#hilson!

The day was oddly calm. One case, solved the same day and Gregory was on his way home, the pain in his thigh was worse than usually, this was considered one of his bad leg days.

House walked through the hospital hallway, heading back towards his office. He was irritated, despite the unnerving quiet day he's had, the pain in his thigh was too much. Each damn move of the muscle caused an ache to shoot through each muscle, each nerve - it was simply unbearable. The Vicodin wasn't helping, he's been downing the pills every hour like clockwork, no effect. The pain didn't stop no matter what he tried. By some miracle he managed to get through the day without murdering anybody. He looked normal to everyone, the same old cranky old bastard, to everyone but Wilson - He knew. He knew the way House's limp changed slightly, the way his brows furrowed more than usually, he knew that all these signs meant that House was in worse pain than usually. House of course would rather die than admit he needs help, that ended with his smug remarks and sarcastic comments when Wilson tried to help him. Wilson silently agreed to just randomly show up at House's apartment, thinking that maybe if he just rested he'd be easier to talk to.

House arrived home quick, simply just wanting to shut everything out. He stepped inside his apartment, the cane tapping against the ground with loud, echoing tap, tap, tap's. His bag was quickly discarded, tossed somewhere in the hallway. His eyes looked in the direction of his liquor cabinet, a quick decision that required no thinking - anything to just dim the damn pain in his thigh. He settled onto the couch, body trembling just slightly. The wind howled through the streets, the cold breeze blowing into the living room where he sat. His gaze was fixated on the items on his coffee table - booze, cigar, Vicodin, kitchen knife and his cane which rested against the table. The pain was too much, too unbearable, each step felt like hell.

Before he could even bother stopping himself, the lid of the booze bottle fell to the floor with a light Clack that was loud enough to fill the lonely and unbearable silence in the room. Half the bottle was gone in mere seconds, his body welcomed the all too familiar burn that ran down his throat and into his stomach. His hands shook as they set the bottle down, grabbing the cigar instead. He hesitated, staring at the bottle of Vicodin before picking it up and throwing it against the wall. The pills shattered all over the floor, the plastic container missing a few pieces around the bottom.

"Stupid fucking pills that don't do shit" House groaned to himself, hands gripping his head. His eyes scanned his thigh, the aching won't stop. Then his attention flew towards the knife he had previously laid out neatly on his coffee table.

Wilson had spent the entire day thinking of a way to try and cheer up House, or at least help him. He thought that maybe a drink would help, so he got them a bottle of old fashioned scotch and drove to House's apartment. When he arrived, he decided to come in without knocking, more like he used the spare key he stole from House's bedside drawer awhile ago incase of emergencies, though nothing prepared him for what he was about to witness. He took the elevator up, walked down the hallway and as quietly as possibly stepped inside the apartment. He was about to say something when he saw the scene. House sat there, body trembling while he pressed a knife into his thigh. The blood patch on his jeans grew by the second, House was groaning and gasping while watching his hand move with careful precision.

"Greg what the hell!" Wilson yelled, running over in an instant. He slapped the knife out of House's hand, using a table cloth he saw laying around to apply pressure onto the cut. House didn't respond at first, the pain was unbearable and the shock of suddenly seeing Wilson wasn't helping. His hand was shaking, his expression a mix between pain and shock while he stared at the hand on his thigh.

Wilson didn't speak, instead he focused on getting the wound clean and bandaged. He took in the scenery around them, half broken Vicodin bottle, half drank booze bottle, the knife know tinted with dark red - he had expected House to feel worse than usually but didn't expect him to go this far. When he finished with the wound, he stood and looked at the mess of a man who sat on the couch. His gaze was soft, laced with worry and empathy.

"Gregory. What the hell happened?" Wilson spoke after a moment, crouching down so he could sit in front of House.

"What does it look like happened smart ass?" Gregory replied, tone bitter and harsh. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I wanted to help you, clearly you need it." Wilson replied, eyes furrowed into a frown while his hands found a place on the couch next to house. "Just what was your plan when you dug that knife into your thigh?"

"I was thinking of giving myself another fun looking scar." House replied, almost instantly though his words held no fierce tone behind him, despite how much he tried to mask it, his thigh was throbbing and aching - too much to not show it.

"Can you drop the act for a moment? I am trying to help." James spoke with an annoyed sigh, the most logical thing to do at the moment would be to call Cuddy, have House admitted, but knowing Greg he would find a way to escape and possibly will make it worse.

"Never asked you to. What part of 'leave me alone' did you not get?" Greg spoke, the usual bitterness in his tone was replaced by something deeper, something he didn't dare put into words. He himself couldn't even figure out just what the tone behind his words was, he wanted Wilson to stay, care for him but also hated how weak and pathetic he seemed at the moment.

"I was worried House." James sighed. "Please let me stay and help you, or I will call Cuddy and let her deal with you." He wasn't actually going to call cuddy, knowing House he would murder him if he did. Although it was a bluff, it seemed to work. Greg's impression softened, the bitterness switched to something soft - a cry for help maybe? Without another word, Wilson stood up and made his way onto the couch to settle down beside his best friend. "Is it your leg?" He asked, tone careful as if handling something fragile - laced with worry for his dear friend.

"Yea." Greg responded, voice quiet. He stared down at the bandages now on his thigh. "It's worse than usually." A soft groan escaped his lips, his fists clenched into tight fists at his sides. Wilson nodded as an answer, slowly he reached over, placing his hands on the aching muscle. He began massaging soft circles into the skin, first near his knee, then carefully the sides of his thigh to not disturb the fresh cut, then his hands moved higher up his thigh, he hesitated for a moment, glancing up at his friend to look for signs of discomfort. Greg had his eyes closed, his breathing shaky but slightly more relaxed, meaning the massaging was working. James smiled softly to himself, his hands continuing to massage up and then working their way back down. He continued this for about 10 minutes, the entire time making sure he was firm enough to apply the needed pressure but gentle enough to not hurt him. When he stopped, Greg had opened his eyes slowly, looking at Wilson through half lidded eyes.

"Thanks." Greg muttered, his gaze scanned Wilson up and down. For a split moment, it felt as if the world around them faded; the howling of the wind outside, the ticking of the clock, the sound of his upstairs neighbours arguing, it all faded. The two simply just looked at one another for a moment, taking in the way the dimmed living room lights fell on the facial features.

Wilson was the first one to break the lingering between them, he slowly stood up with a small crack from his knee that sounded impossibly loud inside the nearly silent apartment.

"You haven't eaten yet, I'll cook." Wilson spoke, his gaze avoided Greg's, not out of any negative sort of feelings, but more because he was confused by what exactly he was feeling. Yes he was worried for his dear friend, but this ache? God this was different. It was causing his throat to close up, his head a mess as he made his way over to the kitchen. This isn't the first time he had to worry about Greg, but it was different. As he got the what he needed to make some simple pasta, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe it was his fault. He knew that the pain in his leg wasn't, but to the point of possibly killing himself? Was it because Wilson left for so long? The guilt was quick to pool up in his stomach, the thought made him dizzy - Was it really his fault? The reason Wilson didn't want to stay near House, it wasn't because he was angry or hated him. It was the opposite, he loved him. That's what made it so painful. Wilson shook his head, putting the food on the stove while mixing the sauce. He sighed softly, frowning while he stared at the sauce.

Greg stayed seated on his couch, his mind in a conflict with himself. He was trying to make sense of what just happened, the entire time, his mind was barely keeping up with what was happening. He was overwhelmed? No, it was something else - something deep inside him. Wilson had always been important to him, there was something more than just him being his best friend, there had to be. It didn't make sense otherwise. His body froze when the realisation hit him, this weird warm fuzzy feeling was love. He had all the symptoms for it. Sure he was treating it like some disease, which it was, love was dangerous. it could ruin them forever, House could lose his best friend forever.

The rest of the evening was spend in silence, they ate quietly, not daring to speak. They had a conflict with their own feelings, not daring to admit them. After they finished eating, they sat on the couch, some old black and white movie playing in the background. Wilson let his hand lightly brush against the others thigh, the touch as light as a feather said more than any of their words could in that moment. It was a taste, a delicate touch that said more than anything else. Greg glanced down, his shaky hand carefully settling on top of Wilson's. It was a simple gesture, simple yet so filled with feeling. The two stayed like that, not moving, not talking, just enjoying one another.

House fell asleep shortly after, his head sliding down and landing on Wilson's shoulder. Wilson didn't dare move, instead he smiled softly to himself.