A/N: Bad writing sucks.

Sorry for the delay.

Thanks to all of my readers.

Chapter 4

House cracked his eyes open and made out the bleary figure of a woman in a white dress. She was fat. She was a nurse. And she was watching him from the doorway.

"What are you doing?" he crooned in annoyance. She grinned bashfully. Her lip-gloss had glitter in it. Her hands were clutched against her stomach.

"I just came to check up on you," she said, making it sound like an excuse. Which it was. To House, anyway.

"Does that require standing idly in the door and watching me sleep?"

She shook her head as if she were caught eating a doughnut when she wasn't supposed to, and her mouth turned into a deflated O. "I – I didn't mean -- "

"Forget it," said House. Wilson made a sound and moved against him. "Just leave."

She nodded and smiled again, backing out of the room. House rolled his eyes. Christ.

Wilson was curled against him, head on his shoulder, sleeping. His arm was draped across House's chest, his fingers loosely curled into House's shoulder. He held on to House as if he might really lose him, and every time House moved, his grip tightened. House stared over at him quietly. The oxygen mask was foggy. The tears were dry. Wilson looked so – fragile, sleeping like that. House chewed on his lip. Wilson's hair touched his cheek. He let himself tilt his head against Wilson's and rest it there.

He did not close his eyes. He couldn't stop thinking. He could feel Wilson breathing, chest moving against his arm, and it gave him no peace. Wilson was comfort. He hadn't had that in years. Maybe he could live after all, if life continued to be like this – Wilson sleeping with him.

He winced.

That sounded so wrong.

Wilson shifted, pushing up into House's cheek and stretching. He moved his arm down; it rested on House's belly now, hand limp. House might've squirmed awkwardly were anyone else draped upon him like this, but he only held Wilson close and stared quietly. He was careful to make sure that Wilson didn't move his head too much, since the concussion rendered it delicate. He discreetly restrained Wilson's body from moving too much, simply by holding his friend and thereby satisfying Wilson enough to repress most desire to shift. The nurse had relieved Wilson of the oxygen mask, but it was hung up on his drip just in case. House listened to Wilson's breathing too, monitoring better than any machine could for hitches or irregularity. The ribs were broken and wrapped, and he was sure that every muscle must ache in James' body. House did his best to cradle Wilson with his own flesh.

He decided that heart monitors made poetic sounds. Especially when they played Wilson's beat.

Wilson made a sound and stirred. House looked at him with silent blues. The damaged chest rubbed against the whole ribs; the cotton made love even without limbs. The warmth was too perfect to be something that could last without any intervals of pause. The knowledge that this love was constant made House still. It chastised him – he stopped believing in constancy after Stacy left. He'd overlooked Wilson.

His friend moved again. House kept staring. More sounds. More beeping art. House caught an unexpected whiff of Wilson's cologne, now faded after a few days since he must've put it on. He'd never really watched Wilson sleep, though God knows the younger doctor had spent countless nights on his couch. Wilson liked his couch – the leather one in the living room. It was Wilson's couch. Even House knew that. And House owned it.

House listened to Wilson breathe. He felt it too. He tried to feel it with his own chest -- the middle – where his heart pumped lazily. Wilson opened his eyes.

"How's the breathing?" House asked.

"Fine."

Silence. House moved his hand back and forth over a patch of Wilson's side. It soothed the ache. It made Wilson feel better.

"Julie hasn't touched me in months." Wilson stared into space, head still on House's shoulder. House's eyes moved. He didn't know what to say. It wasn't news that the relationship was dead.

"Do you miss it?" Wilson asked.

"What?"

"The touch of a woman."

House sighed with closed lips. "You know I don't want anyone else."

Wilson knew House had never gotten over Stacy or the way she'd left. "At least you have someone to belong to."

"Yeah," House drawled. "Except it kind of sucks when it's not mutual."

"I don't even want her anymore," said Wilson. "That's the worst part."

"It's not your fault."

"Third time around, it must be."

They let silence follow for a while, until House spoke again.

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Miss it?"

Wilson waited for a minute, body shaped against House's.

"I miss affection."

House had that look on his face again – the human one. Sad blue eyes.

"Sometimes you just want someone to be loving toward you, you know?" Wilson continued. "Wives are supposed to do that."

"Yeah," said House. "Women are supposed to do a lot of things."

Wilson sighed this time. "So are we."

"We don't always deserve their crap, though."

"Guess not." They paused again. "Maybe I wasn't meant to have a family."

House shut his eyes, cheek resting against Wilson's soft hair. "It's not so bad," he said. "Not having one."

"What about when we're old?"

"You can come to my place."

Wilson smiled weakly. But then the smile faded.

"Do you want to live to be old?"

House didn't answer at once.

"Honestly." Wilson's voice cracked.

"I want to –." House was afraid. How could he say anything? How could he be honest? He didn't know how to be honest or human. He knew how to isolate himself. He knew how to ignore his own emotions. He knew how to be a bastard. He didn't think he knew how to be a good friend.

Wilson waited.

House steeled himself.

"I want to do the right thing."

Wilson smiled a sad smile. "You never stop wanting to be right."

"I typically am."

"Yeah," said Wilson, voice shaking. "You typically are."

House waited. "But not this time."

Wilson moved his head against House's shoulder and looked up at his friend. "Not this time?"

House's blue eyes shackled him with contrition. "No," he said. "Not this time."

Wilson's eyes shone. House had named their color "truth" years ago. "And next time?"

Their faces were mere inches apart, and House could still feel Wilson's heart beating against him, as he tried to drown out the monitor beeping. They were lying under a thin net of tubes, tangled in their own life support, and they might've used it as an excuse to stay together. They needed each other to breathe now. No one else could pick up these pieces.

"There isn't going to be a next time."

Wilson's breath hitched.

"You want to live?"

House's eyes searched Wilson's.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I don't want to do this to you."

Wilson frowned. "I don't want you to live just for me. No one should have to live like you do."

House sighed. "Why can't you ever be easily satisfied?"

"Because I care. So if you're going to live, then you're going to make some changes."

"Since when did you become my dictator?"

"House – you're a Vicodin addict who attempted suicide. I don't think you're the best candidate to rule your own life right now."

House rolled his eyes, but Wilson was serious.

"I'm not coming off the Vicodin," he said. "We've been through this."

Wilson bit his lip. "Fine. But that's not the only thing you could change."

"You want me to wear different shirts?"

This time Wilson rolled his eyes, and House had to stop himself from smiling at the old reaction from his friend.

"No," said James. "I want you to get some therapy."

"You mean you're resigning from the job?" House replied, but his sarcasm snuffed out when he realized Wilson meant it.

"I think it's the best thing for you," said Wilson. "If you don't want to come off the drugs, then you at least need to get emotionally organized."

"I'm not going to a shrink," Housed dismissed. He'd left mellow and gone to defensive.

"Why not?" Wilson said helplessly. "You could do it on your own time, nobody would know. You can't just go back to the way things were, and you damn well know it, House. You really think Cuddy's not going to force it on you anyway?"

"I'm not going," said House. Despite the tension, they remained in their embrace.

"You can't keep living like this. You'll try again if you don't get help, I don't care what you say." House looked away from him, not wanting to listen to any of this. "And besides." Wilson's voice softened. "Do you really want to keep feeling this way?"

"Telling an apathetic stranger about my life isn't going to solve a damn thing."

"Well, what have you got to lose? You don't tell anyone who cares."

"You know everything," said House.

"Bullshit," said Wilson. "I know what's happened. I don't know what you're thinking, and I obviously didn't know how you were feeling. No one else does either, and you know it. You've done this to yourself. You've shut everyone out. And if you don't want to talk to me about it, fine. But talk to someone. Anyone. I don't care. But things can't be the same."

House stared at him again.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I know," Wilson grimaced. "But you need help."

"Why can't I just get my help from you?" House's voice was soft now.

"Would you let me help you?"

House nodded.

"I mean really help you," said Wilson. "Would you talk to me about all of this? Everything you've never talked about before?"

House waited, still staring, but nodded again. Wilson sighed.

"Okay," he said, now exhausted all over again from the talk. "But I still doubt you'll get out of therapy as long as Cuddy's still got a say."

House tried to shrug. "I'll deal with her when I have to." He didn't mention what he'd said to her that first night in the hospital.

Wilson settled again, head clear and painless on the middle ground between House's shoulder and chest. His eyes shone out into the empty space, into the sound of his own heart turned into something mechanical. And he didn't hear it. All he heard was House. He listened to House's silence. He listened to the involuntary throb from within. And for the first time, he realized that the sound penetrated bone, muscle, fat, blood, and skin – all just to reach another person's ears.

He listened. House stared blankly too. His eyes were brighter – a pale blue now. Wilson's were warmer – darker in color but not disposition. Wilson's hair could move, where House's couldn't, unless touched by wind or fingers. House looked older. Wilson was quieter. Neither were strangers to pain. Or rejection.

"Thirsty?" asked Wilson.

"No," said House. "You?"

"I want a beer."

House smiled.

"Ask Cuddy."

Wilson snorted.

House kept smiling.

"I want some Vicodin," he said. Just because he had the balls.

"I'll go down to the pharmacy and get you some," said Wilson, hiding the twinge in his stomach at House's words. House almost laughed.

"You know – some might say you're the bitch in this relationship," he remarked.

"That's okay. You're Cuddy's bitch."

House did laugh this time. Wilson smiled. House liked it when Wilson smiled.

"Why did they let you sleep in here?" Wilson asked.

"Because I'm God."

Wilson chuckled. House grew more self-satisfied.

"Not quite."

"Okay – because I'm Cuddy's bitch?"

"Maybe. But I think it's more because you're a jerk."

House grinned. "Nice."

Wilson's breath hitched. House stopped smiling. "James?"

James was silent after sucking in air like a vacuum. His eyes were wide, and he moved, gripping House's leg.

"Shit!" House hissed, pain slamming into his thigh, courtesy of Wilson's fingers. Wilson, on the other hand, couldn't make a sound for a moment, until finally he began to choke audibly. He tried coughing but with little success. He lay back into the pillow, suffocating and rigid, his grip on House's leg unwavering – his only plea for help.

"Nurse!" House yelled. He grabbed the clicker and pounded on the button with his finger, a ringing in his ears. "Nurse!"

He stared at James desperately, blue eyes startled into panic.