Title Nothing Can Come Between
Rating PG-13
Pairing House/Wilson
Word Count 978
Spoilers Season 4 Finale (415-416)
Summary Just as House began to believe nothing can come between him and Wilson.
A/N Kind of shamelessly stole from myself (In Memoriam), but it suits the situation.



For the longest time, it's just been you and Wilson, and that worked well enough. Usually. After Stacy left, you could always depend on him and Wilson would always come back to you, god knows why, but he always did; you were grateful every time and now can see all the lost opportunities to tell him this, show him this. At least you're trying now.

Trying. How worthless.

It takes some time before you and Wilson finally talk. To say you lost count of the days, weeks, would be a lie; you were every bit aware of the amount of time that passed as you had been of each of the sixteen minutes that ticked by when she had brought Wilson over to your apartment late. Ever since then, it's been like watching sand in an hour glass drain away, except you know you can't get it back again.

The idiot has been back to work for a while instead of staying home and...Home. The place that's probably still cluttered with her things, knowing Wilson, versus work, one of the two things going for him. One thing, really. But you go to him first, no matter what he may be prepared to say – or do – to you.

When you open the door to Wilson's office, you don't see him sitting at the desk, and, looking the other way, you half-expect to see her sitting there, like faking her death was her latest and greatest prank. Instead, Wilson is at the balcony door, back to you, and his emotional state is almost entirely readable just from the slouch in his shoulders. It's that stance that tells you to back off, leave it all to the family.

But that's you.

“Wilson,” you say softly, not sure whether he heard you come in. He doesn't make a sound except for a sigh and places his hands on the door frame, as though trying to steady himself. Between the two of you, one always knows what to say to a patient, the family, other doctors, yet both of you are always grasping for one right word to say to each other. You miss the days of communicating without any words at all.

“What took you so long?” The question could be hurled accusingly, but he just sounds tired, more tired than he had during the Tritter mess and before the antidepressants. You're glad he still hasn't turned around.

“Wasn't sure you wanted to see me.” The rational part of you knows it's stupid, but that tiny flicker in you ruled by emotion disagrees. You hate feeling this way.

He turns his head at this, a wry smile barely visible. Wilson lets out a short, humorless laugh, turns back to the balcony. “Why wouldn't I want to see you?” You're losing your already tenuous read on him, can't tell whether it's sincere or his ever-present deadpanned sarcasm. Option A makes you sick with relief, option B with despair, and you're too much of a pessimist to hope. After all, he'd been willing to sacrifice you for her, after they'd been together for, what, five months?

The rational part of you knows it's stupid, it wasn't like that.

“I'm sorry.” The words have probably never fallen from your lips so easily, because it's much harder to say When I could finally do something in return for you, I failed anyway. Or This is killing me. Or I love you. You take an uneasy breath. “I know you probably hate me, but--”

Wilson's head turns slightly. “What? Why do you think that?”

You go silent. She wouldn't be dead now if you hadn't been such an ass and gotten drunk at five in the afternoon or called Wilson. If you hadn't made her drink, or pay. If she hadn't gotten on the bus to return the cane. If you hadn't sat where you did, and she sat across from you.

If you could have remembered sooner.

The rational part of you knows it's stupid, but the one thing your reason and your feelings can agree on is forgiving Wilson for hating you.

He turns around after the long silence and lack of response, mouth hanging open almost comically. “Christ, I thought you were pissed at me.” Wilson starts laughing; it reminds you of your scheme last year to fake brain cancer, another less-than-spectacular moment. He shakes his head, and he's on the verge of tears again, once more after countless times in weeks that have passed, with so many more to come.

Not once in all the years of your friendship have you two hugged or even tried to, but just then, you both reached out for the other, because what else is left?

But you realize normalcy will never return, that it'll never be just the two of you again. There will always be that third presence, an absence. Every time Wilson looks at you, he won't be seeing just you. When you walk side-by-side with him, you'll always feel a small but insurmountable gap between, the width of one woman. One particular woman, a proxy for you, and now you're the proxy for her. More than ever, you're one and the same.

Just as you cautiously began to believe nothing can come between you and Wilson, you are, ironically, proven right.