House doesn't come back all day. Wilson freezes every time there's a knock at the door, but each time it's a patient, come to hear good or bad news that Wilson delivers on autopilot. His words are inflected correctly, with just the right amount of sympathy or happiness, depending on the diagnosis; but his mind isn't there. He deconstructs his encounter with House, analyzes it from every angle, tries to remember anything that will help him figure out the other man's next move. Because there will be one; there always is. If he can get ready for it, if he can figure it out before House's actions surround him like a hunter circling his pray, he might not be so blindsided.

Might.

But for now he watches people bring shaking hands to their pale faces, or congratulates those who have managed to recover a semblance of health. House is like that, he realizes. Like a cancer. Even when times are good, there's always a threat, always a chance of relapse.

He tries to shake the thoughts away, tries to focus on Frasier, Alicia and her stage three ovarian cancer, but her words slide around and past him too quickly. He can't focus. But he opens her file, reads the results and finds that they're pleasant. When she leaves, he's glad; he can get back to his musings in peace. But the more he thinks about House and everything that was said, the angrier he gets. He's sitting at his desk, hands curled into balls with the need to get this i feeling /i out of his body, when he decides to go see House.

His steps are fast, a harsh clackclackclack against the floor. He doesn't knock, just leans his weight into opening the door; he bursts into the room, barbed words ready.

"Listen, House," But the sharp little syllables have nowhere to go; they have no target into which they can delve.

The room is empty.

The man's absence is almost as frustrating as his presence. Wilson leaves he room, walks down the halls while looking at his feet to avoid eye contact or irritation. He knows if he's stopped he'll take what House did on whomever the unlucky person happens to be; he doesn't want that. He wants his anger to be directed toward the right person, to be unleashed completely on the man most deserving.

He makes it to the parking lot and sees that House's motorcycle is gone. Fine. His keys are in his pocket; he'll just have to go to House's apartment.

The ride is quick; his music is loud and he drives too fast, but he can't contain himself. When he spots the motorcycle, a quiet 'yes' is forced through clenched teeth; he's excited now, though not quite sure why.

He's inside in five steps, knocking at the door a second later. He hears the imbalanced shuffle of House's gait and holds his breath. The door is opened; House greets him with a little smirk, a quirked eyebrow and lip and says yes expectantly, as if Wilson needs a reason to be there to get inside.

Something happens then that Wilson doesn't quite understand. House's face, his expression, his attitude…it i does /i something to him. There's heat behind his eyes, he makes a strangled sort of cry before everything goes white.

When he comes to, House is underneath him with his hands covering his face. Wilson pins him down; his hand is lifted, as if to strike, but there's already blood covering the knuckles. He realizes what's happening and throws himself off the other man, pushes himself away and asks what the fuck just happened.

House sits up, pushes the back of his hand against his mouth and examines the amount of blood that comes off.

"What happened is I opened the door and you jumped me. Wanna tell me why?"

Wilson doesn't answer at first, lets the silence drag on before he wipes at his eyes, cups his hand over his face and says he doesn't know.

"You—" He begins, carefully choosing his words, "You're trying to fuck with me."

"Yeah, it's something new and different I'm trying." House looks at Wilson, stares as blood dribbles down his chin from the split in his lip.

"No. This is different. You're trying to make me feel worthless. Oh—" Wilson's body pulses in time with his heart, sending waves of pain in every direction.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just—headache, hurts." He can't speak anymore, can't function. He pushes back into the wall, squeezes his eyes shut, curls into himself and tries to breathe.

"When did it start?" House's voice gets closer.

"Yesterday, on the way home."

"Not before that?"

"I—maybe, on the deck. It's just a migraine or something, intensified by the sunlight." It makes sense; Wilson begins to believe his own justification.

"So why can't you open your eyes now?" Wilson hears House step back, sits on the couch that relaxes under his weight. "Why does it look like someone's stabbing a voodoo doll with your name on it ever time I come around?"

Wilson doesn't answer, but starts aligning the facts in his head. It's true.

"Now who's the one with the conversion disorder, Wilson?" There's something in House's voice, a tone of…satisfaction? It sounds as if the other man is smiling, happy that Wilson is in pain.

"Think about it, Wilson. You get off on being needed, on being wanted. You try to take care of everyone else and you end up living in a hotel."

"You like this, huh?" Wilson slides his hands against the wall, braces himself and begins to stand up. "I'm the latest mystery, the latest puzzle." House just looks at him, waits for him to continue.

"Or is it that I'm no better than you? You think I play put-upon for fun? My life is consumed by yours—by you! You're saying that I'm somehow addicted to it, like being your friend, your protector gives any kind of satisfaction? And that now my body is punishing me for it?"

House still doesn't answer.

"Will you say something? How could I possibly enjoy the effect you have on everything? I've been fired, had my life taken away, been threatened by the police, all for you—all for you. And what do I have to show for it?"

"A large hotel bill?" House's tone is light, flippant. He's satisfied with the mystery he's unraveled; the fallout after the discovery means nothing to him.

Wilson isn't sure what to do; something builds inside of him, that same anger that needs an exit. He's across the room in a second; House's collar is in his hands and he's shaking the other man, shaking as hard as he can when he feels arms wrap around him. He's thrown; doesn't know what's going on so he fights it, flings his limbs out to escape but his balance is thrown off and he slides forward on the couch on top of House.

In the moments that follow, he isn't sure what exactly happens, but all he knows is the feel of a mouth on his, the touch of hands moving down his body.