A huge thank you to each and every one of

you who have read this fic, and if you've

reviewed then I love you to bits! A couple of

answers for my lovely reviewers: I use single

quotation marks just coz that's what I'm used

to - most books I've read use them for speech.

And a special mention here for 'Romanse', who

prompted the ending for this chapter with her

fab review! Thanks again hun! :D xxx

(docZo: I've made that alteration, hope it reads

better now, thanks for the concrit :D xxx)

'Can I feel anymore?

Lie to me… I'm fading.

I can't drop you…

Tell me, I don't need you, oh…'

{Hanah Pestle: Need}

Acting as your best friend's matrass during what was quite possibly the most traumatic time of his life really wasn't quite all it was cracked up to be.

That was House's initial reaction when he was unexpectedly yanked from the land of sleep by the delightful cramp that decided to twist ruthlessly through his disfigured thigh in that moment, his right hand flying from its spot where it had been drifting idly at the floor to hastily grind into the constricting muscle, the constricting muscle that was obviously his leg's clear protest at sleeping on an old couch for the night.

Well, maybe not so much a protest at the couch but rather at his surely hung-over BFF who's deadweight was now unwittingly sprawled flat out across House's stomach, Wilson's drool-happy cheek having come to rest at House's now partially damp chest as the night had wore on into an overcast morning, his left arm still hanging at the floor where House's hand had just been, the other now presumably numb given that House could feel it tucked snugly beneath his back. Hell, even the blanket House had pulled around them only mere hours was now seemingly twisted in between them somewhere, most probably within the tangle of their entwined legs at the other end of the couch.

House could guess, with surprising ease, what they must look like to any naïve onlooker.

Happy. (Very much so.)

Gay. (Clearly.)

Drunks. (Surely.)

And in that order too.

The appalling reality couldn't have been more different, his leg as it went into an excruciating, inevitable spasm acting as a stark reminder of that fact, the pain that ripped through his thigh doing its usual in never failing to steal the breath of him with an intensity that he never got used to.

'Fuck,' hissed House, really not wanting to kick-start Wilson into the colossal hangover he was inevitably going to awaken to, but unable to help his leg falling heavily from the couch as he grappled uselessly at his contorting thigh, involuntarily gripping Wilson's stale shirt in his left hand that was still slung across his friend's back in a loose, yet subconsciously protective hold, the same shielding position House had held him in all night; his grip growing white knuckled with the pain that seemed to ricochet through every wrought fiber of his leg, his back arching involuntarily upwards with the pained cry that finally escaped him.

'House, wha' the… wha's'matter?' groaned Wilson sleepily as he was unwillingly nudged awake, stirring to blink and take a few disorientated moments to groggily register that not only did he feel like he was teetering on the brink of death with a head that was surely going to split in two, but that he also appeared to have fallen asleep on his best friend, his cheek now uncomfortably, stickily damp due to the fact that he'd drooled on said best friend's t-shirt.

And yet none of that came close to distracting him from the constant ache that had settled heavily in his chest, pain that was the culmination of the inherent shame that coursed so hotly, so incessantly, through his veins, utterly crushing him in its fiery wake, and God, it hurt.

It hurt.

Even so, it took only one bewildered glance up to House's sweat glazed face to realize the obvious, the suffering that was etched into every distressed feature, pain that had rendered House silently hostage as he panted through gritted teeth from behind tightly squeezed shut eyes, fuelling Wilson to scramble backwards until he'd shifted every ounce of his weight from the Diagnostician and getting himself sat up properly with House's good leg behind him, before reaching down and heaving House's ravaged leg up to lie across his lap, much to his friend's chagrin.

'OW- Wilson!' yelped House frantically, barely capable of noticing his delicate friend's nauseous wince as he instinctively reached forwards to pull his cramping leg back again, only to have Wilson slap his hand away before he started to forcefully knead the heel of his own hand into the twisting contours of damaged muscle through House's jeans, taking a few deep breaths past the nauseous swell of muggy head-spinning before he spoke, his tone jadedly lecturing.

'House, shut up. And try to relax. I can't believe you slept on the couch – you've got an empty bed through there, why the hell didn't you use it?'

'It's called being a friend, idiot,' snapped back House irately, shooting Wilson a pained glare at this newfound density before giving in to the queasy Oncologist's determined administrations and letting his head fall back to the arm of the couch, forcing himself to breathe slowly and with one arm slung across his closed eyes as he tried to do as his friend had instructed and relax.

It turned out, as expected, to be easier said than done.

'Well, you didn't have to stay with me all night,' said Wilson quietly after a while, watching House carefully as he started to work away a particularly tight knot in the quivering muscle, 'I would've been okay.'

House snorted from behind his arm.

'Oh yeah, after a thirteen-hour bender? I don't – ow – I don't think so. Someone had to – ow, Jesus…someone had to make sure you didn't choke on your own- ahh – your own vom- ah, okay, ow, OW – Wilson, stop, stop-'

Wilson had already stopped when House suddenly snatched out at his upper arm to grip it tightly, the hung-over Oncologist holding House's pleading gaze for a long moment, before breaking away to turn his attention back to cautiously massaging House's slowly loosening thigh with just his fingertips now, House's restraining grip lessening once more with his cautious compliance to this compromise as he settled back down again, his eyes trained on the weary man who had come to be currently sat between his legs.

Wilson was a wreck.

That was the instant conclusion House came to as he lay there, the most vulnerable part of him totally at the mercy of Wilson's touch, the younger man unwittingly looking so incredibly lost as he focused wholly on the all too familiar task of easing House's pain.

And as he studied Wilson, House couldn't help but inherently know that there was no one else he could allow to do this to him, no one else he would allow to partake in this strange little dance of mutual guilt-lifting, no one else he would allow himself to end up in this state for. He couldn't help but ponder a startling thought that struck him every so often, one that he hardly ever voiced but rather took for granted on an almost daily basis:

He had everything he needed right here.

They both did.

And that would never change for either of them.

'I'm sorry,' apologized Wilson softly after a good few minutes of steadily kneading House's leg into submission, his cheek feeling like it was burning now under the continual scrutiny of his best friend's watchful gaze and both men quite suddenly aware that Wilson's apology wasn't confined to just causing House the wholly necessary pain previously.

'Yeah, well… I don't blame you,' conceded House quietly, sitting up to experimentally tug his now considerably less aching leg from Wilson's lap to the floor before cracking open the vial of Ibuprofen to dry swallow two pills, not missing for a second the newfound, inherent edginess of his best friend as Wilson uncharacteristically occupied his suddenly empty hands by nervously picking at the non-existent dry skin around his left thumb nail, seemingly immersed in the task.

And in that one, quite normal-seeming gesture that inflicted the majority of the human race at some time or other, House gleaned his friend's terror as easily as any endless scream could have conveyed.

Because he was too immersed in picking at dry skin that didn't exist.

Most wouldn't have noticed. Those who didn't know Wilson inside out, who didn't analyze him at every opportunity, who didn't fret and snipe at the world when something was amiss with him wouldn't have realized that anything was wrong. House wasn't sure if Wilson himself was even aware of the momentary shudders that still shook him every now and then, as vice-like now as they had been when he'd held the decimated Oncologist in his arms the night before last, the pair of them lying amidst the vile remnants of the carnage that had unfolded to claim his friend in all his entirety.

Fortunately, House knew better.

'I don't blame you, but Wilson – take me with you the next time you decide to go AWOL, okay? It's no fun on your own.'

And I'll know you're safe.

The sentiment went unspoken, but Wilson knew it was there.

Even now, as he tried in vain to stop the waves of revolted nausea washing through him, the bitter, tangy scent of his attack permeating the air around them, like it had been for what seemed like forever now, silently forcing its way down his nostrils, down his throat, suffocating him… even then, he knew it was there.

How could it not be?

'Of course, if taking on the twats of New Jersey on your own means you can get to second base with me on a more regular basis, then be my guest,' offered House, grinning as he flexed his leg that was now mostly back to its usual dull ache thanks to Wilson's seemingly magic hands.

Wilson managed only a small smile at that quip before he felt its inevitable slip, utterly mortified as bewildered tears welled suddenly in his dark eyes, tears that he coldly realized had been there since the moment he'd awoken, waiting patiently on permanent standby to strike without warning once the primary concern of the House-welfare meter within him had been suitably pacified.

It was a default feeling, a brand new default setting, that was just soul destroying.

It certainly succeeded in wiping any traces of humor from House's face.

'I could kill him, House,' whispered Wilson hollowly, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes to any slim possibility of judgment that could find its way into House's saddened stare, the frank truth of those four words scaring Wilson far more than anything the past forty eight hours had brought him, his desolate voice sounding like a stranger's to his own ears.

Even his own body seemed to be repulsed at his words, words that just weren't natural for a man who felt lingering guilt when he accidentally stood on a snail, or killed a fly, or didn't get a spoonful of syrup or jelly to a worn out bee in time to give it enough energy to save itself, his heart flinching in a flash of pain across his chest at the terrifying realization that Wilson had never spoken a truer, more violent word in his life.

He could kill the man who had left him like this.

He could happily seek him out, wrap his shaking hands around his neck and squeeze as hard as he could until he was stone, cold dead.

House said nothing, knowing better than to try and contradict Wilson at this point in any way and uncurling his good leg from behind the defeated Oncologist to lean down and grab the forgotten prophylactics that had fallen from Wilson's grasp a few hours ago, opening the vial and four others to gather the concoction of prophylactics and painkillers that stood as their only chance of getting through this ordeal in one piece, this daily routine of Wilson popping a small handful of pills signifying life as they knew it for the next few weeks.

'Here,' murmured House, taking Wilson's free hand from his lap to gently uncurl his clenched fist and press the tablets into his palm before closing his fingers over them again, both of House's hands lingering to tightly cover Wilson's until he could bring himself to look up at him again, deep brown pools captured by equally bright blue orbs.

'Please don't let him win, Wilson. Do you hear me? Don't you dare let him win.'

What if he already has?

It was a frightening thought that each of them could clearly decipher in the anxious depths of the other's gaze, a flash of burning doubt that questioned whether life ever really could make it back to normal after this.

What if this was it? What if this was just the new normal, crappy as it was?

They'd just have to hope they got used to it.

Wilson would just have to hope he could get used to feeling like a spare part in his own life, cheated and utterly forgotten about as his life rolled slowly onwards without him.

House could only hope that Wilson would realize he was there, that he'd always be there, waiting for him at every stop when life decided to rush on anyway.

They'd get left behind together, if need be.

'Go soak your leg before it cramps up again,' sighed Wilson eventually, swiftly pulling his hand from both of House's to down the pills within, swallowing them all at once with a swig of the stale water that still sat on the coffee table in front of them, effectively dismissing House before this conversation could go any further.

And if House wasn't sure he'd been dismissed then, he sure as hell was when Wilson slumped back into the couch to close his eyes to everything again, blocking the world out and looking more than a little pale with the nauseous hangover that finally had his full attention now, allowing him to gladly wallow in it.

'Well, make sure you check in with the Mothership to let her know you're home safe,' instructed House tersely as he obligingly eased himself from the couch, chucking his phone into Wilson's lap and heading for the bathroom, calling his last instructions over his shoulder as he went, 'And if you're gonna hurl then use the kitchen sink – as much as I love you, sweetcheeks, it's just too early in the morning to watch you sick up right in front of me. Oh, and Wilson?'

'Hmm?'

'Shout if you need me. Just don't go running off like you did yesterday.'

A surprised Wilson couldn't help looking over to him then at this genuinely uttered request, catching only a fleeting glimpse of his friend's retreating back as House limped into the bathroom, the click of the closing door signifying the first time that Wilson had been alone, in a place where he felt completely safe, since he'd been attacked.

Yeah… 'safe' like you were last time. 'Safe' until he knocks on the door again, and you're stupid enough to answer it. It's happened once, it could happen again, there's nothing to stop him, nothing to stop him finding you here, in work, anywhere really-

Wilson swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, willing the stupid voice away, willing his head to stop spinning with every possibility, to stop delving into the darkest recesses of his mind and retrieving every tortured imagining that he inflicted upon himself.

Calm down.

You have to calm down!

Even the voice inside his head was dripping with panic now, despite the well-meaning instruction, his heart pounding as he felt that flash of pain again, as he felt the horribly familiar tightening at the center of his chest, slowly, slowly creeping outwards like it did last time, strangling the breath from his lungs. He knew what was coming, he knew he couldn't stop it, his addled mind casting back to the night before last to find Cuddy's voice again, that voice of reason that had sliced through the terror and pulled him back just in time:

Wilson, it's me. It's me. You're having a panic attack. You need to try and calm down, alright? Calm down.

I can't.

That was the simple truth of it. He tried to speak, tried to shout out like House had said to, tried to say anything, and couldn't even whisper a single word past the ragged wheezing his body had pulled him in to, as unforgiving now in every way as it had been last time, only realizing now that he was on his hands and knees on the floor, and when the fuck that had happened he didn't know, he didn't care, he didn't have time to care, because he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe-

House.

House.

Wilson was already stumbling to his feet, his body on autopilot as he half ran, half fell, down the hallway towards the bathroom, able to think of nothing now but his dysfunctional, rude, obnoxious, brilliant friend on the other side of that door, his hands shaking as he wrenched at the handle to tumble forwards into the thankfully unlocked bathroom.

A luckily still-dressed House didn't get the chance to indignantly berate Wilson for bursting into the bathroom unannounced, turning around from the newly filled tub just in time to catch his rasping best friend in his arms, the gut-wrenching sight of the tears that streamed down Wilson's cheeks as he struggled for breath, his brown eyes huge with fear as he silently pleaded with House to do something, all House needed to see to know what was going on here.

'Copy my breathing,' he instructed calmly, firmly taking hold of Wilson's hands that were grappling frantically at the front of House's t-shirt to steer him to the toilet seat, lowering him down so he could kneel next to him, their gazes locked as House guided him through it.

'Breathe in… and out. Remember, in through your nose… and out through your mouth… in… and out…'

House didn't even realize he was doing it, gently rubbing his thumbs in time to their breathing over the back of Wilson's hands that he still had clutched in his own, the comforting sensation providing the much needed physical distraction to slowly begin to unwind Wilson as he focused on House's earnest words, his breathing soon regulating enough after a few minutes to allow the sobs that had been steadily building to suddenly tumble forth at the first opportunity.

'Hey, come on now,' soothed House, dropping Wilson's hands to gently bring his head down to his shoulder instead, Wilson's body having become so familiar over the past couple of days that he seemed to just naturally mold to House's now, his arms that he wrapped tightly around the Diagnostician shaking as he buried his face in the crook of House's neck, peeking tearfully over his shoulder.

'What brought that on then, Mr. Well-Adjusted?'

Wilson shook his head, his hair tickling House's neck… he didn't know.

Or he was too embarrassed to admit that he'd scared himself stupid as soon as he was on his own.

'I think you do know,' countered House softly, 'And we both know we can't carry on like that. I can't stay with you twenty four hours a day. I think… look, I know I haven't pushed this before now, and I know you'd rather just bury your head, but you need to get him behind bars, Wilson. You need to press charges, before he does this to anyone else and you drive yourself insane with fright.'

Wilson sighed shakily, closing his eyes for a brief moment at the dread that swelled within him at the very thought of having to relive every mortifying detail again, but knowing too that every one of House's words rang true.

He couldn't go on feeling like this, reduced to this shivering mess every time House left the room for more than three minutes.

He couldn't go on waiting, waiting for his rapist to come and find him again for round two, waiting for him to knock on that front door and decimate him all over again when House wasn't there.

And if House was there… well, in all honesty, it probably wouldn't take much to overpower a cripple, would it? One well-aimed blow to House's thigh, and he'd be a goner.

In years to come, a happy, contented Wilson would look back on this pivotal moment in his life and realize that that last thought, and that last thought alone, was the single reason that he gave the answer he did, his almost pathological need to protect House flaring more intensely than any other feeling that coursed through him just then; his voice barely more than a whisper as he spoke one word that House had never been more grateful to hear:

'Okay.'

In years to come, a happy, contented House would look back on this pivotal moment in Wilson's life and realize that maybe, just maybe, this man he was holding so tightly in his arms was perhaps the strongest person he'd ever had the fortune of not only meeting, but of being able to call his best friend.