Wilson's eyes drifted up from the patient file to encounter the lone figure of House lounging against the wall on the other side of the clinic, watching him with that speculative gleam in his eyes, as if Wilson were a list of symptoms on his white board. Wilson threw him an irritated grimace but House continued to stare, his face mostly blank but hinting at something rather cold.

Wilson felt his stomach twist into a knot. Oh god. Did House know? There was no way – no, he'd been drugged. The evidence was gone, there was nothing to betray him and House couldn't possibly remember. No.

Wilson cast his mind back anyway, to the night before. Maybe he had missed something. Maybe House had figured it out after all…

* * *

Wilson tiptoed back into the bedroom after returning the metal morphine stash-box to its unreachable shelf in the living room. It was late, far past midnight, but the apartment had only recently fallen silent. He was angry though he knew that House couldn't help either his mercurial leg or his short temper. It was just that Wilson had been on a date when House called four hours ago – the first one since Amber's funeral, actually. Wilson had been looking forward to it all week. In truth, he had been hoping to break his dry spell before the evening ended, but…

He sat down on the edge of the bed and felt for House's pulse. The man had been balled up on the couch by the time Wilson showed up, clutching his leg with whitened knuckles and desperate for relief from the unrelenting breakthrough pain. He would have handled the injection himself but he was past the point of being able to climb the step ladder to retrieve his morphine. Wilson refused to give it to him at first, partly out of spite for having his evening, and his prospects, ruined. This, of course, led to an argument wherein House dredged up a ridiculous list of grievances against Wilson, stretching back years, most of them revolving around House's pills and what he called a lack of caring on Wilson's part, no matter the fact that Wilson had been married for most of those years and House's mere existence had pretty much seen to it that those marriages ended abruptly, whether on purpose or not. House even described Wilson as cruel a few times, and Wilson caved within an hour just to shut him up.

Wilson studied him while he timed his pulse. House was actually a handsome man when he wasn't snarking or being an ass…when he wasn't awake, in other words. Wilson ran his spare hand over the scruff on House's cheek. His lined face appeared smoother, younger in his drug-induced slumber. Wilson had given him the highest safe dose just to put him out for the rest of the night. He didn't have any interest in continuing the shouting match, and House needed the rest anyway. He had bags the size of water balloons under his eyes.

The steady rise and fall of House's chest calmed Wilson too, and he let his fingers trace the tendons in House's neck. They rarely touched each other, not with a purpose. They brushed in the halls or occasionally sat too close in a booth at a restaurant or bar, but they didn't touch like this. House's skin was smooth beneath Wilson's fingers, warm and soft, but still present, still firm. Wilson worked his fingers through House's hair, surprisingly soft hair for a man as careless in his appearance as House was. Of course, it was still a little sweaty at the moment, but it would dry in short order.

Pulse rate 82. That was good.

Wilson drew his hands back and reached for a blanket, but he paused before covering House up. House was lying on his left side, curled up a bit with his hands tucked against his chest and stomach, his back to Wilson. He had sunk into the contours of the mattress the way that sleeping children often do, molded to blankets and pillow in a picture of perfect serenity. It was endearing; House never looked peaceful, or even content during his conscious hours. Wilson pooled the blanket back near House's feet and just looked at him for a second, thinking things he normally didn't. Things like how smooth House's legs looked in his flannel pants, how long and attractive his body was, how his arms rested so nicely in the concavity of his stomach, how narrow his hips were and how, for a man, the subtle swell of his ass was actually quite attractive.

Without thinking, Wilson reached out to touch the jut of a hip bone, which he followed up to House's waist. There was a mere hint of softness under his fingertips, just enough pliancy to encourage him to explore further, wondering if he could find more things in House that he might enjoy touching.

The firmness of House's chest, moving slow and deep as he breathed, did not repulse him. His fingers ghosted over the nubs of House's nipples and Wilson grew bold when House failed to stir. Wilson sat back down, perched sideways so that his thigh rested along House's back, and he touched the side of House's face again. Even the stubble seemed softer somehow, less abrasive. Wilson leaned down and rubbed his own cheek against it, just to learn what it felt like. It was pleasant, in a way – that scratchiness. He inhaled and reflected that a sleepy House smelled pretty good, like comfortable pajamas and fabric softener, and a twilight summer on a sun-warmed porch.

A breath rumbled from House's chest and he sighed without waking, turning into Wilson's touch just enough to spur him on. Wilson pressed his lips to the corner of House's mouth, his eyes lidded, then moved to place another kiss on House's jaw. He discovered his hand rubbing lightly over House's chest and didn't bother to stop it. House would never know if Wilson showed a little affection; he was too hopped up on morphine at the moment.

Wilson slid his hand lower, gliding over ribs and then the soft planes of House's stomach yielded to his touch. He experimented with his mouth, running lips and tongue over House's jugular and tracing the curve of a tendon to a spot just behind House's ear. House shifted again as Wilson suckled, but not much.

There was a moment when Wilson reflected on how wrong this was, but it passed. House had mucked up his night out yet again, and was it really wrong if he never found out? If a tree falls in the forest, and all that crap. He owed Wilson some sort of debt for years worth of ruined evenings, interrupted sleep, conned meals and instances of panic. For destroyed marriages and mishaps with police. What House didn't know couldn't hurt him. It couldn't hurt either of them.

Wilson left off drawing circles around House's navel and ran his hand along the outside of House's leg. He turned so that he could comfortably reach House with both hands and tangled his left into House's hair. He dipped his right down past House's scar and rubbed firmly against House's inner thigh. House's legs were muscular despite being handicapped, but he was far from chiseled. There was a pleasant brand of softness there too, much like what Wilson might find on a woman.

He inched his hand higher, curious to know how he might react to the body of another man. His fingers coasted over the shapes of House's genitals, separated from Wilson by thin layers of cotton and flannel. He palmed them, then squeezed a bit.

House moaned at that, unconscious and thready and barely there, but the sound aroused Wilson. He turned his face into House's neck and closed his eyes, breathing in the slight musk of House's skin. Wilson left off playing with House's hair and pawed at himself through his suit pants, a bit surprised by the fullness he found there. With his right hand, he started lightly stroking House through his pajamas, wondering if the morphine would hamper any arousal on House's part, unconscious or not. A bit of an erection formed under his hand, but not much.

It was enough for Wilson, though. Two hours ago, he never would have guessed that such a thing could turn him on, but it did. Maybe it was the secrecy or the forbiddenness that did it for him, or maybe it was House himself. Wilson didn't know and he didn't care. He wanted more.

Wilson climbed fully onto the bed and stretched out alongside House, spooning him. He dropped his right hand back to fondle House's groin, perversely hoping to coax more out of House than a half-hard cock, even through the drugs. Wilson propped himself up on his left elbow and rucked House's shirt out of the way so that he could slip his hand into House's sleep pants. When he wrapped his fingers around House's mostly flaccid penis, House shuddered and rustled the sheets as he instinctively parted his legs.

House's breath caught and so did Wilson's; he thought for a second that House would wake up at that, and he froze. All House did though was murmur something dreamy and settle down again, his lips parted a fraction against the pillow. Wilson smiled down at him and craned his neck to taste those lips while his hand worked House's length. It was fascinating, playing with another man's penis, feeling it respond to many of the same things that his own responded to – the pad of his thumb pressed firmly into the slit, a gentle kneading and a tease at the head.

While his hand concentrated at the task between House's legs, Wilson worked his mouth gently over House's, undaunted by the lack of reciprocation. He slipped his tongue inside to flick against teeth and gums. House sighed into his mouth, warm breath scented with the slight mal-odor of morphine by products secreted in the salivary glands. Wilson didn't mind, and he pressed his lips more firmly to House's, his breathing speeding up and falling off even as he exhaled through his nose. Wilson managed to locate House's tongue with his own and he nudged it.

House automatically swallowed, then grunted and tried to turn his face away. Wilson left off fondling him and grabbed his jaw to hold his mouth in place. House's brow furrowed and he made an inquisitive sound, but the morphine held him down. The attempt at resistance in the face of chemical restraint further enflamed Wilson. He got up on his knees and straddled House, which gave him better access to indulge his fancies. His fingers moved to clasp the back of House's neck, tilting his chin up so that Wilson could plunder his mouth without developing a crick. He felt House swallowing again and then a choked sort of moan whispered out from the spaces between their lips. Wilson ate it up, his teeth marking sharp nips all along House's mouth and jaw.

Wilson could feel the tip of his cock pressed against the zipper of his suit pants, surely leaking by now. The more he thought about what he was doing, the more it aroused him. He broke off and suckled House's throat instead. He wanted to leave marks but he didn't dare; House could never find out about this, which meant nothing could get left behind.

House managed to murmur something that might have been Wilson's name, his brow furrowed and his eyes shut tight. Wilson bent his head and whispered soothing things in House's ear, delighted by the shivers that coursed through House's body. "You're dreaming. Just go back to sleep. It's okay."

Something akin to assent made its way out of House's throat and he sank back into the bed as if it were custom made to hold the shape of his body, pliant beneath Wilson's hands, at least for the time being.

Wilson took advantage of this moment and scooted down House's body so that he could pull down the flannel pants and boxers. House stirred again and folded into himself as Wilson exposed his genitals to the cool apartment air, but Wilson shushed him with a few low words and a gentle pat on his stomach.

Wilson's fingers drifted southward after House quieted, then he paused to examine the body before him in the diffuse light that crept in from the hallway. A sparse trail of chest hair snuck in a thin line down House's stomach and abdomen, ending in a dark nest of curled pubic hair. House was hard but not like Wilson, not leaking. It was simple, basic anatomy in House's case: stimulation leads to increased blood flow, resulting in an erection. Wilson, on the other hand, ached. The danger inherent in his actions, in taking advantage of his drugged best friend, merely compounded it. He felt giddy, drunk on the power he wielded over House right now – something he never had. There was absolutely nothing that House could do to stop him. Even if he managed to struggle his way to consciousness, he wouldn't have the strength or the coordination to put up a fight. And in the morning, Wilson could just tell him that he'd experienced an opiate-driven nightmare or hypnagogic hallucination. Something innocuous, and House would buy it because it would make sense.

Wilson shifted off and rolled House over onto his back, ignoring the indignant squawk that this engendered. He resumed his previous position, knees pressed on either side of House's hips, and slipped his hand behind House's neck to better angle his head. House's lips were still moist and swollen from Wilson's earlier ministrations, and he shoved his tongue inside to enjoy to flavor of House's mouth again, his efforts more concerted as his confidence grew. He could feel House's chest expand and contract under the hand that he had braced against House's sternum. He also felt it when House started to squirm just a little bit, not really capable of much else. The sensation of movement against the insides of Wilson's thighs and along the underside of his groin caused Wilson to moan. The loud, wanton sound hit the bedroom walls and bounced back to assault his eardrums.

Something woke in House as that sound reached his sleeping ears. He tensed beneath Wilson and tried to turn his head away but Wilson held him fast. Though House could offer little in the way of resistance, Wilson grabbed one of his wrists and pinned it at shoulder level. He liked the idea behind it, the implication of force because nobody ever forced the great Gregory House to do anything against his will. Nobody except Wilson.

House made another noise, something like fear, but Wilson ignored it this time. He shifted to lick and suck along House's neck, leaving a wet trail as he moved down to House's collarbone. He almost bit there, really wanted to bite there, but he settled for simply baring his teeth and raking them lightly over House's skin.

House's respirations sped up enough that he could waken, but Wilson was far beyond deterrence by that point. He seized House's other wrist and pinned that one to the mattress too, careful not to bruise and more excited than he had ever been in his life. He rubbed himself against House's body, feverish with anticipation, and then forced himself to slow, to hold back. He stilled his hips though he kept his mouth pressed to House's throat, his eyes closed and his back arched so that his whole front lay flush against House. He breathed harshly, almost moaning on each exhale, relishing the texture and shape of the man beneath him. It was something like ecstasy, just straddling him in stillness, House's body trapped by drugs and Wilson's weight.

Once Wilson regained sufficient control of himself, he sat up and released House's wrists so that he could work his pants open. House's fingers twittered against the bedding; he stayed under, though he made soft, defiant sounds in the back of his throat. Wilson could picture his thoughts, could imagine him struggling to reach consciousness, aware that something was amiss but unable to react or protect himself.

He bent close to House's face again, inhaling his scent for a surreal moment before murmuring, "It's okay. Relax and go to sleep. I'm right here, House."

A thready string of nonsense escaped House on an exhale, but he sounded distressed.

"Nothing's going to hurt you. Go to sleep."

House snuffed and then drifted into silence, his hands falling open as he relaxed again. Wilson smiled in the darkness to know that House trusted him so much, and finished opening his pants. He drew his slick cock out and shoved his pants and boxers down to mid thigh. Then he scooted back and worked House's legs apart so that he could kneel between.

* * *

After staring Wilson down for a full minute, House glanced around as if to assure that other people were indeed present. Then he pushed off the wall and approached Wilson slowly, using his cane and his limp to mask his reluctance. Wilson panicked and buried his head in the file. If anyone could tell when he was lying, it was House, but Wilson had successfully lied to him before. House always made the same blunder when it came to finding Wilson out; every time he caught Wilson in a lie, he told Wilson how he figured it out, listing all of Wilson's tells as if to prove how smart he was, like a child craving praise for being clever. He probably never anticipated Wilson using this information against him.

Wilson glanced up as House approached, feigning disinterest even though his insides were clenched into coils of nervous energy, screaming at him to get out of this, to just run. "Hey, House."

"Wilson…"

Wilson stopped writing and tilted his head to look at him. He affected an impatient air and schooled his features, praying that House wouldn't see though it. "What? You okay?" He shifted and made a point of noticing the way House was standing. "I'm not writing you another script; you just got one Monday."

"No, that's…no. About last night…"

"I'm not having that argument again, House, and I don't care that you interrupted my date. It's done. Now go bother somebody else." Wilson turned back to his file and perused the medical history. House would expect irritation so Wilson shuffled his feet a bit and leaned against the counter.

"I, um…had a dream. You were in it."

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced as if he couldn't grasp the level of annoyance that House aspired to. His mind caterwauled, however, and he tried not to tremble as the anxiety tumbled through him and set his ulcers burning. "Really."

"More like a nightmare, actually."

Shitshitshit! "Why? Did I replace all your Playstation games with Leap Frog learners? Chop your piano up for kindling?" He shifted to face House, propped causally against the counter in a pose that said I'm too busy to care but letting you ramble will get this over with faster than convincing you that I'm too busy to care. "Well?"

* * *

Wilson ran his hands up House's legs and then weighed House's cock in his hands. He liked the heaviness of it, warm and soft like every other bit of sleeping House, but more real. House twitched at the touch, a sluggish but definite flinch, and tossed his head to one side. He mumbled again. Wilson's fingers slid from House's penis but House moved to follow the gesture, probably against his will. Once he lost the sensation for good, his hips fell into the bedding again and he sighed. It was a puzzled sound.

Wilson reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, staring at House the whole time, admiring the long curve of his neck and the way shadows pooled in the hollow of his throat. He fumbled about and found the condom without looking, then leaned forward to dump his wallet on the nightstand. House seemed to sense him looming and he said something incoherent as he grasped at the air hovering just above his shoulder. His fingers brushed Wilson's shirt and then closed over a handful of buttons and hem. The next mutter definitely contained Wilson's name but he seemed pleased this time, reassured. Wilson smiled again and stayed in that position long enough to rummage in the nightstand drawer and find a bottle of lubricant.

Wilson settled back on his haunches and House's hand fell back to the bedspread, his grasp too weak to keep hold of Wilson's shirt as he moved out of reach. There was a moment when Wilson was certain he had waken but it proved to be a trick of the light. House's chest rose and fell, calm as he had been before Wilson touched him. The snap of the lube cap made him twitch and turn his head a fraction, but it didn't rouse him. Wilson tore open the condom and rolled it on, then applied a generous amount of lube. He wanted to do this without leaving any evidence, which meant without hurting House. He almost regretted that necessity, but it would make things easier in the long run if House had no clue in the morning.

After gathering all the spare pillows and making sure that the jostling of the bed hadn't affected House's slumber, Wilson crawled back between House's legs. He managed to lift House enough to stuff two of the pillows under House's ass. He put the others under House's knees to keep any weight or pressure off his joints. Then he popped the lube open again and coated his fingers. He had to prepare House well, or he risked drawing blood, which House would definitely notice.

The moment his cold fingers touched House down there, House flinched and clenched his hands in the bed sheets. He was definitely on the verge of waking but Wilson wasn't worried. He knew from past experience that House often had vivid nightmares when he passed out from a morphine injection; all Wilson had to do was play dumb and let House draw his own conclusions, if he remembered this at all. Chances were, even if he woke up in the middle of it, the memory wouldn't stick.

Wilson wasted no time shoving a finger inside and exploring. His eyes wandered to the ceiling out of habit acquired after years of conducting prostate checks. He automatically felt about for the small organ and reflected wryly that at least it was healthy. He nudged at it, his manner clinical until he felt House clench. He looked down just as House whimpered; Wilson could tell that he was trying to open his eyes, to figure out what was going on. Wilson crawled up the bed but left his finger where it was, slowly pumping it and edging House's prostate each time he pressed back in. He sprawled out half on top of House and carded his hair, his face right next to House's. "It's okay…shhh…you're okay. Just sleep, it's alright…"

A denial stuck in House's throat and he managed to crack his eyes open. They were glassy and lost, fixed on the ceiling though Wilson doubted he could actually see anything. Wilson watched him fight not to drift back off and decided to add a second finger, just to see what would happen.

House gasped but he couldn't keep his eyes open. He managed to tangle his fingers in Wilson's shirt again, though, and he turned toward him as if seeking protection, probably guided by scent, the most basic of the five human senses. Wilson smiled and kissed his forehead, scissoring his fingers and wondering how House could miss noticing that, could fail to react. House grunted and mumbled a question, something like, "Wuz hapenin?"

"Nothing," Wilson cooed. "Go back to sleep."

"No nuthin…" He sounded like a petulant child, albeit a drunk one with a speech impediment. "Wils'n…wuderyoo doin?"

"Nothing. You're dreaming, House." Wilson purposefully angled his fingers and jabbed at House's prostate.

"Nnnn…hhhh…no…"

Wilson paused long enough to slide a third finger in amongst the first two and continued stretching him open. House let go of Wilson's shirt and his hand sort of flopped in an uncoordinated effort to touch some other part of him. Wilson sat halfway up and grabbed at House's wrist, then held it tight against his chest. "Relax. You're okay, just calm down."

"s'not…funny…"

"Stop worrying. Everything's okay." Wilson deemed House ready and drew his fingers out, smiling indulgently at House's obvious sigh of relief. He let go of House's hand and moved back between his legs, then stretched out over top of him. House made a panicked sound and squirmed a bit under the unexpected weight, his breathing shallow, but Wilson easily held him in place. He pulled House's hands from his arms with minimal effort and pushed them over House's head, crossed at the wrists so that he could hold them down with one hand. He stroked House's stubbled cheek with his other hand, amused by the way House humphed and shied away before he furrowed his brow and turned back into the touch.

Wilson adjusted his lower half until the tip of his penis pressed against House's opening. Then he looked down at House's face again. Slits of blue showed, wells of confusion and color that seemed too bright in the dark room. House fought to focus on Wilson's face but Wilson chose that moment to angle his hips and breach him.

House's body twitched as much as it could under Wilson's weight and his eyes fell shut again, this time in shock. When Wilson pressed farther inside, House's throat bobbed as he swallowed, and then he let out a pained whine. Wilson stopped long enough to sooth him and talk him into a more relaxed state, which House submitted to because morphine made him malleable and Wilson would never hurt him. Then Wilson canted his pelvis and slid in the rest of the way.

House flexed, elongating his body, and then gulped over a strangled sound of protest. He made a feeble attempt to free his hands but Wilson hardly needed to exert any pressure to keep them pinned against the mattress. He propped himself up on his free arm and pulled out almost all of the way, his body tingling in response to the heat of the incredibly tight space surrounding his throbbing cock. Then he took a breath and plunged back in.

House whimpered again, barely conscious but more than capable of recognizing his position. His voice was still soft but it gained a measure of steadiness when he moaned, "Wilson?"

"I'm not hurting you. Just relax." He pulled back so that he could thrust yet again.

House squirmed and opened his eyes. He looked as stoned as he was, the whites bloodshot and watery, the lids raised no more than halfway, but it seemed that he had finally figured out what was going on. Wilson thrust again, a little harder, and House arched his head back. "Oooffffff…getoff….please…."

The plea just made Wilson want to hear more. He set his knees firmly against the mattress and dug his toes in, then began to thrust at a constant if languorous pace. His own respirations sped up from the exertion, and then even more when House gasped and cried out.

"No! Wilson…Wilson, stop…" His voice was pitchy and soprano, and hardly audible over Wilson's heavy breathing. "I'm sorry…I called you…m'sorry…please, no…more…"

Wilson had never heard him sound so desperate, not even when his leg drove him to a ten on the pain scale and he screamed for drugs to make it stop. Wilson's pace increased and he lowered his head to the crook of House's neck, loving the fear and the sweat that he could smell there, percolating about House's hairline. "It's okay…god…you're okay."

House's breath hitched and he struggled to lift his legs, perhaps intending to kick Wilson. The drugs in his bloodstream left him too weak, however, and his chest heaved with the effort to move in spite of his deadened limbs. "Wilson…Wilson, please, please…ngh! Please! Stop, please, stop…"

"Fuck, that's incredible." Wilson hunched over him, letting his full weight crush House's helpless form into the mattress. He ran his tongue along House's shoulder but refrained from sinking his teeth in.

"Wilson!" House practically yelped that and then his breath caught and he let a sob escape. "Wake up…wake up, wake up…please…Wilson…"

Wilson grunted and his rhythm fell off for a few seconds. He managed to regain control of himself and raised his head to look at House's face. House had turned his head away and was blinking furiously at the wall, his eyes two pools of unshed tears that turned blue irises to crystal. He kept telling himself to wake up, his breathing ragged. At a particularly sharp thrust, House's back arched against the bed whether he wanted it to or not, and then he gulped in several fresh breaths and clamped his eyes shut. Wilson picked up the tempo, fascinated by the way tears leaked out from under House's lashes, how his adam's apple bobbed and the rest of his body convulsed, at the mercy of both Wilson and the drugs in his system. The sight of it, the sound of his voice as he continued begging alternately for Wilson to either stop or wake him up…it left Wilson aching, frenzied and craving release.

He curled forward and let go of House's wrists so that he could grab hold of his body for better leverage. He didn't worry about House fighting him; he could barely lift his arms, much less defend himself or hurt Wilson. Wilson could feel House's arousal pressed between them, though; could feel the hardness against his stomach each time he thrust. It left him giddy to know that he could not only force House to submit, but that he could force House to enjoy it too. Wilson slid a couple of inches lower and changed the angle of his thrusts so that he hit House's prostate hard each time he plowed back in.

House shuddered and tensed, his every breath constricted in his throat as he hiccupped and fought not to sob openly. "…Wilson…no…" Defeat seeped out from every angle of his voice, but he couldn't stop believing that Wilson would come to his senses, that this wasn't real, that his best friend wouldn't do this to him, wouldn't hurt him. "P-please…I'm so-orry. Wilson…Wilson-hcmp…stop…" Then his breath hitched one last time and his eyes fluttered shut, and the sight was beautiful and tinged with wetness that shone in the salty tracks on House's cheeks, frosting his stubble in the darkness.

Wilson let out one last groan and then his body went rigid with pleasure. He thrust into House a few more times, a staccato motion as he emptied himself and his body whited out with bliss. He felt the flush spread through his body, a wave of heat made sweeter by the sound of House giving in too, and then the edge passed and Wilson stilled, tumbling down in the wake of the high to collapse on top of his best friend.

Now that the act was done, Wilson felt his reason sink back in. He blinked a few times, his head resting on House's shoulder, and listened to the sound of House silently crying, his chest stuttering and his fingers clenched loosely on the sleeves of Wilson's shirt. He was still mumbling, trying to convince himself to wake up. A coldness crept through Wilson's bones and he carefully lifted off to get a good look at what he'd done. As soon as Wilson climbed off, House pulled himself into a clumsy ball, still pumped full of morphine and heavy-limbed. The drugs made him weak, made it possible for him to break down like this. Wilson told himself that House was still mostly out of it, that it was just the morphine. No way had he hurt him that badly, and beside – House had come too. It had been pleasurable for both of them. No, it was just the drugs that made him cry like that.

Wilson took the condom off and tied it, but put it in his pocket to dispose of elsewhere. Then he pulled his pants back up and buckled his belt, setting his appearance to rights. He was pretty sure that House didn't look at him the whole time, though he had quieted and may have fallen under again. Just in case he hadn't, Wilson padded out to the living room and drew up a few more cc's of morphine. When he returned to the bedroom, House was in the process of trying to drag himself upright, but he had no coordination and could barely hold his eyes open. Wilson rushed forward and shoved him back down, surprised by the way House cringed and tried to block him.

No words were necessary at this point. Wilson held the needle in his teeth and forced House over onto his stomach, then held him there with his knee pressed into the small of House's back. House choked out a plea for no more as Wilson jabbed the needle into his gluteus and pushed it slowly in. He didn't want to leave a second tract mark on House's arm because House would notice it right away; he needed the mark to be somewhere House couldn't see. The morphine took effect quickly and House settled back into a deep sleep, his breathing evening out while Wilson monitored his pulse and checked for bleeding. There was nothing; he had been careful, after all. Wilson pulled his boxers and sleep pants back up and then left him alone to dispose of the sharp and get something to drink; he was parched.

An hour later, Wilson came back in and shook House awake, his voice panicked and urgent. House jerked and yelped, startled and disoriented. "Thank god," Wilson exclaimed. "You scared the shit out of me – I thought you were dying in here. That must have been a hell of a dream."

House blinked at him, fuzzy with sleep and drugs and completely bewildered by Wilson's behavior. His eyes flickered over random objects in the room, and then he looked down at himself.

Wilson looked down too and then pretended to be embarrassed. "It's, um…it's nothing…perfectly, you know…natural. We'll just…get you into the shower…pretend it never happened."

Wilson scrubbed any lingering evidence away under the guise of concerned and chronically helpful friend. Then he helped House maneuver his sluggish limbs into fresh clothes and poured his morphine addled body back into bed, on fresh sheets. He took all of the soiled laundry to the washing machine and ran it through a hot cycle even though the red sheets would bleed, then transferred the entire mess to the dryer. Once he confirmed that House was safely ensconced in his bed, covered in clean blankets and breathing at an acceptable rate, Wilson gathered his things and left. He dropped the used condom into a trash can a block away. Nothing left. And House would never know.

* * *

Wilson glared at him expectantly, knowing that House would never admit the content of the dream; knowing that his intent stare was a ploy meant to unsettle Wilson enough that he would blab a confession all on his own. Except that Wilson didn't. He just returned that gaze, level and blank, certain that if he could just play dumb for long enough, House would dismiss the entire thing as opium dreams and walk away. And he did dismiss it, but he frowned first, ducking his head to peer at Wilson from under wary brows. And as he walked away, he glanced back once, his expression guarded. He knew. He remembered and he knew it wasn't a dream, but he couldn't be certain without proof, and he trusted Wilson.

Nothing changed between them. They ate lunch, they traded barbs, they ordered Chinese and watched B movies. It was like nothing happened, like House didn't suspect the truth. Wilson was House's best friend, his only friend, and if House tended to watch him a bit more closely, or sit a little bit farther apart on the couch, well…it didn't mean anything. Wilson would never hurt him, after all; Wilson never hurt anybody on purpose.

But the next time House needed help in the middle of the night, he called Chase.