Fanfiction

Just a little drabble, House/Wilson friendship.

It’s taken weeks, but Wilson’s finally gotten around to asking him again. Why were you drinking at 5:30 in the afternoon?

It’s been weeks since Wilson’s felt this sense of purpose. His thoughts have been on the past, on her, on everything he’s lost, not on what he still has left. He almost feels ashamed.

He hesitates outside Houses’s door, afraid to knock. He hasn’t been here in so long, it feels strange. He shakes his head for a moment, wondering why.

It’s not that they haven’t stayed friends. They have, haven’t they? he asks himself, suddenly unsure. They see each other every day. They consult. They even have the occasional lunch. And if House has just presumed that Wilson has forgiven him, instead of asking for forgiveness, well that is not much more than he expected anyway.

Maybe they have been more than a little cold with each other, but hey, that’s what he has expected too. He knew he would never get warm and fuzzy comfort from House. He expected exactly what he got, sarcastic comments about wallowing and how the "sad dudes get all the girls." House’s brand of tough love and avoidance of anything even slightly emotional.

They’ve never been alone. At least not here, at House’s apartment, where it mattered. As much as he’s kept House at arms length since Amber’s death, House has been just as reclusive.

He can hear the television’s low drone, and House’s uneven footsteps as he comes to answer the door. He almost turns away, but he’s here now, and he has to know. It’s kept him awake for hours, until he reluctantly got in the car and drove over, needing the answer.

"It’s late," House says, without opening the door, and Wilson glances at his watch to see it’s almost midnight.

"Let me in House."

House limps back over the couch, after unlocking the door. The room is dark except for the glow of the television.

Wilson stands just inside the door, hands on his hips, his stance combative.

"I need to ask you a question. And I need you to answer me," Wilson starts, determined now that he’s here.

"Ask away," House answers flippantly, not even looking his way.

"I need the truth House."

"Ask something then," House answers impatiently.

"I asked you this once before, but you never really answered me. I need to know. Why were you at that bar? Why did you start drinking at 5:30? Why did you drink until you were too drunk to walk, much less drive? Why?" Wilson says on a sigh, "What was wrong?" he asks on a whisper, weeks too late.

The silence seems to last forever.

"I was . . . lonely."

Wilson’s head jerks up, ready with a come back to the flippant remark, but the look in House’s eyes, as he meets his gaze, has him hesitating. He’s not lying, Wilson realizes. And there’s more, much more.

Wilson tosses his jacket and walks to the kitchen, jerking open the fridge with shaking hands. He pulls out two beers and walks back to the couch. He hands one to House as he sits down next to him on the couch and twists the top off of his.

Taking a long sip of the cool liquid, he leans forward and grabs the remote, hitting the mute button. The light from the television casts shadows around the room. He needs House to know he’s listening.

"Sometimes the pain, the depression . . .," House continues, rolling the bottle of beer between his hands. His voice trails off, leaving more unsaid.

"House. . ." Wilson sighs, feeling helpless and a little foolish. He’s a doctor, house’s doctor most of the time. . . he should have been on top of this.

Pausing, House swallows a long sip of beer, and takes a deep breath, glancing quickly at Wilson and trying desperately to read his mind.

"You didn’t need me anymore," House whispers, his voice low and husky. Picking at the paper on the bottle, he sighs deeply. Dropping his head back on the couch, he closes his eyes, whether in exhaustion or defeat, Wilson’s not sure.

"It was just one more thing I could cross off my list of why I stick around here," House states, his voice void of any emotion. "You know what I mean?" he asks to no one.

And Wilson does know what he means, because his list is dangerously short too.

"Yeah, I know," he answers, sitting forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Damn," he mutters, getting up slowly.

He goes back into the kitchen and grabs a couple more beers. Dropping back down on the couch, he grabs the remote and un-mutes the television.

"I’m going to stay here tonight, okay?" he comments, not really asking, as he puts his feet up on the coffee table.

"Sure," House answers, "think it’s too late for a pizza delivery?"

"Elmo’s is open til 2:00 a.m. on the weekend," Wilson comments.

"Cool," House replies, grabbing the phone.

Laughing for the first time in weeks, Wilson looks over at his friend. It wasn’t perfect, it probably wasn’t even normal. But it worked. For both of them.

"Have you seen House?" Cuddy asks, barging into Wilson’s office.

"I think you know the answer to that question already," is his dry reply.

"You need to go look for him."

"No. I don’t. We aren’t talking. We’re not friends anymore. I’m not obligated to keep track of him for you," Wilson answers without even looking up from his paper work, his words spoken without emotion.

"You are still a doctor in this hospital? she drawls sarcastically, gaining his attention.

Leaning back in his chair, Wilson finally meets her eyes, waiting for her to make her point. She’s more distressed that he first realized, than he could tell from her voice alone.

"His patient died," she sighs, pausing for effect.

"The autistic kid?"

"Yes. You know he bonded with him when he was here last year. He’s been a raving lunatic ever since his parents brought him in 3 days ago. He hasn’t slept, he hasn’t eaten. He tried everything . . . "

"I thought he was getting better. I did a consult yesterday and last night I though they had a breakthrough."

"He was. They did. But today everything fell apart. He went downhill so fast and House just couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t slow down the organ failure fast enough to find the diagnosis."

"I’m sorry."

"House told me Adam asked him to save him."

"He used his name?" Wilson questioned, sending Cuddy a withering glance. "He couldn’t speak Cuddy, you know that didn’t happen."

"I know. I scoffed at it too. Until I went into the room and saw for myself. That boy would meet House’s eyes. Just stare into them, like he was pleading with him to understand something. It was heartbreaking. And it was driving House crazy because he couldn’t. . ." voice cracking she stops talking and turns her back on Wilson and walks to the balcony door.

"What do you want me to do?" Wilson asks, after a moment, guilt clearly prompting his reply.

Turning, she gives him a grateful look.

"After the boy died, the labs came back. He was poisoned. The father had been giving him small doses to make him sick. He couldn’t handle it anymore. Didn’t want the burden of being his father anymore. When House’s treatments started making him better, he panicked and gave him a full dose. The boy spiraled down so quickly that the labs didn’t have a chance to catch up to them. No one saw this. No one suspected."

"And House?"

"He hasn’t left the hospital. But no one can find him. I’ve got everyone looking. He’s exhausted, in pain, weak. He could have passed out somewhere. I need every available person to look for him. I need you to look for him," she adds with emphasis. "You know his haunts. I wouldn’t ask you otherwise. I haven’t interfered in the battle of wills going on between you two. You don’t even have to talk to him. Just find him for me. . . please."

"Fine. I’ll look for him."

"Thanks."

* * * *

Wilson slowly climbs the second flight of stairs. He knows where he’ll find house. He hesitates at the door to the roof, not really sure if he should just go back down and send Foreman or Chase up. But he promised Cuddy.

He hasn’t exchanged words with House since Amber’s death, three months ago. They co-exist professionally - using Houses’s minions. His anger has fled since the first few bleak weeks. He’s figured he’s probably gotten all the way to acceptance in the grieving process. He’s accepted his loss of friendship with House as well. He has promised himself he will never be the one to take the first step to heal their relationship. That burden will lay at Houses’s feet.

And he knows the proud and selfish bastard will never cross the line they have so clearly drawn.

He expects to see him standing at the wall, surveying his world from above, like he always does at times of emotional turmoil. He figures they’ll trade a few sarcastic comments, like they have many times before. House will be angry and cold in his assessment of human failings. Unforgiving, he’ll mask his horror over the boy’s death, with platitudes and statements about how everyone lies and how unconditional love doesn’t exist. Wilson will counter with the humanity factor, with the fact that sometimes people just break. That compassion is almost as important as love.

He is not quiet honest with himself enough to admit that he likes this role. It makes him feel important to be the good and kind voice of reason in the face darkness. It gives him a false sense that everything is right in his world. That he is right. That he is the better man.

He never truly sees that he doesn’t live by his own rules. He never realizes that House knows this and loves him anyway. Unconditionally.

-

He almost misses him, he’s sitting so quietly. He is on the ground, his back against the brick wall. He has his face tipped up to the afternoon setting sun, eyes closed. He doesn’t move at Wilson’s approach, lost in thought. Wilson quickly flips open his phone and lets Cuddy know he’s found him.

He stands, waiting for the dripping sarcasm to start, having his arguments lined up in a row. As the minutes tick by he really looks at House, and what he sees has his heart kick up a beat. Tears flow silently and continually down House’s face.

Wilson’s legs feel unsteady, as his world is suddently rocked. He lowers himself to the ground,

mirrowing House, his back against the wall. He thinks he’s probably seen House cry a couple of times, mostly in pain, a quick tear . . . maybe. But this is something completely different. He’s weeping, but he is not making a sound. His breaths are even but quick, the tears thick and streaming down his face. He doesn’t know what to say, looking over helplessly in the face of such sorrow.

"How do you do that? Cry without making any noise?" he asks stupidly, remembering his bouts of noisy weeping the last couple of months. He cringes inwardly, shaking his head, that this is the only thing he has left to say, the first words out of his mouth to his ex-best-friend in over three months.

"Better not hear you cry boy," House whispers in a slow southern drawl.

Goosebumps break out on Wilson’s arms, as he hears the whispered words and the meaning starts to sink in.

"If you wanted to come in out of the freezing rain, or get out of the ice bath he put you in, you learned not to make noise," House states opening his eyes for the first time since Wilson’s arrival. He tips his face toward the sun, the tears slowing. He doesn’t look at Wilson, but studies some distance spot in the clouds.

"Your dad?" Wilson asks, having already dedeuced the answer. At House’s silent nod, he asks the next question, closing his eyes against the fear of the answer.

"How old were you?"

"Eight."

"God," Wilson sighs barely a whisper.

"Was not there. Believe me, I know. I called him. . . Didn’t answer."

Tears prick at the back of Wilson’s eyes as he listens to the words he’s heard out of House’s mouth a thousand times. Words that he never put into any perspective until now. Pain radiates across his chest as he sees a frightened child cowering in the dark, praying for answers.

How did he miss this he thinks. So many conversations start to fall into place. How could he have been so blind.

"I couldn’t save him," House says, eyes closing again. "He begged me. . . he knew . . .," fresh tears flow unchecked.

"You did everything you could," he says lamely, knowing it means nothing in the face of his pain.

"I know better. It’s always the Father," House comments cynically.

"House, you met these parents. You knew them. They loved their son. You had no reason to suspect . . . "

"You always suspect. There is no such thing as unconditional love," he snarls. "I know that," he says in anger. "I know to question. I know to doubt. But I missed it. I was so emotionally involved with the patient that I didn’t observe the parents. If I had been watching him. If I ‘d distanced myself . . .."

Wilson doesn’t know what to say to ease his pain. Maybe if he was distant, like he was with most patients, he would have noticed. Maybe that’s why he’s such a good doctor, such a good diagnostician..

"I failed him. I was so caught up in saving him, I forgot the most important thing."

"Which is?" Wilson prompts.

Silence falls between them for a minute, Wilson watching House intently, House still refusing to look his way. He’s fascinated with the conversation, he realizes. Fascinated because House is really talking to him. Slowly, he realizes it is probably because he’s finally listening instead of lecturing.

" I was seventeen. . . " House continues with a sigh.

Shaking his head, House takes a deep breath and continues, eyes closed in remembrance.

" I was a senior in high school. I had friends. And I fell in love for the first time. Her name was Anna. We made plans to go to the prom. And then my Dad came home and announced we were moving again . . . in two weeks. I’d grown a foot that year and he was no longer able to physically punish me anymore, but he certainly knew how to turn the screws. We had a huge fight, he knocked me on my ass. Scared my mother to death."

"So we moved, and I went a little wild. Drinking, fighting, got arrested a few times. I was miserable and I was determined to make both of them miserable."

"You were a teenager, that’s normal."

"Nothing was normal in my house," he scoffs, shaking his head.

"My mother never knew about the abuse. I mean, maybe she had an idea, but it was never talked about. I was a model son for her. She was never mad at me. I never made her mad. But that year, I was so angry at her for not standing up to him, for not saying. . . we’re not moving this time."

Wilson had never heard House talk this long about his childhood. Occasionally he would make a wayward comment about his Dad, but he never really said much. He knew his childhood was tough, military families make a lot of sacrifices. He wanted to hear more, but he didn’t really know where House was going. Was almost afraid of where he was going.

"But I made her really really angry that year, more than once. One night, the local police hauled my but home, I was half drunk, been in fight. Cop knew my Dad, so he brought me home instead of jail. Embarrassed my father big time. We got into a screaming match. He told me that I was a piece of shit, that I was worthless, that he hated my guts. That no one could really love me because I was too stubborn, too much for anyone to want to put in the effort. I remember screaming at him, that he was a god-damn lier. That my mother loved me no matter what and always would . That nothing I did would ever be bad enough to change that."

Wilson was glued to House’s words, anxious for the punch line that he knew was coming, the dreaded revelation that defined House.

"I looked over at her and . . . she flinched. Just for a second. She stood there between the both of us staring her down and . . . she flinched."

"It didn’t mean anything," Wilson argued, clearly distressed, knowing that to House that flinch meant everything, but he had no right words to say anymore.

House continued, his voice devoid of emotion, the tears dried now on his cheeks.

"He laughed, this horrible ironic kind of chuckle. He knew he had won. He’d beaten me. He looked at me and he said it, just those two words. . . . Everybody lies."

Wilson had heard him utter that quote a million and one times, never understanding the true meaning until now.

"House, she loves you," Wilson whispers, letting his anger at John House wash over him in waves. How can a father inflict so much damage, he wonders.

"I know she does. She’s told me a million times since that day.. But I needed her to say it then. I only needed her to say it that once. At that moment. To him. For me. And she couldn’t do it."

"House, don’t judge her for her weak moment. Your father . . . obviously she had her own fears. Judge her on all the rest of your life."

"I have," House whispered, shaking his head. "I came to terms with my childhood and my parents frailties a long time ago. He was who he was. Wanting him to be different wasn’t going to make him a better father, a better man. He wasn’t going to change. I had to accept him for who he was. In some ways I’m grateful to him. He taught me about pain. He taught me to be strong.

"You . . .loved. . him?" Wilson questions, amazed at the twists and turns of the conversation they were having.

"He taught me a lot. He’s part of who I am. What makes me tick. What makes me a good doctor. He taught me not to trust in emotions, to look beyond what people say to who they really are. He broke it all down to the simplest terms. He taught me that love has conditions.. That no matter what we do, we can’t earn it, can’t capture it. It has to be given freely. That it’s a gift. . . . not a given. And that sometimes . . . it dies."

"He hurt you House."

"Yes. He hurt me. Doesn’t matter. I forgave him anyway. I loved him anyway."

"Why?" Wilson queries, not understanding how he could.

"Because I could. Because he couldn’t."

Wilson has no words to express what he’s feeling, as he sits deep in thought trying to process everything House has been saying. He closes his eyes and lets the feelings of guilt and shame wash over him. He came up to the roof to be the better man. To lecture House on humanity and compassion, when he has no real idea of what either of those really are.

House is the one who understands people, who practices compassion, he realizes. Who knows more about love than most do. Who has learned to love despite conditions. Who has chosen to love him despite of everything he’s done. He’s lied to House, betrayed him, lectured him on loving his misery, mocked him on being self-sacrificing.

While he’s held back love and forgiveness just because he could, because he thought he should. Because he thought he deserved to. That it was his right. He’s let House think that he hated him, that he had pushed him too far.

All because he thought he knew better. Was better. Thought he need to teach House something about friendship. Thought he needed House to come to him first.

"I’m so tired," House says, breaking the silence, the sun setting now, leaving them bathed in it’s dusky glow.

"Come on, I’ll drive you home," Wilson says, getting up from the ground and holding out his hand for House, to help him up.

He almost expects House to ignore it, but he doesn’t. He lets Wilson help him up, swaying unsteadily on his feet, exhaustion etched in his face. He holds tightly to Wilson’s arm and they both stand still in the moment. Wilson freezes in place, waiting for House to look at him, ashamed of who House will see. But House keeps his head down, unable or unwilling to meet his eyes.

"House?" he questions softly, waiting.

"Jimmy," is the only word that comes out, but it’s enough. It’s a plea. A question that needs an answer.

Wilson looks at him, fear and shame and love chasing their way across his face.

"I . . . hurt you," House says, looking up finally, blue eyes meeting brown.

And Wilson wants to shout at him, shake him and tell him no. That he was wrong. That he knows now that he hurt him more, because he did it deliberately. That there was no series of unfortunate circumstances that he couldn’t control. That he has no excuses.

But in the end he’s a coward. He’s played the martyr too long, and doesn’t know any other game. So he gives him what he can, gives him back the words he needs to hear.

"Yes. You hurt me. . . Doesn’t matter. . . I love you anyway," Wilson answers,. tears filling his eyes.

House bows his head, his temple brushing against Wilson’s cheek.

"Why?" House whispers in his ear, voice choked with his own tears.

"Because I can," Wilson answers simply, wrapping his arms around him and holding tight for a minute.

"Because you let me," he continues, standing back and giving him a lopsided grin.

* * * *

"I don’t deserve you," House comments glibly, as they make their way painstakingly down the flight of stairs.

"True," Wilson dead pans, playing their game.

"You’re going to make the most of this, aren’t you?" House asks, grinning, as they step into the elevator.

"Hmmm," Wilson quips, "Yes," grinning back.

"I’m starving," House comments as the elevator opens to the lobby.

"You’re paying for the pizza," Wilson jibes, "And the beer."

"Don’t push it," House grumbles, sending Wilson a sidelong glance of affection.

They walk across the lobby side by side, like they have a million times before. House seems to oblivious to the attention their getting, but Wilson is soaking it up, especially when Cuddy comes out of her office with a smile on her face and nods to him. Nodding back, he realizes he’s doing it again, taking credit, falling into the role of the good guy.

They almost reach the door, when House starts to sing at the top of his lungs, "Did you ever know that you’re my hero?" "You’re everything I would like to be?"

"House," Wilson chokes, his face flaming with embarrassment.

"Hey, don’t want to ruin your reputation," House laughs as he opens the door.

Wilson can feel the heat burn his face as they walk to the car and get in. House sees too much sometimes. He feels embarrassed, caught out. Humbled.

Sliding behind the wheel, he hesitates before starting the car.

"Don’t," House whispers, reading his mind.

"I hurt you too."

"Doesn’t matter."

"It matters House. It matters to me. I’m sorry."

"Let it go Wilson," House sighs, closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of the seat.

"I don‘t deserve you," Wilson says, as he starts the car.

"Good. You can pay for dinner," House mutters, half asleep.

"No problem," Wilson chuckles, happy that things are starting to feel right in his world.

-

They pull into the driveway and Wilson turns the car off but just sits behind the wheel.

"What?" House asks looking exasperated.

"I just have one more question."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

"Go on. Get it over with."

"I swore that I was never going to come to you first. That you needed to come to me. Apologize to me. But you didn’t.. . . .," Wilson sighs, trying unsuccessfully to mask the hurt that caused him. "I guess I want to know why," he asks after a moment.

"Because it had to be your choice. It was only right that you got to choose. If I came to you, you would have felt guilty or obliged. You would have wanted what I wanted, not what you wanted. I didn’t want that. I needed. .. ."

"Me to choose . . . you."

"Yeah," House whispers, looking uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed.

Wilson gets out of the car and waits for House at the door. He can’t stop smiling, now that he’s laid all his insecurities to rest.

"What?" House comments as he opens the door, questioning Wilson’s Cheshire cat grin.

"That’s kind of . . . sweet," Wilson chuckles.

"Moron," House grumbles, but Wilson’s laughter is contagious and as he drops down on the couch exhausted, he can’t help but laugh with him.

 Title: The essence of things hoped for
Author: Rae
Pairings: House/Wilson friendship
Rating: K+
Summary: Wilson's had a bad day. Does House have what he needs.



The knock at the door was tentative, quiet, from someone who wasn't quite sure if they wanted anyone to really answer.

"Use your key, I'm not getting up," he shouts, glancing at the time, and frowning. He didn't realize how late it had become. He had been siting in the dark for over two hours now. Well, not quite the dark, as the illumination of the TV cast a glow across the darkened living room. He had muted the volume awhile ago, when the droning of the sports caster kept interrupting his thoughts.

"Wasn't sure you'd be up," came the quiet reply, as Wilson enters the room and carefully places  his jacket on a chair.

"So, what are you not watching," he comments dryly, noticing House's concentration on something that was obviously not the television. He sat on the edge of the couch, feeling like he was intruding.

"Whatever," he sighs, reaching for the half full glass on the coffee table. He nodded to the open bottle of single malt and second empty glass.

"Expecting someone," Wilson quipps, pouring himself a couple of shots.

"You are a consistent bastard," he replies without emotion, swirling the liquid around in his glass before carelessly tossing it back.

"How's the hand," Wilson asks without really wondering, stinging a little from House's coldness.

"Hand's fine. Just say what you came to say and get it over with," he sighs.

Wilson doesn't really know what he wants to say, or ask for that matter. He had no plan to check in  with House tonight. But after the day he had, he had no conscious thought when he left the hospital. He drove here on auto pilot. He needed . . . oh hell, he didn't know what he needed.

"I . . . don't know what to say," he starts, "where to start," he sighs. He stays perched on the edge of the couch, looking like he's ready for a quick get away. He drinks deeply from the Scotch, letting the liquid burn down his throat. His eyes water for a minute, and he stiffles the need to cough, feeling like a drowning man.

"I didn't see anything," House states after a moment, his head resting back on the couch staring up at the ceiling now.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his tone sounding more pleading than he would like.

House looks at him for the first time since he's walked in the door. Wilson looks exhausted he notes, dark circles under his eyes. They stare each other down for a minute, until House turns away again.

"You're lying to me," Wilson insists.

"No, I'm not," he answers with a grimace.

"Why . . . .would you lie to me?" he asks, mostly to himself.

I'm not lying," he shouts, clearly agitated.

Leaning forward, Wilson rests his elbows on his knees, rubbing his face with his hands. He's so tired he thinks, he could sleep forever. Forever . . . he chuckles to himself. Yes, that is the question, isn't it.

"House . . ." he tries again. "I really need to know," he says quietly into his drink.

"You don't need to know. You want to know. Because you need to be in control . And you want to be the one that has all the philosophical answers to all the unanswerable questions," he grabs his leg and lowers it to the floor, his position of relaxation and patience over.

"I lost a patient today, " he continues, his voice getting louder and angrier by the minute. "Because I was stupid. Because I did something stupid, trying to get the stupid answers to the stupid questions that you're always going on about," House rants.

"So you lost a patient today. . . big deal. I lose a patient every week. . . . Every week, House. You don't get to have the corner on anger and bitterness. Not on this subject at least," Wilson answers, standing up to pace the room.

"And don't you try to blame your stupid antics on me. I was not your motivation for what you did. That was all you," he continues, pointing a finger at him.

"It doesn't matter what I saw," House answers tiredly. "It shouldn't matter to you," he argues. "You have your faith, remember?" he sneers.

"Do I,  House?" he laughs, almost hysterically.

House frowns, as he watches Wilson pace.

"What happened?" he asks after a moment, the puzzle starting to make sense.

"What makes you think something happened to me? I mean, it's all about you, remember," he says snidely, running his hand across the back of his head.

"What happened?" he asks again quietly, sincerely.

This is what he's wanted since he came in the door tonight. He wanted House's attention. That quiet gentle focus he's capable of giving someone when he sees the hurt beneath the surface that no one else can see.

He wants to talk, but his  throat has suddenly become so tight he's not sure he can get any of the words out. He's suddenly near tears and he knows it's just a reaction to the stress and exhaustion and the Scotch, but he never cries and he's damned if he's going to do it now in front of House.

"Wilson," he prompts again, meeting his eyes.

And he thinks he almost sees fear in House's eyes before he banks the emotion back.

"We had a virus hit the peds wing yesterday," he starts as he settles back on the couch. He takes a deep breath as he continues. "We did everything we could, but we couldn't contain it fast enough. I lost a nine year this afternoon. A nine year old that I promised would see Christmas at home. I promised because I knew I could fix her, at least . . . until Christmas."

"I lost the second child around midnight. It's hard to have faith when you're holding a dying three year old in your arms," he says, mocking himself.

"It wasn't your fault," he soothes, but he knows the words are empty.

"It's not a matter of blame House," he answers with just a whisper, "I just need to know . . . that there's. . . more," he sighs, resting his head on the back of the couch, mirroring House.

"I can't tell you that. I can't  give you what you need," he says despondently.

"I know," Wilson replies, looking at him, "it's okay," he says with a self-depreciating smile. And he slips back into his comforter mode so quickly he doesn't even see it.

But House does.

The silence stretches comfortably between them, as they sit like bookends on the couch, lost in their own thoughts.

"I saw the accident guy," House says after a moment

"What?" he answers confused.

"The accident guy. That's who I saw. He was smiling.  I tried to talk to him, but I couldn't hear the sound of my own voice. Then . . . nothing. I don't remember anything after that."

"You saw the accident guy . . . huh . . . what do you think that means?"

"Whatever you want it to Jimmy . . . whatever you want it to."

House levers himself painfully off the couch.

"I'm going to bed, got fellows to torture in the morning," he says raising his eyebrows.

"Get some sleep," he says, quickly assessing Wilson's state of mind. "The couch is all yours," he says as he enters the hallway.

"House," Wilson calls, stopping him.

"What?" he says looking over his shoulder.

"I love you," he says sheepishly.

"Goodnight Wilson," he answers with a grin.