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  Going Home 
 by Mer  

 Wilson left the office as soon as his last appointment of the day was
done. For once it was a joyful meeting - he had just told a mother of
three that she was officially in remission - and his good mood was only
slightly dampened by apprehension over his next encounter. He glanced at
his watch. He had twenty minutes to get there. Unfortunately, unless he
wanted to skip out the back exit, he risked an encounter with House
between his office and the elevators.

He strolled casually past the Diagnostic offices, sketching a carefree
wave when he saw House haranguing his fellows, wielding the marker like a
crazed conductor as he made some obscure point. House nodded distractedly
at him and he kept walking, tension stiffening his shoulders as he passed
out of sight. He punched the elevator button, praying to the mechanical
gods for a car to arrive quickly, but the mechanical gods, like all
others, ignored his plea. 

He heard the familiar tap-step and raised his eyes to the floor indicator,
willing it to light on four. It remained stubbornly on two, changing to
three just as Wilson heard his name bellowed down the corridor. At that
point, ignoring it would be the far greater of two dangers, so he turned
to greet House, a sardonic smile carefully arranged on his face. "Don't
you have staff to yell at?" he asked. The elevator door opened behind him
and he backed quickly in, nearly ramming into an orderly, who barely
dodged out of his way. "Sorry," he muttered, reaching to press the button
for the ground floor.

"I like to spread the love," House replied, using his cane to hold the
elevator door open. "Where are you going? It's barely six. What kind of
work ethic do you have?"

"The kind that started at eight this morning," Wilson replied, somewhat
surprised that the words "work" and "ethic" co-existed in House's
vocabulary. "Did you come to see me off? How sweet."

House's face crinkled at the idea of anything sweet being associated with
him. "It's Thursday," he said.

"Has been all day." Wilson wondered if he should just take the stairs.
House might try to follow, but surely he couldn't keep up.

"I thought you were coming over for pizza and porn." House did pathetic
extraordinarily well, but the feigned disappointment didn't quite settle
properly on his features. "Why did you try to sneak past my office?"

"I didn't sneak past your office," Wilson retorted. "I sauntered by and
waved."

"Which only means you didn't want me to think you were sneaking out. Which
means you're planning something you don't want me to know about." House
cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. "It's not my birthday, so
there's no need to surprise me."

"The last time I tried to surprise you on your birthday you didn't speak
to me for days. If I told you I was going home to bake you a cake would
you shun me?" The elevator alarm beeped and Wilson tried to push the cane
away, but not so hard that he risked pushing House off-balance.

"Not if you bake as well as you cook. Come on, spill before security comes
up and helps me beat it out of you."

Hospital security was more likely to gleefully bundle House off to the
psych ward, but Wilson had the utmost respect for the amount of damage
House could inflict in the process. He bowed to the inevitable. "Fine. I'm
meeting Julie."

"I thought you two were only talking through lawyers."

"I thought so too, but apparently she wants to try and do this amicably."
The call had taken him by surprise. After weeks of alternating anger and
silence, Julie had been pleasant, almost warm, on the phone. She had asked
to meet him after work at a bar near the hospital - the bar where they had
first met. Wilson had agreed, hesitant but hopeful. Perhaps it was still
possible to salvage something from the wreckage of their marriage.

"So you're dumping me for your almost ex-wife."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a girl. I'm going to have one drink
and then I'll come over. You're not finished here anyway."

House's eyes narrowed. "You're going for a drink with her? Are you
brain-damaged or just naturally stupid?"

"Gosh, you say the nicest things. I can't imagine why I'd prefer the
company of my wife to you."

"Ex-wife. And if you really did prefer her company to me you wouldn't be
getting a divorce. Of course, since we know she preferred the company of
her golf pro to you, I can't imagine why she wants to see you now."

The barb sunk deep enough that Wilson could taste blood in his mouth. "Go
to hell, House." He shoved the cane harder this time, forcing House to
stumble backwards, and stabbed the close button until the door did just
that.

--

An hour later he was sitting in his car outside the bar, his cheek
scratched and stinging (Julie never had been one to act in half-measures),
and wishing he'd had time to drink more than one beer before the manager
politely suggested they take their discussion elsewhere. And even then,
the remnants of his first drink were drying in his hair and down his back.
There was no way he could go over to House's in his current state.

He didn't want to go home either, to an apartment with too little
furniture and too much empty space. It wasn't a home, not really, just a
way station between relationships. He could almost hear House chastise
him. "You don't need to define yourself by other people, Jimmy." But he
didn't know any other way.

He thought about putting the car into gear and driving until he ran out of
gas or highway or the will to continue. Instead Wilson just sat in his
car, buckled in for the ride, but going nowhere. He might have sat there
all night, but he was startled out of his reverie by a sharp rapping on
his window. Jerking slightly with surprise, he looked out the window and
saw a familiar face peering back at him.

House. Wilson considered ignoring him, but he knew House was perfectly
capable of smashing his cane through the window to get his attention. He
flicked the ignition and lowered the window.

"How long does one drink take?" House demanded, before he could say
anything.

Wilson laughed bitterly. "Not that long at all," he replied. "And yet
still too long." He stared straight ahead, unwilling to meet House's
searching gaze. House saw too much as it was.

"Let me in," House said finally, already moving around to the passenger
door.

Wilson sighed and unlocked the door, gripping the steering wheel tightly
to disguise the slight tremor in his hands. He risked a quick glance
sideways as House levered himself into the passenger seat, and then found
a new point in the distance to study.

He couldn't stop himself from flinching, though, when House leaned towards
him, sniffing loudly. "You smell like a brewery," House observed. "You
better not have been planning on driving home."

Wilson had come to learn over the years that House expressed his concern
through disapproval. There wasn't a rule House hadn't bent, broken or
twisted to suit his needs, but he had always been responsible about
drinking and driving - or at least making sure Wilson was responsible. 

"There's more on me than in me," Wilson replied, running one hand through
his sticky hair.

"What did she do? Pour a beer over your head?" House reached up and turned
on the interior light. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly against his
teeth when he saw the gouged flesh on Wilson's cheek. "It's too bad you
weren't drinking whisky. It could have doubled as a disinfectant when she
threw it in your face."

There was no hint of any emotion other than sarcasm in the words, but
Wilson still heard the anger the sarcasm masked. "I'll remember that the
next time I piss off one of my ex-wives."

"What happened?"

"Apparently New Guy dumped her. He's not a golf pro, by the way, but he
was in her Thursday foursome. So now she needs to find a new foursome and
a new lover. She asked if I was interested."

"What did you say?"

"I told her I'd be happy to play golf with her." It was worth having to
explain his scratched face to the gossipmongers at the hospital just for
the snort of laughter from House. Still, he was annoyed by how much
surprise there was in that laughter. "What? Did you think I would just
jump back into bed with her after everything that's happened?" Of course
that's what House had thought. He had implied as much back at the
hospital. "Why did you follow me down here?" he demanded. "Trying to save
me from myself?" It was an attempt at sarcasm of Housian stature, but the
slight crack in his voice ruined the effect.

The only response was silence, so Wilson finally turned his head to look
at House. The older man was watching him, not with the expected curiosity
or contempt, but with contrition. Wilson could count on one hand the
number of times he'd seen that expression directed at him. "Never mind,"
he sighed. "It's not like I haven't given you reason to doubt me."

The silence stretched longer, until House finally looked away. "It's not
that I doubt you," he said to the side window. "It's just that I know
you." 

Wilson waited. When House started a conversation that way, it generally
presaged a detailed analysis of whatever character flaw had captured his
attention.

"You hate the idea of getting divorced for a third time," House continued,
turning to face Wilson again. "You think it means you're a failure. Maybe
it does."

This time it was Wilson who looked away, his mouth twisted in a bitter
grin. House's tongue was as sharp as Julie's nails.

House grabbed his chin and forcefully turned his head back. "Failing isn't
always a bad thing. Not if something was never meant to succeed." He
dropped his hand, looking faintly embarrassed. "Tell me the truth. When
she called, you were hoping it meant she wanted to reconcile. That's why
you tried to avoid me."

"Maybe," Wilson replied, because there was no point in lying to House now.
"And maybe I was hoping there was a chance we could still be friends. And
maybe I was scared that it would just be another opportunity for us to
hurt each other." He touched his cheek ruefully. "Guess I was right about
that."

"Why did you turn her down?"

And that was the $64,000 question. When Julie told him that the affair was
over, his first impulse had been to ask for a second chance. But when he
realised that she was more upset about losing her regular golf game than
she was about losing the man she had risked her marriage for, it wasn't
difficult to calculate where he rated on her scale of importance. He had
been hurt enough that he'd used his House voice on her. He hadn't really
been surprised by the slap and scratch. He'd even thought he'd deserved
it. But it was a waste of good beer.

"She doesn't love me any more," he told House finally.

For once House decided not to state the most hurtful truth. It had been
clear for months that Julie didn't love him any more. He just hadn't
wanted to believe it until now. Wilson suddenly noticed that House wasn't
holding his helmet, even though he was wearing his motorcycle jacket. He
looked around the parking lot. "Where's your bike?"

"Back at the hospital. I made Chase drop me off on his way home."

Wilson frowned. "How did you know I'd be here? I never told you where I
was meeting Julie."

"Oh please," House scoffed. "This is where she spun her web around you the
last time. Obviously if she wanted to trap you again, she'd lure you
here."

"It's a little disturbing that you know that," Wilson commented. "You'd
make an excellent stalker."

"What? I'm a stalker because I was listening when you went on ad nauseum
about how you'll never be able to go back to this place because it reminds
you of Julie?"

"Since when did you actually listen to me?"

"I always listen to you. I just choose to ignore most of what you say."

It would have been an insult from anyone else, but from House it was a
minor victory. As long as House was listening, there was a chance
something would sink in. "Now I really can't come back," Wilson said with
a shrug. "I didn't like this place anyway. Too..." He waved his hand in
the air, as if that one gesture could encompass his dissatisfaction with
the bar.

House grunted in agreement. "Let's blow this Popsicle stand. Home, James,"
he ordered imperiously.

"I don't have a home," Wilson said sadly.

"That's true. You have an anonymous, inadequately decorated box," House
observed. He had visited once and refused to return on the grounds that he
spent enough of his life in a sterile environment. "I, on the other hand,
have a home. And pizza on speed dial and beer in the fridge, neither of
which I will dump over you." He made another disapproving noise and shook
his head. "Crime against alcohol." House nudged Wilson with his elbow.
"Come on. Pizza and porn."

"I don't want to watch porn," Wilson muttered, but he put the car into
gear and turned out of the parking lot in the direction of House's
apartment.

"Well, you're no fun," House retorted. "What's wrong with porn?"

There were so many answers to that question, but Wilson chose one that
House would appreciate. "I'm trying to limit myself. I don't want to
become desensitized." That earned him another snort of laughter. Twice in
less than ten minutes. The evening wasn't a complete disaster.

"Fine. We'll do pizza and some crappy black and white movie. It doesn't
quite have the same alliterative ring, though."

They drove in silence for a few minutes before something occurred to
Wilson. "What would you have done if I'd left with Julie?"

"What would you have done if I'd been waiting for you outside when you
left with Julie?" House countered.

Wilson considered it. "I wouldn't have had to do anything. Julie would
have taken one look at you and tried to scratch your eyes out." He braked
for a stoplight. "But you weren't outside waiting for us," he realised. He
glanced over at House, who once again was avoiding his gaze.

"I would have let you leave with her," he said finally. "If that's what
you wanted."

Wilson kept looking at House, willing him to look back. Finally House
turned his head, his expression guarded. Wilson quirked one corner of his
mouth upwards in a half-smile and nodded his gratitude. House shrugged and
turned his head away again, but some of the tension in his frame eased
away. A sharp blast of a horn startled Wilson and he realised the light
had turned green. He moved through the intersection, waving apologetically
behind him and when he glanced at House again, he could see a smirk on the
other man's face.

"So why did you follow me, if it wasn't to save me from myself?" Wilson
asked finally.

House shrugged his shoulders. "I figured if the evening went the way I
suspected it would, you wouldn't be in any condition to drive yourself to
my place." He looked thoughtful. "I'm not sure if I under-estimated your
ability to piss off Julie or over-estimated the amount of alcohol it would
take."

"I said I was only having one drink with her," Wilson protested.

"That wasn't the drink I was worried about," House replied dryly. "What
happened? The bartender throw you out?"

"Manager," Wilson said. "I think it was dumping the beer that did it.
Crime against alcohol, and all." A bubble of laughter rose in his chest
and escaped through his mouth. "Now Julie can't go back there either." The
laughter didn't last. "Thomas Wolfe was right, you know. You can't go home
again." They weren't far from House's apartment and he started scanning
for a parking spot.

"Thomas Wolfe died of tuberculosis of the brain," House retorted. "You
going to believe anything he wrote?" He pointed to a gap just down the
block from 221 Baker Street. "Besides, she's not your home. She never
was."

Wilson wanted to protest. But wanting House to be wrong didn't make it so.
Instead he concentrated on parallel parking and nearly missed House's next
soft statement. 

"Home is where you're happy." House was out of the car and limping towards
the front door of his building before Wilson had turned off the ignition.

Wilson caught up to him as he was unlocking the door. "You should get that
embroidered on a pillow," he sniped, relieved when House smirked back at
him. "I want to watch North by Northwest."

"I thought you took the Masterpiece collection with you."

"I did. But I left the Signature collection behind for emergencies. I
think shedding blood qualifies." Wilson took House's silence as agreement.
"I'll grab the beer if you call the pizza in." He detoured to the
bathroom, grimacing at the sight of his face in the mirror. Julie had long
nails. He hissed slightly as he applied disinfectant, relieved that the
cuts were shallow enough to have stopped bleeding on their own.

By the time he made his way to the kitchen and snagged two Grolsch from
the fridge, House was sitting on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee
table. He handed the remote to Wilson in exchange for a beer.

"Why do you always watch Hitchcock movies when you're depressed?" he
asked, once Wilson had inserted the correct disk and started the movie.

"Why do you think I'm depressed?" Wilson replied, settling down next to
House. Everything about the moment was soothingly familiar. "Maybe I'm
relieved. Maybe I'm happy," he said. Maybe I'm home, he thought.

  
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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
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nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.