Now What?

With Wilson only having five months left to live and House faking his own death to avoid going back to prison, they hit the road with the goal of going to as many national parks as possible. Thinking it's now or never, they get together.
Then, Wilson doesn't die.

Notes:

Warning for many mentions of death and suicide.
I included some canon events in this that I vehemently do not like, but they were necessary in order for me to write House as pathetic as possible. He's also kind of silly about his sexuality in this; I was going for demisexual.
General hand waving at medical stuff and legal stuff so just suspend disbelief with me here.

Chapter Text

House lay on his side in bed, hands tucked beneath his cheek, staring at the wall in the dark.

I need you to tell me that you love me.

The phrase bounced around in his head, not letting him fall asleep. His dinner with Wilson hadn’t gone as planned, because Wilson still insisted on doing no further treatment for his cancer and would therefore be dying soon. House tried to give Wilson reasons to want to stick around longer, and instead Wilson demanded that House reassure him that his life meant something even if it ended soon.

Wilson was just being dramatic, losing his grip as he tried to reflect on his life and struggling with the idea that his time was being cut short. Of course his life mattered, and so what if he didn’t have progeny or a wife to sit by his bedside and hold his hand as he died too young? Plenty of people live and die with nobody and nothing, and if the most important relationship in Wilson’s life was his friendship with House, wasn’t that enough? It certainly was enough for House.

And didn’t Wilson know that House loved him? Of course he loved him. Didn’t House tell him that all the time?

Didn’t he just go to all of his doctor’s appointments with him for a week straight? Didn’t he get him through a deadly round of chemo, sticking by him on the couch for days, barely sleeping, and eventually shaking from Vicodin withdrawal because he gave his entire stash to Wilson? Didn’t he clean up his puke and shit and piss for 24 hours and change him when Wilson was unconscious so that he could preserve a little bit of dignity? Didn’t he ditch work and risk being sent back to prison to go on an insane road trip and cater to every one of Wilson’s bucket list requests?

Didn’t House tell him every day, when he showed up at his office to bother him all hours, spent most of his meals with him, hung out with him after work most days and every weekend, called him on days he didn’t see him?

House wasn’t sure what more he could do to demonstrate to Wilson that he loved him. Frankly, House was a little bit insulted. Words didn’t matter, only actions.

Knowing he wasn’t going to get any sleep, House grabbed his phone and reading glasses from the nightstand and texted Wilson.

Get home safe?

Wilson texted back right away. You’ve never asked me that in our entire lives.

There’s a first time for everything. Which is what I’ll say when I try to convince you to do anal.

You’re running out of time for that.

House swallowed a lump in his throat. I can’t sleep.

Me neither.

House typed out, Are we good? but couldn’t convince himself to send it. He knew the answer. They weren’t good.

If Wilson wasn’t going to try, House wouldn’t, either. He wasn’t going to watch his only friend deteriorate and die over the next few months, so he supposed his only option was to cut him off.

He didn’t sleep.

At work the next day, House heard a buzzing in his brain all day, like white noise keeping him in a pain-induced haze. His leg felt worse than it had in years: a pinching, piercing pain every time he put weight on it, every step, all day.

He diagnosed his patient mostly out of spite, just to show his team that he was better than they were even when he was at his lowest.

Then his patient refused treatment, because he couldn’t let go of his dead brother and wanted to continue hallucinating him, and the idea made House so furious that he saw red. Before he knew it, he was being hauled away by hospital security, his hands at his patient’s throat.

House was falling apart, obviously. He shouted at Taub in the hallway, and he felt the pitying eyes of random coworkers around them. Everyone at work avoided House, or actively hated him, but he knew what was happening now. They all felt bad for him, they all knew his best friend was dying, they knew any horrible behavior he demonstrated was to be pitied instead of punished. He wanted to bang his head against a wall until he passed out.

Instead, he went home, turned off his phone and drank himself into a stupor as he sat at his piano for hours. Around 9 p.m., there was a knock on his door.

“Not home!”

“House.”

At the sound of Wilson’s voice saying his name, House’s fingers stilled on the keys. He stumbled slightly when he got up, dropped his cane once before finally getting his drunk ass over to the door.

“I’m ready to start the next round of chemo,” Wilson announced as he stood in the hallway.

“Why?” House asked.

“Because you need me, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing anymore.”

“No. You’re the only one I listen to. The last 24 hours, I didn’t, and I almost killed my patient. So I think it’s time for me to accept that you’re just smarter than I am.”

Wilson smiled, a genuine, smug pull of his lips. “Are you really OK that there’s only five months left?”

“No.” Inhibitions gone, House said the first thing that came to his mind. “But it’s better than nothing.”

“So, um. Are we good?”

“Yeah. We’re good.” House gestured with his head for Wilson to come inside. “Do you have more bucket list items to review, or should we piss away the next five months playing video games and watching trash TV?”

Wilson took his jacket off as he came inside. He raised an eyebrow at House and asked, “Are you drunk?”

“Yes,” House said with a sigh.

“You’re handling things really well. I commend your maturity.”

“My only friend is dying, can I catch a break?”

“Oh, poor you.”

They smiled at each other, and House had the urge to hug Wilson. He didn’t, though, because that wasn’t something they did.

Instead, they sat on the couch together, Wilson catching up to House’s drunkenness, and talked about nothing while the TV played in the background. Around 11 p.m., Wilson yawned.

“I don’t want to go to sleep,” he said.

“OK.”

“I can sleep when I’m dead.”

House turned his head and studied Wilson. “You’ll be dead a lot sooner if you try to stay awake for five months.”

“Wow, thank you, Doctor.” Wilson settled back against the couch cushions and crossed his arms over his chest. “Would you go hiking with me? We could get you a wheelchair.”

House turned the volume down on the TV and peered over at Wilson. “We’re back to the bucket list, then?”

“I always meant to visit all the national parks. We only made it to a few of them, you know.”

House shifted on the couch, propped his right leg on the coffee table, and stared at the TV as he massaged his thigh. When Wilson had taken the job at Princeton Plainsboro, he had suckered House into mapping out vacation plans to hike through as many national parks as possible. They had made it to Shenandoah, Mammoth Cave and the Great Smoky Mountains before House’s infarction. What House had never told Wilson, in fact, was that one of the first things House thought when he was learning to walk with a cane was how disappointing it was not to continue Wilson’s hiking goals with him.

With each painful step, each day of agony for months after surgery, House thought about the camping trips, the national parks. He thought about when Wilson ludicrously wanted to run a half-marathon and roped House into training with him. He thought about all the afternoons blowing off work early to go play racquetball, even though House sucked at it and Wilson beat him every time. He thought about the weekends at the golf course kicking Wilson’s ass on the back nine. Wilson never said anything about any of this, and so House kept his mouth shut. As their friendship changed to accommodate House’s disability with mostly sedentary activities, Wilson never complained, never lamented. So House had mourned privately.

“I would definitely need a wheelchair,” House admitted, lost in thought. “I think I can snag a transport chair from storage. Maybe I can put a blanket over my lap and you can push me around like I’m a poor invalid.”

Wilson sat up straighter on the couch and frowned at House. “You would really do that? You’d go with me?”

House shrugged, forcing nonchalance. “I was going to ask for a leave of absence anyway.” He left the rest of the thought hanging, but he figured Wilson knew. Wilson knew House would take time off from work until the very end, as long as that’s what Wilson wanted.

“OK, I’ll make an itinerary. Can your leg handle a big road trip?”

House considered it. Him and Wilson, driving all over the country together for the next few months, staying in shitty hotels or camping out of the car at whatever campsite they could book. His leg be damned, it sounded really nice.

“We’ll make it work,” House insisted.

They discussed it for a few more minutes until Wilson yawned and then yawned again 30 seconds later.

“Alright, tough guy, time to go home and get some sleep,” House teased.

“Ugh, fine.” Wilson stood slowly and headed to the door, House following him.

At the threshold, Wilson turned to House and looked a bit sheepish. “Thank you. You know, for indulging me.”

“Indulging you?” House scoffed. “I’m just playing the long game to get in your pants. It’s going to be really cold at some of these parks; we just might have to cuddle together for warmth in our tent.”

Wilson rolled his eyes and walked out of House’s apartment as he said, “Night, House.”

The next morning, House went straight to Wilson’s office and sat next to him at his desk so Wilson could pull up a plan on his laptop. They were arguing about the likelihood of seeing wolves at Yellowstone when Foreman came in with a grave look on his face and a hospital lawyer in tow.

Foreman and the lawyer explained that the patient House had tried to strangle was pressing charges, and there was nothing Foreman could do to keep House from returning to prison.

For six months.

For the next two days, House and Wilson did nothing but fight. House was scrambling, desperately trying to find a way out of his predicament and coming up with nothing.

Faking his own death wasn’t nearly as dramatic as Wilson seemed to think.

“You bastard,” Wilson practically yelled, still in his black suit from House’s fake funeral. “You fucking—I’ve been—I’ve been mourning, you fucking bastard.”

House got up from his stoop and limped over to Wilson. “Come on, Wilson, it’s not that big of a deal. So I’m dead. We can do whatever we want now.”

Wilson legitimately shoved him, causing House to stumble and catch himself with his cane. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, you selfish—you stupid—you—” Wilson choked on a sob then grabbed House by the shoulder, his hand fisted into the fabric of House’s jacket. He hauled him forward and hugged him tightly, burying his face in House’s neck.

“OK, you’re being a little hysterical,” House complained, patting Wilson on the back. “This was the only way I could think of to get out of going back to jail. I had to make it believable. I’m sorry.”

Wilson sniffed and let House go. “What do we do now? I mean, you’re dead. You can’t just go back to your apartment.”

“I’m staying in a hotel, using cash only,” House replied. “I left almost everything to you in my will, so once my money hits your bank account we can blow all that on our trip, which, we should probably get started on sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, there’s a chance I could be recognized by adoring fans in the great state of New Jersey.”

“You mean your parole officer,” Wilson said. “We could head out as soon as your lawyer contacts me, then I could go by your place and get whatever you need for the trip. What name did you use at the hotel?”

House looked away from Wilson as he answered, “Gregory Wilson. Got a fake ID and everything.”

Wilson huffed a laugh. “Oh, great. Are you supposed to be my brother or my husband?”

“How dare you tease me when you know gay marriage isn’t legal here.”

“Hey, maybe it’ll become law before I die. Something to look forward to.”

“Of course, we couldn’t actually get married because technically I’m dead.”

Wilson hummed. “Hm, yes, because that’s the only thing holding us back from getting gay married.”

“Speak for yourself, it’s the only thing holding me back,” House quipped as he walked away.

“House,” Wilson called after him.

House quickly turned around and darted his eyes around the empty street. “No, no, House is dead. You’re going to have to pick a different nickname, or get used to calling me Greg.”

Wilson frowned at him. “You’re really that paranoid?”

“We can make it even; I’ll start calling you James.”

“God, no.” Wilson blinked and looked up at House, studying him. “Are we really doing this? Staying on the road for the next five months, cutting everybody off?”

“You don’t have to cut everybody off. Nobody has to know I’m on this trip with you.”

Wilson didn’t ask any follow-up questions, because he knew House. There was only one person House cared about staying in touch with, and it was Wilson. That was enough for him.

Three days later, Wilson showed up at House’s hotel early in the morning with his sedan packed full of camping gear, suitcases and a transport wheelchair.

“I think Foreman knows you’re not dead,” Wilson said in lieu of a greeting.

“He definitely knows I’m not dead,” House responded as he tossed his backpack and cane into the backseat and limped toward the passenger side of the car. “I left him a clue.”

“Why?”

In a dramatic voice, House asked, “Am I not allowed even a modicum of sentimentality without being persecuted?”

Wilson started the car, pulled out of the parking lot. “You think you could go back to PPTH, don’t you? After I’m gone.”

House almost blurted out that there would be no “after,” but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to reveal on day one of the rest of their lives that he fully intended on killing himself immediately after Wilson’s demise.

“Maybe,” House said. “If I could be some kind of nameless consultant so I don’t get hauled off to prison. In any case, I’ll have to stay off-grid for the rest of my life.”

Wilson headed toward I-76. House asked, “Where the hell are we even going, anyway?”

“I emailed you an itinerary, [email protected].”

“Right, because I’ve suddenly become a person that reliably checks their email, so I must know exactly where we’re headed.”

“Cuyahoga is our first stop. I booked a hotel for a couple days, then it’ll be a long haul out to Badlands.” Wilson cleared his throat. “I want to get out West before I get, you know…”

“Too sick to enjoy seeing the wolves at Yellowstone?”

“Yeah, that.”

House sighed. “God, what a bummer this trip is going to be. Maybe at Yellowstone we can just step off a path and get blown up by a geyser.”

“There will be plenty of canyons and gorges to fling ourselves into, too.”

“So many opportunities to get lost on a hike, starve, get eaten by bears.”

“Much more interesting ways to die than cancer.”

It was evening by the time they reached Ohio. They stopped for gas and waited in the car for nearly a minute before remembering they weren’t in New Jersey anymore and were expected to do something as ridiculous as pump their own gas. They both got out of the car and argued for several minutes as they struggled to remember the steps for filling up the tank.

After checking into their hotel, they went out to eat and then went to a shitty bar and got drunk on cheap beer. House thought maybe one of them could pick up a woman, but there weren’t too many to choose from at the bar.

“Are the women here lesbians or rednecks? I can’t tell,” House lamented as he watched a graying woman in a flannel adjust a baseball cap on her head.

“I think they’re redneck lesbians,” Wilson said.

“Hm, it might be tricky to get you laid out here. Which national parks do you think attract the sexiest tourists? Got to be out in Utah, right? Ex-Mormons are wild, trust me.”

“Getting laid is really not my highest priority right now,” Wilson said.

House frowned. “Are you on your period? I know plenty of people who will still—”

“After that threesome, I’m just not interested in cheap, meaningless sex. I don’t feel like wasting the limited time I have left trying to convince women in bars to sleep with me.”

“OK, sure. What if I want to waste my boundless time in that way, though?”

“Surely there are hookers in Ohio.”

“No, I mean to get you laid.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “You’re always so invested in my sex life, it’s like you want to sleep with me yourself, House. I mean, Greg.”

House just blinked at him.

Neither of them got laid that night.

They took a cab back to their hotel room. Wilson was quite a bit drunker than House, as evidenced by the way he stumbled and then rested his head against House’s shoulder on the elevator ride up to their floor.

Once in their respective beds, House lay on his side and looked at Wilson until his eyes adjusted to the dark. Wilson had his back to him, then he turned and looked up at the ceiling for a while, then he turned again and tucked his hands beneath his cheek, facing House.

“I don’t want to die, House,” he whispered.

“I don’t want you to die,” House agreed.

House didn’t sleep very well.

“Oh, come on, Wilson, this can’t be the most exciting trail here,” House complained as he and Wilson walked along a paved path.

Wilson wore an Osprey hiking backpack with a three-liter water bladder as if he was honest-to-god backpacking through the mountains. “The Towpath Trail is disability-friendly. I thought it would be a good place to start.”

A couple of toddlers ran past them, their mother shouting at them to slow down a little.

“Off the top of my head, I can think of a hundred activities that would be more exciting to do in the last months of your life than the disability-friendly Towpath Trail,” House griped.

“OK, let’s say it’s the last months of your life. What would you be doing?”

“Everyone. Or as many people as I can, at least.”

Wilson sighed loudly. “I don’t see how that’s any less boring than what we’re currently doing.”

“Did you just call sex bor—”

“No, I mean it doesn’t make for an interesting bucket list. There’s really nothing special you’d like to do?”

I’m doing it now, House thought, albeit a little defiantly. As long as House got to spend time with Wilson, he didn’t really care about the rest. So what if that made him boring.

It started raining.

Hard.

“You didn’t pack a fucking poncho in that stupid backpack?” House said loudly over the rain as he and Wilson headed back toward the parking lot, ducking their heads and squinting against the downpour.

“I have umbrellas in the car. Forgot them,” Wilson replied.

“You can run,” House insisted. “I’ll catch up to you.”

Wilson scoffed and maintained his slow pace with House’s gait. “Leaving a cripple to fend for himself in the rain is something you’d do, not me.”

“Behold, everyone, my noble friend Wilson, sacrificing himself in the rain for—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

When they got to the car, they closed the doors with a sigh and breathed deeply for a minute, listening to the pounding rain outside. They were both soaked. Wilson scrubbed a hand down his face and laughed. It was infectious; House began laughing, too. He dropped his head back against the seat and lolled it over until he could see Wilson.

Wilson copied his movement, turning his head so they were just staring at each other, smiling, rain pouring against the car.

House’s heart beat steadily in his chest. He could stay here, like this, staring at his friend in perfect silence.

“This doesn’t bode well for the time I have left,” Wilson said.

House looked at Wilson’s wet hair pasted to his forehead, then looked down at his mouth, then back to his eyes. “I think it’s going perfectly.”

Wilson smiled and turned his head forward. “Well, I guess we’ll go back to the hotel.”

“Wait,” House said. “Let me drive.”

They suffered the rain again to switch sides. Wilson asked House what he was doing, but House just told him to trust him.

The thing is, House had pocketed a map from the visitor’s center earlier in the morning. With the rain unrelenting, House drove them to Brandywine Falls.

“House, I’m not going out in this—”

“Yeah, you are. Get your umbrella and come on.”

House practically had to drag Wilson onto the trail. He made him leave his backpack and take only the umbrellas, which were pretty much useless against the onslaught of rain. They walked as quickly as they could, this trail a lot more treacherous, House’s cane often sinking into the mud and nearly throwing him off balance. And Wilson complained, about how stubborn of an ass House was, and how this wasn’t going to be worth it, and how they were both going to freeze to death from being so wet and—

“There,” House said, triumphant as he looked out at a beautiful, loud waterfall.

Wilson stopped beside him, speechless for the first time in the past 30 minutes.

There was absolutely nobody else on the usually busy trail, so they were able to walk up as close to the waterfall as they could get without falling in. They dropped their umbrellas to the ground. House draped his left arm around Wilson’s shoulder and squeezed him to his side, their wet clothes squelching between them.

“I told you to trust me,” House said smugly.

“This is…beautiful,” Wilson replied, eyes on the waterfall. Then, he put his right arm around House’s hip and looked over at him seriously. “Thank you.”

And House, not for the first time, thought about kissing his best friend.

There was the sound of movement, and the clicking of a camera, and House and Wilson both turned in time to see a young woman in a bright orange poncho looking down at her camera.

“I’m sorry!” she shouted at them in a Southern accent. “I wasn’t going to include y’all in the picture, but you looked so nice standing there. I can email you the picture if you want.”

House started to protest, but Wilson cut him off.

“Can you take another one of us?” he asked quickly. He put his arm back around House’s hip and yanked him to his side. “Smile, Greg.”

House looked stupid when he tried to smile for photos, so instead he looked at Wilson and thought about how much he wanted to kiss him, and the smile came naturally to his face.

“Oh, that’s perfect!” the woman said excitedly. She walked over to them and once again asked for an email address.

Wilson spouted his off and looked at the picture on her digital camera, using his hand to shield the rain. He squinted at the picture then looked up at House, a furrow between his brow.

House avoided eye contact.

“I didn’t think anybody else would be brave enough to be out here in the rain, but I’m glad y’all were. You two make a cute couple,” the woman said.

“Oh, we’re not—”

“Thank you,” House interrupted, pulling Wilson to his side again. “Special trip for our tenth anniversary. We’ll have to blow up that picture to an 8-by-10 and frame it, won’t we, honey?”

Wilson glared at him. “Yes, we’ll hang it next to the Chorus Line poster.”

The woman seemingly found nothing wrong with this exchange, thanked them again, and continued on her way.

“You’re an ass,” Wilson said after she had gone.

“What? It’s much easier to accept people’s compliments about how adorable we are than explain why we’re two straight dudes having a romantic moment out in the rain together. Now she gets to tell all her progressive little Southern belle friends about how serendipitous it was to find a gay couple on a hike in the rain for her to photograph.”

“Still, you’re an ass.”

The rain let up a bit as they made their way to the car, but even so, they were exhausted and muddy and freezing as Wilson drove them back to the hotel.

They spent the remainder of the day sitting in the hotel bar, playing spades and drinking cocktails.

By drink number three, House noticed Wilson’s eyes darting to the same corner of the bar over and over. House set his cards down and turned. There was a tan brunette alone at the bar, middle-aged and plump, dressed in a chic pair of jeans and light pink top.

“Need a wingman?” House asked.

“I told you, I’m not…” Wilson trailed off, his eyes finding the woman again. “She’s very pretty.” Wilson quickly looked down at his cards. “Oh god, she caught me staring.”

House turned again and smiled at the woman. She smiled back. Without saying anything to Wilson, House laboriously got to his feet and went over to meet her.

Annemarie was on a business trip, only in town for a few days to see the sights before she had to attend a conference. She was recently divorced, an empty nester with three kids in college, and yes, she had noticed the “cute brown eyes” checking her out for the past hour, and she was definitely interested.

“I like your shirt,” she said to House.

House looked down at himself and saw that he was wearing the same shade of pink as Annemarie: his old, reliable button down. He winked at her and said, “I like yours, too.”

House walked back over to Wilson and gestured for him to meet Annemarie. Wilson’s eyes widened as he eagerly got to his feet, running his hip into the table like a dumbass before getting his bearings. House made a face at him like he was an idiot then told him he would get the bill and see him in the morning.

Alone in the hotel room, House watched mindless TV and passed out sometime after midnight.

He woke to the sound of the shower turning on around 7 a.m. He tossed and turned in an attempt to go back to sleep, but it was fruitless. When he heard the sound of a blow dryer, House got up and went into the bathroom, holding onto furniture and walls for support instead of using his cane. Wilson was standing at the sink drying his hair, and House made eye contact with him in the mirror before lifting the lid of the toilet to pee.

“You couldn’t wait five minutes?” Wilson yelled over the sound of the dryer.

“I’ve already been waiting 20,” House replied, dick in hand as he looked at Wilson in the mirror.

Specifically, Wilson shirtless with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“My eyes are up here,” Wilson said drily.

“How’d it go?”

Wilson sighed. “I may have been talking out of my ass when I said casual sex would be a waste of my time. She was fantastic.”

“And yet you’re back so early,” House said as he tucked himself into his pajama pants and leaned across Wilson to wash his hands.

“She wanted to see the sunrise.” Wilson stopped the blow dryer and turned to face House as he said, “But don’t worry, I’m a gentleman. I made her come again this morning before I left.”

A thrill traveled down House’s spine. He swallowed. “Remind me, on average when you sleep with a woman, what’s the ratio of your orgasms to hers?”

“Maybe I’m making up for the abysmal average most men have of one to zero. My way of giving back to the world.”

“Yes, because being a bleeding-heart oncologist just wasn’t enough. You have to make sure the straight women of the world are getting the orgasms they lack.”

Wilson walked out of the bathroom. House followed him, right hand supported on the wall.

“You didn’t answer my question,” House said.

Wilson pulled on a pair of boxers and tossed House’s cane at him. Still shirtless, he stood across from House and said, “One to three. That’s what I prefer, at least.”

“So you eat her out before sunrise, then come back here and get ready for the day like it’s nothing?”

Wilson raised an eyebrow at him as he pulled a t-shirt on over his head. “I’m not a robot. I jerked off in the shower.”

House looked up pensively. “Right, yeah, why didn’t I think of that?”

“Thank you,” Wilson said. “For, uh, letting me sleep with her or helping me pick her up, I guess.”

“Letting you sleep with her?”

Wilson shrugged. “I saw the way you were talking to her at the bar, and I saw how she was talking to you, too. I think I very easily could’ve been the one sleeping alone last night.”

A smile pulled at House’s lips. “You think I’ve got that kind of game? Cane and all?”

Wilson made a face like House was being obtuse. “Yes. Never made sense to me why you pay for sex.”

“And why’s that, Wilson? You think I’m a catch?” House teased, batting his eyelashes for good measure.

“Are you baiting me into complimenting your looks?”

House very innocently shrugged.

Wilson put his hands on his hips. “As an objective observer, yes, you’re good-looking as long as you keep your mouth shut, which you never do.”

“Boy, you sure do know how to make a girl swoon.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Come on, get ready. You’re driving today.”

Even switching back and forth every few hours and taking turns sleeping in the passenger seat, House and Wilson weren’t able to make it to Badlands in a day. House insisted they could just pull over on the side of an empty highway and sleep in the car like any good Midwesterner, but Wilson was the more stubborn one. He knew House’s leg needed a bed, needed to stretch out and get a break from being cooped up in the car for hours.

“You’re sweet on me,” House said facetiously as he hobbled through the parking lot of a shitty motel.

“I’m hoping you remember this when it’s me that needs taking care of,” Wilson replied, offering House a shoulder to lean on to make the trek easier.

“Yeah right, like I need the favor returned. I’m with you till the bitter end, cancer wrecking your body and all. I don’t care about the so-called debt being repaid.”

“That’s…surprisingly very kind.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve only got a few months to live, so I might as well get along with you.”

“And you ruined it.”

In the bathroom, House locked the door and turned the shower on. He then opened his bottle of Vicodin and poured the pills out into the palm of his hand. While it may have seemed well-thought out and pre-planned, House faking his death had not included stocking up on Vicodin, as that would have required a script from Wilson.

He had tapered off from 80 milligrams per day to 60 then 40, and now he was down to 20. The meager supply he had left would last him about another week. Standing in the bathroom staring at his stash, he was trying to decide when would be a good time to tell Wilson.

Of course, there was always morphine. He had plenty of that, as he planned on using it when the time came to put Wilson out of his misery. And then House would put himself out of his misery, too.

When House emerged from the bathroom, fresh from the shower and in his pajamas, he found Wilson sitting on the edge of his bed staring intently at his phone. He looked up at House suddenly, a stricken expression on his face.

“Cuddy just called me,” Wilson said seriously.

House’s heart dropped to his stomach. He said nothing.

“She said she heard the news and was, um, wondering how I was holding up.”

“What, was it in the papers that you have cancer?”

“No. Come on, House, she already knew that. She was asking about you dying.”

“How did she already know you have cancer?”

“Really? That’s what you’re—”

“How did she know, Wilson?” House interrupted.

“Because I told her. Because I still talk to her. Because I’m friends with her. There. Happy?”

House sat on the edge of his bed, across from Wilson, and stared at the floor. “Oh.”

“She was crying,” Wilson continued. “She randomly saw an obituary and was furious that nobody told her about the funeral.”

“You’re lying.”

Wilson blinked. “What reason would I have to lie about this? You didn’t even know I was on the phone while you were in the bathroom.”

“I drove a car through her—”

“She knows you were stoned out of your mind that day. And she knows that you accepted a longer sentence than you had to because you were punishing yourself. Not that she’d ever forgive you, but…you could apologize anyway. If you weren’t dead.”

They sat in silence for a minute. House picked up and dropped his cane between his hands, repeatedly tapping it against the floor. Eventually he said, “I can’t believe you’re friends with Cuddy.”

“Of course I’m friends with Cuddy. I’m Rachel’s godfather.”

“Well, that sucks. She’ll have to get a new one soon.”

“Yeah, thanks for that reminder.” Wilson angrily turned to get into bed. “I’m going to sleep.”

House watched Wilson for a few minutes, trying to decide if he was actually going to sleep or if he just wanted to turn his back on House. When his breathing evened out, though, House gave up and decided to try to sleep, too.

In his entire life, all the stupid shit he had ever done, nothing had measured up to what he did to Cuddy. He didn’t know what he was thinking, or maybe he wasn’t thinking at all, and he just wanted to blow up his life. Usually, though, when he made mistakes, they were self-destructive. The only person in danger was himself. Except with Cuddy. It was better if she thought he was dead.

While Wilson was a meticulous over-planner, this trip was too last-minute to book a campsite at Badlands, and so they pulled up to the first-come, first-serve Sage Creek Campground and thanked the universe when they found an open spot.

The campsite was about as primitive as it gets at a drive-up site, with no toilets or running water. It was a big, open space, just a circle of cars, tents and prairie dog holes surrounded by rolling hills, green in every direction. House leaned against the side of the car and twirled his cane between his fingers as he watched Wilson pitch the tent.

“Do you mind?” Wilson asked bitchily.

“No, I don’t mind,” House replied.

“You could try giving me a hand so we can have this done before it gets dark out.”

“But I’m disabled, Wilson.”

“And I’m dying of cancer. Get your ass over here and push that stake in.”

The tent was big enough for four people, and Wilson had one of those self-inflating sleeping pads that was big enough for two people. He had a sleeping bag for House, too, clearly brand new.

Once they had everything set up, it was dark out and cooling down. They had stopped for dinner on the road, so luckily Wilson didn’t have to pull out his camp stove.

“OK, now what?” House asked.

Wilson opened the trunk of the car and riffled around for a bit before coming out with two beers. He handed one to House, then they clinked bottles as they stood against the side of the car together.

They talked and drank for a minute, then Wilson went back to the trunk and retrieved a camp chair and the transport wheelchair.

“I don’t get a fancy camp chair?” House complained as he watched Wilson assemble said chair.

“It’s low to the ground. I figured the transport chair would be more comfortable for you.” Wilson sat in the camp chair, his long legs bent at an awkward angle. “See?”

House unfolded his transport chair and took a seat. “Yeah. But now I look like I’m handicapped.”

“Right, because you usually look so able-bodied.”

A family of four walked past and looked at them like they were nuts. House waved his cane at them, goofy smile on his face.

Wilson laughed, ducking his chin. House stared at him, at the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, and reveled in the fact that he was partly responsible for those wrinkles, for all the times he’d made Wilson laugh in the past two decades.

“What?” Wilson asked, looking over at House.

House shrugged. He could say it, and he would mean it. I love you. He smiled like a fool at Wilson and said, “I’m feeling uncharacteristically sentimental.”

“My impending doom is turning you into a sap?”

House took a long pull from his beer. “Something like that.”

Wilson sighed. “Stop looking at me like that, you’re freaking me out.”

House frowned and pulled his eyebrows together. “Is this better?”

“Yes.”

As the evening wore on, their conversation grew quieter, then they stopped talking completely and looked up at the stars for a minute or two until Wilson yawned. He announced that he was going to change into pajamas, then he disappeared into the tent.

House looked up at the sky for a moment longer then got to his feet to get his backpack out of the car. He brushed his teeth and spit into the grass before Wilson emerged from the tent.

“Go ahead,” Wilson said, gesturing to the tent.

“You know I don’t care about privacy.”

“And you know I do, so…” Wilson gestured harder to the tent.

It was difficult for House to change his clothes in the tent, his leg protesting the awkward movements, but he managed after a minute. After a quick trip out to pee, he came back to the tent to find Wilson inside with a headlamp around his forehead, book in hand as he settled into his sleeping bag.

“Can’t believe you’re trusting me in such close quarters,” House said quietly. “Such a perfect opportunity to take advantage of you.”

Wilson watched him, one eyebrow raised as House struggled to get situated in the tent. He set his cane to the side of the sleeping pad and tried to maneuver himself into his sleeping bag as gently as possible, bitching and moaning the whole time.

“Yeah, I’m really worried about your powers of seduction in here,” Wilson deadpanned.

House punched his crappy camp pillow and plopped down with a loud groan. “Alright, I can’t believe I have to be the one to say this: We’re too old for this.”

Wilson snorted a laugh. “Surely you haven’t forgotten that you’re a cradle robber. My back is still young enough to handle the ground.”

“You really want to fight over whose body is better, terminally ill cancer patient?”

Wilson put his book on his chest and gave House an annoyed look.

House blinked against the light of the headlamp and reached over to shut it off. Wilson swatted him away, but not before House got the light off.

In the dark, they fought like cats batting their hands at each other until Wilson caught House’s wrist and squeezed it so hard that House almost popped a boner.

Wilson had to realize it, too, because he quickly shoved House’s hand away and then turned his back to him, his sleeping bag rustling with the movement. “Go to sleep, House,” he said.

House looked at the back of Wilson’s head, the way he was curled up in his sleeping bag, and quickly fell asleep. It was the best night of sleep he had gotten since their trip began.

At the visitor’s center the next morning, an employee locked eyes with House the second he and Wilson came through the door. The employee gave the briefest glance down to House’s cane and walked straight over to him.

“Would you two like information on trail accessibility?” the employee asked politely.

“Oh boy, would we ever,” House replied facetiously.

The employee gave them a brochure and circled in Sharpie the trails that were easy, that didn’t involve climbing up ladders or hiking over boulders, then she told them about the benefits of driving the various loops around the park.

“We’ve spent enough time in the car lately, but thank you,” Wilson said, with a knowing side-eye at House.

As they set off on a hike with a raised sidewalk, House couldn’t help but think what Wilson was missing out on. It wasn’t fair that Wilson had to stick with House on the accessible trails when he had two perfectly working legs.

“I can hear you thinking,” Wilson said as he stopped at a plaque to read information about the wildlife.

“Nope, not a thought in my head,” House lied. “Does that sign explain what makes these lands so bad?”

“Yeah, actually it does.”

For the next two hours, they walked along the easy trails and occasionally ventured off path to look over the edge of a cliff, down into the prairie lands. Whenever they stopped, House discreetly looked at Wilson, catching glimpses of his awed expression, at the way he would softly mouth “wow” at the different views.

House could do this forever, he thought, until his leg cramped up and he nearly buckled under the pain.

“You OK?” Wilson asked, putting his hand on House’s shoulder.

House shook him off and kept walking, albeit slower and with more weight pushing into his cane. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. We’re doing a driving loop next.”

“No! I can—fuck.” House stopped, gripped his thigh with his left hand, keeled over.

“Come on,” Wilson said soothingly, wrapping an arm around House and hauling him up with surprising strength. He led House off the path so they wouldn’t be in the way of nosy tourists.

“Goddamn it,” House said on a shaky exhale. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Oh, shut up,” Wilson griped. “Rest on a rock and take some Vicodin.”

House did exactly that, but he was so numb with pain that he forgot to hide from Wilson how few Vicodin he had left. Wilson balked and grabbed House’s hand, peering at the pills.

“Don’t tell me that’s all you have left,” Wilson said in a low tone.

House glared up at him from his rock. “I’m dead, Wilson. I didn’t get a chance to stock up.”

Wilson sighed. “Great. When were you planning on telling me this?”

“Well, I figured I’d make a reservation at a Michelin star restaurant, treat you to a—”

“So you were just going to wait until you ran out, start detoxing without warning me?”

“Yes, Wilson, I didn’t have a fucking plan,” House said, frustrated. “I didn’t want to—” House cut himself off, side-eyeing the tourists walking past them a few feet away. “I don’t want to talk about this here.”

“Oh, you suddenly give a shit what other people think?” Wilson asked meanly, hands on his hips.

House looked up at him, feeling pathetic, silently pleading with his friend.

Wilson seemed to understand, his hands falling from his hips, lips in a thin line as he offered House a hand. They were, thankfully, only about a mile from the visitor’s center, but Wilson had to support House under the shoulders the whole way there, and they had to stop and rest three times.

By the time they got in the car, House was shaking with pain, his breathing stilted and his heart racing. The Vicodin wasn’t enough, but he couldn’t spare any more of it.

“Well, I’m sure this is exactly how you imagined your big trip to all the national parks,” House said sarcastically. “Hobbling along with me, unable to even make it through the fucking easy section. Just get it over with and push me off the next cliff we encounter.”

“Can you please stop it with the one-man pity party?” Wilson replied. “Have you heard me complain once about going at your pace?”

“No, but you’re just being—”

“And have you heard me complain about your bitching about how I have to go at your pace?”

House blinked. “Yeah.”

Wilson put the car in drive and shook his head. “The one time you try to consider someone else’s feelings, and you’re completely off about it. I don’t care, House. I don’t care if we only do the easy trails and the driving loops. I don’t want to climb any fucking ladders anyway. I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing, which is seeing beautiful things and spending the last few months of my life with my best friend.”

House didn’t say anything for a second. Then, “But—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Wilson slowed the car down and pointed toward the left. “Look, there’s a bison over there.”

There was, way off in the distance, not one but two bison.

As they drove around pointing out various wildlife to each other over the next few hours, House forgot about the pain in his leg.

Wind Cave National Park was so close to Badlands that they arrived by 9 a.m. a couple days later and immediately signed up for a guided tour of the caves.

House had to take more of his Vicodin than he wanted, about half of his remaining stash, to get through the enclosed space comfortably. Every time he had to hunch over or nearly crawl, he cursed not only his leg but his height.

By the end of the day, he was in excruciating pain and reluctantly admitted to Wilson that the caves were completely worth it.

They camped one night at Wind Cave mostly because they were thrilled to be around actual trees, for the luxury of taking a piss with relative privacy.

It was a long drive out to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and House saved his last little white pill to take the next morning, on their way to Grand Teton.

The hotels in Jackson Hole had no vacancy, except for one room left in one small inn, for the price of $450.

“This must be how Mary and Joseph felt,” House muttered as he and Wilson headed dejectedly back to the car after refusing to pay the exorbitant price of the hotel. “I think I understand why Mary gave birth in a stable.”

“You and the mother of Jesus Christ have a lot in common, I’m sure,” Wilson replied.

“What do we need money for anyway? We should just book the room,” House argued.

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

“The principle of the thing is that there are a million tourists here. Let me explain this concept called supply and demand to you. You see—”

“There’s a bar. C’mon.”

The bar in question was raucous and packed, full of young people dressed in outdoorsy get-ups like they were heading straight from the bar to the trail. House and Wilson found barstools next to a group of med students complaining loudly about their most recent rotations. House turned to Wilson, and they exchanged a knowing look, which was, unfortunately, noticed by one of the med students.

“Great, a couple of old guys judging us,” a young South Asian woman said from two seats down. “What, are you guys doctors? Probably graduated med school before the invention of SSRIs.”

Wilson ignored her and instead asked her what program they were all from and how in the world they had time to take a trip to Yellowstone and Grand Teton in between rotations. He knew several of the attendings in their program, which made the med students completely change their tune. House kept his mouth shut for most of the conversation, as he also knew several of the doctors they were discussing, and he was supposed to be dead.

After his third beer, Wilson insisted on buying a round of shots for the seven med students. He took a shot himself, right alongside them at the bar like he was back in college, and House sat back and watched him, trying not to smile too hard.

The music grew louder as the night wore on, and people gradually made their way toward an empty part of the bar to dance. When the med students headed toward the dance floor, Wilson turned to House with a goofy grin on his face and held his hand out.

House raised an eyebrow at him.

“C’mon!” Wilson shouted over the music. “Dance with me!”

“I haven’t had nearly enough to drink for that!” House shouted back.

Wilson stomped over to the bar and flagged down a bartender, then ordered two shots for them. House tried to protest, but Wilson wrapped an arm around his shoulder and basically shoved the shot glass into his hand.

Then, before House knew what hit him, Wilson dragged him off the barstool, grabbing his cane for him and leading him out to the dance floor.

There was not so much “dancing with Wilson” as there was House standing in the middle of a crowd while Wilson danced like an idiot around him. A couple of the female med students pulled Wilson in close to dance, laughing and holding him by the hips or waist, and Wilson smiled at each of them in a way that made House’s heart ache.

One young woman kept whispering in Wilson’s ear, both of them barely moving to the music, Wilson’s face pulled in concentration to hear what she was saying. He whispered back to her, then they both nodded, then Wilson danced away.

When he made his way back to House, he said nothing as he put his hands on House’s hips and swayed quickly with the tempo.

“What are you doing?” House asked, unmoving.

Wilson moved his hands from House’s hips to around his shoulders, looping his hands together behind House’s neck before shrugging nonchalantly.

House just looked at him for a second, then a smile spread across Wilson’s face, and House couldn’t help it. He smiled, too, and put his free hand on Wilson’s hip. He swayed in rhythm with Wilson, putting more weight into his cane to avoid hurting his leg. He felt ridiculous.

One loud song led to another, and House and Wilson drew closer together. House felt like a teenager too scared to kiss his crush, which is something that never actually happened to him as a teenager. He was slightly drunk, not nearly as stoned as he would like to be, and Wilson was looking at him with something in his eyes. His hands moved from House’s shoulders back to his hips, almost no space between their bodies.

On a whim, House leaned forward, tilted his head down, and—

Wilson quickly turned, shoving his ass back toward House in a purposely silly dance move. Unwilling to lose whatever game they were playing, House grabbed Wilson’s hip and yanked him back and grinded against his ass.

He put his mouth right by Wilson’s ear and said in a low tone, “You’re a tease.”

“I’m drunk!” Wilson yelled back.

House figured Wilson would pull away then, but he didn’t. He moved his ass against House’s front, pressing back against him and folding his hand over top of House’s. It was a joke, except it wasn’t, but it was a joke, except it wasn’t.

House’s growing erection certainly didn’t think it was a joke.

Wilson turned back around to face House, putting a foot of distance between them. He looked at House skeptically, down at his crotch and then back up to his face, and asked, “Are you really that easy?”

House only shrugged.

A med student grabbed Wilson and danced away with him, so House went back to the bar and ordered another beer. It was well past midnight, they still had nowhere to sleep, and House was sporting a Wilson-induced boner in his jeans. Tomorrow would be a treacherous day at Grand Teton if they didn’t get their shit together soon.

Yet somehow another hour passed before House had to literally drag Wilson out of the bar as he started doing body shots with the med students.

“Oh fuck,” Wilson said as soon as they were outside. He stumbled away from House and puked against the side of a building. “Oh god, what the fuck? Why did I drink so much?”

As Wilson continued puking, House replied, “If I squint, you’re the spitting image of yourself at 25. Those med students de-aged you.”

“I don’t remember a single one of their names.”

House scrunched his face up in regret. “Let’s hope you forget everything about tonight. What happens in Jackson Hole stays in Jackson Hole, or something like that.”

Wilson spit onto the ground, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and stood back up to face House. He gave him a pointed look and said, “Oh, I plan on remembering some things.”

House swallowed and kept walking toward the car.

House had sobered up in the past hour, but even so, he only made it a few miles down the empty highway before pulling off on the side of the road and declaring that they could just sleep in the car. Lucky for him, Wilson was already asleep in the passenger seat.

Curling up in the backseat and contorting his body to try to stretch his right leg, House decided it didn’t matter if he ever got a good night’s sleep or not. He stared at nothing in the car and replayed the night in his head, incapable of shaking the feeling of Wilson’s body pressed against his.

Too hungover to do anything but drive the next day, House and Wilson covered as much ground as they could through Grand Teton. House had one pill left, which he was saving to be able to hike, so by noon he was shaking and feverish from withdrawal.

“You OK?” Wilson asked from the driver’s seat.

“Just peachy,” House answered breathlessly, hand pressed as hard as he could against his thigh.

Wilson sighed and kept driving. In an obvious attempt to distract House from the pain, he pointed out every beautiful mountain range, glimpse of snow, and moose or elk.

But by mid-afternoon, they had to pull over for House to retch until all that was coming up was bile. He had detoxed from Vicodin before, but this had to be the worst and the fastest progression. He was delirious with pain and fatigue, nearly passing out in his own vomit on the side of the road.

“OK, we’re taking a day off,” Wilson announced.

House stumbled as Wilson came over to him, put an arm around him, and helped him get back to the car. As Wilson drove back toward Jackson Hole, House tried to stay awake and failed.

When he woke, he was curled up comfortably in a hotel bed with a glass of water and a box of crackers on the nightstand. As he blinked his way into lucidity, he saw that the room seemed more like an inn, with outdated wallpaper and colorful furniture. Wilson was asleep in a rocking chair tucked into the corner of the room.

House moved to reach for the water and immediately his leg spasmed. “Fuck,” he said loudly, falling back onto the bed and gripping his thigh.

Wilson was there in a second, glass of water in his hand and a concerned look on his face. He sat on the edge of the bed and gently pushed a sweaty lock of hair off House’s forehead.

“There’s still one pill left,” House begged. “Please, just—”

“No. I’m not going through this again tomorrow. We stay here for as long as it takes.”

House huffed his indignation and tried to think of a cohesive argument about how Wilson shouldn’t have to spend any of the time he had left caring for House, but no thoughts held steady in his head. Instead, he felt tears forming in the corners of his eyes and turned his head away from Wilson to hide them.

“Just leave me here to die,” House mumbled against the pillows.

Wilson patted his back a few times, a bit patronizingly. “Hang in there, champ.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Wilson laughed then squeezed House’s shoulder and rubbed his back, more genuine this time. His hand lingered just a bit longer than was appropriate, and when he removed it, House thought about begging him to put it back. He was desperate and pathetic, and he wanted the gentle touch of the friend he loved to counteract the unbearable pain he was experiencing.

“What do you need?” Wilson asked softly, his weight still dipping the edge of the bed.

“Stay,” House said, feeling ridiculous and vulnerable but too out of his mind to care.

Wilson didn’t say anything. There was some rustling, then the bed dipped more as Wilson lay down.

“What are you doing?” House asked, even as he scooted over to make room.

“Staying.”

House kept his face buried, unwilling to look at Wilson. He could feel his proximity, their bodies nearly touching, and the pain abated. He sighed his relief.

Wilson fell asleep before House, his body twitching and then going still, his breathing heavy. House waited a couple of minutes and then slowly turned onto his side, facing Wilson.

He just watched him sleep, transfixed until his eyelids grew heavy. When House finally did fall asleep, he didn’t feel any pain.

It didn’t last.

House woke two hours later nearly screaming, sucking air until he couldn’t take it anymore and leaned over the side of the bed to puke. Luckily Wilson had set a trashcan out for him.

Then Wilson was behind him, putting his hands on House’s shoulders and soothing him with quiet assertions. “You’re OK, you’re alright. I’m here.”

House was shaking and crying, and he turned toward Wilson and buried his face against his chest. Wilson wrapped his arms around him and rubbed his back and said, “Shh, it’s OK.”

“God, I’m fucking useless,” House mumbled against Wilson’s shirt. “Give me a fucking Vicodin.”

“No.”

“I can’t—I can’t do this. I can’t—”

“Stop.” Wilson shifted and put a hand on House’s cheek, lifting his head up so he could look at him. “You’re better than this.”

House looked at Wilson’s brown eyes and then his mouth and then back up at his eyes. “I’m not.”

Wilson blinked. Then, time seemed to slow down as he coaxed House’s face toward him. He angled his own head down and pressed his lips to House’s.

House made a surprised noise in the back of his throat and fisted his hand in the front of Wilson’s shirt, pulling him closer. He kissed him hard, sloppily, unable to help himself. He was half-convinced this wasn’t happening, so he might as well go for it.

Wilson kissed him back, slow and gentle, holding him delicately, making soft noises like he was memorizing the shape of House’s mouth.

It wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be happening, because next thing House knew he was waking up again, and he didn’t remember falling asleep. It was dark outside, and Wilson was still next to him in the bed. His pajamas were different and his hair was damp, so he must’ve gotten up at some point to shower.

House was in less pain than the last time he woke up, so he took it as an opportunity to go to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face and changed out of his sweaty t-shirt, then he drank some water and gingerly limped back to the bed.

Wilson was asleep on his back, and House was not exactly lucid, so he went ahead and scooted in close to his friend and ran his hand along his chest. He looked at him for a bit, outlining his cheeks and mouth with a fingertip, anything to distract him from the pain. Wilson sniffled and moved, rolling to his side and slinging an arm over House.

“Wilson,” House whispered.

“Mm,” Wilson replied, not opening his eyes.

“Is this real or not real?”

“Go to sleep, House.”

House scooted closer, their bodies facing each other. He moved Wilson’s arm from his ribcage to his hip then put his own arm around Wilson’s hip, rubbing his thumb in circles against his soft skin.

House said, “Kiss me again.”

Wilson didn’t even open his eyes. He just nodded awkwardly against the pillow and pushed forward, and House met him halfway. They both groaned into it, and House knew he had to be dreaming, because there was just no way Wilson was this perfect.

House had always enjoyed kissing people and would deny it until his actual dying day that it was his favorite part of foreplay. He didn’t think his mind would let him have hallucinatory sex with Wilson, so he was just going to enjoy the kissing while it lasted.

Wilson pushed closer and wrapped his hand around House’s ass, exploring. He made a frustrated noise and pushed his tongue deeper into House’s mouth.

“Fuck,” Wilson breathed as he broke away. “Fuck, sorry.”

House smiled softly and petted Wilson’s hair. “Sorry for what?”

“I’m—it feels like I’m taking advantage of you.”

House rolled his eyes. “What’s a little making out between friends during detox?”

The corners of Wilson’s lips pulled up; he sweetly pecked House on the mouth. “When you’re better, we’re never talking about this.”

“This isn’t even happening, so what is there to talk about?”

Wilson laughed and went right back to kissing House.

After a few minutes of languid, too-sweet kisses, House moved closer to Wilson, wrapped his arm tightly around his lower back, and burrowed down against his chest.

“Going to sleep?” Wilson asked, his hand rubbing circles against House’s back.

“Mm,” House confirmed.

The next time House woke up, he and Wilson weren’t facing each other anymore. Instead, House had turned to his other side, and Wilson’s front was pressed against his back, his arm slung heavy across House’s stomach. He breathed softly against House’s neck, obviously still asleep.

House was burning up, his clothes drenched in sweat, but he didn’t want to move. The fever would break on its own, then he would be back to shivering, his leg spasming. He had no idea how long he and Wilson had been in this hotel room together, but he had the insane thought that he didn’t want it to end. He could handle the withdrawal symptoms if it meant spending more time in bed with Wilson.

It was a very sunny morning when House woke up feeling somewhat normal. He squinted in the light and rolled over, finding the bed empty. For the first time, he realized there was a second bed in the room. It was made, but that didn’t mean anything. Wilson could’ve made it after he got up.

With House’s lucidity came the disappointment. What was he thinking, cuddling and kissing Wilson? His imagination couldn’t do better than that, something a little more R-rated at least?

There was a glass of water on the nightstand, which House promptly gulped down. He didn’t feel totally dehydrated—probably because Wilson had repeatedly forced him to drink water—but he was definitely thirsty. He was starving, too, and had no idea how long it had been since he last ate.

“Wilson?” House asked the empty room.

No answer.

He got to his feet, grabbing his cane from beside the bed to make his way to the bathroom. He took a cold shower and pressed his forehead against the tile wall, letting the water pour over him. He stayed still for several long minutes, unsure if he was punishing or rewarding himself.

When he emerged wearing just a towel around his waist, Wilson was back with a bag of takeout and two drinks. He glanced down at House’s bare torso and then turned away to set the food down.

“You’re looking better,” Wilson said casually.

“Yeah. How long’s it been?”

“Uh, about five days.” Wilson faced House again, hands on his hips. “You hungry? You’ve barely eaten anything.”

“Yeah, starving.”

“You sure you’re alright?”

House nodded and headed toward the food. There was a desk with one chair in the room, which House took. He sat in his towel, hair dripping dry, and scarfed down an egg and cheese sandwich and a bagel in the span of about two minutes. Wilson grabbed his own food and sat on the edge of the bed.

“So, uh, do you think you’re out of the woods?” Wilson asked.

“I don’t feel like murdering you for the last Vicodin, so yeah.”

“You may still have symptoms for a few weeks.”

“Oh, will I, Dr. Wilson? I don’t remember that from the two or three other times I’ve detoxed.”

“Hey, all I’m saying is if you need a few more days before we head out to Yellowstone, I understand.”

House narrowed his eyes at Wilson, studying him. Wilson was being so cautious, and House wasn’t sure why.

“Do you, um…do you feel more lucid now?” Wilson asked.

“I’m more confident you’re real than I was a few hours ago.”

Wilson cleared his throat. “Do you remember anything? Or did you have any weird hallucinations like last time?”

House almost blurted it out. Oh my god, we actually did make out, didn’t we? But on the very real chance that it didn’t happen, he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t let Wilson know the not-so-naughty schoolgirl fantasies he had about him. It would’ve been a lot easier to admit if they had just fucked.

So instead, House shook his head and said, “Nope.”

After a pause, Wilson said, “What happens in detox stays in detox?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

With House in a wheelchair, Wilson was able to push him through the crowd until they had front-row seats for Old Faithful.

As predicted, House still had some lingering withdrawal symptoms, notably dizziness and fatigue, so they planned out their Yellowstone trip based on his need for a wheelchair. Being in a wheelchair had a completely different effect than using a cane: While both mobility devices caused awkward stares and wariness, the wheelchair at least came with people being overly polite and gracious with House.

He rubbed his leg while they waited for the geyser to erupt. Admittedly, he was starting to get used to the throbbing pain and was able to ignore it much of the time. This was one of the worst parts of detox, the realization that he didn’t really need Vicodin.

“You alright?” Wilson asked, for the millionth time in the past week, as he watched House rub his leg.

Wilson had been too kind, too gentle with him lately, and it was beginning to drive House nuts. House responded, “My leg hurts. It’s fine.”

A little girl nearby stared at House, at his wheelchair, and he stared back at her until she made eye contact with him. He made a funny face at her and she laughed then shyly toddled over to her mom.

They only had to wait about 10 minutes for Old Faithful to erupt. The crowd gasped and cheered, and House stared up at the stream of water and steam and felt lightheaded. It had been a while since anything had truly surprised him just by sheer wonder.

“Holy shit,” Wilson said quietly beside him. “That’s so cool.”

House looked over at him and smiled. “Why don’t you do that hike?”

Wilson didn’t take his eyes off the geyser. “What hike?”

“The one up the hill that gives you a different angle. You could make it up there before it erupts again.”

“Yeah, but you can’t.”

“I don’t care. I’ll sit here and watch it again.”

Wilson finally looked over at him, his eyebrows pulled together. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Wilson took off with no further argument. When he returned about an hour and a half later, he had a look of excitement on his face. He approached House quickly, bent down in front of him and put his hands on both of his shoulders.

“Thank you,” Wilson said.

House’s heart pounded against his chest. He blinked. “Worth it?”

“So worth it. It looked amazing from up there.”

Wilson squeezed House’s shoulders then let him go. He went behind the wheelchair and began pushing House, asking him where they should go next.

Many of the geysers were on accessible paths, so they spent pretty much the entire day exploring and waiting absurd amounts of time for different geysers to erupt. When they ran out of things to talk about while they waited, Wilson forced House to play a game where he pretended to be a patient with all kinds of symptoms that House had to work through to see how long it would take him to diagnose him. It took House an average of 14 minutes to figure out whatever rare disease Wilson described, even as Wilson tried desperately to trick him with lies.

During one of their games, an older man watched them and waited until House had won the game before he approached them.

“Excuse me, are you a doctor?” the man asked.

House frowned at him. “I was.”

“Can you help me? I have some of the symptoms your friend was just describing, and I’ve been to three doctors about it.”

House looked up at Wilson; Wilson shrugged and smiled smugly.

It took House about 20 minutes to diagnose the man. They were so distracted, they almost missed the eruption.

Other people overheard, and soon enough House had become famous at the geysers of Yellowstone. While people waited hours for different eruptions, they stood in line in front of House with things as simple as a common cold and as complex as autoimmune disorders. Without the ability to run tests, he couldn’t confirm many of the diagnoses, but people were grateful anyway.

House didn’t think about his pain for the remainder of the day. He didn’t think about Vicodin, and he didn’t think about his withdrawal symptoms. As he and Wilson drove to their campsite that night, Wilson huffed a laugh.

“It feels good, doesn’t it? Solving puzzles,” he said.

“What, doing the thing I love? Yes, Wilson, it feels good,” House said a bit derisively. “What’s your point?”

Wilson cleared his throat. “Just…I don’t know. Just that you’ll have, uh, something. When I’m gone, you’ll have something.”

House didn’t respond and instead just let the admission hang in the air between them.

Wilson hadn’t said anything about how he had been feeling lately. House was watching him even more obsessively than usual, and Wilson’s behaviors seemingly had not changed. If the cancer progressed at the predicted rate, he should at least be experiencing some fatigue, muscle weakness, diet changes, or anything else to indicate that he only had a few months left to live. The deadline loomed, and yet Wilson was the same as ever.

In their tent that night, House lay in his sleeping bag and looked up at the electric lantern hanging from the nylon, his mind reviewing all the cases from the day. None of the diagnoses were particularly interesting, none as stimulating as the fake symptoms Wilson had come up with, but maybe that was just because if House had a choice between talking to random strangers or talking to Wilson, he would pick Wilson.

“Can’t sleep?” Wilson asked from beside House. He was turned away from him, curled up on his side in his sleeping bag.

“Not tired yet,” House answered.

Wilson scooted and flipped over, the sleeping pad jostling beneath them both. “You know, I was thinking.”

House turned his head, found Wilson looking at him.

“I’d love to go to Glacier, but it doesn’t really make sense to go there,” Wilson said. “If we go there, then we’d head out to Washington and make our way down through California. I don’t think we’d ever make it back to the Grand Canyon and everything around it.”

“I thought the plan was always to go south.”

“Yeah, it is. I was just…I don’t know. Thinking about changing the plan.”

House turned onto his side and tucked his hands under his cheek, mirroring Wilson. They were just a few inches apart, like they were teenage girls at a sleepover together. “It seems like you’ve been feeling good. Maybe you’ll, um, make it longer. Maybe we’ll get all the way to Alaska sometime.”

Wilson huffed a laugh and blinked. His eyes went to House’s mouth and then back up. “I do feel suspiciously good, but I’ve seen that happen to patients before. The body’s last defense before everything falls apart.”

“Mm. Great.”

Wilson’s eyebrows knit together. He didn’t say anything. He reached a hand forward and gently pushed a lock of House’s hair off his forehead.

House closed his eyes. His hair was getting too long, he knew. In the morning he would pull out his clippers and do a half-ass job on both his hair and beard, but tonight he was glad to be unkempt.

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” Wilson said softly. “I’m glad you weren’t actually dead.”

“Yeah, me too.” On a whim, House copied Wilson’s gesture and pushed a lock of Wilson’s hair back, albeit in a much more playful manner. “I wish you’d stay.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

They fell asleep facing each other, breathing the same air.

Their Yellowstone trip was cut short, on account of a local reporter approaching House and asking if she could interview him about diagnosing people at the geysers. Word had gotten around, and House had spent days telling dozens of people what was wrong with them.

So House and Wilson packed up their shit and hit the road before they saw any wolves in Yellowstone.

They went south, like their original plan, and drove through the empty desert and mountains of Utah, spending a few weeks crossing the state.

At Arches, Wilson developed a light cough.

At Canyonlands, he lost his appetite.

At Capitol Reef, he had to take an entire day off just to sleep.

At Bryce Canyon, he had to use the transport wheelchair.

At Zion, he collapsed.

At the hospital, House claimed to be Wilson’s brother, because he figured the good people of Utah would take more kindly to that than if House claimed to be his husband.

Wilson slept for hours, and House sat in a chair in the corner and watched carefully every time a nurse came in to check his IV or his vitals. House obsessively reviewed Wilson’s chart as if it was going to change each time he looked at it.

“I know I’ve done something wrong,” Wilson said hoarsely, his eyes slowly opening and adjusting to the hospital lights around 8 p.m.

House got up from his chair as quickly as his leg would allow and made his way to the side of the bed. He looked down at Wilson and smiled sadly at him, wanting to reach out, touch him, something. He refrained.

“To have you at my bedside when I’m dying, I must’ve pissed off some divine entity. Or just the universe in general hates me,” Wilson concluded.

“Oh, come on. You know that hurts my feelings,” House teased. “I could call up your three ex-wives; I’m sure they’d fly out here to dote on you.”

Wilson winced and shifted in the bed, his hospital gown skewing off his shoulder at the movement. “No, it’s good that it’s you. Feels right, somehow.”

House reached for the gown and delicately moved the collar back up toward Wilson’s neck, his fingers barely brushing the skin of his collarbone. House looked at his shoulder for a little too long, and when he went back to looking at Wilson’s face, Wilson swallowed.

They simultaneously cleared their throats.

“I, uh,” House started awkwardly. “I booked a hotel nearby. We should be able to leave tomorrow and just need to rest a few days, see how you’re feeling then.”

“We’ve been overdoing it a bit, haven’t we?”

“According to the very stern doctor here, yes.”

Wilson laughed lightly and then tilted his head back, looking up at the ceiling. “Man, I really wanted to make it to the Grand Canyon.”

“Hey, we still can. Even if I have to haul your emaciated cancer-ridden body there myself.”

Wilson looked down at himself. “Oh god, am I already emaciated?”

“No. You’ve lost about 15 pounds though.”

“Well, that’s alright. I won’t miss those.” Wilson held his hand out. “Can I see my chart?”

House grabbed the clipboard from the end of the bed and handed it over. He then hit Wilson’s call bell to see if the CNA would bring him another dinner tray since he missed it earlier, or if House would have to go out and get something for him. He didn’t want to leave him.

Dinner was brought, and House made Wilson eat everything. It didn’t matter that House hadn’t eaten all day; he would worry about himself later.

Around 10 p.m., House yawned and grabbed his thigh, trying to work out the soreness.

“Go sleep at the hotel, House,” Wilson said, almost like a command. “I’ll be fine here. I promise I won’t die while you’re gone. I’ll at least wait until morning.”

“Did you leave me at all during my detox?” House asked.

Wilson blinked several times, obviously surprised by the question. In a quiet voice, he said, “That was different.”

House’s lips parted in surprise, but he didn’t know what to say. He closed his mouth and swished air around in his upper lip, then he sighed. “Well, alright. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Night, House.”

“Night, Wilson.”

House had the ridiculous urge to kiss Wilson’s forehead. It made his exit awkward as he debated if he should just go ahead and fucking do it, but of course he didn’t.

Before going to the hotel, House stopped by a fast food joint and wolfed down a burger and fries. As per his usual, he barely slept at all, and spent most of the night tossing and turning as he tried not to think about the ticking clock on his time left with Wilson.

Lucky for them both, Wilson was discharged from the hospital the following afternoon. The doctor recommended rest and maybe finding a less strenuous activity to do with the time Wilson had left, which Wilson was obviously planning on ignoring.

At the hotel, Wilson fell into bed before sundown and didn’t wake up until nearly 10 a.m. the next morning. House brought him food and water and gave him his space, grateful that they had a room with two beds. The tent was nice, but it had started to feel cramped. Too close.

The continental breakfast House had smuggled up to the room was cold by the time Wilson woke up, but he was still grateful. He ate quietly. House sat on the edge of his bed, tapped his cane on the floor, rolled it between his hands.

“I might need to go back to sleep,” Wilson said in between very small bites of eggs. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t know why you’re sorry,” House said simply. “Do you need anything?”

“Um.” Wilson scratched the back of his head. “Maybe some coffee?”

House nodded and got back up. He knew Wilson well enough to know that Wilson didn’t want House sitting in the room acting bored while he took a nap, so he gave House a task to do. It was fine, though, because House could use another cup of coffee, too.

He left the hotel and managed to stay away for two whole hours, killing time by filling the car up with gas, organizing the camping equipment in the trunk, reading a book at the coffee shop.

When he returned, Wilson wasn’t in the room. House let himself panic for about 30 seconds before heading down to the lobby. He checked the hotel bar, the restaurant, the gym. When he got to the indoor pool, he found Wilson sitting by himself in the hot tub.

“I didn’t even know you brought a bathing suit on this trip,” House said as he gently lowered himself to the tile. He set his cane on the ground and removed his shoes, then he rolled his jeans up at the ankles and put his feet in the water.

Wilson didn’t say anything. He had his arms up on the back of the hot tub and his head turned to the side, away from House. Without a shirt on, House could see how thin Wilson was getting.

They sat together in silence until Wilson said, “I’m dying, House.”

House said nothing. He didn’t take his eyes away from Wilson’s profile.

Then Wilson turned his head slowly and looked at House. It was a scary look, something between fear and melancholy, but there was something else in there, too. Something House couldn’t parse.

“I hate that I can’t accept it,” Wilson continued. “I thought I was doing OK, but I just—god, I just can’t fucking accept it. How can I be dying?”

“If it makes you feel any better, I can’t accept it, either.”

“So what are you going to do? When I’m gone, what will you do?”

House shook his head. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

Wilson laughed humorlessly and tilted his head up to the high ceiling. His arms and neck stretched out, everything open to House. “So I’m Juliet, you’re Romeo?”

“You’re not mad?”

Wilson rolled his eyes and pushed himself out of the hot tub, taking longer than a healthy person would. He grabbed a towel from a nearby chair and headed toward the exit.

House followed him, of course, not bothering to put his shoes back on and instead just holding them in his left hand and leaving wet footprints on the floor as he came back inside the hotel. Even with his fatigue, Wilson was way faster than House and got on an elevator before House could reach him. House cursed and shoved his elbow on the up button, ignoring glares from the few people in the lobby. He knew what he looked like, with his cane in one hand and shoes in the other, barefoot and chasing his friend through the hotel like a lovesick idiot.

House found Wilson sitting in the shower, crying quietly as the water poured over him. He still had his bathing suit on.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” House asked.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” Wilson reached for the shower knob and shut off the water, then he pushed past House and said, “Seriously, fuck you.”

House, of course, followed him. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Yes, you do!” Wilson shouted, turning on him and shoving a finger in his face. “Yes, you fucking do. I’ve told you. I’m dying, and you can’t even—you can’t even…God, you’ll fucking kill yourself for me. Or really, for yourself because you can’t stand the idea of living without me. You’ll fucking do that, but you won’t—you wont…”

House could feel his heart beating in his ears. He stepped forward, leaning heavily on his cane, then put a hand on Wilson’s hip and yanked him forward until they were touching. Calmly, he asked, “Is this it? This is what you want?”

Wilson blinked, then his resolve clearly broke. In an instant, he put both hands on House’s face and kissed him so hard he knocked their noses together, causing House’s eyes to water.

House should say it. He should say it. Wilson was dying, and he deserved to hear it.

I love you.

But House couldn’t. He couldn’t say it, but he could let Wilson push him onto the bed, let Wilson’s tongue into his mouth, let Wilson’s hands undo his fly.

Wilson was dying, and he could have this. He could have all of House, just like this. It was the only way, House realized, that they could ever arrive here. Only under terminal circumstances could they meet like this.

“God, I’ve wanted this,” Wilson said, his voice hoarse as he wrapped his left hand around House’s cock. “You were—fuck, you were such a goddamn tease when you were detoxing.”

House blinked and tried to focus. Was he hallucinating now? No, he hadn’t had any drugs in at least a month. He said, “So, all the…girly shit we did, that actually happened? I wasn’t hallucinating?”

Wilson stopped kissing House’s neck so he could look down at him, his brow furrowed. “Are you kidding me? That’s why you stopped?”

House winced. “Can you blame me? You were too good to be real.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Wilson rolled his hips down and gripped House harder. “This is real, in case you were unsure.”

Eyes closed, House arched off the bed and put a hand on Wilson’s back, digging his fingers in. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Mm, fair.”

Wilson captured his mouth again, kissing him senseless. After just a few minutes, they were both breathless and rocking into each other aimlessly. Wilson bit down on House’s bottom lip and pulled away.

“Clothes off,” Wilson commanded.

Obedient as ever, House bridged his hips and shimmied his pants and boxer briefs down until his thigh gave out. He made a surprised noise of pain, and Wilson immediately helped him, pulling his clothes off and then rubbing his hands up and down his legs, paying special attention to his scar. House let out a relieved breath and then yanked his t-shirt off over his head and threw it aside.

“Look at you,” Wilson said quietly, reverently, hands still working on his thighs.

House closed his eyes in embarrassment. It was a rare emotion for him to experience but sometimes happened when he felt vulnerable. He loved Wilson. He loved Wilson for seeing him, for wanting him.

“Are you going to take that stupid bathing suit off?” House asked gruffly.

Wilson raised an eyebrow at him and then leaned down and took the head of House’s cock in his mouth.

House gasped and involuntarily reached for Wilson, fisting his hand in his hair and holding on tight.

“What a…god. Fuck. What an interesting way to spend the limited time you have left,” House joked, his voice shaky.

Wilson hummed and moved his lips down slowly until he reached his own fingers where they were wrapped around the base of House’s cock.

House laughed a little insanely and threw his hands over his face, not believing his luck. He finally had Wilson. He had him, and all it cost was both of their lives.

Wilson brought House right to the edge and then left him there. He sat up, removing both hand and mouth from House, and walked across the room. He still wore his swim shorts, which made House feel homicidal.

When Wilson returned, he tossed a small bottle of lube at House’s chest and then unceremoniously stripped his shorts off.

“Hallelujah,” House said facetiously as Wilson crawled back over top of him once again.

They smiled into a kiss, then Wilson pulled back and asked, “Can I…?”

“Comprehensive yes to anything and everything you want to do to me.”

Of course, what Wilson wanted was not wild and crazy. Truthfully, that wasn’t what House wanted either.

What both of them needed, and what they both got, was comfortable eye contact, soft kisses, caresses, and a slow rhythm as Wilson thrust inside of House. They moved together like they had all the time in the world. When Wilson was close, he pressed his forehead to House’s, and House held onto him by the back of his neck and whispered too-sweet encouragement to him.

“Come on, Wilson. Come inside me. I want to feel you. I need you.”

Wilson tensed up, then moved faster and harder as House held on and took it. House felt himself getting close, too, and his encouragement became more desperate, pleading.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck, please. Don’t stop, don’t stop, come on, please—”

Wilson’s come filled House up. Before he could process what was happening, Wilson’s hand sped up around his cock, and Wilson’s mouth was on his.

Less than a minute passed before House came, too, to the feeling of Wilson’s come spilling out of his ass. They collapsed together on the bed, sweating and breathing heavily as the mess between them dried. House stared up at the ceiling, his chest heaving, everything hurting.

“I love you,” House said.

Wilson huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I got that.”

House wrapped his arms around him and hugged him to his chest. “Oh, fuck you.”

“I love you, too,” Wilson said.

By the time House and Wilson showered and got dressed, it was still early in the evening.

House pulled two full bottles of whiskey out of his luggage and hobbled over to sit on the edge of the bed, directly across from where Wilson sat on the other bed. House handed a bottle over. Wordlessly, they knocked the glass together in a cheers and then both drank shots straight from their respective bottles.

“You sure about this?” House asked.

Wilson scoffed and avoided eye contact. “No, of course not.”

“Should we have dressed up?” House asked stupidly.

“What, so the funeral home doesn’t have to worry about changing us?” Wilson said, then took a long swig from his bottle. “We’re going to traumatize the housekeeping staff. I don’t think it’s going to matter if we’re in suits or not.”

House looked around their room, at the generic walls, the generic decor. “I do wish I was killing myself in a less-mediocre hotel than this.”

Wilson hummed his agreement and continued drinking.

The decision had been made the second Wilson kissed House, and if that hadn’t been the final nail in the coffin then House saying “I love you” was. There was no coming back from it. Wilson might still have a couple months left, but it didn’t matter. They had done what they needed to do, and that was that.

Not that they talked about it, but House knew. Wilson needed this one final thing from House before he was ready to die, and now that he had it, he didn’t care so much about making it to the Grand Canyon.

Once House felt a bit buzzed, he stumbled back over to his luggage to get the morphine and IV catheters. He didn’t want to be drunk for the poking and prodding portion of the evening, even though he was pretty sure his drunk hands were steadier than most other people’s sober ones.

They didn’t say anything to each other as Wilson lay back on the bed and eyed House warily. Unceremoniously, House grabbed Wilson’s arm and pressed his thumb around to pick a good vein.

“You’re drawing this out so you can touch me more,” Wilson whispered.

House raised an eyebrow at him, and Wilson grinned. Without looking at what he was doing, House pushed the needle into Wilson’s forearm and rocked forward to kiss him. Wilson groaned into it, using his free hand to hold House in place by the back of his neck as he deepened the kiss. This was the last time they were going to kiss. House could stay here forever, he realized, and be content.

Wilson’s phone rang.

They jumped away from each other as if caught. House looked down at Wilson’s arm and found that his IV placement was perfect. He hadn’t administered the morphine yet.

House and Wilson made eye contact with each other and shared a silent conversation before Wilson answered the phone.

“Uh, yes. Two, 28, 69,” Wilson recited. Then, “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

House stared at him. Wilson rubbed his thumb and index fingers against his forehead, hiding his face from House. The IV catheter hung from his arm, forgotten.

“Yes. Yeah. I can be there. Thank you,” Wilson said, then hung up. He looked over at House with a confused expression. “The oncologist at the hospital here wants to meet me tomorrow morning.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

House looked at the bottle of morphine on the nightstand, looked at Wilson. “Um. OK.” He moved back into Wilson’s personal space and gestured for Wilson to give him his arm.

With his eyes actually on Wilson’s arm this time, House gently removed the needle and pressed gauze to the wound.

“Joint suicide postponed I guess,” House said drily. “So, um. What do you want to do now?”

“Dinner?” Wilson suggested.

They went to dinner. They were both quiet, and awkward, and didn’t dare say anything about what the oncologist could possibly want with Wilson.

When they were getting ready for bed that night, they kept an invisible minimum-one-foot barrier between them at all times like some unspoken agreement. They didn’t try to sleep in the same bed; neither of them tried to make a move.

They were supposed to be dead. House had said I love you, for fuck’s sake. How was he supposed to just keep living after that, going back to normal, acting like nothing happened?

House had been staring at Wilson’s MRI for the past 10 minutes.

The oncologist was saying something to Wilson, but House heard none of it. He could focus on nothing but the image on the screen: the small, operable tumor.

“Greg,” Wilson said, and it obviously wasn’t the first time he had tried to get House’s attention.

“Hmm?” House asked, eyes still on the scan.

“Will you excuse us for a second?” Wilson asked, and then he grabbed House by the arm and practically yanked him out of the oncologist’s office.

Under the hospital lights of the hallway, House blinked himself back into reality.

“I’m going to let them do it,” Wilson said, his face set in serious determination.

“Operate?”

“Yes. Were you listening at all?”

“No.”

“They think my recent symptoms were just dehydration and exhaustion compounded by the cancer, and maybe the chemo actually worked, and—”

“When can they do the surgery?” House interrupted.

Wilson fought back a smile. “Tomorrow. House, I’m going to do it.”

“Of course you should fucking do it. Jesus, Wilson, if you don’t do it I’ll literally kill you.”

“OK. OK, good. Yes. Good. I’m going back in there.”

House stayed outside the office, too dazed to follow Wilson.

For the past few months, House had been focused on nothing but Wilson’s untimely demise. Everything he had done was to prepare for their mutual exit from this world. Now they were being told there was hope, a future, something beyond crossing items off a bucket list and fucking your best friend in a final goodbye. There was a possibility of more.

So, now what?

In the end, it was decided that Wilson would fly back to New Jersey to do the surgery mainly so that he wouldn’t have to spend months fighting with his insurance company.

Before the day was over, House drove Wilson to the airport and wished him luck as he headed inside alone.

House’s job was to drive all their stuff from Utah to New Jersey, with no time limit on how quickly he needed to cross the country. House hated this, as he wanted to be by Wilson’s side for his surgery and take care of him in the aftermath.

But, Wilson reminded House, he was legally dead. He couldn’t show up at Wilson’s bedside, even if Wilson’s surgery wasn’t at Princeton Plainsboro.

The vast desert roads of the West had a paradoxical effect on House: he felt trapped, caged in as he drove east. He felt the morphine in his bag like a living presence in the car, screaming at him.

He pushed his foot down on the gas until it hit the floor.

He got away with it for 17 miles, which was about 16 miles farther than he would have gotten in New Jersey.

After the cop ran his plate and his license, House found himself with his cheek against the warm hood of the sedan, his hands cuffed behind his back.

Once his Miranda rights were read to him, the first thing House said was, “Yeah, what state am I in?”

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