A/N: This chapter belongs to Betz88—'nuf said. mjf

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Thoughts

Wilson doesn't leave the room; he can't. He knows that House, having demonstrated trust, is now going to have to run the other way—at least figuratively. But he suddenly finds any number of things to do which will give House some emotional privacy. He doesn't verbally answer House's thanks; this is his way of acknowledging it. After a while, he settles in the chair with paperwork and a stack of journals.

House watches Wilson moving about the room, then sitting and feigning interest in the reading material, and is grateful for both his presence and his discretion. So many things have changed in the last few days—the pain control, the reversal of the downward spiral of his health, of course. Even that new thing with the left thigh. Those things are concrete, objective. He can think about those things in a scientific way, and he's comfortable with that. But other things have changed, and they're not as easy to examine, not as simple to analyze.

Why did I decide to trust again? Didn't want to; maybe it's because I needed to. They've both been… great. I didn't deserve it; they did it anyway. But I can't let go of the anger; are they still gonna be there when they realize that? It's what keeps me going. Jimmy'd call it hurt, but he's wrong—it's anger. And I need it as much as I need them.

House actually starts, visibly, in surprise at this unexpected thought, and Wilson looks up from the chart, a question in his eyes, but silently returns to his work when House turns his head to the opposite wall.

Where'd that come from? Need them? House tries to reject the strange thought. I don't need anybody; just easier that way. Appreciate what they've done, but it won't happen again. Can't. Then I'd start to expect them to be there; won't depend on anybody but me. Been doing it for years. Yeah, Wilson tries, but he hur—made me angry—too, when he didn't believe my pain was real.

House looks over at Wilson, now involved in making notes on a journal article; Wilson's concentrating on what he's doing, and doesn't look up. He looks like hell; how long has it been since he's slept? Don't wanna be responsible for anyone else; can't even be responsible for myself—that's how I got here. Don't want to have to worry about him, too. House sighs, and now Wilson looks up at the sound.

"Lights bothering you? It'll be time to hang a new bag soon; I can shut the lights off now if you're ready to sleep." Wilson's pretty sure he knows what House is thinking about, and that's one of the reasons he refuses to leave the room—he needs to be here when the thought process concludes; House needs to know that it's okay, that Wilson understands.

"No, not tired yet. But you are. Go ahead and hang the bag; I'll switch 'em over. Go on to bed." Too easy to feel… safe, with you sitting there. Can't get used to this. And I'm starting to; that's a mistake.

Wilson smiles to himself. Nope, not getting rid of me, buddy. Worked way too hard to get things to this point; you try to back away all you want—I get that you have to do that; now you need to get that it's not gonna work. But go for it. "Thanks, I'll just stay here, if you don't mind." There's your opening, House.

"I do mind. I'll be fine; got some thinking to do. Can't think with you sitting there." Because I can hear you caring again, and it's drowning out the stuff I need to hear, about how I gotta do this on my own.

Wilson actually laughs. "House, you could think in the middle of an atomic explosion!" He makes a show of going back to his work, blatantly ignoring House's request.

Please, Jimmy. Hard enough; you're making it harder. House tries again, and puts annoyance in his voice."You're buggin' me. Need some privacy. Go."

"Prefer to stay, thanks," Wilson responds mildly, keeping his eyes on the abstract he's pretending to read.

"I said I need some privacy! I'm entitled to that." House tries to sound truly angry.

"Of course you are, and in a little while you'll have all the privacy you want." I'm sorry; I know you're scared, I know you want to go hide behind the biggest wall you can find. I understand that. And that's why I'm not moving. No more walls, House. Not with me. Not with Cuddy. You let us in; we're staying.

House sighs in exasperation and resumes his intensive study of the wall. You're not getting it. I'm trying to… trying to… protect you. No one asked you to do this; you don't know what you're getting into. Sure, you've got a better idea than Cuddy, had to let you in a few times already, but now I'm trying to let you know it's not gonna work. Ask my parents. Ask Stacy. They thought they could take it. I wore 'em out. Even my mother's happy now—limited contact, she can pretend I'm fine. I'm just too much work, and I'm not worth it. Why can't you get that? House is becoming frustrated; he frowns, makes an impatient gesture with his hand. He's becoming agitated with his own internal dialogue.

Wilson watches covertly. Still here, House. Fought way too hard to get here. Not going anywhere. Wilson recalls Cuddy's story of watching House cry silently, all alone, a few days after the debridement surgery. Couldn't be there for you then, and that hurt, didn't it? You'll never tell her, you won't tell me. But we know. And we're sorry. Not gonna happen again. Ever. Believe it.

The IV pump beeps, and Wilson rises to change the TPN bag. House watches him finish the task and turn towards the bed for his assessment. He searches Wilson's face. He's not quite certain what he's looking for—reluctance, maybe, or resentment at all the work House is causing him—but all he finds in his best friend's face is the same open, caring expression that's brought secret comfort to him so many times in the past.

As Wilson begins his exam, House is paying close attention. The gentle hand that rests warmly on his shoulder as Wilson listens to the breath sounds. The concerned concentration in the kind brown eyes during the cardiac assessment. Even the incredibly careful way he checks the PICC line dressing. And finally, the undisguised happiness in Wilson's voice when he announces quietly, "We're making some real progress," and smiles at House.

And that smile, that utterly sincere relief, decides it. House's internal arguments silence themselves as he reaches his decision. Okay Jimmy, tried to warn you off; you're still here, you moron. And Cuddy, too—thought she was smarter than that. So we'll try it your way. I'll need some time to believe it, and, sadly, you'll give me that time, won't you? So you win. Or… maybe I do.

"I'm gonna turn the light out now, okay?" Wilson asks. "I'll just stay a few more minutes, and then I'll give you that privacy."

"No. That's okay, done thinking now. You can… stay awhile, if you want to. As company goes, you're almost tolerable."

Wilson turns to switch the light off, and both men smile to themselves in the darkness.