A/N: Season 2, when Wilson's having marriage troubles and actually comes right out and says "Did it ever occur to you I might be going through something I need to have an actual conversation about?" and House still won't sit down and do the normal-friend thing...

What if Wilson got a little more insistent?

House was having a nightmare. Fighting for his life, flailing, thrashing in a panic... it hurt and no matter how hard he fought... he was getting heavier and getting nowhere... animal panic fading into sick, sick terror at the realization that he couldn't move... no-...

When he couldn't fight anymore and went limp, the suffocating arms withdrew. "It's okay, House." Comforting and concerned. Wilson's voice. He relaxed.

Wilson was reading when the first low moan broke the silence. He turned another page, took a deep breath. When he thought he was ready to go through with this, he put the magazine aside and looked up.

By now House had come fully awake and was staring at him. The blue eyes were round and frightened.

"It's okay," Wilson explained quickly. "It's just me. I drugged you."

He had expected House to try and make a lot of noise despite the gag, but House was silent. No, of course he won't start mumbling, Wilson realized. He can feel the tape, knows he'd just sound like an idiot. He's going to play it dignified...

Well, as dignified as I can be, tied to a chair, House was thinking wryly. He had to admit, this was a new one. Not something you'd expect from the usually docile little Jimmy Wilson. He looked down at himself. Taped, he corrected himself. Not tied. Taped to a chair. Much flashier than Saran Wrap over the toilet seat.

He looked up and, in case Wilson couldn't see that he was smiling behind the duct tape, quirked his eyebrows. You have my attention, Doctor.

"Okay," Wilson said aloud. "You're here because... I need to talk to you. I need you to listen to me. I'm having problems, and... I need you to take them seriously and give me advice." He rose, paced, rubbed the back of his neck. "Will you do that? You might as well - considering you have nothing better to do at the moment."

House's eyes narrowed and he shook his head. Did you really think it would be that easy?

"Figured." Wilson sounded resigned if anything - not annoyed or angry in the slightest. "Allow me to inform you that you're not going anywhere until you change your mind."

He rolled his eyes. Theatrics!

"If you look over on your coffee table," Wilson continued, "You'll notice a whole lot of equipment that wasn't there when you went to bed last night. I've got an electric blanket in case you're cold. I've got the components for IV nutrition. A catheter. And as there is no chance in hell of that tape coming off until you've heard every word I have to say, I've got syringes for your pain meds. And don't worry - I'm not going to withhold your pain meds except as a seriously last resort. I'm thinking I'll wait a week before I consider taking that step. Does that sound fair to you?"

There was silence while House digested that. Oh, come on. He's not serious...

"I think it's safe to assume you're going to be your usual stubborn self, and not change your mind for at least a while." Wilson glanced at his watch. "It's almost eight now. I'll come back to check on you at lunchtime. Your phone is in reach of your right hand. Call my number if there's an emergency and I'll come back... but House - look at me - don't call it for no reason. It wouldn't be wise. Because I am clearly prepared to do crazy things today." He put his jacket on, sighed "See you at noon," and left.

The first thing House did was knock the phone to the floor. There. Then, he sat scowling for the next ten minutes, fully convinced that Wilson was going to walk right back in and say, "Scared you, didn't I?"

After that, when he realized Wilson really wasn't coming, he immediately dropped his chin to his chest and tried to doze off fast while he still had some knockout drugs in his system.

Wilson let himself in at half past nine, with no idea what to expect. "Hey - still breathing?"

House's head whipped around and Wilson frowned. Pissed-off he could deal with, scared, amused even... but the wide panicked eyes revealed none of these things. Something was wrong.

Wilson got around the couch fast without appearing to hurry. "What is it?"

House's breathing was quick and shallow. He looked down, gestured with his head.

"Your leg hurts?"

Nod. Glance towards the syringes.

"That's just your mind messing with you. It's not nearly time for your next dose yet." When he got a furious glare he sighed. "Come on, I wouldn't really leave you til noon. It's only 9:30. You're fine."

He'd already turned away again when he heard a short, urgent sound. What's so important that House will deign to squeak for it? he wondered. He followed House's stare to the DVD player... where a small digital clock blinked. "You know what time it is?" he realized, and got an eye roll in return. "So you're asking for your meds because... you actually need them already?" House stared up at the ceiling and wouldn't respond. "How often do you usually..." Wilson made himself stop. They would talk about this later.

"Well, I'm sorry," he said as he got the syringe ready. He tried to keep his voice neutral and knew he failed miserably. "I'd never have kept you waiting this long if I'd known you can't go for two hours without fresh opiods in your system. Here." He gave the injection without the least effort to be gentle and tossed the needle aside. "Better?"

Wilson ducked into the kitchen to get himself coffee, and House glared at his back. Or tried to. It was hard, because with the relief of pain came a warm rush of gratitude and affection that no amount of self-lecturing could get rid of.

Oh, stop, he told himself irritably. It didn't hurt all that bad yet, you were just scared that you still had hours to go. Don't thank him; it was all his fault anyway. But it was hard to hang onto anger when he suddenly felt so comfortable.

Wilson came and sat down on the couch. "Really - are you better?"

Much - Stockholm Syndrome's already setting in. House nodded, a little reluctantly.

"Good. I didn't know you dosed that often. You should've told me."

House broke his ban on making useless idiot-noises in order to prove a point: "Gmm?"

"Not now - I meant in general. Anyway, I apologize for lecturing. This is about my problems, not yours." House looked at him, already knowing the next bit before he said it. "We'll deal with you another time."

Great, I can hardly wait. In case Wilson somehow missed his telepathic signals, he followed up with a growl from deep in his throat.

"Already? The werewolf bites usually take at least until the full moon to kick in."

Gregory House don't you dare laugh.

"You know I can see that," Wilson told him, almost apologetic. "Your eyes change when you smile. Anyway... can I talk to you now?" He looked away so as to avoid seeing the vehement head-shake. "As you've obviously figured out, it's about my wife. The thing is, she-"

"HMM HMM HM-H-HMM!"

Wilson sighed and asked, without looking, "Are you singing Row, row, row your boat?"

"Mm-hmm."

"So you're still not ready to listen?"

"Mm-nn." You're losing, Wilson - this is getting fun.

"I could tape over your nose too so you couldn't hum," Wilson said thoughtfully. "Although then I'd have to talk fast, because you'd be dead in a couple of minutes."

That gave House an idea. The best, most childish act of defiance on earth - even better than obnoxious humming! How had he not thought of this before?

He sucked in air as loudly as he could, puffed out his cheeks to make clear what he was doing, and held his breath.

Wilson sighed. "Cute. I have no problem letting you pass out." Twenty seconds later: "Seriously." Thirty seconds after that: "You can't do it, anyway. Any second now you're going to give up and-... House?"

TBC.

I have no idea where this story is going. Like not at all. When I figure out the next bit, I'll post it.

What do you think so far?