Title: A Good Morning.

Characters: Tritter, House/Wilson

Rating: Pg, maybe Pg-13. It's fluff.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1319

Notes: I doubt if witnesses/suspects are actually allowed anywhere near other suspects who are giving evidence, but whatever. Set after "Finding Judas" with some regard to the "Merry Little Christmas" preview. Oh, and I don't own them, blah blah blah.

Every morning when he woke up, James Wilson contemplated going straight down to the police station to confess. He would probably be cited for perjury, for obstruction of justice, but after that, he'd have his life back. Being a first- time offender, he'd probably only get probation or community service anyway. Then the police would unfreeze his bank accounts, give back his car, and un-suspend his medical license. He could start a new practice in a new town, in a town that had never heard of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and especially not its favorite madman, Dr. Gregory House. Wilson thought about confessing every morning, but until he actually did, he never believed in his abilities to rat on his best friend. His… only friend. His…The phone rang.

Wilson was startled out of his thoughts. He got out of bed and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" he said in a husky voice. He cleared his throat. "Hello?"



"They told me I could have one phone call." Wilson almost dropped the phone in surprise. Not at the words, but at the fact that House sounded as though he was near tears. Wilson steadied his hand and steeled himself to be unsympathetic. After all, House had brought it on himself and ruined Wilson's life as well.

"So you called me. What do you think I'm going to do, bail you out? You know, I'd love to, except for the fact that because of you, my accounts are still frozen and I have no money for food, let alone bail."

"That's not what I'm calling about," House said, with uncharacteristic pleading in his voice. "I just wanted to…"

"Don't drop the soap, House." Wilson hung up the phone. And immediately regretted it. He picked the receiver back up. "House? Greg?" The operator told him that if he would like to make a call, to please hang up and dial again. Wilson replaced the receiver. He slumped into the chair by his desk. Then, although he was sure he would end up regretting it in the near future, he picked up the phone again and dialed.

"Princeton-Plainsboro Taxi Service," a voice answered cheerfully.

"I need a cab," Wilson said hoarsely.

"That's what we're here for! Just give me your address and we'll send a car right away." 20 minutes later, Dr. James Wilson was on his way to the county jail. When he arrived, he walked up to the front desk and asked to see House.

Just then, Detective Tritter walked out of an office in the hallway. He spotted Wilson and walked over. "James! Good to see you." He held out his hand. Wilson ignored it.

"I sold out my best friend to you."

"No, not at all. You understand the power of bargaining. Now we both get what we want."

"You can't," Wilson muttered.


"You can't always get what you want." What was he saying? He sounded like House, and his great philosopher Jagger. Wilson had a feeling that if this didn't go well, he'd end up in a bar, channeling the great philosopher Richards.

"Well," Tritter faltered. "True. But the best part of this all is that House will get what he wants, if he gets what he needs. Help. If he agrees to our deal."

Wilson sighed. "Can I go see him?"

"Not yet. First he has to submit his confession for the plea-bargain. We usually only allow family and significant others to be present at that time."

Without thinking, Wilson asked, "What if I said I was?"

"Well, you don't really look at all like you're related."

"True. Then… what about the… other thing?"

"Are you?" Wilson shook his head.

"No, but… please." Tritter relented and Wilson followed him obediently into a small room. There was a window looking into another room where House was sitting at a table with his attorney and a cop. Tritter explained that the window was one way glass; House couldn't see into the room where Wilson and Tritter stood.

In the lower room, a policeman addressed House. "Please say your confession clearly into the video camera and state your name for the record."

House began. "Hi, my name is Greg House. I love music, sunsets, and long walks on…" the officer glared at him. "I confess. I stole Dr. James Wilson's prescription pad to feed my addiction. He lied about it to the cops. Together we also planned and executed the Great Train Robbery, World War 2, the Tate-LaBianca murders, and the American Idol voting scandal." The policeman in the room looked at House in disgust. Wilson suppressed a smile with his hand. House looked up at the room where Wilson stood, and the younger man thought that Tritter must be wrong. He was sure House could see him. Then House turned back to the camera. "Detective Tritter wants me into rehab. Ok. I'll go. If it will get you all the hell away from my team and my best friend. I need them to cover my ass." He thought for a moment. "And do my clinic hours."

"Done?" the officer asked him. House nodded and shut off the camera.

Tritter turned to Wilson. "Well, we'll release your accounts and things as soon as possible so you can get back to work. And we'll send House to part-time rehab by tomorrow, so he can work some too. He's an ass, but I have to admit, he's damn good at his job."

"He'd probably say you're not bad at yours either."

"You want to talk to him?" Wilson nodded. Tritter took him to House's cell and unlocked the door.

"I'll be back in 10, ok?" he said. Wilson walked in and Tritter relocked the door and left. When Wilson walked in, House was sitting on a cot. He got up and almost embraced the smaller man, but changed his mind and instead asked,

"How did you get in here? They told me it was family only."

"I told them… I was your boyfriend," Wilson said in a rush, blushing.

"And they believed you?"

"Well, no. But I think Tritter is more like you than you want to believe. He's not above a little rule breaking."

"I know. It's probably why I don't like him. Or maybe he just thinks you're gay."

Wilson glared at the speaker, trying to hide the redness that continued to creep over his cheeks. "So…" he tried to change the subject. "Tritter says you've got a full day of therapy tomorrow, and then you'll be back at the hospital on Thursday."

"Yeah." There was a knock on the door. "That's him."

"See you Thursday?" House asked.


"This rehab better work fast. My leg hurts." Without thinking, before he could stop himself, Wilson but his arms around House. House embraced him back awkwardly, then whispered, "You are gay," and kissed him on the cheek. Wilson blinked in surprise. The blush started to come back. He pulled away before the blood causing the blush could decide to migrate south. The knock came again.

"Bye Greg," Wilson said. "See you Thursday."

On Thursday, Doctors Gregory House and James Wilson returned to work at the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. By Friday, they were once again firmly established as heads of their respective departments, though House was once again being overseen by Doctor Eric Foreman. House and Wilson ate lunch together, but apart from that time, they didn't see much of each other. House had his rehab, and Wilson was working to restart his practice. Outside of work that weekend, however, the two men were nearly inseparable. And, for the first time in who knew how long, James Wilson didn't start off his waking moments by worrying about something or other. He opened his eyes, turned his head, and was greeted by big blue eyes looking back at him. "Good morning, Jimmy."

Wilson smiled. It was.