Pairing: House/Wilson

Rating: K+

Warnings: Fluff, probably OOC.

Disclaimer: You know the drill.

Notes: This will probably be sort of a series of oneshots, all focusing on one event when Wilson or House think they might have "known."

Review!! Constructive crit is encouraged. Wink, wink. Oh, and I don't have a beta. Anyone interested?

Beginnings

Every day, Wilson has a new opinion of "when he knew." Today, he's decided he realized it two years ago in August, at a ridiculously early hour-- or late, depending on how you looked at it.

He'd been up way longer than he'd planned that night mulling over paperwork, and so was struck with angry disbelief and extrordinary pissiness when, at no earlier than four thirty-two in the morning, his sleepy, cotton-stuffed mind was assaulted with a noise. A sharp, steady clanging noise, like a stream of suicidal birds meeting their ends against his bedroom window.

That's either really loud rain, or some teenager doing an awful job of trying to break in, he thought.

"What," he moaned, prising open his eyelids, "is going," hastily shutting them again, "on," and finally flopping over and burying his face piteously in his pillow.

Maybe the noise would stop, he thought.

Oh no. Life would not be so kind. The noise only grew louder, until he was absolutely certain someone was throwing rocks at his window. Boulders, by the sound of it.

Now he was pissed off. He yanked off his covers, squinting angrily at the red numbers on his clock before casting his gaze around the room for something-- anything-- to knock an intruder out with. A book? There were some stiff-looking dress shoes he wore to work. No, a voice told him, any blood might ruin the genuine leather, and they hadn't been cheap. If only he had a cane.

His bedside lamp would have to do; he'd always been afraid House would find out he still had it, anyways.

He'd received it as an award, and House had mocked him for weeks on end. "Of all the lamps in the world, that is the ugliest little devil I've ever seen. Can't you put a bag over it?" A little gold plaque on the marble base read "James Wilson, Hugh Davis Oncology Award, 2008." (House had squirted wine out his nose when he'd seen it-- he demanded to know why Wilson would want his name on any lamp, let alone that monstrosity.) Wilson knew it was the closest thing he had to a weapon, and he would prefer to break a perfectly good lamp than to be killed painfully-- and probably clumsily-- in his own apartment.

A scraping noise jolted him into action. He seized the lamp by its ugly, boxlike neck, and hefted it above his head like a war hammer. Inching slowly and silently against the wall, toward the offending window, he tried to get a look outside. All he could make out was the orange glow of a streetlamp-- no drugged-out teenage robbers or suicidal birds to be seen.

So now what? Did he wait until whatever it was managed to actually break in? Or did he open the window and hope his muscular shoulders and hunk of marble would scare them off? Maybe it wasn't anything-- perhaps he was just paranoid.

Oh no, there it was again. Definitely not paranoid. And there was a sound that was unmistakably the click of his window lock.

He flopped back against the wall, his breath leaving him in a gust. His fingers tightened around the lamp, clutching the cord with a crushing grip. How on earth had they opened his window without breaking it? It was completely---

Oh god. He heard the screen slide up, and he knew he had to do something. He could either run or bash their head in, but standing flat against the wall was not an option. Especially not now that they were halfway in his bedroom. He could see, in the dim orange half-light, a shoe... followed by a leg... Then finally a hand gripped the top of the window... an arm, an elbow... Gritting his teeth, he gathered all his strength and willpower, and stepped forward, swinging the lamp in a downwards arc just as the intruder's head poked in.

Somewhere between Wilson swinging the lamp and the lamp connecting, he had a very odd, unnrelated thought: House has those same shoes.

"I'm sorry, I really am."

"What? Oh, I can't hear you, I've got this ice pack the size of Greenland smashed against my ear. Could you say that a little louder?"

"I'm sorry, I've apologized twenty times in the past ten minutes, but really. Think about this for a second: it's four-something in the morning. You wake up to the sound of rocks hitting your window, and you have no idea what is going on. Then you hear this scraping, and all you know is that someone is trying to get in your bedroom."

"Uh huh."

"In the dark."

"Uh huh."

"House... why??"

"Why what?"

Wilson buried his face in his hands, clutching his hair so tufts of it stood out crazily. House looked on, unconcerned. They were sitting on his couch, House sprawled out like he'd been hit by a bus right there in Wilson's living room. A swollen goose egg poked out above his ear, visible whenever House took the bag of ice off to make a point with both hands. Wilson shook his head.

"Why... everything. Why now, when you could have waited, what, four hours to see me? Why my bedroom window, when you could have knocked, or rang the doorbell? Or wow, even called me? Why at all?"

"Why, Jimmy, I was just getting around to that," House said with a flutter of his eyelashes, "I came to tell you about some exciting new products that I think will add to your changing look."

"I think that blow to the head did some damage. I'm going to have to send you to a home at last."

House whipped his head around, locking his widened eyes with Wilson's.

"You planned this, didn't you!"

"I wish."

At this, House's eyebrows rose, turning his forehead into a field of ridges. He raised his eyes to Wilson's again, calculating.

"I can't believe you still had that lamp."

Wilson was silent.

"You were hoping I never found out, weren't you?"

"Just because the lamp is smashed beyond repair, that doesn't mean I won't knock you out again."

For a moment, the two men were quiet, Wilson dozing off on the arm of the couch, House tilting his head back in staged pain.

"... Jimmy?"

Wilson snapped up to a seated position, wild-eyed. He looked panicked for a moment, searching for the source of the noise, until he saw House and slumped back against the cushions.

"What now?"

"It won't stop growing."

Wilson rolled his eyes.

"It hurts."

Then, after a moment:

"What if I have cancer?"

"You do such a good impression of a teenaged girl, House, you almost had me fooled. And then I saw the beard."

"Oh, I've seen 'em with beards before... European. It's all the rage over there."

House's eyelids were drooping steadily, and his voice was getting quieter with every word. Wilson couldn't stifle a smile while watching this silent struggle. The ice pack fell limply to House's thigh.

"No wonder the swelling won't go down-- you keep taking the compress off. Stop being such a girl."

"Mmphh," House said.

"Fine, give it to me."

House chose this moment to completely close his eyes. Wilson sighed, and grabbed the ice pack from its puddle on House's leg. If the goose egg was still there in the morning, he knew Cuddy and the ducklings would all get different stories of how it happened, involving either Wilson going mad, or making an attempt on his life out of jealousy. He'd better get the swelling down.

Wilson hesitated. There was something about the lines on House's face, the way his mouth was parted slightly in exhaustion. He reached up, and laid the ice against the purple blotch in House's hair. The older man made a small sound of protest, and turned his head away. Well, if he was going to be difficult about it.

Ignoring the moaning House emitted, he took him gently by the shoulders and eased him onto his side, bringing the older man's head to rest in his lap. He allowed his hands to smooth House's hair, steering clear of the offending bump. He's half asleep anyway, I can tell him it was just a dream, he thought, his throat catching as the lines in House's face eased and disappeared, to be replaced with a soft almost-smile.

I can't believe he trusts me like this.

And then he knew.

Wilson draped an afghan around the both of them, tucking it gently around his sleeping friend, and slipped off into the world of dreams, where Gregory House would always make sense.