Archive of Our Own

House was in an unusually chipper mood as he entered Wilson's office, flinging the door open with a gratifying bang. His latest case had been solved and, more importantly, everyone knew it had been solved by his genius. Plus, it was almost lunchtime. He'd let Wilson buy him lunch, skive off clinic hours, and go home. Today was shaping up rather nicely.

Wilson didn't acknowledge him, instead captivated by the sonograms he held. "Guess how clever I was today," House demanded, settling himself down on the desk's edge. But Wilson continued to ignore him, which was not acceptable. House snatched the films from Wilson's hands and dodged out of reach before Wilson could make a counter-strike. House studied the sonograms and whistled appreciatively. "Somebody's got themselves an impressive mass." But there was nothing wildly interesting in that, nothing to demand that kind of interest from Wilson.

"It looks like a carcinoma," Wilson interjected, sounding edgy and tense. He wore the world-weary look he usually saved for the bleak prognosis of cute kids, but this was an adult's sonogram. Not a cancer kiddie, then. Hot chick, maybe.

"Well, you would know. I hope." House rolled his eyes expansively. "Cuddy would be pissed if she were paying you all that money and you were just guessing. No sign of cirrhosis. Hepatitis?" He considered the films again.

Wilson rubbed his eyes, hard enough that he must have seen spots, and House wondered just how tired Wilson really was. House had left the hospital first last night and had no idea when Wilson had finally gone home. "It was negative. The AFP level is elevated," Wilson added; he held up a lab printout in case House needed evidence. "Give me those, House. It's not a diagnostic mystery. I don't require your opinion." He held out a hand, waiting.

House obstinately continued his examination. "I just like giving it. Probably hepatocellular carcinoma then. Advanced. Going to die." He tossed the films back onto Wilson's desk and gave a dramatic yawn. "Boring."

Wilson collected them with exaggerated caution as if they were ancient vellum and not celluloid. "Liver cancer doesn't have to be a death sentence. Resection isn't possible, but there's still cryosurgery, radiofrequency ablation, ethanol injection, one of the clinical trials…"

House snorted derisively, tipping back in his chair trying to find the furthest he could go without toppling. "You know why they have so many treatments for liver cancer? Cause each one sucks worse than the last. Has it metastasized?" He wandered over to the window; the blinds were still closed, furthering the impression that Wilson had holed himself up. House opened them, sending light flooding into the room. They both blinked in the sudden brightness.

"The CT's already scheduled, I'll know then." Wilson slipped the films and papers neatly into a manila envelope and slid it into one of his desk drawers. There was tension in his shoulders, in itself not an unusual thing, but something about the rigidity seemed unsettling. And he wasn't meeting House's gaze. Something was up.

House took a seat in one of the chairs opposite the desk, leaning backward, balancing precariously on the chair's back feet, finding the tipping point where if he went any further he'd topple over backward. Wilson could only lie two ways. If he was prepared and committed to the falsehood, he could lie exceptionally well. If he was lying off the cuff or felt guilty, however, he was frighteningly abysmal and folded like a house of cards under the least pressure. This was suspiciously like Wilson's terrible lying behavior.

"Lemme see that file." House reached an insistent hand out for the file. Wilson refused, laying his arms on the edge of the desk in a vaguely protective gesture. He kept his eyes downcast, stubbornly studying his day planner.

House let the chair fall back into place with a resounding thump that reverberated darkly, making Wilson flinch. "Who's the patient?" he heard himself ask, his voice strangely distant.

Wilson traced the black smears of ink on his blotter as if they would arrange themselves into legible writing if he stared hard enough. Finally he sighed, a sound of mixed resignation and exhaustion. "Me, actually."

For a long moment neither of them moved, House staring at Wilson and Wilson staring at his desk. Eventually House looked away, glance wandering to the door. He wished his leg was still up to running. "Didn't know you liked cancer so much that you were getting one of your very own." He beat out a muted tattoo on the carpeted floor with his cane.

Wilson looked at him finally and shrugged. "Well, it just looked like so much fun." The tremor in his voice undermined his ironic tone.

House swallowed with a little difficulty. "How long have you known?"

"Since now, really. Just got back the results today. I'd been having some nausea, a little fever." He gave a little 'and here we are' shrug and ran a hand through his hair, his expression bleak and disbelieving. "I just thought it was stress. My stomach hurt; I figured ulcers, maybe. I almost didn't run the blood test. But I had an uncle who died of liver cancer and, you know me, I worry. Good thing, I guess."  He didn't sound too grateful.

"Your uncle was an old drunk." House slid lower in his chair and gave the ceiling tile careful consideration. "What time's the CT?"

"Ten tomorrow." Wilson straightened some of the papers scattered across his desk.

"Tomorrow?" House rolled his eyes. "Why not next month? Or hell, just put it off long enough and you won't need it any more."

Even without looking at Wilson, House could feel the glare. "One day is not putting it off." He sounded defensive, as if explaining why he was being so irresponsible. "It was the earliest they could get me in."

House stood abruptly. "Screw that. Meet me down there in a half hour. I've got something to do first."

"House! It doesn't matter," Wilson protested, but he was standing, following, which meant he was already planning on letting House have his way. "There have been people waiting for this machine…"

"They can wait a little longer. I don't want to spend the rest of the day watching you sit and obsess. You worry like most people breathe."

It wasn't much of a challenge getting Wilson in; the scheduling nurse was new and absolutely terrified of him. Plus, he was privy to some knowledge she was rather keen to keep quiet. Well, actually, he wasn't, but she thought he was after he made a few vague insinuations. Everybody had a skeleton in their closet.

Wilson looked especially ridiculous in the hospital gown, with his pasty legs and girly toes. "Don't. Don't even," he warned, when he caught House staring at him.

"Did I say anything?" House pressed a hand dramatically to his chest.

"You were thinking it," Wilson grimaced.

"I can't be held responsible for that," House finished smoothly, ushering Wilson into the chamber with the CT machine. "'K, you know the drill. Let's fire this puppy up." Wilson climbed onto the table, smoothing out the hospital gown nervously, like it mattered whether the fugly thing got wrinkled. "Catch you on the flipside," House said with a mock salute.

He went to wait on the other side of the glass, drumming his fingers against the table top, impatient for the scans to appear. "Fuck," House swore under his breath when they finally did, looking at pernicious white blurs invading Wilson's liver. "Fuck."

"House?" Wilson's voice was thin and reedy over the speaker. "What do you see?" House stared at the computer screen, willing the image to change, for the ghostly shadows to be a machine malfunction. "House? If you're ignoring me, it can't be good."

House held his breath a moment, steadying his voice before punching the intercom button. "There are no metastases." He felt selfish for being glad that there was glass and a CT machine between them.

"But?" And even in one word, House heard the fear and dread in Wilson's voice.

"You'll want to look at this for sure. But it's pretty substantial."

"Oh," Wilson breathed. "Damn."

Wilson's face was grim but composed when he looked over the slides for himself. "Yeah. You're right. Looks like hepatocellular carcinoma. Nearly seven centimeters and the size and placement make resection impossible. Transplantation would be tricky, but possible." Wilson sounded calm and coolly professional; he always had been a master of compartmentalization.

"Are you…" House started, but then realized he didn't actually know what he was asking, so he trailed off, letting Wilson make whatever he wanted of it.

"Yeah, I am, I think," Wilson answered, though House wasn't sure how to interpret it. "It's funny. Being an oncologist makes you take precautions. I don't smoke, I always wear sunscreen. I even drink pomegranate juice." He frowned helplessly. "But it didn't matter."

"That's called irony," House observed dryly.

"You want irony?" Wilson's expression was wry. "How about the irony that it was my liver that gave out first? I've got an appointment with a patient," he said, checking his watch and half turning. He paused. "House? Thanks."

"For…?" House wondered what he'd done to deserve thanks and if he should demand ten dollars from Wilson.

Wilson shifted uncomfortably. "The CT. You gossip less than the technicians. Surprisingly. And I'd really appreciate it if people found out on my terms."

House nodded. "I'm known for my ability to withstand torture--years of practice with Cuddy. Nothing shall pass these lips." Wilson rolled his eyes and nearly smiled, but then it was gone. "When can you do the biopsy?" House called before he could make his escape.

Wilson stopped and looked at him dubiously. "A biopsy isn't really necessary."

"Just to be sure. It might be fibrolamellar. It's more likely considering your age and health."

Wilson sighed, but considered briefly and nodded. "HCC's kinder cousin. Unlikely with an elevated AFP level. But maybe." Neither of them thought there was much of a chance that it was, but both of them were looking for reasons to hope.

They waited until most of the staff had gone home, the daytime bustle of the hospital dying to a murmur as everyone who could leave did. House did the biopsy with guidance from Wilson. He suggested bringing in another member of the staff, one with whom Wilson didn't have to deal, but Wilson was adamant. The removed tissue was sent to a peevish Chase, with instructions to test it and to leave it off the record. House took Wilson home himself and got him to bed without too much trouble, trying not to think of what Cuddy would say if she knew he'd moved Wilson so soon after an illicit liver biopsy.

He sat a glass of water and bottle of painkillers on the bedside table. Wilson was already dozing, so House took a chair to sit by the window and wait. It was after ten; he would have been able to see the stars, but the light pollution of the city easily snuffed them out. He was debating whether to raid Wilson's liquor cabinet when Chase called; he answered his cell on the first ring.

"And?" House prompted.

"Definitely hepatocellular carcinoma." Chase sounded vaguely annoyed, but House didn't really care what date Chase had canceled. He'd told himself not to hope, that the diagnosis was definite and they were just doing the biopsy in case, but Chase's words hit him like a blow to the solar plexus.

"You sure?" he asked automatically.

"No." Chase was sarcastic. "I'm just guessing."

House bit back the stinging retort--no need to let Chase know he'd hit a nerve--and instead said, "Wouldn't put it past you" and ended the call, shutting his phone in disgust and slipping it back in his pocket.

"Who was that?" Wilson's voice startled him and he turned.

"Chase, with the results." Wilson didn't bother asking, just waited expectantly. House swallowed, trying to wet his throat. "HCC." Wilson was looking toward him, but not exactly at him, seeming to stare at a fixed point beyond House. He shook himself a little and lay back, adjusting the pillow beneath his head.

"I need to get on the transplant list, then." It was an idle, detached observation.

"You already are," House said after a slight hesitation. Wilson propped himself up on an elbow, eyebrow raised questioningly. "I submitted you today, before the CT. In case."

"Ah." Wilson considered a moment. "Suddenly you're all about contingencies." He gave House a meaningful look.

House shrugged. "Sometimes I am."

"What did Cuddy say?" Wilson asked, concerned.

"Not much." That was an outright lie. Cuddy had grilled him, but he hadn't told her much, so it came down to the same thing. "That you're on the list."

"Behind how many others?" Wilson waved a hand dismissively. "Don't answer that. It was rhetorical." He paused. "Do your fellows know?"

House looked out the window at the night sky, but with the street lamp's glare he could barely make out a waning moon. "Nope. Chase ran the biopsy. He's the one dumb enough not to figure out what's up and smart enough not to ask questions. They'll find out sooner or later, though."

"I know." Wilson's voice sounded strained, close to snapping. "I just want a little more time."

"Sure," House readily agreed. "Whatever you want."

"I just can't stand the thought of their expressions," Wilson started to explain as though House had argued with him. "Not now. Not yet." He was almost plaintive.

House rubbed at a dirty spot on the window pane and then realized that the dirt was on the outside and the oil from his fingers had just made the glass grimier. "So what are you going to do?"

"Uh. Still trying to adjust, actually," Wilson sniped. He reached over and grabbed the bottle of pills, downing a couple and then finishing the glass of water. He took a breath and held it and then continued in a calmer voice. "There are a couple of treatments to consider. Cryosurgery--"

"Useless," House interrupted.

Wilson looked at him sharply and tried again. "Ethanol injection."

"More useless."

"Chemo."

"Worse than useless."

"House!" Wilson finally snapped. "Little support here? They don't have to be great; they just have to keep me alive long enough to find a new liver." He threw an arm over his face. Always the drama queen. "Shit." The expletive was more exhausted than emphatic.

House collected his cane and rose. "You should sleep," he told Wilson, who didn't move or otherwise react. House left, with a last glance over his shoulder at Wilson's prone form.

* * * * *

House spent the next day corralled into clinic duty. It was a good thing he could go through the motions blindfolded with one arm tied behind his back. Flu, sprain, infection, flu, cold, cold. He tried to catch Wilson for lunch, but Wilson had managed to completely fill his schedule and House could barely see him in the halls between staff meetings and appointments. He managed to escape after work too. House called two or three or six times that evening, but his calls were all put over to voicemail.

During the course of their friendship, Wilson had spent a lot of time avoiding House. As such, House had long ago learned the many levels and nuances of being avoided by Jimmy Wilson. There was the eye roll and walk in the other direction when he saw House coming. That was for the everyday annoyances. Then there was the slightly more involved "Sorry, can't hang out, I'm going to wash my hair." That was used for greater insults and whenever House was truly obnoxious. House could usually get around that with minimal whining. Greater levels of avoidance were occasionally implemented and entailed Wilson filling his schedule and walking the long way to the bathroom to avoid passing House's office. The last time he'd done that was when House had 'accidentally' let Wilson's second wife, Linda, know that Wilson wasn't with him and implied he was with his mistress instead. Wilson hadn't been, that time, but the effect was much the same. That had been the highest level of avoidance for nearly two weeks, until House had broken into his office and ambushed him.

This was probably a level-three avoidance level. House's call for consults went largely ignored, and when Wilson did answer, his replies were brief and to the point. House found himself eating alone, since Wilson had either locked himself in his office to work through lunch or was in a meeting. They exchanged pleasantries--or not so pleasantries--when they passed in the corridors, but Wilson always had somewhere else he really needed to be and refused to make eye contact.

But House could actually be a very patient man when he wanted to be, and Wilson could only play hard to get for so long. House finally intercepted him in the lobby a week and a half later. "And where are you off to? Sneaking out of work again?" he called loudly, patients and staff alike turning to stare first at him and then at the escaping Wilson. "Probably smart to use another door, though."

"I've got an appointment," Wilson replied, stopping and turning to face House. "At Princeton General." He gave House a significant look, the kind that warned House he'd best be careful or risk Wilson's wrath.

Wilson's wrath was something House had long lost any respect for. "No wonder you're being sneaky--what kind of a message does that send?" Wilson realized there was no way that he'd come out ahead in this confrontation and wheeled quickly about, heading for the door again, but House followed stubbornly. "The Head of Oncology getting treatment at another hospital?" He caught Wilson's elbow, stopping him just outside the building.

Wilson scowled and shook him off. "I didn't think it would be right to ask my coworkers to treat me. It would just be too hard for them." He hesitated. "And me. Dr. Abbott is very good. She ran a trial on the benefits of radiofrequency ablation a few years back."

House met Wilson's gaze briefly, then glanced away. "Come on," he pulled him in the opposite direction. "I'll give you a ride. Unless you want to keep avoiding me. "It was a challenge and House thought Wilson might argue, but then he just sighed.

"A ride? On the bike?" Wilson was clearly dubious.

"Unless you'd prefer piggy-back. But I don't think the leg would hold. So the bike it is." House tugged a bit more insistently when Wilson resisted.

But Wilson shook his head vehemently. "No way. You can come. You can even drive, but there is no way I am getting on that motorcycle." He was resolute, judging by the set of his hands on his hips.

"Fine." House held out his hand for the keys. For a moment Wilson just looked at him, and House thought he was going to renege, but then he glanced momentarily heavenward and tossed them over.

It was strange how different and the same Princeton General was. It had the same disinfectant and bad cafeteria food smell as PPTH, the same noise of nurses and patients, but the layout was different, the nurses unfamiliar. Their eyes slid over him; he was just another confused family member. The tile was an aged gray color, and for the first time, House appreciated PPTH's overabundance of glass. Here he felt claustrophobic, closed in by all the dingy neutral-colored walls. And the florescent lighting wasn't doing anything for his complexion. Or Wilson's, who looked washed out and ill. Or maybe that was the cancer.

"You sit down. I'll sign in," Wilson said. "We're a little early."

Dr. Abbott saw them almost immediately, and House privately wondered if that was out of respect or if the woman really was that efficient. He was inclined to think the latter when he met her. She was pretty much exactly what he guessed Cameron would be in another thirty years.

They exchanged the most banal of pleasantries; Wilson thanked her for seeing him a little too enthusiastically and then turned to House. "Dr. Abbott, this is Dr. House. He's just here for, uh, moral support." House debated whether to insert a comment about the other kinds of support he could be supplying, but Wilson's smile was brittle glass and House satisfied himself with a curt nod.

Dr. Abbott gave him a long, considering look, but he couldn't guess what her conclusion was. "Ah. Well, please, take a seat, doctors." House threw himself down on the couch she indicated, wondering if there was a section in the Oncologists' Code about office design. She could have stolen the low leather couch, dark maple desk, and tacky patient gifts from Wilson's office.

"I've had a chance to look over your file, Dr. Wilson," she started cautiously, "but I'm not exactly sure what you'd like me to do."

Wilson took a seat next to House on the couch. Though he looked calm, House could tell by the rigid way he held himself, the stiffness in his shoulders, that he was anything but. "I just want a second opinion, I guess. I know things aren't exactly…optimal with my case," Wilson began, "but I thought there might be a clinical trial or something. Besides the cancer, I'm in excellent health." That seemed like a slightly ridiculous thing to say but House bit his tongue and refrained from pointing it out.

Dr. Abbott frowned apologetically. "Unfortunately, I don't have any current trials that you would meet the criteria for. There may be some treatments aimed at palliative care that we could look at."

"Palliative care?" House exploded. Both Wilson and Dr. Abbott turned to him, the former looking pissed and the latter surprised. He continued angrily, "I know, why don't you just take him out back and shoot him? That would be even easier." Standing, he paced tensely in the confined space of the room. Dr. Abbott flinched, clearly intimidated by House's tirade.

"House," Wilson warned. Their eyes met for a moment and House looked away.

"I assure you, everything will be done to help Dr. Wilson." She glanced between the two of them, unsure where to direct her attention. "But most curative treatments have been ruled out by the extent of the tumor. If it responds to chemo, surgery may become possible. A clinical trial may open up. Right now we need to focus on taking it a day at a time." She held the folder in front of her defensively, as if to protect herself from House's wrath.

"What is this? A courtesy call?" House snarled. "I've always admired your work, but now you're just fucked?"

"House!" Now Wilson was truly angry, eyebrows even lower over nearly black eyes. "If you can't keep quiet, then leave."

"I'm not going to sit here and let this quack tell you to get your affairs in order," House snapped, throwing a vicious look in Dr. Abbott's direction.

"I assure you, that is not--" Dr. Abbott tried, a bit helplessly.

"Don't bother," Wilson interrupted, and then clarified. "He's not mad at you; he's mad at me."

"Why would--?" she started, confused.

"An oncologist who can't even catch his own cancer?" This time it was House who cut her off. "That's not going to look too good on your record. Hardly inspires confidence."

Dr. Abbott, apparently still unaware that this wasn't her argument, held up a hand in a calming gesture. "Liver cancer usually has no symptoms until it is advanced. And Dr. Wilson has none of the risk factors--" she kept her voice irritatingly soothing.

"I know!" they said in unison, then turned back to each other in surprise.

"We'll talk about this later," Wilson directed at House. "Go wait outside."

House returned the glare for a moment, and then stood stiffly. He'd go, but he would not be gracious. "Really, it'd just be easier to do a Kevorkian now--save us all the time. Well, except Wilson," he shot from the door, shutting it behind him before Dr. Abbott could reply or he could see the look on Wilson's face.

He sat in the waiting room, flipping through a Reader's Digest circa 1998, and glowered. Glowering was more effort than most people thought. There were the heavy sighs, the exasperated fidgeting, the scanning the room and staring down anyone who had the gall to look him in the eye. He'd perfected the art sitting outside the principal's office in high school. The feeling was much the same, actually, only now instead of adolescent rage he had nothing but guilt and overwhelming dread.

Wilson collected him a half hour later, leaving House to trail after him as he left the hospital. Wilson drove on the way back, maintaining a stony silence except for a short "Put on your seatbelt."

"What are you going to do?" House finally asked, unable to take the silent treatment Wilson was so carefully applying.

Wilson took a long moment before replying. "Chemoembolization. I'm in good enough shape to take it. With 5FU and cisplatin, as well." House made a face to show what he thought of that plan. "If you have any other ideas, I'd love to hear them." Wilson's voice caught and his knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel.

Reluctantly House replied, "No," feeling the utter defeat in the word. "But there's got to be something."

"Right," Wilson quickly agreed, "the power of positive thinking. I know you're a big fan."

"You're certainly giving me a run for my money right now." House used his thumbnail to scrape at a smear of mustard on his jeans, left over from lunch.

Wilson was specifically not looking at him, and House couldn't try his normal attention-getting tactics for fear of causing an accident. Wilson cleared his throat. "I've already scheduled the chemoembolization."

"At Princeton General?" The question was seemingly neutral, but Wilson still caught the subtext behind it.

"Would you want your team treating you?" Wilson glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, smiling wryly.

"An excellent point," House conceded, spitting on his fingers and working on the mustard with more enthusiasm. "You're going to have to take off for the treatments."

Wilson shifted his grip on the steering wheel and checked the rearview mirror. "If I plan the treatments carefully, I shouldn't have to take too much time off for a while."

"Yeah, I see that going well. Don't worry," House assured him. "I'll cover for you. I'm already working on some elaborate cover stories--something with hookers and Columbian cocaine."

* * * * *

House had managed to ignore Cuddy's first dozen pages, but now they were into the teens and House knew the next step would be for her to send someone, or worse, come for him herself. He reluctantly levered himself to his feet and made his way toward her office. He'd delayed enough to make his point, and it would be better if he showed up unescorted. Cuddy was on the phone when he entered her office, phone held between her shoulder and ear as she sorted through the files scattered across her desk. He debated whether to reach over and end the call, since she was so desperate to talk to him, but resisted the impulse. Instead, he took a seat in one of the chairs across from her desk, propping his feet up.

She shot him a dirty look and hurriedly brought her call to a close. "Well?" she demanded, setting the phone down hard.

House considered, screwing his face into an exaggerated expression. "Well, what?"

Cuddy stood abruptly and House thought for a minute that she was going to come around the desk and hurt him, but instead she gathered the files, angrily filing them into her desk drawers. "I put Wilson on the transplant list, upon your demand; you don't think that deserves an explanation? Or does Wilson just feel like a new liver because he's redecorating and the old one doesn't match his curtains?"

"He's just got a lot of fava beans and a great recipe."

"House." She set her palms on the desk, leaning forward, which gave him a better view down her blouse than she probably realized.

"He hasn't told you?" he hedged. It was clear from her expression that she had no idea what was going on and was more than a little concerned.

"No. In fact, I'm really beginning to wonder if this is some kind of sick prank." Her head tilted to the side as she studied him, looking for evidence that yes, he was that sick a puppy.

"Yeah. This is my idea of a good time." House let his feet drop to the floor with a thump.

She threw up her hands in exasperation. "How should I know? House, either tell me now or I'm taking him off the list."

"No," he started, bracing his elbows on his knees. "You wouldn't risk his life to call my bluff."

"Want to try me?" she challenged.

House closed his eyes briefly, but unfortunately Cuddy was still there when he opened them again. "He needs the liver."

"Why?!"

"Because his current one is cancer riddled, that's why," he burst out, annoyed. "And it doesn't go with the new curtains."

"Oh God, you can't be serious," Cuddy gasped, jaw dropping as she fumbled for the right thing to say, still unsure if he was just playing her, hoping that he was.

"Yeah, they're kind of a green color and it just clashes--" He gestured vaguely as if sketching ugly drapes.

"House." The color had drained from her face.

"Yes. Stage three." He traced a scrape in the wood of his cane with a fingernail.

She sank down, barely catching herself with the chair. "God," she repeated. Worry tended to bring out the blasphemy in her.

"Don't bother. It's not like he's listening."

"Why hasn't he told me?" was her next question, her eyes growing suspiciously damp. He hoped she wouldn't cry.

"It's not always about you," he reminded her. "It's about me." He shrugged. "He didn't want to burden you, or he doesn't want to talk about it. Maybe he just forgot. I don't know."

"Should I--"

"No."

"But I could--"

"Still no. Just let him do it on his own time." She met his eyes and nodded slowly. "Just keep on as normal."

"Like you know what normal is," she snapped, the snark autopilot taking over.

"Right. Am I excused, now? Or do you want to go over this further?" She opened her mouth and he realized his mistake--he shouldn't have given her the option of saying yes. "Because I sure don't." He rose, bracing both hands on his cane.

She grimaced and nodded again. "All right. But you can talk--" He didn't hear the rest of her offer, already outside with the door shut behind him.

* * * * *

House shifted impatiently on the thinly cushioned waiting-room chair; he was really, really beginning to hate Princeton General. It was ugly; the architect should be shot for his crimes against humanity. And its furniture could serve as implements of torture if you ran out of racks. His hand ached and he looked down to see that he was gripping his cane so hard that his knuckles were white and his fingernails were digging into his palm. With a conscious effort, he relaxed his grip. Wilson looked a lot better than House felt; though his face was grim, he seemed calmer, resigned as he read a novel that was probably off Oprah's book club. He wore the same sort of expression he used at the post office when the queue wound its way through the maze of roped line.

House wiggled a little more, stealing the armrest. "Are you sure you don't want this done at--"

"No," Wilson said calmly but firmly, before House could finish with "Princeton-Plainsboro instead?" They'd already had this discussion--three times, actually--a week ago, last night, and finally in the car on the way over. House wanted Wilson to get the chemoembolization at PPTH, where he could keep a better eye on him, where he knew all the staff and, more important, how to manipulate them. But Wilson was adamant about not letting his treatment interfere with work. At least that's what he said. House had the vague suspicion that his ulterior motive was to keep House from having the home court advantage.

House leaned in further and tried again. "I just think that--"

"Don't care," Wilson interrupted, licking his index finger and turning the page. At this proximity House could pick out the silver threaded through Wilson's dark blue tie; only Wilson would dress up to go to the hospital.

"Why here? I've got a friend who says he can do it for half the price behind the Seven-Eleven," House snapped, having lost the argument, but unwilling to be gracious about it.

A nurse called Wilson's name, and they both looked up. "The doctors are very good here, House," Wilson replied mildly, standing to speak with the nurse, who gave him a clipboard of paperwork to fill out. "You're just annoyed you can't boss them around."

"That is so not it," House protested. Wilson ignored him, concentrating instead on the forms. "You know, they're not actually trying to get you with the fine print. You don't have to read it."

"Do you usually sign things without reading them?" House could hear a lecture coming on and headed it off at the pass by grabbing the clipboard and pen from Wilson's hands. "Hey!"

"They're not going to be able to read your left-handed chicken scratch," he explained, setting the clipboard against his knee. "Did you know that the Latin for left is also a word for evil and ill-omened?"

Leaning over his shoulder, Wilson watched as House filled out the information form. "Interesting. Does 'right' mean meddling and self-involved? Uh," Wilson paused, looking a little unsettled. "I have to say, it's a little bit creepy that you know my social security number."

"What? You don't know mine?" House feigned an innocently surprised expression.

With a grimace that was actually more smile, Wilson answered, "Actually, no. I barely know my own."

House waved the pen around under Wilson's nose. "See? This is why it's good I do these things for you. I'm such a good friend."

"So good, in fact, that you're putting yourself down as one of the people allowed access to my medical files," Wilson observed wryly.

"Only because I care," House assured him.

"Caring, nosy." Wilson held up his hands as though weighing the two words.

"Po-ta-to, pah-tah-to," House shrugged.

"And since when is your relationship to me 'sworn blood brother'?" Wilson asked, still reading over his shoulder.

House sniffed deliberatively. "I thought it had a nice ring to it. I can put that you're my love-slave if you prefer."

"Blood brothers it is, then!" Wilson chirped brightly.

Suddenly House's beeper went off, startling them both. He fished it out of his jacket pocket and checked the display briefly before returning to the medical form.

"And that was…?" Wilson prompted after House failed to volunteer.

House gave a half-shrug of utter indifference. "Cameron."

"Emergency?" Wilson guessed, his expression knowing.

Why the hell did the hospital need to ask the same damn question on three different forms? It was staggeringly inefficient; he sighed and answered it anyway. "Only a very small one. Is your mother's birthday May 5th or 15th?"

"If it was very small she wouldn't have paged you," Wilson replied, ignoring the deflection. "You do realize you have patients? A patient, at least. Who isn't me."

"Next you'll be saying I'm a doctor or something." House scowled, casting a dark look in the direction of a young woman who was regarding them with open interest. She realized he'd noticed her and picked up a magazine.

"Cuddy will be mad if you neglect your duties because of me," Wilson reminded him unnecessarily.

"As opposed to neglecting them because I want to?"

"House." Wilson's eyes narrowed, eyebrows nearly meeting.

"That's my name; don't wear it out."

"House," Wilson said, more insistently.

House gave him a petulant look. "You're wearing it out."

Wilson pointed at the door. "You hate sitting around in waiting rooms. Go do your job." House hesitated, but Wilson caught his moment of weakness. "Really. Go, now. Or I'll start telling you about reaching self-actualization." House got up so fast he nearly overbalanced.

"You sure?" he asked one last time, unsure if he wanted permission to go or to stay.

Wilson nodded firmly. "Go harass your patient instead of me. Fix whatever's wrong with him." Reluctantly handing the clipboard over, House studied the lines of Wilson's face and wondered how he could be so calm.

"Maybe he likes bleeding rectally; who are we to judge?" He poked Wilson's thigh with the end of his cane. "I'll be back this evening." Wilson opened his mouth to offer some kind of inane protest, but House poked him again, harder, and he shut up. House turned and left, wishing his patient would just die already and quit wasting his time.

It was much later that evening when House managed to leave the patient who apparently didn't enjoy bleeding from every orifice. Wilson was groggy but awake when House arrived. He actually looked pretty good for someone who'd had a catheter threaded up their femoral artery to pump their liver full of poison, and House said as much.

Wilson grinned. "Thanks. I've lost some weight, too." House pulled up a chair to the edge of Wilson's bed, propping his feet up on the edge, his sneakers streaking the off-white bedspread with grime. At least that was something to break up the pervasive beige of Wilson's hospital room. Beige tile, beige curtains, beige bedside table.

"Is that a sandbag in your lap or are you just happy to see me?" House asked, eyeing the weighty bag now compressing Wilson's femoral artery.

Wilson's eyebrows waggled suggestively. "Oh baby. You wanna check my incision?"

House laughed and moved closer. "Actually…" he started, but Wilson caught his hand as he reached for the blanket.

"It's fine," Wilson told him firmly, squeezing his wrist a little in warning, ready to put up a fight. "I don't care if they cut me open with a switchblade; I am not letting you inspect my groin." He was adamant, but also in a weakened condition. House considered risking the struggle and, by Wilson's rather alarmed expression, his speculation was evident.

House withdrew the hand--better to strike when Wilson was unsuspecting. "Relax. Your virtue is safe." He scooted his chair to the foot of the bed, reaching under the covers. Wilson started squirming nervously, clearly not liking where this was going. "Stop," House snapped. "I'm just checking your pulse." He groped for the pulse in Wilson's foot and Wilson flinched again. "What?" House demanded in exasperation.

Dipping his head sheepishly, Wilson mumbled, "Tickles." House rolled his eyes and tried again, this time finding it. A little quick, perhaps, but still strong and even.

"I guess these bunglers haven't actually managed to block your femoral artery," he grudgingly pronounced.

"Well, I asked them not to," Wilson assured him, with wide-eyed innocence. Snatching the chart from the foot of the bed, House examined it.

"Temperature's a little elevated."

"Which is normal."

Dropping his messenger bag on the bed, House rummaged around until he found what he was looking for. "Here." He held up the thermometer in triumph.

"You've got to be kidding. They took my temperature an hour ago."

House was undeterred, holding up the thermometer for Wilson to take. "That was an hour ago. It may have risen." Or the nurse could have read it wrong. "So open up." Wilson stared at him a moment, and then gave a long-suffering sigh, taking the thermometer from House. He placed it carefully under his tongue, still managing to keep his put-upon expression.

"'Appy?" Wilson demanded around the thermometer.

"Ecstatic," House replied, looking through his bag again. He produced a bag of Doritos and several magazines, arranging them carefully on the bed. He handed one to Wilson, who glanced at it and threw it back at him. "What? I thought you were a fan of Better Homes and Gardens. You can't have Playboy--far too stimulating for a man in your condition." He tucked the mag under his elbow. "Here. How about Monster Truck Monthly?"

The thermometer beeped and Wilson checked it. "It's no higher." He took the truck magazine from House. "They're really only interesting when they're actually running over something."

House was too involved in his Playboy to answer Wilson's complaint.

* * * * *

Apparently Wilson hadn't changed his locks like he frequently threatened to, because House's extra key still opened the door of Wilson's apartment. He found Wilson on the couch writing something down on a file, early morning sunshine just starting to come in through the windows. He glanced up at House's entrance, unsurprised to see him.

"You're up early," House said.

"I could say the same." Wilson glanced at the VCR clock. "I never thought I'd see the day Gregory House got up before ten--and, here, it's not even eight."

"Impressive, no?" He dropped the square cardboard carton he'd been carrying on the coffee table with an audible thump. "I even brought bagels. Chopped onion, your favorite."

"Your favorite, actually."

"Oh…I get points for trying."

"Sure you do." Wilson toyed with the edge of the blanket draped across his knees. "It was a really nice thought. Afraid I'm not that hungry, though."

"Nauseous?" House noted the wastebasket sitting close to the end of the couch--an emergency vomit receptacle standing by.

"Yeah. Exhausted too, but every time I try to sleep I'm sure I'm going to hurl, and even when I do fall asleep, that's when the meds wear off." Wilson let his head loll back against the couch, eyes closing, as even that speech was pushing the bounds of his endurance. Even in the dim light of Wilson's living room, House could detect the shadows lingering under his eyes. He turned abruptly and made his way into the kitchen, getting out a couple of tumblers and filling them; he returned and handed one to Wilson.

"First drink of the day." He shook his head in shame. "We're hard-drinking men."

"This is ginger ale," Wilson pointed out.

"Shut up or you'll ruin our image." Wilson looked as though he was about to point out that they didn't have much of an image to ruin, but then he just took an obedient sip and set his glass aside. Motioning for Wilson to move his sock-clad feet, House took a seat, retrieving first the remote and then a bagel. He turned on the TV, ignoring Wilson's annoyed look, and settled on a favorite channel.

"I cannot believe you still watch--oh hey, Sponge Bob." Wilson focused. "No, no, no, I'm trying to work." He held up the file to attest to his efforts.

House considered it a moment before reaching over, plucking it from Wilson's hands, and tossing the confiscated file across the room. "You're too sick to work--you'll just end up puking all over it," he said reasonably. "And I don't think a pineapple is a very reasonable housing choice."

Wilson sighed. "Yes, because that's the most illogical thing about this show." They watched the rest of the episode in silence, House finishing his bagel and Wilson nursing his ginger ale wearing an uncertain look. House stood as the credits rolled.

"I should mosey on. Make sure my minions don't run amok."

"And if they are," Wilson said dryly, "how would that be different from usual?"

"That's a good point. Maybe I should stay here--they can handle it."

Wilson waved him off. "No, go on. You wouldn't want them getting delusions of grandeur."

House nodded. "Do you have your phone?"

Wilson considered. "Uh. It's in my coat pocket--in the bedroom." House got it and set it on the coffee table next to Wilson's still nearly full glass.

"If anything happens, anything at all, don't hesitate to call Cameron. Okay?"

"Thanks, that's sweet of you."

* * * * *

Work was hell. Which had always been House's opinion, but now he realized that he had been wrong in his previous assessments because the hell that work had been was nothing in comparison to the hell that work was now. As much as he tried to keep his mind on the case as hand, his attention kept wandering. He looked at the patient's file and saw Wilson's stats. During the differential, his mind kept tripping over different drugs, treatments, side effects, and possible complications. He came up with elaborate scenarios--best case occasionally, more usually worst case. He'd play them out in his head, moves and moves ahead, like chess, already able to see the way the game would play out.

Cameron caught on to his distraction, giving him sidelong worried looks, chewing on her lower lip. Foreman and Chase either didn't notice or didn't care about their boss's preoccupation, allowing him to retreat to his office and draw the blinds without comment. But Cameron kept popping in with questions about the patient's diagnosis, treatment, and then, on this latest interruption, about House's own well-being.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she repeated.

"No, I'm hurting and was really hoping we could talk about the intimate details of my inner pain but didn't know how to approach you. Thanks so much for taking it upon yourself to interfere."

She was taken aback by his caustic tone. "It's just that--"

"If you have something to say about the patient, say it; otherwise, get out."

She retreated to the conference room, where Foreman and Chase were hanging out, eager to keep a low profile. "He bit my head off," he heard her announce, clearly working on the principle that since she couldn't see him, he couldn't hear her. None of the fellows seemed to appreciate just how well the acoustics amplified their voices in his office. Glass wasn't exactly soundproof, which was as useful as it was annoying.

"Don't know why you're surprised," Chase answered unsympathetically.

"I was just trying to help," she protested, aggrieved.

"Your first mistake," Foreman intoned. "Who knows why he's in such a crap mood. Maybe it's his leg, maybe it's his tortured soul, or maybe he's just an asshole. Take your pick."

"If you really want to know what's up, ask Wilson," Chase advised. "Where is Wilson anyway?" House rose at this, uninterested in hearing their theories about Wilson's absence, and stalked out onto the balcony. He retrieved his cell from his pocket and flipped it open. He didn't have to scroll through his contacts since Wilson's number was the first. He hit 'call' and listened to the dial tone, picking at a crack in the railing absently. After eight and a half rings, it went over to voicemail and House hung up. Forearms braced on the wall, he looked out into the courtyard below. House knew that, statistically, many of the people below had lives that sucked way worse than his. Hell, most of the people in the world were miserable. But right at this moment, he couldn't help but believe he was the most wretched being ever to live. House jumped, startled by his phone's own ring.

"Hey," Wilson said, sounding breathy, as if he'd rushed to get to the phone.

"Hey, yourself," House answered back. He heard Wilson swallow and take a deep breath. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Wilson said, sounding anything but. "Sorry I didn't answer earlier; I was a little busy."

"Antiemetics not working?"

"Not as much as one would hope." House opened his mouth, but Wilson forged on. "How's the case?"

"Well, you know. The patient was dead this morning. But he's better now."

"That's good." Wilson would have used the same tone to respond to an observation about the weather. "Do you need anything else?"

House wracked his brain but came up with nothing, not even a plausible lie. "No," he answered reluctantly

"Then I'm going to let you go. All right?"

"Yeah. I'll talk to you later."

* * * * *

"What's going on with Wilson?" Chase's comment was technically directed at Foreman, but well within House's hearing. It was as good an opening as any. "I caught him throwing up in the men's room for the second day in a row."

"Chemo, actually…" House replied, still looking over the latest patient file.

"Chemo?" Chase barked in surprise. The other two fellows turned to him, Cameron's eyes even more saucer-like than usual.

"Yeah. It's short for chemotherapy, along with chemoembolization as well--"

"What kind of cancer?" Cameron interrupted.

"Liver." House splayed his fingers against the glass tabletop. "But what do our patient's symptoms tell us? I don't actually keep you guys around for my health. Start pulling your weight."

But Cameron had clearly fixated on this. "Oh God, what stage?"

He grimaced. "Threeish. But you have your very own patient to focus on." He waved the blue patient file in front of her. "Oooo, shiny!"

Cameron laid a gentle hand on his wrist. "House, I'm sorry. I know this must be very hard for you."

House looked from the slender fingers to her face and back again until she got the picture and let go of him. "Actually, it's a lot harder on Wilson." He rolled his eyes. "He's always bitching and moaning about the chemo."

"It's all right to be worried about your friend," Cameron assured him with that plaintively earnest expression of hers, as if he wanted her assurance.

House gritted his teeth. "Wow, so glad to have you around to tell me that. How very, very useful." He paused and gave her the darkest look possible. "He's between wives, if you want to be the last. I know you have a thing for tumors." It floored him that she still managed to look surprised at his callousness.

"How's he doing?" This time it was Foreman who interjected, though his expression was mild interest instead of concern.

"DDX, people!" House bellowed, and they all flinched rather satisfyingly. "You can grill Wilson later. On your own time." They finally let him steer the conversation back to the patient, but Cameron and Chase kept giving him sidelong glances. Foreman looked bored. House threw out a couple of possibilities and dismissed them to run tests.

He ran into Cameron that afternoon, exiting Wilson's office. He'd sent her to run some blood work, but apparently she'd found some time to stop in and visit as well.

"Cameron!" She jumped as he called her name. He jerked his head, indicating she should follow him. She looked surprised and possibly just the least bit guilty, but followed him quickly back to his office. He shut the door behind them and drew the shades. "What was your business with Wilson? Asking him on a date already?"

"No," she said, meeting his eyes with practiced resolve. "I was just trying to be a good friend." Her voice held just a suggestion of her normal recriminatory tones.

"Did he ask you to be his friend?"

"Well, no, but I--"

"You're not his friend. You don't have any friends at all. You have charity cases." He took a step closer, using his full height to loom over her; to her credit, she refused to back up. "And this particular case isn't yours. So stay away from him."

Her small hands were fisted and her eyes narrowed. "You don't get to control every aspect of his life. You don't get to say whether I talk to him or not."

House grabbed her elbow tightly, drawing her close and leaning down so their faces were close together. "See, that's where you're wrong. He'd probably say he'd love to talk to you. Not because he actually wants to, you understand, but because he's never been able to turn down an emotional woman. Which is why I'm here. So you don't talk to him unless he talks to you. Not about the cancer." She flinched as his grip on her elbow tightened. "No 'get well soon' cards, no fruit baskets, no fucking chicken soup. Understand?" She nodded mutely, eyes like saucers. "Good." He let her go and she rubbed her arm automatically. "Glad we had this talk." He left her standing there, staring after him, looking utterly gobsmacked.

"Sorry about Cameron," House announced, when he'd returned to Wilson's office. "She got off her leash. It won't happen again."

Wilson looked up. "Oh, she was fine. She… Wait. What did you say to her?" He gave House a suspicious look. "Tell me you didn't give her a hard time. She was just trying to be nice, you know."

"Of course I didn't harass her. Why would I harass a meddling harridan?"

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose a moment, taking a steadying breath. "I'm going to choose to believe that."

"It'll make both our lives easier," House assured him.

Wilson nodded wearily, unsurprised. Much of their friendship was based on Wilson's suspended disbelief. "I told Cuddy, you know, formally," he said after a moment. House took a seat on the edge of Wilson's desk and picked up a paperweight. "Figured I should before she feels the need to bring it up."

"And how did that go?" He turned the paperweight so that it caught the light, casting prisms about the room.

Wilson shrugged slightly. "Fine, I guess. She awkwardly tried to empathize, assured me that she would do everything possible to make things easier. Then asked me how much longer I thought I'd be able to keep working. So, really, really great."

"That's Cuddy for you. 'Is your personal problem going to interfere with my hospital?'" House rolled his eyes.

Wilson shrugged slightly. "She didn't mean it like that. She cares," was his nearly automatic defense. "She's just not good at showing it. Like other people I could mention." Wilson's look was pointed.

"Hey, now. I care. Who cooked dinner for you?"

"Ordering and cooking are not exactly the same. Especially when you make me pay."

"I went and got your wallet for you, didn't I?"

* * * * *

Two weeks later House took the stairs up to Wilson's apartment as quickly as his leg allowed. Knocking on the door with the handle of his cane, he shouted, "Hey, Wilson. Get up, the movers are here." He looked out to the street where the large, orange truck was parked, more or less completely blocking traffic. The door opened to reveal a sleepy-looking Wilson, still wearing his old blue bathrobe.

He looked rather nonplussed to see House. "The who are here?" House shouldered past him into his apartment, making room for the burly men who'd followed him up the stairs.

"All right boys, pack it up and move it out. We need to be out of here by five." The men assembled the cardboard boxes they'd brought with them and began filling them with Wilson's belongings.

"The hell?" Wilson turned to him. "Care to tell me what's going on?" He set his hands on his hips, not quite awake, but still prepared to be miffed.

"You're moving in with me. Duh." House took a seat on Wilson's futon, watching as the packers carelessly began wrapping Wilson's knickknacks and stowing them away. Awards, decorative vases, photographs in heavy silver frames, all the pieces of Wilson's life disappeared into newspaper and cardboard. "Don't worry about being careful. Most of this stuff is crap anyway." The last bit was directed at the packers.

"Moving in with you?" Wilson voice was a hiss of surprise. "Since when? We never discussed, you never asked--"

"Of course I didn't," House answered as if Wilson were being dim. "If I asked, you might have said no."

"I can't move in with you, House," Wilson protested, pulling at the fraying collar of his robe. "I've got a lease."

"I already explained things to your landlord." Explained was something of a euphemism.

"And I know how you like your space," Wilson continued a bit weakly.

"And yet, I'm prepared to share it with you. Uh, uh, uh," he forestalled further protest with a waggling finger. "Now, sunshine, go get dressed and I'll let you take me to breakfast. You guys can handle things here, right?" The workers failed to acknowledge House's question, which he took as the affirmative. "Great. Hurry, Wilson. I require some coffee."

Two cups of coffee and a chocolate croissant later, they were back at House's apartment, wondering where the hell to put Wilson's stuff. Most of Wilson's furniture went straight into storage, but there was still his large DVD collection and other personal effects that he swore he couldn't live without.

"Where the hell am I supposed to sleep, House?" He rubbed his neck, surveying the stacks of boxes now cluttering House's living room. "I thought you said you'd thought this through!"

"You're taking my bed."

"Then where the hell are you going to sleep?"

House shrugged; he'd considered the matter, but hadn't come to a useful conclusion and just hoped that the correct answer would present itself. "The couch is good."

"Yeah, right." Wilson sat himself down on the couch in question. "It's fine, House. Really, I'll take the couch. Really. Not like it's the first time I've slept there, so re--"

"Say 'really' one more time and I will hurt you. You're taking the goddamn bed and that's final."

Wilson's mouth snapped shut, and he looked rueful. "You're actually giving up your bed for me?"

House rolled his eyes at Wilson's flattered expression. "Cancer patient trumps cripple."

"I'm going to have to remember that," Wilson smirked. "But what about your leg?"

"That's why God created painkillers."

Wilson looked stricken, and House held up a hand to forestall renewed protest. "It's not like I'm not already on them. Besides, the bed is closer to the bathroom, and I don't want to be cleaning up puke if you can't make it from the couch in time."

Wilson blinked. "Wow. Your concern is really touching."

"I have my moments."

"You certainly do."

House woke that night in the awkward time that wasn't quite night but still wasn't morning. His leg hurt, but it was his back that was really protesting his earlier chivalry. Then he heard the gut-twisting sound of retching which had awoken him. He padded down the hall to the bathroom, blinking in the bright vanity light. Wilson was curled around the toilet, forearms braced on the seat. He wasn't bringing anything up anymore, just spitting to clear his mouth between spasms. House watched a moment and then sat on the edge of the tub.

"Go back to bed," Wilson managed with gasping breaths. "I'm okay."

"Yeah, you look fabulous. I'm so glad heroin-chic is back in."

"Nothing you can do."

"Don't you want me to hold back your hair?"

Wilson tried to retort, but gagged instead. "Good one," he finally managed. He shivered, the cold tile biting though the thin cotton of his pajamas. House went and got the quilt, draping it over Wilson's pathetic form. He took an awkward seat on the floor next to Wilson, his leg protesting the position. Wilson sat back, flushing the toilet, and then leaned heavily against the wall, apparently done vomiting, but too weary to return to bed. House commandeered a section of blanket. Wilson yielded it reluctantly, then scooted closer to facilitate sharing. House stationed himself in the corner where tub met wall, with Wilson against his other shoulder. "Really," Wilson said when his breathing had returned to normal. "Go back to bed. I can handle it."

"You still nauseous?" House asked.

Wilson paused and then nodded. "Little bit."

House rested his head on the side of the tub. "I'm good."

"I'll just bet hanging out on your bathroom floor in the middle of the night is your idea of a good time."

House gave him a disdainful look. "Are you kidding? This is what I usually end up doing on the weekends. Although normally it's me with my head in the toilet. And normally because I've just consumed my own weight in single malt, but hey. Close enough."

"How very rock and roll."

They waited until Wilson felt that he could go back to sleep. House helped him to his feet and steered him to the bedroom. Wilson was too exhausted and too sick to make much of a protest, instead collapsing into House's pillows. House sat on the edge of the bed, the idea of making his way back out to the living room a daunting thought. He'd just rest here a moment and then go sleep on the couch. A moment passed, and the thought of getting up got less appealing, not more. Fuck it. House lay back, the pillow unbelievably soft and welcoming.

When he opened his eyes again, it was because the sun was in them and his bladder required urgent attention. He propped himself up an elbow; somehow he'd worked his way under the covers during the night. Wilson was gone, his side--the side Wilson had been sleeping on, House corrected himself--cool to the touch. He swung his legs over the bed, wincing at the morning tension in his leg. Making his way to the bathroom, he rubbed it, trying to work out some of the stiffness, and downed a couple of Vicodin.

Bladder and leg attended to, the stomach was next on the list of insistent body parts, and he went in search of some breakfast.

He found Wilson in the kitchen. "Holy hell," House swore, observing the disarray of the kitchen. Dirty mixing bowls, chopped vegetation on the cutting board, grocery bags yet to be unpacked. "Hungry, much?"

Wilson, up to his elbows in thick oven mitts, opened the oven and removed first one casserole dish and then another. House caught sight of at least two more before Wilson shut the door with his foot and carefully set down the second casserole. Only then did he turn back to House, mitted hands on his hips. "Just figured I should stockpile now. Freeze these now, then pop them in the oven again later. I probably won't be up to cooking soon. At least, not as much." Personally House didn't think he really looked up to it now.

"It sure is sweet of you to think of me. But there is no way I'm going to eat," he picked up a recipe card, "chicken cacciatore. More like chicken barf-atore."

"There's that rapier wit I love so much," Wilson grimaced. "I'm glad you don't like it. Now maybe you won't eat my food."

"I might develop a taste for it, though," House mused, pulling a fork out of the silverware drawer and digging himself a bite out of the center of the dish.

* * * * *

They returned to Princeton General the first week of July to get more scans and see if making a toxic pâté of Wilson's liver had been worth it.

"The chemoembolization is having an effect. There's significant tumor necrosis."

House studied the back-lit scans carefully. Dr. Abbott wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know, but he still wasn't sure he trusted her or her good news. The tumor had let up some of its hold on Wilson's liver, though perhaps not as much as her smile would suggest.

"It's bought me some time," Wilson allowed, eyeing the scans critically.

"Right now, that's all we can really hope for. The longer you're on the list, the closer you are to a new liver," she said. Wilson glanced from House to Dr. Abbott, checking to see if either of them actually believed that. House did his best to school his expression into one of neutrality, unsure which would be worse if he failed: desperate hope or bitter skepticism.

"Yeah, no. Good," Wilson said finally. "Let's go ahead and schedule another course."

* * * * *

"Why don't we do something?" Wilson proposed one evening, licking his index finger and turning a page. They were situated on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, House had his laptop perched on his knees, watching video clips of skiers wiping out.

"Why, James! You know I'm saving myself for marriage." A ski caught on a rock and the skier learned a harsh lesson about survival of the fittest. They never actually snowballed like in the cartoons, but instead tumbled down like a tennis ball in the dryer.

"Everybody knows oral doesn't count," Wilson leered at him. "But really, we could go out or something." The way he said out made it sound like a rather foreign concept. He set his novel aside and turned toward House. "I think they're having live jazz at O'Ryan's."

"How much could O'Ryan possibly know about jazz?"

"No, you're right. It's much better hanging out here. In your dank and dark apartment."

"Hell yeah, it is."

"I've been meaning to watch Gone with the Wind again."

"…Point, set, match," House yielded. "Does this mean I have to put on real pants?" He ran a hand down the leg of his pajama bottoms.

"I think you'd better," Wilson said apologetically.

Neither of them moved too fast getting changed. House changed into a cleanish pair of jeans, an Aerosmith t-shirt, and his dark blazer. Wilson wore one of his work shirts, still pressed and starched, and charcoal slacks. At least he hadn't gotten out his infernal ties.

The bar was dark and cramped, an impression enhanced by the smog of cigarette smoke. A low, makeshift stage had been set up in the corner. A quartet was already playing. They weren't that bad, but House had to refrain from pointing out that he was better. House grabbed them a booth towards the back. He preferred tables or anything with chairs, really, maneuvering his leg in the cramped quarters of a booth was difficult but it was the only thing open and Wilson didn't look up to waiting for something better. House waved over a waitress and ordered a couple of beers knowing he'd probably end up drinking both of them.  

Wilson pushed himself up, lurching awkwardly before steadying on his feet. "I'll be back in a minute," he told House, squeezing his shoulder briefly. House watched as he made a beeline for the men's room, nearly bowling an unwary waitress over in the process. After taking a moment to finish his gin and tonic with a grimace, House followed, pushing open the door. Wilson had both hands braced against one of the grungy sinks, staring into the drain intensely. He glanced up at House's arrival, then ran the water and splashed his face. The water dripped from the strands of hair around his face and off his chin.

"You going to hurl?" House asked, leaning next to the empty paper-towel dispenser.

Wilson hesitated, trying to ascertain that very thing. "No," he decided finally. "I just need a moment. It's the smoke, made me light-headed. I'm fine."

"You sure?" House put the back of his hand to Wilson's forehead. As a diagnostic tool, it was largely pointless, but he let his fingers linger anyway. There was a flush and some shuffling, signaling they weren't alone. A man in a green windbreaker and a trucker hat exited the stall, gave them a hard stare, and left without washing his hands. The doctor in House flinched and he could tell Wilson was thinking the same. "You feel a little warm. Do you want to go home?"

At first he thought Wilson would argue, irritated at being ushered home like the kid who'd eaten too many sweets, but then he sagged a little. "Yeah. Let's go home. Sorry."

"Why? The jazz sucks. I was just here since you wanted to be here."

They exited together, slowly threading their way through the bar, House going first and clearing people out of the way with a quick jab of his cane. The night air was comparatively cooler than the stuffy bar atmosphere, and they both took an instinctive breath. They both took a seat on the bench right outside the bar, taking a moment to clear their heads.

House leaned back, draping his arms across the back of the bench, his cane resting against his knee. "I've been doing some research."

"Yeah?" Wilson said guardedly.

"They've been running some trials in Tokyo. Initial results have been promising." He watched cars pass; he could see Wilson watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"And you're, what? Suggesting I travel around the world to try treatments that haven't entered trial phase in the States, based on tentative results that are probably skewed anyway?"

"No, I think you should continue with worthless but FDA-approved treatments. Much better plan." House held his breath a moment to steady himself. "I just…"

"Please, don't."

"Just consider your options, all right?" House finished, feeling defeated.

Wilson scuffed his toes along the pavement. "I have considered. And I just want to…to be at home." House realized that be wasn't Wilson's first word choice.

"Okay." They were silent a moment. House pushed himself up. "You wait here; I'll bring the car around." Wilson gave his cane a meaningful look. "Look, my chances of making it to the car are much better if I don't have to haul your sorry ass when you collapse."

Wilson half-smiled in concession. "Fine."

House made his way to the car. They should have taken the bike; that way he wouldn't even have to slow down if Wilson had to puke off the side. He fumbled for his keys, momentarily worried he'd lost them, but they were in his pocket after all. He started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, taking a moment to honk at an asshole for nearly clipping his front bumper. As he pulled up in front of the bar, he saw Wilson talking with the man from the bathroom. Had he followed them outside? Wilson seemed worried or concerned and he spread his hands in a gesticulation House recognized as an apology.

House had stepped hard on the gas, requiring an abrupt brake to bring the car to a stop in front of the bar with a squeal of unhappy rubber. House was out of the car, keys left in the ignition, and around to Wilson's side with speed that clearly startled Wilson, who took a step back. House took that opportunity to insinuate himself between Wilson and Trucker Hat. "Right, Wilson, let's get out of here. Wouldn't want any trouble." The smile he flashed at the man was all teeth.

Wilson was taken aback, but it was the man who answered. "Hey, cool it, man. I was just asking your boyfriend the time."

"It's time for you to move along, buh-bye!" House set a hand on the small of Wilson's back, pushing him toward the car. He opened the door and Wilson let himself be guided into it.

"What the hell was that about?" Wilson asked as they pulled away from the curb. "He just wanted the time."

"Right. Says Mister People-Are-Good-And-Noble."

"No, I'm just not Mister People-Are-Evil-Incarnate," Wilson countered.

"Maybe you should be."

"What are you afraid of? That he was…hitting on me?"

"In one respect or another."

"He wasn't threatening, House, just drunk." Wilson said tiredly.

"Which is even worse."

* * * * *

House watched with growing annoyance as Wilson chatted with the pretty oncologist. He couldn't quite remember her name. Something that started with M. Maria? Mendez? Whatever. He scowled and tried to get a better view through Wilson's open office door without giving away his presence, hurriedly backing out of the line of sight when Wilson glanced in his direction. Not that he gave a rat's ass who Wilson talked to.

He made a mental note to steal her personal file at the first possible opportunity. She flicked dark hair over her shoulder and laughed at something Wilson had just said. It had to be out of sympathy. No woman in her right mind could possibly be attracted to Wilson now. Except maybe Cameron, who would probably dig the wan, underfed look Wilson was sporting. But then Wilson returned whatsherface's smile with his most disarming grin, and House realized she didn't have a chance.

He waited patiently until the brunette had finished up the conversation and pretended to be making chart notations as she left, stealing another assessing glace as she walked past. A little on the short side, but with a great ass. He moved in and struck a pose leaning on the door frame. Wilson jumped when he noticed him, and House smiled smugly; Wilson shot him a brief glare. "So is the cancer as good a pity-sex card as the gimp leg?" House produced a package of Doritos from his pocket and opened them, popping one in his mouth with an audible crunch. "Is asking her for her advice like asking people to study anatomy in med school?"

"I'm going to stop seeing patients." Wilson paused, allowing House to take in that seeming non sequitur. "Mendoza's taking over most of my cases." He looked up from the file he was reading over. House licked orange residue from his fingers one by one and wiped them down the chair's upholstered seat. Wilson looked utterly repulsed but refrained from complaining. "It's just too hard. Either I lie and they wonder what the hell is wrong with me and worry I'm not focusing on their treatment., or I do tell them and then they're demoralized and also wondering if I'm not focusing on their treatment."

"Or maybe," House held up a finger to emphasis his point, "they find it reassuring to have a doctor better able to empathize with them and who really understands what they're going through."

"Do you really think that?" Wilson tone was careful.

"No. Of course not." House munched contemplatively. "They have cancer--everything else is secondary, even their doctor's cancer. People never trust the sick, especially the sick themselves."

"Right," Wilson agreed softly, unnecessarily straightening his desk.

"I don't know what you're upset about. An excuse not to deal with patients? I'm looking for that all the time. You can still do consults and the paperwork you love so much." Wilson was examining his nails, absently picking at his cuticles. "But if you want to keep seeing patients, you should. Fuck what they think."

Wilson chewed at a hangnail, eyes distant and unfocused. Finally he said, so quietly House had to lean in to catch his words, "I'm not sure I want to."

House shrugged. "Then don't."

* * * * *

House waited for the scan, impatiently grabbing it out of the technician's hand. The tumors stood out as stark white anomalies. They hadn't grown, but they hadn't shrunk either. His heart fell sharply and it was only then that he realized how much he'd been pinning on this. Wilson took the scan from his hand, reminding them that they were his in the first place, and put them up against the light. He looked at the scan intently for a moment.

"It's no bigger," House said. "Another course might still be useful."

"No," Wilson said quietly. "It's not." House turned to him slightly, strangely unnerved by Wilson's tone. Wilson didn't look at him but raised a hand to tap on the scan. House followed Wilson's fingers, not to the liver but to the lungs. "It's metastasized."

It was funny, but the first thing House felt was annoyance. Annoyance that he'd missed the new growths on Wilson's lungs. They were small, but still, he was worse than Chase. Then came the stark realization that there were more pressing concerns at stake than his medical reputation.

"Well," Wilson said after a moment. "Looks like I'm officially fucked."

* * * * *

Wilson's garment bag was laid across the bed, an assortment of ties and dress shirts spread across the comforter in coordinating pair. "Exactly how long are you planning on staying?" House said, eyeing the display. "A fortnight? It's your parents'--not an Antarctic expedition. "

"Just for the weekend. I should be back Sunday night. I'm not taking all of these," he said defensively. "I'm deciding what to wear."

"As long as you're not actually naked, I don't see how it matters." House considered a moment. "Actually­, I wouldn't mind if you did go around naked. Be kind of creepy if your family felt the same, though." He watched as Wilson picked up two nearly identical ties, holding first one up against a shirt and then the other. After careful consideration both were found lacking and he chose yet another identical tie.

"Have you done anything with the iron?" Wilson asked absently, absorbed in his selection process. House picked up one of the rejected ties and begun winding it around his fist like a boxer.

"Yeah, I ironed my underwear after I alphabetized the canned goods and arranged some seasonal flowers in a simple yet elegant centerpiece." House pressed the smooth silk to his lips, enjoying the cool kiss of the fabric.

"I don't know--you could have thrown it at someone," Wilson shrugged slightly.

"No. I haven't done anything with the iron. I didn't even know we had one--"

"--why am I not surprised--"

"--But I'll be sure to keep it in mind next time I need a missile," House finished smugly. "Why do you need the iron anyway? You're so anal you press things as soon as they're washed."

"But it's been awhile since these have been. I just want to retouch a bit."

"They've been hanging up in the closet. Do you think the wrinkle fairy comes around and wrinkles your shirts in your sleep?"

"Well, excuse me for wanting to look nice," Wilson huffed. 

House rolled his eyes. "They're your family; you shouldn't have to look nice."

Wilson gave him a long indecipherable look. "I just want to look nice," he repeated stubbornly.

House returned the look. "Just how much do they know?"

"They know I'm coming home; they don't know why."

"Hey Mom and Dad, guess what--I have cancer! Surprise!" House waved his hands wildly.

"They'll be surprised all right. The last three times I went home was to announce an engagement." Wilson smiled ruefully at the memory, rolling a pair of dress socks into a neat ball and tucking it into a pocket of the garment bag.

"So it'll be a relief, then. They don't have to buy a gift."

Wilson reached over and gently took the tie from House before he could knot it too badly. "But they'll still have to buy flowers. And no hope for grandchildren."

"Unless the tumor counts. You could name it," House suggested brightly.

"I'm not naming my tumor."

"Lisa for a girl-tumor and John--after my dad­--for a boy-tumor."

"I am not naming--"

"Do you want me to come?" House asked abruptly.

Wilson didn't have to think about it. "No."

"Because I would love to win an all-expenses-paid trip to beautiful and exotic Saratoga Springs."

Wilson laughed lightly. "I'm sorry; you'll have to play again next time." He sobered a bit. "My family will be easier to deal with if you're not there. And they deserve to hear it without…interference."

"I can't imagine that you're talking about me. I would be the very soul of--"

"I don't care what you're the soul of. You're not coming."

House spent the entire weekend watching crappy horror movies and trying to refrain from calling Wilson more times than was seemly. He limited himself to three times on Saturday. Well, actually six but twice Wilson's phone was off, so they didn't count and once was him returning Wilson's call returning his call, so it didn't count either. When Wilson returned Sunday evening, House was on the couch--a position he'd only left that weekend to make bathroom runs and meet the delivery guy. Wilson had enough energy to throw his bag over the arm of the couch before collapsing beside him.

"How was it?" House asked as Wilson scrubbed his face with his hands.

"It went as well as could reasonably be expected." Wilson sighed, his head rolling against the back of the couch.

House waited for Wilson to elaborate. When he didn't, House prompted, "…And the family?"

"Mom's thinking about redoing the kitchen." Wilson pushed his shoes off with his toes, letting them drop next to the coffee table.

"And?"

"Apparently she's not as fond of puce as she thought she was." Wilson's eyes were closed.

"That's it." House hated it when Wilson decided to be difficult.

"Pretty much. I could tell you about the great drapes debate, but that would just bore you." Wilson tucked his hands behind his head, stubbornly evading the question.

"Their son has cancer and they want to talk about interior design?"

"Everybody deals with it differently," Wilson muttered serenely. "Some people talk. My mother decorates."

"That's not dealing--that's indifferent." House paused and considered. "You didn't tell them."

Wilson's eyes opened and he turned a little to look at House directly. He seemed surprised. "Yes, I did." He paused, "I may have watered it down a bit."

"'Watered it down'? How do you water down cancer?"

"I spared them most of the details. Told them I'm pretty sick but I'm just taking it as it comes--which is true. Besides, what do you care what I tell my parents?"

House shrugged. "It's nothing to me."

"Then can we talk about something else?" Wilson asked, a note of pleading in his voice.

"Sure," House readily agreed. "Who do you think would win in a fight--Gandalf or Magneto?" 

* * * * *

"I'm sorry," Wilson said the next morning over breakfast table.

House looked up from his marshmallow-laced breakfast cereal. "For any particular reason? Or is this just general guilt?"

"About the time you're spending on me." Wilson picked the crust off his toast, making a little pyramid of crust bits on his napkin.

House went back to his cereal. "Unless your apologies come in monetary form," he said between bites, "or sexual favors, I don't want them."

Wilson set his toast aside altogether. "House…"

"Pony up or shut up." House made a face. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Come back when you're really grateful."

Wilson rolled his eyes and rose, picking up his largely uneaten breakfast plate. "Are you done with that?" He nodded to the cereal. "It's soggy."

Pulling the bowl in protectively toward him, House growled. "I like it soggy."

Wilson shrugged. "Whatever. I'm going to take a bath." He padded off in the direction of the bathroom. When he heard the water running, House got up and retrieved Wilson's messenger bag from the closet. He set it on the couch and unzipped it, keeping a careful ear out in case Wilson made a sudden appearance. A spare shirt and pair of gym shoes, old paperwork, and a few books. House smiled to himself over Wilson's poor taste in literature. Even with all the extra free time, you'd think he could do better than Stephen King. Another book caught his eye and he pulled it out. Dying Well. He held it in his hand, the cover cool to his fingertips, and flipped through it quickly, then set it aside. He pulled out another book. Grief and Grieving. Another. All designed with muted colors and natural imagery, the ocean, trees, the setting sun.

"Hey." House looked up, startled. Wilson stood in the doorway, still damp from his bath, sweatshirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

House held up the book he was holding. "Interesting reading list. But, really, Jimmy, Getting to the Other Side of Grief: Overcoming the Loss of a Spouse? Are we really that close?" Wilson walked over and took the book from him.

"I already had it at the hospital." Wilson looked a bit sheepish. "It has some good information, if you'd just look at--"

House snorted derisively. "I don't need a book to tell me it's okay to be sad."

"I have the number of a couple of therapists. Hell, there are even support groups, if I thought you'd go."

"I'd rather spork out my own eyes."

"If that's the form your grief takes." He collected the rest of the books, stowing them back in the bag.

"Funnily enough, my grief takes the same form as a bottle of Maker's Mark."

Wilson winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please, House."

"What? You want me to read your stupid books, keep a grief diary, acknowledge my pain so I can let it go?" House shoved the bag so it fell off the couch with a thunk. "You know what this actually is? Your desperate attempt to manage my life. The reason every cubic inch of our refrigerator is filled with casseroles with idiot-proof directions, the reason you're buying me how-to-cry books, is that you're unwilling to yield control of my life. Dammit, Jimmy Wilson sure can organize, even from the grave. Guess what, Jimmy, the world turned before you entered my life, and it'll continue turning when you leave it. So drop this charade. And. Quit. Worrying. About. Me."

Wilson just looked at him, eyes dark and unreadable. "I'm just trying to make this easier, for both of us."

"Nothing is going to make this easier," House yelled. "It fucking sucks! And nothing you can do can make it suck less. So just lie back and enjoy the suckage."

"Yeah, I definitely feel better now."

"And you would if I read those useless books?"

Wilson blinked. "Yes."

House sighed heavily and picked the bag back up.

* * * * *

It was late when House finally made it to the apartment after a grueling day of misdiagnoses. He shed his jacket and chucked it in the hall closet without bothering to fish out a hanger. Soon it would be too cold to ride his bike to work. Wilson was seated at the piano, and for a moment House thought he'd walked in on him about to play, but the keys were covered. Instead a beaten cardboard box sat on top, surrounded by photo albums and loose papers and the detritus that had been collecting in Wilson's junk drawer before the move. A crystal decanter stood by, stoppered for the moment, but accompanied by a matching glass.

House flipped open one of the albums; this one dated to right before wife number 1. There were pictures of her and Wilson, laughing while she hung her arms around his neck, blond hair falling across Wilson's shoulder. She wore a black and white jersey with orange accent, signaling a Flyers affiliation. With a start he realized that he'd taken this picture, over a decade ago. They'd all gone to get dinner and see a game. The Flyers had won, for once, but House had been distracted by Wilson's pretty, new girlfriend. He'd completely forgotten about that evening until now.

He paged through the rest of the album, watching as years passed snapshot by snapshot. Wilson had stuck ticket stubs and receipts among the pages. The plane ticket from their ill-fated Vegas trip. Clippings from the paper announcing his first two weddings--he hadn't bothered with the last--and obituaries of people House didn't know. Former patients, probably.

House leaned on the top of the piano; he hadn't even gone through half of this stuff. "You do realize that when they call it 'baggage' they aren't being literal, right?"

Wilson took the album back from him, turning back to the picture of them at the hockey game, and traced the edge with a finger. "I just like having a record." He set the album on the bench beside him and pulled the brandy closer. House watched as Wilson poured himself a double-shot and intercepted it.

"Not a good idea," he said simply.

Wilson made an effort to take it back, but House downed it before he could wrest it away. "Oh, very mature," Wilson spat. "I have an entire bottle. You going to drink that?"

House considered. "I can try."

"The Seven-Eleven can sell me more." Wilson was almost petulant, his brows drawn together in anger and annoyance.

"How you going to get there? I have your keys," House reminded him.

"Dammit," Wilson snarled. "Damn, damn, damn." The obscene chant trailed off, becoming weak and breathy. "God damn." Wilson sat heavily on the couch. "It's not like it matters."

House took a seat on the opposite end. "It matters."

"Yeah, right. You never took care of yourself when you actually had a chance. And now that I don't, I'm expected to abstain? It's not fair. It's not fair!" He flung the words at House, his voice raw and ragged. "The alcohol and Vicodin alone should have killed you. The infarction. Christ, you were shot. You've spent most of our friendship on the edge of death. I always thought," his voice caught, "it would be me standing over your grave."

House was silent a moment and then said quietly, "That can still be arranged, you know."

Wilson looked at him, for the first time since he'd sat down. "Don't you dare."

"Just sayin'." House shrugged slightly.

Wilson stared at him and then broke into laughter, the desperate peals of someone dangerously close to crying. House crooked a finger and patted the seat next to him on the couch when Wilson's near-hysterical mirth subsided. Wilson hesitated, his expression unreadable, then carefully moved closer, clearly unsure of what he was getting into. He curled up next to House, their shoulders just barely touching, his feet tucked under him. House draped an arm over his shoulders, squeezing just a bit. It was a little strange--neither of them were used to physical affection--but Wilson relaxed a little, settling against House's side. House let his thumb rub a gentle circle against Wilson's shoulder.

"This is weird," Wilson said, not quite looking at him.

"And bad?" House kept his tone neutral.

Wilson sat back enough to meet House's eyes, his expression quizzical. "No, not bad. Just weird." He considered House a moment. The kiss that followed was light, just the slightest pressure of Wilson's lips against House's, delicate and precise. House didn't move or even breathe. He barely registered the feel of Wilson's lips before it was over.

"Sorry," Wilson whispered, their faces still inches apart.

"Don't be." House leaned in to kiss Wilson again, with slow deliberate movements, savoring the warm press of lips. This kiss was long, soft and sweet. Finally, Wilson broke it, sitting back with a final lick of his lips. He gave House a considering look, but House couldn't tell what conclusion he came to before he stood.

"I'm going to bed; are you going to sleep soon?"

"Is that an inquiry?" House asked. "Or an invitation?"

Wilson hesitated and half smiled. "An inquiry. Are you disappointed?"

Now it was House's turn to consider. He shrugged instead of answering. "I'll be in shortly." Wilson nodded and padded off to the bedroom. House turned on the TV so he could think.

* * * * *

"I'm going to stop the chemo." Wilson's fingers were laced behind his head, feet on the coffee table. House didn't stop flipping through the channels, barely pausing on any channel long enough to ascertain the show. "If the chemo was going to have had an effect, it would have already happened. But the only effects it's having are the side effects." Velociraptors ran across the screen, chasing humans who really should have known better by this sequel. "House?" He tore his attention away from the mayhem to look at Wilson. "Tell me you've been listening."

He nodded. "Chemo. You're stopping."

"You're not…mad, are you?" Wilson ventured cautiously.

"Mad? Uh. No. Why would I be mad?" He turned back to the TV. "What are you going to do next?" Wilson remained quiet. "Oh."

"Sorry."

"S'alright." House watched as the people on the TV got picked off, one by one. Lucky bastards. He got to his feet without realizing he had meant to. "I'm going out for a bit. You need anything? Ginger ale? Ice cream? Any kind of comfort in food form?"

Wilson shook his head, his eyes dark as he studied House. "I'm good. I'm about to go to bed in a bit anyway."

House nodded. "Right. Don't wait up." He grabbed his jacket and keys on the way out the door.

The squeal of tire on asphalt was loud in the still night, and House welcomed the breeze in his face as he tore down residential streets far too quickly. He didn't have a destination in mind, but wasn't particularly surprised when he wound up in the shady side of town. Worn women in spandex and heels called to him when he stopped at red lights, but he didn't stop until he came to a particularly dingy bar. Its dying neon sign proclaiming "L VE NUD S." The inside of the bar was dark and smoky, nearly empty. A tired dancer halfheartedly walked more than danced to Joan Jett. House's sneakers stuck to the floor as he made his way to the bar.

He ordered cheap whiskey. No need to pretend this was anything other than what it was. He downed the whiskey, and the bartender obligingly filled his glass. He drank that a little slower, but only a little.

"Hey." House looked up at the woman who'd taken the bar stool next to him. She dressed younger than she was: her neckline dangerously close to indecent and her pants too tight. Her make-up did nothing to hide her imperfections, seeming to enhance rather than hide them.

"Hey," House returned before turning back to his whiskey. He could still see straight and that needed remedying. He drained the glass.

"I love a man who can hold his alcohol. I find it sexy," the woman continued as he called for another, seemingly undeterred by his complete lack of interest.

"As a matter of fact, so do I." His grin revealed more teeth than was quite natural.

She laughed far more loudly than his 'joke' deserved. "You're funny," she told him unnecessarily.

"Yeah. I'm fucking hilarious." He glared at the bartender in an effort to hurry him.

"Do you have a special someone?"

"Wow, you sure are subtle." He accepted the fresh drink gratefully as the bartender cleared away the old one. "But in a manner of speaking, yes, I do."

"Oh? What's going on, sugar? She can't make up her mind?" She leaned forward, eager to be the shoulder he'd cry on.

"Actually he," he put just the slightest emphasis on the pronoun, "is dying." It was the first time he'd said it aloud. Every time the thought rose at the back of his mind, he'd pushed it aside, refused to acknowledge it was a possibility. Now it had been released into the world. By admitting it, he allowed it to be true.

She laid a comforting hand on his forearm. "I'm sorry, hon. AIDS?"

He shot her a withering look. "Cancer."

"Ah," she said knowingly. "Figures."

He turned to her, incredulous. "How the hell does that figure?"

She shrugged, unperturbed by his anger. "Dunno. Just does."

"Guess it makes sense to everyone but me." Raising his glass, he toasted the world in general.

She rose. "You take care, now, honey." He didn't look up from his drink as she made her exit.

He didn't leave until the bar closed at two. The bartender offered to call him a cab, but House waved him off mumbling something about a friend. He realized that he was in a pretty bad condition, but couldn't quite care. The idea of becoming a red smear on the curb was oddly appealing. But somehow he managed to drive the bike back without crashing.

The apartment was dark when he staggered inside. House dropped his jacket, reeking of bar, in the bottom of the closet. He'd have to febreeze the shit out of it. He debated whether he was up to a shower to wash the cigarette smoke from his skin. The idea of spending more time upright was distinctly unappealing, but Wilson was sure to find his current stench offensive--Wilson was fussy like that. His head was spinning and he had to brace himself against the stabilization bar in the tub, but the hot water did feel delicious. He managed to towel himself off and even find his pj bottoms, which also proved tricky to slip on without face-planting.

Wilson was curled up on his side facing away from the door and didn't stir as House sank into the mattress, fumbling with the covers. House couldn't see Wilson's face, but the shuddering sigh gave away that he'd been crying. House laid a tentative hand on Wilson's shoulder, letting his hand run down Wilson's arm to his hip and then back up to repeat the motion. He fell into a slow rhythm, appreciating the feel of cotton and hot skin under his fingertips. Eventually he changed his stroke to include the outside of Wilson's leg down to his knee, pausing before working his way back up again. Gradually Wilson's breath slowed and deepened. House matched the rise and fall of his own chest to Wilson's.

House adjusted the pillow, his nose nearly touching the back of Wilson's neck. He inhaled deeply, soaking in Wilson's warm scent, tinged with soap and the slightest hint of sickness. House reached up to trace the rose-shaded shell of Wilson's ear, pinching the soft lobe gently, then drew the line of his neck from behind his ear to his collarbone and then pressed the palm of his hand to Wilson's chest, pressing them closer together. He noticed Wilson breath was again speeding up as he dragged his hand down Wilson's torso. He was momentarily afraid he'd hurt him, hit a tender spot, but Wilson just caught his hand, squeezed it hard for a moment, and then dragged it down to settle against his stomach where his t-shirt had rucked up to reveal bare skin.

The touch was both utterly new and completely familiar. He let his hand rest there a moment, and then rubbed a light circle on Wilson's stomach, feeling the flesh quiver ever so slightly under his fingers. He let his caress wander, pushing Wilson's t-shirt up to trace overly defined ribs, then down to run along the waistband of his boxers. A moment's hesitation and he slipped his fingers under the elastic, waiting for a protest, but none was forthcoming. His fingers encountered the coarse bristle of hair. First tentatively and then with a surer touch, House's calloused fingers played along the length of Wilson's cock. Wilson shivered, breath catching. He hardened under House's attentions, and House took a firmer grip, finding a rhythm. Wilson stiffened, going rigid a moment before climaxing with a small gasp. House withdrew his hand to rest on a bony hip and pressed a kiss to the side of Wilson's neck. Wilson shifted, rolling onto his back, and caught House's mouth with his own. The kiss was slow, but confident, each taking turns exploring the other's mouth, tasting lips and tongue. Finally House ended it, propping himself up on an elbow.

He kissed Wilson once more, a chaste brush of lips, then slid out of bed, going to the bathroom for cleanup and returning with a fresh pair of boxers. Skillfully skimming the soiled pair off Wilson, he tossed them in the general direction of the dirty clothes hamper. He slipped the clean pair on, pulling them up as Wilson lifted his hips off the bed. House crawled back under the covers and fell quickly asleep, his arm draped across Wilson's chest.

* * * * *

House's mouth was opened to demand where Wilson had hidden the good cookies--that all-natural health crap was not cutting it--but he closed it when he saw Wilson was on the phone, sitting on the bed facing away from the door. House backed up and stood in the hall, out of sight but within easy earshot. 

"No, I'm doing pretty well." Wilson was using the polite but oddly formal tones that usually indicated he was talking to his family. "We got some rain yesterday. How are the kids?" Had to be his brother, Ben. Wilson waited doubtlessly enduring some exaggerated tale of his brother's brats' academic or athletic achievements. House had met Wilson's nephews at a barbeque a few years back. They'd stolen his cane as a prank and he'd never forgiven them. He didn't think Wilson had either.

"Good, good," Wilson continued. "And Sheila? Wow, VP of the PTA--that must keep her busy." He laughed hollowly. "No, nothing's up here. I'm good; House is good. Yeah, I'm still staying at his place. Nothing wrong with the housing market--I'm not actually looking for a new apartment. I like living here." There was a long pause. "It's not that weird. We've been friends a long time. We're not… No, I know, she asked me to move back in when I went up there. I said no. I don't need her to take care of me; I'm doing okay on my own. Yes, with House." Wilson was getting agitated. "I'm not quite the invalid you seem to think I am, plus he's pretty good about saying what he wants--he'd have no issue with evicting me. But that's not really the problem, is it." It wasn't a question. "Ben, I don't have to justify my decisions to you. Please let's talk about something else."  Wilson's voice was tired and resigned. House fought the urge to get up and confiscate the phone. "What? Okay, I'll talk to you later then. Bye. Give my love to everyone." Wilson looked at his phone a moment and shut it slowly. "Are you coming in or not?" he called.

"Apparently my ninja skills are not as great as I had thought," House said, leaving the hall to fling himself dramatically onto the bed.

"They're certainly nothing against my psychic mind-reading powers." Wilson set the phone gently down on the bedside table. "How much of that did you hear?"

"Why don't you read my mind and find out?" House challenged. "What did your darling brother have to say?"

Wilson leaned back against the headboard, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Not much really."

House gathered a couple pillows to prop himself up. "He wants you to move back home."

"Yep," Wilson sighed, a slightly wistful affirmation. "Mom has him lobbying."

"What? Doesn't he like me?" House pressed a splayed hand to his chest, shocked that anyone could possibly find him objectionable.

"Of course not. You take a special joy in insulting his intelligence," Wilson pointed out.

"But he's not smart enough to catch it," House countered reasonably. "You can't dislike someone for a slight you don't know about."

Wilson smiled wryly. "He doesn't have to get the joke to know one's being made at his expense."

"He wouldn't have liked me anyway. I just gave him a good excuse."

"You're thoughtful like that," Wilson agreed. "Always thinking of others."

"You should go home," House said abruptly, worrying a hangnail with fierce determination. "Back to the loving bosom of your family."

"The fact that you can say that with a straight face says a lot about what you know about my family."

The hangnail came off, leaving the cuticle bloody. "No, really. You'd be better off there. Your mom's better at this nursing the sick thing."

"Except for the medical degree."

"And you'd probably be better off with them," House finished. 

 "House." Wilson took House's chin in his hand. "I'm not moving out." Instead of coming in for a kiss as House had hoped, Wilson pushed him gently away. "So quit trying to get rid of me."

* * * * *

House settled himself into one of the guest chairs, without waiting for acknowledgment or permission from Cuddy. He wondered briefly just when she'd developed the faint wrinkles around her eyes. And she seemed tired when she asked, "What can I do for you, House?"

"I need a leave of absence." He rolled his cane between his palms.

She set down her pen and sat up straighter, putting on her Concerned Superior face. "How is he?"

"Great. Fantastic. Cancer is like having rainbows inside you." She flinched, and he regretted the harshness of his tone. "He's okay. Dealing, I guess. Still trying to get me to take care of myself. Quit drinking. Take up yoga."

"He never did know when to quit," Cuddy agreed. She almost smiled, but then it was gone. "You have the leave." She hesitated. "Are you sure you don't need any help? Caring for him is only going to get harder-"

"I can do it," House said quickly, his fingers tightening around his cane.

"You've never had to do anything like this before, House." She sounded painfully sincere. "The kind of attention he'll need…It's exhausting."

"I can do it." House was loud enough this time to make her jump. He could feel her gaze on him, but he refused to meet her eyes, instead studying the toes of his sneakers. Finally he rose. "You can come see him. He'd like to see you and the twins. Dress them up in something nice."

Wilson was curled up on the couch when he got home, cocooned in an old patchwork quilt.

"Have you eaten?" House asked, throwing his keys on the table and draping his coat over the chair.

"Ate some toast earlier," Wilson confirmed.

"Do you want anything else? Some eggs maybe? Tea? I'm glad to see you're edifying yourself." The last was in regard to the Baywatch rerun Wilson was engrossed in. House went out to the kitchen, getting the chamomile tea out.

"Yeah, you're a real judge of quality entertainment," Wilson said when he returned. "Anyone who watches shows about overprivileged, self-absorbed teenagers has no room to criticize." He accepted the tea with a slight grimace. Soothing it may have been, but it still wasn't his beverage of choice.

"The fact that I like crap just means I know it when I see it." House took his usual place on the other end of the couch. Wilson wiggled his toes in between the couch and House's legs.

"My toes are cold," he explained when House shot him a look.

"So glad I can be of use," House replied, but tucked the quilt more firmly about Wilson's feet. For a moment they watched Pamela Anderson stretch her acting chops in a run down the beach. "I went in to see Cuddy," he said when no longer distracted by gravity-defying boobs. "I'm taking a leave of absence." Wilson turned to him, but he held up a hand to forestall protest. "I already had Cameron fill out the paperwork. I'm taking it and you can't stop me unless you planning on dragging me physically to work every day. Nothing you can do. So there." House crossed his arms across his chest and fixed his gaze on the TV.

"You shouldn't have to put your life on hold because of me, House," Wilson started, undeterred by House's distraction.

"Who said this is for you? Arrogant, much? Hanging out at home watching crap TV is what I'd do every day if Cuddy wouldn't finally fire me. You're the excuse. If she'd said 'no' she would have been a bad person. Now there's nothing between me and elastic waistbands every day all day. I swear, I'm never going to change out of my boxers from now on."

"I really hope you'll reconsider that," Wilson winced.

"Sorry, nope. Boundaries are overrated."

Wilson sighed heavily. "Then I really, really hope that you'll at least change the boxers."

"But these are my lucky pair." He pulled the waistband of said boxers from his jeans. "See?"

"Aw, dammit. I liked that boundary."

"Says the man playing footsie with my ass."

"Only out of necessity," Wilson protested, wiggling his toes to underline his point. "Besides, your ass kind of likes it."

"Baby, you know just what my ass likes." Wilson laughed, amusement and embarrassment bringing color to his cheekbones. Cheekbones which had become painfully prominent in the last few months. "Hey, if I fix something, do you think you can eat it?" Wilson sobered, and House regretted breaking the mood.

Wilson nodded half-heartedly and House got up. "Aw," Wilson complained, "I need your ass, bony though it may be."

* * * * *

Wilson was in bed when House got out of the shower. There was a time when this would have been unusual, but no longer. House found himself up first most days now. He toweled his hair roughly and hung the towel over the doorknob.

"Morning, sunny boy." The bed dipped as he sat at the foot. "What's the plan for today?" He shook out the pre-sorted pills from the weekly pill counter and grabbed the water glass from the bedside table. When Wilson didn't immediately take them, he set them back down.

Only the top of Wilson's head was visible above the covers, but he moved in a way that was probably a shrug. "Same as yesterday."

Picking a bump in the covers he hoped was Wilson's knee, House reached out to rub it. "We didn't do anything yesterday." Whatever it was, it was definitely a part of Wilson, so he squeezed a little; he'd given up his fear of overfamiliarity a long time ago. "Which I suppose is your point." Wilson's silence was assent. "Come on, you've got to be bored out of your skull." Wilson shrugged again.

"No," Wilson corrected. "You're the one who's bored. You go do something. I'm fine." The knee moved and House picked another bump to stroke--hip, maybe.

"Yeah. You seem just peachy." House tugged on the covers, exposing Wilson, who shivered and angrily yanked them back into place.

"House." Wilson's teeth were gritted in a way that suggested he was particularly annoyed.

"Yeah?"

"Leave me alone."

"Okay." House stretched out on the side that was now most definitely 'his,' disregarding the damp spot on the pillow his wet hair was making.

"House." Wilson turned over enough to look at him.

"Yeah?"

"Do I need to define the word alone for you?"

"I am leaving you alone." House rolled away from Wilson and tucked his hand under his pillow.

"Right. You don't have to spend every minute of every day with me," Wilson said, aggrieved.

"Shhh, I'm sleeping." He tried snoring softly.

Wilson laughed bitterly. "I can imagine how much fun this is." He took a visible breath and held it before saying, more gently this time, "You're allowed to have a life beyond babysitting me. I can manage my own meds. I can even dress myself, tie my shoes. You'd be amazed."

"I know." House swallowed; he could feel Wilson's gaze on the back of his head.

Finally, he felt Wilson roll back over. "You go do something. I'm fine."

"You're going to lie here and mope?"

"No, I was going to write poetry about the specialness of each and every day."

"Dammit, Wilson." House sat up suddenly, grabbing Wilson's shoulder and flipping him onto his back, pressing him down into the mattress. "Stop. This," House growled. After a moment he let go, taking several steadying breaths. "I'm sorry."

But instead of looking upset, Wilson smiled wanly. "Why? It doesn't make a difference. I spent most of my life putting off things I wanted to do. Now it's too late; I don't have time. It's not worth going to movies I don't want to see or sitting in the park feeding the fucking pigeons trying to enjoy life to the fullest."

"What do you want to do?" House asked. "What were the things you put off?"

Now that the demand had been made, Wilson was at a loss. "I wanted…to, to have a family. Kids."

"I can't help you there." Wilson smiled a bit at that. "What else?"

"I don't know," Wilson managed helplessly. "Mostly I didn't want to die young."

"You're not that young." House held up his hands to protect himself from the pillow now flying toward his head. "I'm just saying."

"Yeah, thanks."

"I'm sorry."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "It's not the worst you've ever dealt me."

"No. I'm sorry you're dying," House corrected.

Wilson looked at him sharply. "That makes two of us."

* * * * *

"Hey," Cuddy's movements were quick and nervous, but her smile was genuine. House was a little disappointed to see that she hadn't taken his clothing advice and was wearing a modest dress-suit, whose neckline revealed delicate collarbone but nothing else. Still, the way the tweed skirt skimmed over hips and thighs was rather pleasing, he noted when she walked past him into the apartment.

"Come on in," House swept an arm grandly, ushering her in. "He's having a good day."

"Any day with Cuddy is a good day," asserted Wilson, meeting them in the foyer.

"How quickly you've forgotten," Cuddy smiled wryly. House caught her giving Wilson that judging look she usually saved for patients and people deciding whether to donate to the hospital. Her lips pressed into an unhappy line before resuming a smile. Seeing him every day, House had forgotten how much Wilson had changed.

"Side effect of the drugs," House interrupted Wilson's charming rejoinder. Wilson shot him a look that implied he'd be nice if he knew what was good for him. House was unfazed. "Memory's the first thing to go."

"Lucky for you," Wilson answered. "How about if you make coffee? I'm not sure if I remember how."

"Bitchiness," House directed at Cuddy with a helpless look. "Another side effect." He escaped to the kitchen before Wilson could make a rejoinder about the apparent effects of House's drugs on his own mood. House putzed around in the kitchen while the other two settled themselves in the living room. He tried to make sense of Wilson's stainless-steel, espresso-making monstrosity, but finally gave up and pulled his old piece-of-crap coffee maker out from under the sink, where it had been relegated when Wilson moved in. He dumped a generous amount of overpriced, gourmet coffee ground into the filter and filled the reservoir, and set it to brew. He moved to join Cuddy and Wilson as the coffee began to trickle through, but stopped when he heard Wilson's voice.

"…some better than others. One day at a time, you know. Of course, that's pretty much how life with House has always been." Wilson laughed a little weakly. "He's been great, though."

Cuddy's voice, cynically: "I find that a little hard to believe." House bristled, even knowing that she had good reason to be skeptical. He didn't have much of a history of taking care of Wilson.

"Strangely enough, it's actually true." There was a pause and House could visualize Wilson's fidget, filling it. "It's been really hard on him." His tone was grimmer and softer; House strained to catch his next words. "Not that he'd admit it. I worry about him. He doesn't exactly have a lot of people to fall back on. It's going to be…hard for him."

Another pause and House imagined Cuddy laying an unsure hand on Wilson's hand or elbow. "For all of us."

"Yeah, but…" Wilson voice trailed off.

"Yeah," Cuddy agreed.

There was another silence and House heard the sputter of the coffee maker, reminding him why he was hiding in the kitchen. A few minutes more and his absence would surely be remarked upon.

"If you could keep an eye on him for me, keep him from doing something really stupid, I'd appreciate it." Wilson's voice again.

"I'll try. Though I would like to point out that I have been trying, without success, to keep him from really stupid things for years."

"I have faith in you. He respects you, more than you probably know." Wilson paused and then said a bit louder, "And don't let him play 'Highway to Hell' at the memorial. It's not, as he'll probably insist, my last wish."

Cuddy actually laughed, and House smiled to himself, pouring coffee into the mismatched mugs he'd taken from the cupboard. Sugar and cream for Wilson, sugar for Cuddy, black for him.

"Hey!" he yelled. "Does someone want to come help the cripple with the coffee or is it more fun to watch me scald myself?"

Cuddy made a quick entrance, looking chagrined, as if she had personally failed. "Sorry, House, I'm a terrible guest." She swept up two of the cups, nearly spilling it herself.

"And I'm a terrible host, so I guess it works out." He picked up the third mug and followed her into the living room, taking up his accustomed spot on the couch next to Wilson. "So how are things at the hospital?"

"Pretty much the same. A lot quieter without you two around." Cuddy took a drink of her coffee, wincing as it burned her tongue. "Foreman's doing pretty well with the department. Probably not as well as he's been telling you, but still not as bad as you. No lawsuits so far." House only half-listened as she gave them the latest gossip, detailing every last sordid rumor; House was a little surprised that the rumor mill continued to churn without him to feed it. He kept up a running commentary, doing his best to earn glares from Cuddy or Wilson, and on one memorable occasion, both. He kept an eye on Wilson, stealing sidelong glances to check his color, his breathing, whether he seemed to be tiring.

When Wilson's energy flagged and he seemed to go a bit gray around the edges, House collected their cups and hauled them out to the kitchen. Cuddy took the hint and followed him.

"Do you need help with those?" she asked, but he already had the last one in the dishwasher.

"Got it, thanks."

She hesitated, then picked up a dish rag, wetting it under the faucet and wiping a dried puddle of coffee. "Are you doing okay?" Her mouth twisted around the question, realizing how ridiculous she sounded. "I feel bad that I haven't been around as much as I probably should." House waved a hand dismissively and took the rag from her before she could rub a hole in the counter. "No, really. He's not just an employee. He's a friend. I should be here." The self-recrimination was clear in her voice, though she wouldn't meet his eyes.

House shrugged. "Then he would have just worried about burdening you, too. He knows you care. Mindless hand holding isn't required. Maybe you'd feel better, but he wouldn't."

She bit her lip and nodded. He watched as she bid Wilson goodbye with an awkward hug and quick peck on the cheek, and was surprised when she gave him the same treatment. "It's been nice to see you," she told them from the doorway. "It's not the same without you boys."

House was dramatically affronted. "I should hope not."

"Thank you for visiting, Lisa. I really appreciate it." Wilson managed the part of gracious host.

With one last, enigmatic smile, she was gone.

"That went rather well," Wilson said after the door had shut behind her.

"Yeah," House agreed. "I'd forgotten she could be fun when she's not ordering me around or assigning clinic hours." He shuddered at the memory and collapsed back onto the couch.

"You always were too hard on her," Wilson admonished gently.

"She likes it rough," House leered, snatching up the remote and propping his feet on the coffee table. "The both of you--gluttons for punishment. I just give you what you want." Wilson snorted to show what he thought about that and reached over and collected the remote. House made a token protest but yielded it anyway. "We better not end up watching TCM," he warned.

"But they're having a Mae West marathon. I know you're a great admirer."

"That is true," House conceded, "but I feel something more along the lines of gratuitous violence. Or sex." He added the last on second thought.

"Possibly both," Wilson suggested.

House nodded. "But not at the same time. There are limits to my kink."

"Never seen proof of this."

"I could tell you stories to make you hair curl," House assured him.

"Now that would be truly horrifying," Wilson replied dryly.

* * * * *

"Why, God, why?!" House demanded with a skyward glare, as Wilson collected the pile of small change in the middle of the table. He'd been sure he was bluffing

"If you can't take the heat, stay out of the kitchen," Wilson cackled, carefully stacking his gains into neat little columns of nickels, dimes, and quarters. "You've given God plenty of reason to hate you; I don't know why he'd help your poker game."

House collected the cards, shuffling them with a practiced hand and dealing. "I keep thinking that he'll come around, but alas." Wilson was currently in the lead, but House was closing ground. House peeked at the cards he'd been dealt. Eight of diamonds and five of clubs. The cards already down were three of hearts, six and two of spades. He studied Wilson's face for signs as to his hand, but it was a seamless mask, giving away nothing. All those years keeping up an emotionless front for desperate patients had really honed his ability. House threw in twenty cents. With a last careful look at his cards Wilson put in a dollar.

"Whoa there, big spender," House said, and Wilson's eyebrow quirked in challenge. House considered; he was dangerously close to out, but surely Wilson's luck was close to turning. "I'm in." He pushed the required change into the center of the table. Drawing back his hand, he realized his mistake as Wilson's expression broke into one of exultant triumph.

"Well, lookee there," he crowed in a way that made House want to strangle him, slapping down his cards to reveal a straight. "You may bow down and call me the god of chess!" He threw his hands out as though trying to embrace his victory.

"Aw, shuddup," House grumbled.

"You're just sore--" The rest of Wilson's sentence was cut off by a sudden coughing fit brought on by his outburst. He wheezed, desperately trying to suck air into his lungs, half bent over, forearms braced against the table as his body tried to shake itself apart. House made it to his feet faster than he had in years, sending his chair over backward.

"Do you need anything?" House asked, helpless to do anything but run a useless hand up and down Wilson's spine. "Just calm down. Slow breaths," he reminded the struggling Wilson. "It'll be over in a minute." Even trying to bring up a lung, Wilson was able to shoot him a who-are-you-kidding look.

Wilson took House's hand, squeezed it once, and released it. "I'm not dead yet."

House smiled a little desperately. "Too bad. I'd've taken your winnings."

"Yeah, a haul like that, I can't blame you being jealous." He accepted the glass of water House brought back from the kitchen, taking a careful sip, and then set the glass down. "I'm going to lie down a bit. All right?" House nodded, mumbling something about his intention to watch over-inebriated, underdressed girls on TV.

When House checked in on him a bit later, Wilson was already asleep or at least pretending to be.

* * * * *

For the first time in nearly three months, House found himself at Princeton-Plainsboro. He hadn't been sure on the ride over whether he expected it to be exactly the same or completely different. Now, standing in the foyer, he realized it was both. Some things had changed: the STD awareness posters, the seasonal decorations, the organization of the nurses' station. They'd painted the trim in a teal that was probably supposed to match the old color, but some moron was color-blind and it had come out rather blue. But much was the same: the sounds, the milling patients, the nasty looks he got from the nurses. His office was exactly as he'd left it--even the issue of People was on the same page; it was as if he'd merely left to go to the bathroom. He ran his fingers along the surface of his desk. Someone had dusted, though. But it didn't seem like home anymore. This had been the place where he'd spent almost every waking hour, his domain, his territory, and now it was almost foreign. Just some hospital he had once worked at.

He browsed through his bookcase, pulling out a few of his more beloved tomes, and then pulled out a drawer of his filing cabinet, digging through the definitely unfiled paperwork until he found a thick, white envelope.

"Hey."

He turned, slipping the envelope into his jacket pocket. Cameron stood watching him, hands on her narrow hips, looking unsure whether she was happy to see him or not. The feeling was entirely mutual.

"I'm just grabbing some of my stuff," he explained, trying to justify his presence in his own office. He picked up the books, substantiating his story. "Don't mind me. Foreman doesn't have to worry about losing power just yet."

"Maybe not because of you," she snorted, "but I'm definitely gunning for him." They shared a slight smile that was hardly even forced.

"I've trained you well, my young apprentice." He paused; his conversation skills had gotten even rustier. "Have you seen my Gameboy?"

"I think Chase stole it." She took another step into his office, feeling more sure of herself.

"He always did have that shifty look about him. I guess that's what happens when you're descended from criminals."

"Mm, I'd love to see you say that in front of him."

"You think I wouldn't?"

"I know you would. And it would prove entertaining."

"Where is he, anyway?"

"He and Foreman are running some tests on a patient. I can go get them," she offered, but House quickly held up a hand to stop her.

"Don't bother. I'm leaving just now."

She seemed genuinely disappointed. "You sure you can't stay a few minutes?"

"What, did you miss me?"

"Forgotten just how big a jerk you are and need a refresher course to put things in perspective."

He nodded his appreciation. "Careful. A little perspective is a dangerous thing."

"Are you okay?" she asked, never one to worry about her transitions into awkwardly personal inquiries.

He shrugged. "Peachy."

"You've been doing really well. Dealing with all…this." Her eyes were painfully earnest.

"Oh God," he groaned, clapping his hand to his forehead. "You're proud of me."

"What you're doing? That's something to be proud of. I know how hard it--" she started.

"Don't be. You want to know how I am? Really? I wish it was me. Not because I'm noble. I think we both know I'm not. But because he's got it easier. I wish I was the one who got to lie around dying while he had to worry and agonize and make arrangements. That he was the one left behind."

His words didn't have the desired effect, however. She reached out to put a hand on his shoulder or elbow, possibly even move in for a hug. He backed up rapidly enough to probably cause offense, but at least he was out of range. Her face fell a bit as she realized hers was not a shoulder he wanted to cry on.

"Look, I'm sorry," he managed awkwardly. "That I told you not to talk to Wilson. You were just trying to help. I…appreciate that. But there's nothing you can do for me. There never was." He pushed past her saying, "Tell the boys hi," and made his escape.

* * * * *

"I need a bath," Wilson said. "I smell disgusting." He sniffed the front of his t-shirt and made an excessively disgusted face.

"Pish. I enjoy your manly aroma."

"Yeah, not sure I'm going to take hygiene advice from a man whose jeans can stand on their own."

"You're just fussy," House harrumphed, pushing himself up and going to draw the bath anyway. He watched the tub fill, debating whether to add bubbles but not wanting to take the title of fussy from Wilson.

"You know, I can actually do that myself." Wilson entered and sat heavily on the side of the tub, dipping his fingers in the water and apparently finding the temperature acceptable.

"Uh huh. Arms up."

"You're kidding." House gestured impatiently for Wilson to lift his arms. Wilson rolled his eyes with a put-upon sigh, but complied, letting House peel off his t-shirt over his head. Wilson's skin nearly was as smooth and pale as the tile, his ribs sharply pronounced.

"Pants too." House said, dropping the t-shirt for Donna to pick up later.

"Spare me that indignity."

"Since when have I ever spared you indignities?" House replied, but Wilson was adamant about depantsing himself and warned House in the strongest language possible not to look.

"Right, like I haven't seen it before," House reminded him, but kept his eyes on the soap dish, not turning until he'd heard the slight splash signaling Wilson was in the water.

"It's different."

* * * * *

House looked up when Wilson squeezed his hand lightly. "Hey." He managed a smile, which House found himself automatically returning.

"Hey, yourself," House answered. "I can't believe I'm sitting here holding your hand. Do you realize how unbelievably gay that is?" He made a face, imagining the damage it would do to his reputation.

"Yeah, I think I'm embarrassed," Wilson agreed huskily. "Don't worry--your secret's safe with me."

House reached out with his free hand to brush the back of his fingers down Wilson's cheek. "How's the pain?"

"Okay." Wilson's eyes were glassy. "They break out the good drugs when you're dying."

"Good to know. I, uh…" House tried to think of something to say that wasn't maudlin or banal and utterly failed.

Wilson noticed his discomfiture. "You don't have to say anything deep. I'd be surprised if you did."

"Shut up."

"Exactly my point."

"Remember the day we first met?" It was an attempt. A lame attempt, but an attempt.

"Yeah. You welcomed me to PPTH with a rant about the inefficacy of oncology. And you stole my cappuccino."

"Not the memory I was going for." House gave him a cross look.

"Oh, sorry. Carry on."

House sniffed, affronted. "Nope. You ruined it."

"Aw. Let's see. You accosted me later at lunch. I'm still not sure why. Either you hadn't finished your earlier rant, or there weren't any tables left. Anyway, I remember thinking as you slapped your tray down across from my mine, 'Wow, this guy, who I haven't even known half a day, I feel like I've known my whole life. And he really is an absolute bastard.'"

House smiled fondly. "And I thought you were an easy mark. Such good times."

Wilson smiled his most heart-breaking smile. "Yeah, it's been fun." He quieted, his eyes closing, and he drifted to sleep. House must have too, because he woke up with his leg throbbing and a serious crick in his neck when Wilson called his name.

"House…" Wilson called again softly, a note of panic in his voice. "House."

"Right here, buddy." House reached out to grip Wilson's hands with his own.

Wilson swallowed with difficulty. "We're going to be late," he managed, struggling to focus on House's face. "You promised you wouldn't make us late."

"Late? For what?" House kept his voice low and calm.

"It starts at seven; you said you'd be ready." Wilson voice was small and accusatory, almost petulant.

Heart catching, House replied, "I'm ready to go whenever you are."

This seemed to calm Wilson a little. "But what about your jacket?" he seemed to remember.

"It's at the dry cleaner's," House improvised, his tone slightly chiding. "We'll pick it up on the way over. I've already got my tie--that ugly blue number you picked out."

Wilson sighed, a familiar sound of relief and resignation. "Okay. S'okay, then." He smiled vaguely at House. "You look nice in blue."

House smiled. "Thanks. It's because I'm a summer. Enhances my complexion." House brushed hair off Wilson's forehead.

"House?"

"Yeah, Wilson?"

"I'm glad you're coming with me." Wilson's eyes closed slowly as he drifted off again.

"Me too, kiddo, me too," House said, tucking the blanket in a little tighter.

Wilson never regained consciousness. At 2:47 p.m. the next day his breathing quickened and then stopped altogether. House struggled to swallow and wet his throat. He stood, his legs shaky from the hours of vigil, but he made it to the dresser beside the bed. Kneeling was even harder on his bad leg, but he pulled out the bottom drawer. It was a mess of papers, odd ends, magazines, toys. To the casual observer it looked like the junk drawer of an immature adolescent. Wilson would claim that it was the junk drawer of an immature adolescent. Would have claimed.

House faltered a moment in his search and paused until his hands stopped shaking enough for him to move a stack of magazines (three Hustlers, a Cosmo and a Wizard). There was the gray metal box. His stash tin. He hadn't gotten it out in years, but it had been enough to know it was here, waiting for the time he would need it. His fingers closed on the cold surface now, and he drew it out. He took it back to the bed with him, setting it on the nightstand. He picked up the yellow legal pad and ball point pen he'd been using to keep track of Wilson's symptoms and meds and flipped it to a fresh page. He put the pen to paper and hesitated. He'd been anticipating this moment for months, but now he wasn't quite sure what to say. Finally he just wrote: I know I said I wouldn't do this. I lied.

He debated whether to add and tell Dad to go fuck himself but decided that would probably cause his mother undue stress and set the pad back down, pulling out the drawer of the bedside table and pulling out a copy of the Hitchhiker's Guide, between the pages of which he'd stuck the envelope he'd retrieved from work. His will. It wasn't particularly complicated, as wills went. He didn't really care where his crap ended up. What he'd amassed--his ill-gotten gains from work and Wilson and gambling--he'd donated to the hospital. Cuddy would figure it a fair trade.

After carefully arranging the note and envelope so they wouldn't be missed, House spun the combination on the box, opened it, and removed the syringe and small bottle of clear liquid. He set those aside and took out the tourniquet, working it up his arm and using his teeth to help tighten it. 170 mg would be enough, but he upped it just in case. He flicked the syringe and set it to his arm, the cold, familiar sting of the needle more comforting than anything else. With the syringe empty, he set it back in the tin. Stretching out on the bed, he settled in next to Wilson.

"Hey, shove over, Jimmy," he draped an already leaden arm across Wilson chest. "You're hogging the blankets." His head lolled against Wilson's shoulder, cradled against his neck. Talking became too exhausting, and House let himself lapse into silence and, finally, into nothing at all.