Back to Square One

House

I was not in the greatest of moods. Really. First off, I'd spent the last three days running my team (and myself) ragged, trying to stop my patient from dying. I didn't get as much sleep as I liked, everything we tried seemed to be the exact opposite of what she needed, and Cuddy may or may not have gotten irritated with a few of my methods which started an argument in her office heavily laced with tension that she refused to see and then I left, unsatisfied, irritated, and confused about our 'relationship' for lack of a better term.

To make matters worse, today was Wilson's forty-first birthday. Unlike me, he actually cared about that sort of thing. Personally, I didn't see the point of celebrating yet another revolution of the planet; yet another reminder of how quickly your life was barrelling to complete non-existence. Though I guess if I believed in the afterlife, I might be excited to shuffle loose this mortal coil or some other such shit. Or maybe if I cared enough about what others thought of me that I managed to convince all my little minions that I was really Just A Good Man like certain oncologist best friends of mine, I might regale them with stories of saving balding little children and receive numerous cards and cakes and bottles of wine and half-hidden innuendoes from the hot nurses on my floor and be happy to celebrate my birthday. Maybe then, my birthday would be an annual celebration of all my achievements, instead of the fact that I was nearer to death.

Well, I never got Wilson anything for his birthday. He knew it would be a lie, anyway. If I wanted to buy him something and give it to him, I would do it on any day of the year--not just because society told me it was okay to do it on this day but not that one. Besides, he got enough from so many different people that my hastily wrapped half-assed attempt at buying a gift would probably get awash in the sea of horrible ties, boring cards, and bottles of wine.

He never cared that I didn't buy him anything. I would pay for lunch and not make fun of him as much. Other people wouldn't have noticed, but he always did. And luckily for me, he understood why I didn't do what I was 'supposed' to do, and normally didn't even bother mentioning it to me.

The only problem with it this year was that the lucky bastard managed to get his birthday off. Now, Wilson was too self-sacrificing to actually ask for his birthday off, and it had only happened once before, so I knew it was just a lucky stroke of coincidence, but that didn't make me happier.

Contrary to popular belief, Wilson and I did not always have every day off together. Which isn't actually a bad thing. I mean, occasionally, yes, we have days off together, but usually one of us is either working or on-call. If every day off we had we shared, I think we would probably end up killing each other. I enjoy my alone time, probably more than most people, and I was sure he didn't like to spend every waking moment with me. I don't really have illusions about my caring, sentimental demeanour.

I didn't mind it so much when I had a day off and he didn't (as boring as those days could end up) but what did bother me was when I worked and he didn't. Something about knowing he was at home, lazing about, while I was at the hospital working bothered me. Plus, I got bored easily, and if he wasn't around to entertain me, I had to find other ways of beating boredom.

Between tests, seizures, and boring oncologist crap I couldn't care about, we usually found time to hang out to make time go by faster. I know people must think being a ruggedly handsome doctor is full of adrenaline and thrills all the time, but sometimes, it's mind-numbingly boring--sitting around for tests, avoiding clinic duty . . . So it's no wonder we like to hang out with each other whenever possible.

But no, he had been at home, watching Oprah and getting fat on cake and ice cream (he'd gotten all of his presents yesterday, since everybody--except a few people who left cards on his desk today--knew his schedule) while I was off saving lives. So I had no one to hang out with or bounce ideas off of, and had spent most of my day actually working.

My epiphany came to me in the form of Taub. Most of my ideas come from Wilson, admittedly, or completely unrelated tasks. Occasionally Cuddy. I would've been happy with Foreman or Chase (or Thirteen, preferably if she were naked) but Taub?

So, after another late-night eleventh-hour reprieve (really, one could find it odd how often that happens to me) I saved my patient's life (big surprise--she had been lying to us and it was her lie that prevented her from getting better) I gathered up my things and left.

It was late. The sky was inky black; it was too cold and the roads too slick to drive my motorcycle and since Wilson had the day off and I couldn't give him an exact time I'd be done I'd had to drive myself. By the time I'd made it home, two people cut me off and one person tailgated me through half the drive, so I wasn't in the best mood.

When I walked into the loft, most of the lights were off, except for one of the smaller ones in the living room. Wilson normally liked everything bright and cheery; as if by having all the lights on the world could be a brighter, happier place. Maybe he had an alcohol- and cake-induced headache. Maybe he was sleeping and leaving on a light for me.

I limped into the kitchen, placing my cane against the counter, ready to stuff my face with peanut butter sandwiches or left-over dinner or cake or whatever, when I saw him sitting on our couch. The television was on mute. He didn't greet me. Maybe he was in a bitter, melancholy mood. I couldn't think of a reason the popular, successful, well-liked Doctor James Wilson would be moody on his birthday, but I didn't really care, either.

I made my sandwich in the half-light of the kitchen. It was sloppy. I slapped some peanut butter and jam on the bread, mixing the jam into the peanut butter even though I knew Wilson hated it when I did that, and the went into the living room. I sat down beside him and took a bite out of my sandwich.

Without asking or looking, I reached for the remote but it wasn't where I normally put it. I half-heartedly looked around and saw that it was halfway across the living room, batteries feet from it. Apparently he'd thrown the remote.

"How's my favourite middle-aged psychoanalyst today?" I asked, only because I was curious as to why the hell he'd throw a remote and sit in the dark staring at a letter on his birthday. I hadn't noticed the letter before, but he had it open, staring at it with a blank expression.

He blinked and folded the note, probably so I wouldn't read it which was stupid because I was going to find it and read it later anyway. Well, unless he shredded it. Which was likely.

"Fine," he said in the way that meant he really wasn't fine but he knew I didn't care about his problems so he wouldn't bother elaborating.

"Well, since you're the one who threw the tantrum, you can go pick up the little remote pieces and put them together," I told him with a shrug.

"I--I was planning to," he promised, but he stared at the folded note in his hand with his brows furrowed. "I was--well. I just . . . lost my temper."

"And with no antique mirrors around, you thought breaking my one true love in half was a better option?"

He looked at me and scoffed, smiled wryly, then looked away. "Well, it's not like there was anything on TV anyway," he replied coolly, staring at the note in his hand still, which he held gently--not like how one would tenderly hold a kitten, but how one would hold a bug that might attack if held too tightly.

I knew that the letter held emotional significance for him. I didn't like emotional things.

But I was also a curious guy, and throwing a remote and staring at a letter (so I could only conclude the letter inadvertently caused the remote throwing) was interesting.

Curiosity won out indifference.

"What's with the letter?" I asked, jerking my chin at it and taking a messy bite out of my sandwich.

He scoffed again and pursed his lips. He looked at me, and I could literally see the cogs churning in his head. He was weighing out his possibilities. I'd shown interest in the letter, but maybe he didn't want to tell me, so he could either a) evade the question and try to hide it from me, and I'd just find it later and blackmail him with it because obviously something was in there he didn't want me to see or b) tell me and get it over with quickly.

"It's nothing," he answered, then pushed away from the chair and walked towards the remote, clutching the letter.

"I totally believe that," I muttered and watched him as he put the batteries into the back of the remote. "You're normally disgustingly chipper to be a year older and fatter. You've got just as many cards and presents as normal and you didn't have to work today, and you celebrate that by breaking my stuff and moping in the dark. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you magically transformed into me overnight."

"Well, I grow tired of routine. I decided to shake things up this year. I'm considering dying my hair green and getting a tattoo on my ass."

"Pink is more your colour," I muttered, chewing my sticky sandwich.

He returned and he had a tiny, barely-there smile on his face. He handed me the remote and I took it into my free hand. I didn't un-mute the television, but I did bring up the guide and start looking from something interesting to watch. For a guy, Wilson had some pretty horrible taste. It was like letting a fourteen-year-old girl with a crush on Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart have control over the remote.

I turned it to the first action movie I saw, and we managed to get to the first explosion before Wilson sighed. "On my twenty-first birthday, I wrote a letter to myself."

"Why would you do that?" I asked, seriously confused and actually appalled at the idea.

He shrugged. It wasn't that flirty, self-conscious, oh-gosh-I'm-so-darn-cute shrug that usually preceded a forced blush he used around the nurses. It was a half-hearted shrug made out of genuine confusion. "I don't know. I was taking a history class. It was a . . . project, I guess. We weren't getting graded on it; not really. Maybe ten points extra-credit, and I really didn't need it, but the idea was . . . Well, I guess it must've been fascinating at the time. Writing a letter to my future self. Waiting twenty years to . . . Actually, I don't know what I was supposed to be waiting for."

The story sounded boring. Why'd I open my mouth?

"I was with Samantha at the time. We weren't engaged yet, but we'd talked about marriage. I thought . . . Well. I thought we'd grow old together. I ask about her in this letter. I ask if she's still as gorgeous. I ask about our kids. Our pets." His voice cracked on pets, and he froze. He wasn't stupid enough to start crying in front of me, and I certainly didn't want to have a middle-aged doctor sobbing on my shoulder, so I definitely didn't encourage him to keep talking.

I took a bite out of the sandwich, chewed obnoxiously, and stared pointedly at the muted television.

"I was just so sure we'd stay together. I loved her so much, and I . . . I keep going on about her, like I'd had some sort of guarantee. It's not like I knew I was going to get divorced. Here I am, forty-one years old, reading a letter from myself and I . . . House, I don't even recognize my handwriting. My life is nothing like I thought it would be. I've been divorced three times, I don't have any kids or pets, and even if I did I wouldn't be home enough to take care of them properly."

I rolled my eyes. Seriously? He was moping because of something stupid he'd written twenty years ago when he was barely even a proper adult? "Wilson, you were a naïve, idealistic med student. So, what? You're upset because you're not married with two-point-five kids and a dog named Scruffy? You're a doctor. Hell, you're the head of your own department. Pretty much everybody loves you, and you're pissed off because you got divorced three times and you don't have any screaming infantile parasites?"

Apparently, I hadn't said what he wanted to hear, because he pursed his lips and turned his angry, dark eyes on me. "You're right, House. I'm a forty-one year old head of oncology and I don't have a damn thing to show for it. Why would I be upset?"

I scoffed. "Why? Because you're not living to someone else's ideal?"

"House, this was my ideal!" he exclaimed, as if that really counted.

"You were hardly even an adult. You know what I wanted when I was that age? A mountain of coke, panties in my pocket, and to be a band, rocking out with Mick Jagger. You wanna know where I'd be if I'd actually gotten that? Hanging out with your brother Danny, probably."

"This is a bit different."

"Because you still want it? Really?"

"Maybe I do!" he spat, and pushed out of the couch suddenly. "House, I may be a doctor, but that's it. I couldn't make it work with Sam. I obviously thought my life would be different; thought I'd be happy and normal. I've wasted me life."

My chest tightened. "Wasted, huh?" I asked. "That's what you think?"

"What else would you call it? Not only did Sam and I not last, but two more failed marriages and a dead girlfriend later, I'm still single. I threw my life away all over a stupid mistake. Had I never cheated, we would still be married."

"Right. Because that's the only thing that broke up your marriage," I snapped and got out of the chair, stomp-limping to the garbage. I wasn't hungry anymore. I threw the sandwich into the bin. "So, is that what you want? To be with your simple, boring wife in your simple, boring life? Sounds catchy. Like something Dr. Seuss would write."

"Sam wasn't really all that boring, House," he defended, as if I really, truly cared.

I turned around, randomly seething. "So why'd you cheat on her, huh? Because you were so happy?"

He put his hands on his hips. "House, I could give you a thousand cliché excuses for why we divorced. We were too young, we had money issues--but I made a stupid, immature mistake, and because of it, I've thrown the past twenty years down the toilet."

"Which you've spent the better part of being 'friends' with me. I can see how you'd think that total waste," I spat, feeling my chest tighten even more.

His face fell, and I knew he felt guilty, but why should I care? His life was a complete waste. His life with me. So why should I give a damn? "House, that's not what I meant," he rushed to say, but I didn't care. What he said hurt.

See, people thought Wilson was so full of love and care. But he's a bastard. Sure, I say hurtful things all the time, and everybody wonders how he can deal with it. But I had never once told him he was a waste. I hadn't left him for months at a time, or asked him to put his life on the line for his bitch of a girlfriend, or skipped out on monster truck rallies to have lunch with one of his exes.

"No, it's fine. I get it. Had you never divorced her, you never would've been moody and pissed at New Orleans. You wouldn't have broken that mirror. You'd be off skipping merrily through the tulips, being a boring, stereotypical picture of what the American dream should be. Without me."

"House, stop. You're twisting my words around."

"Am I? You just got done telling me what a failure and a waste you're are. You a doctor for God's sake, Wilson! And you're unhappy because instead of living a life that somebody else told you that you should want, you're stuck with me. How the hell am I twisting anything around?"

Wilson threw his hands up in the air, as if he had the right to be indignant. "All I said was that my life is completely different than how I thought it would be. I don't have a wife or children and I obviously wanted them if I kept asking. I never said I didn't want you in the picture, too."

"Right. I pretty much broke up your last two marriages; what makes you think your first wife would've handled it any better than the other two?"

His mouth opened and closed like a fish, and then he put his hands on his hips again. "Sam would've liked you," he protested, but it didn't even sound like he believed it.

"Bullshit. You want that life so much? Go and get it. I won't stop you anymore," I growled, and limped towards my room, jerking my cane away from the kitchen counter.

I slammed my bedroom door shut, but a second later I heard it open. I turned to face it and Wilson stormed inside. "Why can't I have both, House? You and a wife?"

"Because you've proved to me on multiple occasions that you can't!" I shouted, waving my free arm wildly. "When you date, she comes first, second, and third! I don't even exist! It's like you think you can shove me out of your life and save your already-doomed marriage before you even start writing vows! You shove me away and make her your damn centre! But inevitably, you come crawling back to me and shove her aside! Then it's all about me and she leaves you, takes all your crap, and makes you pay an outrageously high alimony because you feel so guilty about putting me first you don't even fight it!"

"You and Amber shared me just fine!" he pointed out, and I almost felt his spittle land on my face.

"Right. You were trying your damned hardest to shove me out of your life and replace me with someone similar enough where you wouldn't miss me."

"Oh, that's just ridiculous," he spat and turned away from me, spreading his arms out.

"You asked me to do the deep-brain stimulation. You knew I would probably die."

He spun back around. "I didn't think you'd actually--"

"Oh, please! Is that what you tell yourself at night so you don't feel like a selfish bastard? You knew I couldn't say no!"

"Oh, right, because then you wouldn't figure out your precious puzzle!" he shouted.

"No, idiot! Because you asked!" I yelled, so loudly I felt my throat go raw, and my heart squeezed so hard it made my eyes sting. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, and then he faltered and took a step back. "If it was about the puzzle I would've done it without waiting for you to ask. I brought the damn thing up; you think I would've waited around to kill myself for her? No! I was going to kill myself for you! And how'd you repay me? By leaving me high and dry!"

I swung my cane and hit something on my dresser. It flung to the ground and shattered to a million pieces. I must've turned away from him because I was facing a wall suddenly, slamming my left palm against it, and sucking in breathe between my teeth. My cane hit the ground. It clattered dully.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and I felt his hand on my shoulder.

I jerked my shoulder free. "Don't give me that crap. You didn't care if I died. You just wanted her to live."

"Of course I wanted her to live. I loved her. But I . . . House, you know that I--I mean, you're my best friend. You survived a gunshot and shoving a knife in an electrical socket; I knew you'd survive."

No he didn't. He thought I would die. Because if he actually knew I'd live, then that meant that I'd--

No. I wasn't going to admit it. Not even in my own head.

See, because Wilson always tried to put women first. Hell, he even put Stacy before me once. All over a stupid, easily rescheduled dinner. That was more important to him than two very expensive tickets I'd bought with my own money and an evening with me. It never worked. He always ended up making it so I came before her. Every single time. He tried, but failed. Tried and failed repeatedly. Which meant he didn't really want me in his life. But for some reason, it never worked, and the one time it almost did, she died.

"You told me you couldn't choose your friends. You don't really want me here. You're just stuck," I snapped, and I closed my eyes. I wasn't going to cry. Pressure was building behind my eyelids and the hot tears stung, but I wasn't going to cry. I wouldn't let myself.

As much as I hated it, I'd spent hours obsessing over what he'd said to me. Hours obsessing over all the times he tried to push me onto Cuddy and away from him; tried to shove me aside and make room for some moronic girl with a complex. Obsessing over thoughts of how maybe he never wanted me in his life after all; maybe he regretted meeting me in the first place. Maybe he just strung me along because I'd been the only thing he'd known for so long he couldn't cut me away.

Like that pathetic movie you bought years ago because you half-liked it, but by the third time you watched it, it had somehow lost its appeal and you keep it in you DVD collection despite the fact you never watch it just because, well, you spent twenty bucks on the thing and it would be a waste to throw it out now.

But if . . . If he had expected me to live; if he hadn't thought I was going to die and didn't care anyway, then that meant I'd spent the last few years ha--

No. I couldn't admit it. Not about Wilson.

Except that I did.

"I hated you," I told him, my voice shaking with anger. The words hit my chest and I choked on air, but it was true. I had hated him for asking; hated him for not caring if I lived or died, but if he expected me to live then that meant I'd hated him for no reason; the fact I still seethed every now and again when I thought about it made me pathetic.

So he couldn't have expected me to live. Because if he had, then he wouldn't have left. He wouldn't have hated me for living instead of her. And me, wanting to stay with Amber on that bus, begging her to take me with her, had been just me overreacting . . . Which meant that when he'd left, he'd hated me for reasons other than living; hated me longer than a few months. Hated me for years.

"House--"

I pulled my shoulder out of his grasp and slammed the wall again. "I hated you for asking, but I did it anyway. I would've died for you. And you . . . You can't even go to a damn monster truck rally for me. Stacy's more important. My damn ex is more important. And all because you don't have a choice."

He got all quiet suddenly. He probably didn't understand how any of those things were related--but in my mind, they were. I put them all under the same category. And as much as I hated the things he did sometimes, and even hated him for it, I forgave him every single time. I went crawling back to him. I'd even admitted to loving him once, and it wasn't untrue; not even after all that.

And I was the jackass in the relationship.

Nobody ever wondered why the hell I hung out with him; it was always the other way around. But the last I checked, other than saying incredibly rude things and telling him the honest (but harsh) truth, I'd never betrayed his trust. I'd never gone out of my way to push him out of my life, or left him alone, knowing he couldn't handle life without me. Because I had no doubt in my mind that he knew how damn devastated I'd be without him.

I couldn't fucking function without him.

And here he was, wishing that he'd stayed married to his first wife, and avoided me. Because when he said that he wished they wouldn't have divorced, he was really saying he wished he would have never met me.

"What is this about, House?" he asked, but thankfully he didn't try to touch me again.

"Don't be an idiot," I said, then pushed away from the wall. My cheeks might have been wet, but I refused to acknowledge that. "And I'm done discussing this. I'm going to bed."

I walked over to my dresser and pulled out my pyjamas, as if were alone in my room. My stomach clenched unpleasantly and my lips were pursed so tightly they hurt, and I kept my back facing him, so that I couldn't see him.

"House, you know I didn't mean it that way."

"Mean what in what way? I've no idea what you're talking about," I muttered.

"House . . . It's just a stupid letter."

"A letter you cried buckets over and wished the whole day that you'd spent your life with Sam and we both know that if you hadn't divorced her we wouldn't have met."

"You--you said you hated me. What is that?"

I scoffed. "Forget it."

"No, I can't forget it. You just said you hated me. Why'd you say that? Because . . . Because I asked you to do the deep-brain stimulation? Because--because of that dinner with Stacy? House, talk to me."

"I'm going to bed," I reminded, then took off the button-up shirt I had over my rock tee.

"That's not talking," he said.

"Funny. My mouth moved, sounds issued from it--"

"That's not what I meant," he stated and he sounded flustered. I really didn't care. He touched my arm. "House, just tell me--"

"What do you want me to say?!" I demanded, spinning around to face him. He flinched as if he thought I'd been about to punch him. Maybe I was. My cane was gone; I must've tossed it somewhere, but I couldn't remember when or where, although I was sure it was before I'd slammed my hand against the wall. I vaguely remembered the sound of it clattering. I was too angry to recall such trivial details.

"I just want you to talk to me! House, you said you hated me! How else am I supposed to react?"

"Leap for joy, maybe!"

"Why the hell would I be happy over that?"

"Oh, come on, Wilson! I'm only your friend because you can't choose, remember? And don't act like you didn't mean it! Ever since Bonnie, you've been trying your hardest to shove me out of your life!"

"Okay, first off, the reason I said that is because you hate it when people get sentimental; what did you want me to say? That I love you? You would've scoffed in my face! And if anything, all I've ever done is shove everyone else out of my life to make room for you!" he growled, throwing his hands about wildly.

The thing about Wilson was that when he started ranting, he actually growled. He yelled, too, but there was a guttural, animalistic tone to it. It drove me nuts every single time I heard it.

"Because you don't have a choice!" I reminded him.

"Oh, knock it off, House! You know damn well I'd choose you over anything! Quit feeling sorry for yourself!"

I scoffed. "Right, I'm the one feeling sorry for myself--sitting around on my birthday breaking remotes and crying over what some idiotic, immature, naïve little brainwashed yuppie thought twenty years ago!"

"No, you're just the one who threw a fit because I might want something conventional," he hissed, glaring at me.

"Sitting around fantasizing life without me in it; yeah, what's to get upset over that?" I asked with an exaggerated eye-roll. "Get out of my room. I'm going to bed," I repeated, although I was too angry to sleep. I'd probably just pace around my room until my leg couldn't take anymore and shot white-hot flames into my pelvis and made me miss Vicodin.

"Fantasies aren't logical, House," he stated through clenched teeth.

"Thanks for the reality check. I was in danger of thinking otherwise," I spat, and my fists clenched by themselves.

"You were there the whole time," he said, eyes moving away from my face and to the carpet. He placed his hands on his hips and I furrowed my brows at him. What the hell was he talking about? "I was thinking about--about life with Sam and--well, and you were there, too. It just didn't occur to me that you wouldn't be there, House."

"But you didn't even meet me until--"

"I know," he interrupted, waving one hand about and shaking his head. "But sometimes it just--I don't even know what life's like without you in it anymore. And--and I don't even want to fantasize about you not being there. I . . . House, I broke the remote because--because I mentioned my best friend, and it wasn't you."

I blinked at him. He couldn't meet my eyes, but his voice wavered and broke in some places. I didn't do well with emotional situations. Any time things started showing signs of being sentimental, I took off in the other direction. That sort of thing made me uncomfortable. I didn't know how to handle my own emotions at times; why the hell would I know how to handle someone else's? I didn't know what to do, and I hated not knowing what to do. If I didn't understand or know, I didn't like. And this was turning into something I didn't like. I would rather have an angry screaming match than talk about feelings.

Yet it was my fault it had gotten this far and I wasn't doing anything to stop him. A part of me wanted--no, needed to hear it. Because he was right earlier--had he said he loved me, especially after I'd just found out that my dead father really hadn't been my father after all, well . . . Yeah. I would've laughed it off. Reminded him of all the fake reasons why he left. I hadn't even realized what I wanted or needed to hear until later that night, after he'd gone home and I was lying in my bed, making myself sick while I replayed his word choice over and over in my head.

"It was . . . It was like the letter wasn't . . . I kept expecting to hear about you, for some reason. Which I know is ridiculous." He waved off whatever he'd thought I'd been about to say (despite my mouth being resolutely shut) and chuckled airily, shaking his head. The hand he'd used to wave me off went to the back of his neck and rubbed, and he finally met my eyes, but he kept his head bowed slightly. "I didn't mention you and it felt . . . incomplete."

"You're saying I complete you?" I joked feebly. See what I mean? Emotional subjects were not my forté. Nor was keeping my mouth shut. Here he was, opening up to me in the way I'd needed him to more than a year ago, and I turned it around. Joked about it.

He chuckled and this time it sounded genuine. "I knew you'd laugh at me," he muttered, but he was thinly smiling. Only for a few seconds though, before he reached forward as if to hug me. I stiffened and leaned away and he blinked, nodded once, and then just put his hand on my shoulder. The thing about Wilson was he noticed things like that. He could've hugged me anyway, but he didn't. Which, of course, had sort of caused the whole argument in the first place--he knew I didn't want to hear him say he loved me or something actually kind and sappy, and so he'd kept it to himself.

"I'm sorry I--well. Made you feel like--"

"I know what you're apologizing for," I cut across him because I really didn't need to hear it. I felt like an idiot already, blurting out how I felt.

"You know, I--I do sometimes . . . want a wife. That life. Maybe without the kids. But--but I want you there too, okay?" He spoke to me like he would when trying to comfort a child.

I cleared my throat and nodded curtly, gently rolling my shoulder out from underneath his palm. "Okay," I muttered, and my heart beat faintly in my chest and I felt . . . pleased with what I heard. I would never tell him that, of course, and the whole situation was making me uneasy. He hadn't been wishing to wipe his entire slate clean and write a new life story on it without me. He'd wanted to add a life to what he already had with me.

Hell, he broke a damn remote because I hadn't been his best friend.

"It's okay to hate me, House. I shouldn't have asked. But I . . . I didn't want you to die."

I nodded and then he nodded. I shuffled awkwardly in my spot and I knew he was waiting for me to say something--apologize for overreacting, acknowledge that I was wrong and that he really did like me, or, I don't know, renounce that I'd . . .

Well. I couldn't admit it again.

The past few days had been rough and intense and annoying, and it had all culminated here. It felt like I should say something epic to make it count.

"I should probably get to bed," I murmured so low I wondered if he'd heard me.

He nodded. I hoped he knew that even if I brushed it off, that . . . Well. No point in wondering. I knew he knew. He always did. Even when all it caused was problems, he knew.

He was in the door frame and I was picking up my cane from the floor by my dresser, sighing in annoyance at the broken glass all over the floor, when he cleared his throat. I looked over my shoulder. "I love you, House," he said, with a small, wry little smile.

I'd said it once. All he'd done was nod.

I did the same. "Happy birthday."

And then he shut my door.

Wilson

House was such an infuriating ass that seemed to blow through each insult like it didn't even matter that sometimes, even I forgot that he was human. He threw insults left and right, shrugged off each dirty look and harsh comment, and acted as if the whole world could crash around him and he wouldn't care. He was ten feet tall and bullet-proof, and he believed it so much that sometimes I forgot that even the great and mighty empire of Rome had eventually fallen, and House was just one man.

I'd obviously hurt him before. When I left, I'll admit it was for selfish reasons. I'd abandoned him, and I knew how much he cared about me. Anybody with eyes knew that. It was just too much--the idea of House dying. I had hardly managed Amber's death--how would I manage if he died?

But I wasn't naïve enough to think that was the only time I'd hurt him. Obviously I had. And obviously, it had hurt him enough where he still thought about it. Even wondered if I actually cared about him, which I did. He was my best friend. Sometimes, it felt like 'best friend' didn't put what we had to justice. Still, sometimes I forgot that I could hurt him. So I didn't think twice about having a lunch with Stacy. I didn't think twice about throwing an insult over my shoulder that perhaps stung more than he would admit. Because I didn't think it would bother him. He'd take it in stride, and because I knew how much I meant to him, I suppose it just made sense that he'd know that I reciprocated.

I felt like an idiot. Just because he didn't like talking about things didn't mean he never needed to hear it. And in all honesty, I had just as much of a problem admitting things as he did, especially when they meant something. Anybody could apologize for something trivial that didn't matter--but when true guilt was involved? That was hard. It was the same with love, I think.

Even though House and I didn't go around telling each other how we felt all the time (which, honestly, I was glad for) we generally always knew what we meant, and so I had edited what I'd really wanted to say to him that day. I figured he'd understand. He usually did. But he hadn't.

"I love you," I told him. I did feel a little awkward, but it was true. It was more than a year late, but true nonetheless.

He nodded, and I felt relieved. "Happy birthday," he replied, and I knew what that meant. He'd never wished me a happy birthday before.

When I shut the door, I felt a little better about my day, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Well, of course it was wrong. Despite what House thought, I actually didn't like my birthday. I had when I was younger, but by the time I'd turned thirty I'd stopped caring. I didn't hate it by any means but I didn't really care. As far as I was concerned, it just marked another year to remind me of all the things I hadn't gotten around to doing; all of my failures. It wasn't a coincidence that if I was single near my birthday, I almost always found a new girlfriend or tried picking someone up at the bar. This year, I'd signed up for speed dating next week. Was that pathetic? Probably.

But even if I didn't really care about my birthday, everybody else did, so I put on a happy face and acted like I was pleased with the new pair of socks, or the new tie, or the bottle of wine. The problem was, once I got older, I stopped getting presents that made sense. I started getting presents that were more like necessities--batteries, new underwear, socks--and if it wasn't that, then it was gifts that people who obviously didn't really know a thing about me managed to buy with scrounged up money. Nurses who thought I was attractive, colleagues--I mean, there are only so many medical journal subscriptions I really need. And chocolates and bathroom supplies? That's the sort of thing someone buys for someone they don't actually know or care about but, well, a gift is necessary, so . . .

Actually, I'd always appreciated House's lack of concern over the fact I was a year older. Granted, he always got me some ridiculous trinket a few days later, but still. I'd take indifference over half-hearted gifts from people who didn't really know me any day.

As far as birthdays went, this one hadn't been the worst, but it hadn't been great. I'd had the day off, so I didn't have to deal with forty-thousand renditions of; "Happy birthday, Doctor Wilson!" from everybody on my staff and I didn't have to act like I was so pleased with the gifts and grateful at hearing the same greeting from people I barely spoke to. I was too nice to tell them off or act like I disliked it. I'd dealt with most of that yesterday, of course, but not nearly as much as I usually did.

Still, all day long, I'd gotten calls from my relatives. My brothers had kept it short, which was how I preferred, but Danny couldn't have talked longer even if he'd wanted to, since he only had a fifteen-minute time limit. The phone cut off after that. My dad didn't say much--he never did--but it was my mother's call I'd dreaded, as I did every year.

She tended to think asking me how my love life was going was a topic she needed to discuss. Every time she asked if I had a girl in my life and I told her I didn't, I'd have to hear her sigh and cluck her tongue. Even when I was with someone, ever since I'd cheated on Sam, I had to listen to her tell me, in a way that was so tactful it hurt more than it would have had she been blunt, not to screw up again.

I didn't regret living with the family I'd been given, but my mom did tend to complain a lot. I was a doctor, sure, but that wasn't what she saw--she saw a thrice-divorced man who lived with his male best friend. She wasn't pleased with that. She'd never really liked House, despite the fact she'd been too nice to ever admit it. I could tell, though, and so could House. When I'd been married, she'd complained about me not having children. If I'd ever had children, she probably would've complained that I never had time to spend with them.

So I'd ended up listening to her thinly-veiled complaints for about a half-hour, and then all my obscure relatives I couldn't really care about called. I had an aunt who wished me a happy birthday, then immediately started talking about her bowel movements and how horrible her husband's diabetes had gotten.

That was all normal, though. I'd gotten used to that ages ago. What I hadn't expected was to see an envelope addressed to me from me in handwriting I didn't recognize. Once my memory clicked, I'd been happy. I hadn't gotten the mail until later in the evening, only a few minutes before House had come home, and I'd been . . . excited. I'd thought it would be funny. Entertaining. That I could read over it with House and laugh at it.

It had been anything but.

I'd never expected to get a divorce. I'd never thought I would end up being the kind of guy who cheated, either. Everybody had always told me how great of a husband I'd make, and Sam and I had been so hopelessly in love it was actually kind of embarrassing. Of course I'd assumed we'd be together forever. And I'd thought we'd have children because, well, that was just what successful, proper Jewish boys did--they got married, had children, and had great careers. I'd thought I'd be able to have it all, and I hadn't even considered that I wouldn't.

I'd blindly asked about Sam and the children and if we had pets. I'd been so damn sure that I hadn't thought to ask; "Are you and Samantha still together? Did you ever get married?" Samantha had been a wonderful wife, and we'd gotten along fine at first. Things derailed slowly and went downhill until it just broke apart, but it wasn't because of her. Bonnie and I had been a complete disaster and Julie was hardly even a blip. But with Sam, I'd loved her, and she'd loved me, and we'd been . . . Well, I'd thought it would last forever, as stupid as that sounded.

So I thought about it. I thought about how life would've been had I kept it in my pants, or tried harder to keep the marriage alive. It literally hadn't occurred to me that House wouldn't have been there if we hadn't divorced. In my mind, he'd been there, making fun of us for being schmoopy or sappy or whatever he decided to mock us for; if we had kids, he'd act like hanging out with them was such a great chore, yet he'd secretly enjoy impressing them with magic tricks and gory stories of being a doctor. He was always there.

I missed Sam. It wasn't the first time that had happened, either.

Then the letter went on about all the things I wanted to do. How I wanted to work at a certain hospital (which hadn't been Princeton-Plainsboro, and it had shocked me) and how I'd had so many plans of how I wanted to be and I was so . . . naïve. I'd clenched the note in my hands so tight it had almost ripped when I read about how I'd wanted to enter a poem into a contest, but that I hadn't done it because it probably wouldn't have won, anyway. That was a far cry from House having to stop me from admitting to the world I'd euthanized a patient--yet, twenty-one year old James Wilson couldn't enter a silly poem in a stupid contest?

And then I started talking about a friend of mine and it just . . . irritated me. I'd asked about him, asked about his girlfriend and what we did on weekends, and the horrible thing was, I hadn't even really liked him. He'd been boring but smart and so I liked talking to him, simply because he could keep up with my conversation, but after awhile, talking about books got old. He never laughed at my jokes--or any jokes, for that matter. We'd never done anything but study and check out girls, talk about our girlfriends, and after Sam and I got married, we'd drifted apart and, although I would never admit it out loud, I'd actually been grateful.

The more I read about wanting to move away to a town that wasn't Princeton, live in a house that wasn't the loft, and work in a hospital that wasn't Princeton-Plainsboro, the more irritated I felt. The idea of still being married to Sam was, truthfully, the only thing that still seemed pleasant.

It wasn't until the end I'd broken the remote.

I'd made a list of all my favourite things. My favourite colour was still the same; strangely, my favourite movie and favourite band hadn't changed, either. It wasn't until I read 'my best friend is' and didn't see House's name that I heard a something shatter and clatter, and realized I'd grabbed the remote and chucked it across the living room.

The fact I'd been expecting his name was stupid, but it irritated me anyway, especially considering the fact my best friend had been some study partner than I hadn't actually liked.

House had walked in only a few seconds after I broke the remote, and I could tell he was irritated. I was in a bad mood too. Considering that, it wasn't surprising we'd gotten into an argument.

He'd missed the entire point I was trying to make. He didn't even let me get to the part about me being angry he wasn't mentioned, despite the fact expecting it hadn't made sense.

I was angry at him, too, though. What was so wrong about wanting marriage? Granted, I could overlook the kids part now--I didn't really want them anymore--but the fact that, had I met my twenty-one year old self as I am now, he would have been disappointed in me bugged me. The fact that Sam and I weren't really a part of each other's lives anymore and I'd divorced two more women hurt just as much. It was like the movie with Bruce Willis, The Kid. "You don't even have a dog?" the kid version of him had exclaimed, and had been so upset by it. He'd been successful and yet his life wasn't where it should've been. I was him; a successful doctor, and that was it. No wife, no kids. No dog.

Of course I wanted House in my life, but I wanted other things, too. Couldn't I have both? Did I deserve both?

I read over the note again, just the parts about Sam. We talked briefly only occasionally, but there was no real anger between us. If anything, we could be civil. She was happy with her life, and . . . Well. I apparently wasn't. Granted, had we never divorced I never would've met House, and so I was grateful for that. Really, I was. Maybe that was why I'd never really been all that bitter; not like I had been with Bonnie.

We'd been young. And apparently, I'd been a different person then. Who was to say she wasn't different too?

Maybe it was a stupid idea. I knew what House would say about it when he found out--which he would, if he didn't somehow already know what I was going to do. He'd remind me about how he'd tried again with Stacy and how it hadn't worked; he'd go on about keeping things in the past and that I couldn't relive the glory days, or make something work that hadn't worked the first time. But the fact was, I already had my best friend, but maybe I wanted--and could have--both. Was there anything wrong with that?

I dialled the number I pretended I didn't know, staring at the note half-opened in my hand.

"Hello?" she asked, although the question was either just for show or out of habit. She had a cell phone. It had caller ID.

I swallowed the ball of nervousness in my throat. Talking to her on my birthday didn't have to mean anything. I was just nostalgic, that's all.

"Hey, Sam," I said, unwillingly remembering the first time I'd called her while I stared at the seven digits scrawled on a piece of paper, my voice squeaking and my hair floppier. "It's me, James."

A/N--I meant to post this a few days ago (Feb. 28th) but my internet crapped out. This was posted on my livejournal and Grabbing His Cane yesterday, so you may have read it already.