A/N:Here is the last chapter. Sorry for making y'all wait a little (I was fishing for reviews again—yay!). I hope I've done the story credit, and I hope everyone enjoyed it. I almost feel bad ending it, but I think I've given everyone enough closure. And it's probably time I tried writing a piece of my own again; I've written fanfiction so long I'm starting to think I might be incapable of writing anything else. Not that that would be a bad thing, though. XD

Anyway—enjoy.

XII.

Another winter day

Has come and gone away

In even Paris and Rome

And I wanna go home

May be surrounded by

A million people, I

Still feel all alone

Just let me go home

Oh, I miss you, you know

Let me go home

I've had my fun

But, baby, I'm done

I wanna come home

--Michael Bublé

He'd knocked on House's office for ten minutes; there had been no answer and he'd given up.

House hadn't appeared in the cafeteria at lunch. For a minute he'd wished someone would steal his food and leave him with the bill.

He hadn't gone to House's that evening. His fear returned with a rush. He'd driven to the apartment, limped uncomfortably up to the doorway, and stood with his finger on the bell, unable to apply pressure. He was a certified award-winning oncologist and he could not bring himself to ring a doorbell. He'd approached, lost his nerve, backed away, approached, finally made for his car and drove off. He wasn't sure what he was afraid of, but he was afraid anyway.

He'd waited in the diagnostics room the next morning—hadn't been able to say anything then either.

Finally, when he got home after work, he decided that he'd had enough; enough of tiptoeing around, trying to figure out a way to contact House safely, with minimal nervousness. Wilson plucked his spare key off his dresser, dropped Steve from the rat-ball into the cage, slid on his tennis shoes, and drove, once more, to House's apartment. He was sitting on the couch with his feet up eating Chinese and watching Steve sleep when House turned his key in the lock at six and came in, scowling, smelling of alcohol.

House glanced at Wilson, ignored him, sat silently on the couch and flipped on the television.

After ten minutes of being half-heartedly studied, glared at, and surveyed by a very annoyed, more-in-need-of-a-shave-than-usual House, Wilson took Steve out of his cage, dumped him on the couch. Steve scurried over to House and climbed up his arm to the back of his neck. Wilson grabbed the remote, aimed it in the general direction of the set, and pressed mute. House's eyes could have lit something on fire.

"Steve is yours," Wilson said, ignoring House's stubborn refusal to speak. "I can't keep him, and I won't keep him. You and that rat are like—like bosom buddies. It may be unhealthy, but I can't keep him."

House lifted Steve from his shoulder and stroked the rat's ears lovingly.

"Will you take him back?"

"Why did you come back?"

Wilson looked at his shoes. "I never said I wouldn't."

No one spoke for a few minutes. Something scratched at the front door. There was more silence, and then a bark. The bark was followed by a second and a third—each one was louder than the previous. Steve's beady eyes darted warily in the direction of the sound. House glanced at Wilson and raised one eyebrow.

"You see, uh," said Wilson, "there is, uh, sort of, kind of, maybe a little reason why I can't keep him. Besides the whole your-disturbing-relationship thing."

"Would this reason happen to have, oh, I don't know, four legs and a tail?"

Wilson stood up and opened the door. No fewer than thirty seconds later House's face was being furiously licked by a large fluffy brown mongrel and Steve was cowering for his life behind his own cage.

"House," Wilson said hesitantly, "I'd like you to meet Greg."

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"Oh, for heaven's sake, you named a dog after me? What are we, married?"

"Now, now, Greggy," Wilson crooned, hefting the dog in question into his arms and stroking its head, "he really does like you—your uncle Housey-Wousey just has something we grownups like to call commitment issues." Greggy seemed unfazed and began slobbering thoughtfully on Wilson's left ear. "Ooh, Greg, that's the spot, that's the spot. A little to the left—oh, yeah."

"Can we sound a little less dirty when we talk to the dog?" House said, snickering. "You'll tarnish my rep."

Greggy leapt, with a groan, from Wilson to the floor and began snuffling under the coffee table. Upon finding a spilled chunk of meat, he settled down, crossed his paws and proceeded to make small half-growling happy sounds. Steve poked his nose cautiously around the corner of his cage, wiggling his whiskers; House grabbed him and put him inside. "Where'd you get the dog?"

"Same place I got Charlie," Wilson said, sitting on the couch again, "the city animal shelter."

"Okay," House said, "try this—for a man sleeping in his office, where do you plan on keeping the dog?"

Wilson grinned. "Um."

"You want to keep that—" House gestured at his namesake "—in my apartment?"

"Can I?"

"Look," said House, "I didn't expect you back in the first place, and things were normal around here again finally, and you show up with a dog. It's named after me, which is ­nice and all, I guess, disturbing really, but—"

Wilson studied the top of Greg's head silently for a few minutes, and when he glanced warily back up, House saw that the shadows in his gaze of a month before had returned.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said. "Can I talk to you?"

It was House's turn to stare at the dog. He rolled his eyes. "You want a drink?"

"Yeah."

Ten minutes and two shots of Jack Daniels later, House and Wilson were sitting on the couch while Greg scampered in circles around the coffee table and Steve, in his cage, nibbled busily on a pecan he held between his front paws.

"So," House said finally. "What's up with this Grace?"

Wilson promptly shattered his tumbler. "What?"

House sighed. "You idiot, that was my favorite shot glass. Grace. The one you're always calling up and grinning about."

"Hold on." Wilson retreated to the kitchen and returned, arms akimbo and smirking. "A doctor, a man who should know better than practically anybody the value of cleanliness, and you don't own a dustpan?"

"I don't own a dustpan," House said, "and if I did it wouldn't be in the kitchen. Forget the glass. It's not gonna go anywhere. Neither are you."

Wilson, feeling rather like a small, unruly child, sat down and focused with an extreme amount of concentration on the tip of Greg's twitching tail.

"Grace."

"She is," Wilson said, "uh, a patient. Of mine."

"Do you talk to all your patients so much, Patch Adams?"

"Um. No."

House grinned.

"Anyway," Wilson said. "About the other day."

Greg lifted his head and woofed softly. House pursed his lips and whistled. A moment later Greg was draped across House's lap and House's fingers had found their way to his ears. Wilson's jaw dropped. House popped a Vicodin.

"Is there a point to this discussion," he said, rolling the pill around on his tongue, "or are you just going to keep stuttering and yacking till we all die of boredom?"

"It's just—well—Julie—"

"Saw her on the way home, corner of Market and Fourth, walking into the store. So I followed her, okay? Man, could you have picked a colder bitch?"

Wilson looked at his shoes. "Why?"

House sighed. By now Greg's eyes were closing in bliss and he was beginning to snore.

"I had one side left."

"Huh?"

"On the cube. I had one side left."

Wilson reached over and touched Greg's nose. "Which color?"

"Red."

"I hate red."

"I'm sorry."

"Huh?" Wilson dropped the shard of broken crystal he'd been idly fingering. In years of friendship, not once had he heard those words so solemnly from House. Greg thumped his tail once, twice; House glared.

"Don't make me repeat it or I swear I'll shoot you and mount your head on the wall of a golf club. You're pretty enough; with antlers I could pass you off as a five-point buck."

"No. Wait. I just don't get it. Let me get this straight. You're sorry that I hate the color red?"

House rolled his eyes. "You're more idiotic than I give you credit for."

"Woof," said Greg.

"What? You want some whiskey?"

"House. Dogs don't drink alcohol."

"Woof."

"Hear that? He wants some."

"House. Why?"

There was silence. House rubbed Greg's ears once more and met Wilson's eyes.

"She didn't answer me."

Wilson blinked confusedly. "What did you ask her?"

"I asked her why."

"Woof."

"Damn it!"

"What now?" Wilson's eyes were on the ground, the keys of the piano, the ceiling, the abandoned TV Guide resting on the coffee table, anywhere but House.

"Haven't you ever heard of walking your dog?" House grabbed his cane and got to his feet. There was a rather large wet spot on his jeans. Greg jumped to the ground, where he began running in circles and barking excitedly. Wilson snatched the leash—it had been Charlie's—from the table and snapped it onto Greg's collar; Steve squeaked in protest and House irritably poured another shot of whiskey, whereupon he proceeded to dump it on Wilson's head.

"That's for stinking up a perfectly good pair of jeans."

"Well, that was for making me wet the bed!"

"No, you filed through my cane for that."

"And you stuck twenty copies of Playboy in my briefcase before a board meeting for that!"

"Woof," said Greg, dancing busily by the door.

"House. I have whiskey. On my head."

"So? Chicks dig that."

"Woof!"

"Squeak," said Steve, thinking he'd join in.

Wilson wrapped the end of Greg's leash around his hand and went outside. House examined the now-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, tossed it into the trash, grabbed the remote and began flipping through his TiVo. By the time Wilson came back House had worked his way through half the order of won ton and was busy amusing himself by throwing grains of rice to Steve. Greg curled up near the cold fireplace and went to sleep. Wilson, whose hair was plastered to his head and who still stank of liquor, sighed, sat down, rested his feet on the coffee table and opened his mouth.

"Why what?"

"You're better when you don't say anything."

"House."

The television went silent again.

"Why she wanted to hurt you, okay? Damn it, James, even when I pour warm whiskey on your head you're Mr. Rogers. I half expect you to burst into song while you do the dishes. Sure, you cheat, you drink, you swear, and you are one major pain in the ass, but nobody wants to break you for it. She wanted to break you."

"And a puzzle piece was missing," Wilson said to himself.

"No. Well, yeah, but I wanted to know—" House sighed and glared at the quiet television set "—for you, too. Wilson, you had night terrors. You weren't exactly the picture of sanity. Not like you ever are, of course, Mr. I-Dry-My-Hair-At-Six-AM-And-Clip-My-Nails-For-Eight-Hours—"

Greg rolled over in his sleep and twitched an ear.

"I'm sorry."

House sighed. "I'm not gonna ask what for—"

Wilson shrugged. "I blew up. It was wrong. You're not a bastard."

"No," House said, "I am a bastard, and you know it. But, you idiot, you like me anyway. And get this."

"Yeah?" Wilson glanced at him quickly.

"That's your funeral—and this is mine." House paused. "You're a pretty-boy adulterer who doesn't know what's good for him—but, call me an idiot, I like you anyway. And I need a drink." Greg waved his paws in the air. House returned in a few minutes with two shots of scotch.

"Thanks," Wilson said, after he'd had a swallow.

"I told you you're a pretty-boy adulterer."

"No, you told me I'm a stupid pretty-boy adulterer. And you said you like me anyway."

"So maybe I don't know what's good for me either."

"There's an apartment closer to PPTH I'm gonna check out tomorrow."

"Good."

"Till then," Wilson said quietly, "can I stay here?"

House turned his head. "Have I taught you anything, padawan?"

"No, not really."

House laughed. "Number one on the list of things never to do is ask a question when you already know the answer."

Wilson grinned, and House found that he was grinning too.

"They're fading," House said a few minutes later, with an abrupt nod.

"Huh?" said Wilson, glancing briefly around.

"Those scars you were being such a girl about. They're fading."

Wilson looked at them himself. "I know."

"Scars give a man character."

"Sure do."

"And—dude?"

"Yeah?" Wilson looked at House again.

"That whiskey on your head? Total babe magnet."

"Maybe Grace'll like it," Wilson said, winking.

House whistled and the newly-awakened Greg jumped into his lap.

"If you're ready," House said, "maybe she will."

Wilson rested his head against the couch and scratched Greg's ears. "Thanks, House."

"I swear, you thank me again and I'll—"

"Shoot me and mount my face on the wall of a golf club."

"Woof," said Greg.

"Squeak," said the sleepy-eyed Steve.

And that night, while House played the piano and sang old Irish drinking songs too loudly with Wilson, they realized Julie didn't matter, Stacy didn't matter, Cuddy didn't matter, nobody mattered. Because, whether or not the other one admitted it, whether or not the other one wanted to even think about admitting it, they'd be there.

Because scars will fade, but friendships don't have to.

Because House could tolerate dog drool and Wilson knew he'd always have a place to stay with no lobster in sight.

Because music sounds better when you're not the only one listening to it.

And because House was a full-fledged, grade-A bastard, but Wilson loved him anyway.

A/N:Ending message: Thank you very much to the people who reviewed, especially since several of you are writers whom I greatly admire—your comments meant that much more. I really appreciate it. XD

As for those who inquired regarding the unusual subject matter, I have to admit the piece partially sprang from a desire to make myself feel better. It worked.

I have some other, older pieces I'll post in a bit. Till then—I'm out.