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  Choices 
 by gena  

 Choices.....

"....just look straight ahead. That's it," James Wilson flashed the
charming but professional smile he used when cajoling reluctant children
into doing what he wanted. It wasn't really for the children's benefit,
more for the mothers, they always made more of an effort to control the
kids when he used that certain smile. Unfortunately just at that instant
the door to exam room one opened and Gregory House limped inside. The
mother, a woman who had only an second before been soothing her unhappy
five year old, now gave a small squeak of alarm and clutched the boy. The
boy picked up on the sudden shift in mood and began to wail. 

"House!" Wilson snapped and glared at his friend.

"It's five after," House announced with his own glare. "You promised me
you'd be done at five."

"Uh, I'm with a patient," Wilson said. The boy, still screaming, and his
mother, still clutching him, both stared at House. "Can't this wait?"

House continued to glare at him. "No. It's crucial to get there early," he
pointedly looked at his wrist watch, "and we have just over twenty-seven
minutes to beat the crowd. This is essential and I think asking me to wait
another hour because you can't just tell her that the kid is allergic to
hamsters is a bit callus."

"Hamsters?" the woman asked, blinking. Turning to Wilson she said, "we
don't own a hamster."

"His little friend next door has one, right kid?" House demanded, making
the boy cry harder.

"Carrie?"

"How the hell would I know her name? Tell your kid to stop kissing it."
Turning he gave Wilson another hard look. "Are you done now?"

Wilson hung his head in defeat, sighed, and nodded. "Yeah, sure." He
offered the woman a wan smile, and a prescription then followed House from
the room. "How - never mind," he said to House's back. He stopped at the
desk, absurdly aware of House's cane tapping repeatedly on the floor in
the annoying way he had when he was bored. 

"Dr. House?" Cameron's voice broke through the gentle babble of staff
wrapping up things for the day. She, Foreman and Chase were just pushing
through the doors. "They just discharged Peter McDonald."

"And this means something?"

"He's the patient,' Chase reminded him. "The hemophiliac with the cyst." 

House glared at him and turned to grip Wilson's arm. "Come on."

Wilson shrugged at the three doctors. "Sorry, House is in a bit of a
hurry." He shot House an exasperated look and said, "We're heading to
Dairy World for a Tornado Blast and he has this bizarre idea that there
will be crowds of people and he won't get a Cinnamon Cyclone." Wilson's
amused tone and the way his dark eyes softened when they fell on House
said enough about his habit of indulging his friend's whimsical schemes. 

"Enough with the chit-chat," House snapped, "we're on a mission."

"Just one second," Cameron said, beaming at Wilson. She nodded to the
clinic nurse who reached under the desk and brought out a frosted birthday
cake. "Happy birthday." Cameron leaned in to kiss his cheek. Wilson
blushed while House fumed. Foreman and Chase, genuine smiles spreading
across their faces, offered birthday sentiments. All accompanied by that
impatient tapping sound. To Wilson's horror a small confederation of his
staff and a few patients surrounded him, streaming through the clinic's
double doors, their shouts of "Happy birthday" drowning out everything
else. Surrounded as he was by well wishers all he could do was helplessly
look over their heads at House.

House didn't seem angry or bitter, merely resigned and disappointed. As
Wilson watched House gave a little nod, his stubbled chin dropping to his
chest as his lips twisted in an expression halfway between a smile and a
sigh, as if he'd known what was coming. Wilson sucked in a surprised
breath. He was use to House's normal range of disdainful expressions, his
hatred of the trite and sentimental, his reckless oblivion to all things
thoughtful, but the expression of bewildered hurt and resignation which
hovered in House's brilliant blue eyes came as a shock. He would have
called out, drawn House back if he could but Wilson knew he didn't possess
the power to achieve that. House would not stick around for something as
fluffy as a birthday cake unless he could stick his finger in the icing
and tell the cook it tasted like crap. Wilson tried to signal an apology
but the crowd closed in and all he got was a brief glimpse of bowed head
as House turned away. 

"Dr. House! It's all ready." The plump waitress hurried over as House
limped into Stan's diner. She looked to be in her mid fifties, soft
maternal features and bleached hair but a wide smile on her face. The
diner could have been something out of a movie, all chrome and neon and
malt machines. House and Wilson had stumbled upon the place one day and
because it was halfway between their homes, they took to meeting there
mornings for breakfast and whenever they craved a big burger and fries.
After a while Wilson's natural friendliness and House's sarcastic humor
forged a kind of bizarre friendship with the widowed owner. She stopped a
few feet from him, confusion spreading across her features when she
noticed he was alone. "Where's Dr. Wilson?"

House shifted more weight onto his cane, reaching out to catch the side of
a table. "Emergency at the hospital, Grace," House said, and slid into the
booth. 

"Oh, that's too bad." She gazed down at House's exhausted form. "I'll
bring you something to eat." House grunted and watched her head back to
the kitchen. The diner was almost empty, too early for the normal crowd
but it would have been just right for two friends to share some burgers
and maybe a slice of chocolate cake with the words YOU'RE OLD on top of
it. Grace returned a while later, sitting down his meal with only a faint
"that all you need, honey?" before leaving him alone. He ate part of his
hamburger and a few fries before tossing down a good sized tip. "Dr.
House?" Grace came over with a small white sack, just large enough to hold
a couple of pieces of cake. "I thought you could give this to Dr. Wilson
when you see him." 

"Thanks." House left with a tiny wave. Grace watched him go without a
word. She'd been fascinated by the two doctors since the first time they'd
come into her diner. So different, and yet each seemed to compliment the
other. House loud and arrogant, Wilson quiet and humble, they still shared
the same sense of humor and dedication to each other. There were times,
when each man thought the other wasn't looking that the true depth of
their feelings for each other was plainly obvious and Grace Seaver had
been touched by what she saw. When House had asked her to save back some
of her delicious cake she'd been curious, finally getting out of him the
fact it was Wilson's birthday and he thought it would be nice to celebrate
it with her cake. Now House looked abandoned, and she wondered what
exactly had kept Wilson from showing up. She hoped it wasn't something
personal between them, House didn't look like the kind of guy who had too
many friends and Wilson had always been very caring, and protective of the
older man, it would be a shame if the bond she could see between them had
suffered a terrible blow.

It seemed an eternity, the candles, the cake, the little party they'd
thrown for him in the cafeteria but it couldn't have lasted longer than a
couple of hours. Wilson thanked them, all of them with distracted
kindness, rushed good humor and anxious gratitude. They let him go,
calling out in good natured regret when he finally broke away. Wilson had
to smile, well aware that people liked him. However, the one person he
cared most about, the one others didn't even like, had been abandoned by
this act of betrayal perpetrated in the name of friendship. Wilson hurried
to his office, shedding the cards, the gifts, and the none too subtle jabs
against his taste in friends, something his peers never failed to present
no matter the occasion. He hated the idea other people thought he might
actually justify his friendship with House, the thing between him and his
oldest friend concerned no one but the two of them. 

He made a beeline for House's office, knowing deep down that it would be
empty and when his assumption proved correct Wilson got in his car and
drove to House's place. There were no lights on but he could sense his
friend there, pouting in the shadows. Wilson used the key House had given
him years ago and let himself into the dark apartment. "House?" he called.
Streetlight shown through the living room windows, giving him enough light
to make his way around the stacks of newspapers. A patch of white on the
piano stopped him and with a sinking heart Wilson recognized the customary
white sacks he and House brought home food in from Stan's Diner. A peek
inside confirmed his worst fears - two slices of obviously birthday cake
were crusted together in a chocolaty mess. Damn. House had done something
thoughtful and he'd ruined it. 

Hurrying down the hall towards House's bedroom he noted that the door was
closed but when he pushed it open he could heard his friend's soft breaths
in the stillness. "House? Why didn't you answer me?"

"I was asleep."

"Sure," Wilson squinted at his watch, "at 7:45 you're asleep." 

"Tired." To tell the truth, House sounded tired and when Wilson flipped on
the light he was shocked by how drained House looked. When they'd parted
in the clinic House had been full of energy, anxious and ready for some
fun, now he looked as if he'd not slept in a week. He threw an arm up over
his eyes, shielding them from the glare. "Go away, Wilson." Wilson tossed
a t-shirt over the bedside light, muting it to a rosy Grateful Dead glow,
then kicked off his shoes, tugged off his shirt and tie and drew the belt
from his gray slacks. He sat down on the edge of the bed to pull off his
socks. "What're you doing?"

"Getting into bed."

"Yeah, well do that at your own house," House growled and turned onto his
side. 

"You are my own House," Wilson pointed out. House didn't answer, forcing
Wilson to poke him in the back. 

"Asshole," House muttered and rolled back over. "Why aren't you with your
friends? I'm sure you all could go out to a karaoke bar, drink Manhattans
and get lucky. I saw that new clinic nurse sizing you up, maybe you could
duet on Islands in the Stream."

"My singing voice isn't what it use to be and as you're so fond of
pointing out," Wilson said and lay down beside House, "I'm a married man."

"Never stopped you before." Now it was Wilson who didn't answer. Instead
he slid closer and placed a tentative hand on House's flat stomach. House
flinched and shoved it off. 

Wilson sighed. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I couldn't blow them off,
House."

"But you could blow me off." It wasn't often House let any hint of
vulnerability show through but tonight seemed to be one of those rare
occasions. "There's cake on the piano."

"I saw it." He waited a moment, letting the silence settle. "I am sorry." 

"Yeah," House said quietly, "me too." Wilson edged closer, slowly
replacing his hand on House's stomach. When it wasn't brushed away, he got
bolder, wrapping his arm more securely over House's lean frame. House
would never admit it but Wilson always suspected that his friend got
lonely from time to time. Not to say House liked people, he didn't. Wilson
knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that House did not enjoy the company of
others unless they could amuse him. House's world revolved around House,
altruist motives didn't enter into his way of thinking, the only thing
House wanted from other people was a distraction from the super-charged
machine that was his intellect. But there were times when Wilson caught an
unfamiliar look, something almost wistful, in his friend's expression
usually when he was sitting alone. It always passed quickly but it often
left Wilson wondering if House ever envied the simple joy of being liked.

House didn't care what people thought of him, he never had, but Wilson
could still remember times in the beginning of their friendship when he
would drag House along on one of his "boy's night out". House always
seemed to enjoy himself; laughing, joking, drinking, the way guys did when
they were in a group but he never sought out the company of others. He'd
never begrudged Wilson his other friends and never asked to be included
but on those rare nights he had been - sarcastic, and arrogant, blunt and
tactless but also able to relate. Now, House existed in a small clear
bubble, touched by no one, touching no one, the lone exception Wilson
himself and the extent of his influence was something Wilson could not
gauge. He knew part of House's isolation was his doing, he had kept a
protective eye on his friend after the infarction and Stacy's leaving.
House had been too weak to protect himself, too hurt, too depressed and
afterwards Wilson had kept up the habit, finding it easier to do things
for House than to force him to do for himself. He had given up his other
friends, a wife and his first home to be what he could for House, never
knowing if it was appreciated or not but continuing because the pain in
those brilliant eyes cut through his heart like a scalpel.

But as their world shrank to just the two of them, part of Wilson realized
it had been a mistake to insulate the brilliant madman, with only himself
as touchstone to the outside world. That fact had led him to approach
Cuddy about House heading up a Diagnostic department. House had already
been nationally known, but as head of his own department, able to
concentrate and work on select cases, he became world-famous and now
Wilson wondered if that, too, had been the wrong move. Sure House's
interactions had broadened, he connected in different ways with his three
underlings, and had a tempestuous relationship with the Dean of Medicine,
but still the one stable connection in his life, Wilson knew, was the one
they shared. He moved his hand up, laying his palm over House's heart and
stared at the sharp profile. 

He'd loved House for ages, Wilson had realized it shortly after Stacy
introduced them. The thing between them defied all labels; friends,
confidants, acquaintances, brothers, enemies, co-workers, strangers,
soul-mates, all those elements met and melded in the bond which held them
tight. Somewhere along the way the lines had blurred, they could say
things to each other that would have destroyed other friendships, they
could share the same bed lying with limbs entwined and think nothing of
it, they could play jokes on each other and argue for days, and still find
themselves together after a long exhausting week. Wilson cherished the
time they spend together, but tonight had shown him how selfish he had
been. Even if House didn't like his fellow human beings he needed to forge
other bonds, he needed to connect with other people and in his eagerness
to protect House he had enabled him to cut himself off from the rest of
the world. 

The injury had been a big part of it, the blow to House's ego had been
devastating but Wilson knew he had allowed his compassion for the man to
override his responsibility. There had been glimmers of hope in the last
year or so, Cameron had been a start. Wilson had practically given her his
blessing to pursue some kind of relationship with House but she had pushed
too hard and moved too fast. In the end House had turned on her, unwilling
or unable to be all that she wanted from him, afraid it was pity. Still
House seemed intrigued by her, not romantically but there could be a
friendship there if she were patient and could settled for that. Even
Chase and Foreman might be receptive to some showing of friendship if
given a chance. His fingers curled against the soft cotton t-shirt House
wore. "House", he said quietly and felt the heart under his hand quicken,
"you really tired?"

House turned his head, his sullen expression thawing a bit as he seemed to
think it over. "Nah. Wanna get your butt kicked playing Zombie King?" 

"Like you could," Wilson said with a grin. Like young boys camping in the
living room they spent the rest of the evening huddled under a blanket on
the couch, eating cold turkey sandwiches, and playing video games until
they couldn't keep their eyes open. That night, lying beside House, Wilson
made a promise to himself; House was too dependant on him, their lives too
entwined to be healthy and he owed it to his friend to allow him to grow.
House would resist, Wilson knew that but he loved the man too much to fail
him, House needed more than he could be, more than he could give. 

Resolute, Wilson set his plan in motion that following week, steeling
himself against the shadows which rose in House's eyes every time he
fended off an invitation to a movie or dinner, or just a night at home.
Wilson conspired to throw Cameron into her boss's path as often as he
could and even got Chase to invite House out for a drink but House
remained stubbornly friendless. Another week passed with Wilson lying
alone in his empty bed, wondering if House felt as miserable as he did,
but he told himself over and over it was for House's own good. Still, he
missed being with House, he missed evenings spent at the other man's home,
the long rambling conversations which took hours and consisted of nothing
either could remember later yet doubled them over with laughter at the
time. He missed the bad movies and the video games, he missed eating fast
food and listening to House play his piano, but most of all he missed the
peaceful nights lying beside House. 

It had been months since Julie shared his bed but even in the bloom of
their romance he'd never experience the absolute sense of contentment
which crept over him when sleeping next to House. People, especially
people who knew him and his reputation as a skirt-chaser, wouldn't believe
it if they learned his greatest pleasure was chastely sleeping beside his
best friend. The two men had shared the same bed innumerable nights during
the course of their friendship and Wilson had always found House to be the
most satisfying of all his bedmates though he never knew what to expect
when they turned out the lights, it always depended on House. Some nights
House was in so much pain all he could do was swallow a Vicodin and fall
into a fitful doze, Wilson gently murmuring a million random things in a
voice he used with his youngest patients. Then there were times Wilson
woke to the strains of Mozart or Vivaldi and he would lie in the darkness
feeling like he and the unseen musician were the last two people in the
world. But the best times were those nights when they talked for hours,
House's thoughts jumping like ground lightning, they would laugh and joke
and when they fell asleep it was with the abandon of closeness, their arms
and legs entwined, their heads on the same pillow. An undercurrent of
attraction had never been far from the surface, each man sensing it,
knowing one touch or smile, or word could set it aflame but the sweet ache
of never doing anything about it, of flirting with danger had appealed to
them. 

He was thinking about this, distracted from another patient file when a
knock broke the silence. Wilson took a deep breath, praying it wouldn't be
House there to ask him to lunch. "Come in," he called.

Allison Cameron poked her dark head around the door. "Could we talk, Dr.
Wilson?"

"Sure," Wilson waved her inside. Cameron smiled and took the chair across
from his desk. She sat, hands twisting around each other, eyes downcast.
"What's the problem, Cameron? Has House done something annoying?" He kept
his voice light though his throat suddenly felt constricted and his heart
had begun to pound.

"It is House," Cameron confessed with a tiny shrug. She didn't meet his
eyes, just continued to stare at the floor. He waited, his patience honed
from years of dealing with House's secretive ways. "There's something
wrong. He's been - distracted - listless."

"Listless?" Wilson repeated. That was one word he'd never associate with
House. His friend had more energy than most power plants, Wilson always
imagined House's brain as this huge generator powering his intellect.
Surplus power fueled him physically, it was why you usually found House
twirling his cane, or playing with his yo-yo, or one of a dozen other
habits he had developed in the wake of his infarction. Before the injury
to his leg he would run laps, or play basketball, anything to burn off the
excess energy as he puzzled over some problem, now his choices were
limited. 

"Yes," Cameron said. She leaned forward, hands clasped. "He's in more pain
that usual, he's barely moved out of his chair all week and hasn't eaten a
thing. You know him, usually he's a human garbage disposal, but I brought
him a sandwich yesterday and he wouldn't touch it." She finally looked up
and Wilson could see the worry in her eyes. "Are you two fighting?"

Her question startled him, making him stammer, "W-we don't fight. I mean,
sometimes we disagree, but we aren't now."

"You haven't spent any time with him," she accused. "You've used me as a
go between all week."

"I've been too busy to play gopher for House," Wilson said, bristling.
"I'm busy now." He made a show of picking up a file. Cameron rose, her
brow creased deeply.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Wilson," she said, "it's just House looks so - sad." He
heard her pause at the door but didn't look up until her footsteps were
echoing down the hallway. He sat, staring blindly at the wall for nearly
an hour before rousing himself and heading home to wait out the lonely
hours until he came back to the hospital. All he had were lonely hours and
he could only fill so many of them worrying over his patients. Home
provided no distraction now. He had nothing in common with Julie any more,
he'd had very little in common with her in the beginning but the sex had
been spectacular. Once the heat had cooled, and they'd settled down to
marriage Wilson had discovered the third time wasn't a charm. Julie had
thought he was perfect, well until she found lipstick on his shirt collars
and a pair of silk panties in his glove box, then she understood the truth
about her handsome and charming husband. House, of course had known all
along what he was like, the rampant insecurity, the restless search for
someone who needed to be smothered with care, the guilt when it all went
wrong. So Wilson went home and he wandered from room to room just as he
wandered the halls of PPTH, all the while missing House. Without his
friend he seemed to have no purpose, no rudder, no one. Caring for House
had taken so much of his time and energy that this forced separation felt
more like an amputation. There was nothing there in his life anymore just
absence; an absence of pain, worry, laughter, companionship, understanding
- a complete void where House had been. The knowledge that he had pushed
House away, if for his own sake, did nothing to ease the feeling of
emptiness. 

That night he woke from nightmared sleep, drenched with sweat, gasping. In
his dreams House stood at the bottom of a stairwell while he stood at the
top. He watched House struggle painfully up one step at a time, his blue
eyes locked with Wilson's, silently pleading for help but Wilson did
nothing. He stood there unmoving as House tried to climb up to him and
when House faltered, finally calling to him, collapsing with exhaustion,
shaking and asking for help Wilson had turned and walked away. Wilson had
rushed for the bathroom, falling to his knees to vomit, as the images
replayed over and over in his head. He spent the rest of the night sitting
on the couch, the telephone at his elbow, silently vowing that if House
called for help he would not turn away.

House turned off the engine of his sedan, and slumped back against the
seat. God, he was so tired. He'd needed to use the hand controls in his
old car but now his arms felt like lead weights attached to his shoulders,
still there had been no way he could have worked the clutch in the 'vette
today. He felt drained, as if someone had set a tap in his chest and let
it run; interest, stamina, and will to live all pooling together on a
floor someplace in the clinic. All he wanted was just to sit there in the
peace and quite, but knew a night in the chilly garage would play hell
with his leg. Mustering all his strength, House pulled himself from the
car and made his way into the condo, nearly salivating at the thought of
his bed and the pain free state that lying down brought with it - until
his leg began to complain about that. He got as far as the couch and sank
onto it gratefully, shedding his jacket and closing his eyes. He'd spent
most of the day hiding in his office but felt as if he'd hobbled a circuit
around the hospital - twice. A hollow ache in his middle reminded House he
hadn't eaten but the feeling seemed rather fitting. Hollow, empty, gutted
like a fish, yes, all those pretty much covered what he felt. He dug out
his Vicodin, fumbling with the cap before it popped off, swallowing two of
the small white pills in a effort to fill the void inside him. House
leaned back, tossing his cane to the floor and heaving his leg up onto the
coffee table. 

He'd told himself for two weeks now that nothing was wrong. Wilson was the
Head of Oncology, it only stood to reason he got busy, he had people dying
around him every day and his person life was just as fatal. Wilson wasn't
the kind of guy to let a marriage peter out without giving it one last
try. So what if Wilson couldn't crash at his place for a few hours each
night, have lunch with him, or play hooky in an exam room, he wasn't ten,
he didn't need Wilson to hold his hand. The Vicodin didn't seem to be
working, pain flared hot and raw somewhere inside House's chest, a long
ways from his leg. He'd run down every excuse he could think of but deep
down House knew that Wilson wasn't busy, he'd always - always made time
for House before. No matter what crisis was going on in his own life,
Wilson had been known to drop everything and rush to House's side. House
would never admit to feeling entitled to Wilson's devotion, contrary to
popular belief his ego wasn't as all consuming, but some part of him had
acknowledged how important he must be to Wilson for such a response.
Wilson might not be world famous, but he was the top oncologist at one of
the best teaching hospitals on the eastern seaboard, and for him to put
House above so much of his commitment expressed the real value Wilson
placed on their friendship. 

It had been a new, unnerving experience for House. Growing up on the move,
new to whatever military base his father had been sent to, most would have
thought the other kids would be more accepting of a newcomer since they
were in the same boat. But that hadn't happened, intimidated by his
intelligence and wit, they'd looked for signs of weakness and attacked.
Children were cruel and House had learned to fight back with his special
weapon of choice. Soon cutting remarks and acid comebacks were as natural
as breath and served as a way to cover any insecurity he might feel but it
also kept people away. By age fifteen House had became a master of getting
what he wanted - greedy, spoilt, arrogant and completely without friends.
It had only been with Wilson's entrance into his life that House saw not
everyone could be manipulated and not everyone was too stupid to know when
they were being used. Wilson could, and often did, exactly what House
wanted him to do, not because of House's cunning management, but because
he honestly wanted to. The difference had never been lost on House. 

A sudden wash of loneliness ambushed House, something the normally
controlled doctor would brush away with ruthless determination. He'd
learned from his father that it didn't pay to show your emotions because
they wouldn't change a thing and only left you open to ridicule. This
time, however, House chose to let himself feel, he closed his eyes and
laid his head back, indulging in the sorrow spreading like ice through his
body. It had been so long since he'd let himself truly feel anything,
especially the achingly sharp stab of true sadness. He had built such
thick shields against feeling things that to let them drop, to will them
gone, nearly took his breath away. He'd always told himself it would
happen, somewhere in the darkest recesses of his mind House had expected a
day would come when Wilson walked away. Every time Wilson got married
House had prepared himself for the empty hours, the solitude of his own
thoughts. And for months after any of the lavish ceremonies he would be on
his own, then sooner or later Wilson would revert to his old ways, he'd
start coming around first for a drink after work then for weekend movie
nights and finally he'd be sleeping in the spare room four nights out of
seven. But even as he joked and make snide remarks about his friend's
marital track record, House had sensed somewhere in the back of his mind
that one day Wilson would find that elusive something he was searching for
and when he did, House would become a distant memory. He'd told himself he
could take it, that he didn't need Wilson but - everybody lies. Just the
thought that the day had finally come brought with it a satisfying twist
of anguish. 

Self pity and self loathing warred inside him, making his head pound and
his stomach rebel. God, he didn't need a round of dry heaves tonight, too.
He'd been doubling up on Vicodin all week and that always made him
lightheaded and queasy, add to that his exhaustion and he was looking at a
hellish night. House took a couple of deep breaths, concentrating on the
person causing him so much anxiety. He didn't blame Wilson for abandoning
him, he applauded his friend in lasting as long as he had, the only thing
bothering him really was not knowing what had been the last straw. House
couldn't pick out the exact reason why Wilson had finally had enough, he
couldn't remember doing anything more heinous than usual, but everyone had
a breaking point. It would be lonely without Wilson, it would be just like
the years before Wilson had come into his life, only now he was even more
damaged, more bitter and mean than before. House gave a small mirthless
chuckle, he didn't need friends anyway. 

House nodded to himself, mulling over the thought. So, Wilson was mad,
Wilson had had enough of him. Well, two could play it that way. He was a
grown man, capable of being on his own. He wouldn't be subjected to
Wilson's subtle jibes about his drug abuse, he wouldn't have to endure
those concerned lectures or see the worry in Wilson's eyes now, would he?
Freedom, yes, he would be free of all that crap now. James Wilson, the
martyr of PPTH, taking pity on poor, friendless Greg House. Those idiots
didn't know the truth, they couldn't see behind Wilson's perfect faade
like he could. It had been him being kind to Wilson, people thought the
younger doctor was so sweet and compassionate but they were mistaken. They
figured his serial marriages were the result of his wives "not
understanding" the sensitive doctor and his high stress career. Yeah,
right. Wilson just couldn't keep it in his pants, that's why he had to
find a new wife every couple of years. House punched a pillow into shape,
and stretched out on the couch. The only reason Wilson looked so good was
because people compared him to House. Let him play Saint James all on his
own and see how long he could keep them fooled. Who the hell did Wilson
think he was anyway, House didn't need him as a friend. He didn't need
anyone, he never had. He'd never been willing to sacrifice his beliefs,
his integrity for something as worthless as having people like him.

House savagely stabbed the TV remote making the screen flicked to life and
forced himself to forget all about the traitorous Wilson. He watched until
his eyes closed and when he slept he dreamed of being a child again,
watching kids play baseball from the other side of a chain link fence. All
the boys were smiling and laughing as they looked across to the lone
figure excluded from the fun and every face looked just like Wilson's. 

Wilson caught sight of House the day after Cameron's visit, as the older
doctor headed down towards the clinic and it shocked him. House had never
been conscious of his appearance, wearing wrinkled clothes, his face
unshaved, hair slightly mussed, he dressed like an eccentric but even with
the cane there was a vitality about him that shown in his eyes and the
lithe way he could move with it. But this man, this shambling figure, made
Wilson's heart freeze inside his chest. Wrinkles clothes hung on his gaunt
frame and darkened circles lay beneath dulled eyes, and House's whole body
balanced precariously on the thin wooden support in his right hand. Wilson
started forward, mouth twisted in anguish, intent on helping in some way
but House turned away before he could cross the lobby, his eyes cold and
hard as blue stone. 

Stunned, Wilson could only stare at the closed exam door. He made his way
slowly back to his office, his footsteps echoing with a hollowness that
seemed to emanate from somewhere in the region of his heart. House's
reaction to him stung - he'd never been subjected to a look of such fury,
hatred almost, from House. They fought, usually with him getting angry but
this time - Wilson sank down into his desk chair, trying to ignore the
tingle of dread in the pit of his stomach. He could see House's office
from his and as the day waned he watched the dark shape with its uneven
gait pass back and forth as House paced. The expression on his friend's
face had chilled him, numbing Wilson to his very core but even so an
innate need to safeguard House drove Wilson to insure his friend's
wellbeing. When the office light finally went out around seven Wilson
waited, giving House time to reach the lobby before heading out onto the
balcony they shared. He knew he could watch House all the way to his
handicapped spot from there without being seen unless House deliberately
chose to stop and look for him. Night air caressed Wilson's face, but even
its gentle warmth couldn't sooth the ache which had taken up residence
inside him as, below, House's canted form limped into view. He moved so
slowly, limping as badly as he had in the early days and even from his
vantage point Wilson imagined he could hear the painful hiss of breath
forced between clenched teeth as House pushed himself onward. 

"What did you do to him?" Cuddy's voice echoed the question running
through his mind. Wilson braced himself on the concrete wall and hung his
head. "James? What's going on?"

"I -" he cleared his throat, "I did it again, Lisa." He could hear the
pain in his own voice. "I tried to help him and I screwed it up again." 

"Oh, James." Stepping closer, she touched his face, her thumb brushing his
cheek as if she expected to wipe away tears but Wilson never cried in
front of other people. Lisa Cuddy pulled away, wrapping her arms around
herself as she stared down at House. "You're the only one who can hurt
him, you know that, don't you?"

"I'm the only one who can help him, too," he whispered. "He can't depend
solely on me, Lisa. He needs more, he need people in his life."

She turned to stare at him, her gray eyes reflecting the streetlight and
giving her an unearthly appearance. She looked like some mystical
priestess about to utter a prophecy and when she spoke her words carried
the weight of insightful detachment. "Maybe he does," she said quietly,
"but he needs you more, James, he always has. Don't ever forget that.
You're the only reason he's still alive, he would have given up without
you." Cuddy sighed, "You're trying to give him the world, to push him out
into it but that would be like shoving a mind reader into a mad house and
telling them to pick out one sane thought. You've said it yourself a
hundred times, it all about speed with him, he has to know everything, see
everything, connect it all into a pattern he can understand. Without you
to act as a buffer, deflecting the small things, the things that he would
obsess over, he'd be overwhelmed. He has no self-preservation skills when
it comes to that, James. Don't you see?" 

She gave a weak little laugh, one that held very little humor. "No one
understands him the way you do, no one's ever taken the time to try. It's
you, James, you're the only person who can reach him. You're the only
person he wants to reach him, and if you aren't there to protect him, to
provide some kind of shelter against the outside world, he'll hurt
himself. He doesn't know how not to hurt himself." Cuddy looked out across
at the buildings below. "It's so hard for him, and maybe you can't see it
but he is letting people in, slowly, at his own pace. You can't force him
and you can't abandon him just to make him move quicker. He's crippled,
James." She ignored his flinch and went on, "and I'm not talking about his
leg. When he's ready he'll need other people, just don't make the decision
for him." He saw her hesitate, hands twitching at her sides. For a moment
he could see she wanted to comfort him but just as suddenly she seemed to
remember her position of boss, one which superseded that of friend and she
merely turned and walked away. Cuddy had gone but her words rang in the
air, heavy and black as the sky above him. Wilson stood there letting
evening turn to night, realization slowly creeping through him with the
chill and making him sag. He had to sit on the concrete wall or risk
falling over the side. He'd committed a cardinal sin, the very one Stacy
had, he'd taken the choice away from House. He, too, had done it out of
love, out of fear, out of that nagging voice that whispered he would never
be enough. He'd never been enough for his wives, for his father, for the
women he went home with, how could he be enough for someone like House? 

Heart lodged in his throat, Wilson whirled, gathering his belongings from
his office he raced to his car. He could get to House's place in twenty
minutes and explain. It would be okay. Yeah, it would be okay once House
understood. Knowing deep in his heart House wouldn't understand, Wilson
drove into the darkness. It took longer than twenty minutes. An accident
blocked the main road to House's neighborhood, forcing him onto back
streets and nearly an hour had passed before he pulled up in front of the
rehabbed condos. No lights show in the windows but just as he had two
weeks earlier, Wilson could sense the presence of his friend. Despite
having a key, Wilson couldn't bring himself to barge in, he had to know
House was alright before entering. Just the thought that he might walk in
and find - he shuddered and knocked on the door. He knocked again and
again until finally he heard the telltale tap of House's cane on the wood
floor.

He half expected the door to be jerked open and a belligerent, stubbled
face thrust out, but House opened the door slowly, leaning heavily on his
cane and bracing himself on the doorjamb with his left hand. He looked
terrible; the lines in his face etched deeper, the dark skin under his
eyes more pronounced, skin a sickly gray in the streetlight's glow, and a
lethargic air weighing him down like an anchor. Wilson couldn't retract
his impulsive grab for House, every instinct screamed he needed to catch
hold of him but House knocked his hands away with a growl. "I'm fine," he
snapped, and though the look he shot at Wilson was obviously meant to be
fierce the dilated pupils and general glassy look of his eyes made it
clear his unsteadiness was the result of pain pills and alcohol not his
physical condition. 

"I didn't say you weren't," Wilson countered. House did not step aside, he
remained blocking the doorway. "Are you going to let me in?"

House appeared to think about it, his surly expression never wavering even
as he finally turned and limped back into his condo, leaving the door open
behind him. "What do you want?" Wilson watched House hobbled to his
favorite chair and carefully lower himself into it. Beer bottles, candy
wrappers, and a bottle of bourbon vied for space with an overflowing
ashtray on the side table. It looked as if House had done nothing but sit
in his chair smoking and drinking and staring into space. 

"I -," Wilson cleared his throat and avoided meeting House's gaze, hoping
the words might come easier if he didn't have to look at him, "I wanted to
explain - apologize. I thought - oh, hell." Throwing himself onto the
couch, Wilson covered his face with his hands. Over the jagged rasp of his
own breathing, he heard the squeak of leather. When he looked up House had
shifted in his chair so that he stared directly at Wilson but there was no
openness in his face, just a look of bored indifference, tinged with
House's own brand of disdain. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing." 

House gave a snort, "Don't know what you're doing? I thought you were
making a pity call on a cripple. You bring food? You could say it was
Meals on Wheels and take it off your taxes."

"Look," Wilson took a deep breath and leaned back, trying to compose
himself. It was never good to confront House when agitated; he'd be cut to
ribbons by that razor tongue. "I just wanted to see if you were alright."

House shook his head, his expression incredulous. "I'm fine. You can go
back to your wife or you buddies, or whoever it is you're fucking."

"House! Damnit." Wilson got to his feet, pacing around the living room. He
could feel House's eyes following him with every step he took. He paused
near the book shelf, a framed snapshot of him and House catching his eye.
It had been taken a couple of years earlier at some hospital gathering
Cuddy had forced them to attend. House sat at a beautifully decorated
table while Wilson stood behind him, one hand resting lightly on his
shoulder. Wilson remembered everything about that moment, the music the
band played, the aroma of the buffet, the murmur of conversation all
around them, but most of all he remembered wishing the night would never
end. Just being with House in a setting like that, pretending that they
owned the night, that they could do whatever they wanted and no one would
care had made the illusion feel real. "House, I wanted more for you."
Wilson walked back to House, sinking down onto his knees before the older
man's chair like a sinner begging forgiveness. "I thought I was doing you
a favor by giving you some space - letting you have other people. We spend
so much time together - we're too close - we're too - much."

House took a sip of his drink, closed his eyes, and blew out a weary
breath. When he finally looked at Wilson his expression resembled that of
a child who had been punished for something he hadn't done. "You know
what's best for me," he said, narrowing his eyes as in thought. "You get
together with Stacy and make up a plan?" Wilson looked away. "That's
great. Maybe you two can decide the rest of my life. Is there anything
else you want to take care of for me?" His feigned composure began to slip
and in a voice that rose until he was shouting he demanded, "Any body
parts not up to snuff? Want to see me in a wheelchair instead of using a
cane?" 

"I just wanted to help-"

"I don't need your help!" House struggled out of his chair, face flushed
and twisted with more than physical pain as he held himself upright,
swaying on his cane. "I'm not one of your charity cases and I'm not one of
your cancer freaks. I don't need your pity and I sure as hell don't need
you!" 

"Yeah, I know," Wilson said. He stayed where he was, huddled on the floor,
speaking to the tips of House's Nikes. "I always let you down, House. I
always think I know what I'm doing around you - what I should be doing for
you and I'm always wrong." He looked up at the figure towering over him.
"You need more friends, ones that won't hurt you." 

House's anger seemed to evaporate and he sank back into his chair with an
audible groan. For a long time there was no sound, no movement, nothing -
then, in a hushed voice, he said, "I don't need anyone. I never have."
Wilson nodded, the last bit of hope dying in his chest, stilling his
heart. He'd known House wouldn't forgive him, not that he'd expected it,
what he'd done was unforgivable and not just in House's eyes. He watched
his friend, his only friend, with a sense of awe; House lived life on his
own terms, he might be miserable and he might be bitter but it didn't stop
him when it came to getting things done. Ironically that quality made
Wilson want to help and protect him and make things easy for him. He
started to climb to his feet, sick to his stomach and knowing he would
never again be close to House. They might still remain friends if they
could get past this last betrayal but never again would House confide in
him, tease him, rely on him. He should have known. And then House gave a
disbelieving shake of his head, "I never needed anyone - but I wanted -"
He lifted his face, blue eyes filled with bewildered hurt, "I just wanted
- you."

Wilson didn't move, afraid that if he did it would somehow break the
illusion and he would find himself alone in his office, watching the
lights across the balcony. It wasn't until House looked away that Wilson
found he could move. Drawn forward almost against his will, he placed his
hands gently on House's knees. It was then that he even understood what
he'd been trying to do - he hadn't been trying to help House, no matter
how he rationalized it in his head. He had been trying to help himself.
Thirty seven years of never being happy, never being loved and needed, had
taken its toll on him. He'd told himself he was doing it for House, to
make sure he had other people to care about him, to fill the soul deep
pain that he used drugs to dull, but in truth he had been staving off the
ultimate rejection - the one which would kill him. Wilson leaned up,
locking eyes with House as he sought his own destruction, pressing his
lips to House's in a kiss so gentle the air barely moved around them.

He kissed those cool, dry lips with a prayer, with his soul, with the
breath of life in his body. The world trembled beneath him and then
House's arms were around him. He buried his face in House's neck and felt
House do the same as they clung to each other. In that moment everything
fell away; anger, pain, sorrow, longing, the pull which had always existed
between them swelled to fill the void. Wilson knew he had tears in his
eyes and didn't care. House would tease him, telling him he was such a
girl, but the sheer feeling of relief could not be denied. He took a shaky
breath and pulled back enough to look at House and saw the unfamiliar
sheen of tears in his eyes as well. "I can't stand not being with you," he
said quietly. "You're all I want."

House lifted a hand to cup his cheek. "I - need - you," he said with husky
conviction. Wilson closed his eyes, a short, hysterical laugh breaking
free. So simple, why hadn't he understood sooner that it would be this
simple. He loved House, and House loved him. It had been there all along
since the day Stacy left, since the day they had clung to each other in
her wake, House with a grief so consuming it destroyed half his soul, and
he with a need so great it ruined everything he touched that wasn't House.
Wilson took a shaky breath and placed his hand over House's keeping it
pressed to his cheek. He felt House lean in against him, his weight
comforting and solid - real. Wilson didn't think he could move, the
emotional turmoil hitting him so suddenly it was all he could do not to
topple over. "You okay?" House asked.

"I'm suppose to be asking you that," Wilson pointed out. 

"I'm not the one shaking like a virgin's vibrator."

"Nice imagery." Wilson pulled away from House, sinking back down onto his
haunches, running one hand through his hair. He could feel himself
trembling and if he was feeling this shaky then House must be ready to
drop. "I'm a little tired."

"Yeah," House agreed. He sat back in his chair, limp, "me too."

"We should go to bed."

House opened one eye, his arch expression bringing a wan smile to Wilson's
face. "I don't put out on the first date."

"That's not what I heard," Wilson said, "besides this isn't our first
date. Our first was December 21, 1995."

"Ah, yes, you wore a gray shirt and jeans with a hole in the knee,' House
said. "It was your cool preppy look. Drove me wild, I was just using Stacy
as a cover."

"I knew it." They grinned at each other. Somehow, even after all the crap
they had put each other through, the bond between them never failed them.
It held. Marriages might end, families might dissolve, friends might drift
apart, but Wilson now knew he and House would grow old together. "Come on,
I'll put you to bed." He pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand to
House. He saw the momentary flash of irritation fade and House took the
offer of help getting to his feet. They made their way to the bedroom,
House leaning most of his weight on Wilson, limping more than usual.
Wilson had no idea how to move from friend to lover, or even if House
would welcome that change, but the mood between them shown with promise
and he knew that even if nothing came of the kiss he would be content. As
long as he and House were together, as long as he knew House was safe and
well, he would be happy and thankful.

"Uh, I'm not," House hesitated at the door to his bedroom, looking at the
floor, "I don't think I'm in any shape to - do anything."

Wilson, grinned, "I promised I won't jump you in your sleep." House
relaxed, moving to the side of the bed and sitting. "You really do look
rough, House." He set about stripping House of his shirt, a frown forming
on his face when he got sight of prominent ribs. "You've lost weight."
House shrugged noncommittally. Self abuse had never been one of House's
bad habits but since his illness his concern for himself seemed to have
disappeared entirely. He took too many drugs and most nights mixed them
with alcohol, a combination that often played havoc with his appetite.
House stayed on his feet for hours, causing muscle strain not just to his
damaged leg but his shoulders and back and that made him rely more pain
killers. He smoked, suffered from insomnia and rode a damn motorcycle.
Cuddy was right, House didn't know how not to hurt himself. The part of
Wilson that believed in destiny, fate and the will of the Gods, wondered
if this was the reason he'd met House. Was he the guardian, the protector
that this brilliant but destructive man needed. Without him would the
world be worse off because House couldn't take care of himself? 

"Stop staring, Jimmy," House murmured, "you'll give me a complex."

"As if that was possible," Wilson finished removing House's socks and
tucked the older man into bed. "Goodnight."

House caught his wrist. "I - you should sleep here." 

Wilson nodded, too tired to even pretend to be conflicted. He shucked his
clothes, careless of where they landed and crawled into bed. He liked the
soft encompassing feel of House' bed, it welcomed him. He rolled onto his
side, staring at House until the other man did the same. Face to face in
the dim room he felt complete. Life, he realized, was all about making
decisions; some hurt people and some helped and you never knew which were
right until you made them. But you couldn't make them for other people,
not if you loved them; they had to love you enough to make their own. He'd
tried to run House's life, he'd pushed when he should have guided and they
both had paid a price. Decisions and choices, he couldn't control House's
but he could control his own and he would live with the consequences.
Wilson closed the gap between them, breathing the air House expelled. "I
will always choose you," he said. There was a moment of confusion, clear
blue eyes clouding as House worked out the non sequitur and then he
smiled. Wilson basked in the knowledge he was probably the only person
besides House's mother to be gifted with a smile filled with that much
tenderness. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, glad that his decisions
had led to this moment even as fraught with pain as it had been, it had
been worth it. 

"I'll choose you too," House said.

  
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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 Fox Television, 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.