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1999

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On the day Wilson signed the papers for his second divorce -- less than two years after the wedding -- House took him to Rio. Carnivale was in full swing and if Wilson was ever going to go, he insisted, this was the time to do it.

"Just remember, it's your job to smile and blush at the women. I'll do the talking," House insisted.

"What am I, bait?"

"Got it in one."

Wilson pulled him to a stop in the middle of the Newark terminal. "And what, cheap meaningless sex with a beautiful woman is supposed to make me feel better?"

"Cheap, meaningless sex with unbelievably gorgeous women," House clarified. "Trust me on this."

Unlike Amy, House had never approved of Wilson's second wife, Tonya. She was on the rebound, and so was Wilson.

When they returned from Vegas, married just a month after meeting, House had wished Wilson luck, but added that he'd need it. The first six months were very good, the second six mediocre. The night of their first anniversary Wilson spent getting drunk at House's place and crashing on the couch.

"Not a word," Wilson warned him when he showed up with a six-pack of Grolsch.

House merely stood aside with the door open, then grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels before finally addressing Wilson from the kitchen doorway.

"Should we even bother with the glasses?"

House heard him out that night, and the days and nights that followed. He sympathized. He empathized. Tonya was a bitch. Tonya didn't know better. Tonya was an accident waiting to happen. He drew the line when Wilson began blaming himself.

"Where the hell did that come from?" He interrupted Wilson before he could even finish the sentence. "First off, I believe we already agreed that it's obvious she was meant to play the part of the Queen of Hearts."

"Off with his head!" Wilson downed another shot and poured another.

"Just because she screwed you over, doesn't make you a screw-up," House finished, then drank down his own shot.

"Two marriages and two divorces inside of three years," Wilson countered. "If that doesn't make me a screw up, then what am I?"

"Available."

Wilson knew that House spoke more than five languages fluently. He had seen him perusing journals in German and French. He even knew that House had spent time in Brazil through his specialty in infectious diseases. But he was still astounded by House's ease with Portuguese.

In Rio, as the hot sun and humidity seeped into bones and joints made stiff by a New Jersey winter, Wilson watched as House chatted with the cab driver, directing him from the airport to the up-class hotel he had booked overlooking the water. He let House handle the check-in, then waited in the room, listening in as House skipped from Portuguese to English and back again as he checked in with local contacts while also keeping Wilson updated about their plans.

By that night, or perhaps it was early the next morning by then, they had settled into a routine, with House firmly in the lead.

Wilson followed, tagging along from the beach to a private party, to a street party to a bar to another private party. House was right. The women were unbelievably beautiful. Bodies tan. Hips swaying. The rhythm of the samba built into their every move.

One woman, with eyes as brilliant a green as House's were blue walked up to him, speaking softly. Wilson stammered out an apology in English.

"So you are American," she replied with a smile.

"You think he was lying?" Wilson nodded toward House who glanced in his direction, smiled and gestured that he was going out onto the balcony with another woman, just as beautiful.

"He has a good accent," the woman said. "Most Americans don't even bother to learn Portuguese, never mind how to use the -- let's say colloquial expressions -- so appropriately."

She put her hand on his, brushed her thumb lightly across his skin. Curled her fingers into his palm. That night, Wilson forgot about Tonya. For a while, he forgot himself.

Late the next afternoon, he found a note from House. He followed it out to the beach where he found House lying in the sun. Wilson sat beside him, arms loosely wrapped around his knees and glanced down at his friend before looking out at the water.

"You're getting a sun burn."

"I like living on the edge," House said. "I see you made it home all right."

"Yep." Wilson watched two women passing between him and the water and wished he'd worn his sunglasses. "Do I even want to know what you told her about me?"

"Probably not," House admitted. "But I didn't have to say much at all, really. She was the one with all the questions."

"I wasn't looking for an ego boost."

"Wasn't trying to give you one. Unless you needed one, in which case you probably came to the wrong person. I'm not really in to faint praise, in case you haven't noticed."

Wilson knew most people could not understand House. For that matter they didn't try to. More than one doctor had pulled him aside, tried to act as the mentor and warn him away. No one likes House, they'd say. Hang around him, and he'll poison you, poison your reputation. The new administrator is planning to get rid of him, they'd confide. If he sees the two of you together too much, he may just try to get rid of you too.

Sometimes Wilson felt like House was his own foreign language, one only Wilson could understand.

From the start, House had pushed him to push himself, both mentally and physically. He dared him to keep up -- just as Wilson's brother had done when they were growing up. Being around House sharpened his wit, focused his attention, quickened his pace. Despite that though, House made no demands that he conform. Where Wilson's parents had taught him to edit his every word, House did not believe in an internal sensor. He did not expect Wilson to live up to someone else's idea of how a gentleman or doctor should act.

For that matter, House reveled in finding flaws, poking at them, seeing what made Wilson tick, rather than expecting him to change. House did not expect to find perfection, except, it sometimes seemed to Wilson, from himself.

Not that House was ever easy. That lack of a censor meant that he not only meant what he said, but he also said what he meant. They'd argue -- about office politics, about patient treatment, hell even about the NFL playoffs -- and House would take his argument too far, start pushing at those cracks in the psyche Wilson was all too aware of. Wilson would call him an ass. Walk off.

Three days later, four at the most, and they'd find themselves at lunch together. No apologies needed. Regret, House said, was a wasted emotion. Instead they'd fight over who's turn it was to pick up the bill.

"I don't expect you to agree with me," House had told him once. "Hell, sometimes I don't agree with me either. Sometimes maybe I just love a good fight."

And sometimes Wilson didn't know if he liked House despite his challenging nature, or because of it.

A shadow blocked the sun, and Wilson broke out of his thoughts, looking up to notice House standing there, studying him.

"You still thinking you should take the earlier flight out to catch that symposium?"

"I should," Wilson admitted as he pushed himself up to his feet. "But I won't."

House responded with a genuine smile. "Good," he said. "I'd hate to see you waste your time on some idle pursuit like medical ethics. I know of something that's far more educational."

"Lord knows I wouldn't want to miss out on an important lesson from the master." Wilson pushed himself to his feet. "Lead on."