Wilson waits.

He feels like he's always waiting for something, but this is more literal than that.

He is waiting for something tangible, for something physical.

He is waiting for House to make it to the end of the bars, where he will undoubtedly let go and fall on his behind, and Wilson will have to pull him up for the other direction, because Stacy has left and the physical therapist has developed a relationship of mutual hatred with House, and refuses to do more than consult on his progress.

He is waiting to see if House can make it, it's the third lap, and he is pale and sweating and looks like he is about to faint from pain or tiredness or Wilson knows not what else.

He is waiting to see if House will glare at him when he touches him, or if this will be one of the times he is too tired to resent it.

Wilson hates those times.

Hates them, hates them, hates them.

Those are the times when House will fall asleep in the car on the way home.

Those are the times when House will pass out halfway up the steps.

Those are the times when House will sleep on the couch and not be able to get up in the morning because of the pain.

Those are the times when House, yes House, will cry himself to sleep, not just because of the pain, because Stacy is gone, he has lost his job, and he has nothing else in the world.

Except Wilson.

Wilson is the last thing he has left.

He has tried to push Wilson away, it would be so much easier if he could just let go, just say he has nothing left, and give up.

But he does have something left.

Wilson.

And Wilson is waiting on the other end of the bars.