For everyone who thought Wilson was acting like a total dickhead in season four finale Wilson's Heart

For everyone who thought Wilson was acting like a total dickhead in season four finale Wilson's Heart. Alternate universe and alternate ending where Wilson leaves the hospital, goes home, and then figures out what a big mistake he made, and comes back. Warnings for slash, swearing, death of a character, and references to pretty severe child abuse. Any OOC behavior on House's part can be explained by the concussion.

"You can't always get what you want
but if you try sometimes well you just might find,
you get what you need.
Oh baby, yeah, yeah!
I went down to the Chelsea drugstore
To get your prescription filled
I was standing in line with Mr. Jimmy
And man, did he look pretty ill
We decided that we would have a soda
My favorite flavor, cherry red
I sung my song to Mr. Jimmy
Yeah, and he said one word to me, and that was "dead,"" Mick Jagger.

"You're back," House whispered, looking up at me, slightly confused as he woke up from a nap. "Why are you here? Should be mad. I'd be pissed. I'd probably kill me." Something in his voice, the tone—which was completely lacking in sarcasm—told me that he actually wanted me to do it. "If you are, do it fast, my head is gonna explode!"

"Here," I said, handing him the morphine pump. "She left a little note, under the pillow—and I just…Amber's gone. It doesn't make sense to be alone. Greg raised his eyebrow questioningly. "Don't get me wrong, I am mad, but I know how you get at night, especially when you're alone." House reached up, rubbing his temples. "You had a seizure and your…"

"I know," he cut me off. "And I'm sorry, not for. I screwed up; it's all my fault. Please go away. Don't wanna get yelled at right now." I sat down on the tiny bed, next to him, and stroked his hair, gently. "Ow. Ow! Stop, that hurts."

"You'll be okay, but not if you keep blaming yourself for this. Yeah, you could have gone home and gotten drunk in a safe place, you didn't have to plan on driving drunk, Amber could have called me just as easily as going to get you herself. It would have been a lot easier to call me. She didn't have to get on the bus with you. The truck driver didn't have to try and beat the red light. You get the point. I'm gonna stay." As I la down next to him, I felt myself starting to cry, and his chest was moving up and down slowly like he was holding back tears too. "Maybe we should…you're n pain, I'm in pain. It's not right for us to both keep it in like this." I was weeping already, tears falling down my face, almost soundlessly, and he sobbed a couple of times, but the task of actually crying proved to be too much.

"I can't do it, and you know why."

"What about—you mean because of me? I betrayed you," I said, my voice cracking more times in that sentence than it had in all of junior high. "What I did earlier, making you hurt yourself that way, and when I walked out like that, what I've done twice today it was inexcusable." House sighed, pressing his face into my shoulder. "If you're in that much pain, I can up your morphine a little."

"Didn't take it. Wanna—gotta be strong for you, while we o this. I'm not mad at you, Jimmy. You were scared, and I was, and she kept, and—maybe. No, it's stupid, Nevermind." I watched as he depressed the pain killer button twice, and didn't complain when I kissed the top of his head. I did blame him for what happened to Amber, a little bit. I mean, how could I not? But at the same time, I loved him, and I could lose both of them. No, told myself. I'm not going to blame him. I will not put House through that. House needs me. "How long is it gonna be before you stop hating me?" he asked, some time later, lifting up his head, making eye contact again. His face was desperate, pained, and I could see how much worse I was making everything by not telling him the truth.

"I'm pissed off, and I don't know if I'll ever completely forgive you—which is stupid and irrational, but…I don't hate you. I could never hate you, okay? Don't shrug, this is important. Look at me. You know when I'm lying right? You always know, don't you? I do not hate you, and I will never leave again. I love you. Believe me?" I wrapped my arms around his chest, hugged and kissed him, and House gave himself a little more pain medication.

"I'm exhausted, Jimmy. Can I go to sleep now?" he asked, laying down slowly, rubbing his head. "Okay, yeah, I believe you. Let me sleep, please?" This time his voice seemed less desperate, more like normal.

"I need you to talk to me for just a little bit longer then we both. We'll both—go to bed, okay? I need a few more—just answer a couple of questions and—in a day or two, when your head is better, we'll go back to your apartment. You can recover there; just lay off the booze for a week or two."

"Shut up. I'll be okay in—my head hurts, don't wanna keep doing this if you're gonna be obnoxious and tell me everything is gonna be okay a million times over and over. Ask your stupid questions already; I'm about to pass out."

"What were you doing at that bar?" I didn't expect a response to this question, especially since I had been asking him the same thing ever since he came into the ER and he had been evading all along.

"I was drinking. You're kidding me, right?"

"You can drink at home, and you know that's not what I meant. Why are you—why do you need to go out every night and drink seven scotches? If I didn't know you better I'd think you were going for suicide, but that's not really your style is it?" House shook his head, then bent his thumbs and forefinger into a gun, and pretended to shoot himself in the head. "That's not funny. I'm serious. What are you doing to yourself?"

"Nothing," he whispered, closing his eyes. "I don't wanna do this anymore." Greg was asleep before I could pressure him into talking about it more. I wanted to be pissed off, but I knew too much about his history to blame the poor guy for not wanting to tell me what was bothering him. Up until this point I had thought that I knew everything bad that had happened to him, sleeping in the yard, ice baths, the physical abuse, the psychological stuff, he even told me about his dad—molesting him.

Not that all of this stuff wasn't enough to make a guy want to drink himself into a stupor every night, but he was talking to me. We were working on it. He always called me when he got scared. I'd come over and hold him and make it all okay. But he hasn't called me since—oh crap. And just like that, I realized why my best friend had gone from bad to worse without my noticing it. I was too preoccupied to see how much he needed me. I let him get like this, and then got mad at him for acting the way he did. I wanted to wake him up wand ell him what I knew, apologize for what I'd done, but he hadn't slept in three days and I wasn't going to make him even more sick, by depriving him of what he needed. I fell asleep about two hours after him, but didn't stay that way for very long.

XX

In the middle of the night I was having this dream about Amber. She was trapped under water in this pond, but it was frozen over. The whole thing was covered with ice and no mater how hard I pounded, it wouldn't break. It didn't seem like she was scared or drowning or anything though. That was the weird part. She just smiled, waved at me, and disappeared into the water.

"Wilson. Wilson, Wilson!" House's scream woke me. "Bad dream?" he asked, reaching out to brush a bit of hair out of my eyes. "It's okay, I mean, uh—it's gonna. I—everything is gonna be…" Then he said something that I couldn't really hear, but it sounded like 'I'm sorry.' "You looked really bad. Are you?"

"Yeah. No. I don't—it was just a dream. I think they're probably gonna last for a while, but I'm. Did you just—did you just apologize to me?" He nodded, but didn't speak. "Well—thanks, thank you, but you—this isn't your fault. You having the same problem?"

"No, it's just hard to sleep with you tossing and turning and moaning in your sleep," he told me, but I'd never caught him in an amore obvious lie. "I'm not a little kid; I'm not scared or anything. I just—my head hurts, that's it."

"I was having a pretty serious nightmare, and I'm scared. If you want me to sleep in the chair, I can, but I really think you want me to stay here with you." I was hoping that he would feel better having heard me admit to being scared, and then do the same. Then, at least, I could make him feel better.

"Well maybe I'm a little bit—feeling less than great and not just 'cuz of my head. When I was little, and I used to have to…I think it was worse than anything else, sleeping in the yard. Probably because I—anyway, when there was a full moon or the sun was coming up, I could see where everything was. I knew there weren't anything or anybody there."

"Would it help if I turned on some of the lights in here?" I asked, and then realized that he would probably see some sort of an accusation in my comment. "I think it would help me too, having the light on. I know it will help me sleep, which would be good, because you would be able to relax some."

"Why are you being so nice to me? If you were—and I was—I'd be pissed off at the jerk who did this to my, and I wouldn't ever talk to me again."

"I think a little part of you wants me to hate you. If I stay here and I'm nice and I still care about my friend, then you don't know as much about people as you think. If I disappear, then it's gonna hurt a lot, but you'll also know that you were right. All people suck and they don't really care about each other, and it's gonna make you think that you don't need anybody/ well I'm—you would probably do something bad."

"I don't like being alone. You're nice to me, and I don't get that very often. If you go away, I might—I'd get over it with enough time, but you. It doesn't make sense for you to stay with me. I did something stupid because I'm weak and pathetic, and you ended up losing your girlfriend because of me. How can you not hate me?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry. I know my not being able to explain this has got to be scary for you. I just don't, and the only thing that makes sense for me right now is us. We shouldn't be alone right now. I'm scared, and depressed and lost, and you're gonna—I can't keep you from blaming yourself but in time, with love, and support, I might be able to make you understand that feeling that way won't help anyone."

"And you wanna help me?" he asked in a very soft voice, watching me as though he thought (or expected) that I might lie to him, or scream, or get up and walk away. "I had a bad dream too, probably why I woke you up, but you had that look on your face too, and I figured you probably needed me more than I need you."

"I'm not so sure about that one."

"Really?"

"I was okay, before all of this. My heart is strong. It can handle taking care of you, and dealing with—I'm gonna be fine, but you—I don't think you'll make it alone, and blaming yourself."

"I shouldn't blame myself, but you blame me—and don't bother denying it, I can see it all over your face. You're pissed at me. What is the point of me not feeling the same way? It'll keep me from doing something this stupid ever again."

"Or it could kill you. Psychological pain can manifest itself as physical symptoms. One body can only handle so much pressure, depression, trauma, anger, and—toxins before it just stops working." He chuckled at me, but it was defiantly not a happy laugh.

"Okay, so maybe that's not completely stupid," Greg admitted, squeezing his eyes shut, tight.

"We should both try and get some sleep. If you need more meds," I started to say, but he completed the sentence without me. "If it helps knowing, I'm gonna stay here all night and morning, and for however long you need me."

"Don't you have stuff that you should be doing?"

"Her parents are taking care of the—of everything actually, and I think it's probably better that way. I'd have no idea how to do this right anyhow. I didn't even know her that long. I just…"

"I don't think the amount of time you spend with someone really matters. I mean, you love her, right? Loved. Sorry. It's not really my business," he said, touching the side of my face. "You sure that's the way you want things done?"

"You're actually worried about me, aren't you?" I asked, but as usual he followed up a kind act by behaving like an ass. House shrugged, upping his meds again, and sticking his tongue out at me. "Yeah, I know. You're a robot. You feel nothing, but look at me for a minute. Thanks, it means a lot for you to—I know that's not easy. You're doing a really good thing here."

"Well, you're my best friend, and despite what I tell anybody else, or whatever I do to you, I—I like you, okay? Now I'm exhausted, and I wanna sleep more. Leave me alone, please?"

"Alright, you can go back to bed. Are you okay with the—I can um—well that s, if you need me to do something to help you relax or, uh—make the bad dreams, I know how you feel when it gets dark and. If you want I can put some of the lights up or something."

"Just turn the TV on and press the mute button on my remote control. That's what I usually do when I—never mind. Don't wanna make you deal with my problems right now. You got enough to worry about." I pressed the on button, and Greg watched the screen for almost an hour, rolled up on his side, leaning against me, eyes squeezed shut.

"You're not locked out on your pain meds yet. Do you want me to give you—House?" I whispered, but he was already asleep. "It's okay, I promise. I am so sorry for messing up, but I'm not going to make the same mistake again. Love you so much,' I told him, starting to cry again. I couldn't help myself, between what I'd been through in the past few days with him, and Amber, I don't think I had ever been this upset since his infarction. Almost losing him in the bus accident and then his heart stopping, it damn near killed me, but when we found out what—I don't know why I was such a jerk to him, guess I was still in shock.

Then Amber died, and there was nothing I could do, except be there for Greg, and I even went and managed to screw that up. The only good thing about hurting House was his low expectations. He always forgave me when I messed up, always let me come back. "I'm not going to do this to you anymore, alright? I'm here now, and I'm not going away again. I won't hurt you, never ever again. It's just you and me now, and that's how everything is going to stay. I just love you so much. You'll see; I'll make up for what I did. Not gonna hurt you, not gonna yell, or complain, or lecture you, or anything. There we go; it's alright." I don't remember falling asleep, but it must have happened because the next thing I knew the sun was coming in through the window, and House was laying there, awake but quietly watching me, with big, deeply interested eyes.

"You look pretty messed up. More dreams?" he asked, and touched my face again. "It's almost 10:00. I dunno if that's important. I just…thought you might wanna know. I'm not sure what you—what do you—I mean what do I…?" House actually managed to sound concerned, albeit flustered.

"Yeah, I had more dreams, but at least they were nice ones. I mean, I didn't, do you ever…I uh, that is, my." I was so out of it I wasn't even sure what I wanted to tell him let alone how to actually speak. "It's just hard to think that I'm never gonna see her again, and then I was dreaming and we were doing something, don't remember what, and when I woke up…"

"I get that sometimes, not in the same way, because I never actually, you know, but I'm not sure which is worse. I know how stupid it sounds, but when I woke up this morning and you were there—here, I kind of felt, it was the first time in a while that I didn't feel completely like crap—think it might have something to do with—forget it."

"I realized something last night. I owe you an apology. Things were going well, really well, between me and Amber, but I. You need me to come by and listen to you, help make things easier, do what I always do, but I stopped doing those things. It must have seemed like I was abandoning you."

"You were happy. She made you feel a lot better than I ever could. Had no right to expect a—to expect you to just drop everything because I had a bad day at work," he said, quietly, and looking in the other direction.

"That's how it always worked before, isn't it? I got you used to it, and then, you know—just stopped coming by. We haven't spent the night together in months, and that has nothing to do with the sex stuff. I hurt you. It's okay to be mad at me. I messed up."

"Think my screw up is a lot worse. I killed somebody, and not in that, oh damn why I didn't think of that sooner, way. I actually—it's. This is my fault," House told me this in the same way as earlier, telling me that he believed it. He thought that all of the blame should rest on his shoulders.

"No, you didn't!" I said, a little too forcefully, and he recoiled. "I'm sorry for yelling, but you didn't, it isn't. Even if I had been the one who picked you up, my car could have just as easily been the one to get hit. Look, this isn't gonna be easy for me; I probably won't ever get over it, not completely, but I'll survive. But if I lose you too, I won't—I need you to be here for me, just—almost as much as you need me. We can get through this, but only if. The two of us have to stick together, okay? You and I are both going to be fine, I promise."

"You don't know that!" I wrapped my arms around him, as tightly (but lovingly) as I possibly could, hugging him, softly stroking his hair once again, for a good ten, fifteen minutes before I answered him. "See, I was right."

"The only reason I'm not sure is because I don't know whether or not you're gonna let me be here for you, help make you feel better, stronger, happier. I know you, and I know you don't enjoy things the way they are. Now are you—will you—please. I love you, just tell e this isn't going to be the last thing we do together"

"You gonna leave again?" House asked, almost desperately, more than the usual mixture of depression and anguish present in his voice. "Promise me, and I'll promise you, okay? You say we gotta stick together, but I gotta know if I'm gonna keep getting treated like dirt."

"Never again," I promised. "I love you, and I'm gonna be here. We—I'm—you were right. I am messed up, and I'm pretty sure you're the only person who can understand me, know how I really feel about stuff, be here for me, or as lose as you can get to being there for me. So, are we a team again or what?'

"You're an idiot," he spat, laying back down, holding onto my hand, with all the strength he could muster. "And my head hurts again, but—as long as you don't screw up like that again, I guess I'll—I can do whatever you need. Some of it anyway. I like you goo, Jimmy—I might even, love you. Sort of." Then he got quiet, closed his eyes, took his meds, and fell asleep again.

I knew it was going to be a rough couple of days (probably even months) for both of us. House's skull would takes weeks to fully heal, but he would be okay, physically at least. As far as his heart (and mine too for that matter) went, that would take longer, but I was sure that as long as we were together, everything would work out eventually. It's like the song Greg always like so much says. "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes…you get what you need." I know it's sort of clichéd and stupid sounding, but it's also true.