I'm here," he said.

House shifted position in the armchair. His leg was aching, and he dry-swallowed two Vicodin. "The thought had crossed my mind," he replied.

David clasped his hands together; leaning forward, his expression was tense and serious. "I'm here to show you something."

"Well, that'll be a new one," House said gruffly. He was exhausted, and felt as though he'd been running in place for the last twenty-four hours.

"No -- listen to me. You think everything would've been better if you hadn't been born -- isn't that what you said?"

House regarded him warily. "Technically, you said that. I just thought it. You know, when I decided to kill myself."

The Angel's expression didn't change, and House rolled his eyes and sighed. "Okay, fine. What did you want to show me?"

"This," David said, his smile burning fierce as the sun. "What the world would've been like without you."

Foreman

Eric Foreman looked up. His boss was lounging in the doorway, smiling at him.

"What's up?" Foreman asked.

Dr. Marty Richardson shook his head. "Nothing," he replied. "You just seemed ... far away for a minute there."

Foreman shrugged. "Nah. Just thinking about Baltimore again. Dad called this morning."

"Nothing wrong, I hope."

"Mom's worse," Foreman said, shifting his weight in his chair and shuffling papers on his desk.

"Where are we?" House whispered. He and David were standing in the corner of the room, half-hidden by shadows.

"Santa Barbara," the Angel whispered back. "The Richardson Clinic. World-renowned center for neurological ailments, research, and fees equal to the GNP of a small Scandinavian nation. And you don't have to whisper. They can't hear us."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Richardson said.

"What the hell is this?" House whispered.

The Angel rolled his eyes. "I told you," he said in a normal tone of voice. House glanced at Foreman and Richardson, but neither man seemed to have heard them. "It's as if you'd never been born. Foreman's practice is in California -- he never went to Princeton-Plainsboro because you weren't at Princeton-Plainsboro. Do you get it now?" David looked down at House's legs. "And you might ask yourself why you don't have your cane."

House followed the Angel's eyes downward. No cane. He bounced experimentally on his heels. No pain. He rubbed his hand over his thigh. No trough of missing muscle.

"You see?" David's voice, very gentle. "Your leg is whole. If you'd been blind, you'd be able to see. If you'd been mute, you'd be able to talk. And if you'd been deaf, even in just one ear, you'd be able to hear." House slowly looked back up. "You've never been born. You are ... as God made you."

"Yeah, me too," Foreman said. "Dad was pretty upset."

(Pretty upset -- ha, if Marty only knew.)

House jumped, startled at the voice in his head. He looked at David. The Angel winked at him.

(Gotta get the Mercedes out of the shop. Get Daria to pick up the dry cleaning. Dad was crying -- if I still lived on the East Coast this would be easy.)

Foreman's voice. He was hearing Foreman's thoughts.

Richardson and Foreman were continuing to talk in low tones, but the voice in House's head was clearer, more distinct, and so he concentrated on that.

(... dry cleaning talk to Mrs. Piccolo history? English? why are Rudy's grades dropping? go AWAY Marty you haven't made me partner yet said you would I should go home but I can't take the time damn it board meeting tonight governing committee tomorrow gotta meet with that new guy the governing committee governor ...)

House looked at David. The Angel shrugged.

(maybe I should've stayed closer to home not enough time to do everything here water under the damn bridge water bottle did Daria get bottled water yesterday)

House and the Angel vanished.

Foreman looked around, frowning. "Did you see something?" he asked Marty.

Cameron

Allison Cameron shielded her eyes against the blinding African sun. Her hair was cropped short; easier to care for that way in an arid place where the rains hadn't fallen for too many seasons. She was lean and tan, and the red blaze of the Médecins Sans Frontières insignia was bright against her white t-shirt. Smiling, she accepted a water bottle from a fellow medic and swiped at her forehead. There were still kids waiting for their vaccinations; she bent low and scooped up one in her arms. The toddler, a little boy, giggled and squirmed in her grasp.

"Wow," House said. David smiled. "How long?"

"A while," the Angel answered. "A recruiter came to the Mayo Clinic, spoke at just the right time -- Dr. Cameron's husband had just died, and she wanted to get away from Rochester. She left the memories behind and never looked back." They watched for a moment as Cameron worked, vaccinating children one after the other with the disposable syringes she picked out of the nearby bucket. "She's been all over -- Chechnya, Jordan, Bandundu Province in the DRC." David cast a sideways glance at House. "Her need to care is invaluable here."

House was silent. Cameron's thoughts, in his mind. ... (have to order the new stock of antibiotics, see if Glaxo will donate ... need more aspirin everything breaks down too fast in this heat oh well wait a minute, this kid looks like he might have conjunctivitis pull him out of line write a letter to Mom and Danny ask Sam if he wants to have dinner tonight dinner lunch ...)

"She's done well," House said at last. "She's doing good work."

The Angel nodded. "She's living her life," he said. They vanished.

Cameron raised her head. Must've been a shadow on the sand, she thought, and turned back to her work.

Chase

Robert Chase finished up the well-baby exam and grinned at the anxious mother. "He's just fine," he said soothingly. "Eyes, ears, mouth are all clear, fontanels are on track for fusing, weight's good -- Christopher's a well baby."

House and the Angel watched from their position beside the potted ficus tree.

"Chase and his babies," House said.

David nodded. "He never left Australia." He glanced at House. "He's become quite the successful pediatrician -- seems to have some special affinity, especially with the infants."

"He always did," House muttered.

They continued to watch as the young doctor cooed gently to the baby, giving him his index finger to grip.

(... good grip, good muscle tone little guy, you'll grow up to be a ladykiller now won't you?)

House barely blinked. He was getting used to the voices in his head.

(... nice, nice ... wish I had a beer right now ...)

House blinked.

(... a gin and tonic would be better ... okay, not now, come on baby ...)

He turned to the Angel, who was looking at him steadily. "Let's go," House said.

Chase glanced to one side, trackng a ficus leaf as it drifted to the floor.

House

"Still want to kill yourself?" the Angel asked.

They were back in House's apartment, sitting side-by-side on the sofa.

House made a so-what gesture. "Haven't seen anything to convince me otherwise," he said. "People are living their lives -- it doesn't matter that I'm there or not. The kids are doing --" he hesitated. "Okay." He rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks with one hand. "I'm tired and there's some unfinished business I need to take care of. Why don't you leave?"

"Can't do that. Not finished."

Cuddy

Lisa Cuddy packed away the last of her belongings and took one last look around her office. Sanderson's office, she reminded herself. Not my office anymore. He finally succeeded.

In a way she was glad. She was tired of fighting Vogler. With Wilson's departure (oh, Wilson, she thought, and her eyes stung) Vogler had consolidated his power base slowly and steadily, month by month, year by year. The end had come this morning -- the no-confidence vote hadn't been the real surprise, but Sanderson's betrayal had.

The Angel stood silently. House refused to look at him.

She contemplated the stripped office. ... (oh well clean break and all that ... we'll see what California holds, maybe Boston, Chicago -- Rush is still interested ...)

Turning on her heel, she walked out of the office and out of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

There was a long silence.

"Well?" David said.

"Shut up," said House.

Stacy

Stacy Warner set down what would've been her acceptance speech and considered her options. She could concede. She could demand a recount. She could say graceful but meaningless non sequiturs in front of the television cameras, like every other politician did nowadays. She could go home, pour herself a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, and watch the shimmering pool reflections on the walls.

She opted for the last choice.

"Wow," House observed. "I always knew she was ambitious, but ..."

David hid a small smile.

She smoothed down her tasteful blue suit and adjusted her bright red scarf, thinking all the while. (Who'd known everything was going to go so badly? The neocons had sold their ideas so masterfully, so convincingly --) She sighed. What was done was done. Time to go home.

"She always did know when to cut her losses," House said quietly.

The Angel flinched.

Blythe

Blythe House looked at herself in the bedroom mirror. Whether she understood what she saw was anyone's guess.

The early-onset Alzheimer's had moved swiftly, robbing the once-vital woman of her speech, her comprehension, her memory. Seeming to age prematurely, she'd collapsed in on herself, hardly raising her head for hours at a time. The caretaker who'd been her constant companion for the last three years wasn't even sure anymore how much Blythe knew.

It was a quiet existence -- the life of bridge games, lunch dates, and church outings was long gone, vanished down the same dark tunnel as Blythe House's awareness. Her oldest friends were dead, and the younger ones no longer bothered to visit a senile old lady who couldn't acknowledge their presence.

The old woman listed gently in her wheelchair, a line of spittle escaping from one corner of her mouth. The caretaker stepped beside her and bent down, wiping away the drool with a practiced hand. There were no words of thanks, but the nurse wasn't expecting any.

"David, what is this?" House asked. He and the Angel occupied the far corner of the bedroom. David took his elbow and pointed to the bedroom's alcove.

A piano took up most of the space, and the top of the piano was stocked with dozens of small, framed photographs.

"Here," David said, and pointed to a series of photos. House leaned forward.

His father. His mother. Frozen in time forever. Most of the pictures were black and white. His father wore his dress Marine uniform in some of the photos; in others, he and Blythe were laughing, smiling, casually posed on beaches, in a forest, in front of a Japanese shrine. Many of the photographs were almost sepia-toned, the very old-fashioned black and white that had the month and year stamped on the white-bordered edge. None of the photos were dated past August, 1958.

House stared, a knot beginning to form in his throat.

"Your father was one of the original American advisers in Vietnam," the Angel said. His voice was very soft. "He was killed in a training accident. You never had a chance to be born."

In the bedroom, Blythe smiled at the two men reflected in the mirror. She let out a tiny cry of distress when they disappeared.

House

House sat silently on his couch. In the armchair, David picked idly at a loose thread in his t-shirt.

"You missed somebody," House said.

The Angel's fingers stopped. "Did I?" He didn't meet House's gaze.

"You know you did. Why?"

Now David did look up, unmistakable challenge in his eyes. "What difference does it make? You want to kill yourself. Go ahead."

House shook his head. "You've presented me with a puzzle, knowing I won't be able to resist. That's cheating."

David found something interesting to inspect under one fingernail. "Angels don't cheat."

House laughed -- a short snorting sound with no humor in it.

David narrowed his eyes and looked away. "You don't want to see this," he said finally.

"Now, see, that's exactly the thing that will make me want to see this. Whatever 'this' is."

The Angel rubbed wearily at his eyes with both hands. "No. I mean you don't want to see this."

"Try me," House said.

Wilson

House shivered in the cold wind. The sky was gray, clouds scudding against the horizon. The suburban city of the dead was deserted, its census-takers fled.

"David," House said.

"I told you you didn't want to see this," the Angel replied.

Snow was beginning to fall, the tiny crystals forming delicate lace patterns on the gravestones. The Angel pointed to one marker in particular -- a temporary metal plaque that wouldn't be replaced until the unveiling the following spring.

JAMES EVAN WILSON
February 28 1969 - May 1 2006
Beloved brother and son
May his soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life

A few pebbles rested on the metal surface.

"No," House said. "No. After all this ... what happened?" He turned to the Angel. "What happened?" he shouted.

"He died," David said. "He died, like every man dies."

"That's not the whole story," House ground out. "It can't be."

"You're right. It's not."

"Then tell me!"

The Angel looked away. "He killed himself."

House froze. "No. He wouldn't."

"He did."

"No," House said, and his voice was trembling. "Wilson wouldn't kill himself. Wilson lived."

"Wilson died because you weren't here to save him!"

House whirled around. The Angel's gaze was terrible.

"Wilson slept with Grace. You weren't there to stop him. The hospital found out; he was brought up before the ethics board, then the State licensing board. Vogler cast him out. He was stripped of his license, forbidden to practice medicine. Without a stupid, screwed-up friendship to fall back on, he had no alternative. The one thing he lived for was gone." The Angel brought his face close to House's own, a finger-breadth away. "Better off if you'd never been born? What a cruel fucking joke."

House stared. "Who are you?" he whispered. His mouth was suddenly very dry. "What are you?"

David straightened, drawing himself to his full height. A pair of wings unfolded from his back, hawk-like and powerful. Black feathers rustled in the wind. Raptor's pinions, born of a killer god.

"I told you," he said, and his voice echoed in House's skull. "I'm your Guardian Angel."

The wings continued to unfurl. They were impossible -- enormous ebony wings, each as wide as the Angel was tall. Tufts of dark gray down swirled away, driven in tiny circles by the freezing gusts. The edges of David's wings were tattered and ragged. Burnt patches at the very tips revealed charred quills, the vanes scorched away in some unimaginable fire. The truth struck House at last -- like himself, his Angel had spent no little time in Hell. The darkening skies seemed to close in about them.

"No," House said softly. "No, it can't end like this. Not like this."

"No," the Angel agreed. "But it can begin like this."

A furious pulse of hope began to pound within House. "What are you saying?"

The Angel's eyes were a stark, boreal blue, the color of sunlight trapped in ancient glacier ice. "I'm saying -- everybody lies."

House looked back down at the grave, and remembered. The expression on the cop's face -- how his eyes had slid off to one side when he had told him Wilson was dead. Cops weren't supposed to do that; visual contact was essential in relaying bad news, keeping control of tenuous situations, telling a convincing lie. God knew he'd learned that from watching Wilson deliver innumerable death sentences. It was more like a continuation of the entire interview -- the sarcasm, the digs -- like he'd been giving the punchline to a dirty joke. Everybody lies. He tried to swallow down the hope. This couldn't be real. But what if it is?

House took a step forward. "Send me back," he said.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he said. "I want to live again."

The Angel's wings dipped as he too stepped forward, embracing House the way a falcon shields its prey. The sable wings encompassed him, folding around his body as if clasped in prayer, a plea, the benediction of a darker being.

Caught in the soft cage, House felt the tickling of the covert feathers and inhaled the burnt-keratin stink of the primary flights.

The feathers rustled again as the wind came up. The snow swirled around them.

Tilting his head back, House closed his eyes and gave himself up to the storm.

House

His phone was ringing. The light on the answering machine was blinking. His pager was buzzing. Someone was pounding at the door. House swayed on his feet.

His apartment ... he was back in his apartment. Instinctively, he turned to the door and opened it.

"Damn it to hell, House! What are you doing, not answering your phone or pages? Don't you care about Wilson?"

A strong Australian accent. House blinked. Chase stood there, feet planted, furious eyes fixed on his. "Cuddy's going nuts! Come on, I'm driving you to Princeton General."

House took one more look around his apartment. It was empty, the wooden box still sitting on the coffee table. Luckily, it was angled so Chase couldn't see the interior. Wordlessly, House grabbed his backpack and jacket.

House. And Wilson.

Christmas Eve.

House sat quietly, watching Wilson sleep.

He'd sustained at least one Grade 3 concussion; no skull fracture, but with the risk of Second Impact Syndrome, an injury just as critical. His face was a mass of bruises; his nose had been re-set and his jaw stabilized. The two black eyes gave him a peculiar, raccoon-ish look, and the white bandage around his head echoed the overall pallor of his face.

The rest of Wilson's body told the same story -- his right arm and left leg were in casts, fingers splinted, ribs taped, a dislocated left shoulder strapped tight ... House knew the internal trauma had been taken care of in surgery, but it didn't make it any easier to see Wilson like this.

Wilson shifted in the hospital bed, turning his head. "Ngs," he mumbled.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind --"

House looked around. Children's voices. A choir making the rounds of Princeton General. The candystripers did this every year, and over at PPTH, House had always stuck his iPod buds in his ears, turning up Roger Daltry or David Gilmour or Elvis Costello to drown out the carols. Tonight, however, he had left the player in his backpack.

"House." It was barely a whisper, but he turned his attention instantly to the sound.

"Wilson!" he said heartily. "'Bout time you woke up."

Wilson squinted at him. "Dreaming." His voice was low and husky through the drugged haze.

House took Wilson's right hand in his, careful not to jostle the splinted fingers. "Yeah? Hope it was a good one. Was Angelina Jolie there? Scarlett Johansson? Salma Hayek?"

"Wings," Wilson said very clearly, and House froze.

"And we'll take a cup o'kindness yet,
For auld lang syne."

"Dream. Long dream." Wilson's speech was slow, as if he wanted to be sure he got it all right. "You had wings. Black."

House forced himself to laugh. "My best color," he said.

Somewhere nearby a bell rang. The kids' choir, House thought.

"Dream," Wilson slurred, falling back to sleep.

"Dream," House agreed, his voice gently soothing. "All a dream."

Leaning back, House made himself as comfortable as possible in the hard hospital chair. He had a long night ahead, and he wasn't going to let go of Wilson's hand anytime between now and Christmas morning.

fin

Remember -- no man is a failure who has friends.
-- It's A Wonderful Life, 1946