Title: Evening At Luigi's, part 4c

By: lbc

Pairing: Wilson/House

Rating: M for content and language

Genre: slash

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters; wish I did.

Note: This concludes the story.

Summary: Wilson leaves the hospital.

James Wilson's eyes were still open after a sleepless night. He kept seeing the pain in his friend's beautiful blue eyes as Wilson's words had bid him to leave. House had never been demonstrative. He had erected barricade after barricade against pain and hurt, and no one had understood that better than Wilson, himself.

Hadn't he been the one who had gone to Allison Cameron and begged her to be careful before she had left on her "date" with House? Wilson's fear that House would be hurt and never open up to anyone again had proven very real. Having Stacy Warner at the hospital had demonstrated his fears. The day that House sat in front of the class discussing three cases, including his own, still haunted Wilson. What it must have taken for his friend to have revealed what had occurred - - and to strangers? And now . . . now, he, James Wilson, had stuck the knife in further and had virtually rebuffed House's overtures.

Wilson's mind was in turmoil, and his body was in pain. He needed pain killers but refused to take them, because he was leaving the hospital tomorrow - - actually in just a few hours, and he wanted his mind clear and functioning.

Bright and early that morning, James Wilson put his plan into effect, notifying the staff and administration that he was releasing himself from the hospital. His doctor arrived, rather quickly for him, immediately recommending that Wilson stay a few more days until some additional tests could be done. It was to no avail.

Then the "big guns" were sent forth. Dr. Lisa Cuddy stormed into Wilson's room as he was getting ready to leave and gave him orders to get back into his bed, but once again the mission failed.

Even the male contingency of the ducklings tried to use their influence to keep one of their favorite doctors from doing anything foolish, but when they saw his determination, they offered to transport him to his apartment.

Wilson nodded in grateful acceptance because he had planned to use a taxi, but he was already feeling tired and his stomach was still painful. Therefore, in less than an hour after seeing his doctor, James Wilson was on his way home. Foreman and Chase escorted him into his apartment, offering to stay for awhile and help him settle in. Wilson politely thanked the two men, but dismissed them. He badly needed to be alone.

Collapsing on his sofa, Wilson breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't feel very well, but told himself that he just needed to rest. He was home; he could rest, and maybe . . . just maybe forget - - for awhile - - the wreck that was his life. Fortunately for the exhausted man, he was not aware, yet, of the phone call that Lisa Cuddy had made.

The exhausted doctor carefully lay down on his huge sofa. It was comfortable and frankly, he didn't feel capable of making the trip into his bedroom. His eyes became heavy and within minutes, he was asleep.

Wilson didn't know how long he had been that way, but a pounding sound suddenly inundated him. At first, he thought it was inside his head as a continuing headache burst forth at his temples, but too soon, he realized that it was not his own headache, but another headache, and he was pounding on his front door, demanding to be let in.

Almost groaning out loud, Wilson forced himself to sit up. He held his head as the fury named Gregory House continued to pound loudly on the fragile surface of his door.

Wilson managed to get up and drag himself over to the door. Steeling himself, he placed one hand on the door, helping to balance himself. "House will you go away. The neighbors will be calling the police to arrest a crazy man."

The pounding stopped, but a roar followed. "Well, I think you're smart enough to figure out how you can stop this noise, can't you? Open the damn door!"

Wilson had heard Greg House use that tone of voice many times, rarely against him, except for the hell after the infarction, but something inside the tired man withered. He was tired of fighting. He was tired of trying to "get along" with his moody, sarcastic friend. He was the injured party here - - not House. Why should James Wilson always take the abuse?

Bending to the inevitable and the immovable object, James Wilson opened the door. The raving, blue-eyed beast on the other side of the door quickly returned to civilized behavior, but the fury in the sad blue eyes spoke volumes. Limping badly, House rushed through the door as if he feared that Wilson would slam it shut on him.

"What the hell, were you thinking, you moron? I saw your charts and reports. You should be in the hospital, right this minute!" House stood only a few inches from his friend, fairly seething and bristling.

James Wilson pulled himself up as best as he could and smiled slightly, "Well, Dr. House, welcome to my humble abode; how are you this fine day?"

Wilson's obvious sarcasm stopped his rampaging friend momentarily but only momentarily. One dark eyebrow shot up as two cool blue eyes stared penetratingly at Wilson. "Don't give me that, Wilson. You know I'm right. Sit down before you fall down."

For a second the injured man was going to argue then realized that it was futile so he backed up, collapsing gratefully onto the sofa. Within seconds his wrist was captured in a capable hand so that his pulse could be counted. A rapid but thorough exam ensued.

Finally, the scruffy faced devil dropped Wilson's hand after giving it what some would call a caress. House looked at his friend and said, "You know, you're damn lucky. This stunt could have started you bleeding again. Haven't you got any sense?"

Wilson's sad brown eyes looked up at his friend. "Yeah, well you've told me I don't, many times, especially after my last two weddings, but I guess hanging around you all these years is more proof, isn't it?"

For a moment, House was ready to retaliate then he grimaced briefly and sat down next to his friend. "We really are a pair, aren't we? We need to talk."

Wilson was not looking at his friend; he was holding his forehead in his hand. It had been a very long day already, and it wasn't even noon. He shook his head; too tired to argue; too tired to think. He felt numb and ached all over. He had lost something precious, and frankly he didn't know what he was going to do now.

He was even too tired to pull away when the hand that his body had known so well . . . so intimately years before, began to rub the nape of his neck where the muscles were knotted in tension.

For a second Wilson thought he imagined it when House whispered, "Why am I always hurting you?"

Raising his head, despairing brown eyes looked at the scruffy face that seemed even more bearded than usual. Wilson was fighting to keep his emotions under control. He could not break now or he would be back under the spell that Greg House had had over him since that party almost 20 years before. That night the older man, in his last year of medical school, had made his move on the younger man just entering the same school. For one year they had been lovers and then it had all ended as Greg House went onto to his new career.

Miraculously they had kept in touch, and they had stayed close, but friends only now. And here they were, sitting in Wilson's apartment, their friendship badly strained due to what?

For James Wilson, the stress had developed from House's abandonment of him while in hospital, and his flaunting of his new companionship with Allison Cameron. What caused House's stress was up for conjecture. House was an enigma. Very few people had taken the trouble to try and breach House's walls. Stacy had done it, apparently Cameron had done it, and maybe I've done it, but no more and do I even want to continue to do so?

By this time Wilson's handsome face was lined with exhaustion and extremely pale. House gave a grimace and whispered, "You need to be in bed. Have you eaten anything?"

Wilson shook his head. "Just wanted to get out of there."

House stood up, holding out his hand to help his friend stand. The younger man took the hand warily, not sure if he could stand otherwise. "Thanks."

House walked very near to the younger man, escorting him into the comfortable bedroom, acting as if he was prepared to catch him if Wilson would lose his balance. Wilson kept walking past his bed, turning slightly to indicate his need for the bathroom.

Minutes later, James Wilson was in bed. He had removed most of his clothes but had not removed his T-shirt or briefs because he felt strangely uneasy around Greg House, the man that he had enjoyed stripping in front of so many years before. Time definitely does not heal all wounds does it, Wilson?

The slender man stood at the foot of the bed, looking at his friend with concern and something that was almost impossible to read. "You relax. I'll prepare you one of House's famous omelets so that you can build up your strength."

Wilson's face immediately contorted into a grimace. "Not one of those! Would you please remember that I'm a sick man and not dump a whole bottle of Tabasco onto the omelet? My stomach lining hasn't recovered since the last time."

"Complain! Complain! Complain! Besides, you know that it was only half a bottle of Tabasco, the last time. You always exaggerate."

House winked as he left to do battle with the omelet. Wilson closed his eyes and relaxed as best he could. He knew that this was just postponing the inevitable, but frankly he didn't care. This might be the last time that he and Greg House would ever see each other.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWHW

Several minutes later, the dozing man heard the rattle of dishes. Opening his soft brown eyes, he studied Greg House, who was standing near the bed. A plate sat on the table near by with a perfect omelet on it. Wilson smiled, unknowingly looking delectable, sensual, and very edible.

"Hmm, must have fallen asleep. That looks good. Thanks."

"No problem. Eat up."

For the next couple of minutes, there was silence in the room. House sat in the chair near by, watching his friend eat as Wilson ate and watched his friend. Finally, the plate was clean. Wiping his delicious mouth with a thoughtfully provided napkin, Wilson asked shyly, "Why are you here, House?"

For a moment, House said nothing then, seemingly trying to control his usual sarcasm, answered, "Do you think it's unusual for me to want to check on my best friend?"

Wilson hesitated, "Well, normally, I would have said no, but you've avoided me like the plague for over two weeks so why are you making the effort now?"

"Yeah, there is that; isn't there? Well, I didn't say that I always did the logical thing, did I?"

Wilson placed the plate back on the table very carefully, primarily to give himself a small amount of time to think. "Greg, I know why you resigned; I was told. I think I deserved some explanation from you, but that's by the board now. It's obvious that we don't communicate any more. Whatever your feelings are . . . I admit I don't understand, but I can't take it anymore. I should never have come to Princeton so I think it would be better if I leave; you've got others to be with now so . . ."

James Wilson stopped. He had never . . . ever . . . seen that look on Greg House's face. It contained consternation, despair, fury, and something so deep that Wilson felt like hiding under the blankets covering his bed.

"What the hell are you talking about? I'm the one who almost got you killed. I'm the one who had to open my big mouth so that . . . that scum shot you. Why should you leave? I'm guilty . . . guilty, do you hear? God! I know everybody else thinks that I'm a real asshole and sarcastic as hell, but do you think that I can't take responsibility for what I did to you?"

Wilson's jaw dropped open. He had never seen House like this. What was he talking about? House started to limp towards the door but stopped when he heard Wilson's words, "You are an egotistical moron! That bastard didn't shoot me because of what you said; he shot me because of what I SAID!" Wilson was breathless after those words. He laid back against the propped up pillows, waiting for House to say something.

House turned slowly, looking totally confused. "What . . . what are you saying? I was the one who said something about the great unwashed."

Wilson could tell that House was truly confused, but he was unrelenting in his condemnation of House's assumptions. Trying to sit up slightly, he took a deep breath and then let loose, "That's so like you. You barricade yourself behind your own assumptions. If you had bothered to listen, to check, to do what any NORMAL human being would do, you would have found out that the police managed to track down the shooter. He did NOT shoot me because of what you said. He heard me say something about the place really stinking, and HE THOUGHT that I said that he stunk! That's why he shot and that's why he aimed at me!"

Now, Wilson was really breathless after that lengthy tirade. He collapsed back on the pillows, gasping slightly. House stood there stunned. Shaking his head as if to make sure he wasn't dreaming, House asked in a whisper, "How . . . how did you find that out?"

Wilson shook his brown locks, "I don't know how you ever got to be such a great diagnostician, if you always jump to conclusions like that. I talked to the police, you moron. Well really, they interrogated me. For awhile they even hinted that they suspected you of doing the deed, but they finally rounded up the guy after he tried to rob a convenience store or something. He told them, and they told me."

House sat down in the chair nearby, rubbing his forehead. "I was so sure. I kept hearing myself saying those words and then the gun and the flame and the odor . . . 'M sorry, Jamie."

Wilson closed his eyes; his headache was really pounding now. "You know, House. It hasn't been easy being your friend."

Sad blue eyes looked up at the beautiful man. "Yeah, I know. Am I still your friend or have I blown that too?"

A few days ago, James Wilson would have rushed to have reassured his friend, but now he hesitated; he kept seeing Allison Cameron when she announced the reason that House had resigned. "House, are you telling me that you resigned because you felt guilt over me being shot?"

For a moment, House contemplated lying; then he shook his head and replied, "No, that wasn't really the reason."

In that moment, James Wilson's heart shattered; what he had thought all along was the truth. Finding some degree of courage he asked, "Then what Cameron said was true?"

House was not looking at his friend; he was twiddling his cane and looking at the carpet as he nodded his head. If James Wilson could have, he would have screamed at the top of his lungs, instead, he whispered, "I see. Well, I guess that's it then. I really think that it would be better if I am the one to leave. What with my wife getting a divorce, I feel like moving on anyway so let's just . . . "

House launched himself onto the bed. When House thought about it later, he could not remember how he had been able to launch his partially crippled body that far, but he had done it and now he was sitting within inches of his one time lover.

"What the hell are you talking about? I resigned because of you, yes, but it wasn't because I care about Allison Cameron. Why would I care about her?"

House took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He lifted his left hand to Wilson's face, gently caressing it. He whispered, "Listen very carefully; I am going to say this just once. I have only loved one woman in my life, and you know damn well how I handled that, but I have only ever been in love once . . . once, do you hear and that hasn't changed in almost 20 years. I do not want you to leave Princeton or to leave me in the clutching hands of that simpering woman. She is a fine doctor but not the person I want to spend my life with."

Both of Wilson's eyebrows shot up. He was speechless. House could see that he had Wilson's full attention so he continued. "I did say to her that I would not return if you were still present, but I didn't mean it the way that she obviously thought. God, that's why I hate having to explain things."

Greg House moved carefully so that he was now sitting next to his friend. Carefully, picking up one of Wilson's hands and holding it, he said, "Jamie, it was my fault. She said that she would miss me and asked if I would return. I told her that I wouldn't if you were present. I guess she figured that I was trying to say that I didn't like you any more or something."

Wilson squeezed his friend's hand. "I told you that she's got a crush on you, and I thought you liked her too." Sad, hesitant brown eyes looked up at House, but Wilson was determined not to ruin these moments.

"Yeah, one date and she's gone overboard. I'm sorry, Jamie. I've been in love with you since med school. I never really wanted anyone else, but well, with you married and everything, I found Stacy, but that's all over so I just couldn't stand the idea of staying at Princeton, knowing that I had gotten you shot and then loving you and nothing coming from it. That's why I resigned."

"I . . . I . . . don't know what to say. I thought sure when you didn't visit me those 18 days that you . . ." Wilson dropped his head, unable to finish. After a moment two slender fingers raised his chin.

"You really are a moron," A brief brush of House's lips across the slightly sweaty forehead took the sting out of the words. Pulling the lightly clad body into his arms, House mumbled against Wilson's hair, "Why would I want a woman who simpers and is even more insecure than I am?"

Wilson smiled. "We really are a pair, aren't we? I figured that after you threw me over after Med School that the best I could hope for was friendship, and I have to admit we've really strained that lately."

Concern leaped into the blue eyes. "Have we . . . have I . . . strained it too much? I know I've been a real bastard, but you are important to me. I thought you understood when I told you it matters after the Vogler fiasco. I do that a lot, don't I? Expecting everybody to understand and accommodate me?"

Looking up into the face he loved, James Wilson smiled. "That you do, Doctor House, but we still love you, at least, I do, but then I have been classified as certifiable." Before he could say anymore, a monster yawn issued forth from his mouth. Laughing slightly, he whispered as he laid his head on House's shoulder, "Mmmmm. Sorry, those pills I took are catching up to me."

"Some doctor you are; you didn't take any pills; I slipped them into your omelet - - just mistimed them. Now, you close your eyes and take a nap, and I'll clean up this mess."

"Mmmmmm, no, want you with me. As your doctor and friend, I am giving you a prescription for bed rest."

"Hmmm, I don't see any prescription, Doctor Wilson."

Sleepily, Wilson opened his eyes to slits. "Oh, well here it is now." Wilson gently kissed his friend, following it up with a longer kiss. "Now, get undressed, take two pills and definitely call me in the morning."

House looked at his friend with a consuming affection. "It's only 1:00 pm; I don't think I can last until morning."

This time only one eye opened. "Hmmm, feeling randy, are we?"

House kissed the enticing nose. "No, you're the one with all the marriages, you satyr. I was talking about hunger. I figure we'll be starving by tomorrow morning."

Seconds before James Wilson fell asleep in his lover's arms, he whispered, "That's okay; call Luigi's and have them deliver; we'll finally get our evening there, even if it is a bit late."

Gently, moving his friend from his arms, Greg House did just that. He called Luigi's and arranged for a delivery several hours hence then removed his clothes and crawled in beside the man he had loved for so long, pulling him into his arms, before he slept.

THE END