A/N: Okay. I need your opinion/advice, dear readers. I've been thinking about slash. It's not the first time. The regular readers will know up until this point, I have never intentionally written slash, although some people choose to read my work that way, which is fine. I wonder, though, if I should actually try writing slash deliberately. It's tough because I don't love anything more than friendship, and I like the fact that while a lot of people write a massive amount of slash in pretty much every fandom, I've maintained a history of only writing platonic but passionate friendship. I'm sure I could write slash; I'm just not sure if I should. I don't want to very well join the masses, you know, but at the same time, I know many people enjoy reading it and it would be interesting territory for me to explore. I don't know. What do you think?

Please Read and Review in detail, thank you.

Chapter 7

He opened his eyes to the sound of Wilson's exhale. He was in his living room. The light was western orange, and Wilson was lying on his couch, arm slumped over his eyes. His shirt was crumpled even while he wore it, wrinkles moving like fishes in a pond when he breathed. The first two buttons were undone. His tie was a coiled snake on the carpet. His shoes were empty and his socks were black. He breathed again. What the hell was House doing here?

"I can't do this anymore, Greg," said Wilson, no doubt in his voice about House's presence. "I can't do this." He sounded tired and defeated. Greg recognized it and didn't like it at all. He didn't say a word out of confusion, even though he wanted to ask Wilson what he was talking about. The oncologist sighed.

"I can't keep failing and coming over to your place to mourn on the couch like a woman." His voice cracked somewhere after the f word.

"You can always have the couch," House said, without thinking. "I like my chair better, anyway."

Wilson peeked at House from under his arm with a wide smile. He gave a shaky laugh and his teeth twinkled. House felt an impending grin come and go, as he realized Wilson had started to cry. He had laughed into tears.

"Oh, God," he sobbed, his whole body shaking while he tried to make minimal noise. He choked, heaved, wept. "What's wrong with me?" he whimpered. "Why can't I make this work?"

And that's when it hit House. This was the day after Wilson's second wife had filed for divorce, just over three years ago. He had gone back in time. Or something. But he remembered now. He had lived this. It was a memory. Somehow, he didn't expect anything he still had to say.

Wilson hissed into a toothy grin once more, chest quaking with both tears and the senseless laughter he had the habit of bringing up when he was truly falling apart. He stared at House with his eyes streaming, his cheeks gleaming in the time-distorted light.

"She cheated on me," he said. "I mean, I could understand if this was like last time, where I cheated first, but I didn't even do anything this time."

House looked at him painfully.

"Christ," Wilson chirped, chest heaving like hummingbird wings. "I didn't screw up this time, and I end up getting dumped." He covered his eyes with his hand. "Although," he sniffled, "I guess I did screw up or she wouldn't be leaving." His lips cracked into agony, and House felt himself shift, moved with compassion. His leg protested more hotly than usual, and he almost cursed as he reminded himself that this was 2002. The infarction had happened only two years ago.

Wilson sucked in a sharp breath. "What if I can't do it? What if I can't succeed at marriage? What if I end up alone?" His chest felt like it was being eaten from the inside, from the inner walls to his heart. Pain shivered in his ribs and his muscles like shards of glass embedded in the bone and flesh. House couldn't take it anymore.

"All right," he said, moving from his spot and cursing under his breath when his leg seared with pain. He was grateful that it was only four steps to the couch. He patted Wilson's leg, signaling him to sit up and make room. Wilson rose slowly, as if his whole body really did ache with the flu, sniffling furiously but to no avail. House sunk into the leather beside him and lay down his cane. He wrapped his arm around Wilson's trembling shoulders, and Wilson fell into his chest and rested his head on House's shoulder.

"You won't end up alone," House murmured, rubbing Wilson's arm. "You just have to find the right girl, that's all."

"What if – I can't make anyone happy?" Wilson whispered.

"You make me happy," House answered. Wilson shut his eyes, pouring out tears through the corners and the cracks. House lay his head against Wilson's and didn't stop stroking the oncologist's arm – up, down, up down. He closed his eyes too and realized he was tired. He reached for sleep, listening to Wilson's sniffles and holding him close. He knew what it was to be abandoned by a lover for no good reason.

He felt Wilson's breathing begin to even out. He felt until it was slow, steady breaths against his heart, warm with grief. His hand had slowed against Wilson's arm, matching those breaths. This was all they had left now. Love left them in bitter pieces. But not all love, as they would realize down the road. They should have in this moment.

Wait. House did. He had to tell Wilson, so that the oncologist would know before the accident and suicide attempt. But somehow, he couldn't form the words. He couldn't change the past. Damn. Instead, he sat with Wilson and tried to tell him through his fingers and his palm and his shoulder and his arm. He knew it probably wouldn't work. But at least he knew. At least he had remembered this again.

Wilson's breaths were hot against him, his body softened in the warmth of House's half-hug. Wilson didn't make any move to bring himself out of his limp state, and House drew his other arm across to hang on his best friend. He felt sort of awkward with that empty space in between his arm and chest, but he hadn't felt this right since before the infarction. With his head rested on Wilson's, his arms comforting his friend, and no one else in the world, he felt right.

Cameron's pager sounded, closely followed by Foreman and Chase's. She looked down at hers before meeting their gaze.

"Cuddy," she said.

"That probably means House," said Foreman.

"Or Wilson," Chase reminded.

Cameron bit her lip and stood. The men trailed behind her out of the room.

"Ready?" Hourani asked. He glanced at his assistant surgeons and nurses, dressed in matching scrubs. They nodded, heart monitor their background music. Wilson was already drugged and sleeping, his belly exposed to the light. The incision from the first surgery was an ugly fence of stitches across his lower abdomen, the skin still tender and violet-red where it was sewn shut. It would leave a scar that House could sneak peeks at with both mild compassion and teasing remarks. One of the surgeons at Hourani's left applied the disinfectant to Wilson's skin, a sick orange that would have made him tingle if he were awake. A nurse handed Hourani a scalpel. They were going to cut above the first incision and this time, make it smaller. They had located the bleed with an ultra sound earlier and knew exactly where to go and what they were dealing with. As they made a second incision, Wilson dreamed. He dreamed of a memory, one that he would rather forget.

"He was dead for over a minute."

He collapsed back into the chair, taking in a breath his lungs didn't feel. He wanted to deny it, but his mouth hung open and silent. His eyes were gleaming and he knew the tears were there but didn't know why. The world lost its noise, still moving around him.

Greg.

The name was connected to too many memories, too much laughter and too many smiles. It had too much power over him. It made him feel too much like a man, alive with every pore. Only because of the fear. He should never be this afraid for anyone. He should never feel this way about loss and death. That's why he married women he knew he wouldn't love forever. And all along he knew that Greg was different. All along he knew he had let himself feel too far with Greg. That's why at the first wedding, he had found those blue eyes in the crowd and they helped him stay. And the second wedding, Greg stood next to him instead of his brother, those same eyes running the length of his shoulder and that familiar whisper telling him obscene things and making him beam as bride number two walked down the aisle. They had spent too many holidays and birthdays and weekends together. They had met each other's family and gone on vacations together.

Greg.

Greg. Greg.

Oh, God.

You did not just leave me.

You did not just die without me.

You didn't just go before I could reach you.

Why didn't you tell me?

"He asked to be put in a coma. They performed surgery a few hours ago. He – may never walk again. At this point, we don't know. He doesn't know the surgery was done."

Wilson looked up at her.

"Doesn't know?"

"Stacy," she said.

And he knew. He was so close to crying. But he couldn't. He couldn't lose it here. He wasn't supposed to lose it at all – not his self-control.

"Can I see him?" he murmured, not even thinking.

She nodded, her eyes full and her face no longer protecting what she felt. Wilson stood without another word, brushing against her shoulder. He stood for a minute in a teeming hallway, looking, searching for the right room. He didn't feel his legs as he hurried to his left. His throat had closed up, and he was trying hard to breathe. Wandering eyes, wandering eyes.

He stopped. Stopped before the glass, the window separating him from the man in the bed. His lungs choked up. No one else seemed to notice him. Slowly, he approached, took another step forward, another step forward. Just a little bit longer. Just a few more steps left of this life.

He reached the glass, felt his fingers touch it – the cold. He leaned into it, lay his face against it. And suddenly, he was crying, hiding from the world but not from Greg. Never from Greg. House was hiding from him.

"James."

He sobbed, leaning into his arm but the sleeve wasn't big enough. Stacy was at his shoulder, coffee steaming and Styrofoam almost too hot in her hand. He couldn't look at her. He couldn't stop himself. He didn't understand why he was so obliterated. She looked at him, eyes filled up, and he cried to make his shoulders quake. She lifted her hand to rest on one. His fingertips kissed the glass without taking a breath; they would never have another chance.

Cameron hung halfway into House's room with Foreman and Chase behind her. Cuddy looked up at them, as a nurse secured an oxygen mask for House.

"Dr. Cuddy?" Cameron prompted.

"He's gone into a coma," Cuddy replied. The three faces in the doorway fell. Cameron stepped into the room fully after a pause, Foreman and Chase inching after her. They let the door shut behind them, dashing the possibility of being overheard.

"A coma?" Chase echoed, his brow knit. Cuddy nodded, before returning her attention to House.

"How are his stats?" Foreman asked, stepping forward. Most of the time, he didn't like House, but suddenly he was concerned for the bastard.

"Temperature's 98.5, BP's 110 over 70, pulse is 80 bpm, breathing's slow." She ran off the numbers as if House was any other patient, but the ducklings knew better. The way Cuddy looked at him was enough to know she was worried.

"80's low, isn't it?" Chase questioned.

"For him, yes."

"This is just side affects of the overdose, right?" said Foreman.

"I'm sure they are, though the blood transfusion didn't help any."

"Blood transfusion?"

"He gave up two pints for Dr. Wilson, who went into hypovolemic shock a few hours ago."

All three doctors recoiled. Cameron couldn't have looked much more shocked.

"A nurse will arrive shortly for another bag," Cuddy said distastefully.

"But I thought you just said losing blood made him worse," Foreman countered.

"Wilson's in surgery again," Cuddy informed. "They want to make sure he stays at a healthy level of blood. We were lucky this time; we don't think he's sustained any serious damage. I don't think he could handle it again, and none of us want to take any chances."

House's team gave her hard stares, all troubled with both doctors' conditions. They didn't know Wilson as well as they knew House, but the oncologist was easily the most amiable employee in the hospital and House's best friend. No other staff member would wish Wilson ill, no matter how much they knew him. Cameron, Foreman, and Chase also knew that if anything happened to Wilson, House wasn't going to take it well – if and when House woke up. He'd already tried to kill himself, and the last thing he needed was grief from Wilson.

A nurse entered quietly, pushing a tray with sterile equipment.

"I'm going to start him on a drug to counteract the Vicodin. We've already pumped his stomach for the alcohol, so hopefully the drug will work and bring him back around."

Cameron stared with gleaming eyes and Foreman nodded.

"Should we transfer him to the ICU?" Chase asked.

"No," said Cuddy. "We'll monitor him here. We don't need the whole hospital to track his every move."

The nurse seated herself at House's left, not bothering to disturb Cuddy, even though House's IV was inserted in his left arm. She pushed down the bar and disinfected the crook of his arm, where three veins passed in bold shades of blue and green. Cameron watched as she readied the needle.

"And Dr. Wilson?" Chase pressed.

"We'll see about him when he comes out of surgery," Cuddy said, before looking over at the nurse. "Hurry up with that blood. We don't have much time to run it through the lab."

Uneasy silence followed until the nurse was finished, upon which Chase offered to hurry it to the lab himself and whisked the bag away.

"Page us if anything comes up?" Foreman asked Cuddy.

"Of course," she said. He nodded and turned to go but touched Cameron's arm first.

"You okay?"

She looked at him from her blank stare at empty space. "Yeah," she said quietly, also under Cuddy's gaze. "Fine." She smiled faintly for a second, but Foreman's face didn't relax. He left anyway. Cameron stared at the floor, while Cuddy stared at Cameron. The younger woman smiled at the elder again, before wandering out, still troubled. Cuddy sighed.

House blinked one too many times when suddenly he found himself in bed instead of on his couch with Wilson. Hospital bed in a hospital room. Heart monitor, gown. Oh, shit. These were the first few days after the infarction. He moved with the insane notion of escaping but stopped when he realized Wilson was wrapped around him. Ah, he remembered this – the morning after Wilson's arrival.

The oncologist was still asleep, by the sound of his breaths. His brow rested on the back of House's shoulder, one arm outstretched above his head. His body as curled against House's, knees bent and stomach cradling House's back. The ailing doctor was surprised to find Wilson's hand still hooked into his own, fingers tightly laced with his. He tried to glance back at Wilson but couldn't see too far; he didn't want to wake his friend. Besides, the warmth of Wilson's body was comforting.

His leg throbbed. Twilight seeped through the blinds. The machines glowed and beeped. He was drowsy, and his eyes were sore. He remembered his emotional breakdown from the night before and wanted to crawl away and die of shame, even if it had only been Wilson watching. He sighed. Wilson. He moved his fingers around Wilson's a little. He shut his eyes and felt Wilson breathing against his back, chest pushing into him just a bit, breath warm on one spot in particular.

Stacy. Gone. Relationship over. Leg permanently fucked up. Oh, he just wanted to go back to sleep. He was surprised the pain was bearable. Maybe that was just because this was a dream or something. Since when had he fallen asleep anyway?

Wilson nuzzled him unconsciously, rubbing his face into House's shoulder. House stopped. His face softened, dark reality melting away from his thoughts. He hadn't remembered Wilson doing that before. House almost smiled, almost went a whole minute without being depressed. And yet – why should he be? This had already happened five years ago. He was used to it already. It was only a dream, a memory. Maybe the result of the date-rape drug Cuddy must've slipped into his coffee.

Wilson. His blue eyes widened. He needed to get back to Wilson! Shit. He had forgotten – the transfusion, the shock, the surgery. What was he doing here? He had to get out!

"Greg?" his friend murmured sleepily, as House tried to sit up. "What's wrong?"

"I've gotta get out of here," House answered, knowing he didn't make any sense but then Dream Wilson didn't know this was a dream.

"What?" The oncologist perked up a little. "Are you crazy?"

House looked over at those sweet, brown eyes with a sad expression that Wilson didn't understand. Dream Wilson didn't know about the future. He sat up and lay a hand on House's shoulder.

"How are you feeling? How's the pain? Do you need something? Lie down, you shouldn't move." He made to push House down, but House stopped him, gripping his hand and confusing him further.

"It's okay," House said. "I'm leaving."

Wilson stared at him, searching those blue eyes and wordlessly accusing him of insanity.

"Looks good?" Hourani asked one of his assistants. The woman nodded. "All right, let's sew him up. And get that blood in here."

He backed away, turned around, and snapped off his bloody latex gloves, leaving his assistants to stitch up Wilson's incision. Chase arrived in pastel yellow scrubs, carrying the sterile bag of blood. One of the surgical team members took it from him wordlessly and hooked it into the drip, before readying it with the transfusion tube. Chase stood looking at Wilson, eyes quiet.

"How is he?" he asked after a moment.

"Surgery went well," said the nearest surgeon, looking at Wilson also.

"James," Stacy said again, her hand gentle on his shoulder, rubbing in abstract shapes. He shuddered and sobbed, face still pressed into his arm that rested on the glass. He whimpered. Her brow was knit with compassion and concern. Her coffee cup was hot in her hand. He tried to breathe but it wasn't working well. His throat still hadn't opened up, and he couldn't stop the tears. He wanted to just sit down right there and wail. And he didn't know why.

"James," she said. "It's all right." Her voice cracked. "He's going to be okay. The surgery saved his life."

He could hear her guilt laced into her voice. She wouldn't mention that he may never walk again or at least never properly. She didn't mention that she'd ordered it done against his wishes or that he didn't even know because he was still in a coma. Wilson didn't have the heart to go there now. He couldn't find his voice to argue anyway.

"Come on, sit down," she coaxed, leading him away from the window and down the hall a bit to a waiting area. He didn't fight her because he couldn't even breathe. She sat him down as if he was her son, and he hung his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He still sobbed and shook, and she sat anxiously on the corner of her chair, looking at him and rubbing his back again.

"H-he was d-dead," Wilson choked. "He was dead." His voice was a squeak that made her heart ache.

"But he's alive now," she soothed. "And he's going to be fine."

"I wasn't here," Wilson continued, holding his face in one hand now. "God, I wasn't here."

"You are now," she said. "And that's all that matters. You're here now."

His shirt was rumpled and his hands were wet. His tie hung in between his knees. He heaved again but rubbed at his eye in a vain attempt to dry it. His hands and face were sopping. His eyes were horribly red, more than she had ever seen. She pulled a few tissues out of the box sitting on the table between their chairs, and he uttered a, "Thanks," when she offered them.

"'M sorry," he said with a hollow tone. "I don't know why I lost control like that." He wiped incessantly at his cheeks and eyes, but his lashes still looked wet.

"It's okay," she said. She grabbed his empty hand and squeezed. "It's going to be okay."