13.

After House finished his story, neither he nor Remy spoke.

House was undoubtedly rendered speechless by his memories of Wilson, now laying over him thick and heavy as an old woolen blanket.

But Remy's words were stolen away by a heart filled with love, admiration, and despair, all made corporeal within the man sitting before her now.

At no point during his story did she lower her hand from his face. Nor did she once stop her fingers' movement, delicately tracing his prominent bone structure from his impossibly high cheekbones down to his stubbled jaw. House, heretofore intent on completing his narrative, seemed not to notice her actions.

Once he finished speaking however, she surprised them both by reaching up and gently cradling his face with both hands. House awakened as if from a dream, taking her hands in both of his and shaking his head.

"No. Don't."

"This isn't pity House."

"Then what?"

"Don't you know? Can't you tell?" she said, the tears shining in her eyes. House looked away from them.

He could still feel the lingering warmth of her touch even before she once more raised her hand to resume the caress. Like the sunrise dispelling the chill night air, House could feel the warmth and intimacy of her gesture. He could feel her fingers telegraphing their owner's concern, reaching out to him, searching to help and to heal, and deepening their mutual connection.

House knew he should turn away. But found he could not.

Neither could he look at her, afraid of what her eyes, or worse, his own, might betray. The events of the day and this latest chronicle of his last days with Wilson had already revealed too much, leaving him far too open and exposed. He did not think he could bear her to see the grief and pain that he imagined his eyes might reveal. And he knew that if there was any answering pity in hers, the sky might well crash down upon them both.

So House continued to lean his shoulders and skull against the headboard, looking skyward, Thirteen's light touch on him subtly supportive without being intrusive.

For her part, Remy couldn't trust herself to speak further. She continued to stare wide-eyed at him as she softly stroked the stubble of his chin.

The pain House had gone through for Wilson – it was almost inconceivable.

Except that this was House.

Which made the story of agony and self-sacrifice for someone he loved utterly and unquestionably all the more believable.

As she tenderly traced his profile, her lips revealed the turmoil of her thoughts.

"My God," she whispered before she had a chance to stop herself, "My God, you're so . . . brave."

"No!" he said, turning his head to look at her. She could see equal parts grief and fury raging in the depths of his azure eyes. At the same time, she knew that neither emotion was attached directly to her. House's pain and anger began a long time before she'd ever known him, the inevitable results of the cruel injustices this life had heaped upon him.

"You're missing the point!" House continued. "Not me, Wilson. I only did what was necessary. Wilson, Wilson was the one who was brave. Every single damn day. He fought his cancer and got a beat down and then the next day he'd fight it all over again."

"But he couldn't have fought it without you."

"You don't know," House said, turning away again as his voice cracked. "Don't you get it? He DID fight. He proved all those other doctors wrong. He lived longer than any of them said he would. But I, I let him down. Right when he should have been taking care of himself, he had to take care of me."

"No," Remy answered. "It was you all along. You WERE brave because you faced your pain just so he wouldn't have to face his. YOU gave him something to fight for, to live for. You're the reason he was able to live so long. You. Only you. Because he loved you."

"No. No. No. No," House said, shaking his head. "That's not true. It can't be. I let him down. Everyone I've ever loved, I disappoint. Wilson . . ."

"And you loved him. Wilson knew that. He held on for you."

"But he didn't know. He asked me to tell him. When he first got his diagnosis. And I . . . I couldn't do it. I couldn't say the words."

"What does that matter? You showed him. What could be more important than that?"

House looked skyward, as if entreating an unseen force for strength. "Don't you see? I couldn't give him what he asked for, what he wanted, what he needed."

Remy took hold of House's chin and gently but firmly pulled his head down until their eyes met. It was a brief look however before House's gaze fell.

"How can the man who won't accept anything less than total honesty from everyone around him, still somehow lie to himself?" she said with a husky voice. "You already knew what it felt like to detox." At this, she felt a shudder run through him but she continued on. "But you went through the pain of detox again anyway. For him. Just so he would never have to know that pain like you did. Wilson knew everything you did, it was all for him. The road trip, taking care of him, the detox, he couldn't have asked for a more loyal friend. You did all that out of love. Wilson had to have known that House." Here she paused, in both her speech and movement. "House. Look at me House. Please just look at me."

He did as she commanded.

"Can't you see? Can't you see that I'm telling you the truth? That Wilson loved you? That I . . ." she inhaled sharply, afraid and valiant at the same time. "That I love you?"

House closed his eyes and slowly exhaled.

"Now I know," he said quietly.

"What? What do you know?" Remy asked with a tremulous voice.

"That you, that all this," as he spoke, he made a gesture between them, "This has all been just a dream."

"What?"

House opened his eyes, tilting his chin slightly so that his eyes glittered sapphire from beneath the shadow created from his lowered brow.

"I never made it. I'm still lying on that cold bathroom floor in that cheap motel. I'm bleeding out." At this he raised, then lowered his bandaged arms.

"No House."

"Or I've already bled out and I'm dead. But since I don't believe in an afterlife, I don't believe that's possible," he said as he seemed to look through her, his brain working on the problem. "No, I'm dying and as my heart's slowing," he reached a hand up to touch her cheek, "I chose to see you."

Her tears flowed unstoppable from the corners of her eyes, creating sodden track marks down her cheeks and along the sides of her nose. "Why?" she said. "Why me House?"

"Because I already hallucinated the others as I was waiting to die in that factory fire. You're the only love, the only one I didn't make peace with that time. This is my penance. That's why I chose you this time."

"So I'm your mother confessor?"

House blinked up at her, seeming to choose his words very carefully. "No. But, I made a promise to you that I went back on. And I sliced my wrists before I kept my promise to Wilson to come see you. I guess my guilt over all that won't let me die without making me atone for those mistakes first."

Remy too chose her words with care. She knew she must appeal to his intellect now as he had just confessed to allowing his emotions to hold sway over him. She shivered slightly as she said, "But if I'm only a hallucination, only in your head, then why has it taken so long for you to get to your point? Why have I fought and argued with you every step of the way?"

He shook his head resignedly and shrugged his shoulders. "That's just the way my mind works. And that's how I made it real for myself." He smiled sadly. "A last ditch attempt to diagnose what was wrong with me. To find meaning where there isn't any."

His deep blue eyes held unshed tears. Remy closed her own so as to steady herself and her fluttering heart. "That doesn't sound like the House I know at all," she said. "The House I know searches for meaning, for the truth, in every circumstance. Even one he's only imagined. And he keeps searching. He never stops."

"Maybe the meaning is in the search itself. Or maybe in the resignation that you're just never going to get an answer."

"The answer you want."

"Exactly," he said.

She sighed. "That doesn't sound like Gregory House either. That sounds more like a 19th century philosopher who's finally given up."

House smiled again. "My personal favorite is the philosopher Jagger who said 'you can't always get what you want.'"

"But if you try sometimes, you get what you need. So what do you need House? Why did you come here? You don't believe in God so you can't believe in penance. You must still be searching for something. You haven't given up."

"What else do you call cutting your wrists?"

Remy closed her eyes and shook her head. "No. No, I don't believe you would ever give up. Not even after everything you've been through. Not even after all the people you've lost."

"Stop."

"It's not in your makeup House. You can't just stop searching for the answers. You can't!" she said, balling her small hand into a fist and striking the headboard next to his shoulder. "And I know I'm NOT a hallucination. I'm just as real as you are. I'm here. Can't you see? I. Am. Here!"

He shook his head. "That's exactly the kind of thing I'd imagine you'd say."

Tears, this time of frustration, leaked from the corners of her eyes and rolled down her flushed cheeks.

"No," she said. "You've got to listen to me," she paused as a sudden inspiration took hold. "House, if this were only your hallucination, then why didn't it follow the pattern of your other one? You said you saw 'others' while you were in the fire. How come you're only seeing one, only seeing me, this time?"

"You're not the only one I saw this time."

Remy leaned back, her eyebrows raised. "Who . . . who else did you think you saw here House?"

"I already dreamed I saw Wilson."

"But that's when you fell asleep. You were calling his name when I started shaking you to wake up."

House nodded. "Maybe I only dreamed I was dreaming and that you woke me up. And I dreamed . . . I dreamed I saw my dad."

Remy still looked shocked, her tears stopping for an instant. "Your dad?"

"Yeah. He was berating me for coming to see you in the first place. He was getting ready to . . . doesn't matter."

"Yes it does. If you saw him, then it had to be for a reason."

House wore a sad smile again. "Now that DOES sound like me."

"Of course. You hired me for a reason House. It shouldn't seem strange to you that my mind works similarly to yours."

"That's sounds narcissistic of me, to hire you only for that."

"We all are attracted to people and things we understand or at least try to understand. You like puzzles. Maybe you hired me because I do too."

"Yes that. And because you yourself were a puzzle." He finally fixed his deep blue gaze on her. "A very beautiful, fascinating puzzle."

Remy felt herself blush. "Stop deflecting. Why did you see your father?"

House shivered as if cold. "He showed up to remind me of all the ways someone like me could never deserve someone like you. He was going to beat that truth into me if necessary."

The bile rose halfway into Remy's throat. "Is that what your father did to you, House? Did he beat you?"

House broke eye contact and looked at his own hands, now clasped over his chest. "Only as was necessary."

"Which means . . ."

"All the f*cking time."

"Why do you think it was necessary for you to get a beating all the time?"

He looked up at her again. Remy saw in his gaze that same emptiness, the hopelessness that was there before.

"I . . . was bad," he whispered. "I was always . . . wrong."

"How? How could a little boy be wrong?"

"I wasn't supposed to be. I'm not supposed to be here."

"Here?"

"Here!" He gestured with an open hand. "I'm the bastard child of my mother's extramarital affair. He knew it. I knew it."

"But you can't think that your father was right to blame you and punish you for something your mother did."

House sighed. "I don't know. I don't know anymore. Maybe it was no more or no less than I deserved."

"That doesn't sound like you either."

"So you're telling me, or I'm telling myself, that you don't sound like me AND I don't sound like me?"

Remy nodded her head, "That's exactly what I'M saying."

"So that means . . . ?"

"That there's no way this is only occurring in your mind. That you're really here in my apartment. That I'm really here with you, telling you . . . telling you I can't afford to lose you again."

House sat very still, pondering this. Finally he said, "I don't know."

"Don't know what?"

"Anything. Apparently. But mostly right now, I don't know what to say."

"More proof that this is definitely not a hallucination. It's also proof," she started, as she slid closer to him, "that we should both stop talking."

As she leaned into kiss him, House whispered, "You don't want this."

Remy sat back. "House, look at me."

With supreme effort, House raised his eyes to her lovely face. He saw the tracks of her recent tears still shining on her cheeks. He felt a twinge of guilt that he had been the cause of them, that he had been the cause of so much heartache and regret in all the people he loved.

But most especially, in this moment, in this woman he loved.

"House, I can't remember ever wanting anything, anyone more than you," she said, leaning close to him again.

"I'll be there for you," he whispered.

"What?"

"I'll keep my promise. I'll be there when . . . I'll be there when you need me."

The tears flowed anew down Remy's face. She understood, grasped the gravity, the solemnity, the importance of his words. And of the courage of the man who had just denied himself everything else to say them.

"I need you," she said, her hand taking hold of the side of his face once again. "But now. Right now. I need you now. I want you now. Be with me now. Just, trust me. Please. Trust me."

Once again she stole his words and his breath with a kiss.