Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

Author's Notes: Thanks so much for the reviews! It truly pushes me to write more! Glad everyone's enjoying and I hope you're up for a long ride. I have about a billion ideas that could take this into many, many chapters!

Tears

Three days passed before he heard from Wilson and he'd spent all three wondering if this is how women felt when men said they'd call and didn't. But this was different. He could make contact just as easily. But no, he had made the last move. The next one had to be made by Wilson. Or James.

Greg. Only his mother called him Greg. And Stacey. He made hookers call him Doctor. People at work called him House. Patients called him Dr. House. But 'Greg' had been the name uttered by Wilson's lips just before he'd slipped out the apartment door. Wilson's lips, the lips his had brushed in what was supposed to be a goodnight kiss; the most inappropriate goodnight kiss he'd ever taken part in. But he'd done it. And even though he'd had no physical reaction, something in his miserable heart actually felt good, a good he hadn't felt since Stacey.

So here he was, surfing the net in his office for the newest Internet porn, trying to push the thoughts of his best friend from his mind. But the buzz of his cell phone interrupted his search. 'Stop surfing for porn and come home'

He chuckled, knowing that no one knew him better than his best friend.

Twenty minutes later, he found Wilson in his apartment, towel-drying a plate and returning it to the cupboard. "You think you can order me around now?"

"You came didn't you?"

With a tilt of his head and an agreeing shrug, he dropped his bag to the floor. "How'd you get in here anyway?"

"The key. I found it from the last time you let me stay here. I…got tired of waiting outside. You were supposed to be home over an hour ago."

"So, what…you own me now?"

"I don't want to own you. I haven't seen you in three days. I…missed you."

Downing a Vicodin and tossing the empty bottle to the side, "And whose fault is that? I went by your old place, some old lady lives there!"

He tossed the towel on the counter. "You went…to find me?"

"I might have."

"You said an old lady lives there. You did go."

"So?"

"Did you…miss me?"

He toyed with his cane, procrastinating. With a little more anger coming thru than he intended, "You didn't call for three days. Where the hell were you?"

"You did miss me!" After a dagger-like look, "I was taking care of some business."

He didn't mean for the desperation to come across in his tone. "You got a job? Where?"

"Relax. I…accepted a job a couple weeks ago. I had to go and formally apologize…for backing out."

Pretending to be busy shuffling thru cd's, "Why?"

Closing the difference between them, "Because it was in California and I couldn't leave you; not again."

He dared him with his eyes, "Why?"

"Don't Greg. You're not ready for this." His head hung, hating that the younger man was right. Changing the subject, "I rented a movie." Walking toward the kitchen, "You hungry? I brought Chinese. I'll have to reheat it though."

Yelling after him, "Yeah. What movie?"

"Pretty Woman."

"Seriously?"

He came back carrying a beer and a wine glass. "Yeah, well, you get the hooker and I get Richard Gere."

"You're going full fledge with this thing aren't you?"

"If you don't shut up, I'll get Brokeback Mountain next time."

Completely changing the direction of the conversation, "So why'd you leave your apartment?"

He returned with two plates before answering. "Everything reminded me of Amber."

"So where's your new place?"

He pushed play before, "'Extended Stay America' and a storage place."

"Guess that means going to your place is out."

A single chuckle, "Yeah."

"What are you going to do about a job?"

"I don't know yet."

"Why don't you talk to Cuddy, get your old job back?"

"She didn't fill the position yet?"

"Nope."

A few moments of silence passed. "Would that be weird?"

"What?"

"Us working together. Would that be weird?"

"We've worked together for years!"

"But now we're…dating." That even sounded weird to him.

"I'll try to control myself at work!"

"Be real!"

"Okay, okay. We're grown men. Business is business. Personal is personal. We don't have to be like Cameron and Chase and advertise for free."

"You're sure?"

"Yes I'm sure! Stop being an idiot!"

Settling back into the couch, "Yes, Dear."

They watched the movie in silence, Wilson closing the distance between them little by little. House made no move to come closer, but none to move further away either, giving Wilson just the little bit of confidence he needed to place his hand on the jean-clad thigh when they got close enough. There was no jerking away, like he expected, but rather a shift of House's gaze from the television to the hand that had invaded his personal space. Nearly twenty minutes later, a warm hand covered the original, shooting a jolt of electricity up Wilson's arm.

He didn't move for the rest of the movie, afraid that the moment would end, but when the credits rolled, he reached for the remote, trying to be casual. He cleared their plates, washed and put them away, returning to find House still seated on the couch. Moving to stand in front of him, "Hey, you okay?"

From a seated position, he grabbed the hand of the man standing in front of him. Gazing into the palm as if he could read his future, he pressed it to his lips. Ever so slowly, his tongue slipped from his lips, tasting the soap that had been used to wash the dishes. Then, unexpectedly, he yanked, causing Wilson to fall to the couch beside him, never letting go of the hand.

Barely above a whisper, "What are you doing?"

With a smirk, "This is our second date. Second date means second base."

"Are you serious?"

"Considering that I haven't had sex since the night you kissed me, yeah! I need to know whether this does anything for me!"

He yanked his hand back. "What? This is about you getting your rocks off?"

"Shouldn't it be?"

"No! This should be about feelings, a relationship!"

"Every relationship I've ever had has been about sex! Why is this one any different?"

"Because I don't want to be the hooker you pay to get your kicks! I want you to care about me!"

His voice rose as he stood, "You want me to love you! Just say it!"

"Fine! Yes! I want you to love me!"

"I can't love someone I can't have sex with!"

"Why does everything have to be about sex?"

"Because a relationship without sex leads to cheating! And I can't lose you again!" He turned to the wall, his forehead falling against it, realizing he'd shown all his cards.

The warm arms that encircled him nearly weakened his knees. The two palms burned prints into his chest, the beat of the heart he felt against his back was as fast as his own. The whisper of his name sent shivers up his spine. "Greg." He was frozen in place. "Greg, look at me." Turning until his back was against the wall, his face to the floor, he tried to ignore the man that stood dangerously close to him.

"Greg. Please look at me." When he got no response, he took matters into his own hands. The contact of his lips to the bare flesh above the collar of the older man's t-shirt elicited a hiss he'd desired to hear. He nipped at the skin covering the clavicle before covering it with his mouth and heard the clatter of the cane hitting the floor as his hands found their way under the t-shirt and found the smooth skin above the waistband.

Moving his mouth to an earlobe, he sucked it into his mouth before whispering, "I'm not going to leave you." As if to prove his point, he took the one step needed to press their bodies together, making his arousal evident. Capturing his partner's lips with his, he got the response he was looking for. Arms enclosed him, their kiss deepened, tongues clashing.

They parted, both breathless. "Greg?"

"I'm…uh…yeah."

"You…okay?"

"I could…use a cold shower."

After a chaste kiss, "I'll see you tomorrow."

He caught the younger doctor's arms. "Excuse me?"

"What?"

"Where are you going?"

As if it were a stupid question, "Home."

"You live in a hotel!"

"So?"

"You promised you wouldn't leave me!"

"I'm not leaving you. I'm going home."

"This is your home!"

"House! You're being irrational!"

The use of his last name startled him. "Get out." He took a step, forgetting he didn't have his cane and tumbled forward. Wilson was at his side in an instant. "I said get out!"

He pleaded, "Let me help you."

His yell was way above necessary, "Get out!"

Greg House didn't sleep that night. Neither did James Wilson. Greg House took his sleep depravation out on his ducklings and clinic patients. James Wilson took his out on himself. He didn't eat. He didn't drink. He didn't go try to get his job back.

He wanted to call. But knew the line. Business was business. He wouldn't bother House at work. But that only did one thing. It brought him to the apartment door, the door he'd walked out of the previous night with tears threatening his eyes. He had no idea what happened; still didn't. So he sat, leaning against the door, waiting, with tears falling down his cheeks.

Yes, he had a key, but didn't know if he had the right to use it. So he waited. What pissed him off was that he was predictable. So not only was he waiting, but also he was waiting over two hours past the time he normally should have to.

So he cried, tears of sadness, tears of frustration, tears of a broken heart. He cried himself to sleep.