"Continuum"; H/W one-shot for hw_fest

[simple__man]

Title: Continuum
Author: simple__man
Word Count: 5594
Prompt was: House and Wilson in space.

Summary: Captured by the enemy, House and Wilson learn some important truths about the nature of their relationship and themselves.

Warning: A/U (obviously ^^), not-very graphic descriptions of acts of torture and rape, character death (of a sort), spirituality (of a sort)

A/N: I'm trying to figure out if this is the longest thing I've ever written. I'm not sure. Definitely my first space/fantasy A/U in this fandom, er, ever. I hope ya'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Written for hw_fest


He can't feel his leg. More accurately, he can't feel his legs. For the first time in years, he considers this to be incredibly inconvenient. The pain that normally radiates outward from his right thigh, pain that has been his constant companion since his thirteenth birthday, has been inexplicably silenced.

Strangely enough, that really pisses him off.

He opens his eyes, an involuntary wave of panic washing over him as he tries, in vain, to see. A few fearful moments pass, but he is almost certain that he isn't blind. It's just really, really dark.

He is lying on a dirt floor, and he will continue to lie there until someone comes for him. He is paralyzed. He is also completely alone. He doesn't know what terrifies him more.

No amount of wishing, cursing, or willpower is successful in moving his legs even in the slightest. For a few moments, he had some hope that perhaps he was just drugged, hallucinating, but he can feel every other pain in his body.

Trembling fingers poke carefully at his scalp, feeling for damage. A few knots, some scabbing, tenderness. The parts of his body that he can reach are also in varying states of damage, but nowhere near what he might have expected. He's not sure about anything else, not being a medical man, himself. Wilson, if he were here, would have already checked him over, fixed him up, made him a sandwich, and sent him on his way.

He hopes like all hells that Wilson is not here.

He doesn't want to think about the other officers, his crew, but he would rather think of them than Wilson. If there is any justice in the worlds, then he is dead. A sickening thought, but no worse than the idea that he could be out there, laboring in the death camps.

The crew will be treated well enough, so he spares them little thought. In the minds of the enemy, they are slaves, unaccountable for the crimes of his government. The officers will not fair well at all. Cuddy and Foreman are strong-minded, strong-willed. They won't break, no matter the pressure, and the only future left for them will be death. Chase and Cameron, the youngest and least experienced, will probably make their way, if only because they will make incredibly beautiful slaves.

Wilson, if he hasn't gotten himself killed already, will do something stupid. It's inevitable. If there is a way to House's side, he'll get himself there, cost be damned. He'll be lucky if they give him the same treatment. Death camps might be preferable.

He tries desperately not to wish for Wilson.

Captain, the engines.

What about them?

They're finished, sir. We're drifting.

I'd noticed. Stop whispering like women and report.

The engines are dead.

Something he doesn't know, Ensign.

Sorry ma'am. Air supply is negligible. Rations are almost completely gone. Power is...

The enemy ship, Ensign.

Yes sir, sorry sir. They're within spitting distance of us, sir.

Spitting distance?

Sorry. Please, sir. They're here. I don't know what...

Enough. Call Wilson to the bridge.

Sir?

Captain, Dr. Wilson is caring for wounded...

Do you think I've somehow forgotten this fact?

Wilson doesn't need to open his eyes to know that House isn't there. He's always been able to sense the man's presence, a throwback to the days when his people enslaved themselves willingly to House's people. Lifetime sentences, closer to their masters than to their own family members, genetically engineered devotion. Sickening, all of it, a history of slavery and degradation, yet he still ached to know where the Captain was.

The irony is not lost on him, and he chuckles to himself, wincing as the skin on his lips cracks, bleeds. Wherever he is, it's loud, louder than the ship during battle, and the sounds and smells are unfamiliar.

He opens his eyes, scanning the room around him blearily, looking for House even though he knows without a doubt that the man is not there. It's dark, but he can see well enough to realize that he's in a cell, and that this particular cell is filled almost to capacity. Dirt floors, muddy with urine and excrement, and he is lying supine in a bed of utter filth.

Cursing, he raises himself into a sitting position, head sore and ringing from blows he only partly remembers. "Where am I?" he asks, but no one answers him, no one dares to look in his direction.

There are no familiar faces in the crowd, although this is only slightly disturbing. He knows the enemy, from long talks with House, and he knows that they habitually separate officers from crew, doctors and medical officers from everyone else. How many ships, how many planets, to fill up this immense cell? How many all told on this prison planet?

He is largely uninjured, some scrapes and bruises from the fight aboard the Instigator, and how aptly she had been named after all. A beautiful ship, one in the old style, and House had been so proud of her. Wilson was perhaps the only other person alive who knew that the Instigator had been a sister ship to the first ship House had commanded. The first ship House had lost, too, although the court martial had found him to be free of fault.

Only Wilson knew how losing this ship, this crew, would undo House. As much as he rode them, as hard as he pushed the ship and its crew, he loved them just as fiercely. At least, as close to love as House could ever be said to come. He had to find him, make sure he wasn't hurt (there were vague memories of kicks to House's already-mangled thigh, and impressions that they'd used some type of shock device to subdue him when he refused to stop fighting).

"I need to make a deal," he announces to the crowd at large, pulling ineffectively at his uniform. "Who do I need to talk to?" There is a din of silence, but Wilson is nothing if not patient. "I don't want out. I just have to find somebody."

"I'm so pleased to hear that you don't want to leave," is the response from the one of the cell doors. Swinging open, it reveals something that might have been a man, if it so obviously wasn't. A shudder rips through Wilson, but he refuses to look away. On second glance, he realizes that this isn't the enemy, this is something that wants to be mistaken for the enemy. Self-mutilated, most likely, and there is evidence of surgical implants of some type.

His mind cataloguing the procedures that must have taken place, he is able to detach from the situation, walking toward the cell door. How convenient, showing up just at the cell door closest to him. House is a very important catch, in the scheme of things, and they must know that Wilson is almost as important to House.

"Wilson, Medical Officer First Class, Doctor First Class, Surgeon Third Class. Posted to Instigator, Captain House commanding." It was the standard introduction to any enemy, but Wilson infuses it with enough pride to make it seem almost insulting.

The man-thing rumbled with laughter, exposed jaws gaping wider, and Wilson suppresses another shudder. If he smiles any bigger, his head will fall off, he thinks, but he refuses to take a step back, no matter how wonderful an idea that seems. "Tritter, Investigator," it announces, "First Class."

"Where am I?" Wilson asks, eyes still locked on the maimed face before him. Every available inch of flesh that hasn't been removed from the face has been tattooed in some dark ink, strange patterns that remind Wilson of prayers done in calligraphy. His second wife was incredibly fond of them.

"Camp 32 C."

"That means nothing to me."

"Don't worry. It will, soon enough." Tritter's awful grin starts unfolding as he adds, "Unless of course, you have something to trade."

Wilson knew what was coming, of course. The oldest stories, the ones that told of House's ancestors and their flight from this same killing planet, warned even the smallest children that there was only one way to pay a debt in the camps. Even in Academy, there had been lessons from certain teachers, the long-lived ones especially, with oblique references to selling one's body when captured.

Historically speaking, his ancestors had been selling their asses for much longer. He has no choice but to be good at it, being genetically predisposed to the idea.

At least, that's what he keeps telling himself as Tritter opens the door, grasping his bicep with surgically-implanted claws. Wilson amuses himself during the walk by totting up how many stitches the bastard must have had.

It is a very large number.

If it's not life-threatening, I don't need to be here.

It is.

That's...that's not. They're here?

It is. They are.

What do we do?

Say our goodbyes.

You're surrendering, just like that?

You know me better than that.

Then it isn't goodbye. Let me know when we win.

Winning isn't an option. It's not even a possibility.

I'm not leaving.

You are. Take the wounded, and the officers and crew that can be spared.

No one can be spared. If we die, we're dying together.

I didn't ask you. I'm telling you.

You can't order me.

You'll sacrifice everyone, just to say that you stayed with me?

They can go. I'm staying.

You're needed with the wounded.

You'll be wounded. Worse than wounded, and you know it. You know the stories, the same as I do.

I was fed them with my bottle. That's why I want you to go.

The paralysis is only temporary, he finds upon reawakening. The pain that greets him is almost as awful as the faces that surround him, alien and threatening.

He's been hearing stories about these things his entire life, but nothing prepares him for the Other-ness of them. They look just human enough to give a person hope of mercy. Looking into cold, black, lifeless eyes, House knows without a doubt that mercy is unattainable.

They are talking about him, and although he is not surprised that he understands every word, it is still jarring. Something that looks like that, all razor-sharp claws and massive, gleaming fangs should not be conversing in the language of the People. Not that there are many who remember the old language, but his nurse and tutors had always been adamant that he learn it. He's grateful, he finds, an uncommon emotion. He hopes he's not about to die.

"Eyes that blue, I have not seen. Have you?" The shorter one hisses to his whip-thin counterpart.

"In pictures, in stories. Hard to find, now. Their kind are dying out."

True enough. The pureblood of the People were few in number when this planet had first came into existence. Now, even the diluted offshoots of their line were increasingly hard to find. Of his particular family, he was the last. If there were a hundred more like him in all the Worlds, it would shock him.

The short one motions to the taller one, and he is unceremoniously brought to his feet, claws digging unmercilessly into his arms. His right leg gives out as soon as his weight threatens it, and the things make unnatural noises in their throats. Probably laughter. Perhaps not. "This one is damaged," the tall one gripes, "Were not their kind supposed to be indestructible?"

"In the old days, before they began mating outside their kind. The ones who were brought here were scarred well enough, but it took much doing, then."

Scoffing noises, or it could be laughter, House can't really tell. He tries to stand, desperate for that much dignity, but the fight aboard the Instigator has damaged him more than he realized. The pseudo-paralysis had masked the majority of the pain. It is flooding back, now, as blood moves into various parts of his body, awakening nerves best left sleeping.

"He is already scarred, so perhaps there are other uses for this one." He can feel the leer, if that's what the expression of longing that slides across the small one's face can be called.

"Eh, there are prettier ones. I may fight for the one the Tritter has locked away. Brown eyes, not unnatural ones like this animal." A kick to his leg, and he crumples to the ground, causing the noises he had heard before. Laughter, then. Interesting. Anything to keep his mind off the sharp pain and the certain knowledge that something, somewhere has Wilson.

Why the hell are you giving me this?

You'll use it if you want to live through this. Head shots only. You do remember how to shoot?

Vaguely. You can't mean to fight them hand-to-hand?

Hopefully, we'll be killed in the scuffle. Pray for death.

This is madness. Can't we try something else? Something less suicidal?

Talk to them? Reason with them? Beg for mercy? We're in their territory, we have no engines, we're finished.

I can't believe it's come to this.

Can't you? Given this mission, it was pretty much inevitable.

Lying on his stomach, in the nest of blankets and rags that passes for Tritter's bed, Wilson has time to plot his revenge.

If Wilson somehow makes it through this mostly intact, he will find the Admiral, and he will murder him with his bare hands. House has never been popular, but Vogler had to have known that this was a suicide mission when he ordered it.

They'd given House the Reliant at age twelve. A commander at twelve, it was simply unheard of, but he was so incredibly bright, even then. Small missions, nothing too difficult. Good, experienced officers. Happy, well-trained crew. Months passed, and his continued success led the higher-ups to give him more and more responsibility.

On his thirteenth birthday, they plunked an Ambassador on his ship, with orders to take him through enemy territory to the Old Place. He was extremely old, in his thousands, extremely dead, and had expressed the final wish to be taken to his home planet. Some idiot had decided that this outweighed the safety of the Reliant. That idiot had been then-General Vogler.

His youngest son was House's executive officer. The fight that left House crippled, left Vogler's son dead. Along with the majority of the crew and officers.

Even after the verdict, Vogler had called for House's dismissal. He made Admiral, only because they wanted to shut him up. He couldn't challenge House to a duel because of his leg, leaving this as his only possible revenge.

In keeping with the idea of symmetry, Wilson's idea of revenge involves large, intractable objects being shoved uncomfortably into various orifices.

Hope comes calling in the form of a duel, between Tritter and one of the Others. He doesn't understand a word of what's going on, but the frantic gesturing and grunting indicates to him that they're fighting over his own dubious charms.

He should probably be more disgusted, but all he can think is maybe this one will get him to House.

I slept with your wife. The first one.

I know that.

I kissed the second one, but I was drunk.

I know that, too.

The third one tried to kill me in my sleep.

Can you blame her? Kind of insulting, being the last in line for your advances.

They're a good set of wives. I had plans to buy you another one, but I gambled away the money last week.

That's alright. Three wives are a god's plenty. Why do you think I spend all my time with you?

My engaging smile, and charming personality?

Not exactly. I was hoping you'd get the hint one day.

I wouldn't have made a good husband for you. The hint was taken, and quickly discarded as unfeasible.

You're just scared of my wives.

I'd rather fight these bastards. They'll kill you face-to-face.

He is in the dark again. He has been asleep, or unconscious. The pain in his thigh is a thing of the past, only because the pain everywhere else has been magnified a thousand times.

He does not touch his face. He does not touch any part of his body. He lies still, knowing what he'll find and fearing it at the same time.

Torture would be the kindest word he could put to it. There is no part of his body that has not been worked over, no patch of skin that will come through this unmarred. Like his ancestors before him, he has been marked, forever.

There is a certain amount of pride in that fact. He didn't realize he was still capable of familial pride. There is no pride besides that left to him, so he clings to it, desperately.

In the utter blackness, his mind is left to race, to wander, moving through the thoughts and dreams of an entire lifetime, on the verge of being lost. He goes over every decision he's ever made, tracking the path that has led him to this point. The results are inconclusive. It is entirely possible that he is responsible for every bit of this.

"Typical," a husky, throaty voice announces into the dark. The voice, while familiar, is not his own. A woman, here?

"Who's there?" he grates, wincing at the ground-glass feeling in his throat.

In the farthest corner of the room, there is a strange lightening of the shadows, subtle and somehow terrifying. A sense of old power, something he hasn't felt since being in the presence of one of the last old ones as a child.

"Death," the voice intones, following the pronouncement with a laugh that is as black as the room that surrounds them. "Among other things."

"Finally."

A flash of light, and there is a cigarette of some sort, sinister and black-wrapped, burning in her mouth. The ember casts an unholy light against the face of the intruder, and she is instantly recognizable.

Not as an individual, but as one of his people, the pureblood ancestors who were always supposed to be coming for one when death was at hand. "Those were just stories."

She shrugs, black-clad shoulders moving in the gloom, "You believed them once. A part of you believes them now, or I wouldn't be here." She smiles, and there are perhaps a few too many rows of teeth than he'd like. "It doesn't matter to me, of course. I'm past caring about such things. Hurry up and die, I've better things to be doing."

He coughs, and there is blood running from the corner of his mouth. "I'm not ready yet. I'm not finished here."

"You're finished. In this reality, anyway."

"There are other realities?" He is genuinely curious. He's heard such ideas before, but never from someone so obviously supernatural.

Spider-like fingers place one of the black cigarettes in his mouth. There is no match, no lighter, but she lights it just the same. He sucks at it gratefully. Suddenly, his pain is lessened, and he is floating in a haze of euphoria.

He can still think clearly, though, so he hasn't been drugged. "What...?" he attempts to query, but she shakes her head. Up close, in the eerie half-light that surrounds her, he can see that her hair is silver, her eyes a blue as piercing as his own.

"What about Wilson?" he finishes, and she manages to look surprised.

"Interesting," she murmurs. She doesn't elaborate. "Never mind worrying about him. His time here is short, as well. You're needed elsewhere."

"What about Wilson?" he asks again, voice rising. This only exacerbates the tightness in his chest, and there is a darkly familiar rattle in his lungs. He's seen too many men die not to know what's happening.

"He's not my concern, nor should he be yours. Another will come for him." She pauses, relenting, "You will see him again. I can tell you no more."

He breathes a sigh, not of relief but of impotent frustration. "I wanted to see him again, in this life."

"Isn't that what I said?"

May you stand with your ancestors in the great halls. May you fight their battles, and sing their songs.

You remember that crap better than I do.

It's my job to remember that crap.

Not anymore. Those days are over. We'll fight side by side, as equals.

That's almost romantic.

It's truth. If you should feel the need to pray to your own ancestors, you might want to get on it.

My ancestors are too busy trailing behind yours, asking to refill their glasses or polish their armor.

Maybe you'll get somebody better to accompany you to your final rest, then.

The tall one has no name. His kind never do. He has a title, but it's long and unwieldy. Unnecessary, too, as he keeps Wilson's mouth far too occupied for speaking.

Three days have passed, although he can't be positively certain. When he is allowed away from the tall one's side, he asks questions of anyone he can find. House has been tortured, by the very one who has him enslaved. Not the friendly, slapping and kicking sort of torture either. This is the sort that needs to be studied, a lifelong devotion to the art.

Those same hands, claws rather, on his body are enough to make him violently, physically ill. He holds it in, all of it, the anger and disgust and rage, and allows the enemy free reign. What he had never allowed House, he allows this bastard. There are lessons to be learned, even now.

He grovels, he begs, he whines, he cajoles. When his mouth isn't busy with that, it's busy with far less pleasant things. Three demanding wives have taught him the importance of his tongue. He's very good at what he does.

On the fourth day, sore and aching, bleeding in places he'd like to never again think about, Wilson is allowed in to see House. The promises of what he'll be doing for his master when he returns to pay off the favor are humbling, degrading.

If he's lucky, he'll get himself killed on the way back. He's not even forty yet, and his father is pushing five hundred. Doesn't look a day over ninety. The Others are just as long-lived, and this one could conceivably keep him around for quite some time. Infinity looms terrifyingly before him.

The guard who lets him in is, oddly enough, a very subdued Inspector Tritter. Hard to tell, but it seems like he may have had some vital parts rearranged during the fight with Wilson's new master. Wilson doesn't look at him, and the Tritter thing returns the favor.

He is pushed unceremoniously into the black. There is no evidence of any presence besides himself. He can't hear any signs of life, no breathing, nothing whatsoever.

Only when he trips over House's prone body is the silence broken, coughing interspersed with curses and moans. He drops immediately to his knees beside House.

"Don't touch me," House warns, his ruined voice whistling nasally. His nose had already been broken twice before, healing into its current off-course state. Wilson wonders just how bad it looks now.

"Not touching," Wilson whispers, hands obedient on his knees. Childhood training for a job that no longer exists, useful now only beside the one who he would have gladly enslaved himself to, a thousand times over.

"'m dying," wheezes from the ground near Wilson's knee. "Glad you're here, good to see..." His voice is trailing off, and Wilson longs to check him over, aches to do it, but as soon as he moves a hand toward House, his wrist is grabbed in a vise-like grip.

The hands do not belong to House. Slim, feminine, achingly strong. He could not break the hold, even if he tried.

"Who?" he begins, but House is already answering, fatigue and pain so clear in his voice that it cuts at Wilson like a blade.

"Don't worry. She's not here for you. Someone else for you. She said I would see you though. I did, now, so it's time."

"Time for what? What are you talking about? Who is she?"

"Ancestor. Aged ancestor, come to take me to the halls of my people. That nonsense."

"Oh." Wilson relaxes, and the grip on his wrist relaxes. He puts out a hand, questing, but there is no one. "Is the someone else coming soon?" He tries not to sound too hopeful.

"Very soon. It won't be long. Then, we go on to the next life. After a vacation, because I need a vacation. Don't you need a vacation?" House's voice fades in and out, interspersed with coughing. He's choking on his own blood, his lungs may be filled with fluid. Hard to say without touching.

"Y'take good care of me. Always did."

After that, there are no more words. He struggles against his death, like a drowning man, but Wilson is not heartless enough to try and save him.

Death is the kindest thing for him, now.

Leave your insignia, all of you.

Captain, we can't do that.

I'm ordering you. They'll treat the crew better than they will you. It will take some time for them to figure it out. Use that time wisely.

I'm not leaving my insignia.

You, I can't order. If you stay with me, you're dead anyway.

Then I'll die with you, as a Doctor.

It's your funeral.

He is not crying. He wishes he was.

He can touch House now, without complaint, that proud head cradled in his lap. His hands are slick with blood.

In the stories, House's ancestors lived through months of this torture. Lived on to fight their way home, ruling in state for a thousand years, siring the line that led directly to this cooling body. A brilliant mind, a sharp and witty personality, dry sarcastic humor, and a way of explaining even the most difficult maneuvers as if they were nothing. Vulnerability, too, and a warm heart whose existence he refused.

"I love you," he whispers, leaning over so that his mouth is almost touching House's lips. Almost, but not quite. Even in death, he will not disrespect House. Perhaps another life...

"Perhaps," a childish voice says at his shoulder, but he does not fear it. He couldn't exactly say why. Maybe he's beyond fear.

"Maybe there's nothing to fear." He turns his head to catch a glimpse of the one who has come to claim him. The being seems to be flickering, moving in between a larger, more adult form, and a small childish one. "Which do you like best?"

"It doesn't matter," he says tonelessly, and there is a gentle touch on his forearm. A child's fingers. He does not have the heart to push them away.

In the deep darkness, he can only make out an impression of ringlets, bouncing ridiculously in the non-light. He longs to pull those curls. "You can if you'd like." An impish grin, and the light becomes a bit brighter.

"No, thank you." He can see the lacerations to House's face, now, and he is sick with the hurt of it. "Who are you?"

"I have many names," the child chirps, "Many faces. I am whatever you say I am."

This is enough to bring Wilson out of his shock, "But, my lord, why would you come to collect me?" A god, here, in this room with him. He could never have envisioned this.

A giggle, and little fingers trail sweetly over his face, gentling away the lines of worry that have etched themselves in his forehead. "Because I love you, silly. You're one of my favorites." One finger pressed against the bow of his lips, "Shh, now, don't tell."

There is no pain, and no worry or fear either. All of the degradation and shame of the past few days is gone, replaced by a feeling of comfortable calm. "I'm ready, my lord."

"Not just yet, little one. You have to understand what being my favorite means. You see, he's one of my favorites, too." Those tiny hands caress the weathered, slashed planes of House's face. When he places his small hands daintily in his lap, there are no wounds, no blood to be seen.

"I need him, and I need you to look out for him. Just as you did in this reality, but a hundred times, a thousand times over. Everywhere he goes, you will be."

"I can do that. I would do that anyway," he rushes out, adding quickly, "My lord."

"Of course you would! I just have to tell you. So you can't claim I tricked you later."

There it is then, the identity of this particular god, a trickster if there ever was one. Honest, though, and kind. "I understand. At least, I think I do. I want to see him again, alive, that's all I'm concerned with. And maybe, if you could see your way to it, happy."

The little curls bounce happily, and slim arms slide carefully around his neck. A kiss on his ear, decidedly unchaste, and the world slips away.

See you on the other side.

There is no other side. This is all there is.

Remind me to laugh at you in the halls of your ancestors.

I'll owe you an apology. Then I'll have to fight for your honor. My ancestors were notorious leches.

Well, at least you won't be alone on this side.

Dying together, that's a bit more closeness than I'm comfortable with.

We've always been a bit closer than you're comfortable with.

"House, eat this sandwich, or I'm choking you with it."

"Give me the Vicodin, and then I'll eat the sandwich."

Wilson sighs, passing over a plate, a sandwich (Reuben, dry, no pickles) topped with a single Vicodin pill.

"Cute. Very cute." House dry-swallows the pill, gagging a bit, but getting it down after a moment. He steals the glass of milk out of Wilson's hand, throwing back his head as he drinks.

Stacy has abandoned the premises, hopefully not for good, and Wilson is playing her part for today. There is a secret, sneaky part of him that knows he's better at it than she could ever be.

"I hate this cane," House grumbles, getting to his feet with some trouble. Wilson knows better than to hover, or to put out a hand, but he's there, waiting, just the same.

"We'll get you a new one. This is a temporary one, anyway."

"Don't bitch at me. If anyone's bitching, it's the guy with the big, gaping hole in his leg."

Wilson rolls his eyes, "Oh please, you call that a gaping wound? That's nothing. You're such a pussy."

House swivels his head, mid-step, and almost loses his balance. A laugh breaks free, the first laugh that Wilson has seen since the infarction, and they both grin at each other, knowingly. House goes back to making his teetering way back to the bedroom, Wilson walking just close enough to not be too close, the forgotten plate in his hand.

As House strips off his shirt, changing into a new one, Wilson pulls back the covers, "No wonder you're not getting any, this bed is filthy."

"It is not. I like the crumbs."

"That's not crumbs," Wilson says, a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth.

"No wonder I'm all itchy," House replies, scratching at his chest.

Wilson sighs, setting down the plate, and sets to pulling the sheets off the bed. "Let Stacy in here every now and again, why don't you? She's the one who gets all the benefits of your stunning personality. Let her clean up after you."

"I have better ways to punish her." A blanket placed over the mattress in lieu of sheets, and the bed is once more graced with House's presence.

"I know you're tired, but if you don't eat this, I'll be forced to beat you with it."

House yawns, trying to get comfortable, pain working across his face with every movement. Wilson pitches a pillow at him, and House tries it under his thigh. It helps, not much, but enough to make a difference. "Fine, give it here."

"It's sitting right by your hand!"

"Take your punishment like a man."

"What am I being punished for?"

House takes a bite of the sandwich, chewing carefully, as if the slightest motion will set off his leg again. Which, it probably will. "For not being around when I needed you." He does not look up.

Wilson folds the discarded shirt carefully, picking up the room as he turns that over in his mind. After a while, he sits in the chair by House's bed, holding out his hand for the empty plate.

"Fair enough," he says.

He has the strangest feeling that he's always been just a little bit too late.