Exactly eighteen days, eleven hours, and twenty-three minutes after he was shot Gregory House asked James Wilson on a date. He had been planning it ever since he awoke from his two week long ketamine induced coma to find the other man slumped over in the uncomfortable visitor's chair next to the bed. James' head was resting on his left arm beside House's shoulder, snoring softly, and his right hand was holding House's, his grip firm even in sleep. House grinned to himself and silently thanked the universe that it wasn't Cameron this time. Waking up to her childlike concern and unrequited emotional attraction once was enough. He could see Wilson's sleeping face clearly as the young man slept on, and the image of himself letting his anger drive him to personally make Wilson bleed flashed through his mind. His free hand then seemed to take on a life of its own as it snaked across his own body to touch his only friend's face. His fingers caressed the skin on the left side on James' top lip, needing the reassurance that none of it was real; that it was, in fact, all a dream.

Wilson made a soft noise of contentment and leaned into House's touch. The sensation this simple movement provoked startled House out of his short trance and his arm fell immediately back down to his side. Wilson, however, continued to stir as he attempted to awaken. Settling himself down, House squeezed the other man's hand. Hard.

"Ah!" Wilson yelped as he sat up straight and attempted to pull his hand free from the unaccommodating vice.

"Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty," House quipped in a singsong voice. The disoriented Wilson rubbed his sleep-filled eyes with his free hand and shook his head slightly as he attempted to remember just where the hell he was. Once his vision had cleared, he looked down at the man lying in the bed next to him, his radiant brown eyes widened for a moment, and he smiled House's favorite smile.

"You're awake," he stated obviously, digging in his pocket for his penlight.

"Nope. I'm practicing annoying you in my sleep," House responded as Wilson shined that excruciatingly bright light into his eyes and began checking the monitors close to the bed. He mentally gave the oncologist some major efficiency points for one-handed treatment but deducted a few when he remembered that Wilson was left-handed. "My ultimate goal is to be able to bug you 24/7."

Wilson gave a small chuckle. "Great. As if you aren't irritating enough already."

"Hey! I resemble that remark," House retorted as Wilson finished his fussing and his roaming hand came to rest beside House's right shoulder. For a moment their eyes locked and all traces of humor vanished. "Did Cuddy do what I asked?" House questioned seriously. Wilson nodded.

"Yeah. You've been out for two weeks."

"Two weeks?" House repeated, mentally rolling his eyes as he hated when people repeated someone else's sentences in question form. Wilson nodded again, and his expression took on a slightly darker appearance.

"The first bullet was through and through and perforated your liver. The surgeons were forced to remove a good bit of it. Lucky for you there was enough left to sustain you, obviously. The second bullet was, thankfully, not much more than a flesh wound. If you're even luckier, there won't even be a scar," Wilson explained almost mechanically.

"Doesn't sound that bad," House replied, shifting uncomfortably under his friend's unusual countenance. Wilson jerked a little at House's words, his eyes widening a little more and looking decidedly glassier than Greg would have liked as the other man gaped at him.

"It was touch and go for a while. They almost lost you twice during the surgery. You had lost so much blood and…" he hesitated. His elegant brown eyes suddenly found his shoes very interesting, and his left hand came up to rub the back of his neck nervously as his right squeezed House's hand just a little bit tighter. "I'm sorry." He continued unexpectedly.

"What?" House questioned firmly, unsure of what the oncologist was apologizing for.

"I said I'm sorry," Wilson repeated, louder this time, as he brought his now tearful eyes back up to meet House's.

"For what? You didn't shoot me," Greg attempted to reassure his friend the only way he knew.

"I wasn't there," Wilson continued, visibly regulating his breathing because he knew House hated when people cried. "Again." He added sorrowfully.

House's eyes widened in horror as he comprehended what his friend was saying. Wanting to appear as strong as possible for the rest of this conversation, he immediately tried to sit up. He pushed his body up with his legs and left hand for only a moment before Wilson's hand instinctively came up to stop him before the younger man pushed the button that raised to head of the bed.

"Thanks. Now stop it," House responded emphatically. Wilson winced and looked at him questioningly. "No way am I gonna watched you do this again. You can't keep blaming yourself for things that are beyond your control."

"But if I was there…" Wilson began, but House didn't allow him to finish.

"Nothing would have changed except you would have had the pleasure of watching. Or worse, you would have tried to be the hero and take it for me. Thanks but no thanks. I prefer that you were right where you were."

"The clinic," Wilson told him.

"Excuse me?" asked the confused House.

"I was in the clinic. My aunt came in with a sprained wrist. I fixed her up fast enough, but you know my family. She had me in there talking about everything and nothing for almost an hour. She was my last clinic case so there was no hurry. She even asked about you. She insisted that I bring you home for Hanukah this year. She said she missed your quote 'mesmerizing blue eyes,'" both House and Wilson grinned unconsciously at that before their expressions became serious once again. "I had just finished signing out and was about to come and get you for lunch when I looked up and saw a man running toward me. He looked…crazy to say the least. He was hell-bent on the exit and just pushed me to the ground and out of the way like it was nothing.

No one knew what it was all about, so I just brushed it off. What else could I do? I didn't even make it to the elevator before I heard what happened. A group of nurses were running past me; one was explaining to the others that a doctor had been shot down in his office and was being taken to surgery. They never said who, but somehow I just...knew…it was you."

Tears were threatening to overflow and spill down Wilson's face as he spoke, and House felt sick. Inwardly, he cursed the nurses (whoever they were) for existing. Wilson didn't deserve to have found out that way. It should have been Cuddy or one of the ducklings sitting him down and breaking it gently. Had it been himself, he probably would have preferred the first method of receiving the news. It was quick, efficient, and cut through all the crap – the way House liked it. But Wilson was not House. Wilson cared. Wilson had heart. Wilson wasn't broken yet.

"I ran after them. I almost beat them to the ER. They were still prepping you for surgery when I arrived, but they wouldn't let me see you. I think that's what scared me the most. You could have been dying, and they wouldn't let me see you."

"You watched, didn't you?" House asked, already knowing the answer. "From observation." Wilson nodded the affirmative.

"I had to see you. I had to be there." House nodded silently as a single tear finally made its way down James' smooth cheek, curving slightly onto his chin, and dripping gracefully onto the bed next to House's arm. Greg's eyes followed the tear's path until its abrupt stop on the white cloth beneath him.

"Thanks," he nearly whispered, eyes still focused on the tearstain next to him. James clutched his hand harder still.

"Always," he responded simply, causing House to meet his eyes once more. And that was what sealed it. House saw something in Wilson's eyes at that moment; something he couldn't begin to explain and didn't care to try because what he saw belonged only to him and him alone. It was in this very instant that one of his damnable defense mechanisms kicked into gear. Without second thought, the injured man pulled his hand from his friend's, reached over to his morphine drip, and lowered it significantly.

"House, what are you doing?" questioned the startled Wilson.

"I'm lowering my morphine," he replied monotone.

"Why? Are you crazy? You haven't healed enough yet. You'll be in pain," Wilson reached for the button to turn it back on, but House slapped his hand away.

"Don't. It's been two weeks. I'll be fine. I have to know," he told him. Wilson understood, dropping his hand, and they waited.

"Well?" James asked after a couple of minutes had passed. House considered his response for a moment.

"I'm not sure. Hang on," he had barely gotten the words out before he threw his legs over the edge of the bed and attempted to stand. Within a second, Wilson was at his side attempting to lower him back down onto the bed.

"Are you completely crazy?" the younger man scolded. "You just came out of a coma, House! Lay back down before you hurt yourself!" But House refused. Knowing he would do more harm than good by attempting to restrain his friend, Wilson gripped him under his elbows and helped to pull the older man into a standing position. House automatically placed his weight on his left leg and suddenly became very nervous. If his right leg still hurt, if the ketamine had no effect and his pain remained, he would still be in the same self-destructive downhill fall he was in before he was shot, and two weeks of his life would be lost in darkness for nothing. On the other hand, if the pain were gone, there was also the possibility of a lifetime without pain. And that was incentive enough.

With Wilson's strong hands still gripping his elbows, House squeezed his eyes shut before he slowly and carefully shifted his weight to the right. Taking a deep breath, he waited for the pain to overwhelm him, but it never came. At first he did nothing, to shocked to believe this was actually happening, then cautiously opened his eyes as James shifted in place, waiting for an answer. Brown met blue once again, and Wilson had all the answers he needed. The ketamine had worked. House's pain was gone. Suddenly, the anguish that had marred Wilson's boyish face disappeared as quickly as it had come, vanishing as if it never was, and a smile to brighten the world broke out on his beautifully unharmed lips as he began to laugh. Instantly, something inside of House snapped. He felt different. He felt good. He felt…happy. For the first time in five years, Greg House found that here, in the middle of this boring hospital room wearing nothing but a backless gown with Wilson holding him (more or less) in his arms, he was really, truly happy. And before he knew what he was doing, House was laughing hysterically too.

Two days later, House was released from the hospital. His pain had not returned, but he was well aware of the fifty percent chance it would. That chance taunted him relentlessly; haunted his nightmares. Even without the pain, his need for cane did not disappear. His injury still existed. Ketamine could not magically regenerate his missing muscle tissue. However, he used the cane a significantly smaller amount of the time. Instead of his times without need of the cane being rare, the times he needed it became few and far between. For this House was eternally grateful, but surprisingly he found himself also feeling a tiny bit of sadness over the fact that his trusty stick was no longer constantly at his side. He had no instrument of torture to swing at Cuddy anymore. And, although he would never admit it, it was almost more embarrassing limping around without it than with it. When he confided to Wilson about this, the younger man had simply smiled and told him that it was normal and he would eventually get used to walking on his own once again. House was skeptical but said nothing.

The next day, Wilson bought House a skateboard. House had entered his office that morning to find it sitting on his chair with a bright pink bow stuck to the middle and a folded piece of paper next to it. He grinned to himself as he picked up the paper and opened it to glance at the message written with familiar spidery, chicken scratch handwriting. It read: House, I found you a new friend to reek havoc with when I'm not around. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Love, Wilson P.S. Don't tell Cuddy where you got it.

House's grin took on a mischievous appearance as he sat the note on his desk and pick up the board. It was nice; a lot like the one he'd had in college. He held the board under his arm as he walk/limped back outside the door of his office. Then, after placing it on the ground beside him, House placed his left leg on the board, moving it back and forth a couple of times to get his confidence up. Once he was certain he was not going to fall, he shifted his weight more to the left and pushed off with his right foot. Reveling in the sight of doctors, nurses, and patients alike glaring at him as he sped past, he skated through the hospital corridors in search of his best friend.

He found Wilson in a patient's room in oncology. The little girl sitting up in the bed didn't appear to be more than four, maybe five years old. Her green eyes were bright and cheerful as Wilson spoke to her, and House found himself wondering what it must feel like to be able to make a dying little bald girl look so alive just by speaking. It was Wilson's gift. He could make anyone look that happy. Even House. Once that thought ended, House shook himself. Since when was he so damn sentimental? Deciding that thinking was a bad idea, he used his right leg once again to push off, this time into the patient's room.

Both Wilson and the little girl looked up as House rode in. All three of them had stupid grins plastered on their faces. House braked just before hitting the patient's bed and found himself nearly face to face with one James Wilson.

"I see you found your gift," Wilson commented with a smirk as House stepped on the back of the board, causing it to stand upright, grabbed it, and tucked it under his left arm.

"Yep!" House replied proudly, beaming like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. "I gotta hand it to ya, this was a pretty sweet idea."

"I thought you might think so," Wilson replied, still smirking, before adding an; "Obviously," to his very duh statement. House adored those times he was able to put that smirk on James' face. He gave him a sense of accomplishment.

"Is it your birthday?" the little doe-eyed cancer girl asked innocently, eyeing the big pink bow he hadn't bothered to remove. House turned to her and grinned a rare, genuine grin.

"Sure is," he lied. Bambi's (as House decided to call her) shoulders rose slightly as she let out an excited gasp.

"It's my birthday too!" she exclaimed happily, almost bouncing in the oversized sterile bed. "My mommy and daddy are getting me my presents right now! I get to have cake and ice cream and balloons and everything!"

"Are you serious?" House questioned in mock disbelief. Bambi nodded furiously. "Wow, did you ever beat me. All I get is this one lousy gift and some left over pizza and breadsticks from three days ago to celebrate."

"You get pizza?" Bambi asked excitedly, obviously not seeing what he could possibly be complaining about. House simply shook his head and turned to Wilson.

"So, you about done here? I can hear the cafeteria calling."

"House, it's ten o'clock in the morning. It's way too early for lunch," Wilson replied.

"Who said anything about lunch?" House countered.

"I've already had breakfast," Wilson informed him. House smirked and put on his best Scottish accent.

"You've had one, yes. But what about second breakfast?" Wilson sighed and turned away, continuing his check up on Bambi.

"No, House."

"What about elevenses?" House continued mock-innocently.

"House!" Wilson reprimanded. House made a fake sad face and turned back to Bambi.

"He's always so mean to me. I don't know why we can't just be friends. I think it's his commitment issues. He's just afraid I'll break his heart," his voice was now as melodramatic as he could make it, and Bambi still giggled although she did not understand.

"House," Wilson said warningly once again.

"Fine. I can tell when I'm not wanted," he fake scoffed. Taking his skateboard out from under his arm, House peeled the bow off and promptly stuck it atop the little girl's bald head, making a funny noise as he did so. Bambi laughed hysterically, bringing her tiny hands up to pat the bow proudly. "Happy fifth birthday, kid." He told her as he sat the board down and started for the door. Behind him, he heard Bambi gasp.

"How did he know I was gonna be five?" she asked, sounding utterly astonished. House popped his head back in the room before Wilson could answer.

"Because I'm magic," he told her, his eyes widening to their fullest as he wiggled his fingers at her mystically. The last thing he heard before turning back around and skating toward the clinic was the faint sound of Bambi's laughter. Although no one currently employed at Princeton-Plainsboro would believe it, House was actually excited about getting to the clinic. He couldn't wait until Cuddy got a load of this.

The day after the skateboard surprise was a Friday, and, as usual, Wilson arrived at House's apartment promptly at five carrying a bag full of Chinese food in one hand and a bag filled with rental movies in the other. Very few words were spoken as the movies played on and the food disappeared. Wilson sat next to House on the sofa, apparently engrossed in the action packed film whilst House found himself unable to do the same. As the night drug on, he became increasingly distracted by his plans to ask Wilson out. He found it strange that every time he had ever asked a woman on a date he had not been nervous at all; being his arrogant self he had always been quite confident that they would definitely say yes. Yet every time he opened his mouth to ask his friend that very same question his mouth would suddenly turn as dry as the Gobi, and he would end up merely taking a swig of beer instead.

As the completely uninteresting films continued as a constant in the background, House replayed his idea of exactly how he would question Wilson over and over in his head. It was ridiculous, of course. Only a hormonally unbalanced fourteen-year-old girl would act in such a way, but he continued anyway. In his mind, he had it all figured out. He would start by saying something smooth and worthy of the panty peeler himself before suavely reminding James of their long and meaningful friendship and how it had lasted longer than any of their wives and/or girlfriends ever had. James would agree, looking vaguely confused yet slightly suspicious but wouldn't comment further. Then Greg would point out that it would only be logical for them to try and take the next step with their relationship. James would eye him for a moment, carefully considering the proposition in his head, before giving House his reserved grin as his affirmative answer. Greg would then scoot closer to James on the couch, study the other man's face for a moment, then grab him by his tie and kiss his mouth passionately.

It was perfect. It was brilliant. There was no way in hell his plan could fail. As the credits for Star Wars Episode IV began to roll, he decided to make his move. Slightly faster than he had intended, he turned his face toward Wilson and opened his mouth to speak. Much to his dismay, he once again felt as if his mouth were suddenly filled with cotton. For a moment, he was stuck, gaping like a fish, as Wilson sat his plate down on the coffee table in front of them. If the younger man noticed his odd behavior, he hadn't let on.

"So…" House began slowly, suddenly forgetting every detail of his perfectly assembled plan. "I can't believe Darth Vader was Luke's father. What were the odds of that?"

"First off, that doesn't happen until the sixth movie," Wilson said as he turned his head to face House. "And secondly, the entire world's known that for twenty odd years."

"Still, you gotta admit it's a pretty sweet twist," House continued ramble.

"Yep, that's what you said the first time we watched it together eight years ago. What's on your mind?" Wilson immediately caught on.

"I think we should do it." House winced as he heard the words spew from his mouth before they could be stopped. Smooth, House. Very smooth. Wilson's eyes widened considerably as he shook himself as though he expected to wake from some seriously screwed up dream.

"Date," House clarified quickly. "Date. I think you and I should go out. On a date."

"A date?" Wilson questioned with the same 'I'm pretty sure this is a dream and am going to wake up at any moment' look on his face.

"Uh huh," House confirmed.

"You and me?" Wilson continued.

"Mmhmm."

"On a date?"

"Yeah."

"As in a date date?"

"Yep."

Wilson hesitated for a moment, cocking his head to one side in a rather birdlike fashion as he continued his internal deliberation then shrugged as all confusion suddenly vanished from his features.

"Sounds good," he responded, turning back to the television as the credits continued to roll. House sat in the same position for a moment, his mouth hanging open slightly as he processed the conversation in his mind. He then sat up a little straighter and turned back around to stare, uncaring, at the t.v. himself, his expression unchanging.

"Cool," he replied finally, taking another bite of noodles and scooting just a little more to the right. He chanced another glance at James and saw that the other man had House's smirk on his face. Greg allowed himself a satisfied grin before sighing and reaching for the remote. "So, you think this thing has a gag reel?"

So there's chapter 1! I hope you enjoyed it! This is my very first House fic, so please be kind also I wasn't sure how to spell "elevensies." I don't own LOTR anymore (since my brother broke it), so if it's wrong and someone knows how to spell it correctly I would really love to know! Remember REVIEWS EQUAL LOVE!