He knocks on the bathroom door, "Wilson? You alright in there?"

When there's no response, his heart skips a beat. He knocks harder, "Wilson? Are you done?"

Nothing.

His heart fastens again. He knocks one last time, then opens the handle quickly and mentally prepares himself for the possible tragedy to come. He's imagined it countless times after Wilson announced his illness that night. For the first month after that night, he can't stop himself from obsessing over how it would end. Every single dream was about Wilson's death. He jumped over every single phone call, fearing that that would be the one to announce his demise.

The bathroom is steamy and warm, and Wilson is sitting in the bathtub, staring right ahead into the wall.

He's alive; he's breathing. But something…something's not right.

"Wilson? You OK?"

Wilson is still looking at the wall in front of him blankly, without any notice of House's presence. Only after House's louder and louder inquires plus a touch on his shoulder, Wilson finally slowly turns his head into House's direction, like he just woke from a dream.

"House?"

"Yeah. How you feeling, bud?"

Wilson blinks, then slowly looks around him. "Where…am I?"

House's brain is working quickly: delirium, a change in a person's awareness, the most common sign that cancer is affecting the brain. Other possible causes include lack of oxygen to the brain or organ failure.

If his heart just sank to the bottom of his stomach, he didn't let it show at all. His aim is to never bring panic into the equation. So instead, he says calmly, "You're in the bathroom."

"Why the bubbles?"

"You wanted a bubble bath. Here, why don't I help you get out?"

Wilson says nothing, but doesn't protest either. So House puts his hands under the other man's arms and pulls him out of the water so he can sit on the edge.

He hands Wilson a towel. "Can you dry yourself? I'll get you some clothes."

Again, Wilson says nothing, just simply obeys the command. House helps him to put on a simple T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, being aware to avoid the newer incisions.

"You feel up to walking? I can bring in your chair if you want."

"No…I'll walk." He seems a little more like himself. He's still pale, but no longer starkly white.

On the way to the bedroom, House makes notice of Wilson's states: he seems physically fine — as fine as a terminally ill patient can be, but mentally he still looks confused, unsure what is going on.

Once House sits him in his bed and reconnects him to his IVs, he brings out a penlight and flashes into the other man's eyes.

Wilson is slightly startled as he tries to avoid the bright light. "House, what are you-"

"Can you tell me your name?"

"House, I'm fine. I just got a little confused."

"Can you tell me your name?" He repeats.

"Wilson…"

"Do you know what year it is?"

"This is absurd. I'm fine, it was probably just the heat from the bath." He seems more oriented now.

"I need to take you to the hospital." He suddenly says.

"House, we've gone over this. I'm not going to the hospital under any circumstances." He says firmly.

"I…You need to go to the hospital. What if you're getting worse? What if-"

"I *am* getting worse. I'm dying, House." He cuts House off with probably more force than how he intends to. He can see the momentary emotion that flashes on House's face before the owner suppresses it down. Was it fear? Anger? Hurt? "What do you suppose they will do at the hospital? 'Yes, Dr Wilson, your cancer is spreading to your brain, but we decided not to admit you to the hospital so you can die comfortably at your own home'? You think that's what they will do?"

He's suddenly speechless. "I… You don't know if that's the cancer…" His voice is barely louder than a whisper.

"Sit." Wilson pats the bed lightly. "I'm an oncologist. I know when my body is giving up on me." His smile is filled with sorrow. "Look at me, I can't even eat without a fucking tube in my nose. Give it some time, I won't be able to breathe on my own."

House takes a look — a real look — at Wilson. He hasn't realized how thin and frail Wilson has gotten, or how many tubes and needles are coming out of his body. Over the months he has taken over the caretaker role and has welcomed Wilson home with the utmost care. But never once has he considered Wilson to be a patient. He's a friend, no, he's much more than a friend, as he always has been. But now, as he puts on the physician's glasses, he realizes how much Wilson looks like every terminal ill patient in the cancer ward: pale, ill, and seems like he might break with any blow of wind.

"It's not fair." House is surprised to find how shaky his voice is.

"What, life? No, it's never fair."

"You're not supposed to be the one that dies. I… You're a wonderful person. You save lives. You love people. You love your life! The miserable, crippled drug addict is supposed to be the one that has cancer, not the life-saving oncologist…" He voice breaks. He seems surprised at the burning sensation behind his eyes. This is the first time he's cried since the night Wilson walked into his office and told him "Stage 2, Thymoma''.

Wilson puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him in. He rubs House's back gently and feels the heat from House on his shoulder. "I'm sorry." He says gently, "I'm sorry."

"Can I ask you a favor?" Wilson says quietly after a while.

"No." He says it without thinking.

"You don't even know what I'm asking."

"You can't ask me to kill you. You can't do that... I can't lose you, Wilson. You're..." he hesitates, as if ashamed of his admission, "You're the most important person in my life."

"I knew you were always secretly gay for me." Wilson smiles sadly as he touches House's arm. "I'm getting worse, whether you wanna admit it or not. I've been having breathing problems, I'll need a ventilator very, very soon."

"You never told me..."

"I'll need an around the clock care by then and I don't want you to stop going to work just to care for me."

"That won't be a problem and you know it."

"That's... not the issue. House, everything hurts so much, the painkillers don't even come close to cut it. I just don't know how long I can go on before losing it."

"Wilson..."

"I don't want my last days to be the most painful, pathetic days of my life, where I can't do anything but scream. Is that what you want?"

House gets up and casts his eyes downwards, as if to not make contact with the other man. "Don't guilt trip me." He walks towards the door.

"Just think about it, OK?"

"Good night, Wilson." His footsteps stop briefly before he walks away.

I'm actually not sure where to continue with this story. If you have any idea please don't hesitate to leave a comment. Actually if you have any comments, I'll be very glad to read them. It's encouraging to a new author like me.