Disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

This chapter was surprisingly hard to write. It's not as unified as I'd like it to be, but I couldn't push it any more. To clarify, this chapter takes place the morning after the "Need" chapter.


Support

Wilson's alarm shook House out of a solid sleep. The warm, heavy body he was curled up against reached out and squashed the squawking alarm, then sighed back into place. Relaxed. Breathing deeply. Still asleep, House realized.

But no part of House was asleep. Because, he recalled with some chagrin, Wilson had tackled him to prevent him from getting that damned box open. He really didn't think Wilson had it in him; then again, he'd never expected to be smashing that box with a hammer at 2 a.m. either. Need that bad didn't hit him often. That he had no control over what he'd done…he didn't relish having to talk it out with his counselor later today, but he knew he needed to. He was just happy he wouldn't have to talk it out with Wilson, since Wilson finally understood how bad the need was.

In fact, his current state of hyper-wakefulness was entirely Wilson's fault. No morphine, no methadone, last night's Vicodin wearing off: he felt like himself for the first time in a month. Certain parts of him were vengefully back to normal. Well, House smirked. Wilson would just have to pay for letting him return to normal. More specifically, the soft flesh pressing against his groin would have to pay.

House grinned devilishly and set his hands in motion.


"C'mon," House whined from the passenger's seat, "we can stop somewhere real quick. I'm starving."

"We're going to be late already," Wilson countered, frowning at the traffic in front of him. "You can get something from the cafeteria."

House sighed dramatically. "The line will be just as long there and I'll end up with food poisoning." He nodded toward the next block. "Anton's is right there," he said. "You love their bagels."

"But I hate being late more than I love bagels," Wilson grumbled.

House turned to face him. "Why are you grumpy?" he asked. "No one should be grumpy after sex like that."

Wilson grimaced at the red light that had stopped the car in front of them. He glanced at House. "When you whispered 'quickie' in my ear, I thought you meant fifteen minutes at most."

House grinned wickedly. "I thought you'd last long enough to call it a quickie," he said. "That was more like a light-speed-ie."

Wilson blushed and looked out of his window. "Yeah, well, I didn't exactly expect you to wake me up like that," he mumbled.

House's grin widened. "You should hear the noise you make when you come in your sleep. I didn't think I could get any harder—"

"House."

"There's my puritan," House said, reaching over to pat Wilson's leg. "I thought the tiger you turned into had eaten him all up."

Wilson's pink cheeks flared dark red.

House kept grinning and stretched out triumphantly in the passenger's seat. "Nothing beats morning sex," he said. "Except the shower sex that comes after it when you decide you don't like having cum on your stomach." He cocked his head. "Then there's noon sex…"

Wilson groaned. "I'll be walking funny all day as it is," he complained.

House relished Wilson's performance of incorruptibility. His days would be so much more boring without it.

"Yep," he said, stretching again, "everyone's gonna know who's got cooties today."

Wilson groaned again—not only at House, but also because they were caught behind another red light.

House's attention shifted to the restaurant on the block. "There's almost no one in line," he pointed out. "I can jump out and—"

"There are five people in line," Wilson countered, "and there's always a ten minute wait at least."

House harrumphed. "Next time you finish early, I'll make you make me breakfast instead of giving you the best head of your life."

"The cafeteria isn't going anywhere," Wilson pointed out, still flushed at House's insistence on recalling every detail of every sex act. Maybe House wasn't affected by all that talk, but… Wilson shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat.

"But we're not going to the cafeteria and I'm hungry now," House whined.

Right, Wilson recalled, House had moved on to hunger. Vicodin made it easier for him than he realized.

House, oblivious to Wilson's discomfort, craned his neck to look down the street.

"Ooo, Mickie-Dee's. Nothing's faster than that." He collapsed dramatically against the seat, hand on his heart. "I can taste the Big Breakfast now. Pancakes, sausage, eggs—"

"Two days of LDL in one meal," Wilson said with disgust. He exaggerated a shudder.

"You can get coffee," House suggested. "Mr. Grumpy Pants needs his coffee."

"What I need is Moses to part the Red Sea," Wilson grumbled, gesturing toward the cars in front of them. "I can do without the lard-based coffee."

House plucked at his t-shirt. "Come on, I'm a skeleton," he coaxed, "it's not going to hurt me."

"Might make me vomit, though." Wilson was beginning to turn green, but not because of anything House would or would not eat.

House sniffed. "Food snob."

They pulled two blocks closer to the hospital before another light stopped them. McDonald's occupied the next block, House noted as his mouth filled with saliva. He pawed at the window and whined like a puppy, showing Wilson his most inconsolable face.

Wilson couldn't help it: he started chuckling. "All right, all right," he capitulated with a laugh. "I'll buy you a McHeartAttack."

House kept his mournful expression. "Can I have a McTripleBypass too?" he asked pathetically.

Wilson composed himself so he could be properly condescending.

"Of course you can."


Wilson paused at the administrative assistant's desk after grand rounds to check his calendar for the rest of the day. Except for an hour blocked out for the meeting with House's rehab counselor and time for lunch, he was booked solid. The assistant offered him the patient files for his afternoon appointments, scattered memos, and his mail. He thanked her and headed toward his office to make the most of the fifteen minute break between the rounds he'd just finished and the budget meeting that would start soon.

Disturbed by the lack of improvement in one of his patients, he didn't notice House's presence until he smelled the sweaty musk he'd become so accustomed to.

"Hey," he said without looking up from a memo he was scanning. He flipped on the lights.

Wilson glanced at the long form stretched out on his couch when House didn't answer. Ice pack wedged between his leg and the couch, pillow covering his face, an arm draped over his stomach. It hadn't been a good session.

House only came to his office after PT when he wanted to be secluded but not alone. Wilson didn't know where he went when he wanted to be both secluded and alone. Knowing House would only talk when he wanted to talk, Wilson went around his desk and settled into the chair to review the material for the budget meeting. Just because House didn't want to be alone didn't mean he wanted attention.

Proposal to expand nuclear medicine's budget by… Wilson scented something he encountered so often that he had trouble placing it at first. His eyes traveled over House and—there. Yellow-brown splatter patterns on his grey sweat pants and shirt. Wilson wrinkled his nose.

"They couldn't give you scrubs to change into?" Wilson asked.

"And deprive me of my badge of courage?" House replied in a gruff voice.

He belched and moaned, carefully rubbing his stomach.

Wilson jumped from his chair. "Whoa, whoa, not on the carpet," he said, grabbing a trash can and plunking it down next to the couch.

House was silent. Wilson cocked his head and peeled the pillow off of House's face.

"Okay?" he asked.

House closed his eyes and swallowed delicately. "Will be when the rest of it comes up," he answered.

"Eat too much?" Wilson questioned.

"Yeah," House breathed. "You were right about the McBreakfast." His face squished together. "Thanks."

"Want something?"

House grimaced. "I'll be fine if I can just puke again."

Wilson placed a hand on House's sweat-stiffened hair. "Your meeting's in an hour," he said. "I've got a meeting before that. Tell you what: I'll get a suppository and some ginger ale. Can't hurt."

He scanned House's face for any trace of reply. Nothing there but the unhappy tension of nausea. He wrinkled his nose again.

"And a pair of scrubs," he added, eyes straying to House's clothes.

He raked his fingers slowly through House's hair. House assented by not dissenting. Wilson smiled slightly and placed the pillow on House's face again.

"Kill the lights," House mumbled as Wilson went toward the door.

Wilson flipped the lights off and paused at the door. "Try to hit the trash can."

House just grunted miserably.


After Wilson's budget meeting, they met up outside the counselor's office.

"You look better," Wilson said as he settled into the chair next to House.

House, wearing the scrubs Wilson had left for him, nodded. "Feel better," he said, nervously tapping his cane on the floor. He glanced at Wilson. "Thanks."

Wilson allowed himself a quick brush of House's arm: you're welcome.

House flashed Wilson the small, secret smile only Wilson got to see, and rubbed his stomach. "Kinda hungry, actually."

Wilson snorted a laugh, shaking his head.

House still smiled. "What?" he asked innocently.

"Only you," Wilson replied, smiling back.

He took House's hand briefly, squeezing it, feeling the rough skin. He respected House's need to keep up his reputation of meanness and inapproachability. Everyone knew, but House liked to control how much they knew and had thus deemed that public physical contact at work be kept to a minimum. As if on cue, House's smile disappeared and he settled back into his gruff misanthropist disguise.

Wilson spoke to him in a low voice. "I was thinking the morphine shouldn't be replaced," he said. "Depending on what Hofstadter says, of course," Wilson qualified, "but if it gets that bad, we should come here anyway."

House eyed the floor, tapping his cane. He took several long seconds to consider the proposal. Finally, his head tipped forward in the tiniest of nods.

"That's probably a good idea."

They waited in silence until the counselor opened his door.

"Doctor House," he said.

House tapped the cane one last time and got to his feet. Wilson stayed seated.

House took a few steps toward the door before he realized Wilson wasn't with him. He stopped, glanced quickly at the counselor, then down at the floor. Thinking. Deciding.

Finally, eyes still on the floor, he spoke. "You should come too."

Not needing to be told twice, Wilson followed him into the counselor's office.

Once inside, Wilson sat quietly near House while Hofstadter asked a series of questions House liked to parody at night. House kept his attention on the floor and spoke quietly—always a sign that he was battling emotions that made him uncomfortable. Occasionally, he glanced to Wilson for confirmation of the veracity of his statements. Wilson had a small, warm smile and a nod ready at all times.

To Wilson's surprise, the counselor questioned him about the incident, too. He found himself flailing, uncertain, and looking to House for confirmation the way House looked to him.

Hofstadter looked from House to Wilson. "Did this occurrence create any tension between you that you haven't resolved?"

Wilson looked to House, who was smiling stupidly like he was, and said, "No…I think we took care of that."

House eyed him devilishly for half a second—just long enough to make Wilson's cheeks and groin tingle.

Hofstadter pronounced their relationship healthy, functional, and supportive, and asked to speak to House alone.

Wilson obeyed, but not before exchanging a puzzled look with House. Functional? Healthy? Supportive? He shrugged slightly and left them alone.

Outside, Wilson sat quietly and relished not having to think for a few minutes. His patients, House's stomach, leg, addiction—all of his concerns could wait until later. Right now, he was busy processing Hofstadter's pronouncement.

Functional? Him? House? He and House together? Functional? He shook his head slowly, smiling a little.

He had to admit that he hadn't fallen into the pattern of working late or spending time with, well, House to avoid relationship problems he didn't want to deal with. They fought. Sure. He'd taken advantage of Cuddy's hospitality and spare room, or the couch in his office from time to time. But at the end of the day, he wanted to go home, and home was where House was. He smiled a little more.

But at the same time, the thought that this was as good as it could get tumbled around in the pit of his stomach. Maybe being pronounced healthy and functional would end the healthy, functional part of their relationship. Now that he was conscious of how good the relationship was… He sighed and sent up a prayer that he wouldn't screw it up.

After a few more minutes which Wilson spent spiraling between happiness and anxiety, House emerged with an off-color joke.

"The nice man says you aren't supposed to touch me in the bad place anymore."

Wilson rolled his eyes and stood to shake Hofstadter's hand.

"Any questions, Dr. Wilson?" Hofstadter asked.

Wrinkles appeared on Wilson's forehead. "Did I do the right thing?" he asked in a low tone.

House grabbed Wilson's arm impatiently, rolling his eyes. "You always do the right thing, Jimmy, that's why everyone loves you." House tugged. "Come on. I'm starving."

Hofstadter smiled mildly. "You did," he answered.

"Thanks," Wilson got out before House pulled him away. Hofstadter smiled mildly again and returned to his office.

"Hey," Wilson complained as House jerked him down the hall. He shook House's hand off but fell in step next to him. "Unnecessary."

"I'm hungry," House countered. "It's lunch time. Never stand between a man and his food."

Wilson rolled his eyes again. "Thanks for the warning," he griped. "Only about fifteen years too late."

"See?" House said. "That's why we're so functional."

"Exactly," Wilson answered. "I always support your very healthy decisions."

House snapped his fingers and pointed at Wilson. "He's got it."

They stopped at the elevator. The button was already lit up, but House pressed it again with his cane for good measure.

"Speaking of your very healthy decisions," Wilson began.

The elevator's arrival interrupted him. House held up his cane to let everyone know it was his push of the button that summoned the machine.

"Do I have a mess in my office?" Wilson asked once they'd crowded in with the rest of the staff members going to lunch.

House screwed up his face. "Yeah. We need to talk about that."

Wilson groaned as the elevator doors slid shut.