A/N: Damn. FINALLY! Sorry for taking so damn long with this chapter. I hope it's all right. Thanks to all my supporters. Please read and review and remember: no slash intended!

Listen to "Baba O'Reilly" by the Who, while you read, if you can.

Chapter 5

They stay late – until the ducklings are gone and Cuddy retires to her office for good. They spend about an hour locked up, reading magazines, playing game boy, and watching re-runs. House makes Wilson smile when he actually forgets himself and baby-speaks to Wendy.

"I may be a cripple, but I can still kick your ass with my cane," says House, when he catches Wilson smiling at him. The oncologist keeps his mouth shut and looks back to his two-month old issue of Time. Around five o'clock, he creeps out to make sure the halls are clear. He's thankful the elevator is nearby. House's lips twitch in amusement, as he limps steadily out of Wilson's office, while his friend scuttles into the elevator with their precious cargo.

"Is that fun?" he asks, as the doors close with a ding. "Making a new record for hall crossing speed?"

Wilson gives him a bored stare. Wendy grabs at her stuffed puppy and looks into space with her big, brown eyes. Wilson glances down at her and thinks he might burst; she's so cute in her little bonnet.

"I can't believe you bought that thing," House grumbles. "What is this, the Oregon Trail?"

"It's cute," Wilson protests.

"Yeah, if we were stupid enough to be migrating to the West Coast in a wagon."

But House does think it's cute.

When they drive home, they don't speak, but House is thinking of Wilson and Wendy as he watches the passing world through his window. How can you be with someone so much of the time and still think of them constantly?

The silence that fills Wilson's Mercedes isn't silence at all. It's another kind of song, another kind of music that can only come out of real love. Maybe House has been wrong to stop believing. It's too early to get comfortable, to stop considering the possibility that it all might be a dream. He knows it in his head – but his heart really likes believing. He's beginning to think he'd been living without it all these years.

"Keep driving."

"Huh?"

Wilson looks over at him for the first time. They're only ten minute from House's place.

"Keep driving," House says.

And Wilson doesn't ask questions. He just keeps driving, and House keeps thinking. Wendy is falling asleep, and House almost envies the way she can't tell the difference between the ocean and the car.

He doesn't count the minutes. He doesn't bother thinking about extra gas running out. He just knows its twilight, and his heart is full. He knows Wilson has turned his cell phone off because Julie is home, and they will have dinner together as a late close to their first weekend together.

He doesn't know how long Wilson drives. He doesn't think his friend is paying attention to where he's going either. But something new occurs to him. It doesn't matter where he is anymore, as long as Wilson and Wendy are with him. With them, anywhere is fine.

Eventually, Wilson pulls into House's driveway. The Mercedes comes to a stop, Wilson shuts it down, and they don't stop sitting still. Wendy sleeps lightly.

They decide on macaroni and cheese. Wilson doesn't bother calling Julie; she knows he works late on Mondays. House limps around in the kitchen quietly, while Wilson half-heartedly wiggles a rainbow-caterpillar rattle in front of Wendy. She watches it with glassy eyes and reaches out every now and then. Wilson looks at her with his heart drooping. He tries to smile but he can't.

The evening news is on TV, providing the necessary background noise, but when House stops in the middle of his kitchen, it is to watch Wilson, not the TV. He can feel his body change, anticipating the end of their short-lived domestic life together. His heart slows down, his blood follows suite, his limbs fills up with lead. Wilson is leaving.

For the first time in their friendship, House really feels that Wilson is leaving. What will he do? What will he do in this empty house with his best friend's baby? How can he deal with it alone half the time? Wilson can only leave Julie eating dinner by herself so many times before she gets suspicious.

"You want peas?" he asks.

"I don't think I'm very hungry," Wilson murmurs, his hand rocking the caterpillar loosely.

"I'm cooking. You'll eat," House says. But he really did feel for Wilson. "Peas or no peas?"

"None."

"Good. I like my mac n' cheese plain."

Wilson's lips faintly curl, and he doesn't know why. Rattle, rattle, rattle, went the caterpillar. It's red smile and happy, blue eyes were unchanging. Wilson feels his chest clench. He bites his lip, but Wendy suddenly grows fuzzy. His heart hurts. He loves his baby, but he hates failing, marriages included.

House peers over his shoulder, ceasing to stir their dinner. He can't see the details of Wilson's face from the stove, but his friend's posture is like a note, saying 'goodbye, it's over, it hurts like hell.' House wants to comfort him – but what can he do? This is Wilson's choice. And House sucks at being sympathetic.

"Beer?" he calls.

"No," Wilson says himself. House knows he doesn't want any regardless. He knows what plagues Wilson is that hollow feeling in his chest – and that can't be helped by any physical means, booze included. He turns away from the living room with his head hung a little lower and stirs his macaroni and cheese idly. He focuses on the circles, pouring the pasta into two bowls, shutting off the stove. That rattle keeps shaking.

He hobbles into the living room and plops down onto the couch, next to Wilson. His friend takes his bowl wearily, and House sits back and props his legs up on the coffee table without any sign he had noticed Wilson's mood. He shovels a spoonful of food into his mouth and watches the news, but his heart can never ignore Wilson.

"What's wrong?" he asks, as if he'd just realized his friend hadn't moved or touched his food. Wilson doesn't answer for a minute, and House hits the 'mute' button. Wilson finally gives a small shrug.

"What does that mean?" House presses. Wilson sits still for another minute, looking sorrowfully down at the carpet. "Wilson. Talk to me."

Wilson squeezes his eyes shut, and House feels something bubble up inside him.

"Nothing," the oncologist breathes, finally taking hold of his spoon.

"Bullshit."

Wilson doesn't answer. He moves the spoon around, before making himself eat a little. Already, he feels like throwing up.

"James..." House warns. Wilson sighs.

"What?"

"Talk to me. You're not all right."

"Did you expect me to be?"

"Only after a few days? Yeah. I think most people would be."

"That's a lie. No one's okay with leaving their kid."

"Is this just about her?"

Wilson looks at House at last, and House wants to shudder at those brown eyes. Wilson purses his lips, his pain obvious.

"You don't have to go back to Julie," says House.

"Yes, I do."

"Why?"

"Because she's my wife."

"And Wendy's your daughter."

They stare at each other for a moment, before breaking away again. House puts the sound back on the TV, and Wilson eats the rest of his dinner.

"Would it be irresponsible to stop at a bar on my way home and get smashed?" he asks.

"Yeah," said House. "Daddies don't do that sort of thing. Besides, you have no legitimate reason to get smashed."

"No legitimate reason? You're kidding."

"Just because something sucks doesn't make it a reason to do something stupid."

"You would."

"That's your excuse?"

"Almost as good as the whole 'I'm in pain' excuse you have for pill-popping."

House doesn't have a comeback for that one, and he isn't about to get angry and scare Wilson away to do the stupid things he's imagining.

"What are we going to do tomorrow?" Wilson changes the subject. "We can't keep sneaking around."

"Why not? Hearing the gossip is always amusing."

Wilson's eyes are weary and sad against House's, without the energy for a squabble.

"We've got not choice, unless you want to tell the truth," says House.

"Call a sitter."

"No."

"I think we should end this."

House sighs in aggravation and throws his bowl on the table, startling Wendy to jump. Wilson takes hold of her hand to reassure her, and she remains quiet.

"How can you give up so easily?" House questions.

"There's nothing to give up. It's time we wake up from our little fantasy. We had our weekend. Now it's over."

"It's not over," House growls. "You just too afraid to do something you've never done before."

"Oh, of course, you know so much about that."

"Yeah, I do."

"It's not your call. She's mine."

House stares steadily at Wilson with cold, blue eyes. He didn't think Wilson would strike him like that.

"I don't care," he says, his gaze unrelenting. "I'm not letting you ruin her life."

"You've ruined yours; how do you expect to prevent it from happening to someone else?"

House heaves himself up and hobbles away, under Wilson's watch. He picks up his cell phone off the kitchen counter.

"Hi, Julie? This is Greg House. Your husband is over here because he doesn't want to go home when we just got a –"

"No!" Wilson screams, halfway through House's sentence. He leaps up from the couch and lunges for House's phone, snatching it away and flipping it off. "Are you insane? What the hell were you thinking?"

"You can't give up if there's nothing to hide."

"Jesus Christ, House, you could've ruined my marriage!"

"It's already dead, James. Why don't you accept that?"

"Go to hell."

Wendy's shrill cry breaks them away from each other. House is the one to move and pick her up, tossing his cane aside. She cries for a minute or two, as he tries to hush her and staggers once, prompting Wilson to go to him. House bounces Wendy a little, trying to quiet her.

"See what you did?" he mutters.

"I wouldn't have had to do anything if you hadn't called Julie."

"And if you would snap out of your self-pity, I wouldn't have had to call."

Wendy stops, the blood fading back to normal in her face. House holds her, and Wilson sighs before taking her. He holds her as gently as House had, looking at her intently.

"I'll see you again," he says. House bows his head. Wilson kisses her and holds her close, shutting his eyes. She looks blankly at House, and he peers up at her, wishing he could explain. Wilson straightens and lays her back in her carrier. He picks up House's cane and hands it to his friend, who thanks him.

And suddenly, House feels alone for the first time in years. The TV noise carries on, Wendy is quiet, and Wilson is gone, leaving him to stand against his cane in the living room.

Wilson passes three bars before stopping at the fourth, and he figures he can later say that he had shown some resistance. Maybe that would count for something. Even when he sits down to order his first drink, part of him feels a pull toward "home," if he can still call Julie's house that. But he stays, and the bartender gives him a tall glass of Bud Light. He gets halfway through it when he asks the guy for a cigarette. Wilson hasn't smoked in years – not since House's infarction. He may not have gotten his relief that morning, but he is now. He had known on his way to work there would be a cigarette today.

He inhales his first dose and blows out the excess smoke with a sigh, closing his eyes. He sips on his beer. No one except House knows how well he can blend in at bars.

After the third glass, his cell phone rings. He ignores it; he's already got a buzz so high, he's borderline drunk. He orders another to finish himself off. His cell phone rings against his leg, blinks red and blue, but no one seems to hear it or care. Julie's waiting on the home phone for him to pick up, exasperated because of Greg's strange call two hours earlier and because it's 11 o'clock with no sign of James.

His brain is muddled, as he works on that fourth glass, and he can barely remember to smoke his cigarette in between mouthfuls. His vision is hazy, and there's a strange sensation at the base of his skull. He inhales, exhales, sways with his eyes closed.

Why is he doing this to himself? It's his choice. He doesn't have to go home. He doesn't have to lie to Julie or be away from Wendy half the time. Hell, he didn't have to take Wendy in the first place. It's all his choice. It was his choice to stop at this bar and get drunk. Now what will he choose?

He leaves ten-dollar bills on the bar top and staggers away, foam still clinging to the inside of his deserted glass. No one stops him because no one cares. No one cares... except House.

But he doesn't call House. He fumbles for the right key and gets in his car. He's got to go home. He's got to do the right thing.

"Hello?"

House doesn't sound happy. It's 12:30. He was zoning out in front of the TV, and Wendy had finally fallen asleep.

"House?"

He stops when he hears Wilson – with a tone that screams bad news.

"James?"

"Please come get me."

God, it almost sounds like his friend's about to cry.

"Give me that God damn phone!" Julie screams in the background. "Why the fuck are you always calling him? You can't expect him to bail you out every time we have marital problems. It's none of his damn business."

That is enough for House.

"I'm coming."

He apologizes to Wendy, as he straps her into the car seat. The nearest streetlight glows as he limps around the car to the driver's seat. He puts the top up and wishes James had called him sooner.

When he pulls into the Wilson driveway, James is leaning against the wall, trying to leave, and Julie is standing in the doorway screaming. House throws his door open and hauls himself out, trying to hurry toward James.

"That's all you're good for is running away!" Julie screeches at her husband. "I come home after being gone all weekend, and you show up at fucking midnight, drunk!"

"Jesus, Wilson," House mutters, as James staggers into his chest. House almost loses his balance but doesn't, managing to hold his friend up with one arm.

"Just get me out of here," Wilson blubbers. "Please."

"Okay," says House, in his rare, soothing tone. "Come on, then."

They begin to approach the 'vette, when Julie dares to step out into the moonlight.

"House! Don't you take him away from here! This is his problem, his marriage, and he's got to deal with it. You can't bail him out of life!"

"Watch me," House replies, turning his head for his blue eyes to blaze at her. She says no more, as he helps Wilson into shotgun and limps back over to the driver's side. Wendy cries out, and his heart stops even though he doesn't.

"Is that a baby?" Julie questions loudly. "What are you doing with a baby?"

He backs out into the street without answering.

"House! You son of a bitch! Give me back my husband!"

He sticks his arm out the window and flips her off, before speeding away.

"I seem to remember telling you not to get drunk off your ass," he says to Wilson, as he drives. "Maybe I wasn't clear enough."

"I'm sorry," Wilson says, his eyes shut and his head back on the rest. House hushes Wendy.

"Did it make you feel better?"

"No."

"And you've been smoking. You smell like you got laid by a whole case of Pall Malls."

"I told you I needed a cigarette."

"If you get lung cancer, I'm kicking your ass twice as hard, now that Wendy's here."

"Thanks."

"You know, it felt good flipping off your wife."

Wilson groans.

"Dump her, man," says House. "The chick in the back is way hotter."

And Wilson actually smiles. God, what would he do without House?

"Thanks for coming," he says.

"Hey, I wouldn't want my unofficial lunch-payer to be on the morning news as a murder victim."

"Really, though. Thanks. I – I can't handle her. I was about to leave on my own."

"That would've been the most dumbass choice ever," House says seriously. "The fact that you even drove yourself home from the bar warrants a sensible cane-beating."

"Sorry."

"Just get your ass inside. It's 1 AM, and we've got work tomorrow. Joy."

"Shit."

"That hangover's going to be orgasmic."

Wilson groans again and stumbles out of the car. House gets Wendy and follows him inside. The oncologist collapses on the couch, and the TV is still on. House kicks the door closed with his good leg and limps over to his recliner.

"I would ask you to put Wendy to sleep, since I hate using the stairs more than is necessary, but since you're drunker than Bill Clinton was when he picked Monica for his scandal whore, I think I'll do it myself."

Wilson waves him off, and House starts on his ascent to the nursery. Fifteen minutes later, he grunts as he comes back down, and Wilson looks like he may be asleep, with his arm flung over his eyes.

"James," says House, once settled in his recliner. "We have to tell people."

Wilson whines without moving his arm.

"We can't keep sneaking around. Especially when you're hung over. Besides, I've got a problem with lying."

"Omitting information."

"Same difference."

"We can't. It'll ruin everything."

"It's our personal life. No one else's problem. If they don't like it, who cares? Telling them only changes the way we function on a day to day basis."

Wilson sighs. "Fine," he resigns. "But don't say I didn't warn you. You going to turn off the TV?"

"Nah. I like listening to it until I fall asleep."

"You're not going up to bed?"

"And climbing the stairs again? I don't think so. My chair is just fine."

Wilson says no more, and House only looks at him for a second, before closing his eyes and drifting to sleep.