Week Sixteen: What's Done is Not Quite Done

Wilson was used to finding himself sitting outside of House's apartment, but not usually other these exact circumstances. The news of Cameron's pregnancy, and all the weird details of it, had spread around the hospital like wildfire. The nurses seemed to never want to talk about anything else. It was as if Wilson had ceased living in real life and had moved into some sort of soap opera where every moment was rife with dramatic confessions and incidental music.

Wilson wished that, eventually, he could get back to living his own life. He thought maybe at some point, House would get it together and Wilson wouldn't be stuck being either Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, or both.

He leaned in and knocked again. It was time for him to put his foot down. House had to start acting like an adult; had to take responsibility for this whole mess, and had to agree to some kind of treatment so that he wouldn't die and throw Wilson's entire universe completely out of whack. Because at the end of the day, Wilson needed him.

House was a sort of ying to his yang. He wondered if, if House ever grew up, that would change. If House would move on and have a little family and start to get his stuff together, then he wouldn't make Wilson pay for his lunch, and he wouldn't show up at bizarre hours of the day to make disjointed requests. But House really had gone too far this time – he had ran his car into Cuddy's house, after all. Some part of House had apparently thought that had been a good way to handle his stress.

There was a slow creak before the door finally opened. As House tended to do, he was screwing with Wilson, trying to get the upper hand in a situation where it wasn't even necessary.

But if he didn't do that, would it mean that House had given up entirely, taken this diagnosis to heart and just decided to die? Maybe this was a good sign. Maybe this was what Wilson needed to see, what he needed to hear from his best friend.

He wasn't even sure anymore.

"House," he said, once the other man was in view. "We need to talk."

"Oh no," House retorted, "You're going to tell me 'it's not you, it's me', aren't you? This happens with all the guys after I finally put out."

Wilson had the oddest compulsion to just flip him off like they were both kids, but he resisted it and just sighed.

"House, you've really done it this time. You know that, right? Have you been to see Cameron?"

"No," House retorted, "I figured I would get a head start on my new role as deadbeat dad."

"You know, Cameron cares a lot about you, still. You two were almost an item at one point. Don't you remember that?"

"Of course. I'm sick, I'm not an amnesiac." House turned away from Wilson. "Nothing good comes from me getting close to people."

Wilson rubbed at his eyes, getting rid of the crust that was forming over his eyes. He hadn't slept properly, not in days. Trying to figure out a plan for House, again. It was like it had been when Tritter was trying to arrest House, when he'd taken Wilson's car too and taken away his prescription privileges – it seemed to always be the case that when House hurt, Wilson hurt right along with him. Like House was a kind of voodoo doll that could affect Wilson, too.

He tried to pretend that it wasn't, also, that he was a little jealous. Wilson had been married three times and didn't have any children; it wasn't so much that he didn't want them, but it just hadn't worked out that way. House had, somehow, managed to make someone fall over themselves to give him a child he didn't even want. Like House was going to be able to care for anyone or anything else, especially these days… But maybe this was a good thing, a good thing that was a total accident for House.

"House, you need to figure out where you're going to go, with this thing with Cameron."

"You mean the snapper?" House inquired.

"How are you feeling about this? I mean, considering… Everything."

"Considering what, exactly?"

"Don't be an idiot, House."

House's eyes narrowed at him.

"Wilson… Just leave."

"What?"

"You heard me. Just go ahead and leave. I'm busy dying. I don't need to hear your advice right now about how I can make my last few weeks better. I'll just invite over a bunch of strippers instead."

"House, can't you take anything seriously? I'm trying to help you, you know."

"I've noticed," House snapped. "And you're always trying to help me. That's good – but you know what, some people can't be helped. Other people don't want help. I'm in both of those categories, so you can go to hell, Wilson."

Wilson raised an eyebrow.

"House, I know you're suffering right now, I know you're in pain but…"

"Quit that 'I care for you' crap – I thought that was Cameron's department. But now she's too busy trying to pretend she's my girlfriend. I never thought I'd live to have Baby Mama Drama."

"If you don't get it together," Wilson snapped, "No one will care what you live long enough to do. You're taking another opportunity and you're spitting on it." He ground his teeth together. "Sometimes, House, you know what? Sometimes I just don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do with you."

"Welcome to the club. President: Me." House reached over on to the dresser and picked up a pack of cigarettes, taking one out.

"You're seriously smoking? You decided to start smoking now? After you got leukemia?" Wilson threw his hands up. "You're impossible."

House picked up a lighter and flicked it, lighting the cigarette.

"What are you worried about, Wilson? It's not like I'm going to get cancer."