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Title: Trouble and scythe
Author: Fayding_fast
Wordcount: 5531
Warning: Angst and controversy. Don't shun me.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Yes, minor for season 3 and minor for Boston Legal
Con crit? Yes please and thank you
Sequel: Yes, to "Camel's back" and "An ever fixed mark." See links below
Author's note: Written for Housepiglet, who is a genuine, bona fide angel

camel's back

an ever fixed mark

House isn't a man easily given to tears; in fact, it's been years since he last cried. There had been extenuating circumstances at the time; an infarction and having a fair proportion of your thigh muscle removed against your will, could force even the most resilient soul to weep a little. House doesn't feel emasculated over that.

Since then, he's lived through one setback after another, and some of those events had knocked him down so hard, he could easily have been forgiven if he'd just given in and broken down. There might have been some close calls, yet he hadn't.

But now....

Now, the unthinkable has happened, and his best friend has gone under, cracking under the pressure of dealing not only with his own problems, but also House's, and because Wilson's unquestioning support has been withdrawn, House has been dragged, kicking and screaming, right out of his comfort zone. He's been coerced to grow up. It's been a rude awakening.

With their usual roles now reversed and his stress levels rocketing into the exosphere, House is, in truth, about as discomfited as one can get. Most mornings, he drags himself into his bathroom, stares at the ghoul in the mirror, and wonders, quite frequently, how he's managing to hold on.

But he does, because he wants to; he's compelled to, for Wilson.

And he does it dry eyed.

House is secretly very proud about that.

*

House likes Boston Legal. It's intelligently written, amusing, and it's quirky enough to keep him interested. He doesn't understand how Shatner had managed to bag himself a Golden Globe for 'best actor in a supporting role', when all he seems to do, is repeat his character's name throughout each and every episode but hey, what the hell. With James Kleptomaniac Spader effortlessly stealing each and every scene he's in.... does anything further need to be said?

House is unwinding, enjoying an early third season episode, when his phone rings. Since Wilson's hospitalization, House has made it a point to never ignore a call. "Greg House," he says, his attention still half on the screen.

"Doctor House? It's Doctor Grainger. I'm calling about Doctor Wilson." There's a hint of barely disguised worry underneath the greeting.

House is instantly alert. His phenomenal concentration is now centered solely on the phone. "Yes?" he says suspiciously. "What's wrong?"

"We're not sure. We do know that Doctor Wilson's brother was just here. For some reason, Doctor Wilson called for assistance, and by the time we reached him........" Her words taper off. She's evidently confused.

"Nathan? Nathan was there?" Dread makes itself at home in his stomach. He is chilled to the bone. "Is......" He screws his eyes shut but he can't block out the memory of the inappropriate hunger on Nathan's face when he had last seen him, or the creepily intimate way he had held his brother in his arms. House is fearing the worst. He opens his eyes. "Is Wilson okay?" he asks, and his lungs snatch a respite, waiting for her reply.

"No," she says bluntly. "We've had to sedate him."

She has barely finished speaking, when his front door slams.

Spader's magnificent attack on Scientology is wasted on an echoing apartment.

*

Wilson slumps lethargically on his bed. Gentle hands dangle loosely between his knees. Eight hours after his brother's visit and he is ravaged. Brittle.

House fancies that his friend is covered with a network of tiny fractures. One knock and Wilson would surely splinter into innumerable fragments like bludgeoned glass. House eyes him helplessly from the other side of the room. "What did the bastard say to you, Jimmy? What did he do?"

His friend, drugged to the hilt, doesn't answer.

How could anyone want to hurt Wilson, go out of their way to deliberately harm him? Wilson had been so vulnerable in his infirmity, so inoffensive. That a member of the man's own family could assault him, like a wolf attacking ill-fated prey.............to House, it's incomprehensible. He finds it tough to accept that it's happened.

House is tempted to slam his fist into the nearest wall. Why hadn't he said something, the first time he'd seen Nathan here? He'd known that something hadn't been right. He should have taken action and warned security. He should have seen to it that Nathan never set foot on these premises again. In lieu of that, he'd said nothing, hoping against hope, that his instincts had led him to be mistaken.

And now this. House feels mortifyingly responsible.

Wilson looks up at him bleakly, and the horror in his eyes is so pronounced that, in response, House's vision actually burns red. For the thousandth time, he starts to move towards his friend, and for the thousandth time, he checks himself. The hospital staff had warned him to keep his distance, and, earlier, he had witnessed the reason why. Wilson becomes fearful now, if anyone at all approaches him.

House wants to touch him; he needs to console him, but his friend's inadvertently shackled him. House stares at him despairingly from across the room. He hates being locked out, and he loathes being helpless. He's fuming.

House pictures Wilson's brother and his hands ache. They're aching to commit murder.

*

House isn't concentrating on the road. He's driving his car too fast, too recklessly and he's not seeing the blacktop ahead, he's seeing Wilson. The friend that's slipping through his fingers.

He's approaching a very sharp bend and he doesn't bother to shift down.

The car skids, taking him completely off guard.

Panicking, he tries to steer the car into the skid, but the car is jackknifing. He frantically spins the steering wheel the other way.

His car swerves towards a ditch, and for a moment, the front tyres scrabble for a purchase on mocking air.

And then he's falling. He's being violently pitched.

His car smashes to a stop on its roof.

Then silence.

*

House is wearing out Wilson's carpet. He's tired, and he's frustrated, and he doesn't understand what his best friend had been trying to prove. "What did you think you were doing?" He doesn't give his captive audience a chance to reply. Wilson has frightened him, badly. He's hardly in the spirit to be charitable.

"When I arrived, you were this close," he holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart, "you hear me, this close, to being hooked up to a drip." House tugs at his hair. He's going to be bald within the week at this rate. He does an about face and walks towards the opposite wall. "I couldn't get here," he explains for the umpteenth time. "I crashed my car. I was out cold. When I came to, the hospital kept me in for observation. I made sure that a message was left for you. Didn't you get it?" He pauses briefly to take a breath.

Wilson finally manages to get a word in. "Yes, I got it," Wilson whispers unhappily.

Another turn. Another handful of hair. "Then why did you go on a hunger strike? You want to try to explain it to me?" He's still pacing. His leg is slaughtering him. "There will be some days when I won't be able to see you. I might be tied up with a patient. Weather conditions might make the roads impassable. Anything could happen. I don't want you to put me in the position where I'm fretting over whether you're starving yourself. Trying to attain a perfect size zero, may be okay for a vacuous, footballer's wife, who's trying to make a good impression on her new Hollywood buddies, but for a six foot male who's supposedly got a medical degree..... not such a hot idea."

Wilson looks totally miserable and can't meet his eyes. "He told me that you'd get bored with me, and that you'd stop coming to visit."

House stops marching up and down and stares at him. His glare could melt the tiling on the space shuttle. He knows who Wilson's referring to, oh yes, he knows only too well. "Nathan said that?" He watches Wilson flinch. His face sets to stone. And you believed him? "Was that before, or after he........" House chokes off the odious words, but he's too late; the damage has already been done.

Wilson wraps his arms around himself and commences rocking.

House knows from experience that once this starts, it can go on for hours. He swipes his hands over guilty eyes. "You've never bored me," he says, and he means it. "You just annoy me. Immensely." He heads for the door. Wilson needs to eat. His friend is going to have some food if he has to shovel it down his throat.

The rocking continues. This time, Wilson forces himself to look up. "Please don't be mad," he beseeches in a small voice.

House looks at him from the room's threshhold. He can tell from Wilson's face that his friend is not expecting him to ever come back. He rubs his neck, trying to alleviate the tension. "I'm not mad," he lies because he is; he's apoplectic. But not at his friend. He limps back into the room. "I'm worried," he says. "You can't afford to lose any more weight." He leans over slightly, staring down into Wilson's pale and pinched face. "If you do," he says and he's only half joshing, "you'll disappear. I'm thinking of investing in a body heat scanner as it is."

Wilson's mouth twists despondently. "I'm sorry, House," he says. "It won't happen again."

"Let's hope it doesn't." The apology has mollified House a bit. "I'm going to the kitchen to try to rustle up a gateau. When I return, you'd better eat the whole lot."

Wilson looks queasy. "I will," he assures House. He hunches over even more.

House hadn't realized how much Wilson had grown to depend on him.

House is starting to genuinely comprehend what it must have been like for Wilson to look after him throughout the years, being forced to watch the excessive drug taking, and the drinking and the self destruction. No wonder he had been on the receiving end of so many lectures. Caretaking was going to be the death of him, if all the bad habits he'd fallen into didn't finish him off first.

House feels a physical pain in his chest when he leaves him.

And he'd thought that he'd been stressed before. It's laughable. All the way to the kitchen, his right hand is clenched so tightly, his nails gouge tiny crescent moons all over his palm. They sting. Wilson's goddamned brother. He can barely contain his fury.

*

Fifteen minutes later, he's back, laden with a bag of sandwiches and some cake. "Okay, Jack Skellington," he says, walking into the room. "Get this down...." He breaks off, seeing Wilson is asleep. "Crap." Walking as silently as he can, he goes over to lay the bag on the table. He will have to ensure that Wilson eats something when he wakes up.

House sits on the bed, next to his friend's side. When Wilson's asleep, he can hardly object to House's close proximity. He stays there, soaking up the silence, whilst lost in thought.

Wilson twists on the bed, emitting small sounds of distress. Wilson tends to sleep for much of the time, but it is seldom restful.

House shifts to soothe him automatically, his hand settling with practiced ease, upon the stirring man's side. "Go back to sleep," he suggests, almost inaudibly.

As always, Wilson becomes quiescent, nigh on immediately.

House registers the familiar pleasure. If he had killed himself on that road.....

"I'm ditching the bike," he says abruptly, test tasting the words for bitterness but discovering acceptance, and curiously, contentment are there in its place. They give him pause. He looks for answers in the oblivious man's face.

Wilson, irreproachably, remains silent.

How many times has he loitered here, House wonders, staring unblinkingly at his friend. How many times has he sat unmoving by Wilson's side, whenever the fragile man has lain sleeping? He could continue to exist in denial, but dear God..... Wilson's hip is curving exquisitely beneath his palm and the abandoned hugs? They may have been all one sided but how he misses them.

Realization crashes over House like a tsunami.

"Small steps, House," Wilson had advised him, when his friend had been well, intensely perceptive, and with the gift of hindsight, comparatively strong. "Take a chance. A pizza with a friend," and here, he'd indicated himself. "A movie. Something." It had been a plea from a man, frantic to save whatever still remained of their relationship, after House had been whittling away at its foundations for months.

House had chosen to socialize with the fellows, instead.

He couldn't have kicked Wilson any harder if he'd tried.

Now, thinking back, House's eyes are radiating shame. "I didn't give us a chance, did I?" he murmurs sadly to his friend. "You did your best, but I kept rebuffing you at every turn."

Wilson, who has spent a great deal of his adult life being hurt in one way or another, sleeps peacefully on.

House feels sick to his stomach. "I'll sell my bike tomorrow," he promises the unheeding man. His head bows wearily towards his chest. "Just thought I'd let you know."

*

House lays the medical journal he'd been reading, face down on his lap. He glances over at Wilson. "We're drifting," he says.

Wilson returns the look but doesn't speak. He is, however, paying attention.

House can see the toll it's taking on him. He stands up. "No one can blame you for withdrawing," he says, still facing his friend. "Hell, everyone here, would have done the same." He takes a step towards the bed.

Wilson is watching him tiredly.

"But you were doing so well at one stage. I thought, maybe, when you're ready, that we could try again." He searches Wilson's eyes, wanting to see a reaction. He can't see one.

Wilson looks away first.

House isn't going to give up. "You need to talk. To your psychiatrist, counselor, whoever, but you have to talk, otherwise we're not going to move on."

Wilson climbs unsteadily to his feet and walks across the room towards House, moving as soundlessly as a shadow; as a husk. His friend watches him curiously until he halts, only a forearms's length away.

House's brow creases. Was his friend okay?

"Could I talk to you?" Wilson asks quietly, and it's as close as he can come to begging. His gaze remains transfixed to the floor.

"No chance," House says swiftly. "I'm not trained in counseling." He bends forwards, to emphasize his point. "You need to speak to a professional, someone who can genuinely help you."

House had spoken too quickly, and it takes Wilson a few moments to process his words. His face is lowered, so House misses the look of sorrow that sprints across his face. He shakes his head, slowly. "You helped someone before," he reminds House stubbornly. "Your patient, Eve....."

"Was desperate," House tells him frankly. "She told me that she trusted me because she could see that I'm damaged. I didn't have the first clue how to help her; you know that." House hisses through his teeth in frustration. "As soon as I knew she had a problem, I tried to palm her off onto somebody else."

His friend doesn't want to help him; he can see that. Why doesn't he ever learn? "I understand," Wilson says defeated, and he truly does. His gaze briefly connects with House's, and his eyes are moribund.

House gazes back at him in open mouthed shock.

Wilson turns his back. His bed is enticing him like a siren. "I have to lie down," he murmurs faintly. He's feeling dizzy. He stumbles over his own feet. He recovers. His heart is slowing to a crawl in his chest. He's actually willing it to slow down.

"Wait," House commands him anxiously, and he's hastily stepping forwards to block Wilson's retreat.

He does, but only because he has to. He's finished. He's done. He wants to climb under his covers, close his eyes and sleep and, then, in the morning...... well. What incentive does he have to wake up?

"I......" House breaks off, thinking hard. He's not knowledgeable enough to help him, he can't. He possesses neither the required diplomacy or the patience. If Wilson opened up to him, it would be disastrous, messy. He is certain that he'd say the wrong thing. Wilson, quite possibly, would never bounce back.

House stares into the chillingly white face. His friend is already fading, right before his eyes. "I guess, if you feel you have to, you can talk to me," he hears himself saying and is justifiably horrified. He hadn't meant to say that, at all. "No. I mean......"

Wilson won't let him backtrack. "I can?" he presses.

What's a man to do when he's continuously betrayed by his own tongue? House is very unhappy. "If you absolutely must," he says with bad grace. "I'm flatly refusing to answer you back, though." House figures that the longer he can keep his mouth shut, the less likely he is to do any permanent damage. Wilson looks at him for ages until he's shuffling uncomfortably.

"But will you at least try to listen?" his friend asks him softly.

Color's crawling back into the pale face, and House is glad to see it. "Yes," he replies very quietly. "I guess I can guarantee that." He exhales noisily. He knows that he's going to regret this. "Come to me, whenever you feel you're ready."

Wilson considers this, whilst swaying with exhaustion. "I think I'm ready now," he announces bravely.

House is nowhere near ready. "And I think you're too tired," he hedges. "How about postponing this, until tomorrow?"

*

House has been with Wilson for hours, and, still, his friend hasn't said anything. It's starting to get late. House gets up to switch on the light, but Wilson stops him.

"It will make it easier," he says.

So they sit, as far apart on the bed as Wilson can possibly situate them, whilst the night wraps her cloak around them, and, possibly, a couple of state of the art blindfolds as well. House can barely see anything.

House fidgets. His fingers are tingling with nerves. He's petrified. Of all the people you can talk to, you decide to select me, he thinks hysterically. His life's a cosmic joke.

"My brother came back to see me," Wilson begins.

House waits apprehensively. And waits. Then waits some more. The strain brings out the worst in him. "Excellent," he says, clapping his hands together. "Well, now that we've got that out into the open, you must be feeling a lot better. Why don't we go and complete your discharge papers, and then we can all go home?" After he's finished, there's a moment of complete silence. He's sure that if he could see Wilson clearly, his friend would be giving him a disapproving look.

Wilson sighs. "I might have encouraged him...." he discloses painfully.

House is becoming irritated, and they've only just started. "Yeah, 'cause you were all over him, that first time he visited. Look, this may come as a shock to you, but you don't need to encourage anyone. One look at that gorgeous bod and dark eyes, and anyone with a pulse is gonna want to jump you. I'd jump you myself if I wasn't worried out of my mind that you'd go and drool all over me." If he's hoping to cut the conversation short by embarrassing Wilson, it doesn't work. He's disconcertingly losing his touch.

"House, he's my own brother."

"You rang the alarm."

"I don't remember what I did when...."

"Then, let me remind you. You rang your alarm," House repeats furiously. "You didn't do a single damned thing that you should be feeling guilty about. Your brother was......." he frowns and catches himself, "....is a pervert, who took advantage of you, when you were unable to protect yourself." He pauses, staring down at the indistinct outline of his clever and very powerful hands.

There might have been a time, he is reluctant to admit, when he had forced his friend to fight his own battles, whilst he'd watched, safe and cowardly from the sidelines. But those days were long gone.

Nathan had harmed Wilson, House's friend of all people and revenge had been merited and so bitterly, brutally sweet.

"I should have reported him, the first time he came here." House stops again, his teeth clenched so tightly together, that by rights, they ought to be reduced to dust. He is still astonishingly angry, even now, after everything that's happened.

Even now. He strives to regain control. "I thought I despised my father," he murmurs, "but your brother....."

"I'm worried that he might have touched Barry."

Wilson is peering over at him, and House has never been so grateful for the dark. "He didn't."

"He chose to live on the streets!"

House suspects that this is probably one of Wilson's biggest concerns. He hadn't expected him to voice it so soon. He selects his words ultra carefully. "Barry talked to me," he confesses. "Told me a lot of things before he died." He marshalls his thoughts; he can sense that his friend is listening to his every word avidly.

"He told me that he wanted to be free," he continues. "No bills, no responsibilities, no ties of any kind. He said that for the majority of the time, despite the hardships, he was relatively happy. He said that quite a few of the strangers he encountered went out of their way to be kind. He was frequently offered food, shelter, money, whatever he needed. He even had a dog for a few years; said it was the loyalest and dumbest animal you could ever hope to find." House falters, reluctant to go too far. Even when it's for the greater good, deceitfulness should have its limits. "He had a surprisingly good life, in a heck of a lot of ways. He was his own person. And that's the reason he left. It had nothing to do with your older brother; Nathan never touched him at all."

House has gifted his friend with several facts, bundled up with a half truth, intertwined with a tissue of lies. He knows that Wilson will swallow it all, as trustingly as he does his pills. A couple of years ago, he would never have gotten away with it.

"He didn't?"

"No." House says adamantly. It wasn't Nathan that had abused Barry, after all.

"Thank God." The relief in Wilson's voice is immeasurable. He shifts on the bed. Glancing sideways at House, he smiles, albeit timidly. "You told me that you weren't going to do any talking," he comments.

"I changed my mind. Good job I did, or we'd be sitting in silence for the rest of the evening."

Wilson nods pensively. "I guess," he says. He scratches the duvet cover idly with his finger. "You're not very good at counseling," he pronounces, playing with fire. "I think you need more practice."

"Would you like me to thump you?" House retorts back mildly. But he's only joking because he's noticed that Wilson's tone hadn't married up with his words, and, even better, his friend is now sitting only a foot away from him. For Wilson, that's virtually shoulder to shoulder.

By mutual agreement, the light stays off.

It's been a stressful but promising start. House's grin is like a beacon in the dark.

*

"You know that you can back out at any time," House stresses. "You don't have to go through with it." He watches his friend move backwards and forwards, to and fro, in an unvarying, perpetual rhythm.

Wilson looks over at him. Terror's pouring off him in waves.

House can't stand it. "That's it, you're going to withdraw your consent." He starts to get up.

"No," Wilson grates out.

"Wilson. If you're this afraid....."

"No. I want to go through with it."

House looks at him doubtfully.

Wilson closes his eyes. The swaying's self-comforting. Habitual. Once he starts, he finds it very hard to stop. "I want to get better." His stomach twists. "It's just that....." His words come to an abrupt finish.

"What?" House asks him patiently.

"If I become a vegetable...."

"You won't."

"If I do," Wilson persists, "then you might...." He swallows. He finds he's lost the courage to go on.

"Then I might.......?" House doesn't want to push him, but he needs to know. Nothing would be gained in second guessing him.

Wilson becomes still. "You might forget that I'm here." He presses his fingers despairingly against his lips.

House feels like rocking himself. He feels like shrieking until he's been incarcerated in a room right next to Wilson's. He sits up straighter, wincing as his spine cracks. "Look at me," he orders.

Wilson opens his eyes. He glances apprehensively at House. His hand still covers his mouth.

"You know why you're not going to become a vegetable?" House says calmly. He raises his eyebrows questioningly.

Mutely, Wilson shakes his head.

"Because I'll be there. Throughout the whole procedure. I swear to you that nothing will go wrong."

Wilson frowns. "I don't think your attendance is permitted."

"Yes, it is," House corrects him. "I checked. You're allowed to have a friend with you if you want to."

Wilson stares at him, wide eyed.

House takes a steadying breath. He looks down at his armchair. "So," he says breezily. "Mind if I sleep in this, tonight?" His friend is still gazing at him in naked disbelief.

"You're staying with me until the therapy tomorrow?"

House shrugs. "Angelina cancelled. Nothing better to do."

"House." Wilson seems overwhelmed. He jumps off the bed, points back at the pillow. "Please," he says, "sleep here. Please. I'll take the chair." He runs his fingers through his hair nervously, until it's sticking up in tufts. "Please," he says again, awkwardly.

House shakes his head, hiding his amusement. He searches Wilson's face, looking for any remnants of the earlier terror. It's vanished. He smiles at Wilson, with something close to satisfaction. "No, you'd better stay there," he says. He looks pointedly at Wilson's hair. "You really need your beauty sleep."

*

With thirty minutes to go until another ECT treatment is scheduled, House feels that some distraction is in order. He is studying Wilson, whilst flicking elastic bands at him, across the room. His friend has started to go grey at the temples. It makes him look sexier than ever, damn him. "You forgotten that you like the Village People, yet?"

"Ow. No." Wilson shakes his head firmly. He perks up. He starts humming 'Y.M.C.A.' under his breath.

Time to put a stop to that. "Pity." House purses his lips. "And the fact that I owe you, four hundred and thirty five dollars, and seventy six cents? You forgotten about that?" He fires another band. He's hitting his mark every time.

"Ow. No. And to be accurate, it's twenty two thousand, four hundred and thirty five dollars and seventy seven cents. Plus interest."

"Really? I must have miscalculated." House's head cocks thoughtfully to the side. "If you're able to recall inconsequential things like that, then these ECT sessions you've been having, seem to be a complete waste of time." He stretches over to the table, to restock his dwindling supply of missiles. "Okay, now for the tricky one. You still remember, that you used to dress up in women's clothing, every Saturday night?" Another projectile zooms through the air.

"Ouch! House! Will you quit?" Wilson rubs at his stinging arm. "And yep, I most certainly do, and I tended to do it Friday nights, not Saturdays." Wilson flushes attractively. "I'm extremely surprised that I told you about it," he divulges hesitantly.

House looks at him, anticipating a wink or a smirk. They're not forthcoming. House eases out of his former slouch. "What?"

"A wig, a slinky dress and a pair of stockings. Ah, the feel of silk gliding against bare skin." Wilson smiles wistfully. "There's nothing quite like it."

House can't believe his ears. "What? Are you kidding me?"

Wilson looks at him, bewildered. "No, of course not. What's the matter with you? You just indicated that you knew."

"I was only teasing. My God." His imagination is running riot. Sweat is trickling down the back of his neck. "No wonder you keep twittering on about Prada; you've been modelling it! My God," he repeats again, inanely.

"House." Wilson leans forwards anxiously, his striking eyes appearing massive, in the too thin face. "You won't tell anyone, will you? I thought you were supposed to be open minded."

What if those alluring eyes were accentuated by shadow, and framed by long, black lashes, thickened with expertly applied mascara? House adjusts himself in the chair. "I am, but there's open minded, and then there's you, prancing around New Jersey in stiletos, like Tootsie." His friend sits back, and throws him the sultriest look he's ever witnessed in his life.

"Takes a while to get used to the high heels, but once you master it, it's like riding a bike." Wilson watches House's eyes darken to indigo, from across the room. He stares gravely at him, still maintaining a straight face. "You ought to try it sometime, House. I used to find it really liberating."

House nods like a simpleton. "I'm sure," he says absent mindedly. Now that he's pictured it, he can't get the image of Wilson in a dress, out of his mind. It's irksome, but with that delicate face and spare physique, he's sure that it would be impossible for Wilson, in his feminine ensemble, to be anything other than stunning. Double and triple damn him. He shakes his head dumbly. "My God," he says once more, like a broken record. He bites his lip. "Friday nights, huh?"

"Yep." Wilson's wickedly pleased with himself. He catches House giving him an involuntary once over and that clinches it; finally, he grins.

Still thrown for a loop, still a little uncertain as to whether or not he's being taken for a ride, House automatically grins back.

They both sit there, grinning like loons, until it's time for Wilson to go for his sixth and final session.

*

"You just about ready to abandon this joint?"

"Hey." Wilson snaps the buckles on his suitcase closed, and turns around smiling. "You could say that," he allows. The dark gaze sweeps across the all too familiar room. "I'm reasonably sure I won't miss it."

"I know I won't." House grimaces overdramatically, then slaps his left thigh. "Let's go, Ace," he urges impatiently, "your chariot awaits." He winks. "I even got Chase to wax and polish it. He didn't do a bad job. That boy could make a living as a Mister Mop." He starts towards the door, but if he's expecting Wilson to hoist his case up, ready to follow him, he's sorely disappointed. He rolls his eyes. "Come on, come on, stop dawdling, I'm getting hungry."

Empty handed, Wilson crosses to House, and stands before him. His eyes have now become so serious, that it makes House feel significantly uneasy. "I owe you," he says, his voice low and earnest. "For getting me out of here."

As if he does.

"You did all the hard work yourself." House regards his friend just as solemnly. There are going to be trying times ahead of them. He knows just how high the suicide risk is in patients that have been discharged from a long term stay in a psychiatric unit. The thought is demoralizing. "It's a big, bad world out there, Jimmy," he says sadly.

Wilson nods. "I know." HIs eyes crinkle at the corners. "I did used to live in it!" He tilts his head assessingly. "But you'll watch over me, right?"

"Oh, like a hawk," House says fervently. "With binoculars," he adds for good measure.

Wilson's shy, disarming smile returns, as sweet as ever.

After the many months of pain and misery, House is finding it difficult to wrench his gaze away. It's taking a terrible risk, he knows, but his dearest friend is standing close to him, looking frail but overwhelmingly happy, and House can't help himself. He pulls Wilson into a one armed hug gently, as if he's genuinely concerned he might break him. "You are such a dorky idiot," he says.

His friend melts amenably enough against him.

Savoring the moment, House closes his eyes. The dorkiness must be contagious, he reasons. And then, incredibly, he feels slim arms slip carefully around his waist, and Wilson's pressing up closer and Wilson's totally relaxed; no signs of tension. "Thank you," he hears his friend whisper.

House is stunned to the core. For several moments, he stands rigid, afraid to move, afraid to speak, almost too nervous to breathe, in case he frightens his skittish friend away.

Inevitably, Wilson changes position anyway, preparatory to pulling back.

House panics. "Not yet," he says gruffly. And his cane is clattering to the ground, and both arms are tightening around his friend, and suddenly, he's crushing the man against him with all his might.

Wilson freezes for a second, taken completely by surprise, but then he laughs, somewhat breathlessly, and it's his natural, musical laugh. The laugh that is very rarely heard, if Wilson is stone cold sober. "Everything's okay," Wilson murmurs, trying to reassure him, attempting to reassure them both.

House tries to answer him, but he can't, because everything is not just okay, it's perfect. How could it not be? For the first time ever, his friend is willing to hug him back.

This once, for House, it's all a little too much.

*

No, House hasn't wept in a remarkably long time.

If anyone could make him cry, it was always going to be Wilson.

The End.