As before, I own no one. Enjoy chapter four, and please review.

Everything hurt today. Everything. There was a reason House had thought to do this, he just could not put his finger on it at the moment. By now, the ducklings knew something was up. They had walked on egg shells for days, but not one was brave enough to find out what was going on. Cuddy knew, he could tell by her tacit support. He had no scheduled clinic duty for the rest of the week. And not one of them said the first word about it. Like they were afraid if they drew attention to it, he would give up on the whole thing out of spite. Which hurt, because he was not a spiteful person. He'd chuckle at that thought if he had the energy. Instead, he weezed out a long sigh. Which is when he noticed Wilson standing in the doorway.

"You really should not sneak up on a guy like that."

"Greg, I've been standing here for five minutes."

House made a face he knew was difficult to interpret. It would hide the pain, but more importantly, it would make his discomfort look more like indifference.

"Why?" he asked at last, because Wilson just stood there, one hand on hip, a folded piece of paper twirling through the fingers of the other. Wonder Doctor. House raised one eyebrow to prompt him.

"Oh." Wilson snapped up straighter. "Here. I brought you something."

"What is it?" House eyed the paper Wilson held out, then eyed Wilson. Something was off. Something kept James from looking at him.

"A scrip."

House frowned. "What? You think I'm cheating? I haven't been cheating." He reached into his pocket, pulled out his little yellow bottle and shook it. "Got plenty left."

"It's not for vicodin." House's frown deepened. James still was not looking at him. "It's for anti-depressants."

House shoved his chair away from his desk and swung round, away from the brown eyes.

"Don't need 'em."

"They'll help."

"No."

"Greg."

"No!" House stood and stumped to the window. The last thing he needed or wanted were more pills. If weaning himself off the vike meant being miserable, so what. He was used to miserable. Wilson should know that by now.

"Greg, I want to help."

"By giving me more pills?"

"Oh, come on. You know how this works. This is not so unusual."

House moved from the window to the desk, picked up the red ball, put it back, wandered back to the window, but did not look out. Instead, he watched their reflections. Watched Wilson watching him.

"It's just jitters. It will pass."

"Just jitters." Wilson shook his head. "Do you forget who you're talking to?"

"It will pass."

"What about the rest?"

"What rest?" House could not quite look directly into Wilson's eyes. If he did, Wilson might notice he was off his game. Wilson was shaking his head, moving further into the room, and House was suddenly torn. Something in the way Wilson wasn't being Wonder Doctor just then made House want to come out from behind the desk, but at the same time, something in the way he was not being Wonder Doctor made him want to keep the chair solidly between them. "There is no rest," House said, knowing it came out too defensive.

"How did you sleep last night?"

"Oh no." House waggled a finger. "You're not weasling your way back under my warm blankets that easily."

He watched a long sigh deflateWilson as he tossed the paper on the desk. "Use it. Don't use it." Wilson caught his eye, and for one second,House saw the addict glare out at him. "If you need me, I'll be in L.A. for the weekend."

L.A.? So that was it. Wilson thought he could replace his presence with anti-depressants. "L.A.?" he asked, feigning ignorance. "Why L.A.?"

"You know why."

"Thought it was over."

Wilson shrugged, stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked around the desk to stand beside House and look out the window. "He called."

"And you're running back."

"Surprised?" He asked it quietly, so House almost missed it. He asked it like he did not want to hear the answer. House hesitated, but only for an instant. He was too tired, to miserable, to be anything but honest, and soul-bearing honesty always stuck in his throat.

"Sadly, no." Disapointed? Yes, but not particularly surprised. Wilson's eyes closed, his head drooped.

"Greg, I wish -"

"No,"House spoke over Wilson's soft words, "it doesn't surprise me in the least, because you always take them back, the cheating wives, the soulless boyfriend. You know the only reason he called is because he misses the way you s-"

"See you Monday, House." Wilson somehow managed to slam out of the room without actually touching anything, and now House hung his head. That was stupid. What had made him say a thing like that? Self preservation. He was falling apart. If Wilson saw him fall apart, he would try to put him back together. Again. He rattled the pill bottle in his pocket. It was so much easier to get away with saying things like that when the vicodin smothered his impulse control and let him believe he did not care. It was those damn puppy eyes, and the little stress line between his brows that showed whenever he was worried about something. It was that and a thousand other little things, and House had said what he said because he couldn't say the one little word he really wanted to say. One lousy word.

The vicodin bottle came out of his pocket. The feel of it was too familiar in his hand, too comfortable. An easy flip of his thumb popped the lid off. If he closed his eyes, he could feel every tremmor, every restless muscle, the deep fatigue. Not as bad as when he went cold turkey, but bad enough. No. Not bad enough. He snapped the lid back on, tossed the bottle into a desk drawer and slumped into his chair. One lousy word. How hard was it?

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Wilson hated the glass walls. Hated that he could not just stop outside the door to fume and shake and feel dejected. He had to keep walking and then there was too much distance between them, between him and Greg, him and his fix. He frowned. What was new about distance? He tried to distract himself with thoughts of green eyes, blond hair. It always came back to those piercing blues. So. If it was distance Greg wanted, it was distance he'd get. L.A., after all, was the other side of the country. Wilson stalked to his own office, went inside and closed the door. First, the travel agent and a flight out of New Jersy friday afternoon. He picked up the phone.

It took all of five minutes to arrange. Then he sat back and stared at the phone a little while longer. Easy as popping a pill. All he had to do was pick up the phone and dial a number. He pulled a wrinkled perscription from his pocket and looked at the phone number scribbled on it. He spread the paper smooth on his desk, pulled out his cell, pushed Greg House out of his mind and dialed the number.

"'H'llo?"

The voice on the other end was deep, groggy. What time was it in L.A.? "Hey. It's me."

"Jimmy?" A smile passed over Wilson's face and he swung his chair round to look out at the grey New Jersy day. Wasn't L.A. always sunny?

"Yeah. What're you doing this weekend?"

"You're comming?"

"Already booked a flight." There was silence. "Pick me up at the airport Friday night?" More silence, too much to miss completely, but not enough to change his mind.

"Yeah. Yes, of course. What time?" Wilson gave him the time and flight information. "So I'll see you Friday."

"Yes. You'll see me Friday."

"Jimmy,"

"What?" Wilson tried hard not to sound annoyed at the hesitation.

"You'll be there, right? I won't be standing at the gate when my cell rings and you tell me you've changed your mind."

"Of course not."Wilson almost asked when that had ever happened, but didn't. It had happened. He was a busy doctor. He had been married three times. He had cancelled dates before. Not transcontinental ones, mind, but he had cancelled them. "I'll be there."

He hung up. There. Anti-depressants. He hoisted his feet up onto the window sill and watched out the window as the rain started. It was that type of rain that was a blanket of wetness falling from the sky. Thick, smoothering, insidious because you could barely see it, and yet it could soak you to the skin in a matter of minutes. It was the kind of rain Wilson hated. There was no comforting pitter patter, no drops falling in puddles in soothing rhythms, just heavy wetness soaking in until you thought you'd always been that way. He pictured L.A., in all its sunny glory, and wondered why he lived in New Jersey. Only an idiot would have any difficulty answering that question.

Well, it didn't matter, because L.A. beckoned, and Gregory House had been given his chance. All he would have had to say was stay. One little word. Easy. Not for House, though. Nothing was ever easy with House, and for a change, Wilson wanted easy. Not too much to ask. But then, one word was not a lot to ask for either.

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What was he supposed to do? Beg? He could go one weekend without James Wilson hovering over his shoulder. In fact, it would be good for them both. James needed to get away. He'd done nothing but work since his divorce. An easy weekend fling would relax him. And it had better be just a fling. Next weekend, they'd do something fun. Like what? How much funcould a recovering pill popper with a limp be? And anyway, just what did the blond bimbo have that he did not? This had to stop. House got up from his desk and headed for the clinic. There had to be some hapless idiot there worse off than him.