Disclaimer, etc. in the first chapter.

We're at the end. I'm a little sad to see this fic go. It could have gone in ten different directions and while I like where it ends up, it had more potential than this. It'll be the one that got away.

Big thanks to everyone who reviewed. You make my day. :)

DISCLAIMER: M80s are illegal in the United States (I don't know about other countries) because they're dangerous. Don't try this at home, etc.

A week later, House and Wilson stood beside the dumpsters in the alley next to House's building. The stone trout lay between the two dumpsters in front of them, enclosed in a ring of M80s. House had just finished tying the individual fuses to a long fuse they could light from afar, since neither was up to the task of lighting and running.

House leaned on his cane and Wilson leaned on his crutches, both looking down at the trout. Brilliant midday sunlight lit the alley and they squinted at the glare that bounced off the white-grey stone.

After a moment of silence in appreciation for the trout's last minutes, House spoke: "Care to say a few words?" Though he addressed Wilson, he didn't turn his attention from the fish.

Wilson too kept his eyes on the trout. He cleared his throat and began speaking in a eulogistic tone.

"Trouty, you were a horrible trout and an incompetent door stop. I didn't ask for you. I didn't want you. You broke my foot. I'm going to blow you up. Enjoy fish hell."

House nodded once. "Rest in pieces," he added gravely. "Amen."

They lingered a moment more, soaking up the sunshine and the fun of the impending explosion.

Wilson wanted to ask if the dumpster would shield them from the shrapnel—and if the ten M80s were enough to actually shatter the stone—but he stayed silent out of respect for the moment and House's knowledge of explosives. They hadn't fought once all week. House attributed it to Wilson's having learned just how annoying it was not to be able to cross a room without difficulty and to be asked over and over again if he was okay. Wilson attributed it to his decision to allow blow jobs and hand jobs at work as long as they were extremely discrete. Neither of them had lost a patient all week either—and they were both being more careful about starting fights because Wilson's foot made the callisthenic make-up sex they preferred more trouble than it was worth (hence Wilson's decision to rescind the 'no sex of any kind at work' rule). Whatever the reason, though, Wilson wasn't going to express concern about the fireworks (or about where House had gotten them). He would simply trust that House wouldn't get them killed. And if that happened, he would relish yelling at House for all of eternity.

"Lighter?" Wilson asked.

"Check."

"Shelter?"

House glanced at the dumpster. "Check."

They looked at each other, both overly serious, and nodded. Death to the infidel door stop.

Together they gimped to the other side of the dumpster where House had secured a 2x4 with a cement block to prevent injury from fish fragments flying under the wheeled dumpster. Wilson checked the alley while House crouched.

"All clear," Wilson said, beginning the process of crouching himself.

House waited until Wilson was ready, looking without turning his head, then flipped the Zippo open, lit the fuse, and dropped it.

They waited, faces scrunched, ears covered, bodies bending further in anticipation of the blast, and just when it was beginning to take too long, BANG! and the dumpster rocked against their backs. Small particles of stone rained around them.

Without words they got to their feet as quickly as possible, which was very slowly, and limped around the dumpster to survey the damage. A third of the fish's outer edge was gone and what was left was in several pieces that had caved in. The trout design was unrecognizable. A small hole had been blown in both dumpsters and a few stone fragments were lodged in the metal. The brick of the building the dumpsters clung to was chipped and stone debris with M80 shells mixed in was everywhere, including the alley beyond the dumpsters.

They grinned at the devastation and at each other. It was a magnificent demolition.

Once some of the excitement of the blast had worn off, Wilson leaned forward on his crutches.

"How long do you think before the cops get here?" he asked casually.

House leaned on his cane, unconsciously mirroring Wilson's posture. "If it's a slow day…" he paused, pretending to contemplate. He nodded decisively. "We should start running now."

Wilson, never eager to get caught breaking the law, didn't need to be told twice. "I was with you," he said as he started toward the alley's entrance. "That's my alibi."

House rolled his eyes. "Worst alibi I've ever heard."

"The cops know you that well?" Wilson asked, more in the spirit of fun than anything else because he already knew the answer.

"You think Cuddy hates me…"

Wilson wanted to shake his head, but he'd learned he couldn't do that and walk at the same time if he wanted to stay on his feet. He put the false disappointment into his voice instead. "Can't believe I let you talk me into these things…"

"You didn't really want to live forever," House said, vocalizing the shrug Wilson wouldn't be able to see.

"Yes, I did," Wilson said, carefully climbing the steps outside House's apartment. "I was going to discover the Fountain of Youth and be famous. Then I was going to fight Superman and be president of the world."

"No one could beat Superman in a fair fight," House said, waiting until Wilson had reached the landing and opened the door before he ascended the steps.

"You don't really believe that," Wilson tossed over his shoulder as he moved down the hall.

House closed the door to the entryway. "Who could beat him, then?"

"Well, me, for one," Wilson said as he nudged the apartment door open with a crutch.

"You and what powers?" House scoffed.

"Me and my acidic Kryptonite superspit."

House shook his head though Wilson's back was to him.

"That's not even remotely creative."

He followed Wilson inside and locked the door.

"I was eight, come on!" Wilson said as he turned to face House.

"Superheroes don't get to make excuses," House contended, leaning on his cane and waiting for Wilson to move out of his way.

"Eight year olds do."

"Immortal eight year olds don't."

"Hou-se."

"Wil-son."

They stared at each other, neither willing to give in.

After a while, House nodded toward the couch. "I always went with retractable Kryptonite claws," he admitted.

Wilson snorted. "I'm not creative," he muttered, turning toward the living room.

House admired the view of Wilson's ass, smiling to himself as he followed.

"So," he said after they'd eased down and propped near-identical legs on the coffee table, "how would you defeat Spider-Man?"

THE (REAL) END