Title: The Essence of Friendship, part 7

By: lbc

Pairing: House and Wilson

Rating: For mature adults

Genre: slash

Disclaimer: I sure wish I owned these characters.

Words: 2477

Summary: House messes up.

James Wilson sat on the sofa for several minutes. When he heard a sound outside of his door, he looked at his watch and realized that he had been sitting there for more than a half hour. His mind felt numb; he hurt all over, and what hurt worst of all was that he had discovered that 18 years before he had slept with a man, the man who had become his best friend. Why would he do that? It was obvious that House had left, and Wilson had stayed. Why would he want to have anything to do with a man like that?

Another noise - - a human noise - - interrupted Wilson's thoughts. Closing his eyes in exhaustion, Wilson got up and started towards the door. He looked out the privacy window but saw nothing. Starting to turn and head to bed, he heard the sound again. Carefully unlocking the door, Wilson peeked out and looked around at the landing leading to his condo. Wilson almost groaned as he saw the hunched-over, painfully thin back of Gregory House. House was sitting on the top step, outside Wilson's door . . . sitting as if he were on guard duty.

Wilson shook his head and asked in a moderate tone, "What are you doing out there at this time, you moron?"

"I'm keeping my promise to Cuddy, to stay with you for 24 hours, and I'm not a moron. An imbecile, yes, but not a moron." House's voice level was only a few decibels above an incoming jet fighter so Wilson was thankful that he was the only resident on this floor.

"Will you quiet down, you cretin. It's after midnight."

"We guardians never sleep so that doesn't make any difference to me."

House continued to sit there, with his back towards Wilson. It was obvious that he was in pain as he was rubbing his injured leg. James Wilson badly wanted to slam the door on this man who had hurt him so badly - - even if Wilson couldn't remember all the hurt, but instead he opened the door wider and said, "Come in here, you idiot, before someone calls the police and hauls you away as a stalker."

For a minute, Wilson thought that House would not move but then the diagnostician shoved himself up on his good leg, turned and walked into the condo. After entering, he stopped as if he wasn't sure whether he was allowed to enter the master's domain or should just bed down, like a wet puppy, in the foyer.

"Get your ass into the living room. Why didn't you call a taxi and go home like any sane human being?"

"There you go assuming again."

"Well, I'm too tired to fence with you. There's the sofa; you probably know where the bed linen is - - use them or don't, good night."

James Wilson headed towards the bedroom. This had been a lousy couple of days and now he had Mr. Pain-In-The-Butt, sleeping on his sofa. As he walked past the sofa, he noticed how narrow it was. It was comfortable, but for a man with a bum leg, it might not be the best.

James Wilson stopped and turned around, carefully. By now he was feeling rather shaky himself. "Is that sofa all right with you? . . . I mean with your leg and all."

Once again, House was wearing his bearded basset hound look. The poor thing looked like he was carrying the weight of the world. "Sure, it's okay. Thanks."

Wilson threw up his hands and said, "All right; I'll sleep on the sofa; you take the bed."

House gave him a sheepish, pleased grin then said, "You should really sleep in your bed; your body won't get a lot of support from that sofa; I've slept there before."

Wilson squinted his eyes in disbelief. /He had actually made the man sleep on the sofa . . . with that leg/ "Are you sure about that?"

"Well, it sounded good; besides you're a very good doctor, what would you recommend to an individual with an infarction-injured leg or to another person with a concussion and enough bruises to cover the Leaning Tower of Pisa - - a bed or a sofa?"

Now House gave Wilson his most engaging, innocent smile. "I promise to stay on my own side of the bed."

Wilson shook his head slowly, rubbed his aching head, and whispered, "Come on."

"Oooooohhhh, I get the bed; I get the bed!"

As James Wilson walked to the bedroom, he shook his head in bemusement, "Why does anyone put up with you?"

"They don't; they just tolerate me." Wilson turned minutely to sneak a peek at the man with the cane to see if he was serious. It was readily obvious that House was which made Wilson rather sad as he thought about it. He analyzed the statement and the face that went along with it, "That's not true. You're world famous . . . according to Chuck, anyway."

"Don't mention that jerk."

"He's not so bad; he's spoiled and egotistical, but then the same could be said for you."

"I am not spoiled, except maybe by you, sometimes . . . and sometimes by your parents - - they like me."

"Why do you suppose that is?"

House smirked as if the answer was obvious, "I always figured it was because they compared me to you, and I came up the winner, every time."

"Oh brother, I sure was right about your ego."

"Oh sure, the fair-haired, brown eyed darling of the nursing staff talks about ego."

"What's that mean?

"Well, I'd really love to discuss your lascivious ways, but not right now. Right now, I need a bed and a Vicodin, and not necessarily in that order."

James Wilson suddenly saw the image of the hunched over figure sitting on his top step, rubbing his leg. "Sorry, do you know where everything is?"

House started towards the bathroom, "Yeah, can I use your toothbrush; it's so much better than the ones you hand out to overnight guests."

"Definitely not. Besides, I strongly suspect you probably have your own in there if you stay over as often as you seem to indicate."

"Well really, James," House said, in mock horror. "You were a married man . . . until recently. I don't do threesomes."

Wilson rolled his eyes and yelled out, "Will you please get done in there? Some of us want to go to bed."

House came out wearing a t-shirt and some faded sweat pants. "Well, so do I!" House shot his eyebrows up and down lasciviously but said nothing further, just climbed into the side of bed away from the bathroom.

A few minutes later, Wilson came out in much the same gear as House. He slipped into bed, moving carefully so that he wouldn't jar House's bad leg even though he was lying on House's left side.

Both men laid on their backs, the blackness was intense, immediately after the lights were turned off, but soon, the room lightened up a bit. There was tension between the two men, but it was not overly uncomfortable. Nothing was said for several minutes, but finally House whispered, "Go to sleep, James."

Wilson cleared his throat and replied, "You really miss him, don't you?"

"Who?"

Wilson hesitated; there seemed to be a catch in his words, "Your Jamie. I don't remember you, so I can't be the friend you remember and need."

House felt his heart almost curdle up. The sense of loss was overwhelming, and yet it wasn't Wilson's fault that he couldn't remember the man or the friendship . . . after all, who was it who had driven Wilson away? Who was it that had piled hurt upon hurt upon the younger man to . . . do what . . . test his friendship . . . his loyalty?

House sighed deeply, listening for Wilson's even breathing. House kept looking at the darkened ceiling when suddenly he felt a warmth that he hadn't felt in 17 years. James Wilson had shifted, oh so slightly, to his right and now rested in right shoulder against House's left. Neither man said a thing, but suddenly sleep rose up to overwhelm both men.

Several hours later, James Wilson opened one eye and saw that it was daylight. The place in the bed next to him was empty. He felt a sense of disappointment, of failure. What Greg House had chosen not to do the previous evening, he had done readily in the light of day - - abandoned his friend, James Wilson.

Wilson got up to go to the bathroom. He had a small, nagging headache, but nothing he couldn't deal with. It was his heart that was causing him problems. He couldn't remember the scruffy-faced doctor; he wasn't even sure if he liked him, but now that he was gone - - he missed him.

Wilson went out to try and scare up something for breakfast, but found that the cupboard was indeed bare, except for one battered can of beer. Wilson sat down at the kitchen table and stared into space; then he heard the key in the door, and the most beautiful words in the English language. "Whoo! Hoo! Honey, I'm home!"

Wilson almost rushed to the living room to see Greg House carrying a large bag of groceries. He stood there feasting his eyes at the sight of the man that he had thought had left him. He found his voice and asked, "What's all this?"

House looked at him with a look as if he were talking to a three year old and said, "You're some host. I went out and got some food so that we wouldn't starve. There's another bag downstairs in your car. It's a little difficult for Superman here to manage."

Wilson rushed downstairs to get the other bag, taking the steps two at a time so that he wouldn't keep the cantankerous man waiting. Rushing back in, Wilson began emptying his bag of groceries. "I'll pay you back." He stopped at that point as he noticed that the sack contained three six-packs of beer. "Isn't this a bit much? I can't drink liquor for a few more days."

Once again, House looked at the younger man as if he were in the presence of a moron, "Well, I like that. Here I am, standing bodyguard and security, and you won't even provide me with the basic sustenance of life? Fine person, you are."

Wilson looked slightly abashed, "Oh, Sorry, I thought you would be leaving today so I didn't think about extra food. I usually send for take-out. Don't do much cooking."

"You don't have to tell me that; I remember your one attempt at Duck à l'Orange, only it wasn't duck, and it certainly wasn't orange by the time you got done with it."

"My wife did the cooking; I just sort of improvised."

"Well, thanks for mentioning your wife; that really makes me feel good."

"Why?"

"Well, as has been hinted so many times, I was kind of responsible for break-up number two, and Julie was so fond of me that she could have cheerfully fed me arsenic and strychnine and laughed as I was breathing my last gasps."

The space between Wilson's eyes wrinkled as he didn't seem to understand, "Why didn't she like you . . . I mean you have a wonderful, heart warming, congenial personality; why wouldn't she want you around?"

House gave his friend a glare that said that he was trying to show patience with this man whose IQ didn't reach double digits. "Well, she said . . . quite falsely, of course . . . that you spent more time with me than with her. Of course, nobody kept a record of total actual minutes so it could have been true, but I doubt it."

"Oh."

"Is that all you can say?"

"Well, I don't actually remember much of that so who am I to say? I can't really understand why I would spend a lot of time with you; what did I get out of it?"

"Oh, that's my James, always wanting more and more from my sweet, giving nature."

Wilson cast him a look that said, sure pull the other one and then verbalized his disbelief, "Well, I only have your word for that, so that doesn't get us anywhere. Don't you have to go to work or something?"

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Well . . . yes. I don't want Cuddy to get mad at me or you. Besides,I thought I'd go see my parents for a couple of days; I've got a lot to think about."

House had been preparing to stand up but those final words caused him to sit back down. "What are you talking about?"

"Have you forgotten; I have amnesia and part of my life is gone. I thought if I went and visited my parents that might help; besides, I'm thinking of taking a leave of absence."

"What the hell for? You said you were okay. You've got another five days of sick leave. Why are you rushing it?"

"Well, if I were Cuddy, I would be reluctant to have a man as Head of Oncology who can't even remember his best friend. Who knows if one day, I'll be in the clinic and suddenly find out I can't remember the correct treatment for Takayasu Arteritis."

"That's nonsense."

"Well, thank you very much, Dr. Diagnostician, but you aren't the one with the faulty memory, I am. I think a leave of absence might be a good idea."

"What, you going to run away, again? Going to go to Florida and let Chuckie-baby hold your hand. After all you remember HIM. Bet you also remember sleeping with him."

Wilson's brown eyes flickered as if he had been dealt a mortal wound, but he maintained his dignity, "Thank you, Dr. House, for that revealing statement about your character. Now, will you get out; I want to be alone."

House looked totally disgusted but whether at Wilson or himself, the younger man couldn't determine. House leaned on his cane and stood up, moving towards the door. Just before he went through the open door, he turned and looked at Wilson. "You were right; you sure aren't my Jamie."

As the door closed, James Wilson sat there numb, vowing to stay out of Greg House's presence, even if he had to move to Alaska.

End of part 7