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It's raining, and Ryan Mitchell is on his way out. His family and a morphine pump are helping him over the border -- a guy who's only forty and who, until the cancer, barely looked thirty-five.

At least this one has no kids to leave behind. He does have parents and he does have a sister and they're with him now, docile in the imperious presence of death. Their eyes, the last time Wilson noticed, were all as pale as water. The Mitchells didn't need him there, didn't want him; he'd seen their silent request that he get out and take the memory of the last six months with him. And he'd been relieved, stepping out of the room, pulling off his lab coat as he fled into the hall.

He's out of uniform now, locked in his office, facing the windows where the gray daylight comes in. No more trying to answer impossible questions, not today. No more expectations, no more hopes or prayers or wishes he can't grant. He understands, at times like these, why House goes incognito.

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Thirty minutes have passed and Wilson has done precisely nothing. He sits at his desk and thinks the rain must have started while he was with the Mitchells, as if that's of any consequence to anyone. The dying man doesn't know, his family won't care, and Wilson doesn't even have a lawn for the storm to water.

The files on his desk are carping for attention that they won't get. White noise, Wilson thinks, while the rain hits the concrete balcony, the glass door. Water and static.

Wilson doesn't believe in pathetic fallacy. This has nothing to do with the man he couldn't save, or the girlfriend he couldn't save, or the brother he couldn't and still can't save. It's just the drought breaking, a cold front stalled across New Jersey. He thinks of Hemingway's tragic blonde who, in one of history's most ham-handed examples of foreshadowing, always knew she would die in the rain.

He doesn't believe in foreshadowing or premonitions, either. If that sort of thing really happened, Amber would never have boarded the bus.

"Hemingway," says Wilson to his empty office, "was a jackass."

He looks up at the balcony door all spattered with raindrops, a few of them trickling downward. Jackass, he thinks again, and realizes that House rode the Honda to work this morning. Probably because he just had it fixed, and only sissies watch weather forecasts.

It's four-thirty-eight and he realizes he's been fooling himself, thinking he'll get anything else done today. Maybe that's his talent, self-deception, but it requires effort -- and the hell with it.

No, not 'the hell with it,' he corrects himself.

"Fuck it." He stands up, shoving the chair away so that it thumps into the bookcase.

Pulling off his tie, he discards it atop the untouched files, leaves his briefcase there beside it, and goes for the door. "Just ... fuck it," he repeats. The words feel like they're pushing a clinging weight off his body. "Fuck Hemingway and the horse he rode in on." He fishes his keys from his pocket, still muttering to himself as he stands in the hall, locking up for the night. "Like that makes any sense."

"What makes sense?" The sudden appearance of House should probably startle him, but it doesn't.

"You riding that bike in the rain. Me living in a place that was never even mine. Wait --" Wilson stops and briefly leans sideways against the shiny silver letters of his name. " -- actually, no." He pulls himself upright and walks, House falling into step beside him. "Neither of those things make sense. Have I ever mentioned that having people die in the rain is ... like the literary version of Stupid Pet Tricks?"

"Did you just offer me a ride home? Because I was totally going to make you drive, but now I'm not sure you're sober."

"I'm fine."

And he is fine, but he throws his keys at House anyway. House catches them with a smirk, as if he'd been expecting this.

"You haven't been fine since you were five. I'll overlook the blatant lie if you'll buy food."

"House?"

"What?"

"Nothing. Let's just go."

House looks him over, and Wilson knows he's being assessed, investigated. Whatever it is House sees -- and God only knows what that could be -- he chooses not to discuss.

No questions are asked on their journey down to the garage.

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"Nothing," of course, is Wilsonese for "I'm so screwed up, I'd need a map to find my own ass."

Wilson's leaning back in the passenger seat, his eyes closed and his tie missing. He'd seemed all right for a day or two after last week's psych-ward family reunion, but then he'd quietly deflated like a sad souffle. If House bothered to ask what was the matter, Wilson would simply say "Nothing" again, but that's all right. Everything House needs to know, Wilson has already told him.

The literary critique would mean that young Mitchell has said A Farewell to Arms, and died -- although certainly with less melodrama than Hemingway would have employed.

The angry key-toss is a symptom of mental exhaustion; absence of briefcase indicates the unusual severity of the condition. The reference to life at the Amber Volakis Memorial Apartment would mean that Wilson plans to collapse tonight at the House of House instead. Wisely, Wilson has simply assumed he will be welcome. Had he asked, House would have had to tell him that the sofa was in the shop for repairs. Then House's dinner would have been something from the freezer.

Now he has company, and a reason to order something. Doesn't matter what; Wilson will pay for it, and it'll be better than that last lonely chicken pot pie House was going to eat.

House pulls the car into a spot along the curb, deliberately letting a front tire scrape along the concrete. Wilson doesn't flinch. Yeah, this is serious, whatever it is; they'll have to seriously not talk about it. Because House sure as hell isn't the kind of friend who can help.

The rain is still falling while they drag and hobble their way up the steps. House can almost see a thin, sodden corpse draped over Wilson's shoulder -- the dead man Wilson's carrying home. On the other shoulder, Amber rests an invisible hand, and House tries to remember if it had been raining when she died.

His memory comes up blank, or rather, it shows him shattered glass instead of raindrops. He yanks his thoughts back from that place, because one morose idiot is more than enough, and Wilson's already cornered that market today. House unlocks the door, but turns around, blocking the entrance. "Ernest Hemingway," he says, "was a jackass."

Wilson chuckles; it's the first time House has seen him smile in three days. It seems like a good enough start. He steps inside, letting Wilson trail in after, wiping his rained-on face with his sleeve. Where, House wonders, was your mommy when you needed her?

"Order us something," House says. He drops onto the sofa, stretching his legs across the seat. "I'm not letting a man in your condition into my kitchen except to get me a beer. Speaking of which ..."

"Oh, thanks, I'd love one. So nice of you to offer." One cool thing about knowing Wilson so well is that House can hear the soft notes of relief beneath the blaring sarcasm. He can hear the fridge opening, too, and the promising clink of two bottles being gathered into one well-manicured hand.

Wilson doesn't seem to realize it yet, but this day is already getting better.

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"I drove, and now you're guzzling my booze. Dinner's on you." House reaches up, wiggling his greedy fingers until Wilson shoves a bottle into his hand.

"As you stipulated previously. What shall I order, O Master?" Wilson opens his own beer and takes a sip. Extra cold, as it should be; House always keeps his fridge near-freezing.

House makes an exaggerated frown, pressing a finger to his chin in pantomime contemplation. "Philly Phil's."

Cheesesteaks, God, yes, Wilson thinks. It's just what he needs. Warmth, and soft toasty bread with a crust that crackles just right and sheds crumbs all over. Banana pepper rings, and grilled mushrooms and onions, and that melty white cheese Phil's uses -- Wilson's never been able to identify it and they've never been willing to tell him what it is. Suddenly, he's aware that he's famished, that he forgot to eat lunch or didn't want it or both.

He sinks into the sofa with his beer in one hand and his cell phone in the other. It feels good. It's been a while since anything actually felt good. "Here," he says, tossing the phone to House. "You call it in."

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By 11:30 they've been through Octopussy, Tomb Raider, two huge sandwiches, and the whole six-pack of Coronas. Wilson has moved only to get up and pee a couple times. There've been no arguments over plots, or even over viewing selections. No appreciation of Lara Croft's considerable assets, no stupid quibbles over scientific impossibility or dumber-than-cantaloupe dialogue. Wilson's been no fun whatsoever.

"You're not even pretending you're going home tonight," House says. "Not that I mind that you're not lying, but it's interesting." Wilson's former M.O. when he wanted to stay was to 'lose track of time,' or allow House to get him slightly drunk, or get really interested in a movie that he knew wouldn't end until late. But that was a long time ago, wasn't it? So maybe this is an anomaly, or maybe something's different now.

Maybe the boundaries change when you've gone with someone on a personally-significant visit to the loony bin.

"I'm too tired to drive," Wilson says, shifting as if he's suddenly less comfy than he was a second ago. "If it's a problem, though --"

"God, you're an idiot. Go get out of that dress shirt. You're making me itch." House nods toward the bedroom. "Sweats are in the third drawer."

Silently Wilson gets up. He's already barefoot, his hair sticking up where he'd leaned his head back on the sofa, his usual straight posture slouched into a hopeless-looking curve. "And don't mess with my lingerie drawer!" House calls after him. "You rip that silk teddy and I'll kick your ass out!"

He can't hear Wilson laughing, but can see it in the movement of his back as he walks down the hall.

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In the years since the infarction, House has learned that his dad actually wasn't full of shit about old injuries acting up when the weather turned cold. That's why House has taken an extra pill or two, and stayed up watching bad TV until it felt a little better -- and he could safely get up and grab some bedding to throw at Wilson. Everything's still right where it was the last time, even though Wilson hasn't slept on House's sofa in ... in ...

Has it really been since Grace? God, it has. That long, and still House has thought of these as Wilson's blankets, and Wilson's pillow, and they've gone unused since then.

The pillow makes a satisfying thwap when it hits Wilson's head. The blankets don't complete their intended flight plan, and end up on the floor. "Oops," says House, and ducks into the bathroom before Wilson can whine at him.

When he comes out again, he notes that Wilson's wrapped himself up like a silkworm, seeking more security now than he ever did with that last divorce looming over his head. He's left nothing visible below his nose, which pokes out Kilroy-style over the blankets' edge.

This is good, House thinks, and stops himself from bouncing his cane on the floor, because Wilson doesn't need to know House is thinking. Not especially fun right now, but it's good.

It won't be fun to go back and meet Daniel Wilson next week, either, but he's already agreed to that, which means he probably ought to be committed himself. He's not sure why he said yes; the fascination with crazy people, maybe. Or maybe he's hoping for something. Knowledge, dark childhood secrets, insight into the broken Wilson clockwork. Whatever he can get. More of whatever it was that made Wilson not pretend, tonight, that he wanted to go back to Amber's.

If Wilson's worn out enough after talking to his brother, and after the drive, and the drink House will pour him ... maybe he'll stay here again. It could become a thing; they'd have bowling, and movies, and a visit every other week to Danny, as if this was some kind of normal, and Wilson's things would be waiting for him here, after that.

"Go to bed," Wilson grumbles. His body is visibly relaxing inside its cocoon. He needs to do this, to be here, a lot more often.

The first part of the plan, House decides, is to make sure Wilson thinks the plan does not exist.

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In the morning, Wilson knows he'll get up and make coffee, and he'll bitch about the sofa. He'll claim it's lumpy, it made him stiff, House is just too damn cheap to replace it -- and then he'll look in the fridge, bitch about there being nothing for breakfast, and they'll go to Mickey's instead.

This is all firmly settled in his mind as he makes the last adjustments to House's spare feather pillow, and pulls House's spare blankets up a little higher, breathing the scent of detergent and wool, leather cushions and long-ago cigarettes. He won't mean a word of his bitching, of course; it's what they do with each other, constructing lies about how selfish and unfeeling they both are, hiding the better truth about themselves. They wrote their social contract in Da Vinci's backward script.

It's still raining outside, but the noise is different now, a weak ghost whispering and tapping on House's windows, unable to sneak in. Wilson lets himself drift, truly comfortable for the first time in longer than he cares to recall.

Sleep comes sooner than he expects, and it blessedly brings no dreams.

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~*~