A/N: Title taken from a portion of Junot Diaz's The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. (Go read it!)

"Home…sweet home…?"

"Cut the platitudes, Wilson. This still isn't home."

"It's your apartment…just think of staying with me as another…vacation."

When the front door finally clicks behind them, their eyes meet briefly and share the silent knowledge that neither of them is convinced by Wilson's weak argument. Without a medical license, without that concrete proof of House's sanity, a vacation this could never be, even if it is with the ultimate security blanket—and, of course, neither of them would admit that either.

Just keep up the snark, and everything is normal. Just keep the distance, and the last four months never happened.

Hand gripped securely around his cane, House begins the limp to his bedroom. "It'll only be a minute, and no—" he says sharply just as Wilson opens his mouth. "I don't need help. I was committed for hallucinations, not idiocy, remember?"

And then—a laugh. But he knows they're alone in the apartment, and Wilson surely doesn't laugh with that high of a falsetto.

"Remember what you said?"

No.

She's gone, she's supposed to be gone.

"Remember what I said?"

Amber, leaning impatiently against the hallway walls, a scoff hidden in her words, is staring right through him, and all he can do is try not to fall to the ground and through the paper-thin barrier between control and chaos. And he can't say a word. No. Wilson can't know this bruising infirmity, that the panacea of Mayfield was really a placebo, a fucking placebo…

"You said you had some…I don't even remember the exact wording…some secret desire to get Wilson into your bedroom." Saying this, she saunters boldly up to him, clearly fighting the urge to roll her eyes. "Maybe you thought you were joking, but, let's face it, House." A pause, and in it he realizes she's speaking without her impish overtone. "Your subconscious knows better."

He risks a peek back at Wilson, whose eyebrows are pushed low above his eyes in the confusion practically pulsated from his being.

"Your subconscious also yelled that you loved him, but you just yelled back, 'Enough!' You know what?" she sighs, almost like giving up but truly far from it. "It's my turn. Enough. You know what to do. You always do, even if you don't like to admit it."

Turning back to face the curious brown eyes, and all he can manage is looking away and a quiet mutter. "On second thought, it would be nice to have some help."

Wilson nods, no questions asked, because if the past summer has taught him anything it's the power of trust among the skeptical, of recovery among the self-proclaimed supermen. And the walk is quiet, save for the periodic thump of the cane on hardwood and the sighs dancing through the air just long enough to skew the mood.

Arriving, House makes no move to fetch a suitcase or even empty his old one from Mayfield.

Arriving, Wilson makes no move to fetch one for him. He stares at House, who stares at the floor, and then at Wilson, and then beyond to Amber sitting in that same chair where she terrorized him every morning as soon as his eyes greeted the morning sun.

"Say it…" she sighs.

Nothing.

"Just say it, House. Look at him, that's right, lock your pupils on his own"—and this time he's following without backtalk—"and say the magic words: 'Wilson, I love you.'"

Silence.

"Was that really not descriptive enough for you? Come on, you're Dr. Gregory Stoic-as-Bricks House." Disbelief pounding through the air, and Wilson stands there, understanding yet not at all, hands in pockets and trying not to say something too soon. "Try this:

"'Wilson, I would die without you.'"

Step once to begin—and Amber finally pauses, just for a moment—and Wilson's attention flies to the blue eyes clouded with something foreign—

"'Wilson, if you would love me like I love you, no one else but us would know true happiness.'"

Step twice to be certain—and Amber tilts her head in interest—and Wilson tries to decipher a twisted code hidden in his silent actions—

"'Wilson…you are my life.'" But none of it she says without an overwhelming sense of boredom.

Step three times to close the distance—and Amber wants to smile, but can't—and Wilson finally decides it's time to speak—"House…?"

Hands carefully line his face and House leans in to kiss him, gently and passionately, his lips moving slowly in a tantalizing rhythm against Wilson's, fingers carving trails through floppy brown hair…

"I remember my first kiss with Wilson," Amber muses from her corner.

And Wilson hasn't pushed him away yet, instead seizing his shirt and pulling him closer, tighter, shoving his tongue down House's throat in an attempt to reach his heart, succeeding with every passing second.

"It was like falling in love with a god…omnipotent and such…with eyes elsewhere. There was always an ulterior purpose in the agendas of gods. Your name was sprinkled all over his and he barely knew it, House."

Within the shortest imaginable speck of time, House has fallen onto Wilson, bouncing slightly on the mattress in the clumsiness of it all, and their hands are clawing desperately to each other's cores, shredding any bit of clothing that gets in their way. No time for words—they've had ten years of words, but in this explosion, the fog will blow away and their meanings will be all that's left, all that matters.

"I suppose you could say I was jealous…big surprise there."

Skin against skin, pure nothingness dividing them at last, moving as one, with guttural "I love yous" in a language only they could comprehend being thrown into their open mouths, smiles pressed into their cheeks whenever the chance arises—this is what's been lurking around the edges of their conversation, this is what makes sense.

"I was so incredibly jealous. That first night of that 'joint custody' agreement…I seduced him. I didn't want him to go. It was my fault we were late. But…in the heat of it all, he moaned something…odd. Different from the norm. And it sounded more like your name than mine."

Ecstasy. Fireworks flashing in bright colors of redemption.

"That's when I knew it was all over. But I wouldn't let go…refused…prolonging the inevitable."

Wilson lays his head on House's heaving chest, almost nuzzling into the arm around his shoulders. And then Amber laughs again, only the slightest titter.

"A-Amber?" His eyes cast a wary glance to her corner. "…wasn't there two seconds ago."

House wants to say: Yes she was.

House wants to say: You can see her too?

But he refrains, oblivious, overjoyed, and frightened all at the same time and it's twisting his heart in a knot.

Cue return of her impish smirk; her figure begins to wisp away in a burst of cold wind, but her voice remains as strong as ever. "Not everything is a hallucination, boys."