Summary: House is so much easier to deal with when he thinks you're a hallucination. HW slash.

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"House?"

As his third knock on the apartment door still failed to provoke any sort of response or reply, Wilson tried not to let his concern show in his voice. House had been a complete ass- as opposed to his usual state of just really being an ass- ever since he'd lost a patient two days previously, and if Wilson was too obvious about the whole still-caring thing, he knew House would only use it to gain yet another unfair advantage over him. Just because he seemed to feel absolutely nothing, he obviously thought that emotions were simply another tool for him to use in order to mess with people he should, really, have cared about.

Still, though, Wilson got no reply; and he frowned slightly. Usually his voice brought about at least the smash of an empty glass being thrown against he door, or muffled cursing as House was awoken to find himself collapsed on the floor, but this time there was nothing. Digging in his briefcase for his keys, Wilson felt his heart beating faster than he knew it should have been. He tried to tell himself it was alright; House was probably just asleep, the drugs and alcohol taking their toll in a less threatening way than the one he couldn't help imagining.

Despite his best efforts, however, he was as frantic as he could ever remember being as he tried to suppress the shaking of his hands as he unlocked the door. The apartment was dark, lit only by the television, which was muted, and Wilson couldn't help the hitch in his breath as he saw House lounging on the couch, limp, eyes glazed, but thankfully still breathing. He didn't acknowledge Wilson's arrival, though, the opening of his front door worryingly not even earning him a glance.

Wilson crossed the room to lean over the back of the sofa, giving House a disapproving look that was ignored as he had known it would be, although it was returned with a soft smile he hadn't expected. His shock, which stunned him momentarily into silence, was quickly overshadowed by his concern as he saw just how dilated House's pupils were. As House reached up to touch Wilson's cheek, the younger man realised that he was too far gone to even realise what he was doing, and a familiar ache settled in his chest as he considered the notion that House, no matter what Wilson did for him, would never even think about touching him that tenderly without the influence of mind-numbing drugs to stop him from considering the emotional implications that came with it.

"You're not here."

House spoke, his voice tired, low and gravely in a way that made Wilson's groin tingle guiltily. Ignoring it, though; something he was agonisingly accustomed to, he smiled affectionately, trying not to lean into the contact House was still torturing him with.

"News to me," he said quietly, unable to resist the call of the banter that had been exchanged so often. It was familiar, and he did his best not to make it obvious how much that reassured him as House removed his hand, letting it drop once more to his side.

"I pushed you away," House continued, though, and illogical though he knew it was, Wilson felt guilt upon hearing the statement, desperately wondering what he could have done to make House feel like that. What he could have done to cause House pain, because even the idea caused him agony that could rival House's own.

"Even if I wanted to, I couldn't leave you."

Wilson knew it was safe to be honest; if House didn't even know what he was saying, he stood no chance of remembering any untimely confessions on Wilson's part.

"You should."

Wilson snorted in bitter amusement, circling the couch to perch on the edge of the cushion, level with House's chest and twisted to face him.

"I know people think I'm burdening myself with you. That I'm still here because nobody else will stick around. They're wrong. I need you too; you're the only one who's ever understood."

"Understood what a fuck-up you really are."

Wilson rolled his eyes, but hesitated only briefly before sadly nodding his agreement, letting his gaze drop to the floor as he was suddenly struck with a frustrating inability to look into those eyes without feeling like he was exposing his entire being to someone who could rip him apart without a qualm. He'd never managed to get used to that part of the relationship- if it could reasonably be called that- he had with House.

"You got nothing on me."

Wilson smiled, but couldn't keep the sadness from his eyes as he realised that, although this was true, it wasn't a particularly phenomenal achievement. House's efforts to reassure him, though, made him at least feel a little wanted, if not entirely better. House's next words, though, snapped him out of his reverie as quickly as if someone had slapped him in the face.

"And what I wouldn't give for you to have something on me…"

Wilson forced himself to once again meet House's eyes, sure he would find nothing but amusement accompanied by that aggravating but oh-so-sexy smirk he always wore when he knew he had managed to have an impact, and felt his heart skip a beat as he saw nothing of the sort; nothing but sincerity and longing in beautiful blue eyes. Again he was stunned into silence, staring open mouthed as House's fingers once again reached up to trace his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw, the outline of his lips. Wilson wasn't entirely sure which one of them it was that was shaking, but it was the last thing on his mind as House tangled fingers in his hair, beginning to sit up as he pulled him down, meeting with only the slightest resistance as they collided, more than anything, somewhere in the middle, even House's lack of co-ordination and Wilson's inability to do anything but wonder what the fuck was going on making their first shared kiss nothing less than perfect, in either of their minds. They didn't think, but simply did, experiencing, tasting, savouring what they both knew, deep down, could be their only chance; House because he knew Wilson would never risk what they already had like that, and Wilson because House, out of his head though he often was, had to be flying particularly high to let anyone that close.

Neither of them dared to push it; the heated, open-mouthed and tongue-filled desperation of the kiss saying more than any touch could, the threat of having to stop before they absolutely had to lingering on the edge of their consciousness as they both got what they realised they'd always wanted. It hadn't always been possible to express, but it had always been there.

"James, stop."

Wilson froze, tensing as he heard and felt House speak, and tearing himself away because, in his own emotionally suppressed way, House was saying he didn't have enough control to do it himself. He was suddenly terrified, for what he'd done and what could result from it; House wasn't angry and was endeavouring to show him that, but there was clearly something wrong.

"I can't do this. I want you."

"What?" Wilson blinked, and had to ask for clarification, unable to even begin to comprehend what had just been said and suggested.

"I can't torture myself. I screwed him. Fucked him away. I lost him."

Wilson didn't have to be a psychology expert to know that the distorted verb forms showed House's confusion, but that wasn't what concerned him the most.

"Who?" he asked, softly, that damn ache in his chest returning as his suspicions were confirmed.

"My Jimmy."

House's assumption of ownership was the closest to an endearment that Wilson knew he was going to get, and as his eyelids drooped, Wilson knew that it was almost all he was going to get that night.

"I'm right here."

He said, the futility of it hitting him as House's eyes closed, a soft smile lingering on lips Wilson wanted desperately to kiss just once more.

"The real you."

And as House slipped peacefully into sleep, Wilson let out a small noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob, covering his mouth with his hand as the thought of waking House and having to deal with his lack of recollection so soon made him feel so much worse. After taking a moment to contain himself, and the emotions he could feel rising to the surface, he stood, unable to so much as look at House as he left, returning to his car where he sat, agonising over the complete fucking unfairness of it all. He stopped himself from hitting the dashboard, knowing the physical pain would only make him worse, and even managed to make his way back to his hotel room before collapsing, actually crying, sobbing hysterically for the first time since he'd realised just what being an oncologist meant.

He crawled into bed, or at least onto it, still dressed, his emotions still making themselves known in the most ungainly of fashions, and cried himself to sleep.

Emo Wilson. Well, not really, since he has a reason to be sad. Anyway, this is my birthday present to you all. It's my birthday, and a present for you. Bonus. In return, though, I'd like you to guess how old I am. Because I'm curious to know what you all think. Some comment on my writing would be nice also; particular areas of awkwardness, etc. I just want to get better!

Next chapter will be up… hopefully sooner than my T3 updates. Yes, I can pretty much guarantee that the next chapter will be here in less than 2 years.