WARNING: M-rated language, some very dark slightly OOC angst and...well, you'll see. Thanks for reading. Reviews make my day.

"I had to do something vile," House explains, "beyond my usual level of vile. Something that would make sure you could never look at either of us again."

"Bravo."

Wilson doesn't need further explanation. This is House's ultimate act of self-sacrifice. He has done something he can't walk back from. This isn't Amber. It isn't an accident. It is a well-planned first-degree murder. House needs Wilson but by making sure that Wilson hates both him and Sam, he is setting him free. He is letting Wilson move on and away without looking back with fondness or regret. Wilson's fingers are numb with the cold. What if I didn't want to move on? It wasn't your choice to make, you asshole.

"Doesn't explaining the logic behind it negate the tactic?" Wilson muses.

He looks over at House who is either trembling from the cold or from the effort it takes for him to remain standing. One hand is gripping the cane, the other grasping the wall. "I still did it. Why I did it doesn't change the fact that I did it and it's not going to make you hate me or Sam any less.

House is on the ground now, his hair sticking to his face with sweat. He is gasping for air. The snow is brutal now and it starts to cover the ground.

"I didn't just do it to make you hate me though," House pants.

"Oh no?" Wilson sneers.

"She was cheating on you with the head of Radiology at her hospital," House says softly, looking at anything but Wilson, "I could see all the signs, I knew she was when I saw the way she talked to him on the phone that one time but I couldn't prove that she was a cheating...so..."

"You decided to kill two birds with one stone?"

Wilson looks at House who is now groaning with pain on the ground.

"You should go inside," Wilson observes. And then: "Why did you come after me? Why did you want to explain?"

"I don't know," House croaks weakly. His face is resting on his knee, his bad leg is stretched out in front of him and he is kneading it with his hand. Wilson knows that the wetness on House's face is sweat but it almost makes it look like House is crying. It makes Wilson feel better.

"It's because I'm more of a selfish bastard than I realized," House reflects after a few moments. His entire body is quivering now from the cold, "I needed to explain because—"

I couldn't bear losing you even though I thought I could. Because I'd die without you. Because I'm sorry. Because I should've let your fake-happiness be. Because I love you.

It's all there, he just can't say it. Wilson looks over at him again, sitting maybe a foot away from where he is sitting, and instinctively worries about the fact that House is both shivering and contorting with pain. The snow is covering them both with a sheet of white.

"You should go inside," he says again, more gently. He is surprised to discover that he doesn't want House to die.

House nods but does not move. Partly because he can't and partly because he knows this is the last time he will interact with Wilson and wants to stretch out the moment.

"Do you love her?" Wilson wonders.

"I've never hated anyone more than I hate her." The answer escapes him before he can make it more witty, more funny, more hurtful. Wilson's keeps his expression unreadable but in House's ready answer, he sees the opportunity to hurt him, to punish him.

"Was it the first time?"

"No."

"How many?"

"One other time. That day in your apartment." In the apartment you bought for us.

"Did she come?"

Silence.

"Did she?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

"Once."

"Did you come?"

"No."

"Did you fake it?"

"Yes."

House is definitely crying now. There are no tears but his face is contorted in pain and his eyes are scrunched up. Every word that comes out of his mouth is a sob. Wilson revels in his revenge. He is reminded of the infarction because that is the only time he's seen House in this much pain.

"Why didn't you?" His voice is atonal.

He hears a heaving breath. House's face is turned away. The snow is brutal now. He knows he is killing House and he is glad.

"Why didn't you?"

There is no answer. He knows that this is physical torture for House. With every questions his grip on his leg become tighter, his pain more pronounced. He is shivering hard.

"Did you not like it?" Wilson presses, his voice breaking. He is a mortally wounded soldier, beating another into the ground. He is killing House.

"Stop," House is pleading.

"Was she not good or was it just the thought of sleeping with your best friend's girlfriend that was a turn-off?"

"James, stop it."

The first-name use does it. Wilson stops, if only to reflect on the fact that this is the first time House has actually called him by his full first name. House rarely calls him any name but when he does it is either Wilson (for emphasis) or Jim or Jimmy (for laughs). The word James out of House's mouth almost makes him feel like a different person, maybe someone who doesn't hate House.

He looks over again. He's never seen anyone look more miserable than House does. House closes his eyes and slackens his hold on his thigh. This scares Wilson more than the groaning and crying.

"You should go inside," he repeats, noting that House's fingers are red from the cold.

"I love you."

It's said so quietly he almost doesn't hear it. The words are a breath that lingers amidst the snowflakes.

"Excuse me?"

With immense effort, House speaks again, "I love you."

Wilson has waited for those words for decades. This is decidedly anticlimactic. Wilson laughs for a good minute.

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

"Is that supposed to fix everything?"

"No."

"Is that supposed to fix anything?"

"I don't know," he is shivering violently.

Wilson's head hurts and his stomach is churning. He looks over at House again and notes for the first time that House's paleness might not have everything to do with the fact that he's in pain. His medical brain is screaming at him: mild to moderate Hypothermia due to recent alcohol consumption by the patient and quickly dropping temperature.

"We should get you inside," he whispers to himself, angry that he has to take care of House when he's supposed to hate him. Supposed to, he notes calmly.

"We," House notices the pronoun usage happily, still shivering violently. Wilson jumps to his feet and pulls House by the shoulder. Doctor brain: patient is exhibiting slow and labored motor functions, diagnosis of moderate hypothermia confirmed.

"Come on House," Wilson urges as he drags House with him, "Hypothermia."

"No," House protests but follows Wilson's lead, "it's not that cold."

"It's 30 degrees and you've been drinking and you're wrong about a diagnosis."

"Well, you smell like vomit," House smiles into Wilson's lapels.

"I have you to thank for that," Wilson says with huff.

"Am I dying then? Is that why you're being nice?"

Wilson laughs. "You're the world class diagnostician. You tell me. When is the last time you lost a patient to mild Hypothermia?"

"I think I'm dying," House moans tragically.

"My prognosis is positive."

"Yes but you're an Oncologist, you don't know about real-life medicine," House insists as they make their way to House's apartment, "Boy, you really smell like vomit."

Apparently the foul smell is not enough of a repellant because it does not stop House from pressing himself closer to Wilson.

"Sit down," Wilson commands when they are inside, slightly worried that the shivering has stopped abruptly. He puts water in the kettle and dumps blankets and a sweatshirt on House. He puts on the sweatshirt and wraps himself in the blankets, clearly irked that he is not being fussed over.

When Wilson emerges from the kitchen with tea and hot-water bottles House is still gripping his thigh but otherwise coherent.

"Are you going to leave?" House asks casually as he places the hot bottles under his arms for heat.

Wilson thinks about this for a second. He hasn't looked over at the chair since they walked in and he knows better than to do so now. Taking care of House distracted him momentarily but the stabbing pain returns to his chest.

"I suppose I should," Wilson says as he sits down next to House. He sees House grin in his peripheral vision.

"You said you loved me when you were delusional with Hypothermia," Wilson reminds him matter-of-factly.

"You mean like three seconds ago? I remember, thank you. I wasn't that delusional."

"Huh," Wilson nods.

They sit in silence for a few moments, listening to House slurp his tea.

"Was that a 'please stay' sort of I love you or more of a 'hey man, you're great' I love you?" Wilson asks as if he is merely inquiring about the delicacies of a particular diagnosis.

House returns the answer in the same casual tone. "No, no. That was more of a… 'I'm not sure I can live without you' sort of thing."

"Huh."

House sips some more tea.

"Yup."

It seems like ages ago that he was pounding House with guilt in the alleyway. Everything seems so normal now that Wilson almost wants to turn on the TV and order Thai food and forget that Sam ever existed.

"I could deal with losing her," he admits to the general living room, "it's losing you that really got to me. I didn't expect her to cheat but I found it plausible. You on the other hand…"

This, House cannot treat casually. Wilson feels the full force of House's stare on him, feels him moving closer.

"You're still here," House's tone is pleading.

"I never imagined that you would go that far," Wilson admits in an off-handed way.

"I did."

"I know."

House dares rest a hand on Wilson's arm. He doesn't move away from it.

"Why aren't you out the door?"

"That's exactly what you were aiming for," Wilson says with a small, tired smile, "if I go, the terrorists win," he affects a slight George Bush impersonation.

"I've always admired that you can be funny under duress," House says. Wilson can see the warmth in his eyes.

"You didn't really seem like you were enjoying it that much," Wilson complains, "at least if you were enjoying it—"

"That would be worse," House reminds him..

"I suppose."

They sit in more silence. Wilson faintly notices that House's arms is traveling across his shoulder and pulling him closer. House's forehead comes to rest lightly on his shoulder.

"She was definitely cheating," Wilson says.

"Yeah."

"But is one an active participant in the cheating if one is staging oneself for discovery?"

House frowns into Wilson's shoulder, "you're trying to find loopholes for me. There aren't any."

Wilson notices that breathing has become very difficult. "I'm just observing that what you did was somewhat selfless."

"Well, we're sitting here now so it definitely wasn't selfless," House explains, pulling him closer still. House's face is practically buried in his neck. "Why are you still here?"

"This is the worst you've ever hurt me," Wilson says quietly, "worse than…" He can't say Amber's name.

"I know," House says. His arms tighten their hold on Wilson, as if begging for forgiveness.

"I don't think I can forgive you. I don't think I can see you after tonight."

"I know."

Wilson is breathless, he slings one arms around House's shoulder in return. They are hugging. It's not exactly a hug, Wilson notes, it's more of a hug-like embrace.

"Why are you here?" House asks for the thousandth time.

"Because I love you too."

He feels House grin into his neck.

"Is that a 'you're fun to hang out with' I love you," House teases, "or an 'I don't have any other friends' I love you?"

"It's more of an undying sort of I love you," Wilson whispers, realizing his lips are only inches away from House's ear. House is holding him so tightly now that it hurts. "It's more of an 'I hate you and I still love you'."

"You should leave," House says, "go far away."

"Yes."

"Never look back."

"Yes."

"Move to LA or Seattle or New York."

"I prefer Toronto."

"Okay. Toronto then," House concedes as one hand moves into Wilson's hair.

"I suppose you want me to get married and have kids?" Wilson leans into the touch. House's fingers are pulling on his hair and he is overcome by the sudden urge to tilt his head up (because that's how close they are, he only has to tilt his head up) so that his lips are covering House's. He wants to kiss House and he wonders if House knows this.

"Yeah and have a house with a white picket fence," House advises, "lots of kids running around and a dog."

"It sounds lovely."

"And boring," House snorts onto the skin of Wilson's neck. They are entangled in the blankets. It's getting very warm.

"Well, too bad I have a cripple latching onto me, restricting movement."

At this House does actually slacken his hold a little, "go."

He is splayed on House but he props himself up on one arm and looks at House's face. His eyes are barely blue, they are dark and pleading. Pleading for what? For me to stay or leave?

Wilson takes his thumb and wipes the pink lipstick from the corner of House's lips and his cheek. I am wiping my ex-girlfriend's lipstick from my best friend's mouth. I am so fucked. He lowers his head onto House's chest again.

"I loved her," he is almost crying again.

"I know."

Silence. A finger finds its way to Wilson's spine. He shudders at the touch.

"She didn't deserve you," House whispers, "neither do I but at least I know it."

"Shut up," Wilson snarls, "you're not allowed to…you're not allowed to decide…I hate you."

They don't speak. They don't move.

"Was this a test?" Wilson asks. "Was this another one of your sick tests? Were you just seeing exactly how far you could push me without breaking this? Were you expecting that you could do that and that I would still stay?"

"No," House whispers, "I didn't."

More silence.

"I don't want to move to Toronto. You move to Toronto."

"Okay," House says.

"Yeah," Wilson realizes, "you sleep with my girlfriend and I have to move? You move."

"I said okay."

"And don't move to a good vacation spot like Hawaii. I want to go there. Go to a remote town in Alaska."

"Okay. Which one?"

"Not Anchorage, it hosts medical conferences."

"Where then?" House asks.

"Somewhere in Interior Alaska. Fairbanks is good or you can go to one of those small towns like Nenana and become the town doctor."

"I've always wanted that." He has that far-off look on his face that indicates he is planning something mischievous.

Wilson eyes him suspiciously. "Are we having a serious conversation?"

"You sound pretty serious."

"I'm not," Wilson sighs, "I don't want you to move to Fairbanks."

"You don't?" House is surprised. There is a note of hope in his voice, as if he's expecting Wilson to proclaim his forgiveness and ask him to stay.

"Your leg would act up from the extreme cold."

"I forgot about that."

"I want you to move to Santa Fe."

"Sure," House mumbles, "Santa Fe is nice."

Wilson is falling asleep. In the arms of his best friend who was cheating with his girl friend about two hours ago. I am so screwed.

"Just not Hawaii. I really want to go there," Wilson mumbles as he falls asleep.

When Wilson wakes up the next morning the air is stale and everything is still. He's cold because he's lying on top of a heap of blankets and not under them. Stupid House, he thinks, always hogging the blankets. It takes him a moment to realize that House isn't underneath him or next to him. Selfish bastard always preferred the bed.

He cracks his eyes open and dares look over at the chair. There are no signs of evil upon it, it's just a chair. Everything comes back to him and his chest hurts. So does the rest of his body. From the corner of his eye, he spots something odd. The royal blue cardiology volume that always rests right on top of House's bookshelf is missing. He chides himself for knowing the exact details of House's apartment but he knows that the book has been there for the past four years.

He sits up. It's like he's in on one of those "spot the difference" pictures. The casual observer would notice nothing amiss in House's apartment but Wilson spots several missing objects. All the best books, the case on top of the coffee table, the statue House had bought from Egypt and…the guitar. Why is the guitar missing? Wilson makes his way to the bedroom. The bed hasn't been slept in. The closet is open and half-empty.

"How did I sleep through that?" he whispers to himself. He checks under the bed, where House keeps his suitcase. It's gone. He checks the bedside table. So is his passport.

"Great," he grunts. He has to make sure. He scours the apartment for a goodbye letter but there isn't one. He calls House's travel agent.

"Yeah he called me last night at the worst possible hour," she sighs, "I told him I was home and not working but he offered to pay double."

"Did you book him?"

"Yeah, of course I did. I have a talent for booking things last minute," she says proudly, "a pre-furnished apartment, a car and a one-way plane ticket. I did it all in thirty minutes."

"Let me guess," Wilson says as he sweeps a hand on the sleek wood of House's piano tenderly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "Santa Fe?"

"What?"

"He's going to Santa Fe." It's not a question.

"Oh gosh no," she laughs, "He went to Honolulu."

He is completely silent.

"In Hawaii," she explains, interpreting his silence as confusion, "it's on the island of Oahu."

More silence from him.

"You should really look at a map," she grunts.

"Yeah, no," he mumbles, shocked, "I know where Hawaii is. Thank you."

He hangs up and lands half on top of the piano, laughing. He laughs until his stomach hurts, until there are small tears at the corners of his eyes. This is House's greatest prank and Wilson revels in what must be one of their greatest inside jokes. Not everyone would move to Hawaii to make me laugh, he grins to himself as he goes to the bathroom to rinse the sour taste of vomit and sleep from his mouth.

Then he goes to the kitchen to make himself breakfast.

Pancakes, he decides, maple walnut to make House jealous. He contemplates taking pictures of the pancakes and emailing them to House.

As he munches on the pancakes, his heart is still causing him a considerable amount of pain. He thinks of Sam. He hopes she will take her things from his apartment before he goes back. He washes a bite down with orange juice. He thinks about House and wonders if he can ever truly forgive him or whether he already has. He decides he can't have already forgiven him, it's too soon. He also realizes he isn't angry, just very sad. He should feel more alone because he's completely… alone but somehow the comedy of House moving to the one place he'd asked him not to go makes them feel more linked than ever. He doesn't feel as lonely as he should.

He realizes, linked as they might be, that he will probably never see House again. Or maybe he will, but it will be a casual run-in at the grocery store or a medical conference and neither of them will know what to say or what to do and it will never feel the same again. He suddenly wishes that he had said goodbye to House, that he had said goodbye to House last night, in that precise moment when he was wiping the lipstick from his lower lip.

He takes another sip of juice and watches the golden sunbeams spread across House's kitchen tiles. Then he realizes that House did leave him a goodbye note after all, in the form of his travel plans. It reads "fuck you" in the most affectionate way possible and he supposes he will just have to be happy with that.

There is an epilogue which I will post if you feel it necessary to know what happens after this. Again, I'm aware of the darkness and the slight OOC. Forgive me! Thank you, thank you if you've gotten this far.