I just watched Ang Lee's press conference at the Golden Globes, and I have to say, he is a very well spoken, thoughtful man. He manages, at every turn, to translate those thoughts into what, to him, is a foreign language and still communicate beautifully what he believes. Most people cannot do as well in their own mother tongue, myself included, so I will end by saying the man is just plain brilliant, The Hulk not withstanding.

On a completely different note, I was bored this afternoon, so I wrote this because some part of me just loves to dump angst on poor Wilson's head and leave him with no resolution. I'm a little evil that way, and I can get away with it because I don't own him or anyone else in his universe. There's just the tiniest hint of slashy love, and I mean the tiniest, so only read it if that interests you.



“Would you let me do that?” Wilson's voice was an equal mix of exasperation and something else not even he could identify any more.

“I am perfectly capable of standing my own bike up.” Wilson did not move. Neither did House. It was obvious he was waiting for Wilson to leave.

“House,” But House silenced him with a look, and he threw his hands up in surrender. “Fine.” He turned and walked toward his car. A minute later, the clatter of the cane hitting the pavement echoed off the glass and brick of the hospital followed by a quiet curse. He should keep walking. He turned around to find House sitting on the pavement as well, glaring at the upturned bike.

Reflexively, Wilson glanced around. The parking lot was deserted but for Foreman who had already picked up his pace, headed towards House. Wilson managed to catch his eye and warn him off with a tight shake of his head. He stopped short, one eyebrow raised, his head tilted slightly to one side in that
'whatever' attitude he had. With a little shrug of his shoulders, he turned and walked away. Wilson snorted. He could turn off that melting, chocolate-eyed concern so easily and Wilson was disgusted with himself for the flash of envy that rippled through him.

“Not a word,” House said as Wilson approached. Wilson had no intention of saying anything. House did not look up at him. He wouldn't, of course. It wasn’t in his nature to look up at anyone. Wilson extended his hand and after a moment, House let him haul him to his feet. Silently, Wilson picked up the cane and righted the bike. He watched House's face, watched his eyes flick across the crack in the pavement, their shoes, even right up to Wilson's knees, which was an improvement.

“Thanks.” House's lisp pinched the word off softly at the end. That lisp only came out when he was tired, and Wilson felt the involuntary tensing in his gut that told him something besides the turtled bike was going on here.

“Maybe I should drive you home.” He winced because he had not meant that to come out so softly. Any hint of actual concern would turn House stubborn. He was surprised, then to hear the quiet consent.

“Maybe.”

In the car, Wilson immediately relinquished control of the radio. Some things were just not worth the biting words. House picked something he could play air guitar to, but it was only a half-hearted effort. In a minute, he tipped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. Wilson's insides tightened a little more. It wouldn't do any good to ask. He would wait. It might be one of those arbitrary times when House would volunteer an explanation.

“I kissed her.”

Fingers gripped the wheel too tight, and Wilson blinked. “What?” He glanced over in time to see House’s head roll back to stare out the windshield. Had House noticed the dark envy that he’d felt slide across his face?

“Stacey. I kissed her.”

“And?” Though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“How do you know when you're not in love any more? I figure you know these things, right? I mean, divorced three times, and all” A flash of anger took Wilson by surprise.

“I wouldn't know.” It sounded stiff. Of course it did. Anything forced out through teeth clenched that hard would sound stiff.

“What do you mean you wouldn’t know? You’ve been divorced three times.”

“Twice.”

“Whatever.” House waved a hand in the air. “Are you still in love with all of them?”

“I was never in love with any of them.” He could feel the big, owl blink aimed at him, even as he tried to fathom why he had said that. This was a conversation he had successfully avoided having for years. He'd be perfectly happy not to have it now.

“Why would you marry someone you don't love? Three someones?”

“Trust me, you don't want to know.”

“Well,” House studied him. “I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know.” He leaned over conspiratorially. “I have an inquiring mind,” he half-whispered.

“And I have a mind to kick you out on your ass and let you walk home.”

“Aw come on, Jimmy. Is it because you’ve been secretly in love with me all these years?”

Laugh. He concentrated on his signal light, turning the corner, pulling up to the curb and not looking at House. Laugh, it was a joke. “Yeah, that’s right.” But it was too little, too late and too quiet. He was too tired to keep the joke going; too tired to perpetuate the lie. He turned the engine off and silence pushed its way into the car. Finally, House let out an explosion of air.

“I don't-“

“Get out of the car.”

Raised eyebrows and a surprised look almost shook his resolve. “James,”

“Out.”

“You drop a bombshell like that and you don't even want to know what I think?”

“Frankly no. I don't.”

He watched all the telltale signs, as House assimilated this new piece of information, fit it into his Puzzle of Wilson. The soft clacking of teeth, tilted head, the furrow between his brows, flitting eyes, focusing first on the lower half of his face, down to his chest, back up, never quite meeting his, and he knew what House would say. “O.K.” He nodded, ever so slightly. “O.K.” He fumbled the cane up from between the seats while the fingers of his other hand found the door handle. He was half out of the car before he stopped, pulled his leg back in.

“Wait, this is the part where I lean over and kiss you, right?”

“Get out of the car.” But he cracked a smile and all the tightness drained away.

“You'll pick me up in the morning, right?”

“You going to be ready?”

House made a face, a pshaw-ing noise. “See you tomorrow, Jimmy.”

“Yeah. See you.”

He watched House limp across the sidewalk, unlock the door and step inside. He didn’t turn around, didn't look back, and Wilson envied him the ability to choose a course of action and stick to it with such conviction. But that was part of his makeup. Wilson pulled his cell out of his pocket and dialled a number. After a few rings, a familiar voice crackled over the bad connection.

“Hey Stace. I need a favour.” He paused, then sighed. “I need a good lawyer. You know anyone?”