Sacrifice

Author note: The end—hope you enjoy this, and thanks for all the support—your reviews kept me writing! I don't own Temptation Island or Baywatch. Or House,for that matter

"Home again, home again," House says as he collapses immediately onto Wilson's couch.

"We need to talk," Wilson says.

"Good God, do you do anything but talk? I thought you were an oncologist."

"You haven't talked to anyone for the past five days," Wilson points out.

"I talked at Mayfield. It obviously didn't take," House says, his voice growing quieter,

"You didn't take your Zyprexa, House. If you were any other patient, you'd call yourself an idiot."

"Maybe I am. Maybe the nuthouse did that for me," House says, turning on the TV.

Wilson grabs the remote. "You're deflecting."

"And you're blocking half-naked chicks."

Wilson sighs and circles around the couch. "Move over, House."

To his surprise, his friend acquiesces, and Wilson sits down.

"You're an ass," he starts;" you're misanthropic and sarcastic. You lie. You create misery. You drive away anyone who even tries to care about you—"

"Then go away," House snarls.

"—but you're not an idiot," Wilson finishes, non-plussed. "You wouldn't skip your Zyprexa without a damn good reason."

"Yes, my choices are taking a drug that makes me unable use my mind, or actually losing it. It's wonderful."

"You'd choose complete psychosis over mental fogging?"

"I'd choose having a mind over not."

"So you choose not to take an anti-psychotic?"

House is silent.

"You can't give up," Wilson says.

"Yeah, because things are going so well for me."

"You have no hope?"

"Hope is a delusion, something idiots use to trick themselves into believing they aren't as hopelessly screwed as they really are."

"People move on. You moved on after Stacey. I moved on after Amber. Pain gets better. You told me that."

"I was wrong."

"You're never wrong. And if you were, you'd never admit it this easily."

House doesn't speak. Wilson sits there silently by his best friend for what feels like an eternity.

"I thought she fucked me," he says quietly. "I thought so many times that I got out of there. I thought you came every day. I thought she came everyday,"

"You were hallucinating, House. It's different from being wrong."

"Wrong is wrong. Dead is dead."

"You're not dead."

"Sure, I'll just fall back on running marathons." House's voice drips with sarcasm.

"Medicine is all that matters to you?"

"My mind is all that mattered to me."

Past tense, Wilson realizes. House puts himself in past tense. A chill runs up his spine.

"You have people who care about you. If you would open up—"

"They would trust me? No one trusts me."

"They would care about you."

"No, they would fake it. People fake caring. They send gift cards and baskets and shitty flower arrangements, but they don't actually give a fuck. People only care about people who can benefit them."

The unspoken words echo through Wilson's mind, And I don't anymore.

"You never gave anyone a chance to care. You never have."

"I never gave anyone a chance to lie."

"Cuddy—"

"—bolted the minute I woke up from your little Haldol-induced coma."

"If you weren't such a sexist ass…"

"I've always been a sexist ass."

"But you haven't always been psychotic."

"Brilliant deduction, Freud. If you're done with your psychoanalysis, Pay-per-view has some excellent porn on."

House gets up to grab the remote from the top of TV, and Wilson pushes him back down.

"Hey! Stop abusing the cripple!"

"Why am I still here, House?"

"Because you pathologically need to be needed. Duh."

"Have it every occurred to you once in the past 12 years that maybe, just maybe I like you? That maybe, for some bizarre reason, I actually enjoy being with you?" Wilson's voice is tense and high.

House shakes his head. "No. You enjoyed the old me, the me who wasn't useless, the me who wasn't fucking insane. You don't enjoy babysitting me—you just tell yourself you that because you want to believe you're capable of having one relationship in your life that you won't totally fuck up. You fucked up your marriages; you fucked up with Danny. This is a re-do; your chance to prove to yourself that you're really as good as everyone thinks you are. As you think you are."

For a minute, Wilson thinks he might hit House, as he has seen so many people do before. The jolt of rage hits him suddenly, and its intensity shocks him. He feels his hand clinch.

And then he stops.

"This is why I care," he says softly, his voice building slowly. "Because you're an absolute asshole. And you speak your mind. And you have no filter, and we have no social contract. Because you're hilarious and annoying and you steal my food and take my money and build fucking popsicle stick houses. Because as much as you piss me off, I can't walk away from you. Because I knew from the moment you bailed me out of jail that there was no one else in the world like you. Because sometimes when you're on Zyprexa, you're still you. Fine—this is all about me. Because as much as I try to hate you, I actually, for some God-unknown reason, care about you."

House stares at him for a minute, shocked. And then a grin spreads across his face.

"You selfish bastard."

"That makes two of us, then."

House grabs the remote and turns on Baywatch.

"Can't we watch something else?" Wilson asks.

"Temptation Island?"

"Can't you pick something that isn't filled with sluts?"

"Can't you pick something that is?"

Wilson sighs and settles into the couch.

"You really had to use my credit card, huh?

"Come on, you're complaining about having that ass to look at?"

Despite himself, Wilson smiles.

Selfish bastard. In this moment, there is nothing else he would ever want to be.