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: Another short chapter, but I wanted to break it before the surgery.

Chapter 6

House glares at Cameron when she comes back in. "Don't you have someone to take care of or marry or something?"

"Yeah, Wilson."

His glare deepens and then softens. "Has he proposed yet?"

She rolls her eyes. "No, and at this rate he's not going to live long enough to. It's a shame; I've seen his ex's engagement ring. It was beautiful. Wouldn't mind having a rock that size."

He arches an eyebrow but continues to glare. "What do you mean, at this rate?"

"He's…" she hesitates, glancing away, and he contemplates shaking it out of her but she starts talking again before he moves. "He's refusing treatment. I guess he figures that he's going to die soon enough anyway, rather not deal with being sick from the chemo and radiation."

"You're joking."

She meets his eyes. "Do I look like I am?"

"No, but Wilson isn't that stupid."

"Wilson knows better than anyone what's going to happen to him, if he goes the chemo route or just rides it out. It's not the first time someone's made this choice. It's easy to tell a patient to give themselves a little more time if you're on our side of the fence. But if you're on the other side, what's the point of an extra six months if you're miserable, sick, in pain, and bedridden the whole time?"

"He's not that stupid."

"Apparently he is." She threw up her hands. "Send Chase or Foreman to talk to him if you want to. He's not listening to me."

"No, they won't talk him into hanging around; they're more likely to talk him into hastening his earthly departure." He hauls himself out of his chair, leaning heavily on his cane before raising it menacingly. "I'm gonna go bash some sense into him with this."

He hobbles down the hall to the elevator and by the time he reaches Wilson's door, he's good and worked up -- and angry. "You idiot." It's not an exclamation that he makes as he walks into his friend's room. It's a simple statement of fact.

Wilson is an idiot. A dying idiot. But then, those are often the most idiotic kind of idiots.

"Pardon?"

"Oh, don't mind me. I just came down to sign your release papers. Make sure you tell Julie to give me a call about the funeral. I'll need as much notice as possible; I'm pretty well booked for the next three months. Anything beyond that, I'm fairly wide open. But you won't make it that long, so I probably won't be able to come."

Wilson stares at him. "Nice. Oh well, no great loss. Not like I've seen you much the last couple days anyway; what do you need to come to my funeral for?"

House latches on to the first word and ignores the rest. There'll be time for dealing with that later. "Yeah, as nice as you refusing treatment. You're an idiot."

"I got you down here though, didn't it?"

It's House's turn to stare. "What did you say?"

"I said, it got you down here."

"You lied to Cameron?"

"No, I made her lie to you." Wilson smiles, a real genuine smile. House glares.

"For what?"

"Because I was sick of you hiding up in your office like I'm just another patient."

House meets his words with silence. And then, "You are."

Wilson looks like House has just slapped him across the face. And, he supposes, maybe he has. "What?"

House ignores him; it's safer that way, for him at least. "So, you are accepting treatment? And you'll have the second tumor removed?"

And Wilson ignores him. "What did you mean by that?"

"I meant, are you going to walk out of here and die or are you going to let us give you little pills and try to make you allllllll healthy again?"

"Not--" Wilson breaks off, shaking his head in unmistakable disgust. Get out. Just go back to being miserable and keep sending Cameron to do your dirty work for you. She's a lot more pleasant to look at. And, actually, to talk to. Not that you'd know what that means."

House hesitates, the realization that he's gone too far sinking in, albeit slowly and far too late to do anything to fix it. Not that he can think of anything. "Wilson--"

"Get out," he repeats. "I don't want to see you again."

"Jimmy," he tries once more, because he can't leave without giving it one more shot, however weak, but Wilson rolls over in bed, turning his back to him without another word.

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"Plan didn't work, huh?" Cameron's leaning in the doorway, arms folded across her chest with a sad smile on her face. Her clipboard is in one hand.

"I told him I didn't like him treating me like just another patient. He told me I am just another patient." The memory of his so-called friend's words still hurts more than he'd like to admit.

"He's scared of losing you, and he doesn't know how to cope with you being sick. He can't physically run away--"

"He's doing a good job of it, regardless."

"Well… yes. That's what he's best at. He's just dealing with it in the way only House can." She's making excuses for him and it sounds eerily familiar, something he'd be doing himself if the situation were different.

But it isn't, and he's stuck in this bed, at least until they cut open his head and hopefully leave him able to function on his own, outside the hospital walls. And that's all he can think about. There's too much self-pity in his head for him to feel any sort of sympathy toward House. "What about me?"

Cameron blinks, surprise registering in her eyes. "That… I think that's the most selfish thing I've ever heard you say."

"I..." Stung, he doesn't know how to respond. So he stares at her instead.

But then her smile widens just a bit. "That's a good thing, Wilson. You're sick and House is your best friend and he's being even more of an ass than usual -- which, incidentally, I didn't think was even possible. You have every right to be selfish, to put yourself first for once. House always does."

"It's not--"

Cameron cuts him off. "It is an excuse; it's the best excuse in the world. I don't think anyone has more right to say 'why me' than someone who's terminally ill. You've spent the last ten or twelve years trying desperately to save your patients -- and House -- and not thinking of yourself at all. You're sick. It's time to put yourself first for once."

"I've always been there for him," he says quietly. "I don't think I know how not to be." He doesn't; he's tried. So many times House has pushed him past the breaking point. He's no longer sure whether it's devoted friendship or his own need that keeps him coming back for more. Right now he's leaning toward devotion, because he can't figure out what, exactly, House actually gives him. Other than heartburn and an aggravated ulcer.

"All the more reason to be angry with him now. It's his turn to support you; you have the right to expect him to. And he's not doing it."

"Well, being angry isn't exactly going to make a difference, is it?"

She shakes her head. "It never does with him. But… he's not trying to be a bastard. Take it as a sign of how much he really cares about you."

"Right."

"You should, Wilson." She gives his strong hand a squeeze. "The surgery is scheduled for Thursday morning. I'll see if I can get House to pull his head out of his ass before then."

He gives her a wan smile and thanks her quietly. After she leaves, he lies back, staring at the ceiling. He tries, out of stubbornness, to brush his hair from his eyes using his left hand. But he hasn't adjusted to the weakness yet and it's more of a struggle than it should be. In the end he gives up and uses his still-strong right. "Damn it."

He wraps an arm across his stomach, constantly threatening to rebel, and shuts his eyes against the spinning room. Tears prick at his eyes but he refuses to let them fall.

Cancer is his business. He delivers this news to patients on a daily basis --to children, on a daily basis. And he can't handle getting it himself?

He stops holding back and cries himself to sleep. His best friend never does show up.

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House skirts the nurse's station, not wanting to deal with their scalding glares. What do they know, anyway?

Wilson's room is dark; the man is lying perfectly in the middle of the bed when he walks in, but he's clearly been having a rough night. The sheets are twisted around his legs; the pillow sits an inch or so from his head.

House eyes the monitors and decides to take the chance and give his friend a little helping hand. He straightens the top sheet and adjusts Wilson so his head is actually resting on the pillow.

Then he settles into one of the ridiculously uncomfortable chairs, pops a Vicodin, and stretches out his leg. And he watches Wilson sleep.

Until one of the night nurses comes in and chases him out, after he makes her promise not to mention that she's seen him at all.

Never mind that she's seen him every night this week.