Title: The Essence of Friendship, part 8a

By: lbc

Pairing: House/Wilson

Rating: mature adults

Genre: definitely slash

Disclaimer: I wish I owned these characters.

Words: 3375

Summary: Wilson has a revelation.

Note: Parts 8a and 8b complete the story.

House walked into Princeton-Plainsboro later that same afternoon. It was strange for a man who professed to not like patients to still be drawn to the large, almost sterile building . . . maybe because it was here that he felt he accomplished something, because certainly in his personal life, he was fielding a total disaster.

He knew why he had uttered those words to the man, suffering from amnesia. It seemed as if he could not contain his jealousy, and the mere thought that James Wilson would leave him was unthinkable. Why had he condemned the man for not being his Jamie - - he was James Wilson, and just because he didn't remember House, did that mean that they couldn't have a future?

Wearily, House limped towards his office. He purposely did not look around so that he could avoid looking at the office next door which belonged to James Wilson. The younger doctor had never said it, but House knew that he had cut a deal with Cuddy to take over that office so that he could be close by House. House, so often, needed to talk to his friend that it was logical to have them close together. It was just one more way that James Wilson proved his loyalty and friendship, and yet . . . House had thrown that back in Wilson's face only hours before.

Sitting in his office, trying to mesmerize himself with his video games, House barely noticed the figure of Lisa Cuddy walk in, but finally House looked up a moment before the administrator could hide her concern.

"What are you doing here?"

"Hmmm, is that a deep philosophical question that seeks to know why I was put on this earth or do you mean the more mundane, 'What are you doing here?'

Lisa Cuddy screwed up her pretty face into a look of frustrated patience. "I MEANT, you were supposed to be staying with Dr. Wilson so that you could observe him after his concussion, why have you left him?"

House's blue eyes turned cold, his words dripping with sarcasm, "Dr. Wilson doesn't seem to need me anymore. He's planning on visiting his parents, and perhaps asking for a leave of absence, in preparation for leaving completely."

"What . . . what did he say?"

"He seems to think that he's unable to function to his complete satisfaction, and what is even more relevant, he thinks that he cannot meet your rigid requirements, so he's thinking of leaving."

"I see. Well, I can talk to him about that and correct his mistaken impression, but that still doesn't answer my question, 'Why did you leave? It's not like you to show up here when you could have been with your best buddy and a 48 inch plasma."

Greg House's eyebrows shot up, "I won't ask how you know that James has a 48 inch plasma, but everyone knows that I am dedicated to my work . . . and I'm not so sure that he's my best friend."

Now it was Cuddy's turn to open her eyes wide with her eyebrows up in the air. "Don't kid me, House. Remember I was here six years ago when you were in the hospital. That man practically lived here while you were recovering; he kept you alive, and you damn well know it, so what's going on?"

"How can I have a best friend, who doesn't remember me?"

Cuddy shook her long dark hair, "You might better spend your time, asking what might be some of the causes for him not remembering you."

"I have."

Cuddy almost asked what those causes were but stopped as she saw the deep despair in the blue eyes. It was obvious that House was in pain and not just from his injured leg. The small woman turned and headed towards the door. She turned, however, and said,

"I guess I'll have to call him and see if he makes more sense than you do."

"Yeah, and I would be very interested in the whole lurid story about how you know about his 48 inch plasma."

House was not assigned to anything due to Cuddy's mistaken impression that the diagnostician would spend the day with Wilson. An interesting case came in but was soon put in the "resolved column". The ducklings avoided House as if he suffered from the plague, and that's the way Greg House liked it. There was only one person on earth whose interruptions he never minded, and that man couldn't remember him.

By 5:00 pm Greg House was ready to call it a day - - a very ugly day when Lisa Cuddy, once again, walked into his office.

"I've been trying off and on over the last couple of hours to reach Dr. Wilson. There's been no answer."

House's head lay on the back of his plush chair. He was dead tired; his eyes were closed, and he really didn't want to hear about James Wilson at that moment, but he murmured, "Maybe he's out with one of the 2222 babes in his little black book."

"I doubt that with his concussion. If I were leaving the hospital right now, I'd drive by there and check, but . . ."

House raised his head and looked at the woman whose life he made so miserable . . . and enjoyed every minute of it. He kept telling himself that it was his revenge for Lisa Cuddy's part in leaving him an in-pain cripple, but he silently acknowledged that it was more likely his insane need to taunt those that might come close to him.

"Oh very good, Dr. Cuddy. I'd give you an A for your dedication, but an F for subtlety. I am not going to go check on Wilson."

"All right; I'll ask Dr. Cameron. She lives somewhere near there."

/Well, well, Dr. Chest of the Year knows where Dr. "I Can Fix Anything" lives/

"Forget it; I've got work for Cameron to do."

"What work; you don't have any cases at the moment?"

House dropped his chin but raised his eyes. In a much deeper voice he purred with innuendo, "I don't tell you everything."

Cuddy grimaced, "You sure got that right. All right, all right. Forget it. Let the man who saved your life, rot. If you don't care, neither do I."

Greg House knew that wasn't true, but neither was it true that he didn't care; he loved James Wilson, and he wished that he had remembered that when he had been with the man.

"All right; all right, I will go see Wilson, but it will cost you two hours off my clinic duty for this week."

Cuddy put her small hands on her hips and stared then with teeth together, forced out, "One hour and that's non-negotiable."

"Done, now if you will take your gorgeous hips, turn ever so slowly and wiggle out of here, I'll be on my way."

The glare that Cuddy gave to House would have cut through steel, but as she continued out the door, she wiggled her hips to House's delight.

HWHWHWHWHWHWHWH

House hadn't been able to get out of the hospital quite as fast as he had hoped so it was now better than five hours since he had walked out on James Wilson. Standing in front of the younger doctor's door, House hesitated. What kind of reception was he going to receive? He knocked and waited . . . and waited. He had asked at the entrance security desk and Dr. Wilson was definitely in.

Pounding on the door, he still received no answer, so he did what any red-blooded, snarky genius would do; he used the extra key that James Wilson had given him years before. Entering, he looked around. The condo was silent and seemed to be deserted. There was no noise. House carefully searched the large apartment, finding nothing . . . until he reached the extra bedroom which Wilson fondly called his den. House looked in and there in the failing light of early evening sat James Wilson . . . on the floor, clutching a framed picture and a piece of paper. The beautiful face was covered in tear streaks; his eyes were red, and his usual perfect appearance was badly disheveled.

House stared for several seconds; Wilson didn't even seem to know he was there. The silence became so heavy that House was going to speak when he suddenly noticed the subject of the photo. Approaching quietly, House said, "That was taken in Atlantic City two years ago. Didn't know you kept it."

Wilson said nothing for a moment then replied, "I didn't; he did."

House closed his eyes in anguish. Taking a very deep breath, he tried to keep his voice steady, "You are him. I was wrong."

"What are you doing here?"

"You haven't been answering your phone."

Wilson looked down at the photo and gently caressed it with his fingers. "I was trying to pack this room up a bit, and I found this. You two look so happy in it."

"Yeah, we drove down to Atlantic City; did some gambling and got drunk. Somewhere along the way we had that picture taken. We each got one."

"Do you still have yours?"

House had never made a big thing of keeping the photo, he supposed he had it somewhere, but it was obvious that Wilson had gone to the trouble to have it framed. "Yeah, I've got it; somewhere."

Wilson just nodded. House's leg was killing him so he sat down on a less than comfortable chair nearby his friend. "Why didn't you answer your phone or pager?"

"Don't need 'em. Talked to Mom; I'm going over there for a few days then maybe I can make a decision."

"I'm sorry for what I said, Jamie. It wasn't . . ."

"DON'T CALL ME THAT. You know damn well that I'm not him. You want him so bad, but you don't want me. At least, going somewhere else I can start again. Seeing that picture, I've finally remembered . . . one thing." House waited. "You asked me why I didn't remember you, of all people." House nodded. "Well, I do remember you, at least enough to know this; I loved you so much when I was in Med School; I felt like dying when you walked out without any real explanation. Chuck Taylor didn't mean anything to me, and the two or three times we had sex weren't all that great, but he was warm, and comforting, and I . . . needed that. I was 19, for God's sakes and you tore my heart out. You've heard my answer; now get the hell out of here."

Greg House carefully slid out of the chair, using his cane to lower himself to the floor to sit beside his friend. "In 17 years we've never talked about that. Didn't you once wonder what was going to happen when I graduated? Of course, you were on the fast track in Med School, but you were just starting; you knew you would have to stay there while I went on to my internship."

Sad, red eyes looked at House, "I would have gone with you, I think. I turned down Hopkins; they would have let me in."

House's whole body shrivelled inside. He lowered his head and rubbed his forehead, "I would have loved for you to have done that, but you were only 19; you needed to build your own life, not follow me around. You are the best doctor I know; I couldn't let you throw that away." House raised his head; the affection obvious in his eyes. "You must have hated me for leaving you; why did you answer my letter?'

The paper in his right head shook as Wilson's brown eyes studied House's scruffy face. "I found it."

"What?"

"The letter you wrote. It was stuck underneath this picture as if he . . . I put it there for some reason."

House took the letter from Wilson's slender fingers and read it quickly although he knew every word by heart:

Jamie,

If you can ever forgive me, I would like to see you again, and in whatever time you choose, hopefully, find our lost friendship. If you would be willing, I will wait for a return letter.

Greg

"I waited for three months, but you did answer, and we've been friends ever since."

"No . . . you've been friends with . . . him."

"Jamie, you are him; I was wrong. I have never stopped loving you. Not even when I was with Stacy."

"You don't love me now . . . I remember getting married, but I can't remember why I got divorced so many times. It must have had something to do with you. You've occupied the better part of my adult life, and I can't remember any of it, except for bits and pieces."

"How long have you been sitting here?"

Wilson started to shake his head but stopped as his head began to ache, much worse than the all too easily remembered migraines that he had sometimes. Instead he just mumbled, "Don't know."

"Come on; let's find someplace more comfortable so that we can talk. I don't want to lose you again." The two men helped each other stand up. Stiffness, bruises, and general fatigue all played a part in their exhaustion. "Have you eaten anything today?"

"No."

"How about you take a hot shower while I order some take-out then we'll relax and talk."

"Did you do that with him?"

"I've made myself a nuisance over here lots of times." Wilson gave the scruffy man a small smile and headed towards the bathroom.

/Well, at least, he didn't throw me out./ Twenty minutes later the food had arrived. James Wilson was just leaving the bathroom, still looking tired, but a bit more focussed. The two men sat in the living room and ate steadily, using the food to avoid talking. Finally, most of the food was gone. House shoved everything into paper bags and leaned back against the sofa. Before House could say anything, Wilson asked, for an unknown reason, "How old are you?"

House frowned, but answered, "46, and yes I robbed the cradle when I took you to bed."

"How come you chose me?"

House smiled affectionately, "Well, I walked into this get-together, anxious to see the boy genius that was tearing up the Med School. You were standing across the room. I walked over, said something about making your cool ass, hot and that was it."

Wilson looked sad. "You liked my ass, so we had sex for one year and then it was adios?"

"We never had sex."

"What?"

"I mean, we never had sex; we made love, right from the start - - at least on my part. I coveted your form, right away . . . as they say . . . somewhere. I've loved you for 18 years, Jamie, and you might have every reason to forget me, but I don't want to forget you, so I will fight to keep you with me. I kicked that Taylor's ass and I will do it to anybody else who tries to take you away from me. You're the only person who can do that. If you . . . really want to leave, I won't stop you."

"You tried to when Chuck seemed to be offering me a job."

"Yeah, well, you're too good of a doctor to go with the likes of him. Inside of a month, you would have been embarrassed even working for him, so I was just saving you the trouble."

"Does Chuck still think that you're going to Florida?"

House smiled evilly. "I don't think he does anymore. He called to ask me a few questions, so it gave me an opportunity to explain the facts of life to him. He definitely does not want anything to do with Gregory House now."

Suddenly, James Wilson burst out in laughter. It was so good to hear that sound that had been absent for several days. "Chuck helped me when I needed it, but I'm sure Daddy would not have been a happy camper if he had found out about us. Good thing we ended it pretty fast."

"Jamie, I am your friend, and I want to continue to be. We don't have to be bed mates. You don't remember me that well. You don't have to go away. We can build a new relationship. What do you say?"

For a few minutes, Wilson remained silent then he said, "I called my mom to let her know that I was better. I asked her if it was all right to come for a visit. She asked about you. I told her that I was thinking of taking an offer at some other hospital. We talked for a few minutes then she said the strangest thing."

House looked at his friend, the obvious strain showing at Wilson's recent words. "She said that she didn't want to interfere in my life, but she had to ask one thing." House nodded, but kept quiet. "She wanted to know why I was thinking of leaving PPTH. . . . After awhile I answered, I said that my amnesia was making me feel all strange, and that I felt like I was among strangers even though I remember most of the people at Princeton. The real trouble was that I didn't remember you, and I didn't think you needed me to be there so why not move on?"

" 'Oh, bubbala, you are so wrong, my son; that Dr. House has needed you since before you were born,' That's what she said."

A shiver overwhelmed Greg House. He had known as soon as he been introduced to Rebecca Wilson that she saw through to his heart. She had known immediately how Greg House had felt about her son, but she had said nothing. "Your mother is an amazing woman with a great son. I was 10 years old when you were born. One day, after we became friend we were visiting your folks, I sat down and talked with her. She had everything out of me in minutes. It isn't easy being the son of a military man who is hard-nosed and exacting. I've disappointed my father all my life. My mom gets along very well with yours. They call us, 'the boys', even now."

House sighed and stopped for a moment, thinking of those times when he felt such happiness in the Wilson home then he continued, "I was lonely even at the age of 10. I wanted to be a doctor not a military man and my father didn't understand. I grew up alone, and I basically stayed that way until one remarkable night when I was 28. For one year, you were everything to me . . . and then I had to give you up."

House stopped; he could not go further. James Wilson had moved closer to the slender framed man. Taking his right hand, he gently cupped House's chin so that he could look into the remarkable eyes. "Now I understand what she meant. Thank you."

House looked at his watch, "It's getting kind of late. You must be sick of me. I want you to think about what I said. I need you as my friend, but you call the shots. Let me know."

"You're . . . you're leaving me again?"

Suddenly, it was like a replay of that scene 17 years before, Greg House was walking out on him. James Wilson knew that he wasn't the same Jamie that had had to endure the pain and agony of his lost love, but his mind could not accept seeing the same man walk away again. Panic set in and blackness appeared before his eyes as he slumped to the ground in revolt against the loss.

End of part 8a