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  Conclusions 
 by alazysod  

 i.

Get out of this house.

Wilson presses his foot to the gas pedal, cool wind smacking him in the
face as he speeds down the road. His hands are clammy, leaving damp prints
on the steering wheel, and the tips of his fingers twitch.

You fucking prick.

There's a suitcase in the passenger seat. He had shoved a pair of jeans, a
few shirts, and two pairs of underwear into it before he left. Not that
they're going to be of any help, Wilson realizes. He'll have to wear the
same clothes to work tomorrow.

I don't know why I didn't see this coming. You've been married twice
already, for Christ's sake.

Red light. Wilson slams on the brake, barely coming to a stop behind the
next car.

I shouldn't have wasted time on you.

ii.

Wilson presses his palm into the doorbell, leaning onto it so he can hear
a constant buzz. The suitcase hangs from his other fingers, and his head
droops to his chest. He thinks that it's ridiculous to be this tired so
quickly, but the thought drifts away once the door opens.

"Let me guess...you've either just committed murder and you need my help
to bury the body, or you've been dumped by another wife," says House in
mid-yawn.

Wilson looks up. "Wife."

"I figured." House is wearing a robe and leaning on his cane. The only
thing he's missing is a pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth and a
good scotch in his hand. "She kicked you out?"

"Yeah."

"Want a beer?"

"Yeah."

They walk inside. Wilson sits on the couch, suitcase on the floor, as
House reaches into the fridge for two bottles of beer. He tosses one to
Wilson, who twists off the cap and takes a long pull. House takes a seat
in the armchair opposite the couch. Nobody speaks for a few minutes, and
the only sound is the gulping of beer.

"How did she find out?" House asks.

"One of her friends," says Wilson. He swallows another mouthful. "Gossip
gets around. I think she has a friend that has a cousin who works at the
hospital."

House doesn't say anything. He's fumbling in his pocket, finally pulling
out a white bottle. He pours pills onto his palm, swallows one, and puts
the bottle onto the coffee table along with his beer. "There's a blanket
in the closet if you want one."

"Okay." Wilson hadn't expected a deep, meaningful conversation about his
soon-to-be ex-wife with House. That was why he came here. "Night."

iii.

"Thank you, Doctor," says Tony, standing up to shake Wilson's hand. "It
means a lot that you're being so honest."

"I try to be," Wilson replies. Tony's a seventeen-year-old boy. He has
one, maybe two months left before he dies. It's unsettling to see the lack
of emotion in Tony's face. People always cry in this office. "We'll have a
talk with your parents to discuss what your options are."

"Thank you," Tony repeats and moves to the door. He pauses, then says,
"Didn't you wear that tie yesterday?"

He did. "Possibly." It's the entire outfit, actually. House's clothing
doesn't fit, and Wilson can't show up to work in ripped jeans and an old
AC/DC shirt. "I'll see you tomorrow, Tony."

"See you, Dr. Wilson."

Once Tony leaves, Wilson leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes with
tired hands. He has many more appointments today, none of which will be
easy to do. A middle-aged woman will be told that she is dying. A man --
no, he's practically a boy -- fresh out of college will be told that he
must have surgery now, and that his insurance won't cover the costs. A
mother will be told that her daughter has a tumor.

A knock on the door wrenches Wilson out of his reverie. He opens his eyes
to see House standing (im)patiently on the balcony, tapping on the glass
with his cane. Wilson gestures for him to come in, and he does.

"What do I have, doctor?" House asks as he drops into the chair opposite
Wilson's desk.

"A number of things that I'm too tired to mention," says Wilson, opening a
drawer to tuck Tony's file into it. There's a picture of Julie inside the
drawer. He tries to ignore it. "What do you need?"

"Are you planning on sleeping on my couch again tonight?"

"You're cheaper than a hotel, so yes."

"Good. You can buy the pizza."

iv.

They eat greasy, disgustingly good pizza and guzzle cold beer while
watching Monty Python movies. Wilson ends up asleep in the middle of The
Life of Brian, and wakes up the next morning wrapped in a blanket.

v. 

Saturday is awful. Julie follows him around the house, saying she has to
make sure he won't take anything that isn't his. It's both humiliating and
oddly comical.

"My lawyer will contact you," she says coldly when Wilson starts his car.
"Now piss off."

"Fuck you, too," he replies, and drives to House.

He and House spend the afternoon smoking a joint and watching the rest of
The Life of Brian. Wilson realizes he hasn't had this much fun in months.

vi.

"I'm sorry."

Wilson glances over to Cameron. "This is an elevator, not a confession
booth."

"I heard about your marital problems," says Cameron. Her expression is
nearing Puppy Dog Eyes, and he refrains from wincing. "I'm so sorry,
Wilson."

He shrugs. "It was bound to happen."

The doors open. Wilson walks out, closely followed by Cameron. "If you
need anything, or if you just want to talk -- "

"Thank you, Cameron," Wilson cuts her off, and moves towards the
cafeteria. He knows that she's still standing by the elevator, clutching
manila folders to her chest with a hurt look on her concerned face. But he
really doesn't need pity right now. He needs a sandwich.

House is there, eating a bag of chips in the corner. Wilson sits opposite
and says hello.

"Are you planning on sleeping on my couch again tonight?" House asks. He's
done this every day for the past few weeks. It's rather pointless,
considering that Wilson has most of his possessions in House's living
room.

"Yeah." Wilson reaches for a chip. House slaps his hand away. "Ouch!"

"Buy your own damn Doritos," says House, emptying the last of the chips
into his mouth and crumpling the bag into a ball. "Better yet, buy
tortilla chips and salsa. I'll rent Clerks."

vii.

It's been a month and a half now.

Wilson has come accustomed to waking up on House's couch, drinking coffee
while House makes omelets, coming to work in House's car (he does have a
better parking space), and spending the night watching movies with House. 

He doesn't have to see Julie again. Ever. The divorce is complete. (Julie
gets the house and half the money. Wilson gets the good china and another
alimony payment.) 

And he's never been happier.

viii.

"Why are you sitting on the bathroom floor?"

House doesn't look up from his GameBoy. "Hiding from Cuddy. She can't come
in here, can she? There's no way she's a man with those breasts."

"Did you get Cameron to cover your clinic hours again?" Wilson continues,
unzipping his pants by the urinal.

"Yup." House flicks the GameBoy off. "She'll do anything to be
sympathetic."

Wilson finishes, then walks over to the sink. "Cuddy'll find out sooner or
later."

"I think she's preoccupied with her secretary." House stands up, tucking
the GameBoy into his pocket. "Are you planning on sleeping on my couch
again tonight?"

"Yeah." Wilson reaches for a paper towel. "Do you think I should get an
apartment?"

House touches his heart in mock surprise. "Why, Jimmy, I thought we were
getting along so well."

"I'm just wondering if my presence is getting tiresome."

House claps a hand on his shoulder. "Without me, dear boy, you'd be
grieving with a bottle of whiskey."

Wilson snorts. "I doubt it." He turns around to drop the paper towel in
the trash, shoulder brushing House's chest.

ix.

Dear Dr. Wilson,

We are writing you to say thank you for all the work you've put into our
son. We will be forever grateful to you for giving him those extra years.

Tony died last night. Thank you for allowing him to spend his last few
weeks at home, instead of in a hospital. It meant a lot to us all.

Once again, thank you for trying to help.

Mr. and Mrs. Burrows

Wilson pushes the letter away. The ever-clichd lump rises in his throat,
and he squeezes his eyes shut. Being an oncologist, he is used to patients
dying.

But that doesn't stop it from hurting.

x.

Wilson sits on the couch, the radio set to a classic rock station. He's
really not paying attention, but he needs something to be in the
background that he doesn't have particularly strong feelings about.

Tony's funeral was today. He's still wearing his suit.

House walks in the door, carrying a plastic bag. He nods to Wilson,
dropping the bag onto the kitchen counter and removing the contents
(bread, bag of Doritos, cream cheese). "How was it?"

"As good as any funeral can be," Wilson answers.

House walks over, dropping his cane onto the floor. "Is this where you
tell me about your feelings, we both cry, and then cuddle?"

"Fuck you."

"Charming." He sits next to Wilson. "This lack of sex from Julie has
really put a strain on your anger management." House opens up a pill
bottle and swallows a Vicodin dry.

Wilson looks at House, and something quivers in his belly. He doesn't know
why, but the next thing he does know, he's leaning over and pressing his
lips to House's.

House is motionless underneath him, and Wilson pauses. Fuck.

But then House raises a hand and cups Wilson's cheek, opening his mouth
slightly. Wilson kisses him again, turning his entire body to face House.
The stubble is rough, but there's a warm tongue and soft lips so Wilson
really doesn't care, and he wants more. He reaches for House's belt, but
the moment he attempts to unfasten it, the mouth is gone and House is
staring at him.

"This is awkward," says Wilson, his hands still on House's belt.

"No shit," House retorts.

Wilson releases the belt, and then, unsure of where to put his hands,
grips the sofa cushion. He swallows. "I think I'm going to go for a
drive."

House doesn't answer. That makes it even worse.

xi.

He doesn't know where he's going, but his foot is on the gas pedal and the
radio is blasting David Bowie. All that's running through is mind is fuck
fuck fuck why the fuck did I do that there wasn't a reason for doing that
fuck fuck fuck and he's really not thinking straight.

Wilson ends up at the hospital, parking in House's space out of habit. He
hurries inside, his mind still playing fuck fuck fuck even as he's in the
elevator with the Head of Obstetrics.

He wanders to his office. Tony was here last month he can't help but
think, and kicks a chair. He only succeeds in hurting his toe.

"Fuck," Wilson says aloud. "Fuck."

He opens the door to the balcony. The wind is cool on his sweaty face, and
he's immediately reminded of the night Julie kicked him out, and he drove
to House (fuck!). Wilson crumples to his knees, just like Mrs. Burrows had
at Tony's funeral, and cries.

xii.

"Wilson?"

He opens one eye. Still on the balcony.

"Wilson, are you all right?" Australian accents are increasingly annoying
in the morning. "What the hell are you doing up here?"

"It appears that I was sleeping," Wilson says. 

Chase offers him a hand up. "House has rubbed off on you, hasn't he?"

Wilson snorts and says, "Not quite," then starts to laugh. It eases into a
low chuckle when Chase gives him a look and takes half a step back. "Do
you have any coffee?"

xiii.

He tries to avoid House as much as possible throughout the day. He remains
in his office (he gets his lunch via a fellow oncologist), concentrating
on his patients and how he can help. Because that's what a doctor does,
isn't it? They don't sit around, worrying about precisely how much they
fucked up the night before.

He can't steer clear of House forever, though. Their offices are right
next to each other, after all.

Sometime around four, there's the sound of a pebble against the door to
the balcony. Wilson glances up, then immediately looks back at the medical
journal he's been trying to read for the past hour. It's a childish
reaction, something that he would have done in high school when he was
trying to avoid the girl who had blown him at a party in a closet the
night before, and he can't help it.

But House is a stubborn bastard, and Wilson curses him for it.

"Oh, James, wherefore art thou?" House shouts, banging his cane against
the balcony door. People in the hallway can probably hear him. The tips of
Wilson's ears are burning.

After House recites a sonnet, Wilson can't take it anymore. He strides
over to the door, whips it open, and says through ground teeth, "What?"

"Oh, good. You haven't gone deaf. I was worried for a moment."

"You can stop with the biting sarcasm and get to your point," says Wilson,
stepping onto the balcony. He can see Chase in House's office, nicking a
pen from the desk. "What is it?"

The next movement House makes is so fluid that Wilson doesn't have a
chance to move out of the way. He grabs Wilson by the tie, pushes him
against the wall, and kisses him full on the mouth.

It's a good thing House is still has his hand on Wilson's tie, because if
it wasn't, Wilson would have tumbled to the ground. There are lips and
tongue and stubble (oh, that stubble) and they're kissing on a balcony,
and anyone could walk by either of their offices and watch. Wilson finds
himself grinding into House's good leg at the thought, letting a moan slip
from his mouth.

"Oh, fuck," Wilson murmurs as House loosens the tie, bending his head to
kiss and nibble at Wilson's throat. "Please don't stop."

"Wouldn't dream of it. You didn't give me much of a chance yesterday. Are
you planning on sleeping on my couch again tonight?" says House between
kisses, fumbling with the buttons on Wilson's shirt.

"Yeah."

House stops. "Then we'll wait until then -- "

"What?"

" -- partly because I like to see you squirm, and also because there's a
blonde Aussie that's been standing by my desk with a confused and
strangely aroused look on his face."

Wilson dares a look. Indeed, Chase is there, looking confused and
strangely aroused. "What now?"

"Walk back inside as if nothing out of the ordinary has just happened."
House taps Wilson under the chin, gives him a wink, and heads to the door.
"Stay beautiful, sweetheart."

"That's it? 'Stay beautiful'?"

House pauses. "What do you expect? A deep, meaningful conversation? Or did
you want me to make you come in your pants?"

"I was hoping for the latter the other day, but you seemed a little
against that until now."

"You didn't give me a chance. Ever think of not jumping to conclusions?"
House taps the side of his head mockingly, then opens the door. Wilson
overhears him say, "Why don't you get me some coffee? I'm going to be
staying up late tonight, and I don't want to fall asleep in the middle of
anything."

Wilson can hear Chase sputter something unintelligible, and he smiles as
he buttons up his shirt and adjusts his tie. He follows House a few
minutes later, rubbing his cheeks. Beard burn.

Chase is by the coffee machine, filling a red mug. He turns a violent
shade of lavender when Wilson enters the room, and House snorts.

"I'm guessing that House did rub off on you," Chase manages, and Wilson
laughs.  
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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.