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"Doctor Wilson!"

Wilson looked up from the clinic file spread open on the nurse console in front of him, then furrowed his brow at the figure of Foreman trying way too hard to look casual about whatever he was up to. "Doctor Foreman?"

"Hey." Foreman stuck his hands in his lab coat pocket and shook his demeanor out along with his shoulders. That impression of false cheer left him. "So, I heard you got your treatment privileges back this morning."

Wilson glanced around on a reflex; he couldn't help his cheeks turning red at knowing that his suspension had been semi-public knowledge. "Yeah," he croaked. "Back to normal, mostly. Still seeing the shrink, but…" Wilson shrugged that off, as if it were perfectly normal.

"Cool." Foreman glanced aside too, then back. "You talk to House?"

Wilson raised his brows noncommittally. "We…reconciled. There was…some talking." That morning, there had been no talking, not even a greeting in the bathroom. Wilson had tried to strike up a dozen conversations but House kept leaving the room two words in. And then he had snuck out while Wilson was brushing his teeth, and roared off on his bike. Now, House had two vehicles at the hospital, not that the count mattered much.

"Uh-huh." Foreman looked like he would rather not give a damn, which surprised Wilson because it implied that Foreman did give a damn. "Okay, look. I did not say this. Got it?"

Wilson's brows knit together. "Okay?"

Foreman pursed his lips and gave an exasperated sigh. Then he blurted out, "I think something's either wrong with him, or he's on something he shouldn't be. I thought maybe you'd know which."

"Oh." Wilson looked at his patient file just because it was there, then he shoved all the papers back in order and closed it up. "I'm already aware," he told Foreman, trying to look for all the world like they were two doctors discussing business. He twisted his pen to retract the ink ball and then arranged it neatly back in his pocket. "And he's not on anything, he's just…" Wilson sighed and rolled his hand off to one side. "It's complicated. He agreed to come to therapy with me, though…so that should be fun…or annoying." Wilson gave him half a wry smile and picked up his file, the patient's name already on the tip of his tongue as he stepped toward the waiting area.

"No," Foreman said. He grabbed Wilson's arm to stop him, then stepped around in front of him. "Not psychologically," he explained while Wilson fought not to glare. "I mean something physical – I think there's something physically wrong with him." Foreman finally let go of his arm.

Wilson's eyes trailed to the side, just to make sure that no one was close enough to overhear, and then he lowered his voice. "Why? What makes you think that?"

Foreman shrugged. "Little things. He falls asleep in the office all the time, and not his usual catnaps. It's like he's not sleeping at home."

"He hadn't been going home at all," Wilson replied. "And he said he hasn't been sleeping. Look, I appreciate your concern even if House doesn't, but I have a patient to – "

"I think he's been having seizures."

That stopped Wilson dead in his tracks. "You…what?"

"Just partials. Tonic clonic, maybe once or twice a day. I don't even think he noticed. He just stops whatever he's doing for maybe five seconds, swallows a few times…" Foreman took in Wilson's expression. "You've noticed."

"I never thought they might be seizures, just… I thought it was related to the anxiety or the panic attacks, or – " Wilson shut up in a hurry because his defensiveness was going to make him spew out something that Foreman had no business being privy to.

Foreman grew pensive, then slowly offered, "Some forms of temporal lobe seizures present as panic attacks or flashbacks. They often get misdiagnosed as psychological problems." He paused. "And House suffered a serious skull fracture less than a year ago."

Wilson felt sick at the reminder of that, but he quelled it. "Yeah. Right temporal bone." He didn't really want to betray House's confidence, but in the interests of medicine, he felt compelled to add, "They started around October. The, uh…he got a script for Xanax. And then he apparently stopped taking it because they tapered off until recently."

Foreman nodded. "They can come in clusters. So whatever's been going on, it's getting worse now."

"Could it be stress?"

Foreman shrugged. "Extreme stress could lower the seizure threshold in some cases. So maybe, yeah. Or maybe it's just been getting worse the whole time, and the presentation now is a coincidence. We'd need to get him an MRI to confirm any of this." Seemingly as an afterthought, Foreman raised a finger and added, "Oh – and you need an STD screening."

Wilson cringed and threw a terrified look around. No unwanted bystanders. Good. He glowered at Foreman and hissed, "God, you're as bad as him!"

Foreman made a bland face. "I'm just looking out for myself here."

"How?" Wilson demanded. "How does this have anything to do with you?"

"For starters, you made it my business when you told me in the first place," Foreman replied, blasé as all get-go. Wilson scowled, but Foreman ignored him. "It's like this. If you did catch something from your beer chick, and you give it to House, he's gonna find out you cheated. And then my job will be a living hell until he gets you out of his system."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Okay, I get it." He sidestepped Foreman, his eyes on the clinic file in his hands because he'd forgotten his next patient's name.

Foreman moved with him to prolong the conversation. "If you don't get it done by the end of the day, I'll hunt you down and shove a handful of q-tips down your pants. I am not going to be on the butt end of House's temper just because you can't keep your hands to yourself."

Wilson tried not to smile, but the mirth came out anyway. "I'd pay money to see the look on House's face if you did that in front of him."

Foreman grinned. "You couldn't pay me enough." Then he wandered off toward the elevators.

The rest of Wilson's morning went off without a hitch, until he glanced at the clock and realized he was about to be late for his appointment with Olivia. He paused on his way to the stairs to watch through the glass as House half-crouched in front of his white board, and then he detoured to the diagnostics conference room.

" – don't care what all those morons think," House was saying, his back to the door. "People don't just bleed water." Then he straightened and twisted to gauge his fellows' reactions – they looked irritated, except for Kutner. House's eyes shifted at the shadow that Wilson cast, and then he grinned. "Wilson!" His face immediately fell into old, sarcastic lines. "Tell these idiots that we're practicing medicine, not Catholicism."

Wilson shot the fellows a sympathetic look, and then gestured toward House's office. "You got a minute?"

"No," House snarked. "The end of the world is upon us." He did an over-the-top impression of cowering from the heavens, then tossed his marker on the table. It landed in someone's coffee cup and Taub jumped. "Wilson and I are going to have office sex now. Check her platelet levels while I'm gone."

"His platelet levels," Foreman corrected. It said something when House's innuendo failed to get any sort of rise at all.

House was already halfway to his office, and all he did was wave a hand over his shoulder. "Whatever. Test it."

Wilson trailed after House, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and glanced back out toward the conference room to make sure that everyone else had already gone. Then he watched House sink into his desk chair with a long sigh.

"Don't you have to go get shrinked right about now?"

"Yes. My transformation to Oompa-loompa is nearly complete." Wilson took a seat across from him and tried to appear at ease. "All I need now are pompom shoes and some ridiculous pants."

"You're not orange enough."

"They have tanning salons to fix that."

"And you can't sing worth shit."

"Poor Gene Wilder; he'd be so upset if he knew." Wilson heaved a disappointed sigh and then looked up just as House shoved a pill in his mouth. He didn't think he made a face at that, but he must have since House looked shifty all of a sudden as he put the bottle back in his pocket. Wilson pretended not to notice. "You wanna come with?"

House stared at him for a second. "What, now?"

"You said you'd come to one," Wilson replied, unaccountably nervous. Perhaps this was a bad idea after all. "No talking required," Wilson reminded him. "You can just sit there and flick rubber bands at her if you want."

House looked down and then bounced his cane a few times before saying, "This is because of last night, isn't it."

"And this morning." Wilson couldn't bring himself to deflect right now. "You didn't say a single word to me."

House scrunched his face up and the cane bounced harder between his feet. "Kinda hard to address that in a therapy session I'm not participating in."

"I know." Wilson glanced down at his watch; five minutes past noon. Fuck it. "Are you just embarrassed?"

"Of course I'm embarrassed," House hissed. His eyes scanned the hallway over Wilson's shoulder, so Wilson glanced there too. The door was closed, so as long as they kept their voices down, no one would overhear.

Wilson faced forward again. "Foreman thinks they might be seizures. The, uh, flashbacks and stuff." Wilson gestured at random.

House gave him an inscrutable look. "Foreman."

Wilson rushed to assure him, "I didn't say anything, House. I swear. He noticed other things and he found me in the clinic this morning. He was worried you might be on something, but I told him you weren't… You're not, right?"

House's cheek twitched. "What other things?" Great. Now he was hostile.

Instead of giving a straight answer, Wilson pointed out, "Gabapentin withdrawal can cause seizures, especially in someone already susceptible. Which you are. Call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure you didn't bother to wean yourself off of it slowly."

House glared a little while longer, just because it made Wilson squirm, and then he glowered at the light box on the wall. "Timing's off. It's not withdrawal." His eyes returned to Wilson, though he didn't turn his head back. "Why does Foreman think I'm having seizures, anyway? I haven't had any…things here since meth-dad lost it."

"Are you sure?" Wilson licked his lips and straightened in his seat. He was ten minutes late now; Olivia might come looking for him. Or Cuddy. It was ridiculous how much scrutiny he drew now – of the bad kind. "The flashbacks themselves could be a form of seizure."

House puffed out one cheek and then spun his chair so that he faced the balcony door. "Go see your shrink, Wilson."

That wasn't a total dismissal, so Wilson decided to let him ponder it for a while. A dim corner of House's mind would work the idea over more thoroughly than anyone else's conscious brain ever could. "Yeah, okay. So you won't come today?"

"I'm tired."

"Right." Wilson stood up and removed the hand that had magically appeared at the back of his neck. "You wanna go bowling after work?"

House's head tilted, and then he swiveled to look at Wilson. After scanning his posture for tells, House shrugged. "Okay."

Wilson nodded. "Good. I'll come by here at six."

"Sounds good." House sounded dubious, as if he suspected Wilson of plotting something, but for once, Wilson had no ulterior motive. He just wanted to get out and do something normal, like he and House had used to do. God, they hadn't bowled in almost a year.

"Okay, then." Wilson made his way to the door, and then hesitated with his hand on the handle. Without really considering it, Wilson crossed back to House's desk, rounded it, and leaned down to peck House on his scruffy cheek. House stiffened but didn't pull away, and Wilson drew back, trying not to turn scarlet. He had never done that to House before – the goodbye kiss. It felt weird. "Right. See you at six."

House didn't say anything, so Wilson rushed out. He didn't want to see the expression on House's face because he couldn't imagine it being anything good.

* * *

"BFD," Olivia said, rearranging the contents of Wilson's file, which she had spread out across her desk. "So you kissed him. Isn't that what couples are supposed to do?"

"Yeah, but not us," Wilson replied. His cheeks were still burning. At least Olivia hadn't reamed him for being fifteen minutes late. "You just don't touch House like that."

Olivia paused to fix Wilson with a dubious stare. "How? Tenderly? Lovingly?"

"Casually."

Olivia's brow crinkled, and then she feigned that sort of aloof disinterest that tended to put Wilson at ease. If she appeared not to give a shit about Wilson beyond her professional capacity, then Wilson talked more freely. He knew what Olivia was doing, but it worked anyway. "Casually," she echoed. "Okay, then how do you touch him?"

Wilson shrugged. "Well, there's sex." Then his neck flushed along with the rest of his face. "Not that we've been having it lately."

"Since before the shooting, would be my guess."

Wilson could feel his skin heating up and he wished he were better at hiding embarrassment. Most other things, he could gloss over with impunity, but not that. "I don't honestly know which of us is more frustrated by that. And, um…since we're on the subject, I'm going back to my old dosages."

The seeming nonsequiter didn't faze Olivia in the slightest. "You'll keep the Ativan on you for emergencies, though."

"Yeah," Wilson agreed, but only because he intended to have it on hand for House.

"You've been experiencing side effects?" Olivia asked. "Obviously sexual." A devilish glint showed up in her eyes. "You know, we haven't really discussed the sexual aspect of your life, aside from your fidelity issues. Do you like sex with House?"

Wilson gaped at her. "Is this really necessary?"

Olivia laughed. "Yeah, you like it. What about House. Does he like sex with you?"

Wilson started to retort again, but something stopped him. He ended up croaking a monosyllable and then frowning at her, pensive. "I don't really know for sure. He seems to, but he…hides so much."

Olivia turned serious at that, professional. "Why would you think he doesn't like it?"

Wilson scratched at his temple with one finger, his eyes glued elsewhere. "I know he likes it. He, uh…you know. Gets off. But I can't always tell if he wants to, or if he's just humoring me. It seems a lot like he's just humoring me." The dared blowjob that started everything came to mind, but not for long. House had just been nervous then.

"Why would he humor you? House doesn't humor anyone, from what I've heard of him."

"He humors me all the time," Wilson replied, surprisingly bitter. "He thinks if he doesn't, I'll leave again." Wilson made a face at his hands. "I can't make him understand… He just gets so scared, I think." He chanced a glance at Olivia. "You don't think this whole relationship is just him trying to figure out how to make me stay, do you?"

"No," Olivia replied. She smiled in sympathy. "I don't think it's a sham. I think he truly cares about you. He gimped in here to yell at me for being an idiot, remember? In his pajamas."

Wilson gave her a sad smile. "Barefoot. Yeah." He clung to that image for a moment – House pissed off as all hell because he felt that someone had wronged or ignored Wilson.

"So," Olivia said just to break him from his glum thoughts. "Aside from sex, how do you touch him? How does he touch you?"

"Um." Wilson thought about that for a moment. "He, uh…doesn't touch me. If he falls asleep first, I can get next to him."

Olivia frowned and made a poor attempt to hide her incredulity. "I'm just going to assume that PDA's are out just because the two of you aren't technically out yet. But what about when you're at home? Say, when you're watching television. Do you hold hands? Touch his knee?"

Wilson shook his head. "He gets antsy, so no. I used to try, back when we first got together, but he doesn't like it." He shrugged because Olivia's expression was getting to him. "I don't mind. It's not like I'm all that touchy-feely, anyway. I used to hate it when my wives insisted on laying all over me on the couch."

"An unwelcome invasion of your personal space by your significant other is very different from subtle physical expressions of affection."

Wilson wrinkled his nose. "Are you quoting a textbook or something?"

Olivia glanced at the ceiling. "Maybe. I can't remember." Then she looked at Wilson again. "When you wake up in the morning, what do you do?"

"I go make coffee since House sleeps later than I do." Wilson shook his head to ask where the hell this was going.

"Do you tell him you're leaving the room?"

"I don't have a death wish," Wilson rebutted. "House hardly ever sleeps. Waking him up just to tell him something he already knows you do every morning is just asking him to saran wrap the toilet."

"Hm. Do you do anything at all, aside from slink out of bed with your tail tucked between your legs?"

Wilson glared at her. "I don't slink out of bed."

"Answer the question, slinky."

"Sometimes, I forget why I dislike you."

Olivia grinned. "And he deflects."

Wilson frowned, then made a face at the potted plant that he had slowly become acquainted with. "Sometimes, I'll just…you know. Pat his hair or something." He shrugged because now that he'd said it, it sounded pathetic.

Olivia could tell how this was putting him out, so she skewed the subject. "What about House. Describe one way he touches you in non-sexual situations."

Wilson moved his shoulders again. "Well, he put a hand on my stomach last night." He paused, then added, "He thought I was already asleep."

Olivia folded her hands, waiting for more. Then she moved her head sideways on her neck. "And? What else?"

"That's…that's pretty much it. Stuff like that, once in a while." Wilson glanced at her, then focused on the plant so that he wouldn't have to see the pity on her face. "It's not like that," he insisted.

"Like what? You don't even know what I'm thinking."

"You're thinking how sad that is, and you're busy feeling sorry for me." Wilson huffed out an exasperated breath and crossed his arms. "He doesn't need me to coddle him. He's not some simpering, weak little girlfriend."

"Mm." Clicking drew Wilson's attention back to find Olivia tapping a pen cap against her front teeth. She stopped and leaned her arms on her desk. "Those are his words again. Yes?"

Wilson sighed and then gave an irritated shrug as confirmation.

"You told me he once tried to all but molest you just to get you to hold his hand."

"Yeah, well. That's House." Wilson's nostrils flared at that.

"Does he flinch?"

Wilson looked up. "What?"

"When you try to initiate casual contact. Does he flinch?"

Wilson hesitated to answer. "Sometimes. Other times he just tenses up or holds his breath."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know!" Wilson barked, defensive on House's behalf. "Some people just don't like to be touched, okay? It's not a big deal."

"Actually, I think it sort of is," Olivia argued. "He reacts like his initial expectation is pain, and you know it, and it bothers you."

Wilson opened his mouth to contradict her, but he ended up closing it over the silence in his brain.

"Aha!" Olivia pointed at him. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Shut up," Wilson muttered.

"Abuse does that to a person," Olivia remarked. "I know you don't want to break his confidence, but honestly – you don't actually think it was a one-time deal, do you? He must have described other incidents."

"Think what was a one-time deal?" Wilson gave her a bewildered look.

"House's father impersonating a Neanderthal." Olivia picked up a manila folder from Wilson's official file and held it like she expected Wilson to know what she was talking about.

It took Wilson several seconds to realize what she was holding, and then his stomach tried to crawl out his throat. "You read that?!"

Olivia turned concerned, and she glanced at the folder in her hand. "Isn't that why you gave it to me? I thought you needed to talk about it – I thought that was why you came to me in the first place."

"No, you weren't supposed to read that! I didn't even mean to give it to you, I just wanted to get rid of it!" Wilson threw a panicked look at the uppermost corner of the room and then dropped his face into his hands. "Fuck. I forgot you even had it."

"I didn't know I wasn't supposed to read it!" Olivia hissed. When Wilson glanced at her from between his fingers, she appeared seriously spooked. "God! You could have said something. James… He doesn't know you have this, does he." She didn't even wait long enough for him to respond. "Does he!?"

All Wilson said to that was, "I am so dead."

Olivia threw a glance at the ceiling, swearing under her breath, and then she glared at Wilson. "I investigated this, you moron! I called people, I called in favors!"

Wilson shrank in his chair and let his hands fall to his lap. "You didn't."

"Fuck, shit, ass, mother-sucking lint ball, lollipop…" She looked at the folder like it had just kicked her puppy. "I could lose my license over this! So could you, and whoever gave this to you…damn you!." Olivia slapped the folder down on her desk and fumed at her potted plant.

Wilson silently beseeched the plant for answers too, but it was apparently too dusty to be of use. "He doesn't have to know. Just shred it, and never speak of it again."

Olivia shot him a murderous look.

"He knows I have it," Wilson offered. "He also knows I never read it. By now, he probably thinks I got rid of it anyway. It's okay."

Olivia's frown deepened and slid off into pensive realms. "You don't know what's in here?" She tapped the folder with one manicured nail.

"No." Wilson shook his head to underscore that. "He can tell me if he wants to. I already told him that – I won't push it."

"God, you're impossible," she muttered. "I thought you knew, and you were just too busy being an idiot to know what it meant." She paused to suck in an angry breath. "I thought we were talking about this in asides and vague implications this whole time."

Wilson spread his hands and said, "Sorry." Though he didn't think this was his fault, not exactly.

Olivia seemed slightly mollified, but still royally pissed. "You should push it."

Wilson gave her a bewildered look. "What?"

"Push it," Olivia repeated. "You keep hinting that this" – she made a rude gesture at the folder – "is causing him some sort of anxiety. It probably is, and by extension, it's affecting your relationship with him. You need to push it."

"I…" Wilson shook his head hard because he knew under what terms House would divulge that. "No."

"Why the hell not?"

Wilson recoiled in his seat, his heart rate spiking for a moment.

Olivia held up her hands, fending him off, as it were. "Sorry. I'm pissed. Just…" She sighed and affected a put-upon expression. "It's normal for people to refuse to talk about this sort of thing. Perfectly normal – like self preservation. They learn to keep quiet as kids, and even decades later, they just can't break that one commandment."

"He's not refusing," Wilson countered, and then wished he hadn't.

Of course, Olivia picked up on his trepidation. "Then…okay, I'm confused. He wants to talk to you about it?"

Wilson made a series of faces, running the gamut between degrees of annoyance and discomfort, then replied. "Yeah. Or at least, he says he does." He paused. "But that was before all of this, and the fighting, and the…you." Wilson gestured at her with heel of his hand, as if she, herself, were a vulgar word.

"Then what's the problem?" Olivia demanded. She was still a little miffed, and Wilson could hardly blame her at this point. "Did he put conditions on it or something?"

They were getting too close to private things that Wilson didn't want to discuss with her. "Sort of." He hedged on her leaving it at that.

"So why haven't you met them?" Olivia asked.

Yeah, of course. Why would a psychiatrist leave something like that alone? "It's complicated."

Olivia hesitated, then smirked. "You mean embarrassing."

"God…" Wilson smashed his face into his palm. His stupid blushing cheeks were betraying him again. "Yeah," Wilson snapped, but only because he couldn't deny it now.

"And what, you think it's not completely mortifying for him?"

Wilson scrubbed his hand down until it covered only his mouth, and peered curiously at Olivia. Then he lowered his hand to say, "I know it's hard for him. He's said as much. But he wants…things I just can't…do," he finished lamely.

Olivia scrutinized his face and posture for a moment, and then for no good reason, her eyes widened. She schooled her features back into nonchalance in record time, but not soon enough. "It's something sexual."

Why, exactly, had this entire session revolved in some flimsy manner around Wilson's sex life? He glared at her.

To his surprise, Olivia didn't inject her usual flippancy into the conversation; she grew dead serious. "What did he ask you to do?"

Wilson blinked, shaken by her sobriety. "I don't think I should be talking about this with you."

"Probably not, but I'm pretty sure you've got no one else in this case. So either spill it, or I start guessing."

Wilson's cheek started twitching and his gaze darted uneasily away.

"James…"

"I'm not a sadist." It just sort of tumbled out.

"I could've guessed that," Olivia said, her tone contrived to sound sympathetic. The artifice actually worked to quell some of Wilson's more skittish impulses. "He's a masochist?"

Wilson shrugged, unwilling to commit either way. He glanced at the clock, elated for all of three seconds to see the hour hand impaling the big number one. Then he remembered that he had been late and he technically had to sit here for another fifteen minutes, or else risk getting suspended all over again. Stupid psychiatrist. Stupid Cuddy too, for that matter, approving the damn leave in the first place.

Olivia's voice broke his reverie. "Did he ask you to hurt him?"

"I'm not sure," Wilson replied. His voice sounded flat to his own ears, and he didn't actually think himself capable of silence anymore; Olivia's quiet solicitation was having an effect on him after all. "He just…asked for the… I bought him these cuffs for his birthday. It didn't mean anything then, it was just…you know. Sorta kinky." He shrugged and tried to appear adorably sheepish, but he felt queasy. "It was supposed to be fun."

"And it wasn't?"

A mirthless laugh tumbled from Wilson's lips. "Scared the hell out of me," he admitted, then quickly averted his eyes. The plant welcomed his gaze, at least.

"How so?"

"He talked," Wilson said, his heart pounding to know that he was saying private things that he should probably keep to himself. "Divulged things, just…talked." He glanced at Olivia and found her face carefully blank. It encouraged him to say more. "House doesn't talk – not like that. You don't give that sort of information to the enemy."

"How are you the enemy?" Olivia asked.

Wilson explained, "Everyone's the enemy to him. Even me. Especially me."

"Because you can hurt him."

Wilson chuckled, a dark and humorless sound. "Oh, yeah. And I have, so many times."

Olivia digested this, and then raised her brows. "It doesn't sound like he's asking you to hurt him. Just to provide a safe haven."

Wilson snorted, incredulous. "He wants me to truss him up and make him talk to me. He said so."

"That doesn't necessarily involve pain," Olivia replied, exasperated. "People in those situations usually aren't looking for you to cane them, no joke intended. There are better methods of persuasion." She paused, then added, "And if he actually asked you for this point blank, shame included, then he needs it. He needs to tell you whatever he's got percolating around in his head, and he needs you to make it safe enough for him to do so. It's convoluted and it doesn't make sense to you – I know that. But that doesn't mean that it's psychologically unsound."

Wilson stared at her, his face bland out of no design, and then realized that his knee was bouncing obnoxiously all over the place. He stilled it.

"I can recommend someone to you. He consults on technique and such, and he's very good at keeping things confidential. I've sent a few people his way in the past – he's a doctor."

Wilson narrowed his eyes. No way.

"I think he even works here. Or at least he did, last time I checked."

"I don't think that will be necessary," Wilson said. He stole another glance at the clock. Five minutes to go. Then he glared at Olivia for good measure because she was already sifting through business cards in the top drawer of her desk. With an exasperated sigh, he remarked, "Well, this has certainly been enlightening." As he made to stand up, Olivia thrust a business card under his nose. He tilted his head enough to read Chase's name and a phone number, then rolled his eyes.

"Take the card," Olivia insisted, twiddling it between two fingers.

"Seriously, Olivia. It's not necessary." He paused long enough to swipe the manila folder from between her arms, and then rounded his chair. He was cutting out early, but only by a minute or two. Big deal.

"Serious, nothing," Olivia snapped. She stalked him across the office and slammed her hand against the door before he reached it. "Take the damn card. You have to come to terms with this if you expect House to open up to you, and trust me, House needs to open up to you. Actually, House needs a shrink, but that'll never happen, so you're stuck. This guy can reassure you."

Wilson fumed and then snapped, "That guy already reassured me. He was House's fellow." Then he grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open, forcing Olivia to stumble out of the way. "Good afternoon, doctor."

"Hey, med check!" Olivia called after him.

Wilson waved her away. "I'll send you my blood. Don't have a coronary."

He slammed the door over the picture of Olivia gazing at the business card in her hand, one eyebrow arched. It put a grim smile on Wilson's face, and the records clerk gave him a funny look as he passed her, headed for the industrial paper shredders. Without a second thought, he jammed the folder and its contents into the feeder and switched it on, then watched in satisfaction as the stupid pilfered incident report came out the other end in ribbons. Not that it solved his problems, but hey. Wanton destruction could be therapeutic.

* * *

Bowling was a spectacular disaster.

Wilson drove home as slowly as humanly possible, and House didn't make a single comment about his granny driving for once. This was probably due to the fact that he had his hands full holding his leg in place, biting his lip and screwing his eyes shut, fighting not to make any unmanly noises over there in the passenger seat. Wilson refrained from outright shows of sympathy and settled for asking House a dozen times if he needed another pill. He was taking the Vicodin again as of that afternoon, which was probably why it wasn't helping much yet; oxy was much more potent, and House's body had grown used to it with alarming speed. Wilson chose not to think about the implications of tolerance like that.

Finally, Wilson forced another pill on him and then recited a list of punishments that they could inflict on the asshole who left his bowling ball in the middle of the damn floor, some options illegal and at least one of them physically impossible. House didn't crack a grin, but he looked appreciative of Wilson's attempt to distract him.

They lapsed into silence at some point, and Wilson found himself asking, "How's the bruising, anyway?"

"Fine," House bit out. He swallowed something else.

"Aggravated?"

"Yes, you do tend to piss me off."

Wilson scowled. "I meant, did falling on your ass in the bowling alley aggravate the bruising on your leg. God – why do I have to spell everything out for you?"

"I'm intentionally dense. Fuck!"

"Sorry, sorry." Wilson slowed down some more to bounce more softly over the uneven, chewed up roadway in a construction zone.

House's teeth cut into his bottom lip, but he refrained from further obscenities for a while.

Out of the blue, Wilson asked, "How about your kidney?"

"Quit playing twenty questions with the cripple."

"House…"

"Fine," House snapped, his voice reedy. "I'm peeing yellow again. Haven't we been over this already?"

"Sue me for giving a rat's ass." Wilson paused. "That's good, though. That you're doing better, I mean."

House parroted, "That's good, though," then glowered out his window, his mood fouling further by the second. "I hate this."

Wilson glanced over, but House had his face pressed to the crook of his elbow. "I know."

Into his shirt, House growled, "Can't even fucking bowl."

"And yet you swan dive so gracefully." Wilson only said it because House would have his ass in a sling if Wilson dared to indulge his self pity.

House snickered in response.

The silence grew oppressive faster than Wilson expected. Time was, he and House could sit around for hours without speaking and feel completely at ease. Wilson didn't like this change in their relationship, like being physically close had somehow ruined the friendship part after all. "So, um… How was work?"

House didn't move at first, and then he sat up straight to blink at Wilson. "Fine, dear. And how was your day?"

Wilson made a face out the windshield. "Yeah, okay. I get it."

House hissed as they went over what the street sign drolly referred to as a 'bump.' The Volvo protested on squeaking springs, and then House demanded, "Why are you so uptight today?"

The snark was just a cover for House being miserable while in company, something Wilson expected the moment he heard House spewing out every dirty word he could think of, and then some, from the bowling alley floor behind him. Wilson smiled, tolerant, and replied, "My shrink shrunk my brain more than usual." Wilson flipped the turn signal and maneuvered somewhat smoothly onto a freshly paved side street. He could have sworn that House sighed in relief to leave the rumble-road construction area behind even though it would take them twice as long to get home by this route. A heartbeat later, Wilson muttered, "Nothing. I'm just… Nothing."

"Right," House replied, his face a study in sarcasm. "I'm gonna sit over here and make nice with my inner child now. We can talk when I'm done."

Wilson rolled his eyes, and then stopped halfway through, his gaze stuck on the sun guard. "Wait – are you offering to talk?"

"Hey, no interrupting. I'm busy having a sing-along here." His gaze wandered ceilingward and he began absently humming to himself. It sounded suspiciously like the theme song to Snorks.

Wilson pursed his lips. "Seriously. Are you offering?"

House fell silent and cast an annoyed look out the window, then tried to act inconvenienced; he didn't quite pull it off. "Why? Do you need to bare your soul or something?"

"No, but if you're a captive audience, then there is something I'd like to address." Wilson snuck a furtive glance at the passenger seat just as House clamped his jaw in something akin to irritation. "It wouldn't kill you to indulge me now and then."

"You have a therapist for that. I don't wanna discuss my stupid ex-patient or his stupid dad."

"Neither do I," Wilson replied. And it was true – he didn't want to discuss how it had felt to watch some nut job stick a gun in House's face, or to see a child's head explode in a thunderclap of silence. Even Olivia had let him avoid that subject.

"Or my pills, or the motorcycle, or the fact that your apartment lease is up at the end of the month – "

"If you keep prohibiting things, we'll end up talking about nothing at all." Wilson made a mental note about his lease, though; House somehow kept better track of those things than Wilson did, and he had sort of hoped not to renew it.

"That's the idea," House quipped. He seemed oblivious to Wilson's thought processes. "And no patients, either. If you need to cry on somebody's shoulder about little Martha Button-nose kicking the bucket, call Cameron." He paused. "Or a hooker."

Wilson threw him a scornful look. "You can't hire a hooker for emotional support."

House countered, "You can hire a hooker for anything, as long as you pay for it."

Wilson made an exasperated face, wondering what sorts of non-sexual things House may have hired one for, then turned his eyes back to the road. "I don't need a shoulder to cry on, House. And if I did, I'd tie you to the couch and then use yours. It's free."

House snorted, then grimaced as the car rocked unexpectedly. A second later, he hissed, "Fucking ow!"

"Sorry," Wilson mumbled for the umpteenth time.

House sucked in a sharp breath, then said something nasally that sounded like, "Mnn." Before Wilson could comment on that little noise, House snapped, "Fine. Talk." He probably just wanted to distract Wilson from any commentary concerning his leg.

Wilson hesitated because he had no idea how to really phrase this, and the timing couldn't be worse considering how things had been lately, and House would go into porcupine mode the second Wilson mentioned anything that seemed even remotely critical… "I think Foreman's right. I think the flashbacks are being caused by seizures. You should go back on the gabapentin so that we can wean you off of it properly, and if that doesn't make them stop, then you should get an EEG and an MRI." The car went still and Wilson pulled up next to a stop sign. Since the rest of the intersection was empty, he idled there for a minute. When he chanced a look at House, Wilson discovered him slumped even lower in his seat, chewing a thumbnail. The only other time Wilson could recall him doing that was in Atlantic City, trying to figure out how to kill a guy and make off with his heart in the interests of philanthropy. "House?"

House drew a shaky breath and stuck his hand in his lap. "I said no pill talk."

Wilson had expected opposition, so it didn't really scare him off. "This isn't about pills, House. It's about your health."

"Just drop it," House snapped, his expression hidden since he had turned to face the window.

"Do you want them to keep coming?" Wilson demanded as reasonably as he could. "I'm not trying to backdoor you over the Vicodin or Ngyen. I'm just trying to rule out drug withdrawal as a reason for you getting so much worse."

House's gaze flickered in Wilson's direction, but fell short.

"House, it got so bad last night, you threw up all over the hallway. And I didn't even see it coming – you were freaking out that whole time in bed, and I had no clue." Wilson took a moment to swallow, then asked, "Do you know what that feels like? For me, I mean. What if we'd kept going and had sex, and it hit critical mass then?" Wilson leaned forward in his seat, craning his neck to catch House's eye, but their gazes only met for a bare instant.

House's eyes found the door handle immediately thereafter. "You're just pissed because you didn't get any." It sounded like snark, but Wilson could detect a hint of warning to back off, like the low, throaty growl of a cornered animal.

Wilson pressed his lips together, then sucked one between his teeth. "I'm the one who couldn't get it up, House. Stop deflecting." He glanced in the rearview mirror just to make sure they weren't holding anyone up, then said, "I know you don't want to talk about the content, but why won't you even address this from a medical standpoint?"

House shifted, unnerved even in peripheral movements. "I'm not talking about this with you. Drive the damn car." His hand rubbed over his scar, but it looked like it hurt to put pressure there again.

Wilson frowned and inwardly swore, averting his gaze before House could track it to his leg. That had just healed; Wilson was going to have to deal with a grouchy, untouchable House for another week now. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel though it did nothing to calm his sudden nerves. "House – "

"You know, I changed my mind. Let's talk about Danny after all." Though the care-nothing attitude came out strong, so did his desperation to end the discussion. "I don't really care which one."

Wilson choked on a breath and immediately straightened in his seat, eyes forward. Then he whispered, "Asshole."

"You started it."

Wilson glared at him, prepared to insult him by any means necessary, just to knock him down a peg, but House's eyes were glued out his window again, his knuckles white over the head of his cane. Wilson sighed and looked down, listening to House strangle his cane in the next seat. That was House-posture for unacknowledged remorse; he knew he shouldn't have said that about Danny. After running a hand through his hair, Wilson slumped back and softly enjoined, "Just think about it."

Petulant, House replied, "No."

Wilson's nostrils flared, but he dropped it and checked for oncoming cars yet again. This must have been the only deserted intersection in all of Princeton. "Okay. I'm dropping it."

House nodded, and then proceeded to fidget with his cane. "Can we go home now?"

Wilson kept his foot on the brake pedal and swallowed hard. "I've been thinking about all the stuff you've said…how you wanted to talk, but with the cuffs, and…I think I could try it. If, you know… If you still wanted me to." He could feel the adrenaline urging him to flee at all costs, though he couldn't fathom why he should be so terrified right now.

"Home, Wilson," House insisted. "Just drive home."

"House, I'm just trying to – "

"I will get out of this car," House interrupted. "And I'll walk my sorry, crippled ass all the way to my apartment – in agony – just to make you feel bad." He pierced Wilson with an irritated cobalt stare. "Unless you drive home. Now."

Wilson stared back, well aware that in a battle of wills, House would trounce him. Sure enough, Wilson backed down and let up on the brake. They coasted through the intersection. "I'm just offering," Wilson whispered. He wasn't sure that House heard him until they pulled up in front of 221B, and Wilson switched the car off.

House grabbed the door handle, then stopped, his head hung low, Wilson barely within his range of vision. He licked his lips. "Don't offer again, Wilson. I mean it."

Caught off guard, Wilson started to shake his head because he didn't realize what House was responding to. Then he stopped himself and looked away. "I've messed that up, haven't I?"

House wet his lips again; his mouth had probably gone dry. "Yeah," he croaked. "But it's not really your fault." Then he fidgeted self consciously for a second before shoving the car door open.

Wilson didn't try to help him get into the building, but he stayed close, waiting to catch his arm if he started to fall. Since he was so fixated on House, he assumed that House brought himself up short in the foyer because he had stepped wrong. Wilson grabbed a few letters from the mailbox so that House wouldn't get even more pissed off at being watched and coddled, then turned toward the apartment door. Then Wilson froze too.

The door to unit B was cracked open and lights were on inside, ones that Wilson knew they hadn't left on that afternoon. But that wasn't what made his blood run cold. A newspaper clipping was taped up over the peep hole, facing them. An article about the double murder and suicide of Richard Lyamone.

---tbc