House checked his watch, angling it in the light to catch the movement of the second had as it rounded off another minute.

Two days.

Forty eight hours.

Each minute felt like an actual weight placed around his shoulders, pulling him down. He dropped his head back against the couch, heaving a sigh that left him feeling empty and bereft.

He'd not returned, had even gone so far as to avoid the ICU entirely to rid himself of the temptation to cast a wary eye over Wilson as he'd slept. Instead he had thrown himself headlong into hours of numbing rounds and paperwork, spending his breaks watching the workmen repair the outer wall of the hospital and watching updates on the news, anything to keep his mind occupied.

It was a fruitless endeavour as he knew very well it would be, but it was something he had willed himself to try none the less, keeping his mind and body active until it came time to roughly swallow more pills that were needed to coax him in to a restless slumber filled with shadows of blood and tears that he woke from feeling empty and wasted.

Nobody had approached him, he'd steered clear of Cuddy and avoided Chase like the plague, some dormant coward within himself fearing the judgement he would see in the young man's eyes. His uncharacteristic behaviour was enough to set alarm bells ringing, and had it been any other day he would no doubt have been pursued mercilessly and berated on his next Machiavellian plan, but it wasn't just an average day, and people knew what was bothering him. The fact they left him to his own devices should have worried him more.

He reached up to rub at his brow, listening numbly to the muted sounds of the streaming news reports and thanking whatever nameless deities that yesterday's hangover had finally relieved itself of him. Surely he'd not been legal to work, his blood alcohol level must have been bordering on obscene after he'd shown up at work, memories of the night before completely lost and obscured past the point where he'd let slip to the barman that he was a doctor, resulting in a tide of drinks being bought for him, and him not being one to turn down a drink had gratefully accepted, if only to smear away the image of the hurt he'd inflicted on Wilson's face.

He was miserable. Achingly so.

He hadn't felt like this since Stacy left and even then he'd been more preoccupied by the hurt and anger he'd felt towards her to recognise whether he'd still loved her. But this...this was something else, this was being given the ticket to your dream and having to turn it down because the price of admission was too high.

He'd tried over and over again to rationalise his decisions , tried to make him see the logic of his own selfish concerns, but each and every time he coerced himself into an internal diatribe he was interrupted by fleeting images, the rhythmic twitching of his fingers as they remembered the feel of silken skin beneath his touch, the way Wilson's body had arched up against his as he'd kissed him.

He groaned and sat forward, pressing the heel of his hands into his eyes to fight the images burning behind his lids, feeling his breath coagulate into a hot and desperate sob that threatened to overwhelm him.

Was he being selfish? To give up on something such as this to stop them both from hurting all the more later on.

He checked his watch again, comparing it to the clock on the wall.

Cuddy had phoned him a couple hours ago to let him know that Wilson was being discharged, his last MRI had come back clean and he'd persuaded them to let him leave based upon their desperate need for beds, much to the displeasure of the staff who had tried to persuade him to stay and rest.

He'd considered not being there when Wilson came home, it would be easy enough to go back to the hospital and immerse himself in his work, or to traipse his way back to the bar for a repeat performance of the other night, but he'd decided against it, the faint remembrance of Wilson telling him he would leave rooting him in the apartment, as though House thought that by missing him now would mean he'd never see him again.

He looked around their shared home, and their influences combined, books and magazines piled up beside the couch, small trinkets collected and displayed in awkward crannies. The place hadn't been dusted for a couple weeks, something House never did and only noticed now in Wilson's absence as he dragged his fingers along the piano, drawing faint lines in the dust before letting them land on the keys, a dischorded sound emanating from within and perfectly accompanying the solemn dull ache that tightened his chest.

It wasn't just that he was afraid of hurting Wilson, it was knowing what their combined track record was. Throughout his life House had always been the one that had clung on despite his efforts to push away, he'd always been the one left raw and lonely, whereas Wilson had always been the one to leave, to grow bored of his relationships when they no longer needed him and casting them off in search of the next girl with issues. They would never work together, they'd proved that throughout the years, House couldn't bring himself to bow to contentment and Wilson would grow tired when he showed no motivation to change.

Change.

He'd spent hours just pondering the notion, as to whether he were capable. He never had the need before his leg took a turn for the worst, he and Stacy had had a great relationship, he'd been happy, they had been going somewhere. And then it had all gone to hell.

And Wilson had been the one to help pick up the pieces, to watch him build the wall up around his heart and close himself off from the world. He'd been the one to watch him go through the procession of one night stands, hookers and shallow meaningless flings that filled the years since. And in return he'd been the one who said nothing when Wilson crashed on his couch for the night, had given him the key so he didn't even need to ask next time and played the partner in their dance of ruined relationships, circling each other closer and closer until they inevitably came together in their bizarre duet, using each other as an excuse not to pursue anything with any real meaning.

Living with Wilson had been the closest he'd come to feeling complete, to know that he had someone to come back to that knew him better than anyone else, who knew when to push him and when to let go, who looked after him in his own way and never held him back.

He'd been an integral part of his life, something he'd tried to deny as he grown to rely on him, had come to realise his feelings for him had warped and evolved into something that had left him craving his presence.

He chewed on his lip, balling his fist and rapping it lightly on the keys. He was completely and utterly fucked whichever way he looked at it. If he caved, he'd lose Wilson. If he didn't, he'd still lose him.

He didn't hear the door open, the key turning in the lock but the sound of it shutting loudly reverberated through the apartment, making him flinch as his entire body threatened to shut down right then and there.

"I didn't think you'd be home." Wilson sounded awful, looked just as bad, his eyes ringed with tiredness and skin pale in the dim light of the floor lamps. House felt his throat go dry, his lungs seize as his heart thumped painfully in his chest.

Yeah, he was definitely fucked. Hadn't realised just how much he'd missed him until he was standing awkwardly at the doorway.

"Cuddy said you discharged yourself, probably best someone knew you got home safe." He muttered, not trusting his voice at all least it betray the war that was being fought between his mind and his heart.

"I got a cab." Wilson replied softly. "Was just going to go straight to bed." He tossed a paper bag onto the kitchen counter, its contents rattling ominously as he shrugged out of his jacket.

House's curiosity overcame him and he limped across the divide to root into the bag, ignoring Wilson's irritated frown. "They got you on the good stuff?" he tipped the contents out, several rattling bottles crowding together on the countertop and lined up by House's hand, each tipped back as the labels were read. Not that there were any surprises, but he felt a guilty twitch in his stomach as he thought about some other doctor prescribing his take homes. His fingers tightened on the last bottle, reading the label twice. "What do you need this for?" House looked up, turning the bottle so that the Vicodin label faced Wilson.

"I still have a plueritic intake." He reached out and swiped them from House's hand, "Some of us are capable of using them as prescribed."

"If it hurts you to breath Wilson, you shouldn't have left the hospital."

"Can we please spare the lecture for another time, I'm exhausted." Wilson leaned heavily back against the countertop, hands brought up to cover his face.

"Nearly dying will do that to you." House quipped softly.

Wilson glared at him, his cheeks flushing despite his pallor. "You can go back to the hospital now." It sounded more like an order than a hint.

House pressed his lips together, letting Wilson's ire wash over him and wondering why he always had to be an ass, why he couldn't have just welcomed him home and let him crash out without making some wise crack asinine comments that caused them both to get their backs up. "I can stay." He offered quietly, running his knuckles along the countertop, his arm spreading out just far enough that he could brush against Wilson's arm if he chose. He chanced glancing up, taking in the softened lines around Wilson's eyes, a slight pain making them seem dull.

"You don't have to." There was an underlying tension in his reply.

House sucked in a breath, felt it stretch his lungs. "I want to." He muttered quietly.

Wilson's clothes rustled as he folded his arms briefly, his face pained and flinching at the pressure on his chest and he let them hang instead, awkward and stiff as he turned his face away. "Please House, I don't have the energy for this...I can't..." his breathing hitched and the pained lines around his eyes deepened for a moment. He pushed away from the counter suddenly, scooping the bottles of pills back into the bag as he passed them on the way to the fridge, its door yielding under his force as he retrieved a bottle of mineral water.

"I don't mean to start anything." House said quickly, causing Wilson to pause, his hand braced and leaning against the fridge.

"That much is clear." Wilson countered dully, he turned his face just enough for House to see his profile.

"I just meant," He ignored the barb, "...I just wanted to...I want to make sure you're okay." He finished lamely, feeling very much out of character.

Wilson had turned away again, looking down the hallway to where the door to his room stood open, enticing and welcoming after his ordeal. He straightened, hand hanging loosely at his side. "I'm fine."

"Wilson?" House sighed.

"I'm fine." He snapped, swaying as he stepped forward and House rolled his eyes as he limped forward, catching Wilson by the arm before he could make it even two steps.

"Yeah, you seem great." He felt the arm in his grip tense as Wilson turned on him, an odd shine to his red rimmed eyes.

"Okay House, I'm not!" he spat, shrugging the hand from his arm. "I've had a shit week, my place of work was targeted in a terrorist attack, I sustained a head injury which led to complications that still hurt, and this..."He gestured between them, "this total fuck up that I have held back for years and promised myself that I would never be so stupid as to hope..." He choked, "...and you..." he turned away, furiously looking anywhere but at House but he couldn't hide the hitch in his breath, the thickness that cloyed his words.

House reached out, his hand on Wilson's shoulder and moving to his neck when he tried to shrug him off. "Wilson...I..."

"Don't."

He ignored the protest, the quiet sound of denial that whispered from Wilson's lips as House let his hand curl gently around his neck, feeling the heat of his skin and the soft scratch of stubble as he brushed his thumb along the length of his jaw. He stepped closer, only inches between them, his other hand coming to rest gently against Wilson's back, barely there.

He felt hands clasp gently at the shirt by his waist, a feeble, trembling hold that that made House close the slight distance, pulling him close, his hand running up and through hair, holding him as Wilson tucked his head in underneath House's chin, his breath warmth and uneven against his neck, causing a thrill that shivered through him, swallowing roughly against the temptation of images of where this night could lead.

He could feel Wilson trembling, but from exhaustion and pain or something else, he couldn't tell, could only go on the soft and hesitant sigh that broke across his own heated skin as he used his hand placed on the small of his back to draw him closer, feeling the burning heat beneath his shirt soak into the palm of his hands. His cheek rested against his hair, soft and achingly familiar in a way he shouldn't have known, his lips parted, inching closer and closer until he could press them gently to the soft skin below his ear, feeling Wilson seize his shirt tighter in his grip as he left them there, his own shaking breaths heating the infinitesimal space between them. One perfect moment captured in time. And then...

"No." Wilson pushed at him, his hands pressed against his chest and the gulf between them widened, House's heart feeling every inch as a physical string stretched and pulled taut, ready to snap.

House staggered, arms suddenly bereft and caught up in dark eyes, hurt radiating from every pore. "I thought you wanted..."

"I don't want your guilt House!" Wilson looked incredulous.

House could feel the cold dread of confusion prickling at the back of his neck.

"You've already played me for the fool with whatever's going on in that messed up mind of yours, I can't even begin to imagine what stupid shitty reason you've concocted to excuse yourself from your own hurt...to make this okay...but I don't want to hear it." Wilson stood straight, staring House down, one hand gravitated to his ribs where stitches pulled at his skin.

He hadn't expected that, deserved it, yes, but expected it, no.

"I don't want to be a part of your games." Wilson whispered brokenly, head canted to the side and eyes pained.

House dipped his head, extricating himself from the full force of his stare, noting dumbly the bag of pills and the bottle of water dumped on the floor, wondering how he hadn't heard Wilson drop them. "It isn't a game." He muttered lowly.

"Then what is this?" he saw Wilson's hand go wide, watched it swing back to thump against his side. "You can't do this...you can't just change your mind... keep rewriting the rules..." god, he sounded so defeated. "You can't tell me one day that this is what you want, and then turn your back the next." He took a couple of steps back, leaning again on the kitchen counter, he rubbed tiredly at his face.

"I'm sorry." House's lips felt numb, Wilson's rebuttal like a stinging backhand across his face.

They stood in silence, the muted sound of the traffic outside vibrating the air and lending a soporific quality to the heat that crept with the sun's rays through the cracks in the corners.

Wilson grunted, pushing at the countertop and passing House without touching him, his eyes only focused on retrieving the pills that would drag him into a deep and dreamless sleep. "I'm going to bed." He swiped the bag and the bottle from the floor, already rooting in the bag for the same pills House used to dull his own pains.

House felt his throat tighten, his chest ached with a physical pain, each beat of his heart punctuated his confliction, the war between his conscience and the raw, aching need to have Wilson in his arms. He couldn't let him leave, couldn't let this go today, knowing that if he did the moment would be lost, the right time would not come again, Wilson would leave. He'd pack up his bags and play the role of the martyr to save them both from the hurt, winding himself back on their friendship.

Wilson had taken a leap of faith.

Now it was his turn. Take the chance, for better or worse.

"I'm in love with you James."