A/N:I'm nervous about this chapter. It's rather long and I hope it's okay. I had real problems writing Julie—I can't empathize with her. I think the next chapter will be the last; I'm worried that everyone is becoming more and more OOC as I go along.

And I'm sorry I update so often—it's just that it's summer and I really have nothing better to do anyway. ): I hope you will still review.

Also, I'm not real big on cussing, but under the circumstances…

(Plus I passed my driving test—w00t)

X.

Two weeks later House was on his way home from work when he saw Julie.

He had just pulled his bike up to the stop light at an intersection; as he waited impatiently for the light to change again, he began a game. It was a particular game which he'd played since being a boy bored to tears on family vacations—finding people nearby who caught his fancy and using their behavior and clothing as clues to guess what their lives were like. He was fairly close to accurate often enough that he even surprised himself at times, and he enjoyed the game so much he still played it when he had the chance. This was, of course, generally at stop lights.

Across the street there was a middle-aged woman, whippet-thin, with blond hair. Her movements were quick and rapid but precise, as if she wanted to control her motion and only allowed herself to travel a certain distance with each step. House watched idly as she strode, heels clicking against the pavement like Prada castanets, to the door of the Second Street grocery; before she turned inside her gaze skimmed once around the surrounding area, as if to check and make sure it had not moved while she wasn't watching. It was when her eyes hesitated on him that House realized who she was; who she was and that she recognized him as well.

Then he was swerving dangerously through traffic and pulling into the parking lot.

House drew his bike up in the nearest handicapped space, removed his cane from the side, and swung his leg onto the ground. He left his helmet on the handlebars and headed toward the automatic doors; he made a point of ignoring the small blue-and-white sign, refusing to look at it though he knew it was there and felt its mockery tingling in the hair on the back of his neck. He had more important things to deal with.

Wilson was still living with him. It was taking awhile to get things sorted out with the divorce and House personally suspected that Wilson didn't want to return to his old place anyway, but planned on renting his own apartment somewhere else. They fell back into their usual pattern of joshing each other and cracking crude jokes and things returned to normal except that every now and then Wilson had had a nightmare. In the early hours of the morning one day House heard a high-pitched keening sound—it had been followed soon after by a series of choking, half-restrained sobs. The noise disturbed House, sending an unpleasant chill up his spine, and he had popped a Vicodin, dragged himself out of bed, and limped half-asleep to the living room. He'd found Wilson twisted in the blanket, writhing as if in pain, face and arms pale and covered in chilling sweat. House had looked at him for a moment; then he'd sat down in a chair and flipped on the television. There was nothing on at six in the morning but he had General Hospital on TiVo; halfway through the show he'd glanced up to find Wilson awake, still pale, shaking a bit but calmer. He'd poured them each a shot of whiskey, the color came back to Wilson's face and they went to work two hours later like nothing had happened.

(Cuddy called Wilson a good influence. If she'd known how he was getting House in at eight she might have reconsidered.)

After a similar situation had occurred three nights later, with brandy and Blackadder, House began to realize that while Wilson had told him more than he'd ever wanted to know by a long shot, the man still had told him nowhere near everything. He didn't push Wilson about it; that wasn't his job, his duty, and he didn't really want to hear about whatever it was anyway. Instead he woke Wilson with the television, plied him with alcohol, and kept his mouth shut. They didn't really talk any more, but he still played the piano.

The nightmares had begun to stop within a week. The first time House woke up at nine to the sound of his cell phone ringing rather than at six to a desperate cry for help from his living room he nearly felt the way a parent does when their kid uses the potty; he and Wilson never mentioned it, though—he'd never asked Wilson what he dreamed about, he didn't particularly care to know, and Wilson didn't volunteer.

When Wilson wasn't working or watching television in the evenings with House, he was reading a book, making dinner, sleeping, blow-drying his hair, doing something else reflecting an odd male passion for cleanliness, studying oncology journals, or—and this was the latest development—calling a woman. House had had no idea who this particular woman was until he'd listened in on one of Wilson's conversations and heard the name "Grace." He hadn't asked Wilson about her, of course, just waited to see what happened—nothing had, but Wilson used his cell phone for an hour and a half every evening talking to the mysterious chick about nothing in particular, and when he hung up he always seemed happier. Happy-Wilson meant Wilson-Who-Didn't-Wake-House-Up-At-Six-A.M. It also meant House was happier. For some odd reason, he began to smile more when Wilson was and swear the pants off random strangers when Wilson was in a particularly bad mood or had related a disturbing tale recently. Swearing the pants off random strangers, of course, had always been one of his more pleasurable pasttimes anyway, but Wilson's depression made him that much more annoyed.

It was the first time he'd been so close to anybody since Stacy, and—to be honest—the whole thing scared the shit out of him.

The oddest thing about it of all, though, was that he wasn't trying to change it, wasn't attempting to kick Wilson out or forget about him. The oddest thing was that he still hung around.

He was beginning to realize that, all those times when he'd insistently asked Wilson why he still stuck around and Wilson couldn't answer him satisfactorily, those times after his infarction when Wilson had knelt in House's own waste to dab his face with a cold cloth, hauled him to his bed, stuck his head in a cold shower when he'd drunk too much, and House had turned round the second he got a chance and flung a beer bottle at his face, when House screamed in pain at Wilson to get out and Wilson sat next to the door—all those times this was how Wilson had felt. How, perhaps, Wilson still felt.

Not that he was particularly masochistic, but that he had to stay. Needed to stay. Because, if for no other reason, nothing else would seem quite right.

But it had been two weeks and things were really getting back to normal.

And then he saw Julie at the grocery store.

House pushed his way past a young woman with a basket of yogurt and a tongue ring, past an older man with a beer belly larger than a small collie, past a tiny boy who nearly ran over his foot pushing a minature shopping cart of his own, and into the produce section. The familiar blond head was bobbing by the asparagus. Ten minutes and one unwanted artichoke later, House was trailing her into the meat.

In the meat department she bought a large soft-shell crab, four and a half pounds of ground chuck, and a pack of a dozen Foster Farms chicken legs. In dairy she bought a gallon of milk, two cartons of cottage cheese, a tub of butter and six small containers of fat-free strawberry yogurt. In deli she bought a pound of potato salad, half a pound of fresh-sliced roast beef, and some Provolone cheese. By the time she reached baked goods House was cursing his photographic memory and furiously trying to remember the words to Bohemian Rhapsody so he wouldn't count how many frosted vanilla cupcakes went into that cart of hers.

He finally got his chance in frozen food.

The aisle was empty, there were no stockboys within twenty-five feet—he'd checked—and she had her head inside the low-calorie dinners, checking a box of chicken marsala for carbohydrates, when he tapped her on the shoulder. He almost felt sorry for her when she jumped and cracked her head against the next shelf up—almost.

Not sorry enough though.

In his mind he saw a disturbingly cheesy montage; Wilson tied to a hospital bed demanding to know why he was called suicidal, Wilson asleep in the Corvette, Wilson grimacing when he heard the name Wilsie, Wilson drinking beer quietly in a pizza parlor, Wilson standing by the stove flipping pancakes, Wilson striding through the hallways at his shoulder letting him know in no uncertain terms exactly how stupid he was being, Wilson talking over the sounds of a General Hospital rerun which had been turned down anyway, Wilson munching popcorn and watching a movie, Wilson making fun of him, Wilson answering the phone too politely, Wilson sobering him up when he was too stoned to stand, Wilson's sobs waking him at six in the morning, Wilson pointedly ignoring him while he swiped chips, Wilson rolling up his sleeves, Wilson lying on his couch while he played the piano, Wilson smiling in the dark—Wilson.

As House looked into the blue eyes which were practically mirror images of his own, knowing he was staring down Wilson's demons, he realized he couldn't hurt the woman. Not because he didn't want to—oh, no, he wanted to. Because Wilson, naïve idiot that he was, still loved her, and because he, God help him, loved Wilson.

Julie blinked. Somehow his fingers had found their way around her wrist, and through his too-tight grasp he felt the butterfly-wing fluttering of her pulse. She was obviously frightened.

House found that he didn't give a shit, but he released his grip anyway.

"Greg?" she said, unconsciously rubbing the marks left by his pressure. "What can I do for you?" A carton of strawberry yogurt dropped from her cart and rolled across the floor. It came to rest by a rack of small, fluffy children's toys, leaving behind on the tile a puddle of gloppy pink liquid which made House think of blood. Nobody moved. The store radio went off for a moment; the intercom came on and someone announced that a cleanup was required in Aisle Four.

"Long time no see, Ms. Scott," House growled. Scott had been her name before she'd married Wilson. He refused to call her Ms. Wilson.

"Yes, it has been, hasn't it?" Julie gave a nervous smile and took a step to the right. House mirrored her movement. "And what a surprise to run into you at the grocery, of all places."

"You're buying a lot of food. For more than one?"

"I'm having a bit of a party tonight," Julie said. "Some friends are coming to visit."

House had no idea why he was making inane conversation in the frozen-food section of a grocery store with a woman he hated when he should have been—he didn't really know what he should've been doing, but he knew it should've been something different.

"No new husband, I hope," he said.

"No."

"Aren't you going to ask how he is?" House snarled. "Five years. Do you care?"

Julie stared into his eyes and backed away. She seemed to be regaining her courage. "Do you, Greg?"

"That doesn't matter," he said, pressing forward again. "You nearly destroyed him. Why? Why would you do that? He didn't deserve it and you may be a cold-hearted, frozen bitch, but what you did is worse than kicking a puppy. Worse than kicking a thousand puppies." House's voice dropped, but the lower pitch served its purpose better than a higher one would have. "You bitch, why did you do it?"

"Need any help, ma'am?"

Both House and Julie glanced up at the noise and turned to look down at the end of the aisle; there stood a bag boy, red-apron-clad, trolley-wielding, and glaring viciously at House as though the man were the devil incarnate. His brown hair stood up in an unmerciful cowlick atop his head, his cheeks were covered in freckles, and all told he looked like there was nothing he'd have liked more than to bop House over the head with a large cast-iron frying pan.

"Oh, no, I'm fine," Julie said quickly, "thank you for asking." The bag boy, with no small amount of reluctance, retreated. Julie snapped her head back around to House with a movement so sharp he wondered she didn't get whiplash.

"We can't talk about this here," she hissed.

"No shit."

"Let me buy these things and we'll go to the parking lot." The tone of her voice was that of a question, not a statement, and she made no move toward her cart. She seemed to be waiting for him to respond.

House studied her face and nodded briefly, silently. Julie's heels clicked back across the aisle, chicken marsala forgotten; he tailed her to the checkout line, waited impatiently as she slid her Visa (wondered if it was Wilson's money she was using), let her struggle with the bags all the way to her car. Leaned against the bumper while she loaded the goods in the trunk and jerked it shut; then, with his cane, gestured for her to sit on a bench across the way. Her eyes flickered up to him—she was short, shorter than Wilson. She obeyed, folded her hands in her lap, said nothing. House wanted to tell her she was not a lady and so she couldn't sit like one. Instead he limped over and stood in front of her.

"Why did you do it?" he repeated. He was quieter, slightly drained of adrenaline. Waiting in line for a man whose face belonged on a Shar-Pei to find his checkbook had the habit of doing that to a guy.

Julie raised her gaze to his. "What?" she said.

"I don't want to play games with you. Cut the crap."

"He's living with you now, isn't he." Julie's eyes bored into his and House couldn't picture Wilson with her. He didn't answer; that wasn't her business.

"He wasn't a very good husband."

"Did it ever occur to you that you weren't a very good wife?"

"Do you want me to answer your question or not?" Julie's voice rose a bit. House sensed she was getting angry and knew that if she made it to her car he'd never get another chance as good.

"Answer it."

"He's not a true Jew," Julie said. "He's a workaholic who can't keep his pants zipped or his hands to himself. That stupid dog of his trashed the place—"

"Charlie," House muttered to himself, and then it hit him.

"Charlie. Where is he?"

"What makes you think he's any place other than home?" But Julie dropped her gaze. House knew where Charlie was, all right.

"Did you have to kill his dog too?"

"He wouldn't stay out of the garbage. Stunk up the furniture. Scratched at the doors till the early hours of the morning. What was I supposed to do with him?" Julie said, annoyed.

House shook his head. "Forget it. Keep talking."

"He's an embarrassment. Has the manners of an oaf."

"So you threw plates at his head."

"No. I—I—" Julie got to her feet, her cheeks glowing, fists clenched. "I don't have to talk about this with you. With anybody. I have to get home. I have guests."

"The home might not be yours for long, you know. Divorce and all." House didn't feel threatened; even in heels, the crown of her head barely reached his chest. Compared to Wilson, he thought, she would have been a lot taller.

"I have to go."

"You never told me why. You're not going anywhere."

Julie stepped forward. House stepped forward. "You really are a crazy bitch, you know that?"

She said nothing, was motionless. Trembled with restrained anger. House thought of Charlie and shook his head slowly. "You won't answer me." He studied her eyes, her face, one last time.

"You know why he cried in the night. You have the power to give him some closure—you owe him that. And you won't answer me." He shook his head again.

"But you have told me something," House said a moment later. She still hadn't moved. "I think you answered me anyway."

He left Julie standing by the bench, strode to his bike and never looked back. It wasn't until he reached home that he began to regret not punching her.

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Wilson was stretched out on the couch napping in a dying ray of sunlight, an oncology text open on his stomach, when House opened the front door. Steve McQueen was rustling busily in his cage in the corner and didn't notice a thing.

"Some guard-rat you are," House said. He lifted the latch on the cage and lifted out his pet. Steve scrambled onto his shoulder and began nibbling his earlobe. House thought momentarily of Charlie, another test job in the experiment to determine whether dogs really went to heaven, and limped into the kitchen to hunt down something for dinner. There was a plastic container in the fridge with a Post-It stuck to the top; the note was in Wilson's terrible scrawl. It read "House—this is my lunch. DO NOT TOUCH IT IF YOU VALUE YOUR RAT."

House tore the note off and was about to dump it on the counter when he realized there was something written on the back.

"House—you never listen to signs, right? Anyway, the joke's on you this time. I made extra." Wilson had skipped down a space or two and written, in much larger letters, "HA."

The food was some kind of unusual spiced meat and noodles, but a third of the way through it House realized he'd lost his appetite. He popped two Vicodin, poured himself a shot of scotch, and put Steve into his small, specially-designed rat-ball. Steve disappeared in the direction of the living room, rolling at top McQueen-speed, and it wasn't more than two minutes before House heard a thud and Wilson—in that order.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Steve—House?"

House—intentionally—didn't say anything.

Wilson got up and came into the kitchen carrying the rat-ball in his hand; the first things he noticed were the Post-It on the counter and the half-empty dish on the table.

"I knew you'd eat it, I knew it! Didn't I tell you, Stevie-Weevie? Didn't I say that?"

"Talking to rats is, in most circles, considered the first sign of insanity."

Wilson smirked. "Well, we all knew you should've been in an asylum decades ago." Steve squeaked as if in affirmation.

House tossed the scotch to the back of his throat and swallowed.

"How's the patient?" Wilson asked, sitting across from House. He absentmindedly reached over with one hand to pull open the oven. "You put the dishes in there aga—"

"I saw Julie today," House said, and then mentally clocked himself with the nearest bat for being about as subtle as a tanker truck. Wilson's face went approximately four shades paler; he began rubbing his fingers lightly over the plastic of Steve's ball and occupied himself by looking anywhere other than at House. House poured another shot of scotch and slid it down the table to him. Wilson drank it without hesitation as soon as it came within reach; he had two more before he spoke.

"And?"

"At the grocery store. She was buying strawberry yogurt."

"Julie hates strawberry."

"She had guests."

There was silence for a minute. Steve began to fidget, so Wilson opened the hatch at the top of the ball and let him climb out. He ran up Wilson's arm to the back of his neck, where he sat down and began busily twitching his ears. Steve wouldn't sit on anybody else. Apparently he made Wilson think of pets too.

"How is—" he began.

"You don't want to know."

"I do." Wilson got to his feet. "Don't tell me what I want to know, House. Just—"

House sighed. "Have you ever seen the movie All Dogs Go To Heaven?"

"No," Wilson said hesitantly. It took him a moment. He looked pleadingly at House and House lowered his gaze.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Why did you see her?" Wilson said angrily.

"What?"

"Why did you see her? Did you learn anything?" Wilson burst. "Do you get off on coming home and telling me my dog is dead? Are you happy now, House? Damn it, are you happy now?"

House glanced at the grain of the table and followed the lines of it with his eyes. The blow-up had to come eventually.

"I don't have anything else. You remember when I said to you that all I had was my job and our stupid, screwed-up friendship? Oh, you do? Damn you, House, I was exaggerating then. Exaggerating."

"I know," House said.

"You got me to where I'm not exaggerating, House. Not any more. I don't have anything. Nothing." Wilson's voice caught and he pushed upright; Steve ran hastily back down his arm and onto the table again. "I won't put you out. You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you? Had to see her. Had to push. People are puzzles to you, aren't they?"

"Sometimes."

"I'm not a puzzle. I'm not a damn puzzle. I'm a human being, House. You keep pushing, I'll break. You don't give a shit about what I say to you but you still want to know, you still want to know everything. And when I won't tell you—well, I guess we all know what you do then." Wilson looked at his feet; they were bare, and he wiggled a toe philosophically. "I hope she answered your questions. I hope she did. I hope she told you all the shit I wouldn't. And I hope—I hope, House, it keeps you awake at night, you bastard."

Thirty seconds later House heard him in the living room, grabbing the few things he'd bought while staying over—slacks, shirts, novels, a—House winced, remembering—rubber dog bone—pulling on his shoes, picking up his keys. The door slammed and he was gone. When House returned to the scene in ten minutes, it was disturbingly empty, as if its second occupant had never been. The blanket was even folded over the back of the couch. He sat down at the piano, bringing the scotch with him, touched his hands to the keys, and began to play. He was three-fourths through a song before he realized he was playing Paper Moon.