House caught up to Wilson as he was crossing the lobby, on his way out of the hospital. He fell into step beside him, noticing that Wilson was moving more rapidly than normal, House had a hard time keeping up.
"So, pizza?" he asked his moving target.
Wilson shook his head. "No, I don't think so, House."
House made a face. "Oh, you're pissed because you were wrong about the hepatic encephalopathy? You're sorry that I'm not dying? Sorry to disappoint you."
"No, I'm pissed because you pulled this crap, again."
"Hey, I told you I was fine. It was the team who were running around finding symptoms that didn't exist. Don't pin this on me."
"Yeah, and you played along with them. Once you knew they thought you were sick, that I thought you were sick, you decided to go along with it - to push their buttons, because you thought it was fun, because...I don't know why. Why do you do anything?"
"I don't do anything without a reason." House realised he was being left behind in this dash across the parking lot, "hey, Usain do you think you could slow down a bit? Cripple here." He held up his cane for emphasis.
Wilson stopped and turned around, placing his hands on his hips. He waspissed apparently.
"Oh, I'm sure you had some perfectly logical reason that you rationalised to yourself. Some convoluted argument for pushing people even further away than you already have. Did it occur to you, for one moment, that your team might be concerned about you? That they might be worried that you were sick, that you might die, and that maybe, just maybe, they wanted to help you?"
House scoffed, "they were just worried that I mightn't come up with the diagnosis and they'd have to do it. Taub was practically pissing in his pants."
Wilson threw his hands up in the air. "Yes, you're right, that's all it was. God forbid that they actually care about House, the person. Or that Icare about you. Well, you know what House? if you keep doing this, then one day there'll be no-one left who actually does give a damn. Will you be happy then? Is that what you want? Because if that was what you wanted you might as well have stayed on that beach on Fiji."
House looked away, swallowing hard. It had been a close run thing, he hadn't ever intended to come back here, to practise medicine again. He had thought that he would never see Wilson again. Then when he'd returned, when Foreman had dragged him back here, it seemed like he had lost Wilson anyway.
"I don't want to get rid of you," he said simply, hoping it would be enough.
"I don't want you to die, House, of liver failure or anything else. I don't want to ignore the symptoms the next time, when they might be real, because I think you're just being an ass and playing stupid games. I want your team noticing, I want them in there fighting for you, because you need someone in your corner. You don't... " this time Wilson looked away, a catch in his voice, then he looked back, his eyes steady and bright, "you don't have to be alone."
House fiddled with his cane, he didn't know what to say. Finally he gave a small nod of acknowledgement, hoping it would be enough for Wilson.
Apparently it was because Wilson gave a huge sigh and turned to keep walking, going slower this time. House fell into step beside him.
"So, pizza?" he asked again, hopefully.
He didn't like to admit to himself how relieved he was when Wilson said yes.