8.

Wilson felt that he was, once again, in the position of being between the proverbial rock and a hard place. As the best friend of one, Gregory House, this experience was by no means an unfamiliar one.

While being House's friend had its advantages, (the entertainment value alone for being a witness or more often, a participant of House's clever game-playing was strong incentive to keep the relationship thriving) more often than not, Wilson found himself in this customary, uncomfortably tight position, having to make excuses for his best friend's outlandish behavior, his apparent thumbing his nose at society, its morays and traditions.

But for once, Wilson felt wholeheartedly that House was not to blame. Nearly everything Cuddy had demanded of House during their short relationship, he had given over to her. Lord knew he would never be the ideal boyfriend, but House had made an incredible effort, twisted himself like a pretzel and opened his heart wider than he'd ever done before to show how much he was invested in the relationship. All his endeavors only proved the depth of his love for Cuddy and the lengths he would go to try and make her happy and to stay together as a couple.

Yet, it had all been for naught. Cuddy's decision to break up with House came quickly and with no warning forcing Wilson to try and scramble to not only try and talk some sense into the strident Cuddy but also to help support his best friend as he nursed a broken heart.

To Wilson's way of thinking, Cuddy never adequately explained her motives for slamming the door on House. And that led Wilson to the conclusion that Cuddy did not herself have any solid reasoning behind her hasty, lethal action.

What was worse, soon after she dumped House, she added insult to injury by taking up with Lucas Douglas again. And then the final blow was struck against House and his fragile heart, to be witnessed in less than ten minutes by Wilson himself; Cuddy's shotgun marriage to Lucas.

So there he was, pulled in opposite directions by two of the most important people in his life. As a friend to Cuddy, he had taken his place on the bride's side. But as House's friend, this simple act felt like a betrayal.

Seated in his folding chair, Wilson half-hoped that House would come bursting in and make a huge scene by lampooning the hypocrisy of the whole event. But he knew that he would not.

House had put on a good show the night before, acting like he didn't care that he wasn't invited to the ceremony or even that Cuddy was getting married. But Wilson knew his friend well enough not to be taken in by his bluff and swagger. Cuddy's marriage to Lucas was killing him and by acting as a witness to the affair, Wilson felt his own fingers tighten around the handle of the dagger that Cuddy had already callously thrust into House's heart.

Wilson desperately needed for this whole thing to be over. His protective nature was calling on him to return to House's apartment and check on him. As soon as the ceremony was over, Wilson planned on doing just that even though it meant foregoing what promised to be a nicely catered event peopled by some very attractive single women.

But a cell phone call was simply not enough. Wilson instinctively knew that his fears would not be quelled until he had seen House with his own eyes. Perhaps if there was time afterward, he could return to the reception and sample a few of the culinary and feminine wares.

He glanced at his watch for probably the fifth time in three minutes. The ceremony was running late and the warmth of the late morning sun was beginning to make him uncomfortable in his dark brown suit.

He loosened his tie at his throat and wondered where the major participants had gotten themselves off to. Cuddy had not been seen by himself or any of the guests all morning and the recent disappearance of both the groom and the rabbi officiating for the ceremony had set even some of the most tolerant tongues wagging amongst the assembled guests.

Just as Wilson looked at his watch again, movement along the center aisle caught his eye. Lucas was returning to stand in front of the small, seated crowd. That at least was a good sign that the ceremony would soon be underway.

But something about Lucas' expression and the way he seemed to almost strut as he walked up to take his position was disconcerting to Wilson's nerves. The groom's demeanor reminded Wilson most forcibly of when Lucas tripped House in the cafeteria and afterwards revealed that he had been pranking the two friends as punishment for purchasing Cuddy's dream condo.

Lucas had been oh so smug when he asserted, "I proved my superiority."

It seemed to Wilson that he now had that same kind of air about him but further study and evaluation was cut short when someone began tapping firmly on his shoulder. He turned to face Julie, Cuddy's sister, who stood just behind him, an expression of supreme agitation on her lovely face.

"James? You're Greg's friend?"

"House? What has he . . .?"

"Please. Come quickly. He needs you."

Wilson hesitated not a second. He was immediately on his feet, excusing himself as he brushed past the other guests seated in his row.

When he finally got to the aisle, he said, "Where is he?"

"Out front. I've got to find my sister." And with that, Julie ran off.

Wilson hurried through the gate to the side yard and rounded the corner of the house to see a familiar, yet extremely stooped figure standing next to a motorcycle.

It had taken nearly all of House's remaining energy to drag his loudly protesting body over to the bike. He stood there for what seemed like hours, leaning heavily on the Honda Repsol and his cane, vainly attempting to psyche himself up for the horribly painful act of straddling and then riding the sport bike home.

"House?"

"Oh God. Not again," House mumbled to himself. He raised his head and opened his eyes to see Wilson striding across the lawn toward him. His exchange with Lucas had already denied him a quick exit. But now, by tarrying too long next to the bike, he was forced to face his judgmental best friend.

His attempt at a clean departure, or at least one that didn't involve him meeting anyone else he knew, was now, like everything else in his life, an utter disaster.

"House?" As he got closer to him, Wilson saw House's careful, doubled-over posture and the beginnings of a very painful bruise starting across his high right cheekbone and encircling his eye.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I'll be dead soon so this will all be over. Best thing for everyone all around."

"You're definitely NOT fine. What the hell happened to you?"

"I'd rather not discuss it. Right now I just wanna get home."

Lucas' swagger suddenly made sense. Some kind of altercation had occurred with House obviously bearing the brunt of it. And now, as was typical to his nature, House was trying to slough it off and pretend that nothing had occurred. He was trying to slink home where he could nurse his wounds and where he'd probably stay pickled and stoned for the majority of Cuddy's two-week honeymoon.

Wilson knew he needed to try and prevent that from happening.

"House," Wilson said as he firmly planted his feet shoulder-width apart and placed his hands on his hips. "You're obviously in no shape to ride that thing. Let me drive you home."

"Ah, but your presence is required out back of the manor house and has already been previously spoken for. Why don't you go on back there and witness the spectacle of true love conquering all?"

Wilson sadly regarded his friend. House was once again slapping away the hand of friendship and assistance, hell bent on his own annihilation. He had to reach him. He just had to.

"House, please . . . let me help you. I'm your friend."

House lifted his gaze to Wilson's warm brown eyes. "I'm fine," he asserted. "And Cuddy's your friend too. She needs you." He exhaled softly, resignedly. "Right now, she needs you more than I do."

"But House, I . . ."

"Go!" House shouted. He was glaring at Wilson with a look mixed with equal parts of anger and shame. And only because Wilson knew House so well, he saw also regret and unmitigated sorrow in his best friend's eyes.

There was nothing he could do.

Wilson removed his hands from his hips and placed them in the air, palms facing House in a definitive "stop" gesture.

"Alright House. I'm sorry if I care. But I do, I still do."

House was already throwing a leg over his motorcycle. He was unable to keep himself from inhaling sharply as his face set in a grimace in reaction to the pain.

"You're favoring your right side. Are you sure . . .?"

"I'm fine!" House asserted. But now that he was straddling the bike, he could not escape Wilson's hand as it shot out quickly and probed House's tender right side.

House hissed loudly as Wilson felt the ribs move under his fingertips.

"You've got at least two fractured ribs House! C'mon, I'm taking you home!"

"Take your hands off me," House said low and dangerously. Wilson removed his hand and nervously raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair.

"Alright, alright. Will you please just call me when you get home? Let me know you got in okay?"

House nodded curtly and placed the helmet gingerly on his head. The side cushions were putting uncomfortable pressure on his badly bruised face.

"How about I call you on your cell when I get to the end of the block?" House said. "I think my ringtone will interrupt 'Here Comes the Bride' quite nicely, don't you?"

Wilson allowed himself a small smile at his friend's envisioned scenario. "I could turn up the volume. Make sure that the theme from 'Animal House' totally blocks out the wedding music."

House reflected Wilson's smile. But it did not reach his eyes. From Wilson's point of view, House's cerulean gaze had never looked closer to tears. He simply could not fathom how his friend was carrying, and at the same time denying, the existence of so much pain, both physical and emotional.

"Sounds good," House said as he turned the key and then press-started the bike.

"Call me," Wilson repeated but House drowned him out by rolling back on the throttle of the bike. The engine roared several times before Wilson finally gave up trying to make himself heard.

In the end, he pointed his right hand and touched House's shoulder. When House turned his helmet to look at him, Wilson mimed holding his left hand like a phone up to his ear and mouthed, "Call me," again.

House nodded. And then without so much as a backward glance, he kicked the bike into gear and roared down the suburban street.

He took the quickest route, anxious to get home to his pills, his bourbon and his bed. Rather than riding more cautiously, his need to place as much physical distance between himself and Cuddy's wedding made him bolder and ride more recklessly.

Rash maneuvers on the bike were never a good idea under the best of circumstances but certainly not when his mood and his pain made his reactions sluggish.

The car to the right of him made a sudden swerve to the left as the driver leaned forward to retrieve her dropped cell phone. House received a momentary jolt to his throbbing right leg and then felt as if the earth itself had opened up underneath him, hurling his body through space.

Tires screeched and brakes squealed in protest in the second that House was airborne. House never saw the oncoming, speeding traffic, never felt the front tire of the first car crush his twisted right leg.

For as soon as he hit the ground, House experienced one brilliant, excruciating explosion of pain before the blackness, like a tidal wave, enveloped him in an inky shroud.