A/N: Ah! I finished! (this chapter, anyway) Seems like I keep writing pointless shit. Bleh.

Songs for this chapter are My Immortal by Evanescence, Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd, and Going Crazy by Plus One. In that order.

Please, please read and review (in detail). Thank you so much.

Chapter 9

Wilson suddenly stood before House's office, watching his best friend through the glass. That Goddamn glass. He hated it. He hated it even though what he really hated was the way House separated himself from the world, from Wilson. He hated the way he couldn't get through, couldn't open the door, couldn't touch the brilliant doctor anymore than anyone else could. All he could do was stand on the outside and watch – watch House's self-destruction, his denial, his pain, his solitude. House brought the solitude down on himself. He created his own isolation. And damn it, Wilson wanted in! He wanted to reach House so badly. It destroyed him as he stood here, watching, unmoving. He knew House wouldn't come out this time. And he knew he would have to walk away.

House hobbled around his desk, eyes searching the floor, until he stopped to stare out the window, his back to Wilson. Yes, that's right, the oncologist thought bitterly. Turn your back on me again. Keep me out. Pretend I'm not here so you can play the fucking victim. Poor House, with no one in the world that cares. Except for me, you bastard. Always me. Your exception. But it's just a lie, isn't it? That's all it is. I'm your lie, your cover-up, your excuse of sanity for people like Cuddy. I stand out here and love you, while you wallow in your little box of self-pity. God, I hate you. I hate you because you're the only damn person I never stopped loving, and you don't care.

House tipped his head back, and Wilson knew he'd just downed a few pills. The younger man gritted his teeth. He wanted to storm in there and throw House against a wall. He wanted to beat the shit out of him, hit those shoulders that mocked him, knock Greg's head into the floor, scream at him until he lost his voice. He wanted to scare House, wanted to scare him shitless. He wanted to scare him with his rage and his pain and his grief. He wanted to scare Greg into caring, into changing, into letting him in. But all he could do was stand out here, on the outside of the glass, looking beyond his reflection at the one human being he had invested his heart in.

Those first few months after the infarction had been brilliant. Not for House, of course, but for Wilson, it had been a glorious time of intimacy with his best friend. His second marriage had been plummeting into rocky static, and taking care of Greg had been his one salvation. That had been the first and only time Greg had totally leaned on him. He had been like a small child, barely able to do anything for himself without assistance. Wilson had gladly given it all the way through. He had relished being House's caretaker, because that's what he was good at – taking care of people. Greg had been uncharacteristically tender then, and for once, Wilson had felt like he knew for sure that House cared about him as much as Wilson cared for House.

Yet even during that time, Wilson had not overlooked House's depression. It was natural, he told himself. All patients went through that when they suffered something like this. He had tried so hard to avoid thinking that it would stick around or have some long-term affect on Greg's personality. But by the time House was fully released from all medical care, Wilson couldn't ignore the bitterness in his friend that showed no signs of receding. He had started to shun Wilson's care more and more, insisting he could take care of himself. He had avoided contact with all of his other old friends, and even though Wilson had pleaded with him not to do it, he had returned to his apartment that felt half-empty because of Stacy's absence.

And here they were. Gone were the days of eating quiet lunches together in a hospital room, watching daytime TV. Gone were the days of Wilson's joyful cheering at the progress House made with his leg. Gone were the days where House smiled fondly at him, tired and grateful. Gone were the hours where Wilson would sit at his bedside, reading or watching House sleep. Gone were the hours of holding Greg's hand, trying not to cry, telling him things would be all right again. Gone were the minutes of Jell-O and nostalgic laughter at dirty jokes and hospital gossip and nervous examinations. Gone was the Greg House that James Wilson had first befriended, the man he had come to love. No more joy, no more warm light in the blue eyes. No more confessional conversations.

Wilson bit his lip. He refused to cry. God, he hated himself. He was such a wimp, tearing up like this over old memories. Why was he even standing here? People were going to think he had some strange infatuation with House. He should move on, go see patients, finish his paperwork. But he couldn't pull himself away from the glass, couldn't stop thinking how he would give anything for life to go back to the way it used to be. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes stinging privately. He resisted the urge to slam his fist against the glass and finally turned his back on Greg and walked away. What else could he do?

House watched as Wilson's body was sucked away with the OR, until everything was gone and replaced with his living room. The empty bottle of Vicodin was on the carpet where he'd left it, and it was dark except for the moonlight that sneaked through the window next to the door. The piano keys were hidden underneath their cover, and the notes of his sheet music looked like letters blotched out with tears, distorted page after page after page. He was breathing hard, loud enough to fill the house. It still felt like he was having a nervous breakdown, a heart attack, a cardiac explosion.

He took a step forward but his leg failed him, the pain shooting up and strangling him. His body thudded on the carpet and he gurgled. He was back in reality, but why the hell was he here? How had he escaped the hospital and what had happened to Wilson? Was it over? Was he just supposed to go back to living without his best friend, pretend like things hadn't changed? He groaned as he rolled over onto his back. Goddamn his leg. Wilson smiled at him in that photo on the table by the door.

His pager went off. He groaned again, pain and confusion loading his brain.

"Wilson," he muttered.

The beeping persisted, quick and just loud enough to provoke a headache. He sat up, aching, and pushed himself to his feet using the piano for support. The pager blinked red and green in the dark on the top.

"Perfect."

He grabbed it and read: Good bye. His brow creased and he looked up – to catch a glimpse of another shape on the piano. He couldn't remember buying a gun.

"His BP's dropping!" Cameron said, moving around House's bed. Cuddy turned and leaned out the door for help. The machines' sounds swiveled into a whirlpool, speeding like a car on the freeway, the sounds as frantic as Cameron and Cuddy.

House reached out and pulled the gun toward himself, the metal a surprising room temperature when he thought it would be cold. He looked at it, leaning against the piano. Damned if he knew where the hell his cane was. The barrel gleamed.

Chase and Foreman swept into the room. House's pulse was racing out of control, crying out with an unnatural noise.

"Defibrillator! We need a defibrillator in here!" Cuddy called out into the hall at the passing nurses.

House gripped the weapon, almost fondling it, fixed on its silhouette. The bottle was hollow at his feet and Wilson was flashing through his head. Gun, laughter, gun, laughter, gun, smile, gun, brown eyes.

He pushed it against his temple.

The heart monitor flat lined, as a nurse wheeled in a defibrillator, and Cameron ripped open House's gown. Chase applied the pads and Cuddy slid up behind the nurse, as Foreman took the chargers. The machine buzzed in preparation, as Cameron looked up at Foreman and held down House's arm. Foreman stared at House.

"Clear."

"And everything's the leg? Nothing's the pills?"

"They let me do my job," said House. "And they take away my pain."

Wilson stared at him before rubbing his neck and leaving, hiding the tears in his eyes. He whisked down the hall to his office.

"Why can't I take away your pain?" he murmured, his heart aching.

"Wilson!"

He stopped and turned around, sniffled and blushed because he was crying. His eyes glimmered painfully and he didn't understand why House was standing outside his office door, calling after him. And he didn't bother trying to hide now. He let House see him, let House see his tears. And he didn't move when House started limping toward, hurrying as if Wilson were running away from him. But Wilson waited, waited and cried and hurt. House threw the cane against the wall and grabbed his friend. Wilson whimpered and grabbed him back, staggering under House's weight because the other doctor had to lean on something. And Wilson thanked God no one was around, that half the lights were off, and that House was here hugging him when he needed it more than anything.

"You're an addict," he burst. "You're an addict." His tears were soaking into House's shoulder. House breathed against him, leaned against, held him together even though House was the one whose life was dust. And Wilson sobbed angrily and his chest trembled into House's and he wanted to hit him so badly, but all he could do was dig his fingers into House's back. And House said nothing – because there was nothing he could possibly say.

Cuddy pursed her lips in the shadows, watching them.

Wilson stopped mumbling his accusations and settled for steady weeping. He knew House was an addict and so did House. He didn't say it because they didn't know; he said it because he couldn't say everything else, everything that was drowning his insides and pouring out of his eyes: that he had been the one behind the bet, that he had been afraid of this for years, that he was in tangled up agony over the fact that his best friend shut him out when it came to the pain and would rather lean on drugs and booze. And even though Wilson wanted to scream at House about the way it felt to stand outside the glass and the way it felt to look at old pictures when he was alone and sit on his living room sofa drunk while watching his old wedding videos because House was himself back then, he didn't say a word because he just couldn't let it out now or he might never stop screaming. He didn't mention the way his chest hadn't stopped aching in years or how often he cried himself to sleep because he was so tired of pretending that his life was perfect when it was hell. He couldn't tell House about the way he slept in their old concert T-shirts and thought about him in the weak sunlight of dawn when he got up to walk the dog. He couldn't say anything about his frustration or his loneliness or his absolute sense of failure as a man, a husband, a friend, a doctor, and a human being because he was supposed to be the okay one, the strong one, the stable one, the half-happy guy. But he wasn't. He wasn't, God damn it. And he never had been.

He felt sick. His legs quaked and he whimpered again, like a wounded puppy. He didn't know anymore if House was holding him up or if he was holding up House. But they weren't going to stand for long. Or rather, he wouldn't. Because he was the sturdy one, and House was the one who needed support. Only Wilson needed it too, and it was about time that he stop fighting nature and his own weakness and simply let himself collapse.

White light surrounded House. It blinded him for a second, before starting to clear – and here he was, back in that place he had visited during the infarction. He was dressed in a white hospital gown, and everything seemed to be repaired – including his leg and his attitude.

He was dead.

Damn.

And he was lying on something soft, heavenly soft. He looked over and was surprised to find Wilson sleeping on his shoulder, curled against him. His blue eyes softened. Wilson glowed like a memory. House had never seen him (or anyone) so at peace. His heart was suddenly a foreign spot of mush. He reached over and touched Wilson's hair. He hadn't known he could touch with that much love. But here he was, running his fingers down Wilson's cheek. James smiled in his sleep and shifted.

"James," House said.

"Clear!"

Foreman tried again, monitor still flat lining. House's body jolted. Nothing.

"Clear!"

Cameron, Chase, and Cuddy watched and waited desperately, with impatient eyes.

House shut his eyes and stroked Wilson's cheek again.

"James," he whispered. He was so sorry – for all of this. They should have had more time. They should have made things right. They should have danced more and drunk more and laughed more and hugged more. They should have gone to more concerts and basketball games and monster truck rallies. They should have lived.

"Clear!" Foreman said. House's body jumped again. The flat line persisted.

"Come on," Cameron urged, almost shaking House's arm.

House took his hand away and faced up again, before closing his eyes to the white. Wilson slept on against him.

"I love you."

A whisper came loud in his ear.

"I still do."

Even in the dark, he recognized Wilson's voice. He meant to answer. He did. But instead he watched the past play out like one of those sentimental movies that he hated. And all he could hear was that damn Pink Floyd song, "Wish You Were Here," even when he could see their lips move.

"How could you get drunk?" Wilson lamented, as House swayed, sitting on his bed. Neither wanted any light, even though it was almost pitch black. The cane lay discarded on the floor, and House's leaden limbs didn't bother trying to move. Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, as House let himself fall over onto his pillow with a satisfied noise. Wilson dropped to his knees and began to pull off House's shoes. He lifted House's legs onto the bed once he was finished, and House curled up, too drunk to complain or even notice the pain in his leg. Wilson sighed, before scooting closer on the carpet. Gently, he touched House's thigh, the damaged muscle throbbing. House moaned a little, but Wilson began to massage anyway. House shifted, stretched. Wilson worked the muscle, trying to loosen it, soothe its anger. His hands were tender with love and worry. His eyelids drooped even while his eyes themselves still stung. He continued for a while longer in silence, and when he finally pulled away, Greg caught him by the wrist.

"Stay," he blurted, half-muffled in the pillow. Wilson sighed again.

"Should I go down to the couch?" he murmured.

House shook his head against the pillow, as if Wilson could actually see him do it. "No," he said. "Bed."

It had only been a few months since Stacy had left him. He was still sleeping on his side of the bed, even though she wasn't coming back. Wilson hesitated, feeling awkward about sleeping in her old place, but at last he got up and stumbled around the bed. He plopped down gratefully and sunk into the pillow, his muscles aching just by reaching for the bed covers and pulling them up over himself. He tucked them around House too, and after a moment's debate, he moved in to lie against House's back. He slid his arm over House and listened to his friend's steady heartbeat and even breathing, while House thought of smiling because he was too damn tired and drunk to actually do so. Wilson exhaled and settled in comfortably, falling asleep all too quickly and warming Stacy's abandoned place.

He took a breath.

Cuddy leaned over into his face. "House?"

Cameron sighed, and Chase exchanged a look with Foreman as the monitor beeping spiked back up again.

Wilson pondered berries. He had noticed recently that berries were typically sweeter if they were firmer rather than soft. Perhaps that's the way House was. Wilson should know by now, after all these years, whether or not House's insides were sweet or bitter or salty. He decided on tangy. He grinned. Yes, he thought additionally, House also had a sweet portion -- somewhere inside.

"Are you going to eat those or just coddle them in your bowl?"

He looked up at House, who was limping toward him. The elder man plopped into his armchair and propped his leg up on the table. Wilson smiled at him from the couch. He picked up a cherry and ate the fruit off the pit, throwing the violet-stained center back into the bowl. It was still attached to its stem.

"You want some?" he asked House.

"Too lazy," House said. He had his head back and his eyes closed. The mild lamp was the only light on in the house. "God, it's quiet. Find something on TV."

"You should learn to appreciate conversation and peace," Wilson said, sucking on another cherry.

"And you should turn on the Goddamn TV before I get cranky."

"You mean you're not already?"

He dropped the pit and picked up another fruit.

"Just turn it on," House whined.

"How was work?" Wilson asked.

House lifted his head and looked at him. "What are we, married?"

Wilson shrugged. "I was only asking."

"Why?" House said. "You hang around enough while we're there as it is."

"We never talk about work while we're at work," Wilson protested. House rubbed his forehead and sighed. "You okay?" Wilson asked, those puppy eyes growing worried in an instant.

"My leg is more annoying than usual."

"Do you need some meds?"

"I just took some more Vicodin."

Wilson stared at him but House kept his eyes closed. The oncologist searched his friend's face, as silence passed between them, and he resisted the impulse to run his thumb over and over the rim of the bowl. His palms clung to the glass as if it were his salvation. His brow knit together, tighter and tighter.

"House."

"Mm?"

House lifted his head up and opened his eyes.

"What is it?"

Wilson stared at him, troubled, for only a moment before looking back down at the cherries. "Nothing." He shook his head.

"That look on your face wasn't nothing. What the hell is wrong?"

"Nothing," Wilson said, picking up a cherry. The stem felt like a needle in his fingertips.

"Wilson," House warned.

"How much Vicodin do you do a day?" Wilson looked up at him, meeting those clear eyes. House stared at him, mouth open. Wilson waited for a minute, before returning to the cherries. "Forget it, forget I said anything." He picked at them.

"Why does it matter?" House asked.

"Forget it," Wilson pressed, splitting a cherry with his teeth, letting its blood gush into his mouth and stain his teeth again. He felt his heart lurch, his stomach turn. That feeling washed over him again – that nausea of desperation for a real nervous breakdown, for any kind of violent, emotional release. He suddenly felt inadequate and that painful awareness of House's pill popping, of change. That's what was really painful – the change.

"I take the pills for pain," said House. "You know that."

"I said forget it, okay?" Wilson suffered to look at him again, started to sound angry.

"You asked, you want an answer."

"No. No, I don't."

"You're a sucky liar."

Wilson felt House's eyes. He hated that. House had power in those eyes. He always had. He dropped another pit into the bowl and picked up a new cherry quicker than before, shoving it into his mouth. He wanted to throw up.

"Do you really think I would abuse medication?" House asked him, sounding truly offended. "Did you just happen to forget that I'm a doctor too?"

"Drug abuse doesn't have a damn thing to do with your job," Wilson snapped.

"Okay, so I am a drug abuser?"

"Why are we even having this conversation? I told you to forget it."

He finally stood up from the couch and quick-stepped to the kitchen with the bowl, ignoring the handful of uneaten cherries still waiting amongst the pits.

"You can't just say shit like that and then drop the conversation, James."

House got up too. He limped after, his voice unusually loud now.

"Don't go there, House," Wilson warned. He dropped the bowl into the sink and flipped the faucet on. The water rushed into the bowl, rising with the cherries and the pits. House stopped where the living room carpet met the kitchen tile.

"Why would you accuse me of being a stoner when you've been there since this whole damn thing started? Who the fuck do you think I am?"

"I don't know anymore!"

Wilson whipped around and threw the bowl at the wall, making House jump when it smashed hard, pieces of glass flying everywhere, water sailing through the air and cherries raining down with slimy pits. House stared at Wilson in disbelief, while the oncologist's chest shuddered and his eyes glimmered into House's. He dropped, searched the floor devastated by his atomic bowl, heat rising in his cheeks out of shame and his eyes stinging dry. He dropped to his knees and started to gather the biggest pieces of glass, as House watched him while the sink kept running. House felt the urge to stop him and comfort him and talk, but instead, he just stood there and watched Wilson refuse to cry and scream or get up and walk out. But he answered in his head: yes, no, maybe.

Yes, he abused the pills, loved the feeling of getting high. No, he wasn't stopping, wasn't letting up, wasn't admitting the truth to anyone. Maybe he needed the high to keep living, to stop himself from blowing up in all the emotional bullshit he had been ignoring for years, to get out of bed every day.

He watched and watched. The faucet ran. Wilson collected the big pieces of glass without cutting himself and trashed them, still blushing. He would need a broom for the rest. He didn't turn of the faucet just yet. He and House both knew they needed the noise to fill their silence.

Wilson.

Breath.

House.

Beep.

Wilson stepped up to the glass. House mimicked him on the other side. Their eyes met.