James had never really been a big fan of weekends. His had often been spent on call or at the side of a patient. Of course that was his choice in general, but it was better than time on his hands with nothing to do aside from watch tv.

That had changed with the arrival of House in his life. Over the years he'd become accustomed to hours spent watching sports, porn, action movies, and late-night talk shows, accompanied by the inevitable pizza or Indian takeout, and beer. Lots of beer. Not so much for him now as it tended to dump pounds on his belly, but enough to keep him satisfied more or less.

Now the situation had changed again. With Amos Williams and his daughter in the apartment a few doors down from House's, their weekend fare consisted of walks to and from both households, with home-cooked meals and a few music sessions sprinkled in here and there, along with the inevitable sports. All in all, he liked it. Amos was a good man, if also one of few words, and his daughter Kesha was a delight—smart, independent, and a serious traveler. A great cook too—they'd already exchanged a number of recipes . . .

How on earth did House find out about that guy in apartment F selling his place? He hadn't quite dared to ask; when dealing with House's machinations it was better not to know on occasion, if only to plead ignorance later on when everything went pear-shaped.

Still, despite the progress House had made under Amos's guidance, there was a shade of deep pain over the proceedings that never lifted. James knew full well what it was, but he said nothing, even when House didn't speak for days on end, drank too much or played the piano till all hours. There was nothing to be said, anyway. Whatever happened next was up to House, and they both knew it.

Still, one evening James was appalled to hear himself say "Why don't you just call her?"

House didn't reply right away. It was evening—Friday night to be exact, and they'd stuffed themselves full of pizza and beer while they'd watched some football. As a consequence both of them were half-asleep, lulled by the familiar sound of commentary and crowd noise.

"Way to throw out a non sequitur." House didn't look at James, just took a large swallow of beer.

"I'd say it's very much on point. Your behavior leads me to think you believe you're better off miserable than be the first one to call."

"Don't wanna talk about this." House's tone was terse now, a warning to back off. James ignored it.

"She's leaving, you know. She said as much."

"You talked to her." House didn't move. James noted no shock or surprise. So he's known about this all along. Close on that thought came another one: he's up to something. It was time for a little fact-finding.

"Someone mentioned it in a meeting the other day. She's closing down her practice." James took a sip of beer and grimaced at the warm, flat taste. "She'll out-stubborn you on this, you know." House said nothing. "Are you really that afraid of having to say you were wrong?"

"I wasn't wrong." House set his bottle on the floor. "I was mistaken."

James stared at him, speechless. But not for long. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

"Nope."

"Wait—wait a minute." James sat up. A gust of anger flapped through him. "Six months and that's all you've got? You made a mistake?"

House glanced at him, then away. "It's enough."

James studied him. "Did it ever occur to you that you could actually, um, you know . . . let Dana know you were mistaken?" He lay heavy sarcasm on the last word and saw House flinch. It was a mere flicker, but James knew at least some of his tells by now.

"Need a beer."

"Get it yourself. So you have no plans to contact Dana?"

"Fuck off." The harsh reply was a last warning. James ignored it.

"Jesus. I don't know who's worse. Both of you are hopeless."

For answer House picked up his phone and hit speed dial. "Dreads. I need a beer—"

James leaned over and wrested the phone from him. "Sorry, Amos." He hung up and tossed the phone onto the coffee table, where House couldn't reach it without some effort.

"Nice way to treat a cripple, Doctor I'm So Compassionate." House struggled to sit up. "Fuck you, I'll get my own beer."

"Gee, there's a thought."

James watched House get to his feet with the aid of the canes he'd been coerced into using, at least at home. He didn't make a production out of it; it was truly difficult. Once upright, he dumped one of the canes and limped into the kitchen. "Bring me one too!" James raised his voice so House would hear him. After a few moments the other man returned with a single bottle clutched in his hand. He popped the top, eased into his spot on the couch and ignored James.

"I see. I've got two good legs and ask too many uncomfortable questions, so you've decided to pretend I don't exist." James sighed. "Why am I not surprised."

When he returned with his own beer, he opened it, set it on the coffee table, took another slice of pizza from the box and munched. "Bet Dana's making something good for dinner." He licked his fingers. "One of those French recipes she learned from her mother."

House swung his head toward James. His blue eyes blazed with anger and something else, something dark. "Shut up."

"You think she gets trick or treaters at her place? She'll probably spend the whole evening with a bowl of candy and no one—"

House kicked the coffee table with his remaining foot. James's beer tipped on its side and promptly fountained over the side onto the floor. They both watched it soak into the carpet.

"Nice." James forced the word out.

"Stop attempting to play on my alleged guilt. You of all people should know I don't have any."

"The fuck you don't! You're so eaten up with it, along with—with shame and pain and whatever else you've got in that fortress with forty-foot thick walls you call a soul, you can barely breathe! You know you made a mistake but you can't bring yourself to admit it because that would mean you weren't right. Just to inform you, contrary to popular opinion you're as human as the rest of us, though you like to think you aren't. So admit it and fix things. That's if you can. Personally I think you left it about six months too late, but what do I know?" James dumped the rest of his slice in the box and got to his feet. "You can clean up the mess yourself. And that doesn't mean you call Amos."

House ignored him. James grabbed his coat and briefcase and headed for the door. "Fine, tune me out all you like. It won't change the truth." He opened the door, "See you later."

On the way home he felt the first twinges of his own guilt begin to nibble at him. He dialed Amos's number and smiled when it was answered on the first ring.

"Don't worry, Doctor Wilson. He's cleaning it up now. Under protest, of course."

They exchanged a few comments, and James ended the call. House was in good hands, for the moment anyway. Whatever happened next . . .well, they'd deal with things as they came along, as always.