-3-

"Limbo"

There are times he thinks about limbo: not the inane backbreaking dance he was forced to do at parties as a kid, but the pit stop between life and death.

Limbo is his old stomping ground. House knows the ins and outs of it, its nooks and crannies, its hidey holes. The thought of the place unnerves him, since he is able to recall it with unsettling clarity.

In this case, familiarity sure as hell does breed contempt.

He hates all of it: the whiteness, the conversations with the dead: those he knew when they were flesh and blood, others who, in all likelihood, never really existed. When he is there, his honesty knows no bounds. In limbo, he spills stuff he knows he should repress: those maudlin meanderings of regret, self pity, and self loathing, revelations that don't stand a chance of getting by him in the real world.

But...there is something liberating about letting go.

He thinks about limbo when he is with Wilson, when they're sitting side by side at a bar, nursing drinks, getting a buzz on so the laughter comes easy. House tries to convince himself the laughter would come just as easy without the alcohol, but he's not so sure that's true.

So they sit, drink, laugh over something that's not very funny, after which they will go back to House's apartment. There they will watch a movie or perhaps listen to some vintage jazz albums House found at The Vinyl Vendor this week.

It's all very nice, very friendly. Very bland. Very safe.

It has been a little over a year since Amber died. These days, House makes it a point not to talk about her, but when she crosses Wilson's mind, House can tell: Wilson's gaze grows distant, like he is peering into the fog to see what is drifting through it. House doesn't want to go there, so he ignores it, doesn't broach the subject at all. Amber is like a scar that aches when a storm's brewing. Much to his chagrin, House feels that ache too...

Wilson has a new woman in his life. Her name is Roselle or Rosette or some moronic flowery name; she's an English teacher at Mercer County Community College. House has yet to meet her. He hasn't asked and Wilson hasn't offered. He can't help wonder why Wilson is devoting his time to a woman who teaches lame brains the difference between a comma and a semi-colon; a woman who is the single parent of a four year old.

He wonders.

The question stands between them like a silent sentry, waiting to be deployed on a mission. But House will never ask. He doesn't need to know more about this woman than he already does.

Limbo...

The taste of pizza and beer linger on the back of House's tongue as he settles into the passenger seat (pushed back far enough so he can stretch his legs. Wilson is nothing if not thoughtful). House will close his eyes, lean his head against the coolness of the window and let the smooth jazz Wilson adores wash over him.

Although Wilson's blood alcohol level is sure to be over the legal limit, House lets him drive. An inebriated Wilson is a better driver than a booze soaked House. They arrive back at House's place intact, like all the other times.

Now Wilson is half-asleep on the sofa, the strains of John Lee Hooker's "I'm Bad Like Jesse James" serve as the soundtrack to another evening winding down.

Wilson yawns, coughs, then clears his throat. "So what are you going to do?" He gazes at House through heavy lidded eyes.

"About what?" House takes his place beside Wilson, finds the TV remote between the sofa cushions and scrolls the list of treasures his Tivo has to offer.

"You have all this time, House."

"Yeah, it's a bitch, isn't it?" Tivo fare proves boring so he puts the ten o'clock news on mute and taps his foot along with John Lee.

"Most people are ecstatic not to have to get up for work in the morning."

"It's usually closer to the afternoon for me."

With a grunt, Wilson tries again. "You should be thrilled about getting some time for yourself. Didn't you even think about doing something with it?"

"Like what?"

"Something-" Wilson gestures helplessly at the TV, the bedroom, the walls. "Something other than staring at this for two weeks."

"It's all mine." The record ends, thrusting them into silence. House turns up the TV. The busty, toothsome newscaster regales them with bedtime tales of murder and mayhem. "I can stare at it, kick it, curse at it." Raising a brow, he concludes, "You're just jealous."

"I am. It's always been my dream to have hours and hours to abuse my hard won property."

"Sorry. Cuddy still wants you around. Come up with a way to tick her off so you can join the party." House leans back, flicks the channel to ESPN. "In the meantime, think of me languishing like a sloth while you're cooing sweet nothings to one of your pathetic, tumor riddled-"

"Enough, House." Wilson pushes himself off the couch and presses one palm against the small of his back as he stretches. "This was swell. It's a shame it has to end."

House fingers the remote, tilts his head and stares at the beer bottle as Wilson walks to the door. "You off to see Rosalita?"

After a long moment, Wilson replies, "Her name is Rosa." His tone is guarded, hushed, as if to speak louder might cause the walls to crumble into dusty piles of rubble.

House hears the door open, then softly snick shut. He crosses the room, pulls a bottle of bourbon from the cabinet by the bookshelf, throws off the cap and takes one swig. Then another.

On the TV, the meteorologist is gushing about the wonder of fall foliage.

(orange and yellow and red, oh, my)

It is the ass end of September in Princeton, New Jersey, a town which, as the four-eyed, balding meteorologist is sure to know, is located in the northeast portion of the United States. What the hell is so fascinating about witnessing the onset of fall foliage in this part of the world? House grumbles as he heads toward the desk. If this were Florida or southern California it might be something to wet your pants about. But here?

He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out the crumpled magazine page he shoved in there over six hours ago. As he smoothes it out on his desk, he wonders why he bothered saving it.

"Not many have what it takes to be a part of what we do..."

The letters swim before his eyes before settling in all comfy cozy again. This is significant, he thinks. It lets him in on the fact he is more than half in the bag. Three quarters of the way in is more like it. The Vicodin/bourbon/beer combo make a potent team, putting him out for the count most nights. Tonight he's just...high.

His smile seems too wide. The room shifts, like it is a hovercraft drifting over the streets of Jersey.

That's funny.

...it's not what you might think...you have no idea...

Those words are screaming at you, if they had tiny fists they might box your ears too--

Scam artists. Snakeoil salesmen. With one hand he steadies himself against the desk and reaches for the phone.

...you will not be sorry...

Oh, yeah? Oh, YEAH?

It is a challenge, like a boxer flexing by the ropes, dancing, feinting, turning slowly to meet his eyes.

I will be sorry. Damn! Wait for it because I will soon be the sorriest asshole on this planet.

Yeah. He punches in the number, listens to the purr of the ring, waits for some generic voice on an answering machine to pick up.

Instead he gets a human. "This is Garrett," The human croons. "How can I help you?"

As Wilson steps through the door, he lifts his head and...inhales, savoring the fragrant remnants of what was sure to have been an excellent meal. It is late, after eleven, and those scents are ghosts, specters, wisps of what was. Dinner had been prepared hours ago (a roast of some sort, he guesses).

All gone, me bucko, House whispers in his head.

Still, the thought of that luscious fare taunts him like a harlot with a body to die for, a tantalizing siren writhing and gyrating just out of reach.

While he was busy getting buzzed and finding all the ways to avoid talking about this 'new' life, Rosa was fixing dinner.

And Rosa is a damn fine cook.

She would have tucked the leftovers in foil wrap and Tupperware, setting them neatly on the second shelf of the fridge. He could have them for lunch tomorrow. It wouldn't be as homey as enjoying a companionable dinner with her and Mike. But it would be okay.

As long as House isn't involved, it will be fine.

Wilson steps furtively, quietly through the shadow strewn rooms. He feels guilty, almost like a thief. There is no reason for this, he knows. But the feeling grabs on and holds tight.

Rosa left lights on for him; there is just enough illumination for him to find his way through the spacious abode without falling over something, He flicks each light off as he passes: the one by the piano, the one over the kitchen sink, the gooseneck lamp on the table in the hall. Each one leads him closer to her.

Pausing outside Michael's door, he listens for a breath, a sigh. Wilson likes the boy but doesn't feel he has the right to play dad. He wouldn't mind, but the thought is too huge to contemplate right now. Maybe the day he moves out of what used to be Amber's apartment and takes up residence here he will be more comfortable with the notion. Maybe then he will try sitting on the floor with the kid, play cars and Playstation and robots.

The whole relationship is new, shiny, the glitter wrap still poking out of the wastebasket...

In the bedroom (which is almost 'their' bedroom, but not quite), Rosa lays sleeping, The Dictionary of Classic Mythology lies open beside her. She is an avid reader of non-fiction. She wants to learn, to better herself. Eventually she would like to return to school for her doctorate. It is her goal and Wilson encourages her.

It's good to have goals, he tells her.

Rosa's eyes flutter open. Her smile is slow, unguarded, and genuine. ""Hey, how was your night?"

"It was...a night." Wilson shrugs, unbuttons his top two buttons, allowing his gaze to flow over her. Her dark curls fall over her cheeks and brow; she looks like a little girl waking from a dream of princes and knights. Sometimes he wishes she would let her hair grow longer; he imagines it flowing over her shoulders and breasts, like a river. He doesn't tell her this because she would probably do it. To please him. He doesn't want that. He wants it to come from her.

He touches her cheek.

"How about you?" he asks.

"Long day. It's over now." She leans on one elbow and twists his third shirt button open. ""Did you eat?"

"Pizza, beer. Usual House fare."

"How is he?"

"Does it matter?"

She sets the book on the nightstand, crosses her arms over her t-shirt. "Of course it matters."

"He's on vacation," Wilson says. "Not by choice."

"Sounds serious." Her eyes twinkle.

He's seen that look before when the conversation shifts to House. How does House manage to inspire that sort of intense curiosity when he's not even here?

Wilson has long since tired of it. "I told you he has nothing to do with us."

"You've met my friends."

Shifting closer, he takes her face in his hands. "I told you before. This is for the best."

"Okay." She nods. "Okay."

He removes his shirt, unbuckles his belt. "He's poison, Rosa." Three failed marriages and one dead girlfriend later, Wilson has learned to keep House out of the mix. "If you really want to know more than that, we can devote an evening to explanations. Otherwise just trust me. This is for the best."

"Fine."

He smiles. "Turn off the light," he whispers, gazing down at her. As she reaches for the lamp, his smile fades. Silently he curses the lingering curiosity still so prevalent, so alive,in Rosa's pretty eyes.