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  The Essential Friend 
 by Mer  

 It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Five minutes after the final
piece of the puzzle fell into place and Gregory House diagnosed the
patient in room 2312, he paged his best friend James Wilson to share the
news of his latest medical triumph. Wilson wasn't in his office, but House
was certain he would be thrilled to learn how House had linked an outbreak
of tularaemia in Utah with a woman who had never left New Jersey.

He passed the time devising a treatment plan for the rare form of
pneumonia that the woman had developed and wondered what the hell was
taking Wilson so long. Foreman had just left to check the results of the
latest lab tests when Wilson burst into the conference room. "What's
wrong?" he demanded. "You said it was an emergency."

House began to suspect that the wording of the page had been a little
extreme. "Good news!" he exclaimed. "You don't have a new patient. Elmer
Fudd hunted the wrong rabbit."

Wilson planted his hands squarely on his hips, confusion turning to anger.
"You emergency paged me out of a meeting with the NCI just to tell me that
you don't actually need me?"

House looked up innocently. "I thought you'd want to know as soon as
possible. One less thing to worry about."

"Yes, well, I am capable of going a few hours without obsessing over a
patient. Particularly when it's not my patient." Wilson took a deep
breath, but it didn't appear to calm him down. "I'm leaving now to see if
I can salvage what's left of the meeting. I don't want to hear or see you
for the rest of the day. And if I lose this funding, I don't want to see
you for the rest of my life." He turned and stalked out of the conference
room, closing the door hard enough for the glass walls to reverberate.

House leaned back in his chair, smiling to himself. "Somebody woke up on
the wrong side of the bed this morning. The question is, whose bed?"

To his surprise, because the question had been rhetorical, Chase answered.
"Nobody's. Unless you count the bed in the oncology on-call room. He spent
most of the night in his office preparing for this meeting."

"And you know that how?" House didn't like the idea of somebody knowing
something about Wilson that he didn't.

"Well, for one thing, aside from changing his shirt he's wearing the same
clothes as yesterday." Chase grinned at the expression on House's face.
"And the night shift duty nurse told me. He visits the wards when he's
stressed out. Apparently you could set your watch by his visits last
night."

"He's been preparing for this meeting for weeks," Cameron scolded. "Why
would you sabotage him like that? You know how important this is to him." 

House did know, vaguely. The only thing Wilson had talked about for days
was his latest pet project for outpatient treatment. House hadn't bothered
listening - he had no interest in patients once they were released. And
when he was involved in his own puzzle, anything unrelated was just white
noise.

But between this latest case and Wilson's research, he had barely seen his
friend for days. He would never admit it, particularly now, but he had
paged Wilson because he missed him. Now that his patient was diagnosed, he
was even willing to listen to Wilson wax on eternally about things that
bored him. Except that didn't look like it was going to happen any time
soon.

His satisfaction at another successful diagnosis dimmed. The last time
Wilson had been this angry with him, he had avoided him for days.
Normally, House was happy to be left alone. But who would watch soaps with
him in the coma guy's room? Who would let him steal chips from his lunch
tray? Who would listen to him rant and rave about the stupidity of clinic
patients?

He pushed himself upright and limped into his office, closing the door
firmly behind him. For the rest of the morning he watched Wilson's office
for signs of life. At 11:43am, Wilson rounded his desk and sat down in
front of his computer. House couldn't see his expression from that
distance, but his body language was neutral. The meeting hadn't been a
disaster then, but it didn't look as though it had been a success either. 

He slid open the balcony door and walked over to the dividing wall between
their patios. He wasn't sure enough of his welcome to hop the wall and
just walk in, so he picked up a handful of pebbles and threw them one by
one at the door.

Wilson turned his head and stood up, moving to his own door. For a moment
House thought all had been forgiven, but then Wilson deliberately locked
the door and pulled the blinds.

House let the rest of the pebbles fall from his hand. He couldn't remember
the last time Wilson had closed the blinds on him. He limped back to his
office and switched to his email programme, opening a new message.

Stop sulking.

He had to wait nearly half an hour, but at last the email was returned. He
opened it up.

What part of "I don't want to hear or see you for the rest of the day"
didn't you understand?

House hit reply and typed rapidly.

Unless your computer doubles as a ventriloquist's dummy, you can't hear
me, and you certainly can't see me through those ugly blinds.

He only had to wait a minute this time. It wasn't an improvement.

Leave me alone.

House was known for pushing boundaries, but he had enough sense, or at
least enough of a sense of self-preservation, to know he was toeing a line
he didn't want to cross. He shut down his computer to avoid temptation and
went down to lunch, alone.

When he returned, the blinds were still closed. Cameron was working on her
laptop in the conference room, so he tapped on the glass wall and gestured
for her to come in. She poked her head through the door, looking wary.
"I'm not going to bite," House snapped. "Unless you're into that kind of
thing."

Cameron rolled her eyes and stepped into the office. "Just because Wilson
isn't talking to you doesn't mean you have to take it out on me."

"But you were the only one available. Get Chase or Foreman up here and I'd
be happy to take it out on them." House didn't have the patience or
inclination to parry for long. "How did the meeting go? And don't pretend
you don't know. I saw you sneaking off to Oncology when I went to lunch.
He might be a rude bastard to his friends, he's pathologically incapable
of ignoring a woman."

"There's only one rude bastard in your friendship," Cameron retorted. "And
why do you care about his meeting now? Are you afraid he was serious?"

House knew Wilson was serious. He just wasn't sure how long Wilson would
remain serious. He wasn't prepared to find out. Fortunately he didn't
think any of his fellows would be willing to find out either. "You can
insult me or you can tell me what I need to know. Which one do you think
will work out better for you?"

Cameron glared at him and House could tell that she was considering the
third option of grabbing his cane and beating him with it. "He got the
funding," she said finally.

"Then why is he sulking in his office? Shouldn't he be celebrating with
his staff?"

"Maybe the only person he wants to celebrate with doesn't give a damn
about the funding, or the project, or anything that doesn't directly
affect him."

House didn't pretend to feign confusion. "He made it pretty clear that the
funding affects me. I mean, who else is going to buy me lunch?"

Cameron stared at him. "You're an ass," she said and stalked out.
Obviously she had been spending far too much time with Wilson.

The blinds remained closed for the rest of the day, but while House chafed
at being ignored, he knew things would be back to relative normal the next
day. Wilson would skulk around with an aggrieved air for a few days, but
he would get over it eventually. House had done worse things over the
years. He started to catalogue them: cancelling Wilson's hotel
reservations during his second honeymoon; sending anonymous bouquets of
flowers to Wilson at home (which had landed Wilson on his couch for three
days); paging Dr. Panty Peeler over the hospital loudspeaker until Cuddy
had his phone blocked. They didn't seem quite as funny in retrospect as
they had at the time. Still, Wilson had forgiven him these past
transgressions.

But when he looked out his window the next morning, the blinds were still
closed. At first he thought Wilson hadn't arrived, but a casual
reconnaissance found Wilson's Volvo in its usual parking spot and light
radiating from beneath Wilson's closed office door. He dispatched Cameron
to solicit Wilson's opinion on a random patient, but she refused to
divulge the details of her conversation with Wilson, saying only that he
was in his office and didn't want to be disturbed.

His first email - Did you forget to check the date on your calendar? -
went unanswered, as did emails two, three and four. He thought about
paging Wilson, but decided it might be a poor choice of communication.

When lunchtime came and went without any sign of Wilson, House decided the
oncologist was being unnecessarily spiteful. If Wilson was going to be
like that, he didn't want to talk to him anyway. He closed his own blinds
and resolutely set about his normal routine of annoying his fellows and
avoiding anything that resembled work. If he was excessively rude to
Cameron (even by his standards) when she brought him a sandwich from the
cafeteria, he attributed it to low blood sugar.

He saw Wilson once, walking past his office towards the elevator as the
credits for General Hospital rolled. House glared at his retreating back,
but noticed that Wilson was wearing the spare suit that he kept for
emergencies in his office. The shoes didn't match, which meant that Wilson
hadn't been home for the second night in a row. House filed that away as
potentially useful information. Unless he'd shacked up with someone else
without telling House, Wilson had no reason to avoid going home.

He called Chase in for a consult. "You're the expert on Wilson's nocturnal
habits," he said without preamble. "Why didn't he go home last night?"

Chase didn't bother to prevaricate. He had always been the best at reading
House's moods. "He's behind on staff evaluations. I realise you're
unfamiliar with the concept, but it is something other department heads
do."

"I gave you an evaluation," House protested.

"Telling me that I'm an approval-seeking sycophant with bad fashion sense
doesn't qualify as a staff evaluation," Chase retorted.

House was pleased. Clearly Chase had taken his feedback to heart. "What
else? Wilson's employee files are always up-to-date. It wouldn't take him
all night to write evaluations."

Chase shrugged. "I think he has some follow-up work to do for the NCI.
Time-sensitive stuff. So stop pouting because he's ignoring you and let
him do his work."

"Well, since he's so busy," House sneered, telling himself that he
definitely was not pouting, "you can cover his clinic hours tomorrow."

"Cameron already volunteered," Chase replied. "He didn't take her up on
the offer, so you probably won't see him tomorrow either." He didn't seem
particularly pleased by that. House could sympathize. 

The next day, House rolled into work just before 11. With no case to
interest him and no Wilson to talk to, there wasn't much point in arriving
early. The first person he ran into - though not literally, because he was
doing everything possible to avoid her - was Lisa Cuddy. "I'm not
scheduled for the clinic today," he said, firing a pre-emptive strike.

"What did you do to Wilson?" she replied, ignoring his comment. Cuddy was
too efficient an administrator to waste time on irrelevant conversations.

"Why do you assume it's my fault?" House countered, just as happy to avoid
the subject of the clinic. "Maybe he did something to me."

Cuddy looked disdainfully at him. "I should be so lucky. Then maybe you'd
catch up on all your backlogged paperwork and provide me with useful
information for the finance committee for once."

House paused to consider this. "Let me get this straight. You're mad at me
because Wilson's doing his job? That's a bit hypocritical, considering
you're usually yelling at me for wasting his time."

"Which would explain why he has to work through the night just to get
caught up."

It was a valid point, but both House and Cuddy knew that Wilson never let
himself get that far behind in his work. "He didn't go home again?"

Cuddy crossed her arms, blocking his view of her breasts. "He was sleeping
in his office this morning when I returned a report he'd left on my desk
for signature."

"So he's catching up. Chase said he was behind on his staff evaluations."
It galled House to have to report information about Wilson second-hand. He
was the Wilson specialist in the hospital.

"Staff evaluations aren't due until next month," Cuddy retorted, "which
you'd know if you ever bothered to go to department head meetings."

Department head meetings, like almost every other meeting, were a waste of
time as far as House was concerned. Wilson told him everything he needed
to know to avoid getting fired. "Again, I don't see why you're
complaining. Finishing things ahead of schedule isn't a crime, last time I
checked."

"Are you being deliberately obtuse?" Cuddy snapped. "He's cleaning off his
desk. He doesn't have any vacation time scheduled and he's not attending
any conferences. If I find out he's planning on resigning because of
something you did, I'll have you skinned alive."

"He's not thinking of resigning," House protested. He didn't even allow
himself to consider the possibility. "He just got his pet project
approved. You think he's going to leave now?" He decided to answer Cuddy's
original question and get the conversation over with. "He's pissed off at
me for calling him out of that meeting on Tuesday. He buries himself in
work when he's pissed off. You should pay me to piss him off more often."

"That's an interesting logical progression," Cuddy commented dryly. "One
of these days you're going to push him too far," she warned. "I just hope
you're prepared for the consequences when you do."

House wasn't sure how one prepared to be skinned alive. Though it was a
less painful prospect than a Wilson-less existence. "He told me to leave
him alone. I'm leaving him alone. Now maybe you can do me the same
courtesy." He didn't bother waiting for an answer, just dodged into the
first open elevator.

When he got to his office, he automatically looked across the balcony. The
blinds were still closed. Enough was enough.

"Get in here," he snapped at Foreman, who was reading a file in the
conference room. 

Foreman followed him into the office, curiosity overcoming his usual
disdain for House's demands. "You need something?" he asked.

House pulled out his wallet and grabbed a twenty. "I don't. Wilson does,"
he said abruptly. "Take him to lunch." He thought about it and pulled out
another twenty. "Take him off property. He'll just find an excuse to work
if you go to the cafeteria."

Foreman frowned, but took the money without hesitation. House approved of
his pragmatic streak. "Why me?" he asked.

House rejected the obvious answer that Foreman was the first person he'd
seen. "He needs to talk to someone, but he doesn't need to be pushed.
Cameron's too much, Chase is too little, but you're just right," he added
in a singsong voice.

"You're entrusting me with Wilson?" Foreman asked, surprised.

"It's not like I'm letting you ride the motorcycle," House scoffed. He was
beginning to wonder if he'd made a mistake. "Look, if you don't want a
free lunch, fine." He reached out to snatch back the money, but Foreman
pulled his hand away.

"Don't think you think it's a little weird that you're paying me to eat
with him?" Foreman asked. "More importantly, don't you think he'll think
it's a little weird?"

House rolled his eyes, disappointed at Foreman's lack of imagination.
Maybe he should have asked Chase. "Not if you don't tell him. Just say I'm
being a miserable bastard and you need his advice on how to handle me.
He'll believe that."

"Why are you doing this?" Foreman pressed.

"Because all work and no play make James a dull boy. And gives him tension
headaches and migraines." He made a shooing gesture with his hand. "If you
wait any longer it'll be dinnertime and I'm not giving you any more
money."

He heard Foreman snort and then the office door opened and closed. Housed
looked out the window to the balcony, calculating the time it would take
for Foreman to get to Wilson's office by the corridor. Then he imagined
the conversation - Foreman uncomfortable, but forthright; Wilson
surprised, but polite and then sympathetic.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opened behind him and Foreman stuck his
head in. 

"What happened?" House asked, turning his head slightly to look at his
minion.

"He said he was busy. I told him you were insufferable and I couldn't take
it any longer. He said you were always insufferable and gave me twenty
dollars to take Chase and Cameron for a drink and commiserate."

"Cheapskate," House scoffed. He drummed his fingers on the window,
pondering his next move.

"Don't you want to know what else I found out?" Foreman asked.

There was a note of triumph in his voice that made House turn all the way
around and look closely at him. "What did you find out?" He didn't bother
trying to act casual. Foreman already had his number and forty of his
dollars.

"He spent last night in his office," Foreman said.

House rolled his eyes. "Cuddy already shared that information. Makes you
wonder how she knew that, doesn't it? Why do you think I wanted you to get
him out of the hospital?" He held out his hand. "Give me back my money,"
he demanded. "I expect better information than that for $40." 

Foreman shrugged. "The $40 was for lunch, not information. But since only
one of us will be eating, I'll chip in the following: if he's been using
work as an excuse to avoid you, he's running out of options. His assistant
says his paperwork is so up-to-date he'd need to be psychic to add
anything else."

House wasn't sure whether that was good news or bad news. If Wilson wanted
to keep avoiding him, he might actually leave the hospital. Even if Wilson
wasn't talking to him, House liked knowing he was literally a stone's
throw away. He glanced out the window towards Wilson's office and didn't
see Foreman pause at the door and give him a thoughtful look. 

By mutual agreement, the fellows left him alone for the rest of the
afternoon, though Cameron darted in long enough to drop a sandwich on his
desk. House glared at he until she backed away without a comment.

Just before two, Wilson passed by on his way down to the clinic. This time
he paused in front of House's office. He took one step towards the door,
but then lowered his head and walked away. House watched him and wondered
he had finally pushed Wilson too far. He hadn't thought it was possible -
Wilson had stayed when everyone else had left - but everybody had a
breaking point. It was only a matter of time before he found Wilson's.

He distracted himself by finishing up the more interesting paperwork on
his desk and was surprised when Foreman stuck his head through the door
and announced they were leaving to drink off the bounty of department
heads. House smirked and glanced out the window before telling Foreman not
to get the little ones drunk and take advantage of them. Again he missed
the thoughtful expression on Foreman's face as he left.

House turned his attention back to the file he'd been reading, but it was
a referral from oncology and Wilson's appalling southpaw scrawl distracted
him. He pulled out his iPod and tried to lose himself in music, but every
song reminded him of Wilson. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his
chair when "Thunder Road" came on. Springsteen was one of the few
musicians they could agree on. House had managed to get them tickets to
the Storyteller taping in Red Bank and when Springsteen had played
"Thunder Road," Wilson had nudged him, his teeth flashing in the stage
lights.

He was still listening to "Thunder Road" when he sensed someone else in
the office. He opened his eyes and saw Wilson standing in front of his
desk. 

"Foreman said you needed me," Wilson said, when House pulled out the
earbuds. His hands were planted on his hips, but Wilson's head was cocked
to the side in a way that implied concern, not anger. "What's wrong? Do
you need a refill?"

House winced. If only the last 48 hours could be negated by a pill.
Detoxing from Wilson was harder than detoxing from Vicodin.

Wilson saw the wince and the concern became visible. "Has the pain gotten
worse again? Maybe we should try another MRI. Maybe the change was so
subtle we didn't catch it last time."

"I don't need a pill and I don't need an MRI." House only realised he was
shouting when a passing orderly stopped to stare into the office. "My leg
doesn't hurt. Any more than usual," he amended in a softer voice.

The confusion on Wilson's face would have been priceless if it didn't
sting so much. "Then what do you need?" He pulled out his wallet. "Do you
need some cash to hold you until you can get to a bank machine?"

"Is that all you think I need you for? Pills and money?" House was
starting to feel sick. He spun his chair towards the window, looking, but
not looking out onto the balcony. He heard movement behind him and
wondered if Wilson was leaving again, this time for good. But he didn't
hear the door open, or the soft slip of footsteps, and when he focused on
the reflection off the window, he saw that Wilson had slouched down into
the Eames chair in the corner. He turned around and stared.

Wilson was watching him curiously. "I don't know what you need," he said
finally. "I only know what you let me give."

House sagged into his own chair. That warm, dark gaze was threatening to
drown him in concern. He defended himself the only way he knew how. "God,
you're pathetic. Even after I ruin your meeting, you come running the
second you think you're needed."

"You didn't ruin the meeting. Ross is a doctor, too. He understands
medical emergencies. Brown handled things while I was gone."

"Then why are you being such a killjoy? You got the grant. You should be
happy."

"Of course I'm happy. The programme has a lot of potential to help
patients, not just physically, but emotionally." Wilson stopped talking
and scrubbed at his face in frustration. "Why are you pretending to care?
Is this just another way to mess with my mind?"

"I don't want to mess with your mind."

"Since when?" Wilson exploded incredulously. "You paged me in the middle
of an important meeting just to tell me, what? You don't need me? I got
the message, thanks."

"Aw, did I hurt Jimmy's feelings?"

Wilson was back on his feet. "I thought something was wrong. I was
concerned about you. Don't worry, I won't make that mistake again."

He was nearly to the door before House found his voice. "Wilson. Stop." He
took a deep breath to calm himself when Wilson paused, one hand on the
door handle. "I didn't mean to page you out of that meeting. I forgot
that's where you were."

Wilson didn't turn around. "Is that supposed to make me feel better? You
can remember what ties I wear on what day, but you can't remember
something that's actually important to me?"

House winced when he remembered that it had been Chase who had noticed
that Wilson had worn the same tie two days in a row. Wilson had changed
his shirt again, but the suit and tie were the same as the day before. "I
remembered the meeting. I just lost track of what time it was, what day it
was." He picked up his odd-sized ball and tossed it from hand to hand,
trying to focus the racing of his mind. "I got so wrapped up in the case,
I didn't even know if it was Tuesday or Wednesday."

"Right. Solving the puzzle is the only thing that matters." But Wilson
didn't sound angry, just resigned.

"That's not exactly new information," House pointed out quietly.

"Yeah. I know. I just need some time to think." He pushed down the handle,
but jumped away from the door when House hurled the ball at his head,
bouncing it off the glass. "Damnit House! Why can't you just leave me
alone?"

House watched the ball roll to a stop near the conference room door. "I
can get one of the three monkeys to write a scrip for me. And there's an
ATM in the lobby."

Wilson took the change of subject in stride, just as he always did.
"Right. You don't need me. Thank you for dragging me away from my office
to tell me that again. Can I leave now without you throwing something at
me?"

"Don't you want to know why Foreman said I needed you?"

Wilson slumped against the door. "I'm tired, House. I'm too tired to play
your games. I'm too tired to read between the lines of everything you say
or do."

Everybody lied. But for once House could see that Wilson was telling the
truth. He looked bone weary, exhausted through to his soul. "I just want
to talk to you," he said softly. "No games. No reading between the lines."

For a moment he thought Wilson would just walk away, but then he dropped
back into the chair, tilting his face up towards the ceiling.

House picked his words carefully, afraid that if he said the wrong thing
it would be days before he saw his friend again. "See, the funny thing is,
I didn't tell Foreman that I needed you."

"Because you don't. I got that. Thanks."

This time House grabbed a pen off his desk and flung it at Wilson,
perversely pleased when it caught him just above the pocket protector.
"Would you just shut up and listen to me?"

Wilson flicked the pen off his lap and glared at House, but didn't say a
word.

Now that he had what he wanted, he had no idea what to say. "So you've
been sulking in your office for two days because you think I don't need
you?"

"It's still just a game to you, isn't it House?" Wilson said wearily. "You
have your theory - I eat neediness, I lose interest when the neediness
fades away - so now you have to test it. You have to test me. I've been
sulking in my office - if that's what you want to call it - because I'm
tired of you expecting me to drop everything when you want someone to
listen to you rail at the world, or congratulate you on how smart you are.
I'm tired of you taking our friendship for granted."

House listened with a growing sense of guilt. He hated feeling guilty even
more than he hated listening to Wilson whine about his feelings. "Of
course I take you for granted," he snapped. "I take breathing for granted.
I take my iPod for granted. I take Cuddy's breasts for granted."

"Oh. Well. As long as I rank with the important things," Wilson said, with
just the hint of a smile.

"You don't rank at all." House looked away when the smile vanished. "That
would imply there was something to compare with you. Who else would be
stupid enough to come running back here the second someone said I needed
you?"

Wilson snorted self-deprecatingly. "Only because it was Foreman. If it had
been Chase, I would have known you'd browbeaten or blackmailed him into
it. And Cameron's already expressed her concern and support. But Foreman
doesn't play your games unless there's something in it for him." He
shrugged and stared down at the floor. "I assumed he came and got me,
because you really did need me."

"Well, duh. I said I didn't tell Foreman I needed you. I didn't say he was
wrong."

Wilson dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. "You're giving me
a headache, House," he complained.

"Don't be such a baby," House retorted, pushing back a flash of concern.
Wilson looked frayed around the edges. "When was the last time you ate?"
he asked abruptly.

"I had a sandwich at lunch."

"Not with Foreman."

Wilson nodded to himself, as if suddenly understanding something. "So you
did send him."

"I may have encouraged him earlier to take you to lunch," House admitted.
"But I only paid him for the first visit. Foreman's gone rogue."

"You paid him to have lunch with me?" But Wilson didn't sound surprised,
just tired and maybe even a little amused. "Why?"

That wasn't a question House could answer directly. He stared down at the
top of his desk, wishing he'd never started this conversation. Still, he
had always believed that the best defence was a good offence. "Have you
even left the hospital since you got here Monday morning?" he snapped.
When Wilson didn't answer immediately, he looked up. Wilson was leaning
forward, staring at House, and this time he looked surprised.

"Were you worried about me?" he asked, and the disbelief in his voice hurt
more than the two days' exile.

"Don't be an idiot," House retorted. "Why would I give a damn if you
decide to work yourself half to death?" Wilson could interpret that
however he wanted. He had always been an expert at translating Housian.

Wilson's eyes widened and then he started to grin. "You were. You were
worried about me. So you paid one of your minions to what, make sure I was
eating properly?" Some of the exhaustion faded from his features as he
laughed out loud. "You know Cameron would have done it for free. She's the
one who brought me the sandwich."

"She should start a catering business," House muttered. "I couldn't trust
her to report back. She's taking your side this time. Foreman at least has
the proper mercenary attitude." Except Foreman had gone beyond his
contracted duties. House would have to examine that more closely when he
had the time. But first he had to figure out what was going on with
Wilson. "I get that you're pissed off at me," he admitted. "But that
doesn't explain why you're putting in more hours than a first-year
resident."

"I'm busy," Wilson replied, but he suddenly couldn't meet House's eyes.

"Is that what you look like when you lie to your wives? Because it's no
wonder they keep kicking you to the curb." Wilson didn't react, which set
all House's alarm bells ringing. Don't let Cuddy be right, he thought. But
Cuddy's instincts were rarely wrong when it came to the hospital.

Wilson raised his eyes and looked at House, his expression set, as though
he were bracing himself to give bad news. House wondered if he looked like
this when he told his patients they were going to die.

"Ross offered me a job."

The air suddenly seemed to drain from the room and House sucked in a deep
breath reflexively. "But you haven't accepted," he said as oxygen flooded
through his bloodstream. "Cuddy hasn't caused me bodily harm, so you
couldn't have told her."

Wilson quirked one eyebrow up. "I'm fairly certain I don't want to know
what that means." He looked down at the floor when House just stared at
him. "I haven't decided," he admitted softly. "I wanted to think about
it."

"What's to think about?" House demanded. "You love your job."

"It's a good opportunity."

"What? Research? Clinical trials? Administration?" House shook his head.
"You love patient care. You have a gift for it."

"Really? I thought I had a gift for manipulation."

"That's what I said." He snuck a glance at Wilson and saw he was smiling.
"Is that why you were cleaning off your desk?" He was going to have to
make sure that Cuddy never found out she had been right.

"I wanted to make sure everything was in order if I did decided to take
the job." Wilson wasn't smiling any more.

House dismissed the statement with a wave of his hand. "You're not going
to take it."

"Why are you so sure?" Wilson asked, though he didn't contradict House. He
leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his forehead
on his palms. "What's left for me here? I just screwed up my third
marriage. I don't have any family in town. Maybe I should just start
fresh." 

House fumbled in his pocket for his pill bottle. Enough Vicodin in his
system and he wouldn't feel a thing when Cuddy got out the knives. "Maybe
you should," he said, pleased by how even his voice sounded. "What could
be possibly be left for you here."

It wasn't a question, but Wilson answered anyway. "Maybe that's what I was
trying to figure out," he replied softly. He lifted his head and gazed at
House until House had to look away.

"You used to have more than just your job," House said, not caring that
his voice was no longer even. A thin blade slipped beneath scar tissue and
sliced up, peeling back the skin to expose all that lay beneath.

"I thought I did." Wilson leaned forward when House flinched. "I needed to
know for sure."

"Who's doing the testing now?" House sneered. "So tell me, did I cave soon
enough? Did I pass the Wilson neediness test? I admit I can't match the
NICU nurse with the abusive ex-husband, but a drug addiction and a
crippled leg has to be worth something." Wilson just stared at him, those
dark eyes filled with something House couldn't quite identify. He thought
it might actually be amusement and lashed out again. "God, you're a
self-righteous hypocrite." It wasn't amusement, House realised belatedly
when Wilson raised both eyebrows, but affection.

"And you're a self-absorbed jerk." Wilson reached into his pocket and
pulled out his cell phone, then fished out a business card from his
wallet. "Kenneth Ross, please," he said, when the call connected. He
turned his body away so House couldn't see his face. "Dr. Ross. James
Wilson."

House listened to one side of the obligatory exchange of pleasantries,
torn between fear and hope. He didn't think Wilson was cruel enough to
accept the job in front of him, but he hadn't thought Wilson would
consider another job either. Wilson was right; he was a self-absorbed
jerk.

"I wanted to thank you for the opportunity you've offered me," Wilson
began neutrally. The blade was poised, ready to slice deeper. "I'm
honoured. But I feel as though I'm still needed at Princeton-Plainsboro."
Wilson turned his head and winked at House. "I hope we can work together
in other ways, though."

House closed his eyes and sagged back in his chair. He didn't listen to
the rest of the conversation. Despite everything, he still wasn't
interested in Wilson's pet project. He opened his eyes again when he heard
Wilson flip the phone closed. "Why do you think the only things you give
me are money and drugs?"

Wilson blinked once, then picked up the thread of the earlier
conversation. "And food. I give you food. Well, not so much give as you
take."

House knew then that he'd been forgiven. Wilson was more of an idiot than
he'd thought. "Why?" he demanded harshly. "Why do you stay? Why do take my
shit and come back for more?"

"The same reason you put up with my shit. I have two things that work for
me. Why would I give one of them up?"

"You thought about it for two days," House muttered.

"Now who's sulking?" Wilson retorted. "You're unbelievable, you know that?
I've accepted the fact that if I want to be your friend it has to be on
your terms. The least you could do is accept the fact that every once in
awhile I'm going to need some time to remember why I can accept that."

House supposed that was fair. Not that he would ever admit that to Wilson.
"Why can you?"

"You said it yourself. It's all about need." Wilson's eyes narrowed and
House knew he was about to launch into one of his lectures. House
half-expected him to plant his hands disapprovingly at his hips, but it
didn't have quite the same visual impact when seated and Wilson was too
smart to waste an ineffective gesture.

"You're afraid I'd leave if you didn't need me any more." Wilson's voice
was gentler than House had expected. Not a lecture then. "You think I only
stick around because of pity or guilt or emotional vampirism."

"Do you keep a list of all the nasty things I call you?" House sniped.

"Yes," Wilson replied, changing conversational gears with the ease of long
practice. "And some days when I'm feeling sad, I take it out and read it,
and cry because no-one understands the real me. Now shut up and let me
answer the damn question." 

God, House had missed Wilson. He gestured for him to continue with a
dismissive wave of the hand.

"For a genius, you're pretty stupid sometimes," Wilson mused. "It doesn't
matter if you need me or not. Because I need you. And if you let me help
you now and then, well that's just a bonus." Wilson stood up, gathered the
pen and ball, and handed them to House. "Come on. Buy me dinner and let me
crash on your couch and we're square."

That was fair. House was even willing to admit it, but then he remembered
something. "I gave Foreman all my cash. And all the good places don't take
credit."

"And you've just conveniently forgotten the ATM in the lobby? Or is it
only a theoretical machine in your mind." He crossed his arms. "We're
going somewhere they take credit."

"Fine," House sulked. "But I won't enjoy it."

"I can live with that. Come on," he ordered. "I need to get my things and
I'm not letting you out of my sight until the bill is paid."

House grumbled, but followed Wilson to his office almost obediently. He
waited, not very patiently, while Wilson turned off his computer, sorted
through his files, and started to fill his briefcase with paperwork.
"Leave the files," House said. "I didn't invite you over for a study
date."

"You didn't invite me over at all. I invited myself," Wilson retorted, but
removed the paperwork. "I get to pick the movie."

"Your taste in movies sucks." Actually Wilson's taste in movies was far
superior to his taste in wives or ties, but House didn't want to confuse
Wilson by agreeing easily.

"If my taste in movies is so bad, why are you still holding half of my
DVDs hostage?" Wilson grabbed his coat and herded House out of the office
so that he could lock up.

"I'm saving you from your worst excesses," House replied. "And watching
black and white movies is bad for your eyes."

"Ah, yes. Because you're all about helping." But Wilson's mouth was
twitching the way it did when he was trying not to laugh at something
House said or did.

They were still squabbling about movies when Cuddy intercepted them near
the hospital entrance. "This better mean you fixed things, House," she
snapped.

"Put down your knives, Cuddy," House warned. "My skin is safe."

She glared at him. "This time." Her expression softened as her gaze moved
to Wilson. "Is everything okay?"

He smiled at her. "Everything's fine. You don't have to worry."

"I don't worry," she replied. "I plan. You've worked enough hours for two
department heads this week. I don't want to see you here tomorrow, but on
Monday we'll sit down and talk about the outpatient project."

House couldn't resist. "If he's worked enough for two department heads,
does that mean I can have tomorrow off, too?"

"Sure," Cuddy replied, startling House into a double take. "Just as soon
as I turn a profit on some swamp land in Florida." She sighed and relented
when Wilson gave her his best pleading look. "Fine. But only because your
team could use a break from you."

"It's hard on the children when Mommy and Daddy fight," House agreed. 

"Speaking of the children," Cuddy said, "Foreman asked me to give this to
you if you and Wilson left together." She handed him an envelope. 

House opened it up and pulled out two $20 bills and a piece of notepaper.
"The money was meant to feed Wilson," he read, "so buy him dinner. We
earned the drinks money, though." Foreman had definitely gone rogue.

House hesitated then handed the envelope and money back to Cuddy. "Tell
Foreman he earned the forty as well." He looked at Wilson and cocked an
eyebrow. "Somewhere that takes credit cards, huh? You're driving."

"And you're still paying." Wilson grinned at Cuddy. "I'll take a picture
as proof. I could probably sell it to Ripley's Believe it or Not!"

"How come I'm the only one not getting something out of this?" House
complained.

Cuddy just looked at him and shook her head. "Have a good weekend, boys,"
she said. "And try not to get into too much trouble. Or if you do, don't
call me."

"We'll call you if we need help getting into trouble," House retorted,
heading for the door. Wilson lingered to say a proper goodbye, and then
hurried to catch up to House. They fell into step, side by side, Wilson
easily matching House's halting gait. As they approached the sliding
doors, House could see their reflection in the glass: two figures so close
as to nearly be one. House zipped up his jacket and stepped outside,
secure in his own skin.  
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the
ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.