So sorry for the delay everyone. If you can believe it this story is quickly drawing to a close. Hehe. But more drama in this chapter and some more angst…actually quite a lot of angst. And quite a few lovely House insights.

Love!

Chapter Eleven

He looked in each one of the tall glass windows as he passed. No face turned toward him, no eyes dared to catch his. It made him feel so alone. He was an outsider, just the face at the window, peering in, but never able to touch anything.

Even that wasn't a good analogy. He even felt more isolated than that, as if he were too removed to even feel the glass pressed against his nose.

The world swam with a hundred unreal colors and sounds. It was a constant hum of activity that whirled around him dancing in closer, and then retreating back to linger on the edge of his consciousness, only to again move in with sickening speed. The floor was a dark abyss and even when his foot made contact with it, it didn't seem real, as if he were floating on a layer of water that just covered the tiles. House was sure that he would fall. The nauseas that was setting in made him feel drunk.

Fear was twisting inside him, threatening to tear him apart. Two words swirled around in his head they were the cure to a disease, but they seemed like some sort of death sentence that had been hung on his shoulders, even though the words were the condemnation of another man. Or were they the long sought reprieve?

How can I save Wilson?

I hate Wilson…

…

…I want him to die…

The moment the sentiment crossed his mind, House was nearly sick with the thought. He was a doctor! It was his job to save everyone, no matter his personal sentiments. He could be rude to them…but never would he allow someone to die when the answer was known to him.

Could he actually have just have wished for the death of someone?! And it wasn't just someone! It was James Wilson, a colleague, a friend, a man he loved.

I don't love him, I hate him.

But were love and hate so far apart? What was the true difference between those two emotions? Both were as two sides of a knife, and House himself was balanced on the razor-thin blade. He was waiting to fall to either side, because he could no longer stand this threat of being sliced in half. And from where he was standing, he was sure that the knife blade would go right through his heart.

Love and hate, night and day, black and white, constants of the universe, these "universal opposites" that cannot be compared. But love and hate are not nearly as different as they seem. They've been forced into the guise of inverses because people treat them as such. But in truth, they share so much. Both are types of passion. Both cause us to spend hour after hour in contemplation of the person or the object towards which the emotion is directed. They cause us to do irrational things and to say things we later regret. They are often kept secret for fear of insulting and many times they bring nothing but pain. Both drive us crazy…and give us a reason to go on.

Loathing, desire, abhorrence, devotion, detestation, and ardor all were types of fiery passion looking for a way to be expressed. If expressed as love, it because hugs and kisses and if hate it became blows (emotional and physical ones).

House didn't know how he could be expected to sort out his emotions towards the man when he couldn't sort out what emotions themselves meant.

He knew that if he felt any hatred at all, it should be directed toward the action, and not the man himself. Wilson had made a mistake, and he should not so readily forget all fondness for the man and replace it with hatred. Right? The man and the action were separate entities; he could hate one and love the other.

But was not a man defined by his actions?

Then again, did he even hate the action? Wilson had only said what he thought to be true. Candidness was a principal that House lived his life based on. He said what he thought. Why was he so vehemently against the same honesty being expressed towards him? He now sought to condemn a man for sins he himself was guilty of. How hypocritical was that?!

Love and hate.

It all came down to those two "conflicting" emotions. As soon as he could sort out what he really felt for the man, he would be able to answer the hundreds of questions that bubbled in his head, like a shaken soda, exploding everywhere. And then he would be able to save Wilson's life.

Love and hate.

Like two cartoon angels hovering above his shoulders the emotions lurked. They whispered their reasons in his ear, each encouraging their own course of action.

"Understand." The angel, named love, murmured her words, feather-soft like her wings.

"Begrudge!" Hate, the demon, snarled.

"Forgive!"

"Destroy!"

"Shut up!" House barked, trying to will the chaos to cease. But his words were powerless, a man trying to hold back the ocean. What was set into motion could never be withheld; the tide could not be stopped, or even turned, until the fundamental question had been answered.

Did he hate Wilson or did he love him?

Images swirled through his head. He remembered eyes filled with passionate hatred as a cold mouth moved on the word "weakness". He remembered a hand on his hair. He remembered his own hand wrapping tightly around the other man's forearm; his nails drawing blood as he tried not to cry out in pain. He remembered someone's words comforting him. He remembered someone saying his name with such tenderness as he had never heard

"James." He whispered in unison with the unheard voice, and reached out to steady himself on the wall.

James Wilson was the man who had done all these things. There were a hundred more good memories of the man than there were bad ones.

And for the first time, Gregory House wept openly. Tears rolled from his eyes eager to be shed, like rain soaking into parched land. He didn't know how long it had been since he had actually cried. But the salt tears seemed to release so much pain and fear built up over weeks and weeks of hiding his emotions under a strong mask of sarcastic remarks.

He knew in that moment that he loved Wilson, he had always loved Wilson. He was so afraid of rejection by the only man he'd ever loved that he'd feared loosing him so much that he'd wanted to hate him, rather than risk hearing those words again.

He loved Wilson enough that he could…and would…risk getting hurt one more time.

He had to save him, why had he even doubted it?

His face was tear-stained and blotchy, his nose was dripping; House was sure he had never looked any less attractive in his entire life. He caught sight of himself in the glass door to Cuddy's office and would have been disgusted by his appearance if it hadn't been for the grin that split his face in two.

"Sweet Jesus!" Cuddy shrieked as he walked in. She dropped her coffee and it spilled on the floor. "You look like a rapist! What's gotten into you?" She backed away from him, half-joking, half-genuinely frightened.

He laughed. Just laughed for the longest time.

"Sweet Jesus, you are a rapist!"

"I figured it out."

She didn't ask. She knew.

Cuddy ran to him and threw herself into his arms. They stood together crying and laughing.

Love and hate.

Crying and laughing.

Two more things that weren't as contradictatory as they were portrayed.

Next chapter sooner! I promise!