Thank you, everyone, for the lovely reviews. And hugs to guest, Susan. Your comments made my day. A round of chocolate for everyone!

For angst fans, this chapter starts off a bit melancholic, but imo, it doesn't stay that way. Enjoy.

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1992

In the morning you jumped out of bed and snatched up your scattered clothes, hopping on one foot while you put on your pants. At the door you mumbled that last night was a drunken mistake. The cooling embers of passion in your eyes told me you were lying.

~.~

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House adjusted the brim of his hat to cut the sun's glare. The barren, fenced in patch of land was nothing to look at. "Hollywood does wild and wooly better."

"Forget movies," Wilson ducked and shot, then blew imaginary smoke from his index finger, "this is the OK Corral, and I just killed a McLaury."

"You murdered a dummy, dummy. Holster your digit, Doc Holliday." House pushed off from the fence he was leaning against. "Let's belly up to a bar and slake our thirst."

"Later." A thin brochure materialized from Wilson's windbreaker. "There's something I want to see before the sun goes down."

"Must you?"

"Must I what?"

"Don't give me that clueless look. This is Tombstone, as in cemetery." The word grated in House's throat. "How many have we visited? Five?" He dusted off a sun-baked bench with his Stetson and sat down. "Keep yourself company. I'll wait here."

"It's Boothill." Wilson spread his arms wide and forced a chuckle. "It's famous."

"It's filled with the usual 19th century blights: consumption, childbirth, and diphtheria, with the added novelty of gunfights." House faked a broad yawn.

Wilson shook his head, disbelievingly. "First of all, it's filled with people, not coroner's reports." He held the pamphlet at arm's length and cleared his throat. "Says here, 'Deaths occurred from strychnine, chloroform, ptomaine, hanging, range wars, and explosions.' It's your kind of sandbox." Wilson paused, wincing as he coughed into his fist, then looked at House expectantly. "It's right across the highway. Last chance. Are you coming with or do I go alone?"

Across the highway. The image of a big rig barreling toward Wilson while he was doubled over in a coughing spasm spurred House to make a decision—not that he could beat off a truck with his cane, preventing them from becoming roadkill. "You had me at strychnine."


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As House had anticipated, Wilson fell into his customary reverie.

"Drawing comfort from the Circle of Life, are we?"

Wilson waved his hand in a helpless gesture. "They died so young back then."

"Yep, you have most beat by three years."

The cemetery's stillness stifled conversation. Wilson meticulously crosschecked names with the brochure, pointing out the graves of those that died from unique causes. "Here's a colorful obit: 'He climbed the golden stairs on the fumes from a pan of charcoal.'"

At this latest trivia tidbit, House stopped dead in his tracks. "We passed three children's graves and you didn't pause or choke up once." He planted his cane firmly in the dirt. "You're going out of your way to entertain me. Why?"

"Since you decided to come I thought I'd make it worth your while. It's called compromise." Wilson motioned to continue.

"Nope." House stood his ground. "'James Wilson, carefully calibrating his level of protectiveness for your individual needs.' One of your ex-wives shared that piece of wisdom with me. What are you up to?"

Wilson's hand went to the back of his neck. "Bonnie. Her calibration speech was the warning shot before she asked for a divorce."

"Your charm isn't working on me either." House leaned his weight onto his cane and waited.

The standoff seemed interminable until Wilson scuffed at the packed earth with his shoe. Finally, there was a huffed sigh. "Realizing when I die you're likely to dump my body down a mineshaft or in the middle of the desert, I went ahead and made funeral arrangements. When the time comes…" Wilson moistened his lips. "If you need to get out of Dodge quickly or you can't be disturbed while you're busy reaching the next level on your Nintendo, Mercedes agreed to handle the details."

"Auntie Mame of the desert was willing to talk about your pending death?" Dragging their landlady into their personal affairs, no matter how much it would alleviate a distasteful task, added to House's unease. The muscles in his chest constricted. It was impossible for him to inhale deeply.

He could accept Wilson poring over every detail like a high school student lavishing attention on a science fair project, but their "never say die" spunky landlady refused to listen when Wilson turned fatalistic. "Is there something you told her and didn't tell me about your last meeting with Bishop?"

"I knew you would take it the wrong way. It's simply smart to plan ahead, and it's cheaper, and…" Wilson's voice faded away in a jumble of muttered words.

"What's that?"

"I respect your aversion for ritual. With Mercedes handling everything you don't have to attend, which is probably best. You can remain low profile and not call attention to yourself."

But the mumbo jumbo meant something to Wilson. House snapped off a low hanging twig from an olive branch and twirled it in his fingers. "A graveyard is a helluva of a place to have this conversation."

"I thought it made a better segue than in an ice cream parlor." Wilson drew his hand over his forehead. "How about I tell you the rest at that bar?"

~.~.~

"Colorado Springs?" His back to the wall, House stretched his legs along the length of the tall-backed wooden booth. "The cemetery you insisted on visiting before we came to Arizona?"

Gazing off to the side, Wilson tapped nervously on his beer bottle, the tips of his fingers leaving a pattern of irregular circles in the condensation. "My parents suggested the place. Distant relatives have a family plot."

So Wilson had thought of everything. Even offering a graceful way for him to beg off because of the distance. House let his attention stray to the tourists dressed in their Grand Canyon t-shirts and regulars congregating on the far side of the room watching football.

"You have no objection? No exhortations about cremation and scattering me to the four winds?"

"James Wilson, the good son. Your parents played a part in your decision. Admit it."

Wilson slumped against the booth, defeated. "At least you won't have to get involved and I'll be dead."

"When the time comes…" House took his time and drank down a good portion of beer. "I'll be there."

A corner of Wilson's mouth twitched upward and he nodded.

House shifted to a sitting position when he spied their waitress bearing down on them, balancing three plates on her arms. Right before she got to their table, a cowboy yanked her skirt, demanding a pitcher of beer for him and his friend. She scowled and kept walking.

"Get that much, Trudy?" Wilson asked as a massive roast turkey sub held together with frilly toothpicks the size of pickaxes landed in front of him.

"Brock and Glen are good kids when they're sober." She brushed a wisp of hair behind her ear with her free arm and gave House a pulled pork sandwich—the equivalent mass and weight of the turkey. No room left on his plate, his side of fries came in a red plastic basket. She pointed at their bottles. "More of the same?"

"I'm good," Wilson answered, lifting the top of the roll and inspecting the filling.

"Honey," she gave him a 'poor little lamb' smile. "I told the chef no produce. And just for you, there's a 10% discount. Ignore where it says senior citizen on the check."

"And I asked for no pickles." House made a show of flicking the slices onto the table.

Her benign expression disappeared. "I told the chef," she answered coolly and eyed his beer. "How about you? You want another?"

His second, he tilted the bottle. It was more than half full. She must have seen for herself because she spun on her heel and called out that she'd come by again later.

"Nice ass," House said, watching appreciatively as she wiggled past seated patrons to get to the bar. When she was lost among the crowd, he swiveled back to Wilson, who was tugging on his hat and looking glum.

"I wish—"

"Oh, come on, you're an oncologist, you know how people react. They see through you or can't do enough. Forget feeling sorry for yourself and work that pinched, Mexican hairless face for all it's worth."

House accepted Wilson's expelled breath and philosophical nod as a sign the whineage had been cut short, and trained his full attention onto his sandwich, contemplating the best way to devour it. He decided the Guy Fieri double-handed, unhinged jaw, stuff-it-in-your-mouth method had the best possibility of success.

The jumble of smoky chunks and caramelized crusts of pork on a chewy, homemade bun were nirvana. "Umbelievable," he managed to say around the mouthful of food.

Wilson squeezed his eyes shut in mock horror. "I wouldn't hold it against you if you delayed your food review until after you finished eating." He then tore off a sizeable chunk of his club. "Thish ish goood."

After making decent headway, Wilson filched a fry from House's order and made a face. "Is it me or do these taste bad?"

House pushed a handful into his mouth. "They're God-awful." He slid over the shaker and applied a hailstorm of salt. The improvement was infinitesimal.

"Better?"

"If you prefer your stale oil heavily laced with sodium."

Wilson grabbed another and grimaced. "Horrible but surprisingly addictive."

House picked up a small bunch and regarded them with unearned gravitas before popping them in his mouth. "As unhealthy as they are unsavory."

"Deadly. You should lay off them." Wilson reached for another.

Snatching the basket away, House had a flash of déjà vu, which was followed by an epiphany. "Your appetite is back."

"Why uh…" Wilson looked guilty.

"What are you taking?"

"Dexamethasone. At the last consult Bishop became apoplectic when he saw how much weight I lost." Wilson shrugged, astonished. "Can you imagine him getting upset?"

"I can't imagine you taking his advice."

"He threatened to transfer me to Garza."

"Go-getter Garza? The only oncologist on the staff that's read a medical journal in the last decade?" House hitched his bottle in the air. "To Dr. Putz for growing a pair. May he never trip over them."

Wilson winced and clinked back.

"When were you going to tell me? Keeping secrets about our meds is a direct violation of our deal."

"As soon as it kicked in." Wilson had the good sense to look chagrined. "It sneaked up on me."

"As is this beer. I must be getting old." House pushed his bottle away and let loose a full-bodied belch. "Let's get out of here before I'm too drunk to drive and we're stuck overnight."

While Wilson dropped bills on the table, House clambered out of the tight-fitting booth, stumbling. His good leg had gone numb from sitting on the hard seats. Righting himself he accidentally jabbed an elbow into the side of the head of a cowboy—the one with the arrogant friend. A plume of beer splashed onto a section of bright red plaid, muting it to burgundy.

"Uh-oh, my bad." House said by way of an apology. He was about to push off with his cane when calloused hands clutched a hunk of his t-shirt.

"Hey you!" The Paul Bunyan skirt grabber loomed over him, scowling. "Where do you think you're going? You messed Glen's shirt."

"Spills happen, and technically, Glen messed his own shirt." House tried to pull away unsuccessfully. "Get your grimy hands off me."

While resisting, the guy suddenly let go. House fell backward, bumping into the booth. Fire traveled along his hip and ignited the nerves in his thigh. Crumpling in pain, two arms wrapped around his waist and caught him before he hit the floor.

"Hou-Ed, are you alright?"

"Yeah." Clutching his cane and feeling acutely miserable, he brushed Wilson's hands away. "I tripped."

Rising unsteadily to his feet, Glen swatted his friend on the back. "Forget it, Brock. The old guy's shitfaced. Can hardly stand."

"You're mistaking my friend's disability for drunkenness, but he wants to apologize." Wilson's fingers dug into House's flesh. "Don't you, Ed?"

Putting words in his mouth while he was still hurting was unwelcome. House spun around to give Wilson what for, but stopped when he saw the dark eyes darting toward the guy's shoes, pleading with him not to make a scene.

The men wore ankle holsters, which were perfectly legal. "Carrying concealed" wasn't breaking the law in Arizona.

"Look, I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you." House pulled out his wallet. "How much did that Kmart special set you back?" Wilson emitted a high-pitched squeak next to his ear.

"Damn, you're funny, mister. And no question, you got better taste in clothes than my pal, Glen." Brock touched House again, this time tracing one of the pistols on his blue tee shirt. "How about a trade? Yours for the shirt you ruined?"

House fingered the shirt protectively. The cloth was soft with age and was one of the few items he had brought with him from Princeton.

Wilson huffed. "The shirt isn't negotiable." He thumbed through his billfold. "Give me a number."

"I told you. A shirt for a shirt, or..." Brock moved in a ghostly blur. Suddenly, the long barrel of a gun pointed at their chests.

"That's not a viable option," Wilson answered in his soothing bedside manner voice, as if he were going over treatment plans with a patient.

Brock smirked, elbowing Glen. "Get a load of Old Cripple's, pal. How ya' gonna stop me from getting what I want, Scarecrow?"

"With this."

An ominous cylindrical object nearly burst the corner seam of Wilson's pocket. Face shuttered and voice forged from tempered steel, he said, "Stalemate."

"Christ, Wilson, don't be an idiot," House muttered under his breath.

"That's no gun," Brock jeered, his eyes narrowed into nasty slits. "Even if it was, you haven't got the guts to pull the trigger." Glen didn't look as confident.

With his right hand, Wilson passed his wallet to House. "What's your name again?"

"Brock."

It's not about guts, Brock. It's about what you have to lose." Wilson pushed back his hat with his thumb, displaying the results of his chemo. "Are you sure you want to find out which one us that is?"

The whole room had gone quiet.

Brock's hand twitched, and a lone bead of sweat trailed down his cheek. The Adam's apple in his neck did a little jig.

"No s-sir." Brock said, his voice cracking. He placed his weapon on the table and raised his hands in the air.

"Sensible decision." Wilson's hand stayed in his pocket. "Ed, how much cash do we have?"

House flipped through their wallets. "Between us, two hundred."

"Give it to them."

"One hundred will pay for a closet full of shirts."

"All of it."

As House dumped the money on the table, Wilson touched the brim of his hat in farewell, then gave House a light shove toward the door.


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"You called his bluff by upping the ante with a cancer chip, but promise me you won't do anything crazy like that again, that you're retiring the fastest finger in the West." Driving the car with one hand, House placed his free one over his heart. "Old Cripple is on his 9th life."

"Get off it, House. I don't know how you did it, but I do know you're enough of a genius to arrange that little drama. I almost pissed in my pants until I caught on."

House sat quietly drumming his fingers against the steering wheel for a few seconds. "Caught on to what?"

"My bucket list, of course. Playing Clint Eastwood."

House spared a sour sidelong glance, then turned his attention back to the dark and lonely highway.

Stop acting like you don't know what I'm talking about." Desperation crept into Wilson's voice. "You know, Dirty Harry?"

"Tombstone got to you. Think about this: If you were sitting in a bar in any other city and two drunks became belligerent, and one pulled out a gun. What would you do?"

The silence grew until House wondered if he had spoken out loud. He was about to repeat the question when there was a sharp intake of breath.

"I-I-I… Wilson buried his face in his hands. "Oh, crap."

House relaxed into the molded bucket seat and gave the Shelby more gas. On a ten-point scale, he'd rate the showdown a nine. If it weren't for the unforeseen jolt to his leg and Wilson throwing an extra hundred at the Corlane brothers, it would have been a ten.