Warning: This almost, but not quite, a deathfic. Just the slightest hint of Huddy due to the prompt.

Spoilers: "The Itch" through "The Social Contract"

Disclaimer: Don't own. Just playing with my House and Wilson dolls. I feel like Gillie on SNL. I broke Wilson...Sorry. ;)

A/N: Written for sickwilson_fest. My thanks to hwshipper for shoving me in the "write" direction with her great idea about how to start the fic. My apologies to the prompt creator. After I wrote the story, I realized the fic does not follow the prompt. *headdesk*.

Summary: Prompt 104: House and Cuddy have just begun a romantic relationship. Wilson learns he has a serious illness and tries to hide it from them, not wanting to spoil their romance. (House/Wilson slash wouldn't work here).

Good prompt huh?…that's not what I wrote.

The knocking on the door was as steady as a heartbeat, and since Wilson did not own a shotgun, there was no possibility of the noise stopping until he invited the late night visitor in.

Leaning forward, Wilson gripped the sides of the bright porcelain basin with white knuckles. Why now?

A few deliberate breaths and Wilson let go of the rim as he checked his reflection in the mirror. To create the expected sleepy look at this hour, he ran his fingers through his hair, doing the job that his pillow performed after several hours of solid sleep.

Rapping, rapping….

Ignoring the sound, he swiped up the small container balanced on the sink edge, stared at it, and made a decision.

He poured the water from the paper cup down the drain, crushed and tossed it away.

Shuffling down the hall, he stopped in his bedroom, checking to see if the room passed muster from prying eyes, and dropped the small container back into the dresser drawer, burying it under layers of folded shirts.

He glanced at his alarm as he continued toward the front door. Wilson's mind immediately located "contingency deflection plan A," and put it into effect as he opened the door.

Showtime.

"Have you considered that it's not my place you really want to be walking into right now?"

Before the sentence was completely out of Wilson's mouth, House was already in his kitchen searching for…what? Did he really want that glass of water?

Wilson had taken the precaution and made much of his home "House" proof.

"Ric Ocasek would kill me if I—. Oh, you mean Cuddy." House answered.

Wilson wrapped his response into witty repartee as he drove his point to the finish line.

"Yeah, she's a little nuts, but she's beautiful, smart, funny, and most important, she can

stand you."

Phrases flowed past Wilson's ear. Something else was vying for his attention.

"…Bugging me...poetic…I'm better off alone…."

Tamping down any display of alarm, Wilson stood and watched as House stretched out on his sofa.

But Wilson's body, far more selfish than Wilson's caretaking instincts, was politely asking to be the center of attention. Experience told him that "polite" could fall victim to "insistent" within seconds.

Damn it. Not now.

Wilson poured all his focus into House, reminding himself that what he was doing was for House's own good.

"You're not staying here."

"Oh, come on."

A gentle shove, and House was off his couch. "Nope, you can go home, or you're going to Cuddy's, gonna ring her doorbell, and you're gonna ask her out on a date…"

A friendly slap on the back.

"…like regular people do."

"At three in the morning? When do regular people sleep?" House grudgingly responded.

Wilson made one more effort and touched his friend on the shoulder, propelling him out the open door. "Buh-bye."

He shut the door, shook his head, and breathed a sigh of relief, or tried, but his breath hitched as a road flair went off inside his body.

Dots closed in on his vision.

His knees weakened as he approached the sofa….

Wilson never felt the unyielding floor as he collapsed to the ground.

Thirty minutes.

An hour.

The crumpled man on the floor let out a low moan. Wilson's eyes fluttered open, and he wiped a string of saliva from his mouth as he looked around his living room.

He was alone.

First, on all fours, he made it to his feet and retraced his earlier steps, back to the bedroom, and the drawer.

He dropped the niceties, like fetching a cup of water and dry-swallowed a pill. His legs felt dipped in cement as he fell upon his bed.

As Wilson waited for the medication to relieve the knot near his stomach, he thought of his failed attempts to push House and Cuddy together.

He had doubts that a crew of longshoremen could handle the job.

He'd spoken to House straight from his heart while they were in the clinic, "I don't want you to be fine, I want you to be happy."

But went too far when he blurted out, "Any relationship that doesn't end in a break up ends in death." He could have cut out his tongue, but he trusted that House would have no reason to think he was talking about anyone other than Amber.

With no success, he tried an end pass around House by talking to Cuddy, "I've always had some feelings for you." in a bid to make House jealous.

And tonight, he bluntly told his friend to go out on a date….

Tomorrow, Wilson promised himself as his fell under a chemically induced spell.

Tomorrow he would plan out his endgame. One that House could not anticipate.

Tomorrows melted into failed yesterdays.

New solutions did not yield new results. Wilson implemented withholding his opinion and his tongue, hoping his inaction would spur House into action. There was nary a change in his friend, except a glance in Cuddy's direction.

During the hostage situation, Wilson stayed in the background, hoping Cuddy and House would find each other in a life-affirming moment, but affection took the form of a recycled desk.

Precious time passed. Wilson upped his dosage to two pills.

He turned his attention toward Cuddy. At least he could educate her in the care and feeding of House. Lecturing her instead of House for a change, not worrying about any consequences regarding his job, trying to make amends for his own past mistakes.

"You're physically hurting him." He almost growled when she tried pulling pranks, and reminded her why House was willing to risk death to try methadone. "He's happy. He's our friend, and this is his one chance to not be miserable."

At times, Wilson thought House was playing him. Engrossed in a game of Russian Roulette.

One evening, Wilson sat on the edge of his bed with the small container of pills in his hand. Why did it have to feel like a race to keep House alive longer than himself?

Wilson was desperate, but he had made a promise to his therapist and tossed the container onto the sheets. He buried his head in his hands.

And if there was a God….

The phone rang.

"Hello Dr, Gonzales, please don't apologize for the late hour...You want to change my appointment?"

There was silence on Wilson's end of the line for a long time. He finally said, "Danny? Yes, I'll come up Wednesday, instead."

Wilson couldn't believe he finally caught a break. Two breaks.

His parents could still fuss and worry about two sons, and Wilson had the excuse he needed to drive out to Mercy.

That's when House decided to test their social contract.

Offering to accompany Wilson on the long drive to Mercy, House had effectively thrown Wilson off his game and checked his king.

Wilson had left his territory vulnerable. Tired and stressed on the journey home, he had not seen the bottle of anti-depressants Dr. Gonzales had given him slide from his pocket before House did.

Dropping House off at the curb, he made a quick getaway, as if "out of sight" would ever equate "out of mind" for House.

He had foolishly forfeited a playing piece without gaining control of the board. House would surely push his advantage.

Other than a brief meeting about monster trucks and Danny, Wilson made a point to avoid House.

By the end of the week, House was back at Wilson's door, knocking incessantly. Wilson ran his fingers through his hair. Too late, he had just swallowed two pills.

House was standing in the hallway. He stared at Wilson while his eyes roamed over him like an x-ray machine and gathered facts.

Wilson could see the blue eyes register a conclusion. He turned his back and walked to the sofa as House quietly said, "Idiot."

"But I fooled you." Wilson replied.

Following Wilson, House was furious and scared. How hadn't he noticed Wilson's pallor and the drop in weight?

As if he could read House's mind, a knowing smile tweaked Wilson's lips. "Had my clothes taken in, and a new haircut always throws people off the scent. An oncologist knows all the tricks."

"Cancer? What kind? Stage? What treatmen—?" House demanded to know.

"It's not important, House." Wilson wanted to stop there and deflect with his own agenda. "What is important, is that you have someone else to rely upon." Wilson wanted to say, 'someone to love and worry about you, like I do,' but those words were not for tonight.

There would be time to say them later.

The pills were beginning to take effect. Wilson stood up, signaling the end of the conversation.

"I'm fine. Go to Cuddy."

"Wilson."

"Nothing's changed, House. I'll see you at work."

The next day, House did see his friend, but not at his desk or the cafeteria. Wilson had collapsed outside his office, and a crowd of concerned medical personnel lapped up Wilson's assurances that he was the victim of caffeine abuse before he could scramble for his door. He locked up and left early before anyone came to their senses and suggested he get a complete physical.

House did not expose Wilson's cover, but spent the rest of the day at his computer. After he printed his findings, he went straight to Cuddy.

Looking up from her desk as House barged into her office, Cuddy's reprimand froze on her lips as she saw House's grim expression.

He angrily tossed the documents in front of her.

As she read through a file for a "Nathan Ford" at Princeton General, House mumbled, "This is Wilson's. He's dying."

"My God. Pancreatic cancer. Are you sure this is Wilson's file? The name on it is—"

"I know how Wilson thinks." House looked at the ground. "I should have seen it."

"House, you know how insidious and fast this cancer moves. If Wilson didn't notice, how could you possibly know?"

Without realizing, Cuddy was standing in front of him. Tears ran down her face.

House wiped her cheek with his finger, and enfolded her in his arms. Neither could imagine Wilson not in their lives, but right now they needed the reassurance of a warm touch.

When Wilson arrived home he went straight to bed, his hand shook as he permitted himself the medication he normally reserved for much later in the evening to help get a good night's rest. Now there would be no such restriction. He'd send his sick leave notice to Cuddy later.

No doubt House would figure it all out, and had already gone to Cuddy….

Checkmate.

Had House won the game or had he?

Wilson sighed as the drugs did their work and cradled him in a cocoon. He couldn't help wondering…what? What was he thinking? He was getting sucked into a fog...The thought slid past him again...yes, he was concerned about House. That was it.

He let the thought slip from his consciousness as the sensation of firm, warm hands ran over his body. A hallucination no doubt, but somehow along with the caress he no longer felt the need to worry….

~fin~

Thank you for reading. All comments welcome.

House divined Wilson's medical record name by noting the poster of Ordinary People in Wilson's office. The son was played by Timothy Hutton, who now plays Nathan Ford in Leverage.

If you are interested in the fics related to this story, there's Until the Fat Lady Sings and Volga Boatmen, most definitely a deathfic.