Author's Note: So it's been forever and a day since I've written past-tense, and this was difficult to do. But I did it. Now, thanks to: Gomes, lijep, bluemist418, Lizzy Sidle, J Daisy, FriendsHolic, Scrubs, lemonjelly, Atia of Julli, who smartly told me to shorten my author's notes, and angelfirenze, who reviewed, amazingly, all eleven chapters. Okay, I'll admit it: I've lost some of my interest in writing this story, unfortunately. I went back and read the entirety of it, fixed some mistakes, and put a bit of the remaining effort into writing this chapter. Sorry if it's as great as you were expecting. Enjoy anyway, and read and review as you wish. Also, this is the first "beta'd" chapter, and I owe my life to the awesome win-at-lifers, lijep and bemorechill. Thanks a bunch, guys! And I have an idea for the next chapter, so maybe the next update won't take an eon or so.

Disclaimer: Honestly, what would be the point of putting a disclaimer if I owned the show?

Spoilers: Oh, don't we all wish?

Chapter Twelve: Meeting the Apparent Shore

"You know, I should start putting this in my schedule. 'Wednesday – Meet with emotionally- and physically- crippled best friend – although that title could easily change soon if he doesn't start working at his other relationships – and give him advice on how to actually make people want to hug him and not hang him by his hair or hit him with his cane while hanging out on his horribly hard floor."

"Ah, Witty Wilson with his wacky way with words."

"My alliteration was better. H's out-rule w's and you know it. "

"Whatever you say, my loony linguist."

"Do you ever think that, if we have enough time to sit here and shoot the breeze like the two old coots we are, that we really need lives?"

"Oh, but we do have lives. I have irritating Cuddy and you have your ties."

Ignoring the sarcasm that padded House's comment, he said, "First off, you do realize that within a month-or-so's time you'll be – God-willing– fathering a child, or, if not that, be a father at the least? And secondly," he gestured with his hands to indicate the topic change, "there is nothing wrong with my ties. Just because all of you in the hospital are having a "Wilson's Ties" joke book published, doesn't mean my ties are unfashionable. I happen to think they are extremely chic."

"You and Jon Arbuckle."

"God, House, I know I made a funny – and congratulations for recognizing something other than misery, sex, alcohol, drugs, or Gameboy for once – but this is serious. You're going to be a dad, and Cuddy is pissed at you. It doesn't exactly make for years of merriment with your kid."

"You forgot diseases in that list. And yes, I know she's angry with me. But it'll blow by. It always does. I'm too good in bed and at this job for it to not. And when, my wuvable Wilson, did I give any indication that I actually wanted to help or even be with this kid?"

Wilson, who was shaking his head back and forth in disgust while looking at the ceiling, turned to his friend. He wondered how anyone could deny what was so blatantly obvious and obviously not care.

"Some of us have morals House, and some of us don't reject what is clearly seen by others. But you, on the other hand, do. What is scaring you so much? Is it the fact that you'll actually have to love someone else besides yourself, or is it just commitment that makes you run – sorry, limp– in the opposite direction?"

House, who had been twirling his cane at his side and looking out the window, did not turn to Wilson. He felt that his blues should not meet his browns, that the waves of his eyes should not meet the shore in his friend's. And unfortunately, that shore was the only thing that could save him from what he had been plagued. And those, he thought, were too many what's to list.

"I'm not afraid. And I can love. And commit."

"Then what about Stacy?" Wilson questioned in a slightly accusatory tone.

House glared out the window, the sunset in his blue eyes like a sun setting upon an ocean, turbulent as the one in his pupils may have been. "Don't bring her into this."

"Why not? It proves everything. You say you loved her, but did you really? I think, if you loved her, you would have married her. You would have committed to something. To her. And then none of this would have happened."

"I loved her – I still love her. And, well, if this hadn't happened, I wouldn't have you preaching in one ear while my conscience and Cuddy scream in the other. I didn't marry her because, I just, I…"

"Didn't want to commit. Greg, it's obvious to you, me, and the real world that you didn't want to tie yourself down to her. And you still don't want to tie yourself down to anything. Or maybe," Wilson started, the dormant realization stirring in his mind, "or maybe you do – because it is also blatantly obvious to you, me, and the real world that you love this kid and that you actually did love Stacy – but fear that anything but misery would hurt you. If you raise yourself with happiness, it'll all just come crashing down eventually – probably sooner than it should – and you'll just be hurt again. And you're smart enough to know that you can't be hurt like that again."

"Brilliant Wilson, truly brilliant. You've solved the enigma that is Gregory House. Bravo. What would you like? An award? Maybe one of those little plaques that describes how great of a person you are."

"No. But it would be nice if you looked at me and admitted that I was right."

House continued to twirl his cane and stare out the window, the sun a kiss of orange on the horizon. He may have been stubborn, may have been sardonic and sadistic at times, but he had to admit, at least to himself, that Wilson was right. He couldn't commit, because committing to him meant pain. He wasn't ready to willingly become high on happiness again like he had with Stacy – the ecstasy he possessed as they made love, as they laughed and were actually merry – and fall down once more only to be subjected to emotional pain so powerful and almost indescribable that physical aching was only a nick in his smile. With Stacy, he had hurt physically; after her, he pained emotionally, too. And the only description fit for emotional pain, he thought, was that it was almost the equivalent to a deep slice through the heartstrings. Only worse.

Then again, that was only the end. Everything else made him feel joyous. So how horrible could it be to be raised high and to be able beam before having everything in the relationship come crumbling to the ground?

Very, he thought. Still, maybe it was time for a change. Wallowing in misery had grown tiresome for him, as well as always siding with the pessimistic point-of-view.

Why didn't he have a little fun? Why didn't he let his wounds heal so he could try again? Because really, obviously, all he had to do was turn his head and let his waves meet the shore, right?

And that was exactly what he did.

"Hey, Wilson?" he said as he turned to look at his friend. He had since stopped twirling his cane, and it lay still, resting peacefully at his side. House's stomach felt pregnant with lead, while his head felt light and numb. So was this what it felt like to be weighted with something considered disgusting, to be heavy with something thought to be unwanted and unloved? Was this how she felt every time she became conscious of her body and the burden that lay inside of it? She was anchored with life while he was still weighted with fear, but he knew that they were both suffering. And he knew this suffering had to be stopped, because was there really any point to what they were doing? Or were they both just adrift, unable to reach the shore and unable to rest their bones burdened with the weight of the water that would eventually overcome them? The water that –

"Yes?" questioned Wilson irritably, interrupting House's thoughts, which caused House to glare at his friend briefly before softening his stare to one of indifference. He was fairly sure that House was going to say something sarcastic, something so grossly sardonic that Wilson would have no choice but to leave and allow his friend to resolve this problem alone. Because even he grew weary of helping his friend, because even he became tired of trying to solve puzzles, of trying to piece together enigmas that were too challenging for just one person. He couldn't do it by himself; he wouldn't. It just wasn't worth the time, the energy, the –

Settling his thoughts, he swallowed and looked closely at House's eyes, which worked well enough to make him feel calmer, more complacent. Who would have guessed that his friend's fiercely blue eyes could make him feel as relaxed as he did? "Yes?" he said again, his voice laced with tired tones this time. Maybe House had been too absorbed in his thoughts like Wilson to hear when he spoke the first time.

"God, this whole situation has been disgustingly dramatic," House began, rubbing his hands over his face. "For the past seven months, our attention has been focused on this one thing, this one matter, and we have had no time to focus on anything else. We haven't talked about sex, about booze, about anything appealing. We've talked about this, about my relationship with Cuddy and the baby. It's tiresome, really, when you look at it." He laughed lightly at the absurd truth in what he was saying and continued: "And it has all been done seriously. I mean, do you realize how many pregnant women there are out there? How is this any different? Sure, it wasn't expected, but…."

"House, are you even listening to yourself talk?"

He paused. "No," he stated, his face now deadpan. "Wilson, don't you get it? There's no reason to turn this into some huge matter, because eventually it will just resolve itself."

"Like it always does, right? When something happens involving you, it just resolves instantly, and do you know why?" he questioned angrily. "Because while you sit here saying how the matter is ridiculous, we're taking care of everything. I hate to say it, but the 'we', it's Cuddy and me. Amazing, isn't it? And now that Cuddy's preoccupied with other matters, it's just me. And as usual, you sit here and do nothing," he said loudly, rising to his feet and looking down at House. "You know, I was actually hoping that with one person you'd see the truth, because the work going on behind-the-scenes has been revealed, but obviously it didn't work." He walked over to the door and placed his hand on the handle.

"Exactly. Like I said, the matter will resolve will resolve itself. I helped cause the problem, but I'm not getting involved in it any further. I'm trying not to get attached, which is what I feel is right. You can have a ball trying to fix everything, but in the end, it won't make any difference, because everything will be fine. Cuddy will have the baby; I'll be a miserable jerk, and you'll just keep doing what you do best: worrying and fretting and caring. You're in competition with my mother, for God sakes."

"House, I'm all for carpe diem," Wilson stated, hand still on the door handle, "but that's pushing it a little, don't you think?" He had finally begun to understand what House was saying, and although he couldn't help but disagree with it, he had a valid point: Everything, for now, would be well. Cuddy would have the child; House would continue to be a living, breathing misery, and he would be person always watching too carefully, too closely for comfort. But Wilson knew that it wasn't a complete point his friend had made, that there was a part missing to what House had said. He sensed it in the minute body language – the hint of a smile lying below the deadpan, the subtle glow of happiness lurking in the apples of his checks – and in the energy perceived by Wilson's subconscious, but what was it?

"I know you're…" he paused. He didn't feel comfortable doing this, accusing his friend of something he merely sensed and did not actually know. Why take the risk when it was just so much easier to be quiet and to try and keep solving the enigma, to keep trying to find the answer and to complete the puzzle? He would wait, no matter how greatly he wanted to speak.

"Good night, my Heady House," he said, his voice slightly morose.

"'Night, my Wordy Wilson," House said as Wilson walked out of the room and down the hall.

Next time, he would listen more closely to the words and watch more closely with the eyes, because even though he had noticed body language contradicting what he had heard, he still did not have enough evidence. Instead, he would gather the pieces before trying to solve the puzzle, before piecing together the enigma. He would live for the day, live for the sole purpose of solving what remained unsolved. Except how could Wilson solve House's puzzle when he hadn't even solved his own?

Maybe he was adrift now, in need of meeting the shore, the ever so unapparent shore. How unfortunate the only other one in reach was preoccupied.

"Why can't Cuddy have brown eyes?" he questioned as he walked into his office and fell into the brown waves of his leather chair.