Wilson had never seen House so vicious, so bloodthirsty. House had made a game of luring whatever unfortunate sap who happened to cross his path into dark, empty alleys and taking enough blood to satisfy his craving, leaving his victim more or less unscathed. But that night was different. The game wasn't a game anymore. House was out for blood, literally, and it took everything Wilson had to pull his friend out if his frenzy. The sight of House with his eyes blazing like an inferno, mouth smeared and dripping with crimson, his fangs ready to rip into more tender flesh, it was enough to make Wilson reel back for a split second. Just as quickly he got his bearings and seized House's wrists, holding him in place.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" Wilson demanded.

House growled, then looked down at the man whose neck he had torn open. The man was still alive, gasping for breath. The roaring blaze in House's eyes faded to a dull roar as he continued to stare impassively. Wrenching his hands free, he swiped at his bloody chin, which only succeeded in smearing red across his face and all over his hand. Without a word House stood up and stumbled back out into the night.

Wilson looked at the dying man, the blood pooling on the pavement, and felt his hunger rise up and overwhelm him, crashing down like a tsumani. He finished what House had started, satisfying his own craving for the sweet red liquid. He felt every drop run down his throat like a rushing river, a river he could and did drown in every night and will drown in tomorrow night and the night after that. Enough was never enough.

When he had his fill, Wilson ended the man's misery by breaking his neck in one swift movement, then went to find House.

The wet, coppery smell of blood hung in the air like a thick fog and Wilson followed scent. He didn't have to go far; House was sitting on a crate behind a furniture store across the street. Blood was still dripping from his scruffy chin.

"What the hell was that?" Wilson hissed.

"Dinner," House answered without a trace of emotion or irony. He looked worn out and more than a bit dazed.

Wilson shook his head and said, "That was a goddamn massacre, House."

"One dead idiot is hardly a massacre," House snorted.

"Look, I know you're upset and hurting…"

"You don't know a damn thing about what I'm feeling right now," The blue-eyed man's voice was low and sounded like it had been dragged over a gravel bed, "so don't even try to pretend you understand what I'm going through."

Flustered, Wilson threw up his hands. "House, that man--"

"Don't pretend you care about him, either. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Are you going to bitch and moan at me because he was? Is that my fault, too? You're hardly an innocent bystander in all this, so now is not a good time to suddenly grow a conscience and lecture me about what is right and wrong with what we do every night to survive." The fire behind his eyes roaring again, House went on: "A killer lecturing another killer about killing…even you should see the irony in that."

Wilson was exasperated. "What you did back there was wrong."

"Too bad, so sad."

"He didn't deserve to die that way."

"Nobody does. Amber didn't deserve to die, but she did anyway. Whatever horrible secret that was eating away at Kutner, he didn't deserve to be found with his brains splattered all over his bedroom walls. Terrible things happen, Jimmy, and innocent people are going to get caught up in them no matter what."

"Amber and Kutner have nothing to do with the here and now."

House chuckled flatly and looked out into the woods at the edge of the property. "Maybe, maybe not. But that doesn't make them any less dead than the guy back there."

Crouching down next to his friend, Wilson told him, "Yes, Amber and Kutner are dead. We tried everything to save Amber and we couldn't. There wasn't anything we could do to save Kutner; he didn't want to be saved--"

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious."

"--but you and I…we may not have a choice in what we do, but we do have a choice in how we do it," Wilson continued calmly. "Do you know what you look like right now?"

House turned to face his friend, looking honestly curious. "What do I look like?"

"You look like a guy who just ripped somebody's throat out in a filthy alley," Wilson replied.

Looking down at himself, House blinked at the sight of his blood-spattered and filth-coated clothes. His jeans were drenched with red and ripped to shreds at the knees, beyond repair and unfit for even the most desperate derelict to wear. The stink of garbage on him was threatening to overpower the perfume of blood. Crimson clots were forming around his mouth. Anyone passing by now would think House had just crawled out of a war zone.

"House, you didn't choose this life so you could act like a wild animal."

"No, I didn't," was House's quiet reply. He began to use the tail of his shirt in a futile attempt to clean some of the grime off his hands.

Wilson pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to his friend. "You're no longer a slave to the pain in your leg and the Vicodin pills. That's why you chose this life. You wanted me with you and I'm here. But this…this…you are better than this, House. You didn't say goodbye to your mother, a person you truly love, so you could go crawling around in back alleys and leave people to die in the trash every night for eternity, did you?"

"No."

It took less than a minute for House to make Wilson's handkerchief good for nothing but the garbage can. He tossed it aside. Wilson didn't bother to say anything.

House looked up at the brown-eyed man. "My mother did what my father never could. Or would do."

"What did your mother do?"

"She loved me for me," was the answer.

"Your father loved you too, House."

"Like hell he did. My father hated me. My father hated the fact that I was my own person. I had no interest in playing football like he did in high school. I had no interest in spending my entire life in the military like he did. He hated me because I wasn't just like him in every way and he never let me forget the fact that he hated me. That was fine with me because I hated him right back. God, you should have seen some of the fights my dad and I had…I don't know how my mother managed to put up with either of us for all those years." House laughed humorlessly. "If Mom could see me now, she'd make me feel three inches tall without raising her voice. She'd say how disappointed and embarrassed she is to see me reduced to…this."

"She'd be right to say that, too," Wilson said pointedly.

"I know." House stood up and pointed to the woods. "Go over there and start digging."

Wilson blinked. "What for?"

"We're need to bury that guy."

"Now?"

"We can wait for someone to find him and call the police if you want."

"We don't have time to bury him," Wilson protested, looking at his watch. "We need to leave now if we want to get home before sunrise."

"I guess you better start digging real fast," House told him, then started back to the alley.

"House--"

"You're lying about the time. I have a watch too, remember?"

"We still need to get home."

"We still need to bury him."

"Tell me why we're burying this guy again?"

Speaking over his shoulder, House replied, "Because we're better than this and it's the least we can do, considering the circumstances. So just shut up and dig the fucking hole already."

The promise of rain was broken; the storm missed them, making it easier for a shallow grave to be dug.

They buried the man and made it home an hour before dawn.

Wilson was more than glad to see that House hadn't used up all the hot water. He had let House shower first while wrapping their ruined clothes in a garbage bag and stuffing said bag into the bottom of one of their moving boxes. Their new home had a fireplace and Wilson was going to make sure the clothes were burned into oblivion tomorrow night.

With the grime and the stink washed away, Wilson felt like a new man. He stepped into a pair of sweats, pulled on a clean shirt and padded back to the bedroom to join House.

He found his friend sitting on the edge of the bed. The perfume of soap and shampoo had replaced the fog of blood and trash that had surrounded House for the last half of the night; his still-damp hair stuck out in all directions. Wilson sat down next House and slipped and arm around his waist.

"I'm sorry," House said, not looking up.

"Sorry for what?"

"For what I did tonight. To that man and to you. I shouldn't have taken my frustrations out on the two of you. It wasn't fair."

Pulling House closer, Wilson said, "You don't have to apologize to me."

"Should I apologize to the man we buried?"

"If it makes you feel better."

"It doesn't. It won't make him feel any better, either" House deadpanned.

Wilson said, "No, it won't."

With a sigh, House changed the subject. "I miss her already."

"I know."

"I was hardly the best son in the world, but she'll remember me as a good son who has finally found something that resembles happiness."

"She understands that, House," Wilson spoke up.

"She does," House agreed, finally making eye contact with his friend.

"You deserve to be happy and she knows you finally have a chance for a fresh start and a life without pain. You leaving that knowledge with your mother was the best thing you could have ever done for her."

"It was," the blue-eyed man said, pulling Wilson into an embrace, "but it will never equal all things she did for me."

--The End.