Title: Never Another
Genres: Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, ANGST, romance
Rating: Past T, for language and later sexuality/adult situations
Season: Will jump around a lot from 1-8 and there will also be quite a few segments that
occur before Season 1, back when Wilson and House were much younger.
Warnings: The aforementioned adult themes, language, etc. Also, if you have not seen
Season 8 yet, or have not spoiled yourself with what happens, or are unaware of anything
from the season, please do not read this.
Summary: AU in some places. I have changed some instances around so my idea could work. This
story is an examination of the deep friendship of Greg House and James Wilson. The storyline
is hardly chronological and I apologize if that is annoying to some readers. A lot of my AU
will come from the early days of the doctors' friendship. If you continue to read as I
continue to write, you'll see what I mean. There will never be another House and Wilson.

"Still to come,
The worst part and you know it,
There is a numbness,
In your heart and it's growing."
-The Shins, 'A Comet Appears'

Snippet #1:
5 Months to Go

Wilson had fallen ill later that evening after the motorcycle ride in the brisk, crisp, and not too damaging wind. House decided, however much he wanted his friend to see the Atlantic from the coast of Rhode Island, he wouldn't push him. And if Wilson wanted, House would take him home should the oncologist ask to leave the vacation early. Such possibilities of picking up and leaving made House glad that they took a plane down here and rented the bikes. He really didn't need or want a queasy Wilson being absolutely miserable should they have rode House's motorcycle down here. There would have been constant stops and no doubt they would have made Wilson sicker, more exhausted, all from being stressed out over causing problems for his friend and slowing him down.

So, instead, they would stay in the hotel room they rented out. House figured they could watch TV (hopefully something interesting on Animal Planet, like the history of mermaids or whatever it was; he was just about sick of the news and hearing about yet another person in the U.S who has eaten their roommate. Not only that, anytime Wilson heard of such tragedies, he would bold out of the room to promptly vomit from such distaste, like a pregnant woman and her new-found low tolerance when it came to upchucking from anything.

House looked around the smallish room. They could play cards. They could go to the hotel lobby and House would monopolize the piano, assuming this stinkin' ass place had a piano, but then again, what hotel didn't?

"Boring ones," House murmured to himself. "Or the ones where they check in, but they don't check out. Only idiot tenants and idiot hotels."

He was laying in bed, legs stretched out in front of him for miles, with his hands folded over his chest. Wilson snorted in his sleep from his own bed. It was a thick and dry sound, most likely accompanied by all of the mucus in his system. House chuckled at the thought of Wilson picking his nose and wiping it on the hotel sheets in the middle of his sleep. The chuckle that ensued was short-lived and was replaced with a certain terror that pulled at his stomach and tried to manipulate it into all shapes, some that didn't even exist.

What if Wilson is too sick now to do anything? What if his immune system was shot all to hell?

Did I do this? Greg House did have a talent for absolute destruction and ruination of others. Or so it was hinted at over the years by a handful of people.

Wilson turned fluidly in his sleep. The bed didn't creak; its occupant didn't grunt. He was now facing House. The latter saw peace on the former's slumbering face. One of Wilson's arms was hugging his torso, his hand resting safely beneath his cheek. It smooshed his face some and made his eye look completely deformed and crooked in its socket. House felt nothing but a rush of pure love for his friend at that moment. It was an image he would be doomed never to forget and he knew it would hurt him soon enough as affection quickly turned to a soured and prickling feeling at the pit of his gut.

Did I get him sick from forcing him to do this? Maybe picked up a bug somewhere? What was this? Guilt for the first time in his life? Actual concern? Wasn't it Greg House who said that nobody really cared about anybody else until somebody was dying, or something like that?

James Wilson coughed. There was an obvious surplus of phlegm in there, much like what a habitual smoker wakes up to when they have smoked more than their regular number of cigarettes. A scary phlegm that seems to get stuck and won't go away in the middle of the third hour of the morning.

If he's drowning, I'll drown with him. Hear that, Wilson?

Wilson's lips smacked in unconscious response. He was angelic. And Gregory House never loathed another living thing in his entire existence more than he did in the soft and kind moments that James Wilson unknowingly, slowly killed him with.