Disclaimer: Don't Own, Etc.

Wilson was transferred from Intensive Care the next day, and discharged from the hospital four days after that. He was feeling pretty strong, considering he'd had his sternum cut open with a power saw, but that wasn't uncommon in open heart procedures. He wished that he didn't have to have the treatment, but he knew he needed to have chemo in case there were any cancer cells left in his body, especially since the tumor had not been encapsulated when they first found it.

He had to wait several weeks before he could start chemo, just to make sure he was as strong as he could be. It was strange for him, but it was the first time since he was a child that he'd had this much free time.

He spent some time researching and thinking about what he was going to do after his chemo was over. He'd already decided he was getting out of oncology. But, he still wanted to help people and he still wanted to use his medical training. He started to check out other specialties, preferably ones that had better averages of positive outcomes.

He still liked kids, and he wondered if he would make a good pediatrician. Of course, he wasn't going to either set-up or join a pediatric practice. He was too used to working in a hospital at this point. So, he would need some kind of pediatric sub-specialty.

He was strongly considering pediatric pulmonology. It was an area where there were deaths, of course, like any area of medicine. But, a lot of the cases involved serious conditions like asthma, which could be fatal, but were also very treatable.

While Wilson was researching hospitals that had good pediatric pulmonary departments, House had told him he was completing a thesis proposal in physics. So, Wilson added a nearby university with a good physics department to his list of criteria.

Wilson had agreed with House that he wanted to be a department head, and if there were an opening like that in a place where he wanted to go and he were able to get the job, that would have been wonderful. But, he also realized that the odds of that kind of opening occurring at the right time were pretty slim, forget about how tough the competition would be. So, Wilson re-adjusted his expectations and decided he could be a doctor on staff. Even there, the competition would be tough.

Wilson's research found that Mass General was one of the best hospitals in the country in many areas, including pediatric pulmonology. It had the added bonus of being near Harvard and MIT, both with good physics departments.

That would be the ideal place, if they were both able to find something. He'd keep his fingers crossed that it would work out.

Wilson's mind tripped to something else about that location – Massachusetts allowed same sex marriage. Wilson had no idea why that thought even occurred to him. House had certainly never expressed a desire to be married to anyone – unless it was a sham marriage designed to piss off a former significant other or to trick the government into giving someone a green card. And Wilson was a three-time loser. Not exactly an indication that he would be successful in the future.

So, why was he even entertaining the idea? His relationship with House was an order of magnitude more committed than any other relationship he had ever had, so that made the odds a marriage would work much higher. But, if they were already committed to each other, what did marriage add to it?

Unless they were going to be raising a family, it wasn't critical for them. A family? Was Wilson really considering that?

He knew during that chemo treatment he'd said that he wished he had a wife and children to be with him. He winced now when he thought about it. Here was House taking care of him in the most intimate of ways, purely as an act of love, and Wilson was telling him we wasn't good enough. That he wasn't anything that important to him. That Wilson wanted to die in someone else's arms. And House had just taken it – he hadn't told Wilson to go to hell, he hadn't thrown Wilson out, he'd just listened and continued to help him. He hadn't even let Wilson apologize later.

The thought of Wilson hurting House like that caused Wilson pain. He loved House with all his heart, and if he just hadn't been so fearful he would have admitted it – consequences be damned. But, he hadn't. He'd let House believe for all those years he was nothing more than a good friend.

Well, that was over now. Wilson decided he would spend the rest of his life loving House, and he would let House know that. Hell, he'd never let him forget that. And he vowed that the relationship would be about House now. A staff job after having been a department head was nothing compared to what House had done for him. Wilson would happily accept that to make House challenged and happy. Or at least less miserable.

Wilson also decided it was time to let House know how he felt. Of course, he couldn't say anything, but he knew House would accept physical affection. So, he started to show it as often as he could. He'd kiss, lick, and nip House on the back of the neck when House was on the computer. He'd drape his arms around House's neck when House was brushing his teeth. He slide his arms around House's waist pretty much any time that House was standing upright, and he made sure to rub his face all along the side of House's face when he did that. Of course, now that neither of them had any schedule to speak of, that usually led to more.

Later, looking back on that time, Wilson remembered how House felt inside him, and he also remembered how it felt to be inside House. But he remembered other things. The flavor of House's toothpaste. The smell of his cologne. (It was true, House didn't shave often, but he did, surprisingly enough, use cologne after every shower.) The way House's hair looked after Wilson pulled his t-shirt over his head.

House didn't care how he dressed, other than wanting to look rebellious. The only thing he was terribly vain about this hair. And, of course, the thinner it got, the more self-conscious he became.

Wilson didn't know if it was his awareness that soon he would be losing his own hair, but he could not have cared less about the condition of either House's hair or the growing size of his exposed scalp.

What did get to him was the vanity. It was so utterly adorable it made his knees weak. Of course, he couldn't say anything even remotely like that to House. So, he just made it a point to cover House's increasingly bare scalp with kisses every chance he got. He could only hope House would return the favor when Wilson's hair fell out.

And House hardly held back. He kissed Wilson's ears and his nose and his neck and his face. And then there was the healing spot on Wilson's chest that would soon become a scar. More than once, House kissed him there and shuddered involuntarily, reminding Wilson of House's own surgery, scar and continuing pain.

Wilson would feel his tears sliding down his cheeks every time he felt House react. He would wait for the inevitable mocking and would be surprised every time when the lips of his lover covered his cheeks in kisses. There would be some soft moaning, too. They both decided they didn't want to know who it came from.

Their days passed all too quickly. It was summer in New Jersey, and it should have been oppressive, but it wasn't. There was some sort of high pressure bubble or inversion or something and it was in the low eighties, dry and sunny for a couple of weeks. Neither of them was going for a run, but they could sit on the bench in the park and secretly cop feels as they looked at the young mothers watching their kids on the playground equipment.

Of course, that meant they would become so horny that they couldn't last an hour, and they would almost make it home before they started kissing. They'd just about make it through the door before they were shedding clothes. They'd wind up naked on the bed, touching and kissing and feverishly wanting each other.

Those intense needs would be satisfied in the most delicious of ways, with hands, tongues, mouths, and two beautiful, huge cocks. Yes, both House and Wilson were more than well-endowed, and they enjoyed each other without reservation.

It was a precious pocket of time on their long journey together, and it passed all too quickly.

Wilson went for his first chemo session on a Monday. Well, when he was working, Mondays always sucked, anyway, so this was no different. The perfect weather was gone, too, and it was excessively hot and humid. A typical July in New Jersey, but that didn't make it any more comfortable. At least the hospital, his car and the loft were air conditioned. He couldn't imagine undergoing treatment in that heat without it.

Much to his surprise, House came with him. Wilson was pleased until the phlebotomist had a little trouble finding a vain and inserting the shunt. It had hurt quite a bit, even with the local, and despite Wilson's efforts to hide it, House knew. His reaction was to do everything but physically threaten the phlebotomist.

"He's doing the best he can, House," Wilson felt compelled to try to calm down House. If nothing else, he didn't want a guy who was jabbing and cutting into his arm to be either scared or pissed off.

"There's a damn vein right there," House growled, pointing to Wilson's arm, but ignoring Wilson otherwise. "Are you blind?"

"I am trying, Doctor House," the phlebotomist answered. That comment would have led to a barrage of abuse if he hadn't been successful. "Got it!"

"I should have had more fluids," Wilson apologized.

"You could have put a garden hose down your throat and another one up your ass and this idiot still would have botched it up," House growled.

"House!" Wilson admonished him sharply, or at least as sharply was he was capable of, having just had someone digging up his forearm. For a brilliant man, House could be such an idiot sometimes. For God's sake, the last thing they needed after coming out to the entire hospital was to have angry techs gossiping about their throats and their backsides and garden hoses.

"It's over, House," Wilson said, trying not to have the entire phlebotomy department angry at this choice of significant others.

House remained silent and simply glared at the retreating back of the tech. He kept quiet because Wilson wanted it, but looked really pissed off.

In actuality, House wasn't really angry. Well, he was, but that was almost beside the point. It caused him pain to see anyone he loved be hurt, and he loved Wilson beyond, well, he just loved him. A lot. To see his beautiful, strong, sinewy arm have a shunt in it was bad enough. To know it would soon be filled with the toxins of chemotherapy was even worse. To think that Wilson's arm would also be cut up, scared and bruised, well, that was just too much.

House looked at the shunt and the tape now covering it. He drew in a shaky breath.

"Hey," Wilson said in a near-whisper, "It's okay,"

"No it's not," House argued. "It's not okay. I'm the one who's supposed to be sick. I'm the one whose body gets scarred. I'm the one who's supposed to suffer . . . " House's voice held another hitch, "Not you. Never you."

"It would appear otherwise," Wilson noted dryly. He had a wry smile on his face. He pulled House towards him and brought his mouth to House's temple, giving him a soft kiss. His face slid down until his forehead was resting against the side of House's face.

"This isn't diagnostics, House. You don't spend a few days trying to figure out what is wrong with a young girl, dramatically pull a tick out of her who-who and the problem is solved. This is cancer, and it's a long, slow, tough slog."

"I know that, Wilson."

There was a pause.

"Listen, if this is not something you want to go through, I understand. If you want to leave now—"

Before Wilson had the chance to finish the sentence, House's lips were on Wilson's. He pushed his tongue into Wilson's mouth and began caressing Wilson's tongue with his own. It was needy, urgent and completely loving.

They weren't sure how long they had been kissing when they heard the sound of a throat clearing.

"Excuse me." Cheryl was one of the older pharmacy techs who worked in the oncology department. She was in her middle fifties, of medium height and rather hefty, with brown hair and green eyes. "Just let me hang this bag, okay?"

She worked silently as she swapped out the saline that the phlebotomist had hung when he put in the shunt. She opened the valve on the IV. She lingered to make sure the bag was dripping and adjusted the flow.

"What, no comments?" House snarled at her. "No counseling us that we are going to hell if we don't give up our wicked ways?"

Cheryl smiled. "I'm an atheist, so it's not likely I'd be condemning anyone to a place I don't believe in. And the only reason I'd ask you to stop is because I don't have a long enough break for a cold shower. My God, that was so hot!"

Wilson was already blushing from having been interrupted, and her comments just deepened his blush. He knew if he said anything, he'd just stammer, so he kept quiet and smiled. He could only hope House wouldn't say anything too offensive.

"Damn right, it was hot!" House agreed. "Tell your friends, there's plenty more where that came from."

"House!" Wilson finally found his voice.

"What?" House feigned innocence.

"It's okay, Doctor Wilson," Cheryl interjected. "Just a little something to spice up my morning."

"You're not even the least bit shocked?" Wilson questioned.

"There have been rumors about the two of you for years," Cheryl replied, grinning. "It's nice to see you finally being open about it. Enjoy!"

"Well that was unexpected," Wilson remarked, after Cheryl left.

"Only by you," House replied.

"What?"

"Wilson, why do you think I always clean your clock when we play cards? You're the opposite of a poker face. Everyone has seen you mooning over me for years."

"I don't have chemobrain yet, House. Cheryl said there were rumors about the two of us. Apparently, you're not as good at hiding your feelings as you think you are."

"Shut up, Wilson."

"Yes, dear."

House gave Wilson a lingering kiss on the forehead.

Wilson didn't feel too horribly after his two-week course of treatment, certainly not as bad as he had when he did the heavy duty stuff at House's apartment. Sure, he was nauseous and vomiting and he had diarrhea, but there was nowhere near the pain he had before.

While that was a relief, it made Wilson think about the pain House felt every day. They set up a shared a calendar to keep track of Wilson's appointments, but Wilson saw nothing on there about House seeing a pain management specialist.

Had House set up an appointment and forgotten to add it to the calendar? That was certainly possible, but, given how conscientious House had been about going with Wilson to his appointments, that didn't seem likely.

The only conclusion Wilson could draw was that House hadn't made the appointment. Had it been further along in the treatment, Wilson might not have had the energy to deal with it, but he still hadn't had enough fight knocked out of him yet not to want to at least push House a little. He knew it wasn't going to go over well, to say the least, but Wilson felt it was important and that he'd be distracted with his own situation soon, both with his health and his professional life.

And it wasn't only Wilson's concern about House chewing up his liver with drugs. That was what he'd told House, of course, because it was non-emotional. Well, it was a little emotional but it was hardly an area for high drama, not to mention it was grounded in medicine. Which House was always more likely to accept.

The more emotional part of it for Wilson had to do with his own experience of pain during the heavy-duty chemo. Along with the vomiting and the uncontrollable diarrhea, it had been several days of excruciating pain. As House had predicted, every nerve ending in his body was on fire. It was unremitting and Wilson wasn't sure how he'd managed to get through it, even with the help of House's vicodin.

In all honesty, the thing that really allowed him to endure it was knowing that it was temporary. It was three or four days at most, and then, for better or worse, it would be over. Luckily, it turned out to be for the better, but that was almost beside the point when it came to the pain.

However, as Wilson continued to think about the experience later, another realization hit him. House lived like this. All the time. There was no waiting to get through it. No promise of eventual relief. It was always there, and always would be. A relentless, searing agony.

It made Wilson feel guilty. If he'd said that to House, House would have launched into a diatribe about Wilson's need to bleed for humanity, his Jewish guilt, etc. It wasn't that at all.

Wilson had not recognized how much pain House was in all those years. Sure, he could claim the excuse that he didn't really know what felt like until he experienced it. And he could say that House did a damn good job of covering it up. He could also claim that House was a bastard who manipulated people into thinking he only took pain meds for the high it gave him.

While all of that was true, it still didn't excuse what Wilson had done. House was in agony most of the time, and Wilson had basically dismissed House's dire need for pain relief as House just being a junkie. It was cruel beyond anything House had ever done to him, or really, to anyone.

Wilson did not believe himself to be a cruel person. Sure, he would realize one of his marriages or relationships wasn't working, and he would sometimes stray. But he never did that to actively hurt his wives. It just seemed to sort of happen. Well, maybe that was an excuse, but, still, he never set out to punish or injure anyone.

Then why had he been so horrible to House? Wilson thought about it for a while and he reluctantly concluded that because he loved House, it bothered him to think of House in such terrible pain.

It was easier for Wilson to cope with it by thinking that House was exaggerating and it wasn't really that bad. Wilson knew the terrible suffering of his cancer patients, but he fooled himself when it came to House, because he just didn't want to deal with someone he loved hurting so much. It was easier for him to deny it.

And that was what made Wilson feel guilty. He denied the suffering of the person he loved the most in the world. He could ignore all of House's desperate attempts at relief – trying to steal nerves from the CIPA patient or faking cancer to get drugs that would be injected into his brain, or risking a heart attack by taking methadone, or even being willing to take a completely experimental drug that later caused tumors in both the lab rats and in House. And that didn't include the detoxing and relapses and all the other crazy behavior – no doubt aided and abetted by a soul in agony and looking for anything as a diversion.

All of these things were signs – hell, they were goddamned billboards – that House was in a bad way. And Wilson had ignored them, just so he wouldn't have to think about the person he loved being it pain. To make Wilson feel better.

Well, that was about to end. Wilson wasn't going to ignore House's pain and he wasn't going to continue to let House muddle through. He knew it wouldn't be easy. Well, that was the understatement of the century. And knew House would fight him, but, while he still had the strength, he had to do something.

He broached the subject. "House, we need to talk."

"Oh, god," House groaned. "What is it? Did I forget to clean the hairs out of the sink after I shaved? Did I leave the toilet seat up, Miss Neatnik?"

"First of all, you don't shave. Second, I don't care if you leave the toilet seat up, which is one of the advantages of having a relationship with a guy. Anyway, I was checking the calendar for the next few weeks – "

"You don't need to worry about that, Wilson, I've got it under control."

"More likely one of your former minions – Adams or Park – does, but that's not the point. I'm not talking about my schedule, I'm talking about yours."

"What schedule? I'm on maternity leave. Other than working on my PhD, I have no schedule."

"What about your OB/GYN check-ups?"

"Huh? You do realize that was sarcasm, don't you, Wilson? That I'm a man and I can't be pregnant? Or is the chemo affecting your brain already?"

"I thought it was meta talk."

"Referencing what?"

"How the hell should I know, House? All I know is you told me you'd go to a pain management specialist, and I don't see even one appointment on your calendar."

"Been kinda busy, Wilson, what with trying to get my PhD, and taking care of my seriously ill significant other."

"Oh, no, you don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't attempt to avoid this. You promised me."

"Yeah, well . . . "

"No kidding, House."

"Okay, okay, I'll do it."

"Here's the number. And I'll even let you use my phone." Wilson produced a business card and handed it, along with his cell, to House.

House looked at the card. "How do I know this guy isn't another quack?"

"Because I've worked with him for five years. My former patients knew a little something about pain, too, House."

House glanced at his watch. "Oh, look. It's 12:15. His office is probably closed for lunch. I'll call later this afternoon."

"I happened to know the office has coverage now, House. Call them."

"Well, I don't have my calendar open on my laptop. I don't want to make an appointment that would conflict with one of yours, Wilson."

"Don't you dare!" Wilson almost shouted. He was frustrated with House's delay tactics, and he was even more frustrated with what House appeared to be doing. "Don't you ever use me and my illness as an excuse to avoid dealing with your pain!"

"Geez, Wilson, take it easy." House was taken aback by both Wilson's forcefulness and his unwillingness to be diverted. That was surprising. Well, he'd have to use another tactic then. "Last time I checked, this was my pain. You don't have any right to tell me what to do about it."

"I'm no longer just your friend, House. I'm your significant other. We're building a life together, so I get some say in what happens to you."

"You want me to give up the Vicodin so I don't fry my liver."

"It's not just that. It's . . . "

"What?"

"Well," Wilson hesitated. This was important and he could seriously screw this up. Still, he had no choice but to proceed. "I never understood before . . . about your pain . . . I probably still don't really understand, at least not about how it never stops . . . how you live in pain all the time . . . I just want . . . I don't want you to feel like that if it can be stopped . . . or lessened . . . Godammit, House, I love you and I want you to stop hurting!"

House was surprised again, both by what Wilson said and the force with which he said it. "What brought this on, Wilson?"

"I . . . I was remembering my own pain from the chemo I did. The only way I got through that was to keep telling myself, for better or worse, it would be over. Then I realized, there is no 'over' for you. It just goes on day after day . . . "

"Well, gee, thanks for that reminder of how my life sucks, Wilson. I'd almost had the chance to forget."

"Except you don't get the chance, do you?"

House was silent.

"See the pain management doctor, please?" Wilson asked. House noted he wasn't the only one who could do an excellent version of puppy-dog eyes.

"Wilson," House's voice held tones of confession, "I'm not sure I can."

"Why not?" Wilson asked gently, not swayed by House's manipulations.

"I don't know," House stated forthrightly. He really wasn't sure why he kept putting this off. "I'm used to things the way they are?"

"That's part of it, I'm sure," Wilson agreed.

As much as House liked medical puzzles, Wilson liked emotional ones, especially those involving his best friend, now lover. "But, there's more . . ."

"God, spare me the analysis, Wilson, I've already been to a shrink."

"It wouldn't kill you to go back, but I'm not going for that diversion, House."

"Damn. Do we really have to figure this out right now?"

"I'd say no, but then you'd never want to figure it out and then you'd never go."

"You're on to my scheme."

"It didn't take knowledge of rocket science to work that out, House."

There was a pause.

"Wilson, isn't it lunch time yet?"

"It's 12:30, almost past it. You keep this up, it'll be dinnertime."

"What are we having for dinner?"

"Food, mostly. And why don't you want to do this?"

"I just don't. I don't want to waste my time with another quack . . . "

"I told you this guy is good - one of the best . . . wait a minute, that's it, isn't it!"

"What?"

"The last time you went, it was obvious what the guy told you wouldn't work and you could dismiss him. This time it very well could work – "

"And you think I'm a masochist and don't want it to."

"No, of course not. Not the guy who faked brain cancer to try to get a drug injected directly into his brain or who risked a heart attack using methadone or who tried a crazy-ass experimental treatment that gave him tumors in his thigh that he tried to surgically remove in his own bathtub."

"I'm not sure that last example helps your argument."

"Well, maybe not. But, I think you live your live trying to minimize pain, not seek it out. And, if it didn't work this time, you wouldn't be able to discount the doctor involved. So, it would mean that, most likely, nothing would help you."

"I've known that for a while, Wilson."

"No, you've believed it for a while. It's a whole other thing to know for certain that you can't be helped. It destroys all hope."

"Hope is for sissies, Wilson."

"Hope is for humans, House, and the last time I checked, you were human. Very human."

House was about to deny it, when Wilson put his hand on House's package and rubbed lightly. House felt himself respond.

"That isn't a sign of humanity, Wilson."

"If it were just a sexual response, no, it wouldn't be.

"What else would you call it . . . " House hissed, "But a sexual response , uh - "

"That silly look on your face tells me it's not just your body that's responding, House." Wilson removed his hand.

"Hey," House protested, missing the contact. "Don't, um, leave me like, uh . . . "

"I'll take care of you after you call and make the appointment."

"You can be a manipulative bastard sometimes, you know?"

"Let's just say I've realized I have more ways to 'convince' than I used to."

"Yeah, that moralistic haranguing worked so well."

"Hence, why I've changed tactics. Here's the phone."

Wilson dialed the number and handed it to House. He got up and got a piece of paper and a pen for House to write down the date and time.

Wilson could just about make out the voicemail listing the choices on the phone tree. He decided telling House which number to punch was not a great idea.

House pressed a key.

"Um, yes," House responded, obviously having reached one of the office staff. "I'd like to schedule an appointment. Yes, I'll wait."

Wilson heard the faint sound of the hold music.

"Yes," House said again. "I'd like to make an appointment . . . Maheshjwar . . . really? No, I don't want to see another doctor, thanks . . . Yeah, six weeks is a long time, but if that's as soon as I can get in . . . "

At this point, Wilson was waving at House to give him the phone. House most likely wouldn't have done it except Wilson looked so adorably nerdy, frantically flapping his hands. He told the receptionist to hang on and oh-so-slowly handed the phone to Wilson.

"Hello," Wilson said as he snatched the phone from House. "Is this Janine? Hi, it's James Wilson. Okay, how are you? What grade is Madison in now? Really, third grade already! Yes, the time really does go by so quickly. Listen, Janine, I was wondering if you could help me out here. Are you sure you don't have any appoinmment times for Ravi for six weeks . . . Oh, I see . . . Yes, I understand he's going to a conference and then he's going to visit his family in India. I'm so sorry his father isn't doing well."

There was a pause as the receptionist spoke.

"Listen, I know this is a lot to ask, but is there any way for him to see House this week before he leaves? I know, but it's really important . . . Um, no, he's not a patient of mine. Actually, I've put my practice on hold for a while because I'm sick . . . Thanks . . . Cancer. Ironic, huh? Anyway, can he see him? It's really important . . . Not formally family, no . . . He's my significant other."

House waited for the inevitable rejection. Why hadn't Wilson just lied and said House was a patient? It would have been awkward when the doctor asked House about his cancer, but, so what? House could have either bluffed or blustered his way through that.

"Thanks . . . thanks so much . . . that's all we can ask for . . . I'll wait by the phone . . . Thanks again, Janine."

"What?" House asked, after Wilson hit the "end" button.

"She's going to see if they can fit you in sometime this week," Wilson replied. He looked apprehensive but pleased.

"Oh, goody," House replied.

"You know this is only the first of several appointments, House," Wilson reminded him. You'll still have plenty of time to put off dealing with this when Ravi leaves the country."

"Be thankful for small favors, I guess."

Wilson rolled his eyes, even as he took House by the hand and slowly led him to their bedroom. A promise was a promise, after all.