Always Me
by adrift for fanfiction (dot) net

"I don't want to live - I want to love first, and live incidentally."
(--Fitzgerald, Zelda)

A/N: I'm back! Thanks to a burst of muse and some nice Wilson/Cam interaction, I bring you a new chapter! I think you'll enjoy this one a lot. Read on, and leave a review, please and thanks.

The rain tapers off as we stand there, embracing, for the longest time. His body is warm and solid, an anchor against my pain. I hold him tightly to me, and he continues to gently smooth my hair until I cease my crying. Finally, I lean back and look into his face. His brown eyes are kind, but the sympathy in them makes me turn away.

One of his hands, calloused and strong, raises as if to touch my face, but he hesitates and lets it fall back to his side. I can hear him sigh, and when I look at him from the corner of my eye, he's staring at me. I take a deep breath and compose myself, but refuse to look at him. Instead, I start talking.

"I've never brought flowers to his grave, not once," I say, my voice strong and cold to my ears.

He doesn't respond, and still I keep my gaze down.

"Have you ever been in love, Wilson? The heart-stopping, selfless, can't live without you kind of love?" I pause, but continue without letting him answer. "I have." I hear myself say.

I finally turn to face him, and his expression surprises me. His eyes are wistful, and I know that he has, too.

"But not with your husband," he says to me, his voice understanding.

"No," I reply, shaking my head.

We share a companionable silence, and it seems to me that we could have stood there forever if it weren't for the rumble of thunder in the distance. Apparently the rain wasn't done.

"Come on, I'll drive you home," Wilson says.

I nod, and he drapes an arm over my shoulders and leads me to his car. I don't really care that mine is still sitting at the top of the hill; Wilson offers to take me home from work until we manage to pick it up.

During the car ride, we talk about the most recent case, the one that House couldn't solve; the dead mother who leaves her premature girl without a family.

"We didn't ever find a diagnosis," I say, shaking my head.

Wilson glances over at me quickly before turning his eyes back to the road.

"You can't save everybody, you know," he replies.

I look at him sharply, tongue ready with a retort. I stop myself though, and instead reply with a sigh.

"That baby has nobody. Her mother's dead, her father hasn't even shown up yet, if he even plans on coming at all," I say with remorse.

Wilson doesn't respond, but his warm hand that comes to rest on top of mine gives me all the reassurance I need.

"Take the next right," I state calmly.

A week later, Baby Girl Johnson is thriving. It's become a habit of mine to save a couple minutes of my day for her; House would say that I'm too attached, but since she doesn't have anybody else, I figure it's okay.

It's Tuesday, about 1:00, and I take my lunch to the nursery. I'm sitting in the rocking chair, eating a turkey sandwich, when the glass door swings open.

Wilson enters, and he's followed by a young man who's unfamiliar to me. I immediately abandon my sandwich and rise, brushing crumbs from my lap. I start forward and meet the two men near Baby Girl Johnson's bassinet.

"Is this her?" the strange man questions.

Wilson nods and steps out of the way so the man can see the baby, sleeping peacefully.

"She's so small," the man says with wonder.

He touches Baby Girl Johnson on the cheek with one shaky finger, drawing deep breaths to hide his emotion.

I stand, rooted to the spot, witnessing this encounter.

"You're her… father?" I ask this man, knowing the answer.

He looks up at me, a happy smile spreading on his face.

"Yes, I'm Gary Johnson," he replies, "and I believe this is Natalie, after her mother."

Wilson makes a move to leave the nursery, but I catch his gaze as he goes through the door. There's no doubt in my mind that he did this; he found Baby Girl Johnson's father, for me. I can't move, so I just stare at his retreating back. I want so much to go after him, but there are matters to be attended to here.

"Would you like to hold her?" I ask Mr. Johnson, and when he nods I place Natalie in his arms for the first time.

I've never been a fan of tension. Wilson's car seems tiny, and the maddening silence really makes me wish that my car wasn't still sitting at the cemetery. It's raining again, and the streets are slick, so I blame Wilson's quietness on concentration.

He pulls into the parking lot at my building and leaves the engine running. We sit for a seemingly long time before I unbuckle my seatbelt and open the car door. I climb out and, turning back to face Wilson, utter a simple statement.

"Thank you."

I close the door before he gets a chance to reply. My keys jingle in my pocket, and I fish them out with a wobbly hand. Unlocked, the door swings into my apartment, but I don't step across the threshold. Instead, I about-face and walk calmly back to the car. Wilson, eyes boring a hole in the steering wheel, doesn't see me, so I rap on his window. He looks up, surprised, but I just stare at him.

It's a fact of life that things you wish would just happen fast seem to happen in slow motion. He couldn't roll the window down quick enough. The barrier between us gone, there's nothing to stop me now.

I grab the collar of his jacket, tugging his upper body towards the car door. Without missing a beat, he reaches down and unlocks his seatbelt, which allows me to pull him closer. My back is bent at an unnatural angle, and my elbows brace me as I lean my head as far into the car as it can go.

Our breath mingles, and it surprises me that I am lost in his brown eyes. We don't touch, not yet, and I lick my lips in anticipation. It's now or never.

It's me who closes the distance between us with a simple touch of my lips to his. The kiss is chaste and tender, and my nose brushes his gently. I pull back and keep my eyes locked on his lips, afraid to meet his gaze. I know he's looking at me, but I can't force myself to look back.

I want so much to kiss him again. I even dare to look up, but his eyes are closed now. I sigh, my breath on his face, and they open. We stare at each other, neither one wanting to make the next move. Finally, after a few intense seconds, Wilson reaches for me. His hand, that wonderful hand, tangles in my hair, curly from the rain, and he twirls a lock of it around his fingers. The hand comes to rest on the back of my neck, sending goose bumps down my spine.

The other hand, free to roam, traces the outline of my face. He thumbs over my eyebrows, cheekbones, jaw, lips, leaving a trail of heat that settles deep in my stomach. I haven't been touched like this for a long time, and the intensity makes me close my eyes. He pulls me to his mouth and kisses my eyelids softly. I tilt my head up and he presses his lips to mine.

There is nothing chaste about this kiss. We fight, duel, battle for control, and the winner of this frenzied game is yet to be decided. I suck his bottom lip into my mouth, and he shudders, barely managing to suppress a groan. Open-mouthed and wet, his tongue mingles with mine and I'm sure there's no better feeling in the world than kissing James Wilson.