Brace42 - Sorry, was in a rush to post the last time and didn't get a chance to respond to you. This story is more about the relationships, the fear, and the pain of facing the potential loss of a friend than about the diagnostic process. But... no, the process isn't done yet.

Renify - Thank you so much for quoting! I love when people quote lines they like. And I absolutely loved that exchange, so I'm glad someone else did too. :)

Disclaimer: As much as I adore Jimmy Wilson, I do not own him or any aspect of House. I'm going to go cry now. A/N: This is a really short chapter, but that's how it worked out. I like it a lot; I hope you do.

Chapter 4

Foreman comes in the next morning with the biopsy results in hand. Cameron looks up, remembering a certain conversation outside a certain girl's hospital room. "You know, if Wilson goes back to work at all, even just to close his cases, he's going to see the results for himself." Talk about bittersweet.

"What is it?" House taps his pen on the desk but doesn't look even remotely interested.

"Diffuse Anaplastic Astrocytoma. Malignant and terminal." Foreman speaks matter-of-factly, his voice empty of the satisfaction he'd normally flaunt at being right. There's a tone Cameron doesn't think she's ever heard before and it actually hurts her heart a little. Her chest tightens and tears sting her eyes.

Their boss twirls the pen before tossing it aside; finally, a gesture of frustration. "What's the prognosis?"

"Given its location Brown said he probably has a year; maybe six months before there's serious degeneration in his mental function." Foreman gives House a slightly pitying look. "He asked if you want to tell Wilson, or you want him to. I told him I thought you'd want to."

"Yeah." He glances at them each in turn. "Go… do clinic hours or something. Make Cuddy happy, and give yourselves a break from thinking too hard."

They all rise, exchanging uncertain glances, and wordlessly head for the door.

"Notice how he makes clinic sound like it's some sort of reward," Chase mutters as the threesome trail out of the conference room. As they walk down the hall, each pretends not to notice the others glancing back toward their boss.

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Julie is with Wilson when House walks into the room. "We got the biopsy back." He hands the page to Wilson, to let him see it for himself. The man is still an oncologist, and there's no point in beating around the bush, especially considering this is far from a surprise by now. "Terminal."

"Fascinating. Something I didn't already know."

House frowns at him. "You're starting to sound like me." There's a bitterness in his voice that is decidedly not Wilson-like.

"What can I say?" He casts a sideways glance at his ex. "That biting wit rubs off." She forces a narrow-eyed smile, obviously recognizing her own words, before turning her head away. It's impossible to miss the tears pooling in her eyes.

"What did Brown say? A year? Maybe less?"

House nods. "Because it's inoperable. Radiation and chemo are possible but they'll only buy you a little time." Wilson already knows that, understands the treatment and its miserable effects even better than he does, but he needs to say something or he'll go crazy standing here.

"Yeah." Julie's tears are falling now and Wilson turns to her. House is expecting him to offer her some sort of comfort but is surprised when he asks her to leave. "Could you, ah… I need to talk to House."

She nods and stands, dabbing at her eyes. "How about some coffee?"

"Yeah. Sure." House just nods. She leaves, and tears fill Wilson's eyes. House can actually feel them in his own. He doesn't like it; emotion is messy.

"It's ironic," the oncologist whispers. Not intentionally, House is sure.

House sits on the bed and reaches out, ignoring his own discomfort to put his arms around his friend. Wilson lets himself be pulled in close, resting his head on House's chest. His body begins to tremble and House can feel tears soaking through his shirt. It's not the dampness that makes him uncomfortable. It's the unaccustomed, almost suffocating closeness that he'd never suffer through for anyone.

Anyone but Jimmy, at least.

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By four o'clock, House has grown tired of watching the ducklings mope around the office. "Get out of here. Go away. Get some rest; get drunk; get high; get laid. Just, leave the hospital for no less than twelve hours."

Foreman stares at him, passive surprise on his face. "You're throwing us out?"

"Um… does 'get out' not translate into whatever the mother country's native tongue is?" Foreman's eyes narrow as Chase stands up.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm going before he changes his mind and sends us back to the clinic to mop floors or something."

"So, Chase has the 'get laid' part covered. Cameron, I figure that leaves you to get high, Foreman to go to bed, and me to get drunk. Sound good? Good. Good-bye. Kill the light on your way out."

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Foreman doesn't even take off his tie before he sits down at his computer. He pulls up every study he can think of about the treatment of brainstem tumors. It's useless; everything just confirms what he already knows. He needs a beer.

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Cameron pours herself a third glass of wine and stares out the window at the starry night sky. The television is on, an old movie that always makes her cry. But not today. Movies, no matter how sad and bittersweet, have nothing on reality.

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Chase sits down in the back corner of a local bar, nursing a glass of whiskey. He's not a big fan but he needs something strong to take the edge off. A pretty redhead with all the right curves tosses a smile his way but he doesn't smile back.

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Cuddy sits alone in the corridor outside Wilson's room, staring at the closed door, the darkened window. She's never wanted to be anything but a doctor but right now she doesn't want to be anywhere near a hospital. So why is she still here?

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It's midnight and House is still sitting in his office, in the dark. His pill bottle is locked in a cabinet so he doesn't get any stupid ideas as he drowns himself in Jack Daniels. He bounces his ball against the floor, the sound echoing against emptiness.