Chapter Fourteen

Amber was dead.

Wilson sat at his desk, staring at the Paris shot glass he had on the polished wood, ignoring the beads of sweat that dripped down the glass and collected underneath. He ignored the faint taste of whiskey on his tongue, and sucked in a lungful of nicotine, his hand shaking, leaving jagged streaks of smoke twisting in the air in front of him.

He should've gone home, but he couldn't--not yet. Not with all of her stuff surrounding him; not when she wasn't there with him. Not when he didn't know why she died, or why she'd been with House in the first place, or why he hadn't known . . . Why House couldn't figure out how to save her. He could figure everything else out, so why not how to save Amber?

His head pulsed and his eyes burned--not because he was crying, but because he had been. Having Amber ripped from him, without the chance to say goodbye, hurt. The fact that she had most likely grown tired of him and was sleeping with House of all people hurt even worse. How could he go home after all that?

There were a few knocks on his door, and he sighed. He wasn't surprised--he figured Cuddy would come by eventually, probably to tell him to go home and rest. He'd put the Jack Daniels away a few minutes ago, but the shot glass was still on his desk, and he was sure he smelled of whiskey, and he couldn't air out the smell of nicotine before she walked in, even if he tried.

"Come in," he said, and hoped she wouldn't care about the fact he'd just obviously been drinking and smoking in his office.

The door opened and House stepped in, and Wilson groaned. House hadn't knocked on his door since . . . Well, he really couldn't remember a time he'd knocked, or shuffled in instead of bursting in like he owned the place.

"What do you want?" he asked, breathing in smoke and closing his eyes against the pain that suddenly resurfaced. He was in pain already, but now it was worse with House there.

House tapped his cane against the floor. "I . . . should've . . ." Wilson opened his eyes and looked at House, standing there looking just as lost as he felt. He let out a harsh sigh, then looked at the ceiling, as if that could somewhere help him with whatever it was he was trying to say. "I'm sorry," he grumbled, and it sounded like he meant it, even if it also sounded like it was being dragged from him.

Wilson didn't know whether he wanted to accept the apology, or leap over his desk and strangle him. Instead, he just sat there and took another drag from his cigarette. Tears streamed down his face again and he choked on the smoke or the emotion--he didn't know which.

House walked slowly over to the desk and sat in front of him. They stared at each other for a minute, and Wilson pretended that he didn't notice House's eyes were watery and red. He was looking at the cigarette he held between his two fingers, and he suddenly felt nauseous.

He handed over the half-smoked cigarette and House took it, putting it in his mouth.

"Why were you two together?" Wilson finally asked, voice cracking.

House shook his head and offered Wilson the cigarette. He just shook his head, so House stuck it back in his mouth for a second, breathing out the smoke so it obscured his face. "I don't know."

"You don't know," Wilson repeated dully, and felt anger flare up in his chest.

"I don't remember."

"Well isn't that convenient," Wilson spat.

"I'm trying to be--"

"What? Comforting? You killed my girlfriend."

"I didn't kill--"

"You can save anyone House! You--you--you diagnose the plague and--and get these ridiculous ideas from nowhere, but you can't do it for--"

"You think I didn't try?" House shouted suddenly, and Wilson jumped at the sharpness of his tone. "I would've done anything to save her, you idiot!"

"Why? Because you loved her? Well, whether you did or not, it doesn't matter, because I did!" he yelled, pointing at his chest--at the heart that seemed to be breaking.

"Oh, that's right! I hate you so much I purposely killed her just to piss you off!"

"Why was she on the bus with you, House?! What were you two doing?!" he demanded again.

"I don't know! I don't remember! But hell, if we were meeting up to fuck you can't say you didn't have it coming!" he retorted, violently crushing out the burning cherry in the ashtray Wilson also took to hiding in his drawer and brought out only to ash in when he smoked.

"I never cheated on Amber!"

"Oh, please. How long do you think that would've lasted? How long until you two would've had an argument and you rushed off to the bar to get a drink? How long until you would've popped the question and got bored with sleeping with the same damn woman every night and took one of your oncology hussies out to lunch?"

Wilson clenched his hands into fists, as if the very motion could choke House to death. "You--you little--" he sputtered, unable to articulate what he felt. Unable to articulate how much he wanted House to burn. "Can't you just--for once in your life, House, can't you--my girlfriend just died! Because of you! Why won't you just leave me alone for once?"

"I didn't come here to argue. I tried everything I could, but I just--I just don't know, Wilson! Don't you think that if I could've saved her, I would've?"

"That's all it is to you, House! You don't care about Amber! All you care about is figuring out what she had!"

"What, and like you gave two shits?" House snapped, then pushed out of the chair and scowled at him. "I cared about her more than you did. You only dated her 'cause she was a proxy."

"You're not allowed near her autopsy report," Wilson spat. "And get the hell out of my office."

"Gladly," House replied, then slammed his office door shut so hard the shot glass rattled on the top of his desk.

The insistent beeping in my ear woke me, and I slowly opened my eyes, habitually turning off the alarm on my watch. I stared at the unfamiliar ceiling above, not recognizing the feel of the comforters or the mattress underneath me. I looked over to see House sleeping beside me, on his back but head tilted so that he faced me. I felt his hot breath scattering across my face, and realized that I was sleeping in House's bed.

I hadn't gone to his bed last night--or at least, I didn't remember. I hadn't had enough beer or scotch to have drunken sex and forget, so that couldn't have been it, and I distinctly remembered falling asleep on his couch around two, when he'd said he needed to get to bed.

Then, I remembered. I remembered House shaking me awake around three and practically dragging me to his bed. I'd been so tired the memories passed by like blurry dream, and as soon as I'd plopped onto his bed I'd gone back to sleep, uncaring that House was getting in on the other side, inches from me.

I turned over on my side and stared at his face, smiling at the thought of him waking me up and pulling me to his bed. I remembered what it was like to kiss him, and I was sure I was blushing at the memory of me moaning into his mouth.

Frowning, I thought of how I wasn't even the Wilson he had liked, or known, and that he wasn't who I'd fallen in love with either. Well, all right, so he was--the same face, the same personality, but not the same memories . . . Eventually, something would happen and he'd ask me about something I should've known, and I wouldn't be able to answer. One day I'd want to reminisce about something that had never happened, and what then?

Sighing, I swung my legs off the mattress and held my face in my hands, yawning as I rubbed my eyes. I sat there for a minute, trying to push away the rest of my drowsiness, and then I stood up, stretching my arms and popping my back. I looked back down at House--at the way the comforter was pushed down to his waist, his thin white undershirt raised a little to reveal some skin, and at his tilted head and partially opened mouth.

In the dark, he looked like my House. The deeper wrinkles, the paler skin, the bags under his eyes . . . they didn't exist; not without light. He didn't weigh less, and his clothes didn't hang off of him where they shouldn't have. I reached forward to touch his face, almost like I had to make sure he really had pulled me into his bed in the middle of the night, but then he shifted and made a noise, so I pulled my hand back.

I left the room and closed the door quietly behind me, not wanting to wake him up.

I hadn't packed my hair dryer, simply because I had thought we were going to drink more and that we'd have hangovers when we woke up. Loud noises were never exactly the best thing for a morning after alcohol binging. I'd taken the quickest shower I could (not only because I didn't want to wake him, but because it was unnerving, washing a body that wasn't quite mine, and having to look at the scars on my inner thigh and feel the ones on my chest that weren't quite visible.)

I brushed my teeth, trying not to notice the differences on my face here and my face back home. A whole new year in a whole new life . . . I wasn't sure if I liked it or not. I know I wanted to go home, but it wasn't like I didn't have anything to look forward to here, either. What would happen if I left? Would this Wilson go and off himself? Would he . . . hurt House by leaving him, or something else like that? As much as this House needed me, I was sure my House did too. Oh God, what if this Wilson was in my body and he killed me? What if my House had tried to talk with him and was rebuked?

I shook my head--I couldn't think of those things; it wasn't like I could do anything to fix them.

I left the bathroom to see House sitting on the couch, a plate of macadamia nut pancakes in his lap while he shoved forkfuls in his mouth. I'd made them before I took a shower, and put some in the fridge for when he woke up. I found myself wondering what it would taste like on his tongue if I were to kiss him, then cleared my throat. Those sort of thoughts would make me late for work.

"Did the shower wake you?" I asked, running my hand through my damp hair. Towel- and air-drying really didn't do it for me.

"Nah, your alarm did. That thing's noisy as hell," he managed around a mouthful of food, then glanced over at me briefly, but stared at the muted television a second later.

For the first time, I wondered if he regretted last night. We'd only made out and leaned against each other (for some reason, saying that House and I cuddled didn't make much sense) and slept in the same bed, but . . . Well, if House was regretting doing that, or was too afraid to continue . . .

I rubbed the back of my neck and knew I was shifting my weight back and forth nervously. "Uh, did you want a ride to work? I could wait a few more minutes for you to get ready."

"Just gonna finish these up and go back to bed," he said, pointing at the syrup-covered pancakes with his fork.

He wasn't acting any differently than he normally did, but sometimes it was difficult to tell with him. I went over to the closet and pulled my coat out, watching him out of the corner of my eye--checking to see if he seemed upset or uncomfortable or, in any way, like he regretted kissing me last night.

When I put my coat on, House put his plate on the coffee table with a clink and stood up, reaching my suitcase before I did. We met at the door, and he put the suitcase in my hand, staring at me expectantly. "Wouldn't want to forget this," he said, our fingers brushing as I took it from him.

Our chests were inches from each other, and his eyes were locked onto mine. Should I kiss him goodbye, or was that too domestic for his tastes? House wasn't exactly the touchy-feely type of person.

Before I could really make a decision, he took a step back and clapped me on the shoulder. "See you at work," he said in parting, then turned around and headed back towards the couch.

Clinic duty was the same as it always was on New Year's Day. Most of the people had hangovers, although some of them had frostbite and broken bones and bruises because of family fights. Someone had third degree burns on his hands because he'd screwed up lighting a firework he'd meant to shoot off, but was too drunk to do it properly. All in all, nothing new.

I kept randomly remembering kissing House on his couch, and I'd start grinning like an idiot for no reason. The nurse handing over the folders asked me if I'd had a good night, and I said that I had, and she had a knowing little smile that was somewhat unnerving but attractive at the same time. Just remembering what it felt to have his mouth pressed to mine, or his tongue rubbing its way past my lips, made my heart flutter nervously, like a butterfly trapped in a cage trying to get out.

It was a little past eleven and I knew that if House wasn't here already he'd be here soon, so I decided to go up to my office and wait. If he didn't burst into my office demanding lunch, around noon I'd stick my head in his office and offer to take him. I wondered if it would be considered a date, or if eating lunch at work even counted.

"Wilson," Cuddy greeted as she walked up to me, one thin eyebrow raised knowingly and the smile on her face matched the one the nurse gave me earlier. "Have a nice New Year's Eve with House?" she asked. She didn't attempt to make it sound innocent or casual.

I cleared my throat and rubbed the back of my neck. My cheeks burned slightly. "Yes," I answered, and tried to stop myself from grinning. I probably ended up doing that thin-lipped smile House always pointed out to me as the one I made when I was pretending I didn't find him amusing.

"I thought so. He didn't put up much of a fight when I gave him a case."

"Oh, so he is here?"

"He showed up about an hour ago." She followed me as I made my way over to the elevator, the smile curving the sides of her mouth still. "So . . ." she began, sounding more than a little amused.

"So," I agreed, raising an eyebrow at her.

We stopped in front of the elevator, and she smiled even wider. "It's official then?"

"What, House and me?" She nodded and I shuffled on the spot a bit, pressing the call button. "I suppose it is. Official, I mean. We're dating, if that's what you're asking."

"That's what he said," she stated. Well, if he told her we were dating, then apparently he didn't regret kissing me. Thank God. "He really . . . cares about you, Wilson."

"I know."

"Don't hurt him," she warned just as the door opened, then turned on her heel and clicked away.

It was ten 'til noon when I heard the tap, tap, tap of pebbles hitting my balcony door. I glanced up to see House on the other side of the dividing wall, pebbles in one hand and the other twisted back, as if getting ready for another toss.

Our eyes met and he let the rest of the pebbles drop.

I got out of my chair and put on my coat, keeping my eyes locked to his as I did. When I opened the door the cold air hit me like a blast, but it wasn't unpleasant. In fact, my office felt a bit uncomfortably warm compared to the slight chill.

"Hey," I greeted, standing by the half-wall that divided us.

"You're avoiding me," he accused, chin lifted stubbornly.

I furrowed my brows. "What? No, I'm not. I was just doing clinic duty."

"Until eleven-thirty?"

"Actually, I finished at eleven. I've been doing paperwork since then."

He stared at me, blue eyes trailing over my face cautiously, as if checking for the slightest twitch or sign that I was lying. I wasn't, and that must've showed, because he nodded and then looked out at the grey sky. "Okay," he relented.

I frowned at him, then leaned against the partition that separated us from the drop that would kill anybody who leapt over it. "Why would you think I was avoiding you?" I asked. He didn't answer--he just kept staring out at the snowy ground, but I could tell by the slight frown and the fact his eyes were narrowed that it still bothered him. "Is it because of last night?" I pressed tentatively.

He barely nodded. I could've pretended he didn't, if I wanted.

Of course he'd worry about me regretting it, just as I had thought he might. I worried because, well, fifteen years of spending most of my time with him and it hadn't ever happened, and he probably worried because for the last fifteen years, I'd hated him. It made sense. What didn't make sense was that in my reality, House hadn't ever shown any interest . . . Well, maybe some, but not like this. Not enough to hold my hand or ask me out or kiss me.

"House?" He hummed to let me know he'd heard me. "Why did you kiss me?"

"Oh, God," he groaned, then rubbed his palm over his face. "I knew it. I knew you'd freak out. You son of a bitch."

"House, look, I'm not--"

"Don't pull this whole 'I'm not gay' thing, idiot. I know you've slept with men before. I know what broke up your first marriage; do not do this."

"What?!" I demanded, quite a bit louder than I meant, and I glanced around as if someone could've heard me although we were alone. "She told you?"

"She might as well have," he grumbled, scowling at me. "She was playing the pronoun game. 'Oh, the classmate this, and oh, the person he cheated on me with that, and blah, blah, blah, our friend that he slept with yadda, yadda' and all that crap. She never said 'she.' She might as well have told me you bent over the table and took it like a man."

I held my face in my hands and groaned. I could just hear him mocking me about it--about the fact the first time I'd cheated, it hadn't even been with a woman. I didn't even want to know what he'd say if he knew I'd experimented a little in high school--although, I suppose, it wasn't so much 'experimenting' as 'dating casually.' "Look, it's not what--I was drunk, and I--I was having problems and we were--look, House, it's not--"

"What, you're not gay? Those three beers got you hammered last night? You only kissed me 'cause you were drunk? Spare it."

I pulled away and shook my hands a bit. "No, no, I'm not--I'm not not gay, I just--I didn't want you to know because that was in the past, and I knew you'd make fun of me--and kissing you wasn't a mistake, I was just--look, nobody knows about--about what happened that night--well, other than the obvious, apparently--"

"Not not gay? Do you even listen to yourself?"

"Well, I'm not gay--I do like women--I just happen to like men as well--well, not a lot of men, just every now and--House, no. Look, you've totally missed my point. I--I was--I wasn't saying I regretted kissing you, I just . . . wanted to know why you did."

House raised an eyebrow at me, and judging by the half-smile on his face, he was clearly amused. "You're cute when you're flustered. Cute in a non-emotional, non-touchy-feely, non-romcom way."

I rubbed my face, knowing my cheeks were probably red as hell. "This is not how I imagined you figuring out I'd been with men before," I muttered.

"You're not exactly great at hiding your gayness."

"I'm not gay," I insisted.

"Bi, then."

"Yeah, like Thirteen--I know," I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. Saying it out loud was embarrassing--although I had always known it, saying it out loud seemed to sign it in blood on a contract--I couldn't take it back, although I suppose the fact I'd fallen in love with my male best friend only made it obvious. Well, and the fact I'd made out with him and slept in his bed the night before--although I suppose the sleeping in the bed part meant he was bi, seeing as he was the one who dragged me there in the middle of the night.

"Thirteen? What are you--oh, Thirteen was bi?" He furrowed his brows in thought, then shrugged. "Huh, well, that makes sense."

I stared at him, realizing a moment too late that I shouldn't have mentioned the girl he hadn't hired.

He pointed between us, eyes flicking back and forth. "But uh . . . You and I, we're . . ." he trailed off, eyes wide and pleading.

"Yeah. We're . . . still together. I just wanted to know why you kissed me. You could've gone fifteen years without making a move, so . . . What made you do it?"

He shrugged. "It's not like I had anything to lose."

And there it was--he had nothing to lose. That made sense, I guess. Fifteen years of friendship? Nonexistent. All he had was a few days of the two of us getting along, and fifteen years of hatred before that. What would he be afraid of losing? The worst case scenario would be me turning him down, like I had apparently done before, and going back to the way we were before I bought him lunch. What would he be afraid of?

House had a problem letting go of people, almost as bad as I did. In fact, probably worse. He didn't mind never connecting with people--it was when he finally managed to start liking someone that it bothered him. Losing people was the worst thing he could experience--I'd been there after Stacy, and that had been hell. I hadn't been there when I decided not to be friends with him, but I'd heard through his team what it had been like.

"House, I . . . I know this might surprise you, but . . . I've wanted this for awhile."

He chuckled, then turned back to the sky. "You're not exactly good at hiding it. Denying, maybe. Hiding? No."

I stared at the sky with him, and a moment later, I felt his hand slip into mine casually. The fact that it was casual--not awkward; not tentative--made me smile, and I squeezed affectionately. "You're the girl in this relationship, by the way," he stated, his thumb grazing my knuckles.

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, there's always the girly one. I'm obviously the man."

"Yes, because you're so burly and masculine."

"I'm not the one who blow dries my hair and cooks macadamia pancakes, so . . ."

"Just because I care about my appearance doesn't mean I'm girly. Being able to cook is inconsequential. In fact, most chefs happen to be male."

He scoffed. "Gay males, maybe."

I rolled my eyes then gazed at his profile. The small smile on his face was enough to make me feel warm and content with how things were, and he must've sensed my eyes on him because he turned his head and gazed back.

I thought back to the expectant look he gave me at his door before I left for work, and realized he was staring at me in the same way.

I kissed him chastely, his lips cold and chapped, bits of dry skin scratching against my mouth and sending shivers down my spine. I pulled away, but he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to mine again, more insistently than I'd kissed him.

The slow sweep of his tongue against mine made my heart skip so hard it was almost painful. I could taste toothpaste and syrup in his mouth, and his hands held my jaw, fingers cold. It was a bit uncomfortable, but the fact his mouth was warm made up for it.

We both pulled away, and I pressed my lips against his quickly one more time. His blue eyes slid away from my face and at the differential diagnosis room. His smile faltered briefly and I glanced in the same direction he was looking.

Taub, Foreman, and Kutner were all standing in the room, staring at us with various looks of confusion or shock etched on their faces. Apparently, they'd seen us kissing.

"Guess they figured out I wasn't joking when I said we were dating, huh?" he said smugly.

I looked back at him, then shrugged. "Guess so."

He smirked, then grabbed my tie and jerked my head forward so that our lips smashed together. It took a second for me to turn my head in a way so that the kiss felt less awkward. After that brief moment he pulled away from me, still smirking.

"You're evil," I stated plainly.

"You know you love it."

A/N--Eek, I'm sorry I haven't updated, but I'm having a hard time getting an internet connection. There are only three chapters left, and so I hope I can find the time to get those up. Normally I try to upload between 5am and 3pm, but I don't have any guarantee as to how long I'll be on so I'm uploading now. As penance for not uploading, I wrote another story for you guys. Also, as a side note, I was totally drunk when I wrote the balcony scene, but I kept it because I thought it fit, and my dad did too. I'm telling you all this so that if you find a typo or a random formatting error, blame the Russians for inventing vodka.