They stared as he waited for a reply, even though he knew he wasn't about to get over. Over the years, Wilson had come to accept this about House but from time to time, he just felt like fighting and kicking at the norms that weren't normal at all. Below them, the cameras clicked and film rolled while Dr. Sebastian Charles soaked up the limelight (as House put it); before him, Wilson couldn't help but get soaked up into the diagnostician's piercing blue gaze.

Thanks to his careful practice, he was able to keep his expression constant—but perhaps the disbelief of House's words seamlessly morphed into the disbelief of his own thoughts, the tiny hand that was prodding him on the shoulder and murmuring incoherently into his ear but somehow still made sense.

In that long silence of staring, Wilson wanted to kiss him, just to grab his tie-less shirt collar, pull him close and relish in the unknown sensation of their lips pressed together, if only for an instant. It was inexplicable and unimaginable and he feared that House, in his infinite wisdom, might read the desire floating about in his shiny brown eyes and—God, who knew how that would play out?

So he buried it, stifled it, threw duct tape over its mouth and shoved it behind the oldest boxes in the attic of his chest, hopefully to be forgotten.

But he didn't want to forget that feeling, he mused forlornly, turning away from House without a word. It felt right in his heart and mind, unlike any of this had been with his wives. Yet in this life, it could never feel right or left or up or down or diagonally because Wilson was only half. When the feeling got in the air, it was invasive and strange, mixing all wrong with the screwy vibes emanating from his friend. Neither could change, the stubborn waves, the stubborn men. And for Wilson, it burned, it burned, it burned his insides as if he'd swallowed scalding oil and even though he threw back a glass of ice water when he was finally alone in his office, nothing could soothe those blisters. Nothing except sand, mental sand, emotional sand, so he kept burying it, this time with a glint of gold so when he came searching for it—hopefully, maybe—the metal detector could help him remember. And until then, persona—for House could never know.

A/N: I have a love-hate relationship with the tension in that scene. (shrugs)