All For You

Author's Note: This is just a missing scene that I've always thought should have taken place…set sometime post-Lucky Thirteen (general spoilers, but nothing too major unless you haven't seen Wilson's Heart). Technically H/W friendship, but feel free to wear slash goggles :)


House enjoys Wilson's return far more than he'd like to admit.

As far as he's concerned, life has finally gone back to normal, and it's about damn time. He schedules the free lunches, office campouts, and post-work beers back into his day without so much as a question from Wilson, both silently agreeing not to talk about how long it's been. But more than that, there's something oddly comforting in the simple fact that Wilson is here, that he's actually chosen to stay. The unwelcome guilt that House has pushed to the back of his head, memories of buses and blond hair and Wilson's face contorted in pain, can finally be shoved out of his mind altogether.

Not that he actually believed that Amber's death was on him, but as long as Wilson had been gone…oh, fuck it. The point is that Wilson is back, and he intends to make use of – and secretly appreciate – this long-awaited opportunity.

Today, he's spending his usual Wilson-time sprawling lazily on the leather couch, absorbed in his DS as Wilson tackles a pile of neglected paperwork. After an annoyed glare from the oncologist, House switches off the sound with a roll of his eyes, but now he actually kind of likes the peace in the room.

"I'm sorry," Wilson says at length, gently breaking through the quiet, and House doesn't bother to glance up from his DS screen.

"Killing ninjas doesn't actually require sound effects, as cool as they may be," he mutters, still trying to concentrate. "I think I'll survive."

Naturally, Wilson is unrelenting. "House, I'm serious. I owe you an apology."

"Oh, for God's sake." Closing the DS, House pushes himself into a sitting position, narrowing his eyes at the oncologist. He doesn't need an explanation to know where this is going. "You left, you came back, it's over. Who the hell even cares anymore?"

"It isn't just about that." Wilson pauses to take a deep breath, absently toying with his pen as his paperwork lays forgotten on his desk. "I never apologized for what I asked of you, and I should have. I'm sorry."

House frowns, momentarily confused, but it only takes a second for his mind to catch up. "If this is about frying my brain for your dead girlfriend," he replies, unmoved, "it's like I said. It's over. Nobody cares anymore."

"Well, I care," Wilson argues, ignoring House's mumbling of "Big surprise" under his breath. "I asked you to practically kill yourself for Amber's sake, and it was wrong."

Wilson's brown eyes suddenly remind House of murky water, and he has to stop himself from reaching for a Vicodin.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful," Wilson continues softly. "I'm just…I'm sorry."

House shrugs, tearing his eyes away from the all-too-familiar sight of a suddenly exhausted-looking Wilson. "You loved her. You did what you had to do."

From the corner of his eye, he can almost see Wilson's elbows digging painfully into the desk as he stops twirling the pen, gripping it tightly in his palm instead. "There were a thousand things that could have gone wrong," he says, his voice strained. "You could've lost your brain function; you…you could've died."

House briefly wonders if the pen will crumble to pieces in Wilson's hand or if the desk will collapse into a heap under his weight, but when all seems to remain intact, he gives another shrug. "You didn't hold a gun to my head," he counters calmly. "I agreed to do it."

"Yeah." Wilson laughs huskily, shaking his head. "And I let you. I let you do it for me, because I'm a complete asshole."

"You loved her."

"You're my friend. It wasn't right."

After a few moments of silence, House glances up again. "Why now?" he asks.

Puzzled, Wilson furrows his brow, confusion briefly masking the ripples of pain that are threatening to drown House in deepening pools of murky brown. "What do you mean, 'why now'?"

"Why bother bringing it up when I'm about to kill the top ninja warlord of level 12?"

Unfazed by House's usual flippancy, Wilson finally lets his arms rest as he heavily sets the pen down. "Does it really matter?" he shrugs. "I guess I was watching you on the couch, and I started thinking…if things had gone wrong…I might not be able to do that."

"To watch me on the couch?" House smirks.

"Well, yeah." The small, sheepish grin that Wilson concedes may as well be a knowing smile. "And to have you accompany me on random road trips, and hog my TV, and steal my food…need I continue?"

"Don't forget all the hookers you get to pretend to date on my account." The pager on House's belt suddenly begins to beep – damn ducklings can't do anything by themselves – and he takes a quick peek at it before standing and walking towards the door.

"Wilson," he says, his hand on the doorknob.

"Yeah, House?"

"You loved her."

Wilson nods. He understands. "I know."

"You did what you had to do…and so did I. And I'm not sorry for it."

The door closes behind him, and Wilson nods solemnly again to the empty room.

"I know."