Title: Evening At Luigi's, Part 4b

By: lbc

Pairing: House/Wilson

Rating: M

Genre: slash

Disclaimer: I sure wish I owned these characters, but I don't.

Summary: Wilson confronts House.

"Not if Doctor Wilson is there."

James Wilson kept hearing those words in his mind. The second he heard them, it was like a knife . . . or a bullet . . . slashed through his body. The pain from the bullet entering his abdominal area was fading now, but this new pain took his breath away. He had been in the hospital for two weeks and was soon to be released. He wasn't ready yet, but he knew that it was only a matter of time now. What was he going to do?

It was perfectly clear that he could not immediately return to duty. He would have some sick leave time, but did he really want to come back? He felt so numb . . . so cold . . . inside. He supposed that was perfectly natural after being shot and near death, but James Wilson was also a realist. He knew that the true reason for his despair was that Greg House had virtually abandoned him and then resigned, because of Wilson's presence.

Sighing, Wilson laid his hand tenderly over his wound. Since Allison Cameron had uttered those devastating words, Wilson had refused to see most visitors. His excuse always was hidden in the cloak of exhaustion, but it was only an excuse. He knew that he was tired . . . drained of all feeling and energy. Why should that be? There were entire years when he had not seen Greg House. He had survived.

Remembering back to the five years that House and Stacy Warner had been together, the two friends had been virtual strangers, living on different coasts. Nevertheless, after the devastation of the infarction had wreaked its havoc, it had been James Wilson who had picked up the pieces.

And what do I get for it? Just more sarcasm and ridicule from House!

Wilson closed his eyes; a pounding headache diverting his thoughts momentarily.

Basically, James Wilson was an honest man who recognized his need for Greg House's company. His thoughts turned again towards happier times: the wonderful Christmas they had spent together; the ride in the corvette; the days and nights that they had spent in bed together while they were still in Med School. That was the Greg House that he liked to remember, but he was being foolish and sentimental . . . something Greg House would have levered a new burst of sarcasm against. No, Greg House had made his decision: he didn't need his friend, Wilson, and he certainly didn't Princeton-Plainsboro. Those bitter months when House was recovering from the loss of Stacy Warner and the infarction had irreparably damaged their relationship, and only now it was apparent to the willingly blind Wilson.

Feeling drowsiness slip over him, Wilson vowed that no longer would Greg House have the power to hurt him. His heart was frozen; his mind barricaded against emotion as forcefully as House's whole life had been all these years. If the scruffy-faced man who had been his friend preferred Allison Cameron, then so be it.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHWH

Several hours later something woke the sleeping patient. It was just a sound, but in Wilson's tired mind, it was instantly recognizable. It was the click of a cane. Telling himself that it had been a dream, Wilson continued to lay in vague repose. Then he heard the sound again.

Reluctantly, the injured man opened one brown eye, attempting to focus on the hospital room. Swinging his line of sight towards the doorway, his still unfocused eyes spotted a hunched over figure, standing in the doorway. It was Gregory House, sometime friend and lover.

Wilson said nothing. Frankly, he was unable to do so because his throat had dried up. Finally, after a brief struggle, he found his voice. "Is it the end of the world?"

The blistering blue eyes stared straight at the man in the bed. "I've come to talk."

Oh great, now he wants to talk. "That's strange; what about?"

"I've heard that you're getting out in a few days; I thought . . . well, I thought you might come over and stay with me until you've got your strength back."

While House walked into the room, Wilson had a moment to think. If possible, his heart froze even more. The very idea of spending several days in the apartment of his former friend, while House continued to flaunt Allison Cameron in front of him, almost made Wilson vomit. There were icicles in Wilson's next words.

"Thanks for the offer, Doctor House, but I'm going to my own apartment."

A flicker of some emotion crossed House's blue eyes as he heard the formality in the words, but he said nothing for several seconds. Finally, he replied, "Let me drive you to your apartment then."

Briefly remembering the ride in the corvette, Wilson fought his need to yell at the man in front of him. "No thanks, I've already made other arrangements." Waiting several seconds and then timing the continuation of his words perfectly, he continued, "If that's all Doctor House, I was asleep, and I'm still kind of tired."

House continued to stand there. He seemed nervous and not exactly like the caustic character that Wilson had known for so many years. Finally, the scruffy faced man whispered, "Jamie, we need to talk."

Jamie! Jamie! Oh that's rich - - that's really rich. He thinks he can say that endearment to me, and I'll fall in line, just like usual. Well, I may have had my gut throttled, but my brain is still intact.

"Doctor House, it seems strange that you would be here now, asking to talk. I seem to remember times in the last two weeks that would have been much better, but you failed to take advantage of those. Besides, you've obviously made some decisions that you didn't bother to make me aware of, before now, so I really don't see any reason to do so now."

The brown-haired patient could see the exhaustion and concern in the man across the room, but he was determined not to weaken at this point. He saw himself as the injured party - - both literally and figuratively - - and, by God, Greg House was going to have to do better than that.

"You're . . . you're talking about my resignation?"

Talk about the obvious! "Yes, but it doesn't make any difference now. You've made your decision. If you're here to tell me about it, you're too late. I've been informed . . . completely informed, so you've been saved the need to rub it in my face."

At that point, a brief look of confusion crossed the handsome older man's face, but it quickly disappeared as he studied the anger in Wilson's face. "I . . . thought we ought to talk; it's been awhile and . . ."

Those words were definitely not the ones to say; they were like a spark to a piece of fuse. James Wilson erupted, "Doctor House, you have not been here in two weeks. It seems perfectly obvious to one and all that you are not interested in my health or the concerns of this hospital or anyone else. Thank you for your . . . "visit" . . . let's see him top that sarcasm I really need my rest; so I'll say good-bye."

Greg House backed up in the face James Wilson's wrath. As he backed out the door, he stared briefly at his friend, then said, "I'm not going to apologize. I'm sorry you were shot, but my decision is for the best. Get well."

With those words, Gregory House left; the clicking of his cane still heard in the distance.

If James Wilson had still been attached to that multitude of machines, they would have brought a gaggle of personnel to query his condition. His heart was racing; his head was pounding, and his body felt as if he had been subjected to 5,000 volts. He had just thrown his best friend . . . his only friend . . . out of his room. He had not played Greg House's game . . . perhaps, for the first time in 20 years. Why wasn't he feeling elation . . . and independence?

Why was there a single drop of moisture flowing down his handsome face?

End of part 4b – one to go