Dinner was strange and stilted, but the food was good. Even with the mild awkwardness it was a relief after that horrible first day back at work. It had been the Monday to End All Mondays. House had felt as if he were starring in a never-ending Monty Python sketch, with people bursting in upon him and screeching,No one expects the Spanish Inquisition! Wilson, at least, wasn't prodding or assessing.

House couldn't quite recall when he'd eaten so much, partly from hunger and partly because it had turned out that after their conversation on the balcony, he and Wilson couldn't find much else to say to each other. It was easier just to keep their mouths full of food. Which House thought was unfortunate for at least one of them. And that was how the conversation finally started.

"You've really gotten fat, Wilson." He didn't actually mean for that to come out. Oh well. Wilson was used to it.

"Well, that tends to happen under certain circumstances," said Wilson, without even a trace of irritation. "Poverty. Living on fast food and peanut butter. Extreme stress. Loss of sleep." House was very glad that Wilson didn't say "loneliness," because then he'd have had to throw ice cubes at him, and he didn't feel like getting kicked out of the restaurant.

"Aw, poor little Jimmy."

"House, when it comes to lousy circumstances, you'll always own Park Place, Boardwalk, and all of the railroads. But you don't have a complete monopoly."

"I did get out of jail free," House remarked, but with a glare that said No thanks to you. This was completely unfair, true, but he wanted to stop this discussion before Wilson got around to being Wilson and talking about 'levels of happiness' or some other awful crap.

House's mind skipped from jail to its cause: theft. Thai egg rolls were very good, and Wilson had two of them. House decided against it after a moment's consideration. The stealing of food was a mark of favor that his shifty, backstabbing friend might not merit anymore. It was funny, though, to see him note the covetous glance and reorient his plate to make poaching more difficult.

"So how have the kiddies been doing? I barely had a free moment to prod them today," House ventured, diverting their thoughts with practiced ease. "And I'm not sure Principal Cuddy should've let Foreman play Teacher while I was gone. He probably took 'em on field trips to the chop shop."

"Cars?" replied Wilson. "No evidence of that. There is that new TV in the lounge, though."

"I noticed. High definition, stereo surround sound, and a cherry on top. Our little ghetto boy outdid himself."

"It could've been worse," said Wilson, smiling wickedly. "At least Cameron wasn't in charge. Can you imagine the decor change?"

"All the coffee mugs would have pictures of unicorns."

"With pink bows in their tails. However, I'm curious, House. What would you have done, if it had been your choice?"

"Kept taking pills until the pain stopped or I died, whichever came first." He made a suitably dramatic pause. "Or did you mean with the children?"

He kind of liked watching the painful, too-fresh memory wash across Wilson's face. It was gone in a heartbeat, replaced by the usual You know what I meant you jerk expression. He was waiting for a different answer, so House gave him one.

"Oh, all right," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'd have sealed them in a mayonnaise jar and left them on Funk & Wagnalls' front porch until I got back."

"Death by asphyxia? Nice," said Wilson, and cocked his head in thought for a second. "Where would you get a big enough jar?"

"Seen the ones they haul by boxcar into the cafeteria? It's frightening. And they wouldn't have died. You'd have come by and poked air holes in the lid. Ruined all my fun, as usual."

"Such a downer when your friends try to keep you out of prison."

That's far enough, Jimmy.

"And when they lie to you. And rat you out."

"Forge prescriptions in your name," Wilson shot back.

"And then leave you—let's not. Don't wanna watch you bleeding while I'm trying to eat." He made himself stop. He wasn't backing down. Just opting to find a better time and place than this.

"You're too kind," grumbled Wilson, and forked over an egg roll.

"I wasn't going to steal it."

"I know. But you wanted to. And you're right. I'm fat."

House squinted at him. "You been reading Cosmopolitan again?"

Wilson just shrugged and kept eating. House had a brief vision of the two of them sitting there, completely tangled up in barbed wire, stuck. They'd get out of it, and today had been a good start, but the process was still going to suck. Someone would probably need stitches before it was over with, and he hoped it would be Wilson. Wilson healed faster.

The barbed wire could wait. It would have to, because neither one wanted to deal with it that night. They finished their food in amicable silence and Wilson turned down dessert in favor of hot tea. Wilson had to be quick enough to snatch the last two sugar packets, because House had gotten bored and ripped the others open, using sugar and fork to make an impromptu zen garden on the tabletop. When that no longer amused him, he couldn't resist jumping onto a dangerous new train of thought just to see where it would go.

"Who do you hate, Jimmy?" he asked, abruptly.

"Hate?" Wilson echoed, all innocent-looking, like a puppy asking, What plate of food? as it stands over the shattered mess on the floor.

"Everyone lies, and everyone hates; they just lie about hating because it's not nice. Lying's not nice either, so tell me. Who do you hate?"

"Tritter." He said it without hesitation or a change in posture. True, then.

"And?"

"And that's all, really. I'd probably hate the guy who shot you, except I don't know who he was, so there's no focal point. I made a valiant attempt, actually," he admitted, "but it was like trying to nail Jell-O to a tree."

"You're going to tell me that in a world of billions of people," House said, gesturing grandly around the room, "including terrorists and child molesters and DMV clerks, you hate only one? You're lying."

"I'm not lying. I'm lazy." Wilson was completely unperturbed. "Hatred requires energy and dedication, which I am unwilling to invest. There's not nearly a good enough cost/benefit ratio."

"You shock me with your amoral analysis. I like it." He did; the honesty was unexpected. "So," House continued, leaning forward over the table, "why change the policy for one bastard cop?"

"It's not an active hatred. More of a low-maintenance kind. I won't be sending explosive packages, or trying to kill his career, because even if I didn't get caught—which I would—it's just too much work."

"You may consider your laziness established; you still didn't answer my question. Why?"

"What," Wilson scoffed, "it's not obvious?"

"I thought you two were happy little peas in a pod." This was a lie. House thought no such thing. Pressing Wilson's buttons was simply an intriguing pastime; he never knew what fresh information his friend might reveal.

"I thought you said we weren't going there right now." Wilson tipped back his head, as if praying for a small mercy he knew he'd never get. That was capitulation. It always meant he was about to spill whatever House wanted to know. It was amazing how easy it was to do this to him.

"All right, House," he said, with a bitter little twitch at the side of his mouth. "You really want to hear it? Fine. I hate Tritter because I believed him." Wilson crooked a finger inside of his cheek and pulled it sideways in fishy pantomime. "Hook, line, and sinker. He used the 'just doing his job' thing and I bought it. By the time I found out he wanted blood, that he didn't even care how many patients died, it was too late. I hate him for that, and I hate him for—for trying to ruin both of us just because he could." Wilson absently stirred a little sugar into his tea, and looked up again. His voice got very soft, so as not to be heard by passing servers. "And don't tell me he only wanted to crush you, because trust me, it was a package deal. He was enjoying what he did to me." Humiliation draped like a veil over Wilson's head. "That enough of an answer?"

"How the hell could you not have seen what he was?" He really did want to know. House had pegged the guy from the start, and Wilson was usually a decent judge of character, so long as the character in question was not an attractive woman. Which ruled Tritter way the hell out.

"House," came the weary reply, "think about it. I'm used to you. I knew he was an ass. I knew he was an arrogant bastard, a bully and manipulator, but you're all those things, and you're—" He looked around, blinking as if he'd just realized he was lost. "It just didn't occur to me to equate those traits with evil, psychotic tyranny."

House tried to conceal his astonishment, but he couldn't keep the surprise out of his tone as he asked, "Was that a compliment, Wilson?"

"I have no idea." Meaning, Yes it was, but you probably won't take it that way, so who knows.

"So," said Wilson, recovering his usual composure, "What about you? Who do you hate, House? I mean," he smiled, making a joke of it, "other than me."

"What was that about not fighting now?"

"Come on. Your turn. I answered, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but you could do it in fifty words or less. My list would fill a library. Anyway," House continued, "you asked me a lie. Because who else I hate is not what you want to know."

"I've found that with you I usually get straight answers only by asking crooked questions. But since you insist, I'll rephrase it. Do you hate me, House?" Wilson was using that soft, unguarded expression that was his very most dangerous tactic. It was effective because it wasn't mere manipulation; Wilson meant it. He rendered himself vulnerable, knowingly left himself wide open for any hurt House chose to inflict. It would be so easy, so easy to stomp him. To cause glorious, gooey gobs of pain. And then I'd have to go home and not take extra pills, thought House, and decided against the attack.

"What I hate, Jimmy," he said, taking the tiny, shiny toy motorcycle from his pocket as they got up from the table, "--I hate all the reasons you had to give me this. You, however, may stand a chance."

"Fair enough," Wilson answered, almost smiling as he headed for the door. "See you tomorrow, House."

A minute later House was on his motorbike, riding away with cold night air tickling his neck below the edge of his helmet. He could be free at least for the next few miles. Wilson, he thought, stood a much better chance than he wanted to admit. He would have to be sure that Wilson didn't know that. House figured that there was still a fight to be had, and he meant to have an unfair advantage.

The week passed in almost normal fashion. Wilson was keeping his word, and there'd been no lectures, no fresh rounds of manipulation or scheming, as far as House could tell. Yet things were not right. This compliant, slightly distant creature was not the friend House knew. If this relative sobriety was going to work, Wilson was an unfortunate necessity. He could not be allowed to drift away, so House set about making sure he didn't. It was the same thing Wilson had done to him with the little motorcycle: Entrapment. House, however, had different tactics.

Tuesday afternoon, House replaced the innocuous abstract wallpaper on Wilson's computer screen with a luscious black and white photo of Justin Timberlake. Shirtless, no less. Wilson never mentioned it, and the embarrassing image was gone next time House looked, but that was all right. It had been received: the House version of a smarmy Thinking of You card. House waited for the amusing email Wilson should've sent in response (I know he's your type, House, but I prefer the ones with breasts). It never came.

The following morning, House was at work early. He thoroughly enjoyed watching his bleary-eyed friend fix himself a mug of coffee, gratefully inhaling the scent and not realizing that the sugar container had been filled with salt. Wilson always downed coffee in generous gulps, and he ruined a spectacular tie with the sputtering and spilling that followed the first big, briny sip.

Wilson then discovered that the spare shirt and tie he kept on hand for emergencies had mysteriously disappeared. So he had to walk around with his lab coat buttoned all day, which meant that everyone knew something had happened. Fortunately for Jimmy, they pretty much assumed that one of his chemo kids must have puked on him.

Every time he passed House that day (and House made sure they ran into each other more often than strictly necessary) he glared and House smiled. This was the kind of abuse Wilson wanted, needed, loved. Sick little freak.

On Friday afternoon he poked his scruffy mug into Wilson's office and simply stated, "Seven-thirty," as if Wilson had asked when he ought to arrive. There was a look of surprise and caution on Wilson's tired face. The left hand, holding a pretentious fountain pen, stopped moving.

"You're pathetic, Jimmy. You still don't have an apartment. And you're drinking too much, which is like, totally getting you nominated for Hypocrite of the Year."

Wilson opened his mouth to protest the accusation, and then stopped. Busted.

"You choose booze over me, and I will make sure Cuddy knows all about it, and there will be blood drawn and liver enzymes run and counselors and anything else I can think of. I don't know how to do interventions, but I'm sure Cameron does." It really wasn't anywhere near that bad, but House knew that the threat of prodding by Cameron and Cuddy was enough to back Wilson into a corner.

Wilson slouched and sighed in defeat. "Since alcohol's not on the schedule, I suppose you'll want me to bring food?"

"Suit yourself," said House, and he vanished as fast as his damaged body could manage.

At seven-thirty he made sure to be in the shower and unable to answer Wilson's knock. Thus he learned something without having to ask: Wilson had not only kept the key, but had apparently kept it on his keychain, waiting. If he'd had any sense, he would've pitched the thing after that lovely scene with the pills and the vomit, if not sooner. How miraculously stupid was Wilson, House marveled, to have held that kind of hope in his bare hands? Didn't it burn? House shut off the water and indulged in a sense of satisfaction as the familiar voice bounced from the walls.

"You weren't specific, House," Wilson called out, "so your bitching rights are forfeit."

He could hear some sort of containers being shuffled.

"Me? Bitching?"

"Whatever you wanted, it isn't what I brought. Deal."

Telepathy didn't exist, of course, yet some irrational part of House's mind was convinced Wilson had that ability. The barbecued ribs were exactly what House wanted. He grumbled about it not being pizza and ate every bit, including (naturally) some of Wilson's share. Wilson didn't complain much; his previous gift of the egg roll had meant that House could once more steal with impunity. Not, House reminded himself, that I needed permission.

Since his return from rehab, House had discovered that too much time alone in the apartment led to unwanted activities such as thinking. This had always been a problem, but it was much worse without the excess pills and whiskey. A captive Wilson was a welcome diversion, but Wilsons were nimble and slippery creatures and prone to escape. Therefore, House needed a means to subdue this beast and ensure that he'd have some company for the night.

In the past, an extra beer or two would have done the trick. Wilson would accept the bottles House handed him, get slightly too buzzed to drive, and that would be that. Wilson, however, knew that House wasn't drinking (much) at the moment, and he wouldn't drink if House couldn't. Another tactic would have to be employed.

"It's almost ten, House," said Wilson as House reached for something from the DVD collection. Yes, House had noticed the late hour; he had also noticed Wilson putting his shoes on, and he was having none of that.

"How cute. Little Jimmy learned to tell time. Pretty soon you'll be doing long division and everything." He gave it a push and the disc slid gracefully into the player. Wilson's curiosity got the better of him and he sat back and waited, then groaned and kicked his shoes off again as the trap banged shut around him.

"Rear Window? No fair," he whined. "You've enlisted Uncle Alfred against me." Wilson had a fatal weakness for Hitchcock.

"I dig the voyeurism angle of this one," said House. "Kinky. Now either shut up or go microwave us some popcorn."

Wilson sighed and padded into the kitchen. Soon there was the frantic sound of corn popping and the heavenly aroma of fake butter. That, however, was not what made House smile. He could've easily escaped my clutches, and he didn't. This didn't mean that everything was all right, but it meant that it might be. Because (and he knew he shouldn't have been pleased at this, but hey, selfish bastard here) Jimmy Wilson still had nowhere else to go.

When the movie ended, though, the barbed wire made its presence known once more.

Wilson, as he arranged his blankets on the sofa, claimed to have an appointment with his new accountant in the morning. Saturday morning. Even if it were true, it meant Wilson had probably been planning ahead, giving himself an excuse not to spend too much time in House's domain. Once upon a time, Saturday morning at House's place would have meant a gluttonous festival of cartoons, video games, and Wilson's cooking. Fun with his little brother Jimmy in the top secret treehouse club. House knew that it would be a while before they got back to that kind of easy friendship, but to be ditched for a damn accountant was almost unbearable.

When morning came, House was listening, and he knew that Wilson was trying not to wake him. House, when he wanted to, could move about with very little noise, and he managed to creep to the bedroom door, nudging it open unnoticed. He meant to find out whatever he could about what was going on in Wilson's screwed-up head, to make him leave a perfectly good kitchen and a hungry best friend, in favor of a boring (and possibly fictional) CPA. This was deeply un-Wilson-like behavior, and it demanded closer study.

Human watching had long been a favorite hobby for House. It was like his very own National Geographic special. Wilson, in particular, sometimes did deliciously stupid stuff. Wild, clumsy dance steps to some unknown tune in his head. Excessive primping of his hair in his reflection in the glass of the microwave. A string of goofy gestures that looked like homemade sign language.

Once, at two in the morning, House had peered out his bedroom door and caught Wilson testing the ugly old hospital-issue cane that had been abandoned in the broom closet. It was a surreal sight, the kitchen lamp shining like a spotlight and turning the tiled floor into a stage. Wilson--no, not Wilson, but Jimmy--was trying out House's role, completely unaware of the audience lurking in the darkened theatre. There was a pained, almost childlike concentration on his face as he softly tried to walk House-style across the room. Then turned and tried again, with no better success and no less determination. That silent, secret attempt at understanding cut House so sharp and deep that his breath caught in his throat; when he could no longer bear to watch, he simply turned away. Spying was an irresistible temptation, but occasionally hazardous.

That Saturday morning there was no dancing, no toying with the hairdo. There was a slight jangle of keys, an odd stiffness in the posture as the coat was donned. His head tilted downward, an unfocused and tired and somehow hard cast on the fair young face. A shadow falling over Wilson as he stepped out the door and shut it behind him. And then the sound, that tiny scrape-click of metal on metal as the latch snapped into place. Almost like the sound of a clip sliding into a gun.

House had never believed all that malarkey about how, when you were near death, you were supposed to see your whole life flashing before your eyes. He had been shot, and it hadn't happened. He had felt as blank as a stunned animal, and then things had gotten seriously weird, what with the hallucinations and all. He thought the cliche was crap, but it turned out that his brain simply chose an unusual trigger; his was not bullet wounds but the little noise of his own apartment door.

He had no idea how long it actually took for the whole thing to play out. It happened in the time frame of dreams rather than real life; it was more information than could possibly have fit into the time it must have occupied. A dozen countries and forty-odd years compressed into a tiny package that exploded inside his mind like a string of firecrackers.

Everyone left. His father, his few childhood friends, his one good college buddy. Stacy. For the briefest moment he was staring at Stacy's rigid back again, as she stomped away for good. Unable to drop at her feet and beg her not to go. The years whirled around him and then he was shot and bleeding and dreaming. A hundred scenes bloomed and died in his mind all at once, with each moment crowded against the others like flowers in a garden. Then it was Christmas Eve and he was lying there once more, watching Wilson leave for what was surely the last time, hearing that latch-click and knowing it had finally happened. Again he felt the drug-addled surge of disbelief: I broke Wilson. Broke Jimmy.

When he snapped out of it House discovered that he was leaning on the door frame, trying not to fall down. The one image remained, of his friend's stiff, shadowed exit. I broke Jimmy. And I may have meant to do it.

Not just barbed wire, then. Barbed wire and an unknown crack somewhere in the Wilson spirit. He leaned his head against the wall and heard himself whisper, "Wish I could x-ray that."

And then his day went on as if nothing had happened.

Their state of truce held perfectly well through the following week, but House wasn't fooling himself. Wilson was still not functioning properly and House was no longer certain that a fight was what they would need. There had to be some means for a clumsy and brutal amateur to mend a fractured oncologist. There ought to be a book, he thought, picturing a thick black-and-yellow tome titled Wilson Repair for Dummies. He knew how to attack, how to cajole and steal and manipulate and trick and make Wilson laugh. Perhaps the right combination of those ingredients would serve the purpose, somehow. It had better; it was all House had.

The problem was that it was hard to administer his strange and sour medicine in the absence of the patient. Wilson kept finding excuses to avoid him. Eventually, after three afternoons of "I'm too tired" and "I've got a committee meeting" and "I'm looking at apartments," House resorted to chasing him down in the parking garage.

"Wilson."

Wilson's movement stopped and there was that slightly unbalanced, rigid posture again. He didn't turn around.

"What's up, House?" The lightness in his voice did not match his body language. Wilson was the best and worst liar House had ever known.

"Leaving without me? It's Thursday." Thursday had been a tradition, once. It used to be taken for granted that Wilson would go to House's place with greasy food in hand, and they'd keep each other entertained.

Wilson looked as cold as the concrete floor where he stood, unlocking his nasty boring car. Cold was not a good look on him. Very unnatural.

"As always, House, you have astonishing powers of observation. I'm tired. I'm going--"

"To my home," House commanded. "On account of you still don't have one.";

"So last week's special was salt in my coffee, and this week it's salt in the wounds."

"I'm inviting you into my sacred abode, you ingrate. It's not every day I take in vagrants."

Wilson stopped with the car door half open. "And if the vagrant declines?" He was wavering; the twitch was visible as he tried to make himself not smile. Just one more shove and House would win.

"You're in room 417 at the uptown Radisson. I could come up with a thousand ways to make you wish I didn't know that."

"House," he said, with that familiar note of exasperation, "Get in the damn car."

Later, House was both profoundly grateful and profoundly sorry that he had coerced Wilson into coming over that night.

There was a James Bond marathon on one of House's cable channels. Wilson knew better and tried to resist, but Bond was the monster truck rally of the movie world, and he just couldn't pull himself away.

Jimmy crashed on the sofa again, but Doctor Wilson had to see a patient on Friday morning. He was on his way by eight and as the door closed, a second of dread darted catlike through House's mind, and then vanished. Yes, everyone leaves, he mentally growled at himself, but not Wilson, not today, so let's stop being stupid.

The day went by in a blur of routine; House barely even recalled getting to work. It wasn't until almost four that he realized he hadn't seen Wilson all afternoon, and he considered causing some mischief. He crept through Wilson's balcony door and the set-up was oh so grand, because Saint Jimmy had fallen asleep at his desk. Perfect. House's agile brain began searching for exactly the right prank to play and it therefore took several seconds before he noticed that there was something a little off about the figure slumped before him. Wilson never used a red pen, for starters, so there shouldn't have been a blot of red ink on that file beneath his hand. Also, Jimmy should've been breathing. And he wasn't. Breathing.

Suddenly, neither was House. It felt like there were wet rags stuffed down his throat. He must've screamed, because people were arriving by the time he shoved Wilson upright in the chair, tried to find the problem, couldn't find the problem, couldn't find the pulse, and realized that wherever he touched the body, it instantly bruised. Deep violet marks spread swiftly beneath House's fingers. If he dared to touch the bruises again, the skin tore like wet tissue paper and blood seeped out. House had no idea what had happened. It could not be real, couldn't be, but the edge of the desk was hard beneath his hands and the inexplicable blood on his fingers was warm. He either ran from the office then, or was dragged, but it was all gray: a cloud of pain and voices, none of which were Wilson's, saying things to him that he didn't understand.

The hallway was too full of noise and motion and equipment, and he had to get out, so he tried again to scream—and woke up. Home. He thought Wilson was there, but he called out and got no answer. Limping into the hallway, he saw the empty sofa, found his cell phone on the kitchen counter and tried Wilson's number. No answer there either. He was shaking and he saw a stupid pastel-colored card lying near the sink, the loopy script reading In Sympathy for your Loss. He couldn't remember seeing it before, but it was real; it had texture, made noise as he ripped it apart without bothering to read it. And then as he leaned on the cold counter top, the floor gave way beneath him and he woke up, again.

Dream, it's a dream, and a damn shitty one at that. He struggled his way to the light switch and even when he reached it, the room was too dark, and he felt thick shadows clinging to his limbs, slowing him down, pulling at him. He struggled through the apartment, turning on every light he could find, and it still didn't help much. Must've taken too many pills, he thought, forgetting that he didn't do that anymore. Or he wouldn't have done that, unless--no. It was just a dream. In the living room the sofa was empty and so was the bottle of scotch on the coffee table. He must've spilled some of it because the newspaper clippings were wet and he could barely read Wilson's obituary.

Shit, no. No, no, no, oh shit.

He felt a hard, short scream escape, and he abruptly inhaled, as if he'd been drowning. Back in bed, sitting up. Awake, again, maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe, or maybe I'm dead and this is hell.

"Wilson!" He was shouting and he didn't care; if he made enough noise it might somehow overcome the darkness. "Jimmy! If you're here, dammit, don't make me—"

The hallway light flicked on and a large form dashed into the room. The darkness receded just enough for House to see that Wilson, or the phantom of Wilson, looked ready to panic.

"House. What's—"

—and the moment the phantom was in range, he grabbed it by its arms, which felt solid, but Wilson's bloodied desk had seemed solid, too, and House didn't know for sure.

Without a word, he yanked on its sweatshirt until the phantom sat sideways on the edge of the bed, facing him. It still looked frightened, confused.

"House?" Wilson, real or not, sat there blinking and tried again, much more softly. "House, are you--?"

"Shut up."

His hands darted upward, into the phantom's hair and began searching, not gently, for signs. Stitches, gashes, blood, or worse. Nothing. Not good enough. One hand slid roughly over the bewildered face, checked for fever, and then rested at the neck. The pulse was there, strong and rapid.

He felt, rather than saw, the realization flood through his friend's body. Felt the pounding heart begin to slow. House moved his hands and clamped them firmly on the Wilson-figure's shoulders.

"Whatever it was, House, it didn't happen."

"Are you sick, Wilson? Tell me."

"No. It didn't happen."

"What didn't?" If this version of Wilson knew what was going on, then House would be certain he was still in the Twilight Zone.

"Whatever you just dreamed. I don't know, but it didn't happen."

"Then it didn't happen repeatedly. This is my third--no, fourth try at waking the hell up, so I can't take your word for it." House was leaning close, studying the lines of Wilson's face, looking for any clue he could find. "Either I'm hallucinating, and you're dead, or--" House stopped himself before he could babble any more; it was pointless no matter what side of reality this was. "Don't move," he ordered. "And don't you dare start bleeding."

"Could I possibly be so inconsiderate," said the Wilson-phantom, gently, "as to bleed on your blankets?"

House crawled across the bed, turned the lamp on and it was so much easier than last time. The room brightened as it should. No more stifling darkness dragging at his limbs. The probably-not-phantom-Wilson had not disappeared and was regarding him with an air of curious, patient concern. Blinking while his eyes adjusted to the light.

"Gimme," House demanded, and grabbed the nearest arm; his friend did not resist. Turning Wilson's wrist upward, House shoved the sleeve out of the way, rubbed hard on the pale skin and waited to see whether its color would change. It didn't. "No bruising," he muttered, and finally began to take real breaths again.

"House?"

House held up a hand to stop Wilson from talking. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a few seconds to put everything together. It was still Thursday night, the Bond movies were real, but the whole damn torturous Friday had been a trick of his twisted psyche. This had happened to him once before, when he was a teenager, and it was so vivid he had never forgotten. Then, it was his mother who died in the dream, and he kept waking up and waking up, dreaming he was waking up and finding it all the same. He had learned then that if he went back to sleep too soon, it would all begin again.

"Wilson," he said, after his memories were properly rearranged, "I want a pill and something to eat. I'm going to stay up for a while, and I'm not going to discuss it." There was no anger in his words, but no room for argument either. Wilson nodded understanding and briefly laid a hand on House's shoulder. Then he headed for the kitchen, turning on every light along the way.

House made his way to the sofa and sank down into its embrace, exhausted. So exhausted that when Wilson approached with reheated pizza slices and a glass of Coke, House actually mumbled "Thank you" instead of "Is this all we've got?"

Bond was still on television, so House turned up the volume enough to discourage Wilson from asking questions; the evening had been tiring and embarrassing enough as it was. He fell asleep on the sofa an hour later, sitting next to Wilson as Pierce Brosnan blew up some ridiculous satellite.

He barely heard the small click of the television being turned off.

Wilson was snoring. That's odd, said House's blurry, sleeping brain. Since when does Wilson snore?

The snoring stopped and a moment later, there was the glorious scent of fresh coffee and the muffled noise of footsteps alongside the...sofa. Oh yes. Sofa. House rubbed his eyes, groaning, remembering where he was and why. Wilson was up and dressed at this unholy hour of morning, expectantly setting a steaming mug on the table. The snoring, then, had actually been the gurgling of the coffee maker. The hot drink would be welcome, because it was chilly. Too bad House didn't feel like budging from beneath the blankets.

Blankets. Nice, soft, warm ones that he knew he hadn't wrapped around himself when he sat down on the couch the previous night. He sighed, sat up carefully and reached for the mug. "Thanks, Mom," he muttered to Wilson.

There was no response, but in a few seconds Wilson reappeared, this time with a plate containing a freshly toasted, cream-cheese-slathered bagel and a single pain pill. These items he set down as he plopped beside House on the sofa, not looking at him, and fighting against the wicked grin that was trying to overtake his face. He lost that skirmish, and started chuckling.

"What?" growled House, as he tore the bagel apart and stuffed a warm, yummy chunk into his mouth. "What'd you do, Wilson, shave off my eyebrows while I slept?"

Wilson laughed. "No," he said, "I'm not that cruel. Although if I keep hanging out with you, who knows." House looked around for a weapon and realized that his cane had mysteriously walked away during the night. Wilson noted his futile search with smug amusement, grinning like the Cheshire cat. "You're busted, House. Charges of felony giving-a-damn. It totally freaked you out." There was no need for House to wonder what it Wilson meant.

"Not guilty. And not discussing," House sulked in reply, washing down food and pill with plenty of coffee. He braced himself: Wilson was wearing that godawful, chipper, never-gonna-give-this-up expression.

"Must've been a hell of a realistic dream," he continued brightly, "if you actually thought I was dead."

House's hand tightened around the coffee mug and Wilson chuckled again. "If you dump that on me," he said, correctly interpreting House's impulse, "you'll be out a good dose of caffeine and I will still know the awful truth. Restrain yourself, and I'll consider not telling anyone."

"Wilson, don't you ever shut up?" House snapped. "I can't believe I was sorry you were--you sadistic little bastard. It wasn't funny" Even the memory was making him edgy and overreactive. House now hoped that he would never catch Wilson asleep at his desk.

"No, it wasn't funny at all, was it," said Wilson gently, all the signs of mirth suddenly gone. House looked at him warily, with a sudden understanding of what he might mean. "Welcome to my world, House," was all Wilson said, and it was more than enough.

House wanted to do anything but sit and look at Wilson and see the memory there of another nightmare. Himself on the floor and Wilson checking for a pulse. Wilson, so broken in that moment that he had violated every part of his comforting, healing nature, and left. No matter how he wanted to, for several long seconds House could not look away. Blessedly, instead of speaking again Wilson went and retrieved the wayward cane from behind the piano, returning it safely to its master's hand as if giving back a rifle to a prisoner of war.

As he hobbled into the bedroom to get dressed for work, House glanced back and saw Wilson in the kitchen, doing a small, shuffling two-step as he made more coffee.

House knew that one of them had just surrendered to the other, but he did not know or care which one was which.