Takes place instead of the House Cuddy scenes from Under My Skin, because they were not only ridiculously OOC, but defied medical facts. If House is going to be out of his mind and get all cuddly with someone, it might as well be Wilson. Spoilers for season 5, including finale.

Two Of Us

Wilson regards the half-packed suitcase, making sure to keep his tone neutral. He keeps expecting the phone to ring again, for Foreman to demand that House abandon whatever issues he might be battling at the moment, and come running to save their asses. It's ridiculously hypocritical, he knows. But at this point, Wilson resents the idea of House being expected to put the patient's welfare ahead of his own personal needs.

"So we’re just going to forget about the rehab then?"

"For now."

It’s not that House doesn’t want it. He does. If he could wave a magic wand and relieve himself of his chemical dependencies, he would do it in a heartbeat. He just knows that real life doesn't work that way. He'd still be in pain. He'd still have to find a way to manage it. He knows that he'd find a way through rehab, under it, around it. He always has before. And Wilson is the last person who should be attempting to force him to do anything. All House would have to do is pathetically dry heave, moan in agony, and squeeze out a few tears and Wilson would be putty in his hands.

It’s more than the drugs, he knows. The drugs might be a part of it. But there’s obviously so much more to the picture, things he can’t figure out on his own anymore. He’s losing his mind, and tomorrow he will have no choice but to deal with it. Tomorrow he will have to seriously consider his options, face some unfortunate facts and make some tough decisions. Right now, Wilson cares about him. It's not just that fake crap that he manufactures for his patients, or his guilt-based rhetoric. It's pure and unadulterated concern. He really cares, and he's here and he's real and House wants to enjoy it.

"Anything on?" Wilson asks, because he can see that his friend is too distracted to discuss anything important. Television has always cleared his head before, helped him to relax. Wilson has come to accept that like so many other aspects of House's behavior, it's unconventional, but that doesn't make it wrong.

House shrugs and hands over the remote.

"Whatever..."

"You’re letting me pick? Are you sure you’re feeling okay?"

House nods at the couch.

"Make yourself comfortable."

Wilson takes the remote, but remains standing.

"Is there anything you need...while I’m still up?"

"Right now, I need you to make yourself comfortable."

Wilson frowns, suspicious. "Why?"

House sighs, makes a face that says he'd rather not answer any questions right now, and impatiently waits for the other man to seat himself.

Five minutes later, Wilson can't help noting his friend's body language. House's posture is rigid, and his legs aren't propped up like they'd normally be. He’s squirming a bit, shifting his position, glancing over every few seconds. He’s clearly anxious about something.

"What’s with you?"

"Nothing," House lies.

"Something is obviously wrong. Just tell me what."

House stares straight ahead, trying to keep his expression blank. He pretends that he can see the screen, although he actually can’t, since Amber is blocking it. She's also taunting him with some mournful lullaby that he hasn't heard since he was a child, and honestly had no desire to hear again. He struggles to keep images of his mother, hunched over his bed in a darkened bedroom, from invading his mind. But there's no reason to share those particular details with Wilson, who is clearly oblivious to Amber's performance and seems to be having no trouble seeing the screen at all.

"I need...something."

Wilson leans forward, preparing to get up.

"Which is why I asked. You want a drink...water? Beer's probably a bad idea...but you've got to be hungry. You never finished your onion rings, did you? I know the insulin shock was almost a day ago...but it's possible that your blood sugar still hasn't..."

"No," House cuts him off, or cuts them both off, as Amber has yet to stop crooning.

He drags a hand over his face. This is ridiculous. That he even wants this is ridiculous. But he should be able to ask. He should be able to do this without being embarrassed. The truth is that he can’t. He knows it and apparently Amber also knows it. She laughs at him, being so nervous, expending so much energy fretting over something so simple.

"I need a favor," he adds.

"Okay..."

"...and it’s kind of...weird."

Wilson stifles an amused snort, considering the events of the past two days.

"Weirder than asking me to reverse self-induced insulin shock on two minute’s notice? Weirder than wanting to stop your patient's heart, just to get a more accurate imaging study...weirder than telling me you’re talking to my dead girlfriend? How weird can it be?"

House peeks over for a second, expecting to see anger, perhaps even mockery on Wilson’s face. But there’s nothing but naked fear, and that makes this all that much harder. He gestures silently to the space between them, hoping that his friend will get the hint.

"What?" Wilson asks again. He’s genuinely confused and beginning to worry. House is rarely at a loss for words and if he is, it's never a good thing. "Just tell me what you need. Whatever it is, I'm sure we can...figure it out..."

House’s arms are hovering, eyes fixed on Wilson’s chest, the way the light is hitting the bends and folds of his shirt, reflecting off the satiny surface of his tie. He’s desperately trying to tune out the sound of Amber, who is rather indelicately reminding him that his life is falling apart, that he's losing his mind and that she isn’t going to relent, unless he finds some way to acknowledge her.

"I lied...before," he admits. His voice is inappropriately raised, to be heard over the nonexistent din.

Wilson can't help glancing towards the television, wondering if the source of his friend's anguish is located there. He realizes that must be where House thinks Amber is standing.

"About...what?"

"I mean, when I said I wasn't...that my life was falling apart, but that I wasn't..."

Inhaling deeply and slowly, House attempts to use his biological need for air as an excuse to postpone the inevitable. The way the other man is staring at him doesn't help. He takes another breath, exhales again.

"Wasn't..." Wilson prompts, trying not to seem impatient. Except that he is. He has a pretty good feeling what House is about to say. But he's hanging on every word, praying that his friend's lack of articulation is just due to him being anxious, and not the result of aphasia, or some other neurological symptom.

"...scared," House finally finishes, immediately slouching under the weight of his frustration. "I lied before...when I said I wasn't."

He anticipates an eruption of placation and a landslide of psychoanalysis, but neither come.

Wilson’s eyebrows knit, and then relax back into their normal position. He presses his lips together, to suppress a smile.

"Yeah...I already knew that."

"Right," House says, turning away.

He grits his teeth, to keep himself from yelling at Amber to shut the hell up. It's awfully tempting. But he just can't do that with Wilson sitting here. It's one thing to talk to her while he's alone. Lots of perfectly sane people think out loud. Doing it in the presence of someone else would elevate this from a garden variety hallucination to full blown psychosis. He wants to tell Amber to give him a minute, that he's pacing himself and he's not going to just blurt it all out at once. Consumed by his inner struggle, he gradually loses the ability to maintain his composure. When he attempts to mask that fact, by breathing sharply through his nose, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

"Hey...okay," Wilson says, gently grabbing onto House’s wrists. He knows his friend won't take kindly to being properly examined. God forbid should House be treated like a mere mortal. So he presses with his thumbs, inconspicuously feeling for a pulse. It's rapid and climbing, and he notes a thin sheen of sweat on House's forehead. "You need to calm down."

Wilson's motions are gradual and innocuous, giving House a moment to process. After some obvious deliberation, House gives in, allows himself to be embraced, or maybe he's the one doing the embracing. In this situation, it's difficult to tell, which is actually ideal for them both. They can always tell themselves that it was the other one who wanted it, thus sparing themselves the burden of being labeled the needy party. Once he senses that it's safe to do so, Wilson casually wraps House's arm around his stomach, and wraps his own arm around House's back.

They stay like that for a half an hour or so, both pretending to be engrossed in the television, although House's reason for pretending is because he genuinely can't see it. Wilson is running a bit slow, perhaps distracted by all the recent chaos. Either way, it takes him that long to figure it out. This awkward, little thing they're doing is what House was trying to ask for. Reality itself was unfolding around him, the very fabric of his existence being torn to shreds. After tonight, House might never work again, might never be sane again. His life might never have meaning again, and he just wanted to be held, just to feel safe and cared for.

"This isn't...weird," Wilson mutters, before he can stop himself.

House realizes that his friend has put it together, and emits a scoff. He tries to appear nonchalant. It sounds more like he's choking.

"It's okay," Wilson whispers. He's a little unnerved by how badly House seems to need to hold it all in, especially since doing so is apparently resulting in distress. Just admitting to being afraid was an enormous step. Just giving in to the physical contact was an enormous step. Expecting House to embrace his feelings, or to be comfortable expressing them, is a little optimistic.

"Shut up," House growls, rather suddenly. Wilson isn't sure what to make of it, until House shakes his head and buries it back in his shirt.

"Not you...not you," he mumbles, shame, fear, anger, and then more shame. He knows that he's definitely crazy now. The line between illusion and reality has officially been blurred. "Sorry...sorry..."

"What's she saying?" Wilson finally asks. He knows he shouldn't, especially if it means encouraging a delusion. He doesn't really believe in ghosts, which means that the Amber House is seeing has to be a creation of his own mind. But if House made an choice, albeit a subconscious one, to hallucinate a specific person, it has to mean something.

House can't answer, doesn't want to speak right now, giving Wilson no choice but to continue with his speculation.

"But she's telling you to...do something, isn't she?"

House makes a soft, noncommital sound, still not an answer. He's longing for hours ago, when he was feeling nothing, that void and emptiness. Sure it was a lie. But at least it didn't hurt like this.

"Something you don't want to do...something you're afraid to do?" Wilson reflects. "Maybe...it's just your subconscious. Maybe you're trying so hard to repress your own feelings, that you're hallucinating about it..."

"Mmm hmm," House adds, keeping his mouth closed. He ignores Amber's adamant agreement, and her accompanying movements. Of course she's wearing a cheerleader's uniform now, and holding a megaphone.

"What is it that she's telling you to do?"

"Wilson," he warns, absently gripping the soft material of the other man's shirt. They're too close, way too close to the truth right now.

"Sorry. You don't have to tell me. I just...I'm scared too. You're...I don't know," Wilson babbles. "You're scaring me. This is scary...when you do things like...when you...I'm scared, okay?"

"M'sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Shut up," House whispers again. "Sorry...sorry. Please shut up. Not you. Oh God...shut up. I'm losing it. I'm sorry..."

"Just tell me what she wants you to do...maybe if you do it, she'll go away."

Amber's voice is rising in volume, drowning out the hum of the television and Wilson's gentle pleas. House longs to put his hands over his ears. But given the way his arms are currently positioned, it would be impossible to do so, without appearing any more foolish than he already does.

God, you're pathetic. Do I have to think for you too? After tonight, you probably won't see him again. You know that right? He'll drop you off in some high security mental hospital, where they'll drug you and strap you to your bed and he'll never come to visit. And why would he want to visit? Everyone who gets close to you, ends up getting hurt. Everyone who makes the mistake of caring about you, ends up getting screwed. He's the most important person in your life and you can't even tell him that...

"I love you," House blurts out, savoring the momentary victory over his hallucination. She seems to have been rendered silent, possibly even impressed.

"I...love you too," Wilson replies calmly, hoping the five seconds it took him to do so wasn't too long. It's just a surprise, that's all, and it's a little odd, the timing. But it hardly qualifies as an epiphany.

"Oh...okay," he says, suddenly feeling silly. He knew that already, that House loved him. Or at least he thought he did. It wasn't really something he ever gave conscious thought to, or that he thought warranted discussion. But for some reason, House seemed to think he didn't know, or wouldn't know, or maybe had reasons to doubt it. Or maybe House had reasons to doubt that he felt the same. Either way, those doubts are significant. They obviously contributed to this, whatever the hell this is that House is going through right now.

"Okay then," he repeats. "Okay...it's okay."

House blows out a breath to distract from Wilson's words, or maybe to distract himself from how much he needs this. Amber is gone, for the moment. The reprieve is temporary. He knows better than to hope she won't be back.

"Can we just...you know?" He asks, hoping he's not coming off as demanding. What it wants is to have this and not have to talk about it. He wants to freeze time and live in this moment, because tomorrow everything is going to change forever.

"Sure," Wilson says. He coaxes House's head back down again, lets it rest against his stomach. Then he reaches for the blanket on the back of the couch and drags it over them both. He can't fix anything, can't reverse whatever damage that's been done. He can't stop House from going crazy. But he can give him this.

"You and I have memories, longer than the road that stretches out ahead."

McCartney, Paul. "Two Of Us." Let It Be. Apple Records. 1970.