A/N: Ah, finally some real House/Wilson angst. How cute could two men possible be together?

OMG. Babies and Bathwater! The House/Wilson scene! WHO ELSE SQUEED? Wilson almost cried! And House's face! So sad! And at the end - Wilson was drinking champagne out of House's mug while sitting in House's chair! WHOO! THEIR LOVE IS TRUE. GOD LOVE THE WRITERS! (bows down before the writers)

Thanks to all my supporters.

Please Read and Review.

No slash intended.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even Wilson. Or Robert Sean Leonard. (sigh) Life sucks.

Chapter 3

Inhale

Smile

Exhale

Brown eyes

Inhale

Pain

Exhale

Wilson

He mumbled but couldn't form James' name with his lips, and he was almost scared for a moment that his brain had forgotten how. He tried to open his eyes but his body had stopped listening to his mind. Sounds started breaking through the dark, and he recognized that heart monitor beeping and his own breathing. James. He needed James. He clenched the sheets when he couldn't force his eyes open. He grunted when he couldn't say the name. Damn it. Open!

Finally. Obedience. He looked down since the light hurt his eyes.

Straps.

Buckles.

He was strapped to the bed.

Holy shit.

"Nurse!" he shouted. He grabbed the clicker and forced it to scream. "Nurse!" He pushed it incessantly.

She scuttled in, wearing white. Why did doctors and nurses always wear white? Did they really think that highly of themselves? They were no angels. They weren't innocent. They weren't perfect or good. They sucked, just like everybody else. He was sick of white. And that's why he refused to wear it.

"Yes, Dr. House?" She must've been in her late forties or early fifties. She had a few wrinkles and her hair looked dry.

"What the hell is this?" he snapped.

"What is what?"

"I'm strapped to the Goddamn bed."

"Oh. That. You had a seizure, Dr. House. The straps are – for the seizure. We don't want you to hurt yourself."

Or try killing myself again.

"The seizure was because of my overdose. Now get these Goddamn straps off."

"I'll have to ask Dr. Cuddy her permission first, sir."

"Goddamn it. I've got a fucking Ph.D. too. And I'm ordering you to let me out of these Goddamn straps."

"I'm sorry, sir. I have to talk to Dr. Cuddy." She looked at House nervously. With any other patient, she would've protested the bad language, but this was Dr. House after a drug overdose. She began to back away slowly. He stared at her in disbelief, becoming more and more pissed off by the second. She turned away and opened the door.

"I want to see Wilson."

She stopped.

"You tell Cuddy that. I want to see Wilson."

She didn't turn back to face him. One more moment, and she left.

Cuddy had come to see Wilson at last. She flipped through his charts, nibbled on her lip, and asked the nurse to take the oxygen mask away for a minute. It had been long enough since the surgery; he should be awake. She leaned toward him and touched his shoulder, calling him softly. But he was still barely conscious and he only said one thing.

"House…"

"Dr. Wilson? Can you hear me?"

His eyes rolled. "House…"

The nurse put the oxygen mask back in place. Wilson's eyes slipped open and closed. House…. Where was Greg? Where was he? What was going on?

"Dr. Wilson, it's Lisa Cuddy. Can you look at me?"

Cuddy, Cuddy…. Who was that? Oh, God, his head hurt. Where was House? House should be here.

"House…"

"Dr. House isn't here now, James. Can you please look at me?"

"I want House…" Wilson mumbled, almost whimpering, eyes still closed. Cuddy looked helplessly at the nurse, who didn't quite shrug.

"Should I go get Dr. House, ma'am?"

Cuddy stared at Wilson and noted his furrowed brow.

"No," she said. "Dr. House isn't fit to get out of bed."

The nurse bowed her head and didn't protest, but she was clearly disappointed. It was hard not to want to give Wilson whatever he asked for when he lay there with that voice. Cuddy sighed and straightened. She walked out without a word.

House lay in bed with a somber face. He remembered – thoughts kept running through his head, memories kept abusing his conscience. Wilson was too deep in his system.

"No kids, my marriage sucks... I only have two things that work for me: this job and this stupid, screwed up friendship, and neither mattered enough to you to make one stupid speech."

"They matter."

If their friendship mattered to him, if Wilson mattered, than why the hell had he overdosed? Why the hell couldn't he overcome his pain? He was the only human being that Wilson really loved, and he'd almost killed himself. If hadn't been for Wilson's accident, he would have succeeded. James saves him again. Fuck. He sighed. He hadn' t known he could hate himself this much.

Wilson's heart-broken expression burned in his mind again.

Oh, God, he couldn't deal with this.

How could he ever do that to Wilson?

He couldn't forget the way Wilson's voice had broken that day, as he packed away his only other joy into boxes. He had seen the gleam in Wilson's eyes. He'd been deathly afraid for a second that Wilson would start crying, and he wouldn't know what to do. But Wilson had remained dry-faced and agreed to help House out one more time. Even after all that. Jesus, he didn't deserve such a friend. Needless to say, once Vogler had been fired, House had thoroughly enjoyed drinking champagne with James, even Chase and Foreman had been there to share in the celebration.

How was he going to explain himself now?

Would Cuddy tell Wilson first?

He half-wanted her to, half-wanted to do it himself. He wished he'd never have to mention it. But that wasn't an option, he knew all too well. Wilson would wonder why he was here, hooked up to just as many tubes, and lying to him about what had happened would bring hell later if Wilson ever discovered it on his own. And House couldn't bear to damage their friendship anymore than he already had, even if Wilson didn't realize it yet.

He should've used a gun.

Next time.

Cuddy stood at her office window, but she couldn't see past the blinds. Thoughts plagued her. House asked for Wilson. Wilson asked for House. Neither got an answer. And it was up to her. Their medical conditions aside, they were both emotionally unstable at the moment, especially House. And she honestly didn't know how Wilson would react when he finally found out that when he had the accident, House had been in the middle of suicide. They could very well explode into a fight, and anger was the last thing either body needed. Wilson was still very delicate, and she wasn't about to let House out of his bed, let alone out of his room. She doubted his mental stability now, and she knew the straps weren't just in case of another seizure.

She sighed. Wilson almost dying would have been drama enough for this place, but House just made it insanity. His team had been informed by now, and they would be in tomorrow morning. She didn't doubt that by then, the whole hospital, if not the whole medical field within a ten-mile radius, would know about House's attempted suicide. It would do wonders for their reputation. Not that House cared anyway. She bowed her head into her hand.

What had House been thinking? Really? He had told her all the bullshit about pain and being tired, but she knew it went much deeper than just that. She supposed that things had been especially overwhelming lately but to drive him unto death? The thought must have been there inside him for a much longer time to surface now. She had somehow known that it was Wilson's silent fear. She had noticed the way James looked at House some time ago – those brown eyes watching his friend down pill after pill after pill. He never said a word, but it was all there in those eyes – sadness and sympathy, frustration and pain. Fear. He didn't know what to do for House any more than the rest of the world did, and he was the one who cared most of all. She guessed that Wilson had decided giving House continuous Vicodin prescriptions might make up for his own inability to help the man. She didn't know much about House or Wilson, (since they were both private, quiet creatures) but she knew that Wilson loved House and she knew that House was a real bastard to him sometimes. This weekend had topped everything.

Cuddy had often watched House laze around in his office, rocking to his headphones or playing on his Gameboy, and she had wondered if beneath all that, great human needs resided. She knew he hadn't dated anyone in months, if not years, and the only friend he had was Wilson. And half the time, that was only because Wilson was too damn stubborn (or too damn lonely) to leave him alone. House had a lot of issues, but one of the most prominent concerned intimacy. She had doubts about whether or not he still knew how to be intimate with someone. And Wilson – Wilson had martial problems, though she didn't know much more than that. The two spent all of their time at work, as most doctors do, and when she really thought about it, Wilson didn't seem to have any other friends either. Oh, sure, he had coworkers. They all had coworkers. And maybe sometimes they'd go out for a beer together, but that was it. The only one Wilson ever spent any real time with was House. She had watched them leave together enough times to know that they did things outside of work. And she'd even heard that Wilson had spent Christmas Eve at House's place, regardless of his wife. She remembered the first week of the year that the hospital had resumed function. She'd run into Wilson somewhere and complimented him on his unusually cute tie – something blue with a goldfish on it. He had smiled and thanked her.

"Christmas present?" she'd asked.

"Yeah, actually."

"Your wife thought it was cute?"

"No," Wilson had blushed. "Dr. House."

And she'd smiled. Wilson was cute. Wilson and House together were even cuter. And to have House and "cute" in the same sentence was something to behold. Greg wasn't really something you thought of as being similar to bunnies or cotton candy.

And it had taken her a few weeks to pay a visit to House's office, where she noticed his new Vicodin bowl on the desk.

"Developing generosity?" she'd said.

"Nice," he'd replied. "And no, actually. Wilson thought it'd be a nice touch."

She'd also noticed the musical note pin on his jacket collar one day, but she hadn't asked about it.

Ah, House. When was he going to realize he had something to live for? When was he going to realize that someone did love him? When was he going to realize that he needed to stop being a jackass? Never, perhaps. But the least he could do was acknowledge that Wilson, in all of his pure-hearted goodness, cared for him almost incessantly. Then, if God deemed House worthy of a miracle, he could start to appreciate and reciprocate that love. Maybe it was just her being female, but she could sense that Wilson was in dire need of some affection. No one was succeeding in providing him with any, least of all his wife, and it seemed like the only person that he wanted it from was House. And perhaps if House weren't so damn anal retentive about personal space, Wilson would simply ask or act on his own. But even with Wilson, House had formed an invisible wall around himself, always keeping his distance in one way or another.

Or maybe she just didn't know enough. No one could know better than House and Wilson. They spent a lot of time away from other people, so perhaps it wasn't what it seemed. But she hadn't forgotten any of the times that Wilson had defended House against whatever threatening powers, didn't miss the way Wilson kept up with House's stride in a way that no one else did. Sometimes they would stand so close together, walk close enough to brush, and Wilson could say things to House that no one else could.

Someone knocked.

"Dr. Cuddy?" It was that nurse.

"What is it?"

"Dr. House wants to see Dr. Wilson. He keeps asking."

Cuddy waited for a while in silence.

"Let him out of bed. Make him use a wheelchair."

House wheeled himself in, nurse trailing behind him with his drip at a discreet distance. Wilson didn't look any different from when House had first visited him, but he soon saw that Wilson was awake this time. James took steady, concentrated breaths and only turned his head to look at House when House was almost at his bed. He smiled behind the oxygen mask, and House gave him a weak smile back. The wheelchair stopped right against the bed, and the nurse left House's drip behind him. They were alone at last.

"Hi," said Wilson, voice muffled in the mask.

"Hey," said House softly.

"Good to see you."

"Good to see you too."

Wilson's eyes had warmed, almost as if he were strong again.

"Don't look too pretty, do I?" he said, taking a deep breath halfway through.

"Better than your car, I would imagine," said House. Wilson winced.

"How bad is it?"

"They said it was totaled. But who cares? We have the corvette."

Wilson smiled. House looked away and thought.

"How are you feeling?" he asked absently.

"I'm okay," said Wilson quietly. He was falling asleep again.

"You have enough pain meds?"

"Yeah," Wilson sighed. "It's fine."

The morphine clicker lay untouched on the bed, near Wilson's hand. House reached out, telling himself he was going to put the clicker in Wilson's hand. Instead, he grabbed the hand instead. Wilson opened his eyes and looked at him tenderly.

"You'll be okay," said House. But Wilson wasn't the one who needed reassuring. House forced a smile. "You'll be okay."

And a long while passed in silence, the heart monitor beeping while House's thumb stroked over Wilson's fingers. Neither man's grip was tight, but they were satisfied with the warmth trapped in between their palms. Wilson was tempted to fall asleep, comforted by House's presence, but he never quite let himself. House kept thinking, kept staring into space, kept stroking.

And then it came.

"Why – why the wheelchair?"

House looked up at James.

"And a – drip?"

He didn't answer at once.

"You're tired, James," he said at last. "You should get some sleep." He began to pull away, but Wilson clung to his hand.

"Tell me," he said. "What happened?"

House stared at him with tormented blue eyes.

"Greg." Wilson sounded out of breath now. House hung his head.

"When you… had the accident… I was home. And…"

He paused. Wilson waited, still holding to House's hand.

"I… took some Vicodin. Too much…"

Wilson looked at him, confused, forehead creasing and eyes glimmering.

"Too much?"

"Yeah…" said House. "I… overdosed."

"On accident?" said Wilson. "Were you drunk?"

House peered at him guiltily, like a cornered child who had stolen something.

"No, Wilson," he said softly. "I was sober. It wasn't an accident."

Wilson's face contorted further. House sighed.

"I tried to kill myself, James. I wanted to die."

Oh, yeah, that was gentle. Good job, House.

"What?" Wilson's voice was shaking more than it had ever before. House wanted to die again.

"I just got so tired," he said. "Of pain and life and…"

He stopped. Tears had rolled down Wilson's cheeks, but he didn't stop staring at House. House believed his heart had now truly been ripped out. He didn't bother with any more pathetic excuses. Nothing excused abandonment. Wilson didn't let go of his hand. House watched him cry with painful blue eyes for just a moment, before he hung his head in shame when he couldn't take it anymore. He had nothing else to say. Wilson didn't know what the hell to say. Awkward silence allowed only for the monitor beeping and Wilson's tears.

House almost winced when Wilson whimpered.

And Wilson, amid the torrent of emotions that he couldn't identify, didn't know why was crying. House didn't die, wasn't it okay? Why did it hurt so much?

"I know it doesn't mean much…" House began, almost whispering. "But I'm sorry. It was a stupid thing to do. A selfish thing." Of course, if he didn't have Wilson, it wouldn't have been stupid or selfish. Because then, he really would have nothing and no one to live for. But James made it different.

Wilson couldn't stop crying, no matter how much he wanted to. He couldn't stop the pain in his chest. He'd almost lost House. Oh, God. He'd almost lost him. And he hadn't been enough to keep his friend from trying. He hadn't been enough to stop the pain. He had failed in making life bearable. He'd failed. He was a bad friend. He was worthless. He should kill himself too, and they should all fucking die and be done with it. He couldn't catch his breath -- too many sobs, too many tears. His nose was running now too, but he didn't care. His eyes were flooded and he couldn't see. They had already turned red.

House bit on his lip. His eyes stung. But he couldn't cry. He had no reason to cry. He didn't deserve to cry. He had to be strong for Wilson. Actually, he just needed to fucking leave. James didn't deserve this shit. But Wilson wouldn't let go of his hand.

Oh, God, he was a bad friend. That's all Wilson could think of now. Over and over, it ripped at his heart and his brain. He squinted, tears too thick and pouring out. It hurt. Oh, it hurt so much. Instead of running to House and saving him, he'd gotten in a car accident. How could he? It didn't make any sense, but he didn't care. He had failed. And he had come perilously close to waking up from this without anyone to greet him – no blue eyes. He had given House the Vicodin, it was his fault. If it weren't for him, House wouldn't have had anything to overdose on. If it weren't for his inadequacy, House wouldn't even need pills for the pain. If it weren't for his failings, House's life wouldn't be worthless. If it weren't for him, House would have had someone to stop him. It wouldn't have happened. But it had. His fears, his nightmare had come true. And it was his fault. It was his fault, and he was a bad friend. And therefore, a bad human being.

Wilson sobbed and whimpered. House was in agony. All he could do was reach over and pull out a tissue for his friend, offering it to him pathetically. And when Wilson didn't take it, didn't even notice, House dried his tears and wiped his nose, but Wilson just kept crying.

Life couldn't be more fucked up. And it was all House's fault. He was the world's evilest bastard, even worse than Vogler. He couldn't solve his own problems, couldn't be happy, couldn't deal with his life. He couldn't be with people, he couldn't love anyone. Sometimes he even wondered if he loved Wilson. But not now. Now, he knew. Because it wouldn't hurt this much if he didn't. But obviously, he didn't love Wilson enough. He didn't even believe he could anymore.

"I'm sorry," Wilson choked, trembling with tears.

House looked at him sharply.

"What?"

"S-sorry," Wilson mewled. House frowned and got to his feet, leaning over and taking Wilson's face in his hands.

"Listen to me," he murmured, blue eyes burning into Wilson's brown. Wilson's tears seared his flesh, and Wilson's eyes wounded his soul. "You have nothing to be sorry for. It had nothing to do with you. It isn't your fault." James shuddered. House's leg was quaking dangerously. "You're the only reason I'm alive." Wilson stared at him with his tears.

"Then why?" Wilson cried. "Why? Why would you want to leave unless I'm not good enough?" House's eyes stung and his chest constricted. He breathed. His hands were wet with Wilson's tears.

"Because I'm in pain," he whispered.

"Because I'm not good enough to stop it."

"No," House hissed. "It's not you. It's not your fault, it's not even your responsibility."

"You're my friend," said Wilson. "It'll always be my responsibility."

House sunk a little, his eyes gleaming. God, he couldn't cry.

"It's not your fault," he said again. Every word was a whisper now. "I'm the one with the problem, not you."

"You only have a problem because I can't fix it," said Wilson.

House shut his eyes. "I only have a problem because I can't fix myself." Wilson fought not to scream. His whole chest quivered inside with pain. "And you're the only reason why I even want to bother trying anymore."

The heart monitor hadn't stopped beeping, but they couldn't hear it. Wilson's oxygen mask was foggy. House's drip worked without acknowledgment. Wilson whimpered again, cutting himself off by biting on his lip too hard. And finally, House leaned further, lifted Wilson up, and wrapped his arms around his friend. Wilson snaked his arms around House's neck and cried into House's shoulder. House's leg was shaking almost violently. They hadn't hugged for years. Wilson was completely destroyed now, and House experienced a new pain – raw and fresh, awakened by this touch he had lived without for so long. And at last, he let his own tears come, knowing they would only touch Wilson's shoulder and go unseen.