Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

James Wilson was not unforgiving.

In fact, he thought he might be the most forgiving person in New Jersey, with what he'd put up with over the last seventeen years. He had to be forgiving, to have and keep a friend like House. Or, rather, to have and keep House as a friend. There was nobody like House. If there was, being his friend would be a lot less fun.
Gregory House was a bastard. He was callous and cruel and didn't understand social cues in any capacity— not because he couldn't, but because he refused to learn. His sarcasm was cutting and his words often ripped through you like a chainsaw, but they were always true. And that was the worst part of it, really, how right he was all the time. But Wilson had put up with all of it because there were things about House that were worth the rest of him. His laugh, his subtle ways of making sure that everything was alright, his persistence in winning Wilson back when he tried to leave the relationship. His mind— God, that mind . Wilson had been blown away on a near daily basis. There wasn't anything or anyone that compared. So Wilson would forgive House, time and time again, just for the chance to see even an infinitesimal piece of what went on in House's brain.

That being said, his forgiveness had limits. He had broken them up multiple times throughout the years because of something that House did to him. Usually, it was something stupid that had been the last straw on the camel's back, like crashing Wilson's new car or pulling a prank that ended with Wilson or others physically hurt. Sometimes it was big things, like that one blowout fight about whichever wife he was with at the time where House had been actually, genuinely angry. Wilson had left and had not spoken to House for three months after the things he said. It was only when he opened his office door to find House standing there, waiting for Wilson to return so he could apologize (actually apologize— he said the words and everything) that Wilson forgave him and allowed things to go back to normal.
And that was how it usually went. They'd fight, split, House would pester, then he would apologize and Wilson would accept. He'd forgive House. That was the way things worked. House would always hurt him, and he would always forgive. It had been fine.

That is, until Amber. She'd been everything wonderful about House without the suffering, so that also made her everything House wasn't . They'd fought for his attention, she and House, but Wilson could tell that House liked her beneath all the snapping and biting. He knew they were good together. That was why he gave Wilson his blessing, in his own warped way. He ceded some nights to her, she ceded some nights to him, and they formed an uneasy alliance. They had a lot in common, the most important of which being they both cared about Wilson. When they focused on that, they'd been able to play nice. Amber had once told him as they were getting ready for bed that maybe, at some point, they could even be friends.
Wilson assumed that was one of the reasons that she'd gone to pick House up that day. Why she followed him onto the bus instead of just driving home and going to bed. She cared about Wilson, and Wilson cared about House, so by extension, she cared about House as well. Wanted to make sure he was okay. She may not have been an entirely nice person, but she was good and she was kind. God, he loved her.

Sometimes, at night, he wondered about what would have happened had Amber not boarded the bus that day. He wondered if House and Amber would have been friends after all, bonding over their similar behaviors and the love they both had for Wilson, in different forms though they were.
He fantasized what might have happened if House had been the one to die instead of Amber. Whether it be because she didn't get on the bus or because the DBS had actually helped to save Amber at the expense of House's life. Amber would have been there, and that was all that mattered. Wilson would have mourned the loss of his best friend and Amber would have been there , holding him through his grief and helping him out of whatever hole the loss put him in. He often thought about that, and was unrepentant as he decided that he wished it had turned out that way.

Amber's death was House's fault. He should have gotten his own pathetic ass home instead of inconveniencing everyone around him with his misery. He should have been the only one on that bus; should have been the one taking adamantine; should have been the one sent to Princeton General as a John Doe with his kidneys pulverized and poison coursing through his veins. House, the terrible, callous, sociopathic bastard, should have been the one to die. Amber's death was House's fault.

Or, at least, that's what he keeps telling himself.

He's spent the last two months trying to convince himself that House was at fault for Amber's death. But the longer he spent away from it all; the more that time stretched between Amber's funeral and the present, the more he felt himself slipping.
Lord, would it be easy if it was House's fault. He'd been the one day-drinking, had been the one to call Wilson to pick him up, then Amber when Wilson refused. He'd been the one who got on the bus. But try as Wilson may to rationalize his blame, House hadn't forced her to come and she wouldn't have if she really hadn't wanted to. He hadn't dragged her onto the bus— in fact, it seemed like he hadn't even wanted her company. He hadn't forced her to take the adamantine pills nor had he been the one to prescribe them in the first place. House couldn't have predicted that the bus would get rammed by a truck. How could he have known?

No, he would always remind himself. No, House was an abjectly monstrous person even if he hadn't personally killed Amber. He hadn't pulled the trigger, but his actions set into motion the events that led to Amber's death, and therefore indirectly killed her. And even if he hadn't, Wilson would be in the right for leaving. All that House had done to him over the years, all he'd done in general, was reason enough for him to break things off. House was alive, and that was reason enough for wanting to get the fuck out of dodge.
He'd stepped into House's hospital room for a minute after cleaning out his office, just to make sure he was alive. He was, but Wilson found himself wishing he wasn't as he turned to leave, bile rising in his throat. Now, he found that a small but increasingly loud part of himself was relieved. He tried to squash it as best he could, but, like a cockroach (like House) it couldn't seem to die.

And now, two months later, he found himself laying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling and wondering why House hadn't come to try and meddle in his life. Wondering why there hadn't been any full-assed, unhinged attempts to rekindle their friendship. Why he hadn't heard one lick of news about House since Cuddy's phone call a week after the funeral.
It wasn't like he wanted House to come bother him. In fact, he'd been relieved to have the peace even without the reason for wanting it. Even if he'd wanted to stay House's friend, taking time away from him was beneficial. House was a lot, and taking a break every now and then was necessary. That's why he'd gone to conferences so frequently throughout the years. He'd come back refreshed and ready to handle whatever House threw at him once more. But now he was refreshed, grieving, lonely, and utterly, completely bored .

"God, I sound like House," he murmured. He talked to Amber as if she was there— his therapist had recommended it, and he found that, once he got over the awkwardness of talking without getting a response, it did help. " Bored . What kind of a person am I? I have a good, steady job, I've got friends who actually care about me, and I'm grieving . I shouldn't be bored ."

If you're bored, maybe your life is just boring , he imagined Amber saying. It doesn't matter if you have a job and friends and are grieving someone — none of that means your life isn't a major snoozefest.

And she would be right. He sighed and closed his eyes. "I don't miss him."

Yeah, you do. But you're allowed to miss him , she would say. He was your best friend for seventeen years. Of course, you miss him, no matter what he did. And you're allowed to mourn the friendship you've lost.

"I don't need him."

Of course, you do. In a way, you probably always will. But that doesn't mean that you can't live without him.

That made sense. He didn't like that it did. He decided to change the subject.

"Cuddy called, a week after your funeral."

I remember. You hung up when she tried to talk about him.

"Because I don't care about him."

James.

"...I know. I know I'm allowed to care about him and still hate him for what he did. But I don't want to care. That was the entire point of breaking it off. Caring about him only hurt me. And it killed you."

Did it?

He fell silent after that, because the conversation with his subconscious in the form of Amber's voice was going to the place it always seemed to go these days. He pushed himself up to sit on the bed and rubbed his eyes with a sigh. He was finding it harder to blame House. He could tell himself all day that it was House's fault, but the little voice in his head that sounded like Amber just laughed at him and told him he was being stupid. He could curse House for not being there for him while Amber was dying or after she did, but he'd been the one to leave. He couldn't exactly be angry at House for not comforting him when he hadn't even given him the opportunity to try.
It was strange, this radio silence. He'd expected House to come bother him, to annoy him until he agreed to talk. He wouldn't budge because this separation was healthy for him and he wasn't going to give that up without a fight. But House wouldn't have accepted that, and likely would have started a campaign to try and win Wilson back. Even after having left House, he expected House to stay in his life. Admitting that to himself felt contrary and unfair.

God, he didn't even want to think about House. He'd been wildly fluctuating between wanting to ignore that House ever existed and blaming him for Amber's death and being angry that House wasn't there to help him grieve. None of it worked very well, but at least he could say he tried to condition himself to feel the right thing.

The right thing? There's no objectively right emotion for any situation.

She was wrong. The objectively correct response to her death was anger and hatred and sorrow beyond anything he'd ever known. His response, leaving and cutting contact with House, was proportional to what House did.

And you believe that?

He did believe it. He believed it because he had to. There was no alternative.

Does it make you happy?

No, but he'll eventually learn to be happy where he is. He didn't think he'd ever be truly happy without Amber, but she'd want him to live the best life he could.

Which means cutting off your best friend for the crime of... day-drinking? Getting on a bus? Watching me take adamantine for my cold and not dramatically slapping it out of my hands? He's not a time traveler. This isn't some movie. He couldn't have known.

"Shut up," he whispered. It wasn't that simple. He knew it wasn't that simple, and he knew that his head-Amber knew because she was his subconscious. So why was his subconscious being so fucking contrary today?

Don't be stupid, James. You want him in your life.

"I don't," he denied, but it was a weak protest.

I wouldn't have wanted you to do this. You lost me — you shouldn't have to lose him, too.

"I'm not losing him. I left because I don't want to be around him anymore. Being friends with House only causes me pain."

Uh-huh.

"I hate him," he said. His voice was steady. He was sure. He was sure .

Right.

"Stop! I do!"

So why are you mourning him?

"You said it was okay to mourn him!"

I said you could mourn the friendship. And it is okay to mourn him, but at this point you're just hurting yourself. You're angry at him about what happened — that's fine. Irrational, but fine. But is that really why you're staying away?

"What other reason would there be?"

Guilt.

He swallowed hard. That was one box he hadn't wanted to open. He'd locked it shut, stored it away in the very back of his mind and tried his level best to throw away the key (and had ended up swallowing it instead). He hadn't ever wanted to think about what he'd asked of House, what House had done for him, for Amber . He wanted to keep living with the easy comfort of blaming House. Blaming House was familiar. When things went wrong, it was usually House's fault, anyway.
But he couldn't anymore. He couldn't blame House for this. It wasn't his fault. In fact, Wilson hadn't believed that it was House's fault in a while. It was just... easier to pretend he still did. But no longer blaming House and grappling with what he'd done while Amber was dying were two very different things. Wilson was the one who lost the most that day. Wilson was the one who was grieving. He'd had every right to leave. But he could have lost more that day, and that would have been his fault.

House had done everything he could to figure out what he was missing, where Amber was, and what had been wrong with her. Wilson could swear high and low that House did everything for the sake of his obsessive need for answers, but he wouldn't believe himself if he did.
House had nearly killed himself over it — with the hypnosis, with the sensory deprivation tank, with the Alzheimer's medication, all of which strained his brain to its limit — and then, when Wilson came to him and asked him to undergo deep brain stimulation (knowing House's head was fried. Knowing that House's brain, the one that was worth all of his worst traits, was hurt and exhausted and one blow away from critical mass) he'd done it. But only after clarifying that Wilson was indeed risking House's life to save Amber's. Thinking about that , and the aftermath, put something heavy and unpleasant in his gut.

He hadn't felt bad about leaving PPTH, nor had he felt bad about leaving House after the DBS. It was House's fault that Amber had died, after all.
But it wasn't his fault. And were his self-sacrificial attempts to save Amber not enough to redeem him? Why had he agreed to the DBS in the first place? Amber was on the verge of death— even if they'd found what was killing her, she probably would have died anyway. And for that matter, it wasn't even Wilson who House was trying to save. Had it been Wilson on that bed instead of Amber, there would have been no question as to why House underwent risky, straining procedures with a concussion in a last-ditch effort to find the answer. But it hadn't been Wilson. It had been Amber. Which meant something that Wilson didn't exactly want to unpack for fear that it would sound too much like one of House's wordless apologies. That it would sound too much like House was sacrificing his life for Wilson's happiness.

You're doing exactly what he does. At first, you might have been staying away because you were angry or because you blamed him, but now you're just punishing yourself. You feel guilty for what you asked of him, and he might as well have died, for how much you've seen and heard about him in the past two months. You're punishing yourself. You're pushing away what makes you happy. I only ever wanted you to be happy— why do you think I tolerated everything he did while we were dating? He made you happy. I want you to be happy, James.

Shit. The voice in his head may not be Amber, but it sure sounded like her. They were her words— exactly what she would have said. In the beginning, they would agree and rave over House's culpability. But her opinions had softened with time, and now she was sounding more like the woman he'd loved: rational, kind, and assertive. And God, he hated that, like House, she tended to be right most of the time. Her words washed over him, cleaning away the last of the blame. He could have lost both his best friend and his girlfriend in the same day.

Did you not?

"God damn it," Wilson groaned. "I'm an idiot."

You are. But you're my idiot.

He stood from the bed, figuring that he'd had enough cataclysmic inner turmoil for one day. Lord, that felt like it came all at once. It didn't, of course— it had been building for the past couple of weeks, poking at the back of his mind and trying to break through. He supposed the revelations just snuck in when he let his guard down to speak with the Amber that was his subconscious. Regardless of whether it was a long time coming, however, it was a lot and it had drained him.
A part of him that he always ignored yearned to drive over to House's, to get pizza and watch a monster truck rally and get drunk. Because despite being exhausted, despite having just opened up a whole can of worms that he didn't know how to close, he was still horribly, achingly fucking bored .

Mercy is boring. His friends are boring. Grieving, alone in this empty apartment that he used to share, was boring . Nothing felt like it mattered. He got up in the morning, went to work, did chores on his off days, and went to sleep. He ate and he drank because he needed to eat and drink, not because he wanted to taste the food. He took his antidepressants and tried to pretend they did anything to take the edge off the numbing lack of an edge. Nothing mattered. He had a body, but it didn't matter. He had clean sheets on the bed, but it didn't matter. The face in the mirror was unrecognizable, a traitor, a hostage.
The Amber in his head, like she always seemed to be, was right. As he went to do the dishes — because what else could he do — he thought about what the hell he had done with himself. Sure, the time away had helped him arrange his thoughts, and if he'd stayed around House he likely would have blamed the man even further. But now the damage of his leaving was done and House didn't seem to want the contact Wilson had so been expecting. Wilson didn't even know if he wanted to be friends with House again. He'd dwelled on the years of slights for the past two months and couldn't bring himself to forget them. The blame wasn't there; there was no fault. But the entire experience had shadowed the rest of their relationship in a way that made Wilson very, very afraid to even look at House in person again. To talk to him.

He sighed at the sink, hesitated with his hands against the metal, and then mustered up the energy to turn the faucet on with an agitated whack of his hand. The coffee mug Amber had used the morning of her death still sat on the counter. He didn't look at it.

What could he do? He hated this. He hated this life, he hated this boredom, he hated feeling alone despite having friends (nobody like House, because there was nobody like House) and hated the anger, the grief, the guilt, the numbing sorrow. He washed a bowl from that morning and put it to the side to dry later. There wasn't much he could do.
But there were small things. He could think and he could plan. He could wonder what House was doing, how he was doing. That felt natural, letting himself do that. He'd caught himself thinking about House too often over the past two months and had forced himself to stop, so allowing himself this felt like a step forward. He could remember what good times they had, from the very beginning to the end. He could allow himself to yearn for the nights they spent in front of House's TV, watching monster trucks and getting pleasantly buzzed. He could remember how he relished the freedom of being with House, the disregard of social norms in a way that made them brutally honest both in the traditional sense and the metaphorical. He could say and do what he wanted around House and feared no consequence; they pushed the boundaries of what it meant to be friends, drugging each other and sleeping next to one another and pulling each other from their own respective points of no return.

He could allow himself to finally think about House, his mind, his laugh, his intense focus, his subtle kindnesses and indecipherable machinations. The way he would know House's stride if blindfolded, the tap-thump of his cane against the marble floor of the hospital. He could think of the night they met, a decade and a half younger— the early-greying brown of House's curly hair, his rakish grin that was in equal parts impressed and flirtatious, his voice when he spoke for the first time, his very first words to Wilson calling him an idiot and setting the theme for the rest of their long, tumultuous and extraordinary fun friendship.
House, sitting at the bar that night, shadowed and lecherous, watching as Wilson had gotten arrested, not even trying to hide his stare as he eyed Wilson over the rim of his scotch. House a few hours later, standing smack under a streetlight in the New Orleans semi-dark, a cigarette held like a joint between his thumb and forefinger, blowing smoke that obscured his eyes before they were revealed: bluer than anything Wilson had ever seen, the hottest part of fire in the light of the stuttered midnight, looking like a new and wanton god—

He stopped scrubbing the glass in his hands. Fuck. There was that, too. Inhaling shakily, he went back to washing the glass, albeit this time with a little more force. That little lapse had been an issue long, long before Amber's death. It had plagued all of his marriages, it had loomed over their every interaction. Try as he might to suppress it, he'd felt like this for House over their entire friendship.
Not even with Amber had it eased. He loved Amber, of course— but that didn't take away from that long-standing, impossible infatuation (obsession, devotion, admiration— he'd do anything but admit the word, never that word) with House. It would falter and it would be shaken — often in moments like the accident two months ago, when House's actions actually broke through the haze of his... Thing with the man — but it never went away, not fully. In fact, he'd talked to her about it. She saw through him in ways that House never could, peering into his soul, tuning herself to his emotions. She'd figured out the Thing and had confronted him about it— not out of anger or jealousy, but out of a desire to understand. Talking about it, the night they met, the nebulous feelings he’d had about their friendship since, had been freeing, and Amber loved him no less for it. Still, he'd hated that, even in Amber's absence, it persisted.

And when he let go of the blinding condemnation, when he stopped trying to delude himself that House wasn't still one of the people for whom he cared the most, the Thing came back, creeping up on him without notice like the rising tide watched from the shore.

Amber had wanted to see the ocean. She didn't talk about it much, but Wilson could see the yearning in her eyes when she did. Her family was Greek but she'd grown up in Iowa and her grandparents, who'd continued to live there after their daughter moved to the states, had died when Amber was too young to remember them. They'd never taken her to see them nor where her mother grew up, right on the edge of Mykonos, where tourists wouldn't dare disturb. She'd seen pictures— beaches overlooking the incredible blue of the Aegean sea, lush greenery that took your breath away. Wilson had wanted to take her there.
House had seen too much of the sea. Moving around from country to country, from sea to city to sea and back again. For House, travel just meant another place to hurt.

It's okay to still want, James. I want you to want. I want you to have.

Putting the glass to the side, he sighed again. He wondered how House was doing, these days. How long had it taken him to heal from the accident and the DBS? Had he gotten a new cane? How much did he hurt?
He thought back to the call Cuddy had made. The things she'd said. How overjoyed she'd sounded before Wilson shut her down. What she'd said, resonating within him now, echoing around his head like a pinball machine.

"He loved you. Couldn't you see that? He really, really loved you."

It had taken him a little off-guard, but at the time he'd been too overcome to think much of it past making sure House was alive. That's all he could do before the thought of House became too much and he hung up. But now he was thinking about it. Now it was all he could think about. He shut the water off. Looked anywhere but the mug.

"I wish I could have taken you to Greece," he whispered.

Yeah. Me, too.

"I don't know what to do."

You do.

"I can't do that to you."

Do it for me. All I want is for you to be happy.

He closed his eyes, pressing his lips together. There had been a time that he'd cried every day over Amber's loss. Now, the tears only came in the moments when talking to the emptiness of her apartment got too difficult, or laying in bed reminded him too much of that last half hour or so that he spent with her. They threatened when he remembered her face. He didn't think he'd ever forget it.
But his subconscious was right. He took a deep breath through his nose, dried his hands on a dish towel, and wiped his eyes of the tears that had begun welling there. Amber would have wanted him to move on. This limbo he was in, this hiding away from his problems, would have made her call him an idiot. His life was boring. A drag. He'd taken the fastest train to dullsville to attend the annual snoozefest. And a boring life was the one thing Amber would never have tolerated.

He wasn’t kidding anyone, trying to pretend he wanted to stay away.

He pulled out his phone to call the Dean of Medicine at Mercy to tell her he wasn't going to be coming in the next day. Or any day after that. He'd only been working there for a month, but he hoped she would understand. Even if she didn't, she couldn't exactly keep him there. He was sure his job was secure, in any case— it wasn't like his office at PPTH was going to have been taken. He'd been the best Head of Oncology that they'd ever had. He would be surprised if he'd been permanently and sufficiently replaced in such a short period of time.

And , he thought, a small smile dancing on his lips, They'd be hard-pressed to find someone willing to work in the office next to House's.

Amber's voice chuckled in the back of his head. Dread and excitement mingled in his gut to create something new and nauseating. He left the kitchen once the phone call was made and began to plan. Once he cleaned out his office at Mercy — which wouldn't be hard, as he'd only been there a month and hadn't really put much effort into making it look permanent, which really should have told him something — he'd go to PPTH and speak to Cuddy. He debated whether to call her, and decided against it. It would be a good day, and he was sure his appearance would be a pleasant surprise.

Here we go, said Amber, amusement coloring her voice.

"Here we go," Wilson agreed.

Chapter Text

Wilson was more nervous to walk into PPTH than he thought he'd be. He stood outside for a good five minutes trying to muster up the courage to walk through the doors he'd walked through every day for years; every time he tried to take a step forward, his stomach would twist and he'd be rendered frozen again, disappointed in his own cowardice.
He knew that it would be fine. He had a good reputation around the hospital— people liked him and had always liked him. That would not change just because he'd been gone for two months. And he was quite sure the Head of Oncology position hadn't yet been filled, and if it had, it likely would have been taken by someone far less qualified than him. Cuddy would rehire him, he was sure. On top of being the best fit, he'd also had good reason to leave. Though he'd formally resigned from the hospital, he hadn't been gone for long, and it had been because of Amber's death. To his patients and the hospital staff, he could just play it off as taking extended bereavement leave.

He'd thought of what he'd say to House. House would see him moving back into his office, come stand in the doorway and ask what he was doing here. Wilson would tell him that he's back and House would say something caustic and mean designed to get Wilson angry at him. It would be a test to see where they stood with each other— this was how House asked if they were okay. It was also a gauge of his mental state, seeing if he was still unstable with grief— this was how House asked if he was okay. Wilson would keep his head and respond in kind, establishing their banter. We're okay , he would tell House in his own language. I'm okay . And House would then saunter into his room, as if nothing bad had ever happened between them, fall on his couch, and begin kvetching to Wilson about the last two months or his patient or whatever else he wanted to complain about. Everything would go back to normal.
Or House would say that caustic and mean something and Wilson would respond calmly, but coldly. Telling House that he was fine, but that the two of them weren't. Despite knowing that the crash wasn't House's fault, that irrational, scapegoating anger was still there. He tried to dispute it, but logic did nothing against how he felt and how he'd been feeling for the last two months. House would not come into his office — or maybe he would, just because he was House — and they would not go back to normal for a little while. Wilson might need more time away from House to completely squash that anger. He didn't know yet which option he'd choose. He wouldn't know until he saw House, looked him in the eye.

But that was for later. It would be fine. He bounced a little on the balls of his feet and blew out a breath, psyching himself up. It would be fine. Everything would be fine. With a surge of confidence, he pushed through the doors and was standing on the marble flooring of the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Honestly, it didn't feel that much different than the outside— people didn't stop and stare, they didn't swarm him. To be honest, nobody seemed to notice him until he made his way to the nurse's station in the middle of the lobby. The nurse behind the counter, a woman named Arlene with whom he'd chatted in the past, looked up and greeted him emphatically. She asked how he was, gave him her condolences, and asked if he was coming back. When he answered that he hoped so, she was ecstatic.

"It's just not the same without you here," she said. "Everything's been so quiet."

He thanked her for her kind words, asked if Cuddy was in her office, and bid Arlene goodbye. Quiet, huh? House must have been depressed in his absence, if he wasn't terrorizing the staff like he normally did. He hoped that his return would spark some excitement again, maybe make House act a little more like himself. But then again, he wondered if that would be a good thing. He hoped for it anyway.
Walking through the clinic, he couldn't help but notice that a couple of the nurses and other staff were watching him carefully. They didn't seem angry or upset, but they also didn't seem too happy to see him, either. However, that wasn't true for everyone. Nurse Brenda was behind the counter at the clinic's nurses station; he'd gotten along with her for the most part before the accident, but for some reason she glared at him as he passed by on his way to Cuddy's office. When he tried to meet her eyes she looked away, feigning preoccupation with patient files, and Wilson frowned. Strange. But maybe she was upset that Wilson hadn't been here to be House's impulse control. He'd mediated many a dispute between the two of them, so maybe without Wilson, her and House's relationship had gotten even worse, if it was possible. He decided to apologize to her later.

He saw Cuddy through the door to her office, head down as she worked on paperwork. He watched her for a moment, hand on the door, working up the courage to walk in.

C'mon. You can do it, said subconscious-Amber.

With the little bit of encouragement, he took a breath and pushed open the door, peeking around it like he had so many times before. She looked up with a slightly annoyed but benign administrative smile, but it dropped when she saw Wilson. Her eyebrows shot up, her mouth fell open, and she blinked at him like he was the last person she'd ever expect to have come into her office. He might have been, actually, after the outcome of their last phone call. And there was something else in her eyes, behind the shock. He couldn't exactly tell what it was, but it unnerved him a little.

"James," she said, a little bit breathy, as if not really believing herself. "I... Good morning. Please, come in."

He did so, giving her a sheepish smile as he crossed the room and sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk. She sat too, having stood when she invited him in, and wrestled with her surprise for a moment before realizing she hadn't said anything. She cleared her throat and clasped her hands together on her desk, leaning on her elbows.

"How have you been?" She asked. Wilson could tell her heart wasn't really in it, but he gave her the opportunity to collect herself.

"I'm alright. It's been difficult, but I really am alright. I've been working over at Mercy for a while, but it just wasn't the right fit."

Her brows twitched, but she tried to school her expression back into something more neutral. Her eyes were wide and nervous as she looked him over, trying to evaluate him. Trying to figure him out after two months away.

"What are you doing back?" She asked, the shock still evident in her tone, as much as she tried to hide it. "When you left, you said..."

"I know what I said," he replied, averting his gaze for a moment before meeting her eyes again with purpose. He smiled, a little crookedly. "Everybody lies."

It had been intended as a joke to lighten the tension, to subtly tell her that he'd forgiven House, but instead of the chiding smile or the chuckle he'd been expecting, the tension increased twofold. Cuddy's shoulders rose almost imperceptibly, her hands clasped tighter, and though she tried to control it, her lips pressed together. Wilson bit back a frown.

"Are you here to visit?" She said, her voice a little feeble. "See your patients and the nurses?"

"I mean, sure, I'll do that. But that's not why I'm here. I want my job back."

Cuddy nodded slowly, swallowing. She broke eye contact, her blue eyes flicking down for a moment. Now, the frown presented. What was going on?

"I don't know if that's such a good idea, James." She looked back up. "I mean— it's only been two months since Amber died. You can't be ready to come back."

"I am," he said. "I've been working with a therapist, I'm on antidepressants. I'm still grieving, but that's not something that's going to just stop. I miss working here. I wouldn't have come back if I wasn't ready."

He said nothing about how he was getting ruthlessly bored with his life at Mercy. That sounded like a little too much to put on the table, and it might make Cuddy even more suspicious of his readiness to return.
She nodded again and shuffled some papers around.

"Well, your position hasn't been filled yet, so I can offer you the same thing you had before. Nothing more, nothing less. Same benefits, same salary..."

"Real competitive offer."

The nerves fell a little as she gave him an instinctive Look.

"You just quit Mercy no-notice. You'll take what I give you or go back there with your tail between your legs and beg them to hire you back, which would be difficult, given the lack of professionalism you've just exhibited. The Dean there doesn't like flakes."

He grinned. "And you do?"

"I’m more tolerant. This hospital's full of 'em," she replied easily. Then, as if remembering that things had been tense, she closed off again. Her expression went from chiding and teasing to guarded, her eyes regaining that indecipherable undertone that Wilson hadn't ever seen on her. He let his grin drop into a feeble smile. It was fun while it lasted.

"Does that mean you'll hire me back?"

"I already said I would," she said. She gave him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'll have to give you a new office, though. Yours was... filled."

He frowned, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "Who took my office? That's not exactly prime real estate."

She averted her eyes, looking to the side sheepishly. "Well..."

"And it's got my name on the door, unless you took it off already. Another oncologist? You said the head of department position hasn't been filled yet."

"It's not..."

"I can't imagine you found someone who needed an office and was willing to work next to House," he said, his tone light. She seemed to swallow a wince when he said House's name, then met his eyes again. The indecipherable emotion was stronger now, along with a nervous secrecy that made Wilson squint suspiciously. "Unless... House isn't here."

The hospital was quiet. The hospital would only be quiet if House wasn't here. He should have guessed it earlier. Cuddy did not answer, pursing her lips. It was as much a confirmation as he was going to get, apparently.

Wilson peered at her. "Where is he?"

She tried to muster an easy smile, but it didn't really work. "It's not even ten in the morning, Wilson. Of course he's not here."

"He hasn't been here. Arlene said the hospital's been quiet," Wilson rebutted. The frown on his face deepened. "What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on."

"Lisa, there's obviously something wrong."

The nerves he'd been seeing seemed to shift when he said that, the indecipherable emotion taking the forefront and spreading over her expression. Suddenly, he could almost pin it: it was something cold and unhappy, but restrained. Like she didn't want to see him, but she didn't want him to know that. Her smile became strained.

"There's not."

"Then why aren't you letting me have my office?"

"I told you— someone else filled the space. It doesn't matter, James. The office I'm going to give you is bigger and closer to the patient wing."

"No. I want the office I had before."

"I can't give it to you."

"The other guy can have the bigger office, I really don't mind."

"He's very happy where he is. He won't want to move."

"I think you're lying," he said, frowning. Why was she doing this? Why wouldn't she tell him what was wrong? Why was she lying to him about filling his office? It didn't make sense.

"I'm not," she said. It didn't sound convincing.

"Everybody lies."

"Stop saying that!" She cried, unclasping her hands and pushing herself to stand. Her eyes were fiery for just a second, the indecipherable coldness turning to heated anger in an instant. Then, as quickly as it had happened, she realized what she'd done and sat back down, clearing her throat. Wilson, shocked into silence, stared at her.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to recover her composure. Wilson could tell that she knew it was over. She couldn't deflect anymore, after her outburst. She wouldn't have broken like that had nothing been wrong. He studied her while she breathed. Really looked. She was put together at first blush, but he could tell that beneath her concealer there were bags under her eyes. Her hair was perfectly styled, but in a way that was easier, quicker than her usual preference. Her clothing was professional, but there wasn't as much care put into her choice of outfit. She looked how she usually did, but as if she had more important things to worry about than her appearance.

She's been taking care of someone, said Amber. There was a pause, then a realization. She's been taking care of House.

"Lisa," he said, his voice soft and imploring. "Where's House?"

When she opened her eyes, she looked years wearier. "He's at home, recovering."

"Recovering?" Wilson asked, incredulous. "From what? Did he OD? Did he— did he try..."

"No," she said. Her gaze was disapproving, as if she was upset that Wilson was making assumptions. "He's been home for about a month. Before that he was in the hospital for about four weeks."

Two months. "The accident?" He tried to remember if there was anything that could have warranted a four-week hospital stay. "I don't remember his injuries being severe, other than his concussion. Did something go wrong?"

"It wasn't because of the accident itself," she said, some of that coldness seeping back into her eyes, turning it into a subtle glare. The pieces clicked in his mind. His heart dropped, stomach twisting. The guilt he'd felt the day before, sparked by his subconscious, burnt ten times hotter. Fuck.

"The deep brain stimulation?" He asked, quietly, disbelieving. She didn't confirm it, but she kept his gaze with such purpose that she might as well have. He put his hand to his forehead, looking down at her desk, distraught. "But— But Foreman said he was fine."

"Foreman said they wouldn't know if he was okay until after he woke from the coma," she replied. To her credit, she only sounded a little bit bitter. "You left before he did, so you didn't see. He was seizing for a few days before he woke up."

Wilson's dismay doubled. "And when he woke up?"

"His cognition is intact. That's all you need to know," she said. "He's... asked me not to say anything further."

"I'm his physician. I'm his proxy."

"Not anymore," she said. She seemed reluctant to talk about it, but Wilson didn't want her to stop. " I'm his proxy. Even if you still were, though, he specifically asked me not to say anything further to you ."

"What?" Wilson stood from his chair, pacing Cuddy's office. It was a habit he'd picked up from House nearly eight years ago, now. He'd hated it, but found himself mimicking it after a while. "That's ridiculous. I know we didn't really split on good terms, but—"

"You asked him to risk his life for Amber's, then didn't even stay to make sure he was alright," Cuddy said, her voice soft. Her tone juxtaposed with her accusation. "Did you really think he wouldn't be hurt?"

"He's House ! He doesn't get hurt !" Wilson exclaimed. Cuddy's face soured nearly imperceptibly, nostrils flaring. "There's no way he just decided to drop me. He doesn't do that unless he's trying to punish himself for something by pushing me away. Or planning to do something awful, and wants to give me deniability. There's no way he would have just—"

Wilson cut himself off, gesturing frantically. Cuddy watched him with a complex expression of sympathy mixed with frigidity. It was unnerving— he and Cuddy had always had a very good relationship. He considered her one of his closest friends, and over the years they'd been able to talk about anything. House was the most common topic, but if either of them had a problem, they knew they could turn to the other for advice or help. Now, it looked like Cuddy was miles away with a bunch of signs telling Wilson that he shouldn't try to get closer because he wasn't welcome. He made a small noise of frustration.

"It was difficult, but it's true. He doesn't want you in his life anymore. We all assumed that you felt the same way. He accepted it."

"That's ridiculous. This is House we're talking about," Wilson argued. "The guy who pesters me until I take him back when I cut him off. The guy who won't take a hint and refuses to respect boundaries of any kind. He's obsessive— he wouldn't have just accepted it. The House I know wouldn't have just accepted it ."

"Wilson, when you ask your best friend of over a decade to risk his life for your girlfriend of less than half a year then abandon him when he does, you can't expect him to sit around waiting for you to come back. What did you think would happen? That you could leave him to die, come back, and everything would be fine? That it would all go back to normal?"

Again, her words were harsh, but her tone was patient and kind. At the same time, it sounded forced. Like she was holding herself back for his sake. It was unsettling. Wilson swallowed. Ashamed, he realized that was exactly what he'd thought would happen. To be fair, it's what had happened pretty much every time they'd split throughout their relationship. When Wilson came back, everything returned to normal. Everything was always fine in the end. He had no reason to expect anything else.

"When you asked him to do the DBS, even knowing how overstrained his brain was, you made him feel like your ten years of friendship meant less to you than the five months you spent with Amber," she continued. "You made him feel like his life meant less to you than Amber's. That it meant less to you than your happiness."

"It doesn't," he said weakly, nearly stumbling as he returned to his seat and slumped over his knees. "It doesn't mean less to me. Neither of their lives were worth more or less to me. I was— I was scared . I didn't want to lose Amber."

"But losing House was alright?" Cuddy asked, a little bit biting. Wilson put his head in his hands.

"I haven't seen him in months. I thought he was going to come and annoy me into being his friend again. I didn't— I didn't know it was this bad," Wilson muttered. "I feel like I've lost them both."

"You almost did," Cuddy said. Wilson's heart caught in his throat, right where the pressure built when he was about to cry. He suppressed it. There would be time for that later.

"Is he okay?" Wilson asked. He looked up at Cuddy, pleading. "Can you tell me that, at least?"

She pressed her lips together, considering. Then, she sighed. "He's okay. He's good. He's— He's really, really good."

It was the same thing she'd said to him that night on the phone call. Really, really good . Something had happened. There was something missing here.

"That's not an adjective I'd usually use to describe House."

A small smile twitched onto her face. "I know. I feel strange just saying it out loud. But it's true. He's doing better than he has in a long time."

"That's... did the bleed affect his personality?" Wilson asked, his entire body feeling hollow, filled with guilt and desperation and horror. He felt like the most miserable guy in New Jersey— it looked like his only competition was no longer in the race.

"No," Cuddy said. "He's definitely still House. He's just... happier. Not happy, because I think a happy House would be a sure sign of Armageddon, but he's happier."

"And it happens to correlate with the period during which I've left," Wilson says with a sigh, hanging his head again. "Great to know that I've been the one making him miserable all this time."

Cuddy didn't argue, which would have made it worse if anything could make it worse. He already felt more awful than he ever had. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, gritted his teeth, then pushed himself to sit up. He stared at Cuddy with a defiant raise of his chin.

"I— I can't believe that. I can't believe that he'd be happier without me. I'm his best friend. Let me talk to him."

"He blocked your number, Wilson," Cuddy informed him, her voice apologetic but firm. "He really doesn't want to see you. The things you said hurt him."

"Of course they hurt him! That's what we do! We hurt each other!" Wilson cried. Cuddy winced.

"You do know how that sounds, right?"

Of course, he did. He knew exactly how that sounded. But nobody understood his and House's relationship but him and House. Was it unhealthy? Absolutely. Was it the best thing for the both of them? Not at all. But none of that mattered. What they had wasn't conventional. It wasn't something that anyone else had ever seen. Sure, they hurt each other and split and got back together under the worst of conditions, but it was theirs. And Wilson was not going to give that up just because Cuddy told him House was better off.

"We've been doing this song and dance for ten years, Lisa. This time is no different. Let me talk to him."

"This time is different," Cuddy said. "He's happier. Can't you accept that?"

Wilson scowled. "No. I don't accept that. I already feel bad enough between House and Amber— you don't have to lie about House's happiness just to make me feel worse."

I don't think she's lying , Amber said unsure. Wilson dismissed her.

She adopted a scowl of her own, the coldness and anger from before sparking across her face. It was as if she'd lost the energy to hold herself back. "You can't imagine that he could be happy without you?"

"I can't imagine that he could be happy because he's without me," Wilson retorted. "I'm his best friend."

She studied him for a moment as if trying to assess whether he was serious or not. She seemed to determine that he was, then shook her head in disbelief.

"You want proof? Because I can give you proof." Her tone, formerly gentle, was sharper around the edges. She was upset, protective. Wilson had never been on the other side of the look she was giving him— he'd only seen her look at House like this.

"I don't think you can," he said anyway.

She scoffed, held up a finger and pulled out her phone. She dialed and put the call on speakerphone, holding it in her hand. She put her finger to her lips. It rang for a moment before the line picked up.

"Hey. Shouldn't you be working? I mean, I know you're not a real doctor or anything, but shouldn't you be doing all that super-important paperwork?" Wilson blinked, listening to House's voice float from the phone. "Or did you get bored? I can help make things interesting, if you want. Y'know, since I'm just sitting here, I figured I should find a source of income. I was thinking of applying to be a phone sex operator. I have the voice for it. Wanna help me practice?"

It was the first time in two months that he'd heard House's voice, and it sounded... foreign. Light and strange. Like nothing he'd ever heard. He sounded... happy. Normal. His tone was easy in a way it hadn't been in... years . Not since before his infarction, and even then Wilson didn't remember him being this carefree. Without changing the angry curve of her lip nor her eye contact with Wilson, Cuddy spoke.

"Sure, but you should know that I charge by the word. You're already over $150."

House gasped. " Cuddy . My mother is here!" There was a pause. Then, a faux-hopeful, "You wouldn't give me a cripple discount? After all I do for you?"

"All you do for me? You mean sit on your couch, watch your soaps, and pester me for beer? $190, by the way."

"You know you love it."

She scoffed, a bit of humor whispering across her face before it settled back. "And there's $200. Listen, I was thinking Indian tonight. From that place around the corner from the hospital. I'll pick it up on my way home and we can continue the episode of Prescription Passion that we had to stop because you started cr—"

"Okay!" He spoke over her, cutting her off before she could finish the sentence. "Indian sounds good! I'll get mom's order and email it to you with mine."

"Sounds good."

"You sure you don't want to help me practice my lines? What are you wearing? Oh, yeah, that's hot. You wanna know what I'm wearing? Nothing but a pair of Naruto-themed thigh-highs and a trucker hat. You like that, huh? Here, listen to how it sounds when I stroke —"

"Greg!" Was heard faintly in the background. Wilson recognized the voice as Blythe's. So he wasn't kidding when he said his mother was there. She must have flown in to help him recover. For two months? God, what had he done? He waited for Amber's response, but it seemed like even his subconscious was rendered speechless.

"See you later, House." She hit the end call button, her eyes still piercing through Wilson's. "Can you imagine it now?"

Brutal , Amber said. I think she might have it out for you, dear.

Wilson swallowed, trying to hold his composure for a moment before he gave up, deflating in his chair. She eyed him as he did, as he leaned forward and put his head in his hands once more.

"God damn it," he muttered, trying to keep himself from crying. He'd lost both of them. Lord, in trying to save one of them, he'd lost them both. He was such an idiot.

Cuddy was silent as he spiraled, simply watching him from where she sat behind her desk. Wilson was vaguely aware of her, but found that he couldn't care, thinking about his own idiocy and the insurmountable feeling of loss that was coursing through his body. House was still alive. But to hear him sound this happy in Wilson's absence... he never thought he'd be disappointed to hear House improve. And the thing was that he wasn't . He was glad House was better. He was glad House was happy. He was destroyed that he'd had no part in it.

He heard her sigh. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. For everything. None of this was supposed to happen. It's a terrible situation."

Wilson did not respond, not trusting his voice not to crack with emotion. The apprehension in Cuddy's pause was palpable.

When she finally spoke, she sounded weary again. "C'mon. I'll take you to your office. You can set up tomorrow and start seeing patients whenever you feel you're ready."

She stood from her desk and he followed. When they made it to the door to her office, she stared at him for a moment as if wanting to say something more before thinking better of it.

As they took the elevator to the fourth floor, as they veered right and away from the rooms he'd come to know as well as his own name, he thought about what he'd done to get to this point. He couldn't help but wallow in his own self-pity— he'd lost his best friend and his girlfriend in one fell swoop, then the respect and friendship he had with his boss, and now the office that he'd spent the last ten or so years. He knew that Cuddy had been lying when she told him that it was filled, and that didn't make it any easier to leave it behind.

He remembered the balcony, how he and House would jump over the divider to get to each other's offices to see one another or pull pranks. When House still smoked — before his infarction, because afterward he was afraid of more clotting and he'd found a different vice — he'd stand out there and watch the Jersey cityline. He'd done that after he stopped smoking, too; sometimes Wilson would watch him as he stood in the cold of autumn or winter without a jacket, eyes closed as if in prayer.
So much of what House did was a punishment to himself. So much of what he did was penance— the pushing people away, the desperate pursuit of being miserable and alone, the standing out in the cold. All of it was because he thought he didn't deserve people who loved him, didn't deserve happiness or comfort. That's why he stood outside until he was nearly hypothermic. That's why he'd agreed to do the deep brain stimulation. And apparently, that's why he'd been friends with Wilson all this time. Because now he was without his constant self-flagellation, without Wilson , and he was happy. He felt sick.

Cuddy walked with purpose while Wilson lagged behind. He tried not to seem too overtly devastated, waving to acquaintances and smiling like there was nothing wrong. If nothing else, he was going to be more well-liked here. Sure, everyone had to have known what had happened— he got a lot of winces when he walked by, a few people greeting him with that pained, indulgent expression people got when others were in mourning. But it was better than at Mercy, where the doctors were cliquey and suspicious of him and the nurses were hesitant to chat. His long friendship with House had inextricably tied the two of them together; while Wilson's efficacy was never called into question, his character often was. House had a way of rubbing off on people after a while. After ten years... well. It didn't matter anymore. Everyone here knew the type of person he was.
He followed her as she pushed through the door to an office that was both far away from House's wing and significantly closer to the admitted cancer patients' rooms. Wilson realized that she hadn't just had the office in mind— she'd likely kept it unused. She'd been prepared for this eventuality. Something about that was both desperately funny and horribly depressing.

To her credit, it wasn't a broom closet. In fact, she was right when she'd said so before: it was a good deal bigger than the office he'd been in previously. The windows were large and let in a lot of lovely, natural light, there was enough space for his bookshelves and desk. There was room for chairs, a couch— probably even a coffee table and dresser where he could put a coffee machine, or something. The walls were an unassuming but modern neutral grey and the floors were the same carpet used in most of the offices, a dark, forgettable blue that hid footprints and tracks well. She walked inside and turned to him, her face benign and administrative as if she were talking to a new hire.

"This is you. You're close to the oncology fellows' lounge, so if you need them for any reason you'll be able to find them there. Your patients were split up between the attendings, so you'll have to talk to them about getting them back before you start doing rounds. When you do, most of your admitted patients are in this area, so you shouldn't have trouble getting around."

"Thanks," he muttered, looking around the room, at the floor, anywhere but her face. He heard her sigh again.

"It's better this way," she said. " He's better. What you two had wasn't healthy. It would be best if you stayed away, if and when he comes back."

He nodded wordlessly. She approached him, putting a gentle, reassuring hand on his shoulder before slipping past him and out of the office. He heard the door click shut behind him. He felt like there was something missing. He couldn't figure it out, but there was something missing. Could it be that he was just missing House? Missing Amber? Or was it something else? He couldn't figure it out. It was like this entire situation was a puzzle and he'd lost some crucial pieces that would help him see the picture. But he couldn't look for them now— his head was foggy with grief and despair and horrible guilt.

Amber was quiet for a moment, then spoke: That was...

"Fuck."

He stood in this empty office, barren and foreign, and tried to ignore how intensely it felt like a tomb.

Chapter Text

"Thank you, Dr. Wilson," said Patty Shepherd, a fifty-five year old woman with stage four small-cell lung carcinoma who he'd just told had 6 months to live, if that. "For everything."

As always, she was here with her daughter, a young yet severe woman in her third year of med school. Wilson predicted the making of yet another vengeful oncologist, if the entire experience hadn't already put her down that path. Patty had asked her to step out and get her something from the cafeteria, which all three of them had known was just a way to get her out of the room; Patty could barely eat, the cancer having progressed so far as to make her weak and sick on top of the chemotherapy making her unbearably nauseous. She'd asked Wilson how long she had when her daughter left, and he'd told her outright. That's what he'd come in for, anyway— none of the treatment was working. There were other things they could do, but nothing would give her more than a year, tops. It might be best, he said, to go home and spend what time she had with her family.
He never liked having to tell people that they were dying. It was something he hated, actually, but something from which he'd learned to detach himself over his years of doing this job. House has always made fun of him for his bedside manner, but in truth it was strangely jarring when he thought about it— people thanked him for telling them they were going to die. Imagine thanking someone telling you your expiration date. It sounded dystopian.

They spoke both of logistics and plans for the next six months for a while before her daughter stepped back into the room, a small meal in hand. Wilson stood, having been asked by Patty to let her break the news. He gave both women a smile and assured them he'd see them soon before slipping out of the room, closing the door behind him. He stood for a second, taking a breath. As much as he could dissociate from the news in the moment, the aftermath was something else. But he could compartmentalize. He'd always been good at compartmentalization— it was something he'd talked Cameron through when she was younger, during House's fellowship, and something he'd worked on himself throughout his entire career. He had to be good at it, or he'd implode. There was nothing else he could do.
So, tucking his grief away for later, he raised his head and began the short walk back to his office. It wasn't a long walk— his office was closer now, after all. He used to complain about the distance between him and his patients when he was still next to House, but now he found himself missing it. He had accepted that change and was getting used to it, but it was change nonetheless.

The nurses were talking by their station and they gave him nods as he walked past; he smiled back. They weren't as ready to chat as they used to be, but they likely knew that he was still mourning Amber and were giving him space. He appreciated the consideration, but despite what House had said (constantly and very loudly) he did not really flirt with the nurses all that often. They were friendly and he liked to make them feel seen and heard; a doctor was really only as good as his nurses, and if they liked you, you were golden. Especially the nurses at PPTH, who often had a defiant, independent streak and little tolerance for pretentious doctors. He liked to show them that he was human, that he didn't look down on them like many of the other surgeons and doctors in this hospital, and that he was more than just what his friendship with House said about his character.

I still don't understand why you have to kiss their asses, subconscious-Amber complained. They barely do anything on this floor other than change sheets and clean bedpans. They barely even take blood.

He internally rolled his eyes. Amber hadn't ever had anything against the nurses, but she didn't particularly enjoy how Wilson brown-nosed them. She'd been younger than him, progressed and successful enough in her career that she was knowledgeable and solid, but young enough that she hadn't picked up the things that were gained from years on the job. She'd also been assertive and got what she wanted— she was unlike Wilson in that way.

When he got back into his office, he took a moment to look at the space he'd created. It was comforting in a neutral sort of way, not too personal but also not too detached. He had his bookshelves behind the desk, like they'd been in his first office, and they were stacked with the gifts he'd gotten from patients over the years, but there were no pictures on the walls other than his movie posters and his degrees. His couch was on the far wall, in front of which being a coffee table and two leather chairs, just in case a patient came with family. When he'd first moved in, his eyes kept roaming to the right side of the office, where there had been a door to the outside before. It was just wall; he put a dresser there with a coffee machine and styrofoam cups so it wouldn't feel so empty. All in all, it was a great set-up. Something much more fit for a department head than what he'd had before. He hated it.
He hated the grey walls, he hated the bigger size, he hated the coffee table and the chairs and the dresser and the stupid coffee machine. It wasn't bland or boring, but it felt desolate in a way he couldn't describe. It had life, but it was a different kind of life than he wanted. It was wrong. It was missing something crucial.

He swallowed thickly and moved to sit on his couch — that, the desk, the bookshelves and the tchotchkes being the only things left from his old office — putting his head in his hands. There, behind the closed door of this place that could never quite feel like his, he allowed himself to wallow in his own self-pity. He'd come back to PPTH so that he wouldn't be bored. So that he wouldn't be lonely. So that he wouldn't feel like he was just going through the motions of this life, working and eating and sleeping without purpose, direction or meaning. And now he felt more aimless, more alone, and more bored than he had at Mercy. It was excruciating.

It felt like something was missing. Not just in his office, but in general. The more he thought about what Cuddy had told him about House, the more he knew that there had to be something more. House wouldn't have just been made happier by Wilson's absence— he likely would have been depressed by it for a while before even thinking about accepting it. In fact, he was more likely to have bugged Wilson until he was absolutely sure there was no chance for friendship, no matter what Wilson had said or done to him. House was one to hold grudges, yes, but he'd also be of the opinion that, despite Wilson asking him to do the DBS, it was ultimately House's decision and therefore wouldn't blame Wilson. It just didn't make sense for House to be so hurt by it that he'd want to cut Wilson off after all this time. There was something missing. But even if there was, he didn't feel he had the right to investigate. Not now, not when everything about House was so unsure.

You still want to know, though , said Amber.

"Of course, I want to know," he muttered, quiet enough that it couldn't be heard through the door. "But I don't want to overstep."

When did House ever worry about overstepping in your friendship? C'mon, James. Take what you want.

"It's not that simple."

Isn't it?

The hospital was still quiet. House hadn't yet returned, now six months after the accident. He'd decided that any sort of pursuit of House's whereabouts was a bad idea; he was sure that, the more he learned about House, the more he'd be tempted to seek him out, to talk to and about him. Therefore, he hadn't listened to much gossip and refused to talk about House with anyone who asked. He wasn't House's keeper any longer, he told them. He didn't know anything about him, didn't know when he was coming back, et cetera, nor did he want to know. It was a lie, but one that seemed to work every time. People just assumed that after the accident, Wilson had decided he was well and truly done with House. Which, granted, was what he'd tried to do. But his being back, staying back, proved otherwise.
He'd never really found it hard to escape the gossip machine that was this hospital, but that was because he used to listen to bits and pieces from the nurses, then would talk about them later with House. Now it felt like all the gossip was centered around House, where he was, and what had happened after the DBS. Even the people who hated House were talking about him, and Wilson — who felt like he was intruding whenever he learned something new — was finding it difficult to talk to anyone about anything else. As a result, he ate his lunch in his office and didn't talk often with the doctors whose offices were around his.

He lifted his head when there was a gentle knock on his door, calling for them to come in. He smiled when Cameron popped her head in and gestured for her to sit down. She did so in one of the leather chairs adjacent to the couch with a sigh.
Wilson wasn't entirely alone, he reminded himself. Cameron was a friend and always had been— she'd come over in the weeks after Amber's death and had talked him through it, as she had some experience with that kind of loss having lost her husband. Now that he was back at PPTH, she took a little bit of time to visit him in his office a couple of days per week and to see how he was holding up. Thankfully, she didn't talk about House, because if she did, Wilson feared he might never stop.

"How's the ER?" Wilson asked, as he did whenever she came to sit with him. She gave him a look that said ' Don't even get me started ' before pulling her hair out of her ponytail and rubbing her scalp.

"There was a five-car pile-up on the highway about an hour ago," she said. "Two people died, one critical, and the rest were mildly injured. All of them were taken here, so my hands have been a little full."

"I'm guessing that your being here means you got them all patched up or transferred to the right departments," Wilson said, standing and heading to the coffee machine. He knew what she liked with the homemade stuff— two creams, two sugars.

"Yeah, thank God. It's crazy how mean people can be to the guys sewing up their legs."

Wilson chuckled, leaning back against the dresser as he waited for the coffee to drip from the machine. He crossed his arms, and Cameron gave him a weary but amused half-smile.

"How are you holding up?" She asked as he turned around to pour her coffee. He considered the question as he always did, giving it a moment of thought as he added the cream and sugar then handed her the cup.

"I'm alright," he said. "I had a patient today who has six months, tops. Besides that, not much is going on. Not many people to talk to anymore. Same as it has been."

"I understand," she said, sipping from the styrofoam cup. "People here can be overcautious, I think. When I first transferred to the ER, nobody wanted to be around me. They knew I was coming from House's fellowship and were nervous that I would be like him. I just proved that I wasn't, or that I was, but not in the ways they were afraid of."

Wilson frowned. There was an unspoken rule between them that they wouldn't bring up House. It was the one thing they'd never talked about, and he hoped it would stay that way. Still, he supposed it was innocuous. It wasn't so much talking about House as it was talking about herself through the lens of House's influence. Maybe Wilson was deluding himself, but he thought that was detached enough to be safe. He shifted where he stood, folding his arms again.

"It's not even that people don't want to be around me or are afraid of me or anything like that," he said. "The nurses are keeping their distance because they know I'm still grieving Amber, but it's also that all they and the doctors ever seem to talk about is House."

"And you don't want to talk about House," she deduced. The cup was held in both hands, as if she could feel the warmth through it despite the nature of the material.

"No, I don't," he said. "I— I'm done being House's keeper. I don't really even want to know about him anymore and he doesn’t seem to want to know about me. I'm trying to avoid the gossip, but when everything circles back to what's going on with him, it's difficult."

She nodded slowly. "But... you came back," she said.

"What do you mean?" He asked, not exactly liking where she was going. He felt himself tensing a little, which didn't really lend itself to the lie that he didn't care about House, but he couldn't help it.

"You left," she said, "then came back. Which would, in itself, be fine. But you had to know that you'd be around House, that you'd be associated with him just because of what you two were. You claim to not want to know anything about him, act annoyed that people are asking you about him or talking about him, but you had to have expected that."

"I came back because Mercy wasn't a good fit," he said uncomfortably. "I didn't like it there. That doesn't mean I came back for House. My office isn't near his anymore, is it? I'm trying to stay away from him and anything having to do with him— as far as I can while still being on this floor."

"Sure," she said with a nod. "But I don't really believe that."

Wilson's brows furrowed and he bristled. She watched him coolly and he was suddenly reminded why she'd lasted so long on House's team.

"I think you did come back because of House," she continued. "Your anger doesn't have the same kick it did when Amber first died. You don't believe he's at fault for her death anymore and you feel bad about what you asked him to do before it. You moved your office because you're trying to avoid him, but not because you want to avoid him.”

He worked his jaw, anger bubbling up. She had no right to psychoanalyze him like this. She had no right . Had all of their talks been working up to this? Had she been getting him comfortable so that she could talk about House without consequence? If she did, she had another thing coming. Wilson pushed off the dresser and put his hands on his hips.

“What’s between me and House is none of your business,” he says firmly. She raises her eyebrows.

“Of course, it’s my business. The things that affect House are everyone’s business. And what affects House more than his relationship with you?” She tilts her head to the side, her expression gaining something contemplative. Wilson was reminded that she’d lasted on House’s team for too long. “I think you feel guilty for pushing him into agreeing to do deep brain stimulation, but you don’t have to be. What happened to him wasn’t your fault. Cuddy can think what she wants, but she’s not his keeper, either. She’s protecting him from the wrong things. I think the two of you staying away from each other is only gonna make the hospital worse. And you’re already miserable.

“Avoiding your issues isn’t going to make them go away. Hell, look at House: his didn’t, and he’s— well. He’s completely detached.” A small smile comes to her face as if she told a rueful little joke, but Wilson just frowned, his hands still stuck on his hips. He didn’t want to listen to her. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. She had been on House’s team for too long.

"I think you should leave," he said, his voice steely. She raised her eyebrows at him, studying him, then shrugged. She stood, tossing the empty coffee cup into the garbage. She was wrong, anyway— if he had it his way, he would be right where he’d been before.

"Alright," she said. "I'll see you later, then."

"Yeah," Wilson muttered, watching her leave.

"Oh, and by the way," she said as she opened the door, turning back to him and meeting his eyes. There was a mischievous gleam in her gaze, and something like dread roiled in his gut. "Just thought you should know— House comes back tomorrow."

And with that she was gone, the door falling shut behind her.

Well, ceded Amber, you stopped.

————

He hadn't really believed it until he saw House. Or, rather, he'd believed it, but his brain hadn't exactly registered it. It being House's strange and unfamiliar happiness.

Wilson had tried to keep himself away. He really had tried. To his credit, he was able to resist the urge to head over to the diagnostic section of the floor for the entirety of House's first day back. The hospital was abuzz with his name; every hallway, every elevator ride, was a mantra of ' Have you seen House? ' or ' Can you believe it?' which, to Wilson, turned into a steady drone of House, House, House. Wilson ignored it as best he could. The less he knew, the better. That was what he kept telling himself, anyway.
The next day, however, he couldn't resist the pull. He was able to stay in his office until lunch, but afterward he gravitated to the diagnostic wing without even realizing his feet were taking him there. He stood at the nurses' station, talking with a nurse that he'd been friendly with when he'd been in the office next to House's, and tried his level best not to look inside the diagnostics office. But he was a weak man, and as he spoke and looked down at his charts, he found his eyes wandering.

House looked better than he had in years. The perpetual bags under his eyes were all but absent, the fatigue seeming new and case-driven rather than something impossible to ease. His hair was longer as if he hadn't cut it for a couple of months, and he wasn't addict-skinny anymore. He was still lean, but in a healthier way. Like he'd been eating better food more often. And if that wasn't enough, he was doing paperwork. Like, actually willingly doing it. Pen in his hand, glasses on his nose, signing papers. That, more than anything else, was jarring. Or, rather, the jarring thing was that he didn't seem too upset. More bored, but that was to be expected. Wilson stared as inconspicuously as he could, looking back to maintain the conversation he'd been having before turning again to look at House.
He should have been expecting the eye contact, really. This was House he was staring at. It wasn't as if he wouldn't notice. But Wilson was shocked all the same when one of his glances into House's office was met with familiar, piercing blue. He quickly averted his gaze, but the feeling of being watched remained. It didn't go away, but after a minute or two, Wilson mustered the courage to glance again. House was still looking, his eyes intense. He kept the eye contact for half a second too long before turning back to the nurse.

Huh. I would've expected a confrontation. I was bracing for a lot more yelling , Amber said.

Wilson was, too.

House didn't seem angry. In fact, he seemed more curious than anything else. He had that look on his face that he got when he was trying to solve a puzzle and still had pieces to gather. Wilson had been on the business end of that stare more times than he could count. He left the diagnostic wing before he could do something stupid like go into House's office or talk to him. He knew better than that.
He came back a couple more times that day, then again the next. And the next, and the one after that. Every day, he'd hang around the wing, talking to nurses as a cover and surreptitiously watching House. Every time he was there, House would be at his desk or at the conference table; Wilson only stayed if it looked like House wasn't going anywhere. After all, he didn't want to accidentally run into House in the hallway or the elevator and have to talk to him. No, Cuddy had made it clear that it was better for everyone if that didn't happen. But she hadn't said anything about watching House. Which, granted, sounded a little bit creepy, but House had spied on him so many times throughout their friendship that it was only fitting if Wilson paid him back.

He watched House in his office, listened to him walk by as he talked with his fellows about whatever case they were working on, and peered at him in the cafeteria for two weeks before anything happened. Every day Wilson became a little more sure that House was happy — which was the strangest thing he thought he'd ever be sure of — and every day he got a little sadder that it was likely because he wasn't there. Still, he was grateful for at least the proximity— he tried to convince himself that being around House, sneaking looks a few times a day, watching him from afar, was enough. He knew it wasn't, but he told himself in hopes it would someday become true. Mind over matter, and all that.
Cameron didn't come back again after the day she told him about House. She was nice to him in the hallways and asked him how he was when they saw each other in the cafeteria, but gone were the days she would knock on his door and spend time with him when she had a few free moments. It upset him— he would have to apologize for his coldness. He wasn't ready to lose that friendship, too. He was sure they'd be fine; Cameron tended to give people a few days to cool off before addressing the issues that caused a split.

You care too much, Amber said. She broke the rule .

There wasn't ever a rule, Wilson silently argued. She didn't break anything. She'd just talked about House— that wasn't illegal.

It might as well have been, with how you reacted. Which is strange, because you seem to think this is kosher.

He pointedly ignored her, trying to get across to his traitorous subconscious that she wasn't being helpful . She seemed to do the in-mind equivalent of a shrug and sat back in the passenger's seat, watching him drive. He loved Amber, and talking to her was often an incredibly helpful way to organize his thoughts, but even before the accident his brain had never been the best ally. Amber's advice was good about fifty percent of the time, but the other fifty percent he tended to either dismiss or pack away for 'later', later being never.

He finished up his conversation with the diagnostics nurse and, with one last glance at House — who had been watching Wilson with just as much attention — he started back to his office. He felt eyes on him— whether they were House's or someone else's didn't matter, as he wasn't going to look back and betray his interest.

That is, until he heard shoes tapping on the marble floor behind him, similar to his own with a measured, easy gait.

He didn't turn around at first, feeling a little bit like prey being stalked. He recalled that humans used to hunt by walking down their prey rather than running and attacking at first sight; they had more stamina than the animals they were chasing, and could walk for hours longer than an animal could run. The piercing glare of a predator bore into the back of his neck, the heat of it breaking sweat onto his skin. Some small creature inside him begged him to run, to hide in a broom closet, to go and find Cameron or someone else who liked him enough to bare their teeth and fend off his attacker. Of course, he didn't do that, because he was a fully-grown human man and not some mouse trying to outrun a cat. Instead, he took a deep (shuddering, because human or not, he had something with fangs on his tail) breath and turned around to face his stalker. Who was it, then? Thirteen? Chase? It couldn't have been House— Wilson knew House's step-thump gait like he knew his own name.
To his surprise, it was Foreman, standing a mere couple of feet behind him with his hands in his pockets and a perfectly cool, unbreakably neutral expression. His eyes, though— that's where Wilson's choked.

His eyes were hard, steely— a stare he'd seen on Foreman before. But there was also something else. Something protective and territorial. That look he'd only ever seen on House, when he was talking about Wilson. It was a familiar glare, but one that, on Foreman, seemed foreign and unsettling. Wilson swallowed, frowned, braced himself. Whatever was coming wouldn't be pretty; Foreman was a predator, quick and calculated, out for blood. He always had been.

"Dr. Foreman," Wilson said, because they were not on a first-name basis by any means even after all these years of working together. "Is there a reason why you're following me? You have a case, don't you?"

"Why are you asking if you already know?" Foreman said, his voice cold. He took another step forward. "You hang around diagnostics enough. You could probably tell me everything about the patient. Hey, what presents with fever, rash, reduced kidney function and intermittent psychosis?"

It wasn't a real question, mostly because they both knew Wilson wouldn't know the answer. He wasn't a diagnostician— put a cancer patient in front of him and he'd be able to figure out what they had with a kibbutz and an eye exam, but when it came to what House did, he was often stumped. He could help sometimes, but everything he could think of would have already been said during the differential.

"What do you want?" Wilson asked, point blank. His subconscious oooh 'd like a grade-schooler. Foreman huffed mirthlessly through his nose, pulling his hands out of his pockets and folding them over his chest. Foreman wasn't really one to show emotion— that was, honestly, the most notable part of his personality. But sometimes, you could see what was going on underneath the surface. He didn't know Foreman well. Chase or Cameron would be better able to identify his subtle shifts in mood. But Wilson didn't have to look far to see what writhed underneath Foreman's unreadable mask— something frustrated, something angry in a dull, blunted way. Wilson bristled. Blunted though it was, it was no less disconcerting.

"You're not supposed to be here," he said, tilting his head forward a little to give Wilson an unimpressed glare. Wilson, feeling especially pedantic, looked around and spotted the oncology sign, feigning surprise as he looked from it to Foreman and back.

"Wait, I thought I was— Oh, how silly of me. I thought I was the head of oncology here. Could you point me in the direction of the nearest Del Taco? I'm gonna be late for my shift."

"Hanging around House is a bad idea," Foreman continued, undeterred as always. "Those aren't your nurses. That isn't your office. You don't have a place there anymore."

"Sorry, I didn't realize I was banned from half the floor," Wilson shot back, putting his hands on his hips.

"Your office was moved over here for a reason, Wilson," said Foreman. His voice was steady, infuriatingly so— Wilson was getting increasingly heated, and yet Foreman stayed as frigid as he always was despite that blunted anger. "You should stay there."

"I'm not talking to him. I'm barely even looking at him," Wilson snapped. "I know he doesn't want to see me, but I was his best friend for over a decade. I have the right to worry. I have the right to make sure he's okay, now and again."

"No, you don't."

The words were quick and cutting, uttered without hesitation or remorse. Wilson met Foreman's eyes again— they were unchanged. Foreman would not sugar-coat anything nor would he beat around what he believed to be the truth. Wilson swallowed, opened his mouth to speak, but Foreman cut him off.

"I don't like House. I never have. I'm not afraid to say it. But for the first time in the many years I've been working for him, the man is happy. Do you understand that? He's happy , Wilson. Which means that my life is less about whether he's going to drop dead or kill someone at any given moment and more about whether he'll insult me for my race or my medical advice. You'll have to forgive me for wanting to keep the peace."

Wilson pressed his lips together, anger bubbling forth from the pit in his chest. These were Cuddy's words, or at least a shared sentiment between them; he felt like all he was hearing from anyone was how much happier House was, how much better he was doing. But the why was left unsaid. The why lingered over House's recovery in the shape of Wilson's name, and everyone was too afraid to say it. It seemed like Foreman, however, was not.

"Well, I'm not happy," Wilson hissed. "Something's different. There's no goddamn way House would just magically heal his fucked-upness in just six months after severe physical and emotional trauma. That's not how House works. That's not how any of this works!"

Wilson was getting louder, his voice attracting the attention of others now. Foreman, unfazed, simply raised his eyebrows.

"To be honest, I couldn't care less whether you're happy. And I couldn't care less what you think about House's recovery. But the fact of the matter is that House is doing well. Which means I'm doing well. And I'm not going to let you jeopardize my peace because of your insecurity."

Snarling, Wilson dropped his hands from his hips and balled them into fists. "You have no business talking to me about peace . When have you ever tried to help him? Where were you when he was overdosing on Vicodin or heroin? Where were you when he was in so much agony he couldn't move? Where were you when he was miserable and dying?"

"Where were you ?" Foreman shot back, brows furrowing over his dark eyes. A crack, barely there, a twitch in the emotionless mask. "Where were you when he was in a coma? Seizing? In so much pain he couldn't do anything but scream until we sedated him? He needed you. You'd better be damn grateful that Cuddy was there to pick up the pieces you left. If she hadn't, he'd probably be dead."

Wilson shrunk back as if burnt. Cuddy's words again washed over him, this time sharpened by Foreman's candor. His glare faltered and he averted his eyes for a moment, unable to keep the contact.

"He still needs me," Wilson said, forcing the words through gritted teeth. He didn't know if he believed them himself, but he wanted them so badly to be true. "This all happened too fast. He's— He's probably on something else. Heroin. Oxycodone. Something that'll kill him. That and the Vicodin... You can't just ignore the signs because he's acting happy. He's—"

"Stop," Foreman interrupted. "He's not on heroin. He's not on oxycodone. You're looking for problems where there aren't any. You've been staring at him for the past week— does he look high to you?"

Wilson pursed his lips, meeting Foreman's gaze again. He thought back to how House looked, how clear his eyes were, how curious he'd been without the lines of pain etched into his features. He didn't look high. In fact, he looked...

"He looks clean," Wilson admitted. "Is he?"

Foreman's brow twitched again, and Wilson found himself suddenly dreading the other man's words. His stomach dropped as Foreman opened his mouth, and he braced himself to be verbally punched.

"You forfeited your right to his file when you left him alone," Foreman said. "You're not his proxy. You're not his physician. You're no longer permitted to access his records and I'm not going to break confidentiality to tell you just because you're feeling guilty."

"I just want to know how he's doing so well. It's too fast. He'll never go to therapy and he's never shown interest in doing anything that could ever help him improve. I care about him! I'm the only one who ever did!"

"Yeah? And where was that care when you left him half-dead from the deep brain stimulation you asked him to do?" Foreman spat. "He doesn't need your care. He's better off without it. He's better off without you ."

Wilson opened his mouth to speak, but Foreman cut him off again.

"Listen. House is an asshole, and happy or not, that's what he'll always be. But now he's a significantly more tolerable asshole. You want to know what changed? You left. You left, and he's better for it. So I don't want to see you hanging around diagnostics like a lost puppy because you miss him out of some twisted sense of obligation."

"I don't—"

"Stay on your side of the floor or I'll get Cuddy to put a baby gate up to remind you."

And with that Foreman turned and stalked back to the diagnostic wing of the fourth floor. Wilson watched him go. He felt a strange sense of déjà vu— Cuddy had, in some way, said most of what Foreman had just told him. But now he was sure that she'd been trying to stay kind. Foreman had no such reservations. Wilson had been right to fear his fangs.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He didn't care if it got messed up. It wasn't like there was anyone to impress anymore, anyway.

Chapter Text

Wilson didn't exactly know what he was supposed to do.

In his life, he'd been many things. He'd been happy, miserable, married, divorced, angry. All of it. But he was rarely lonely. That was a feeling he did his level best to avoid— he surrounded himself with people who cared about him, made connections with patients and everyone else around him, all in an attempt to not be alone. Because that was the most terrifying thing in the world, being alone. And he hadn't quite realized it until he found himself here, in his office, suddenly estranged from the people he'd known and loved. He had no real friends anymore, no real connections. He'd always pitied this of House— the man formed connections via trial by fire, tested people until they either gave up or weathered the storm. Most people were unable to make it through. He was still testing Cuddy, after all this time. Wilson was the only one who'd passed. And now...

After Foreman walked away, Wilson sat in his office, thinking about House, thinking about Amber, wanting so badly it threatened to tear from his chest. He thought about Foreman's words, Cuddy's words, what they meant for him and what they meant for his relationship with House. Or, he thought with an exhausted sigh, his lack thereof.
He wished he'd scheduled more appointments for the day. He could use a distraction. He huffed a wry, mirthless chuckle; God, he sounded like House. In fact, he'd been sounding like House with an increasing frequency these days. Or, at least, he sounded like the House that he knew from before the accident. Now, he wasn't so sure.

That said, he wasn't so sure about anything, really. What he was seeing didn't match any of the established patterns House had set in the past— after tragedy, after pain and suffering and loneliness, House got worse before he leveled out. Whenever Wilson left, House would wallow in his self-pity for a while until Wilson came back and coaxed him back to the baseline. There was rarely improvement and rarely anything that suggested House even wanted to improve. This rapid, unexplained recovery was something Wilson had never seen, and it made him suspicious, to say the least.
Of course, it wasn't exactly unexplained . But Wilson just didn't buy that House was happier without him. He didn't buy that what he'd asked House to do hurt him so severely that he'd want Wilson out of his life. They'd hurt each other in ways that braver men would never tolerate, and they always found their way back to each other despite the pain. This — Wilson making the request (albeit one he knew House would never refuse) and House undergoing the deep brain stimulation — didn't stray too far outside their patterns. It didn't make sense. There was something missing.

And still, there was the guilt. He knew that House, ordinarily, would never blame Wilson for whatever happened after the DBS — something Wilson still wasn't too clear on — nor would he resent his decision to undergo the procedure. He knew that this situation didn't add up, that this wasn't at all like House in any capacity. But the guilt was still there . Still roiling in his gut, forcing him to wonder if all the patterns he'd seen had just been House doing whatever he could to keep Wilson at his side despite the wounds. It forced him to wonder if House really had weighed their friendship, the benefits versus the detriments, and found it lacking. It forced him to wonder if, when Cuddy took care of him after the DBS, he'd realized that Wilson really wasn't the only person who cared. Wilson wondered if he'd ever wanted House to realize that, despite his insistence over the years.
But the missing thing lingered. The guilt was there, but the missing thing warred with it, screaming that there was something horribly wrong. The feeling of incompleteness was often overpowered by the guilt, however, in that he felt he simply didn't have any right to investigate. House was doing better— it shouldn't matter why that was. And if Wilson confirmed that it was indeed his absence that triggered House's recovery, he wasn't sure how he'd react. He wanted so desperately to know the reasons but was also so very afraid of finding out something that would send him spiraling. As it was, he could hold onto the hope that House was better for reasons separate from Wilson's leaving. He didn't want to dig too deep.

He groaned, his head in his hands sliding up to run through his hair. Foreman's words replayed through his mind like a skipping record, his eyes burnt into Wilson's mind in a way he knew would haunt him for a while. He'd felt so much like prey, at points during their conversation. Foreman was a predator, a determined doctor who tolerated no whims or flights of fancy. He'd always disliked House's relationship with Wilson— he knew because Cameron had gossiped with him before all this. He missed it.
Foreman found the two of them frivolous and distracting, citing that House often left the team to deal with cases while he went and hung around Wilson. To be fair, it wasn't a lie or even an exaggeration— House bothered him frequently when he couldn't stand to be around his colleagues anymore or when he wanted to escape clinic duty.

("He's got a point," Wilson had once joked from his desk, leaning back in his chair. Cameron had come over to his office after the case had finished; it was a week-long shitshow, and immediately after solving it and sending off his team to save the patient, House had collapsed onto his armchair and passed out. He'd looked awful when Wilson checked in, all bags under his eyes and rumpled, two-day-old clothing. Cameron, looking only marginally better, had given Wilson a 'what can you do' smile and a shrug before following him across the balcony.

She snorted, rolling her eyes. "Foreman's full of it. I honestly believe you're the only thing keeping House alive. If you weren't here, he would have overdosed or killed himself years ago."

"Be that as it may, he shouldn't be blowing off cases for me," Wilson argued, though it was lighthearted. He sighed, leaning his head back onto the spine of his chair. "I enable him."

"Maybe," she said. "But you're his friend. I think you're his only friend."

"I am," he responded, quietly. "Or at least the only person he considers a friend. Cuddy cares. He's her friend. But she's not his. Not as far as he’s aware, anyway."

Cameron chuckled, but it was weak. "I don't mind him spending time with you. It's good for him.")

But it wasn't just work that House had come to him to escape. It was rare, but Wilson's office would be the place to where House retreated when he was overwhelmed or spooked, when he was overstimulated or close to a meltdown. When that happened, Wilson would find the lights off and House somewhere in the room; his location helped Wilson determine what kind of a visit it was. If he was on the couch or on one of Wilson's chairs, leaned over his knees and bouncing his cane anxiously, House had just needed a minute and maybe a distraction in the form of a conversation. However, if he'd curled up somewhere tight and dark, like under the desk or next to the couch or against the wall, Wilson knew that things were delicate, that he needed to grab the things in the third drawer under the computer, and that he needed to lock the door behind him. Those were bad days— those were days Wilson had to make up some excuse to take House home because he simply couldn't work after an ordeal like that.
Before Cuddy had found him, Wilson was the only person who knew about House's autism. He was the one who helped him through meltdowns, turned off the lights when the fluorescents were too much. He was the only one with whom House would truly self-stimulate, rocking on the couch or shaking his hands when a texture was wrong. They never spoke about it— if Wilson were to ever bring it up, he was sure that House would stop exhibiting these behaviors altogether, which was the opposite of what Wilson wanted.

Now, he worried. He knew that if House caught him worrying over these things he'd sneer and resent the perceived pity, the perceived mother-henning, the perceived treating him like a child. Which was why Wilson worried on his own time and allowed House to come to him, if he needed help.
But House hadn't come. House hadn't come to his new office nor had he expressed any sort of need. They hadn't even spoken or made contact besides Wilson's glances, and then House's face was often indecipherable.

He exhaled and took his head out of his hands. He didn't know what to do. If House wouldn't even come to him for the thing that he knew was allowed even when they were fighting, then... maybe there was no use.

Maybe House had been testing him all this time, trying to see how far he could be pushed. Maybe he'd been waiting for the moment where Wilson would go too far. Maybe, finally, Wilson had failed.

For the next few weeks, he haunted the hospital. He saw his patients with a smile and went about his daily routines, but it was out of obligation more than anything else. He apologized to Cameron but didn't invite her back into his office; she didn't ask to return nor did she try, either. She gave him nervous — or was that concerned? — glances in the hallway the longer his ghostly behavior persisted, but he found he didn't care. He couldn't care— there was very little that he could muster the energy to even think about, these days. Even his subconscious only served to make him feel worse. As much as he tried to change the voice it had, Amber remained. And the sympathetic, bordering on pitying inflection did nothing for his ego. So he ignored her as best he could despite her obviously reasonable advice. Advice like 'reach out to someone' or 'stop skipping doses of your antidepressants'. He did his job and stayed alone because he couldn't bear to be around anyone else. He did his job and heeded Foreman's warnings, staying far away from House's side of the fourth floor and keeping away from anyone who had any association with him or even mentioned him (though he still could not help but stare when he saw House in the cafeteria, sitting at the far end in one of the booths with his fellows or with Cuddy and looking calm ). He did his job then came home at night to the apartment that was still haunted, itself— he was owned by ghosts.
For what felt like the first real time in his life, Wilson was utterly and irreparably lonely . It had settled in deep when Amber died and he'd hoped to ease it by coming back to PPTH, but all it had done was prove that everything had changed. Lord, he longed for House's griping about how nothing ever changed. He longed for the days when nothing ever did. There's a small, shameful part of him that was still angry— a large part of him, in truth, was angry, but that small part was still angry at House. Not because Wilson really blamed House any longer, but because it just wasn't fair that House could be happy after everything that happened. It had been close to seven months since the accident and Wilson couldn't fathom being truly happy without Amber or, now, without House— it wasn't fair. It wasn't House's fault, but it wasn't fair that he got to be happy. He hated the anger. He tried to ignore it as much as his subconscious.

He was on the verge of quitting when, as he sat at his desk, staring at the neutral grey wall in front of him, there was a soft knock at his door.

His first thought was that it was House, but he dispelled it just as quickly. House, for one, had never once knocked on his office door. Not when they were fighting, not when they were on good terms, not for any reason. He either barged in or was already in the office when Wilson arrived— that was just how House was, and it wouldn't change just because he was feeling healthier. Having dismissed that idea, however, he found he didn't very much care who was behind the door. Still, he flatly called for the person to enter, looking down at his desk in a weak attempt to seem like he'd been working. He was behind. He didn't really care about that, either.

If he had any surprise to show, he might have been shocked to see Cuddy stepping into his office, her face grimly set. He put his pen down and leaned back in his chair, staring at her from under tired, hooded eyes. She stood in the middle of the room for a moment after closing the door behind her, studying Wilson carefully. Her own eyes were sparkling with... concern? Trepidation? She wrung her hands in front of her stomach. His gaze flicked down to them before moving back up.

"Lisa," he greeted, aware of how monotonous he sounded. He couldn't exactly help it. She winced slightly at his tone of voice.

"James," she responded. "Cameron came to talk to me earlier. She's worried."

"Is she?" Wilson raised his eyebrows, moving forward again to lean his elbows on his desk. "I didn't get that from the kicked-puppy look she's been giving me when she lurks in oncology."

Cuddy's face flashed with disapproval, but it softened again as she sighed. "I understand that everything has been... difficult , but..."

Wilson frowned. "Difficult? You're kidding me, right?"

Despite the numbness, her comment sparked indignance in his gut. He glared up at her, and she averted her gaze. The angry part of him flooded his senses, alighting his nerves.

"Lisa," he started, "My girlfriend is dead. My best friend wants nothing to do with me. My entire life was upended in a single night, and now I can't even try to make amends because, apparently, I was the one who was ruining everything. House's dogs won't even let me get close. And, on top of all that, my patient turnover rate is worse than a fast food restaurant in the summer. Nobody wants to talk to me, and when they do, all they want to talk about is House. Difficult doesn't even begin to cover it."

Cuddy swallowed, her lips pursing. "I understand that. You've been through a lot. But..."

"Always a but."

" But that doesn't mean you're entitled to be in House's life. What you did to him—"

"He offered!" Wilson exclaimed, the anger rising. "He offered to do the deep brain stimulation long before I asked!"

"He offered long before he'd nearly killed his brain doing alternatives to the DBS," Cuddy corrected. "And he wouldn't have done it if you hadn't asked. He only would have agreed to it at that point if you'd asked ."

"There's no proof of that."

Cuddy frowned. "Proof? Have you met House? Bum leg or not, he would have climbed Mount Everest, if you'd asked, James. It was barely a request. You knew he was going to agree. Especially with you blaming him the way you were— he would have done anything to get you to forgive him."

He wanted to stay with me. He didn't want to get off the bus, Amber said. Wilson didn't know where she came from, but he heard her sad tone. It didn't hurt, there. He didn't want to hurt anymore. He didn't want to be miserable anymore. He didn't want you to hate him. He didn't want to get off the bus .

"He's his own person," Wilson argued, though it was feeble at best. Cuddy scoffed, but it wasn't entirely malicious.

"Of course, he is," she said. "He's his own person who was completely dependent on you. Completely . You were it, Wilson. There was no-one else. You leaving would have been the end of the world for him."

"And when I did leave?" Wilson asked, deflating a little. He hated feeling angry. He hated feeling numb. He wanted to drink beer and eat pizza with House. He wanted to hear Amber laugh. He wanted. He wanted. He wanted.

"He... got better," Cuddy said weakly. She wrapped her arms around herself. "It was hard, but he got better. And he's better now. Better than he has been in years. Better than he was even before the infarction."

"And the Vicodin?"

She hesitated, then sighed. "He's off it. Completely. He detoxed in the hospital while he was recovering from the DBS."

Wilson didn't respond for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"You... were good for him. You were his best friend. He needed you. After Amber's death, after the DBS, he needed you, and you needed him. But at the same time," Cuddy said, ruthless, "you were hurting him. You were hurting each other. And it wasn't healthy. He... didn't know how to be without you, James. He didn't know how to live without you. And now he's learning. You need to accept that. He accepted that you were done with this friendship. You need to give him the same space."

Wilson's mouth twisted into something sour and he nodded once. Cuddy sighed.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," she said. It was an echo of what she'd said in her office weeks ago. "You've lost so much. It's hard. But this is for the best."

And with that, she turned and made to leave. She lingered at the door, though, and looked back to him.

"If you need anything, my office is always open. And if you need to schedule an appointment with a psychiatrist or therapist, the hospital can arrange that for you."

Then she was gone, leaving Wilson to stew in his own anger and misery. Feeling nothing as he had for the past week or so had been unpleasant but better than this; the sorrow crushed him, brought him low enough to put his head in his arms on his desk like he might have in high school. He forced himself to breathe, trying to overcome the knot in his chest. He couldn't quite manage it.
Instead, the moment the clock hit five, he grabbed his coat and briefcase and drove over the speed limit to the nearest bar. This was how House coped, or at least how he had coped before all this. He sat at a stool and intended entirely to forget about House and Amber and the rest of the hospital for the night. Drinking made him maudlin, but at least he would be spacey enough so that his thoughts were less specific and more of an amorphous blob of sad . That was better than hanging onto the specifics, he thought.

As he ordered his first drink, he thought about the times he would stay late and House would burst into his room, whingeing and dragging him out of his office to eat and watch bad movies or go to bars and get horribly drunk on a work night. He'd hated it at the time— he'd wanted to stay, to get his work done, to try and dwell on the day; he wanted to close his eyes and remember the people who'd been lost to that dragon, cancer. To remember the things they’d asked of him, the things he would always do, no matter the consequences should he have been caught. To keep in mind their humanity as they were reduced to symptoms and numbers on the post-mortem paperwork.
Angie Farber was eight years old. She liked snickerdoodle cookies and wouldn't leave the house without her stuffed dog. Grant Prentis was thirty-two. He was a construction worker with two kids. He never stopped smiling. Patty Shepherd was fifty-five. She had a daughter she loved more than life itself. She liked the color pink and porcelain figures of lambs.

Amber Volakis was twenty-eight. She was headstrong and determined and worked harder than anyone else. She made Wilson buy the mattress he wanted. She went to pick up his best friend when Wilson couldn't. She wanted to see the ocean, and he would have taken her to Greece .

He squeezed his eyes shut and knocked back the whiskey he'd ordered in one swallow. It burned his throat, a welcome distraction. Fuck.

Gregory House is forty-six years old. He's misanthropic and cruel and mean and hated by pretty much every person with whom he comes into contact. His self-preservation is nonexistent and his selfishness knows no bounds. He'd do anything to find answers. He's obsessive. His intelligence is staggering. He cares so much that it hurts him.

Fuck . Wilson hailed the bartender and ordered another. He swallowed that too, and ordered a third. He was pleased to note that his mind was already getting slightly fuzzy— he'd never been able to hold his liquor, and though House bullied him for it relentlessly throughout their entire friendship, he was glad for it now. Letting his mind drift, he sips the third whiskey, staring down at his left hand where it sat on the bar counter.
This was an extraordinarily familiar situation. Seventeen years ago, he'd sat in a bar just like this one, mourning a relationship just as he was now. He'd drank, then remembered, then drank, then remembered, then drank again until he was drunk enough to forget. Except that he never really did— it only made him sadder, made him more belligerent, took away his filter and inhibitions. He'd been drinking beer, then, thinking that his college exploits might have raised his tolerance. He hadn't been sure if it had been a blessing or a curse that he'd been wrong.

Six months ago, he would have said it had been a curse. He would not have thrown the bottle, would not have gone to the drunk tank, would not have met Gregory House, the man who would set into motion the rest of Wilson's life. He would not have gone to PPTH, would not have met Amber, and would probably have lived a nice, boring life; he would have gotten married and cheated for the thrill, then gotten divorced only to do it all again. And he would have been miserable, but fine.
But he didn't want to just be fine . That night, seventeen years ago, had been a blessing. He knew that, now. Because the whirlwind of a life he'd led once he met House was something he now knew he wouldn't trade for the world. And it was something he wanted desperately. He wanted .

"Why?" He murmured to himself. The bartender, a couple of paces away, glanced in his direction, but Wilson paid him no mind. "Why did everything have to fall apart? What did I do to deserve this?"

You want my advice now, do you? Amber snarked. He could imagine her crossing her arms, quirking an eyebrow at him, eyes sparkling with mirth. I thought you were done listening to your subconscious.

"I was wrong," he said. "I'm always wrong. I'm sorry."

She would sigh, then soften. You don't have to be sorry. Things are hard.

"Things are hard," he agreed. "I don't understand why everything had to end up this way."

Sometimes things just... happen. It's not because of anything you ever did. None of what happened was your fault.

"The disintegration of our relationship was my fault. Mine and House's. I asked him to do the DBS."

Well, sure. But you were scared. And every time House has ever risked his life, he's turned out fine. You couldn't fathom a world where House wouldn't turn out fine. You weren't thinking.

"Weren't you the one who first tried to make me feel guilty over it?"

It was the only way to counteract your scapegoating. You're an idiot. If you can't hate House, you have to feel bad for him. There's nothing in between. Maybe that's your problem.

"Maybe," Wilson responded with a shrug. "But it worked for us for seventeen years."

Did it? What happened to him wasn't your fault, but maybe Cuddy had a point.

"A point?"

What you had was unhealthy. He was hurting you and himself; he pushed you away because he didn't think he deserved the happiness of your friendship while desperately vying for your attention because he couldn't bear to lose you. You stayed with him because he was needy and you needed to be needed to the point where every other relationship in your life was affected. Your career, your marriages, your friendships.

"Yeah, but..."

You hurt him, too. You were always trying to change him instead of accepting him for who he was. Always trying to fix him when you both knew that it was a fool's errand. Amber paused, something clicking for her in the same way it clicked for House— a wide-eyed moment of realization.

"What?" He asked, her accusation cutting him despite her thoughtful, inoffensive tone.

You needed control. You needed to fix him. You couldn't fix Danny — you feel like you lost him because you couldn't fix him. Your abandoning him was the catalyst for his breakdown — the one time he called that you didn't pick up, everything fell apart. That's why you kept holding onto House all those years — you always came back because you were afraid that if you left, he would implode. But now you have left, seemingly for good, and... well. Instead of breaking down, House healed. This time, your abandonment was the catalyst for House's improvement rather than his demise, like you'd expected.

"Shut up," Wilson hissed, holding onto his glass tighter.

You can't stand the fact he didn't need you. You hate the fact that you weren't the one to pull him through the weeds.

" Shut up ," Wilson growled, a little louder. He ignored the people around him, giving him looks that ranged from strange to concerned. "I'm not that full of myself."

I never said you were. I said you needed control. That's why you're here, tonight — you feel out of control. You lost everything that you cared about. You want to control the downward spiral.

"I'll be fine."

Maybe. But you aren't now.

"What's wrong with that?"

Nothing. But you're feeling sorry for yourself and talking to your subconscious in the middle of a crowded bar. Is that not a sign that something needs to change?

"Nothing ever changes."

Then, the voice of his subconscious changed into something that sounded suspiciously like the reason he was drinking. And everybody lies.

He opened his mouth to respond but was cut off when the bartender stepped in front of him, glaring at him warily. Wilson looked up at the man, a pit forming in his stomach. Oops.

"Hey, man, I don't know what your problem is, but you're freaking people out. Stop or leave," the man said, his voice gruff but not unkind. Wilson, however, was drunk and sad and gritting his teeth so hard that it hurt. He swallowed, feeling the familiar pressure behind his eyes, the tightness in his chest.

"Yeah," he forced. The bartender studied him a moment more, suspicious, before nodding and moving away again to go take the order of another man who'd sat on the other end of the row of stools. Wilson looked up in his absence, seeing his reflection in the full-length mirror behind the bar. He looked awful— all pale skin, rings under bloodshot eyes, and mussed hair. His clothes, usually so put-together regardless of his circumstances, were disheveled and wrinkled like he'd worn them to bed. He hated himself.

He imagined that he could see a pair of blue eyes to his left, peering at him over the rim of a glass. If he closed his eyes, he could see it, the intrigue and the morbid curiosity clear through the haze of nostalgia. He swallowed again, his chest growing tighter.

I'm sorry for leaving you alone , said his subconscious. Wilson couldn't tell whether it sounded like Amber or House. He hated it either way.

" Shut up! " He exclaimed, staggering from his stool. It fell over, and the bartender made his way over to Wilson's side of the bar again.

"Alright, you've gotta go," the man said, the sympathy gone from his eyes. "I'm not dealing with this."

"Not dealing with what ?" He barked, stomping up to the bar. "You have no idea what you're dealing with!"

The man's eyes narrowed. "Is that a threat?"

Easy, James.

Fuck.

You gonna let him talk to you like that, Jimmy?

"Shut up!" He roared, slamming his hands on the counter. The entire bar was staring and he could feel the heat of their eyes. It still didn't measure up to the intensity he was used to.

"If you don't get out of here, I'm gonna call the cops," said the bartender.

"Yeah? Call 'em! See if I care!"

Now, what does this sound like?

The bartender's mouth pressed into a grim line and he pulled out his cell phone, dialing a number and putting it to his ear. The moment he started muttering into it — Wilson picked up enough to realize the man hadn't been bluffing — Wilson' chest got even tighter.

I'm sorry for leaving you alone , they said again, and the tight thing in Wilson's chest finally snapped. 

He wanted. He wanted. He wanted.

He snatched his empty glass from the counter and with a grunt of effort, threw it as hard as he could.

Chapter Text

Wilson thought often of the night they met.

They were fond and embarrassing memories— embarrassing in that he, a young doctor without a criminal record nor any issues with anger in the past, had gotten so irrationally incensed that he'd destroyed a mirror and had gotten arrested for it. Fond in that way that memories often are: awash in the gentle orange of nostalgia, fuzzied by bar smoke and too much alcohol, warped before they were even formed. Before he sobered up in that New Orleans jail cell, he only had bits and pieces. Honestly, that was all he needed.
He remembered the smell. Alcohol and sweat, misery and weathered pain. It was an old bar, dilapidated and dingy but well-loved by its usual patronage. He remembered the way the seat was uncomfortable on his ass and, despite his youth, how his back complained about it the next day. Or maybe that was the time he spent laying on the bench in the drunk tank. Or what happened afterward.

He remembered the song, Leave a Tender Moment Alone , and how angry it had made him to hear it over and over and over again. The feel of the bottle in his too-tight grip, the cool glass on his palm not enough to snap him out of his stupor. And he remembered the way the mirror shattered, loud and breathtaking, his own reflection falling away in shards that made him feel unrecognizable.

He also remembered blue eyes. In the bar, before anything else, he remembered those blue eyes that always seemed so out of place and striking, cutting through the umber nostalgia like they were the only thing that mattered, the only thing that he ought to have remembered. He remembered those eyes and, in bits and pieces, the face they belonged to: the hard line of his brow, the rakish twitch of a smirk. The sharp jaw and the strong nose. A few days' worth of stubble and hair that could have been brown or grey in the low light. But he remembered those features separately, individually, as if they were puzzle pieces he had to put together himself. The eyes, however— those would stay clear in his memory for as long as he breathed. That foreign blue through the orange, peering at him over the rim of his glass, hooded and inviting. You're interesting , his eyes said through the faded hues of memory. What will you do?

He had not seen the man's face as he threw the bottle into the mirror nor had he seen his expression directly afterward; he had, however, seen those eyes, amused and intrigued, as he was pulled from the bar and to the New Orleans jail, his effects taken from him and stored until he was sober enough to leave.
By the time the guard came to release him, he'd been sober enough to know that it had not been long enough. That was where his memory sharpened, no more affected by the alcohol than it would be by time. He remembered the harsh fluorescents as he walked through the station, trudging past cops with his coat and wallet and keys and divorce papers in hand. He remembered how the officers had told him a cousin had bailed him out, sounding like they didn't believe that it was actually a cousin. And he remembered pushing through the station doors, temporarily blinded from the shift to night.

Sharpened memory, then, turned vivid. The bar was what he thought of in his free moments. The station, when he had time to reminisce. This was what he thought of in the deep nights, when he was feeling especially maudlin or needed something worth the shame of biting his pillow.

Wilson didn't quite believe in God. Not in any real way— he said the prayers during the High Holidays and went with his mother to Shul when he visited, just to give her the appearance that it still meant something. But the concept of God had never really appealed to him in the way he assumed it was supposed to.
There was holiness, however, in the way Gregory House stared at him, the first night they met.

Wilson did not at first recognize him as the man he'd seen in the bar. He hadn't been paying much attention, anyhow— he'd been drunk and miserable and desperately angry, so he could be forgiven this lapse. Even so, he was immediately taken by the way the man leaned easily against the streetlamp that flickered near-imperceptibly above him, showering him in a sickly yellow light. It surrounded him entirely, lighting the top of his hair and his nose and his sharp cheekbones; it pressed stark shadows into the hollows of his cheeks and the deep-set eyes under his brow, making him look gaunt and hollow. He held a cigarette like a joint between his thumb and forefinger, the tobacco burning red as he took a drag. When he released the smoke, it obscured his face for a moment before clearing. He should have been ugly, the scene set the way it was. It should have been a warning to Wilson, a great big sign that told him to stay away. He was a doctor, for God's sake. A cigarette-smoking stranger from a bar was the last person with whom a respectable member of the medical community would associate. And yet Wilson could not look away.
There was a reason for this. It was in the way the pieces of the puzzle snapped together — the line of his brow, the rakish smirk, the sharp jaw and strong nose — and formed the picture of a man who was dangerous and cunning, lecherous and exquisite. The blue of his eyes was like nothing Wilson had ever seen, electric and just as startling in his memory as it had been when it was made. Bluer than bluer than blue, intense and hungry, an all-consuming beast.

Smoking under that sickly streetlight in the stuttered New Orleans semi-dark, he'd looked like a new and wanton god.

Wilson should have walked away. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he had. But he hadn't— he'd stepped down the station steps and approached the man, who seemed older than him by a not-insignificant amount. As he did, the man took one last pull of his cigarette and dropped it to the sidewalk, crushing it under his heel. He didn't move from where he leaned against the streetlight, and soon his curious gaze was staring into Wilson's expectant one.

"You come here often?" The man drawled. His voice was gravelly and dark, as if he'd been smoking for a couple of years but not long enough for it to be immediately concerning. Wilson tilted his head.

"So. You're my cousin."

The man looked him up and down appraisingly. "We can forget about that part. Or not, if that's what you're into. I don’t judge. I won't say anything at the family reunion if you don't."

Wilson huffed a laugh, something that seemed to make the man preen.

"Why'd you bail me out?" He asked.

"Why, is that not part of your fee? I was hoping to get an hour or two out of it, but if you want more I'll have to hit an ATM."

His snark was low and flirtatious. Wilson might have been offended, if it was someone else. But something told him that this was just how this guy was. It wasn't so much an insult as it was, in equal parts, a greeting and a proposition. He was feeling Wilson out. There was a reason for this. A subtle question, unknown if you hadn't answered it before: You know Dorothy? Wilson's mouth quirked into a small smile.

"I charge by the hour, not by the amount of bail posted," he shot back. Know her? I play poker with her on Thursdays. The man's grin widened, showing teeth. "You want me any longer than this, you're gonna need that ATM."

"Oh, you are interesting," the man said, inflection slightly introspective, as if he were affirming it to himself rather than to Wilson. He pushed off the streetlight and took a step forward, breaching Wilson's personal space. Despite the fact that, ordinarily, this might make him extremely uncomfortable, he couldn't find it in himself to move. "What's a gem like you doing at this snoozefest? You can't just be here for the panels."

Wilson's eyebrows shot up. "You've been following me."

"Of course, I've been following you. You were the least boring person at that damn conference. But I never guessed you'd be interesting . I haven't been surprised like this in a while."

The man took his tie delicately, holding it in his hand and peering down at it. He knew about the conference, knew about the panels, and had specifically said that it was boring. That must have meant that he'd been attending as a doctor. Wilson hadn't seen him around the last two days, but that could just be because the man had been watching him from afar. To his surprise, the thought of that didn't unnerve him, really.

"So you've been following me for two days and bailed me out because I was... interesting?"

"Quick on the uptake, aren't you?" The sarcasm lacked bite, the man too preoccupied with tracing his thumb along the pattern on Wilson's tie.

"Who are you?"

The man looked up, then, eyes sparkling with mirth. A mischievous smirk pulled at his lips. "Where's your sense of mystery? I figured we'd have a passionate night and part ways come morning, never to see each other again. Wouldn't want to sully your budding reputation, Dr. Wilson."

Wilson smiled despite himself. Most people might be perturbed, in his situation. Even with their circumstances, the man was taking it a bit far. Sure, they needed to be discreet and careful, but that didn't warrant this level of stalking. Still, it was public information— Wilson hadn't attended the convention intending to hide away or keep himself anonymous. If anything, he needed to network. That, he'd learned in his classes, was half the job.
He wasn't entirely sure that this was what his professors meant.

"You don't want that," Wilson replied, startled at how easy the reply came. How truthful it felt. How he just knew . Sure enough, the mischief turned to that hunger from before.

"No," the man said, giving a slight tug to Wilson's tie. His gaze slid smoothly to lock with Wilson's. "I want to know everything about you."

These words from this man he'd met barely ten minutes before felt more real than any of the times Sam had told him she loved him. Wilson shivered, leaning more into the dwindling space between them. The air was electric. The night was alive. It was not a lie. We're not in Kansas anymore.

"My name and profession aren't enough for you?" Wilson asked, smelling the scotch from earlier on the man's breath. "Most would settle for less."

"I'm not most," the man said. Indeed, he was not.

"Where are you staying?" Wilson asked, as much an acceptance as he could give while maintaining deniability. It was the early nineties. The AIDS crisis was dying down some, but not enough for what they were doing there, under the streetlight. Not enough for the man to know Wilson's name. Not enough for the sparking tension between them to burst. Wilson thanked whatever god — wanton or holy — that the streets were relatively empty.

"The Roosevelt," the man replied, almost breathy. Wilson hummed. The trajectory of the next few hours lit up like the stuttered midnight around them.

"Fancy. You're a hotshot, aren't you?"

"Yes, no— whatever answer will get you there faster."

Wilson chuckled. This was not how he'd thought his night would go, nor was it something he'd ever intended. But the divorce papers in his hands felt lighter than they had before and the way this man was looking at him, like he would eat Wilson whole and let himself be eaten in return, made him feel alive in a way he hadn't in a long time.

"Who are you?" Wilson asked again. Their lips were close, far enough that they could separate should any passers-by become suspicious. Far enough that it looked like they were conspiratorial rather than desirous, close enough that Wilson could feel the shuddering breath of the man in front of him; that he could taste the smoke in the air. The cancer was sweet on his tongue.

"House," he said, finally, a straight answer after a titillating but excruciating conversation. Wilson considered the name, finding it familiar but largely unimportant in the heat of the moment. Later, he would turn it over in his mind as he laid next to the man, who Wilson had fucked into the mattress with reckless abandon. He would try to recall where he'd heard it before, and finally it would come to him— Gregory House, that infectious disease and nephrology specialist who had been terrorizing the medical world. A genius, an asshole, a veritable demon, hated by pretty much every person who ever crossed paths with him; and, once he realized that House had programmed his number into his phone, Wilson's new best friend.

This felt like an extraordinary mockery.

Wilson thought about it as he laid in the jail cell, staring at the ceiling in a way that was much too reminiscent of that night for his liking. Maybe they weren't in New Orleans or attending a medical conference together, but the scene was set and it looked nearly identical from where Wilson was standing. Laying. Whatever. He released a quiet groan and pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He was such an idiot.
He'd called House from the jail phone, not knowing who else he could call. It was with a tremendous amount of shame and desperation that he asked House to come bail him out, and the other man had simply hung up without a word. He didn't know if House was coming or if he was going to leave Wilson where he was; he'd get out in the morning, of course, but that felt... lonely. Desolate. He didn't want to think about it. It would be what he deserved, of course, but it still made him feel empty in a way he couldn't quite describe.

So he laid on the bench in the cell, letting his arms fall to his sides as he stared at the cement above him so he wouldn't have to look at the cement around or beneath him. He wasn't the young, spry thing that he'd been the last time this happened— this time, his back was already protesting, whereas seventeen years ago it had taken about twenty-four hours and a thorough workout. And he was pretty sure that workout was off the table tonight.
He winced, shifting in a futile attempt to get even remotely comfortable. He knew the drunk tank wasn't supposed to be comfortable, but they could have at least put a cot in here, or something. Or given him water. It wasn't like he was violently drunk. Just enough to give into the frustration from the last six months and do something stupid.

He didn't exactly deserve to be bailed out the night they met, either. Though Sam had a hand in his foul disposition, blindsiding him the way she did, the reason for his arrest had been his own fault, at the end of the day. And he hadn't been particularly pleasant during the conference, either— sure, he'd plastered on a smile and networked the best he could, but he could tell that he was followed by a dark cloud that entire weekend. None of the prospective employers with whom he'd spoken had seemed especially taken by him, in any case. They could tell his heart wasn't in it. If not for House, he likely wouldn't have gotten the position he did at PPTH, some years later.

God, what was Cuddy going to say? She knew about the night they met, of course— it wasn't a secret, and House had always delighted in defiling Wilson's kindly reputation by exposing his 'hard, criminal past'. But he'd been younger then. He should have known better than to do something like this. Or, rather, he should have known better than to do the exact same thing as before . For the same reasons, too. He closed his eyes, unable now to ignore the shame that had been a constant, roiling thing for... hell, for about six months and two weeks. It rose in his throat, choking him. He swallowed it down but found that it simply came right back up; resigning himself to it, he let it sit.
It didn't matter that House had chosen to do the deep brain stimulation. It didn't matter that he'd offered to do it before or that he'd agreed to it when Wilson asked. There were no circumstances under which House would have refused; there was no universe where House would have denied Wilson his request. He remembered the moment well— the way they had stared at one another, an insurmountable distance between them, a chasm newly broken that House desperately tried to bridge. House begged him not to do it in the only way he could, but Wilson had persisted because he knew House would give him everything, do anything, if Wilson simply asked. It was a silent, unspoken ultimatum: do this for me or I will leave.

House would never have said no. House could not have said no. It would have meant losing Wilson, and that was the one thing House would not have survived.

And yet.

For all these six months and two weeks he'd felt like there was something missing. Something he wasn't seeing; wasn't being shown. Something that everyone was keeping from him. The reason for House's complete one-eighty, the reason for the clear eyes that were so familiar and yet so foreign. It was the last puzzle piece but the most integral— it was what would tie it all together. There had to be some logic to it all. There had to be something to pull it all together. But here he was in the weeds again, pulled from the bar again. In the grey room, on the bench, sitting with his shame. His breath shuddered and he shuddered. The world didn't make sense.

He closed his eyes, feeling the pressure building behind them. He missed. He shuddered. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted.

What do you want? Amber asked. Wilson reached for her, but her embrace was phantasmal. Even this cell was haunted. He was owned by ghosts.

"I want you," he whispered.

You want what everyone wants. You want truth. You want someone to make sense of all this, she said. You want someone to pass the time with. You want the house and the picket fence and the dog, or at least someone to hold at night. You want a safe place to love and to be loved. You want me. You want him. It matters.

"If you already knew, why'd you ask?"

Because you needed to know, too.

Lord, he wished he didn't.

He thought about the strange man he met in 1991 who'd stuttered the New Orleans semi-dark. He thought about the new and wanton god that had kissed the light off his skin and had never stopped. The past was like a wound that wasn't stitched up quite right. He felt it spilling from him through the thread, flooding the cell, rising tides. The cigarette, the streetlight, the broken mirror. Blue eyes ten feet away, less than half an inch, under him, above him, always watching, always the same, the same for years and years and years because that never changed, nothing ever changed, why has everything changed—

A key in a lock, and Wilson flinched. Torn abruptly from himself, he whipped his head to the side where the cell was being opened. An officer stood in the door, her expression bored and his effects in a bag in her hand.

"C'mon, let's go," said the officer, staring at him expectantly. "Your cousin made bail. He's here to pick you up."

"My..." Wilson pushed up from the bench, ignoring the slight wave of dizziness. "Oh."

She raised an eyebrow, saying nothing more. Shaking off his shock, he stood from the bench, grabbing his coat and rushing to follow the officer as she turned to leave. She handed him the bag and he pulled his phone, wallet, and keys to slip into his pockets.

"What did... How did he seem?" Wilson asked, coming up next to the officer as she led him to the exit. She glanced in his direction, her gaze curious but slightly irritated, then forward again.

"Didn't see him. Heard him, though. Reamed the captain put something fierce. My condolences, by the way."

Wilson blinked, eyes narrowing. He moved to walk next to the officer, to which the irritation sparked. He shrunk back, trying to keep a respectful distance despite his hunger for answers.

"What did he say?" He asked.

"He said a lot of things," she said, a wry, sardonic smile momentarily gracing her lips. "Mostly yelling about how you lost your girlfriend."

"Ah," Wilson said, quieter. She glanced at him again. "Right."

"...Right."

He felt her eyes on him as he stepped down into the lobby and headed for the door. It really was startlingly familiar to the building in New Orleans seventeen years ago, but that could just have been his mind warping his memories for convenience. What had House said when they first met? He'd been yelling at the police about something then, too. He remembered hearing him from his cell— there was a difference: the lobby and the bullpen hadn't so separated in the New Orleans police department. But House had yelled then, too. The memories swirled around his mind, drowning him.
He was still buzzed, his tongue still feeling a little too loose for his liking. His mind was too seeped in the past to really focus on the conversation that was about to be had; he had no idea what he was going to say, despite the time he'd spent fantasizing and planning. He wanted so desperately to see House again and at the same time felt like this was too soon, too abrupt. Then again, when had House ever given him time to prepare?

The chilly night was shocking enough to his system to render his mind blissfully blank for a couple of seconds. He breathed, the crisp air filling his lungs and making them ache, but he didn't cough. He felt the pain, allowing it to ground him, eyes closed to try and regain some semblance of himself. Then, when he felt he was ready (or close enough to ready), he opened them. 

The past rushed up to meet him. Just like that first night, he stood under a streetlight, but he didn't lean on the pole; no, he was ramrod straight in the halo of halted night, the line of his shoulders flat and tense. The light pressed into his greying curls, into the skin on the top of his nose and high cheekbones, and shadows were kissed into the age-sunken hollows of his cheeks and eyes. His brow was low and dangerous and the light that embraced him juxtaposed the darkness of his disposition. Wilson found that knowing House changed little about the disreputable picture he made.
There was no cigarette between his thumb and forefinger but the clicked-together puzzle was the same as their eyes met, brown meeting blue, blue, blue . There was no rakish smirk and that sharp jaw worked with an emotion Wilson could not name. The hungry beast in his gaze was gone, replaced with something guarded and wary, growling in anticipation of a beating, and yet interested enough to wait to bite. His eyes flickered with surprise for half a second before his face fell into something hard, something cold and unforgiving— something with which Wilson was intimately familiar from their many, many years together. Wilson swallowed.

Despite the years that had passed, despite what they'd been through, despite the new city and new circumstances and new wounds, House remained that new and wanton god. 

"So," Wilson began as he walked down the stairs, aware of the tremor in his voice. "You're my cousin."

It was an olive branch. A peace offering. A 'remember where we started? Can we start again?' But House did not respond. His expression did not falter as he looked Wilson up and down, just as he had before. Wilson, for his part, did the same. House was the same as he was. The same clothing, the same tilt to his head, the same— wait. Why were his hands in his pockets? Both of his hands. Why were both of his hands in his pockets? One should be out, holding a cane on the wrong side, leaning on it like it was the only thing keeping him upright. There was no cane. And, he realized as his gaze slid further down, there was no— holy shit.

"Your leg," Wilson breathed, eyes wide as saucers. "You— Where's your leg? "

House peered at him as if trying to understand him; as if trying to see through him or put together a puzzle without all the pieces. He shifted his weight onto the prosthesis — Wilson felt faint — and tilted his head a little further, considering Wilson.
How hadn’t he noticed? He’d been watching House for a week– how hadn’t he seen House’s leg? How hadn’t he registered that there was no cane at House’s side? Was it simply that he’d prioritized looking at other things? Was it that human tendency to see the normal and dismiss the strange? People missing fingers could go weeks without being asked about it. Then he remembered, all that time ago, a moment where House was sitting in a clinic exam room. They’d been close — cigarette close, divinely close — as Wilson wrapped House’s hand, deliberately broken to distract him from the pain of his bet–spurred detox. 

The brain has a gating mechanism for pain. Registers the most severe injury and blocks out the others. Did it work?

Yeah. It worked.

"You've been hanging around diagnostics," he said, his voice impersonal and musing. He'd never spoken like that to Wilson before. 

"I've been— I've been waiting for you to be ready to speak with me," Wilson said, trying to tear his gaze from the garish prosthesis that was so House it hurt. How hadn't he noticed? He'd been watching House for weeks and he hadn't noticed that House had cut his damn leg off? "I didn't want to push you into anything you weren't comfortable with."

"So you thought stalking me would make me more likely to initiate conversation? You're not as inconspicuous as you seem to think you are."

"I wasn't trying to be inconspicuous, really," Wilson said. "I just... I wanted to be available if you wanted to talk."

"We're talking now," House said, raising his eyebrows. Wilson opened and closed his mouth a few times before jerkily nodding once and averting his eyes, putting his hands on his hips. 

"I— I wanted to apologize for leaving after the accident," Wilson said. God, he could barely focus. House had cut off his leg . "I know it doesn't mean much, but I regret how I left things. I was— I was angry and scared and I took it out on you. I asked you to risk your life then didn't even stay to help as you recovered. I'm sorry."

"You were angry at me," House said. "You blamed me for Amber's death."

"I did. I tried to. I looked at it every which way, tried to rationalize blaming you, but in the end, I just... couldn't. It wasn't your fault."

"But that was after you asked me to make it even." House's eyes were hard, unchanging. "You thought she was dying because of me, so you thought I should risk my own life to make up for it."

The words were cutting in their truth. House had always known him better than he knew himself— was this a post-event revelation or had he known this going into the DBS? Wilson didn't know which was worse.

"I don't blame you anymore," Wilson reiterated. "It was unfair of me to ask you to risk your life like that, knowing how dangerous it had been. I knew you would agree. I shouldn't have asked."

"But you did," House pointed out. His voice is strangely neutral, devoid of anger or contempt or anything Wilson would have been expecting. "And I agreed. Y'know, I did it because I'd rather have died than lived in a world where you hated me. But now I've lived in that world and I'm perfectly fine. Can you say the same?"

Wilson opened his mouth, devastation flooding his body. This was what he'd been dreading: confirmation. He hadn't wanted to hear this. Not from House. He hadn't wanted to face this, the horrible change that he'd seen in his friend. This was not the House he remembered— this wasn't the man who would have spied on him and stalked him even if Wilson told him to lay off; who would have trusted Wilson to come back eventually. Who wanted Wilson to come back eventually. House stared at him like this was the first time he'd seen him; he stared at Wilson like there was much to be desired. 

"What happened?" Wilson murmured, helpless and desperate. His mouth was dry. "What happened to you?"

House studied him, and for a moment Wilson could almost see what he'd seen seventeen years ago— that curious gleam, that inquisitive hunger. But then he was forcefully dragged back into the present, kicking and screaming and wanting.

"I've forgotten you."

Wilson's breath caught in his throat. He felt crushed, felt eviscerated, felt loss upon loss upon loss. He swallowed to keep his tears at bay and let his hands fall from his hips, balled at his sides. This, he thought, hurt more than anger would have. He wanted House to scream at him, to lay into him, to tell him everything that was on his mind— to tell him how much it had hurt, to be cast aside by his best friend, to tell him how bad the recovery had been. Hell, he would rather that House told him he hated him. That would have been better than this. 

'I want to know everything about you.'

" House ," he tried, desperation mounting as he took a step forward, House eyed his movement, tensing and ready to move if he needed to. Wilson's heart clenched. "House, I'm so sorry for leaving. I— I was scared, and I— I never thought it would hurt you this much. I never wanted to break us apart so irreparably. I've spent the last six months realizing that I didn't want to live in a world where we're not friends— I need you. I don't want to lose you."

The roles have been reversed. Now Wilson was the one wanting, the one needing, and he was at House's mercy. He was begging to be taken back, just as House had done for years and years. Wilson's chest ached— they couldn't stop hurting each other. He bit his lip, blinking away the tears that had begun to spring in his eyes. 

"You don't have to forget, House, but please . I need you to forgive me. I need you to give me another chance."

Wilson didn't know what he'd been expecting in response to all that, but it definitely wasn't an eye-roll.

"No, you idiot," House bit, though it lacked heat. He glared at Wilson like he was stupid. "I mean I've literally forgotten you. I've got amnesia."

Wilson blinked. "What?"

"The seizure I had during the deep brain stimulation caused long-term complications. I woke up and didn't remember anything other than medicine." House crossed his arms over his chest. He hadn't been able to do that before. "I've literally forgotten you."

Mind blank, Wilson could do nothing other than stare. "You... You don't remember me?"

"I've said it three times now. I'm not going to say it a fourth. I didn't even know Wilson was your last name until I was signing the bail paperwork. James Evan Wilson . I had to have made jokes about that, right? Or was the pomegranate too low-hanging?"

"But... all that about your reasons for agreeing to the DBS. You said—!"

"Extrapolating from what I know about who I was before," House interrupted. "Cuddy told me some things, but she avoids talking about you like she avoids blouses that don't show her cleavage. It's almost like I was in love with you. How pathetic is that?"

Flashes of the night they met. Flashes of House's eyes throughout the years, blue and hungry and wanting. They'd danced around each other for nearly two decades. That Thing with House had always persisted, throughout his marriages, throughout Amber. He didn't want to say the word. 

"It's— It's not—"

"It is," House said. It sounded like it should have been a snap rather than what it was— it sounded like House was simply informing him of something that was common knowledge. "Because you chose your practically-already-dead girlfriend of five months over your very-much-alive best friend of ten years, and I let you. If that's not pathetic, I don't know what is."

The dismissive mention of his relationship with Amber flared anger in Wilson's chest, but he doused it. What House was saying was true, no matter how much Wilson had loved Amber. That was how House had seen it. That was how House saw it, without the context of their seventeen years.

He said ten, Amber said. You've been friends for seventeen years, and he said ten. Who told him ten?

Wilson figured that if he corrected House, it might make things worse. Amber, rolling her eyes in his subconscious, agreed. 

"It wasn't like that," Wilson said instead. 

"It was. We both know that." House sighed, shifting his weight. Wilson's eye caught on House's prosthesis again. He ached to ask about it, to hear what had made him finally decide to cut the wretched thing off. But he didn't know if he had the right anymore. "Listen. I was angry at first, but I don't know you. I couldn't care less whether you'd trade me for someone else. To tell you the truth, I'm glad you did what you did."

Frowning, Wilson squinted in confusion. "... What? "

House shrugged. "I'm living my life. No pain, no pain management, no doormats to enable my addiction. You decided to end our friendship one way or another, and I accepted it. But I don't remember any of that. To me, there was no friendship between us. You're just another guy."

Wilson clenched his teeth. "You don't mean that."

"I literally could not be clearer," House's glare got more pointed. "Did your cancer-kid compassion rot your logical comprehension? I don't know how to explain this to you in a way that'll get past that pretty boy haircut of yours. I. Have. Forgotten. You. "

Not knowing quite how to respond at that point, Wilson just stared into House's eyes, trying to understand. Trying to make this world make sense. Scrambling to grab the pieces and put them together. This was the missing piece, he'd realized. The unfinished puzzle was now complete, and the picture it showed was ugly. 

"There is no second chance because, to me, there was never a first." House hesitated, then sighed. His arms fell from his chest and those blue eyes softened into something almost familiar. "Cuddy told me about what you did for me after the infarction. And that you found me after overdosing on heroin. Thank you for that, and for all the other shit you probably did that she's not telling me about. You've saved my life more than once. But our relationship ultimately took it from me. What I've built in your wake is good . I don't want to jeopardize that by repeating my mistakes.

"I'm not gonna hold a grudge. I don't really care, actually. I'll tell my fellows to lay off and you can stop watching me from thirty feet away like a creep. We're colleagues. I'll page you if I need an oncology consult and you can page me if you need a specialist in nephrology or infectious disease. I'm not going to tell you to stop hanging around diagnostics— you can loiter where you want. But don't expect me to chat about the weather or ask if you watched the game last night. I don't care. And I'm going to continue to not care at home. Cuddy and I are watching Legally Blonde. I really do see myself in Elle Woods."

With that, House turned on his heel and walked away. He barely limped— for the first time in nearly eight years, Wilson watched House walk away without pain. His words had been stunning, rendering Wilson speechless and frozen where he stood in the New Jersey dark, in front of that police station.
House slid into the passenger seat of a car across the street that Wilson could now see was driven by Cuddy, who'd been watching them through the window and pretending that she wasn't. As they drove away, Wilson could barely register anything other than the sheer, insurmountable loneliness. 

He very nearly gave up right then and there. He very nearly walked back to his haunted apartment; very nearly accepted the boundary House had set and moved on the best he could. But that's not what House would have done, in this situation. He would have pestered Wilson until he realized that the friendship was something he wanted. There was a reason they'd been together all that time, beyond Wilson's need to be needed and House's obsession. There was a reason Wilson hadn't walked away that very first night in New Orleans; why, despite being an oncologist, he stepped nearer to the man with the cigarette, smelling of whiskey and smoke and danger. They were stubborn. Wilson was stubborn. He wouldn't go down without a fight. God, why hadn't he been fighting?

He thought about the night they met. He thought about the cigarette, the streetlight, the broken mirror. He thought about those blue eyes, the years he’d spent staring into them; how they’d been in every room, grey and gold and white. The way the shuddering moonlight had been kissed from his skin in that fancy hotel, the way House’s fingers had dug into his hips, how Wilson had hoped for bruises. How House’s voice had followed him into the next morning and into the next seventeen years. He thought about the balcony, the penance, the way House would stand in the cold with his eyes closed and head tilted to the sky. The pushing and the pulling. He thought about Amber, about the bus, about the blame and the anger and the pain. He thought about the separations and the rekindling and the way they could not stop hurting each other. Wilson missed the wounds. 

Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it. This was the second time House had bailed him out without knowing him. That had to mean something. He should have been fighting for House's friendship this entire time— that was what House would have done. And that was what Wilson was going to do. 

Come hell or high water, was going to win House back.