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James Wilson came to with the odd feeling of grass tickling his neck.
Opening his eyes, he saw that the sky was a whole array of sunset colors. Vibrant pinks mixed with lilac in a navy blue backdrop. Bursts of yellow and orange close to the horizon, obscured by cloud cover that seemed to only cover that portion of sky. The stars were out, brighter than they should be at that time of day, and the moon was swollen and whole above him, big enough in the tapestry that he could make out craters. The weirdest part though, was that there was a glassy look to it all, as if he were in a snow globe looking up to the heavens.
That's when he remembered. He was dead.
Wilson felt his heart race and he closed his eyes, aching with the memory of his final moments playing out with a crystal clarity he didn't have at the time.
A persistent wet, hacking cough had started four months into the road trip marking the end of his life. Fatigue, lack of appetite, and chest pains took hold soon after. It wasn't long until the cough came accompanied by blood and the fatigue led to him sleeping up to fifteen hours a day. House had fought it at first, upping his pain meds and dragging him out of their various hotel rooms to continue checking items off of their to-do list, but even House and all his willpower couldn't halt the speed of an aggressive tumor. When Wilson had woken up after sleeping for eighteen hours at the end of month five to the sight of House hunched over the edge of his bed silently crying, he knew they had both finally accepted the game was over.
House asked for two more days and because Wilson had spent upwards of twenty years enabling him, he saw relenting as a fitting farewell gesture. During the hours he was awake, they strolled down the brighter side of memory lane, his laughter making his chest hurt, but he didn't care. The pain wasn't going to last much longer anyway. When he wasn't awake, House gave up whatever pretense they had about... whatever and slept beside him. He had became more susceptible to the cold as his symptoms got worse and it was nice to wake up cocooned in his blankets, House's arms sealing him inside so the cold didn't progress into shivers. They didn't talk about the caring gesture. They didn't talk much about anything of substance at all.
The calm of House's facade cracked when Wilson awoke for what would prove to be the last time after the two day window he allowed. He wasn't bundled in his blankets, only House's arms were wrapped around him like a vice. One arm was tucked around his middle and the other was pillowing his head, House's forearm crossing his chest to grip his bicep, his thumb moving in comforting circles. It took Wilson longer than it should have to realize the pressure on his head was House resting his on top of it. The contact made him all too aware of the tightness in House's body and the shallowness of his breaths. He was scared.
Wilson had a lot to say, had been planning what he would say in his final moments for months, hoping he would have the courage to say half of them, but in the end, he said nothing. When he started to register more of his surroundings than House's arms, he noted the shallowness of his own breathing and the metallic taste in his mouth. A glance at his sheets revealed a blood pool and the arm House was using to pillow his head had blood smeared on it. There was a pillow discarded across the room and its lower half seemed to be soaked through. That's when everything made sense. He was drowning in his own blood. This was the end he was getting, whether House wanted it to be or not.
Turning over, the movement nearly taking what little breath and energy he had, he gripped House's shirt in his hands and looked up at him pleadingly, not sure if the expression worked because his vision was hazy and he was grimacing at the pain radiating out from where he knew the tumor resided. He seemed to get the message though because he untangled himself from around Wilson and reached over to the nightstand, Wilson barely able to make out the shape of the morphine vial and needle.
House swabbed the injection site, which was completely pointless and Wilson felt a flicker of amusement at it. The sting of the injection barely registered, but within seconds his pain was gone. His respiration was still in the tank, but it didn't hurt anymore to be dying. House laid back down beside him and Wilson closed his eyes, the last thing he saw being House's face. That seemed fitting, too.
"Your life was worthwhile and I loved you for every second I was in it."
There was a hand cupping his face, a forehead resting against his, the faraway sound of his name, and then nothing. Wilson was gone.
That is, until he woke up to the feel of grass beneath him and the sight of a fucked up sky.
Opening his eyes again, Wilson tried to take in more than the wonderland firmament. He was wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the first couple of buttons undone, black trousers with a belt he'd gotten too big for at least ten years ago, and black dress shoes. He looked thinner too and feeling his head, he noticed that his hair was longer. There was also the blessed absence of pain. It would seem he went to heaven after all.
With a bit more confidence and curiosity, he took in the landscape. He was in the middle of a field, tall trees everywhere he looked, and about a football field away from him was a tiny townhouse; a tiny townhouse he didn't recognize in the middle of a field in his heaven. Weird. Wilson stood to go and investigate the anomaly, but stopped first to jump up and down to test how his new body felt. None of the lethargy that had sunk into his bones or the pain that had dominated his last days was there. It was like he'd been reborn into his own body, but perfected and younger. He felt like dancing a bit, so he did.
"If it was raining, you would be singin' in it, wouldn't you?"
Wilson whirled around on his heel to see House, his face amused and smirk firmly in place. His soul soared higher at the sight, gold fireworks bursting in his chest.
"House?"
"Gene Kelly?" he teased, his tone swooning and starstruck.
Wilson couldn't help it, he laughed and ran to the big jerk. Unlike 'real world' House, this one hugged him back readily, his grip so tight that it hurt. Although, after the last five months of his life, maybe that wasn't so out of the realm of possibility for his House anymore. He broke up the hug, but kept his hands on House's arms.
"Are you real or just some - I don't know - figment of my imagination brought to life here for me?"
"You lack imagination if it's me you want here and not a bustle of bosom buddies." Wilson chuckled, but tilted his inquiringly to convey that his question was a serious one and House nodded after a moment. "Yeah, I'm real."
Wilson continued to smile at him, until the realization of what he said hit and he felt his smile fall. House looked away from him.
"House, did you..." Wilson trailed off, unable to finish his thought. It twisted his new and shiny insides into knots. "Are you dead?"
"If I'm here, that's a safe bet."
Wilson's grip tightened on House's arms when he gave him a shake to get his attention back on him. "You're - you - how could you!? House!"
House's expression morphed into anger in the blink of an eye and he shoved Wilson's hands off of him, the force making him take a step back. He glared at him with the level of fury he reserved for only those stupid enough to question his level of pain. It made Wilson pause the tirade he was about to launch into.
"Oh, get off your sanctimonious soapbox, Wilson!" House spat at him, eyes narrowed and his posture defensive. "I'm in the same heaven you are. Your self-righteous bullshit against suicide means nothing here." He waved his hand around in a gesture meant to signify the whole place and sneered condescendingly at him. "Only you could be holier-than-thou enough to scold me in God's land."
"You don't believe in God," he retorted automatically, the years old argument cropping up before he could think his answer through. He paid for it with House scoffing in disbelief and a roll of his eyes.
"Evidence to the contrary. I'm dead and in heaven. God has to be real," he said, but then looked away with a look of fake contemplation. "Unless you wanna get real wild and philosophize that heaven exists, but God doesn't. You know me, I'm always down with finding new and exciting ways to make saints roll in their Italian marble tombs."
It was Wilson's turn to roll his eyes. "Philosophize isn't a real word."
"It is now."
Leave it to House to bring his unwavering belligerence to heaven. Wilson smiled solemnly, giving into the humor and House's sad - but rational - logic. His suicide didn't keep him out of the heaven Wilson believed he was due and the point was moot. It's not like he could force House back into life and he wouldn't be cruel enough to do so even if he could. House deserved peace and he was the last person who would ever deny it to him.
Wanting to reestablish contact and bridge the emotional gap between them, Wilson reached out and bumped House's hand with his own. "Whether you think so or not, you were a force of good. I just wanted you to live, do some more good while you could, that's all. I'm not mad at you. I know it probably wasn't... easy for you."
House seemed to deflate under Wilson's sincerity and was left looking vulnerable in a way Wilson didn't see very often on the other side.
"There was nothing left for me. You were dead and -." House cut himself off and swallowed hard, Wilson following the movement of his Adam's apple. "I wasn't going to lie to myself that I'd find happiness like we had in those last few months ever again. My life was over." Wilson wanted to say something, he didn't know what, maybe an apology for dying or something stupid like that, but House's usual sardonic look snapped into place and he pointed at his leg. "Besides, why would I want to miss out on having this sweet new leg?"
Now that the high of having House with him evened out, Wilson took in the full picture of what he was seeing. House didn't have a cane and he was standing evenly on both legs, black jeans fitting snugly and rocking a pair of classic Converse instead of his ubiquitous Nike's. He was also wearing an original 1972 Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon tour shirt. Wilson could recall that it was House's first concert and his mother had taken him, buying a shirt for him that was way too big for the wiry teenager because they didn't sell anything in his size at the time. The plus side was that it did eventually fit his athletic body, and Wilson's after he stole it to get even for a prank. He expected House to pitch a bitch about it because he loved that t-shirt even more than he loved monster trucks, but he never did. Wilson had forgotten to ask why that was as time passed and they found new things to irritate each other with.
Also, much like Wilson, he was thinner, with a lot more hair, less wrinkles, and the dark circles under his eyes didn't have bags. He did have stubble though, which Wilson had always appreciated. It made him seem more human somehow.
In heaven, they were in the prime of their lives.
"You look like you did when you were in your late thirties."
Wilson would know. The last time he could recall House wearing a similar outfit was just before his infarction.
"And you look like you did when you were in your late twenties," he responded, leering at him. "I suppose you'll do if my sex drive returns to what it was back then."
This was ground Wilson was used to walking on and he smirked. "Is that when the little blue pills came out? I don't recall them being that old."
House gasped in mock offense. "Bite your tongue, heathen!" He kicked him with his now-good leg and Wilson smacked his arm in retaliation. "Just for that, I'm not giving you the full Greg House experience when the time comes."
"Fine. Used and abused isn't really my style anyway."
Both smiled at the banter and started looking around again at their environment. If House's look was anything to read into, he didn't recognize anything either. They started walking in the direction of the townhouse through unspoken agreement and fell into their usual rhythm, albeit the one they had before the cane. It was almost like the intervening years hadn't passed at all.
"Why do you think we're here together?" Wilson mused out loud. "There's no one else here and I woke up only a minute or so before you arrived. I thought heaven was supposed to be all white light, pearly gates, and a welcome wagon from long dead relatives I never wanted to see again. Instead I got dusk, a field, and you."
House sighed, sounding infinitely put upon. "You're gonna make me say it, aren't you?"
"I live and breathe to make you say uncomfortable and honest things."
"Soulmates, my dear Wilson," he announced grandly, his expression pure evil revelry. "How does it feel to be soulmates with a mean old soul like me?"
Wilson nearly tripped over his own two feet gawking at House. "You can't be serious. You think we're soulmates?"
"I killed myself so I wouldn't have to live without you, what do you think?" Wilson wasn't allowed two seconds to ruminate on that snidely said, but frank and jaw-dropping statement before House cut him off, pointing at the townhouse. "Are you sure you don't recognize this place?"
Any other time, Wilson would be more than willing to fulfill his role as House's resident Rosetta Stone and dissect his last statement to within an inch of its life, but a second glance at the townhouse threw him off course. Now that they were much closer to the townhouse, he did recognize it. It was decades in the past and he barely recognized it, but the green door and shutters triggered flashes of the few memories he did retain of it.
"Yeah, actually I do," he confirmed. "It's my childhood home from when we lived in the outskirts of Trenton."
"I thought you grew up in Pennsylvania."
Wilson smiled at House's retention of all things him, the obsessive bastard. "I did, but we moved there when I was ten. We lived here until I was six, then a small bungalow until the move to Pennsylvania."
They walked up the stone steps to the door and Wilson was impressed by the level of detail the place had, from the texture of the white stone to the wear on the brass knocker. The door felt solid and real beneath his palm and he hesitated for only a second more before opening it and walking inside, House trailing at his heel.
The delightful smell of his mother's chocolate chip cookies wafted into the hall and he was nearly bowled over by the accuracy of it. It was like he had stepped through a wrinkle in time and was once again standing in the little townhouse. Wondering if it was possible to eat in heaven, he took a step in the direction of the hall to go to the kitchen, when a flash of red in his periphery caught his attention.
There, clear as day and as real as everything else, was a five year old him running across the living room to the window. Wilson blinked several times to reconcile the picture in front of him with the impossibility of it all.
"Holy shit," House said with genuine awe. "That's you. Sweet and young and a few short years off from being thrice divorced."
Wilson turned to glare at House, but quickly turned his attention back to... himself. He was crouched on his dad's chair, head resting on his crossed arms against the windowsill. Past-him was wearing his big, red winter coat, jeans, and snow boots. He was also wearing a little cap with a fuzzy ball on top.
"How old are you here? Four? Five?"
Before he could answer House, his much younger looking dad walked into the room and silently watched his oldest son. There was a sad look on his face as he watched him and as Wilson was attempting to go through his memories of the time to figure out why he would be sad, he spoke.
"Jimmy, why don't you go outside to play?" he suggested. "The neighborhood boys are building a snowman down the street."
Past-him turned around quickly with a bashful expression, looking like he'd been caught coloring on the walls with his colored pencils instead of watching snow fall outside. He lost his balance and landed flat on his butt in the chair. He was small enough that his feet didn't yet hang over the edge of the cushion.
"I don't want to play, Daddy."
His dad's look became sadder for a second before he plastered on a smile. "Then why are you wearing your snow clothes? I can walk you down the street, if you want."
He shook his head, the little fuzzy ball bouncing with the movement. "I don't want to."
"Jimmy -"
"No, Daddy," he said with more conviction than a five year old should have. He jumped off the chair and started walking towards the TV. "I don't want to play. I want to watch TV." The TV came to life and Wilson recognized Emergency! as the show playing. An old favorite. Then, so quietly he almost didn't catch it, past-him mumbled, "They're stupid anyway."
His dad nodded dejectedly and walked over to pat his little head. "How about I go get you a cookie? I won't tell Mom if you don't."
Past-him looked up at his Dad and smiled, his gappy smile pulling at Wilson's insides. "I promise."
His dad left after that and he turned back to the TV, absorbed in the drama of someone shooting at the bad guys at the same time as he staunched the blood of a victim.
Wilson didn't know what he felt after watching the memory play out. It wasn't something he readily remembered from his childhood, but it rang true as something that did happen. It was bizarre watching himself at such a young age and the sight of his father looking dejected about his son's lack of friends hurt. He couldn't imagine how it felt to watch a beloved child get isolated by his own peers at such a young age.
"You wanted to go play."
Wilson startled at the sound of House's voice, having forgotten he was there as he watched the memory play out. He looked over at him and shrugged, his nonchalance forced.
"I also wanted to play blocks with Mary Tyler Moore."
House finally turned to face him and Wilson caught the same look of sadness in his eyes his dad had before he shut it down and looked at him analytically, which never ended well. "You went through the trouble of putting on your winter clothes. You wanted to go play, but you didn't. Why?"
The last thing he wanted to deal with was House digging into his psyche. "You already know why."
"I knew you were isolated and that you watched a lot of TV as a result. What I don't know is why."
"It doesn't matter."
"Apparently it does," House insisted, his whole body now turned towards Wilson. "We die and this is where God sees fit to plop us. It's important. Why were you isolated? What happened?"
"Nothing happened!" Wilson snapped, wanting to avoid thinking about this aspect of his childhood, but unable to because if he knew anything about House, it was that he wouldn't stop asking until he fessed up. "They just didn't like me. They made fun of my teeth, my clothes, my cheekbones, my height. I was younger than them because I skipped kindergarten and I was the teacher's pet on top of that, which they didn't like either. Last time I tried to play with them, they threw snowballs at me until I cried and ran home." Wilson rubbed his face with both hands to avoid looking at House. "They just didn't like me, okay? Just this once, can that be enough for you?"
Wilson didn't mean to beg him for mercy and he was embarrassed by his tone once he listened back to it in his head. The only comfort he could take was that his plea got through to House, who dropped the analytical look and stiffly nodded.
Looking back at the memory, Wilson saw that the scene was frozen in front of him. The snow outside the window was suspended mid-air, the fire in the hearth wasn't dancing anymore, and the picture on the TV was stuck on a frame of a doctor tending to a patient. Whatever they were supposed to glean from the memory had, evidently, already passed.
House walked into the living room and knelled before the five year old him. He poked at the little ball on his cap and looked at him adoringly, almost like he loved him even though he wasn't bound to meet him for another twenty years. "Cute kid."
Taking it for the apology and kindness it was, Wilson smiled at him. "I was all the rage at my family's synagogue."
"I bet bubbes traveled from far and wide to pinch your cheeks and feed you latkes."
"They promised me their granddaughter's hand in marriage, too."
"Only a toddler and already a lady killer." He shook his head as if he really couldn't believe it. Wilson smirked. "Breaking hearts before you even knew how to pee standing up."
Moving into the room, Wilson chuckled. "I had my first kiss before I knew how to tie my own shoes."
The sight of something that didn't belong caught Wilson's eye on the mantelpiece. It looked to be a case of military medals that were unfamiliar to him. Neither of his parents had served and even though both of his grandfathers had, his parents didn't possess their medals. He felt House come to stand next to him, the air around him immediately becoming tense.
"Oh, hell."
Wilson turned to him. "You recognize these?"
His mouth was moving to respond, but the sound of a loud crash tore through the room. They both spun in the direction of the sound and Wilson was caught off guard to find himself standing in a completely different living room. It was a tad bigger than the one they had been in, but far more sterile. The couch and chairs were upholstered in a plain brown fabric and the coffee table looked to be made with the same wood as the rest of the furniture. There was an old TV in the corner with a model tank on top. The carpet had been recently vacuumed, perfect lines crossing the entire room, and the rest of the room seemed to be as immaculately cleaned as well.
Except for the broken shelf of a bookcase against the farthest wall. The pieces of the split shelf lay on the floor amongst a pile of books and in the middle of the pile was a small boy with short hair wearing red footie pajamas and tightly clutching a stuffed horse. Wilson had only just registered he was looking at a five year old House when a roar came from the entryway leading to what, Wilson presumed, were the bedrooms.
"Gregory!"
Wilson felt his spine straighten in response to the authoritative tone of John House's voice as he turned to look at him. Only someone as severe looking as John could look intimidating in nothing more than boxers and a white shirt. The air around House became impossibly stiffer.
"I didn't mean it!" past-House hurriedly tried to explain. "I just wanted to read your plane book."
"And you thought breaking furniture was the way to do it?"
"No, I - I didn't mean it, Daddy, I swear!"
John marched across the room, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch as he went, and jerked past-House up with a yank of his forearm.
"John, no," Blythe said from the entryway, hands covering her mouth in distress.
"This kid has no respect for other people's property," he explained down to past-House, who was trying to resist his dad's pull by digging his heels into the carpet. It didn't have much of an effect. "He needs to learn respect."
Past-House was crying and attempting to pull himself away from his dad. "I didn't mean to break it. I'm sorry!"
There was no getting through to John. He pulled the child across the room and through the connected kitchen, Wilson running after them when they left through the back door. Wilson knew he was watching a memory play out, that there was nothing he could do to stop what was happening, but he couldn't fathom leaving five year old House alone. When he exited the house, it was to see father and son standing beneath a nearby tree.
"Maybe a night without furniture will teach you to respect what you have."
"But I didn't mean to break it," past-House tearfully explained, holding on tightly to his stuffed horse and the blanket his dad shoved into his hands. "Please, it's cold and I want to go to bed. I'll be quiet, I promise."
"I'll get you in the morning. If you've moved beyond this tree, you're in trouble."
And with that, John House walked away and left the small, five year old House standing beneath the tree crying. Wilson heard the back door slam shut, but he didn't look back at it. He watched past-House sit down and wrap the blanket around himself against the cold, putting the stuffed horse beneath his head to pillow it against the ground.
"Still think my dad's an okay guy?"
Wilson couldn't look at his House. He heard the monotone voice and knew all he'd see if he looked at him was a blank expression. This was something he was never meant to see and House himself had probably buried it deep enough that he never thought about it either. His heart was breaking in his chest at the sight of past-House, an innocent kid who accidentally broke a bookshelf, crying and banished to sleep in the backyard. He knew his pity would be rejected, would likely do nothing but incur his wrath, so he moved away from his House and towards the small one. He knelt beside him and ran his fingers through his hair, knowing the gesture meant nothing to the memory, but maybe it would mean something to the man standing behind him.
And if it made himself feel better to comfort the memory-child, then so be it.
He didn't know how much time he spent there, crouched uncomfortably to lovingly stroke the hair of a House who was long in the past, but a wave of relief crashed over Wilson when he felt his House's hand come to rest reassuringly on his shoulder. House understood and that's all that mattered. Wilson shut his eyes in relief.
When he opened them again, it was to a ray of light spilling across the lawn on his left. He turned his head to look in the direction it was coming from, but the light started to move. House's hand traveled across his shoulders as he also followed the light's movement and Wilson fell back on his butt from his crouched position when the light covered the grassy area in sunlight and the previous memory was gone, replaced by a place he remembered all too well and for all the wrong reasons.
"Oh, shit."
House put a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. "Wilson, where -"
"GET HIM!"
Both jerked in the direction of the proclamation and saw a group of four boys charging towards a smaller boy running like a bat out of hell away from them. House booked it in their direction, his speed reminding Wilson that there was once a period in his life when he was a damn good athlete, and Wilson reluctantly ran after him, preferring to delay the scene he knew was going to play out for as long as possible. He followed the procession into the locker room, where the four boys had a twelve year old him cornered.
"What the hell is this?" House asked, confused and something else Wilson couldn't read as he waved a hand at the mini-mob. "I thought you were popular in school."
The part Wilson had neglected to tell him was that he hadn't become popular until three years later in sophomore year after he hit a growth spurt that took him to 5'9" without a zit in sight and his voice a noticeable octave lower. That was also at another school in another school district. What House was witnessing was -
"So I hear you've been talkin' to Frankie the Fag, Jimmy."
- quite possibly one of the worst memories he possessed.
Past-him was turning red and fidgeting against the lockers he was pushed into. "I - I was just talking to him about homework and -"
"And - and," the leader, fourteen year old Turner, mocked with a stutter. "I think you were flirting with him like the little bitch you are. What do you think boys?"
A rumbling of affirmatives from the three other boys made Turner smirk maliciously at past-him. "See? I was told you asked him to the movies this weekend. Did I hear wrong?"
Wilson could barely look at the cowering form of his past-self shrinking in on himself.
"Yeah, but he - he doesn't have any friends and I - I thought -"
"You thought wrong!" Turner yelled with an anger unbefitting someone of his young age, and he lunged.
Turner punched past-him so hard in the face that his head snapped to the side with a sickening crack on the metal locker and blood came flying out of his mouth. House visibly recoiled from the sight, his feet sliding back with the force and Wilson turned away, unable to watch anymore. It was bad enough that he had to relive the sounds of all four boys converging on him and his cries as he tried to push them away and protect himself at the same time, he didn't have to see it, too. Living through it once was enough. He could see House's arms moving restlessly out of the corner of his eye, like he didn't know what to do with them, and he kept making little aborted sounds, like he wanted to say something even knowing it wouldn't make a difference. When Wilson heard a thunk near the lockers, he knew what was going to happen next.
"Shit! Is he -," one of the boys hesitantly started.
"We need to hide him," Turner announced. "Bill, make sure no one comes in. Rich, grab his legs."
The two boys, carrying his unconscious body between them, walked into Wilson's line of sight and towards the school's new sauna. They unceremoniously dropped past-him inside and closed the door, jamming a shower rod beneath the door handle before cranking the heat all the way up and running away.
House ran up to the door and looked inside through the window. He attempted to remove the shower rod, but when it refused to budge, he moved on to yanking on the sauna's door handle with an urgency Wilson wasn't used to seeing in his friend. He normally would have commented on the futility of the gesture, but he was too numb to say anything.
"Wilson!" House yelled, pulling on the handle a few more times before moving on to slamming his fist into the door and window repeatedly. "Help me open the door!"
Wilson didn't say anything, still unable to do much beyond marvel at House, of all people, losing perspective and freaking out over a memory.
House continued banging on the door for a few more seconds before he spun around and screamed at Wilson, with panic and anger ripping through his tone, "You'll die!"
Finally managing something beyond just standing, Wilson twisted his lips into a wry smirk and the expression seemed to bring House back to where they were. He blinked a few times to clear the emotions from his face, looking back and forth between Wilson and the sauna, until he calmed himself. After a minute passed, House seemed to settle on looking something between hurt and angry.
"Wilson, you got some splainin' to do."
He ignored the humor and went straight into the explanation he knew House needed to process what he'd just seen. Wilson kept himself as detached and cold as possible.
"I wasn't popular in middle school. Turner had it out for me since day one, I don't know why. This kid Frankie, he was one of the few people who would talk to me and I wanted to be his friend. I didn't care what the other kids thought of him or me. One of Turner's cronies was in our English class and heard me ask him to the movies. When he found out, this happened. I got a concussion, two cracked ribs, lost a tooth and bit through the tip of my tongue. I was in the hospital for three days. My parents had me transfer schools and I never saw any of them again. Well, except Frankie. He went on to be a model and I saw him on a billboard in Times Square once."
House was looking at him like he'd never seen him before. "I - I've read your medical file. This wasn't in it."
"I had it scrubbed from the hospital file." Wilson smirked, with real humor this time. "You're forgetting how well I know you. I knew you'd go looking for it eventually."
Seeming to mull over what he'd just said, House looked at him critically, analyzing every new bit of data he'd been given, before quietly asking, "Did you like him?"
"Who?"
"Frankie," he responded, as if it were obvious, then more delicately, "Did you like him?"
The weight he gave the word 'like' made it clear to Wilson that House wasn't asking if he'd just liked Frankie as a friend. Wilson could still recall what Frankie had looked like; tan with freckles on his cheeks, green eyes, and brown hair. He'd been smitten, as smitten as a twelve year old can be, and he had wondered what it would have been like to kiss his freckled cheeks and hold his hand. It had been an innocent crush and Wilson had never forgiven Turner and his flunkies for turning it into something ugly. Looking away from House, he shrugged as if it didn't matter. They were dead, its not as if he had reason to hide shit from him anymore.
"Yeah," he admitted, and then added bitterly, "But don't worry, Turner beat that one out of me."
Turning for the locker room's exit, Wilson made it to the door before House caught up and grabbed his arm. "Hey, I -"
House was cut off by Wilson opening the door, only to be confronted by a bunch of students rushing past in a hallway of what was apparently a Japanese school. They both starred gobsmacked at the sight, before turning back around to find themselves in a classroom filled with students.
"I'm going to throw a wild guess out there and say this is your memory."
Just as he finished his statement, Wilson caught sight of what was obviously a teenage House sitting towards the back of the room flipping through a book. Past-House looked to be about thirteen, with the lanky look of a boy who grew too much, too quick and had no idea what to do with his long limbs. His hair was neatly coiffed and his school uniform looked to be pressed. The only thing about the presentable young man that reminded Wilson of the man beside him was the look in his eyes, like he couldn't consume enough information fast enough to satiate his curiosity.
Wilson was transfixed by the sight of past-House, young and smart, but not yet jaded by the world that only seemed to appreciate him for as long as it needed him. He was only pulled out of his ruminations when a classmate seated next to him tapped him on the shoulder, past-House looking up from his book with a smile and nodding to whatever the boy had whispered. They stood from their desks and hurriedly walked out of the room, leaving so fast that they neglected to slip back on their shoes by the door. Wilson moved to follow them, but House's iron grip on his arm stopped him.
"Don't."
Turning on his heel, Wilson was surprised to see shards of genuine fear in House's eyes.
"Why? What happens?"
"It doesn't matter," he insisted, his adamance making the lie apparent. Only when he was rattled did he lie so badly. "Let's just pretend this never happened and go draw dicks on the chalkboard. Most diseased looking one wins."
Wilson rolled his eyes.
"You just watched me get the shit beat out of me and you think this is somehow worse?" Wilson asked, pointing out the classroom door. "Besides, you yourself said we're seeing these memories for a reason."
"And I stopped pressing you when you asked. Now I'm asking you to drop it."
Wilson was spared from having to make a decision when the ground beneath their feet began to quake and the classroom around them abruptly shifted, the world coming back into crystal clarity in what appeared to be the grounds of the school. Past-House was standing beneath a cherry blossom tree and his friend was leaning against it, cigarette in hand and a smile on his face.
"Yeah, I can really see why you didn't want me to see this. Can't have your dead oncologist friend watching you and your teenage friend indulging in a cigarette. Scared I'll order up some heavenly chemo for you?"
House was watching the scene before them, face blank and the hand gripping Wilson's arm becoming increasingly tighter.
"His name is Yuki, and he's not my friend."
Wilson watched Yuki and past-House speak to each other in Japanese, laughing at something one of them said. Yuki took another puff of the cigarette and slowly released the smoke, the effect making the smoke look like it was slowly cascading out of his mouth like water. Past-House's laughter tapered off as he watched Yuki, his eyes focused on his mouth. When the smoke stopped, they both watched each other, silent and tense for several seconds, past-House's hand twitching by his side. He hesitantly moved his hand to Yuki's cheek, his fingers caressing his cheekbone, then sliding back into his black hair. Wilson's jaw dropped when he watched past-House lean in and kiss Yuki, the kiss hesitant and gentle. He almost looked away, immediately feeling like an intruder, until he saw Yuki pull back with a scared look and punch past-House in the face. Past-House, caught off guard and barefoot in the wet grass of the grounds, lost his balance and fell on his side, cupping his cheek with an expression that was as shocked as it was hurt. Yuki, somehow looking even more scared than he had a second before, reached for him as if to help him up, but then seemed to think twice about it and ran back into the school, leaving past-House alone with a steadily bleeding split lip.
"Was that -," Wilson started, unable to put into words what he was thinking and feeling. The only thing he knew for sure is that he felt nauseous. "House, was that your first kiss?"
"It was also the first of many punches to come," he responded, his flippant tone dull and lacking its usual edge. "Who knew I had such a punchable face?"
The scene that had played out before Wilson made so much about House suddenly make sense. House was a man who did nothing half-way; not his career, not his relationships, not his addictions. If this had been his first attempt at showing love physically, it would go a long way in explaining why he kept everyone at arm's length, never letting them close unless he knew he could bring them all the way in. Personal experience had taught him that if a kiss could end in a punch, love would end in heartbreak.
There was also the whole factor of House apparently not being straight and Wilson wasn't sure he was entirely ready to deal with that yet. That seemed like a minefield unto itself, especially considering what he'd just seem.
One hand resting on his hip and the other running through his hair, Wilson thought about everything they'd been witnessing, how none of it was good and all of it seemingly showing how they were fucked up in similar, but completely different ways. This isn't what heaven was supposed to be... maybe they weren't in heaven at all.
"House, what if this isn't heaven?" Wilson felt his throat constrict as the thought coalesced in horrible, agonizing technicolor. "What if we're in hell?"
"Then anyone who's ever told me to go to hell would be thrilled."
"Jesus Christ, House, I'm serious! What if this is what eternity looks like!? What if this what we have to do forever? Just - just keep reliving our worst memories over and over again."
House seemed to contemplate the idea for a moment, but then shook his head.
"Doubt it. If this was hell, I'd be alone and so would you."
Already suspecting that was what House was going to say, Wilson was ready with what he knew was the only argument he could use to combat it.
"You know that's not the only option. We're each other's Achilles's heel. People have used me to bring you to heel before, and the reverse is equally true. What could be worse than exposing who we are and the secrets we've kept than to the one person whose rejection could hurt us most? Why just isolate us when we can reject each other into isolation?"
House was staring at him, his gaze intense and piercing, nearly making Wilson squirm. He looked like he did when he was trying to solve a case and the answer was just out of reach, floating in the ether too far away to grasp.
"I'm not going to reject you," he said firmly.
"You don't know what I'm hiding."
"I don't care."
A thudding sound startled both of them and they turned in the direction of the sound, surprised to find themselves in a location they were both very familiar with: the hallway outside of House's apartment. Wilson heard giggling and after a few more seconds of thudding sounds and muffled laughter, he watched as his much younger counterpart and the spitting image of the House standing beside him, all the way down to his clothes, stumbled into the hallway from the building's entrance.
"You're terrible at breaking and entering," past-House giggled, arm around past-Wilson, who also had an arm around his back. They were clearly supporting each other and very drunk.
"You're the genius slash criminal out of the two of us," past-Wilson rebutted through a hiccup, shoving what looked to be lock picks in his pocket. "You should've picked the lock instead of making me do it."
"But you had to learn at some point."
"It's not a required life skill. I, in fact, never had to learn how to do it."
Past-House was standing in front of his door, swaying on his feet unsteadily with his hands on past-Wilson's shoulders. He smiled a full, toothy smile at him, one that came rarely but so much easier to him before the infarction that Wilson knew happened a few short months after this particular incident, one that caused Wilson to practice various ways of self-destruction for years whenever he remembered it. Watching it play out before him made the familiar feeling of impending devastation creep up on him, his mind conditioned to reach for a bottle of whatever was closest, or the closest pair of beautiful legs attached to a willing woman.
"It is if you're going to be my friend."
Past-Wilson giggled and put his hands on past-House's waist to steady himself.
"But I'm already your friend."
"If you want me to like you."
"You already like me."
Wilson watched as past-House shuffled his feet, bringing himself closer to his past-self and Wilson felt his heart rate go up higher than it already was, not having remembered that part. He felt like he was choking on air, the memory making him want to die all over again just to avoid it.
"A little bit," past-House conceded, his smile growing softer and more fond.
"A little bit?" his counterpart challenged.
Past-House paused, the look on his face shifting from fond to something more vulnerable, open and unsure. They both tipped over unsteadily on their feet, their sides connecting with the door, but it was like nothing happened for all they reacted to it. They were staring at each other as if they were content to stay there for an eternity.
"More than a little bit."
The memory seemed to slow as past-House's hands trailed up his past-self's neck, fingers threading through his hair until he had a handful and gently tugged. Wilson gasped at the same time his past counterpart did, his insides churning as he watched the unbearably intimate moment play out. Past-Wilson moved in closer to past-House, the space shrinking between them to virtually nothing. He could see his past counterpart's hands start to move up past-House's waist, the gesture akin to a caress with how softly he did it. Wilson started to feel sick knowing what would happen next, wanting to stop it but knowing there was no way of accomplishing that.
Past-Wilson started to lean in, his face inching towards past-House's, until their noses brushed against each other. They both had their eyes closed and before his past-self could close the space between them, there was a sound behind the door. Past-House's eyes flew open and he pushed past-Wilson away from him, looking frightened and something else Wilson still couldn't place after all his years of knowing House. Wilson nearly threw up at the sight of his past counterpart's look of hurt and realization.
The door opened to reveal Stacy.
"I half expected to get a call to come peel your asses out of a gutter somewhere."
Past-House's expression changed in the blink of an eye to something more flirtatious.
"But then I wouldn't get laid," he said, his voice slurring worse than before. "Unless that's a kink, in which case, I'll gladly go crawl into the gutter outside."
She laughed and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, you know how much that sewer smell turns me on. Come on, you two, get in here."
"No, no. Wilson can't come in. I have to get you off. Gotta keep my woman satisfied."
"Whatever you say, Greg," she replied, teasing as she opened the door wider to admit them. "You both, let's go."
"No," past-House said more firmly, looking directly at past-Wilson. "Not tonight." Stumbling into his apartment, he turned to past-Wilson, who was staring dejectedly at the floor. "Go home, Wilson."
He slammed the door, the sound making Wilson and past-Wilson flinch in its finality. He could hear an argument start behind the door, but he didn't care, then or now. Past-Wilson leaned against the door and slid all the way down, his legs spread out before him. The memory froze with past-Wilson holding his head in his hands.
The silence between him and House was loud and spoke volumes about what they both knew they had just witnessed. There was no way around it; nearly fifteen years ago, Wilson had tried to kiss House and House resolutely rejected him. Wilson remembered that night vividly and was grateful when the next day House had called and asked what the hell had happened and why Stacy wasn't talking to him. He dutifully told him everything he remembered, sans the almost kiss, and they moved past it, never speaking of it again. In the years that followed, Wilson couldn't figure out which aspect of that night was worse; that he tried to kiss House or that he tried to kiss him not out of lust, but out of love.
With House's hands gently cradling his head, he realized he was in love with him.
"I - I didn't realize how harsh I'd been," House started, his voice quiet and, if Wilson wasn't mistaken, deeply remorseful. "I thought... I thought that you didn't... I'm so sorry."
Wilson didn't respond, didn't know how to. How was he supposed to respond to an apology he never expected? How was he supposed to address the underlying issue that House apparently remembered that night, but hadn't said anything? For fifteen years, House had remembered that night and never brought it up again; never asked Wilson why he tried to kiss him or why he didn't mention it the next morning. Wilson knew he kept secrets from House and that House kept secrets from him, but it was odd to think that they were both keeping a secret from each other about something that they both remembered. Their secrets had secrets, reasons for their keeping buried beneath the surface and away from each other. It was awful, it was terrible; it was quintessentially them.
The sound of a door opening behind Wilson had them both spinning on their heels to see what the source of the sound was.
"Shit! Shit shit shit!"
"If you don't shut the fuck up, I'm cancelling the wedding just so I don't have to hear you speak for the next couple of hours."
Wilson quickly realized he and House were now standing in the living room of a hotel room, the one he and House shared the night before his marriage to Bonnie. Past-House was sprawled across an over-sized armchair reading Vogue, or better yet, looking at the ads since he kept turning it longways, dressed in the tuxedo he was to wear when standing beside him at the alter as his best man. Wilson saw his past counterpart running around in the bedroom through the doorway wearing - he double checked just to be sure - the same outfit he was currently wearing.
"I can't find my fucking vows!" past-Wilson yelled from the bedroom.
Past-House rolled his eyes. "I have them."
Past-Wilson came running out of the bedroom to stand before past-House with a hopeful expression.
"If you're lying, everyone finds out you offered to pay for a semester of a stripper's schooling during my bachelor party."
They glared at each other for several seconds before past-House relented and tossed aside his magazine, standing from his seat and pulling a sheet of paper out from his jacket's inner-pocket.
"You run a hard bargain, Wilson. Well played. Can't have anyone thinking I'm nice or something gross like that," he said with a cringe.
"There's a difference between being nice and offering to pay for a semester of med school for a stripper," past-Wilson reiterated with a smirk, vows firmly in hand. "You were, dare I say it... a gentleman?"
Past-House gaped at him, aghast by such an accusation of propriety. "First you accuse me of being nice and now this? I thought we were friends!"
Smiling, past-Wilson held up his vows. "Since you had these, I'm assuming you already have the rings."
Past-House dutifully pulled the rings out of his side pocket, placing them in past-Wilson's open palm.
"Thanks for keeping track of everything. I know you weren't exactly thrilled about doing this, but I'm happy you're here." His past-self gave past-House a once-over and gestured towards him. "And you look, you know..."
"What?"
Wilson watched the familiar scene play out, his past counterpart handing the vows and rings back to past-House, who placed them back in their respective pockets. He signaled for past-House to tip his head back and he did, past-Wilson stepping forward to fix his bow tie.
"You look handsome," he said quietly, pink rising in his cheeks as he straightened the bow tie.
"I was going to shave, but I remembered you think I look better with the scruff."
"You do look better."
Past-House tipped his head forward once past-Wilson removed his hands, the distance between them smaller than it had been. They shared a quiet moment just looking at each other.
"You'll look better than me standing up there."
Past-House smiled warmly at him. "No, I won't."
Seconds passed in intimate silence before past-Wilson blinked several times and excused himself to go get ready, past-House watching him go with a curious expression on his face. Once he heard the sound of the shower turning on in the bathroom, past-House plucked his wedding band out of his pocket and held it aloft in his fingers, looking at it with a face that grew steadily more blank as the seconds ticked by. He then cautiously slipped the wedding band onto his own ring finger, his face shutting down what little emotion it had left as he closed his eyes and sighed.
Wilson recognized that expression with a sinking sensation. He'd just seen himself make that same face.
"You - these last two memories...."
"That's the moment I accepted I was in love with you."
Wilson turned to face House, his heart pounding in his chest and his eyes stinging.
"You fell in love with me on my wedding day?" he whispered, almost unable to give voice to such a horrible thought.
House shook his head, somber and withdrawn. "Accepted I was in love with you. There's a difference."
"I... I didn't mean," Wilson trailed off, his words catching in his throat. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm so sorry, House."
"You didn't know you were hurting me."
Quickly going through his memories, Wilson recalled that his wedding day was before the night he tried to kiss House.
"If you were in love with me, why did you... react like you did that night?"
"Stacy," he answered easily with a shrug. "If you'd kissed me, she would've seen it."
"She probably would've just thought it was a joke!" Wilson retorted, unsure why he was arguing a moot point.
"No, she wouldn't have," House said, his voice ringing with conviction.
They watched each other for several seconds, Wilson contemplating how House was so sure that Stacy would've taken a kiss between them seriously, when a potential explanation, one he wouldn't have considered before, occurred to him.
"Did she know?"
"She once told me she didn't worry about me cheating because the only person I'd risk losing her for was you. She said it jokingly, but she's not stupid. If she saw that, she would've known."
The sound of static caught their attention and they turned away from each other and towards the TV in the room. A news chyron reading "The Two Deaths of Dr. Gregory House" flashed across the across the screen along with an old picture of them laughing together at a hospital fundraiser. Wilson felt his eyebrows reach for his hairline and House looked equally surprised. He reached for the remote on the entertainment center and unmuted the TV.
An appropriately somber looking news anchor sitting behind his desk appeared next along with footage in the corner of the screen of them walking along side each through the halls of the hospital, presumably taken from the documentary about the kid getting facial reconstructive surgery.
"'Nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes,' Benjamin Franklin once wrote, clearly having no idea that over 200 years later that even the certainty of death would be tested when world renowned diagnostician, Dr. Gregory House, would defy the concept of death to die twice."
"Technically, I've died like five times," House chimed in, Wilson turning to glare at him. House quickly looked back at the TV with a smirk on his face.
"Tonight we cover the extraordinary case of the faked death that's sweeping through the nation, as well as the man who orchestrated it. What was Dr. Gregory House like? How did he do it? And perhaps most importantly, who is Dr. James Wilson, and what about him led Dr. Gregory House to fake his death, only to take his own life five months later after he passed? I speak with friends and coworkers of the two men, starting with Stacy Warner, a former romantic partner of Dr. House's and a friend of Dr. Wilson's."
Wilson could see House visibly stiffen beside him when Stacy came on the screen, clearly sad but as well put together as she always was.
"First of all, you have my sympathies during this difficult time," the news anchor said. "I know it must have been hard to mourn Dr. House, only to find out he was actually alive and died months later alongside Dr. Wilson, who you were also friends with."
"It was difficult, but in a way, it's easier this way."
"Why is that?"
"Greg wasn't someone who had many friends. He was... difficult to put it lightly," she said with a watery chuckle. "But he wasn't a bad person. This world is a better place because he was in it and he didn't deserve a lot of what happened to him. I hate to word it like this, because it makes it sound like I'm dismissing James' pain, but Greg didn't deserve to have James die. I can't think of anything worse happening to him." Stacy wiped a tear away from her eye and straightened herself up in the seat. "I wish he was still here, I wish he didn't choose to take his own life, but at least he won't have to suffer anymore. He didn't deserve to live with the pain of losing James, he would've seen it as unbearable."
The news anchor nodded sympathetically. "It sounds like he cared for James a great deal."
"If he just cared for James, he wouldn't have spiraled out of control like he did after James got his cancer diagnosis. He faked his death, he threw his life away for five months with him. He loved James, he loved him deeply. Madly."
Wilson looked to House out of the corner of his eye and saw a tear rolling down his cheek. He cautiously reached his hand out to take House's and when House felt his hand, he laced their fingers together and squeezed his hand.
"Do you believe he was in love with him?"
"I think if Greg ever felt love in its purest form, the kind that sets your soul on fire and never lets you go, he felt it for James," she said, another tear slipping down her face as she smiled. "Yes, I think he was in love with him and that he deserved."
"I still can't believe it," said an amused voice with an Australian accent behind them. They spun around, disconnecting their hands in the process. Chase was leaning against the glass table of House's conference room with Foreman. "Son of a bitch actually faked his death."
The same interview they had watched was droning on behind them at a low volume, the former fellows clearly watching it with a mix of disbelief and awe.
"That's not the half of it," Foreman replied, pulling a hospital ID out of his jacket pocket and handing it to Chase.
Flipping the ID over in his hand, Chase looked at it curiously before turning to Foreman. "House's hospital ID. How'd you get it?"
"I found it under the uneven leg on my coffee table after he died... the first time. I think he left it for me."
"Huh," Chase said, handing it back to Foreman. "What do you think it means?"
"First and foremost, that he was fucking with me, letting me know he could pull off something as crazy as faking his own death."
House sighed, sounding irritated and disappointed. "Come on, Foreman."
"But then I thought - I don't know, that it was his way of thanking me for trying to be his friend," Foreman elaborated, sadness flickering across his face. "Maybe letting me know he was alive was his way of saying thank you."
"Better," House said quietly, a small smile tweaking the corners of lips.
"The one thing House wasn't was stupid. He'd know that by letting you know he's alive, that you're resourceful enough to track him down. He gave you the power to destroy him, or find him if you needed him." Chase crossed his arms over his chest and looked out to the balcony. "You earned his respect."
Foreman smirked and retrieved a tablet from behind him. "Actually, I have something else to show you."
After handing Chase the tablet, Chase started to scroll through what he saw. His face scrunched up in confusion.
"What the hell is this?"
"Those are all the log-ins registered under House's account," he explained. "I didn't have the heart to deactivate it after he died and by the time I'd found the ID, his account was the furthest thing from my mind. After we got the news that he died, for real this time, I remembered the ID and I checked his account. He logged in once a day, every day, until the week before he died, and all he checked were your cases. He didn't make a single edit."
Chase looked at Foreman with perhaps the most emotion Wilson had ever seen on him.
Foreman put a hand on Chase's shoulder. "He cared enough about you to make sure you were doing okay and he respected you enough to not interfere."
Wilson side-eyed House with a smirk. "I always knew you liked Chase."
"Shut up," he retorted, a light blush spreading across his cheeks.
Lowering his voice, Wilson spoke as if he were divulging a scandalous secret. "I even knew you liked Foreman."
"I take back what I said earlier. No soulmate of mine would ever try to slander me so."
Stifling a laugh, Wilson watched Chase nod to himself and put the tablet aside, looking at Foreman with a mischievous expression.
"What do you say we steal a couple of Wilson's ties from storage, buy a bottle of Maker's Mark, get smashed on House's stoop and get arrested for disturbing the peace?"
"Ooh, I'd love that!" House said with evident glee to Wilson, making him laugh.
"He would love that," Foreman said, then looked at Chase sternly. "Let's do it."
Chase smacked Foreman's chest and laughed, standing from where he'd been leaning against the table. Picking up the remote from the table, Chase hesitated as he pointed it at the TV. Wilson quickly turned to see there was another picture of them on the screen, one where they were smiling outside of a ski lodge from a trip they'd taken together soon after they met.
"Rest in peace," Chase said quietly before he turned the TV off, Foreman echoing the sentiment before they left the room, leaving them alone for the first time since they were reunited in the grass below the fucked up sky.
After a few seconds passed, Wilson broke the silence, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.
"I was going to tell you I loved you before I died. But I - uh, thought that might've been cruel. I didn't want the last thing I did to be to hurt you."
House turned to Wilson, looking as if he was bracing himself.
"When you died, I thought I'd never get to tell you I loved you, not the way I meant it." He hesitated, but then seemed to come to a decision. "I love you. I know I wasn't always a good friend to you, but I always loved you."
"I love you, too," Wilson said seriously, then added with a smirk, "Even when you were a shitty friend."
House laughed, full and happy for the first time in a long time. He cupped Wilson's face in his hands and kissed him, hard at first then a series of small kisses through chuckles.
"I've always wanted to do that."
"You've always -." Wilson was cut off with another kiss that made him giggle. "You've always wanted to kiss me while laughing?"
"I've always wanted to kiss you while doing all kinds of things," he said with a lascivious tone and another kiss.
Wilson held their next kiss, holding it until it gentled, their lips resting against each other. He wrapped his arms around House and hugged him, breaking the kiss to enjoy the simple feeling of being able to hug his best friend and feel the embrace returned. When he opened his eyes, he felt his stomach drop when he noticed they were in a bright room, realizing belatedly that it was the living room of the loft they once shared.
"House..."
"I know."
He looked up at House and noted that he looked as wary of the location change as he did. Wilson pulled away from him and looked around, waiting for some awful memory to play out, but nothing happened. He heard nothing aside from the sound of him and House breathing and saw nothing unusual. They waited for several minutes, but when nothing happened, they split up and went looking for the memory.
"Do you see anything?" he called out to House from what had served as his bedroom.
"No," he yelled back. "Do you?"
"No."
Wilson returned to the living room and found House perched at the organ he bought him. He got three notes into Toccata and Fugue in D minor when he froze.
"There is no memory."
Wilson walked towards him and asked, "What do you mean?"
"Think about it," he said, spinning around on his bench to face Wilson. "All of these memories have served a purpose. The ones from our childhoods were to show why we were isolated. Our teeny-bopper memories were to show that we were unlucky in love. The adult memories were to show missed chances. Stacy and the kids in the present were to show us that we'll always be remembered together. They were all meant to serve the purpose of getting our heads out of our asses so we could be together. Now we are and where did we land?"
Looking around the living room fondly, Wilson smiled. "The place where we lived together."
"The place where we were happiest," House added, returning the smile. "We're done reliving memories, now we get to make some of our own."
Wilson felt a wave of emotion sweep through his chest, an overwhelming crush of relief and freedom. All he ever wanted was to be happy with House by his side and now he was finally getting the chance to live the life he always wanted to lead. House's face quickly morphed from one of realization to shocked happiness.
"Holy shit!" he bellowed. "Do you know what this means!?"
"What?"
"I get to fuck 29 year old you!"
Wilson laughed so hard tears streamed down his face, as if all his pent up emotion was spilling out at once, and he had a hard time catching his breath. "That's your big takeaway? That you get to fuck 29 year old me? Never let it be said you don't look for the silver lining."
"Heaven better be stocked up on lube because I don't want to walk straight for the rest of eternity!" House yelled at the ceiling.
Seeing the opening, Wilson took it. "You really miss your limp that much?"
He barely side-stepped in time for a coaster to to soar past his head.
"Before we restore your leg to its former glory, dance with me," Wilson said, walking towards their CD collect. "I remember you were a fantastic dancer and I always wanted to dance with you."
House slid up beside him and pulled a CD from the shelf, smiling as he held it out between two fingers. "How does Billy Joel sound?"
"Perfect."