A/N Aaayyy, what's up, guys? It's been awhile. Like... a long while. In fact I actually tried to make this account as invisible as possible (since you can't actually deactivate fanfiction accounts...), but recently decided to give it another shot. What the hell, right? This fic isn't particularly recent - I wrote it last year and never posted it, and even though it's a bit cheesy in some places, I decided it's good enough to post. Hope you guys enjoy it. :)
Lots of love,
Zeta

Jason, I'm not going to lie and say I don't care for you… I just hope you wouldn't have to lie to me and say you feel the same way…

"Um… Doctor House?" the woman on the examination table frowned in confusion. The scruffy diagnostician looked up with wide blue eyes.

"Yes, what is it? We're getting to a really good part, so make it snappy."

"Well, it's just…" she trailed off. He was clearly losing interest as his attention was once more pulled back to General Hospital. Her confusion morphed into annoyance. "Well I've been sitting here for at least ten minutes now. Are you not going to examine me?"

His eyes remained glued to the screen. "Mm…?"

"I didn't come here to sit and watch bad soap operas. How much longer until you examine me?"

"Mmmm, about…" House paused and glanced down at his wristwatch. "…Twenty more minutes, I figure. I'm off at four."

"Excuse me?"

"Look, I don't want to be here. You don't want to be here. No one wants to be here. Except Cuddy, which, unfortunately for me, means we both have to be here in this unpleasant situation, so why don't you just sit down and shut up and try to make this as painless as possible for both of us."

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, at a loss for what to say. "My mouth has been very dry lately and I've got some weird sores. If you could please take this a little more seriously…" she grumbled.

House emitted a long, exasperated sigh. "Fine. Open your mouth."

She did so. He hardly looked for two seconds when he recoiled in horror. "Oh yeah, your condition is real serious. Thank god you checked in when you did, as it is fatal. You could die."

"What?!" she gasped. "Really?!"

House blinked once. Twice. Thrice in total.

"No. You have halitosis." There was nothing he loved more than a sarcastic, well-delivered punchline. "Sores and dry mouth – xerostomia – are both common symptoms and signs of halitosis. Have you been experiencing gum tenderness and bleeding?"

She hesitated, a little taken aback. "Y-Yes, I have."

"And how often have you been brushing your teeth and so on?"

She didn't answer.

"Mm. Halitosis." House said, hauling himself out of the chair and making for the door. "Make sure you scrub your tongue. See a dentist if these problems persist. Which, incidentally, is what you should have done in the first place, instead of wasting my precious time."

He hobbled out into the lobby where Wilson was waiting for him.

"The wild Gregorius Housicus at last emerges from his dwelling, keeping its eyes open for the vicious Cuddy, its natural predator," the oncologist joked. "It seems it has roused from hibernation twenty minutes prior to its expected reawakening…"

"Hardy har har. Awfully unsporting of me, I know, but hey. I gotta have some fun. And besides, it's really duck season."

Wilson grinned. The telltale click-click-click of high heels signaled Cuddy's approach, and he bit back a chuckle as House's face fell.

"Would you like to shoot me now or wait 'til you get home?" House muttered, leaning hard on his cane. This was going to be fun. Why couldn't he be off studying real cases of real importance, instead of dealing with every overprotective mother with access to WebMD?

"Shoot 'im now, shoot 'im now," Wilson teased, turning back to his miscellaneous files and papers and busying himself as the dean – in all her bosomy glory – strode towards them with a look of spiteful determination.

"Exam room two. Go. Now."

"But it's wabbit season," House mocked. She gave him a look that could only mean 'you're completely insane'.

"I don't care. You still have fifteen minutes left and you're falling behind. Again." She punctuated the final word by shoving the patient's file into his chest and shooing him away. "Wabbit season… what the hell."

"It's really duck season," Wilson chimed in.

He could be very curt.

In fact, basically every time he opened his mouth, he was curt. He was sarcastic. He manipulated people into cooperating, even when they hated his guts.

He was cruel to his best friend. In fact, Wilson had it worst of all. He received the brunt of House's… well, House's everything, really; jokes, insults, manipulation, abuse. He put up with so much. Too much. Why? Everyone always asked, 'why do you deal with him?'

He massages the front of his best friend's pants, rotating his palm in varying circles as he nips at the younger man's neck.

"Fuck… Oh fuck fuck fucking fuck jesus god fuck…" is about the only thing James Wilson has to say to this, fingers desperately clutching at any inch of Gregory House he can get his hands on, running them through the short grey hair, tracing the lines of his face, his torso, all of it.

Gregory pulls away, blue eyes connecting with brown, sharing the same small space. A smug grin plays about his lips as James pants, hips rising to meet the hand now toying with him. The diagnostician snickers and sets to work on the belt buckle and front button of the sleek black dress pants, agonisingly slow. James's hunger mounts.

"So needy," Gregory says softly, tongue swiping the shell of the oncologist's ear. "You'll have to beg for it."

He couldn't help it. He was like a lost puppy when it came to House, following the man around like there was an invisible leash wrapped around his neck. To be perfectly honest, he had no idea how they even became friends in the first place, but somehow, it had stuck. Like Stockholm syndrome.

"Please," he murmurs, "please, House…"

"Not good enough." Gregory withdraws, turning his back and meandering away. "Beg, James."

The sound of his name coming from those lips is like a drug. All he wanted was to hear Gregory utter his name over and over and over again. But begging… what was he supposed to say?

"Please, Greg, I want you to touch me… I need it. Fuck, please…"

"Mm, better. We'll work on it."

Gregory pushes James against the wall, pinning his hands above his head, gently rocking into him, that lovely pouty lip between his teeth. One hand slides down James's torso and into his dress pants. That's one layer down… Gregory's fingertips teasingly brush across James's legs, straying just below the waistband of his boxers before hitting home.

James hisses and arches into Gregory's touch. "Harder… Greg, harder, please…"

"Say it again," the diagnostician growls.

"Harder, Greg, I- oh fuck…"

"Oh god…" Wilson breathed out a shaky sigh.

It was over too quickly, bringing with it exhausted satisfaction, which was followed by terrible guilt. It was one thing to fantasize about a faceless being. It was another matter entirely to fantasize about one's best friend… one's male best friend. Every time, Wilson felt as though it was a perverted violation of their friendship to even think about it.

"Why can't I just be into tits and ass like normal men," he asked no one in particular.

It was the middle of the night… House was probably fast asleep… Why did it have to be him? It wasn't even that he was a man. No, that wasn't the real problem. It was that Gregory House was a very straight, very angry, very rude man, who likely wouldn't react well to hearing 'guess what I'm in love with you' from his only (male) friend.

But every time House gave him an inch, it was like being given a mile; yes, he could be very mean, but he could also be very affectionate and caring. Wilson knew this better than most. Better than anyone they had ever met. And every time House smiled at him, or hugged him, or thanked him, it gave him shivers. Part of him ached when House wasn't around, like he was missing bits and pieces when the other man was away. Every bit of him hurt whenever House reminded him of just how impossible it would be for them to be together.

"Nothing spoils the taste of peanut butter like unrequited love," he muttered, then heaved himself up out of bed to get cleaned off.

It's hard on a face when it gets laughed in.