Warning: Angst, but the worst happened before the story. This is set in a future season.

Disclaimer: House MD is so good! Just want to play in the sandbox and share toys. None of it's mine.

A/N: Want to thank my betas, bookfan85 and kimmie_kins for their sharp eyes and encouragement.

As of 9/10/09 The Wingman is updated. Basically, it's the same story with improvements on punctuation and grammar. Hope to continue working on these areas in the future as time permits. Also, a few tweaks were added to the story to keep House and Wilson IC.

Thanks for reading!

Returning from Cuddy's office, House leaned his back against the wall of the elevator, bowing his head in thought until the doors slid open for diagnostics. He leveraged off with his left foot, propelling himself down the hall, but not to his office. He headed to the hermit crab's shell next to his. The dark one with the shuttered blinds.

Close to two years ago there had been a cosmic shift, and now he was balancing on a slipstream. It seemed at times that he had traded places with Wilson. Now he was the one plotting with Cuddy how to motivate and keep his friend out of trouble.

It seemed impossible that he could be capable of such altruism, but at least he could compensate and take it out on his fellows and clinic personnel. If he sat through one of Wilson's self-pitying sulks, he made certain to insult the competence of one of his team members and order another round of tests. If he talked Wilson down from some bitter diatribe, he ensured that the clinic patients backed up in the waiting room. It kept the universe in check and black holes from swallowing the earth.

Even Cuddy would be hard pressed to believe House was concerned for his friend. He waited until she was on the verge of a stroke and threaten to triple his clinic hours before he allowed her to persuade him to help Wilson.

If anybody knew how he felt, he would have to kick a puppy or drown a litter of kittens in a pillowcase.

He stood at the door with his left hand in his pocket fiddling with his Vicodin bottle, working the cap off so he could dry swallow a couple of pills and not deal with any physical pain while breaching Wilson's emotional fortress. He couldn't decide if he should test the door or knock. He was unsure of the reaction either one would provoke. Just as he resolved to try the knob, he heard the scrape of the dead bolt, and saw a wrist opening the door a crack. Wilson was already moving back into his cave as he spoke from inside the office, "You don't need the Vicodin. It isn't your leg bothering you. It's Cuddy."

House didn't comment about Wilson's superhero hearing. It no longer surprised either of them. The ability was always there, but untapped as long as all five senses were functioning.

Before he closed the door behind him and limped to the couch, he glimpsed Wilson behind his desk, the back of his chair facing the sofa. His legs stretched out, one crossed over the other. He was slumped in his chair, left elbow propped against his chest with his fingers rubbing the scar that slashed down the left side of his forehead from the temple to the eyelid, changing to a bare tire track through the forest of his eyebrow. Neither the nose pinch that once focused his eyes, nor the eye palm that cleared his vision were necessary now, and were replaced by this one mannerism. Wilson's eyes were place holders that added no value. The once expressive liquid brown pools that could mesmerize the entire nursing staff remained permanently unfocused and askew underneath sleepy lids.

As House settled into the corner of the sofa, the chair creaked and pivoted briefly in his direction and a card flew from the oncologist's hand, glancing off House's chest. He caught it before it fluttered to the ground. It was too dark in the office to read the print, but he recognized the textured surface and embossed edge as the same card Cuddy waved in his face an hour ago.

He heard a rumbling in the dark, "Cuddy insists that you be my wingman at the big donor function this Friday. If I don't make an appearance, it's my job." House lowered his eyes as the voice cracked at the end.

Wilson was right.

Cuddy was in a panic. The Powers That Be were pressuring her to replace the head of oncology. It didn't impress the suits that mortality and safety metrics were at benchmark levels, that Wilson traded his patient load for more burgeoning administrative duties and board meetings, added profitable inter-hospital consultations, and waged battles to improve the pain management program. Bottom line—it was costly to have a blind oncologist on staff. Additional personnel were hired. An admin assistant transcribed journals and reports into audio and Braille, and a fellow worked closely by Wilson's side reviewing staff diagnoses and handling liaison duties on consults.

Department heads were counted on to be rainmakers. It was written into all the contracts. Wilson never liked elbow rubbing to begin with, but slid by on his easy charm, drawn as if by radar to the women who controlled the checkbooks. One spin around the ballroom, and he thanked them for the dance, leaving their corporations or husbands a little poorer.

The Board viewed Wilson's self-imposed exile as neglecting his job responsibilities. The ADA would be ineffectual in protecting him.

The room was darker than a confessional. Now was the time for both of them to level with each other. House began, "You know it's not Cuddy, right?"

"I know."

"You've attended only one charity event since you returned, and canceled the last two."

Wilson didn't turn around as he bit out, "The Board hasn't forgiven me for missing the 'Italian Serenade' and 'The Bacchanal.'" A bark of harsh laughter trailed behind the words.

The diagnostician picked up on the tone, and he tried to match it to the sound tracks of Wilson's voice that he stored in his head. In the not too distant past, the only purpose House needed this information was for poker.

He heard a dusting of fear. And now, what didn't Wilson fear? He avoided people's prying questions. Hated the slightest suggestion that he was making a fool of himself. As the ultimate giver—would either flee or become catatonic if anybody offered help, especially without asking first. House stopped at the last two; there was something about the last two…

He almost smiled when he hit upon the most likely reason. Slippery spaghetti with messy red meat sauce was the entrée at the "Italian Serenade."

"Couldn't starve yourself one evening for your little bald kids?"

He knew he hit pay dirt when Wilson responded after a long pause, "And stand around acting anorexic while everyone is eating? They expect me to dazzle a retired industrial mogul into donating a hefty percentage of his golden parachute with red spatter stains running down my shirt?"

House nodded his head at the room at large. Assorted tiny green and amber lights from computer equipment glowed and winked back at him. He was onto something. He ignored the sarcasm and thought about "The Bacchanal." He pitched another ball. "Trouble with those delicate long-stemmed wineglasses?"

The rich voice narrowed to a knife's edge. "Because splashing wine on a matron's designer gown makes an even better impression than spaghetti stains. The same hands that could tie off a bleeder can't pick up a wineglass without knocking it over, or take a five-minute reconnaissance mission to find it. Last time, someone thought they'd be helpful and slid the glass next to my hand."

"That son-of-a-bitch!" House slipped into a cowboy twang. "I hope someone took him out and shot him for the dirty, rotten dog he was." He cocked his eye and checked to see if there was any reaction from the chair. Nothing.

"Wilson, begin accepting the fact that you're a cripple like me. If you can't ask for help once in a while, at least ask for your wine poured into a water glass."

"Advice from the politically incorrect 'Dear Abby.' Thanks."

"You want to join the unemployment line rather than ask the person next to you to pass the garlic bread?"

"Why did I doubt you'd understand?"

Their argument sounded like any other daily disagreement, but House was desperate for Wilson to reverse his stand, and decided to try another tack. "It's not just your job that's on the line."

House was gratified to hear the office chair swivel toward him. He could make out a hunched silhouette leaning forward in his direction. "What do you mean?"

"Cuddy explained that once the exec board fired you they would be out for more blood. I'll be gone within six months if you're not here to defend me." House took advantage of his friend's lack of vision and rolled his eyes, hoping that Wilson's canine hearing wouldn't detect them rotating, and catch him in a lie.

Sarcasm and bitterness disappeared under the onslaught of caring and concern. "They wouldn't do that, would they?"

"Cuddy says there's no question about it. That's why she insisted I come along and run interference. Of course it's a win-win for her. She gets two bastards for the price of one."

He sat with his head down, elbows resting on his knees, holding his cane with both hands out in front of him. He waited for Wilson to weigh what he considered to be his ethical responsibility for their friendship.

The office was silent except for a finger tapping on the desk, and a heavy rubber tip occasionally falling against the carpeted floor. Poor substitutes for the loyal hearts beating in the same room.

House looked up and leaned forward as he heard a sharp intake of breath followed by a long exhale.

Resignation cradled the words, "Damn. What are they serving?"

A/N: ADA = Americans with Disabilities Act