- Many thanks for all the great reviews – I'd love to reply to the guest ones as well but, alas, it's not to be. So let me tell you this way that your comments are much appreciated.

Just one more note and we can get going: I'm not trying to re-write 'Birthmarks'. It was and still is one of my favourite episodes, and Doris Egan will forever remain my Queen of Road Trips. Within the restraints of a TV show (40 min per episode, pacing, patient story etc) it couldn't have been better in my opinion. But I wondered what would happen if I lifted those restraints and left House and Wilson to it. So I set them free. What you're reading is the result of this experiment. Thank you for tagging along. -

Be careful fighting someone else's demons – it may awaken your own. (Bryant McGill)

2-Gravitational Collapse

Wilson fell onto his bed. Too much bounce. But it would do.

He was exhausted. Before he could fall asleep, he checked his phone. No messages, not even from Cuddy. Not once had she checked to see how things were going. She had practically dumped House in his car and, once Wilson took over, her problem was solved. Out of sight, out of mind. He was the clean up man, Mr. Fix-It. The man who could be relied on to clean up after one of House's stunts.

Only this time it wasn't a stunt.

Cuddy had assumed that House's refusal to attend the funeral was just House being House, that this was one of his usual games. But from what little he knew now, it was clear this wasn't a game. Not to anyone with eyes, not to anyone who wanted to see.

It was just that Wilson wasn't sure whether he really wanted to see. He was incredibly tired, and the funeral service had made him miss Amber with an unexpected sharpness.

And he was hungry.

He hadn't eaten properly since this morning. House would be hungry too.

While he was waiting for his take-out at the diner across the road, he wondered what House was doing right now. He wouldn't be soaking in the tub since their rooms only had showers. Actually, now that he thought about it, he should have asked for a room with a tub. He should have because he knew that spending all day in the car would have jacked up House's pain considerably. And he had rationed House's Vicodin.

If there were a prize for the worst friend in times of need, Wilson was pretty sure he'd be in the running.

There was no answer to his knock on House's door. After a few tries he sent a text. No reply. Maybe his cell was still on mute. Wilson sighed and stumped off to his room to use the house phone to call House.

No answer.

If he was in the shower, he might not hear the phone. But how long could one man stay in the shower?

Wilson was getting worried. So worried that he eventually called reception to have someone come and unlock the door.

"My friend might have slipped in the bathroom." Or he might have done something stupid. God knows stupid things had crossed his own mind more than once after Amber's death.

"Do you want me to come inside with you," asked the janitor after he had unlocked the door. His look was kind and not in the least curious. He must have seen it all in his line of business.

Wilson clutched the bag containing their dinner, now probably cold, and shifted it from one hand to the other.

"Um, no thank you. I'll be fine."

But would he be? Really? No matter what he found?

He waited until the man had left before he put his hand against the door to push it open. But he still hesitated. He told himself that he would be okay. He told himself that House was fine in there, probably asleep after taking another couple of Vicodin.

But what if he was wrong?

"House?"

The lights were low and the bed was empty. The Vicodin bottle was on the nightstand.

No sign of House.

Wilson set the bag with their food on a chair. House's clothes were scattered across the room. His sneakers, on the other hand, stood almost neatly side-by-side next to the bed.

House's cane was hooked over the handle of the bathroom door.

"House!"

The bathroom door flew open and House emerged in boxers and t-shirt, hair still wet and tousled. Reflexively, Wilson's eyes flew to the scar on House's thigh. He hadn't seen it in so long that he had almost forgotten what a deep gulley it was. Almost.

House shot him a defiant look, grabbed his cane and limped over to the bed.

"Jeez, can't a man shower in peace. What do you want, Wilson?"

"Um…" Wilson had suddenly forgotten why he had come. Seeing House brought relief because he hadn't done anything stupid but, at the same time, he recognized how tired House looked. The scar stood out a mile and yet he made none of his usual attempts to cover it up.

House grabbed his jeans but stopped short of putting them on. Instead he cast a questioning look at Wilson.

"I, um, thought you'd be hungry. I could eat a horse…" He went and grabbed the bag with food.

"I hope that's not what's in that bag. Although horsemeat isn't as disgusting as people make out, you know. It's actually okay if you prepare it right."

Wilson busied himself with the food, setting out the containers and digging around in the bag for plastic utensils – all to give House a few moments to put his pants back on without an audience.

"It's not horsemeat, but it's probably all cold by now," he said without much regret and sank down in a chair across from House who just buckled his jeans. He looked over the spread he had prepared at the end of the bed and suddenly didn't feel all that hungry anymore.

"Are we still in Kentucky?"

"No, we're almost half way, this is West Virginia." House really hadn't been paying much attention on the drive.

House shrugged. "Huh. Chances are it's still horsemeat."

Apparently House hadn't lost his appetite, though. He demolished his burger in no time at all and declared it 'pretty decent for horsemeat'.

"So, what's the story, why no booze in your care package," House asked and stole a couple of Wilson's fries.

"No booze at the diner. But they had pie," he pushed the apple pie across to House.

"Pie is no substitute for booze, completely different food group. Even you should know that." But he dug in anyway.

He was still chewing when someone knocked at the door. House apparently had been expecting this because he got up, limped across the room and opened the door. A few words were exchanged, and then money changed hands.

When House turned around he held up a small bottle of bourbon.

"Didn't think I'd have to share it. You should've put that bottle in your pocket instead of throwing it."

Wilson still felt awful about damaging the funeral home's window. It hadn't been his finest hour.

"House, I'm really sorry for messing up like that at your father's funeral. For ruining the day."

House stopped short and looked straight at him. Wilson felt awkward. Was House trying to determine if he was serious? He was. He did feel bad about losing his temper. Even though House had needled him.

"Huh. You are serious," House said after a moment. "You still don't get it. That funeral could not be ruined. My Mom will survive. At least she'll have a story to tell at her next kaffee klatsch. She kind of expects it of me by now. And yet she insisted I come anyway."

Wilson scratched his head. "You don't feel bad about this?"

House poured them both a shot into tumblers from the bathroom and then lowered himself carefully back onto the bed. He took a sip.

"Wilson, I didn't even like the man. You were the one who dragged me here. I don't care about his funeral." He leaned back against the headboard.

That was a lie if ever Wilson had seen one. And House knew that he knew.

There was a man who didn't speak to his son for two months. And there was a son who flinched on physical contact and avoided it wherever possible. A man who was someone's father and yet wasn't. A son who buried his pain under fifteen layers of snark and hands full of Vicodin. The strange thing was that with every sip of bourbon he took, everything that had been just a vague feeling before became a little clearer. The fog slowly lifted. And by the time House filled their glasses for the third time, Wilson was filled with dread.

He didn't want to do this. But he owed it to House to stop ignoring something he should have seen a long time ago.

Wilson took a deep breath and then a leap.

"House…?"

"Hm?" House's eyes were closed, and he looked almost relaxed. The tension he had carried with him in the car had disappeared for the most part. There was still that almost perpetual frown on his face, but other than that, this was the House Wilson knew.

And he chickened out. "What would you have said if you hadn't worried about your mother? How would you have continued your speech?"

House's eyes flew open in surprise.

"What? You want to hold a wake now? Here? In a dingy hotel room?" He thought for a moment and then grinned. "Guess it's more appropriate than that oh so proper, let's pretend everything's perfectly fine funeral home. That was my mother's choice through and through."

Wilson shrugged. "Yeah, I guess you could call it a wake. With no mother or other folks to censor what needs to be said about the deceased."

House chuckled. "My kind of wake. Who's your wake for then? Can't be for my father, you barely knew the man."

Wilson hadn't considered this. He had hoped House would start talking, and all he would have to do was listen. He should have known better, though. There were no simple deals with House.

"Um…" He took a sip of bourbon to fortify himself. He couldn't think of anything, anyone. Didn't want to think of anyone. He felt a headache coming on and hoped it wasn't a migraine.

"Oh, if only we could think of someone you've lost recently… pity your life's so well in order, all your loved ones present and accounted for…" House looked towards the ceiling in a mock attempt at looking lost for an idea.

Something inside of him, something Wilson hadn't realized had been strained to breaking point for months now, snapped.

"No. No. No, no! I'm not doing this, House!" He felt hot and cold at the same time. His glass dropped to the floor, and he stood, his hands flailing, trying to reign in something that was in danger of getting out of control. "No fucking way. No. You don't – you don't get to…"

"I don't get to what? Get to look at how I messed up your life by killing your girlfriend? See how precious she was? Or how she annoyed the hell out of you at times because she was always right, always knew better? Well, you don't get to pick the easy way out here, Wilson. There's no get out clause. You have no more right to an easy life than I do. Quid pro quo, Clarice."

House sat upright against the headboard, only seemingly calm. His eyes belied his posture, though. They were bright blue, a sure sign of anger and hurt, Wilson knew. He should have seen this coming. Oh, he had been so stupid.

Pain. There was so much pain. Something was twisting his guts into a knot. He needed to pace, wanted to kick something, throw something – but he had only done that earlier. As if there was a quota. Maybe there was. He stopped and looked at House who sat there stiffly on his bed, watching him. As if observing something under a microscope. As if Wilson were nothing but an experiment in a petri dish. How could he be so fucking detached?

All that grief, all the sadness he had felt for those last months, it all seemed to concentrate in one hot ball in his stomach now, and it fed on his anger, and it was about to explode and blow him to pieces. Into a million tiny little pieces that would litter the carpet of this mediocre, boring motel. And in the morning a maid would come and vacuum, and he would be sucked up into the dark with so many other dirt particles.

He made one last futile attempt to contain that hot ball of fury, this growing supernova which threatened to destroy him. He watched his hands flutter about ineffectually, searching for something to grasp, some hold, something to stuff down on top of that explosion about to happen. And he knew it was too late.

"You don't get to talk about her," someone hissed at House. It was coming from somewhere inside, somewhere he couldn't reach, somewhere he couldn't control. This wasn't him. "You do not get to just – just sit there and judge her, not – not even think about her that way. You took her away from me… you, you… and your needs. YOU TOOK HER AWAY FROM ME!"

Someone roared. He felt his grip on reality, on his sanity slipping. Things went dark.

He heard someone sobbing.

When Wilson's vision finally cleared, he found himself collapsed in the chair in the corner, House still sitting on the bed. He hadn't moved. His face was tight and his eyes sparkled – with sympathy and pain, Wilson realized with surprise. He was silent.

Wilson wondered how much time had passed. He willed himself to let go of the armrest he had been clinging to. He lifted his hand to check his watch. Everything hurt. His hands hurt and his shoulders hurt.

It was after midnight. He remembered being at the diner around 10pm. He was missing at least an hour. Oh God.

The sobbing continued.

It took him a long time to realize that he was the one making those horrible noises. And he didn't know how to stop. He listened to his own wailing as he watched House slowly – painfully, he recognized that much - climb to his feet and disappear into the bathroom.

Seconds or hours later, Wilson couldn't tell, House held a washcloth in front of him. Wilson took it silently and covered his face with it.

For all those months after Amber's death he had been going through the motions. During all those therapy sessions, he had looked at his grief, tried to analyze it, tried to explain it. He had cried about Amber, and he had missed her. But he had never touched that hot core inside, the part of him that was hurting so badly.

And all that time he had somehow known that this crack was inevitable, that it was coming. And it came now, here, in a random motel somewhere in West Virginia with House – whose father had just died and who should be the one crying and he should be the one giving comfort. Instead he went to pieces here.

That hot ball inside him had exploded, but it hadn't destroyed him. He wasn't scattered in a million pieces but sat right here, in one piece, with a cool wet cloth soaking up the heat from his tears.

He had a splitting headache.

The table was on its side and some of the food containers littered the floor. That something inside him hadn't destroyed him, but it looked like it had wreaked havoc all right. He cast a glance at the mirror and the windows. All still intact. There was a little relief in that.

When he turned to look at the window, he caught House's eye. He was back on the bed with a slightly amused look on his face. His hands were rubbing his thigh and for one horrible second Wilson worried that he hadn't only wreaked havoc on inanimate objects.

"Welcome back, Dr. Banner. Almost back to normal, I see." Hidden behind House's obvious amusement was something else, though, something Wilson couldn't quite place. Surprise. Wariness. It took him a moment to catch up with House's reference.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" House continued. And then, quietly, "you're right to blame me. Without me Amber would still be alive."

Wilson swallowed on the lump in his throat. "But without you I would never have met her either."

House looked surprised. But then he nodded and poured them the last from the bottle. It was barely a finger in each glass.

"He taught me right and wrong, you know. Even if his right and wrong sometimes were very different from mine. You pay for doing wrong. Someone always pays." House paused and took a sip from his glass. "You were right to ask me to do the DBS."

Wilson heard all that House didn't say. You were right to demand it from me because I did wrong. She paid for my mistake; this was the only way I could try to fix things. He heard it and finally saw what had gone on that day. What he had demanded of House. And why House had done as he had asked.

"No, House. No. I was wrong." He only realized the truth of what he was saying the moment the words left his mouth. "I was wrong to demand this of you. Nobody should ask another person to risk their life. Especially not their best friend. I'm sorry."

"Are you trying to tell me that one life is as important as another? Because that's bullshit and you know it."

Wilson saw the defiance in House's eyes. House knew he was right, and dared Wilson to disagree with him. And he did.

"No, I'm not saying that. Or maybe I am. What I'm really trying to say is that the life of one loved one who is currently in danger will always appear more valuable and important than the life of another. It has to be that way, or nobody would ever attempt to save anyone."

House sat still for a long time.

"So you want me to believe that both our lives were equally important to you," he finally said and then looked straight at Wilson. "If both of us were here right now, perfectly healthy, and some madman forced you to choose who of us he'd shoot in the next five minutes, who would you pick?"

Wilson thought for no longer than a second. He knew the answer was important, but it was also easy.

"I'd choose myself. Because I can't go through grieving like this again. Ever."

"That wasn't really one of the options, but nicely played, very nicely played. Of course you could argue that this decision would leave both me and Amber bereaved and, potentially, suffering. At least in my case. Probably not in hers."

Wilson opened his mouth to complain, but then he chuckled. House was back to kidding and poking. This was good and no reason to feel offended.

"I'm glad to hear you'd be suffering. Because you'd deserve it just for coming up with this scenario in the first place."

House snorted and seemed about to reply something, but then winced and started rubbing his thigh vigorously. Apparently the shower hadn't helped much. Or maybe the nature of their conversation was pushing up his pain levels.

"If someone hadn't been rationing my pain meds…" he muttered. "Apropos of suffering... time to break out a fresh Vicodin bottle, Dr. Banner."

Wilson's blood ran cold. There had to be something in House's backpack. He looked around to locate it and then realized that he hadn't seen it all day. He thought back to this morning when Cuddy and an orderly had brought House to his car. No backpack. Why hadn't Cuddy thought to bring it? And why hadn't he?

House picked up on Wilson's confusion and increasing desperation. "Wilson…" his voice was low and threatening, "don't fuck with me. This isn't the time. You must've remembered to pack some pain meds when you planned this outing. You were taking your patient on an overnight trip."

"But… I… I haven't prescribed for you in months…" he stuttered. "And, also… Cuddy was… she phoned. She never said… House!"

House's face turned to stone.