House MD belongs to Fox Television, Heel and Toe productions, David Shore, and possibly some other people who are not me. I'm not being paid for this. The people, places and facilities in this story are works of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or facilities is purely coincidental. I'm not a medical doctor. Any references to medical treatments or diagnoses are for entertainment purposes only. Don't, for goodness' sake, base medical decisions on what some random stranger on the internet wrote in piece of fiction.

A/N: Countenance is set post Season 5, after Kutner's departure, and ignores the entire Mayfield arc.

The Countenance Of The Heart

Wilson

Wilson had taken to leaving work at five whenever possible, but his Thursday meetings always ran late and this particular Thursday was no exception. He was tired, more so than a day mostly spent seated could explain. He paused outside, taking the chance to smell the crisp autumn air and feel the breeze. Twilight had fallen while he'd been indoors, oblivious to the brief day.

It was, he thought, a depressing metaphor for his life.

You're pathetic, he told himself. Enough already with the whining.

Something hit him in the shoulder. Wilson turned around and, seeing nothing out of place, looked up. House waved from the balcony, grinning at him.

"I'll be right down!"

Wilson's heart sank. Now that he'd been caught he had to wait. It had been a week since he'd had dinner with House, though, and Wilson had missed him with a dangerous intensity.

Forty-five minutes later, Wilson was sitting in his place on House's couch, eating pizza and wondering why he'd been reluctant to come. House was close beside him and in fine form, mocking Taub and their patient, and Wilson wanted nothing more than to stay there forever.

"Haven't seen much of you lately," House commented, his voice deceptively mild.

Wilson shrugged, "It's been busy."

"Too busy for my soap opera? Too busy for lunch?"

Wilson turned his face away, unable to answer that. There was a sharp pain in his chest, and he remembered now why he'd been avoiding House.

"Or are you getting tired of me?" House asked in a voice that burned like acid.

"You acknowledge that's possible?" Wilson asked in feigned disbelief, but House wasn't stupid and Wilson knew he was in trouble.

The phone rang, and both men paused, waiting to hear who it was. A second later, Cuddy's voice said, "House? Are you there?" A pause. "Listen, I have two tickets to a play tomorrow and no one to take. You want to go? Let me know. See you in the morning."

Wilson smirked, "Lucky for you she's aggressive."

"Yah." House sounded unconvinced.

"You'll be fine," Wilson reassured, but looking at House's face he wasn't so sure. House hid it, but he was scared. "It's just a play, one evening. Take it a step at a time."

The fear faded a little from House's face. There was a silence while he fidgeted. "You really think this is a good idea?" he asked.

Wilson shrugged. "It's a date. If you have a bad time you don't have to do it again."

"What if I don't have a bad time? Then I do have to do it again. Then I'm in a relationship."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Wilson replied. He was trying very carefully to tell only truths, because that was the best way he'd ever found to lie. "You like Cuddy," he went on, "She's hot, and she likes you."

"She's a second-rate doctor," House complained.

"Compared to us, yes, and that's why she went into administration. Which has nothing to do with dating her. Stop making excuses and go."

House turned to him, "Why are you always pushing this?"

"I'm not pushing."

"Now you're lying. Why?"

Damn. He had no idea what to say to that, because he was lying. Fortunately his cell chose that moment to ring, telling him that little Alyssa Parker had been readmitted in respiratory distress. It took a few minutes to issue telephone orders for her care. When Wilson returned his attention to the room, House had gone.

Wilson turned to the piano, touching the keys soundlessly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard House play. He missed it. His chest hurt again, a stabbing kind of pain over his heart from just thinking about it. His resolution to forego the self-pity had vanished. Life had been better when House had needed him. But his friend was improving now, and soon Cuddy was the one he'd need. Maybe when they moved into her place they'd have a guest room and would let Wilson crash there when his life got too pathetic to be borne.

House reappeared holding two ties, "Which of these would you like better if you were a narcissistic babe?"

Wilson's chest tightened; for a moment he couldn't speak.

"I am a narcissistic babe, and I don't like either," he said.

"You gave me that one."

"That was for court, not for a date." It was a flimsy excuse, but he didn't want House to wear his gift on a date with Cuddy.

"Fine, then take me tie shopping in your closet tomorrow. Oh, wait. I remember now. It isn't actually your closet, is it? It's Amber's. Why are you still there?"

"It's a nice apartment," Wilson temporized, but he was screwed, totally screwed, because House was gong to hunt this diagnosis down with a magnifying glass and a shotgun.

"Compared to a hotel most are. Some people would find it morbid that you're still there. Lucky for you I know the truth. You can't let go."

Danny cried, "Let me go, you bastard!"

No. Wilson closed his eyes and quickly changed the mental channel. Amber's funeral flashed through his mind, but he didn't want to think about that either. Wilson desperately, selfishly, unforgivably wanted things to stay the way they were. If he couldn't keep Amber or Danny, couldn't he at least keep House? But he knew the answer already. Nothing stays the same. Soon he'd have no one left, and he didn't know what he'd do then.

"I haven't heard you play in ages," Wilson said, changing the subject. House, after a searching look at his face, sat on the bench and laid his fingers upon the keys. Piano playing called for bourbon. Wilson fetched them both glasses. He put the drinks on the piano and stood leaning against it, watching his friend draw music from his fingers. He loved House's playing.

Wilson was listening, feeling a faint sense of peace bud within him, when someone knocked. Without pausing House said, "Get rid of them." Wilson opened the door, and found Cuddy.

She was wearing tight jeans, an even tighter low cut sweater, and a big smile that fled when she saw Wilson. "Oh! I just, uh…" she trailed off. The music stopped.

"Lisa Cuddy," House said from behind Wilson. He'd stopped playing and risen to greet her.

House had stopped playing.

Wilson knew when he was in the way. He grabbed his drink and took it with him to the bathroom, swallowed it in hasty gulps as the door swung shut behind him. He set the glass carefully beside the sink. His evening was ruined. Cuddy had followed him into his refuge. It was time to go. It was her turn now. He didn't belong here any more.

Laughter came from the living room, hers and his. An urge to smash the glass came to him, but he wasn't about to repay House's hospitality that way. It wouldn't solve anything, or make this feeling go away. Wilson splashed water on his face instead, willing aside the hurt he felt. He needed to work on a mellow, smiling expression before he went back out there. He practiced in the mirror, but it was no use. The eyes that looked back at him were too bleak.

Wilson shook his head. He didn't know who he thought he was kidding. They'd never even look at him. He was just reluctant to leave. Leaning on the sink, listening to the two of them talking in the other room, his unhappiness threatened to overwhelm him, demanded an outlet. The image of himself lying on the bathroom floor with his wrists cut came to him; he dismissed it. He was tired of pain. Tired of being alone. Wilson drew a sad face on the mirror with his greasy finger, right over his own image, so he wouldn't have to see his face any more. It barely showed, but that didn't matter because no one would care if they saw it, anyway.

Wilson used House's facilities, paused before the door, and set his lips in a smile. In the living room Cuddy was occupying Wilson's usual place on the couch. Wilson felt the evening was becoming unfairly metaphorical now. As House handed Cuddy a drink, Wilson grabbed his things and walked out.

When he got home there was a message waiting from Danny. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he spent two hours consoling his suicidal brother, and then another half hour trying to convince his parents that Middletown really wasn't too far to drive to visit their youngest son. By the time he hung up, Wilson felt hollow inside. He decided that what he really wanted was to get stinking drunk. Amber had left vodka in the freezer, and Wilson had a carton of orange juice, and that was all it took.

There was nothing much on TV so Wilson watched idiots with power tools, wondering if House was watching too, sitting beside Cuddy and sharing his acerbic comments with her. Then he found a cooking show, and finally a horror movie. The juice had run out, but by then he was wanting his vodka straight up anyway.

Vaguely Wilson thought he should get to bed, but he couldn't shake the futile, idiotic hope that House would call and he didn't want to be sleeping too deeply to hear the phone. So he stayed awake, feeling the room spin around him, until finally sometime during the creature flick he passed out.