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  Against the Current 
 by Mer  

 As a boy growing up in Princeton, the sheltered middle son of a respected
professor, James Wilson had known that there were areas of the city where
you simply didn't go after dark. Some of those places you didn't even go
in the daylight. At least not alone. He decided to try those places first.

He and his friends had often haunted the bars in the no-man's land between
town and gown, where they didn't look too closely at your ID. There had
been something thrilling about slinking down to the mean streets, acting
tough in the safety of numbers, sneaking a cigarette or a toke and
drinking watered-down beer, pretending it made you drunk.

There was nothing thrilling about wandering the streets in search of your
brother.

He hadn't seen Michael since the evening of James's 21st birthday, nearly
seven years ago. It should have been a happy celebration, a passage into
adulthood. His parents had booked a private room at their favourite
restaurant, inviting family and James's closest friends. Halfway through
dinner, Michael still hadn't shown up, though he had promised he would
make it. He finally made an appearance during dessert, stumbling in drunk,
just in time to knock over the waiter carrying the birthday cake. In the
confusion that followed, James had sat hunched in his chair, while his
father and brother screamed at each other, his mother sobbed, and the rest
of the guests made excuses to leave. Joni was the only one of his friends
who stayed, holding his hand while his family crumbled around him. He
often wondered if that was why he had later married her.

The next day Michael had cleaned out his bank account and disappeared.

His father had kept him updated over the years. Michael was in Mexico;
Michael had sent a postcard from Florida; Michael had been picked up for
vagrancy in Texas and needed bail money. Then nothing for three years.
Just after James had started his final year of residency, Michael had
returned to New Jersey. He had showed up to Sabbath dinner strung out on
heroin, had been caught raiding their mother's jewellery box, and in the
resulting argument, accidentally knocked her to the ground. Wilson's
father had been enraged and banished Michael from their home. But Helen
Wilson wasn't as willing to let go of her first-born.

Helen had shared what little information she had with James when he had
returned to Princeton and asked him to try to help his brother. She hadn't
needed to ask. James adored Michael, despite everything.

He wandered through the alleyways, pulling his coat tightly around his
body - even though the weather was mild - trying to be unobtrusive. But of
course he was intruding, going where he hadn't been invited, peering at
ragged strangers in hopes of a glimpse of his brother. He wasn't sure how
long he'd been looking, showing Michael's picture to anybody who would
meet his eyes. It was getting late; soon it would be too dark to see
clearly. Already it was hard to discern the faces in the shadows. And then
James saw him.

He was facing away, but James would have known him anywhere. Michael was
wearing his old letterman's jacket. It was torn now, the colours faded and
the white now grey, and much too thin for the coming winter. James was
glad he'd worn his heavy overcoat. If he couldn't convince Michael to come
home with him, at the very least he could give him something warmer to
wear. But he would convince Michael.

Still he hesitated, unsure how to approach his brother, now that he'd
finally found him. He walked slowly towards him, stopping a foot away.
"Michael." 

Michael turned, shoulders stiff, expression suspicious. The suspicion
didn't fade with recognition. "Jimmy. What brings you round these parts?
Slumming?" His face was thinner, hair longer and unkempt, but the eyes
were the same - the dark brown Wilson eyes under heavy brows, eyes so dark
that it was easy to miss how dilated his pupils were.

James decided to interpret the question broadly. "I've moved back. I've
got a fellowship at Princeton-Plainsboro. Oncology."

"That's nice. Mom and Dad must be glad to have their golden boy home."

"They'd like to have you home, too. Mom asked me to find you."

For a moment a glimmer of the old Michael flickered in his eyes, and then
it was gone. "You found me. Good for you. You can tell Mom you did your
duty and leave with your conscience clear."

Part of him was tempted. Part of him wanted to turn around and leave and
tell his mother that Michael was fine and not to worry. But it wasn't true
and James had never been able to lie to his mother. He reached out and
touched Michael's shoulder. "I'd rather leave with you." 

Michael jerked away from his touch, batting his hand away. "And I'd rather
you just left me alone."

But it was in James's nature to try, even where there was no hope. "Why
don't you come home with me? You can get cleaned up, get some decent food,
a good night's sleep, and then we can look into getting you into a
programme. I know some good ones." He had spent the last week asking
colleagues for advice and investigating a variety of options.

Michael shook his head. "Don't, Jimmy. Don't try and help me."

James rubbed the back of his neck. "You're my brother, Michael. I love
you. I want to help you."

"And I don't want your help. I just want to be left alone. Can't you
understand that?" Michael spun away and paced in a rambling circle. "You
never could leave me alone," he accused. "Always following me about,
always getting in the way. You were a pain then and you're a pain now."

It was the drugs talking, James told himself, pushing back the instinctive
hurt and betrayal. He and Michael had been more than brothers; they'd been
friends. "Let me help you get clean and then I promise I'll leave you
alone. For the rest of your life, if you want."

"Or you can leave me alone now." Michael stopped pacing and pulled a knife
out of his coat pocket. "Get out of here, Jimmy. You don't belong here."

"Neither do you," James replied desperately. "Just come home with me.
Things will get better." He didn't stop to wonder why he was inviting a
man wielding a knife at him into his home. This was his brother.

'You don't understand. You've never understood. This is what I want."

James looked around him at the garbage-strewn alleyway, the boarded up
windows, the shadows that would never be reached by dim streetlights. How
could anyone want this? "Let me help you, Michael," he pleaded. "We can
figure something out together. You're too smart to throw your life away
like this."

Michael laughed, a dark bitter sound that made the hair on the back of
Wilson's neck flutter. "The smartest thing I ever did was to get away from
our perfect, perfect parents and their perfect, perfect lives and their
unreasonable expectations. 'How could you get a B on that exam, Michael?
What do you mean you're not playing baseball this spring?' Nothing I did
was ever good enough for them." He looked at Wilson appraisingly, taking
in the suit and tie, the neat haircut, the practical, heavy overcoat.
Michael wasn't the only one who had changed. "They fucked you up too,
Jimmy. You just don't know it yet. You used to want to be a musician. Do
you even play any more?"

He hadn't played in months, but he wasn't going to admit that to Michael.
Still, the guitar was one of the few things he'd moved immediately from
Boston. "They just wanted what was best for you. They still do." 

Michael stared at him, an expression of contempt twisting his features.
"For a whiz kid, you're pretty stupid. They don't want me. They want some
idealized version of their first-born. Well, you're it now, so enjoy."

"Stop it," James whispered, something breaking inside him as he realized
the brother he'd adored was truly gone. He tried to hold onto what was
left. "You think I can replace you? You think they're ever going to forget
you? You think I'll ever forget you? You can't just tear somebody out of
your heart."

For a moment he thought he'd gotten through to Michael, but then his
brother shook his head, his eyes once again unfocused. "Sure you can. It's
easy. You're dead to me. Dead." Michael slashed the knife through the air
for punctuation, just as James stepped forward. The blade ripped through
the heavy overcoat, the coat he had wanted to give to Michael, snagging on
the material, but penetrating deeply enough to cut into flesh.

For a moment they stood motionless, Wilson's eyes wide with sudden pain
and sorrow, as he stared at Michael, whose own eyes had filled with
horror. Then Michael pulled the knife free and pushed James away from him,
turning to run.

James stumbled backwards, tangling his feet up in a torn cardboard box,
losing his balance and falling. He hit the back of his head against the
concrete wall, and as he landed awkwardly on the ground the world faded
into shades of grey.

When he could see again, Michael was gone and he was lying in a pile of
garbage. A burning in his shoulder overshadowed his aching head when he
sat up. He investigated tentatively and his fingers came away red with
blood. He wondered if he was going to die alone in an alley by his
brother's hand.

That thought was enough to galvanize him into action. He couldn't allow
his parents to lose two sons. Tentatively he flexed his right arm. He
could move without too much pain, as long as he didn't try to pull his arm
back. Fortunately he had enough range of motion to be able to use both
hands to undo his tie. He didn't bother to try and open his shirt - the
alley was dirty and he didn't want to risk exposing the open wound. He
made a pressure bandage out of his handkerchief and wound the tie overtop
his shirt and handkerchief, binding it tightly enough, he hoped, to stop
or at least slow the bleeding.

Next he investigated the bump on his head. That, at least, wasn't
bleeding, which was a small blessing. He didn't think he'd be able to
treat an open head wound, not without help. He stood up slowly, leaning
against the wall when he was overcome by a wave of dizziness. His stomach
roiled and he gagged, but managed to fight back the bile that rose in his
throat. Closing his eyes, he rested a few minutes, before trying to move
again. He took a few unsteady steps and managed to make it to the signpost
at the nearest street corner.

It was a good thing he hadn't driven. There was no way he would be able to
drive safely and he wouldn't want to leave his car in this neighbourhood
too long. Fortunately Joni had insisted that he buy a cell phone. It was
still in his pocket, as was his wallet. He supposed he should be grateful
his brother hadn't robbed him as well.

He leaned against the signpost and called a cab. This wasn't a
neighbourhood where you could just flag one down. By the time it arrived,
he was feeling a little better. His stomach had settled down once he got
away from the garbage and the shoulder wound seemed to have stopped
bleeding. He would need stitches though.

"Where you going?" the cab driver asked, looking at him suspiciously.

That was an excellent question. He could head back to the apartment and
try to suture the wound himself. But he wasn't sure if his suture kit had
been unpacked and he probably needed a tetanus shot. The sensible decision
would be to go to a clinic or emergency room, but he wasn't certain he
could face the questions that would be asked. Of course the clinic at
Princeton-Plainsboro would have all the supplies he needed. He could find
an unused exam room, fix himself up, and no one would be the wiser.
"Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital," he said.

The cabbie nodded, seemingly satisfied that the destination explained his
bedraggled appearance, and James settled gingerly into the back seat. He
didn't want to get blood on the upholstery and any pressure on his
shoulder sent bolts of agony radiating through his entire arm. It was less
than five minutes to the hospital, but James thought the trip would never
end.

He staggered slightly when he got out of the cab, but a couple of deep
breaths cleared his head slightly and he was able to walk relatively
steadily into the clinic. Fortunately, he had his ID badge with him and he
clipped it onto his coat. He didn't recognise the nurse at the desk, but
he didn't really know anybody yet. The ID and a charming smile were enough
to get him waved through to the exam area, but as he looked around for an
empty exam room, a wave of dizziness buffeted him again and he swayed. 

"Are you all right?"

He turned to see who was talking to him and lost his already tenuous
balance. Somebody grabbed his right arm to steady him and he cried out at
the sudden flash of pain. Hands shifted and he was guided into a nearby
chair.

"Blood on his shirt," somebody called out. "I need some help here."

Maybe it would be all right, Wilson thought, to let somebody else handle
things for awhile. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall,
breathing evenly and deliberately to push back the pain. A sharp slap to
his cheek snapped his eyes open.

A doctor leaned over him, wielding his penlight like a weapon. "Stay with
me, buddy," he ordered.

Wilson blinked and tried to focus. "I'm fine," he muttered.

"Doctors," the other man replied. "Always the worst patients." He checked
Wilson's makeshift bandage quickly and shook his head. "I just have to get
rid of a patient and then I can examine you. Are you going to be all right
for a few minutes?"

Wilson nodded. "I'll just rest here," he decided, pretending that he could
have strolled away if he wanted to, when he wasn't entirely sure he could
remain sitting up.

The doctor frowned and shoved a copy of People magazine at him. "Don't go
to sleep until I've checked you out for a concussion. Concentrate on
Madonna's breasts instead."

It took a great deal of concentration, indeed, as the photo shoot was
primarily headshots, but Wilson used his imagination to fill in the rest.
He was so absorbed, in fact, that he didn't hear footsteps approaching
him.

"Can you tell me what happened, Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson blinked and looked up at a policeman. My brother happened, he
thought. But he would never say those words aloud. "I was mugged in an
alley. I didn't see his face," he lied. The doctor had returned as well
and watched him with sharp blue eyes.

"You said he. So it was a man?"

Wilson could be a convincing liar, but sorrow and pain made it difficult
to concentrate. "Just a sense," he said. "The breathing. It sounded like a
male. And he was taller than I was. That much I could tell." He was
talking too much, if he wasn't careful he'd say something that would
implicate Michael. "I'm sorry, it was all a bit of a nightmare."

Help came from an unexpected source. "Dr. Wilson has lost a lot of blood
and he's suffering from a concussion," the doctor snapped. "He's not in
any condition to be questioned."

The policeman patted him on the uninjured shoulder. "I understand. Here's
my card. When you feel up to it, I'd like you to come down to the station
to file an official report."

Wilson took the card and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He would have
to make the report. It would be suspicious if he didn't.

"Do you think you can walk to an exam room?" the doctor asked.

The last thing Wilson wanted was to be wheeled around the hospital less
than a week into his fellowship. "I can walk," he replied, pushing himself
upright. Fortunately, the doctor had a strong grip on his good arm, for he
immediately swayed and might have toppled over without it.

"I hope you walk better than you stand," the doctor observed, slipping an
arm around his shoulder and guiding him to the closest exam room. He
waited until Wilson was seated on the table and then gently eased off his
coat and jacket. "Why did you lie about not seeing him?" 

"I didn't lie."

"You were stabbed from the front in broad daylight. I would think it would
be difficult not to see your assailant."

"He hit me on the head first," Wilson hedged, glad now of the concussion.

The doctor shook his head. "Nice try. But the position of the head injury
is all wrong, unless you were attacked by a midget or a child. My guess is
he pushed you backwards after he stabbed you and you hit your head when
you fell."

"Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?"

The doctor grinned saucily. "Close, but no cigar. Greg House. Nephrology
and infectious diseases. You didn't answer my question." 

"What question?" He knew he was risking hospitalization for a higher-grade
concussion than he actually had, but the prevarication was instinctive. He
could tell House knew it was prevarication, for he just waited. Wilson
realised that limited frankness would be the only option. "I went
somewhere I shouldn't have. There's no need for someone else to pay for my
stupidity."

House looked at him speculatively. "And you're not concerned that this man
with a knife will be a danger to anyone else?"

It was a worry, certainly, but even now Wilson cared more about his
brother than any one else. "I don't think he intended to hurt me," he
said, hoping it was the truth. "I made a mistake."

House didn't say anything as he cleaned the shoulder wound, for which
Wilson was grateful. "You're going to need stitches." He studied Wilson
with unnerving directness. "Were you planning on seeking medical help or
did you think wrapping a tie around a knife wound would be sufficient?"

"I was going to look after it," Wilson replied defensively. "I just needed
a suture kit."

"And how were you planning on sewing up your own shoulder?"

Wilson wiggled his left hand. "Southpaw," he said.

House handed him a needle. "All right, then. Go at it."

Wilson blinked. Perhaps the head injury was worse than he thought. "What?"

"You heard me." House retreated to his desk and slouched into his chair.
"I've got better things to do than to fix your mistakes." He picked up the
People magazine and started leafing through it.

For a moment Wilson thought he was losing his mind. Then he was afraid he
was losing his composure, which was an infinitely more terrifying
prospect. He bit down hard on his lip. He glanced around the exam room and
spied a mirror by the cabinet that was at the right height. It seemed a
long way away, but he managed to walk over without appearing to stagger.
He wondered if he should ask for a local anaesthetic, but decided the pain
would help keep him focused.

He had sutured himself before. During his intern year he had gone on a
hiking trip with some non-medical friends and fallen, cutting open his
knee. He'd had a suture kit with him that time and was glad of it. It was
a little more complicated trying to do it one-handed, but he'd won bets
over the years for his facility at suturing left-handed, right-handed,
one-handed and even blindfolded.

He was just about to make the initial suture when a hand closed over his
hand and he was turned away from the mirror and led back to the bed. House
took the needle back from him and without saying a word closed the wound
with a gentleness that made Wilson want to cry.

"I didn't think you'd actually do it," House admitted when he finished,
but there was a glint of admiration in his eyes. "Now that you're not in
any danger of bleeding to death, let's check out the head injury. Did you
lose consciousness?"

Wilson shook his head. "I greyed out, but only for a few seconds. Some
initial double-vision."

"Headache?"

Wilson nodded.

"Nausea?"

Wilson grimaced. "Yes, but it could have been from the pile of garbage I
fell in."

House wrinkled his nose. "Well, that explains the fetching aroma. I'd ask
about confusion and memory loss, but that seems deliberate, so I doubt I
could make a proper evaluation." He brought the penlight out again and
checked Wilson's pupils, then led him through a standard neuro exam.
"Everything looks good," he pronounced, "but I'm going to send you for a
CT scan just to be safe." He glanced at his watch. "In fact, if I take you
now, that should just about do clinic duty for me for the day." There was
something almost gleeful in his expression that Wilson suspected had
absolutely nothing to do with a CT scan. "If you think you can manage to
stay on your feet, I'll spare you the humiliation of being wheeled through
the halls of the hospital."

It was an offer too good to refuse, but by the time they reached radiology
Wilson was exhausted and he lay down readily. He didn't object when House
himself performed the scan, though it seemed unusual. The fewer people
involved the better. He was still lying on the exam bed, trying to ignore
the pain in his shoulder when House came back with the results. "Good
news," he proclaimed. "You're not bleeding into your brain. You're free to
go."

That should have been excellent news, but Wilson was too sore and tired to
get up.

"Is there somebody we should call?" House asked, frowning at his recumbent
patient. "Your wife?"

Wilson glanced at his left ring finger and shook his head. "She's in
Boston, trying to sublet the apartment."

"What about your parents?" House grinned when Wilson frowned. "Princeton
is just one big intellectual circle jerk. I've been to a couple of your
dad's lectures. Fascinating."

Part of Wilson's mind registered surprise that House would have been at a
theoretical physics lecture, but he was mainly concerned that the flash of
panic he'd felt didn't register on his face. The last thing he wanted was
for his parents to find out about tonight. "They're away," he lied
desperately.

"Really," House replied, his tone leaving no doubt that he didn't believe
him. "I suppose I could admit you for observation." His eyebrows rose when
Wilson didn't object. "Interesting. You lied to the police. And since one
of those lectures I attended was last night, I'm pretty sure you just lied
to me about your parents. Which means it's something personal, since you
don't seem to mind everyone at work finding out that you took a walk on
the wild side and got stabbed for your troubles." He drummed his fingers
on the bed. "I asked your father about you and he's thrilled that you're
back in Princeton, so it can't be that you're estranged."

"You asked my father about me?" Wilson asked, almost as unnerved by that
as by the thought that his parents might find out about Michael. He sat up
cautiously, relatively pleased that both the pain and his head remained
steady.

House looked surprised. "Of course. I check out all the new doctors.
Particularly the ones that will rotate through my department."

Shit, Wilson thought. Infectious diseases. That particular rotation was
going to be challenging.

"I saw you there," House continued. "You actually looked interested, so I
thought you must be a grad student. Until I saw the family resemblance. No
paternity questions there."

Wilson had seen pictures of his father at his age. If his mother hadn't
frequently told stories about the 23 hours she spent in labour with him,
he might almost have believed that he'd sprung solely from his father's
loins. "I did my undergrad in physics," he replied, trying to forget how
much Michael had once looked like their mother and how much he had
changed. "It made my father happy. Becoming a doctor made my mother
happy."

He looked up and swallowed nervously at the unasked question in House's
eerily penetrating gaze. "Look, you said yourself that I'm all right. I
know what to watch for. I'll be fine on my own."

"I said you weren't bleeding into your brain. I didn't say you were all
right." House drummed his fingers some more. "I can admit you, though if
you don't think that will get back to your parents eventually you're
either incredibly nave or the CT scan was wrong." He cocked his head to
the side, considering. "I'm about to clock out for the day. I'll give you
a ride home and if you buy me dinner, I'll stick around long enough to
make sure you don't slip into a coma."

It was an offer he should have been wary of, but Wilson was too tired to
work it out. "Why?" he asked, hoping for an easy answer. He would learn
soon enough that there was no such thing as an easy answer with Greg
House.

"Because you made clinic duty bearable." House shrugged. "And because you
intrigue me. A squeaky-clean doctor with a dark secret. Don't see many of
those outside General Hospital."

Years later it would occur to Wilson that the most important relationship
in his life was based on a dubious association with a daytime soap.
"Everybody has secrets," he said at the time.

House shrugged again. "But most of them aren't very interesting." He
subjected Wilson to a penetrating scrutiny that was surprisingly not
uncomfortable. "I think you might be a keeper, though."

"Why?" Wilson repeated, not sure he really wanted to know the answer.

"Because I need a Dr. Watson and you've at least got the right initials."
House rapped him sharply on the uninjured shoulder with his file. "Don't
argue. We can stop and pick up videos on the way and I know all the best
places that deliver in town."

Wilson had to admit it sounded appealing. He didn't have many friends left
in Princeton - most of his childhood companions had moved on to jobs in
larger cities - and Joni was in no rush to move away from her friends in
Boston. He wondered if it had been loneliness that drove him onto the
streets to look for Michael. He stared at the floor, swallowing back a
fresh bubble of grief. Another rap on his shoulder brought his head up
again.

"Come on. If you dilly-dally, they might come up with another patient for
me to treat down there."

Wilson quirked an eyebrow. "Dilly-dally? What are you, my mother?"

"God forbid. I bet that was a thankless job."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut and he looked away, trying to
school his features. He would give anything to be able to bring his mother
good news. He had no idea what he would tell her now. When he looked back,
House was pretending to read over the scan results, giving him some
privacy. "Let's go," he said, pleased that his voice was steady. "I'd hate
to be the cause of you actually having to treat a patient."

House grinned and held out his hand, ostensibly to help him to his feet.
It felt like a welcome though. Still, Wilson needed to clear something up.
He cleared his throat nervously. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention
this to my father."

The penetrating look returned. "Why?"

How was he supposed to answer that? Invoke doctor-patient confidentiality?
Play off a friendship that didn't yet exist? Beg or bribe? He settled for
a straightforward appeal. "Because it would hurt him more to know than not
to know."

House studied him silently. It was as invasive as a full body scan and
considerably more effective. "Tell you what. I'll keep your little
adventure on the wrong side of town our secret on one condition."

Wilson nodded, knowing he didn't have any choice but to agree.

"One of these days, you tell me the truth." 

--- 

February 2005 

Four days after proving - barely - that he could go a week without Vicodin
and earning a month off clinic duty, House identified the mastermind
behind the bet, which was about three and a half days longer than it
should have taken. It was a bit embarrassing really, but House reminded
himself that he had been dealing with the after-effects of a week of
unrelieved pain and his mind had been on other things.

Still, it was glaringly obvious once he actually turned his attention to
the question. He must have been insane to think it was Cuddy's idea. No
matter how concerned Cuddy was about his Vicodin dosage, she would balance
it against his usefulness to the hospital and let things lie. No, whoever
had come up with the plan had not been thinking about the hospital, but
solely about House.

Once House realised that, the answer was evident. There was only one
person Cuddy would have agreed to front for; only one person whose
concerns she would place above potential liability to the hospital; only
one person who knew just how much Vicodin House was taking; only one
person who cared enough to do something about it.

Wilson.

Part of him admired Wilson's cunning. A direct approach would never have
worked, would never have brought House to the grudging admission that he
was an addict. Wilson's plan had worked, at least as far as House would
let it. But that didn't mean House would forgive him. Being right wasn't
enough, as he had learned to his cost.

As the day passed, he grew more and more angry. What right did Wilson have
to play games like that? A patient nearly died because House was too busy
dealing with his pain to think about the boy's symptoms. His leg throbbed
and he pulled out the bottle of Vicodin, restored to its proper place in
his pocket. He fingered it longingly, but put it away. He wanted Wilson to
watch him take his pills; he wanted the oncologist to see how he had
failed.

He could wait for Wilson to come by. He knew now he could wait as long as
a week. Not that he would have to wait anywhere close to that. Wilson had
never been able to stay away long.

The anger and pain had built up to nearly intolerable levels by the time
Wilson poked his head into House's office to see if he wanted to grab some
lunch.

"What are you doing here?" House snapped. It infuriated him that his first
instinctive response had been to go for lunch, as if nothing were wrong,
as if Wilson had done nothing wrong.

Wilson blinked, but didn't flinch, well used to navigating the unexpected
turns of House's moods. "Was that a literal or metaphysical question?
Because one of them involves being hungry, but I'm not sure which."

It was hard to hold onto the anger in Wilson's presence, so House
deliberately knocked his broken fingers against the edge of his desk to
remind him of what Wilson's machinations had cost. "Then run along and
eat. We addicts only crave our drug of choice." He popped the Vicodin he
had been saving for just that moment, wondering why the sudden stillness
of Wilson's features wasn't more satisfying.

"If your leg's bothering you, I could bring something up from the
cafeteria," Wilson offered, more hesitantly.

"Spare me your sympathy," House sneered. "It's about as genuine as the
leather in your shoes."

Wilson glanced down with a puzzled expression on his face, as if wondering
why his footwear was being slandered. "Okay," he said. "Was that a no?"

Instead of answering, House shook another Vicodin into the palm of his
hand.

"You just took one," Wilson protested, making a move to stop him.

That was enough to fan the anger back to full flame. "Do you enjoy seeing
me in pain?" he demanded. "Do you get a kick out of seeing the cripple
suffer? Does it make you feel better about yourself and your pathetic
excuse for a life?"

Wilson's eyes were wide with shock, the pupils so dilated they virtually
swallowed up the irises. "G-Greg..." he stammered.

"Don't call me that," House shouted. "I don't give you permission to use
my first name."

Wilson stepped closer to his desk and House could see him switch into exam
mode, searching for signs of illness that would explain the outburst.

"I'm not your patient," House said, making an effort to keep his voice
steady. "And if last week was an example of your treatment plans, I'm
shocked you have any patients at all. But then again, withholding drugs
must do wonders for your budget. No wonder Cuddy's willing to front for
you."

Wilson looked away and shifted uncomfortably. "You know." A statement, not
a question.

"I might be an addict, but I'm not brain dead."

Something fascinating captured Wilson's attention on the far wall and
House had to resist the temptation to turn and look. "I'm sorry."

"Too little, too late." House liked the flinch that caused and he slammed
his cane on the desk for emphasis. "What right did you have, messing with
my life like that?"

"The right to stop a friend from slowly killing himself," Wilson snapped
back. "The Vicodin is going to destroy your liver sooner rather than
later. There are other ways to manage the pain."

"They don't work." It was an argument they'd had over and over again. But
Wilson didn't understand, could never understand, what it meant to spend
every minute of every day in pain.

"Maybe not five years ago, but your situation's changed. You're becoming
desensitized to the Vicodin. You need to find an alternative before it
stops working altogether."

"I'll deal with that when the time comes. Right now this works for me." He
started to bring the pill towards his mouth, but Wilson grabbed his hand.
Enraged, he swung his cane, catching Wilson on the side, just below his
ribs.

Shocked, Wilson stumbled backwards, hands dropping to his side. His mouth
opened and he let out a short grunt. Unbelievably he stepped forward
again. "I know you're upset," he gasped, "but we can talk about it."

House raised the cane, brandishing it. "Get out," he hissed, taking refuge
in anger, knowing that he'd moved beyond the forgivable. He made a
pre-emptive strike. "I'm through with you. I want you out of my life."
When Wilson still didn't move, he shook the cane threateningly. "Get out!"
he shouted, loudly enough to penetrate the office door. Through the glass
he could see Foreman look up, take in the situation almost immediately and
clamber to his feet. He waited until the door burst open and shouted. "Get
him out of my sight."

Foreman rushed in and stepped in front of Wilson protectively. Chase and
Cameron followed and flanked either side of the oncologist, who stood
frozen in shock. "Get him out," House repeated.

Cameron and Chase exchanged a glance and led an unresisting Wilson gently
out of the office. Foreman didn't move, glaring at House until he dropped
the cane on the desk.

"What did you do to him?" he demanded.

"What did I do to him?" House retorted. "Nothing compared to what he did
to me. Or have you forgotten last week?" Foreman had been the only one to
object to the bet, even going so far as to refill House's prescription
himself. Foreman at least should share his outrage.

But Foreman had succumbed to Wilson's charm, or they had bonded over the
rabies patient, or perhaps he just instinctively opposed House, which was
the most likely scenario. "Did you hit him? Because it looked like you
were about to take a swing at him."

House watched over Foreman's shoulder as Wilson brushed away Cameron's
comforting arm, pushed open the door of the outer office and hurried out.
He didn't even have time to count to ten before Cameron stalked in,
trailed more cautiously by Chase.

"Are you pleased with yourself?" she demanded. "He's devastated."

"Good," House replied, wondering why it didn't feel all that good.

"He's your friend."

"He was my friend. Note the past tense." House deliberately reached for
his GameBoy and started a new game. After a few minutes of futile glaring,
the juniors trailed away. House didn't need to look at their faces to see
Chase's curiosity, Cameron's disappointment and Foreman's anger. He
understood all three emotions all too well. It was the shock and the
despair on Wilson's face, the moment after House had hit him, that he had
trouble digesting. The pain hadn't come from the blow to the ribs; House
had checked the swing even in his anger. It was for what had come after:
House's hard, hateful words.

He should have been satisfied. He'd had his revenge. He'd hurt Wilson. It
was what he'd been imagining all day. And there was a part of him that had
enjoyed the pain, the part that craved the Vicodin to the exclusion of all
other possibilities. But the part that hadn't been eaten away by pain and
pills, the part that remembered the pure joy of his friendship with
Wilson, wondered what the hell he'd done and how he was going to fix it.

The answer to the first question came that afternoon when Cuddy stormed
into his office. "What did you do to him?"

House looked up, deliberately cultivating the most insouciant expression
he could find. "Whatever are you talking about?"

Normally he could tease a snarky reply from Cuddy - it was what made their
encounters both a challenge and an entertainment - but she clearly wasn't
playing. "What did you do to Dr. Wilson?" she said with exaggerated care,
as if speaking to a slightly slow child.

"Ah, yes. Your partner in crime." He settled back in his chair with a
smirk. "What? You didn't think I'd work it out? That bet had Wilson
written all over it."

"What part? The part where somebody gave a damn about you? You're right.
That was entirely Wilson."

House had never seen Cuddy that angry before. It made him nervous, but
there was no way he would let her know that. "Dr. Wilson and I had a
private discussion that is absolutely none of your business. Now go away.
I have important doctor things to do." He picked up a random file and
pretended to read it.

Cuddy didn't move. If anything she grew angrier. "It became my business
when he handed me his resignation." She leaned forward and ripped the file
out of House's suddenly nerveless fingers. "And don't tell me it had
nothing to do with you, because half a dozen people have already told me
he walked out of this office looking like his world had been shattered."

House instinctively reached for his bottle of Vicodin. Addict behaviour,
he thought. Reach for the crutch in times of stress. He dry-swallowed and
grimaced, guilt more bitter than the pill. "What do you want from me?" he
asked wearily. Maybe if she told him, she would leave him in peace.

"I want you to fix it. Maybe you think you don't need him, but this
hospital does. I don't intend to lose him because of your desperate need
to bite the hand of anybody who tries to help you."

There was enough truth in her words to make him angry. "Help me? A week of
excruciating pain and broken fingers is helping me? And what about that
kid? How can putting a patient's life at risk be helping anybody?"

There was enough truth in his words to make Cuddy defensive. "No one
forced you to take that bet. And no one forced you to continue treating
patients while you were detoxing." 

"It's all my fault, is it? None of it belongs to the golden boy of
oncology?" House wondered why it hurt so much to have Cuddy take Wilson's
side. "What's he doing? Screwing you on the side? Making you so dizzy with
desire that you can't see what a traitorous bastard he is?"

That should have earned him a slap across the face, or at the very least a
disgusted scowl. But Cuddy just shook her head. "I'll pretend you didn't
say that," she dryly. "And when you calm down, you should do the same. Dr.
Wilson asked me to make that bet with you because he cares about you. God
knows why," she muttered.

House knew she was still upset, but her anger had seeped away. So had his.
"He resigned?"

Cuddy nodded. "He tried to pretend he needed a new start with his wife,
but you know he can't lie when he's upset."

"Julie's unhappy. We - I - we - it's just that...I'm...sorry." House shook
his head. "He sounds like a Pinter play when he's nervous."

Cuddy laughed, almost reluctantly. "He fooled you for nearly two weeks."

"He lies just fine by omission," House retorted. "Though the $500 hooker
masquerading as a masseuse should have tipped me off. That had guilt
written all over it."

"Apparently we've got different books. I read that as a friend trying to
help you get through a difficult situation."

"That he put me in." But House's protests were starting to lose their
force. He let his head fall back against the back of his chair and stared
at the ceiling. "He'll calm down," he said with more certainty than he
felt. "He loves his job. He won't give it up."

"He can get a job in any hospital in the country," Cuddy pointed out. "He
gets headhunted three or four times a year that I know about. If you've
been counting on the job keeping him here, then you've seriously
miscalculated."

House forced himself to remain staring calmly at the ceiling. There was no
way he could let Cuddy know just how much the thought of Wilson leaving
filled him with dread, though he suspected she wouldn't be still standing
there if she didn't already know. It was one thing for him to push Wilson
away as hard as he could; it was another for him to actually go. He
reached for the bottle of Vicodin again, but Cuddy snatched it away.

"You just took one," she pointed out.

"It still hurts," House snapped.

"I'm sure it does, but that's not why you want the pills. You want that
nice, happy feeling to mask the fact that you just lost your only friend."

House swivelled his chair around, not willing to let Cuddy see just how
close her words had hit. "Get out." At first he didn't think she would
leave, but then he heard the pill bottle being replaced sharply on the
desk.

"You have until Monday to get him to change his mind."

"Or what?" House couldn't help the note of challenge in his voice, but it
lacked the usual cockiness.

There was a long pause and House wondered if Cuddy was having trouble
choosing a suitable punishment. Finally she just sighed. "If you can think
of something worse than coming into work without Wilson for a buffer, let
me know. I can add it to the book I'm writing about ways to torment
cripples." He could hear her heels tap an angry pattern, even through the
light carpet, as she stormed out of his office. 

He considered what to do. He could wait a day, give Wilson time to settle
down and realize he'd overreacted. It would blow over. They'd fought
before; House had even hit him before. Wilson knew he didn't mean what
he'd said.

But he had meant it at the time and Wilson had believed him. It didn't
matter that the words were ashes in his mouth now, that the echo of his
own voice in his memory was unreal and unbelievable. Wilson had left
thinking they were real and the longer he waited, the longer they would
eat away at him. House had to find him and he had to find him fast.

In theory, it shouldn't be hard. House knew all Wilson's refuges.
Unfortunately most of them were in the hospital. He tried calling Wilson's
cell, but it was turned off and his page went unanswered. He thought about
trying his home number, but if Wilson were ignoring his calls, it was
unlikely he would answer. He would have to go directly into the lion's
den.

He drove to the condo complex where Wilson lived with his third wife.
House wondered whether it had been diminished finances or expectations
that had stopped Wilson from buying another house after his second
divorce. House knew Wilson loved Julie, but love hadn't been enough in the
past and House didn't think it was enough now. Wilson had a seemingly
endless capacity to give, but he had never been able to take, and that
made for a lonely and unequal marriage. House often thought the reason
their own relationship had lasted so long was that he had never offered
more than what Wilson could accept.

Julie answered his second knock. "Greg?" she said, looking surprised. "Is
everything all right?"

House supposed she had every right to be surprised. He rarely went to
Wilson's house and never uninvited. The occasional dinner party, Wilson's
35th birthday, a first anniversary celebration. Even if he drove Wilson
home, he never got out of the car. He couldn't remember the last time he'd
talked to Julie. 

It wasn't that he actively disliked her. Julie was a beautiful woman; more
importantly, she was an intelligent and kind woman. But she didn't make
Wilson happy and House could never completely forgive her for that.

"I need to talk to James," he replied, trying to sound polite.

Surprise turned to alarm. "I thought he was with you."

House wondered if he had dumped Wilson in the doghouse. His anger had
faded to the point where he was willing to fix that. "He was," he said,
which was essentially the truth, if you considered time elastic. The
expression on Wilson's face when he walked out of his office prompted him
to tell the truth. "We had an argument," he admitted. "I need to apologize
to him."

If Julie were surprised that he would apologize to anybody, she had the
grace not to show it. "He hasn't been home. And he's not at the hospital?"
They both knew that Wilson often holed up in his office when he was upset,
nursing his wounds in solitude. Under normal circumstances House would
simply walk in and torment him into a better mood. But this time he had
managed to drive Wilson away from his usual sanctuary.

He wondered if he should tell Julie that Wilson had resigned, but decided
it would just worry her unnecessarily. He fully expected to talk Wilson
out of the decision. Once he found him. If he found him.

"What's been going on at work, Greg?" she asked hesitantly, interrupting
his thoughts.

House was instantly wary. He didn't think Wilson would have told Julie
about the bet, but then he never would have thought Wilson was capable of
making that bet in the first place. "Nothing unusual," he said, the lie
coming instinctively. "Why?"

"He's been withdrawn, more than normal. He won't say anything to me, but
he's been having nightmares, talking in his sleep."

House knew about Wilson's nightmares. Wilson had spent a lot of nights on
his couch over the years and House was a light sleeper. Wilson only gave
his emotions free rein in his sleep. "Has he said anything that might give
you a hint?" 

Julie shook her head. "I'm not sure. He mostly mumbles, but I thought I
heard him say 'Michael' a few times."

"Michael?" There were no recent patients that House could think of named
Michael. Granted, he rarely paid attention to the names of his own
patients, but he took more notice of Wilson's, especially the ones that
died. "When did you first hear that name?" he asked, wondering if that one
had slipped away during his detox week, when the only thing he had noticed
was his pain.

Julie thought carefully, sensing the importance of House's question. "The
beginning of the month, I think. He came home late. He said he'd been out
with you, but he hadn't been drinking. He was just...quiet. Sad. He had
the first nightmare that night."

House thought back to the beginning of the month and tried to remember a
night when he had gone out with Wilson without drinking. Wilson was good
about not driving when he'd been drinking, but House usually managed to
get a beer or two into him, particularly when he was upset. And then he
remembered Victoria, the rabies patient, and the night he had followed
Wilson out of the hospital and down to skid row. 

"Michael," he whispered. Wilson had never told him the name of the brother
he hadn't seen for nine years. He would bet a month's worth of clinic duty
that it was Michael. He thought he knew where Wilson was. "I'm going to
check a couple of bars near the hospital," he said. "Call me on my cell if
he comes home. Tell him..." He hesitated, wanting to give Wilson a message
that would mean something. "Tell him Greg needs to talk to him."

Julie frowned and then nodded, catching, if not understanding, the
significance of the first name. House almost liked her.

Wilson wasn't at the street corner, but he hadn't really expected to find
him still there. It was a place to start and there were enough dives
nearby to give him places to continue. He found Wilson in the third bar. 

Wilson was sitting in a booth in the back, hands curled around a full
glass of Scotch, ice cubes long melted. He looked up at the distinctive
sound of House's cane on the hardwood floor. "I'm sorry," he said, before
House had a chance to open his mouth. 

House sat down across the table. "Stop stealing my lines."

Wilson didn't appear to be listening. "Tell me how I can make it up to
you? I'll do whatever you want."

House cringed. "You can start by calling your wife. She's worried about
you." He waited patiently, or at least with what passed for patience, as
Wilson extracted his cell phone and pressed the speed dial for his home. 

Julie must have been waiting by the phone, for Wilson turned away and
spoke quietly almost immediately. Still House couldn't help but overhear
Wilson's side of the conversation. "Did he?" he murmured, looking across
the table, and House knew his message was being delivered. He watched some
of the tension drain from Wilson's features before he turned away again.
"Yeah, he found me. I'm sorry I worried you. I just needed to think."

That was the last thing he needed, as far as House was concerned. Left to
his own devices, Wilson was capable of thinking himself into a complete
emotional breakdown. It was House's job to keep him from getting too
serious, just as it was Wilson's job to keep House from killing himself,
inadvertently or deliberately. House stared at his cane, trying to give
Wilson some privacy.

He didn't notice when Wilson hung up, and several minutes passed before
House noticed the silence. He looked back at his friend, who was once
again gripping the tumbler with both hands, his knuckles white with
tension.

"Are you going to drink that?" House asked, wondering what the tensile
strength of the glass was and whether a depressed oncologist could shatter
it.

Wilson looked up and shook his head. His jaw was set tightly and House
knew the signs well enough to know that he was close to tears.

"Good. Let's get out of here. We need to talk and I'm not doing it where
any local cretin can overhear." The last thing either of them needed was
for Wilson to break down in public in the wrong part of town.

Wilson nodded, apparently still prepared to do anything House asked, and
pushed away the drink. He didn't say anything as they walked out of the
bar, though, and House wasn't sure whether to be glad or worried at the
silence. He had a feeling that the only thing keeping Wilson together was
his clenched teeth. House didn't see Wilson's car anywhere close by, so he
steered Wilson to his own car, pushing him into the passenger seat when he
hesitated.

"Where are we going?" Wilson asked, as they pulled into traffic.

"My place. I have lots of Scotch you can stare at."

They drove in silence. "Why are you doing this?" Wilson asked finally, his
voice barely more than a whisper.

"Because Cuddy will fire me if you don't come back to work on Monday," he
joked. The joke fell flat, as Wilson turned his face to the side window,
but not before House could see his jaw working overtime. "Because you're
in pain and I'm a doctor and I want to help."

Wilson snorted softly, but when they stopped at a light, House could see a
slight smile curve the corner of his mouth in the reflection off the
window.

"What, you don't believe that?"

"I don't think I present enough of a challenge to grab your interest,"
Wilson replied sadly.

There were very few acceptable forms of touching in House's opinion, so he
punched Wilson lightly on the shoulder. "I've never thought you were
easy," he protested. "Though the nursing staff might disagree." 

"It was just lunch," Wilson replied automatically, but he turned his face
back to the front.

A little of the sympathetic pain in House's chest eased. "I wasn't joking
about Cuddy," he said casually. "She might dress like a Victorian hooker,
but she's smart and she won't let you go without a fight." He took a deep
breath. "And no matter what else I say or do, neither will I."

Wilson was freer with touch; he cared about people and understood that
human contact could be a potent medicine. He found ways of evading House's
barriers and House warmed under the hand on his shoulder, the occasional
hug, the affectionate nudge that he could never return. Things had changed
in the past week, though, and the space between the front seats gaped like
a canyon that words couldn't span. They drove the rest of the way to
House's place in silence.

=== 

Once inside his apartment, House fell back on ritual. He threw his jacket
on the floor and watched as Wilson picked it up and hung it in the closet.
Shaking his head, he hobbled to the sideboard, where his collection of
whisky sang their siren songs. It had been a few hours since the last
Vicodin and he wasn't driving any more, so he poured himself a finger of
Lagavulin and fixed Wilson a stiffer drink. Wilson took them from him, but
House snatched his back and limped over to the piano and sat on the bench.
It wasn't the most comfortable seat in the room, but it was the seat that
gave him the most comfort. He placed the tumbler on the top of the piano
and let his fingers fall instinctively to the keys. It was awkward and
slightly painful playing with the taped fingers, but as long as he kept to
a simple bass line, it worked. The music flowed easily from his mood and
he let it pull him along. When he looked up, Wilson was sitting on the
couch, his head buried in his hands.

As he watched, he saw Wilson's shoulders shake and his heart plummeted. It
took a lot to make Wilson cry - children dying, wives leaving, though he'd
cried like a baby when the BoSox finally won the World Series. Proven
tearjerkers made Wilson gnaw hard on his lower lip and clench his fists,
but left his eyes dry. He dealt with sorrow and grief daily in his job,
but he rarely indulged in it himself. 

Even as he wondered what to say, he watched Wilson's shoulders stiffen. He
raised his hand, wiping his cheeks defiantly and stood up. "I have to go,"
he said, his voice not quite steady. "Julie's worried enough as it is."

House realised that he was still playing and his fingers slipped off the
keys and into his lap. "James, no."

The rare use of his first name was enough to stop Wilson from moving
closer to the door, but he didn't sit back down.

House stood up and without using his cane limped heavily over to the only
person he cared enough about to stop from leaving his life. "Sit down," he
ordered softly, waiting until Wilson dropped back onto the couch. He sat
down next to him, not touching, but close enough to touch if he had to.
"Talk to me."

Wilson curled back against the arm of the couch, as far away from House as
he could manage. "There's nothing to talk about," he muttered, unable to
meet House's eyes.

"Well since you're on the very short list of people I don't actually enjoy
making cry, I think we do need to talk." For a moment he thought Wilson
would bolt.

Instead he picked a point somewhere near the top of the bookshelf and
focused very carefully on it. "It was the piano," he whispered. 

"I admit that my piano playing brings some people to tears, but you're not
one of them," House replied lightly. 

"I thought it would be the last time I'd ever hear you play piano. I don't
think I can bear that."

House had to lean closer to make out the words and his proximity made
Wilson flinch. "What did you think?" he said, trying to be gentle. "That I
brought you back here to kick you out of my life? I could have done that a
lot more easily in the bar."

"I thought you did it in your office."

Not for the first time in his life House wished for a machine that would
allow him to rewind and start a conversation over. "I was angry. I said
things I didn't mean."

"You meant them," Wilson replied. "They were true."

"But they weren't the whole truth. You didn't do it to hurt me. I know you
would never hurt me."

That did make Wilson bolt and he skittered across the room, ending up
braced against the piano, as if it were the only thing holding him up. "I
hurt you every time I sign a prescription for Vicodin. I hurt you when I
give it to you, and I hurt you when I try to take it away." He rubbed the
back of his neck. "I don't know what to do any more. I don't know how to
help you."

House wanted to comfort him, but he didn't know how. Comforting had never
been his strong suit. It had never seemed to be a necessary skill. "You
help me the only way you can. The only way anybody can. And I don't mean
the pills. Anybody can write a prescription for me. You know that."

Wilson dropped his hands, but stared at the floor. He nodded reluctantly.

House moved towards him with a care that had nothing to do with his
disability. "You let me be," he continued, letting his voice soothe.
"Everybody else tries to fix me, or change me, or want things I can't
give. You don't."

"I did last week," Wilson replied, sliding away from the piano and
retreating back across the living room.

"Stop making me chase you," House snapped. "You're not playing fair."

Wilson stopped, but as House approached him, he could see slight tremors
rippling through Wilson's shoulders. House had always enjoyed intimidating
people; it was the one sport remaining to him. But he played with Wilson,
not against him. The trembling increased the closer he came, so he stopped
just out of reach. Fix this, House told himself fiercely. "Wilson, look at
me."

Wilson shook his head and jammed his hands into his pant pockets. The
trembling stopped, but at the expense of a posture so stiff and straight
that House thought he might shatter if he touched him.

"I'm sorry," House said, the words easier to say than he'd thought. It
helped that he meant them. "You pissed me off, but what I did was
unforgivable."

Wilson was already shaking his head. "You had every right," he replied
softly. "I screwed up. It was a stupid, stupid idea." He finally turned
and raised his eyes to meet House's. "But I swear I didn't mean to hurt
you."

House found he couldn't bear that heavy, pleading gaze and he looked away.
"I did," he admitted. "I wanted you to hurt and I did it deliberately and
cruelly." He saw Wilson's hand slide against his left side and shivered
with visceral shame and fear. "Show me how badly," he demanded, images of
broken ribs and internal bleeding overriding rational medical knowledge.

Wilson managed a smile. "I'm all right. You were never any good at
baseball."

But House knew that heavy wood against flesh, even checked, had to leave a
mark and he needed to see it. "Please."

Wilson blinked once, as surprised by the plea as he'd been by the blow. He
opened his mouth to reply, then simply took off his suit jacket and
untucked and unbuttoned his dress shirt. He stood patiently, allowing
House to push the material away from his side and examine the already
bruising area.

House could be extraordinarily gentle when he wanted and his fingers flew
over Wilson's side as if he were playing a soft lullaby. Satisfied that
he'd done no more than bruise, he examined Wilson for other damage,
cataloguing the new lines, the dark circles beneath his eyes that stood
out against too pale flesh.

"I talked to Julie," he said, as if it were a daily occurrence. "She says
you're having nightmares again." The last time the nightmares had hit hard
was after Wilson's second divorce. He had stayed with House while he
looked for an apartment and had been surprisingly fine for the first few
days. But then a long-time patient died and all the alcohol House could
pour into him didn't wash away the pain. Wilson didn't scream or thrash
about in his sleep, just mumbled occasionally and shed softly and steadily
the tears he refused to let flow when he was awake.

"You've been dreaming about Michael," he said. "Your brother. The one
who's no longer in your life. Except that's not true. I know you. You
can't cut anybody out of your heart."

"I don't want to talk about Michael," Wilson replied, neither denying nor
agreeing with House's statement.

"That's too bad," House retorted. "Because you owe me a story."

Wilson frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Nine years ago. The clinic. Your shoulder. You promised me you'd tell me
the truth one day. This is the day." House should have been pleased at the
look of panic on Wilson's face. He'd taken a shot in the dark, but the
time frames had been right, and it hadn't really been a guess. He should
have made the connection when Wilson had first told him about Michael, but
he'd forgotten that first encounter until today, until he'd worked out
just how long James Wilson had been his best friend.

"I - I - I..." Wilson swallowed heavily, as if he could capture the words
refusing to flow from his mouth.

House decided to take pity on him. "Let me help you. The reason you lied
was because it was Michael who stabbed you." He didn't bother checking for
confirmation. "That was the last time you saw your brother."

Wilson curled up on the couch, carefully tracing an intricate pattern with
his fingertips on the leather arm. He didn't look at House, but neither
did he shy away when House sat next to him. "Growing up in Princeton, even
when you're the sheltered son of a professor, you know there are places
you don't go after dark," he said finally. "Some of those places you don't
even go in the daylight. At least not alone. I tried those places first."

===

House sat silently after Wilson finished his story, caught between past
and present and a world of regrets. A knife in a dirty alley, a cane in an
office. Good intentions repaid with violence and rejection. You're dead to
me. I'm through with you. I want you out of my life. The echo of his words
that afternoon made his stomach twist and for a moment he thought he might
be physically ill. 

Wilson noticed. Even wrapped up in sorrow and pain, Wilson noticed his
discomfort and turned a concerned gaze on him. "What's wrong?"

House hated concern. He'd had his fill of it after the infarction and it
never ended. But coming from Wilson, especially now, it was unbearable.
"Nothing. I'm a bastard."

Wilson's brow wrinkled. "I already knew that," he said lightly. "It's
never seemed to bother you before."

 "I've never hurt you before." That wasn't strictly true. Wilson had been
caught in the crossfire of House's inability to play nicely with others
too many times to count. But while he sniped and jabbed at Wilson, he had
never gone for the jugular before.

"It doesn't matter."

House gaped at him. "How can you say that? How is what I did to you any
different from what Michael did to you?" 

"You came back for me," Wilson said simply. "Michael never did." Wilson
scrubbed at his face, as if he could wipe away the pain. "Not a call to
see if I was all right, not a note to say he was still alive. I went back
a few days later to try and find him again, but he was gone. No one I
talked to had seen him since that day."

House wanted to find Michael Wilson and slowly and painfully kill him. But
he knew better than to tell Wilson that. He had learned at great cost that
sometimes it was better to say nothing at all. It wasn't a lesson he had
mastered, but he always made an effort where Wilson's real feelings were
concerned. There wasn't anything he could say, but at least he could show
Wilson that he had listened.

Slowly, carefully, as if approaching a skittish horse, he touched Wilson
on the shoulder, his fingers lightly brushing against the old scar. Wilson
stiffened, but didn't pull away, and after a moment, he reached up to
cover House's hand with his own.

They sat that way for a long time, Wilson's ragged breathing the only
sound in the room. Finally House couldn't stand the silence any longer.
"You have an interesting definition of relevant," he observed dryly.

"What?"

"Last month. When I asked why you never told me about your brother, you
said it wasn't relevant. Was the fact that he stabbed you and left you
bleeding in a dirty alley irrelevant as well?"

"Yes." Wilson's voice cracked on the word and House remembered how he
struggled to keep his composure as they sat out on the dark street. Wilson
pinched the bridge of his nose, surreptitiously brushing away the tears
that trembled unshed in his lashes. "He was my brother," he said, his
voice full of dangerous emotion. "I loved him."

That was no confession. Wilson was blessed and cursed by his capacity to
love.

"Why wouldn't he let me help him?"

Because he was a loser, a drug addict, a selfish bastard who cared more
about himself than his family. For once, House managed to keep his inside
voice inside. There but for the grace of God go I, he thought. He was
arguably a drug addict and inarguably a selfish bastard. The only thing
that stopped him from being a loser in the truest sense was Wilson. But he
wouldn't let him help him. "Sometimes people don't want to be helped."

Wilson had pulled himself out of his grief far enough to read the meaning
beneath the words. "So what do I do? Just give up? Is that what you want?"

What he wanted was for the pain to go away. But that wasn't going to
happen. Dead muscle didn't grow back, whether it was in the leg or the
heart. "I'm not your brother. You can't save me."

Wilson shook his head. "I can't not try."

Four words that said everything. A line from a book Stacy had given House
when he was in the hospital floated through his mind. It was in those dogs
to care too much and try too hard. He hadn't read it until after she left
and Wilson had become the only constant in his life other than pain. That
line had left him breathless with sorrow and fear when he looked up to see
Wilson watching over him in another late-night vigil, like the loyal dog
standing guard over the broken ice that had stolen away his masters. He
had been unable to finish the book, but neither had he been able to give
it away.

Suddenly it seemed important that he read it and he pushed himself off the
couch, awkward in his urgency. He limped over to his fiction bookshelf and
found it easily. Curiosity had ever been his most dangerous companion and
he turned to the final pages, scanning quickly over the MacDonald
brothers' final journey until he reached the last line: "All of us are
better when we're loved." He blinked back unexpected tears, wishing he had
read those words years ago. The book slipped from his grasp when he tried
to return it to its spot and clattered to the ground. And then Wilson was
by his side, not touching him, but holding him up all the same.

Wilson bent down and picked the book up off the floor, glancing at the
title. "Why do you always throw that book around?" he chided with a faint
smile.

"You know it?" House asked, surprised, though he shouldn't have been. He
had many a time torn Wilson away from a book to engage in less edifying
activities.

The smile broadened into a smirk. "I read it the last time you threw it
across the room. I wanted to know what pissed you off enough to justify
book abuse."

"Stacy gave it to me. Isn't that enough?"

"Enough to throw it away," Wilson agreed. "But definitely not enough to
keep it." He glanced down at the book and then up at House, his dark eyes
penetrating. "You're not that guy," he said.

For once House didn't bother to hide his emotions away under a sardonic
sneer. "No," he said, not arguing with Wilson's observation. Wilson's
observations were rarely wrong. "It's true, though."

"What is?"

"All of us are better when we're loved." House turned and gripped Wilson's
arm. "That's how you help me." Wilson's expression didn't change, but he
could feel the muscles relax beneath his hand. "If I ever meet Michael,
I'll thank him." Before I kill him, he added silently.

Wilson frowned, the question unasked but eloquent in his expression.

"We might not have become friends if not for what happened. We might have
spent the last nine years as just colleagues." It was a thought beyond
even his imagination. "What you lost, I gained."

Wilson's mouth quivered with a tremulous smile and then he reached up and
clasped House's other arm.

House hesitated a moment, and then pulled Wilson into an awkward hug. He
couldn't remember the last time he had willingly hugged somebody -
Wilson's last wedding probably - and he was surprised how easily Wilson
fit against his body. He allowed himself to relax against Wilson's chest
for a moment, smiling when Wilson shifted to take most of his weight. He
would thank Michael indeed for this most precious of gifts. After a moment
he pulled away, too embarrassed by this display of emotion to meet
Wilson's eyes. "So does this mean I can get Cuddy off my back?" When
Wilson looked away and nodded, he pulled out his phone and punched in
Cuddy's cell. 

He handed the phone to Wilson just as Cuddy's voice blared, "You'd better
have something good to tell me, House."

Wilson winced and looked as though he'd rather stab himself in the eye
than put the phone next to his ear. "It's me, Lisa."

Cuddy's voice lowered and House couldn't hear the other end of the
conversation, but he could tell by the soft smile on Wilson's face that
Cuddy was saying all the right things.

"Yeah, you can tear it up."

House had always been both blessed and cursed by his imagination. It
allowed him to devise creative treatment plans, to see patterns that
others missed. Right now it provided him with a stark picture of Wilson
sitting at his desk, hand writing a letter of resignation. He would have
curved his wrist awkwardly to avoid smearing the ink and written
carefully, clearly, so unlike his usual southpaw scrawl. He saw Wilson put
the pen down and lean back in his chair, looking around his office before
covering his face with his hand. He was so caught up in the picture that
he started when Wilson handed the phone back to him.

"Cuddy wants to talk to you," he said.

House recoiled as if the phone were a fanged serpent. "Maybe I don't want
to talk to her."

"Take the damn phone, House," Wilson replied in an exasperated voice. 

House loved that voice. It meant things were back to normal. He took the
phone. "What?"

"I didn't think it possible, but your phone manner is worse than your
bedside manner."

House entertained a new picture - of Cuddy, blouse gaping slightly,
looking disapproving. It was a picture he was very familiar with. "Is that
what you wanted to say to me? Because I'm sure it could have waited until
the next time you wanted to waste my time."

"Well, I could wait to tell you that I've given you and Wilson the day off
tomorrow, but then it would be too late to do you any good."

House studied the statement, looking for an easy flaw. "Except you've
undoubtedly already told Wilson, and I'm pretty sure he's learned his
lesson about keeping things from me, so you're really still wasting my
time." Wilson sighed and closed his eyes in a pose of long-suffering
patience, which House was pretty sure was mirrored on Cuddy. "So what do
you really want to tell me?"

At first he thought she'd hung up, but when he checked the signal was
still there. "I suppose I wanted to thank you," she said finally. "I know
it was self-preservation, but I appreciate it nonetheless."

"He is pretty to have around," House agreed, enjoying the rare opportunity
to embarrass Cuddy and Wilson simultaneously.

Much to his surprise, Cuddy played along. "It's only fair if you get
Cameron."

"I thought it was Chase you jonesed for." He smirked at Wilson, who was
looking a little alarmed. "Oh settle down, Jimmy. Cuddy's too smart to
risk a sexual harassment suit. Your dubious virtue is safe."

Wilson just sighed again and headed for the couch. House had to admire his
recovery time. "Well, now that you've expressed your undying gratitude to
me for bringing back your golden boy, I must go. We have men things to
do."

"Does that mean everything is all right between the two of you?" 

House squinted. Cuddy actually sounded hopeful. Usually she berated him
for being a bad influence on Wilson. He glanced at Wilson, who was
slouching on the couch. A warm surge of affection caught him by surprise
and he let the muscles in his face curve his mouth upwards. Wilson looked
up at him, raised an eyebrow and smiled back. "Yeah," House replied. "It's
all good." He cut the connection. "You wanna watch Godzilla?" he asked,
heading for the couch. "The special effects commentary is pretty good."

Wilson shook his head. "I don't want to watch TV. I want to listen to you
play the piano."

"What do you think this is, a bar?" But he had already changed directions
and limped over to the piano. He started with Erik Satie's "Vexations" -
it had a bass line he could play with two fingers - and wondered how many
of the 840 repetitions he could get through before Wilson objected. He had
gotten to 120 once. Actually, it had been Wilson who had insisted he keep
going when he realised that 840 was the product of four through seven.
Four through six had seemed to satisfy him. Wilson was a closet math geek.
House thought about the ever-present pocket protector. Perhaps not closet
after all. Feeling slightly sentimental, he segued into a jazzy version of
"That's What Friends are For." Horrified by the lapse, he moved quickly to
something harsh and atonal, but not before he heard a snort from Wilson.

This time, when he looked over at the couch, Wilson was smiling.  
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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 NBC/Universal, 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.