A/N: So I decided to start this new fic. My idea is that it'll be something akin to Stumble, but I'm actually going to try hard to make it more in character. I hope it works out.

No slash intended. Please read and review.

LiveJournal Users: I just started a new community if you're interested. It's called housemdfriends, made with the purpose of focusing on the friendships of House with no romance or slash allowed. Anyone's welcome to join. My profile here has a link to my personal LJ, and if you go there and click on my userinfo, you'll find the community there. Thanks.

Theme Song for this Fic: "Ghost of You" by My Chemical Romance.

Chapter 1

"Could I, Should I"

House sighed as he tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter and limped over to the refrigerator for a beer. Friday, at last. The end of a crap week, which was really just a crap day. He was going to put it all out of his mind and relax. He even yanked the phone cord out of its socket, as he made his way into the living room, and almost grinned when he remembered no one ever called his home phone.

Wilson had been pissed. House had caught him packing his bags back into his car around 9 o'clock that morning, oblivious to the lost apartment.

"Oh, yeah," House had started, limping toward his bike. "The landlord of that apartment complex called. Someone offered him more money for the place."

Wilson had blinked.

"And?"

"And obviously, unless you offer more, the place is going to the other guy."

"When did he call?"

"Last night."

Wilson's hands had slipped away from his suitcase. "Did you talk to him?"

"No, he left a message."

"I didn't see the machine blinking --"

"That's because I deleted it."

Wilson had moved into his signature stance, hands on his hips. It had been a bright, yellow morning – the kind that annoyed House because it made him squint.

"You know, you can be a real jerk sometimes," Wilson had said, catching House off-guard.

"What do you --?"

"Did you think it would be funny? If you want me out so damn badly, why can't you just stop screwing around with my business? Now I have to look for another place."

"But--"

"God, don't you have any consideration?" Wilson had shut the trunk and walked around to the driver's side. "I'll get a room in a hotel. Don't bother looking for me around lunch; I've got paperwork to do."

So House had speeded on his way to work and spent the day in a particularly sour mood. He hadn't bothered with lunch at all, racked up a handful of offended clinic patients instead of just one or two, and had continuously snapped at his team sans humor. He was proud to say his anger had lasted for the majority of the day, not allowing him to find Wilson and apologize or explain like a whipped puppy. If Wilson wanted to be pissed, fine. He could go stay in a hotel all weekend. House didn't care. This way, he could actually sleep in tomorrow.

Now, however, the anger had worn off, and disappointment had replaced it. It didn't help that the pillow and blanket were still sitting on the other side of the couch from that morning.

House sipped on his beer. Whatever. He'd lived in this place alone for years; it wasn't the end of the world if he kept it up instead of tolerating Wilson's company. He would just give the oncologist the weekend to cool off and things would be back to normal on Monday.

He sighed to himself again. So what about dinner? The last thing he felt like doing was actually trying to cook, and as Wilson had said, he didn't have much lying around other than chips and peanut butter. Maybe there was something of Wilson's left in the fridge that he hadn't seen... He'd probably go out eventually. It was only after eight o'clock.

He wrinkled his nose. What was this crap on TV? He picked up the remote and brought up the program description. Great. Do-it-yourself room makeover. Idiots cutting up wood and painting walls.

The high-pitched ring tone on his cell phone shrieked from his pocket, and his mood wasn't lifted when he saw that is was Cuddy.

"Sorry, Echidna, it's after hours," he muttered, throwing his phone on the coffee table. It rang for another minute before stopping, and he picked up on his drinking again.

A moment later, she called for the second time.

"Why do you torment me?" he asked aloud. "It's Friday. My day sucked donkey nuts. Leave me alone."

The phone maxed out its ring and stopped. House leaned over and switched it to vibrate.

Not thirty seconds later, its harsh buzz started to move it against the tabletop. House rolled his eyes and took another drink. She probably just wanted to yell at him for the multitude of pissed off clinic patients he was responsible for today. She could leave a message that he would delete later without listening.

The phone vibrated a few more inches for a fourth time, and he ignored it no matter how bored he was with the TV.

Finally, his pager wailed against his waist.

"God damn it, Cuddy."

But he stopped when he read her message.

Wilson.

House snatched his phone up and hit six, not stopping to ponder for the hundredth time how sad it was that Cuddy was on his speed dial list.

"Cuddy?"

"House! Do you ever answer your phone?"

"What about Wilson?"

"Some ass of a receptionist just called me from St. Peter's."

House felt his heart grow quiet, waiting for the right time to stop.

"All she would tell me is that Wilson was brought in fifteen minutes ago. He was in some sort of accident."

"That's all she said?"

Cuddy paused. House sounded disturbingly hushed and calm.

"That's all."

He told her he'd go up to St Peter's and call her back with any news, but he didn't leave at once, after hanging up. He stood still, his shoulder to the TV. They had started to paint the walls fuchsia. He could feel his leg threaten to give out.

House didn't switch off the TV, as he picked up his cane and limped to the door. He slipped his jacket on and glanced back at the couch – the blanket and the pillow. Something inside of him wilted.

What in God's name had Wilson been doing in New Brunswick? They wouldn't have taken him to St. Peter's University Hospital otherwise. And why – why – hadn't the damn receptionist known anything about Wilson's condition? It was all House could think of as he sped through the night.

What kind of accident? How bad? Was he even... No, of course, he was. Wilson could never be that angry at House. Right? House had hardly seen Wilson as angry at him as he had been this morning, but it couldn't have possibly been enough to seek vengeance this way...

Head trauma? Broken bones? Internal bleeding? How was brain function? What condition was his spine in?

God, what if he was paralyzed? Or a vegetable? What if they couldn't bring him out of a coma? What if his face had been disfigured? What if he'd been burned? What if he needed a major organ transplant and couldn't wait more than a few days? What if he was permanently mentally handicapped? What if he had lost his memory and couldn't recognize anyone anymore?

House ran a red light.

He squeezed the handlebars as he realized that Wilson's last memory of him may forever be a negative one. It wasn't often that House regretted things, but this sensation couldn't be anything except regret. He had pissed Wilson off, he had been an asshole, and he hadn't apologized. God, if he had just apologized, if he had just dropped the indignation earlier that day and found Wilson and explained... If he had just stopped his friend from driving off in the morning, if he had just said that he wanted Wilson to stay... This wouldn't have happened.

And even if it would have – at least this unresolved, idiotic conflict wouldn't exist additionally.

Why hadn't House just explained? Why hadn't he just been honest? His motto was that everybody lies, but he was no different. Why hadn't he just admitted the simple truth?

I want to know if there's an alternative to loneliness.

If was honest – with himself – he would open up to the truth that lay in that blanket and pillow abandoned on the end of his couch, to the truth that was encoded in that last Post-it on his refrigerator. His friendship with Wilson could be the salvation he thought he had lost with Stacy. He didn't have to be detached. He didn't have to be – miserable.

What had Wilson said? What had Wilson said every day they'd known each other? House suddenly wanted to know, no matter how insignificant.

"You're so afraid if you change, you'll lose what makes you special."

No. He was afraid that if he changed, he'd be forced to feel that same pain – not the constant throb in his leg, but the raw pain that almost induced a Zen state of mind, a pain so absolute that nothing and no one could bring relief. It was the pain that arrived when one of those destined relationships fell apart against Divine will.

I want you to stay.

House hadn't explained because he feared that pain would come – and behold, it had come anyway.

He swerved into a right turn and debated whether or not to speed up, even though he was already fifteen miles over the limit.

It's not because I like to subject you to my cruelty. It's not because I want to use you for the improvement of my own lifestyle. I don't want your money or your food (well, maybe I do). I want to stop being by myself.

Maybe he was in denial, maybe he really did just want to use Wilson once again to recover from another earthquake Stacy caused. Or maybe he really was allowing himself to want the possibility – that he could be happy without her, that he didn't need to put himself through awkward date after awkward date with women who didn't really interest him beyond their cleavage or their legs. Maybe he was willing to look for happiness in one last place, even if no one else could fathom it.

I just let go of the only woman I want. Your third marriage just crumbled away. But what if we still have hope? What if we could be all right in a different way?

It was not that he and Wilson didn't already have a friendship that was perhaps the best relationship in each of their lives, however flawed it might be. Whether Wilson had ever needed to crash at House's place or not, they would have stayed best friends undoubtedly until one of them croaked. They would even if Wilson found an apartment of his own. It wasn't about keeping their friendship, not even about keeping its importance.

Living together would mean – not having to go home to solitude. It would mean finding some enjoyment in their personal lives again. It would mean real meals for House and – laughter. It seemed like he only ever laughed in Wilson's company.

He would have someone to talk to other than the rat. Of course, he called Wilson whenever he wanted already, but even House had to admit that it felt better to have a conversation with someone in their presence, rather than over the phone.

No more calling Wilson out of important dinners or planning on spending the holidays alone. No more struggling with pain on his own or wallowing in melancholy. Banter and mischief and support would replace all of that. That's what it would mean.

He had considered the nuisances of less privacy and less sleep (damn blow dryer). He was aware that more time together meant more opportunity for dispute (the TV, first and foremost) and annoying concern, that he would have to get used to Wilson's habits and vice versa. He was aware that fooling around with hookers or, in Wilson's case, dates would probably mean staying at a hotel and explaining why. But House secretly wanted to believe that maybe what good could come out of it would be worth all the inconvenience.

He had spent the last few weeks facing his choice to permanently cut Stacy out of his life and the place that choice had put him in. She was the only one he wanted. She was the only woman he would tolerate. Any other was only good for the sex, but companionship was something he would only take from her. Turning her away had been the equivalent of rejecting romance until further notice, probably for the rest of his life. He had always known she was the One, and she did too. No matter how many other women he might entertain in the future, he would always know Stacy was the One in the back of his mind.

And Wilson had always known this too. That's why it had upset him when House decided to turn her away. Wilson knew, with the same awareness he had of his own missing Mrs. Right, that House wasn't going to find that sense of destiny in any other woman. He had hoped, before Stacy had returned, that House would find someone else, but now he could see clearly that Stacy wasn't just House's One. She was his only One.

House didn't know if Wilson had a woman like Stacy waiting for him, but he did know that after all the failure, it was probably best that his friend take a break and seriously consider himself and the puzzle of his love life, before jumping into yet another ill-fated marriage.

Or maybe House was just being selfish.

He realized, as he slowed while approaching the welcome sign for Middlesex County, that regardless of how fast he traveled, he was already late. Wilson could already be dead – or brain damaged. And even if he wasn't severely fucked up, he was still ignorant of House's reasoning. Would any explanation make a difference now? House had waited too long. He'd only make himself look pathetic.

Yeah, I decided to be sentimental after you landed yourself in the hospital. I really wanted to reek of sincerity.

House almost didn't know why he was going to St Peter's. He was sure the last person Wilson wanted to see, if Wilson was even conscious, was him. He told himself that someone had to find out the oncologist's condition, and he just happened to be the guy Cuddy had called. That's what he would tell Wilson.

He suddenly noticed the presence of dread at the thought of going back home – to that emptiness, that blanket and pillow on his couch. He should be used to it. It's what he'd been telling himself. He's used to it. He's used to being alone.

He's used to it.

But he was starting to ask himself why the hell he should be.

And he was starting to doubt that he was.

How was he going to apologize? Should he even bother now? What if Wilson really wasn't all right...?

I'm sorry for stealing your salad.

Ugh, fuck, that's wrong.

I'm sorry for being an asshole.

How did that make a difference if he wasn't going to stop being an asshole?

I'm sorry for deleting your message, but I had a good reason.

Yeah, he was an asshole.

I'm for sorry for deleting your message. It was rude. I just want you to know that I didn't do it for fun, I did it because I want you to – stay.

Maybe that could work, if he had the balls to say it.

And if Wilson wasn't okay? House didn't have the slightest idea what he would do. As if this living arrangement business wasn't enough to bring up Wilson's meaning in his life, now he had to deal with this situation.

Wilson.

House didn't think he had ever considered the oncologist's importance before. Wilson had been around for so long, House had slipped into the comfort of that consistency. Even in the beginning, House hadn't been consciously appreciative. Wilson was his friend, and that's the way it was supposed to be. He had almost felt entitled to it. Now, however, when he stopped to examine it for the first time, he was beginning to see how privileged he was. He wouldn't say "blessed" because he wasn't religious, but "lucky" didn't fit either. Privilege felt right. It truly was a privilege to have Wilson's friendship.

Wilson had been the one part of his life to remain untouched by change in the last decade, the one rock House had learned to rely on and trust. Maybe that previous uniformity was one of the reasons he was afraid to bring up this living arrangement idea. Having Wilson stay would mean change. Changing his friendship with Wilson – scared the hell out of him. Coming to terms with the enormity of Wilson's importance to him did too.