Author's Note: Another story that's been marinating for a long time.

-

Wilson sits in his car outside the daycare center and stares at his steering wheel.

He does not want to go inside. He wants to go home. He wants to have too much to drink, eat take-out, make love and go to bed. He does not want to sit at dinner and play games and give a bath and read a story and deal.

He takes a deep breath and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He walks the clean white cement path to the door and pulls it open. The daycare center branches off into two sections, three to six and six to nine.

He stares at the two paths trying to remember which one his son is in.

"Can I help you?"

A bright perky blonde woman approaches him. She's hardly older than 25, her jeans and t-shirt covered by a blue smock bearing the name of the daycare center in white embroidered letters. If he were feeling better, he'd try to smile and be charming. Instead, he rubs the back of his neck.

"I'm looking for my son," he says.

"Which section is he in?" she asks, smiling.

Wilson just looks at her. She raises her hand to indicate the signs above each hallway, each with bright arrows directing parents where to go. Wilson looks up at them, then back to the woman.

"He's six," Wilson says finally.

The woman's smile falters a moment, but she chuckles and it resumes. "I can find him. What's his name?"

"Joseph Wilson."

She leads him to an office and, after showing them his ID, he is given his son.

They walk hand in hand to the car where Joseph piles into the backseat and buckles himself in, throwing his mostly empty plastic Spiderman backpack to the floor.

"How was school?" Wilson asks as he slides into the driver's seat.

"Fine, I've got homework."

Wilson sighs. "You're in first grade."

"Yeah," Joseph grabs his bag and pulls out a packet of paperwork. "It's social studies."

Wilson nods, starting the car. "Right."

--

At home, House is watching television and eating a hamburger out of a paper box.

Wilson takes Joseph's backpack and Joseph runs out into the backyard. He puts the backpack on the kitchen table and walks through the kitchen to the living room, where he drops onto the couch.

"You brought home dinner," he says with a smile.

House raises an eyebrow. "No, was I supposed to?"

Wilson manages to stifle a groan. He rubs his eyes and pushes himself off the couch.

"What are you pissed about?" House asks.

"Nothing."

Wilson stands in front of his cupboard for a few moments scanning the options.

"What's for dinner?" House calls.

"Macaroni and cheese," Wilson says, taking down a box.

"Again?"

Wilson pulls a pot out of the pile of clean dishes in the sink. "Yes, again," he snaps, filling it with water.

The television shuts off and House comes slowly into the kitchen. He pulls a chair out from the kitchen table and lowers himself into.

Wilson stands at the stove, staring down into the pot as he loosens his tie.

"Hey," House says, folding both hands over the handle of his cane and gazing quizzically at Wilson.

"What?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah, of course."

House stares a little longer. Wilson removes his tie completely and shoves it into the pocket of his jacket.

"So…" House says. "You been taking your meds?"

Wilson opens a drawer and removes a wooden spoon. He stirs plastic looking pasta pieces into the bubbling water. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm fine."

House sits back in the chair. "Okay."

"I'm just tired."

"Okay."

"I don't need meds."

"Okay."

Wilson sighs and gives the pot another stir before setting down the spoon. "I'm gonna go change. Get Joseph to set the table?"

"Okay."

Wilson tenses, bringing his hands to his face. "Stop saying okay."

House raises an eyebrow, a funny sort of half-smile on his face. "Sure?"

Wilson nods. "Sure."

--

Wilson sits on the bed. He has been staring at his hands for the last few minutes. He does not want to change out of his suit because then he has to go downstairs. He doesn't want to be staring at his hands either. It's dull and he's immeasurably bored. This feeling of deep penetrating ennui has been with him since he woke up this morning.

He sighs and wonders if maybe he should be taking his medicine.

There is a knock on the door, which confuses him, as he does not shut the bedroom door unless he is having sex.

He looks up.

It's House who is standing in the hall and has knocked gently on the doorframe with the foot of his cane.

"Dinner's ready," he says.

Wilson sighs again. He's lost track of time.

House enters the room slowly, watching him as he rises from the bed and fumbles with the buttons of his shirt. Those eyes are scanning him for mistakes.

Wilson puts his hands on his dresser and looks down at them.

"Yeah," he says softly. "I'm coming."

--

Joseph talks continually through dinner.

Wilson doesn't listen. He can't listen. Not anymore. The constant rise and fall of his son's voice bounces off his temples like a basketball.

This brand of macaroni and cheese tastes terrible and Wilson vows never to buy it again. House says something to Joseph but Wilson isn't paying attention. It doesn't matter, let House teach the kid how to make pipe bombs, he doesn't care at this point.

He used to worry that he'd die alone. That seems stupid now, now that he'll never be alone again. He knows that. It pulls him deeper down into this muck he can't seem to shake off.

Even when he's old and tired and all by himself he'll never be alone, he'll always have Joseph and House, Joseph and House and they're needs, needs, needs. Never enough. Never satiated. It's like living with emotional crocodiles.

He really needs to be on his meds.

-

They watch television or rather, Joseph and House watch television and Wilson stares in the direction of the TV, waiting for bedtime. Joseph sits on the floor and during commercial breaks and long dialogue filled scenes, he carefully colors in his Social Studies packet. He adds things to the pictures in small important places.

-

Joseph goes to bed with minimal complaint. A tuck in and a short story and Wilson's free.

He peeks into House's study and sighs at the mess, but doesn't go inside.

In the bedroom, House is on his knees on Wilson's side of the bed, looking for something. Wilson stands at the foot, watching without thinking.

"By the way," House says, his voice muffled slightly. "Our cleaning lady sucks. She hasn't vacuumed under here in months."

Wilson cocks an eyebrow. "We don't have a cleaning lady."

House's head pops up. "We don't?"

"Not for six months now. The last one quit and the agency wouldn't send another one. I keep meaning to call a new place but…" Wilson shrugs.

"We don't have a cleaning lady?" House asks, sounding appalled.

"No."

"We have to.

"We've been getting along without her for a while…"

"The blond girl."

"The last one was Margaret. Six months ago. Not blond."

"The blond girl. She was here last week."

Wilson sighs. "House, we don't have a cleaning lady."

"Then who the hells the blond girl who's always doing the dishes?"

Wilson has to ponder a moment before realization hit. "You mean Sandy?"

"Is she blond?"

"Sort of. Strawberry blond. But she's not the cleaning lady. She's the babysitter."

"Why does she do the dishes then?"

"I dunno. She's nice?"

"Whatever."

Suddenly, Wilson is angry. "Jesus Christ, House, you live here too."

House gets up, a tennis ball in his hand. He bounces it once against the floor, then looks at Wilson with a gaze that indicates that Wilson's tone is uncalled for.

Wilson's anger just as suddenly deflates and he raises his hands in surrender.

House bounces the ball again. "Come here," he says.

Wilson walks forward into a kiss. He presses himself against the long lithe body before him. House cradles his head as they stumble unto the bed. The knot in Wilson's stomach finally relaxes.

For a while, it's warm and good, with little shots of pleasure running through it. It's House and House is good at getting wrapped up in, good for a distraction. Then there's a little sound and a pitiful voice.

"Daddy, I don't feel good."

Wilson sighs so hard it looks for a brief moment as though he's going to start crying. He pulls out from under House, adjusting his clothing and walking to the door. Joseph is leaning against the doorframe looking pitiful.

Wilson picks him up and he instantly goes limp, his head nestling on Wilson's shoulder. Wilson carries him into the master bathroom, sets him on the counter and turns on the light.

"What's the matter?"

Joseph shrugs.

Wilson puts his hand on Joseph's brow. It's a little warm, but Joseph always seems to run a little warmer than normal. He feels the lymph nodes beneath Joseph's jaw and checks his pulse.

"You seem okay."

"But I don't feel good, Daddy."

Wilson finally give him a half dose of cherry flavored cough medicine and sends him back to bed.

"Probably medically safer to give him some Peppermint Schnapps," House says as Wilson walks Joseph across the room and out the door.

"Shut up."

Wilson tucks Joseph firmly into bed, goes back to his room, kicks off his pants and goes to sleep.

The next morning Joseph is crying because his eyes are stuck shut.

Wilson takes a warm cloth to his crusty lashes and firmly suggests House stay home with him.

"What did I do?" House asks.

Wilson has to drive to work with all of them in the car, dash inside, write a script, get it filled, bring it back out, soothe Joseph, soothe House all before his morning cup of coffee.

The day is long and almost immeasurably dull. Wilson spends lunchtime barricaded in his office finishing a box of crackers that has been in the bottom of his desk since before Joseph.

The afternoon is filled with paperwork and at one point he leans back in his chair and wonders if he can bring himself to sign his name one more time, even if it will save someone's life.

At the end of the day, he swings by the pharmacy to pick up his new prescription. He doesn't take it, just puts it in his pocket and heads home.

In the backyard, Joseph runs around mindlessly around the lawn whacking at the shrubbery with a large stick.

Wilson collapses in the kitchen chair. House stands by the kitchen window.

"That was fast. No side effects?"

House raises a small squeeze bottle. "Sodium citrate, sodium chloride and boric acid in distilled water. Works faster."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Great."

House throws bottle at him. "It's just contact cleaner, he'll be fine."

Wilson catches it and put it on the tabletop. Then he takes the prescription bottle out and sets it nearby. Then he folds his arms on the table and puts his face down with a thump.

"I can't do this anymore," he mumbles from behind his arms.

"What do you mean?"

House takes the seat across from Wilson.

"I mean, I can't do this anymore."

"Can't do what?"

Wilson shifts his arms, bringing his hands up to cradle his head. "Stop."

"Stop doing what?"

"House, just stop!"

House takes a deep breath and looks at the floor. Wilson makes a noise, a cross between a laugh and a sob.

"I just can't do this anymore."

"You think you can't because you have a chemical imbalance in your brain due to a head injury. If you really couldn't do it, then your life would be falling apart. As it is now, you just need to take meds."

Wilson groans, loud and long with malice behind it.

House just sits there, looking uncomfortable. "I don't know what to do," he says after a moment.

Wilson sighs. "Of course you don't."

House rolls his eyes. "Look, you can sit there with your head in your hands, bemoaning your existence or you can tell me what I can do."

"Get Joseph dinner."

"Okay."

"Know whether or not we have a cleaning lady."

"We don't."

"Help."

"With what?"

Wilson looks up with tear-filled eyes. "Just, help."

House reaches out and picks up the bottle of pills. He glances at the label, nods in approval and then slides it across the table at Wilson. Wilson catches it just before it hits his lap.

"Okay," House says.