Warning : This story contains religious themes, no disrespect is meant for anyone's religious beliefs (or lack thereof).

House began to wearily clean up the cabin. Wilson was sleeping, the last round of medications having finally kicked in. He should be good for another four hours now, before waking up in pain and the cycle starting again. Overcome by a wave of weariness House sat down heavily on his bed and closed his eyes for a moment. He knew the time was coming, soon, when Wilson would ask for an extra dose of morphine, enough to end his pain forever. And House would give it to him, and then Wilson would be gone.

"And what will you do then?" A voice interrupted his reverie. He recognised the voice of course and for a moment resisted opening his eyes. He couldn't deal with this, not today, not with Wilson lying right there. There was an amused, feminine laugh and he sighed.

"I wish you'd stay dead," he said, opening his eyes to stare at Amber. "This is getting really old."

"Would you prefer Kutner?" The image of Amber morphed into that of Kutner, "or maybe Stacy? Or Cuddy? Or Cameron?" As she spoke she changed in quick succession to the people in question, "Or maybe John?" House stared at the image of his late, unlamented, father in his full Marine dress uniform, just as he had seen him lying in his coffin.

"No thanks, if I'm going to have to listen to this give me Amber back, at least she knows she's a bitch."

Amber reappeared with a laugh and sat on the edge of his bed. Her attention was caught by the sleeping Wilson and her features softened. "He doesn't have much longer does he?"

"No," House said abruptly, "so say what you're here to say. Am I on the wrong path? Screwing things up in my usual miserable way?" He scrubbed his eyes, he was so tired, tired of knowing that whatever he did he was ultimately going to fail. Wilson was going to die. Nothing he did could change that.

"No, for once you're doing well, you showed him how much you cared, eventually, by throwing everything away to be with him. We're quite impressed. Well, we would have been more impressed if you'd managed to do it without permanently burning your bridges. But still, it's a step forward. He's lucky to have you."

"We're? " House latched onto the word, talking to himself like this was weird enough, although he was beginning to get used to it, but if he was going to start referring to himself as 'we' maybe it was time to call Nolan and get a room ready.

Amber laughed, that little laugh of hers that meant she was laughing at him, not with him. "Who do you think I am?"

House rolled his eyes, he thought they'd established this long ago. "You're me, well the part of me that is a controlling, manipulative, cut throat bitch who refuses to die, anyway."

"The part of you that is in love with Wilson, maybe?" She gave that annoying smile and House couldn't help glancing over at Wilson, who was luckily still asleep and not witnessing House talking to himself like a lunatic.

"Oh, don't worry, House, your secret is safe with me. You're wrong by the way, I'm not you."

"Sure you're not, you're an angel sent down from heaven to guide me along the path to true happiness."

"Close, but no cigar." Amber got up and came and sat next to him on the bed, putting her hand on his leg. She lent in close and whispered in his ear, "I'm not the hired help, I'm the man himself. I'm God."

"God is a woman?"

"God is anything she wants to be. Would you be more convinced if I looked like this?" Amber changed into an old white haired man with a beard, leaning on a staff, a halo of light surrounding him. House shook his head, he must have had a bad batch of Vicodin if it was making him hallucinate like this. Though he'd actually been cutting back lately, with Wilson to keep an eye on, he hadn't been drinking either, or doing heroin, maybe he really had gone off the deep end this time.

"Look, I don't care what you call yourself. I need to get some rest before Wilson wakes up, so if you'd just..." he waved his hand at the ceiling, hoping that the old man would disappear, taking the rest of the cast with him.

"No, we need to talk." 'God' disappeared and Kutner reappeared. House wished they'd settle on someone who wasn't dead, as long as it wasn't Stacy with the baby again because that was just plain creepy.

"No conversation that starts like that ends well."

"I've never had an angel as stubborn as you are."

House blinked, an angel? "Sorry, no wings."

"Wings are so last century. What? You're surprised that a messenger of God would be a middle aged man who walks with a cane and has a bad attitude?"

"And is an atheist, sleeps with hookers and has done jail time," House pointed out. This conversation was so insane, maybe he was in Mayfield already but just didn't know it.

"It takes all sorts," Kutner shrugged, "some of my angels are truly beautiful people who help guide the sick and lost, some are well... like you. You all do my work."

"I don't do any good deeds."

"You heal my people."

"You could do that yourself."

Kutner shook his head. "No, that's not how it works. I only intervene in rare cases. That's why I have angels. You're a very special person, House, haven't you ever realised that? Haven't you noticed how people are drawn to you?"

"I've noticed I make them miserable."

Kutner shook his head sadly. "Only if they want to be miserable. You save lives, House. You change people. It's not an easy life for you, but you make a difference."

"Okay, if it makes you happy, I'm an angel - sent down from heaven to heal the masses. Great, glad to have cleared that up. Can you go now?"

"Don't you want to know why I'm here now, why I've chosen to reveal this to you?"

"Not really."

"You've done well, you deserve a reward, my son."

"Don't start with the 'my son' crap," House muttered, although his heart was beating faster. He admonished himself for being foolish. There was no such thing as God. He was just hallucinating as usual, or having a bad trip, or had just gone off the deep end. 'God' was not going to grant him his wish.

"Is there one thing you want above all else?" Kutner asked gently.

Against his will House rose and moved over to Wilson's bed, kneeling beside it and staring at the sleeping man, one hand gently going out to smooth his hair away from his pain lined face. "You know there is," he said, "damn you, you know there is."

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up, into Amber's eyes. She wiped a tear from his face. "Then you shall have it."

He looked back at Wilson, damning himself for believing, even for a moment, that a miracle was going to happen. Wilson slept on, oblivious. House rose to his feet, turning around angrily but Amber was gone. He shook his head, maybe he should give up the Vicodin altogether. Maybe once Wilson was gone. He cut the thought off, he wasn't making any plans for that.

He made his way over to the other bed, he was tired, he'd just get in a little rest before Wilson woke up. He closed his eyes, half expecting to hear Amber, or Kutner, of whoever the hell decided to turn up, but there was only silence.

He awoke to the smell of something cooking and the sound of someone tunelessly whistling. His eyes shot open and he looked across the room to see Wilson standing in front of the stovetop, a frypan in his hand. A couple of pieces of bread were in the toaster and by the sounds of it coffee was brewing.

"Wilson?" Wilson had barely been able to stand these last few days, and hadn't eaten anything past a few mouthfuls of soup.

Wilson turned and looked at him, a grin on his face. "Hey House, I feel a lot better this morning, better than I have in weeks for some reason. I made some breakfast."

In a daze House made his way over to the small table and sat down. Wilson gave him a plate of eggs and toast.

"There's not much food here," he frowned, "we need to get in some supplies while I'm feeling better. I'll come out with you this morning, otherwise you'll just end up buying junk food again."

"You'll come out with me," House repeated, still floundering at this turn of events. Wilson was feeling better. He wanted to grab Wilson and hug him and never let him go again, but that wasn't what they did. Instead he picked up the piece of toast and turned it over, scowling at the blackened back. "This is burnt. I don't want burnt toast."

"Well, House, you can't always get what you want," Wilson said, still smiling.

No, House thought, but sometimes, just sometimes, you can get what you need.

They were walking down the main street of this one horse town in this part of America that time, and cell phone reception, had apparently forgotten when House saw her. She was walking slowly, carefully, her balance just a little bit off, one leg slightly hesitant when she walked. His mind began clicking over, with symptoms and diagnoses.

"House?" Wilson said, noticing that House had stopped. "You coming?"

House looked back at his friend, his suddenly healthy friend and then back at the woman. She was apparently having more problems now, her gait becoming even less certain.

"You go ahead," he said. "There's something I need to do first."

The End