Disclaimer: Okay, so I only do this once. It won't be at the top of every chapter; just this one. I do not own House, MD. If I did, he would be in my bed, not in my computer. Hello! But since he is stuck in my computer, I will do with him and his friends what I wish for my little moment in time.

Author's notes: I have been a faithfully CSI: GSR shipper until this point. I have become newly addicted to House now that my Grissom is leaving me for the theater!  Unbeknownst to my little heart, I have found that other brains are on my same wavelength and find that House and Wilson are denying their inner desires to be with each other. So, if you're not a Hilson shipper, STOP HERE! Serious slash. No need for a rating of M yet, but trust me, it will change; always does. ENJOY! And PLEASE read and review. It feeds my soul!!

Need to knows: This is set post Amber's death, but then follows my imagination rather than the regular storyline.


Explicit words ran thru his mind as he limped toward the persistent rap at his apartment door. With a yank, he opened the door with a gruff, "What?"

He wasn't prepared for Wilson's red, blotchy, tear-stained face and puffy eyes. They hadn't seen each other in almost two weeks, their last meeting ending with Wilson telling his best friend that he never wanted to see him again. House's eyes dropped to floor, immediately uncomfortable with the emotional confrontation that was about to take place, but not overlooking the nearly empty liquor bottle in Wilson's left hand.

The soft words, spoken breathlessly, shocked him. "She's gone, House. Amber's gone."

Blue eyes rose, unsure of what emotion to hold. "I know."

"I blamed you."

He momentarily noticed the past tense of the word, immediately deciding no to mention or dwell on it. "I know." Silent moments ticked by before, "Wanna beer?"

Wilson took the few steps into House's apartment, drunkenly staggering, falling onto the couch, the liquor bottle threatening to fall to the floor. "Soooo, you good with what you have, or do you want that beer?"

Silently, his answer was to tip the bottle to his lips. After a swallow, "You were right."

Wondering whether every statement his friend made in a drunken state of mind was so obvious, he replied yet again, "I know."

With a sarcastic laugh, "Don't you even want to know what I'm talking about?"

A scrunch of his face and a tilt of his head were the only answer given. "I meant about Amber; about why I was dating her. You were right." A swig of the clear liquor provided a short pause. "She was a female version of you."

Inserting his bit of sarcasm, "So now you've realized you can't live without me? Fine, I take you back."

With amazing force, Wilson threw the bottle against the wall, glass shattering with the bottom dregs of the liquid splashing and dripping to the wooden floor. The shout startled both men, "Don't! Don't you dare belittle me! Dammit, House!"

Limping toward the cane that was leaning against the nearby table, "What do want from me, Wilson? I'm sorry! Okay? I'm sorry!"

On unsteady feet, he stood, his hands moving immediately to his head, his eyes scrunching. Once he gathered himself, "Well stop! Why the hell are you sorry? You didn't do anything wrong!" Even in his drunken state, he'd managed to close the distance between them.

Face to face, the yelling match getting louder by the minute, "I'm sorry because you blame me! How the hell am I going to get you to forgive me if I'm not apologetic?"

"I was wrong! Dammit, House! Stand up to me! Tell me I'm ignorant. Tell me I'm an idiot!"

"You are an idiot! You were an idiot for dating her! You were an idiot for blaming me! And you're a complete idiot for choosing her over me!" The silence that followed terrified him. He'd gone too far. Softer now, but without fear entering his voice, "There. Now what?"

But even though he'd asked, House was not prepared for the answer to that question. Without a word, Wilson took the one step needed to close the distance between them, gripped both sides of his unshaven face and fiercely pressed his lips against startled ones. Fingertips dug into flesh, lips crushed, heartbeats pounded.

As silently as it had happened, it also ended. Tears rolled down Wilson's face as his wet eyes met glazed over ocean blues. Their eyes locked, both searching for answers in the opposite pair. Then as quickly as he'd arrived, Wilson turned to leave, with no explanation at all, leaving his crippled friend stunned in silence.

Two weeks passed by before the familiar knock came to his door again. Rolling his eyes, he didn't even bother getting up, but rather yelled for him to come in.

The door opened, Wilson slinked in, "How'd you know it was me?"

With a beer in his hand, open Vicodin bottle on the coffee table, "I didn't order a hooker and you're my only friend."

The was a short silence before, "Are we still friends?"

As if nothing had happened, "You're here, I'm here. Should work." Nothing had changed.

An understanding single nod followed. "I brought beer." He proudly held up a six-pack. House drained the last of the bottle in his hand before reaching for the next.

House watched television just like always, a dramatic, corny soap he'd TiVo'd at some point. He'd yell at the actors, like they could actually hear what he had to say, and give medical diagnoses five minutes into the show that were correct 90% of the time. He was obnoxious, dramatic and loud, all qualities that were somehow attractive to Wilson.

While House was focused on the show, Wilson took the time to let his eyes roam the physique that he never thought he'd desire. Starting at his feet, always dressed in sneakers then moving to his long, forever-clad-in-faded-jeans legs then lingering on the hidden scar on his right thigh that he longed to heal. Just like normal, a rock t-shirt covered his muscular chest and broad shoulders. But it was his face that held Wilson's attention. The need-to-shave look, which normally annoyed him, seemed to somehow not only work for House, but also increased his attractiveness. The soft, yet rough, feel of his older friend's jaw in his hands was a memory that haunted him and pushed him to want more. But it was the ocean blue eyes that captivated him, that held a part of him that he didn't know he'd lost until recently.

What he didn't know was how long he'd been lost. He'd had plenty of time to think since Amber had died. He'd been a best friend with his newest attraction for fifteen years, acquaintances even longer. He'd been married three times, all three marriages failing because he'd always put House first, before every one of his wives. Then Amber. She was as close as he could get. He'd really loved her. But had he loved her for her, or for House? He still couldn't answer that.

A shout shook him from his thoughts. "It's cancer!"

Chuckling, "Why is it always cancer?"

Without taking his eyes from the television, "It's not always cancer."

"You always think it's cancer at some point, though."

There was a short pause before he answered, "If it's cancer, then I need you."

Another pause, as his brain dared him to ask the next question. "Do you need me?"

Still without turning away from his show, "If it's cancer I do."

Wilson rolled his eyes, secretly loving the chase. "Is it cancer?"

Almost as if admitting defeat, "Yes."

With a smile, "Good."

The show ended with no further conversation, and Wilson rose to leave. His desire to kiss the silent man seated on the couch was nearly uncontrollable, but the look on House's face told him to not even think about it. Instead, "Goodnight House."

"'Night Wilson." He watched as his friend walked out the door, then let his head fall to the back onto the sofa. What the hell was he doing?

He was still asking himself that question the next morning when he walked into Cuddy's office. Hobbling on his cane, "Morning, Oh Busty One."

Used to House's antics, "What do you want, House?"

"How are the interviews going for the Oncology spot?"

"You mean Wilson's job? You can say his name."

His eyes to the ground, trying to hide his discomfort, even though it was for a totally different reason than Cuddy thought, "Yeah, that guy. Have you replaced him yet?"

"You have to get past this, House. You guys were…are best friends. He'll get over this. Just give him a little time." A glare from his piercing eyes made her roll her eyes. "No, I haven't replaced him."

"Good. He'll be back. Don't waste your time."

"So you are talking to him. Good for you. How did you get him to come back?"

"I haven't yet. I need time."

"If you're trying to get out of clinic duty, forget it. Get him back on your own time."

"Heartless Bitch."

"Bye House. Let me know when Wilson will be back." She turned back to her paperwork while he limped out, loving that she still had somewhat of an upper hand over him.

It was House who wondered about who had the upper hand when he got a text from Wilson later that afternoon. It simply read, 'dinner?'. He simply text back, 'date?'. He sighed, not knowing if it was of relief or sadness when the response came back, 'no, just dinner'. He chose to keep it simple, 'where?'. The name of a restaurant came back with a time that he simply replied to with, 'k' thinking that this was sounding more like a date every minute.

Later, seated in his office, he was leaning even more toward thinking this might be a date when he was contemplating actually going home to change before going to dinner. When the ducklings filed into his office, he immediately made his decision and got up, throwing his backpack over his shoulder.

As he passed by, Foreman asked, "Where are you going?"

Over his shoulder, "Sorry, got a date. See you tomorrow." He didn't look back to see their faces, but could imagine the hung jaws and raised eyebrows.

An hour later, he was standing outside the restaurant in a fresh, need-to-be-ironed dress shirt still wondering what the hell he was doing. The voice behind him startled him. "Are we going in, or are we just going to stand outside?"

Silently, House reached for the door, rolling his eyes when Wilson reached to hold it for him. He shuffled in and waited for Wilson to give their reservation then followed as they were led to the table noticing his friend's decision to wait to sit until he was already seated.

House managed to wait until they were alone to ask, "What the hell are we doing here?"

Not looking up from the wine list, "Eating dinner."

"We could have done that at my apartment with pizza and beer. This place is one step below me having to wear a tie and jacket."

"Actually, you were supposed to wear a tie and jacket. I had to drop $100 tip to get you in here." He didn't notice the rise of the eyebrow from across the table. "Nice shirt by the way. You look good in blue."

House stood abruptly and walked away, leaving Wilson slightly stunned at the table. He would come back. He wouldn't just leave. He couldn't. They both needed this. He waited. But after fifteen minutes, House hadn't returned. Wilson dropped a fifty on the table and walked out with a mixture of anger and sadness brewing in his stomach.

He got in his car and drove. He drove past House's apartment three times before actually pulling in. He didn't even bother knocking, storming in prepared to yell and scream. But he froze, the scene in front of him barely understandable. To any other person, completely ridiculous, but to Wilson, nearly romantic.

House, seated on his sofa, dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down, his legs propped on the coffee table, a pizza and two beers near his feet. But the flashlight said it all. The lights were off, radio low and a flashlight, beam up, was placed in the middle of the coffee table.

"Dinner. No tie or jacket required."

Full laughter hit Wilson as he removed his tie and jacket and took a seat, on the middle cushion rather than his usual spot at the far end of the sofa. "What were you going to do if I didn't show?"

Confidently, "Never thought you wouldn't." He leaned forward to pick up both brown bottles and handed one to Wilson. "You want to eat dinner with me, we do it on my terms. I don't dress up."

"You dressed up for Cameron."

"That wasn't a date; it was payment for my side of a deal."

"This wasn't a date; it was dinner."

"I changed my shirt for you. You dropped a hundred bucks to walk into a restaurant with me. I felt bad for walking out on you. This is a date."


"Well, in your mind."

"And in yours?"

"I changed my shirt for you. I lit a candle…in a matter of speaking." A short silence followed. "Can we eat now?"

They ate their pizza in a comfortable silence, Wilson leaning a little closer than necessary to the man beside him, listening to the music that filtered thru the speakers. The words meant nothing, the singer unknown to Wilson. But the sound of the piano in the background triggered his senses. "Will you play for me?"

"Excuse me?"

"The piano. Will you play for me?"

"I don't generally play for other people."

"Good, because I'm not asking you to play for other people." Their eyes met. "I'm asking you to play for me."

With a purse of his lips then downing to last of his beer, he stood and moved to the piano, stopping momentarily to decide what to play. Every note touched Wilson's soul, even though he couldn't explain it. In all the years they'd been friends, he'd never heard House play. It was something he kept private, his own little piece of the world. And now he was sharing it.

Taking a chance, he stood and crossed the room, taking a place behind the musician seated at the piano. With his hands on the shoulders that seemed to bear the world at times, the song came slowly to an end. After the last note, "Thank you."

With a nod, "Welcome."

Their voices were just above a whisper. "I should go."


His hand was on the doorknob before the word came from across the room. "Wilson." He held his breath as he watched House limp across the room, no cane in hand. When they were face to face, "This was a date right?" Wilson swallowed hard and nodded his head. His mind raced when their lips met, just for the briefest, but most perfect, moment. "'Night."