A Fear of Falling

by gena

Title: A fear of Falling Author: gena Rating: slash PG13 (for kissing) Pairing: H/W Disclaimer: Owned by Fox and the Gang, borrowed by me. Summary: House goes looking for a missing Wilson and finds something he's always had. Notes: More fluff. They belong together.

A Fear of Falling...........

He hadn't left the night before so technically he wasn't early, he was late. House opened his eyes, blinking the ceiling into focus, then lifted his arm and squinted at the watch on his wrist. 7AM. Not bad. He'd stretched out on the floor behind his desk around 3:30 and fallen asleep shortly after. It had been a cold, damp week making the pain in his leg worse than usual, so much so that the Vicodin wasn't helping. He'd downed a couple of extra, nearly throwing up from the combination of dizziness and nausea. Three and a half hours of dozing had alleviated the worst of the symptoms and a pounding headache but the PPTH wasn't know for its plush carpet and he had serious doubts about his mobility for the next hour or so. House did a mental inventory, automatically checking the level of pain throbbing in his thigh, then calculated how difficult it would be to get his left leg under him and pull himself to his feet. The figure he arrived at seemed daunting but a moment later he had to factor in his empty stomach and his full bladder and it all evened out. He took a deep breath, drew his left leg up, and used his arms to shove himself to his feet. Though his physical condition had deteriorated in the past five years House still had enough athleticism to accomplish the task but not enough to make it easy on him. As he hauled himself upright searing flashes of pain burst across his consciousness like skyrockets across a night sky, and the explosive jolts leaping from thigh to hip to back left him swaying. He gasped and planted both hands on the desktop, willing it to retreated to the background ache that never, ever went away.

"What are you doing here so early?" Dr. Lisa Cuddy's voice seemed to come out of nowhere. House bit his lip and straightened, forcing a smirk as he fished out his ever present pill bottle and popped the lid with a flourish. She stood in his doorway, black hair gleaming in the florescent light and arms crossed just under her luscious breasts. House rearranged the smirk into a leer, wishing once again that the sight of those magnificent tits could stir him the way they had years ago.

"My usual hooker," he said, rolling his eyes. "She's crazy about these glass walls. Sorry about all those sweaty prints and the other stains but I'm sure maintenance can get them out. You should meet her sometime. You have a lot in common; clothes, make-up, -underwear." Cuddy drew in a deep breath, breasts heaving against the filmy blouse she wore, her pleasant mask cracking a bit around her eyes.

"Maybe you should spend your money on clothes," Cuddy said sweetly, "They say clothes make the man."

"No, hookers make the man," House said, "at least Dominique makes me - when I'm bad."

Cuddy opened her mouth then turned on her heel and stormed off. House sagged in relief as he watched her go. Sparring with her kept him on his toes but standing without his cane for support had ratcheted up the dull ache from a four to an eight on the pain scale. He palmed two Vicodin, tossed them into his mouth and swallowed in reflex before picking up his cane and limping towards the restroom. A half hour later he was sitting in the cafeteria poking half-heartedly at a greasy egg and soggy toast and wishing he'd gone home instead of sticking around for the follow-up with his latest patient. The confirmation of his diagnosis didn't really matter, he knew he was right, his team knew he was right, and he didn't care who did the paperwork as long as it wasn't him. He looked up as Cameron and Foreman wandered in. They were deep in conversation but after collecting coffee and a Danish for Foreman, they spotted him and came over to his table.

"Dr. House," Cameron greeted in a voice tinged with surprise. "I haven't gotten the forms completed. I wasn't expecting you in -so soon," she said hesitantly. House's staff was never sure when he would appear; sometimes he didn't leave at night and sometimes, especially when he wasn't feeling well, he didn't show up until noon but it was one of the unwritten rules of being on his staff to never comment on it.

He waved her words aside, concerned with more important matters. "That woman," he murmured, eyes focused on a middle aged woman paying for her meal at the register. "What's wrong with her?"

He ignored the look Cameron and Foreman exchanged and waited for them to swivel around to study the woman. "She's wearing taupe shoes with a black dress," Foreman guessed. Both House and Cameron stared at him. "What?"

"She's limping." Cameron noted.

House nodded. "She was a passenger in a car involved in an accident two days ago. " Cameron and Foreman shared another look but couldn't bring themselves to remark on House's diagnosis, both doctors had witnessed his amazing ability before, but it still seemed like a parlor trick to watch him do it. The woman turned slowly, her steps awkward and her face pale. "She doesn't know it but she has internal injuries."

"You can tell she was in a car accident two days ago," Foreman repeated, failing to keep the dubious tone out of his voice.

House sighed, "There's bruising on her right clavicle where the seat belt caught her. The size and shape of the gash on her knee is indicative of an impact with the glove box. See how she's keeping her elbow pressed to her side."

"Her color isn't good," Foreman admitted. As they watched the woman swayed, her tray clattered to the floor and she crumpled into a heap. Cameron and Foreman raced to her side, calling for help as they examined her. House watched it all then glanced at his watch, 8:42. Figuring Wilson would be in his office, House paged him. He considered getting a cup of coffee but it seemed like too much trouble with all the emergency personnel up there by the checkout and for the first time all morning his leg wasn't roaring with pain.

"She's being prepped for surgery," Cameron reported just as House forced himself to swallow a bit of the egg, quickly washing it down with apple juice before it could rebound on him. He hadn't eaten much but it sat like a rock in his stomach, making him regret the fact he'd attempted breakfast at all. "She was here visiting her son. He's on the orthopedics floor with a fractured femur and torn ligaments, results of a car accident they were in two days ago."

"You doubted me?"

Cameron smiled. "Never," she said. Her blue eyes swept his nearly untouched plate then down to where he had his leg propped on the chair. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," House snapped. He didn't understand the question or everyone's habit of asking it. They all knew he was in pain, he wouldn't limp or need the cane if he wasn't, so why keep asking? Irritated, he checked his watch again. "Have you seen Wilson?"

"No. He's probably in his office. I could check for you"

House frowned. He'd paged Wilson twice now with no answer. He wanted to talk his friend into paying hooky with him in the afternoon, there was a new electronics gadget store he wanted to checkout. A vague sense of alarm began to form in House's belly, making his earlier queasiness and his recent breakfast uneasy companions. Wilson was always early, House couldn't remember a time when Wilson didn't come in to get an early start on the massive amounts of work he did. Well, he could remember one time, the months when House himself had been the patient Wilson had relegated his duties to others or spent hours sitting at House's bedside with files spread around him. It had been comforting to wake up and see James working, he could almost imagine he was just loafing in his buddy's office and not fighting for his life. Pushing the past away with effort, House ran over Wilson's schedule in his mind, finding nothing that would account for Wilson's absence.

"Check with his assistant -," House stared blankly.

"Jillian."

"If something came up he would leave word with her." Cameron nodded, House's uncharacteristic worry making her quicken her steps as she headed off towards the Oncology department. There were a hundred reasons why Wilson might not answer his pages but something didn't feel right to him. He knew Wilson's habits just as well as Wilson knew his and his dedicated friend would never skip out unless corrupted by some miscreant with a cane. House hated the word intuition, it implied some supernatural ability to interpret logical events, but right now every fiber of his soul, if he really had one, was screaming that something was wrong. House sat in the cafeteria a few more minutes. Unconsciously he reached for the photos he'd taken to carrying in his jacket pocket. Just a short strip of those cheap black and white snaps you could get at any fairgrounds. He and James, both looking younger and somehow more innocent, though to tell the truth Wilson had never really lost either of those traits, their faces close together, their eyes shining as brightly as their smiles. A chilled passed through him that set his teeth on edge and the nerves in his leg jangling and it was all House could do to stop himself from crushing the photo too tightly. "Wilson," he whispered, "what's going on with you?"

James Wilson wrapped both arms around himself and looked at the carpet. All around him he could hear people speaking in low urgent whispers. The sound seemed to buzz inside his head like lazy mosquitoes, reminding him of long ago summer afternoons when he, Greg and Stacy would skip out on their duties and go for picnics by the river. Those golden days were forever burned into his memory; the blue sky above him, Stacy reading those lurid tabloid gossip stories aloud as he and House lay stretched out on either side of her, their heads pillowed on her thighs as she absently combed her fingers through first his hair then Greg's. He'd loved Stacy in his own way, she was smart and beautiful and funny but he'd never felt the all consuming passion Greg had for her. It had unnerved him to see his usually taciturn friend like that, to witness the depth of feeling House had for Stacy, the devotion and desire so naked in his face. Stacy had been the only one who'd even known the emotions he held in check, and she had never gloated or thrown in back into his face. The fact that House had chosen her had somehow cemented their friendship, making them united in their desire to see House happy for once in his life. A part of Wilson had been relieved when he'd looked into Stacy's eyes and seen genuine love, but her indomitable strength of will and determination to go on had worried him. No matter what she felt for Greg she could survive without him, Wilson knew House did not possess that same strength and if he lost Stacy it would probably kill him.

"Jim? Jim, you never listen to me, do you?" Julie's voice brought his head up. She stood there surrounded by her brothers and her father, all of them wearing expressions of barely concealed contempt. "I said I'm leaving you some of the furniture and china. Not the good stuff but you and House can eat pizza off anything, right?"

"Thanks," he murmured and stepped forward to kiss her. Julie turned her face away, her hands coming up against his chest. "Sorry," he said. Julie gave him a last sad smile then followed her family out the door. He let his head sink back down as he studied the carpet again, too tired and too numb to make even a token protest. He heard the deep roar of the moving van followed by the high performance growl of Julie's Jaguar and then everything was silent.

Wilson roused himself enough to wander through the lower floor of the house, looking at the nearly empty rooms. She'd left the chair House liked so much and a small table in the kitchen. If he kept this place he'd need to do some shopping soon, maybe he'd get something manly like black leather sofas and massaging recliners in front of a huge entertainment system, things that screamed bachelor, things that would have made Julie faint. She hadn't taken anything from the den, nothing in there would interest her. He sat down at his desk, eyes falling on the file he'd been working on the night before. Why was it that even when you're expecting things to change, when they actually do it hurts? Their marriage hadn't been good in months, they'd grown so distant with each other they barely even spoke but somehow he hadn't really prepared himself for the sadness, the hollow sound of being alone again. He'd been distracted by House's latest case, reading over notes scribbled in House's spidery scrawl when Julie came in. She told him, her tone flat and empty, she was leaving and didn't plan on coming back. There was nothing for her in his life anymore and she planned on starting a new one somewhere else. She'd gone to her sister's, saying she'd return in the morning for what she wanted. Wilson hadn't said a word, just sat in stunned silence as she picked up her designer suitcases and walked out of the room. He'd thought he might cry, he had after Cindy left, or throw stuff like he had when Sharon walked out but once the door had slammed behind Julie he'd picked up the file and begun to read it again, hearing House's deep voice in his head.

When morning came he'd gotten up, showered and prepared just like any other day but he didn't gather his files or climb into his car. Instead he sat in the kitchen watching Julie's family erase her presence from his home and his life. His pager had gone off three times, all of them from House but he hadn't answered, hadn't called the hospital, hadn't done anything but watch her choose the things she preferred over living with him. Now she was gone, the rooms echoed, and all he wanted was to go to sleep. He settled down in the leather chair in his den, smelling the faintly lingering scent of Greg's cologne and closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep more than anything. It had been ages since he'd really slept, nights had become crazy landscapes where his psyche played out all the horrible things he couldn't face awake. Julie hated the fact of his nightmares, shooting accusatory looks at him over the breakfast table the morning after he bolted upright in bed, sweating and panting as if he'd run a marathon. Her silent anger had pushed them even further apart than time had. Wilson heaved a sigh, body giving into what his mind craved, and he slept.

House pulled his car into the driveway. James' sedan sat in its usual place but the garage door was up, Julie's sleek sports car conspicuous by its absence. A shiver passed down House's spine as he levered himself out of the car and made his way up the sidewalk. He could see the morning paper still lying on the stoop and the shades were drawn against the rising sun. He didn't bother to ring the bell, just dug in his pocket for the key he carried and fit it to the lock. The key itself was just a slim, silver object but it rested solid and comforting in his hand. James had given it to him four years ago, when he'd still been on crutches and just barely mobile enough to go back to work. Wilson lived less than a mile from PPTH and had insisted that House take the key just in case he got tired and wanted to rest during the day. House had taken it reluctantly, never intending to use it but keeping it because there were times he needed to see it, to hold it, and know he had a place in someone else's life. He'd used the key only once, on a cold winter's night when he hurt so bad the full Vicodin bottle had whispered a siren song in his head. He'd known Julie was gone, visiting her sister, and at midnight he'd driven to James' place and used the key.

He could still remember the feeling of walking into Wilson's home, the imperceptible way his body had relaxed as he limped towards the lone light burning in Wilson's den. "House?" James' voice, neither surprised nor annoyed, had been a welcome relief, blotting out the blissful amber vision of his Vicodin. He'd ended up in the guest room, dozing fitfully but aware that Wilson sat beside him in his steadfast and silent way, being the friend he'd always been though at the time, in the twilight limbo of pain and sleep, House had known it went even deeper than friendship. Now when House entered Wilson's home he felt none of the welcoming warmth and his uneven steps echoed strangely. As he trudged towards Wilson's sanctuary, House noted the emptiness of the rooms he passed. Most of the furnishings were missing; chairs, sofas, tables, paintings, and he could see bits of packing material lying scattered across the beautiful hardwood floors. He'd known it was coming, he could tell just by Wilson's accelerated flirtations and the way he'd begun to stay later and later at House's apartment when they went out together.

James loved being in love but it never lasted. He was too much like House in that respect, he got bored and he couldn't hide it - Wilson tried to hide a lot of things but in the end, if you knew him at all, you could read him like a book. A sudden feeling of shame crept through House. He knew why it never lasted for James. He knew Wilson better than anyone did, had known him for years and watched Wilson struggle to find something he could hang on to. Wilson had called their friendship stupid and screwed-up but House knew it was only screwed-up because he'd made the wrong choice all those years ago, choosing something that would burn itself out in a white hot blast when he should have chosen the comfort of a banked flame. It still hurt to realize Stacy had not trusted him, she'd decided his fate based on love and fear. He had been willing to gamble his life on the certainty of his diagnosis, believing in his own abilities but Stacy hadn't been able to do the same. And when he woke, crippled and in agony she had fled his wrath, leaving behind no trace of the years they had spent together. Only Wilson remained, a living bridge between the man he had been and the one he had become. Wilson had never flinched away, no matter what House did. Wilson might call him on his behavior but never abandoned him, never failed to trust him and kept a vigil he never had hopes of being acknowledged or appreciated.

House drew in a breath, shaking off his maudlin feelings before he turned the corner and entered Wilson's den. James lay sprawled in the big overstuffed chair House usually occupied on his visits to Wilson's place. He stood for just a moment, taking in the sight of his friend, his only friend, so familiar to him that he knew which tie James would be wearing and yet so incomprehensible in many ways. He'd never really understood why James loved him - very few people had ever loved him - but in that moment he understood his own reasons for never pushing Wilson hard enough to make him leave. Shaken, House limped close enough to his friend that he could poke him with the tip of his cane. "Hey!" he said, "wake up, Wilson. Cuddy's on the warpath and she's gunning for you."

Wilson's brown eyes flew open, then blinked owlishly as he glanced around then up at House. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, if you're unemployed," House said, "which you're going to be unless you've started some kind of home care clinic." He leaned on his cane and peered down at Wilson. "This irresponsibility is very unlike you, James. I'd say you were victim of some bad influence if I didn't know better."

"Julie left."

House shrugged. "I figured it was that or you'd pawned everything to fill in the gaps of your Jenna Jameson collection."

"I haven't seen my Jenna Jameson collection since I loaned it to you," Wilson said.

"Not missing much. The plumber did it - and so did the cable guy, the mailman, and the Avon lady," House said, raising both eyebrows, "she's kind of like Pavlov's dog. The bell rings and she comes." Wilson didn't respond, he sat slumped in defeat, letting silence creep in between them. House shifted his cane, wedging the handle against his right hip and bending his knee. "Wilson, what's going on?"

"I'm tired," Wilson said quietly. He looked tired, drained white like a corpse that had washed up on a deserted shore. House made a small move in his direction but Wilson's words cut him off. "I'm tired of not being good enough for anyone." He put his head in his hands, "I'm tired of my life, my marriage, of losing everything I gain. I'm even tired of you." Wilson looked up then and the pain in his eyes made House long for a Vicodin. "I'm tired of people looking to me for insight into the Great Greogry House because I don't seem to know you anymore. It scares me, they all think I have the answers where you're concerned, that I can explain it all to them and I don't. I'm tired of letting you ignore things just because you don't want to deal with anyone else."

"I don't ignore things," House protested. "Well, not important things."

Wilson sighed and rubbed a weary hand down his face. "You ignore what's good for you, Greg. You always have, it's just gotten worse since - since you've been on your own. You pop pills by the handfuls and then guzzle whiskey, ignoring the fact that mixing the two is a really bad thing. You bought a condo where you have to climb stairs, and act like you've got two good legs. You use a cane when crutches would be better for you but with all the Vicodin in your system you can barely tell the damage you're doing to your leg anymore, can you? You don't give a damn about yourself and - you don't give a damn about me." He met House's eyes for the first time full on, "I'm just so tired."

The words echoed cold and hard, so totally unlike James' normal melodious voice that for a moment House didn't recognize them as coming from his friend. Dark brown eyes bore into him, a stranger with Wilson's features staring up at him. House waited, the ominous silence which had presented itself earlier growing more substantial, more solid with each passing second until he felt as if he stood at the edge of a precipice. He'd always had a fear of falling, he kept his cane near him at all times, making it a part of him because the memory of that weightless sensation, of the trip he had made from life to death and back to life again had stayed with him all these years. At that moment he could feel himself swaying forward out into the void, his grip on his cane loosening, the noise it made clattering to the floor lost under the thundering of his own heart. That horrifying feeling of being all alone, adrift in a vast endless sea of night, the feeling he feared more than anything, the one that woke him in a cold sweat more nights than he wished to admit, washed over him. The idea of no longer having James beside him to act as conscious, co-conspirator, moral compass, and best friend made the world drop out from under him.

And then he was no longer falling and Wilson was standing beside him, one hand on his shoulder and worry in his eyes. "Greg? Sit down before you fall down." House felt the leather sink beneath him, it smelled ever so faintly of James' cologne and he closed his eyes for a moment to savor it. "What have you done to yourself now?" Wilson asked. House felt gentle hands working their way along his thigh and wanted to tell him that his malady came not from his flesh but from his heart. "You're wearing the same clothes you had on yesterday which means you either got lucky or you stayed all night in your office." Wilson's hands ghosted up his torso, fingers finally coming to rest over House's carotid artery with a tenderness no medical text have ever expounded. "And with your personality we both know getting lucky isn't an option so I'd say you dozed for a couple of hours on the floor, woke up in pain, took your pills and didn't eat."

"Jimmy -"

"Don't," Wilson pleaded. "I mean it, House. I'm tired of you ignoring things." But contrary to his words Wilson seemed full of energy, he leaned forward, coming to rest on his knees, hands surging over House and plucking at his jacket, his shirt, pulling him closer until they were nose to nose. Fire flashed in his normally distant chestnut colored eyes. "Like me."

"Wilson," House choked but never got the chance to say more. Wilson leaned in slowly, the snapping blaze of his eyes completely filling House's field of vision. He knew what was coming but still the feathery brush of James' mouth to his shocked House, making his breath escape in a moan that reverberated throughout his soul. He clutched at Wilson's shoulders, his lips deepening the contact until Wilson lay across his lap, arms buried behind House's back. When they finally parted House traced his tongue over the moist surface of his lips, savoring the taste of James. "Wh-what just happened here?" He stammered.

Wilson blushed, pulling back to sit on his heels. "I think this is the part where I tell you Bobby is upstairs in the shower and it was all a dream."

"You really need to stop watching TV Land," House said with a sigh. He reached out, one hand hovering near Wilson's bowed head, fingers twitching above his flop of dark hair. "Was that - uh, kiss because you're missing Julie?"

Wilson shook his head but didn't say anything for a moment. When he finally drew in breath to speak what he said wasn't what House expected. "You need to eat. I think Julie left everything in the kitchen." He stood then reached out both hands to House.

House stared at him. "So we're going to pretend none of this happened? I'm a good actor but I don't think I'm that good."

"You're not," Wilson conceded. "Come on." House took both his hands and let Wilson pull him to his feet. He closed his eyes as he stood, muscles trembling as he settled his weight into his familiar left -leaning stance. His head was still swimming but he couldn't tell if that was from what had happened between him and Wilson or the lack of food and rest. Wilson didn't rush him, he never did, just waited, letting House move at his own pace and when House finally opened his eyes Wilson's soft smile greeted him. They stood, pressed together from knees to chest, Wilson's left arm around House's waist. "You've always known, haven't you?" James asked quietly.

"Yes," House said. "It use to make me feel bad." Wilson flinched, carefully backing out of House's embrace and bending to pick up his cane. When he held it out, House didn't take it. Instead he said, "I keep thinking about - before. I couldn't walk, or stand, or even take a shit by myself."

James' face reddened and his gaze dropped to the carpet again. "I know how humiliating being helpless is for you -"

"No!" House grabbed his wrist, forcing Wilson to meet his gaze. "I mean, yes, it was but somehow - with you - it wasn't more than I could take. There were times when I didn't want to - go on. I remember that weekend you and Julie went to Albany to meet her parents I thought `This is your chance, Greg. Do it before he gets back.' And then you called and-," House stopped talking, the stricken look spreading across Wilson's face hit harder than he'd imagined it would. "I held on to Stacy's betrayal, because being angry made me stronger." He finally took the cane, running his hand down it in the loving gesture, his expression softening, "I need to be angry, Wilson, I can't feel the pain. I need to be bitter because I don't have anything else."

"You - do," Wilson insisted. "You always have." House gave a jerky nod, his mouth thinning into a line as Wilson studied him with an unblinking expression.

"What?" House demanded, and for once the arrogance he exuded seemed to vanish and he shifted nervously under the weight of Wilson speculative eyes.

"I'm just trying to figure out why I never love any of my wives as much as I love you."

"My sparkling personality or maybe the cane?" House guessed.

"No, I'm pretty sure it's the stubble," Wilson said with a wry smile.

House shot him a look. "Your second wife had a pretty good beard -"

"House!"

"If your best friend can't tell you, who can?" House asked with mock solemnity. The effect was ruined by his growling stomach. "Didn't you say something about food?"

Wilson rolled his eyes but offered his shoulder for House to lean on as they made their way to the kitchen. He settled at the table and took the opportunity to watch Wilson putter around making breakfast for them. He owed Wilson a lot. He'd meant it about considering suicide and stopping only because Wilson's voice on the phone had reminded him he wasn't truly alone. "Why are you always pushing women at me?"

Wilson's shoulders jerked then stiffened but his voice remained steady. "I thought you needed someone in your life."

"Cameron wanted me," House said, "of course she only wants me because I'm a cripple." Wilson set a plate of sliced fruit in front of him. "You want me in spite of it." They ate in silence but this time it didn't feel daunting, just a gentle rolling landscape they had ambled along for years. Sunlight poured through the large kitchen windows, and in a moment when Wilson tilted his head, mouth opening as he ate a slice of peach a sliver of memory surfaced in House's mind. An image of a younger James, sunlight once again on his face, but his eyes heavy with desire and his mouth open in a wicked smile as his head dipped. Warmth exploded through House's groin. Wilson raised both eyebrows questioningly.

"House?"

And suddenly in the blink of an eye or the span between heartbeats fragmented memories collided, forming a picture he'd thought was nothing more than a dream of a lifetime ago. A sunny morning, lying across the bed he'd shared with Stacy, the lingering taste of alcohol in his mouth and image of Stacy's cold fury disappearing under the pleasure of strong hands and a willing mouth. It all came back and House remembered it clearly. There had been a party - one of those spontaneous celebrations that seemed to break out at the drop of a hat. Wilson had often crashed at the apartment House and Stacy shared whenever he was between girls and they'd come back well after their shift, so drunk they had to hold each other up. James had been so warm and happy hanging off his shoulder and House had barely registered Stacy's angry reception or her decision to sleep in the spare room. Sometime later when the sun had streamed over the bed, House had rolled over and found Wilson beside him and still half asleep, they had fit themselves into each others arms. He'd woken many nights since then, the dream-like feeling of complete love slipping further and further away, not retrievable by drugs or music or the knowledge he could have saved himself once upon a time.

"House?" James repeated and the dark worry in his eyes deepened to a burnished mahogany.

"I was just remembering something," House said slowly. When he didn't go on Wilson frowned, shook his head and went back to eating. "You should call Cuddy."

"Yeah," Wilson sighed, "Guess I better tell her I'll be in as soon as I can."

"That's my boy," House grinned, "lie to her."

"Are you on drugs?" Wilson asked. "No, let me rephrase that - you're on drugs, stop speaking."

House reached into his pocket for his cell phone, dialing it as he ate the grapes Wilson rolled onto his plate. "Ah, Dr. Cuddy, it's Dr. Gregory House. Yes, I'm sure." To Wilson he mouthed `Always begging me for sex.' "I don't have time right now, I'm just calling to let you know Dr. Wilson is fine. He's more than fine, he's strangely sexy but in an adorable way."

"House!" Wilson made a grab for the phone but, vastly amused by the emotions Wilson could convey just by using his name, House swatted his hand away.

"He's in need of a personal day and as his best friend I'll need one as well. Yes, uh-huh," House held the phone away from his ear for a moment, sharing an eye roll with Wilson as Cuddy's voice, rendered tinny but no less authoritative, filled the room. "Cuddy," House shouted, then quietly, "we need this." The squeaking tirade stopped and House said, "thanks" softly before closing the phone and resuming his breakfast.

"She fell for that?"

House sighed. "Not just her." He met Wilson's puzzled gaze. "I think I fell, too and for the first time in five years I'm not afraid of it." Shaking his head slightly, House dropped his gaze to the tabletop. He waited. The clock ticked over the sink, one of the few things Julie had left and it reminded House of a cardiac monitor keeping track of a life hanging in the balance. When Wilson scraped his chair back, the noise nearly made him jump but when James knelt beside him, one hand on House's good thigh, House wanted to leap. Instead he reached out and touched Wilson's cheek and the weightless sensation that swept him up didn't feel like falling anymore it felt like flying.

"Come upstairs with me," James whispered. House knew he couldn't risk speech, instead he accepted Wilson's help and got to his feet. "Don't you need your cane?" Wilson asked when House made no move to retrieve it from where the cane rested against the table.

"No," House said, smiling his rare smile, "no, I'll lean on you."

A strange buzzing sound woke House sometime later. He glanced over, half expecting to see the bottom of his desk and found instead himself staring at his pager lying on an oak nightstand. He grabbed it as he shot a look at the man beside him. Wilson remained deeply asleep, the faint lines in his young face smoothed and a slight smile curling his lips. House felt his own mouth curl in response at seeing Wilson asleep on the pillow beside him, no longer just a fantasy that taunted him during the darkest times of his desolate life, but a reality he cherished and welcomed. He knew the future wouldn't be easy but nothing he'd ever become involved in could be - it went against the laws of nature. With a sigh of satisfaction, House tucked the sheet around James and got out of bed. House took his time, balancing himself in the way which had by now become second nature to him, still his first step was shaky, but he had no more fear of falling. With a gentleness he would deny until his dying day, House bent down and placed a kiss on Wilson's cheek.

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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.

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A Fear of Falling