You sat in the corner, cane thumping, just watching as your thoughts race across the board. You didn't know what to do, there was nothing you could do but wait. Wait for a sign, any sign, that all hope was not yet lost. But alas, no finger on the still hand twitched.

You'd be over there holding that hand, but not for the fear you if he were to wake and find you there, so you kept your but firmly planted on your seat. It was enough, you guess, that you were even there at all, watching him. You knew, kind of, the pain he was going through for your leg, and you knew how it felt to be between the world of the conscious and the world of the dead. There is only one thing you wish for at times like those and that is comfort. But you were always to proud to ask.

He was to proud too.

You were surprised he even let you tag alone to his doctor's appointment, but you knew he was just as scared as you were and even if he'd had told you no, don't come, you found a way to come with anyway.

You just wish there was something you could do. You long for that sign of hope too.

For the past 6 hours he has done nothing but puke, drink, take your precious vicodin, and sleep. But maybe, you think, you're alright with that because he won't remember a single word of what was said and you'd had some very emotional moments with him that you'd rather he didn't bring up later on. (you did find it funny that he was afraid of dolphins; you won't let him forget that one too easily.)

You realize then that though you may come across to him as uncaring and shrewd, deep down he realizes that you do love him in an odd way; you proved that to him when you stuck by him even as he was puking his guts out all over you. You had even tried to make it half enjoyable too with your snide joke-remarks. And you've come to realize he must love you in a way too to let you get away with any of it. Heck, he asked for you to promise to let him die here, in your home, with you, not at his place, all alone.

And it scares you to think that you may have to go through with that promise because he's still not showing any signs of being with the living.

You'd kill yourself, you think, if anything were to ever happen to James. He's truly the only thing keeping you here, (what now that Cuddy's gone), and it scares you how much you actually depend on your friend. You never had that type of connection with anyone before and you doubt you ever will again. Or get the chance to.

Looking at him, you desperately want him to wake up; no, you need him to. Yet that hand hanging over the side of the couch still remains limp.

It shocks you then to realize all of a sudden that you can't remember the last time you actually hugged your best friend. You knew that neither of you were ever a touchy-feely type of person, but by God, he has cancer, the least you could do was let him know that you're there for him.

So that's surprisingly what you do, even if he may never know it. You slowly lift you and your aching leg and trudge over to sit by your best friend.

All you can do is stare at him.

You'll hire two hookers to pose with him, more him around then, but you wouldn't do a simple thing like leaning down and placing your arms around him. Your body just wouldn't seem to respond as much as you wish it to.

Your hand does somehow reach out and grab his though. It's freezing.

Oh poor Wilson; how you wish his remark of a jerk like you deserving cancer had been true. You'd take his pain any day, but his words had hurt you more then you'd ever let on.

And somehow knowing this helped you in your plight because your body finally responded and you released his hand as you simultaneously brought his slight form as close to your chest as it had been in a very long time.

It had probably only last a few seconds in reality, but they were the longest few seconds of your life. Part of you wanted him to wake up then, just to see what would happen, the other part knew it would be too awkward and would probably freak him out. Heck, it was freaking you out. Sex was, after all, the only affection you'd ever known and that thought in itself was enough for you to release James immediately. You didn't like him like that. You loved him yes, but like you would a brother, never like you would Stacey.

But you hugged him. For the first time since the infraction you actually touched him for longer than two seconds. It was, sadly, too much and you got up and resumed your spot on the chair

The pain in your leg seemed to be finally becoming too much because you had to try to close your eyes. It was a losing battle obviously because two hours later you're still awake.

In desperation you look over at the hand, not expecting any movement at all, but then you see a twitch of the fingers and your heart leaps. Your hope had been restored. You get up, your mask back, and hand him a glass to quench his parched tongue, but it is also so you can make sure he's really okay without him knowing you're doing so.

He is.

And try as you might, your heart is convinced it was the hug that pulled him through and not the drugs.

For once in your life, you let your heart win.