a slight rewrite of s03e10, "merry little christmas". title is a lyric from "bed" by syml.

just a quick note: the events at the end of merry little christmas have been altered (so instead, house had asked for the rehab deal before the overdose instead of the morning after).

-

Wilson's heart pounds against his ribcage, his mind buzzing.

Try as he might, he can't quite drown out all of the sensations. Colored flashing lights, loud blaring sirens, the crunching of soft snow beneath boots, screeching tires on icy asphalt, the cold wind. Talking and shouting, bright fluorescent lights that hurt your eyes, squeaking of wheels, doors being shoved open and slamming closed. Murmurs and chatter, a TV playing at low volume, shoes clacking against the cold, hard floor, fingers drumming on knees. A child crying, a gurney moving down the hall, the crinkle of the paper in his hands, and his own shaky, shallow breaths.

He's distracted by everything, but at the same time all he can do is think, and move as if on autopilot.

He hates closing his eyes even for a split second, but it hurts his head to hold them open for so long; he's already got a headache and all the bright lights really don't help. However every single time he closes them, he's there all over again, seeing him like... that.

There, meaning Baker Street; more specifically, House's apartment.

And him, meaning... well, House.

And that, meaning on the floor, unconscious, his pulse too slow– barely breathing, still, and unresponsive, all from a massive fucking overdose of Oxycodone - a prescription not even meant for him but one he stole from the pharmacy anyway because they had cut off his Vicodin and he was in pain.

And oh– oh god, House.

Wilson thinks he might throw up just thinking about it again; the way he found House curled up on the floor beside the coffee table, the empty prescription bottle beside him, the bandage over his left forearm where he'd cut himself to release his endorphins. It's like there's a weight on Wilson's chest now, his stomach knotted up and twisted so much that it feels like he's going to pass out, and maybe die. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad, really.

He's nearly crying. He feels stupid for it, too, but goddammit, House is his best friend and he's allowed to care about him. No matter how stupid and acerbic and selfish he can be.

Wilson's blood runs cold as he suddenly remembers the paper in his hands. His hands, which are unsteady and trembling. The paper, which is folded and carrying a messy scrawl of "Wilson" across one side in House's handwriting. Wilson hasn't been able to bring himself to open it up and take a look inside, because maybe then it all won't seem as real as it is. If he doesn't read it, maybe this didn't happen and maybe it's not at least partially his fault. Maybe it's not what he thinks this is.

(But it is. Of course it is. And he knows that.)

Wilson hears footsteps beside him just now, a voice he recognizes, too, but he doesn't look up at first. He isn't paying attention to what's being said either. He can't focus, no matter how hard he's trying to, but the fact is maybe he just doesn't want to. He doesn't want to be aware of what's going on around him because maybe it won't hurt as much.

"Dr. Wilson, are you listening?"

The tone is annoyed and not at all sympathetic. Wilson finally lifts his head and finds the last fucking person on earth he wants to see - now, or ever.

Tritter looks weirdly smug despite not smiling or anything of the sort. He stands there awkwardly and a little stiff, though somehow confidence just oozes out of him and it makes the oncologist sick to his stomach.

Wilson is absolutely fucking furious; how the fuck could this total bastard of a man try his hardest to ruin House's career and life over a petty grudge and then come here now, to the hospital, after House has nearly killed himself, acting like he's needed or wanted here or even wants to be here for House, but also acting like he's won some big prize?

Wilson glares, doesn't even pretend to like the man. "No, I wasn't," he replies harshly, turning away from the cop. "Frankly, I don't care about anything you have to say right now; I'm too busy worrying about my friend. You have no right to be here, so maybe you should get lost."

Tritter opens his mouth to say something, but doesn't get the chance. "Detective Tritter," comes from the doorway, and Wilson looks up to find Cuddy there, looking upset and worried, her eyes rimmed with red like she's been crying but she's still composed somehow. "Please go home. There's a time and place to talk about everything else surrounding Dr. House besides what's happening currently, and it's not now. The fact that you seem to think so is honestly disrespectful, and– I'm going to have to ask you to leave my hospital."

Tritter looks miffed, but he nods. Turning to Wilson first, he looks between him and then Cuddy. "Merry Christmas," he says quietly (ironically speaking to Jewish folks), and he leaves without another word. Thankfully. Wilson wants to hit the bastard just for having the balls to show up right now.

Cuddy gestures for Wilson to stand up and follow her, so he does so. They move together down the halls, not too fast but not too slow. Both clearly have things they want to say, but they say nothing until they get to Cuddy's office where they'll have privacy.

Wilson eyes the clock on the wall, the first one he's seen since earlier. It's around three in the morning. That explains why he feels so fucking exhausted.

Cuddy speaks first. "How are you holding up?"

Her voice is low, almost a whisper, like she's worried for him. Maybe she is, who knows. Wilson snorts at the question though; sure, obviously he's upset and the question is valid, but he's more worried about House than himself and everyone else should be too. "I'm... fine. Can't say I've had worse Christmases than this, though."

Cuddy nods in understanding. "I think I might have to agree with you on that," she says and breathes out an almost laugh, but there's no humor in it and it's more ironic than anything. It's quiet again, until she seems to remember what happened before they came here. "Oh, by the way, what the hell did Tritter want anyway?"

Wilson shrugs, standing around awkwardly as he tries to control his anger. "Probably to see how much more harm he could do, or to rub it all in and say he told us so or something. Who knows or even cares. I wasn't listening; couldn't really focus because I was too busy thinking and worrying about..." he waves his hand around, attempting to gesture that he means the entire situation (even though he really wants to just say 'House', but–), "...um, you know."

Cuddy nods again, chewing on her lip. She looks as tired and done as Wilson feels. "As much as I don't want to, I'll speak with him in a little while. Figure out what he was doing here."

And there's that silence again.

"How is he, Lisa?" Wilson finally asks after a beat, taking a seat on her couch. Cuddy does the same, sitting behind her desk. "I mean... House. Obviously."

"Well," she sighs, looking very tired, "They pumped his stomach but couldn't get all of the pills out. He was on dialysis and after that we gave him more naloxone, just in case. He's not conscious, but he's most likely going to be fine. However, he still needs to be observed for a while, just... just to be safe. It looks like things will be alright, though, so... don't worry." She takes a deep breath and Wilson watches as her eyes shift towards his hands. "...So what did it say? Was it... did he do it on purpose?"

"I, um... I don't know, exactly," Wilson admits with a shrug, his voice both soft and shaky. He doesn't look at Cuddy, keeping his eyes on the floor and whatever else he can look at that isn't her, but he knows her eyes have softened and she's probably looking at him like she pities him. "I haven't actually read it yet. I'm... afraid of what it might say."

His eyes flicker up to her face and determine what her expression actually is. He's not surprised to be right. Pity.

"You should read it," she tells him quietly, swallowing and looking away to the side. "We both know that he doesn't like suicidal people and death-seekers, so he wouldn't..." She stops, clearing her throat, sounding less confident as she goes on, "There must be a... a really good reason for him to do something so dramatic and so drastic like this... right?"

She sounds desperate and hopeful - Wilson nods, but at the same time, he doesn't know if he necessarily believes what she says, and he doesn't think Cuddy really does either; she just wants that reassurance, because she, too, cares about House, so of course she wants to hope for the best. Nobody wants to believe that someone that they care about, someone that they love just... doesn't want to live. Especially if they don't have a good reason as to why.

Sure, Wilson knows that House is miserable; he's depressed (though he denies it), mostly alone, and in pain all the time, but... why would he wait this long to kill himself if he wanted to and was going to do it? And okay, yeah, sure, House scorns death-seekers and the suicidal, but Wilson isn't stupid enough to believe House has never once thought about killing himself.

If Wilson were House, he probably would have, anyway. As sad as that is.

And hell, at this point Wilson's even a little convinced that maybe... just maybe this isn't the first time House has actually attempted suicide in his life.

It's... a little troubling to think about, but Wilson can't help it. He feels like Cuddy is in the same boat as him, though, thinking this, and he must admit that it does help a little to know that she's probably feeling the same. He often forgets that, though she's not House's best bud, Cuddy has still known House longer than Wilson has.

Cuddy stands after a long moment of silence. "I'm going to go see how things are going with him now," she says, moving around the desk. "You should go read that," she gestures to the paper, "someplace private, like your office, and I'll send someone to come and get you when you're done and when House is alright for sure and ready to be seen. Okay?"

Without an answer, she heads out. Wilson sits there for just a moment longer before getting up and leaving as well.

He feels uncomfortable heading to his office, dreading opening the paper and seeing what's written there. He steps off of the elevator when it reaches his floor, taking his time moving down the hall to his office.

He switches on the lights when he steps inside, sighing heavily as he shrugs off his winter coat, rolls up his sleeves and practically falls onto his couch, leaning back and closing his eyes. His head still hurts, his heart still aches, but... he has to read the note.

Unfolding it slowly, he finally reopens his eyes.

'You're a fucking idiot,' it starts, and Wilson rolls his eyes. Of course House would start off his suicide note by insulting his best friend, whom the note addressed to. Wilson almost wants to be annoyed, because then this is like something normal between them, but he isn't annoyed. Because this isn't normal. He keeps reading anyways. 'You have been one for years and you probably always will be; you could've gotten into serious trouble for lying for me about the prescriptions. You knew that, but you still covered my ass until Tritter got to you and made you talk. Or you went to him– whichever. I don't care. I... still can't believe you.

'Okay, I'm... not mad that you went to him; I knew– I know you were trying to help me, trying to get a better deal for me so that I wouldn't end up in prison, and yet I was an ungrateful, stubborn ass and didn't take the offer for rehab, because that's just who I am. And now it's too late; the deadline is tomorrow and Detective Asshat won't let me agree to the deal now that I've taken the Oxy from the pharmacy. The goddamn evidence is right fucking there in that book in the form of my signature and everything, and there's nothing that can be done to fix that.

'I guess I'm an idiot too, huh? And you put up with me. Have for all these years and you never once tried to get rid of me, though I don't understand why and I guess I never will. I know I go too far sometimes, I push and push and push because I want to know how long it'll take until this breaks, yet, no matter what I try, it never does. I want to know when you'll give up, but you never do. Maybe that's why I love you so much (and yeah, FYI, yes homo), (okay, I'm sorry, I'll be serious about this). And I... honestly, really don't deserve you, Jimmy. I never have.'

Wilson takes a shaky breath, wondering what this all even means before he's back to reading more.

'But anyway, because you told Tritter the truth and won't testify against me and put me in jail, and because he knows that you're my friend and that I love and care about you, and because he holds a grudge against me, he's going to try to get us both thrown in prison, I just know it. And I... I can't have that. I won't let it happen. That's why I'm doing this. If I'm gone, he can drop the vendetta, and you'll be fine. Your life won't be all kinds of screwed up once again because of Gregory House. That's... probably for the best, whether we like it or not.

'Ugh, you're calling me again. This is the third time, too. You're always worried about me, but for good reason, I suppose. I pretend to hate it, but the truth is that I really don't. I hope... I hope you know that.'

Wilson almost wants to smile at that, but he can't manage to. It's like... House's way of saying that he likes that Wilson cares so much. It's nice, really. It's... sweet.

'Anyway, there's so much I still want to say oddly enough, but we're lucky I'm even writing this at all, so. I just... I guess I wanted you to know that there's a reason for this, because there's a reason for everything. So this is it: this is my reason. It's not depression, it's not the chronic pain or because of the withdrawal, or because I'm really off my rocker (even though I kind of am, let's be honest here). It's because I caused a mess, I dragged you into it, and I frankly don't want to deal with the consequences because I don't know how to fix it, I don't know how to get out of it now. I don't necessarily want to die, but... maybe... it's just better, this way.'

Wilson stops reading for a second, takes a moment to close his eyes and just take a deep breath. He wishes this weren't real. But it is. God, he hates it. He's just glad that House is probably going to be okay. Hopefully.

Sighing out, he keeps going, determined to finish.

'I'm sorry, Wilson. Truly. This... my death... is one last thing you'll have to take care of for me. And I know– I know that you probably think I'm completely stupid for this, out of my goddamn mind, and really I don't blame you, but trust me when I tell you that I don't think there's another way to get out of this fucking mess. I also know that this isn't something that you want - you'd never want this; you need me around to need you too much, or else you'd go crazy - but... in the wise words of Jagger (what a philosopher, that man): you can't always get what you want. And... for that, I'm truly sorry.

'-House.'

Wilson wets his lips, wiping his wet eyes and cheeks with a quick swipe of the back of his hand before he neatly refolds the note, getting up to put it in one of the desk drawers for now so that it doesn't get lost.

He knows that he probably shouldn't be crying - House will be alright, after all - but he feels like it's his fault somehow. If he'd trusted House and given him the extra scripts when he said he needed them, then he wouldn't have stolen the prescription pad and forged Wilson's signature a half of a dozen times. If Wilson had never gone to Tritter for the deal that deep down he knew House would probably be too stubborn to take, then maybe... maybe this could've gone down differently.

If Wilson had tried harder to get House to take the deal. If Wilson hadn't let House go home alone last night. If Wilson skipped calling and just came straight over. If–

The knock on his door stops his thoughts completely. He doesn't remember even sitting down in the chair at his desk, but apparently he had. Checking the clock, he finds it's almost four. He could use some rest, but there's no way he's going to be able to without speaking with House first; he still hates what he sees behind closed eyelids and maybe talking will help soothe his tired, fearful mind.

"Dr. Wilson?" comes softly, timidly, from behind the door. Sounds like Cameron. She sounds sad. He doesn't blame her; he's sad, too.

"Can we come in?" comes next in a voice with an accent - a mix of Australian and British. Sounds like Chase, of course. He almost sounds kind of upset as well. Worried or tired, definitely. Wilson can relate.

"Yeah– yeah, sure," the oncologist answers tiredly but loud enough for them to hear, hiding his face in his hands, the hard wood of the desk hurting his elbows but he's embarrassed of the fact that he's been crying and doesn't want House's fellows to see him like this. He tries his best to look presentable in the next five seconds but doesn't think he does well. The door opens.

Chase and Cameron step into the office. Cameron has obviously been crying recently, and Chase looks sort of like he'd cried but maybe a while ago, if so.

"Cuddy send for me?" Wilson asks, standing and brushing nonexistent dirt off of his slacks. At Cameron's nod, Wilson nods back, but her expression makes him nervous. "Is..." he waves his hand around, moving both of them to his hips after, "is um... House... okay? Do you know for sure yet?"

"He's going to be fine," Chase replies with a nod of his own and a small smile. Wilson breathes out a sigh of utter relief, almost needing to sit back down. "He's stable, but resting. You should come and see him."

"I- I'm sure he'd like it if– if you were the one there, sitting beside his bed when he wakes up," Cameron adds quietly, sounding a little dejected but obviously trying to cover it up. Wilson knows she wants to be there, but he also knows that she's right - House would prefer it to be Wilson at his bedside, probably would prefer Wilson to be the first one he sees when he comes to.

"Okay," Wilson says, moving toward them. Chase and Cameron move out of the office and Wilson follows, turning off the lights as he goes and closing the door behind himself. He walks beside them down the hall.

"How are you doing?" Cameron questions after a moment or two of quiet. Wilson can't help but to wonder why everyone is asking him that when House is the one in the hospital, but he knows they're just being sympathetic because he's House's friend. They're treating him like he's the family member, and he guesses that... maybe he kind of is.

"Well," Wilson starts, exhaling, "All things considered, I... could always be better. I'm okay, though. Exhausted, sad, angry, but... okay."

Cameron gently touches his shoulder in understanding for just a second before moving away. Wilson knows she probably wants to comfort him and he appreciates it, but he's glad she's backing off. Chase says nothing on the way for the most part.

Wilson sees Foreman inside of the hospital room before he sees House. He seems to be just checking around and making sure everything is alright, chatting over his shoulder with Cuddy, who stands by the sliding glass door, which is open. Wilson is too far to hear what's being said, but all seems okay.

At the sound of their footsteps, Cuddy turns and looks at them. She's almost smiling but not quite, moving and meeting them halfway. Foreman is behind her now, looking as awfully tired as the rest of them.

Cuddy has a silent question in her eyes when she looks at Wilson. She's smiling now, tight-lipped and full of concern. "Did you read it?" Wilson nods once, averting and avoiding her eyes after that. He doesn't want to start crying again.

Foreman raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn't comment on anything. Cuddy leans forward after a second of staring at the oncologist, wrapping her arms tightly around him in a supportive hug.

"I spoke with Tritter and I have good news," she says into his ear before pulling away, tapping his cheek with her palm. She basically echoes Chase and Cameron's words next, "But for now you should go sit with House. He's still asleep at the moment but he'll want to see you first. I'll text you the details in a little while about Tritter."

Wilson doesn't say anything, but accepts a hug from Cameron as well before Cuddy leads House's fellows away. Wilson stands there for a moment, taking deep breaths before he continues walking towards House's room. He pauses at the door, but then heads in and closes it behind himself.

House looks a little more pale than normal, but okay, as if he's just... sleeping. Wilson guesses he is, actually. The younger man double checks the blinds, making sure they're drawn before he moves closer. He puts down the bed rail, sits and then pulls the chair closer to the bed until his knees are touching the side.

He starts to move his hand without really thinking, but then freezes, hesitating. His eyes flicker from House's hand to his face and then Wilson decides he just doesn't care. He takes House's hand in his own, his thumb brushing over the diagnostician's knuckles.

He finds something to stare at and then he stares for a long time, enjoying the calmer things around him in the still of the night. The beeping from the heart monitor, the low hum of the TV, the ticking of the wall clock, the steady rising and falling of House's chest, the warmth of his hand, the sounds of his soft, deep and even breaths.

Wilson doesn't know how long he's been sitting here now exactly. He can't even guess. Maybe it's been ten minutes, maybe it's been an hour, but he doesn't care. He'll stay here all night long. However long he has to.

"Fuck, Wilson, do you have to sit there... with that kicked puppy look on your face like that...?"

Wilson jumps a little in his seat, startled, but looks at House's face to find him barely awake, the blue of his eyes peeking out from underneath half-open eyelids and long, pretty eyelashes. His voice is a bit raspy and thick with sleep, and he groans after he moves even just a little.

"You..." Wilson begins, sitting up straight and letting go of House's hand, "You stupid fucking asshole."

House winces when his hand drops against his thigh. "Ah, goddammit, I– my leg hurts so bad," he hisses, his voice nearly a whisper, sounding choked up and on the verge of tears as he grabs his leg and just holds onto it. Wilson can feel his eyes soften in sympathy before he hardens his expression again.

"Good, I sure hope it does," he grumbles harshly as he yanks his phone out of his pocket to text Cuddy and tell her that House has woken up and they're talking now, and the oncologist only regrets the tone he'd used with House a little after putting the phone back down. The diagnostician looks at him like he doesn't quite understand, and Wilson exhales, biting down on his lip. "Hurting... means... you're still alive. And that's a good thing."

Wilson swallows then, thinking, trying to figure out how to say what he wants to say without fucking crying again. "House... how–" he tries, clearing his throat before his voice breaks, "How could you do that to us? To Cuddy, to Cameron, Chase and Foreman... to– to me...? We... could've gotten through this whole thing with Tritter, I... Lisa and I would've done every fucking thing we could have for you. You– you didn't have to resort to this."

House sighs, closing his eyes, sort of looking a little guilty. "I don't feel like talking about this," he says calmly, his face blank except for the look of exhaustion in his eyes when he reopens them.

"Too fucking bad," Wilson snaps, not caring what House wants or how he feels right now. "I know you're hurting and don't want to deal with anything else, but– you have to know how much this hurts for me, too. What you did–"

"I knew it was going to hurt you!" House interjects with a slight raise of his voice, sounding like he's getting annoyed. "And I didn't care! So what do you want me to say, Jimmy? That I'm sorry? That I was wrong for running away like you do?"

"Oh, shut the fuck up, Greg," Wilson almost shouts and loves the way House seems so taken aback at that, but still he stops, takes a breath and lowers his voice before continuing on. No need to alert any nurses. "Contrary to popular belief, you do care because you're not a totally heartless bastard–"

"Who says I'm not?" House interrupts again, but Wilson ignores him, carrying on.

"And you were wrong," he continues. "You know you shouldn't have done it - any of it. The– the thermometer, the not apology, the fucking Oxy and my prescription pad. You know you fucked up, and we– we were going to fix it." He sighs, exasperated. "Did you even try to take Tritter's deal before attempting to kill yourself or did you just assume–"

"I did fucking try," House growls, knuckles turning white from how hard he grips the hospital bedding. "I gave that asshat a call last night and told him that I would take the deal and go to rehab. He said it was no longer on the table because he didn't need your testimony anymore, all because of some 'new evidence' from the pharmacy, which would be my signature for the Oxy. Who even knows how the hell he got it, but– it doesn't matter. You would've been charged with aiding and abetting. And look, I know that I'm selfish, I always have been and will be until the day I do eventually die, but I... I couldn't do that to you, Wilson."

At those words, Wilson freezes, baffled. "He– he what?" House rolls his eyes at him with a slight shrug (as much as a man can shrug while lying down), obviously not wanting to repeat himself but Wilson had heard him just fine; he just can't believe it. He stops and takes a moment to think - that bastard really fucking did that, huh? He would.

Wilson really, truly, irrevocably hates him.

It's silent for a while after that, uncomfortably so. Wilson wets his lips after he's calmed down some, leaning forward and reaching for House's hand again. "Hey," he says softly, trying to get the other man to look at him. "Look at me. Please."

House does after a moment, reluctant. He looks so tired. Wilson can't help but to feel bad and want to make it all better.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, squeezing the hand in his own gently. Based on the note, he'd thought that House was just making assumptions and acting prematurely, you know, as he does, but... he'd never considered that House truly did feel trapped.

"Yeah," House murmurs apologetically, his fingers curling into Wilson's. "Me... me too."

"Please, just– don't do something like this again. You need to be here with me - alive - to torment me, you know."

"I don't know, I could probably do it from the grave, too. I don't believe in an afterlife, but I'm that annoying of a bastard that I would find a way somehow. Just so I could make sure that you'd never forget me."

Wilson gives him a slightly annoyed look at that. "House, please," he protests softly, and House briefly smiles, rolls his eyes in a playful way.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry, I... I know, okay? I won't do it again."

Wilson nods at that before swallowing again. His phone goes off with incoming texts from Cuddy and he picks it up to check them.

'Sorry, I must've dozed off. He's doing okay? How bad is the pain?' is the first text. The second reads: 'Oh, and about Tritter- the ass apparently came to say that the deal is still on? I didn't know it was off in the first place but he said he'd give House more time to decide what he wants to do. I honestly can't believe he's still pressing for this at all, but all we can do is deal with it. Please get House to say yes.'

Wilson responds to her messages and then sets his phone down to find House watching him thoughtfully.

"Tritter apparently told Cuddy," Wilson begins to explain, "that the rehab deal was still on and he'd give you some extra time to decide if you want to take it. Like Cuddy said to me just now, I can't believe the bastard still has the balls to pursue this at all, but... what do you–"

"I'll do it," House utters, interrupting. Wilson gives him a look, but House shakes his head. "I'm serious. I'll take the damn deal if this will all just go away."

"Okay," Wilson replies, reaching for House's hand once more. It's quiet again after that, but then he begins speaking again. "I, um..." he starts, but doesn't know where to go with this now, what to bring up next.

"You read the note," House says for him and he finds himself nodding again - there's that to talk about, too. House nods as well. "I meant what I said. About you being an idiot." After a short pause, the older man all but smiles. "And I guess everything else, too. Maybe. Not sure yet."

Wilson actually does smile at that, making a decision that could either be good or bad. Standing up, his heart starts racing all over again and he's glad he's not the one hooked up to the heart monitor. He slowly moves closer, a little unsure, and then leans down to press a soft kiss to House's lips, sort of just... testing the waters.

Wilson truthfully can't say he'd never thought this could be a possibility for them. Maybe he'd toyed with the idea after they'd met and he'd gotten divorced to Sam, before he started working at Princeton Plainsboro, before Stacy came along, before the infarction. Maybe he had thought about it then.

Maybe the idea presented itself again over the years - after Stacy left House, after Bonnie left Wilson, and after he left Julie, when he came to stay at House's apartment. He'd always shot the idea down without stopping to consider what if, but maybe... maybe he shouldn't have.

He's happily surprised when House kisses him back; slow, gentle, careful. Everything House isn't.

Wilson pulls away reluctantly, his forehead touching House's as they just... breathe together.

"We'll get through this," Wilson says with eyes closed, fingers running through House's graying hair. "We'll do it together, House. Okay?"

House doesn't speak - he simply nods, hums in response. Wilson withdraws from him and returns to his seat, taking House's hand in his own again.

"So you love me, huh?" he teases warmly after some time has passed, reaching over with his free left hand to brush his fingers over House's cheek affectionately. The diagnostician doesn't protest and it's a good sign; Wilson smiles again.

"In all but name, Jimmy," House quips back with his own smile as he leans into the touch, tired blue eyes twinkling in the dim fluorescent lighting, "...or something like that."

—