A/N: . Your reviews mean the world to me. I haven't been able to reply because I'm on a trip but they really keep me writing. Keep them coming!

As you can tell, the story is told mostly in flashbacks. This chapter is a flashback to when Wilson was just about to marry Julie. You will be able to tell when Wilson snaps back to the present and when it's a flashback. Read on, I hope you enjoy this slightly longer and more emotional chapter.

"House," he said, almost pleading, "Say something."

"What do you want me to say?"

Suddenly Wilson was painfully aware that he was in the passenger's seat of the Volvo and that House was driving. This reversal of roles made him feel helpless and vulnerable. He swallowed hard, leaving the bitter taste of impending doom trailing down his throat.

He had just told House that he and Julie were engaged and seeing as House was very vocal about his opinions, he had expected everything but the stunned silence.

"What you always say," Wilson said, "berate me and tell me exactly why you think it's a horrible idea."

House was pretending that the road was absolutely fascinating, "but you know that I think it's a horrible idea."

There was silence. Yes, House made his feelings about Julie very clear and had stopped short of screaming: "I told you so!" when he and Bonnie had gotten divorced. Surely House predicted another divorce, another failed marriage.

"House I want you to be the best man," Wilson said softly. Hoping that House wouldn't turn him down.

"Julie won't like that," House said with the tiniest hint of a smile, taking pleasure in Julie's misery, but never taking his eyes off the road. Wilson could see that House was glad that he had asked him so readily. He could also see that House was glad to be asked despite the fact that Julie was opposed to it. He could see that House enjoyed taking priority over Julie.

In reality, Wilson always did that. He always overlooked everyone else in his life and made pleasing House his number one priority. He just wished that House would stop being surprised by that. That's all he asked for. It would be ludicrous afterall if Wilson expected to be a priority for House. House was very good at making himself his own number one priority.

"No, she won't like it," Wilson agreed with a small nod of his head. House turned his head the slightest bit to look at him and they smiled at each other but didn't say anything. They both understood very well that House had just accepted.

"So why did you "have to drive"?" Wilson asked in a lighter tone and with raised eyebrows.

"Well, you're taking me out to lunch to the new Italian place," House said with an unspoken "duh", "and you don't know where it is, do you? So I had to drive us there."

"Oh of course I'm taking you out to the most expensive restaurant in the city," Wilson rolled his eyes, "forgive me for not remembering, seeing as I wasn't informed of that."

House smiled at him, a surprising measure of warmth and affection in the smile and in his eyes as he turned the corner to arrive in front of the restaurant.

"Hey, Wilson, for the bachelor's party—"

It wasn't even raining anymore, it was pouring and Wilson couldn't see further than a few inches. Nonetheless he put the car into drive and pulled onto the road as he smiled at the memories. He looked over at his friend's empty seat again and knew that he had to drive home and see House. He didn't know what he would say or if House was even awake but he knew that, for once, he didn't want to be in the Volvo while trying to think things through. He just wanted to be sitting on the couch with House, watching The L Word on mute. He didn't care that his head still hurt and that the roads were dangerous, all that mattered was seeing his best friend and telling him…well, he didn't know what he was going to tell House but he knew there was something really important that House had to know.

He realized he hadn't thought about Sam or how she factored into his life at all. He wondered if that was a bad thing but decided not to worry about it.

A few weeks after House had agreed to be his best man he burst into House's office with, what he hoped, was a good measure of urgency.

"House," he announced, hoping that this would cause his friend to sit up in his seat and pay attention.

The diagnostician, however, was leaning back in his seat, feet on the table. He was turning the chair to the right and then to the left, right and left, over and over to the rhythm of the music that was playing in the room. His eyes were closed and he was using his cane to throw the small red "thinking ball" into the air and then catch it again. He did this fluently, without dropping the ball or opening his eyes.

A scratchy record of Elvis' "Love Me Tender" was blaring on the gramophone:

Love me tender,

Love me sweet,

Never let me go

You have made my life complete,

And I love you so

"House," he repeated, louder over the music.

His best friend did not flinch or otherwise indicate that he'd heard his name being called but he finally spoke, as if to the room, "did you know Elvis didn't write this song? A man named Ken Darby wrote it for him. It's about Darby's wife."

Wilson rolled his eyes at House's tangents but remained perfectly serious, "look I need to ask you something."

House cracked one blood-shot eye open, still bouncing the ball, "the song stayed on top of the charts for five weeks."

"House, seriously, I need to talk to you."

House was on his feet now; the red ball abandoned on the table, and was walking towards him with a sly smile, "the guy wrote one of the best known songs of all time by staring at his wife for a few second. One wife. You have three to choose from. I wish you would write a song about one of them and get filthy rich so I don't have to work this job all the time." House looked haggard and sunken, he really seemed to despise his job at the moment.

He was tempted to give House a lecture on how he would never survive without his job and how Wilson would decidedly not spend his money on House if he hit the jackpot. Instead he explained, "well, I've had two wives actually and I wanted to talk to you about the soon to be third and last wife."

House tilted his head to one side, studied him and decided to ignore the fact that Wilson was actually here to talk about something, "eight year old female. Respiratory distress. Joint pain. Traces of blood in the urine," House listed, "and her left lung is failing. Oh, and she has a preexisting congenital heart disease that's been under control for the past two years. Go."

Love me tender,

Love me true,

All my dreams fulfilled

Wilson furrowed his brows trying to concentrate despite the loud music, swept up into House's problems, as always, "that doesn't make sense! Her lungs are failing because her heart already had a problem?"

House, looking like death, nodded his head and tapped his cane on the ground. They were both silent for a moment.

"Eight year old girl huh?" Wilson asked kindly, understandingly.

House rolled his eyes, "there's just something I'm missing. That's what's bothering me."

"Right. The great Doctor Gregory House doesn't care about patients," Wilson said, " I forgot."

"What did you want to ask?" House asked walking over to the gramophone.

For my darling,

I love you

And I always will—

House brought the music to a screeching stop just as Wilson blurted out, "I need you to buy Julie and me a wedding present."

His best friend turned around to study him with raised eyebrows. He certainly looked intrigued now.

"You're asking me to buy you something?" House asked disbelievingly. He seemed interested now. He approached him, limping more than usual but still quick on his feet.

"Well," Wilson prepared his sales pitch. He kept his voice calm and casual, as if House buying him a wedding present was the most natural thing in the world, "the wedding is in a month. Julie and I registered for gifts but most of them are gone by now. There are still a few pieces left but you should hurry."

House looked incredulous for a second and then amused, "oh that's a good one. You think I'm going to buy you a present and everything? I was hoping you would be satisfied with a bachelor's party."

"House, I'm serious."

His friend sat back down in a chair and Wilson was left towering above House's sitting form, yet he still felt like a little boy called into his father's study to be punished for a particularly horrible act of mayhem.

"I never bought you a gift when you got married to Bonnie," House mused, "you didn't seem to mind."

Wilson decided to play this one deadpan, "well, I have since lent you a lot more money and I'd like to start getting a return on it."

There was a brief silence where House studied him carefully. "No. This isn't about the money," House thought out loud, "which means that it's about Julie."

Wilson sighed in surrender, "okay! Fine! She doesn't like you. Happy?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that I'm actually happy," House chirped in his sarcastic tone and rested his feet on the table, "but I'm mildly satisfied. I don't like her either."

He finally gave up on standing and took the seat across from House, "I just know that she doesn't approve of you being the best man—"

"So you thought if I bought her a nice present she'd come around...yeah, yeah, I get it," House nodded.

"So you'll do it?"

House laughed, "of course not! I hate her."

"Come one House. Buy one of the cheaper ones," Wilson conceded, "she won't care! It will really ease things between the two of you."

House rolled his eyes, "even an overdose of ex lax won't ease things between the two of us—" House paused suddenly, his thoughts drifting somewhere else, "the girl…her feet were swollen when they brought her in."

Wilson considered this, "infectious endocarditis?"

House nodded his head; "it would make sense if the blood cultures hadn't come back clean."

They both mulled it over in their heads for a few seconds until House broke the silence, "anyway, Julie and I are never going to be friends. I'm not wasting my money on her."

Wilson nodded resolutely, having expected this outcome, and produced a note card from his pocket, "okay then. Just sign this."

This turn of events took House off-guard, "what is this?"

"I figured you wouldn't actually buy anything so I'm just going to buy it for you and send this card along with it," Wilson explained calmly.

"You never expected me to say yes," House mused with a sly smile as he studied the card, "but you asked anyway."

"Thought I'd give it a try," Wilson shrugged, "now sign it."

House flopped it down on the table, "nope."

"What?"

"Well, if I sign it Julie might get the impression that I bought her a present," House explained, "that would be a terrible misunderstanding. If you're gonna fake the present, you're gonna have to fake the card too."

Wilson turned to look at him on his way to the door, "you're an ass. You know that?"

House didn't say anything as Wilson walked to the door and pulled it open. Wilson wanted to rip him apart for not caring. All he ever wanted was for the two most important people in his life to be able to stand each other and neither of them made the effort, neither of them cared what he wanted. When he couldn't help it anymore, he turned around to face House again. "I've never asked you for anything before," he said quietly, sadly. He knew he was pointing out the obvious but it was something that he'd just realized. He'd never asked House for anything before and now that he had the answer had been a firm no.

The expression on House's face was unreadable even as they made eye contact. House opened his mouth as if to say something and closed it again but before he could actually produce a coherent sentence Wilson turned around and left the office.

He saw House later that day from his office window, standing on the balcony, leaning heavily on the wall and looking off into the distance in a melancholic state. Feeling the usual rush of emotion for his friend, Wilson tore himself from paper work and rushed to his side.

"Is she dying?" Wilson asked softly, breaking the silence.

House nodded, "everybody's dying. She's just dying very quickly."

More silence as House spun his cane around and around, "so what are you buying?"

Wilson had no idea what he was talking about.

"For Julie," House clarified, "I know you're not going to give up this easily. You're buying her something, pretending it's from me. What are you buying?"

"A flowered set of Dansk dinnerware," Wilson wasn't going to pretend that he wasn't going to.

"It's her favorite thing on the list isn't it?"

"Of course."

The dinner set was of pale cream china; it had delicate soft pink and red flowers painted on the edges and looked like it was going to break if anyone looked at it too hard. Julie had squealed with delight when they saw it in the department store and decided that they would register it, even though it was too expensive and they would probably never have a fancy enough occasion to actually use the set. If Julie received that china from House it was possible that she would hate his best friend a little bit less.

House shook his head at Wilson's persistence, "did you put anything on that list?"

He had actually. They were supposed to pick everything together but Julie had ended up choosing most of the things. She'd even registered an armoire, a dresser for herself and mirror set. And then she'd said: "it'll look bad if I have too many things on the list. Pick something you want."

So Wilson had wandered around and ended up in the luggage section. He'd always shopped quickly, heaping his arms with nice dress shirts, colorful ties and work shoes. The shop assistants gathered around him, showing him a million things he could register but he didn't find any of those things appealing. After ten minutes of being shown around against his will, he found the only thing that had ever caught his eyes: an Italian leather briefcase. Wilson saw it sitting there by itself in one of the glass displays, the only beautiful thing in a sea of things that looked exactly the same to him.

It was ochre colored leather with pale yellow stitching in the inside pockets. The leather was as soft as butter and smelled delicious but the briefcase itself looked sharp and business-like. The clasp was the palest gold, silver pens were placed delicately in the side pockets and it had a compartment for anything he would ever want to carry. He had fallen in love with it but he also knew it was ridiculous that the briefcase cost almost as much as Julie's plate set. He would feel silly if he bought it for himself but he wanted it so much that he put it on his list anyway. It was still possible, though not probable, that someone would buy it for him. As Julie had pointed out, "oh my god James! Nobody is ever going to buy the groom an expensive present. The wedding is all about the bride."

He snapped out of his thoughts and turned to House, "yeah I did register something."

House raised his brows, "and you're going to buy what she wants instead of what you want?"

"Um. Yeah."

"So you're going to cater to her every need until you have nothing left to give and then you'll be so fed up with the situation that you'll cheat on her," House predicted, "and ruin your marriage. Great."

Wilson remained silent. He wanted to explain to House that he loved Julie and wanted to make her happy but he knew House would not sympathize.

"When are you ever going to take care of you?" House wondered out loud and then, "what did you register?"

He didn't feel like being ridiculed, so he shrugged the thought away, "nothing you'd be interested in."

Even as the words came out of his mouth he could see that they triggered something in House's mind and led him to solve the mystery. He saw this happen all the time. The diagnostician would tilt his head to the side, squint his eyes and have one of his infamous epiphanies. He would almost always storm out of the room without saying a word and cure the patient right before it was too late.

"Nothing I'd be interested in, of course," House chuckled to himself as he practically ran towards the patient's room and left Wilson standing there, staring at the sunset with a bitter smile on his face. Yup, he always stormed out of the room.

He saw House yet again, later that night. He had no idea what time it was but it was dark and he was filling some tedious forms for accounting. The prospect that he would be done with the paperwork in the next hour was slim to none but, of course, House had to burst into his office looking bright eyed and bushy tailed. Seeing House post-mystery solving was like seeing a crack addict who had just gotten a fix. He looked quite pleased with himself and he was whistling the tune to "New York, New York".

"Come on Jimmy," he chirped, "you can finish that tomorrow."

"So the eight year old girl is going to be fine," Wilson guessed out loud with an unspoken "that's why you're so cheery all of a sudden" hanging somewhere in there.

"She's on antibiotics for infectious endocarditis," House nodded, "she'll be fine by breakfast."

Normally Wilson would realize out loud that it had been infectious endocarditis after all, ask why it hadn't shown in the blood cultures and ask House how he'd figured it out. Now, he didn't give a crap and he wanted House to leave so he could finish up and go home. He didn't even want Julie to awake when he got back.

House, detecting this dark mood, leaned against the door; "someone's got their panties in a bunch."

"Not everyone is as skilled as you are when it comes to avoiding paperwork," Wilson said darkly without looking up from his work.

He could feel House's grin in the room though, "just stick'em in the janitor's closet, I always say."

Wilson waved a hand at him and shooed him away, "go administer some antibiotics."

House rolled his eyes, "do you think Mick Jagger cleans up after the concert?"

"Then go torture some of your groupies," Wilson huffed, "just leave me alone."

"Is this about the dinner set? Did I hurt your feelings because I wouldn't buy you plates?" House said in his baby voice.

"Shut up House," he muttered under his breath. He wanted to tell House that he was upset because no one ever cared about what he wanted, because Julie certainly didn't care about what he wanted and because House was his best friend and he cared least of all what he wanted. He wanted to tell House how much it sucked that he would do anything for him without asking for anything in return but that he would always know that he wouldn't get anything in return even if he asked for it. He wanted to ask House if he even gave a crap about him or if he just enjoyed having another puzzle to work on. Unfortunately he didn't know how to say any of that without sounding silly.

House tilted his head to one side, ignoring his obvious misery; "Tornado Storm and Lightning Bolt, monster truck rally tomorrow night. I have two tickets."

He finally looked up from his work to look at House's lanky form, leaning against the doorway, cane tucked under his arm and head tilted to one side. Blue eyes and crooked smile were directed at him. He couldn't help but remember how this lips had kissed him on the uncomfortable leather seats of the Volvo. He remembered how he would have done anything to take away House's pain in that moment and he realized that it didn't matter if House cared or not because at the end of the day, no matter what House did, Wilson couldn't stop himself from caring.

"Sounds good," Wilson said and then, without another word, he packed his work away for later. House waited for him to put the papers away and grab his coat and they both walked out together. There was no need to say anything else.

It was a week later when Wilson finally got around to going to the department store and buying Julie's Dansk dinnerware. He filled the Volvo up with gas on his way there and listened to the oldies station of the radio because House always turned it to that station and he couldn't be bothered to change it.

Once there he asked for the person who had helped them before and told him thatshe was buying the china.

He signed the check reluctantly and eyed the china. It was nice but he didn't get what was so special about it. They were just some really nice plates with impressive artwork on them. With a sigh, he signed House's name on the card and asked for it to be delivered to their home address as soon as possible.

He turned to go but then he remembered his briefcase, the one that was made of buttery leather and had perfect stitching and cost a fortune. A voice very much like House's voice rang in his head: when are you going to take care of "you"?

In an empowered moment, he turned to the man and said, "you know what? I think I'll buy the briefcase too."

"Of course sir," he cooed, looking at the registry and then looking back up at him, "it was actually already bought by someone else."

He was sure his mouth dropped to the floor, "what? Someone bought us that? Who?"

"The gentleman said he'd send the gift to you anonymously."

Could it be? Who else would send him a gift like that anonymously? But it wasn't possible. House would never come all the way there. He hadn't even told House that he'd wanted the briefcase.

He was back at the counter now, almost leaning into it, "it's very important that I know who bought the briefcase. What did he look like?"

The man looked down his nose at Wilson, "I'm afraid I don't remember him at all sir."

This reeked of House. Sleek as could be, Wilson slipped him a twenty, "does that jog your memory?"

The man didn't look impressed, "funny. I remember that the man gave me a very similar piece of paper."

Wilson rolled his eyes and took out a fifty. Of course, House had paid the sales associate twenty bucks and asked him to keep his mouth shut. "Does that help?"

"Everything seems to be coming back to me."

"Did he have a cane?"

"Yup."

"Blue eyes?"

"Yup."

"Real jerk?"

"That's him."

Wilson turned to leave, feeling utterly dumbfounded, "did I just pay that guy fifty bucks to tell me something I knew?" he wondered out loud.

"Yes you did," the man yelled after him as he walked out of the store. He walked out into the sunlight, squinting as he did so and walked back to where he had parked the Volvo. He didn't get in immediately, rather her leaned against it and admired the sunset. He was the only person in the parking lot and he found that oddly peaceful.

He thought about what had just happened. House had figured out where they had registered for gifts and gone all the way down there. He'd picked out the item that belonged to Wilson, not hard to figure out but still, and he'd bought him an expensive present that definitely was not worth the money. He'd asked for it to be sent anonymously.

He realized then, for the first time, that House cared. He realized then that House cared in a way that was different from how other people cared. He cared in a way that made him send Wilson an anonymous wedding present. He cared in a way that made him butt into Wilson's life like an annoying jerk. Suddenly the fact that House happened to ask him, no tell him, to come over with beer and pizza every time he lost an important patient didn't seem like a coincidence anymore. The fact that House would read Wilson's email, check his calendar, stalk his secretary, snarl at Julie, it all seemed a little less juvenile now, just a little less.

Wilson had a sort of epiphany of his own. He was standing there in the parking lot of the mall, the sun was a delicious shade of red far in the west, the wind was tousling his hair as Julie would in the morning when she felt like cuddling, his hands were buried deep in his pocket as he leaned against the Volvo: House cared.

He brought the Volvo to an abrupt stop just as he snapped out of the memory. He was moving way too slowly because of the rain and his need to be there at the apartment and see House was suddenly overbearing. He was going to walk. He pulled the Volvo into a parking lot and locked the doors and ran for dear life. The rain was beating down on him, bashing him in the face, and making it hard to see or run. He had no idea how he was running so fast when he was buried ankle deep into the water.

And this time what he experienced did not resemble House's epiphanies at all. It didn't hit him like a ton of bricks or dawn on him out of nowhere. It came to him slowly; it came to him with the steady sound of rain falling on the asphalt and the sound of his own feet wading through the water. It came to him with the feeling of the rain turning his skin into ice. It came to him because he had already known it for a very long time: he was in love with House.

He wasn't sure if that meant that he wanted House, he didn't know what the hell he wanted. All he knew was that he had to tell House that he was the most important person in the world, that he loved him the most, that he would do anything for him.

When he thought his lungs would give out and his bones would shatter from the cold, he finally arrived at the apartment. With the excitement of someone who discovers something that had always been there, a bit like Isaac Newton or so House would say, he ran up the flight of stairs and almost running into a beautiful, dark-haired, made-up girl with a dark trench coat and high heels who was undoubtedly a hooker and undoubtedly coming from their apartment. At the moment Wilson found even the fact that House would call a hooker as a way to deal with his problems to be incredibly fantastic and lovable. The girl shuffled away sheepishly, blushing hard, as Wilson ran to the apartment.

"House," he announced, adrenaline threatening to burst his veins. He was soaked and freezing and knew that the clothes he was wearing were no longer usable and that he would be sick in the morning but he wanted to explain, to make House understand—

But he knew as soon as his eyes adjusted to the dark that something was horribly wrong. The only light in the apartment came from the television and there was something stagnant in the air.

"House," he called again, frantic. He remembered the hooker in the hall. What if—

"House," he repeated, almost falling to his knees now but finding the strength to venture into apartment and physically look for his friend instead of shouting his name. Hopefully House was passed out on the couch, right where he'd left him. He was probably there. "But what if he's not there?" Wilson thought, urging himself to walk to the couch. He felt the bile rise in his throat as he tiptoed closer.

Wilson received the anonymously sent briefcase a week after his visit to the department store. The briefcase was still the same soft leather and golden buckle that he remembered and every bit as impressive looking as he'd thought. He took it to work the next day, coffee in his hand, making the usual stop at the front desk to say hello to the receptionist and ask for patient files.

Maggie, the receptionist, took note of the new briefcase immediately, "wow, Dr. Wilson, that's the nicest briefcase I've ever seen in this hospital. That couldn't have been cheap."

"It was a present," Wilson supplied, looking up at Maggie and just as he did so, House entered the lobby on his way to the elevators. He watched as House's eyes rested on the briefcase and then traveled to his face, a note of satisfaction in his smile. They locked eyes for a second. "It's the nicest thing anyone's ever given me," he added loudly, never breaking eye contact with his friend. House nodded in what seemed to be an acceptance of Wilson's gratitude and then the contact was broken and House was walking towards the elevators.

"Who's it from?" Maggie asked.

"An anonymous gift," Wilson said, watching House walk away from the corner of his eye.

"Wow, someone must like you a lot," she laughed as she hurried off to get the files.

Wilson was now staring at House while he disappeared into the crowded elevator and blended in with the crowd, "yeah, I think he does."

Hope you enjoyed. Reviews are welcome in any form. Quick words of encouragements and constructive criticism is welcome.

Sorry about any typos in the past chapters. I can't polish and edit, as I'm on a trip right now. The whole story will be taken down and polished once I get back. As for now, a beta would be great. Any takers?

I'm very excited about writing the next chapter. It's climactic, I'm telling you.