Author's Note: Well, why don't I start by thanking some top-notch reviewers: Chromo26 (one of the newer reviewers, and you added me to the alert list; how very kind of you), nerdy demons (yes, my style is different, and I gave you the impulse to review! Very cool), Jojo (short and sweet is the answer), prinnie (as always, your reviews wow me; you are wonderful), Scrubs (anonymous reviewer extraordinaire! Oh, goodness, I really do enjoy your reviews), ProblemGirl (you are too kind; you added me to almost everything! Gasp!), lijep (such a great review; oh, the power of it was over-whelming), and lemonjelly (my first reviewer, and a great one at that; my anonymous reviews have no cake on yours dear).

Spoilers: Probably not, but I think it would help if I had the story in front of me. Uh, no, there are none.

Disclaimer: I'm going to do one in fewer than ten words! House is not mine; he respectfully belongs to other people. Ha! Ten!

Note: Okay, I did get a review from someone saying that they would like a happy ending. Just to let you know, I stink at happy endings. But, never say never. Chances are that I might do a very dramatic and depressing ending. Now to the good stuff; this is a very depressing chapter, and some of you may hate me at the end for putting Wilson and House through all of it.


Chapter Five: Can't Repeat Sunsets

He sat in his chair, contemplating, wondering if he would really ever be able to accept a matter like this. But, he was interrupted by the sound of Wilson re-entering the room.

"Well, I just saw Cuddy on the brink of tears. So, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"That those were tears of joy and that you have to learn how to be more observant? Or are you looking for another answer involving an explanation?"

"You're such a jerk. If you must know, I stopped to talk to her. She used a few choice words to describe you."

"And that's supposed to scare me? Cuddy insulting me behind my back?"

"No, what's supposed to scare you is the fact that if you don't grow up, you'll miss out on everything. You'll be alone."

"I like solitude."

"No, actually, you pretend to like solitude. What you really like is people."

"God, some days you can be more aggravating than her."

"And you're not?"

"Of course I'm aggravating. It's a great way to get out of clinic duty."

"You're just a paradox, House. You say one thing when you mean the other. You laugh at sorrow and cry at joy. You insult the ones you love and praise the ones you hate."

"I don't praise Cameron."

"Okay, so you have your exceptions. The point I'm trying to make is, why do you have to try and confuse everyone?"

"Are you implying that I love Cuddy?"

"No. Do you?"

"Of course not. She hates me, and I hate her."

Wilson looked at him inquiringly, the naked truth taking precedent over House's lies. There had always been something between them, whether it was only a physical relationship or something much more complex, he did not know. Either way, he would not let House's lie move him into a corner and force him to surrender.

"You are a horrible liar."

"And you have a horrible taste in ties. But what does that have to do with any of this?"

"You love her."

"Oh yes, I absolutely adore her. Actually, let's go so far as to say I would even die for her."

"Would you?"

"Did the sarcastic tone not clue you in?"

"You always have a sarcastic tone. I can never tell when you're being serious."

"Hey, you were being sarcastic there, weren't you?"

"Has it ever occurred to you that your actions speak louder than your words?"

"Why no Dr. Wilson. Would you care to explain?"

"House, the harder you try to be inscrutable, the easier you are to read."

"I never said I was trying to be inscrutable."

"No, but you imply it with your actions."

"See, now you know why you're the big bad oncologist and why I'm the poor little diagnostician. You get to fight of those nasty cancers, and I get to give a runny-nosed kid some tissues."

"House, how do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"How do you always change the subject and rarely get caught?"

"I've been doing it for a long time. I started around the same time I started alienating people, and that was when I was three so…"

"Okay, just shut up!"

He stood from his seat, a passionate anger burning in his iris. And this ire was not one that could be tamed, for it had forever roamed within him, waiting, waiting to be released. But now it had been set free, and House was blessed with seeing its first appearance. He jumped a little in his seat, a sore feeling beginning to form on the small of his back.

"Greg, just cut the crap. Just tell me straight out: Do you love Cuddy? I don't want any sarcastic replies or witty quirks or any of that junk. A straight answer; is that too much to ask?"

House glowered at his friend for a minute, the shock of the sudden outburst of emotion almost too much for him to handle. But, he composed himself quickly, and then replied:

"I need a drink."

And, with that, he left his office, taking his coat and hat with him as though to never return of this place of untamed feeling. He couldn't take the constant repetition. The past had already repeated itself one too many times, and now it was doing it again. Except this time, with a vengeance.


The walls were streaked red with paint, like the blood shed in battle, and orange undertones ran parallel the objects mounting the walls. Smoke filled the air, curling upwards seductively, before disappearing into a transparent form. Lights flitted from up above and down below, and noise filled every crack and crevice that was to be found. And, in the middle of the pandemonium sat House.

He nursed a drink in his right hand, the condensation coating the glass cool to the touch. Ice cubes clinked and clattered together before melting into the amber liquid, and, he took another swill, the alcohol burning a raw path down his esophagus. This was all too familiar to him.

Drink. Mope. Contemplate. Drink. Mope some more. Repent. Contradict. Drink once again. It was a simple and constant pattern that was followed religiously every so often.

He may have hated change, but he loathed repetition even more.

Wilson was right; he was a paradox. His being screamed contradiction. From his innocent blue eyes to his harsh facial expressions; his scarce interactions with patients to his secretive epic speeches to them; his loathsome ties with Cuddy to his true feelings.

He did really love her. But, like the situation with his child, he would not admit it.

He looked upon himself as two separate people: Internal House and External House. External House was indifferent, sarcastic, obnoxious, and logical, while Internal House was compassionate, emotional, and irrational. External House was dominant; he was present whenever and wherever. But Internal House was different; he had appeared during the ultrasound, coming free of counterparts grasp and gazing upon the situation in a considerate manner. He was the one who would lecture the patients and admit to Cuddy without restraining his love for her, and he wanted House to be closer to the child. But External House wanted to distance himself, and he would be the one to always control the hateful ties between Cuddy and him. If only he could find a middle path, a resolution fulfilling the needs of both of his people. But life was not fair, and, being as cynical as he was, he knew that all too well.

He took the last swill of his drink eagerly, welcoming the numb feeling it gave him with open arms.

"You can't drown out all of your sorrows in alcohol, you know."

He turned around only to spy Wilson moving into the stool next to him. The passionate ire he had seen early appeared to be inexistent, and he seemed almost calm, composed.

"Yeah, well, it numbs the pain."

"And so does Vicodin."

"Yeah, but I just want to numb the pain. I don't want to die just yet."

"Didn't you say that there's no moderation when it comes to pain?"

"Yes, and how did you know that? You can stalk Cuddy all you'd like, but I have cane and I know how to use it."

"Not everything you say to her is kept a secret."

"God, you're so hot when you talk like that."

"I think that alcohol is starting to kick in."

"Yep. Can't feel a thing. Want some?"

He held his glass to Wilson, drunkenly swaying his arm in the air, and, as he declined the offer, he slammed it on the counter. House stood, tipping slight, before taking hold of his cane, and he hobbled out of the bar, Wilson following in his wake.

"House, I'll drive. You're as drunk as- …"

Wilson stopped, watching his friend as he stood on the curb, looking west towards the sunset.

"It's beautiful."

He looked down, ashamed to be seen basking in the glory of this moment. He retrieved something from his pocket and lifted it into the air, a ray of light from the glowing radiance illuminating it. Vicodin.

"House…"

Slowly, with immense pleasure, he tilted the container, each little white pill like a diamond. Greedily, he clasped them in his hand, and he held the fist to his mouth, mumbling a silent pray to the heavens.

A drunken man's paradise is neither far nor near. Come here my child, for you have nothing to fear.

"Greg!"

Wilson lunged forward, knocking his friend to the ground.

A moment of silence filled the void that drama had left behind. Stars began to fill the sky, discarding the mask of daylight that covered them tenderly, and they shined brightly. And underneath it all were House and Wilson, an argument brewing on the tips of their tongues.

"Why you son of a- …"

"What were you thinking!"

House looked at Wilson, the feel of cool tears spilling from his friend's eyes onto his face like rain. And maybe it was raining. Maybe this was all a nightmare that he would stir from, and maybe it wasn't. In his present mental status, he couldn't tell. All he realized was that he was about to sacrifice his life and that Wilson had saved him, whether this was a fantasy or reality. He removed himself from his body, allowing House to regain his composure. But, even as he stood away from him, House could still feel his tears upon his face, making it feel warm and moist. And he had begun to cry as well, sobs wracking his body. All he could do was cry, for he had missed the sunset of his life and had meandered into the mystery of night. And he couldn't repeat it, at least not now. But, he couldn't blame Wilson. He could only blame himself. Next time, he would go alone and stay alone. He made sure of that.

It would come again; he would just have to wait.

There are some things that cannot be repeated, like life's sunset. But don't come now; you're not ready yet.


Author's Note: Now do you realize why I said some of you would hate me at the end of this chapter, right? I love House as much as the next person, but poetic license enables me to do with him what I please. And, yes, Wilson is the hero in this chapter! Go Wilson! Anyway, please, read—I can only assume that you've done that if you're down here—and review as you wish! Thank you!