VII.

The credits for The O.C. were rolling and Wilson needed a drink. Not necessarily beer—he was pretty much done with alcohol for the day. Maybe water. His neck, without a tie, seemed odd, loose. He wore yesterday's clothes and he was fairly certain he smelled.

But, he thought, glancing at the silent, sulking House, he felt better.

"It was habit," he said. "And I thought she should hear it from me, not a lawyer." He laughed slightly. "Poor man. Caught off guard like that, she could've killed him."

House picked up the remote and started flipping through his TiVo. Unlike before, Wilson knew he was listening. He didn't want to be, but he was.

"I think I fell asleep because I was tired," he continued. House snickered. "Just tired. Tired of everything really." Wilson spoke quietly and slipped into a tone of voice which showed he was not speaking to House so much as to himself, and House relaxed. "I still love her." He paused. "Now that I think about it, that's sad. All those women I didn't love, not really, and the one I've loved for years hates me.

"It all happened so fast," he mused, moving from thought to thought as they appeared. "Yesterday I was pulling forks out of my arm, today I'm sleeping on your couch, trying to file for divorce. When I dreamed about finding a solution it didn't happen like this. There was—" he laughed again "—a therapist involved. Bit like Cameron actually. Marriage counseling. Took awhile for me to give up."

"But you did."

Wilson shook his head a little, as if remembering House was in the room. "Yeah. I did."

"When." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Last year." Wilson shrugged. "Christmas really. We were having lobster. I was over here the night before—maybe you remember?" House didn't say anything, but Wilson hadn't expected input anyway. "I wanted turkey. Lobster was classier. I tried to ask her if she didn't think turkey might have been nicer, more in the holiday spirit of things, and she screamed something—can't remember what—threw her plate at my head. Lobster and all."

There was silence for a minute. "Hadn't been expecting it," Wilson said, "so I couldn't block it. Hit my face and shattered, broke my nose, got lobster bisque in my eye. I remember very vividly that it had too much salt." He licked his lips. "Julie loved salt. Salted everything. It's funny what you remember."

Again House said nothing, settled on an episode of General Hospital he'd missed.

"After that, she left. I couldn't decide whether to feel lucky or unhappy. I thought of calling you—" he stopped "—I thought of calling you, but it was a late dinner and you don't sleep well. I swept up the china, did the dishes. Let Charlie get rid of the lobster. Taped my nose and went into the living room. I was watching Blackadder—" he laughed "—yes, I TiVo it too—when it hit me." Wilson paused.

"It hit me. Normal wives don't throw their dinner at their husbands. I thought, I may love her but I don't think she loves me. Not any more."

He was quiet for another minute.

"The last year was better," he said, "probably because it was easier to hold her off, to treat her as an opponent more than a wife. But when I looked at her…." He drew a deep breath. "When I looked at her, House, she was still the same woman I'd kissed in church, still the same woman I'd vowed to love till death do us part. And it was hard. Oh, God, House, you have no idea." Wilson sighed and shut his eyes. "You have no idea."

House rubbed his leg, looked at the clock, popped a Vicodin. The TV murmured quietly in the corner. Wilson realized that House had turned it down so it was almost completely mute; he couldn't make out the voices at all. He didn't open his eyes. "I'm sorry to kick you out of your own living room, I really am," he said, "but—can I go to sleep?"

"Yeah," House said. "Sure." He hauled himself to his feet and went into the kitchen. The light where Wilson was blinked off and the light in the kitchen switched on; Wilson heard the clinking of glass. He lifted his own bad leg onto the seat House had vacated and removed his shirt. The blanket, which was folded up on the floor, he unfolded and stretched over himself. His pillow was already by his side. He lay down and looked up at the ceiling through the gloom, feeling almost as drained as he had the night before. Almost. But grateful, incredibly grateful. He'd unburdened himself for the first time in years.

Wilson was nearly asleep when House came back into the room, set a tumbler of scotch down on the piano, and began playing Paper Moon.