How the episode Resignation should have ended. For all of those anti-Honey shippers out there. House goes home, and gets depressed, and calls Wilson up in the middle of the night. Anyway, House/Wilson slash, AU, and all of the usual disclaimers.

"The time is going to come when you stop feeling sorry for yourself. Yeah, you were broken when you were young and you never got over it. You were damaged when you were young, and now you take it out on everyone. The time is going to come when you say that enough is enough. The time is going to come when you stop beating yourself up. The time is going to come when you see that all you need is love," Everclear

When the phone rings at 3:00 in the morning, I know it's House, without even picking it up, and yet I still find myself debating whether or not I should answer it, but in the end, I pick up on the fifth ring.

"Hey," he says as I bring the receiver to my ear. Even though he hasn't said anything, I start getting dressed, and searching for my keys. "Do you think you can come over?" he asks, sucking in his breath.

"I'll be right there," I explain, still searching for the car keys, and eventually finding them in my underwear drawer. God only knows how they got in there. "You want a coffee?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"As long as you're not gonna keep putting happy pills in It," he shoots back, which is exactly what I was expecting. "Yeah, okay," he says quietly, after a short pause. The thing about House is that he really doesn't like people, at all.

It's not an act. He really is that big of a jerk. Most of the time. He does like me though. At least we have that. So when he's feeling lonely, depressed, or worse, I'm the one he calls, even if it is the middle of the night.

"Here," I push myself through the door, cups in hand. He's sitting on the couch, an orange bottle cupped between his palms, rolling it around, and around. House doesn't pick up the coffee, even after I take a sip from each one, to prove that they're both safe.

"So, I went out with that girl tonight," he starts to explain, putting the bottle down on the table, unopened. "We talked, and I wasn't nice, or charming, or even funny, and she wasn't bothered by it. She was even okay with—well everything."

"I'm going to skip the park where I pretend to be horrified that you told a compete stranger all of your dirty little secrets so we an get to the part where you tell me that I had to come over here at about 4:00 AM so you could tell me you're in love. And then I can kill you and maybe even get some sleep."

"I'm not in love, and neither was she. The woman took one look at me and thought, project. My telling her that I'm a drug addict, who eats meat, and sleeps around, only proved her point. Anyway, I could of dealt with that, especially if I just brought her back here and then never called her again afterwards, but I didn't do that."

"You didn't sleep with a woman who you have no intention of perusing, who you aren't even remotely interested in, and then you came home, and got drunk and decided to cal me…because you're having an ethical dilemma?"

"No—I mean. I was just…I was thinking maybe I shouldn't have dosed you. That was just cruel, mean-spirited. But—antidepressants, those things can be dangerous, it says so in the TV commercials—"

"Is this you not wanting to take them now that everything is out in the open, or are you just mad? Because—okay. I'm sorry, but I knew you wouldn't take them on your own and I thought they might help."

"With my fictional depression?" House actually smiles at that one. Then he reaches for the coffee cup, taking a small cautious sip, before actually starting to drink it.

"It helped, didn't it? They did their job, at least, somewhat anyway. You were—well maybe not happy, but you were in a better mood than I'd seen you in, in years. You were smiling, and enjoying yourself, taking fewer pills."

"Technically I was taking more, I just didn't know it," he tells me with a slight chuckle. "And I wasn't happy."

"No, but maybe your definition of happiness is completely unobtainable. You've never been happy, which means you don't know what it would feel like. So, you've created an idea in your mind based on TV and movies."

"It's a good thing you're not a lawyer, or you would have even less money then you do, after those three divorces of yours." Then his voice gets quiet, almost shy. "Give me the pills."

"Why. You said you didn't like the way they make you feel, so why would you want them?" I ask, biting down against my lip a little, nervously. I'm almost afraid to answer.

"Maybe I changed my mind," he offers me another shrewd little smile. "Or maybe the pills did it for me."

"On their own, anti-depressants can only do so much. That's why you are supposed to go and see a psychiatrist if you want them, so they can talk to you, evaluate you, keep an eye on you."

"I agreed to take the damn happy pills, what else do you want fro me?" he asks, popping a handful of Vicodin. I've got an answer to that, of course, but I don't think I need to say it out loud. He knows how I feel. So, I hand him the bottle and House places it down next to the other one. Then he puts his hand on top of mine, leaning back on the couch, and sipping his coffee. "Maybe I'll flush the pills down the toilet," he offers with yet another tiny smile. "Happiness is over rated anyway."