"Are you up for being social tonight?" House asked softly. He let the subject of drugs and taking drugs drop by the wayside. No point in making a huge deal out of it. He'd made the offer, because he knewhow powerful the narcotic he took regularly could be. He'd built up a tolerance for it, though it still effectively took a bit of the ache out of his leg, he was never able to forget exactly why he took so many of the little white pills.

He'd basically been watching Wilson fall apart, little by little, since he arrived in Fandom. He was doing a good job holding himself together, but he was Wilson. House would expect no less from him. Most people probably couldn't even see it. House could, only because he knew Wilson so well, even without the new-found physical aspect of their relationship.

Six years ago, when he'd been recovering from the infarction, Wilson was the only person he'd allowed inside the walls he built up around himself in the face of Stacy's betrayal. A person can't get that close without giving something back, without forging a nearly impenetratable ond.

Looking at Wilson now, though he wasn't flat on his back in a bed with a leg that wouldn't hold his weight, Hosue had a very distinct feeling the roles were being reversed.