Summary: I change the ending to Season Six to Hilson and then write a pretend Season Seven. They're formatted like episodes but without anything medical.

A/N: The beginning is kind of like a clean version of one of my other stories, a couple of sentences are the same, but this is way better.

Disclaimer: I do not own House or any of the characters. If I did, you wouldn't be reading this on fanfiction, you'd be watching it on TV. Literally. If I owned House, this would have been the final scene of season six. But this didn't happen, so obviously I don't own House.

How Season Six Should Have Ended

The pills were an inch from his mouth when he stopped.

He didn't want this. This isn't what he wanted. No one wanted this. He was mad at Wilson for kicking him out, and it was easy to blame him, but Wilson didn't want this either.

He put the pills down, gripped his cane tightly, and got up. Maybe he would tell Wilson what almost happened and maybe he would keep it to himself. He didn't know. Maybe he would figure it out when he got there. But he needed to move. He was sweating, scared of how close he came to fucking everything up.

Wilson only asked him to leave; he hadn't asked for his key, and House felt no guilt whatsoever about entering the condo without knocking. Especially not considering the circumstances.

The first thing he noticed was that it was quiet. Something was wrong. Why couldn't he hear her whiny laugh, or their slurping kisses, or her moans of pleasure as he ravished her in the bedroom? Or, more realistically, why couldn't he hear the monotone chatter as they discussed their boring days, or the clatter of dishes as Wilson cooked them dinner, or the drone of the television as they sat quietly on the couch?

Wilson was sitting quietly on the couch, but he was alone. It looked like he'd been crying. He didn't even look up as House came in. House, for once, wasn't sure what to say. He wanted to talk about his own problems, tell Wilson what he almost did, but he didn't because Wilson was hurting enough already and didn't need it. He wanted to say I told you so, but he didn't because Wilson was hurting enough already and didn't need it. He'd have plenty of time to rub it in his friend's face after they both finished recovering. House glanced at the coffee table. A half-empty beer bottle. Only one.

He sat down on the couch next to Wilson, looking at his face, trying to gauge what he could get away with saying and what he couldn't. He decided to forget his almost-slip. At least for now. He looked at Wilson, wondering how it had happened, exactly what had been said and by whom, what she had done to him.

But then he couldn't think any further than that. Wilson looked up from the floor at House, and in one fluid motion, leaned over and kissed him.

It was a moment before House closed his eyes, not wanting it to be more awkward than it already was. He kissed back automatically.

It wasn't just a shoving of tongues around mouths; they pressed their lips together, exchanged tongues, and then slightly pulled back. Press, tongue, pull back, press, tongue, pull back.

After about five seconds, Wilson pulled back for good. House opened his eyes and just stared at him.