Well, I think I'm done muddling with other people's characters for now. I've had a great time diverting them from their proper universe and myself from my own work, so, after this, I shall beam them home. Thanks for all the great feedback, and let me know how you like the end.

As per usual, they're not mine, but they've been very obliging.

That was too much thumping to be comming from his own head, and the pillow over his face was not enough to make it go away. Someone was at the door. On a Saterday evening, someone was pounding on his door, and Wilson was out of town. He should definately not get up. The pounding stopped. Good. The door opened. Good. Home invasion. He should put up a fight. They would have to kill him and put him out of his misery.

"Greg?"

Perfect. Wilson. The weekend had gone badly. He should feel bad for the poor sop, but he was too busy wishing it had been hardened criminals.

"Wilson." He moved the pillow from his face. "You're home early. Casanova have another date?"

"No. And if you are going to be a jerk, I will take my chinese and go home." Wilson rattled the bag he was carrying.

"Wow. Chinese take-out. What's the occasion?" House looked closely at Wilson. Chinese take-out in one hand, duffle over his shoulder, and what? Something very careful in his eye. He sat up. His head lagged a half second behind the rest of him, and he could not supress a groan.

"You alright?"

"Should have got the anti-depressants."

Wilson only shrugged. He tossed the duffel on the floor at the foot of the bed and sat down beside House. Rather presumptuous. But House was too sapped to comment. "Anti-depressants don't work for everyone." Wilson eyed the bottle on the bedside table. "You maybe should have skipped the whiskey, though."

"Well, you're here now, so I guess I don't need them anymore."

"What?" The careful thing in Wilson's eye grew sharp. House almost backed down. Almost.

"Isn't that why you gave me the scrip? To keep me happy while you were off playing?"

Wilson actually huffed at him and stood. "I gave you the perscription because comming off vicodin is hard, and people sometimes need a boost."

"You just feel guilty for leaving me alone for two days."

"What are you? My puppy?"

"Guard dog, actually."

"Well you did a lousy job of protecting me."

"You know, I try." House let his eyes roam the room. His cane was not leaning on the nightstand where it usually was. Where had he left the damn thing? "But even I can't protect people from themselves." Another huff from Wilson, but not directed at him this time. "Why'd you come home early?"

The tiny line appeared between Wilson's brows. He turned from House and went into the bathroom. A minute later, he came and held the cane out to House. "Turns out three's a crowd."

"So he did have another date." House gripped the top of the cane, but Wilson did not let go. Neither did he hold too tight. House frowned at the offending hand. His left hand, no wedding ring. Not even a tan line.

"Not exactly." House looked up. Why so closed? Why protect the jerk? "I should never have gone in the first place." Oh. Protecting that jerk, himself.

"I could have told you that." House gripped the cane a little tighter. James still did not let go.

"Why didn't you?"

Without allowing himself to think too hard about it, House let his hand drop over James' fingers. "You need to be needed. And he needed you there." And I did not need you here, but he could never say that lie out loud and have it believed.

James' hand pulled away. "You know, sometimes it's nice just to be wanted."

"And where would that leave us?" If he wanted to be plain, House could be plain.

"Maybe where we should have been right from the start. Before-"

House's cane cracked against the floor, cutting him off. Couldn't do it. Could not let him be that right. Not out loud. He bent, picked up the cane, and stood. "Where'd that food go? I'm starving." He was half way out of the room before Wilson stopped him, but he could not turn around. That careful, sharp thing in Wilson's eyes must be in motion by now.

"Greg, this is not a game of chess. You can't just throw the board in the air and walk away. I want to talk about this."

"No, Wilson."

"Why?"

"I can't." His knuckles around the cane ached. He was holding it too tight. He could not let it go.

"You won't."

"I'm hungry." Two steps.

"So am I." Not for food, not with that cracking voice. Not still standing there beside the bed.

"No."

"Greg."

"Go home, Wilson."

A pause, and still he did not turn around. Finally, quietly, "I thought I was home."

Well. That was the obvious response. "You want something from me that I can't give you." And now he did not have turn around, because James was standing in front of him, his duffel back on one shoulder and the little yellow bottle in his hand.

"You know what the sad thing is, Greg? I'm still here because I care. The only reason you're here is to prove that you're right. To prove you don't care, that you don't have to care to survive. Well, you're wrong."

"How would you know?"

"I already told you, I know you."

"Why won't you quit?"

"This is my choice." He held the bottle a little higher and shook it. "What's yours?"

No. No, don't force a choice. Don't you know you'll loose? House took the bottle out of Wilson's hand.

"Thought so." He turned to go, was almost out the door, in fact, before House spoke.

"If you knew what I would do, why give me the choice."

House waited. Wilson's hand stayed on the door. His white shirt rose and fell a dozen times before he spoke. "Greg, you can manipulate me over the pills, over Stacy, over clinic hours, over a thousand other things, and I will let you, but not this." He turned around. That careful, sharp thing was no longer in motion. It was all over his face. "You've known how I feel for years. I know you've known, and I've let you ignore it. I had enough in my life. But we both knew, one day, it would come down to just you and me. You can hide behind the vicodin if you want and tell me you don't care,"

"But you won't believe me."

Wilson moved from the door, stepped close. "I never did. Everyone lies, remeber?"

"Most people don't choose to live with other people's lies."

Wilson shrugged. "Two thirds of my life is a lie. I've got my job, and I have you. And they don't always come in that order. I can live with your lies because it is the only time I don't have to live with my own."

"I don't know if I can handle being burdened by that much truth." House had to take a tiny step back. He had to breath.

"You've got your happy pills. You'll survive." Wilson waited. House said nothing. If he was waiting for some sort of capitulation, he would be waiting a long time. Finally, Wilson drew a breath, let it out, dropped his duffel onto the floor and stepped out of his shoes. "Where is the take-out? I hate cold chinese."

Wilson stepped past House, pulled take-out boxes from the bag, opened the plastic-wrapped chop sticks and sat on the couch. He stopped in the act of picking up one of the open boxes. "Are you going to eat?"

It was easy to watch him slip back into the familiar role, slouching on the couch, fumbling the chopsticks, grinning the stupid grin. But always that thing behind the eyes now. It would always be there. No more reason to hide it. It had shown itself, and they survived it, and it was as familliar to Greg as the crooked smile, the slender fingers that should be better with chop sticks. It was familliar to him as everything about James was familliar.

Almost everything. There was just that one side of him that Greg had never explored. His own appetite fled as he watched James eat. He knew every expression, every little move, and yet it was like he'd never actually looked at him before. Careful to disguise the tremor in his hands, he set his box of noodles down. James looked up.

"What?"

"You." Too gruff. He cleared his throat. "You owe me twenty bucks."

James grinned, shifted and put his box down. He reached across to pick up the noodles. A light hand rested on Greg's knee, austensibly to steady himself. Greg stared at the pale fingers, held his breath, felt a light squeeze.

"Tell you what." The hand was gone. "If you still haven't thanked me in the morning, I'll buy you breakfast."

"Are you raising the stakes?"

"Double or nothing. You know you love losing to me."

"Optimistic, aren't you?"

"I have a very strong belief in the inevitable."

"You are unbelievable. I say no, and you hit on me anyway."

"And this surprises you."

"I suppose not."

"Good, because I know how you hate surprises."

Wilson smiled to himself. Now that he had as much as said it aloud, he found it no longer mattered what Greg did. Because, gimpy leg, vicodin addiction, sour disposition, fluid ethics, stubble, whiskey, sarcasm, all the things there were not to like about Gregory House, were beside the point. He felt how he felt. All of the prickly bits of armour Greg wanted to adorn himself in were actually pointless, because Wilson knew the truth. And it was only a matter of time before Grag knew it too.