Disclaimer: My little stories mean no harm, please don't sue.

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I am sitting on the couch when Wilson comes home. I don't move an inch so he comes to me, ruffling my hair and giving me a kiss on the cheek. I listen as he moves into the kitchen, into the bedroom, into the bathroom, and his voice ebbs and flows as he tells me about his day. "…and I ran into Kutner. He told me you had a little bit of a breakdown in the clinic. And I was in disbelief. Greg House never makes a scene after all…"

He smirks and settles down next to me on the couch, untying his tie and tossing it onto the coffee table. "So what happened anyway?"

I grimace into my beer and think about spilling it onto Wilson's nice, crisp shirt. "I smiled."

This time Wilson actually looks genuinely shocked and I am somewhat proud of that. "You smiled. You smiled. Well, gosh, no wonder everyone was so worried. I'm surprised that they didn't have you locked away on the spot." He rolls his eyes before giving me a short smile of his own. "House, a smile is just a smile. What really happened?"

This whole scene is just so domestic it makes bile rise to my throat. And Wilson looks too goddamn happy right now, I think. And too comfortable sitting on my couch, drinking my beer, watching my TV. I poke him in his side and tell him to mind his own business.

He just laughs. Laughs. So I poke him again, harder. "Ow. Okay, I get it, House. No smiling for either one of us. We'll just sit here and be miserable – permanent scowls etched on our faces."

"That's more like it."

To his credit, he does try this. He glares at me and his lips turn downward and create little wrinkles, but his eyes are still smiling and eventually those damn lips curve up again anyway. I sigh and shake my head. "You're pathetic."

He throws his arm around me casually. I think of brushing it off but then decide it's comfortable. His smile falls a little bit and I can't help but miss it. "Yeah, House, I'm happy so I'm pathetic."

"No, that I make you happy is pathetic. You've been practically giddy for weeks. Who knew getting laid on a regular basis turned you into this… cartoon character."

I'm starting to succeed in my quest to make him miserable, actually. He removes his arm from my shoulders and shuffles further down the couch, practically falling off the edge. "Well, I thought… I thought maybe I'd make you… well, happy. I mean I don't have magical powers but I thought you wouldn't be so completely miserable."

I turn to look at him, and really look at him. He flinches and I think my glare is maybe too severe. I want to make a point though. "Stop trying to fix me. Stop using me to fulfill that need for neediness. You'll just be disappointed."

I really think I am successful in my complete and total alienation of the one person who can stand to be around me, but I guess Wilson knows me too well. Reads between the lines. Which I hate. It's harder to manipulate him when he can see right through me.

He slides back over to my side of the couch and shoots me a sad grin. "You know, House, you have a very odd way of showing people you care."

He leans close and touches his lips to mine in a short, sweet kiss that is too sappy for me. As soon as my eyes finally close and I begin to kiss back, he moves away. Cool air dries my moistened lips as I watch him leave.

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At some point during the long, rain-soaked night I fall asleep. I dream that I'm at PPTH, in my glass office. And Wilson is in front of me, except that he is glass as well. There is light all around us, bouncing off every slick surface, burning my eyes. His face is frozen in a look of despair. A luminescent hand reaches out to me, stuck mid-air.

I don't move an inch for fear I might break him. But he shatters all on his own, and the noise consumes my whole being until I seem to shatter as well. Little Wilson particles are splayed all around me, glinting in the sunlight.

I wake up to the television blinking steadily at me. In a rush of irrelevant panic I sit up and my eyes search desperately for him, to make sure he is still whole. That I haven't broken him. And I call him pathetic…

My search isn't long, as I am in fact lying in his lap, his face right above me. My head knocked his chin when I sat up and now he's looking at me curiously. He simply says, "Hey."

I don't respond, the fear in my dream soaking into the conscious world, making me unsteady and unsure. I move over to the other end of the couch and grasp the arm tightly. I shake my head and try to force the fuzziness out of my mind. I sigh as the dream starts to drift away.

I don't notice Wilson has been staring until I feel his hand lightly brush my arm. I know he wants to ask me if I'm okay, but he already knows my response will be nasty and short, so he's quiet for now.

I shake off his hand and glare at the television, wishing that he wasn't so stubbornly attached to me and would leave me alone for once. He's almost sadistic in a way, I think, so incredibly nice even though he knows it bugs me.

I don't actually start acknowledging what is on the screen for a long time, and when I do I notice that he's watching an old black-and-white movie. Something about World War II, from the looks of it. A commercial starts up and he turns it on mute right as the pink dog starts singing. Quietly, he says, "You're not a disappointment, you know."

I stare straight ahead, my eyes affixed on the blank stare of the cartoon dog. It tells me that unless I brush my teeth terrorists will come and kill me and my family. Well, okay, it doesn't actually say that, but the TV's still on mute so my mind is forced to fill in the blanks.

Wilson continues, laughing softly. "For someone with such a huge ego, you seem to…"

"Oh, come on, don't do that," I say patronizingly, rolling my eyes and interrupting his big sentimental speech. "Don't try to make me out to be all vulnerable. I get enough of that from Cameron."

Wilson laughs like he expected nothing less from me. "Fine, you are a heartless, egomaniacal bastard. I should just give up now before you decide that enough is enough and murder me in my sleep."

"Damn, you foiled my master plan. My life has no meaning anymore," I retort sarcastically.

I am somewhat off-put that he's so amused with this conversation, as that was not my intent. Maybe I should just off him in his sleep after all…

But, no, everyone would know it was me, and what's the fun in that?

Wilson has somehow snuck his way over to my side of the couch and he throws an arm around my shoulders again, giving me a stare that I do not find sexy whatsoever. I'm starting to hate "happy" Wilson, I think. When he's happy it's harder to annoy him. And that is one of the few things that actually do make me happy. I miss his flustered anger…

Which is why I interrupt his puppy dog stare by saying, "You don't like me. You like the idea of me. You need to be in a relationship – it's fulfilling for you or whatever. You'll find out though that I'm not enough… that this isn't enough. You're off living in a cloud now but soon you're going to be plummeting back down to earth."

The damn guy barely blinks an eye! He smirks, actually smirks. "Give up already – I'm not leaving you. I'm happy, for some odd reason. Yes, you - the misanthropic bastard that you are - make me happy. I can't help it. Why can't you just be happy too? Stop forcing yourself to be miserable and just let this happen."

I stare at him for awhile, trying to find an angle. Maybe he's high, I think, and that's where all this happy, glow-y lovey doveyness is coming from. Or maybe he just had a really awesome date with a pretty nurse and is just trying to make it up to me and satisfy his own guilty conscience. I'm sure that there is something incredibly screwed up in his brain that would make him do this…. Perhaps neurological? I remind myself to call up Foreman later.

I stare into the kind eyes in front of me and my control slips just a little bit. Wilson sees this and his face becomes smug. A nice kind of smug. A content satisfaction. Somehow my happiness has become a competition. Is that why I have held on for so long? To win? Only I can find a sport in depression. But by being happy Wilson has proven that I can be happy. And worse – that he makes me happy. This is not good. This gives Wilson hope for our relationship. Hope is a rival to my cynicism. Most of all, though, this gives him control over me. Or, better yet, proves to me that he does control me. Effect me. A fact that I have been trying to hide from him for years.

Brown eyes hypnotize and all those meandering thoughts and doubts seem to drift away. Not pushed or repressed but more like a light breeze has lifted them up and now they are floating through my consciousness. Soft lips whisper once again to let it go. Let go of all those pesky questions and conflicting emotions. Let go and feel, goddammit.

I lunge forward and let all my weight fall on top Wilson, and I am satisfied with the grunt he makes as he is forced down into the cushions. I let myself become encased in his scent and his touch and any lingering thoughts are finally expelled. My body buzzes against his and it's hard to think that this isn't right.

My lungs ache for air so I relent for a moment, resting my sweaty forehead against his. We are still and it is quiet. His chest heaves against mine and I breathe in accordance to the inhales and exhales. In. Out. In. Out.

It is all calm and perfect. I had closed my eyes and when I open them I am surprised. Wilson's expression is so open and expressive, showing every emotion possible. He looks as confused as I have been the past few weeks. This pleases me since it shows that he is not any better than I am, that he does not have as much control or power as he thinks he does. My head falls forward and my upper lip grazes his nose. I laugh.

He looks like he's in love, I think. His eyes betray his happiness. His smiling mouth betrays it. Hell, everything betrays it – his blushing cheeks, his raised eyebrows, his mussed up hair. Every piece of skin, every breath, every word shows that he's in love with me.

And then I know why he is smiling. And why he is so smug. And why he is brave enough to kiss me when I'm angry and laugh when I'm confused. He does this because he knows it too. Suddenly I am able to see what he sees. Through his eyes I see my own laughter, my own flushed skin, and my own bright eyes. His feelings are not one-sided, and I have a suspicion that he has known this all along.

For how long has he been able to translate my own thoughts better than me? For how long have I been so transparent? Why has he been able to see everything so clearly while for me it has all been a blur?

His skin is warm under my fingertips as I trail a hand down his face. They linger over a cheekbone and there they rest for awhile. I touch because he is untouchable. An enigma needing to be solved. An equation to be balanced.

A puzzle.

I want to groan as I go back to the same old story. Wilson's same old argument. I really didn't want him to be just a puzzle but at the same time I am endlessly excited. Intrigued. I want him to be mine and only mine. I want to be able to obsess without anyone stopping me or getting in my way. I want to be able to touch this skin for however long I like. I don't quite believe that this is my reality.

For so many years we have been so close and yet so apart. There was always something missing, something lacking. He had always seemed to be holding back. Hiding a part of himself from me. Remaining the puzzle that he knew I needed. Or maybe it was not all so deliberate – maybe he had been as confused as I was. Just like now.

His eyes are half closed and his lips are half parted and I feel like kissing and touching every inch of him to reassure myself that he is still here. My dream drifts into my mind, a ghostly reminder of my fear. But the man below me is far from breakable.

Our faces are only centimeters apart and so my lips do not have to travel far to greet his once again. He kisses back harder, the wait making it that much more passionate. It is almost violent the way we kiss. The adrenaline rush feels like one I get after we fight. Anger is just another part of our relationship and we accept it. We use it to our advantage, as teeth clash and tongues battle.

And yet there is always this underlying sweetness, this familiarity, this - dare I say - caring. I wouldn't expect anything less from Wilson of course. We balance each other out I think. I tug sharply at his hair just so I have the advantage. He moves his head back long enough to roll his eyes. I grin.

Even that faked anger makes me happy. I despise him so much for igniting all these feelings in me. My heart is supposed to be dried and dead, and suddenly it has come alive once again. Each beat is painful. I had prided myself in my lack of emotion. I had once wholeheartedly believed that a life without emotions was a life more bearable.

I'm not saying that suddenly I am a changed man. I am not going to go into work tomorrow and talk to my patients or listen to Cameron's moral arguments or obey Cuddy and her infinitely annoying judgment. Even with Wilson I will not suddenly confess my love all day long, or even display that much affection at all.

But he will know anyway. In the end it doesn't matter because he will know. And maybe even they will know. They will know that something inside me has changed, or has just reappeared or something. That I'm not so numb.

This is just temporary though, I think, as Wilson's hand glides down my clothed torso and starts to unbuckle my belt. I tell myself that my emotional shield is retrievable - it is just in storage for the time being.

And then those brown eyes look up at me, filled with lust and love, and I know that I am full of crap. It is a lost cause.

Because I am in love.

And I am happy.

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A/N: Oh, you gotta love all those fluffy things. This story was originally half the size but somehow it morphed into this rambly monster. I'm not overly fond of this but tell me what you think.