Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, or added this story to your favorites list. This is the penultimate chapter (isn't penultimate a great word?). I can't believe that there is only one chapter after this. For some reason, this chapter was hard to write. Hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 6: Number 7

It was after 9 AM when House opened his eyes and squinted at the alarm clock. He turned over and looked at James, who was awake but clearly in no hurry to get out of bed. "Shouldn't you be at work already?"

Wilson stretched lazily. "I have a morning appointment with Phil Anderson."

"The cardiologist? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. He insisted on a follow up appointment."

"What will you tell him about why your BP numbers have dropped dramatically?"

Wilson shrugged. "I guess I could tell him that the therapist helped."

"And have him think that all that new age crap works? You're a disgrace to science."

Wilson pretended to think. "Well then, I guess I will have to admit that I was suffering from unrequited love and all the sex must be having a positive effect."

House smirked. "Speaking of sex…."

James grimaced. "Three times in less than 24 hours. Yeah right. Then I really would need a cardiologist. No, I had other plans for the morning."

House quirked an eyebrow. "What kind of plans? I need to be at work in less than an hour."

Wilson snorted. "Like punctuality is on of your strong suits?" He paused, considering. "Of course, you've been on time for the past three weeks. People are probably starting to wonder what's going on."

"OK, so we're playing hooky this morning, but we're not having sex. What do you have in mind?" he asked, intrigued.

"Why don't you take your shower and then you'll see what I have planned."

House limped to the bathroom, completely unconcerned with his nakedness. Wilson admired the view, and then began making preparations.

When House stepped out of the shower, moving with slightly more ease than he had entered, he saw that Wilson had dragged a chair into the bathroom. As he wrapped a towel around his waist, he eyed the items laid out on the sink. "What the hell?"

"I thought we could try something different."

"A straight razor? Are we trying a blood-letting today?"

"No just a clean, close shave."

House eyed Wilson warily. "You're going to shave me with a straight razor? Are you nuts? You use an electric razor when you shave yourself!"

"Don't think of it as shaving. Think of it as being pampered for a change. I didn't think you'd go for a manicure."

"And having my neck sliced open is just part of the fun?"

"Hey, I know what I'm doing. I've been practicing."

"How?" House asked, suddenly jealous at the thought of James touching another man, even if it was just to shave him.

Wilson seemed to have picked up these thoughts, for he quickly explained. "Relax! It was just one of my patients. Mr. Dubowsky is 95 years old."

House quirked an eyebrow as he sunk into the waiting chair. "And how did you explain it?" he asked, knowing Wilson wouldn't have told anyone the real reason.

"I lied and said that my dad had broken his arm and I wanted to help him out."

House smiled at Wilson's inventiveness, leaning back and allowing Wilson to drape a towel over his chest. Wilson carefully applied the shaving cream, and then used his thumb to wipe the excess from House's lips. House closed his eyes and tipped his head back, allowing Wilson to work. Periodically, the razor would leave, and House would feel Wilson's lips brush against his.

When Wilson was finished, there was a warm towel to wipe off the remaining bits of shaving cream. Then Wilson applied the aftershave. Then he took his time massaging in moisturizer, his skilled fingers lightly kneading the muscles in House's face. He leaned over one last time to kiss House, a leisurely exploration of each other's mouths. Finally he straightened up. "I'd better get going. He rolled down his sleeves, and as he walked into the bedroom, he buttoned up the cuffs of his shirt. As he finished dressing, he could see House slowly getting out of the chair, his erection not completely hidden by the towel wrapped around his waist.

"Are you sure I can't convince you to stay longer?" House leered suggestively.

Wilson sighed. "I really can't. Doctors get cranky when their patients are late." He swerved to avoid House's half-hearted grab. "I'll see you at work."

House watched him until he was out the door, and then he limped over to the closet, an idea starting to form in his mind. In the time since Wilson had admitted his feeling, Wilson had started confessing to all the fantasies he had told his therapist, and today seemed appropriate for implementing fantasy number 7.

He rummaged around in the closet until he located his gray suit, purchased years ago when he and Stacy were in London for a nephrology conference. Damn, where was his blue shirt? He finally located it hanging with Wilson's dry-cleaning. When it came to locating a tie, he was at a loss. Finally he decided to borrow one of Wilson's. When it came to shoes, he slipped on his newest pair of Nike Shox, because frankly, snow, ice, dress shoes, and a cane just didn't mix, and Wilson's fantasy never said anything about what type of shoes he wore.

When he got to the hospital, Cuddy was standing at the entrance desk. "You're late." Then her brain caught up with what she was seeing. "Oh, God. We're being sued."

"I wouldn't know. Isn't that your purview?"

"You're going to court today?" she guessed.

"Nope. Hot date tonight," he replied, knowing she'd never believe the truth. He stepped on the elevator, just in time for it to close behind him.

When he got to his office, he immediately started working on the second half of his plan. He ignored the looks his team were giving him, knowing his appearance was probably the topic of their conversation.

He didn't see Wilson until that afternoon. Wilson was surrounded by a bunch of oncology interns who were hanging onto his every word. He didn't spot House until they were almost a few yards away. His jaw dropped and he stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence. He tried to recover, and House grinned at how adorably flustered his lover looked. As he passed the younger man, House murmured, "number seven," and from the heat that flared in Wilson's eyes, he knew that Wilson knew exactly what he was talking about.

At precisely 5 PM, Wilson was at House's office door, an unusual reversal of roles.

"Oh, you're ready to go," asked House, pretending that he was surprised by Wilson's punctuality.

Wilson rolled his eyes, not fooled in the least bit. "No reason why we can't leave on time for once."

House gathered his things, taking his time just to torture Wilson. When they reached the parking lot, House pulled out his keys. "Why don't I drive? I need to come in early tomorrow, so we can carpool in."

Wilson slid into the passenger seat, enjoying not having to drive for once. He was looking over at House, and not really paying attention to where they were going, when he suddenly realized that they weren't taking the usual route to House's apartment. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," House answered, making a left turn followed by a quick right, and then pulling up to the valet parking attendant. The doors were being opened, so Wilson was forced to step out of the vehicle. "Can't we just order a pizza or something?" he whispered.

"Oh come on Jimmy, where's your sense of romance? Besides, we can't back out now. This place will blacklist you if you cancel your reservations. I wouldn't want to do that seeing how the reservation's in your name."

Wilson looked around, and finally realized they were at one of his favorite restaurants. Linen tablecloths, fine china, and food that was out of this world. It just wasn't a place he'd ever thought that House would like. "OK, but you're buying."

House looked hurt. "Of course. How could you think otherwise?"

They entered the restaurant, and the maître d' seemed to be eyeing House's shoes with suspicion, as if such footwear couldn't possibly be entering his restaurant. Then he sized up House's obviously expensive suit, and the dark mahogany cane, and decided to ignore the shoes. He lead them to a table in the back corner of the room. Surprisingly, he didn't bother handing them menus. Wilson looked up in surprise, but the man spoke first. "Everything will be exactly as you requested, Dr. Wilson."

Wilson nodded, pretending he knew what was going on. Obviously, House had planned something, and had used Wilson's name to do it. Almost immediately a waiter appeared and filled their water glasses. The sommelier appeared with a bottle of wine, which he opened, and after Wilson had nodded his approval, filled both of their wine glasses.

A second waiter appeared with two plates of a variety of appetizers, artistically arranged. It took him a moment to realize that something was different about his plate. When he glanced over at House's plate, he realized that something had been substituted for the usual pâté. He tried it, and could taste crab and possibly artichoke. Whatever it was, it was delicious. Much better than the pâté, which he hated. The plates were silently removed, and then a bowl of soup was placed in front of each of them—lobster bisque for Wilson and French onion, for House.

It was an unusual meal with House and Wilson enjoying the meal in companionable silence. There was no overly helpful waiters interrupting the meal. Every course was served silently and then was removed in the same manner.

It was one of the most romantic and, at the same time, frustrating experiences of his life. All day long, he had imagined being with House, taking his time to undress him, like unwrapping a treasured present. But now he was forced to sit across from House, watching the man savor the exquisite food with agonizing slowness. When he wasn't obsessing on House's lips, he thought about the meal he was enjoying. Wilson wondered if any of his wives could have pulled off a meal like this, and was forced to admit that only House, who had observed him for years, could have ordered a meal exactly as Wilson would have chosen it, down to the last detail. They were now having desert and coffee, and he looked over to House who was enjoying his chocolate soufflé with a expression that was almost sensual. From the gleam in House's eyes, Wilson knew that the sexual tension was all part of House's evil plan to torture him.

When the check came, House shoved several $100 bills into the leather folder, and then stood up, not even bothering to wait for change. House ransomed the car from the valet and then drove home with the same slow deliberation that had driven Wilson crazy all night.

When they finally arrived home, Wilson could wait no longer. As soon as the door closed, Wilson had House pressed up against the wall, their tongues dueling for dominance. His hands were clawing at their clothes, frantic with need.

Later when their heartrates were finally slowing and the sweat was cooling on their bodies, he heard House mumble, "I thought your fantasy was to slowly remove every single piece of my clothing. That's why you fantasized about me wearing a suit."

Wilson ruefully thought about their clothing, now lying crumpled on the floor. House's shirt missing at least one button. "Unfortunately, there's a fatal flaw with that fantasy. Thinking about it all day made it pretty much impossible to actually achieve. You complaining?"

House chuckled. "No. Just don't expect me to wear a suit everyday. Even if it does yield some rather fun results."

Wilson pretending to think about this. "Probably for the best. Wouldn't want anyone else to figure out how sexy you are."

House rolled his eyes at the compliment, but didn't say anything, choosing to roll over and drift off to a much needed sleep. The next morning, he regained consciousness with Wilson shaking his arm. "Go away," he mumbled.

"Sorry, House, but my car is at the hospital. Don't you have a meeting?"

"Don't care."

Wilson tried another tactic. "If you don't get up, I'll tell everyone how you planned a romantic dinner for the two of us. Your reputation as an evil bastard will be ruined forever."

"But then you'd have to admit we're dating each other."

"I don't care. It would totally be worth it to see Cameron's eyes go all misty."

House sighed, and pushed himself reluctantly out of bed, feeling every one of his 47 years. "But then you'd have competition for me."

Wilson grinned. "I think I already won that one. Plus, Cameron was in love with the person she thought you'd change into. I'm in love with you exactly as you are: sarcasm, cynicism and all."

House limped into the bathroom, not even fully awake. When he emerged, Wilson shoved a travel carafe of coffee into his hand. He took a drink, and the caffeine and sugar immediately made him feel human, even though the vicodin had yet to kick in. Knowing he was in no shape to drive, he handed over the keys to Wilson, wondering if today was the day when people at the hospital would clue in to the fact that they often arrived and left at the same time. Luckily, most people were too wrapped up in their own dramas to notice such details, and another day passed without anyone seeing what would have been completely obvious to House.