Hello, once again my adoring fans (yeah, I'm shocked, too). Here is yet another oneshot. Actually, I was going to ask – if you read this, please tell me if you think I should keep it as a oneshot, or add a chapter or thirteen? I kinda like writing the House/Wilson fics. I'm not sure why, but it's fun. Anyway, tell me your ideas, and have fun reading (ahem and reviewing).

"And that concludes tonight's documentary on the Banana Slug."

The rather plump man smiled toothily at the camera, his thick glasses slipping off his nose just before the show was cut to the commercials.

"That was…fascinating," Wilson said dumbly. He was still in shock that House had even sat through the whole thing. It was, of course, House's evil plan to try and bore Wilson right out the door. It had been three weeks since Wilson showed up at his place, suitcase in tow. By the look on his face that night, House knew that Wilson would be staying for a while. But he missed having his apartment to himself, and not having to worry about someone whining at him to do the dishes.

"I knew you'd enjoy it," he said smugly. "And up next…an in-depth look at the life of the sea cucumber." Wilson's groan instantaneously brought a smile to his face.

"OK, fine," he snapped, getting to his feet. "I give up. You want me gone? Then you got it. I'm outta here." He stomped off toward the door, picking up his jacket on the way. House kicked his legs up onto the couch where his friend had been sitting only seconds before, and switched the channel to the hockey game. He knew he was being stupid, and that as soon as the door shut behind Wilson, he was going to be flooded by loneliness.

"Don't be such a baby," he grumbled as Wilson threw open the door. Wilson turned, trying his best to keep the fury out of his voice.

"What?"

"You know perfectly well that I don't want you to leave." It was a few moments, but House heard the door click shut behind him, followed by the sound of Wilson's coat being thrown to the floor.

"Right. So the endless marathon of mind-numbingly dull T.V., that's just your way of telling me that you're glad I'm here?" House could see his friend's reflection in the television, and was not at all surprised to see his hands firmly placed on his hips.

"What can I say, I'm a sucker for educational television," he said with a shrug. Wilson did not seem too amused.

"What do you want, House?" The tone of his voice suggested that House stop the one-sided banter.

"I…I want you to stay," he answered quietly. Wilson, who was anticipating more sarcasm, was completely thrown off by this.

"Are you serious?" he asked unsurely.

"I said it, didn't I?" House glanced over at Wilson, whose jaw had hit the floor, and slid his legs off the couch. "Get your ass over here and sit." Wilson obeyed, slumping down on the sofa beside him.

"Why do you always do this, Greg?" House blinked, his ears picking up the sad note in Wilson's voice, almost like he knew that one day he wouldn't be able to put up with it any more. "Why do you make it so hard for me to like you?"

"You don't like me?" House asked, feigning hurt.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "That's not what I said."

"Whatever. Here." He tossed the remote to Wilson, his way of apologizing. "Find something acceptable to watch." Wilson stared at the peace offering, before tossing it on the coffee table.

"Nah, this is fine."

Silence fell over them, like the snow over Princeton in the winter. It was a while before House could even bring his eyes from the T.V. so he could look at his friend. Before his brain could stop him, he had his hand resting on the empty leather cushion between them, his mouth doing all the talking.

"James, I…" He kept his gaze on his fingers, which were tapping out the harmony to one of his favorite songs on the leather. Wilson looked up, caught off guard by all the emotion on the older man's face. Instinctively, he pointed the remote up at the T.V., muting it, giving House his full attention. "I…don't think you should leave." Wilson bit his lower lip, House's words bouncing around in his head. Somehow, he knew that House wasn't just talking about right then; he was talking forever.

"Okay…" he said slowly. He tried to think of something comforting yet subtle that he could say. He had a feeling he knew where this was going, but he didn't want to jump to any conclusions just yet.

"You remember that night?" House asked quietly. Wilson nearly smiled; how could he forget? It had been a little more than three years, but he could still recall every single detail down to the socks he had been wearing.

"Yeah. I…I think I know which night you mean." Had his voice just cracked? Wilson cleared his throat, tugging agitatedly at the tie that still hung around his neck.

"Did that…" House studied his fingernails closely, determined not to look into Wilson's eyes. "Did you…resent me for that? Was it wrong?"

Wilson thought back to the night in question: It had been mid-October, maybe November. House had had a rough day at the hospital, even more so than usual. He had made yet another wrong diagnosis of the current patient's strange condition, and it had almost killed him. House would never say it, but killing people really didn't sit too well with his conscience. He'd spent forty-five minutes shouting at Brown and Michaels – two of the most dim-witted doctors House had ever employed, Wilson had to admit – before he took off early, going home to sulk. Cuddy had sent Wilson after him, just to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. He'd shown up at House's door carrying a brand-new bottle of scotch as well as a bag of House's favorite beer nuts, though judging by House's face when he opened the door, he'd already gotten a head start on the alcohol front. But he had helped Wilson down the entire bottle of scotch anyway, and didn't bother sharing the nuts. They both got so drunk, and Wilson had cursed himself for it later; he earned one of the worst hangovers he'd ever had. At the time though, he wasn't interested in rationalizations. House had loosened up thanks to the scotch, and had soon started showing a side that Wilson didn't even know existed.

"Why are you my friend, Jimmy?" he asked. He was leaning in so close, that Wilson could smell the peanuts on his breath.

"Everyone needs a friend," he answered.

"Doesn't mean that it has to be you."

"Do you want it to be somebody else, then?" He narrowed his eyes at House, daring him to say yes.

"No. And you didn't answer the question. Not really." Wilson sighed, leaning his head back on the couch.

"Because…for some reason, I like you." He paused when he heard House's voice hitch slightly. "You entertain me." House smiled widely, smacking his hand down on Wilson's thigh.

"Glad to be of service." He chuckled lightly, slowly taking notice of the paralyzed look of Wilson's face. His eyes flicked downwards, a little shocked to see his fingers gripping his friend's leg.

"House…" Wilson breathed. Their eyes met, and an unspoken consensus passed between them. It was either now or never. Closing his eyes, House leaned forward, gently touching his lips to Wilson's. The kiss hadn't lasted long, but it still had all the passion behind it. As they pulled apart, House had realized something; the emptiness he felt would never be filled by the endless flow of scotch or the countless vicodin he popped daily. What he was sure could fill it was sitting right in front of him, breathing heavily, tongue lightly running over his lips.

"I have to go," Wilson said abruptly. He struggled to his feet, feeling around in his pockets for his car keys. House had watched him go, fighting the urge to scream…or cry. They hadn't talked about it the next day, or ever, until now. Wilson had just assumed that House had forgotten.

"I didn't resent you," Wilson said, his eyes focusing again on the hockey game. "Not then."

"But you did. Eventually?"

"I did…" He paused, closing his eyes. Should he say the next part? "You never said anything about it after that. Never did anything else."

"You left that night. I thought you didn't want it."

Wilson looked up, meeting House's stare.

"I do."

There was no self-satisfied smile, no suggestive glances, just the sound of House shifting so he could properly look at Wilson, the sound of their shirts rustling as he ran his hand gently over Wilson's arm, settling it on his neck. Wilson's eyes slipped shut, and his breathing became ragged as House's fingers toyed with the collar of his shirt. House was sure of what Wilson wanted now, and he was not going to let that go to waste.

House reached up and ran his hand roughly through Wilson's hair. He touched his lips to Wilson's jaw, his breath hot on his cheek. They both wanted this, they both wanted there to be something between them. Wilson's hand flew up to House's shoulder, pulling him closer.

They had so much lost time to make up for.

House decided that the only way he'd have any hope of doing that was if he and Wilson kept this up all night.