A/N: Thanks again to all of you who have been reading and commenting. I've been trying to get into the habit of responding but I'm a slacker. :P Please don't hate me.

Passionfornight turned me onto a really uncanny song - you guys should google the lyrics. Taylor Swift's "You're Not Sorry." Good grief - it's like listenning to House. Thanks for that!

And here's the next chapter. Hope you all like it!

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When Wilson showed up at work the next morning, House was nowhere to be seen. He was definitely in the hospital somewhere; his fellows had seen him working in the clinic as they arrived. Wilson didn't credit this at first. Not only did House avoid the clinic like the plague –

Wait, no. House wouldn't actually avoid the plague.

Not only did House avoid the clinic like…well, like the clinic, but after last night, he had expected House to play hooky just to avoid Wilson. They had fought before, yes, but never like that, and House had never refused him entrance afterwards – or worse, actively barricaded himself off from Wilson. This new independence, this rejection after all of the things that House had put up with before then and forgiven Wilson for…it terrified Wilson. He had no right to demand House's forgiveness, not after Wilson had refused to give House that very same thing, but he had not expected this cold withdrawal from his life, even if (he hoped) it proved to be only temporary.

Then again, Wilson had physically attacked House. Maybe House was right to cut himself off.

A glance out at House's parking space confirmed that he was indeed in the vicinity. Wilson looked for him everywhere, including the clinic (where he was not working), but he seemed to have disappeared. His usual haunts showed evidence of his recent comings and goings, but Wilson was too far behind him to catch up. Other things caught his eye, though; strange things. He was on good terms with the entire nursing staff, even with the ones he had occasionally bedded, but three random RN's shot him such hateful looks that Wilson actually stopped to stare back.

Eventually, he made his way to the front desk and Brenda handed him a stack of messages accompanied by a cool greeting. Wilson's gaze lifted from the little sheaf of pink papers and rested on Brenda's averted face. "Is something going on I should know about?"

Brenda glanced up, her expression hard, and then turned her attention back to her computer, where she continued to enter patient records from the previous afternoon's patient files. "House was in here this morning, covering your hours again."

"Oh." Wilson shuffled through his messages but he didn't bother reading any of them. "I told him to stop doing that."

Brenda nodded, her head tilted to the side in a sarcastic manner. "Well, maybe you should hit him harder next time you tell him. It might sink in better."

Wilson's eyes flew up to search her face and Brenda left off typing to peer up at him. "I'm not saying we wouldn't all wait in line for the opportunity to take a swing at him. But I had to kick him out of here. He was scaring people."

"Patients? How? What did he do?"

"Not patients," Brenda explained. "Nurses. Me, for one." She pointed to herself.

Wilson nodded, but he was even more confused. "What did he do?"

Brenda looked down at that and then gestured at exam room two. "I found him crying."

"House doesn't cry," Wilson argued, dumbfounded. Except that he did, and Wilson had caused him to do so too often lately. "Did he say why…?"

"No." Brenda leaned forward and reached for another file, putting her back to Wilson. "But it doesn't take a genius to figure it out. You loosened one of his teeth, by the way. I heard Doctor Cuddy yell at him for ignoring it."

Wilson nodded, made one last half-hearted attempt to pay attention to his messages, and then sighed. "Just give these to Doctor Brown, will you?" He held the stack of pink notes out to Brenda, who took them back and added them to another pile, presumably for Brown. It was just as likely, however, that she'd just save them for tomorrow and hand them to Wilson a second time.

Halfway to the elevators, Wilson heard the rapid click of high heels and hunched his shoulders in unconscious imitation of House. Doctor Cuddy strode purposefully into his field of vision. Wilson started to say good morning, but she cut him off and hissed, "In my office. Now."

Wilson ducked his head in embarrassment and trailed her across the lobby like a little kid on his way to the principal's office for sticking gum in some girl's hair. She held the door open and motioned him in, then slipped after him and slammed the door shut. The blinds were already pulled. No sooner had Wilson turned to face her than she demanded, "What the hell happened to House?"

Wilson said the first thing that came to mind. "Is he still here?"

"No, he's not still here!" Cuddy shouted. "He looks like he got beat up in a bar fight and he's acting like – like – " She vigorously shook her head and swiveled her hands at ear level, exasperated. She settled on, "Not like himself," and then stopped to regard Wilson with a caring yet firm expression. Her voice was disbelieving but hard when she asked, "Wilson, did you actually hit him?"

Wilson glanced away as quickly as he could manage, started to answer, and then everything seemed to crash down around him at once. He ended up sitting on her couch, spilling everything that had happened between them in the past two months because he needed someone else to know what an asshole he had been. Cuddy just watched him as he spoke, her face growing more and more sympathetic but horrified as Wilson chronicled his increasingly cruel behavior in the bluntest terms he could find.

"I need to talk to him," Wilson muttered after he was finished and Cuddy still hadn't said anything. "I need to apologize – "

"No, you need to stay away from him." Cuddy's voice cut through Wilson's monologue like ice on a warm day. "James, do you even realize what you've done? You're in a physical relationship with another employee here – an abusive one. I have to report you. Do you understand that?"

Wilson nodded but said, "It doesn't matter. House will refuse to go to the police, he'll deny it – "

"You think that makes it okay?" Cuddy demanded, incredulous.

"No, I think it makes it worse!" Wilson shouted, then shrank back into the couch again. "God, Lisa, haven't you been listening? He considers all of this consensual – he thinks that makes it okay."

Cuddy shook her head and peered sadly at him over the coffee table. "I never thought I'd be having a conversation like this with you. With you. James… I don't even know what to say to you."

"Tell me how much of an ass I am. Tell me even House was never as bad as I am."

Cuddy let out a dark laugh. "Yeah, well, that goes without saying."

Wilson clasped his hands and looked anywhere but at her. "Did he talk to you?"

"No." Cuddy shook her head and leaned back, crossing her legs. "You know House. He made up three completely transparent lies to explain why somebody tried to rearrange his face, and then he gimped off. I told him to go home. Far as I know, he left."

"No. His car's still outside." Wilson rubbed a hand across his forehead, then down over his eyes and sighed. "I don't know what's worse. That he let me use him like that, or that I went along with it like a blind idiot. Why would he let me do that?"

"He loves you," Cuddy replied with complete conviction.

Wilson snorted. "No, he doesn't. I thought he might for a while there, but it was just some bid for my attention, some – "

"I don't think you should say any more right now," Cuddy warned. "You're the one who attacked him, remember? House's motives may have been weird, but he's not to blame here."

Wilson nodded hard enough to flop hair into his eyes. "Yeah. I know. I'm just…I'm used to…I dunno. I'm used to it being his fault when crap like this happens."

They sat in uncomfortable, ponderous silence for a moment, and then Cuddy offered, "He does love you. He's just confused. And so are you." She uncrossed her legs and stood up abruptly. "I am going to report this, Wilson. I don't have a choice."

"I know," Wilson replied, climbing to his feet as well. "You should. Just don't expect House to appreciate it."

"I never do," Cuddy said wryly, then tipped her head at the door. "You can go."

Wilson scrambled to get out, ashamed of pretty much everything at that point, and high-tailed it to the elevator. If House were still in the building, then Wilson had to find him. He needed to make things right between them, or at least give House what he had been after all this time: forgiveness. He had more than earned it.

After running around the hospital for half an hour in search of his friend, hoping that House was his friend still, Wilson gave up and made his way back to his office. He hadn't even stopped in to drop off his coat and briefcase yet, and when he unlocked the door, he was surprised to find his desk lamp on. The janitors must have forgotten to switch it off after they vacuumed his office the night before.

Wilson hung up his wool coat and reached for his starched white lab jacket. He turned around with one arm in the lab coat sleeve, the other bent behind his back in the process of reaching for the other, to find his secretary standing in the doorway. She appeared supremely uncomfortable as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Good morning, Doctor Wilson."

Wilson shrugged the lab coat up onto his shoulders and let it settle into place. "Good morning. Is that for me?" He indicated the envelope that she proceeded to worry between her fingers. The poor girl stuttered something about knowing how he didn't bother with intra-hospital mail until after lunch, and Wilson cut her off. "What is it?"

"Doctor House sent this," she replied, handing over the letter. "I thought it was odd since he doesn't write memos to you, and when he needs a consult, he just comes over and barges in." Wilson accepted the envelope and she grasped the hem of her shirt to knead instead. "And he…he just seemed off, and I thought you might want to see it now." She appeared to debate saying more, then turned to go with a muttered, "I'll be at my desk if you need anything."

Wilson watched her hurry out and turn the corner into the next hallway, then pursed his lips and looked down. House had used a PPTH-embossed envelope and Wilson's name was scribbled across it in House's familiar messy script. House knew Wilson's schedule just as well or better than he knew that of his soaps and daytime television in general. If he had sent this via intra-hospital mail, then he had counted on Wilson not reading it for at least four more hours. That did not exactly raise any red flags, but his secretary was right; something was 'off' about it. Wilson considered leaving it for later with the thought that if he opened it early, House might find out and be less receptive to Wilson later, but curiosity got the better of him. He reached for a letter opener and ran a slit up one side, then shook out a sheet of yellow paper that had come from one of those legal pads that House occasionally doodled on in absence of a white board. It had been folded over four times and Wilson smoothed out the creases like the slightly obsessive person that he was, waiting until the paper would lay flat before he deigned to read it.

Wilson,

I'm sorry I couldn't make you happy again,

so I'll do what you asked instead.

There was no signature, nothing beyond Wilson's name and those two lines. He turned the paper over, expecting to find more, but the only things on the reverse were a series of squiggles and random geometric shapes, and a few spots of ink where the writing from other pages had bled through. Just doodles. Wilson flipped the page back over and re-read it, convinced that he must be missing something.

Tell me what you want me to do!

I want you to quit fucking up my life!

Wilson's head fell to one side as his thoughts wandered far afield, much as House's did when his long-sought epiphanies left him staring through walls.

I thought about it, you know. When she died, and you wouldn't talk to me. I thought about it.

I'm not sure we were ever friends.

You want me to risk my life…to save hers?

Bastard! You can't be honest for one fucking minute!

You have to believe me this time – you have to…

You're not sorry. You just don't want me to leave again.

…I'm sorry I'm not dead…

"Oh my god." Wilson's blood ran cold and he looked up as if his walls could prove his suspicions wrong. "Oh my god." He fumbled in his pockets to find his cell phone but it wasn't there. "No, no, no…" He lunged for his desk phone instead and dialed House's cell number, but he heard Abba playing right there in the office with him. Wilson's eyes raced over every surface in the room before he thought to grab at the breast pocket of his lab coat. House's cell phone was tucked in there behind Wilson's prescription pad, nestled between two pens. "Shit!"

Wilson stabbed the disconnect and then dialed the diagnostics office, mumbling denials to stave off the panic as it rang and then switched over to voicemail. He dropped the phone and missed the cradle but ran out without bothering to fix it. Foreman looked up as Wilson careened into the door and then struggled to shove it open. "Where is he?"

"Why?" Foreman asked, put off by Wilson's abruptness.

"Just tell me! Now!"

Foreman's brows shot up but he started to look concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Foreman – "

"He left," Kutner offered from the hallway behind him. He sauntered past Wilson and flopped into a chair at the conference room table with a donut in one hand and a coffee in the other. "I saw him outside about an hour ago."

"No, his car's still here," Wilson started, but Kutner cut him off.

"He took a cab. One of the nurses said something about Cuddy not letting him drive like that." He shrugged, uncaring and seemingly oblivious to Wilson's gapingly obvious fear. "Whatever that means."

Wilson's insides pooled on the floor somewhere near the blotch on the carpet across the room that marked out House's spilt blood. "Ohmygodnoohmygodnoohmygod – " He spun around and dashed out, knocking into some nurse and pushing a patient out of the way. He heard Foreman call after him, confusion painting his voice, but Wilson threw himself into the stairwell and skipped half of the steps on his way down, pausing only to make sure that his car keys were still in his pocket.

Why are you doing this?

I don't know how to make it right.

He barreled out through the fire door and into the main lobby, probably looking half-crazed, and people hastened out of his way as he ran for the doors. A glimpse of Cuddy side-tracked him long enough to shout, "Why the hell didn't you tell me he took a cab home?!!" and then he was outside, slipping on the icy sidewalk and hurtling in the direction of his car.

"Wilson!" Cuddy ran to catch up, her heels in her hands as she sprinted after him with nothing but nylons to protect her feet. "What's – "

"He's gonna kill himself!" Wilson yelled over his shoulder as he reached his car and yanked the door open. He threw himself inside and jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life a second later. Cuddy side-stepped as Wilson gunned the motor and peeled out of his parking space, her face horrified as she watched him speed away.

Wilson ignored every traffic law there was on the way to 221B, House's cell phone pasted to his ear as he called House's apartment phone again and again and again…

Why are you here?

You didn't answer your phone. Who'd feed me if you went off and did something stupid?

All the spaces in front of House's apartment were full so Wilson just stopped in the road and spilled out of his car, leaving the door of his Volvo hanging open and the engine still running. Hobos could steal it and use it for a toilet for all he cared.

"House!" Wilson's body impacted the green door and he pounded against it, frantic. "House, open up! House, please!" Wilson's hands shook as he searched his pockets and then realized that he'd left his keys in the car. He swore and dashed back outside, convinced that he was too late but afraid to stop. The keys seemed determined to stay stuck in the ignition and Wilson heard himself sobbing and pleading at the Volvo to let them go.

I hate you, House!

It's okay, Wilson. I get it.

The ignition yielded and Wilson ignored the honks of angry motorists as he pelted himself back into House's building, slamming into the green door again in his haste to unlock it. Tears obscured Wilson's vision as he finally forced the door open, and he tripped over his own feet as he lurched inside, his heart pounding in his throat and his voice shrill. "House! Answer me, please! House!"

What, are you gonna save me from myself again?

"Yes!" Wilson croaked three days too late.

You don't care.

"I do care," Wilson moaned, both hands laced across the back of his neck.

You don't get it, do you?

He ransacked the living room with his eyes, half afraid to find House passed out in the exact same place as before, on Christmas, with an empty bottle of maker's mark on the coffee table and a stolen scrip for oxy on the floor next to him. He wasn't there.

Twice now, you've wanted me dead.

I want you alive now.

The kitchen was empty too and Wilson rebounded off the wall in his haste to get into the hallway. He slammed the bathroom door open hard enough to crash into the tiles and send plaster chips raining down onto the bath mat. The tub was dry and the rest of the room showed a noticeable lack of House. Wilson abandoned the bathroom and shoved his shoulder against the bedroom door. It swung open.

How much is it worth to you?

Wilson's voice died in his throat but he whispered, "House?"

Nothing stirred in that room, including the form curled up on the bed, loosely wrapped around Wilson's couch blanket and pillow.

Wilson forced himself to move forward, to climb up onto the bed and touch his face. House's skin was cool but not cold. A stuttering hope nearly stopped Wilson's heart and he felt at House's neck, pressing his fingers over the carotid. A sluggish pulse met his fingers and Wilson's breath fell from his lungs in gasps and hiccoughs as he opened House's cell phone and started pressing buttons without really paying them any attention.

"House?"

Cuddy's voice. He must have hit on House's address book. Wilson drew in a ragged breath and rasped, "No. Lisa, I need an ambulance."

He heard Cuddy's office phone line go on speaker and then she was giving House's address to the EMS dispatcher. "Wilson, talk to me. What are we dealing with? Did he overdose?"

Wilson's fingers stayed glued to House's pulse point but his eyes moved over the contents of the room. An amber bottle sat on the night stand. A full amber bottle. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"They're all there," Wilson replied.

He was too much in shock to wonder if Cuddy understood his meaning, but she seemed to comprehend him just fine. "Then what was it?" Cuddy asked, her voice soft and stern, soothing but deliberate as she spoke to him. "Wilson – what he did he do? Did he take something else? Morphine, maybe? Did he cut himself?"

"There's no blood." Wilson stared at House's unmoving body, aware that his affect was flat and his voice barren. "No needle marks." He tried desperately to control his breathing but his eyesight blurred. "I dunno what he did…Lisa – "

"It's okay, James. The ambulance is on its way. It'll be okay."

The phone slipped from Wilson's ear and landed with a soft thump on the bedspread, forgotten. "House?" He shook his friend's shoulder. "House, wake up. Come on…you have to wake up." The pulse beneath his fingertips fluttered and then slowed, and Wilson's breath quickened. "House, no!" He rolled House onto his back and grabbed his face. "Look at me, come on. You have to wake up. House!" Wilson couldn't tell if he was breathing anymore but he could hear sirens in the distance. "House! You can't leave me. Please, don't go!" Wilson ran his thumbs across the stubble of House's cheeks but the blue eyes didn't open and Wilson screamed, "I forgive you!" before he dissolved into tears and collapsed against House's unmoving chest, pleading incoherently for him to stay. Just stay. Anything to make him stay.

* * *

Wilson couldn't remember any part of the ambulance ride aside from the EMT's crass comment about having met House before and it serving him right if they couldn't get his pulse back. His knuckles throbbed, though, as he sat in the emergency waiting room with his head hanging between his knees, so he guessed that he had punched the guy. Cuddy would probably report him for that, too.

"James?"

Wilson raised his head enough to see Cuddy's long legs perched atop high heels a few feet away, and then he went back to visually tracing the patterns in the faux-marble linoleum floor tiles. "I killed my best friend."

"You didn't," Cuddy countered. Her heels clacked as she approached and sat next to him. Other patients and their families made a point of getting up and finding places further away from Wilson to sit. Her hand appeared on his shoulder blade and he shrugged away from it. "James, look at me."

Wilson lifted his head again. It felt heavier than it should and the movement drew the skin of his neck tight across the lump that rested in his throat. "I should have stayed. I should have made sure he was okay and talked to him, and…and made it right. I shouldn't have left him like that – he thought I hated him. He thought there was nothing else he could do to get me to forgive him. I should have just handed him a gun. Or a syringe."

Cuddy rested her hands in her lap and chose not to address his morose commentary. "You're suspended with pay pending a full investigation and a disciplinary hearing. The board is considering revoking your tenure." She leaned forward and caught his wandering gaze. "If he dies…the police will investigate too. You should get a lawyer."

Wilson's eyes slid back to the floor and he nodded, his tongue too thick in his mouth to let him answer.

"What's that?" Cuddy asked. She pointed to the worn ball of yellow paper crumpled in Wilson's fist and he relinquished it when she held out her hand for it. He heard her smoothing it open and then her breathing grew shallow. "Oh."

"He was right."

Cuddy folded the paper back into quarters, the way House had originally folded it, and handed it back. "About what?"

"I wanted him dead. After I found out that Amber was…was probably gonna die, and…" Wilson took a shuddering breath. "And I was relieved."

"What – what do you mean? About what?"

The burn settled back in Wilson's nose and he squeezed his eyes shut to stop them from tearing. "I was glad she was dying instead of him. I was relieved that it was only her, and not him. And then I – "

"Felt guilty," Cuddy finished.

"No." Wilson swiped angrily at his face with the hand that did not hold the yellow paper. "No, I thought that if I asked him to do the DBS, he'd say no, and then I could hate him. I could tell him what an ass he is and that his selfishness got her killed, and I could hate him for being an uncaring bastard. I could never speak to him again, and I wouldn't be in that position ever again – to be glad that someone was dying and that it wasn't him. Except he said yes. And I – " His voice caught and he swallowed through it. "That's when I wished he'd died on the bus. When he said yes. Because I couldn't hate him for saying yes."

"Oh…James…"

Cuddy may have said more, but the soft approach of footsteps distracted them both. Cameron drew up in front of them, her scrub cap in her hand, and Wilson dreaded her pronouncement too much to look up. They had called it. House's heart had stopped in the ambulance; he had coded. They must have called it by now.

Cuddy spoke for both of them. "Just spit it out, Doctor Cameron."

"We pumped his stomach but whatever he took had already dissolved and entered his bloodstream. The tox screen showed opiates, but not a lethal dose. He probably took five or six Vicodin at once – not smart, but not fatal either."

"He didn't overdose?" Cuddy asked in disbelief.

"I told you all his pills were still there," Wilson snapped, except the words tumbled out too slowly to have any real bite.

Cameron ignored Wilson and addressed herself to Cuddy. "Not on Vicodin. We went through his pockets…"

Wilson glanced up as Cameron held a prescription bottle out for Cuddy's inspection. "I don't understand," Cuddy said. "This scrip is for Wilson."

"Yeah." Cameron nodded and shot Wilson an uncomfortable look. "He probably took the entire scrip at once – forty-five pills, fifty milligrams each of Cymbalta. Taken alone, even an entire month's supply shouldn't be fatal to a healthy adult. He would have passed out for a while, maybe seized a few times, and then woken up miserable. That's probably why he took the six Vicodin first. They depressed his respirations and slowed his heart rate enough that…" She didn't need to finish that sentence.

Wilson sank lower in his chair, the crumpled yellow paper garish and offensive in the center of his vision. "The pharmacy…when they screwed up my refill…"

Cameron nodded and worried at the scrub cap in her hands. "I checked the pharmacy logs but House has gotten better at forging your signature. Marco remembered it, though. He said it was weird but he figured that even if House was stealing the pills, then at least his taking anti-depressants would be an improvement."

"I guess I'll be suspending him too, then," Cuddy muttered. Wilson watched her hands as they ran down her thighs, smoothing out the wrinkles in her salmon-colored skirt. Then she looked at him. "Why would he go to all that trouble? Why not just shoot up or take his own pills? Why steal yours?"

"Revenge," Wilson replied hollowly.

Cuddy scoffed. "You're telling me he tried to kill himself just to get back at you? House has more imagination than that."

"No – he tried to kill himself because he feels worthless," Wilson growled, surprised by his own vehemence. "Because nobody picks him over anyone else." Wilson inhaled and calmed himself before adding, "He probably would have done it anyway, eventually. Killing himself, that was for him. Using my scrip – that was revenge. That was to make it my fault."

Cameron shifted, clearly eager to get away, and Cuddy told her, "You still haven't told us how he's doing."

Cameron swallowed and Wilson finally found the gall to meet her gaze, bracing himself for the words that would pretty much end his own life too. "We've given him opioid-blockers and he's on IV fluids and meds to keep his blood pressure up. We didn't need to leave the breathing tube in but he's on increased oxygen. He's stable."

Wilson didn't actually hear her the first time. A rush of blood and silence assaulted his ears and his body started quaking, one step ahead of his brain. Wilson could make out Cuddy's voice repeating it over and over – "He's stable. It's okay, he's gonna be fine. He's stable, James…" – until he understood. Her arms were around him and he leaned against her, too relieved to care about the scene he was making and how House would mock him for sobbing and carrying on like an idiot, in public no less. He couldn't wait to hear it.

* * *

Wilson practically threw a fit when Cameron led him to House's room and he noticed the restraints on his wrists.

"Wilson, he'll be on suicide watch when he wakes up!" Cuddy shouted, her hands on his shoulders in an effort to calm him down.

"I don't care! Get them off!"

After a fair bit of yelling, and a terrified candy striper's call to the security desk, Cuddy ordered that the restraints be taken off, at least for now. They would reevaluate it after House woke up and spoke to the psychologist. The guards shuffled off at Cuddy's insistence and Wilson dragged a chair up next to the bed. Everyone left him alone after that, for which he thanked them. There were too many people in his world right now; he only needed one.

Wilson finally got a good look at what he had done to House's face the night before. His lip was split but the swelling had gone down, and though his nose had bled, it appeared unbroken, the skin slightly darker than usual but otherwise unblemished. Not so the bruise on the right side of his face, where Wilson had landed his first blow. A purple splotch bloomed across his cheek bone, turning yellow at the edges and painting the usual circle under his eye an ugly shade of something close to magenta. Wilson reached out to trace the edges of the mark where it spread past the rim of the oxygen mask, ashamed at having put it there. He wondered how House would react upon waking, not dead, to find Wilson sitting beside him. It reminded him of waiting for House to open his eyes after electrocuting himself, except that House had fully expected to survive that.

He had paged Amber to make certain of it.

Wilson slid back in the chair and put his hands in his lap. He had always warned people not to try and figure out how House's mind worked – had told them that House would eat up any attempt and spit it back out in some unrecognizable form, sort of the same way that Hector tended to do with shoes. Like a moron, Wilson had ignored his own advice. He had witnessed numerous examples of how House could twist intentions and actions into the exact opposite of what they appeared to be on the outside, his motives complicated and multi-layered and yet so carefully planned. Deliberate and guarded. And always meaningful, whether House himself realized it or not. Wilson had somehow thought that he knew better – that House was only House with other people. Idiot. House was always House, and that was never what one expected him to be.

It was what Wilson loved about him, though – that House could keep everyone guessing, could keep life interesting. And yes, Wilson admitted it to himself: he loved House. He didn't know how, exactly, or what that meant, but he did. He needed House around to hold up that infuriating mirror, to lay every single one of Wilson's intentions bare and to call him on his hypocrisy. He needed House to remind him that no one was perfect, least of all Wilson, and that it was okay to be flawed. House embraced his own shortcomings not because he was a bastard but because he knew better than to deny their existence. What you know about yourself can't hurt you.

A beep sounded from the heart monitor and Wilson looked up to find hazy blue eyes fixed on him from over the rim of the breathing mask. "You're thinking again," House slurred, his voice gravelly and muffled by plastic.

Wilson's face loosened and he offered House a sheepish grin, though he remained wary of hoping that House was fully cognizant of his surroundings, or in touch with the events that had led them here. House looked dopey and his bleary eyes stayed at half mast. "How are you feeling?"

"Mph." House's head settled back on the pillow and he blinked at the ceiling a few times. The oxygen mask clouded on each exhale. "You punched a paramedic."

"You…you remember that?"

House's head rolled from side to side on the pillow and his eyes slid shut as he murmured, "Cameron said you punched a paramedic for me."

Wilson looked down and smiled. "Hmph. Yeah, well. He was an ass."

"Me too."

Wilson's smile faded and he got to his feet so that he could see House's face better. "No. No, you weren't. I was out of line."

"What line?" House's brow crinkled but he didn't open his eyes. He seemed on the verge of sleep. "They don't like line-jumpers," he mumbled, his voice breathy as it grew fainter. "Get you a cane…they just let you in front…no lines…"

Wilson watched House's face smooth out in sleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest a small comfort. Once it became apparent that House would be out for a while, Wilson lowered himself back into his chair and settled in. The soft beeps of hospital machinery lulled him down too, and eventually, he dozed off.

* * *

"Look, House, I know the two of you aren't really getting along right now, but just talk to him."

"I don't wanna talk to him. I want him to leave."

Wilson stirred, his brain registering voices, but the sleep was so nice and dark and comfy…

"He's sorry. He just needs to tell you – "

"Why should I care? He didn't."

"And he made a mistake, which he's admitted. For once, don't be an ass."

Was that Cuddy? Yeah…Wilson could smell her perfume. It must be morning cuz she only smelled that strong right after she got in, freshly showered. He burrowed into the chair, impressed with himself for working all of that out, and settled again.

"He's still asleep."

"Then wake him up and get rid of him. I don't want him here."

"House, he saved your life."

A grumpy snort hit Wilson's ears and he found himself almost awake. "I didn't ask him to."

"Oh, grow up."

"You too? Why don't you just start a club."

"House – "

"I'm not the one who went nuts and beat up his best friend."

"One bruise doesn't count as beating up."

Silence. Wilson's ears perked up and he cracked his eyes open far enough to see House fiddling with the blanket, his face angry and betrayed though he refused to defend himself further.

Cuddy sighed and passed her hand between them. "I'm sorry. You're right. He was…he got mixed up. That's why I reported him."

House's head whipped up. "You what? Why would you do that? He'll lose his practice."

"What was I supposed to do?" Cuddy lowered her voice and stepped closer to House, hiding Wilson from House's line of sight. Wilson opened his eyes the rest of the way but stayed contorted in the chair, ignoring the screaming protest of his lower back.

"You could have kept your mouth shut. It's none of your business."

"House, you were crying – Don't give me that look, I saw you myself. You were in my exam room with your face in your elbow, scaring my nurses into thinking you'd lost it. What was I supposed to do? Pretend you were fine?"

"How did you even find out – No, wait, don't tell me. Wilson confessed, didn't he. He spilled his pretty little guts all over your office and you gave him a hug and let him look down your shirt to make him feel better."

"Quit being an ass." Cuddy straightened and put one hand on her hip while the other toyed with her hair. "I told him to get a lawyer. And then he said you'd try and play it off as consensual." Tellingly, House didn't respond. "Look, I'm not saying you should sever all ties and have him shot at dawn. But stop letting him walk all over you." She started to leave and then turned back. "And stop playing games with his head. If you'd just had a conversation with him at the beginning, none of this would have happened."

"I did have a conversation," House murmured, and Cuddy paused in the act of walking out. "He didn't believe me. He never does. It doesn't matter what I say."

"House – "

"Words don't mean anything."

"Actions speak louder."

"Yeah." House picked at his IV line and scratched the skin around the port. "They do."

Cuddy sighed and came back, and Wilson shut his eyes before she noticed him watching. He heard her footsteps bring her up to the bedside, and then someone smoothed their hands over blankets and the bed creaked when House shifted his weight. "Neither one of you is very good at listening. Just try. Okay?"

Cuddy clomped out and Wilson feigned sleep, waiting for House to call him out and accuse him of faking. When a full minute passed in silence, Wilson opened his eyes. House wasn't even looking at him; he was staring at the blinds drawn across the window, his hands resting on his stomach and his legs crossed at the ankles. Two pillows cushioned his bad leg and raised his knee to a more comfortable angle, but it obviously hurt; his hand inched toward his thigh every few seconds and then he moved it back to his stomach with a will. The opiate blockers must have been in his system still, but surely they could give him something else until they wore off. He was sweating; he must be in early stage detox already.

Wilson uncrossed his leg and hissed as he set it on the floor. It had fallen asleep ages ago. He looked back up but House continued to stare at the blinds. "I forgive you."

"I heard you the first time."

"Oh." Wilson scooted forward in the chair but he didn't stand up yet for fear of his dead leg giving out. Ironic, that. He looked down. "I thought you were dying."

"Yeah. I figured that's the only reason you said it."

Wilson's head shot up. He started to tell House that he meant it, that it wasn't just some deathbed absolution, but he didn't. House wouldn't have believed him, and Wilson couldn't blame him for it. Instead, he asked, "What on earth made you try to kill yourself? It wasn't just me, was it." He didn't say it like a question. "You took my pills a week ago. You were thinking about it way before I went off on you. Why?"

House shrugged. "I already went over it with the mandatory therapist."

"So…you're just not gonna talk to me?"

"Why should I?"

Wilson hesitated long enough to gather some semblance of resolve, and then he stood up and hobbled to the bed on his half-dead, tingling leg. He leaned on the bed rail and House glanced curiously at his hands before resuming his deliberations with the blinds. "I need to know if this whole thing was just your screwed up way of trying to apologize to me. I need to know if even a little bit was real, or if you were just so desperate to get me back that you would have done anything whether you wanted to or not."

At that, House finally met Wilson's gaze, but the blue eyes were painfully open, raw. Wilson could feel the hurt there but he maintained eye contact. "Does it matter?"

Wilson nodded. "Yeah, it matters."

"Why?"

Wilson drew in a deep breath. "Because for a while there, I think I wanted a relationship with you. And if it was all a lie – "

"It wasn't."

Wilson stuttered himself to silence and gauged House's honesty by the set of his eyes. Yes, that was the truth, or at least part of it. "Which parts were real?"

House's brows drew down between his eyes; he appeared genuinely perplexed. "All of it." That gave Wilson pause. The typical House-ish answer made little sense to him, but House apparently saw no reason for the confusion that spread across Wilson's face. "I didn't lie – I meant everything I said."

And he probably had, at that. House didn't distinguish between degrees of truth – he just laid it all out there for others to see, or not, as their capability allowed. Wilson simply needed to ask the right questions. "Why did you pick up my scrip from the pharmacy?"

"You needed a refill."

Wilson expected more, but House either wasn't in a mood to cooperate, or he couldn't see what Wilson was getting at. A month ago, Wilson would have gone with the former, hands down. Now he wasn't so sure. "Why didn't you give them to me then?"

House shrugged. "Didn't see you again until after work, and your shrink had already phoned you in a new one."

"So you just held onto them?"

House averted his gaze at that and rearranged an IV line. "It was moot; you already had another scrip."

"You were afraid I'd get mad at you, weren't you. For forging my signature again." A shrug answered that one and Wilson leaned over to untangle the IV lines so that House would leave off distracting himself with them. "Why did you put yourself through all of this?" He laid the lines across House's thigh and batted his hands away when he reached for them again. "What exactly did you feel guilty for?"

"I don't want to talk to you anymore."

Wilson looked down and redistributed his weight. "After Amber died, I was pissed off at you."

House nodded. "Yeah, I got that. I kill – "

"I was pissed off because you were willing to risk your life when you knew damn well that no matter what was wrong with her, she'd still probably die."

House's eyes moved over the contours of the blanket spread over his legs, but he didn't say anything.

"I needed you," Wilson said, leaning forward. "I needed you to stop me and you didn't."

"But…you wanted me to save her."

"Yeah," Wilson agreed, but only because he didn't feel like thinking up a convincing lie. "And you knew that you couldn't. And it didn't stop you from humoring me into nearly killing you. How do you think I would have felt if you'd died in the DBS chair on account of me?" He paused and picked at House's sleeve, glad that House didn't snatch his arm away. "How could you think that it's okay for me to think so little of you?"

House looked up, finally. His eye bespoke volumes of bewilderment and betrayal and something like lost hope. Wilson's words didn't seem to be having any positive effect on him; just the opposite. "You knew I wouldn't say no. You – didn't you?"

Wilson tried to answer in the negative but House's openness demanded the same in return. His eyes flickered away and then fixed on House's again. "I guess…maybe I hoped – "

"You asshole!" House flung Wilson's arm away and sat up, clenching his hands on the bed rail as Wilson jumped back. "You don't get it, do you? I was glad she died! When you came over to my apartment and you wanted me, I was glad she was dead because if she were alive, I wouldn't get a chance to have you!" He wrestled with the IV lines and then just ripped them out so that he could stand up and advance on Wilson. "Do you get it? I was glad I hurt you so much that you almost never spoke to me again, because if I hadn't, you would've stayed with her!"

"House, you're bleeding – "

"I'm second-best to you!" House yelled, and people in the hallway stopped to stare. "You were bored and lonely, so you settled on me, and I'm actually pathetic enough that I was okay with that!"

"What, no! I don't settle – "

"You always settle! You don't want me, you want her, but she's dead so you'll take the proxy – "

"She was the proxy!"

Both men froze and glared at each other, House dripping crimson splotches all over the floor from his severed IV ports. Then House's lips drew back in a sneer and he hissed, "Liar."

Wilson breathed deeply to calm himself. "I'm not lying. You're right. I always end up on your couch – I always come back to you, so maybe this time, I figured I should just stay with you." House didn't say anything, so Wilson continued. "You know what I liked about her? She was just like you, at least on the surface. And then after the bus crash, I realized that I was glad that of the two of you, you were fine. Yeah, I was pissed at you, and I think you're an arrogant prick. But you're my arrogant prick. That's why I was so mad at you, House. I did pick you over her, but you didn't. You would have left me with the stand-in just because you can't fucking stand up to me when it really counts. And we both know she wouldn't have lasted – I would've screwed it up because that's what I always do. Except this time, when I finally realize that she's not what I want and I drive her off, you wouldn't have been there!"

Wilson didn't even see it coming. One second, he was nose-to-nose with House, the heat rising in his face, and then he was suddenly staring up at the ceiling with the crash cart half-spilled on top of him. He lifted his head far enough to see House cradling his knuckles before fumbling to grab his cane and run out, as much as House could run. Then Wilson let his head flop back against the floor. He could taste blood in his mouth; House probably broke his nose. Black spots danced in his vision and he decided to just let them come. The nurses could clean everything up later.

* * *

Wilson remembered seeing House again a few minutes after he passed out. Or House's feet, anyway. He had found some scrub pants but his feet were still bare. Cuddy took up the rest of his field of vision as she was kneeling on the floor and pressing a wad of gauze against his face while he tried to roll onto his back. The only thought in his head was that House hadn't run off after all; he had gone for help. But as soon as Cuddy made Wilson understand that he had to stay lying on his side so that he didn't aspirate on the blood draining through the back of his mouth, House left. He actually left – grabbed a bag full of his clothes and personables, and walked out without looking back.

That was the last time Wilson saw him. Three weeks passed. Wilson spent his entire suspension at home, in Amber's old apartment, staring at the walls and trying to figure out why he didn't have even one picture of House anywhere amongst his personal things. There must have been at least one mixed in with his wedding photos, considering that House had been his best man twice, but his ex wives had kept those and probably burned them. Hell, they had probably culled out the ones with House in them long before the divorces; neither of them had like him.

The board would make their decision by the end of the day as to whether Wilson retained his tenure – and his practice at PPTH – or not. He wasn't sure what he wanted them to do. Part of him was terrified at the thought of his professional reputation hanging in tatters, but more of him couldn't stand the thought of having to go back to work one office away from House.

Wilson had called him. For the first couple of days, he had called repeatedly, almost every hour until the night progressed to the point where even House would be asleep. Then Wilson had called two or three times a day. And then just once. Finally, he had stopped calling altogether because he thought for sure that House was merely playing one of his games – that he would cave and call back as soon as Wilson stopped playing along. He didn't. And that was somehow worse than letting the line ring out until the wee hours of the morning.

Cuddy had promised to stop by and give him the news in person. He didn't know why she couldn't just call him. Maybe she wanted to bring his things with her so that he wouldn't have to go back on hospital property to clean out his office. She had called him every day of his suspension as if she thought he would do something stupid. That was the only reason he kept picking up; he didn't want her to think that. Plus, he needed the reassurance that House was just being his stubborn self and that his failure to take Wilson's calls was not due to a repeat attempt to purge himself from Wilson's life. Cuddy said he was fine, if a little withdrawn. When Wilson asked her if House had said anything about him, Wilson had gotten his answer in the form of empty static over the phone line. Cuddy had started to apologize when Wilson hung up. It occurred to him that he could drive over to 221B but his fear kept him home. What if House refused to speak to him? What if he just left Wilson out there in the hallway rapping his knuckles against green paint until he wore them bloody?

The knocks didn't quite reach his ears at first. A second later, his visitor pounded with a closed fist and Wilson started from where he sat on the couch. Cuddy was here. His life was over. He was about to lose his job, his practice and his reputation on top of his best friend. Forget it – on top of his only friend. Wilson didn't have anyone except House anymore. Maybe he had come to this point by accident, but he was here nonetheless. And he didn't know what to do now that he had lost House too.

Cuddy looked smart in her red pea coat and a charcoal pencil skirt. Wilson stood aside to let her step in, and then slowly shut the door without turning away from it. He remained silent. If he didn't say anything then she wouldn't try to start a conversation and he could pretend that nothing was wrong.

"How long has it been since you showered?"

Wilson looked up and turned halfway towards her, but he didn't make eye contact. He shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere." He heard Cuddy sigh, and then her hand appeared on his shoulder. He glanced at her, lost, but moved out from under her hand a second later. "Have a seat. Do you want some coffee?" He couldn't manage to not be polite; he was James Wilson, after all. "Sorry about the mess."

"Going through old photo albums?" Cuddy asked. She reached down to pluck a snapshot of Hector and Bonnie off the coffee table. "That's…maudlin, actually. What are you looking for?"

"Um." Wilson pulled at the back of his neck and fixed his eyes elsewhere.

"Never mind." Cuddy let the picture flutter back down onto the table. She still didn't sit down. "James…" He looked over to find her with one hand lifted, perhaps in hopes of catching words like snowflakes. "Be back at work on Monday."

It didn't register at all. "You're not just gonna mail me my things?"

She either didn't hear him, or chose to ignore him. "House will have to go through a mandatory three-month drug counseling program. It's outpatient, at least, so he should be able to finish it easily enough. And they won't try to make him give up the Vicodin, just control his emotional crutch for them. He's on medical leave until then. I managed to convince them not to suspend his pay."

Wilson frowned at a space just over Cuddy's right shoulder. "Wait. What?"

"You weren't fired." Cuddy lowered her hand and stepped away from the couch to catch his eye, but then she looked down at his hands, which he had stuffed in his pockets. "House testified to the committee. He told them it was all his fault – that he took too much Vicodin and got stoned, and that you just showed up. He told them he started the fight and you hit him by accident."

Wilson shook his head, and kept shaking it as he spoke. "No. Why would he – I – "

"I asked him why. He said that you thought you only had two things going for yourself, and he didn't want to take the other one."

Wilson blinked. "He can't do that."

Again, Cuddy ignored him, but she took a step closer and glared up at him. Wilson actually backed up at that expression. "If you ever give him cause to regret it, Wilson… So help me, there won't be a disciplinary hearing. Do you understand?"

Wilson nodded and tried to reply, but his tongue was too thick in his throat for speech so he simply nodded again.

"I have to get home. I'm paying the sitter overtime already." She paused on her way to the door to look back, and Wilson met her gaze. "You're both idiots, but I expected better from you, Wilson. Don't make me have this conversation again."

"I won't." Wilson watched her go and then the apartment rang out in silence all about him.

* * *

A street lamp managed to burn out above Wilson's car, he sat there for so long. House's apartment was dim but that didn't mean anything. He could be in bed, or in the bath, or just sitting on his couch in the dark. He might even be sitting at the piano. Only the little lamp on his desk by the door cast light over the space by the front window; House usually left it on so that he didn't accidentally trip over anything in the dark. It didn't mean that he was home.

Wilson drew a deep breath before removing his keys from the ignition. He had to do this.

The trip across the sidewalk and up the front steps didn't take long enough. Wilson was opening the front door and heading for House's apartment before he had a chance to gather anything – words, his thoughts, resolve…the composure that he accidentally dropped all over the concrete on his way to the steps…

He hesitated at the door. The worst thing would be if House didn't answer, not even to tell him to fuck off. He didn't know what he'd do if that happened; he couldn't think that far ahead. House would answer in some form. He had to.

Five minutes later, Wilson ran out of innocuous excuses for why House might not have answered yet. His stomach had hollowed itself out so thoroughly that he likened it to one of those ten-gallon ice cream tubs at Baskin Robbins, and four soda jerks were scraping the last bits of him out with ice cream scoops to give to a sloppy three-year-old. How could he not say something? How could House just sit and listen to Wilson knock and call his name and plead with him to open up? Finally, Wilson stopped the racket he was making and peered at his reddened knuckles. This was worse than he had imagined – to not only be unneeded, but unwanted as well.

Wilson turned to leave, numb to his core, and came up short. House was standing just inside the foyer, his face red from the cold. He leaned against the wall instead of his cane and they stared at each other, unblinking. House looked tired. Tired and sad, and maybe a little afraid, though not of Wilson; it was an ambiguous fear that seemed to compliment his features better than any other expression, though Wilson had not thought such a thing possible until he saw it with his own eyes. He wondered what House was afraid of when he looked like that. Maybe of being vulnerable. Or of being let down again.

After a moment, House looked at the floor and pushed off the wall. He glanced at Wilson as he moved past him to unlock his door, but he didn't say anything. Wilson only followed him inside when House left the door open and disappeared into the living room. It was probably as much invitation as Wilson was likely to get.

"I put all your stuff in there." House pointed to a box near the door. "Figured you'd come for it eventually."

Wilson looked down to find a messy pile of his clothes and a few personal items that had migrated into 221B over the years. The green tie sat on top. His eyes rose to stare at the back of House's head. "That's not why I'm here."

"Then why?"

Wilson watched House fiddle with piles of random nothing on his desk, his weight canted to the left and his cane thumping rhythmically against the floor. "I start work again on Monday."

"I know."

Wilson swallowed as he realized that he wasn't going to get anything back from House; this conversation was entirely up to him. "You lied to them."

House nodded while drawing a deep breath – fortifying himself. "Yeah."

When House simply kept messing up his desk, Wilson glanced aside and then asked, "Why?"

House's shoulders moved in a non-specific manner and he occupied himself by unzipping his backpack and pulling out a plastic grocery bag. When Wilson didn't say anything more – didn't even move – House sighed and leaned his hands against the desk. "I'm used to you. Didn't wanna share a balcony with somebody else."

Wilson's eyes found the floor; he listened to House pick up his grocery bag and stump off to the kitchen. After a minute passed and House didn't come back, Wilson shuffled after him and leaned in the doorway with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "I'm sorry I hit you."

"Hmph." House almost smiled at that. Almost, but not quite. "It was a decade in the making, wasn't it."

Wilson dared to grin back, but he felt unaccountably shy when he did so. "Brenda said she'd stand in line for a chance…" He trailed off and found a floor tile to scrutinize. "It's not funny."

"Of course it is," House countered.

Wilson looked up to find him laying out four pieces of bread on the counter, his back pointedly facing Wilson. No; it was not funny. "Are we okay?"

House paused in the act of twisting the peanut butter jar open to lean both hands on the counter, one of them clenched about a spreading knife. He ducked his head and shook it, a mirthless smile stretched thin across his face. "And people think I have gall."

"Are we?' Wilson couldn't hide the desperation in his voice and it enticed House to relent.

"We were never okay, Wilson. Quit kidding yourself." He went back to making sandwiches and Wilson watched him handle the knife. House spread peanut butter the same way he performed surgery, his index finger extended to guide the blade, the rest of his hand steady and deliberately placed to exert just the right amount of force.

Wilson averted his gaze and then admitted, "I wanted it to be true. I really did." House stopped and turned around to peer at Wilson, his eyes haunted, but he didn't speak. The scene should have been ridiculous: Wilson perched against the doorway and House dripping glops of peanut butter on the countertop. Wilson wished he could find it ridiculous. "I wanted her to be a proxy for you. I wanted that to be the problem. But she wasn't." Wilson ran his left hand through his hair and then made a point of not grasping the back of his neck. "She was…she was Amber. And you…" He shook his head and forced himself to meet House's eyes. "You're not a substitute for anybody, House."

"But I'm still not good enough for you."

Wilson felt the pressure build in his sinuses but he fought it back and shook his head. "I want you to be. I don't know why you're not. And that's nothing against you. It's just – "

" – who you are. And people don't change." House frowned and looked down.

Wilson looked up. "And you're okay with that? With knowing I'll never be satisfied with you, that I won't ever just let you be or accept you or – "

"You don't have to," House interrupted. "I don't care; it's just part of you. I can live with it."

"But…"

"You wouldn't be Wilson if you changed."

Wilson gulped in a few breaths to counteract what those soft, simple words did to him. "That's it? No arguments or yelling, or – or…You're just absolving me?"

House shrugged and lowered his head again. "I never really blamed you for anything."

"If you didn't blame me, then why did you try to kill yourself with my pills?" Wilson took a step forward, his anger confused and dampened by his shame. "Why not use your own?"

"Because I knew what it would do to you," House replied. His eyes found Wilson's though he kept his head bowed. "Did you mean it when you said you forgave me?"

Wilson stuttered over the breath he took and then clamped his mouth shut. He refused to answer because he didn't want to lie. But he couldn't bear the thought of House's expression at hearing the truth.

"I didn't think so. It's okay," House assured him. "I never really thought you would."

"It's not like that." Wilson pushed off the wall and took a step closer. "I can't forgive you for Amber – I don't blame you for what happened. She took the amantadine; she knew the risks of self medicating."

House shook his head and looked down at the mess he had made with the peanut butter. Chunky peanut butter, Wilson noticed. Not that it mattered, but House usually ate the creamy kind. The store must have been out. House swallowed a few times, his chin tucked down against his chest as he hunched over the countertop. It took several seconds for Wilson to realize that House was fighting not to break down.

"House?" He crossed the room and bent over to try and catch House's eye, but House straightened and turned away, leaving his partially made sandwiches scattered in a mess of peanut butter. Wilson tried to think of something to say, to give him whatever he needed to hear. "I forgive you for thinking you were to blame, okay? And for everything you did…after… I don't want you dead, House. When I found you this time, and I thought you were – "

"Quit pretending to care!" House bellowed, his back still turned.

"Why do you think I'm pretending? How many times do I have to explain it to you, House? You get me all twisted up and wrung out, and you think – "

"Just admit that you hate me." House spun around and Wilson took a step back. "You don't have to rationalize it away, Wilson – it's a feeling. Stop trying to explain everything."

Wilson pursed his lips and nodded, casting about for something to settle his eyes on. "Fine. I hated you." He looked up. "Past tense." He stopped long enough to reconsider and then decided to just go on with it. "I was using you at first – I thought you owed me something, and if you were willing to…to give me anything at all, then I should just take it. But that's not…soon…it wasn't about replacing Amber anymore. It was about you. I wanted you. And you just kept on with these – these games, and you – I don't even know what the hell you were doing half the time. One minute you were telling me not to degrade myself and the next you're using me as some sort of – of self-flagellation to ease your conscience. And it just…you…I got pissed off." Wilson surrendered and rested his weight on the countertop, too exhausted to try to figure anything out anymore. "How long have you been in love with me?"

House's head whipped around. "What?"

He couldn't look at House as he spoke. "You said before that you hadn't changed. That your feelings for me haven't changed. So how long has it been?" No answer was forthcoming, so Wilson drew a spleen in the peanut butter near his hand and said, "You could have just told me."

"Why would I have done something idiotic like that?" House demanded, and Wilson glanced up at the shades of anger in his tone. "If I'd initiated it, would you have gone along? No. You had wives and girlfriends and affairs and Amber, and anyone else you could want. Would you ever have chosen me over one of them?" He scoffed and cocked his hip to take the weight off his bad leg.

"You never asked me to."

"Oh, bullshit. Maybe not in words – "

"House, you can't know what I would have said."

House stopped talking and examined the backs of his hands. "Yes, I can. You've always taken anyone you could get over me."

"You think so?" Wilson retorted, his hands on his hips and his ire flaring against his will. "I ruined two marriages for you, House. I spent every spare minute I had here – "

"You were only here because you were tired of them. It wasn't a preference – "

"It was because you had an infarction and you wouldn't suffer anybody else to be near you!"

House scratched at his stubble and peered around the kitchen, maybe in search of his cane, which he had left by the front door. "So you've been my pity friend all this time?"

Wilson exhaled and shut his eyes in exasperation. "You know damn well that's not what I meant."

"Fine. I'm sorry."

"I'm not asking you to apologize. I wanted to be here."

House continued scratching absent-mindedly and nodded, but he said, "Yeah. I wish I believed you."

Wilson had no comeback to that, though he scoured his mind for some way to object or rebut. Eventually, he simply asked, "Why me? You had Stacy, you could've had Cuddy if you weren't so intent on annoying her. So why me?"

"Do you ever pay attention when I talk?"

Wilson stopped himself from shaking his head because he didn't want House to misinterpret his bewilderment for a denial. After casting his mind back through their more recent conversations, he nodded. "Because I'm the only one around. But that's not true."

"You're the only one who ever wants to be around me. Everybody else either works for me or has to deal with me at the hospital." House's eyes flickered around the counter area until he noticed the half-finished sandwiches again.

"Okay, look," Wilson said. "I can't keep doing this…dealing with your – whatever." He wanted to say self-destructive streak, or maybe suicide attempts, but it didn't make its way past his lips. "Tell me you're not gonna do it again."

"Do what?" House reached for the jar of peanut butter and went back to spreading way too much of it over a cheap slice of white bread.

Perhaps unnecessarily, Wilson pointed out, "You tried to kill yourself."

"Yeah. I fucked that up. I fuck everything up." House picked up the jar and scooped out more peanut butter. "Shouldn't have left you the stupid note."

Wilson's eyes prickled. It was bad enough that House flirted with suicide, but to do it without leaving Wilson anything… "You think I want you to just slip off somewhere and die alone?"

House laughed, a happy little belly laugh, but it was an ugly sound. "There you go again!" He made a gesture with the spreading knife that seemed half in good sport and half like twisting it in deeper. Then he grinned as if they were sharing a normal pre-Amber evening and Wilson had, for once, gotten in a good, high quality dig. "With the pretending to care, and the little pound puppy eyes." He made that sarcastic awe-shucks-how-cute face, then turned back to the sandwiches. But his motions degenerated into something less well-trained-surgeon and more Jack the Ripper. Which was not to say that he was sloppy; Jack the Ripper had been brutal, yes, but precise. "All about me," he muttered as he plopped a slice of bread down on a pile of peanut butter to complete one sandwich.

"House, I don't…" Wilson forgot what he intended to say when House held the sandwich out to him. "No…thanks. I don't really want one."

House's nostrils flared and he spun around, sans cane, to limp over to the other bank of cabinets. Wilson stole glances at the rest of the room, confused, as House took down a plate, dropped the sandwich onto it, and then thrust it into Wilson's hands. "Forgot you like to be all prim and proper."

Wilson looked down at the unappetizing contents of the plate, then hurried to get out of the way as House pushed past him, leaning on furniture as he made his way to the piano with the other sandwich. When House set the sandwich down on the pristine lid of the baby grand, Wilson felt his stomach flop over. This was not right…something was seriously not right. House had conniptions when people so much as glared cross-eyed at his piano. Not that many people ever came here to begin with, but still.

Wilson set the plate down on the counter next to the open jar of peanut butter and followed House into the other room. He had no idea what to say. House merely sat on the bench and plunked out an irregular tune without looking at him. It reminded Wilson of old detective films and Alfred Hitchcock. He wouldn't be surprised if House were playing a movie score from memory; he had that sort of recall.

Wilson took a deep breath. "Do you want to die?"

House stopped poking keys and looked up. He genuinely seemed to have no idea what Wilson meant by asking that, and then his eyes shifted to Wilson's empty hands. "Where's your sandwich?"

"Enough with the sandwich," Wilson snapped. "We need to have a serious conversation here."

A dark expression overtook House's features and he leaned his palms on the piano keys to shove himself to his feet. The dissonant racket made Wilson cringe. "Too plain?" House demanded as he slipped past Wilson. "I'll put jelly on it."

"What are you talking about?" Wilson hurried along in House's wake, disturbed. "I told you I don't want the stupid sandwich."

"It's not good enough," House replied. He flung open the refrigerator door and snatched a jar of grape jelly. "So I'll make it better."

Wilson's brows drew deep furrows across his forehead. "Stop – just stop!" He caught at House's arm and tried to steal the jelly from him. "This has nothing to do with a sandwich – let go!"

House refused to unclench his fingers and Wilson wrestled with him over it. He managed to wrench the jelly from House's hand and set it on the counter, and when House reached to take it back, Wilson grabbed his arms to stop him. They grappled for a second, and then Wilson nearly lost his balance. He ended up smashing House up against the kitchen island. House curled in on himself and yelled, "Lupus! Get the hell off me!"

Wilson jumped back, his heart beating wildly and his eyes saucered. He gave a vigorous shake of his head. "That's not what I was doing."

House shoved off the island and took a faltering step to the counter. Wilson's trepidation grew as he watched House grab the jar and the discarded plate, and proceed to add jelly to the sandwich, his focus surreal. Wilson stepped close enough to brush the pads of his fingers over House's shoulder. As soon as House felt it, he flinched and muttered the safe word again.

For lack of anything better to do, Wilson drew back and waited until House finished remaking the sandwich, then accepted the plate from him. "Talk to me."

"Why should I bother?" House asked. His neutral tone belied the confrontational nature of the question. "Whether I say anything or not, you'll just come to the same conclusions you always come to. Why waste my breath?"

House limped around the island this time to get out of the kitchen, and Wilson stared down at the sandwich. He was afraid to decline it again so he took it with him to the living room. When House sat down and took up plunking away again with no real melody in evidence, Wilson's worry blossomed into something he couldn't easily identify. "Are you okay?"

"I'm sure you'll answer that for me," House replied in a monotone.

"I want you to answer it," Wilson countered.

"You're not eating. I have different jelly."

Wilson stared at the back of House's head and House kept on hitting random series of piano keys until he shaped something that dimly resembled a song. "I'm gonna call Cuddy. She can come over here – "

"Don't be an idiot," House interrupted. "Where would she find a sitter for that brat-thing of hers this late at night?" His voice lacked some intangible quality, and it stole Wilson's ability to think for a moment. The words were all right – patented House – but the way he said them…they sounded flat, like lines recited by an inept actor.

A knock on the door interrupted the start of Wilson's alarm and he turned as the knob rattled. Neither of them had locked it when they'd come in. The door swung open to reveal a disheveled Chase wearing his winter coat over flannel pants and a thermal shirt. "Um…hey."

Wilson shifted on his feet and looked at the sandwich again for some reason. When House kept on playing, Wilson asked, "What are you doing here?"

Chase stepped inside, clearly uncomfortable, and shut the door. "He called me when he saw your car parked out front. Asked me to come over." He eyed the plate that Wilson gripped too tightly. "Midnight snack?"

"I…don't know," Wilson admitted.

"He won't eat it," House chimed in.

"Okay." Chase looked at both of them as if they were crazy, then spied the other sandwich sitting on the lacquered piano lid. His brows climbed upward and he glanced at Wilson; he must have known how obsessive House was about the piano.

Wilson shrugged to convey his lack of explanation and shot a worried look in House's direction.

Chase nodded and addressed Wilson. "Maybe you could get a paper towel or something?"

"Yeah. Be right back." Wilson hurried toward the kitchen, almost relieved to have an excuse to leave the room. He couldn't blame House for calling someone – for not wanting to be alone with Wilson – but god, it stung. He was the abuser. Or something. He didn't even know anymore.

"Take your time," Chase added.

Wilson put forth some effort to appear as if he were not fleeing, but he couldn't help it. He stood in the kitchen and shivered, trying to eavesdrop and not listen at the same time. He could still see the entire living room – the bookshelves and the guitars, the couch, Chase, House… Chase kept whispering near House's ear but it didn't appear as if House answered at all. The plate grew heavy in Wilson's hand so he set it down, but he picked up the sandwich and took a bite. Too much peanut butter. But he knew that already.

After a few minutes, Chase straightened and smiled in Wilson's direction. Wilson grabbed a paper towel and reluctantly approached the piano. When House glanced over his shoulder and noticed Wilson eating the sandwich, he inexplicably smiled this big goofy grin, the sort of look he'd given Wilson over thousand-dollar monster truck tickets four years ago. It was creepy.

Wilson set the paper towel down on the piano lid and transferred House's sandwich to it. "I'll leave. You don't have to kick me out or anything."

"He said it's fine," Chase said with a shrug. "I'm gonna go home and catch a few more hours' sleep. Have fun."

Wilson turned to watch Chase beat a quick exit, then looked down at House. "Um…"

"It's late," House said.

"Yeah." Wilson swiveled to look around the rest of the room, though he had no idea what he was looking for. "I, uh…I should go home."

"Bye."

Wilson took a few steps toward the door, then glanced back at House. "Are you okay?"

"I'm just ducky," House replied with too much enthusiasm. Then he sort of crinkled on the bench. "You don't have to go."

Wilson couldn't tell what sort of an invitation that was. Stay and watch TV? Sleep on the couch? Sleep…somewhere else? "I think I should go home," he said again.

"It's not a big deal," House said. There was still something off in his tone, but he sounded less strange than he had before Chase's visit.

"Yes, it is," Wilson argued.

House nodded and an incongruous smile made its way onto his face. "I guess we're even now."

That response made no sense and Wilson gave a vigorous shake of his head. "No. No, we're not," he averred, though he really wasn't sure which of them owed the other what. "Why are you smiling?"

Instead of answering, House shut the lid over the piano keys and pushed himself to his feet. He stepped into Wilson's personal space and Wilson flinched when he extended his hand. House drew back a bit but reached out again.

Wilson closed his eyes as House's palm cupped the side of his face. "House?"

"It's okay."

Wilson felt a gentle tug against the back of his neck, and then soft lips and stubble grazed his jaw. "What are you doing?"

"Something you understand."

Wilson swallowed and turned toward House's lips when they neared his own. The kiss was tentative, nervous, but Wilson was too afraid to be the aggressor to change that. He let House's tongue caress his lips and then opened his mouth just enough for House to flick the tip of his tongue inside.

They broke apart as House moved to suckle Wilson's neck, and Wilson took the opportunity to repeat what House had told him almost a month ago on the couch. "This isn't gonna fix anything."

House nodded against Wilson's neck and mumbled, "I know." He pressed his fingers lightly in at Wilson's waist and moved to nibble along the shell of his ear. "And I don't care."

"You should." Wilson grabbed at the back of House's head with both hands and dragged their mouths back together. He couldn't help himself, and apparently, neither could House. Their tongues dueled, but not violently. The kiss bespoke a needy, desperate sort of thirst that they could only quench with each other. If Wilson were prone to fatalism, he would have described it so; instead, he pretended that they weren't both perfectly aware of the fact that they were doomed to keep hurting each other, no matter how hard they tried not to. But they couldn't exist apart. They needed the hurt.

Wilson crushed their lips together to drown out his thoughts and House responded as if he were doing the same. A soft sound escaped House's mouth and Wilson opened his eyes to find that House's were clenched shut. This made Wilson squeeze his lids together too, though he wasn't sure why. His hands slid down to House's shoulders and then around to his spine. He traced the vertebrae lower and House's back curved to press his stomach up against Wilson. Wilson tried to respond to the gentle thrust of House's pelvis but a strong part of him remained intent on holding back.

To keep House from noticing, Wilson turned them around and nudged House in the direction of the bedroom. House stepped awkwardly back, relying on Wilson not to let him trip over anything. Hands shifted to cup Wilson's buttocks and yank him sharply in. Wilson couldn't help responding to the force of House's desire and the blood finally started to journey southward. They stumbled into the wall and Wilson drew House upright to continue down the hallway. Their kisses turned harsh, teeth and House's stubble mixing to produce a burn against Wilson's lips. He replied in kind, spurred on by the needy sounds vibrating in the back of House's throat. They bit at each other until Wilson tasted blood on his tongue. He didn't know which of them belonged to it.

The backs of House's legs hit the bed and he sat down with a whump. Wilson followed him with his mouth and House helped him climb up onto the bed. A few gentle prods got House to lay back and Wilson settled down beside him, propped up on an elbow. They occupied each other with their mouths for a while, and then House grasped Wilson's hips and tried to pull him on top of himself. Wilson almost went along, but he could too vividly recall the sight of himself holding House down and hitting him until he drew blood. Instead of straddling House, Wilson rose up far enough to redistribute his weight, and then he seized House's arms and flung them both over.

House landed on top of Wilson with a startled gasp and they both stopped moving long enough to stare at each other. Wilson waited for House to voice some sort of protest, to make the same points that he had made on the couch when he refused to let Wilson bottom, but the objections never came. House shifted until he could rest comfortably on top of Wilson, and then he dove in to attack Wilson's mouth with more anger than passion.

Wilson's hands clenched on House's biceps and he grunted into House's mouth, not completely displeased with the harsh kisses, but unable to enjoy them. He felt crushed by both House's weight and what they were doing. This wasn't right. Even as Wilson reached down to hold House's lower body against himself and grind upward, he knew that it wasn't right. But he didn't try to stop. House raked his blunt fingernails over Wilson's chest and paused to tweak a nipple. Wilson would have gasped in pain but his mouth was full of House's lips and tongue. Wilson choked instead and House pinched harder. A strangled moan made its way out between nips of teeth and Wilson yanked House's shirt up far enough to claw at House's spine, at his ribs. He arched into House's hands and tried to breathe in spite of being suffocated.

It took Wilson by surprise when House pulled at his arms and trapped them against the bed. Then before he could react, House kneed his way in between Wilson's legs and scooted forward until his thighs were shoved up under Wilson's. Wilson tried to pull out of the kiss but his head was already mashed back into the bed. He arched his neck instead and managed to turn his head far enough that House had to break off. "What are you doing?"

In a sing-song voice, House replied, "Already told you."

Wilson started to say something else but House wrenched Wilson's arms away from his sides and then settled squarely on top of him, compressing Wilson's lungs. The air whooshed out of him and he barely struggled as House propelled his arms into the mattress over his head, crossed at the wrists so that he could hold them there with one hand. Wilson grunted and then flinched as House reached for Wilson's belt. He managed to croak out an uneasy, "House?"

"Not fun, is it." House got the belt unbuckled and slid it free of Wilson's belt loops.

Wilson's breathing went into overdrive. "What are you doing?"

House paused long enough to chuckle. "How many times do you want me to say it?"

"I don't understand this!" Wilson exhorted. He tried to free his hands but between House's strength and the weight he bore down with, Wilson couldn't slip from his grasp.

"Oh, relax. I'm not hurting you."

Wilson could remember saying something similar to House when their positions had been reversed. When House stretched over him to try to bind his wrists with the belt, Wilson shied and then heaved his torso up in an effort to roll him off. "Okay, I get – I get it!" It might have worked if House had been straddling him, but as his weight was safely planted on the mattress between Wilson's legs, Wilson could only jostle him a bit. "House, come on. You've made your point."

"Have I?" House proceeded to get Wilson's hands bound despite Wilson's thrashing against him.

Wilson tipped over into full-blown panic. He didn't want to hurt House, but he couldn't just let him… "Stop," he tried one last time, hating how weak and tinny his own voice sounded. "House, stop. We can talk about this."

"Already tried talking," House replied. His manner was subdued but not emotionless; he was doing this with a purpose, but it didn't seem to please him at all. "Didn't work so I'm moving onto the paybacks."

Wilson bit back the urge to let a fearful whimper escape and worked instead to force his left knee between their abdomens in the hopes of shoving House off. House responded by sinking farther down so there was no space for Wilson to work with. Wilson bucked and tried to yank his hands away but House was stronger in this position. He threaded the end of the belt around the nearest bed post and pulled a knot through it with little difficulty. With Wilson's hands restrained, House was free to trap Wilson's calves under his arms, immobilizing them as well.

Wilson kept straining against him, shuddering uncontrollably as his mind provided him with far too many likely scenarios for him to have any hope of talking himself down. He could hear himself grunt from the exertion every few times his muscles clenched and pulled against either House or the belt. Not knowing what House planned to do to him was the worst part. Finally, the only thing left for Wilson to try was to apologize. He repeated it over and over in the hopes that it would get House to stop.

"Funny thing about sorry," House offered. "It's just a word. You can say it without actually meaning it."

Wilson forced himself to silence and realized that his eyes were closed. He cracked them open to find House just sitting there, holding his legs so he couldn't kick and accidentally injure one of them.

"You're crying." House indicated Wilson's face with a nod.

Wilson managed to reply, "You're scaring the crap out of me." He hated how his voice trembled, like a butterfly wing caught in a breeze.

House shrugged and glanced away as if that went without saying. Neither of them moved for a few seconds. "I liked Amber, you know." His eyes found Wilson's again. "I mean, she was sort of terrifying. But I didn't have a problem with her."

Wilson weighed the merits of starting an argument in this position, but in the end, he acknowledged that he had never really been good about censoring himself around House. "You practically sued for joint custody of me."

"You couldn't even stand up to her for the sake of one night a week with me," House countered. "You just didn't want to hang out anymore."

Wilson gulped, his breathing shallow on account of the way House had bent Wilson's knees into his stomach. It left him slightly lightheaded and cold. "Not true. Why can't we just let this go, House?"

"Ah, yes. Repression," House said. He smiled and gazed up into a corner, and Wilson wondered if he'd cracked at some point in the past three weeks. "Great substitute for the truth." Wilson started to reason with him, but House abruptly dropped Wilson's legs and crawled out from between them. In silence, he loosened the belt and Wilson worked his hands free.

Wilson slid to the edge of the bed, still shaking, and glanced over his shoulder. House was just sitting there on the other side, one hand absently worrying his thigh. "That's it?" Wilson asked. "That's your payback? You just…tied me up for fun and made some random comments about my dead girlfriend, and we're done?"

House twisted until his face appeared in profile to Wilson. "I thought about maybe breaking your kneecap, but I didn't want to leave marks. Gives me plausible deniability." He paused to put his back to Wilson again. "Get out of my apartment."

Wilson swiveled around to face the wall again, then stood up. But he didn't leave. "I think…I think we should maybe sit down and talk. Maybe…maybe with a professional. Maybe – "

He hadn't even heard House moving. Hands seized Wilson's arms and wrenched him off balance, and then he stumbled out into the hall. The bedroom door slammed as Wilson caught himself against the bathroom doorway. He straightened and stared at the door, listening to House's footsteps carry him heavily toward the bed, then back toward the door again. Wilson braced himself for a fight but all House did was fling the door open, throw Wilson's belt and shoes at him, then shut it again. Something on House's side fell from the wall and Wilson heard him curse at it before the bed creaked under his weight. Then nothing.

Wilson shifted his feet, nervous and worried and completely confused. "I'm not leaving," he called.

House's voice came back muffled from the closed door, but clearly angry. "No kidding. You never actually leave – you always come back. You're like the fucking plague."

"Look." Wilson spread his hands to plead with the closed door. "I came here to apologize, not start another fight. I just want us to be friends again."

"Who the hell would want to be your friend?" House demanded. Wilson heard him shift on the bed. "You're perfectly charming on the surface, but once people get to know you… It's no wonder no woman wants to stay married to you. You lie, you cheat…you're a great actor. You even sell me half the time."

Denying it occurred to Wilson, but it would take too much effort. And he wasn't sure that House was wrong. "You like that about me," Wilson replied. "It's not boring."

Silence. Then a soft, "Yeah," drifted out from the crack beneath the door.

"Nobody else would say that," Wilson pointed out. "Nobody else sticks with me after they see that."

"Nope."

Wilson turned to look at the empty hallway behind him. He didn't think that either one of them could tolerate any more candid conversation. The digital clock on House's DVD player far away in the living room glowed out three am. Actually, that was Wilson's DVD player; House had never given it back and Wilson now had Amber's. "I'm…gonna go sleep on the couch."

"Okay."

Wilson picked up his shoes and belt so that House wouldn't trip on them when he finally came out, then padded into the living room. The closet revealed a notable lack of his couch pillow and blanket, and he spared a moment to shut his eyes at the symbolism behind that. On his way back to the couch, he picked the sandwich and paper towel up off of House's piano and scraped away some bits of peanut butter that had stuck to the lacquered finish. He was busy buffing it with his shirt sleeve when he heard uneven footsteps behind him. The reflection in the window revealed House standing across the room, watching him; he had put on his pajama pants but he still wore his t-shirt and light blue button-down. Wilson went back to cleaning the piano lid without a word, then stole away to the kitchen to dispose of the remnants of the uneaten sandwich. House was still there when he came back.

Wilson stopped in front of him with one hand in his pocket and the other latched to the back of his neck. He hesitated, then admitted in a halting voice, "You were right at your dad's funeral. I don't know how to lose people." He paused and looked anywhere but at House poised in the hallway. "I'm sorry. I know it hurts you, but I just…I have to fix you so you don't…don't leave me. I have to keep trying to fix you."

House exhaled as if he'd been holding that breath for a year. "I know, Wilson."

"Are we gonna be okay?" Wilson knew he was courting fire by asking, but he couldn't just hold it inside.

House shrugged and leaned more weight on the wall, his right leg crooked to relieve the pressure. "The couch sucks. You'll just wake up with a crick in your back. Come on." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder and pushed off the wall. "Come on," he repeated.

Wilson trailed him to the bedroom and then climbed under the covers that House folded back for him. He was surprised when House laid down facing him and drew him up against his chest. Wilson burrowed in and snuck his arm across House's waist, resting his hand at the small of House's back. "There's something wrong with us," Wilson said.

House's arm tightened over Wilson's shoulder blades. "I know. It doesn't matter."

Wilson nodded. "It never mattered."

"Never did." House shifted until his chin rested near Wilson's forehead. "Night, Wilson."

Wilson smiled. Yeah…they would be okay eventually, in as much as they ever had been. "Night, House."