(Hello! Thank you for the reviews (: It's my first fic, so comments would really help! This is a pretty short chapter; I just had a bit of time on my hands today so I sat down and wrote a little. Hope you enjoy it (: )

"It's not operable size yet," House mused. Another breakfast at another out-of-the-way café, and another conversation Wilson didn't want to have.

"Yet would imply some sort of expectation…" Wilson stirred his coffee and looked up at House. House, on the other hand, was gulping down pancakes like they were the most delicious thing he'd ever eaten- even better than those Wilson had cooked for him that one time…

The pancakes here aren't even that great…

Back to a more pressing train of thought, Wilson quickly averted his attention from pancake jealousy to House's suspicious smile.

"House! I've been given a few more months to live, great, but if you're expecting this to become some spontaneous cancer remission…" It was possible. The tumor had, by some miracle, shrunk. But that's the end of it, right? You can't bring a dead man back to life. You can't revive a ghost.

"You're going to be more than a little disappointed," Wilson stood up, placed his napkin next to his empty plate, and walked off to where their motorcycles were parked. House sat in silence for just a bit, and then quickly got up on his good leg, limping slowly to the motorcycles.

The two of them drove off to their next destination.

Two ghosts, one more hopeful than the other.

Of course, that wasn't the end of it. When you're dealing with House, it hardly ever is. They were sitting in their motel room that night, the dim light barely illuminating Wilson's outline on the bed across from House. It wasn't a big city, and the lights went out often, leaving the two sitting in the dark.

But in a blink, there was no need to see him; Wilson was close enough to touch. House was now across the room, sitting on the opposite end of Wilson's bed.

"It's been another half a month. Maybe the tumor…"

"House, you've gone 2 weeks without mentioning this," Wilson was mumbling, as if fighting off a bit of pain. His voice had that raspy, throaty sound House's often had. "Why do you always have to meddle in my personal life?"

House smirked, "We are on the same bed…"

Then the lights came on. In a flash, everything happened much too fast.

"My chest hurts…"

A deep dry cough

A bit of blood

Ear-stinging silence

Everything was involuntary. House didn't even have to think. His hand reached for his stethoscope, his ears checked for abnormalities, his eyes stared into Wilson's, his heart continue to beat, and his breaths got faster and faster.

Then it was all alright.

Wilson relaxed, fell back onto the bed, and his breathing went back to normal. House's stethoscope fell onto the floor.

House still didn't know what to say or do. His brain just knew he was tired. He fell back onto the bed, next to Wilson, and before he could even process the action, he was asleep.

Two ghosts, lying side by side.

It had been a few weeks since that night.

House didn't like to think about it, and Wilson didn't want to talk about it. For once, there was a puzzle and House wasn't already all over it. He'd rather not consider why Wilson's chest suddenly hurt right where the tumor was, and rather not contemplate what that meant for his best friend.

Nothing had happened since then, and that was an answer enough for House.

Call the press, call the papers, here's something headline-worthy:

Gregory House is scared.