The knock woke Greg House from his stupor around three in the morning. His latest bout of insomnia had kept him from going to bed, and the Diagnostician had busied himself instead with bad porn, finding entertainment in just how awful the films were. They were hardly arousing, but had put him in a slight trance nonetheless.

The loud bang on the door, coupled with another mere seconds later startled him. He hadn't ordered any company tonight, and the only other person who would ever come see him hadn't been to his condo in over a week.

With uncharacteristic trepidation, House silenced the television and struggled to his feet, grabbing for his nearby cane. He paused for a moment, once on his feet, trying to assess whether or not he was in need of his next pill.

Though he would never admit it to anyone, House was consciously trying to watch his medication intake. Ever since the bet with Cuddy, his addiction had been in the back of his mind. Once he was finally over the departure of Stacy (for the second time), he had been trying to cut back.

He decided against another dose, opting instead to try and sleep without the little pill, and then just take one when he woke.

If he ever got to sleep.

Still eyeing the door suspiciously (whoever was outside was still knocking sloppily), House made his way over, stopping to take a breath before gazing out the peephole.

The air caught in his throat as he made eye contact with the person on the other side.

Coughing gently, House slowly opened the door, letting the inside lights slide across the darkened features of James Wilson.

Saying nothing, the older man let the Oncologist in, noting instantly the drunken stumble of his gait, the thick aroma of cigarette smoke and cheep booze, and as they made eye contact once more, Greg took in the intense bruise on the younger man's cheek.

Finally making it through the entrance, the drunken doctor fell back against the door, slamming it sharply.

Greg didn't flinch. He only waited.

James looked at him for a moment before speaking. His expression was one of inebriated sorrow. He licked his lips and looked away form Greg as he opened his mouth.

"I couldn't remember how to get to my apartment, so I told the cabbie to come here." He smiled sheepishly then, as if it somehow explained everything.

Greg just continued to look at him. Still waiting.

James' smile slipped from his lips. He looked away from Greg again. The air around them hung silent and meaningful.

"She died today."

It was all that had to be said. Greg just nodded silently. The woman James had lived with for a short while. One of his patients.

The Diagnostician had heard of the death through the nurses' grapevine. At the time, he had debated going to see Jimmy, though he had protested so heartily to the relationship initially, fearing for the man's emotions, as well as his job. But by the time he had decided that he needed to check on his closest friend, the Oncologist had left for an unspecified location.

Unspecified location, of course, translated to "shit hole with cheep booze".

Greg couldn't remember the last time he had seen Wilson this drunk.

"She was… she was so…" James sniffed hard, unable to formulate his addled thoughts into words. He just looked so small and pathetic. His insides felt hollow.

House cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable with the emotions that permeated the air. "What happened to you?" He asked robotically, not wanting to sound to warm or caring.

Wilson shook his head sloppily. "Nothin'… just… just did somethin' stupid."

House raised a silent eyebrow. Not that Wilson didn't do something completely asinine every now and again… he just rarely admitted to it.

"What did you do?"

Still, Wilson refused to meet House's eyes.

"James?"

The younger man's cheeks reddened impossibly.

"I… I just hit on the wrong person, ok? It was noth… nothing."

House was incredibly skeptical. "What? Did her boyfriend show up and give you a love tap?"

Unexpectedly, Wilson shrank away further, still refusing to meet his best friend's eyes, even after the jab.

After a long pause, the Oncologist finally whispered, "There was no woman."

House's brow furrowed deeper. "You were so drunk, you hit on thin air?"

Wilson snorted; an ugly sound.

"It was… it was a man."

Wilson's head was down, so he missed the startled Diagnostician's eyebrows try to leap from his face.

House had not expected this. Sure, Jimmy, was a flirt, and in his own way, a slut, but he was first and foremost a ladies man. In all their years together, never had there been any indication of the Oncologist being anything other than straight.

Sure, the two joked back and forth like a couple sometimes, but there was no greater depth to the teasing…

House was wrenched from his thoughts by the dead weight that had suddenly found a carrier in the center of his chest.

Wilson was suddenly breathing heavily into the soft fabric of House's shirt.

The Diagnostician shivered as the hot breath poured a damp feeling into the material.

"What… what are you doing?" the older doctor forced out.

Wilson's arms snaked around the thin man's body, palms flat against shoulder blades.

"Nothin'" the man mumbled.

House was, needless to say, very uncomfortable.

He poked at the younger man's shin with his cane, but received no acknowledgement.

"Wilson…" he began…

But was silenced by the other doctor's lips on his own.

It happened so suddenly that the older man had no time to prepare. The unexpected kiss was sloppy and unsure, but it was there.

And that was a problem.

House shoved Wilson, harder than he had intended, away from him, causing the younger doctor to fall hard against the door.

"What… what the fuck, Jimmy?!" House managed to choke out, instantly burying the warm feeling that had sprung up inside him. Absently, he touched the tips of his fingers to the tainted lips, feeling the softest glaze of saliva.

Wilson stood on shaky legs, pausing briefly before advancing towards House once more, arms eager for substance.

"Please Greg…" was all he whispered. His eyes were glassy, whether from the drink or held back tears, House didn't want to know.

The younger man was back pawing at him, trying to kiss him again.

House tried to keep him away, though somewhere in the back of his head, he knew he wasn't using as much force as he could.

"Jimmy, stop it. You're drunk and depressed… And straight. You don't know what you're doing. Just… just sleep on the couch, and everything will be better in the morning." House tried to ignore the waiver in his voice.

But Wilson just shook his head, eyes closed like a stubborn child. His normally impeccable hair was cast over his face, making him look younger and more out-of-sorts. His hands kept moving, for a moment gripping his best friend's shoulders, then back, and finally his left hand moved to the front of House's jeans, while the other made a sloppy grab for his ass.

House gasped, and was horrified to find he could not suppress the pleasurable shiver that rippled through his tired body.

"Jimmy… Jimmy, stop…" He was pleading now.

"No!" The younger man said suddenly and forcefully. His eyes were fiery and his hands were in fists. "I want this… want you… I always have."

The last confession was barely more than a whisper.

House gulped. "You don't know what you're saying, Jimmy. You've never had any interest in men…"

"You're right," Wilson interrupted. His words were more clear now, his stance less wavered. The booze was starting to wear off.

That meant House could no longer blame his best friend's actions on being heavily inebriated.

The younger man continued to speak, never breaking House's gaze. "I am straight House… but that doesn't change the way I feel about you." The man's right hand ghosted across the Diagnostician's cheek. The left stayed pressed against the growing bulge in the older man's jeans; a contradiction in intentions. "That man at the bar…" Wilson was so close, practically whispering in the older man's ear. "He looked just like you, Greg."

House moaned involuntarily as a wet tongue lapped at his ear. The right hand grasped the back of his head while the other had begun to rub his now aching erection.

"I saw him… and it finally hit me… I knew what I wanted… what I always wanted but was too damn chicken shit to admit…" A deft hand flipped the button on House's jeans open as if it were nothing at all.

"Jimmy…" Just a whisper… but it was all the Oncologist needed. It was the sound of acceptance; of agreement; of mutual desires.

Dropping his cane with a terrible clatter, House grabbed his best friend and pulled him into a harsh kiss, mashing their faces together until nothing separated them. Awkwardness and hesitancy were thrown out the window and replaced by raw need and desire.

Wilson forced his hand between their bodies, continuing to work on House's fly, making the older man moan again.

As one, they began to shuffle backwards, towards House's bedroom.

While they moved, the Diagnostician broke the kiss, breathing heavily for a moment before he was able to gather his thoughts enough to speak.

"You know there's no turning back, right?" He tried to sound assured, as if the question were rhetorical, but his eyes, as always, betrayed him.

Wilson smiled in a way that only a slightly sauced man could and said nothing.

The Beginning