Irrationally, House was beginning to feel unsettled by the amount of time Wilson spent unconcious rather than concious.

It was obvious that this had painkillers written all over it, but that did little to nothing in the way of soothing his nerves; he had always preferred his best friend's concern-driven, and admittedly annoying, lectures about this and that to complete silence such as this.

Why did Wilson think he had to do the right thing - the noble thing - as often as the opportunity presented itself? What was it supposed to prove?

Self-Important Jerk got another shot at life, sure, but it wasn't as if he gave a damn that Wilson was to blame. He would have taken half a liver from any person ever to have the misfortune of being accquainted with him. Didn't matter. As long as he had all the time in the world to woo his hot, young girlfriend, and completely shun his ex-wife and teenage daughter.

The guy made House want to throw a violent punch to the wall of the nicely decorated hospital room in which Wilson had been living for the past week.

At the end of the day, after having solved yet another complicated case, House had come here, looking forward to mocking a few clinic patients, exploiting Cuddy's latest fun-bag-happy top perhaps, and, in all honesty, he had been hoping to relax by enjoying the dynamics of one of their playful banters when he revealed just how he discovered Self-Important Jerk was back with Miss Happy-Go-Lucky Ashley or whatever the hell her name was.

But, to his disappointment, when he had announced his presence with a witty comment that he had forgotton by now, he had found Wilson lying there, out cold.

The oncologist had upped his painkillers, said the line of drool falling from one corner of his mouth.

House could not wait to grill him pointlessly about this, just to hear the ups and downs of Wilson's voice. The tiny breaks and raspy patches that would require getting shot down in the differential room again - this time in the brain - in order for him to admit to noticing.

He only thought about them now because Wilson could have died on that operation table. He would never have heard them again.

House watched another line of drool fall from the corner of Wilson's slightly agape mouth from his seat in the bedside chair, and resisted a laugh. Wilson was a clean, tidy, pocket-protector-wearing, Boy Wonder type of man. If he knew how utterly...untidy he looked at that moment, it might send him into cardiac arrest. His hair had about two days worth of oil built up in it, and was sticking out in every direction possible, accompanied by the fact that he was clad in a bunched-up hospital gown and covered loosely with faded white sheets, drooling to top it all off. He never drooled. At least, House didn't think he did.

He was suddenly struck by the thought that there were plenty of little details such as that one that he had no clue about. Maybe he snored as well! Somehow, House doubted it.

He needed Wilson to wake up.

He found that he liked this "coming undone" of Mister Well-Adjusted. It didn't happen often - not nearly often enough, and House supposed that wasn't too healthy. But then he realized - that almost every time it had happened, it had been something to do with something he had done, with the exception of this experience. The most prominant instance being when Amber, his girlfriend, had died. But he hadn't liked witnessing that at all. And he most certainly did not like thinking about it.

However, the coming undone of Wilson was usually entertaining proof that he wasn't merely an enabler who lived to follow him around, offering philosophical and personal advice twenty-four-seven, no matter if it did turn out to be correct ninety percent of the time - a fact to which House would never openly admit.

Wilson had an astounding, and sometimes alarming, understanding of him. An understanding of the meanings behind his actions. It was nice occasionally. Refreshing, because this allowed him to be able to march straight into Wilson's office when he had a problem that he couldn't seem to solve on his own. The odd thing was that Wilson seemed to be very in tune with his subconcious thoughts. He always knew, even when House didn't.

Take this moment, for example.

Wilson was clearly dead to the world. Yet, here he was, lounging around in the plush chair next to the bed, "reading" some bubbly magazine he had stolen from Thirteen.

It had been three hours.

He should have gone home by now, like had had done every night before this. Why was he staying?

Wilson would probably have a deep, meaningful reason behind it all, though House would deny there was anything deep or meaningful about the situation, and Wilson would argue that there was something on his mind that he needed to rectify. Possibly.

If anything, there was more meaning behind the action of upping already-quite-strong painkillers.

And there was.

House knew that Wilson had come to the realization that he had been right all along in thinking that Self-Important Jerk was, indeed, a self-important jerk. He was angry and let-down. Extremely so.

So much so, that he had chosen to not even deal with his own bitter thoughts and emotions.

House needed him to wake up. They needed to have one of their infamous conversations. Hell, he would take half an attempt.

He was suddenly brought out of his thoughts by a barely audible groan. More like an exhalation. No actual voice involved. Followed by a shift in position, resulting in a grimace and a slurping noise as Wilson sucked up the drool. Then, he turned his head away from House, and slept on, possibly in deeper than before.

House rolled his eyes, set the ridiculous magazine on the small, circular table in front of him (who says ''rents' when it's just as easy to say 'parents'?), and eased himself out of the chair.

He didn't bother reaching for his cane, which rested against the chair's side; he simply limped around the foot of Wilson's bed, to the other side.

Coming to a halt with a good view of Wilson's emotionless face, House stood there, feeling unbalaced in every sense of the word.

What was he doing now?

Before he had time to over-analyze, he reached out, and pushed his index finger gently into the hollow of Wilson's cheek. It was flushed as he had expected. No reaction.

Well. Now he had his motive. He pulled his finger away.

He put two back, drawing a line to his hot forehead, and down again, stopping under his chin. Not even a hitch in his breathing.

House grinned his I've found a game to play grin, and decided to keep going to see what might get him a subconcious reaction.

He eyes Wilson's oily hair for a moment, considering, before running his fingers through it. His palm inevitably brushed past the heated forehead, and he couldn't resist resting it there, relishing in the rare feeling of lingering contact. The warmth felt very reassuring. Like he was temporarily able to control the state of him. Mental, physical...everything.

Wilson was alive.

And suddenly, touching him to see what he might do wasn't a game.

House ran a hand through his hair a second time, frowning deeply, his eyes bright.

He had almost lost his only friend.

The experience forced him to realize just how important Wilson really was. He could have been totally alone.

This was who he spent most of his time with (when it didn't involve work), with whom he'd had a countless number of memorable conversations, and was just about the only person he genuinely enjoyed being around. The only person he could tolerate.

House's frown deepened as he continued to stroke Wilson's hair, absently brushing it back from his forehead.

And he got a reaction he had not quite anticipated, though it might have been wise.

Wilson's eyes opened.

House drew back as if a snake had shot out at him unexpectedly, stumbling a bit. He managed to spare himself humiliation by inventing an explanation for his actions. Naturally, a joke.

"Hum...Seeing as how you increased your pain meds," he said gruffy, "I concluded that you had a giant migraine, which can be explained by the rare parasite in your brain. I was trying to coax it out."

Wilson blinked at him groggily. "Ditto on the zippity-doo-da," he yawned.

House fought back a smirk. "What?"

"What time is it?" His voice was dry and scratchy.

House lowered his head to glance at his watch, to keep from looking at him more than anything, but peered up at him through his eyelids at the words, "Sit down."

Wilson drowsily patted a spot near his legs.

House gave a brief nod, avoiding his gaze, and sat down gratefully. His leg throbbed in protest initially, but the muscle - or what was left of it - soon relaxed.

"What are you doing?" Wilson yawned again. "You need to go home and sleep."

"You tried to put yourself in a coma," House accused, and turned his head to look at him, scooting forward to shake the feeling of legs against the small of his back.

"Not a coma," Wilson disagreed, clearing his throat for better speech. "I just wanted to be out for a while."

"He's not worth that."

"Maybe not," Wilson smiled a little. His brown eyes were beginning to look more clear. The smile was odd. Like he was telling his own private joke that he was waiting for House to suddenly get.

House raised his chin and squinted at him.

"You wanted me here."

"Of course."

"You wanted me to worry about you enough to stay here longer than necessary. Why?"

Wilson's small smile was gone, but his eyes still had wrinkles around the corners.

"And you stayed," he pointed out, ignoring the question. "It's two in the morning."

"Good guess. It's one-thirty," House told him. "I had to make sure you didn't die."

Wilson smirked as best as he could. It was obvious that he was still very tired.

"You knew I wouldn't die."

"Are you going to tell me why you hatched such a clever scheme to get me to stay, or can I go home now?"

Wilson sighed, the hand near House's left thigh twitching.

"Has it ever occured to you that I might need...to be comforted? Or have an actual conversation? I'm sure I've asked you this at least once before."

House pierced him with his sharp blue stare, and didn't miss a beat.

"You should be comforted by the fact that you're not dead."

"House," Wilson snapped in a way that told him he ought to play along. It was the exhausted sort of attempt that did it, though House wasn't sure about the outcome of this game. He met Wilson's gaze evenly, and nodded to show good sportsmanship.

Wilson's expression softened considerably.

"You don't ever touch me," he said in a tone that suggested he knew exactly what House had been doing earlier, and that it had nothing to do with rare parasites.

House blinked.

"Never a pat on the shoulder, or - I don't know - a nudge of the elbow to show that you give a damn."

House took a deep breath. Wilson had to be an idiot not to realize that he gave two damns.

"And yet, somehow," he replied sharply, "I've always managed to get my point across."

"Yes," Wilson agreed, smiling again. "All I'm saying is that it would be nice if you showed your human side. Like you were - "

House raised his eyebrows, having not been entirely certain Wilson had caught the hand in his hair. But of course he had.

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because just thinking about your touch makes me melt," Wilson told him with a perfectly straight face.

House rolled his eyes. "I always knew you were secretly a woman."

"Like I said," Wilson chuckled. "It would be nice."

"I don't do nice."

"Damn, I was so sure that was you the other day, doing a puppet show for the sick little bald kids," Wilson said, clucking his tongue in mock-disappoinment.

"No, no, that was the guy you gave half your liver to."

Wilson's face darkened. They were silent for a few moments.

"Are you angry?" House asked, genuinely curious.

"Eh," Wilson said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm a little...disappointed."

House watched his throat as he spoke these words.

"Disappointment is anger for wimps. You don't always have to be so gentle about everything. It's okay to get angry once in a while."

Wilson met his eyes again.

"And vice-versa."

House smiled at the comeback, then paused, thinking it over.

Never taking his eyes from Wilson's face, House tentatively reached out and brushed his hair back once more, resuming as if he'd never been interrupted.

"It works for you..." he said softly, closing his eyes.

House then concluded that the painkillers were turning his friend's brains to mush.

That didn't stop him. If anything, it enabled him. Oh, the incredible mind powers of Wilson, Boy Wonder Oncologist.

"Hm?"

House paused his actions. "What?"

"You said my name," Wilson mumbled, eyes still closed.

"Sorry, I was caught up in a hot, steamy fantasy."

"Oh, of course. Carry on, then."

House grinned appreciatively at the way his voice broke on the word "carry."

He scooted closer without fully realizing it, and ran his whole hand down the left side of Wilson's face. Wilson leaned into his touch, either conciously or unconciously, House wasn't sure. He looked rather exhausted.

Not for the first time, House had the desire to kiss him. Softly and lovingly (not that those exact adverbs entered his mind in the least). But, for the first time, he actually thought about acting on it.

He quickly decided that now was not the time. It seemed like the time, but...no. He would wait. He didn't realize that his thumb had stopped moving over Wilson's cheek, as he stared, deep in thought, until Wilson finally re-opened his eyes.

"You alright?" he asked, hoarse once more.

House didn't answer right away, just kept on staring blankly at his lips.

Wilson searched his face curiously, but said nothing more.

Eventually, House blinked and drew in a breath. "I almost lost you."

In an instant, Wilson's eyes were sad. This expression meant a number of different emotions, but it was apparent at this moment, that they meant he felt touched. Sorry even. He still said nothing.

"It is a mark of how important you are to me that I'm going to say this," House continued, his hand remaining stationary. "I love you."

Wilson's eyes, which were totally clear now, widened in surprise. Then, filled up with tears.

"Oh, Wilson," House muttered, trying to conceal his amusement. "You're as vulnerable as they get." He knew he would be met with this reaction, and he'd mentally prepared himself for it.

Wilson nodded against his pillows, one tear sliding down into House's hand. "C'mere."

House moved his thumb over Wilson's prominant cheekbone, getting rid of it. Though it wasn't as prominant as it used to be, he thought Wilson was aging very well.

"I'm not going to hug you."

"Why not?"

"You're too sore. I'll hurt you."

"Do something else, then."

"Blowjobs are out of the question."

"Oh," Wilson said, looking dejected. "Damn it."

Before House knew what was happening, what exactly he thought he was doing, he had leaned down until he felt breaths ghosting his mouth, and Wilson's nose pressing into his right cheek. He froze, staring into Wilson's wide, wide eyes.

Then, he pressed their lips together and their eyes snapped shut.

Both seemed afraid to go any further. But eventually, Wilson's mouth began to move softly and slowly against his due to lack of proper energy. House didn't mind in the slightest. This was an act that screamed go slow.

He slid his hand from the side of Wilson's face to his neck, his thumb now stroking his earlobe, feeling the steadily increasing pulse under his palm. Neither had noticed the heart-rate monitor.

Wilson's own hand came up to rest on his arm.

After a few seconds, House pulled back, but kept an arm on either side of him, hovering so that their faces were only inches apart.

"Oh my God," he whispered, unable to help himself.

"Now, that's comforting," Wilson grinned, his eyes as cloudy as they had been when he'd first woken up.

"I wouldn't call that comforting so much as painfully arousing," he joked, but not jokingly. Not really. Not at all.

For the first time, House thought perhaps ever, Wilson's cheeks flushed a deep pink. He blinked up at him, unresponsive.

"Ah," House said knowingly. "You thought so too."

The thought sent a jolt to his lower region. Not able to resist, he pressed his lips to his forehead and made his way downward, stopping only when he was able to feel the fierce pulse against his mouth. He rested there, relishing the sensation.

"House," Wilson murmured, sounding terrified. His voice broke. "We're in a hospital."

House kissed his throat and sat up.

"All the more reason for you to make a speedy recovery."

Wilson appeared to struggle with himself.

"I - I didn't say I wanted you to stop."

Concealing his delight - and smirking - House leaned down and continued his exploration of Wilson's face, neck, and collarbone. Then, he went so far as to move the hospital gown aside and kiss his chest, one of his hands accompanying him. He didn't go any further than that though the flimsy gown made matters very simple.

At one point, Wilson emitted a breathless groan that caused the hair of the back of House's neck to stand on end.

"House - " he gasped. And he noticed the grimace of pain.

Immediately, he sat up, furious with himself.

Never breaking eye contact, House gently peeled back the sheets of the bed, and placed his hands as softly as he could on Wilson's middle. He felt around for the bandage. It didn't take long. With Wilson watching him curiously, he began to lightly trace his fingers around the edges of the bandage, where there was skin. Under normal circumstances, Wilson's stomach muscles might have contracted, which would have worsened the situation, but given that he was too weak, and the bandage too heavy, the touch was welcome. Pleasant.

He knew it was, because Wilson sighed involuntarily and sunk deeper into his pillows.

"Thank you."

House nodded, staring at him in such a way that Wilson's eyes grew sad again.

"House - I'm fine. It's okay."

They looked at each other with such emotion that House could hardly believe any of it was real. But only Wilson would be capable of instilling these emotions in him. Only he would ever be allowed to witness them.

"Hurry up and get better," he said quietly.

Wilson smiled at him. "Another few weeks. It'll go by like the blink of an eye."

House caressed his stomach, his ears ringing. "I'll come by every night."

Wilson grabbed his hand, pressing it flat against him. "You already do," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I love you too, House. You're a good friend."

"I said it first."

"Doesn't matter. Go home and sleep so you can go to work tomorrow."

House groaned.

"You have to do it."

"Piss off."

Wilson chuckled and patted his good leg. "Come on. Go home. You look terrible."

"Really?" House said, standing. "You look fantastic."

"Don't forget your cane."

House limped over to the chair he had occupied for most of the night, snatched up the cane, and his backpack that he always carried to work with him. Then, he returned to Wilson, who looked up at him.

House rested a hand on top of his head, rubbing it - hesitating - then bent down to kiss him.

It was just as slow as before, but after a minute, Wilson opened his mouth, clearly desiring something less chaste.

House became so involved in the feeling of their battling tongues, that he barely noticed when the backpack thumped to the ground. Wilson grabbed hold of his shirt collar.

House answered with a groan, and broke them apart to kiss every inch of skin exposed to him.

Finally, Wilson pushed him away with a meaningful look.

"Alright, fine, fine. Bet your painkillers will do wonders for you now." House stooped to gather his bag.

Wilson rolled his eyes as he headed for the door.

When he reached it, he turned back. "Goodnight, Wilson."

"Night, House."