Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wilson’s in a good mood when he wraps up work. 

A look at the clock tells him it’s barely six, a pleasant surprise, and he’s even finished up all his billing reports.
His calendar is free of appointments, the last having concluded about an hour ago; Mrs. Puth, who’d thanked him with teary eyes when he told her the good news of her adenocarcinoma’s spontaneous remission. 

Moreover, his new rotation of antidepressants seems to have done away with any of the usual side effects plaguing him, and earlier that day, the newly hired nurse in pediatrics had complimented the tie he picked out of his closet this morning. A striped blue and purple piece of fabric—silk—matching his lavender shirt, which would have undoubtedly caused House to ridicule him had he seen him wearing it. 

On top of that, he and the nurse had spent a pleasant fifteen minutes chatting, and not once had a grizzly, disgruntled head of diagnostics materialized at his back like a ghost of Christmas past to bring up his three failed marriages or some other humiliating or exaggerated tidbit of information about his character, ruining his chances from the get-go. 

All in all, his day couldn’t have been more pleasant. 

He’s humming under his breath as he lets his assistant know he’s leaving before he makes his way down the hallway, intent on dropping off his billing reports for Cuddy at the front desk, and when nobody’s watching, he does a little dance, buoyed by the knowledge that he’ll be leaving the hospital at a reasonable time for once. 

He looks very much forward to enjoying the leftover lasagna waiting for him in the fridge at home. Something, which he knows for a fact, because House’s flight back isn’t scheduled until tomorrow noon and there was no opportunity for him to steal it between Wilson stowing it away in a Tupperware last night and leaving for work this morning.

Perhaps he could pair it with a glass of wine or two and eat it right in front of the TV, watching a documentary he’d otherwise be made fun of for putting on, followed by a relaxing evening of simply lazing about on the couch in his underwear and munching on the snacks he’s hidden in the dresser in his room to save for an occasion just like that.

He may even get to jerk off in peace for once without the threat of his ex-drug-addict roommate interrupting hanging over his head. He could take his time, really draw it out without having to fear House banging on his door to demand entry to his bathtub, or accusing Wilson of hiding his Game Boy, or simply because he's bored or for some other reason he can come up with. 

So caught up in fantasizing about his House-free evening, he doesn’t see the glaring yellow sign declaring the floor a slipping hazard until his next step carries him further than anticipated. 

One moment, he's walking; the next, the rubber sole of his shoe meets soapy water, and his leg slips out from under him.

His last thought between flailing his arms in an attempt to futilely regain his balance and falling backwards is that this must be karma to balance out the blissful 48 hours he's had their condo to himself while House is being forced to attend a medical conference in Chicago.

And then the back of his head hits the floor, and he’s not thinking about anything anymore. 

James’s mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. His tongue is dry as a desert, and he swallows, once, painfully, until the splitting headache piercing through his skull shifts his priorities. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut, before trying to open them, only to be accosted by bright white light stabbing through his pupils. 

Vaguely he takes note of something being taped to his nose, blindly feeling around what he thinks might be a cannula. A pressure in his arm informs him of a catheter lodged under his skin. Paired with the steady beeping of a heart monitor and the familiar smell of antiseptics over antibacterial cleaner, it gives him a good idea of where he is. 

“Ah. So the sleeping beauty has finally deigned to join us in the land of the living.”

James blinks, still trying to get used to the harsh influx of light, and turns his head to follow the obnoxious sounds of yet more beeps and chiptunes, only to track it back to a figure propped up in a chair next to his bed, pressing away at a Game Boy of some kind.

“If you’d taken any longer, I’d have thought I’d have to kiss you awake. Had me really sweating there for a while.”

James blinks again, trying to focus his gaze through his sticky eyelids as he stares at the grizzled man looking up from behind his Game Boy, deep frown lines carved between his brows. 

“Water,” James croaks out, his voice hoarse and sandpapery.

The man clicks his tongue. “Barely awake and already making demands. Here I am, wasting away at your bedside for days, plagued by grief and worry and not a single word of appreciation,” he drawls. Despite what his words may belay, the man gets up, limping over to a cart—he’s using a cane, James realizes—pouring water into a thin paper cup before approaching his bed and holding it out to him. 

James is still trying to gather his bearings as he strains to lift his torso from the bed and reaches out to take the proffered cup. 

The man watches him struggle, raising the drink to his mouth with a weak hand until he finally gets to take a sip. As soon as the water wets his lips, he starts gulping it down, just now realizing how parched he really is. James doesn’t even mind that he spills some on his chest or that his chin is wet where he was too eager in tipping it up.

The man takes the empty cup from his hand and refills it before handing it back to him. 

“I hope you don’t expect me to wipe your mouth or play your manservant any longer. That’s what nurses are for, you know,” the man says. 

James feels his ears grow hot with embarrassment, and he deliberately paces himself with the next sip, going against his instincts if only to spare himself further humiliation in front of that stranger. 

While he swallows, he peers at the man, subtly taking him in. 

He’s tall, despite putting his weight on the cane, which messes up his posture, with greying hair that seems to be in the last stages of growing out of a buzzcut, slightly curling at the edges, and sporting a wiry beard that could do with a shave. Overall he seems a bit unkempt, with a wrinkled blazer thrown on over a turtleneck, and bloodshot eyes that only seem to emphasize the startling blue color of the irises peering down at him. 

If James were generous in his estimate, he’d probably guess the man to be in his early fifties. 

Idly he wonders who he is and why a doctor hasn’t yet appeared in the room. The last thought is brought on by another painful throb in his skull, and James squints, his expression contorting as he reflexively moves to feel at the back of his head, the catheter in his arm shifting uncomfortably beneath his skin when it's jostled by the movement and the drip line catches on the sheets. There are stitches, hidden between strands of hair, and he realizes how sensitive the area is, a sharp stab of pain causing him to hiss as he tries to gauge the size of the lesion.

“Next time, when you decide to slip, do it in a spot where there isn't a sign telling you off. You missed a perfect opportunity for a lawsuit there. Could’ve finally afforded us that jacuzzi—”

James cuts him off. “I slipped?”

“In a rather spectacular fashion, from what I hear. Made Charlie Chaplin look like an amateur.”

James tries to blink through his persisting headache and think about where he could’ve slipped. His memories are hazy; he barely even recalls what he did the day before, nor how he ended up in the hospital. Did Sam call 911?

“I think I’m concussed,” James voices. 

“That would fit with the diagnosis,” the man says, and his brows draw together, the lines between growing more prominent as he looks at James. “Three days ago.” The man follows his words up by stepping up to the bed, still frowning as his gaze darts over James’ features. “You’ve got a headache?” he asks. “Light sensitivity? Swimming vision?”

“Yes to the former two, no to the latter,” James replies, feeling his anxiety mounting in response. “Sorry, but who are you? And could you perhaps alert my doctor?”

The man stops all movement, staring at him. “Nurse!” he yells over his shoulder before he hobbles up to James’s side, already drawing a small flashlight from his breast pocket. He moves to grab James’s face, who jerks back. “Wait, what are you-” he starts to protest, but sputters to a stop when a beam of light is being flashed at his eyes. 

“Can you tell me your name?”

James blinks confused, trying to avoid the bright light as his lids are being lifted with practiced movements. “James Evan Wilson,” he replies, “What—”

“The date?” the man repeats. 

James frowns, trying to search his jumbled memory. “Uh, April—no, May,” he amends, recalling being dragged to that horrible family dinner for Sam’s mother’s birthday last weekend. Or was it two weeks ago?

“That’s two for one,” the other man says, frowning. “What year is it?” 

“What?”

The other man stares at him while the door behind him opens and a nurse steps into the room. 

“What year?” he repeats. 

“1990,” James replies. “Why?”

The older man straightens up, a strange expression on his face. He turns to exchange a look with the nurse who witnessed the tail end of their conversation. 

“I’m going to call Dr. Cuddy,” she says, her eyes wide. 

“You do that,” the other man says.

James feels a stab of relief at hearing that somebody is finally getting a proper doctor, and he sinks back into his pillows. “Look,” he says to the stranger who’s still in the room even as the nurse slips back out of the door, hoping to stave off more questionable exams until his proper attending arrives. “I’m in the last year of my residency as a doctor; I know the drill. I slipped; I likely still have a concussion. Nothing a few painkillers and some bedrest won’t fix. If you could please call my wife and let her know I’m awake, I’d appreciate it.” James, even through his pounding headache, flashes what he hopes resembles a winning smile and prays that this stranger will comply with his request. 

Him leaving to call Sam while a doctor arrives to check on him would be killing two birds with one stone.

Only that the man doesn’t make a move. Instead, he just stares at him. “Wilson,” he says eventually, blunt and to the point. “It’s 2010.”

James stops. He stares at the man. Shock and confusion flood through his brain as he tries to process that information. 2010… that’d mean he spent two decades in a coma. No. No, the thought is ridiculous. 

This must be an elaborate prank of some sort. 

He went out recently, didn’t he? Did he go out last night? He can't remember. Maybe. He's overdone it a few times recently, if Sam's to be believed. 

The thought gains more ground as James spins it further. Maybe he got drunk. The hangover would account for the headache. And the parchedness. Maybe he tripped on his way back home and landed himself in the hospital.

It would also explain the prank. 

Sam’s brother never did like him much, and maybe his sister’s recent complaints about him leaving her alone at home while he went bar hopping one too many times spurred him into action.

It would be rather extreme of him, but paired with James getting himself completely and utterly wasted to the point of hitting his head on a curb, it could have been the last straw. It’d be right up his alley too. That would also explain the man's presence and the lack of proper doctors. Maybe an actor or a janitor Sam's brother paid off to freak him out.

Really, James thinks, a relieved laugh bubbling up his chest, he has to commend his setup. 

He laughs, looking for a sign in the other man now that he's been made, only for his chuckles to die off when he finds nothing in his demeanor that would indicate as much. 

Instead, he just stares at James with an oddly worried expression.

James’ hands anxiously open and close around the sheets pooling in his lap, his smile fading. “This isn't a prank, by any chance, is it?” he asks, chuckling nervously. 

“No,” the other man says. 

And something about the way he says it, perhaps the look in his eyes, fills James with deep, instinctive dread. 

He swallows. “What’s going on?” He asks quietly, for the first time actually feeling like he may be in deep, deep trouble. 

James’s head is swimming with all the information he received. The man—an actual doctor, apparently, despite all outward appearances, with the fittingly odd name ‘House’—is still sitting in the chair but hasn't stopped bouncing his cane between his legs, while Dr. Cuddy is looking over his chart for the umpteenth time. 

She is going on about tests and spewing names of neurologists James is supposed to recognize, while Dr. House is silently observing James with a type of unfiltered focus that makes him feel both uncomfortable and flustered. 

Not that James is actually paying a lot of attention, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that apparently, he’s not 24 years old as he’d thought but almost two decades older and the Head of Oncology in the hospital he’s currently staying at, and that after a slip at said hospital—on a recently mopped floor of all things—he had fallen into a coma, only to wake up with substantial memory loss. 

It all feels like a hazy dream, or rather a nightmare, and James just wishes he could wake up in the comfort of his own bed, with Sam’s sleepy body warming the other half of the sheets. 

But instead, what follows is a three-day stay at a hospital, surrounded by strangers while he undergoes various neurological tests, head CTs, and EEGs, only to receive confirmation of what he was already told in the form of a final diagnosis. 

Severe retrograde amnesia following a trauma to the head.

He's visited by various members of the hospital's staff, partially out of curiosity in his case, partially to see him because they’re concerned about him personally—nurses and doctors whose names he tries to remember while he appropriates appeasing smiles. 

Still, no empathetic condolences and well wishes can make up for the knowledge that there's no treatment for his condition save for luck and prayers and hoping that his memories will return with time. 

By the end of it all, James is stamped with a clean bill of health—safe for the concussion he’s still nursing—and seen off with a bottle of painkillers for his head accompanied by an instruction to rest at home. 

The irony of that being what he told Dr. House within the first five minutes of waking up doesn't escape him.

James doesn’t need the doctors to tell him what his chances of recovery are. He knows the facts, even if he can’t recall when and how he learned them. 

The numbers are floating about in his head anyhow. 

80% of all concussions resolve within 7 to 14 days. 

The numbers for patients recovering from retrograde amnesia are somewhat more inconclusive. 

He read up on it in between tests and psychological screenings and listening to the uncomforting apologies of doctors, admitting, chagrined, that there’s nothing further they can do for him. 

His brain damage isn’t too bad. Not much worse than some other cases of head trauma lying down in the ER. There’s a good chance that his battered synapses will hold on and that he won’t irrevocably lose the 20 years of memories he’s apparently missing. 

On the other hand, that fact alone—that he’s forgotten only those specific years, two decades of his life, while retaining the former half — makes him basically a unicorn. 

There aren’t enough cases of retrograde amnesia to come up with a conclusive statistic; the cases themselves are too varied—too unique and hinging on too many factors to compare one to another—but they possess enough similarities to let James know that him not having recovered any of his memories within the first 24 hours since waking from his coma makes for a bleak outlook. 

There’s hope that it will all resolve once his brain has fully healed, but if he shows no improvement within the next couple of days, there’s little indicating that James’ life will ever be the same again.

It’s strange, James thinks, clutching his pill bottle as if it were a grenade about to go off, seated in a wheelchair in the lobby of Princeton-Plainsboro, trying to work up the courage to sign himself out before going home, that it only occurs to him now that he has no idea where home is. 

“Ready to get out of here?” 

James is drawn out of his depressing musings by a familiar voice he hasn't heard in nearly three days, except muffled through doors and window panels while undergoing his various tests. 

Dr. House, or ‘House,’ as he was told he apparently calls the grizzled older man, whom he’s supposed to be friends with—and what an odd friendship this must be, what with the man not once having spoken with him past his first day—is limping towards him. 

James looks up, confused as he stares at the man. “What?”

“The paperwork is signed, the ducklings are occupied, and Cuddy’s taken pity on me and scrapped my clinic hours, so how about we ditch ye old slammer and tuck you in at home instead of the yucky hospital beds?”

“What?” James says again, under the threat of repeating himself. 

Dr. House frowns at him before bending down, surprisingly nimble fingers snatching his pill bottle out of his hands, twisting it to read the label. 

“Hey!” James exclaims, affronted, thrown off somewhat by the sudden invasion of his space and audacious theft of his medication. 

The pill bottle comes sailing back a moment later, and he catches it reflexively, pills rattling. 

“I was wondering if they kept you on the good stuff, and that’s why you’re still loopy, but perhaps getting knocked about the head comes with a bit of deafness at your age.”

James makes a face instinctively, his actual age still somewhat of a sore spot. He took half an hour to inspect his reflection the first time he used the bathroom, with a kind of morbid fascination and feeling as if he was staring into a funhouse mirror. Not that it was very ‘fun,’ seeing himself confronted with his greying temples, wrinkles around his eyes, and the love handles at his hips, which he distinctly doesn’t remember possessing.

The worst thing, perhaps, was that he thought of his father first instead of himself. 

“I’m perfectly lucid, thank you,” James says a bit more snappishly than he had intended. 

Dr. House luckily doesn’t seem to notice his rudeness, or if he does, doesn’t take offense. 

“Great,” the man replies, “and here I thought you were amnesiac. Do you want to drive us?”

James stares at Dr. House. “I’m not allowed to drive,” he voices carefully, somehow feeling like he’s missing something and despising that fact. It’s on par with his conversations with various people who looked at him pityingly and with sad eyes when he wouldn’t recognize them. 

“Duh,” Dr. House says. “That’s why I brought the Corvette out of storage.”

James’s brows inch upwards. “You drive a Corvette?” 

“Oh yeah. It was a gift from the mob,” Dr. House replies. And louder, turning his head as if he meant to address the whole lobby, he adds, “A gift and not—I repeat—NOT a graft.”

James swallows, mortified at being at the center of the scene, but nobody in the lobby seems to pay more than the minimum of attention to them, save for a few eyerolls and brief pauses. 

Meanwhile, Dr. House looks back down at James. “I’ve got a reputation as something of a bad boy, if you weren’t aware, but I’m sure you guessed that as soon as you saw me.”

James doesn’t know how or whether to dignify that statement with an answer at all. So he says nothing. 

Dr. House doesn’t seem to mind filling the silence. “She so rarely gets to see the sunlight nowadays,” he sighs, “replaced by that sexy bike you financed.”

James blinks, trying to digest that new tidbit of information. 

“I know what you're thinking. Bum legs don’t mix with the inherent awesomeness of dangerous motorcyclists. But I'm defying all statistics. Spreading fear with my mere presence and the implied threat of carrying a blunt weapon at all times. It also beats having to explain that my car was gifted by the mob at every stoplight to keep up with my street cred.”

James stares up at him, frankly at a loss for words. 

A part of him wonders if he somehow could've misinterpreted Dr. Cuddy when she told him that, “Yes, Dr. House is indeed a colleague and the Head of the Diagnostics Department, and I have it on good authority that you consider him a close friend of yours,” but that she instead was saying something along the lines of, “This is one of our delusional psych ward patients who occasionally wanders about because it comforts him.”

Meanwhile, Dr. House cracks a smug grin, oblivious to the direction his thoughts have taken, and still James can’t help but note that it makes him look younger somehow. Mischievous. “I like this Marty McFly version of yours, Wilson. So impressionable.”

James laughs, relaxing with no little amount of relief. It seems that every interaction with that man is bound to throw him for a loop. God, he was already questioning the judgment of his older self for befriending someone who proudly claims ties with the mob and tries to convince everyone that his payoffs are very much within the bounds of legality. 

“Keep it up,” Dr. House says, and then, before James can react in any way, the other man has shoved his cane into his hands and grabbed onto the handles of his wheelchair to roll him towards the exit. 

“What—” James starts, trying to wrap his head around the presumptive actions of the other man, staring at the cane in his hands, subtly checking to see if anybody cares about his sudden kidnapping. But when nobody seems to find this in any way odd, it occurs to him that, of course, a friend of his would know where he lives. “You’re driving me home?” he still asks to confirm. 

“Were you hoping the foxy new nurse from pediatrics was volunteering instead?”

James’s mouth opens and closes, making him rather feel like a fish on dry land, while the other man continues. 

“Of course she’s engaged, but that never stopped you before.”

Oh god. So the gossip about him being a divorcee thrice over may actually not be rumors, like he’d so desperately hoped. 

James had asked whether he was married or had kids after he’d heard that he and Sam had separated—well, ages ago—but he hadn’t dared ask about anything further after receiving a pitying and horribly empathetic ‘No’ from Dr. Cuddy.

At reaching the outer steps of the hospital, Dr. House relieves him of the cane and nods at James. “That’s as far as our hospital services extend. Outside of these walls, only one of us gets to be a cripple.”

James clears his throat, still somewhat unsure of how to deal with Dr. House’s particular brand of …personality. 

“Come on. Up and at ‘em.”

James gets up from the wheelchair. 

On the walk to the parking garage, he finds that he’s actually quite steady on his feet, though he’s still nursing quite a large bruise on his hip from his fall, which he feels with every step. Still, he makes sure to not stray too far ahead of Dr. House, who’s lagging behind James in terms of speed, even despite his longer legs. 

James is still somewhat surprised that Dr. House wasn’t lying when he mentioned his Corvette earlier. It’s a cherry-red vintage car restored to perfect condition, and James can’t help but be impressed, whistling through his teeth and petting over its paint job, while Dr. House tosses his backpack into the back. 

“I know, right?” he says, smirking at James across the car. 

Letting himself enjoy the novelty of riding in a car such as this, James slides into the passenger seat, taking in the interior, which is just as well kept as its outside. He turns and looks over at Dr. House, who’s in the process of putting on his seatbelt.

“How much did you shuck out for it?” he asks. 

Dr. House returns his gaze, frowning. “It was a gift from the mob. I thought I’d mentioned that. Or is your short-term memory failing you now too?”

James stares at the other man. “That wasn’t a joke?”

Dr. House grins, looking at him with an expression that reminds James of the Joker for some unfathomable reason. “I never joke,” he says, revving the engine.

James swallows, suddenly noticing how confined the space inside a car actually is. He's got half a mind to politely extract himself to call a cab—someone at the front desk is bound to have a file at hand where his address is listed—when Dr. House beats him to it by pulling out of the parking space. 

James resigns himself to his fate.

Somehow he manages to relax into the drive, taking in the strangely comforting sight of buildings and streets of New Jersey, while Dr. House is busy fiddling with the radio to find a station that isn't relaying the most recent news on traffic jams and complaining vocally about the lack thereof.

Some twenty minutes later, they end up in front of an unfamiliar apartment complex. 

He’s got ample time to take it in while Dr. House slings his backpack over his shoulder and limps over to him. 

Luckily, the other man seems to know the way, navigating the parking lot with comfortable ease, and even presses the elevator button until they eventually stop in front of a nondescript door of what James assumes is a condo, going by the layout. 

He slips his hand into his pockets instinctively, dread welling up when he only finds the modern phone he’s still struggling to get a handle on. 

“I don’t have my keys,” he voices, his collar slightly warm from the embarrassed flush creeping up his neck, when he looks at Dr. House. 

Said man just quirks a brow and produces a bundle of keys, pointedly jiggling them in his hand. James breathes a sigh of relief. 

Dr. House unlocks the door, stepping inside first, but pauses right after to watch James taking everything in. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”

It’s a condo, like he’d assumed. Very spacious, with a checkered floor in the entrance area and shoes lining the walls.

House dumps the keys in a small bowl on a side table, following James, who’s slowly stepping into an open floor plan housing both a kitchen and living room. It’s nicely furnished, surprisingly so. Not at all like Sam’s apartment overflowing with baubles and frankly ugly handmade paintings but with soothing beige walls with white trim instead and a large grey poster of “The Chorus Line” displayed on the wall next to one of the large windows.
There are books strewn over a glass coffee table in front of a comfy-looking couch with wrinkled pillows and one of the strange flat TVs he’s still getting used to. His eyes slide farther, across a nice white kitchen island and tiled wall, past a bookshelf and a collection of vinyls stacked in a corner next to a record player. It looks homey. Lived in. Though James’s eyes stop when they catch on a piano- organ, his mind corrects him, somehow intent on the distinction for some reason. 

Huh. 

He didn’t know he played. He must’ve picked it up sometime after his mid-twenties. Curious. James tries to picture himself sitting at the piano after a long day at work, perhaps with a glass of whisky set to the side, easily accessible, while he clangs away, but something in that memory comes up wrong. 

He blinks, the image still swimming behind his lids. It’s strange. He’d been able to picture it so clearly: the glass on the piano, a melody ringing through the room. 

“So, what do you think?” Dr. House interrupts his drifting thoughts. 

James turns to face him, a reply on his lips, only to pause when he notices that the other man is in the process of dumping his backpack next to the couch. 

“Uhm,” he says, unintelligently. “Are you, um, planning on staying?”

Dr. House stares at him. 

Does he ever need to blink? James idly wonders, faced once again with that uncomfortably piercing blue gaze. 

He still doesn’t look away, holding the stare, like looking away meant losing out of some sort of sheer stubbornness, whose origin he can't quite pinpoint.

Still, with that stare-down drawing out, he starts to feel uncomfortable and flustered. Almost as if he’s done something wrong. The realization has him bristle instinctively. 

When Dr. House proceeds to say nothing, James grows more irritated. He puts more heat into his stare, anger sparking in his belly. He’s not the one in the wrong here, he reminds himself. Bolstered by the thought, he says, “Thanks for driving me, but I think I can take it from here. I’ve got a doctor's note and everything.” 

The other man does blink then. Once. A slow blink. 

James clears his throat, stepping aside and angling his body towards the door. 

He’d rather looked forward to having his privacy again, to deal with the whole issue of his recent amnesia and perhaps have a weeping breakdown over everything, starting with him coming to terms with his divorce he doesn’t even remember taking place, and the sad reality of his current life as an apparent divorced bachelor in his forties, who, aside from his career, doesn’t seem to have achieved a single one of his goals, which pictured him comfortably married with a kid or two and maybe a dog at that age. 

James gestures at the exit to mitigate any misunderstandings, adding, “I appreciate the time you took out of your day to help me, Dr. House, but you’re free to drive home, or go back to work, or whatever else you’ve got to do today.”

“Well,” the other man eventually starts, clearing his throat. “This is awkward.”

James frowns, getting rather frustrated at this point. “What?” he almost snaps. 

“Seeing as none of the idiots at the hospital seem to have thought it worth mentioning, it appears that it once again falls to me to deal out the cold hard facts,” the other man says, shifting his weight. He’s supporting himself with a hand on the armrest of the couch, his cane already discarded.

James swallows, an ominous feeling creeping in from the edge. Still, no foreboding sensation could ever have prepared him for what next comes out of Dr. House’s mouth. 

“I live here. With you.”

“What?” James barely recognizes his own voice. Distinctly, he hears the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. 

“Well, look on the bright side,” the other man continues, “we’re great roomies. I’m even a doctor, so no annoying drives to the hospitals for checkups.”

Dr. House goes on, but James is too shocked to really listen to him. He’s frozen where he stands. 

It all makes so much sense now. 

The easy familiarity. Dr. House was the first person James saw when he woke up. Him being his emergency contact—a fact that bemused him when he first saw it mentioned in a form but put down as a peculiarity of his older version's judgment in friendships. 

Oh god. 

He even mentioned that James got him a bike. A ridiculously generous gift for a friend. 

Why didn’t he question it then?

And of course it makes sense that Dr. House would avoid him after he woke up without his memories. 

For fuck's sake, he didn’t even recognize the man when he woke from his coma.

It must have been horrible for Dr. House to come to terms with James regarding the man as nothing but a stranger. 

The man. 

Whom he’s dating. 

Oh god. 

“-so we’re good, right?” Dr. House finishes, looking at him expectantly.

Somehow James can just tell that he’s nervous despite the front he puts on. 

James doesn’t think that it ever took him so much effort to muster a smile. But by God, it’s the least he owes the other man after everything. Oh god. “Yeah. We’re good,” he somehow manages to reply after a pause that already drags out too long. 

Dr. House- House, James reminds himself sternly—god, he doesn’t even know his partner’s first name— relaxes visibly. 

James brings a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it in a nervous gesture. Is he sweating? God, he’s sweating. “It’s just been a lot. Everything.”

House frowns, squinting at him. “You’re not going to faint on me, are you?”

James laughs nervously. “No. No. Just a bit tired, I guess,” he lies. 

House’s frown doesn’t disappear, but he seems to be alright with not probing further and instead says, “You want to lay down? I can order us Chinese for later.”

“Yeah, that’d be—yeah,” James manages awkwardly, still reeling. “Thanks,” he tacks on as an afterthought. 

House gestures at a bend where the living room branches off into a hallway, already setting himself in motion. “Seems like we’re going to have to cut the room tour short.”

James takes a deep breath, steeling himself while House’s back is turned before he finally gathers the courage to follow the other man. 

House pushes open a door to the right, gesturing for James to enter. Almost immediately after, James’ eyes fall upon the unmade sheets and crinkled pillows on the queen-sized bed. He stops dead in his tracks. 

“I hope you didn’t expect me to make the bed for you,” House comments humorously, watching him stare at the bed. “I’m not a live-in maid, if the cane didn’t tip you off.”

James feels like he perhaps ought to laugh but can’t. He rather feels like he might have to throw up. 

House continues to cross through the room obliviously, past a decorative fireplace and a dresser whose drawer stands open, a familiar McGill sweater tossed over it. “Bathroom,” Dr. House says, knocking his cane against a door and nudging it open. “Holler if you feel like you’re going to collapse, but try not to knock your head against the floor again; I’m not exactly a runner.”

This time, James does laugh, and even to his ears, it sounds hysterical. 

“Well,” House says, “make yourself comfortable and do whatever little Wilsons need to do. I’m around if you need me.”

James nods, his throat tight. 

House looks at him for a moment before he limps away, shutting the door behind him and leaving James alone with his thoughts and rising panic. 

After a few minutes of quietly hyperventilating, panicking, and trying to come to terms with the fact that he’s standing in the bedroom he shares with his- Oh god- James finally manages to tear his gaze away from the bed and heads into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. 

He breathes a bit more easily now. 

Standing in front of the sink, he splashes cold water into his face before lifting his head to stare into the mirror.

A tired forty-three-year-old man looks back at him, with stubble on his cheeks and bags under his eyes. A sight he’s still getting used to but seems painfully mundane compared to everything else that has unraveled in the last twenty minutes. He shuts off the faucet and heads for the toilet.

Sitting there, his trousers around his ankles, James looks around the spacious bathroom until his eyes catch on the accusing handrail installed above the tub. There’s a brief second in which he wonders why he would even need a handrail before remembering House’s cane, and everything hits him all over again. 

Oh god. 

He’s forty-three and living with his-

James swallows. 

He never thought he’d—

There’d been a time, a brief confusing time, after being slammed against lockers, the word faggot in his ear, when he’d questioned— 

And there’d been the debacle with the magazines in eighth grade— 

He doesn’t even know why he tried to shove them under his shirt and walk out of the store.

And it’s not like-

Not that there’s anything wrong with-

There’d been Tommy C, from algebra—

But James had married Sam. He knows that. He loved- loves Sam. Samantha.

A woman’s name. Despite the nickname. 

He’d laughed off the inquiries and jokes at his high school reunion, pulling out their photos he'd taken with him in advance when Sam said she couldn’t make it, but it had just been to show off how happy they were, really, and their trip to Florida…

James stares at his hands. They are shaking. 

Sam and he got divorced, a traitorous little voice in his head reminds him. And now he’s living with House. Sharing a condo. A reality so distant from what he pictured in his mind when he thought about where he’d be when he hit forty. 

James takes a deep, shaky breath. 

Okay.

He clenches his fists and opens them when he can’t stand seeing them tremble. It doesn’t help. 

Okay. 

So he may be …queer. It’s no big deal. So he lives with House instead of a wife. 

Oddly enough, he is less surprised than he feels resigned to the matter. 

Do his parents know? They always wanted grandkids. 

There’s a part of James that feels a sad little stab of disappointment, which he promptly feels guilty for. 

So he doesn’t have kids. So what? He never really wanted kids anyway. It just seemed …nice. The idea of a loving wife kissing his cheek, a kid, the white picket fence, and large family dinners. 

Instead, what he’s got is a condo and—and a boyfriend. And his older self seems to be comfortable with his life, even if they’re not …out at work. People still talked about him and House in the same breath, as if it was a well-known fact. Friends. Who live with each other. 

Gosh, they have to know, don’t they? 

James would’ve wondered for sure. He’d seen through that thin facade right away. Or, he figures, suddenly, they didn’t want to bring it up. Him having lost his memories, still thinking that he was happily married to Sam… He was disoriented enough as it is. Perhaps they were simply trying to be kind by labeling his and House’s relationship as friends. So as to not overwhelm him. 

James feels another panic attack coming on. He can’t deal with this. 

He forces himself to take deep, long breaths instead of the shallow ones that threaten to pump him full of oxygen. 

Somehow he manages to pull his pants up and open the mirror cabinet above the sink. There are pill bottles, aspirin, and breath mints, as well as the antidepressants he knows from his personal medical file he’s on. No anti-anxiety medication. 

Fuck. 

He’ll have to deal with it in the old-fashioned way. 

James scrambles to get in the shower. He finds body wash, the expensive kind he never quite afforded himself during his residency, too strapped for money with his student loan debt and working two jobs to finance Sam’s unpaid internship. The shampoo smells of coconut. There's a matching conditioner too, same brand. 

Sam was the one who talked him into finally using it, and he’d conceded, privately thinking it made his hair feel rather soft and nice. 

James finds himself sobbing, standing under the spray of the shower—good water pressure, he notes—crying pathetically, soapy water sluicing down his back, the conditioner making everything feel slippery and coconutty. 

He actually feels exhausted by the time he steps out of the shower and grabs the bathrobe hanging from a hook on the side. He dumps his discarded clothes in an overflowing laundry basket he only notices now and turns to find some clean clothes.

James has to work himself up to unlock the bathroom door, peering into the bedroom, paranoid to not find it empty, before he dares to step out onto the dark hardwood floor, holding on to the tightly knotted belt of the robe as if it could slip open any moment, and quickly heads for the dresser, pulling out a nondescript shirt and fresh underwear. He puts on sweatpants as well, tucked away in the bottom drawer, which are a bit tight around his waist but somehow manage to make him feel more comfortable, before he approaches the bed. 

He’s too wrung out to go through yet another crisis, and so he picks the side that looks less used, crawling under the sheets. Sleep doesn’t come for long minutes, but somehow, eventually, he manages to sink into blissful oblivion, escaping the realities of his existence.

James wakes some indecipherable time later, the light pouring in past the curtains of the window having turned softer and orangey. 

He’s a bit groggy, his limbs heavy, and the air is stuffy and warm until his brain comes back online at seeing his unfamiliar surroundings.

Crap. 

There’s clatter in the kitchen, muffled steps on the hardwood floor, and an odd pattern of a step followed by two subsequent ones. House.

Wiping a hand over his face, James figures he’ll have to get used to interacting with him at one point, and so he throws back the blankets, his body sticky and sweat-damp, and heaves himself up reluctantly. 

When he pads over into the open living room, he finds House sitting on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, chopsticks in hand as he digs around in a take-out container. The TV is running on low volume, displaying some sort of monster truck rally.

Somehow, House seems to sense his presence since he turns to look over his shoulder. Something about James’ appearance seems to amuse him, and he snorts. 

Self-consciously, James tries to flatten his hair. It sticks out at odd angles while being flattened at the back where he went to bed with wet hair. 

“Food’s in the fridge, but it should still be warm. I just put it in. I got you the disgusting tofu one you insist you like. Now’s the time to figure out whether that’s actually true. But don’t come running to me to complain if you figure out it’s gross after all.”

James swallows, walking over to the kitchen. The fridge is easy enough to find, and he stares at the unfamiliar layout of it, locating a take-out container on the bottom shelf next to the milk. He always had to remind Julie to put it there instead of by the door. 

James blinks. 

Who’s Julie?

“Grab me a beer while you’re at it, will you?” House hollers from the couch. 

James grabs two beers from the stack on the middle shelf alongside his take-out container, forced to pocket the chopsticks left in the plastic bag on the counter, figuring it’s easier than rummaging through the drawers to locate cutlery. 

He makes his way over to the couch, hesitating briefly before sitting down at the far end of it to put as much space between him and House as possible, when the other man makes no move to shift away from the middle. 

James sets down the beers, and House grabs one absently while upping the volume of the TV. 

The quiet noise of James twisting open his own beer causes him to look over. “You rebel,” House says, a smirk playing around his lips. “Newly released from the hospital with a head trauma and already drinking. What will your doctors think?”

Pausing in lifting the bottle to his lips to reply, James says, “That the Head of Oncology made a judgment call, and leave it at that.”

House laughs and turns back to his noodles. 

James takes a sip of his beer and then another when he finds it’s not half bad. He might have to face House and their… relationship, but that doesn’t mean he has to do it without the aid of some liquid courage.

For a while, they eat in silence and drink their beers, and James finds himself rather absorbed in the program, slowly getting used to House’s occasional comments while they watch monster trucks jumping across burning cars. 

He’s vividly aware of any shift House makes and their shared proximity, despite the space between them. It takes him a full minute to breathe through House absently throwing a hand over the back of the couch, his arm coming dangerously close to Wilson’s shoulder, after he sets down his empty take-out container. 

That is until he remembers his odd memory from the fridge. “Who’s Julie?” he asks, and House turns his head. 

“Huh. You remembered?”

James clears his throat, stretching out his legs. “Just her name. While I was grabbing the food from the fridge.”

House snorts. “It was the milk, wasn’t it?”

James doesn’t quite know how to deal with House so effortlessly connecting the dots. Whatever the reason may be. “Yeah.”

“Figures,” House huffs, amused. “She’s your ex-wife numero tres.”

James chokes on his spit, and House blatantly laughs at him. “Yeah,” he says, amused, “you’re a real womanizer, crunching through marriages like candy. She was a real bitch, though, so no need to blame yourself. Cheated on you first, which is a turnabout, let me tell you.”

James is still knocking against his chest, coughing. “When—” he starts, “when did we divorce?”

House frowns, tilting his head back. “Four years ago… so 2006?”

“Four years,” James mutters, glancing at House. So sometime in between, he must’ve started dating him. Before he can think any further about it, he asks, “How did we meet?”

“How should I know?”

Wilson stares at House, confused, through a mouthful of noodles. 

House returns his look, sighing before he frowns, looking at the ceiling. “It was something boring, I think. A mixer or a fundraiser or something. She probably complimented your tie or your hair, and you put on your best smile and asked her out.”

James swallows his noodles, connecting the dots and appreciative of the info, but he'd rather hear the answer to his original question. “I meant you and me, actually,” he clarifies. 

House's face lights up with a grin. “Why, that's a more exciting story.”

“Yeah?” James asks, intrigued.

House displays a smirk. “I bailed you out of jail.”

“What?”

“Best hundred bucks I ever spent,” House continues, while James tries to come to grips with how and why he needed bailing out in the first place. James Wilson, a criminal. Oh god. 

“What did I do?” he asks. 

“Oh, that’s a great story,” House says and promptly decides not to elaborate. 

James stares at him. 

“You ran over a person while driving a stolen car,” House tells him finally. 

“What?” James feels his mouth growing dry.

“Ah, she was an old lady. No kids. Widowed. She didn’t have much of a life to go back to anyway,” House says. “You did her a favor, if you ask me.”

The delivery is perfect, but somehow James can just tell that he’s lying. 

“You’re fucking with me,” he accuses. 

“Why, Wilson, and here I thought I was just watching TV,” House says, mockingly, feigning affront. 

James sputters, mortified, his ears growing hot as he feels himself blushing violently. 

House tilts his head, looking at him, a smirk spreading over his face.

“I didn’t kill an old lady,” James says, trying to distract from how he’s barely holding on to his dignity. 

“How would you know?”

James stares at him unimpressed.

“You broke an antique mirror in a hotel bar,” House concedes, though James can barely muster any relief at that revelation, still flustered with the implication of him and House having sex. “Much less exciting.”

James hums, nodding. That makes more sense. Even if he doesn’t know how and why he did it. “And you bailed me out?”

“Yup,” House replies. 

“Were you involved in me breaking that mirror, or why did you do it?”

“Nope, no involvement on my part at all. That’s all on you. I just watched you hurl a bottle into it, screaming expletives. I figured, that’s a guy who’d be interesting to talk to.”

James gapes at House. That doesn’t sound like him at all. On the other hand, House had a point earlier. How would he know? “We didn’t even talk before? You just bailed me out. Like that. A stranger.”

“Livened up that medical conference, for sure.”

“So we met at a medical conference,” James concludes. 

“New Orleans, 1991,” House provides. 

1991. Barely a year after he married Sam. Half a year from where his memories left off. That’s… “We’ve known each other for nineteen years,” James states, feeling strangely emotional about that. 

“Yeah,” House says. “And we’ve been BFFs ever since.” He tips his head over, looking at James as he adds in that tone of his that is slowly becoming familiar, “Sorry. Don’t wear the necklace right now to prove it.”

James swallows as he looks at the man. He tries to picture what he may have looked like at the time. Thicker hair, probably, with no grey peppering the color yet. Curly. Maybe without the beard. Grinning. Definitely grinning. A faint image flickers behind his lids, the phantom smell of cigarette smoke in his nose. 

House grimaces all of a sudden, absently rubbing over his jean-clad thigh. He produces a white pill bottle, thumbing it open and washing one down with his beer. 

“Your leg is still troubling you?” James somehow, perhaps naively, had assumed that it was an old injury.

“It always gives me trouble,” House replies. “Bitch won’t shut up.”

James still looks on worriedly, chewing at his lip.
Should he reach out, offering a comforting pat on the shoulder?
Would it be too little? Too patronizing?
How would he usually deal with a partner being in pain?
He’s massaged Sam on occasion when her back was tense. James feels his throat bob as he stares at House’s hand still rubbing circles into his thigh. He can imagine it. His hands digging into the muscle. It would be normal. Intimate. 

James can feel his stomach lurch. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” House says. “It’s ibuprofen. I’m not a drug addict. Anymore.”

James blinks, staring at House. Wait, what?

“You’re a drug addict?” The notion is not as surprising as it should be. 

“Was. Really, Jimmy, try to keep up.”

Jimmy. 

James hasn’t been called by that nickname since, well, forever. Sam used to call him James. Or 'babe', on occasion. ‘Thanks, babe,’ she’d say, pressing a kiss against his cheeks when he helped her with the groceries. Or ‘You’ve outdone yourself, babe,’ when he’d just spent half an hour eating her out. He’d always get flustered when she bragged about his skills in the bedroom, but it had also been rather validating every time she pointed out how attentive he was, not at all like her ex-boyfriends who’d simply stuck it in her and called it a day after, leaving her unsatisfied while they snoozed off. 

In light of the recent revelations, that memory has gained a rather different aftertaste.

James swallows, glancing at House. He tries to picture what it would be like between them. House is old. But James is old too, he reminds himself. The age difference isn’t actually all that big, he thinks. Seven, maybe ten years? But House is anything but what he’d usually go for. Vastly more masculine, for one. With hairy arms, a grizzly beard, and a deep voice. 

And a penis. 

James grabs his beer and takes a deep pull. 

Meanwhile, House continues talking. “Hours of sanctioned therapy and Freudian psychoanalysis have led me to realize the error of my ways and turned me into a new man. Every Sunday morning I put on a strapping suit and go to church to preach to my fellow sheep how drugs are bad and don’t make you look cool at all.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm. 

James can’t help but wonder how they end up like this; dat- living together. 

James takes another sip of his beer, trying to figure out what made him choose this- this man. 

He’s got nice eyes, James supposes. Intense. Very blue. He’s been getting flustered multiple times when faced with that kind of unblinking stare that seems to bore right through him like an x-ray, analyzing him. 

And his hands look nice. Long fingers, pronounced knuckles, with veins crawling up his wiry arms, tendons shifting under the skin. Beneath the sleeve of his shirt, a surprising amount of bicep is visible, an attractive smattering of freckles dotting his skin. 

If one is into that, that is. 

James realizes he’s about to finish his beer if he continues gulping it down like that and lowers his bottle, trying his best not to think about the fact that he must be into it, considering, well, their relationship got serious enough to be comfortably living together. 

House looks at him from the corner of his eyes, raising a brow at noting his roaming gaze. James feels a blush creep up his collar. Deliberately, he turns his attention to the TV. 

“So,” House says. “What’s your take on monster trucks?”

James latches onto the question with desperate relief, more than glad to find a less offensive topic to replace the dangerous thoughts in his mind. 

“What’s not to like about them?” Propping his bottle up on his thigh, he adds, “I always wanted to drive one.”

“Huh. Good to hear it confirmed,” House voices. Their conversation takes a more casual turn as they comment on the monster trucks zooming over the screen, and James even finds himself laughing a few times, slipping into effortless banter without consciously thinking about it. 

He even teases House, and after the first few slip-ups, during which he worriedly glances over at the other man to check whether he’s overstepped, he stops censoring himself altogether. 

It’s comfortable, and surprisingly easy to fall into this kind of dynamic. Just two guys hanging out, talking about monster trucks and other mundane things.

Maybe- maybe, he jumped the gun and they’re really just friends. 

…friends who share an apartment. In their forties. 

James ends up grabbing two more beers from the fridge and tossing their empty take-out containers in the garbage under the sink, this time settling on the couch, closer to House, no longer feeling like he’s got to press himself against the armrest to defend his personal bubble. 

House hasn’t yet once made a move on him, and so when their fingers brush when he takes the beer from James, he figures it’s no big deal, despite the odd flutter in his belly. He decides to drown the feeling with beer and hope it won’t resurface.

He’s relaxing, despite himself, the alcohol likely playing a part, but James decides to take every win as it comes. He even joins House in propping his bare feet up on the table, feeling rather bold and slightly rebellious as he does so, because that was usually a no-no in his old apartment he shared with Sam. 

Eventually, the program ends, and James watches on, fascinated, while House explains the TiVo and pulls up some badly scripted medical drama. 

James is skeptical at first, but it turns out that it’s pretty fun. He takes to pointing out every single medical inaccuracy, while House comes up with various diagnoses for the deathly ill patients. He's getting a surprising amount right—however far-fetched the final diagnosis may be—and complaining loudly about the ones he doesn’t. 

At one point, James chokes on his beer so hard he gets some in his nose, laughing, when halfway into the second episode, House gets terribly offended by a patient being diagnosed with Steven-Johnson’s syndrome, exclaiming she should get herself checked out for the clap instead. 

And by the third episode, James is fully on board, his eyes glued to the screen when the pregnant coma patient’s sister reveals to her brother-in-law doctor that she’s pregnant with twins, unravelling a whole love triangle in flashbacks showing that she was the one he’d been having an affair with all along. 

And when James drops a rather explicit comment that would’ve caused Sam to storm off with a huff, and he’d be left to plead and knock at their locked bedroom door, apologizing and begging for forgiveness, House just laughs and counters with an even more obscene answer, and that’s that. 

It’s…nice. 

James doesn’t realize how late it’s getting until House puts his hands on his thighs, pushing himself up, and says, “I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna head in.”

All the relaxation bleeds out of James’ body in favor of panic again. 

“You can leave the TV on,” House says as he rounds the couch, patting James’ shoulder in an absent gesture, “but don’t you dare watch the show without me. I can’t have you spoil the gender of Amanda’s kids to me in a moment of inattentiveness.” 

James freezes, feeling the phantom warmth of House’s touch even long after he’s removed his hand, his throat tight. 

Staring at the TV without really seeing the baseball game House has switched to, he tries to get a handle on the many feelings swooping through his belly. 

He hears House limping down the hallway, and when that’s replaced by the muffled sounds of running water, James jumps up too, suddenly feeling restless. Grabbing the empty beer bottles the other man left cluttering up the table, he heads over to the kitchen, not quite knowing what to do now. He sets them down on the counter, staring into space, quietly screaming inside his head. 

House is going to bed. Their bed. Which they presumably share. Oh god. 

James seriously considers breaking open one of the whisky bottles he spotted earlier on a shelf, head injury or not, and he’s halfway through the room when House pokes his head out from the hallway. “Oh, by the way. I might have to go to work tomorrow, but I’ve cut my hours down. I don’t know when you’re going to bed, but seeing as you slept for nearly three hours, I don’t expect you to get up before noon. So don’t get all prissy when you hear my alarm go off.”

James looks at him owlishly, nodding, before he watches House limp back down the hallway and disappear through the adjacent door. 

It takes him five full seconds to realize that House has entered a room, which is distinctly not the bedroom in which James took his nap earlier. 

He nearly collapses with relief, feeling a wave of gratefulness wash over him. So they really are just friends. 

Or—a traitorous voice whispers in the back of his mind—or House decided to sleep in the guest room, likely knowing how distressing it would be for James to have to deal with the physical evidence of their relationship on top of everything. 

He’s feeling like he might have to throw up again. 

Hearing House rummaging about, James abandons his plans to break into the whisky and instead walks over to the kitchen, opening up cabinets until he finds a glass to get himself some water instead. 

He puts it in the dishwasher after, quietly considering what to do now. The TV is still on, but he can’t muster much interest in the game. Instead, he looks around the room. Maybe he’ll find more evidence in here to support either theory.

Opening up drawers and cabinets, James pokes his head around until he’s reasonably sure he’ll be able to navigate the kitchen and sets out for the living room. 

Thumbing through the many vinyls, he finds that he recognizes a few but decides that most of them must belong to House when the majority of the collection seems to consist of jazz and blues and some classical pieces he’s never heard of outside of pretentious mixers. 

The bookshelf is stacked similarly, with medical texts, old and new, but he spots a bunch of dog-eared paperbacks he's had since he was in college. 

Inside one of the built-in closets, he finds a shelf full of movies, which, while not being in the form of VHS cassettes like he remembers, must belong to him. Classical cinema, mainly Vertigo and Touch of Evil, but interspersed with the occasional action movie. 

He actually looks forward to watching some he doesn’t recognize, scanning over their descriptions and setting them aside. 

For a while, he looks at the other knickknacks sitting on shelves, taking a peek into a cigar box and finding himself both relieved and disappointed when he finds not a single photograph hung on the walls.

Inevitably, though, his steps carry him back to the organ. He sits down on the chair, shiny wood creaking as he lets his fingers trail over the smooth surface of the keys, not pressing down, just tracing them.

Something about it makes him feel nostalgic. There’s a memory hidden in the back of his mind, like a word that’s sitting on the tip of his tongue but which he can’t recall. 

Eventually, James ends up in front of the TV again, idly zapping through the channels. But it’s all late-night news segments, pay-per-view—which he quickly skips over, hoping House didn’t hear the moans—some horror flicks, and boring reruns of shows that don’t catch his interest. He turns it off.

James quietly walks down the hallway, heading into his—their—bedroom, not quite tired yet, but he goes to brush his teeth anyway. There’s only a single toothbrush in the cup and one set of toiletries, he notes, too stressed out earlier to notice. 

He doesn’t dare interpret that as evidence for their lack of romantic relationship, which, even if it were platonic, strikes him as rather odd. 

After all, House could’ve gotten all his stuff out in preparation for James coming home. 

His hair looks like a mess, disheveled from him not drying it properly earlier this afternoon, and James combs through it with his fingers before he returns to the bedroom. He pokes around in the dresser, finding mostly sleep clothes, socks and underwear, and casual attire, as well as a few bags of chips, for some odd reason. 

It occurs to him that so far there’s been little else indicating House’s presence in their bedroom. 

Somehow, it still makes him feel guilty when this all could be interpreted as a rather considerate gesture of his roommate. 

James means to check out the closet next but stops to poke around in the bedside tables beforehand. 

He pulls open a drawer and promptly freezes. 

A half-empty bottle of lube is rolling to the front, coming to a stop when it catches on some balled-up tissues next to a box of Kleenex and a pack of condoms. 

Oh. 

Bright red in the face, James quickly shuts the drawer. 

It could’ve been worse, he rationalizes, while breathing through the panic at being faced with the physical evidence of his and House’s—alleged—sex life. 

There could’ve been handcuffs or…toys. 

Still, there’s really no reason at all behind James deciding that maybe he should push the rest of his explorations back a bit further. 

It’s pretty late after all. 

He takes off his pants and tosses them into the laundry basket in the bathroom before turning off the lights and slipping into bed. 

Staring up at the dark ceiling, he tries to think of anything but the contents of that drawer and fails miserably. 

His breathing speeds up, anxiety mounting as he's forced to confront what he knows. 

He’s sharing a condo. With House. 

And as a man in his forties, employed as the head of the oncology department, James should easily be able to afford an apartment on his own. 

Yet he lives with House, who is also a doctor and department head, respectively, and likely also gets paid the salary of a person leading a department. Meaning he could also comfortably live on his own. 

Which would indicate that they chose to live together. 

But there’s really no reason at all for James to live with another person, unless…

Unless he’s in a relationship with said person.

And the person currently asleep in the other bedroom is a man. 

Which would indicate-

James clenches his fists around the blanket, inhaling in short, rapid bursts. 

Which would imply that James Wilson is gay. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to get a handle on his breathing pattern. 

In and out.

He’s panicking, a part of him recognizes. 

James forces himself to hold his breath, counting down as he exhales and inhales again. 

Eventually he manages. 

He turns, rolling over to his side, trying to fall asleep. It seems like an impossible option. 

How’s that fair? 

The thought burns through his brain, and he opens his eyes indignant and wallowing in self-pity as he glares at the dim grey of the wall across the room. 

He was being forced to come to terms with all of this in a matter of days, when his older self had years and memories smoothing the path that led him here. 

It’s not, he decides. It’s not fair at all, but life’s never been particularly fair to James. From his years in high school, being an awkward, somewhat chubby, prepubescent teenager, to him working two jobs to support Sam while juggling his residency, and now this. 

Losing his memories and learning he’s not only been divorced thrice over but in an apparent queer relationship with an older man, whom he’s living with. 

Minutes tick by, during which he listens to a siren howling in the distance and the sounds of sparse traffic late at night. 

Eventually, it comes to the point where he sits up with a huff and turns on the lamp on the bedside table. He braves the bedside drawers again, skipping the bottom one, and breathes a sigh of relief when the top drawer contains nothing so incriminating.
It’s mostly clutter.
A notepad, some pens, a marble, for some inexplicable reason, a herbal lip balm and lotion, as well as a lavender-scented bag, and finally a half-empty blister pack. Turning it over, he squints at the small print, recognizing the brand as sleeping pills. 

He pops it out, swallowing it dry, and turns the light off, lying down and waiting for it to kick in. 

His dreams feel nightmarish and vivid, and he wakes up once, crying, he thinks, before falling back asleep until he eventually comes to, with the sun standing high and his room illuminated by its light.

James keeps his eyes closed, lying in bed for long minutes, until he feels too hot and finally resigns himself to getting up. 

He dreamt of a woman, he thinks. Sam, maybe? He remembers a flash of blonde hair. A floral scent. And House. He pads over to the bathroom, still groggy, his bladder screaming at him, and slowly brushes his teeth after taking a much-needed piss. 

Memories are floating about in his head. Jumbled and in disarray, and he feels more confused really than anything else as he tries to address them. Never mind that his head is killing him. He shouldn’t have been drinking. 

It makes his head hurt trying to decipher it all. He takes one of his painkillers and hops into the shower. 

James is halfway into slathering on shaving cream, a towel wrapped around his waist, when he realizes he’s taken his daily antidepressant and went about his routine without so much as hesitating once when reaching for his razor or toiletries. He even unearthed a hair dryer he didn’t know was stowed away under the sink, which is sitting on the counter, waiting to be used. 

He finds his mood lifting a tick. Perhaps the possibility of regaining his memories is not as far-fetched an idea as he’d thought. Grinning, he starts to blow-dry his hair, singing over the noise, on guard for some reason, until he’s unplugged the hair dryer and put it back under the sink. 

He gets dressed in a soft band T-shirt he finds in his dresser and jeans before heading into the living room. 

Poking his head around, he finds no evidence of House’s presence until he spots a note scrawled onto the back of a crinkled grocery receipt, next to a take-out menu of some pizza place. 

“At work,” it simply says. “Be back around 5. Don’t jerk off on the couch.”

The last sentence is crossed out, and beneath it says, “At least put the porn back where you found it.”

James finds himself smiling despite himself, amused for some reason or other. 

A look at the digital clock on the counter tells him it’s two in the afternoon. That leaves him with roughly three hours to occupy himself. 

James proceeds to chow down on some cereal he finds in one of the cabinets, making a mental note that they’re running out of milk, and turning on the TV for lack of anything else to do. 

Afterwards, he rinses his bowl and puts it away, finding himself oddly at a loss as to what to do. 

He fiddles a bit with the stereo, jumping when he presses a button and a small disk is being ejected. Somehow, he manages to figure out how to get it back inside after a grueling five minutes of agonizing over how he’ll break it to House that he’s broken it. He’s so relieved he doesn’t dare touch it again and heads for the record player instead. 

Before long, he’s listening to ‘The Carpenters Greatest Hits,’ singing along to ‘Baby, It’s You’ and ‘I Feel the Earth Move’ before giving up all pretenses and belting out the words, as if it were his own private musical show, shimmying along the hardwood floor, which turns out to be perfect for moonwalking. 

Eventually he grows bored of that and puts the record back, his eyes lingering on the organ. He can’t help himself, drawn to the instrument for some reason, and he sits down, pressing a few keys at random. It sounds nice. 

He still gets the impression that he’s missing something. 

There’s no context for the feeling, and James doesn’t try to linger on it since trying to figure it out would likely only frustrate him. He manages a passable rendition of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ and gets up again, thinking he should perhaps do something productive. 

He means to sort through his laundry and perhaps try to familiarize himself with his phone, really, but his eyes fall upon the closed door of the only room in the apartment that he hasn’t yet entered. 

His curiosity wins out, not that he really tries to fight it. There’s no reason for him not to look, right?

Still, James almost feels as if he’s about to commit something illegal when he turns the doorknob and pokes his head inside the bedroom House is currently using. 

The bed’s unmade, dark sheets carelessly left the way they fell after House got up.

What’s more interesting, though, are the guitars next to a worn leather armchair. Two acoustics and an electrical one, an amplifier shoved into the corner. 

James tries to picture House jamming, belting out a rock song, and he chuckles at the image before he switches it to something more quiet. Blues, he thinks. That would fit. He can almost hear it in his mind. 

A part of him is itching to try the guitars out, but he refrains, somehow feeling like it’s not his place. 

He turns away. 

There’s a half-empty glass of water sitting on the bedside table, next to a bottle of ibuprofen and an upside-down novel, almost finished. 

James tilts his head to skim over the blurb. It’s a thriller. He considers taking a peek into the drawer, but past experience makes him wary. Through the open closet door, he spots a few clothes strewn over a laundry basket, and opening the other door reveals a smaller bathroom. This one without a tub, but still fitted with a shower and toilet and cluttered sink. There is stubble left on the marble top, a clipper plugged into the socket, charging, and a tube of toothpaste is dripping its contents onto the counter. A single toothbrush is poking out from a black mug reading ‘Misanthrope (noun) 1. A person who hates or distrusts humankind 2. Me. Now go away.'

It makes James chuckle, and figuring he’s snooped enough, he closes all doors and gets back into the hallway. 

He puts on another record, this time ‘The Who,’ and wanders around for a bit before eventually ending up in his bedroom again. 

It’s stuffy, so he opens one of the windows before turning his attention upon the closet. 

He’s met with the sights of neatly arranged suits and jackets on one side and shirts and ties on the other. There are shelves too, one stuffed with gloves and hats, the bottom lined neatly with rows of leather shoes, a pair of boots and loafers, as well as some tennis shoes next to a racket collecting dust. He pokes through everything, taking particular joy out of discovering a few Halloween costumes and finding a box containing some rather expensive watches and tie clips. There’s a carton shoved against the wall on the topmost shelf, almost hidden behind some rolled-up scarves and folders labelled with handwritten labels denoting various papers he’s apparently written, tax files, and other personal paperwork.

James is forced to get on his tiptoes to pull it out, grunting when he’s rather painfully reminded that he no longer possesses the back of a twenty-year-old. 

Once he’s set it down, he opens it, curious. There’s a stuffed teddy bear clutching a small heart on top, next to a box that may have held shoes once upon a time. 

He takes it out, revealing photo albums beneath, his childhood blanket, and other memorabilia that must hold some sentimental value. 

Settling down on the floor, the shoebox propped up on his legs, he opens it. Inside, he finds a videotape, a keychain, and a thin stack of photos, face down, held together by a rubber band. 

Curiously, he flips them over, removing the band in the process, and finds himself faced with a candid photograph of a blond woman in her late twenties, laughing over something or other. 

For a brief second, James thinks it’s Sam before he realizes that no, he doesn’t know the woman.

Frowning, James flips the picture around. ‘Amber,’ it says on the back in a ballpoint pen, and nothing more. Flipping through the pictures, he finds that it’s more photographs of that woman—Amber—and, surprisingly, him. They look like a couple. Holding hands on a pier, sharing cotton candy at a carnival of some sort, and a bunch of pictures taken in an unfamiliar apartment. 

He pauses when he reaches a picture that shows them and House. The latter is displaying a disgruntled expression, while James is grinning mirthfully into the camera, an arm slung around the blonde woman’s waist, who’s smirking. 

The picture is creased down the middle, right between House and him, as if he tried to get a single image of House. Or to cut him out, perhaps. 

Looking at the picture’s back, he doesn’t find any evidence supporting either theory. 

James puts the shoebox back where he found it and digs further into the carton. He pulls an album out at random. To celebrate the wedding of Julie and James, it says in gold script on a white background. 

Upon flipping it open, he finds a wedding picture of him and a petite woman with brown hair in an elegant white gown smiling at the camera. 

So that’s Julie. 

James looks down at the picture, scanning over her face and hoping for some sort of memory to pop up, or an emotion. 

Nothing. 

He starts to thumb through the album, finding the typical wedding photographs. 

Him in a suit and wearing a kippah, smiling at the bride beneath a decorated arch. Them in the process of reading their vows, the obligatory picture of the couple posing with their parents, them kissing, and later them in a bigger hall during the reception with guests in the background. 

Those are the pictures he lingers on longer. He recognizes a handful of faces in the crowd, his parents and his brother, though Danny is absent. It doesn’t really surprise him. There are two of his college friends, one notably balding, and Dr. Cuddy. He assumes the other people are either friends of his he hasn’t met yet or somehow are related to the bride. 

House is there too, claiming the spot next to him—best man, presumably — putting his weight on a different cane than the one he uses now. 

He’s in more pictures, mainly with James. Them smoking cigars on a balcony. Them, with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. A candid of them talking animatedly, laughing, their faces ruddy with alcohol, whisky glasses in their gesturing hands. 

James lingers on a photograph he deems rather funny, and so must’ve his older self, considering it got its own page, showing him donning House’s cane like a sword while House uses a chair to defend himself in their mock battle. 

It’s followed up by more pictures of James dancing with the bride, them cutting the cake, and one of them kissing under the cheers of the bridesmaids in matching pink dresses. Eventually the pages come up empty, but a few pictures are loosely stuck between those in the back, showing them off on their honeymoon. The Bahamas, James notes, irrationally envious of himself. 

He closes the album and grabs the next one. He almost wants to groan when that is yet another marriage album. 

An inscription on the inside in loopy handwriting informs him that it’s dedicated to the long-lasting and happy marriage of Bonnie and Jim. 

Right. 

It’s more of the same pictures at a different venue. This bride, too, is brunette, sporting bouncing curls, and James swallows when it occurs to him that he perhaps has a type. 

He looks younger in those. Maybe in his early thirties if he had to guess, or late twenties. In better shape, with longer hair. Not too far off from what he remembers. 

Bonnie’s wedding dress is a fluffy monstrosity, nearly swallowing his feet in the pictures where they’re posing. She’s smiling brightly, with flowers woven into her hair. 

It’s strange, James muses, looking at these pictures and not remembering getting married.
He remembers his wedding with Sam, every detail, from the venue to how stressed out they’d been over the cake and the flowers and how apprehensive Sam had been to smash the glass with her foot, despite her insisting that it was sexist if only he was the one to do it. When he joked that he was a doctor and could stitch her up, she hadn’t spoken to him for half a day. He’d had to pull out every stop till he could convince her that there was really no threat of her cutting herself. 

He looks fondly at the picture of him posing with his parents and turns a page to look at the whole congregation standing in a grassy field. He finds House almost immediately, by virtue of him standing between James and a brunette woman, smiling, with no cane in sight. 

James stares at House, younger and more relaxed somehow, with a full head of dark curls, just like he’d pictured him looking when they met. He’s probably in his mid-thirties. 

James starts to turn the next few pages in rapid succession, trying to find a picture that shows him from up close. 

There. He’s sitting in a chair, toasting with a champagne flute, his tux casually unbuttoned, bow tie undone, and James’ gaze slides over his cleanly shaven features, down his neck, where the open collar of his shirt reveals a strip of bare skin beneath the hollow of his throat. 

James drags his gaze back up to his face abruptly, instinctively chiding himself for staring before a quiet voice in his head reminds him that it’d be perfectly alright for him to stare if they were in a rela- 

James looks at the other person in the photograph, only now really noticing her. It’s the brunette woman from earlier, seated on House’s left. The way her arm is angled behind the table implies that she’s got her hand placed on his leg. She’s smiling too, pin-straight dark hair and meticulous makeup matching her blue dress. 

House’s girlfriend? Date? 

They look good together, James notes, oddly piqued by the thought. 

Squinting, he tries to decipher the name scrawled onto the place card. Stacy something. 

He turns the page and finds more pictures of her and House. Dancing, posing in group shots. A picture of James pouring a shot into House’s mouth with a squirt gun. 

The pattern commences when James finds a loose stack of pictures in the back of the album. Another honeymoon. And a few more of his daily life, apparently, him and Bonnie going kayaking. Them with a small puppy. 

So he did end up having a dog after all. He idly wonders if she took it with her in the divorce. 

James puts the album with the others and peers into the carton. He recognizes a family photo album and his and Sam’s marriage one. It looks older. The pages have started to yellow. ‘Mr. and Mrs.,’ it says on the front. ‘Married in’ and in the heart-shaped cutout in James’s own handwriting, ‘Samantha & James, 1990.’

He’d picked it out himself, taking smug pride in labeling the front in his best cursive. 

He hesitates briefly before pulling it out as well. 

Sam’s familiar face stares up at him. God, they look so young. He’d almost forgotten through getting used to his forty-something face staring back at him from the mirror. 

She’s the only blonde amongst his spouses. 

Because he met her before he met House. 

As quickly as the thought invades his mind, he squashes it. 

James doesn’t spend as much time on this album as the others. He knows the pictures, remembers having posed for a fair share of them with a bunch of his college friends and some high school buddies attending. 

He’s more eager to look at the pictures stuck between the pages in the back but almost laughs when instead he finds a copy of a divorce settlement agreement. 

Unmistakable proof of their failed marriage staring at him in professional black and white. 

James snaps the album shut. He digs through the carton and somehow stumbles upon a smaller box, whose labeling catches his attention almost immediately. Written in red marker in an unfamiliar, messy handwriting, it says, “Danger, WILl RobinSON.” Beneath a peeling sticker is taped, evidently scraped off some sort of porno; a warning for adult content and graphic depictions of a sexual nature.

Inside, he finds yet more pictures, held together by rubber bands. 

His brows progressively inch farther towards his hairline when he realizes the first shaky image is one of him licking alcohol from between a stripper’s breasts.

Oh.

His lips quirk. It’s his bachelor party. Or at least one of them.

Most of the pictures are shaky, taken by an unprofessional with a discardable digital camera, he thinks, and a few Polaroids show off his drunken self, dancing, getting a lap dance, and doing shots off somebody’s bare ass with House, their hands held behind their backs as they grip the glasses with their teeth. 

At one point during the evening, he must’ve lost his shirt, because his naked torso is on full display, signed and scribbled onto with a Sharpie, with one or other obscene drawing strewn in between an impressive amount of body glitter. 

It looks like fun, despite the picture of him bent over a toilet and another one in which House poses with his brother, grinning into the camera, lipstick smeared over his jaw while Wilson’s asleep in a bathtub in the background.

When he returns the photos back to the box, entertained and somewhat flustered, he finds another picture he must’ve missed, by virtue of it not being included in the rest of the stack. It’s a Polaroid, and he almost doesn’t look at it before flipping it over on a whim. 

James swallows, feeling his face grow warm. Oh. He can hazard a guess as to why he kept it away from the others. It’s not even particularly incriminating or obscene the way some of the other photographs were, but still. 

It’s him and House, because of course it is, glitter smeared over their cheeks and looking the better part of wasted, passing a thin slice of lime between them. With their mouths. 

House’s tongue is poking out, the piece of lime wedged between his teeth, smiling. James’ own eyes are half-lidded, heavy from alcohol, and maybe something else. 

Their lips don’t touch, but it’s a near thing.

James almost wants to put the photograph back the way he found it, face down inside the box, pretending he never discovered it in the first place. 

He doesn’t. Instead he lingers, staring. 

James swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. His jeans are feeling a bit tighter. 

Abruptly, he drops the picture as if it had burnt his fingertips, his face hot, cold sweat pearling on his brow, shame and humiliation at his unwitting reaction. 

He doesn’t look at the picture as he hurriedly stuffs it back into the box and puts everything back the way it was. 

His chest is heaving as he all but flees the closet. 

The image is still in the forefront of his mind. 

Having seen that Polaroid, he’s forced to acknowledge that the idea of him and House together is perhaps not as far-fetched as he’d wished. 

Until now, he could put it down to his older self somehow making questionable choices.

But looking at the picture… He can see it. Him. With House. 

The needle on the record player is catching, clicking occasionally, the music having stopped playing a while ago. He doesn’t remember when. James turns it off. 

The silence is deafening. The spacious condo suddenly feels confining. He finds a key in the bowl where House dropped it last night. He doesn’t even bother to grab a jacket, just slips into the next best pair of shoes that fit him, and leaves their apartment. 

James finds himself wandering around the neighborhood aimlessly. It’s a nice day, a slight breeze ruffling through the trees. He encounters a few cyclists and a construction crew paving a stretch of sidewalk. 

There’s a small park some blocks away, and he pauses, sitting down on a bench to watch the children chasing each other around a playground and being pushed on the swings. 

He takes in the sight of the happy families, mothers and their children, and a young woman fussing around a man with a baby strapped to his front. 

He’ll never be that man, will he? With a wife and kids and a house, and family photos and children’s drawings on the fridge…

James’ face falls as he slips into melancholy. 

When he pictured his future, he’d always seen himself old and graying, sitting on a porch and watching his grandchildren play, his wife walking up with a tray of homemade lemonade.

A Stepford fantasy, really, painfully cliché in how it's playing out. James had never spent much thought on how he’d get there, simply taking the steps to do so. 

Children had been next. After marrying Sam. But there’d been time. Something his future self would deal with, once he was established in his job and Sam managed to make something out of her unpaid internship. A distant concept. 

And here he is, forty-three and with nothing to show for it but alimony payments, apparently. And House. 

His roommate. 

A reality so far away from the classical ‘American Dream’ it may as well be a different universe. 

Perhaps it was naive of him to believe he could achieve all this. 

James sighs, idly staring at a young boy climbing up the slide as he leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees.

All he wanted to be was happy. Normal. 

And it seems he tried. Three times over. First with Sam, and then Bonnie and Julie. 

At least he’s got his career. 

The uplifting thought only prevails for as long as it takes him to realize that it’s a job he can’t do because he’s amnesiac. 

He’s torn out of his self-pitying musings by a woman stepping up to his bench. “Excuse me, I was just wondering, which of the children was yours?”

James manages a sad smile as he looks up at her. She looks to be around thirty. Blonde hair held back in a clip, an ice-cream stain on her shirt. One of the mothers he saw pushing a young girl on a swing earlier. “Ah, none,” James admits, laughing through the ache. “I don’t have children.” And isn’t that a depressing thought?

The woman continues to stare at him. 

“Can I help you?” James asks politely, slightly more alert. She seems to need something. 

“I think it’d be better if you left,” she says. “Otherwise I’ll have to call the police.”

James sputters, his face heating up. “Oh, no. No. God no,” he says, laughing nervously when he catches her implication. 

The woman is reaching into her pocket. “I’ll have you know, I carry pepper spray.”

James gets up, raising his palms defensively. “It’s really not what it looks like.”

The woman steps back. 

James looks at her, mortified, seeing the group of multiple concerned mothers and nannies next to the carousel staring at them. The father with the child strapped to his chest glares as if he were ready to throw hands, child or not. 

“I’m going to leave. Sorry,” James says. “I really didn’t—” He cuts himself off. “Sorry,” he repeats, before hurrying off the playground, trailed by stares. 

He wipes his face with his hands, chuckling even though the situation isn’t funny at all. At least they didn’t call the police. Yet. 

When he steps back into the apartment, toeing off his shoes, he’s almost immediately greeted by House’s voice. 

“Where were you?”

James enters the living room, finding House behind the kitchen island, looking at him. 

“I went for a walk,” he says, glancing at the clock. It’s almost six. 

“You know,” House says, setting a mug down on the counter. “They call it a cellphone because it actually allows people to reach you wherever you go. Cell towers, you see. No more pesky landlines.”

“Oh,” James says, feeling his pocket and finding it empty. “Sorry. I must’ve left it in my other pants. I’ll go and get it.”

“No need,” House says, reaching into his back pocket before tossing James’ phone at him. He scrambles to catch it. Flipping it open, he finds it shows three missed calls. 

“I just ordered the pizza I liked,” House continues while he rummages around the fridge, looking at the milk before putting it back and grabbing his mug, “because our lonely druid decided to wander the streets to connect with nature in the old-fashioned way.”

James swallows. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Worry?” House scoffs as he limps around the kitchen island. “Me? Never. I can’t be bothered to worry. You’re a doctor. If you aren't aware of the risks of unsupervised walks with a recent traumatic head injury and amnesia, who is?"

James swallows, feeling even guiltier. “Sorry,” he says again. 

House waves him off, making his way over to the living room. He sets down his mug on the coffee table before dropping onto the couch with a grunt. 

“Any epiphanies?”

“What?” James asks, still thumbing his phone. 

“You go on walks when you need to think,” House says, “so did you have any eureka moments, or are you going to continue to suffer in silence for a while longer till I eventually pry it out of you regardless?”

James clears his throat, walking over to the seating area, deciding that the dark leather armchair is a safer option than sitting down on the couch next to House. 

House watches him, quirking a brow but not commenting on the matter. 

James wipes over his lip, reflexively looking at the TV to escape the other man’s blue stare. 

It’s off. 

Crap. 

Without an excuse to not look at House, he turns back to face the other man. “No epiphanies. Just an ordinary walk. I got bored.”

House says nothing for a moment. Those three seconds of silence feel like an eternity. James feels himself breaking out into sweats. 

“I thought it might spark some memories,” James adds. “Checking out the neighborhood and so on.”

House still stares at him. “Talk to any neighbors?”

James shakes his head. “No.”

House tongues at his teeth, humming. He finally looks away from James and turns on the TV. 

James feels awkward now, having picked the armchair. Why didn’t he sit down on the couch?

“So, what else did you do to kill the time until my humble self decided to grace you with the pleasure of its company again?” House asks, distracting James from his contemplations about whether it’d be awkward to sit down on the couch now or if he’s missed his moment. 

James shrugs. “Not a lot.” 

Maybe if he gets up first. Yeah. Yeah, he could get himself a drink. 

James gets up and walks over to the kitchen. 

“You better not have snooped through my room,” House says, and James is desperately glad that he’s standing in front of the coffee machine now, with his back turned to the other man. “Don’t need you getting into my secret porn stash.”

James is feeling uncomfortably hot and cold. “Nope,” he says, pressing buttons until the coffee machine whirrs to life. 

“I can tell that you’re lying, Wilson,” House says. “I sure hope you at least put the porn back where you found it and cleaned up after yourself.”

Unwittingly, James is reminded of the Polaroid he found in his own closet. “I didn’t masturbate,” he replies loudly, ripping open the door of the fridge. 

The cold air will hopefully abate some of the heated blush in his face. 

“Hm. You should have. Now the opportunity’s gone. No more borrowing my porn from now on,” House declares across the room. 

James notes that the milk is not on the bottom shelf. It takes him a second to find it in the door instead. He decides not to comment on it, even though it irks him; instead, he pours some into his coffee, which has just finished running through, and places it back on the bottom shelf. 

There. 

Coffee in hand, James walks up to the couch, hesitating briefly before sitting down. 

“You didn’t put in any sugar,” House notes, flicking his gaze down at his mug. 

James looks at his coffee. He may have decided that it couldn’t hurt to lose a few pounds. No need to let himself go, forties or not. “There’s no harm in trying out new things,” James replies, somewhat defensively.

House just quirks a brow at him, watching. Waiting. 

James takes a sip. The coffee is good, a decent brand, but it’s still coffee. He tries to not pull a face. 

House smirks. “Right,” he drawls.

James puts his mug down. “How was work?” he asks, in an attempt to change the topic. Absently, he notes that House’s coffee is black. No milk. 

He doesn’t know what bothers him about that sight. 

“Fine,” House says. “The usual. Foreman and Thirteen are going through a rough patch, Chase is making a fool out of himself, while Taub is desperately trying to cling to his delusions that he’s not looking for an affair.”

James hums, nodding as if he knows who any of the aforementioned individuals are. 

“And you, honey?” House asks, almost sarcastically, but James feels his stomach lurch anyways, his ears growing hot. 

“Uh,” he says, picking up his coffee and taking another sip to hide behind. When he feels like he can speak without stuttering, he says, “I found a couple of photo albums.”

“Figured out which ex-wife is which? Or do you need me to quiz you?”

James rubs a sweaty hand on his jeans. “No. No need for quizzes. But, uhm, I was wondering actually,” he adds, glancing at House from the corner of his eyes. “If you could tell me about Amber?”

That seems like a safer topic. 

Honey, he still hears echoing in his mind. 

Momentarily, House seems to cease all movement. “Amber,” he eventually says, staring at the TV, clicking his tongue. “Why do you ask?”

James is now properly looking at House, his curiosity roused by his reaction. “I found some pictures of her. Well, us. Her name was written on the back. I was wondering who she was.”

So tuned in to House’s reactions, he doesn’t miss the infinitesimal shift in his tense shoulders relaxing. James' eyes unwittingly drift to where House rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“You dated,” House says after a moment. 

His clipped tone has James frowning. “Did it …end badly?” he inquires, observing the other man. 

House’s brows twitch as he inhales, throat bobbing as his eyes briefly dart to James. “She died.”

“Oh,” James says, sitting back, hardly realizing that he leaned towards House without noticing. 

Staring at the TV, he finds he doesn’t quite know how to deal with that information. He doesn’t remember Amber. Or their relationship. He finds his eyes wandering back over to House, studying his profile. 

If he and House- 

Amber would’ve been his last relationship before, likely, judging by his age in the pictures. 

He wonders if her death was the last straw, if that was the reason for House and him to…

James worries his lip with his teeth. “I…” He starts before pausing and starting again. “I also saw a picture of you with, uh, Stacy, I think? At one of my weddings.”

“Ah, yeah. Stacy. Asking about my exes instead of your failed marriages, why don’t you?”

Oh. So House dated women too. James grabs his mug, not drinking, just fiddling with the handles, trying to work himself up to asking the next question. “When did you… Uhm. How did you—”

-figure out you weren't into women? 

James can’t bring himself to say it. 

House sighs. “It’s a long story. But to summarize, she wanted me to cut off my leg; I didn’t, and she decided the compromise was to tell the doctors working on my case to butcher my leg. Who needs working muscles anyway, amirite?”

Oh. That was not what James was going for, but that’s just as well. 

House is looking at him again. 

“What happened?” James asks.

“Infarction. In my thigh.” House's hand goes to his leg, seemingly without realizing.

“Oh,” James says, his eyes fixed on the other man absently rubbing his thigh. His fingers are brushing the seam of his pants.

The hand suddenly stills.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

James’ face heats up, and he abruptly tears his gaze away from House's crot- from his thigh.

“Thought so,” the man says. “I’ll spare you the run to the bathroom. No need to have the cleaning lady deal with the vomit on top of everything else.”

“Don’t say that,” James shoots back almost immediately, his embarrassment taking a backseat to his sudden offense on House’s behalf. 

The other man’s brows rise. He opens his mouth and closes it, turning his face back to the TV. He looks contemplative. 

Eventually, James follows his example, watching the New York Yankees setting themselves up for a pitch. 

When the doorbell rings, House tosses James a wallet, and only when he’s paying the pizza delivery guy does he realize it’s his own. From the stare he receives, tipping culture seems to have changed somewhat, or the inflation has done serious damage since the nineties. Either way, James closes the door in his face and pads back over to the couch and places the pizza cartons on the coffee table, House already having cleared the space. 

Idly he wonders if they ever eat sitting at a table. 

James figures whatever tip he gave the guy was fair when he’s forced to get up again to find a knife in one of the drawers because it wasn’t cut properly anyway. 

They’re halfway into demolishing the pizza when House gets up, announcing he’s going to take a dump. James uses the opportunity to zap away from the game and see what else is on. That’s when a phone starts to ring obnoxiously. 

His hands drift to his pocket, but it’s not his. There, on the coffee table, House’s phone is vibrating across the surface. 

James hesitates. Should he answer it? Chewing at a mouthful of pizza, he looks over his shoulder. House isn’t back yet. The phone keeps ringing. 

“You’re getting a call!” James yells indecisively. 

“I’m a bit busy here!” House’s muffled shout echoes back. The phone continues to ring. “Let it go to voicemail!” 

James relaxes back into the couch. 

Eventually, the phone falls silent.

A moment later, it starts ringing again. 

James looks at it. A long moment goes by. His choice is made for him by House shouting, “Just answer it already!” 

James puts down his slice of pizza, wiping his greasy hands on his pants before he takes the still somewhat unfamiliar piece of technology and flips it open. He answers it. 

“Hello?”

“House, we tried the aminoglycoside, and he’s responding to it, but now he’s started to bleed out of his ears.”

“Uh,” James says, really not knowing what to do with that information. 

“We could really use your input here. I mean, I know you said not to bother you, but he’s bleeding out of his ears!”

James reaches out for the remote and mutes the TV. “Have you tried checking for infection?” he tries. 

“First thing we did. Negative. Foreman is running a head CT—wait. You aren’t House.”

“Uh, no. It’s me. James. Wilson.”

“Oh, uh, hello, Dr. Wilson.”

“House is—” James glances in the direction of the“ bathroom—“unavailable right now,” he settles on. “But he should be back shortly.”

A muffled voice in the background.

“Great. Thirteen says hi, by the way.”

A beat of silence as James wonders whom he’s actually speaking to. 

Somewhere in the condo he hears the telltale flush of a toilet. Then a faucet being turned on. 

“So, uhm. How are you doing? Got any of your memories back yet?”

“No,” James says after a beat. He doesn’t really feel like airing out his personal business to a stranger, but apparently it’s one of House’s employees. He figures he should probably not strain any relationships he has by being rude on the phone now. 

“I hope House isn’t driving you up the wall. God knows people are asking themselves how you can stand him in general, but now you don’t even remember your usual reasons for sticking around—”

“Me and House are fine,” James cuts the man on the other end of the call off, feeling unusually rankled. “Thanks for asking,” he replies somewhat prickly. 

“Uhh… Well. That’s good to hear. I guess. Look. Not that I don’t appreciate talking to you or your input, but… You know. When do you think House will be—

The phone is snatched out of James’ hand, House having materialized behind the couch without him noticing. 

His fingers are slightly damp from washing his hands, and James subtly wipes the remnants of water on his leg. 

“Gossiping about me behind my back,” House says to the other person on the phone. “You’ve lost your status as the second-least favorite.”

James hears someone sputter on the other end of the call. 

House presses the phone to his chest, making a mocking expression, looking at James. ‘Idiot,’ he mouths. When he puts the phone back to his ear, he says, “Yes, yes. And really, did you think Wilson wouldn’t snitch on you?” 

A pause. 

“Our bond transcends such insignificant matters as memories.”

James feels inexplicably flustered again. 

“Uh-huh,” House says on the phone. “And?” 

James decides he should probably busy himself with something instead of staring at House and takes another slice of pizza. 

“So why aren’t you doing that? Yeah? Well, get to it then. And check his blood work again while you’re at it.”

James looks up from his food at hearing House snap the phone shut. Rolling his eyes, he rounds the couch and drops back down next to James. “Morons,” he says, “can’t do a single thing without Daddy holding their hand through it.”

“That was one of your …employees?” James asks after swallowing. 

“Feel free to use the word ‘minions. I do,” House replies, his brows furrowing as he stares at the TV. “Did you change the channel?”

“Mhm,” James makes around a mouthful of pizza, forcing himself not to react when House bends over his lap and retrieves the remote from where it’s wedged against James’s thigh on the other side. 

“Are you invested in—” House squints at the screen, gesturing with the remote- “...that rerun of Kath & Kim, or do you mind switching back to the game?”

James swallows, shrugging, mainly trying to deal with the phantom warmth of House brushing against his legs moments earlier. 

House seems to interpret that as his indifference and switches the channel again. 

Eventually, they finish the pizza. James, using the opportunity to regain some space, volunteers to clean up the cartons, trying to fit them into the overflowing garbage. 

Eventually, he’s forced to admit defeat. 

Looking across the kitchen counter, he announces, “The garbage is full.”

House hums, not looking away from the screen. It occurs to James that he has no idea how they usually divide chores. 

“There’s dumpsters out back,” House says after a moment. “No trash chutes. I know. But it’s what we signed up for when renting from evil gentrifiers sinking their claws into crumbling old drug dens and upselling them for a pretty penny after slapping some clean plaster over them. To quote the man who closed the deal, 'A problem delayed is a problem denied',” House says, before adding, “That’s you, by the way, just to mitigate any misunderstandings.”

James opens his mouth and closes it. “I’m just gonna—yeah.”

“You do that,” House says, waving his hand distractedly, already turning back to the TV. 

James grabs all the garbage, managing to fit the pizza cartons in the bag when it’s out of the can.

He almost forgets his keys, having to turn back before leaving their apartment. He feels a bit awkward taking the elevator down with the garbage in his hands, but he manages to find the dumpsters only after a little bit of searching. 

The elevator’s just about to close as he enters the lobby again. “Could you hold that, please?” he exclaims, jogging just when a hand dives between the closing doors. 

“Thanks,” James says, joining a woman who appears to have just returned from work. She’s attractive, maybe in her thirties, dressed in a floral blouse and pink skirt. 

James mumbles an apology when he has to lean past her to press the button to his floor, while she eyes him, her lips pinched. 

The doors close. 

He glances at the woman, who stares at the doors. “I’m James Wilson,” he starts, deciding to introduce himself.

“I know,” the woman replies, clipped. 

“Oh yeah. Sorry.” James rubs the back of his neck. “We’re probably neighbors.”

She turns her head then, looking at him with raised brows. “Probably?”

“Ah yeah,” James chuckles. “I, uhm, recently ran into a bit of trouble with my memory. Hit my head, you see.” He smiles ruefully. “I’ve got amnesia.”

“Oh wow,” the woman says, laughing, turning her attention back to the door. “Wow,” she repeats, shaking her head. 

“Yeah,” James says. “It’s been quite the adjustment… Sorry. What was your name again?”

The woman turns her head, hair bouncing. “Seriously?” she says, staring at him. 

“Uhm, yeah,” James says, shifting his stance. 

“Seriously,” the woman repeats. “You expect me to believe that? After everything you and Greg pulled?”

James’ lips part, taken aback by that sudden outburst. “Sorry?”

She laughs disbelievingly. “Right.” She shakes her head, huffing as she watches the elevator climbing up a floor. 

James looks at her from the corner of his eyes. 

“You know,” she starts after a moment, drumming her painted nails against her purse. “This is actually the first apology I got from either of you. So thanks, I guess.”

“Excuse me,” James says, wholly confused and guilty, for a reason he doesn’t know. “But, uh, what did I and, uh, Greg, you said, pull on you?”

She looks at him, frowning. “Greg? Your ‘roommate’?” she voices, doing the air quotes with her fingers.

Oh. James stares back in sudden realization. She’s talking about House. Still, something of his earnest confusion must show on his face, because the woman squints at him. 

“Oh my god,” she voices abruptly. “Oh my god! You were serious. You were actually serious. You’ve really lost your memory!”

James laughs, uncomfortable. “Yeah. I, uh, took a fall. Slipped in the hospital. Got the stitches and everything to prove it.”

“Oh wow,” she says. “That’s… That’s really quite something.” She laughs again. 

The elevator comes to a halt, and James looks at the woman, hesitating. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I’m really sorry for, uh, whatever we did.”

She huffs. “Yeah. Well,” she steps out of the elevator, apparently on the same floor as them. “I suppose not every day you witness your neighbors propose to one another, to—”

“What?” James, who’d been in the process of following her, promptly misses a step, his face draining of all color. 

The woman stops, staring at him. 

But James barely sees her, busy reaching out to support himself on the wall, because he feels like his legs might give out on him any second. “We’re engaged?” he chokes out, blood rushing in his ears. His heart is hammering violently against his ribs. 

“Oh my god,” the woman gasps. “You’re actually—”

“What?” James blinks at her, trying to look at her through his fading vision, finding his own shocked expression reflected in the woman’s face. 

“I was right! You’re—oh my god!” 

James is swaying on his feet. 

The woman apparently takes this as the cue to rush over to him to wrap his arm around her shoulders to prop him up. “Are you okay?” she asks, her free hand settling on his chest to keep him upright.

“I didn’t know we were engaged,” James mutters, his mind swimming. 

His helpful neighbor settles him against the wall, stepping back while James is still trying to wrap his head around this information. “I assumed, I mean, I knew we were …dating, but—” James’ chest suddenly feels tight, and he’s got trouble breathing as he sucks in rapid breaths. His vision is starting to tunnel. 

“James?” his neighbor says, concerned. “James, are you with me? Just breathe, alright, breathe.”

James takes a shuddering breath. He follows the woman’s example, mirroring her. In and out. In and out. 

Eventually he manages to breathe through his panic attack. When he feels like he can finally stand again, he blinks. Staring into the concerned face of his neighbor, he suddenly feels terribly embarrassed. He straightens up and takes a small step away from the wall. 

“Are you okay?” the woman asks. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m… It’s fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

James tries to smile. “No. Really. Thank you, but I’ve got it.”

She returns his gaze, skeptically and still worried. 

James tries to fix his smile, hoping to make it appear more genuine. 

It seems to help. 

The woman relaxes. “You know, I’m actually surprised I didn’t see through it,” she voices, half caught between concern and some sort of epiphany as she’s looking at him. “But, well, I couldn’t have anticipated that you’d go to that extent to keep your relationship secret. I mean, it’s 2010 after all; people are gay. Nobody cares.” She cuts herself off when she notices that James is veering towards a panic attack again. “James?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” he says, more to reassure himself, taking deep, measured breaths. 

“Oh god. I’m so sorry,” she says, readjusting her purse. “I really wasn’t thinking. You’re just coming off a traumatic head injury, and I—and it must’ve been really difficult to lose your memory on top of it all,” she babbles. 

“Yeah,” James breathes, feeling himself calm down somewhat. “Yeah, it’s been …something.”

“Did you—and I hope I’m not overstepping here—but how far does your amnesia go back?”

James looks at her, feeling hysterical laughter building in his chest. “When I woke up, I thought it was 1990.”

The woman gasps, her hands coming up to her mouth. “Oh god. That’s… Wow.”

“Yeah,” James says. 

They stand there, looking at each other in awkward silence. The woman seems to digest all this before she says, “Did you remember Greg at all?” 

James huffs. “No. It’s really—it’s been difficult. I mean, when I woke up, I thought he was a janitor.”

She makes an odd hiccuping sound, caught between a gasp and a laugh. “Sorry,” she says, pressing a hand against her twitching lips, trying to hide her smile. “Sorry.”

“No. It’s all right. I mean,” James laughs, and it sounds a bit hysterical, even to him. “I asked him to call my wife. How do you even—how are you even supposed to address that?”

He cards his hands through his hair, tugging on the strands. 

The woman nods sympathetically. “How did he take it?”

James exhales, dropping his hands. “I honestly can’t say. He avoided me in the hospital, I think. Until I got my diagnosis. I only moved back in with him yesterday.”

The woman nods again. “Wow. I mean, I’m sorry. But wow. What can you even say to that?”

James nods, finally feeling like someone is seeing where he’s coming from. “Yeah. Honestly, it’s just… yeah.” He trails off. “I didn’t even know I was—” he cuts himself off, looking at his neighbor. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—that’s really quite personal, and here I am, airing out my problems to a neighbor who’s just trying to go about her day…”

“No,” she immediately says, putting a hand on his arm. “I completely understand.” She smiles reassuringly at James before straightening up and sticking out her hand. “I’m Nora, by the way,” she says, and James shakes it reflexively. “Besides,” she adds, her eyes crinkling as she leans in and adds in a lower voice, “I had you clocked from the minute you guys moved in. Really, you don’t have to worry about that at all. And it’s 2010; people really don’t care anymore if you’re gay or not. And those who do, well, they’re assholes.”

James laughs nervously, but also somewhat relieved. He still extracts himself from her grasp and puts a bit of distance between them. 

“I really should—” he says somewhat awkwardly, gesturing down the hall. “House—Greg is probably asking himself where I am.”

She nods. “Oh yes. Yes, of course.” They do a little awkward shuffle in the hallway, and just before James turns, Nora says,. “You know, if you ever want to talk… I’m just a couple doors down,” she gestures somewhere behind her. “Apartment 4b.”

James nods, his smile a bit more genuine now. “Yeah. Thanks. I, uh, I might stop by sometime.”

“No pressure,” Nora says as if she saw right through his reply. She pats her purse, bouncing on her heels, seeming like she wants to add something before she decides not to and turns. 

While she’s walking away, she’s swinging her purse, skipping a bit in her step, and James catches her muttering to herself, picking up a few stray words that sound suspiciously like, “Oh my god,” and, “I knew it.”

James turns too, walking down the hallway till he stops in front of his and House’s apartment. House. His …fiancée. 

God. 

He’d considered-

He knew they may be-

But hearing it confirmed is a wholly different matter. 

James swallows, hesitating to unlock the door. When he finally gets the courage to do so, he hears the sounds of music playing. 

Quietly, he inches inside and returns the keys to the bowl. He takes off his shoes before he slowly pads over into the living room on socked feet. 

House is sitting at the organ, playing. 

James stares at him, swallowing hard. He’s vividly aware of his heart thumping in his chest. 

House’s hands dance across the keys as he sways slightly in the rhythm of the dramatic melody he’s playing. 

Phantom of the Opera, James thinks. 

House’s shirt tightens with every other movement, accentuating the shape of his back. He leans over the piano as he plays the last notes, finishing with a flourish. Then he pivots abruptly on the seat, turning to face James. “Enjoying the show?” House asks, smirking. 

Unbidden, a memory comes to the forefront of James’ mind, slipping into place without any conscious effort on his part. 

“Pick one thing you like,” House’s voice echoing in his ear. “One.”

An earnest smile flashing, when he says, “I like what this says about you, Wilson.”

“I bought that organ,” James voices, shocked at actually remembering something. “Didn’t I?”

House’s smile widens. “Yeah. You just remembered it?”

James walks up to him, the hazy fragments of memories coming together in his mind as he stops next to the chair, letting his fingers trace over the instrument. “Yeah,” he says. “I got it from an antique furniture store, I think.”

“Huh. The more you know,” House voices, and James turns to look at him. The other man has tilted his head back, meeting his gaze with his mirthful blue eyes. 

James swallows, his mouth suddenly dry as he realizes their close proximity. 

They haven’t been this close since… well, never, as far as he can remember. 

It would barely take any effort to close that distance. Just one movement, him bending down— 

And then House gets up, shattering that fragile moment. 

“From your lack of baggage, I assume you’ve found someplace to dump the garbage,” House says, grabbing his cane, while James still stands, staring into the suddenly empty space. 

“Put a new bag in while you’re at it. I’m going to take a shower.”

At night, back in their separate bedrooms, James lies awake again.

There’s so much that happened today. From the Polaroid to Nora to… 

He thought about kissing House. Looking at him there, next to the organ.

He almost went through with it too, if it hadn’t been for House getting up. 

House. His fiancé. 

James swallows. He wonders who out of the two of them proposed.

God. 

They probably had sex after too. He and Sam had sex after he proposed. That’s usually what couples do, right?

James would’ve been on top, probably. What with House and his leg.

His breath stutters as his mind wanders down that dangerous trajectory.

Coincidentally, it also occurs to him just then that he hasn’t jerked off since he woke up from his coma. First he was too depressed and stressed out, and there were all the people in the hospital, and then there was …House. 

Absently, he trails his fingers over the bare strip of skin between where his shirt rode up and the waistband of his underwear. 

Already, he’s working himself up to a half-mast, and he’s not even touched himself. 

The last time he had sex seems like a distant dream. 

With Sam, it always took him a bit to get there. A lot of foreplay, mostly. For some reason, he doesn’t think it’d be the same between him and House. 

Even if House is older. And a-

James cuts that thought short. 

He's always liked blow jobs. 

He figures it’s probably not all that different when it’s not Sam. 

He’d probably lie in bed, just like he is now, and House would kneel between his legs—

James sucks in a sharp breath as he takes himself in hand. His erection throbs against his dry palm. 

Before he’s even realized what he’s doing, he’s given his dick a few cursory strokes, and even dry, he finds that he’s painfully hard now. 

He pauses; his exhales the only sound disturbing the quiet. 

Is he really doing this? 

James bites his lip. 

His dick throbs in his grasp. 

Apparently he’s doing this. 

James extracts his hand, spitting into his palm, before worming it back under the sheets and into his boxers. 

It’s better now, when he starts stroking himself, with the lack of friction. 

When he closes his eyes, he finds himself almost immediately thinking about House again. 

He’s never really done this before. Allowing his thoughts to drift. 

It’s mainly been perfunctory, and he’s always felt guilty when he wasn’t explicitly thinking about Sam when doing this, so he had tried not to think of anything at all. 

But now… 

James squeezes his eyes shut, breathing hard. 

God-

Unwittingly, he pictures House’s hands on his thighs, his beard scraping over his skin before he’d take him into his—

Fuck. 

James bites his lips, exhaling harshly through his nose as he picks up speed. When he trails his thumb over his head, he finds he’s dripping with precum. 

It makes everything only wetter. 

There are sounds now. Slick, wet sounds, with every downward stroke. 

His reality is bleeding over into his fantasy, and James moans, quietly, not quite able to suppress the noise. 

Someone swallowing him down, bobbing their head, lips pink and slick with spit. 

Eyes fluttering open, looking up at him with blue eyes. 

House smirking. 

Fuck. He’s already close. 

“Come on, Jimmy,” he hears a rugged voice in his ear, stubble scraping over his jaw. 

James’ balls tighten, and he comes with a strangled grunt, stroking himself through the aftershocks. 

Panting, he blinks up at the ceiling. 

Fuck. 

His hand is feeling sticky. He wipes it on the inside of his underwear as best as he can, slowly coming back to himself and the damp feeling of his boxers sticking to his thighs. 

James gets out of bed, navigating the dark room to the bathroom, where he cleans himself up and dumps his underwear in the hamper. After washing his hands, he flicks off the light and puts on fresh underwear before getting back into bed. 

He feels wrung out. Literally. But now, in the aftermath, his mind is wide awake. 

Oh god. He really just did that. Jerked off to-

James feels mortified. Shame and guilt are creeping in on the edges even though he knows, rationally, that he must’ve done much more with House. 

Still, he’s never -

And it was good. Really good. Better than some of the sex he had. 

Fuck. 

He just jerked off. 

Still. 

He was fantasizing about House. A man. There was not a single thought wasted on breasts or pussies at all. 

There’s no coming back from that. 

And for the first time, really, truly, amidst the cover of darkness, James allows himself to consider the fact that he’s gay. 

He allows himself to think that maybe, maybe he is into men. And that he—his older self—is in love with his roommate. 

James Wilson is gay. He is gay. 

His calm clarity lasts for about five minutes before he’s panicking all over again. 

It concludes with James popping another sleeping pill, praying desperately that it will kick in before he’s forced to deal with any new epiphanies. 

He sleeps through the night, but he dreams, jumbled and chaotic, one face bleeding into another, their images still fading when he slips into wakefulness. 

James blinks into the morning light, fragmented memories bouncing around his head. Things he didn't know he lost. 

It’s only when he’s in the shower that he manages to properly examine his new—or, better, old—memories. He knows what happened to Danny now. The phone call and him running away. A trip to a psych ward, an awkward conversation with a person who may as well have been a stranger. His brother, older and thinner, but properly medicated and a hopeful promise to stay in touch. 

James remembers a talk about social contracts with House. Being asked if he liked monster trucks.

And Amber. Oh god. Amber. His head aches when he tries to piece the slips of memories together. She’s dead, he thinks. Remembers him shutting off her life support. Something about a bus. House in a hospital bed.

James loved her. Even if he may not have been in love with her. He’d pictured their future together and felt… fine. Happy. 

The hurt feels recent. A deep ache, scarred over, barely. James remembers leaving, angry with House, angry with himself. Hurt and confused. Deeply depressed. 

He called a psychiatrist shortly after, he thinks. 

There are flashes of patients, of work, and of his marriages. Him fighting with Sam, Bonnie cussing out a dog, and him confessing that he cheated. An embarrassing memory about Sam involving him suffering from whiskey dick. One of him, talking to Cuddy about children. His proposal to Julie in a restaurant, people clapping, congratulating him. 

James asking House to be his best man and the other sighing, tipping his head back while bouncing a ball between his hands, and asking what he did to deserve this. 

More memories of House. Him stealing his food, him making fun of his ties, and them playing pranks on each other. Rattling bottles of Vicodin. Both of them drenched by water when the fire alarm in the condo must've gone off, and a flatscreen ruined. Their only real furniture. 

It’s a lot. The water in the shower is running cold by the time James shuts it off. He towels himself off, lost in thought as he walks over to his closet, getting dressed without really thinking about it. 

It’s only when he’s holding a tie in his hand that he realizes that he doesn’t have to go to work. He puts it on because he’s already halfway there anyway, dressed in a shirt and slacks and matching red socks to the red polka-dot tie. 

When he wanders into the kitchen, the digital clock tells him it’s barely nine. Didn’t he have one in his room? Where did his alarm go?

James makes himself a coffee, rolling up his sleeves as he waits for it to run through, idly flipping through an issue of ‘Psychology Today’ that ended up on the counter. 

There’s an interview about a man talking about his experience of suffering from amnesia and how he dealt with it before he recovered his memories. 

James flips it shut and checks the date. The magazine was printed in 2004. He fixes his coffee, the milk still on the bottom shelf. He’s learned his lesson about not adding sugar, and he stirs his milky coffee while he thinks about what to make for breakfast. 

Opening a few cabinets, he finds himself staring at a bag of crushed macadamia nuts, sparking an idea and a faint recollection of making pancakes from scratch. 

The article mentioned that familiar smells could help induce memories, and James, hopeful that he may continue his streak, sets out to find a bowl and some flour and eggs to start some pancake batter. 

In the process, he stumbles upon a blue apron, vaguely recalling attending a cooking class with House—his hair shorter then—and he puts it on, humming a tune while he mixes ingredients together, clattering around the kitchen to unearth a pan. 

While spooning his second batch of pancake batter into the pan, James has remembered that his mother was the one to teach him this recipe and that he made them before, for House, in a different apartment, smaller and darker, differently furnished, with guitars on the walls and a boxy TV on a table in front of a couch. 

That’s also about the time when House, presumably woken by the noise, pads down the hallway with sleep-rumpled clothes and hair to join him in the kitchen. 

“Good morning,” James greets him, while House only squints bleary-eyed, rubbing away at the pillow creases on his cheeks, bending over to his shoulder to take a peek at the pan. 

“Macadamia nut pancakes?” he voices, and James feels a shiver go down his spine at the sound of House’s voice, deep and hoarse from sleep, unwittingly reminded of actions last night. 

“Yeah. The first batch is ready, if you want,” James replies, pointing at the plate where he dumped the finished pancakes next to the stove. 

House grunts something as he limps over to the coffee machine, leaning against the counter as he waits, watching him. “Do you have to blow-dry your hair at—” he glances at the clock—“nine in the morning? God. You don’t even have to go to work. Though,” he drags his gaze over James’ body, “you’re certainly dressed like it.”

House turns to reach over to the coffee machine, plucking out his mug before the last drops have dripped out of the opening. 

“Force of habit, I guess,” James replies, ears warm.

House looks at him over his coffee mug, seemingly more alert now. “You got your memories back.”

“Some,” James replies, putting his spatula down. Taking a deep inhale, he turns to face House. “I want to talk about Amber.” There are still some gaps in his recollection, and he’d like to know how to piece everything together. 

House’s throat bobs as he swallows, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’ll check my calendar,” he says, blithely with faux cheer, “but now’s a pretty bad time actually. Difficult case at work, you see.” He pushes himself off the counter, limping over to grab syrup from a cabinet. “The man is bleeding from his ears, and nobody knows why,” House continues, as he wanders around the island, setting down the syrup to open the drawer with the cutlery instead. “I’ve got to get in on time, otherwise my minions will run around floundering—”

“House,” James cuts him off, exasperated, as he turns to stare the other man down, hands stemmed into his hips. He's only made aware of the motion when House pauses, his gaze flickering down to track the movement. 

House swallows briefly as he looks down at the drawer. “Fine,” he says. “After work. Though I don’t know when I’ll be finishing today—”

“You can let me know then how long you’ll be staying when I check in on you,” James replies, turning around to check on whether he needs to flip the pancakes. 

“Are you sure you know how to work the phone yet? I seem to remember you handling it like a hooker would a john who asked to just cuddle.” 

“I know how the phone works,” James replies with feigned self-confidence, privately thinking that he does now at least. “Besides,” he adds, as the notion occurs to him, “you can tell me in person when I drop by your office after my checkup.” 

“You don’t have a checkup today,” House replies, frowning at him.

“No, but I think my stitches are ready to come out, and I think it’s a good idea to talk to my neurologist to let him know that my amnesia is improving.”

“Firstly, you’ve had your stitches in for, what? Six days? That’s the bare minimum, and if they really need to come out, we can do that at home. Besides, it’s not like Foreman will tell you anything new or helpful. You going to him will just make him feel justified in poking around in your personal life.”

“And I would like to check in with him anyway. Maybe visit a few of my patients. See how they’re doing.”

“It’s not even been a week. They’re still dying,” House replies sardonically. “You can take my word for it. I’m a doctor.”

James huffs. “I’m driving to the hospital today. If you won’t drive me, I’ll take a cab.”

“With what money?”

“I’ll pawn one of your guitars,” James shoots back, flipping the pancakes. “I saw a shop down the street. You think fifty bucks will be enough to cover the fare to and back?”

“Fifty—” House sputters. “We’re talking about a 12-thousand-dollar 1967 Flying V here!”

“Maybe two hundred?” James says, as if he were musing out loud, “I could go sightseeing on the way home…”

“You wouldn’t dare,” House says, pointing at him with a butter knife. 

James’ lips quirk as he looks at the other man. “Wouldn’t I?”

“Fine,” House says. “I’ll take you. But be warned. If you get fed up in the meantime, you’ll take your own cab home.”

James smiles to himself, smug. They eat at the kitchen island, pancakes slathered in syrup, before House gets up to get ready, notably taking his time, and James figures that he didn’t get dressed in a suit for nothing. 

House drums his fingers on the steering wheel on their way to the hospital, glancing at James intermittently. 

James, though his reasons for heading to Princeton-Plainsboro are valid, does have another agenda that made him propose joining House in the first place. 

Considering that he and House are, well… engaged, he harbors the quiet hope that maybe visiting his place of work will spark some more memories about his and House’s relationship. So far, while remembering quite a lot of brief interactions between them, he’s still drawing a painful blank in regard to the important matters. 

A twenty-minute drive and a short walk later, they’re stepping into the familiar interior of Princeton-Plainsboro, greeted by Dr. Cuddy, who’s standing at the front desk next to the clinic. 

“You’re barely an hour late,” she says, looking up from her file and at House, “which is early for you.” Her eyes drift over to James, brows furrowing with concern. 

“Jason Bourne over there thought it’d be a good idea to blow-dry his hair at an ungodly hour to pretty himself up for a checkup.”

Cuddy’s heels click over the floor as she walks over to them. “A checkup? Are you quite alright, Ja- Dr. Wilson?” she asks, scanning him with her eyes. 

“Yeah, I, uh, just remembered a few things. I thought it prudent to maybe bring it up with my neurologist.”

“Oh, but that’s wonderful news,” she says, smiling. 

“Tell that to my uninterrupted sleep cycle,” House grumbles, but James doesn’t feel offended. He knows it’s mostly for show anyway, considering he can take a good guess as to who left that psychology magazine on the counter for him to find anyway. 

“Yes,” James says, unbothered. “It’s been rather uplifting.”

“Well,” House says, setting himself in motion. “This emotional talk is making me feel all icky. I’m off to see a man with bleeding ears.”

James suddenly finds himself floundering. He’d thought he wouldn’t be left alone so early on. But before he can work himself into another anxiety attack, House looks over his shoulder. “Are you coming? Or are you planning on staying to chat up the dollar-store version of Carrie Anne Moss?”

James flushes, embarrassed, glancing at Cuddy. “Sorry, for him—”

Dr. Cuddy snorts, waving him off. “This is him on a good day, really. I should thank you for keeping him on a leash.”

James clears his throat, blushing properly now. He opens his mouth before thinking better of it, hurrying to catch up with House, feeling the woman’s gaze track him. 

House presses the elevator button with his cane, turning to look at James while they’re waiting for it to arrive. “It’s for your own good. Once you’re back to your usual self, you’ll thank me for keeping you from coming on to your boss.”

James tugs at his collar, guilty and flustered. “I wasn’t coming onto her,” he still says, feeling the need to clarify, when the elevator dings open. 

“You were about to,” House says, waiting for some people to exit before stepping inside. 

James follows him. “I wasn’t… I would never—" -cheat on you. 

“Don’t worry,” House says, pressing the button. “We’ve all been there. It’s the stern gaze of disapproval paired with the low-cut tops. You just know she’d tie you to the bed and call you a naughty boy."

James’ face feels terribly hot as his mind is suddenly accosted with the vivid image of a naked House handcuffed to a headboard. He clears his throat. 

House is looking at him again. 

Damn. 

“You can sit in on the DDX,” he says, “Foreman can check you out after, unless our patient has suddenly decided to spontaneously croak in the meantime.”

“Alright,” James says, nodding, trying to regain his composure. 

When they reach their floor, James looks around curiously. He spots a familiar wooden door, sporting his own name on a golden plaque. 

House veers off before they reach it though, through a glass door denoting the Diagnostics Department. 

“Morning my minions,” he declares obnoxiously as he steps inside, James on his heels. 

“You’re in early,” a handsome blond man declares, dropping down from where he’d been balancing on the legs of his chair, at the table next to a whiteboard. Chase, James remembers suddenly. “And you brought Wilson.”

A woman looks up next to him, bouncing a pen onto a file. Her eyes are a strangely pale colour, while the other doctors pause in their conversation next to the coffee machine; Dr. Foreman, whom James recognizes and the other one presumably Dr. Taub? Which would make the woman Thirteen. An odd nickname. 

James gets a flash of numbers labelling a flock of young aspiring doctors sitting in an auditorium, Amber among them. 

“And you’re looking stupid,” House counters. Chase looks at him disgruntled. House stares back. “I thought we were pointing out the obvious.” He limps towards the whiteboard. 

“Good to see you, Dr. Wilson,” Foreman says, nodding at him. James nods back.

A few 'hellos' are exchanged until House slaps his cane onto the table, dropping down in a chair. “So, what’s up with bleeding-ears?”

“He’s no longer bleeding-ears, but failing-liver-man now” Taub voices, walking up to the table. 

“We’re pumping him full of antibiotics to deal with his serious bacterial infection on top of him being an alcoholic and you’re surprised about the liver?” Chase interjects. 

“Which is failing for some reason,” House says, “when it did its job pretty well yesterday. Answers, people.”

“Chase is right. It could be DILI,” Foreman volunteers, stepping up to the whiteboard.

“The majority of those cases wouldn’t account for the severity,” Taub says. 

“Or maybe,” Chase says pointedly, “it’s the three bottles of vodka a day catching up with him.”

“Gin,” Thirteen corrects, clicking her pen. 

“I don’t think-” Chase starts when she talks over him, proposing, “Or it could be that the infection is spreading.”

“While he’s on aminoglycoside?” the blond man counters, scoffing. “It could be a vascular problem.”

“What about Hep C?” James dares. 

“Good idea, but his blood work says no,” House shoots him down, looking up from the file he’s been scanning. “What I’m wondering is if our bleeding-ear-drunkard looks like he could be cast for the next season of Jersey Shore.”

“What?” Taub asks. 

“He look like he recently spent a few hours on a tanning bed?” House inquires. “Complained about joint pain?”

“You’re thinking Hemochromatosis,” Thirteen concludes. 

“Well, did anybody actually look at the man?”

When House is faced with blank stares all around he raises his arms. “Well, get to it then. Chase, you’re on team vascular, since you volunteered to waste all of our time.”

“You’re thinking it’s not vascular,” Chase voices after a moment. “Why have me check it then?”

“So you learn not to suggest stupid things,” House shoots back. 

“Are you going to tell me why it’s not vascular?” 

“Nope,” House says, smirking. “Go do the tests.”

Chase sighs, setting himself in motion, following the others. 

“Foreman,” House calls out, stopping the neurologist. “You’re staying.”

Foreman separates himself from the group, looking expectantly at House. 

The man waits a beat for the other doctors to leave before he jabs his cane in James’ direction. “Memento, over there is getting close to finding his wife’s killer and wants to share.”

Foreman looks at James. “You’re regaining your memories?”

“Some,” James provides. “I’m still missing a big chunk of my early years following the residency, but I’ve remembered a few things I think may have happened more recently. Treating patients and such.”

“That’s usually how it goes,” Foreman replies. “The more recent the memories, the closer they’re to the surface. But that’s good news.”

“Well, yeah,” James says, shrugging as he glances at House. There are some memories that seem to be pretty buried, still. 

“I’ll leave you to it then,” House says, getting up. “I’ll be in my office pretending not to watch porn.” When he passes James, he pats his shoulder. “Be not afraid. If Cuddy shows up, I’ve been doing billing reports all along.”

James pauses, mouthing ‘be not afraid’ confused before he connects the dots, sputtering violently. “I told you about- You- You saw that?!” He whips around staring at House who’s looking over his shoulder, full of mirth. 

“I think all of us saw it,” Foreman provides wryly. 

“Multiple times,” House replies at the same time. “I tend to rewatch it every so often for the compelling plot.”

“I was in college! It was a favour for a friend! He just- That’s clearly a body double in the second half!” James exclaims. 

“I can’t hear you,” House sing-songs, already halfway into his office. James turns to look at Foreman, desperate. 

“He was a film major. I couldn’t have known that he’d make- that he’d turn that into a porno.”

Forman presses his lips into a thin line, looking at him before patting his shoulder sympathetically. 

James spends some thirty minutes talking to Dr. Forman about his memory returning, mentioning the photo albums, theorizing that they may have sparked his recollection and remembering that pancake recipe at seeing the nuts in the cabinet. 

Foreman agrees, and while he quizzes him for a while, even jotting down notes, he doesn’t really tell James anything new, just reiterating that he should do what he did so far, finding things that may help him remember and talking about events in his life to perhaps spark some memories since that tactic has shown promise in other cases. 

Eventually, Foreman is called away by a beeping pager, hurriedly excusing himself, already sprinting out of the room. 

House pokes his head in through the doorway connecting the conference room and his office. “Patient’s crashing,” he announces with a broad grin that really shouldn’t accompany those words. Still, somehow James finds that the expression suits him, regardless of the nature of his delivery. He smiles back reflexively and amused. 

 “This case is getting interesting,” House declares.

“You should go,” James replies, looking around the conference room. “I guess, I’ll just …wait here in the meantime.”

House spares him a last look before limping out of the door. 

James makes sure he’s almost down the hallway, before he steps into House’s office. No need to waste an opportunity such as this. He’s got some snooping to do.

House’s office is kept minimalist, in a sort of cluttered but organized way. There’s a low shelf full of books and folders, topped off with the replica of a human skull, decorative bottles and other nicknacks, a stereo connected to a record player in the back and a TV in the other. 

Files are piling up on his desk and James tries out the leather office chair – pretty comfortable – and picks up the red-and-grey ball that has played a part in some of his recently regained memories. 

Its surface feels familiar, but doesn’t really unearth any new memories.
There’s another skull propped up on the glass table, a real one, some sort of animal – a warthog, maybe? – alongside office supplies and an empty paper cup that may have held coffee once. It’s joined by a tiny globe, a penholder and two small statues. A golden bird on a wooden base and one made of some crude metal in the form of a man carrying a platter. There are marbles on top of it, colourful ones, and James remembers suddenly the marble in his bedside drawer. Its origin is no longer such a mystery. Feeling somewhat impish, he picks a blue one and pockets it, before turning the chair and directs his attention towards the drawers. 

The top one is a messy drawer, holding all kinds of things, from pens, to rubber bands, empty syringe packets, aspirin and ibuprofen bottles. 

There’s files in the second one, and more files in the one below. 

Though In a drawer on the bottom he finds. The Times’ “Cryptic Crossword” advertising 100 classic crossword puzzles on the cover.  

James picks it up, opening it. There’s a dedication on the first page, penned in his handwriting. It reads, “House, for when you’re bored. Don’t bother me while I’m doing my paperwork until you’ve solved at least three of these. Happy Hanukkah to me – Wilson.”

Amused, James starts to thumb through the pages. The first half is almost all filled out. He finds a square that reads ‘cynic, synonym’ and finds the original solution crossed out and written over in thick ballpoint letters spelling ‘GREGORYHOUS’. There’s an arrow pointing to a message scribbled into the margin, in a different pen telling him to check a thesaurus to work on his spelling and another note beneath hinting he should check out puzzle 42. 

James thumbs through the pages. It takes him a bit of searching but he finds ‘WLSN’ filled in as the solution for ‘court jester’. In the margins is yet another note saying, “I spent half an hour till I found this and I won’t accept any mockery on your part just because your name won’t fit into the squares – against all evidence to the contrary.”

James chuckles to himself, amused, before he puts it back where he found it. 

Feeling like he’s sated his curiosity for now, he gets up again, wandering through the room. Something draws him to the door leading out on the balcony. 

There’s not a lot out there to see, some leaves that must’ve been here since last fall and an ashtray alongside a rickety chair. Looking to his left, he finds an adjacent balcony and a view into a dark office. It’s familiar. Very much so. 

James hops across, finding the sliding door unlocked. 

Oh, he thinks as he steps into the dark office. Everything about it, from the smell, to the interior and the nicknacks, he recognizes. 

He remembers sitting at that exact table. Remembers instances of House lying on that couch, sleeping, reading, or playing with one of the mementos stolen from his shelves. Recalls handing crying patients Kleenex from a box he always keeps stocked in the rightmost drawer for easy access.

Slowly, James steps father into the room, clicking on the light before he sits down in the chair behind his desk, tracing the wooden surface. 

After a brief moment of hesitation, he turns on his computer. He’s typed in the password from muscle memory, before he can even consciously think about it. 

His inbox shows 17 unread mails. He clicks on the icon. Most of it seems to be from the internal emailing system, memos and hospital-wide-announcements, a question from a fellow oncologist about a patient, and a few consulting requests, another email informing him that the tests he ordered came back with results alongside a few suspicious chain-mails that seem to have slipped past the spam folder, and the usual trash one gets when your email is advertised on the hospital website. 

James scrolls through them, until he lands on an email that stands out to him somehow. Mainly because the subject reads, ‘How are you doing?’ which implies a personal connection of some sort. When he glances at the email address denoting the sender he finds that he recognizes it. Because he helped set it up, once upon a time. 

James clicks on it. 

 

Hello James, 

it’s me. I know this is kind of coming out of the blue and I’m sorry I’m writing to you like this, but I didn’t know your personal email address. 

Maybe you’ve already stopped reading, but I figured it’s been enough years, so I’m crossing my fingers. 

 

Are you still reading?

Great. 

I’ve been thinking recently. About you. About us.  
I thought about calling you, but I chickened out. I only know your work number anyway. 
That’s why I’m writing you an email. I figured it couldn’t hurt. 

So, how are you doing James? What’s your life been like in the last couple of years? 

Love, Sam.

James sits back in his chair, exhaling in one long burst. 

A week ago he thought he was still married to Sam, only to learn they haven’t been in contact for years only to be faced with this email. Now, it seems like the universe is making a joke of some kind, leaving him to figure out the pointe. 

He ruffles a hand through his hair, looking at the email again.

James has barely cracked open the door to confront his apparent …queerness, and now it’s like Sam is opening a window, on the other end of the hall. 

It seems like a test, almost. 

James realizes, almost startled, that he hasn’t yet once considered that there may be other options than trying to pick up the scrambled pieces of his existence. That he could’ve just …left. 

He still has his semantic memory. All the facts and his medical knowledge is still bouncing around his head. 

His license is not even suspended. He’s still on medical leave. And Dr. Cuddy seems to like him. She would write him a good letter of recommendation, probably. 

James could just move and get a job elsewhere. Say no, to dealing with everything and start fresh. Far away from New Jersey. Far away from all the expectations and House and all the baggage that comes with that. 

A simple escape from all the madness. 

Could he really do that? Cut each and all ties, to the people who care about him; who’re concerned about him and his well being?

James isn’t that kind of person. Usually. But he doesn’t owe anybody anything. He barely even remembers those people. 

His mind drifts to House. 

House, whom he’s living with. Who made him laugh. Who put a magazine about a recovered retrograde amnesiac on their kitchen island, a place that James couldn’t possibly miss. 

Who put the milk into the door, for no other reason than to irritate him, but wouldn’t yell at him when he got worried after James went on a walk and he didn’t know where he was. 

House finds James sitting in front of his computer, reading through patient files and writing notes for the oncologist who took over his cases during his absence. 

“There you are,” House says, after he’s wedged himself in through the balcony door, pushing it close with his cane while he looks around the office. “If I didn’t know any better, I thought you’d have been trying to work us all into a panic on purpose. Instead you’re casually hiding inside your locked office, with not a single thought wasted on us ordinary mortals.”

“I didn’t know it was locked,” James says, looking up from behind his computer. 

“Maybe next time, leave a note. Cuddy was ready to shut down the hospital and call for a search party.”

“Please, she’d have tried the intercom first,” James replies reflexively, though a quick glance at the clock tells him he’s been in here for almost three hours. Oh. “Sorry, time got away from me. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

House limps over to him, propping himself up on the desk. “What were you doing anyway- Seriously?” He turns his head to look at James. “They call it medical leave for a reason. You know you won’t be paid extra for that.”

James shrugs, trying to not let on how much House’s proximity is messing with him. He can smell his body wash. “It just happened.”

“Next you’ll tell me you slipped and impregnated some girl.”

James leans back in his chair to put some distance between him and House, facing him. “How’s your patient?” he asks. 

House takes that as the cue to hop onto his desk, messing with the small zen garden on his table. James tilts his head to see what he’s doing, finding that House is drawing a penis into the sand. 

“Stable,” the other man replies, adding a few flourishing dots, turning his artwork into something even more obscene. 

James clears his throat, face warm.

“Turns out he got some impressionable intern to lend him a tampon for his ‘wife’ only to soak it in ethanol and stick it up his ass.”

“Oh, wow,” James says. “That’s dumb.”

“Yep,” House says. “Had he just downed it like a reasonable person, nobody would’ve been the wiser.”

“Well…”

“Found your wife’s killer yet?”

“What?” James asks, staring at House. 

“Oh please,” the other man says. “You really expect me not to see through your thinly veiled excuses for why you’re here?”

“What?” James croaks out, again, his airways tightening. 

“Anything Foreman tells you you could’ve recited in your sleep.” 
James’ gaze darts to the side, hiding a smile, both embarrassed and pleased by the blatant compliment, while House continues. “He may call himself a neurologist, but even with your brain damage you could still run circles around him when it comes to that sort of stuff. So obviously, that’s not the reason for why you’re here. You thought coming here would jump-start your brain.”

House looks at him expectantly. James is still fighting down a blush. “So,” House says, “What’s the verdict?”

“I didn’t really get all that far. I kind of got distracted.” James gestures at the screen. 

House huffs, amused. “Well,” he says, “I don’t know about you but all this talk about patients shoving things up their rectum is making me become famished. Lunch?” He hops off the desk. 

“Sure. Why not?” James replies. “Let me just finish compiling-”

“You’re amnesiac. And recovering from a concussion. Leave it to the more incompetent replacements. Your patients won’t just keel over and die because-” House leans dangerously close again, bending over James’ lap to look at the screen- “Dr. Mendez doesn’t know about Mrs. Miller’s cat allergy.”

“She’s got lung cancer. It may be important in case her situation-”

“And I’m sure she can tell Dr. Mendez all about the cats she’s not avoiding by herself,” House cuts him off. “Come on. Chop chop. You’ve got a Reuben to buy me.”

Sighing, James shuts off his computer, chuckling, despite himself. 

They hop the balcony again, House surprisingly agile despite his cane before entering the other man’s office again. “Found him,” House declares in passing to Chase bent over a file in the conference room. 

The blond’s head whips up. “You- Do you want me to tell the others?”

“Don’t care,” House says, and James follows him with an apologetic nod at Chase who looks after them owlishly. 

Down in the cafeteria, House hands James his wallet, for some reason keeping it on his person, only for him to pay for their respective lunches. 

James feels him stealing it back on their way to the table, but finds that he doesn’t much care, smiling to himself. 

James has almost finished his chicken sandwich when he blurts out, “I got an email. From Sam.”

House looks up, well into demolishing his pickle-less Reuben. “Hmm?” he says with a full mouth. 

“I found it when I was scrolling through my inbox. Thought you should know,” James says, averting his gaze.  

House swallows. “Why? Wait. Don't answer that. Sam. Your ex-wife right?”

“Yeah,” James admits, pushing a few fries around his plate. House has stolen no less than twelve so far. He counted. 

“Why does ex-wife number one email you?”

James shrugs, still avoiding House’s eyes. “She asked how I was doing,” he mutters before lifting his head. “That’s an odd coincidence, right? Her emailing me now. Do you think that she knows about my amnesia?”

“How would she know about your amnesia?” House voices, before suddenly squinting at James intently. “You didn’t call her, right?” 

“No,” he immediately defends himself. “No, I didn’t call her.”

House hums, turning his attention back onto his sandwich. “Well, it’s an obvious ploy to get into your pants.”

“What?” James sputters, his hand hovering halfway before reaching his mouth, his fry dripping ketchup onto his pants. “No. She was just being nice.”

House quirks a brow at him, while James tries to wipe away the stain. “Really… Your ex-wife whom you haven’t spoken to in years – to my knowledge – randomly sends you an email. There are only three reasons for that. One-” he lifts his finger, placing his elbow on the table as he leans forward, “She wants more alimony, two-” he adds another other finger, “She misses the warm embrace of her former bubbela, or – my personal favorite and the horse I’m betting on – she’s realized that her eggs are slowly drying up inside her ageing belly and is desperate for any easily hoodwinked, well-reputable, high-income-earner to slam the stop button of her biological clock before it runs out.”

James gapes at House. “You’re getting all that. From me telling you that she asked about how I was doing.”

House shrugs, plucking some sauerkraut from his sandwich where it’s barely hanging on and tossing it into his mouth. “It’s pretty obvious.”

James finds himself fidgeting, a flush creeping up his collar. “I mean, even if she were…”

“Trying to desperately rekindle a very cold and expired flame?”

“Even if that’s what she was intending,” James says. “It’s not like I…” he takes a breath, sputtering, trying to work himself up to utter his reply. “I’d never… Not with- Not while we-”

House is looking at him intently, observing him with unblinking eyes, his Reuben ignored.

“...are living together,” James manages lamely, when it becomes obvious that he won’t get any help from the other man. 

Said man is now staring at him, as if he were a particularly interesting puzzle. His eyes still fixed on James, he bites into his sandwich, humming. 

Meanwhile James is doing his best to ignore that his face is once again doing its best to resemble the colour of a lobster.  

House looks at him for a moment, before he reaches across the table in a very deliberate motion, stealing one of his fries. 

James says nothing, just rolls his eyes as he looks at House. But looking at him was a mistake.  Because House is licking the leftover ketchup from his fingers in a borderline obscene display, while making eye contact. 

If James was blushing before, it’s nothing compared to now. Blood is rushing to his cheeks, while he experiences a rather similar sensation somewhere further down and luckily hidden below the table. 

House’s blue eyes are still fixed on him, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. James has to consciously remind himself to close his parted lips, swallowing around a suddenly dry mouth.

He reaches for his glass of iced water and drains about half of it in two desperate gulps.

House leans back in his seat, smirking for one reason or another, appearing amused even still, when they’re interrupted by a harried looking Taub, who loudly and frustratedly raises his complaints with House about having running himself half-ragged trying to look for James, while they were casually enjoying a meal. 

House proceeds to blatantly lie into Taub’s face, by telling him Chase was the one who found James in the first place, causing the other doctor to storm off in a huff, likely to find the – oblivious and innocent – culprit. 

“You know you won’t get away with this,” James points out, after Taub has stormed out of the cafeteria, still somewhat amused, but House just looks at him with a smirk and replies, “Ah, by the time they’ve all figured it out and bounded together in an angry mob to hunt me down, I’ll long have made my escape and will be watching TV from the comfort of my couch.” Then he reaches out to pat James’ hand and tacks on a painfully sincere, “Right honey?” and James’ face goes up in flames again. 

“That reminds me,” House adds, seemingly oblivious to James’ crisis, “We should probably leave now, before Chase remembers that I’m working reduced hours. He’s the better sprinter.”

Following a rather swift-moving House, James still feels like he’d be the one worse off if they were stopped now, considering the way he’s holding his jacket is the only thing protecting him from a rather awkward conversation. 

By the time they’re riding the elevator up to their apartment, James finally feels like he’s got a handle on his emotions again – the two times House had patted his thigh while they were seated beside each other in the car had done nothing to aid him in that endeavour — that is until they run into Nora. 

Of fucking course.

“Hi,” she says, waving at them, apparently just having exited her apartment, and both James and House stop in the hallway to face her. 

She smiles at James as she approaches, her expression cooling a tad when she looks at House. “Greg,” she says. 

“Nora,” House replies, blinking as he faces her. 

“Uhm, well, how are you two doing?” she asks. 

“Good,” James replies, jumping in before she can bring up his embarrassing break-down from yesterday. “We’re doing good. Just, uh, got back from the hospital.” House’s gaze darts between them.

“Oh, really?” Nora says. “Did you have a check-up? Because of your head?”

“Yes,” James lies reflexively, jumping on the proffered excuse and House glances at him. 

“Oh,” Nora says, nodding sympathetically. “Did everything go well?”

House smiles and for some reason, James feels like he ought to be on guard. “Everything went swimmingly,” he replies. “Thanks for asking.”

Nora looks up at House, pressing the tip of her tongue between her teeth, before taking a deep breath, “I know. About you two. I mean you probably know I know, since I spoke to James yesterday, and he’s probably told you about our conversation… I mean I understand, you’re older and after seeing all that… with the amnesia. I get it now, but… I’d still like an apology. A proper one. Because while I understand your reasons, it still wasn’t okay. How you went about it. And what you said to me.”

She stares at House, resolutely even after her seemingly spontaneous delivery, but seemingly firm in her decision. 

House blinks, once, twice, in rapid succession, before a smile spreads over his face. “Yes. Of course. I’m really sorry. I hope you can forgive us. It’s just, you know, different times...”

Nora’s smile grows more genuine. “Yes. I mean, perhaps it was my fault too, in a way. Trying to pry where I shouldn’t have. Still, thank you, Greg. I appreciate it.” She presses the elevator button, where the doors have closed behind them and turns to look at James, nodding at him. “James. My offer still stands. Come by any time.”

The elevator doors slide open. “It was good seeing you,” she tells them, before stepping inside.  

House waves at her, and she waves back smiling and a bit confused, before the doors close. 

“Soo,” House starts as they turn towards their apartment. “You spoke to Nora?”

James chuckles nervously. “Ah, yeah. Yesterday. We ran into each other when I took out the garbage.”

“I see,” House says, his lips quirking for some reason as they make their way down the hallway. “Interesting conversation?”

James expels a burst of air. “Uhm, no, uh…”

“Talk about anything in particular?”

“Nope. Mostly just small talk, really.”

House hums, grinning, as he unlocks their door. They both take off their shoes, House sitting down on a bench functioning as a cubby, whose presence James had never really questioned before. 

While he’s making his way over to the living room, House’s phone buzzes to life. 

He answers it, while wandering over to the couch, idly dumping his backpack on the floor. “At home,” House says, seemingly replying to a question from the other end of the call. 

James is in the process of turning on the TV, when House catches his attention with a look. “Take that for me, will you?”

James is too befuddled to do anything but take the phone House dumps in his lap and raises it to his ear. 

“-would’ve just left us searching?! Thirteen was all the way down in the morgue-”

James snaps the phone shut, abruptly cutting off the yelling. 

“Why didn’t I think of that?” House says, his twitching lips betraying him. “So simple, yet so elegant.”

“I’m on medical leave,” James replies deadpan. “Your employees. Your problem.” He tosses the phone back to House. 

“My, so callous. And here I thought you’d jump to my defense.” House flutters his lashes at him and pouts over exaggeratedly. 

It shouldn’t work. Not when James knows it’s all an act. Still something in him thaws. “Well, maybe when it’s something serious,” he tacks on, his face warming. 

House’s eyes crinkle with mirth. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he replies before limping over to the fridge. “Beer?”

“I shouldn’t drink,” James says. 

“What’s changed your mind? You seemed pretty eager just a couple days ago.”

“The headache I got the day after,” James replies, before figuring perhaps, he should work on some more open communication skills. Sam always complained that he pretended everything was fine when it wasn’t. “And that’s the only day I didn’t regain any of my memories the morning after.”

House pulls a beer from the fridge. “Fair enough,” he replies. “Though I’m pretty sure it’s just your concussion straightening itself out.”

James shrugs. It might be that, but he doesn’t want to take any chances. He looks at the TV, some sort of house-flipping program before turning it off again, just before House reaches the couch. 

“I still want to talk about Amber,” James says. 

House pauses briefly, before rounding the couch and dropping down on the other end. “We’re doing this now?”

“Yes,” James voices. He doesn’t know all the facts yet and it feels like it’s important. That Amber was important. 

House groans, tipping his head against the back of the couch. When he sits up again, he takes a sip of his beer, before looking at him. “So, what do you wanna know?”

James takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He decides to be blunt. “I know she died. I know I was the one who turned off her life support. I know there was a bus involved and that I left after. Angry at myself. Angry at you. I just don’t know how it all fits together.”

House takes another sip of his beer, leaning forward and propping his elbows up on his knees. He isn’t looking at James when he begins to speak. “She went to pick me up. From a bar. I was drunk and I couldn't drive. I called you.” He glances at James, who’s just sitting, listening. “You were at the hospital. You were on a call I think. Some sort of emergency with a patient of yours. It doesn’t matter. She was the one who showed up.”

“We were dating at the time, me and Amber,” James clarifies. 

“Yeah.” House tips his bottle back to his lips. “I didn’t want to go with her. I got into the bus. She followed me. Some asshole driver rammed us.”

James swallows. “I remember, I think. You were in the hospital. I did something to your brain, didn’t I?”

“Electro-ulation. To jump start my memory. We’re amnesia buddies,” House says looking at James with his lips stretched into a false smile. “I know right. The irony.”

“Yours was traumatic,” James says, half putting the pieces together from the conversation, half remembering. 

House retrieves his bottle of painkillers and washes a pill down with beer. “I couldn’t remember Amber was on the bus with me. I just knew… I’d seen something.” he says, swallowing. “She was in a different hospital. Checked in as Jane Doe. She had a punctured femoral artery. They stitched her up, but her organs were failing. Amantadine poisoning. Her kidneys were shot. She couldn’t process it. Died from a case of the sniffles and shit luck.” House chuckles, joylessly, before taking another deep pull of his beer. 

James blinks, trying to process all this. His memories are failing him. He knows, rationally now what happens. Remembers flashes of it, inbetween. “You had a cardiac arrest,” he says. “When you were trying to figure out the puzzle.”

“The puzzle,” House echoes and huffs. The couch creaks when he turns to look at James. “You blamed me for her death,” he says, cruelly yet truthfully. 

James swallows. Brown eyes meeting blue. “I know. I blamed myself for it too. I remember that part.”

“You ever forgive me for it?” House asks, almost as if he hadn’t meant to, his eyes still fixed on James after the question slipped through. 

James shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean I can’t know, without all the facts.”

House nods, his gaze darkening, turning back to his beer. 

“But I think,” James adds, “I think, I knew, deep down, that it wasn’t either of us faults. It was just easier. To blame you. Easier yet to blame myself. But I think we wouldn’t be where we are if I hadn’t forgiven you.”

House exhales quietly through his nose, staring at the dark flatscreen. 

Neither of them says anything for a long while. 

Eventually, James reaches for the remote and turns on the TV again. 

Feeling brave, he shifts until he’s sitting right next to House, and knocks his knee against his. 

Their thighs touch for the whole duration they’re staying on the couch. 

Eventually though, House gets up to get another beer, and James has to use the bathroom. When he returns, House is reading his thriller and James figures he might as well do his laundry. From the looks of it, it’s accumulated for a while. 

“Cleaning lady’s coming by tomorrow,” House says, sometime after James has switched his clothes over into the dryer and started to run a second load and wanders into the kitchen to get himself something to drink. 

“What time?” James asks, propped up on the kitchen island. 

“Ten-ish,” House says, waving his hand. “She’s usually done around one. I can tell her to skip your bedroom, if you wanna sleep in.”

James shrugs. “We need any groceries? I could go shopping in the meantime. I think I saw a store two blocks from here.”

House hums. “Your decision.”

Opening up cabinets, James asks, “Do we have a list or something?”

“Not really. Mostly we just buy stuff as it runs out.”

“We need milk,” James says. 

“Toilet paper too,” House says. James digs out a notepad from one of the cluttered drawers, feeling rather domestic as he starts to jot things down, compiling a list with House occasionally interjecting with a suggestion. 

Eventually he just leaves it on the counter and makes his way over to the living room. “You mind if I put on a movie?”

House peers up from behind his book. He reminds James of a cat, at that moment. Sprawled out on the couch and with that half-lidded lazy attention directed at him. Something makes him think it’s not a new thought. 

“I kind of thought it could be fun to watch some movies I don’t remember.”

House sits up, suddenly, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch, his interest roused. “Which one’s don’t you remember?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know, now, would I? James replies, grasping a few of the movies he’s set aside two days earlier. “But, I thought these ones may be interesting.”

House makes a grabby motion, and James hands him the DVDs. The other man flips through them. “Ordinary People? Really?” He stares at James as if he can’t believe who he’s dealing with. 

James shrugs. “It seemed like a good movie.”

House straightens up, looking at him intently. “Wilson, I’m gonna ask you a question now, and I need you to be honest with me.”

James stiffents subconsciously. “...okay?”

House leans forward, a smirk on his face, his blue eyes twinkling. “Say, do you remember watching Fight Club?”

Regardless of James' own desires and his arguments supporting them, he somehow does end up on the couch next to House, watching a spiky-haired Tyler Durden jump a fence with a bag full of stolen fat. 

“Do you mind? I’m trying to watch the movie,” he says, levelling House with a look, when he once again feels the man’s eyes on him. It’s making him become flustered, and distracted, barely able to focus on the already somewhat convoluted plot.  

“Well, and I’m watching you. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity! I’m living vicariously through you, right now. Hell, I’d give my left kidney to watch this movie again without knowing the plot.”

James glances at him. “Only your left?”

“I’m saving the other one for a different occasion. And I need my liver,” House replies 

“Alright,” James says, sighing, figuring he might as well get some snacks. “You want chips?”

House grabs him by the wrist to pull him back into the couch almost before he’s finished standing up. “Nope. Sit your ass down. You’ll watch that movie. You’ll be missing him talking to Marla and every conversation counts.”

“It’s a movie, I won’t simply lose the plot, while I’m walking over to the kitchen.”

“Says you! You, stay,” House says, grunting as he gets up. “I’ll get your goddamn snacks.”

James lips twitch, as he watches House, grumbling as he limps over to the kitchen. 

They end up with a bag of chips wedged between their thighs, House sipping on a beer. 

He’s still mostly watching James rather than the movie, but James is starting to get used to it and the plot has started to unfold. Unfortunately, he’s so immersed in watching what plays out on screen that he reaches into the chips bag without looking, only to be pulled back into the present when his fingers brush House’s. 

He draws his hand back, as if burnt, and House smirks mirthfully at him, before tossing a few chips into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously. 

James can’t tear his gaze away. 

“Movie not interesting?” House asks. 

James clears his throat and swiftly looks back at the screen.  

“Oh, he’s clearly mentally ill,” he voices sometime later, having settled back into comfortable domesticity, squabbling with House over not answering any of his questions and dropping cryptic comments. “And from what you hinted at, it’s playing a huge part-”

“Not saying anything,” House voices. 

“Come on,” James starts. “You could say yes or no at least. Is he hallucinating his girlfriend?”

House makes a zipping sound, drawing his fingers over his lips, miming throwing a key away.

Huffing, James grabs a handful of chips and settles in to watch the movie. 

“-was hallucinating them the whole time! I called it!” James exclaims, minutes after the movie’s over and House is rummaging around the kitchen. 

“You thought he was hallucinating his girlfriend. You didn’t call that Tyler Durden was a facet of his multiple personality.”

“Yeah, well, that’s basically the same. Also I’m still not sure the girlfriend exists.”

House shrugs. “Pasta or Tacos?” he asks, drawing James out of his bubble. 

“What?” 

“Pasta or Tacos. It’s either or. We don’t have the ingredients to make anything else.”

“You’re cooking?” James asks, pleasantly surprised. 

“Yeah. Don’t read anything into it. I’m just saving the money on takeout. So, what’s it gonna be?”

“Tacos? I don’t mind. Whatever you think works better.”

House hums, digging around the cabinets. 

“Crap,” James says just then, “I’ve gotta switch over my laundry.”

He’s entering the kitchen with a laundry basket, when House looks up from where he’s set up a pot of water to boil. “We’re gonna have pasta.”

James hums in acknowledgement, pretty much indifferent. 

“I forgot to take the beef out of the freezer, and it’d take ages to thaw.”

“Sounds good.”

“No. It’s not good,” House says. 

“Alright,” James says, glancing at the other man questioningly. 

House stares at him, seemingly going through something. 

James returns his gaze, blinking. 

“Okay,” House says.

“Okay,” James echoes. He feels like he’s missing something. He starts to fold his laundry. 

It’s kind of nice, watching House go about the kitchen, cooking. He seems to be rather at ease doing so. James wonders if that’s something they’re doing often. House cooking, him hanging out, doing some other menial task, simply existing in the same room, just talking. Laughing. 

He could get used to it. If their relationship was always like that… He can picture it. Him grabbing a cup from the cabinet, shuffling past House, pressing a kiss on his cheek in passing. 

James swallows and finishes folding his laundry. He gets up after putting on some music on the record player.  

Somehow, he finds himself drawn back to his spot at the kitchen island. He sits down, with nothing to occupy him, but House clattering around the kitchen. He’s humming now, to the music, moving with the beat as if he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. 

James watches him. This is the man he’s in a relationship with. House. Who steals his food, who makes fun of his outfits, who complains about his hair dryer. Who has a mug on his sink spelling out ‘Misanthrope’. Who was a drug addict and walks with a cane and is blunt to the point of being rude. 

Who is easy to talk to, easy to be around, even without James remembering anything about their relationship. Who matches him beat for beat when they banter. Who cooks for him and feels guilty when he can’t make Tacos just because James mentioned it offhandedly. Who hums along to songs from Baba O’Riley. 

The urge to kiss him wells up in James again, but this time, he doesn’t squash it down. He lets himself think about it. He could do it too. Just walk up to him, put a hand on his back to catch his attention. 

House would turn, his shirt shifting beneath James’ hand, warmth bleeding through. And James could just smile up at him and kiss him. Thank him for cooking. Like any other couple. 

And then House asks him if knows if they’ve any basil left, seemingly forgetting for a moment that James has amnesia and reality crashes back in. 

Still, James can’t shake the thought. Not while they’re eating, not while they’re rinsing off the dishes, standing next to each other, not when their hands brush when he hands House his damp plate to put in the dishwasher. 

It follows him, all the way to his bed. 

James breaks out the lube that night. He lets his imagination drift, and when he cums, he does so to the image of House’s blue eyes. 

He doesn’t need a sleeping pill. 

Waking up comes with a flurry of new memories. Some recent. Some old. He remembers getting married now, to Julie. To Bonnie. Knows all the sordid details of his second marriage, from the name of their impossible dog – Hector – to the arguments in their kitchen, to him feeling exhausted with the mere thought of returning home and going to House’s instead, getting drunk on an old worn couch, or bar hopping. Him soaking up the attention of the women approaching him in the bars, drunkenly figuring, that he may as well take the nurse from radiology up on her offer to meet up for a coffee. 

Finding that sleeping with her doesn’t feel any better than sleeping with Bonnie. Feeling guilty and ashamed and broken. 

Skipping Christmas dinner at home and staying at House’s instead. Crashing on his couch again on New Years. 

Recognizes the same pattern emerging during his marriage with Julie, but desperately clinging to the hope that they can make it work. Figuring it’s his last chance to make it work. 

Him thinking about cheating, but forcing himself not to with the knowledge that it won’t change anything. Won’t make him feel any different. That it’s just the same as what’s waiting at home. 

Ending up in front of House’s door with a suitcase, when she tells him she beat him to it. 

He hears House pattering around their Condo, but he’s gone by the time James makes it out of his room. He fixes himself a bowl of cereal, eating it without much appetite and grabs the list to go grocery shopping. 

His memories haunt him, and he almost has a breakdown over which brand of orange juice to buy – the one with the pulp, advertising it’s the healthier option, and which he found in their fridge, or the regular brand without, because it’s cheaper and because he doesn’t like pulp. It’s the same when he’s standing in the frozen food’s section, Amber’s voice whispering in his ears that he should get what he likes. Even if the waterbed was a dud. 

House telling him to pick one piece of furniture he likes. Him buying that organ. 

(I like what this says about you, Wilson)

James checks out his groceries and runs into their cleaning lady vacuuming their living room when he re enters their apartment. 

Her name is Rosa, he remembers. She’s got three kids, two already having moved out, and one younger boy, Diego, who’s playing on the varsity team. 

They chat briefly, and James finishes putting away their groceries, while she wraps up her work in the living room. When he tries to produce two bills from his wallet she waves him off, telling him that House already took care of it, having paid her for the full month.

James manages to smile throughout their whole conversation, but after she leaves, he drops down on the couch, exhausted. Turning on the TV, he starts to zap through the channels, eventually settling on some sort of nature program. 

He’s not really paying attention, his mind elsewhere. 

James remembers Bonnie. Remembers Julie and Amber. Their relationships having slipped back into his mind like missing puzzle pieces, and over the duration of his day so far have fit themselves back together into a mostly coherent picture. 

So why doesn’t he remember House?

That is to say, it’s not like he doesn’t remember him. There are so many things he remembers. Them at work, talking, consulting on cases, sharing lunches. House stealing his wallet, James allowing it. Pranks and arguments and them enabling each other in their ridiculousness. A guitar held hostage. House high on vicodin. 

Endless evenings spent on the couch in House’s apartment.

House sabotaging his attempts to move out of his apartment when he lived there after Julie. 

James latching on to a patient, entering an unprofessional relationship, and caring for her to her death, feeling like there was at least a single thing he was good at. A single person who wanted him – needed him around. 

Him making up with House. Him meeting Amber. 

House taking Alzheimer’s medication to remember what happened on this bus ride, only for his heart to stop beating.

House calling him from a mental institution. His psychiatrist talking to James on the phone, days before, instructing him to not enable him. It doesn’t fit. 

Nothing makes sense. 

James digs out his painkillers and pops one with the onset of his headache. He still doesn’t recall when or how he got divorced from Sam. Doesn’t recall what made him apply to Princeton Plainsboro in the first place. How and when he met House for the first time. Small things. Little things. Important ones.  

James feels like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff and he doesn’t know whether he wants to take that leap. 

Eventually he dozes off in front of the TV. 

When he wakes up some indeterminable time later, he remembers his second load of clothes in the dryer and sighing he sets out to put it away, before eventually padding over to the kitchen. 

He pours himself a glass of orange juice and sets out to make some tacos with the meat he put out to thaw earlier. 

His thoughts won’t stop. James can’t help but dig about in his emerging memories, almost burning the meat before he swiftly turns down the heat. 

James is sitting at the kitchen island, almost finished with his tacos, which he – perhaps inadvisably – paired with a beer, contemplatively staring into space when House returns from work. 

James hears him whistling while he takes off his shoes, his cane thumping over the hardwood floor before he veers off from where he usually dumps his backpack to limp up to the kitchen. 

“Hey,” James says, mustering a faint smile. 

House sniffs across the pan. “You made Tacos.”

“Yeah,” James replies, settling back as he grabs his beer, looking at House. “Help yourself.”

“Now that’s what I call a warm welcome,” the other man replies. “How can I ever make it up to you, honey?” He grins at James. 

James takes his beer and tips it to his mouth, ignoring the reflexive flutter in his belly. 

It doesn’t add up. Why doesn’t he remember House and him getting together? There’s so much. He even vaguely recalls him closing the deal on their apartment, remembers sitting late at night waiting on an intruder. Remembers walking in on House massaging Nora’s shoulders, feeling disgruntled and peaked for some reason at some or other ploy. Recalls thinking that it’d be just typical of House to try and use them being together as some excuse to get close to her. He recalls a vague flash of him kneeling down in a restaurant to propose to House, feeling awkward but determined.

Determined to ruin this for House even if Nora would forever believe them to be absolute assholes. 

James takes a deep pull of his beer.

But then, why did he keep that polaroid? 

Why does he feel his belly churn when he looks at House?

Said man is currently fixing himself a plate, pausing at the sight of the bottle on the counter which James forgot to put back in the fridge. “Huh. You bought the orange juice without the pulp.”

James swallows around a mouthful of beer. “Yeah.”

House turns to look at him over his shoulder with a grin. “Good for you.”

Eventually, he settles down on a stool diagonal from James and starts eating. “How’s your head?”

James shrugs. His plate is now empty. He doesn’t really feel like getting seconds. He takes sip of his beer instead. “Better. Woke up with more memories this morning.”

“Yeah?”

“Our cleaning lady’s name is Rosa. You should call her by her name by the way.”

House shrugs, digging into his taco instead of answering. 

James rolls his lip between his teeth as he drags his thumb over the label of the bottle. “Did we move in here together because you needed a place to live after getting out of rehab?”

House pauses, looking up. He swallows. “Well, mostly it was because you wanted to stick it to Cuddy for being a bitch.”

“To you. After she rejected you.”

James suddenly recalls where he got that surgical scar curving on his belly. 

He swallows as the last piece slides into place, rounding off a somewhat blurry image, still holey but complete. Like swiss cheese. 

He’d donated a part of his liver recently. To a friend, who really isn’t a friend at all because James only has one friend. 

House. His best friend. Not his lover, like he’d wrongly assumed.

James stares at his beer, waiting for a burst of relief at finally connecting the dots and yet… It doesn’t come. Not really. Three days ago it would’ve changed something perhaps. But now it only means that James has to wade through a whole new mess of emotions, realizations and fears. 

James sets down his bottle. “My stitches need to come out,” he states. 

House pauses in his chewing. “Do you want me to-”

“No. It’s fine,” James replies. “I think I’m ready to go back to work now. Might as well ease my way into it.”

The other man swallows slowly, setting down his taco. He wipes his hands as he gauges James. “You haven’t got all your memories back yet, do you?”

“No. But I figure it doesn’t really matter if I remember when or why I divorced Sam or whether I ever got to go on that sailing trip in ‘02 like I’d meant to. I remember most of my patients now, I think. And those I don’t, well their files will tell me what I need.”

House drives his tongue over his bottom lip. “Are you sure? You were in a coma barely a week ago.”

James tongues at his teeth, suddenly irrationally angry at the other man. “Just drop it, House. I’ll call Cuddy and tell her to give me some hours. I can work at the clinic for a few days, if nothing else.”

House stares at James, analysing him. Eventually he jerks his head in something akin to a nod. “Your prerogative if you wanna subject yourself to that madhouse before you have to.” 

James wants to laugh. If he’ll be going mad it’s here. With House. 

They spend the rest of their meal in silence, House decompressing from work and James-

James trying to not think about the mess of the last couple of days. 

He’s left to clean up both of their plates and the kitchen, while House settles down in front of the organ. It’s only after a few minutes that James recognizes the melody as ‘Leave a Tender Moment Alone’ by Billy Joel. 

It irritates him terribly for some reason, and he can’t escape the irony of the lyrics, which somehow seem to be bouncing around his head. 

He walks to his room and avoids House for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

Wilson wakes up in his room, blinking into the soft morning light, and throws his blankets back. He gets up. 

Considering he’s still on medical leave, he doesn’t feel very pressed for time, but he breathes a sigh of relief anyway when a look out of the window tells him that it's still early. 

He walks over to the bathroom, where he brushes his teeth, and looks at his face in the mirror without the odd sense of vertigo he’d experienced the last couple of days.

He didn’t wake up from any strange dreams, though, nor does he think he’s missing anything else in particular in terms of his memories. 

Unfortunately, ‘Leave a Tender Moment Alone’ is stuck in his ear like a particularly annoying fly buzzing around his room.

And alongside the reason for him knowing why he’s not exactly connecting the song with good memories, it’s as if a few more puzzle pieces had slipped into place without him noticing. He’s aware now of the shitshow that had been his and Sam’s divorce and the hot mess that had followed after. From being jailed during a medical conference in New Orleans to years of trying to recover financially and jumping at the chance to take a position at Princeton-Plainsboro that had been offered to him on the recommendation of a friend despite his age and competitors with vastly more references. 

He shaves, then takes a piss before he steps into the shower, some blobs of shaving cream still on his jaw, and deliberately thinks of nothing but what he’s going to do today. 

Have bagels for breakfast, maybe. Perhaps pack himself a lunch. Something quick. Maybe a sandwich. Or a salad. Then drive to work — in his own car for once—and have a talk with Cuddy about his hours. After convincing her that he’s perfectly fine and fit for work, check in on some patients and with Dr. Mendez.

Perhaps stop by in peds to resume his lovely conversation with nurse …what's-her-name-again?

Okay, so maybe don't talk to the nurse. 

Just go to work and not think about—

It's going to be fine.

Resolutely, he wipes a damp palm across the fogged-up mirror, taking in his reflection before he opens the cabinet and reaches for his antidepressants. 

He is fine.

Wilson fiddles with the top of the pill bottle. 

Completely fine and calm and— 

“Fuck!” 

The pill bottle clatters into the sink, spilling its content everywhere while he’s holding on to the cap, blood staining the plastic. 

More blood is welling up from a ragged, stinging laceration in his palm where he cut himself on the plastic from how much force he applied to get through the fucking childproof cap, somehow struggling with a task he manages easily any other day, and why is there still this goddamned song stuck in his head-

Wilson stares at the pills disappearing in the drain, watching a few more rolling to a halt, sticking to the damp remnants of water, slowly dissolving. 

Okay. So maybe he isn’t fine. 

Wilson cleans up the mess, a wad of toilet paper wrapped around his hand. When the bleeding has finally mostly stopped, he finds a band-aid and sticks it on and proceeds to blow-dry his hair, ignoring the muffled grumbles sounding through the adjacent wall as well as a sound like a pillow hitting it. 

Still only in his underwear, he pads over to the kitchen to turn on the coffee machine and swipes the digital clock off the counter to return it back to his bedside table, where it belongs. 

He sets his alarm for tomorrow and gets dressed. 

A familiar routine. Shirt, pants, belt, jacket. He picks out a tie that catches his eye, a greyish blue one, before he puts it back when it reminds him of blue irises and idle hands playing a piano.

He puts on an inoffensive purple one with darker lines creating a pattern of diagonal squares. Then he takes it off again to change his shirt so the colors won’t clash and heads into the kitchen to drink his coffee. 

House pads down the hallway, tired, with dishevelled hair and clad in only an old, worn band tee and boxer shorts, propping himself up heavily on his cane, his indented thigh with the kelating scar fully on display.

Wilson hides behind the rim of his mug so that he won’t have to say anything in response to the grumbled, “Morning,” and does his best not to stare at House, who moves around the kitchen in bare feet, swallowing an ibuprofen before washing it down by drinking straight from the faucet. 

“I’ll drive myself today,” Wilson states. “So you can go back to bed if you want.”

House grumbles something unintelligible and stares into the fridge. “I’m already up,” House voices eventually. “Might as well carpool. Bike’s still in storage.”

Wilson can't come up with a good argument to counter that. 

He puts some bagels in the toaster while House gets dressed. The other man returns in time to steal one of Wilson’s cream cheese bagels, seeming a bit more awake now while he fixes himself a bowl of cereal. 

Wilson empties out the dishwasher, waiting for House to finish until they can leave for work. 

“AHHH!”

Wilson yelps, his heart almost jumping out of his chest, at House turning some fifteen minutes into their drive to randomly shout into his face.

“What the hell, House?!” Wilson turns to stare at the other man with wide eyes. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Just testing out a theory.”

“Yeah?” Wilson stares at him, his heart still thumping in his chest. “Save it for your patients who actually sign the documents to subject themselves to your willful insanity.”

“You’re not the one driving. I figured we’re unlikely to end up in an accident.”

Wilson shakes his head with disbelief and turns back to look out the windshield. 

“Now that we’ve excluded you having developed spontaneous mutism, you want to tell me why you’ve been so quiet today?” 

Wilson huffs. “Just thinking,” he says after a moment. “Or is that illegal now?”

“No,” House says. “What are you thinking about?”

‘The fact that I had a huge sexuality crisis over us dating, which, funnily enough, turned out to not be the case, left my life and everything I thought I knew about myself in shambles, but otherwise, I’m doing great; how about you?’ 

“Ducks,” Wilson says. 

“Ducks?” House glances at him, thrown off. 

“There are a lot of ducks, if you think about it,” Wilson says, committing to what is really the first thing that came to mind in his desperate attempt to say anything that couldn't possibly lead back to what he's really thinking. And House is very tricky to throw off the scent when he smells so much as a hint of vulnerability.

House turns his head while he’s driving to shoot him a look. 

“Mallard ducks,” Wilson continues steadfastly while ignoring House's eyes on him. “Gadwall ducks. Wood ducks. Rubber ducks.”

“You’ve been holding out on me, Wilson,” House says after a few beats. “I didn’t know you were such a duck enthusiast.”

“My grandfather took me out hunting when I was younger,” Wilson replies, looking out at the buildings they’re passing. It's even true. When House doesn’t say anything in response, he continues. “He’d wake us up at the crack of dawn and drive out to the lakes only to force us to wade through soaking reeds and floating duck shit to find a spot he deemed perfect.” 

He remembers it too. 

The swarms of small flies dancing above the water and fields, made visible solely by the misty morning light. Feeling cold and hungry and miserable, while Danny ran ahead stirring up the water and causing it to splash across Wilson’s trousers and into his too-large welly boots.
The baby-blue ones with the polka dot print that really belonged to Grandma and which, of course, Willson would end up with when his brothers would be squabbling over getting their uncle’s boots, using their position as eldest and youngest, respectively, to argue their point. But Wilson remembers secretly not minding. He’d rather liked the polka dots. 

He kind of wonders now if he was different back then already. Then again. It had just been polka dots. 

“Fascinating,” House says out loud. He tilts his head over with an expression miming ardent and over-exaggerated interest. “Tell me more, tell me more, like did he have a car?” 

“A truck, actually,” Wilson replies just as House pulls into the hospital parking lot. 

“My, would you look at that,” the other man says. “We’re here. What a pity. We’ll have to pick up this topic some other time.”

Wilson snorts, amused despite himself. “I’ll be sure to remember,” he replies. 

“Of course now he’s got perfect recall again. Damn,” House says. 

They part in the lobby, House heading for the elevator while Wilson sets out to find Cuddy. 

It takes him a while to convince her that he’s fit to work, and only after he’s pulled out his trump card in the form of suggesting he could do some light clinic duty. She still asks him twice whether he’s sure and makes him promise to have himself checked out by his neurologist beforehand. 

Wilson decides to forgo Foreman completely, because looking for him would mean having to spend time around House, and instead lets himself be cleared by Dr. Keller, who knows next to nothing about his case and basically rubber-stamps him after a few cursory questions. 

Working at the clinic is easy, and the nurses are always grateful to see an actual doctor show up to take some of their workload, even if said doctor is just recovering from amnesia. 

Wilson spends some hours pulling objects out of various orifices, sending STD kits down to the lab for testing, and reassuring a couple of hysterical parents that their child is not about to keel over and die from a mild case of the whooping cough. 

All in all, he settles into a comfortable routine. When it’s time for lunch, he buys some pretzels from the vending machine and heads down to the ER to get his stitches taken out. 

Through the grapevine, he hears that House has wrapped up his latest case, which unfortunately means he may actually come storming into Wilson’s office to accuse him of avoiding him for lunch.

Therefore, Wilson decides he might as well do another rotation in the clinic, seeing as that may put House off from hunting him down for at least a while longer. 

After being sneezed on by an eight-year-old with snot dangling from his nose down to his chin, he comes to the conclusion that he can’t avoid House forever and figures he may as well double-check whether Dr. Mendez has messed up his carefully curated treatment plans after all. 

He’s just about settled behind his chair when the whole hospital is put into lockdown over a missing baby. 

Wilson’s first reaction at hearing the announcement over the intercom is relief, which he promptly feels a bit guilty for. Still, comforted by the knowledge that he won’t have to fear encountering House anytime soon, he figures he might actually get some work done. 

He spends a while scanning over each and every patient file, ordering a few additional tests for Mr. Heckler, and writes out an email to Dr. Mendez, informing him that he’ll be taking over the check-up of Mrs. Miller on the following Tuesday and any upcoming appointments. 

He checks his other emails, replying to a few before eventually he finds himself staring at Sam’s message again. 

House had said she’d contacted him to rekindle their relationship. Wilson still can’t see it, but he also feels odd looking at the words of his ex-wife. 

He swallows as he stares at the mail. 

He could reply. Maybe text her his number and invite her to call. Tell him what happened and ask about her life. There’s no harm in sending an email. It doesn’t have to mean anything. 

Wilson starts typing a reply before deleting it and starting anew. The final draft is short, barely more than a few sentences, detailing that he’s fine and inquiring about her well-being. 

When it comes time to send it, he hesitates. 

Chewing at the inside of his cheek, Wilson opens a new tab and clicks into the search bar. The cursor blinks in and out accusingly; the bar is painfully blank. Eventually, Wilson types in ‘How to tell if you’re gay?’ and presses enter before he can think about it any longer. 

He skims over his search results, scrolling down. There’s an article from Healthline, links to some videos, a quiz from a website catering to teenagers, a personal recount of someone on their blog, and another result spelling out “9 Signs you’re gay but don’t know it.”

Wilson finds himself getting hot and cold for some reason just then, sweat starting to prickle up beneath his collar. His gaze darts up to check the door in a stab of sudden paranoia, and he sweeps across the empty balcony even though there’s nobody around watching him.

When he looks at the screen again, he clicks on the first article that seems vaguely professional. 

It’s a lot. And while not all the listed indicators fit, the ones that do hit painfully close to home. 

Wilson goes back and clicks on another article. And another. He readjusts his search. Finds a search result labelled “Is your spouse gay or bisexual? Signs you might need to have a conversation.”

He reads that one too. Then, through a few more clicks, it ends up in an article about patterns of being in the closet. 

Lingers on the part about the emotional and psychological impact of it. Finds that it overlaps dangerously close with his own experiences. 

Finally, he closes the tab and goes back to his emails. He almost forgot about his open draft to Sam. He deletes it and instead types up an email to contact his therapist. 

And because he really can’t be expected to deal with all of this in one day, he opens a rip-off version of Galaga he finds online and blatantly ignores whatever else is going on inside his head. 

The lockdown is lifted only hours later, the sun already having set, and Wilson runs into House in the lobby, waiting for him. 

Neither of them seems to be much in a mood to talk, and they stop on their way home to get takeout, eating it in front of the TV, watching some reality show, and commenting on that instead of whatever else they experienced today. 

It feels almost ordinary, and yet Wilson can’t help but think about what he read online today, glancing at House from the corners of his eyes, hoping, praying that he isn’t painfully in love with his friend like he suspects. 

The next morning he's up with the second ring of his alarm and manages to get ready in record time, even skipping his habitual shower. Somehow he makes it out of their condo before House gets up to drive to work.

Three days is all it takes. Three days of going into work, talking to Foreman and Cuddy, and pretending everything is normal, desperately trying to settle back into the routine he knew before his fall—which he now remembers—until the door of his office is thrown open without warning, slamming against the doorstopper he’s installed because of that very reason. 

“You know, there’s this thing called knocking,” Wilson says, even before he looks up from his computer screen. “You could try it sometime.”

“I like this better. Makes for a more dramatic entrance,” House replies, settling down on the couch and propping his hands up on his cane. “I figure I might get one of the interns to play some music the next time. I’m thinking Beethoven’s 5th.”

“Did you need something?” Wilson asks and leans back in his chair. 

“I’ve decided I’ve given you enough time to adjust, and it’s time that you stop avoiding me.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” Wilson replies. A blatant lie. 

“Oh please,” House says and gets up, walking up to his desk before he stops in front of it. “I get it. You thought we were dating, and now that your memories have finally settled back in ye old noggin’, you’re all weird and embarrassed about thinking we were fucking. So now that we’ve cleared the air, we can go back to normal.”

Wilson gapes at House, having jumped up from his chair without consciously thinking about it. “You knew!” he exclaims accusingly and with no little indignance. 

“So what?” House says. 

“And you didn’t correct me!”

“Oh, come on,” House retorts. “It was the perfect opportunity to mess with you.”

“You lied to me,” Wilson points out. 

“No,” House counters. “I just didn’t correct your assumptions. Note the ‘your’ in that statement.”

Wilson sputters. “We are two men over forty living together in a condo! What was I supposed to think?!”

“That we are friends who share a special bond?” House smiles and flutters his lashes obnoxiously at him. 

Huffing a disbelieving laugh, Wilson throws his hands in the air, not finding the words to muster a reply. 

“Oh come on,” House says, “It was funny.” His lips quirk. 

Wilson doesn’t share his amusement. He jams his hands into his hips as he turns to glower at the other man. “Was it, House? Was it? had an existential crisis! I had a panic attack in the bathroom the first day I came home.” 

“Hey now,” House says, “That’s on you, not me. I didn’t even know you thought we were dating then.”

Wilson doesn’t let himself be consoled. “You even dragged Nora into it! How am I ever supposed to look her in the eyes again?!”

House shrugs. “With a polite smile and seeming pressed for time?”

Wilson laughs again. “God. You’re unbelievable, House.”

“I prefer the term astonishing.” And then after a moment, more inquisitive, he adds, “You had a panic attack? Really?”

Wilson sputters. “Yeah, well… It was a lot.” 

House quirks a brow at him. 

“No comment,” Wilson says, glowering.

House raises his palms. “No comment.” He turns and moves to leave Wilson’s office before pausing and looking over his shoulder. “I’ll see you in the cafeteria at noon. The lunch lady’s looking at me all weird now, expecting me to pay for my own food; can you believe her?”

“Close the door!” Wilson yells after him, but House is already gone. 

Wilson meets him for lunch. 

Somehow they settle back into normalcy again. Or at least what passes for it. They spend lunch with each other; House complains to Wilson about his ducklings and theorizes about their private lives, and Wilson counters by telling him the latest gossip he picked up from the nurses and talks about his patients, whom he’s started seeing again. 

Wilson takes his Volvo to work, ready to leave for the hospital by the time House’s alarm goes off. 

House returns late into the day, wrapped up in some case or another, limping in when Wilson is half-way asleep in front of the TV. 

And when that’s no longer feasible unless they want to bring attention to the fact that they may be avoiding each other after all, they slowly bridge the gap through inoffensive conversation, like Wilson complaining to House about him blocking the washing machine again or House arguing with him about his supposedly unnecessary habit of blow-drying his hair. 

Eventually that turns into them squabbling over which show to watch or what takeout to get, and for all appearances, everything has returned to the usual order. 

Except for the fact that House doesn’t bring up that Wilson thought they were dating, not even as the butt of some sort of joke, nor does he comment on the fact that Wilson’s started to resume his monthly therapy appointments. 

Wilson, in turn, doesn’t mention how horribly awkward these sessions really are nor that House has nearly doubled his daily intake of ibuprofen.

It’s a fragile equilibrium they’ve achieved, accompanied by an odd underlying tension neither of them is willing to point out or even bring attention to.

And now they’re both not avoiding each other in that deliberate non-avoiding way, meaning Wilson knocks on House’s door to ask him for lunch instead of sending him a text, and House bursts into his office near twice a day even if he doesn’t have a case to talk about. 

It’s almost worse at home now, where every retreat to their room could be taken as a sign that they’re avoiding each other after all and that the normalcy they’re so desperately trying to establish is farther away than any of them dares to think. 

Wilson is suffering. Plain and simple. 

Any little ordinary thing he would have barely noticed before now jumps out at him as if it were a glaring sign declaring Wilson’s inappropriate homosexual crush on his roommate. 

He’s catching himself watching House, his attention drawn by the most insignificant of his actions.
Be it House fixing himself a coffee when he’s still rumpled and groggy from sleep or the way he sways with the music while his hands dance across the organ while playing a melancholic tune. Or him sprawled out across the couch, reading a book, absently scratching a strip of his exposed belly. 

It’s only made worse by the fact that Wilson cannot even pretend that it’s merely a remnant of him misinterpreting their relationship brought about by his concussion. 

Hell, he’s jerked off, fantasizing about his friend. He’s pictured himself and House. Together. And he can’t unsee it now. 

His brief bout of amnesia has left him stripped of any and all denial he may have so blissfully indulged in before.

And not only in regards to his current dilemma. It’s years and years of memories he’s forced to reexamine in a new light. 

That fucking Polaroid, for one. A picture that was taken years before during a time when he would’ve never so much as considered that there was anything resembling romantic attraction existing between him and House. 

He still tucked it away. Separated it from the other pictures. 

And Wilson knows why he did it, even if he lied to himself about it then. 

He hadn’t wanted to accidentally stumble upon it. 

Since even then, he knew there was something about that picture that made him experience things he hadn’t wanted to examine too closely.

Well, fuck him and his mother; he’s certainly examining it now.

“I think I’m gay,” he tells House late at night on their couch during one of their awkward yet deliberately orchestrated times of forced proximity — as if them watching TV together could prove that everything was perfectly alright between them.
The alcohol certainly helps to smooth over some of the cracks. 

House’s tongue darts over his lip, and he stares at the TV, absently peeling at the label of his beer bottle. A few long moments tick by, and Wilson takes another sip of his beer. 

“What do you expect me to say?” House eventually replies.

“Nothing,” Wilson says. “I think it just needed to be said.”

House sets down his bottle. He rubs his palms over his jean-clad thighs, glancing at Wilson. “You were married. Three times.”

Wilson shrugs, watching a mother have a breakdown over her five-year-old daughter throwing a tantrum when she doesn’t want to have her hair curled for her pageant. “Delusions,” he says simply.

House barks a startled laugh. He’s bouncing his leg now. “You could be bi? I hear it’s all the rage with the youngins now.”

Wilson looks down at his beer. “I think that ship’s sailed.”

House hums around the neck of his beer bottle as he raises it to his lips. “Three marriages,” he says afterward. “You were committed.”

Wilson nods, staring down at his own bottle. “Yup.”

The camera team is now following the mother into a dressing room of some kind while she goes off. 

“What was it?” House starts after another beat. “I mean, it couldn’t have been the sex. Obviously.” He looks at Wilson, his lips quirking. “The pretty dresses? Always having a date to a mixer? The tax benefits”?

Wilson rubs a thumb over his beer, a part of him appreciating the attempt at humor, but he finds himself in a more somber mood. “Being normal, I think. That was what I thought I wanted. A wife, kids, the whole spiel.” He shrugs again, trailing off. 

House shifts in his seat. “Our desires don’t really change just because of the circumstances.”

Wilson huffs, looking at House, a self-aware smile on his lips. “That’s the root of the issue, isn’t it?” 

House swallows. “So you’ve put all that behind you? The whole picture-perfect nuclear family dream? Just like that?”

Wilson looks down at his beer, rolling it between his hands. There are so many things he could say in response to that question. What comes out of his mouth instead is, “Kids are pretty gross, if you think about it.”

House's mouth splits into a grin. “With their snotty noses.”

“Always sick,” Wilson provides.

“Crying all the time.”

“And the diaper changes!” Wilson exclaims.

“Boy,” House says, perking up, “whoever tells you you’re missing out hasn’t worked a single clinic hour in their life!”

“Exactly!”

Both he and House are grinning now, looking at each other. The moment drags out, as neither of them says anything. Wilson’s grin fades to a smile. 

House wets his lip. “Wilson?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to try something now. And you don’t get to comment on it or approach me to talk about it later to ask me about my feelings. And I reserve the right to decide it’s yucky after all.”

Wilson swallows, his breath going a bit shallower. “Okay,” he says, anxious and anticipatory at the same time. His stomach flips, and he feels a bit like he might have to throw up a little from the nerves. 

The couch creaks when House uses his arm to support himself as he leans closer. Wilson exhales, feeling the warmth of House’s breath on his skin, smelling the beer and the takeout they had earlier. House pauses a few inches from Wilson’s face. “This is weird, right?” he says, almost whispering. 

“We’re drunk. We can pretend this never happened. Feign blackouts tomorrow,” Wilson whispers back. 

“Works for me,” House says. And instead of pulling away, he closes their distance and presses their lips together. 

It’s strange. There’s a beard involved for one. And Wilson can feel how chapped House’s lips are. It’s only really a peck that lasts for no longer than a few seconds before House draws back. 

Still, somehow Wilson feels like his heart is about to jump out of his chest. 

“You kiss like a girl,” he tells the other man. 

House’s lips quirk reflexively, his blue eyes crinkling. He’s still terribly close, mere inches of air separating them. 

“Somehow I feel more insulted now, after your emotional confession earlier. Really hurts my pride.”

“Tough,” Wilson replies, a bit breathy. 

“I can’t let that slide, you know.” House voices, still half-whispering, “You're dragging my reputation through the mud like that. It took me years to cultivate it.”

“Right. Your good reputation is all you’re known for. What will the people say?”

“Precisely.”

And then they’re kissing again. 

Wilson doesn’t know who leaned in first, but he can’t be bothered to care; his hands are wound tightly into House’s shirt, gasping against the other man’s mouth, while House grabs at his neck with his other hand, getting more leverage. 

His tongue is dipping experimentally past Wilson’s lips. 

A sound is drawn out of Wilson’s lungs, a quiet, strangled moan he didn’t mean to make. 

House’s fingers twitch where they’re resting against his neck, his thumb on Wilson’s ear before he suddenly presses closer almost desperately, deepening the kiss. 

And then they’re making out like a couple of teenagers hiding from their parents in the back of a car. 

At one point Wilson’s hand ends up beneath the other man’s shirt, the other one on his shoulder, and from the sounds of it, House doesn’t seem to mind at all. He tugs on Wilson’s lips with his teeth, and Wilson retaliates by pulling on the curling hair above his nape, which reaps him a guttural groan. They end up kissing for another long minute or so until House tears himself away with a grunt followed by a curse, dropping back into his spot next to Wilson. 

Wilson’s tongue reflexively darts over his bottom lip as he tries to process what just transpired. Still catching his breath, his eyes flick over to House. 

“Leg,” the other grits out, and indeed. His hand is wrapped around his thigh, but he looks about just as wrecked as Wilson feels. There’s a faint blush dotting his cheeks, his lips swollen and shiny. 

Wilson swallows as House meets his gaze. For a few moments they’re just looking at each other, staring.

Eventually, as if in silent agreement, they break eye contact and reach for their beers. 

“Not to give you credit or anything,” House says, and of course it’s him who breaks the silence, “but I think you’ve just achieved what countless people have tried to do before and failed.”

“Yeah?” Wilson replies. “What?”

“You’ve turned me. A valiant heterosexual. Your gay rubs off.”

Wilson snorts, amused, glancing at House, who’s smiling at him. “Yeah? You gave me a beard burn.”

“And a boner, apparently,” House says, his smile turning into a smirk while his eyes dart down pointedly. 

Wilson's blood rushes to his cheeks, and he shifts his legs. 

“Too soon?” House voices, obviously amused. “Need a minute? A cold shower, perhaps?”

Wilson doesn’t dignify that with an answer and instead takes a sip of his beer. 

“You look adorable when you blush,” House drawls, grinning, “like a tomato with eyebrows.” And even though his delivery is as mocking as it comes, Wilson knows House well enough to know there’s a hint of truth in his words. 

Unfortunately, that makes him blush even more. 

“Shut up.”

“What? Can’t I compliment my homosexual roommate in a very non-sexual manner? Should I tack on a ‘no homo’ just to be safe? It doesn’t count then, does it?”

“Oh my god,” Wilson says, laughing despite himself. He looks at House from the corner of his eye. 

Somehow, they relax into their seats and, in mutual understanding, resume their trash-talking of ‘Toddlers & Tiaras.’

The next morning, they encounter each other in the kitchen, going about their respective routines, fixing themselves coffee, and making their breakfasts. Oddly enough, it feels easier now. More comfortable than they’ve been with each other since before Wilson’s fall in the hospital. 

“So,” House says eventually. “How’s your amnesia treating you?”

Wilson looks up from taking a bite out of his toast, confused for a second, thinking House is checking on whether he’s still somewhat bothered by his healed concussion.

At least until the other man continues by adding, “Any recent bouts of sudden memory loss? Blackouts, perhaps?”

Wilson crunches through his mouthful of toast and swallows, buying himself a few seconds. “I don’t know,” he replies, glancing at House, who’s looking at him across the kitchen island, his hands wrapped around his favorite mug. “You?” 

House is looking down at his coffee. “Nope,” he says, projecting so much casualness into his tone that Wilson can just tell it's fake.

“I guess, me neither.”

“Great,” House says and promptly busies himself by turning to check on the state of his bagels in the toaster. 

Wilson ducks his face and smiles into his bowl of cereal. 

There’s not much else said between them that morning, but House is mouthing the words to the music he’s listening to through his earbuds while he packs his backpack, and Wilson smiles through rinsing off his bowl and even while cleaning the gross remnants of food out of the sink. 

They drive separately, but sitting in his Volvo, Wilson laughs intermittently for no particular reason other than his mind replaying last night's memory as well as their conversation this morning. 

By the time he’s stopping in the parking lot, though, his nerves catch up with him, and he’s becoming a tad anxious. 

Stepping into the lobby, his fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of his briefcase, he glances around paranoid, irrationally questioning whether his appearance is screaming that James Wilson is a homosexual. That people can suddenly tell that he kissed a man. 

Kissed House, which is yet another distinction and probably the greatest offense committed if one were going by the opinions of the hospital staff. 

Wilson tugs on his collar, which is feeling rather tight all of a sudden. 

“Dr. Wilson,” a young brunette nurse greets him, smiling. 

“Amy, hello,” he retorts, mustering a mirroring expression, hoping that she can’t see the rising panic in his eyes. She’s compiling a few files, and while she does so, she comments, “House was in a good mood when he came in earlier. And on time, which… whew.”

Wilson can feel his smile strain while his stomach does a flip. “Was he now?” he asks, trying to feign ignorance. 

Amy leans forward, handing him the files. “Should I be concerned? It was downright eerie. He even smiled at Martha.”

Wilson’s brows rise. Martha—hardened, old, never-takes-no-shit-from-House Martha? He chuckles nervously. “Really?”

“That’s what I’m saying. Is he back on Vicodin or something?” She inquires, putting her ample cleavage on display when she props herself up on the counter, obviously fishing for gossip now. 

A month ago, Wilson would’ve taken this as an invitation to spend a few minutes hanging around at the front desk to chat and perhaps try and ask her out for a coffee. “No. Not as far as I know,” he says, flipping through the files to give himself something to do. Is it warm in here? Maybe he should’ve opted for a different shirt. 

“Hm. I’m crossing my fingers that whatever it is will last.”

“Yep,” Wilson says, motioning towards the elevator. “Sorry, Amy, I have to—you know...”

“Sure. See you around, Dr. Wilson.”

“Yeah. See you,” Wilson says distractedly and heads for the elevators, joining Dr. Miller and Dr. Keller, who are already waiting there. 

They exchange a few cursory nods, and Wilson turns his attention back onto the doors.

So House was in a good mood.

His lips twitch. Damn. Wilson chides himself, glancing at the people standing next to him waiting for the elevator. Very subtle. Him beaming like a fucking idiot. He reigns himself in, thinking he’s got a handle on his emotions until he catches his reflection in the mirror inside the elevator. He’s smiling again. 

Damn it. 

On the way to his office, he spares a glance through the window panels into the Diagnostic’s department, catching a glimpse of House ordering around his employees in his usual manner. 

Grinning, Wilson enters his office.

He manages to not make a fool out of himself by smiling tactlessly while he makes his rounds to check in with his patients in various stages of dying. Though the nature of his work manages to naturally counteract any inappropriate reactions he may display, regardless of his personal frame of mind. Eventually, his mood settles into something more befitting the nature of his occupation, though it all comes back around noon, shortly before he pokes his head into House’s office, a little nervous but giddy, and raps his fingers against the glass in a cursory knock. 

“Lunch?” he asks, and House perks up from behind his desk. 

“Sure,” he says, his lips quirking.

Their walking down to the cafeteria together is nothing short of mundane, and yet Wilson feels his lips curve up every so often. 

“So, what’s up with the sword?” Wilson eventually asks, when he can’t hold the question in anymore and his eyes flick over at the blade, which House has propped up against his shoulder. 

He’s held out all the way to the cafeteria for the sole reason that he knows House likely brought it for that very reason, and he knew it would pester House if he didn’t take the bait. 

“Why, Wilson, thanks for noticing. I thought I’d grant the people around me the privilege of getting a glimpse at what I carry between my legs at all times without having Cuddy sign me up for yet another sexual harassment awareness training.” Catching a few stray glances from the people around them, he adds, “As a placeholder for the real thing, so to say.”

“The cane's no longer doing it for you?” Wilson comments, amused. 

“Wilson! I’m appalled! The cane is clearly a medically necessary mobility aid,” House shoots back with feigned affront. “Maybe I should get Cuddy to sign you up for disability awareness training instead.”

Wilson cracks a grin, hiding it from House by looking at today’s meal plan when they join the line for lunch. 

“And it’s got sharp edges. Ups the intimidation factor,” House continues. 

“You’re referring to the sword, I hope,” Wilson replies, his lips quirking. 

House bumps into his shoulder. “Why, Jimmy, care to find out?” He’s wiggling his eyebrows at Wilson, who looks back amused and a bit flustered. 

And suddenly, the moment draws out too long and the underlying mood shifts. 

House breaks their eye contact and turns to look at the meal plan as if he were debating ordering something other than his habitual Reuben. 

Wilson clears his throat, the tips of his ears warm. He ends up paying, ordering an extra-large portion of fries, because he knows House will likely steal more than half of them. 

Lunch is …good. It’s fun, and they banter, and yet Wilson’s tongue darts nervously over his lips, questioning every other one of House’s statements, reading into it, and then chiding himself for doing so. 

They haven’t even really talked about it. He doesn’t allow himself to hope and yet hopes anyway. 

Their day progresses in a usual manner. They part after lunch; House goes to bother his employees, Wilson checks out some breast scans and gets called to a consult down in the clinic, and briefly runs into Chase, who asks him whether he knows if House is high on speed or something because apparently, he’s weirding them all out with his behavior before complaining about being forced to attend some sort of renaissance fair. 

It appears House’s current patient is a knight of some sort, which would account for the sword. 

Luckily that makes for a good conversation, because Chase, Wilson has found over the years sometimes possesses an eerie accuracy with interpreting House’s true moods and motives.

Wilson doesn’t really expect to see House later that evening because of said case, which seems to be right up his alley, but is pleasantly surprised when, in fact, House is already seated on the couch when he returns from work. 

“Your patient’s already cured?” he asks, absently, setting down his briefcase as he makes his way into the living room. 

“Nope. But I figure as the head of the department, it’s my responsibility to instill some independence in my sheltered fellows.”

“I see,” Wilson says, smiling. He shucks off his jacket and loosens his tie before joining House on the couch, stretching out his legs on the coffee table. 

House glances at him, sipping on a glass of wine, before reaching down below and producing another one. Wilson takes it with raised brows. 

“Is that my wine?” he asks after he’s made a grab for the bottle, finding a rather expensive-looking red label staring back at him. Naples, 2007. Nearly two hundred bucks apiece. He knows because he googled it. 

“It was collecting dust on a shelf.”

“I got that from a patient a week ago. I was saving it.”

“My argument still stands,” House says. 

Wilson takes a sip of the wine. It’s good. He figures House may have had a point. 

“I ordered sushi,” House voices out of the blue. 

“You don’t like sushi,” Wilson points out. 

House shrugs, twirling his wine glass between his fingers. “I felt like it.”

“Okay,” Wilson says, feeling like he ought not to look a gift horse in the mouth. House pulls up the TiVo to play the next episode of his medical drama. 

Wilson settles back into the couch, sipping on his wine and figuring he may as well look forward to at last finding out the gender of Amanda’s twins. 

The sushi arrives, and House pauses the episode, limping towards the door to deal with the delivery guy. 

“You realize,” Wilson says when House sets the plastic bag down on the coffee table, and the episode continues, “that I’m no longer amnesiac. I will question the added charges to my credit card.”

House’s back is turned to him while he rummages through the bag, producing soy sauce and chopsticks. He mumbles something unintelligible. 

“What?”

“I said, I paid for it.”

Wilson laughs, his brows lifting with a mixture of disbelief and mirth. “I’m sorry, I must’ve had a brief absence seizure, because I just thought I heard you saying you paid for the food.”

House cracks open the plastic container with the sushi. “What? I pay for stuff.”

“Yeah,” Wilson retorts, leaning forward to claim a pair of chopsticks. “Like the time I changed my credit card provider because I thought I had my identity stolen after my card got maxed out on a charge for a 200-gallon fish tank.”

“It was for a case,” House counters. “The man got to see another day because of your generous donation to his cause.”

“It set me back by nearly a grand!” Wilson argues. 

“Would you rather he be dead?” House tells him, with a look. “I can let him know; he still sends me an annual Christmas card. The return address is on the back.”

Wilson can’t help it; he laughs. “Yeah? I suppose you’ve kept them all and pinned them up on a corkboard in your office alongside all the other thank-you notes and gifts your grateful patients sent you. Oh, wait. That would be showing sentiment, and that’s just a silly notion reserved for naive fools and children and not real men, hardened by the harsh realities of our bleak existence, right?”

When he looks at House, expecting some sort of smart-ass remark, the man is staring straight ahead at the TV instead, stuffing one of the tempura rolls into his mouth, barely chewing before swallowing, his nose wrinkling. 

Wilson’s chuckles die down. 

He stares at House. 

Looks at the wine. 

Looks at the sushi.

Looks at House again. 

“House,” Wilson starts, suspicious and with an odd lurching in his belly as he tilts his torso towards the other man. “Are you trying to… Is this your version of asking me out on a date?”

House stares straight at the TV, shrugging. There’s a very faint color dotting his cheeks now. “Figured it’d be easier to skip the awkward asking phase.”

Wilson’s face is getting warm, an odd flutter in his belly as he stares at House’s profile. 

The man’s blue eyes dart over to look at him. 

Unwittingly, the corners of Wilson’s mouth tick up. “Okay,” he says, biting his lip. 

When nothing more is said, he follows House’s example and turns to his sushi. 

They eat, they drink wine, occasionally commenting on the show, eventually pushing away their empty containers only to drink more wine and gesture with their refilled glasses, discussing the ridiculousness that is the current plotline of the medical drama. It could be any other evening, were it not for the awareness of that electrical undercurrent brimming beneath the surface.

Every so often, Wilson glances at House. 

At one point, when he isn’t looking, he feels a thigh bump into his, House’s knee knocking against his. 

When Wilson glances at the other man, he seems to be wholly invested in the show. 

Wilson presses his lips together, not quite able to hide the grin spreading over his face. Eventually, he looks at the TV again. 

A few minutes tick by as they pretend to watch the show. 

“This is stupid,” House says. 

“What?” Wilson asks, turning to look at him. 

“We’re grown men over forty. I feel like any teenager with a single brain cell would’ve already feigned a yawn and thrown his arms across the back of the couch.”

Wilson’s lips tick up again. “Yeah? Seems kind of cheesy.” His eyes are crinkling with mirth. “Do you think that ever works?”

House wets his lip. “I don’t know. Debbie from high school lit class certainly seemed to think so.”

Wilson hums, amused. “We’re no longer teenagers though.”

House huffs, the couch creaking when he turns to look at Wilson. “Whew. Glad to have cleared that up. I was really sweating about the cops showing up at the door to arrest me for diddling around with a minor.”

Wilson snorts, looking at House, whose mask slips when he cracks a grin, mirroring his amusement. 

The moment draws out. 

“Hey, House,” Wilson says, gathering up all his wine-fueled courage and whimsy, “Wanna make out?”

“God, yes,” House says. 

Wilson laughs, but he shifts on the couch, and moments later they’re kissing. 

Fuck. 

It’s getting hot quickly, and Wilson thinks that any teenager would be lucky to find himself in a position such as this. He’s groaning into House’s mouth, who’s breathing heavily, his hands worming their way beneath Wilson’s shirt while he brushes his fingers across the other man’s stubble. 

The couch creaks when they readjust their position, and Wilson ends up with his back against the armrest, House between his legs. His boner is straining against his pants, and he learns that House is in a similar predicament when their hips brush. 

“Fuck,” House breathes against Wilson’s lips, and Wilson just pants in lieu of a reply. His tongue drives over his already wet lip. Feeling brave, he reaches for the other man’s belt. His eyes flicking up to meet House’s blue gaze, he hesitates. 

House’s pupils look like dark holes when he bites out, “I swear to god, Wilson, if you chicken out on me now, I will set your DVD collection on fire.”

Wilson swallows, but he wraps his finger behind the loop of House’s belt anyway, the man lifting himself up on his arms to help him along. Before he can rethink any of his actions, Wilson sticks his hand down the other man’s pants. 

“Fuck,” House says again, staring at him with parted lips, a thin ring of blue enclosing his blown pupils, when Wilson’s hand closes around his erection. 

Wilson’s tongue darts over his bottom lip again, his gaze flicking back down, staring at where his wrist disappears behind House’s waistband. 

House’s dick is twitching in his grasp, growing firmer against his palm. He takes a second to take in the feel of it—warm and heavy and with surprisingly soft skin meeting his fingers — and then moves his hand because he thinks it would be awkward to just keep it still. He strokes once and then again, more certain, and House drops his forehead against Wilson’s shoulder. His arms are trembling a bit from supporting all his weight. 

It’s not that different, Wilson finds, from jerking himself off. It’s a bit awkward, trying to move his hand in the constrained space of House’s pants, but after a few more strokes, he finds that he’s getting the hang of it, despite the odd angle. 

It’s also doing a lot of things for his increasing state of arousal.

House exhales shudderingly against Wilson’s shoulder before he moves his head, his nose brushing across his collar before meeting the exposed skin of his neck. 

Wilson falters in his movements when that turns into a kiss, shortly followed by some delicious suction right beneath the hinge of his jaw. 

When House’s arms go through another tremor, the man pulls back, pushing himself up. “Bed?” he asks, and Wilson swallows once, nodding. 

He sits up after House gets up, and while the other man gets his cane, he picks up his wine glass and drains it in two quick pulls. 

House doesn’t comment on it, luckily. 

They shuffle down the hallway in that awkward dance, and Wilson picks up his pace before his mind can catch up to what he’s about to do. 

He’s pushed open the door to his bedroom without thinking, flicking on the light, and House trails in after him moments later. 

Wilson has stopped next to his bed, suddenly anxious again. House walks up to him but comes to a halt at a step's distance.

And then they’re standing there, awkwardly staring at each other, House’s fly still undone, his erection straining against the fabric, and Wilson in his dishevelled shirt, with kiss-swollen lips and similarly affected. 

“Nice digs,” House comments after a few seemingly endless seconds, his voice a tad hoarser than usual. “Are you a doctor or something?”

Wilson’s lips quirk, some of the tension bleeding out of him. “Yeah. Licensed and everything.”

“Wow,” House says dryly as he moves to sit down on the bed. He looks up at Wilson. “Do you take MediCare? I’m due for a physical.”

It makes Wilson crack up, and when he looks at House, the other man’s grinning too. 

House sets down his cane and reaches out to hook his fingers into Wilson’s belt loops and tugs him closer. There’s a brief moment during which they’re just looking at each other, and then Wilson leans down to kiss him again. 

It’s easier after that. Making out at this point is a familiar pastime, and when they end up on the bed and House shimmies out of his pants in between kisses, Wilson doesn’t hesitate to do the same. 

It’s all a bit of a blur from then on. 

Wilson loses his shirt, House bites at his nipple, and he sucks a bruise into House’s neck in retaliation, only distracted from his goal when the other man wraps his hand around Wilson’s dick. 

Wilson responds in kind, and then they jerk each other off while making out. House comes first, spilling all over Wilson’s fist with a sharp breath and a muttered curse only for him to shift on the bed a few moments later, pushing Wilson into the mattress to finish him off, muttering downright filthy things into his ears that shouldn’t be so hot. 

“Shit,” Wilson says some indeterminable time later, staring up at the ceiling, House next to him in the sheets. 

“And here I thought I did a good job,” House retorts, sounding slightly out of breath. 

Wilson blindly moves his arm, slapping the back of his hand against House’s naked shoulder. “I’ll be sure to leave you a four-star review on Yelp.”

The mattress dips when House turns to face him. “Only four?”

Wilson moves his head to meet his gaze. House is smiling. “Nobody gets five stars,” he says. “Five stars means that the whole business is basically a scam.”

House smiles wider. “And there’s always room for improvement, right?”

Wilson’s lips quirk. “I might be convinced for a repeat experience.”

House smirks, his eyes tracing over Wilson’s face. Briefly, his eyes flicker down to his lips. 

Wilson’s breath stalls in his lungs. 

And then House says, “Do you have tissues or something?” And Wilson exhales, reluctantly moving his lethargic body and gesturing in the direction of the bedside table. 

“Bottom drawer,” he says, watching House sit up and bending over the side of the bed. He cleans himself up in a few cursory movements and pulls on his boxers before tossing the box of Kleenex at Wilson. 

“I have to take a piss,” House says, grabbing his cane and heading over to the bathroom. Wilson cleans the drying cum off his skin, tossing his used tissues into the drawer, as he can’t be bothered to take them all the way to the trash, and gets up to put on fresh underwear. When he hears the flush of the toilet, he joins House in the bathroom. 

The man is in the process of washing his hands, looking up briefly, and their eyes meet in the mirror. 

Wilson figures they’ve reached that point of no return; he might as well have a piss while House is standing at the sink. 

House is about to finish up when Wilson joins him to wash his hands. 

“So,” House says after a minute or so, still drying off his hands. “Pretty late.”

“Yup,” Wilson says, focusing on really getting the soap in there. 

“Gotta get up early tomorrow. For work.”

Wilson hums. If he’s going to wash his hands any longer, he may as well be scrubbing in for surgery. He turns off the faucet. 

House is still holding the towel. He holds it out to Wilson, who takes it and dries off his hands. Glancing at House, he hesitates to brush his teeth. It feels too final somehow. 

Wilson puts the towel on the counter of the sink and heads towards the bedroom instead. House follows him. 

Wilson puts on a random t-shirt he finds in the topmost drawer of his dresser and walks over to his bed. 

House is still lingering in the room under some pretense or another. 

They’re looking at each other again. 

Wilson pulls his lip between his teeth before releasing it with an exhale. He throws the covers back and gets under the sheets. 

House watches him, and just when he’s about to leave, Wilson clears his throat. 

The other man pauses, turning his head to look at him. 

Wilson feels dead-awkward but valiantly doesn’t break their eye contact when he pulls the sheets back a tad, indicating the other side of the bed. 

House’s lip quirk. He says nothing but accepts the unspoken invitation, and limps over.

The mattress dips when he drops onto the other side of the bed and joins Wilson under the sheets. 

For a few long moments, they just lay there in silence, not touching, only accompanied by the sounds of their breathing. 

Wilson sneaks a glance at House, who’s staring at the ceiling. 

He turns his gaze away and closes his eyes. A few moments later, he opens them again and dares another peek and finds House looking at him as well from the corner of his eyes. 

A second ticks by, both staring at each other, caught in the act. Then Wilson huffs a laugh, and House snorts, grinning at the ceiling. 

“Shut up,” Wilson says, chuckling. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I can virtually hear your thoughts.”

“Yeah?” The pillow rustles when House turns his head to look at him. “Then what am I thinking then, oh, sagacious mind-reader?”

Wilson can feel the undercurrent of tension filling the space between them again. He wets his lips. “That you really got the short end of the stick when it came to picking out our rooms,” he jokes. 

House snorts. “Your telepathy needs some work. That’s only like 70% of what I’m thinking right now.”

Despite their casual conversation, the tension mounts. “Yeah?” he breathes.

“I’m also thinking your mattress is kind of shit,” House says. 

Wilson’s lips curve into a smile. “The woman selling it to me said it’s got great reviews.” 

“Well, she sucks at her job,” House says, his eyes drifting back down to Wilson’s mouth. 

The moment draws out. 

For fuck's sake. 

Wilson leans over and closes their distance. 

House hums into the kiss, his hand drifting up to settle loosely on Wilson’s neck. It’s nice. They kiss for a bit, with no real aim, before they eventually part and settle back into the bed without all the awkwardness. 

After a few minutes, Wilson says, “I really want to brush my teeth.”

House laughs. “And I don’t suppose you’ve got any ibuprofen stashed around here, do you?”

“No,” Wilson replies. 

He gets out of bed and heads back over into the bathroom, while House follows suit, grabbing his cane and disappearing into his room. By the time Wilson’s finished flossing and everything and he returns to his bedroom, he finds House already back in his spot, but in distinctly different clothing. 

He was quick. 

“Is that my McGill sweater?” he asks amused, while he turns the light off before heading for the bed. 

“No,” House says. “I stole it from some dork. Guy doesn’t even drink orange juice with the pulp, like some sort of elementary schooler. You might know him. You strike me as someone who moves in the same circles.”

Wilson hums as he slips back under the sheets, his lip ticking up into a smile. “Sounds like a real loser,” he retorts. “Makes you really wonder what sort of people sleep with guys like that.”  

“Probably just drug-addicts and old disabled men,” House replies. 

“There might be a market for that. You never know.”

“Sounds kinky.”

A few more minutes tick by as they try to go to sleep. 

“House?” 

Wilson’s voice echoes through the dark. 

“Hm?”

Wilson hesitates as he stares up at the shadowy ceiling. “Do you think this- us? It’s gonna work out?”

The sheets rustle when House moves. He still takes a few moments to reply. “Wilson, this is probably the most stable relationship I ever had. If this doesn’t work out, I don’t think anything ever will for me… And even if- I mean even when I mess this up somehow, or you mess up, I doubt it’ll irrevocably ruin our friendship. It would be awkward and weird for a while, but we’ve been through too much bullshit to quit over a bit of friendly fucking between homies gone wrong.”

Wilson processes those words, before exhaling quietly. “And what if I don’t want this to be just… ‘friendly fucking between homies’?”

House huffs. “Wilson, we’re basically already a couple. Half the hospital thinks we’re gay for each other. If you want to go around and proclaim our sappy homo-erotic romance for all to hear and call each other boyfriend and girlfriend, I’m not about to storm your office with a hatchet.”

Wilson’s lips tick up reflexively. That’s probably about as much as a concession as he’ll receive. Still, a moment later his smile fades and he swallows. “I’m gonna be weird about this. I’ve never… you know. This is pretty new. All of this.”

“I’m gauging from your very emotional and awkward delivery that you’re not referring to the ‘us’ portion of this whole affair.”

Wilson exhales, his fingers briefly closing around the blanket. 

“I made out with a guy,” House provides unbidden. “In college. Figured it wasn’t too bad but-” a rustle as he moves, presumably shrugging- “I thought I might as well stick with girls. Seemed easier. And they came with the added advantage of having tits. You know, the bits, I couldn’t pretend were someone else’s when jerking off in front of a mirror.”

Wilson's eyes are wide as he tries to make out House’s face in the darkness. “You never said.”

“Didn't seem to matter. Besides, everyone's got that phase in college.”

“Right,” Wilson huffs. 

“What. You’re telling me you didn’t? Never experimented? Not once?”

Wilson shrugs. “Never really thought about it.”

House snorts. “Lie to me Wilson. It gets me all hot and tingly inside.”

Wilson rolls his lip between his teeth. “It didn’t really seem like an option.”

“And look at you now. Getting all your gay on. And it only took you paying three alimonies and some head trauma to get there.”

“Two,” Wilson says. 

“What?”

“Two alimonies. Sam got remarried.”

The sheets rustle when House shifts. “That minx. And she still emailed you.”

Wilson wets his lip. He hesitates. “I didn’t email back,” he blurts out.

House is quiet for a moment. “Why not?”

Wilson huffs, wiping a hand over his face. “Seemed kind of arbitrary.”

He feels the mattress dip when House turns and scoots closer. “My Wilson, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“I don’t know House,” Wilson voices, not really in the mood to indulge any more games. He's getting tired. “What am I saying?” Even in the dark he can make out House’s teeth when he grins. 

“That when it came time to email that conniving bitch of a woman back, you’d already been hopelessly seduced by my irresistible charm and manly wiles.”

Wilson huffs, amused despite himself. 

“That wasn’t a no,” House replies. 

Wilson rolls his eyes exasperated but still fond for some reason. 

“I’ll take that lack of denial as confirmation-” House says but falls silent, when Wilson turns and rolls against the other man’s body, throwing his arm around him. 

“Shut up and go to sleep, House.”

“Okay,” House says, his voice quiet and strangely lacking any of his usual affectations. A hesitating hand comes up to settle on Wilson’s forearm. 

Wilson buries his nose in the fabric of his stolen McGill sweater, hiding a smile. 

“Goodnight, Wilson.”

“‘night, House.”

Chapter Text

Wilson is torn out of his sleep by the blaring sound of his alarm. A groan sounds somewhere, and he reaches out blindly to turn it off, noticing his toes are pretty cold, where he must’ve kicked off the blanket sometime during the night. He turns, intent on resting his eyes for a few more minutes till he’ll inevitably have to get up; only halfway in, he bumps into something that lacks the distinct give of his mattress. 

He drags his hand across what his hazy brain now recognizes as a warm, sweater-clad back when his mind finally catches up to what, or better, whom exactly he’s encountering. 

Wilson cracks an eye open. 

House has stolen the majority of his blanket, a heap of limbs and twisted sheets, one arm buried beneath the pillow. Wilson decides that he’s too sleepy and comfortable to get ready for work quite yet. He tugs on the blanket to reclaim more than just the stretch that’s barely covering his torso, wriggling around and sticking his cold feet against House’s calves in the process until the man huffs. 

“Stop that. It’s way too early,” he grumbles into his pillow, his voice hoarse and deep from sleep. 

“I’m cold,” Wilson counters. “Someone stole my blanket. Besides, we have to get up in a few—”

House turns, throwing the duvet over Wilson’s body alongside his arm and a leg. His scent invades Wilson’s nose, mostly sweat and a hint of musk, fanned over by the blanket.

“Shhh,” House stresses against Wilson’s nape, his breath leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

Wilson shuts up, closing his eyes and smiling slightly, relishing the sensation of House’s exhales tickling against his ear. 

Despite House’s protests that it’s too early to do anything but sleep, his hand is brushing an idle path up Wilson’s belly, fingers ghosting across the fabric of his shirt, bunching the fabric as he drags them up towards his chest and back down. 

Wilson sighs softly. 

The other man nuzzles his nose against the sensitive spot behind his ear, slipping his fingers under Wilson’s shirt, the whorls of his fingerprints meeting the vulnerable skin of a soft underbelly. 

A hint of self-consciousness prickles through Wilson’s hazy mind at House’s hand pressing into his belly, feeling the layer of fat that didn’t used to be there a handful of years ago. His breathing picks up anyway, lazy arousal swirling through his stomach. 

His dick has been hard for a while now.

Wilson makes a quiet sound when House nips at his earlobe.

When the other man accompanies that by dragging his hand lower, idly playing with the hair of his happy trail, Wilson’s hand shoots out, encircling House’s wrist.

The other man halts his movement. 

Wilson doesn’t quite know what he meant to do. 

Soft lips drag across his neck before he feels a press of teeth against his trapezius. 

Wilson can hear himself breathe, and it sounds loud in the silence of the room. His cock gives an interested twitch, heavy against his thigh.

His fingers flex around the sinews and bones of House’s wrist, a barely noticeable beat thumping against his thumb where it’s resting on his pulse point. 

He feels a low simmer of want.

It’s a bad idea. They have to get up soon anyway. 

In a quiet compromise, which takes more courage than he’d thought, Wilson interlaces their fingers, settling their conjoined hands around his middle. 

House sighs against his nape, but he can feel him relaxing into the pillows. 

Wilson comes to with House still plastered against his back. He must’ve fallen asleep for a minute there again, considering he feels rather well rested. 

Suspiciously well rested. 

Wilson lets his eyes flutter open and throws a cursory glance at the digital clock on his nightstand. 

He looks at it just in time to see a number turn from a three into a four. 09:54, that is. 

“SHIT!” Wilson exclaims, abruptly awake, promptly extracting himself from House’s arm, all but tumbling from the bed. “We overslept!”

House shifts on the mattress, his jaw cracking from the force of his yawn as he pushes himself up on an elbow to squint at the clock. Huffing, he flops back into the sheets. “It’s barely ten.”

“Yes, and by now, I’m usually at work,” Wilson counters. He’s already halfway through the room, stumbling as his vision is obscured by the fabric of his shirt as he pulls it over his head on his way to his dresser in a shitty attempt at multitasking.

“Relax, you’re fine,” House says, having rolled onto his back on the bed and gesturing absently into the air. “I come in late all the time.”

Wilson tosses his shirt on top of the dresser, the drawer sticking as he pulls on it to get to his underwear. “Yeah, but you’re you, and I’m actually invested in at least seeming like I take my job seriously- God dammit.”

“It’s not like your patients will suddenly forget how to have cancer if you’re not there to empathetically hover next to them,” House voices.

The drawer finally opens, but Wilson pauses briefly to level the other man with an unimpressed look. 

“If you were worried about your continued job security,” House tacks on. 

Huffing, Wilson grabs the next best pair of underwear and quickly steps out of his boxers to pull on a fresh pair, modesty an afterthought under the current circumstances. “It might surprise you,” he says, “but there’s this thing some doctors like to do that’s called ‘actually caring about your patients.’ Shocking, I know.”

House turns with a sigh. “I miss the times when you didn’t remember any of them. What a blissful week. None of these pesky lectures on morals.”

Wilson curses. “Where’s my phone? I’ll have to let my assistant know that she’ll have to bump my ten thirty.” 

House sighs again before he shuffles across the bed till he can hang his torso off the edge and fishes around in his jeans. He produces his own cellphone and presses a number, apparently a contact he’s got on speed dial. 

“Morning, Cuddy,” he says in greeting. 

Wilson stops dead in his tracks. His head swivels around, already bracing himself thanks to long-honed instincts. 

When he locks eyes with House, the man shoots him a wide grin before appropriating a tone that’s downright miserable. 

“Yup. Terrible, actually.”

Wilson shakes off his stupor in favor of mouthing a definite ‘NO,’ pointedly shaking his head, already rapidly crossing their distance.

“Uh-huh. Listen—” House leans back to dodge Wilson trying to intercept his call: “Me and Wilson got some bad sushi yesterday.”

Wilson gives up on trying to snatch House’s phone out of his hands and graces him with a disapproving stare instead, hands stemmed into his hips.

It seems to not even penetrate, as House smirks at him before adopting his fake tone again. “Yeah. You could say that. He’s still on the toilet. It’s like listening to a scene from Jurassic Park, if you catch my drift. You should’ve seen what came out of me earlier, both ends, really… Like a geyser erupting—”

Wilson drags a hand over his face as he looks at the ceiling, in a silent plea for patience. 

“Uh-huh. Yup. So we won’t be in today.”

A pause. 

“Just let Foreman be in charge. He’ll get off on it.”

Wilson hears Cuddy is replying, but House cuts her off by exclaiming, “God, I feel another wave coming. Gotta go,” before he snaps his phone shut, effectively ending the call. 

Wilson meets his gaze, trying to look stern but failing when House returns it with a smug look of his own, rather resembling a cat who just pushed a glass off a table and is proud of its accomplishment. 

“No need to thank me. I just bought us a whole day of lazing about,” he says, smirking. 

“By painting a graphic picture of us suffering from food poisoning,” Wilson replies wryly. “Thanks so much.”

“You’re welcome.” House grins self-satisfied.

Wilson huffs. 

The other man does a pointed shuffle on the bed before patting the mattress in an obvious invitation. 

Wilson heaves yet another sigh and gets back into bed. 

House apparently takes that as the cue to drag his gaze lasciviously over Wilson’s bare torso. 

The tips of Wilson’s ears turn warm, and he’s feeling a bit flustered, sinking a bit deeper into the sheets. He experiences the irrational urge to cover up. 

“Next time, we’re sleeping in my bed,” House comments unprompted. 

“Next time?” Wilson’s brows rise as he looks at the other man, a nervous flutter in his belly. God, he hadn’t really even thought that far. He’s quickly working himself up to a full-on blush. 

“Oh, sorry, was I being too presumptuous?” House retorts, propping himself up on one arm so as to be able to look at him better. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken you putting out on the first date as an auspicious sign. Maybe in your post-nut clarity, you’ve realized that there’s a whole untapped market of horny twinks out there who’re into repressed forty-year-olds and decided that you’re better off just calling it quits after a one-night stand. It might be a bit awkward, though, when we run into each other at the elevator. All the averted eyes and the painful small talk…”

“Sounds inconvenient,” Wilson voices, somewhat amused by House’s rambling. 

“Are you referring to the twinks or the small talk?” 

Wilson’s smile grows. He’s fairly sure that there’s a kernel of actual truth in House’s act that speaks to some insecurity. “I don’t know. Do you think my starting to date vastly younger men screams midlife crisis?”

The other man huffs a laugh, the pillows rustling as he turns to look at the ceiling. “Not to rob you of your delusions, but if you were aiming to avoid the latter, you’ve already messed up considering the whole questioning your sexuality in your forties thing. Next we know you’ll pull up in a star-spangled truck to reassert your manliness.”

“Luckily, I think we’re past the questioning stage.”

“Phew. And here I was thinking you were just using me for my body and willingness to experiment.”

“Nah, I’ll spare you the walk of shame.” 

“There goes my assumption that you’d finally decided to embrace your sadistic side,” House replies, but his twitching lips betray him. “Good to confirm I’ve still got it.”

Wilson hums. “Oh yeah,” he says. “You were very suave. Nothing like those twinks who’d pull something as immature as feigning a yawn and throwing their arm over the back of my seat.”

“Strike that thought from your mind,” House retorts, before he turns to face Wilson. “And immature? If you ever hear that word uttered in relation to my name, you’ve obviously remembered it incorrectly.”

Wilson smiles back at him. “It started with a G, didn’t it? Geoffrey, right? Or was it George?”

“Geoffry?!” House feigns offense. “Do I look like a Geoffrey to you?” 

“Hm. Sorry. It must’ve been George after all,” Wilson retorts. Laughter is bubbling up in his chest. 

“Oh-oh, I’ll give you something to remember me by,” House says, and then he’s turning on the bed, flipping over Wilson to lean down to kiss him, morning breath and all. 

Wilson feels himself smiling into the kiss. 

Even when House pulls back for a brief moment to say, “And it’s Greg, by the way.”

Wilson chuckles as he looks up at the other man. “And here I was about to moan the name George. Glad to have dodged that particular bullet.”

“Yeah?” House says, and the smirk that suddenly appears on his face looks downright devious.

Wilson can feel his breath catch in his throat in response. And then he’s not responding to anything, because he’s too busy processing that House is inching downwards, dragging his hands along his ribs until they stop comfortably against the waistband of his underwear. 

He stops there, smirking up at Wilson, the blanket held up by his back like a tent, not too dissimilar to what Wilson’s morning wood is doing to his boxers. 

Wilson swallows. “House—”

“I figure you won’t complain over my mediocre skills. Though my professors always said I’m a fast learner.”

Wilson stares at him, with parted lips, frankly speechless, his belly churning with a mixture of anxiety and wary anticipation. 

And then House pulls his underwear down, freeing his budding erection. It slaps against his belly, but momentarily, the other man has taken him in hand and swallowed him down in one go. 

“Holy fuck,” Wilson manages, his head arching against the pillows at the wet heat suddenly enveloping his dick. 

House drags an experimental tongue up the vein running along his shaft before bobbing down again. 

“God,” Wilson blurts out, panting. 

House pulls off with a pop. Wilson needs a moment to recognize that he perhaps ought to check in with the other man. When he looks down, House is smirking at him.

“It’s Greg,” House says. “Starts with a ‘G.’. I know. Easy to confuse.”

“G-” Wilson starts only to cut himself off with a moan when the other man puts his mouth on his dick again. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands until he digs them into the sheets when House sucks on his head. 

Vaguely, Wilson is aware of House experimenting a bit before he eventually settles on a proper rhythm, a few fingers jerking the base of his shaft while he’s working the rest of his dick with his mouth.

Wilson is breathing harshly, cursing intermittently. And even though he’s technically had better blow jobs, it’s fucking phenomenal. When he gets close, he barely manages to utter a warning. House draws back with spit-slick lips, tipping him over the edge with a few pumps of his fist. He strokes him through his orgasm until Wilson has to pat at his hand lest he get overstimulated. 

There’s some rustling when House presumably wipes his hand on the sheets before crawling up on the bed to flop down next to him. Wilson tries to catch his breath, bonelessly lying in the sheets, before he eventually turns his head, watching House wipe his mouth. “God, that was…” he starts, trailing off. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” House says. “I’ve decided I don’t mind ‘God’ as a nickname after all. We’re practically the same person anyhow, if you overlook the small fact that one of us actually exists.”

“I’m not going to indulge what is obviously a segue into you furthering your atheist agenda,” Wilson retorts, still somewhat breathy. 

“Oh, please. As if you’re not the most hypocritical Jew I’ve ever met. You celebrate Christmas, for fuck’s sake.”

Wilson shakes his head, amused. “You know, if you give me a few minutes…” he says, gesturing in a roundabout way.

“Wilson, if I’m interpreting your vague allusions correctly, I’ll have to tell you now that I treat any offers at blow jobs with the utmost seriousness. If that’s just your congenital urge to be polite, now’s the time to admit it.”

Wilson exhales, his chest rising up and down. He may not have quite thought this through, but he still says, “Nah. Serious offer.”

House grins. “Going all Godfather on me, Jimmy. What man would I be to refuse?”

Wilson takes a few moments to gather himself and bask in the afterglow before he pushes himself up. He gets as far as to settle between House’s legs before he feels his nerves get to him again. Hesitating, he looks at House, who’s propped himself up on the pillows, his hands behind his head, returning his gaze amused.

“I’ve never done this before,” Wilson says, his hands hovering awkwardly above House’s hips. 

“Well, Jimmy, they say you learn your whole life. Today’s the day to experience something new. Carpe diem and all that.”

Taking a deep breath, Wilson tilts his head and then pulls down the other man’s underwear. 

House is working himself up to a half-mast, the remnants of a morning wood resting against his belly. He’s circumcised. Not much bigger than Wilson, though curving to the left a tad and a small birthmark on the shaft. He’s also apparently doing some manscaping, which both surprises him and somehow doesn’t. 

“It’s called penis, if you were wondering,” House quips when Wilson takes a little too long to do anything but stare. 

“I’m aware,” Wilson says dryly, but momentarily he nervously wets his lips when he glances down again. He can smell him too. 

It’s different without the bolstering effects of alcohol. 

That isn’t to say that Wilson’s never seen another man’s dick before. But that was mostly brief glimpses caught in locker rooms and men’s rooms, followed by a quick aversion of his eyes. He’s never even taken part in the drunken measuring contests some of his college buddies had gotten up to, citing it was too immature and he really was above all that.

In a strange, roundabout way, next to his own dick, he’s probably most familiar with House’s. The man is shameless enough as it is, only exacerbated when he’s high, and over nearly two decades of friendship, such instances have certainly accumulated. Not to speak of the fact that after Stacey, it was Wilson who’d been left to pick up the pieces. Who’d been there when House had hit rock bottom, who’d cleaned up drunken vomit, who’d borne all the insults and the crying fits and breakdowns and still helped House to and fro the bathroom.
Modesty had been the last thing on their minds back then. 

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” House says, cutting through his train of thought. He frowns, a bit uncertain. 

“No,” Wilson says and shakes his head. He underlines his decision by grabbing House’s dick. He gives it a few cursory strokes. And then he figures that it would be better without the dry-on-dry friction and spits. 

House curses, his breath hitching. “Shit. That was hot,” he says, and Wilson, feeling bolstered by that, leans down to take House’s dick into his mouth. 

He’s a bit slower in his approach than House was with him, a part of him cataloguing the taste and feel of everything, while another part of him is freaking out, and yet another part is finding that it’s actually not too bad. 

“Look? Easier than it—FUCK!” House’s hand lands in Wilson’s hair after he’d preempted that by swallowing House down as deeply as he could.

He’s gagging a bit, throat spasming, but forces himself to breathe through it, which causes House to curse even more and his hand to reflexively tighten around Wilson’s hair. 

“Holy crap, Wilson, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’d apprenticed under a hooker.”

Wilson draws back to catch his breath, smirking a bit. And then he gets right back to it. House is rapidly working himself up to a full erection, which shouldn’t but somehow makes things easier. 

Wilson’s experimenting a bit as well, trying the things he remembers he liked in bed when on the other end of such attention and using one hand to roll House’s balls in his palm. 

House is talking and cursing through it all, and Wilson figures he’s on a good path when the other man restricts himself to the latter and the occasional breathy moan. 

Wilson finds he could get used to this, actually. 

House is taking a bit longer to get close, but when Wilson figures out a particular thing that involves his tongue and holding his breath while doing his best to keep his gag reflex in check, it’s a pretty short time till he’s getting him there.

“Fuck,” House pants, “I’m gonna…” He tugs on Wilson’s hair, but Wilson ignores him, figuring he’s in for a penny, he may as well be in for a pound, and swallows him down all the way again. 

He glances up from underneath teary lashes, catching House looking at him and just in time to witness the other man’s face screwing up when he comes a moment later.

Wilson sputters, choking when House’s hips twitch and his dick pulses, managing to swallow once before he’s forced to retreat, coughing, but still possessing enough wits to replace his mouth with his hand to work House through the aftershocks. 

He watches the other man, though, strangely fascinated to see him like that, stripped of all pretenses, even when he comes down from his orgasm. 

Wilson wipes his hand on the sheets, runs his tongue over his teeth, and swallows again. The taste isn’t great, but it’s not horrible either, he finds. 

“Damn,” House says after a few moments, his chest rising with every breath. “I think I saw the Virgin Mary for a second there … or whatever the Ashkenazic equivalent is,” he tacks on, panting. 

Wilson’s lips quirk. “I would blame the Vicodin-addled mind, but…”

House looks at him with half-lidded eyes. “Nah. That’s all you, you Jewish boy wonder.”

Wilson smiles, a bit flustered but mostly flattered, and shuffles up the bed to press a kiss against House’s lips, who returns it lazily, before he settles down next to House, his head resting against the other man’s bicep. 

“Making me taste my own cum. How very kinky of you, Wilson.”

“I take complaints only during office hours.”

“Oh, no complaints at all,” House retorts. “I might have to send you a gift basket.”

Wilson snorts. “I don’t want to know what the card on that would say.”

“I’ll instruct your secretary to read it out loud for you.”

“Please, don’t,” Wilson retorts seriously. He can picture it clearly too. 

The other man grins at him, which does nothing to assuage his worries. 

“I’m serious, House,” Wilson reiterates with a look. 

“I’ll put something ambiguous on the note.”

Wilson lets his head flop against the pillow before huffing a laugh. 

“So, the date was a success then?” House asks after a few moments.

“I think we can safely assume so,” Wilson retorts, smiling at the ceiling. He can smell their scents clinging to the sheets, their sweat, the hint of House’s shampoo, and his own aftershave creating a unique signature.

“Just so you know, you didn’t say ‘no homo'," House voices after a beat, “So I’m pretty convinced you’re gay now.”

“Oh no,” Wilson retorts dryly. “The guy who gave me a blowjob thinks I’m gay.” He turns to look at House. “You think he’s projecting?”

“Hey, now. I’m bisexual at best. That’s the superior version of gay. Getting the best of both worlds. Like…half and half fruit snacks.”

Wilson snorts, quirking his brows at House. “Half and half fruit snacks?”

“It was the first one that came to mind that had the word ‘fruit’ in it. Give me some credit.”

Wilson huffs another laugh. 

House grins broadly, and his eyes light up. “You know, I just realized this means I can call people a whole new slew of slurs now.”

Laughing, despite himself, Wilson wipes a hand over his face. “I don’t think it works like that,” he points out.

“It works exactly like that, or I’m vastly misremembering the discography of various rappers.” House says. Wilson looks at him amused from the corner of his eyes. “And Cuddy can’t make me stop, unless she wants me to speak a few choice words at the next board meeting about discrimination. I and Thirteen can start a club. You can join too, but only once a month when we open our doors to fringe sexualities.”

“Fringe sexualities?” Wilson is still smiling when he arches a questioning brow at House. 

“It’s got to be exclusive. Otherwise people won’t pay to join.”

“Sure,” Wilson says, laughing to himself as he sits up. 

“Where are you going?”

“If you and your exclusive club allow it, I’m going to brush my teeth. And take a shower.”

House perks up, smirking lasciviously. “Want me to soap you up?”

Wilson pauses and turns to look at the other man, his face heating up, and he sputters a bit. “Uhm, not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but, uh, despite what recent activities may belie, I don’t actually have the refractory period of a twenty-year-old.”

“Relax. I was joking,” House retorts, snorting at Wilson’s sheepish expression. “Mostly anyway. Besides, I have to take a dump.”

Wilson nods, disabused of his romantic notions when he’s reminded that House is the person he deigned to somehow fall into bed with. “Thanks. That’s the kind of info I really need.”

“I’m a supporter of open communication,” House retorts. 

Wilson inhales, preparing to reply, before he simply turns and walks into the bathroom without dignifying that with an answer. 

“I hear it’s healthy and the base for a lasting relationship!” House yells just before Wilson closes the door on him. 

House has disappeared from his room when he steps out of the bathroom. Wilson gets dressed and strips the sheets off his bed before putting them into the laundry. 

He’s gotten a good start on breakfast by the time House finally shows up in the kitchen, seemingly having showered too and changed into a pair of clean sweatpants, but he’s still wearing Wilson’s McGill sweater, which is…doing things to him. 

“What are we having?” House asks, ruffling a hand through his damp hair as he sidles up to the island. 

“Bacon and eggs. Bagels are in the toaster,” Wilson replies, gesturing with the spatula. 

House hums pleased before he busies himself with the coffee machine.

Wilson finds himself looking at House during breakfast, smiling at random at the other man when they catch each other’s glances. 

“Stop that,” House says, after the fourth time or so, leveling Wilson with a glare but somehow failing to convey any real heat. 

“What?” Wilson asks, feigning ignorance. 

“Your disgustingly cow-eyed looks are starting to rub off on me. Any more and I’ll have to take a shower again to wash it all off. And you better hope it comes off, or Chase is going to ask me whether Cameron has dropped by. And nobody wants to have that discussion.”

Wilson smiles broader, this time deliberately, as he stares at House. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The other man returns his gaze deadpan. “Like you don’t. You’re doing it again. Right now.”

Wilson uses that moment of distraction to steal House’s bacon.

“You’re a devious and evil man, Wilson,” House voices after he’s realized the theft, gesturing at him with his fork. “Evil. Nobody ever thinks so because you’re hiding all that manipulativeness behind this veneer of boyish charm and politeness, but I know the truth. Face it, villain, I shan’t be deceived no more by your trickery!”

“You think I’ve got a boyish charm?” Wilson asks, taking a deliberate bite out of his stolen bacon. 

House huffs, though his lips are twitching into a smile as he turns back to his own breakfast. 

They spend a rather lazy morning together afterwards—once Wilson has confirmed to Cuddy that they are indeed sick—but around noon-ish he can’t really suppress his guilt about ditching work anymore and manages to convince House to go grocery shopping to at least soothe some of his guilty conscience by doing something productive. 

He does regret somewhat having insisted on it when House debates loudly the merits and advantages of different kinds of lubes as well as their various applications while they wander through the frozen goods aisle, rendering Wilson a rather alarming shade of crimson. Not that it’s really all that different from House’s usual antics, but the implied context being that he’s venturing into the topic because he may want to try them out with Wilson instead of a random hooker just carries a different connotation. 

Unfortunately, House seems to have found some entertainment in embarrassing Wilson, and by the time they get back to their condo, he thinks his face might never turn to its normal color again.

It’s only by God’s grace that they don’t run into Nora or some other neighbor on their way up to their floor. Which is good, because Wilson is sporting a half-chub in his pants after House pressed him against the wall of the elevator to defile him with a downright pornographic kiss before striding out with a whistle, leaving Wilson to deal with the aftermath, staring blankly into space, until he realizes if he doesn’t want the elevator doors closing on him, he’s got to get a move on. 

After lunch, they kind of drift into their own bubbles, Wilson switching the laundry and putting on fresh sheets, while House settles in front of the organ, seemingly experimenting with an original song, judging by him repeating and changing an unfamiliar melody as it turns steadily more complex.

House is still at it when Wilson gets out some pasta and sets a pot of water on the stove to boil while he starts on a simple sauce to make a quick dinner.

Even then, the other man only joins him when it’s time to get the plates out. When they squeeze past each other in the narrow aisle between the kitchen island and the counter, their bare forearms brush, and for some reason it makes Wilson blush irrationally again. 

They haven’t really talked about it. Not since the morning, after which they somehow effortlessly ended up sliding back into their usual dynamic. 

Wilson sneaks glances at House during dinner, thinking how to best bring it up. 

Yet it’s only afterwards, when they’ve settled on the couch to rewatch the episode of House’s show whose end they kind of missed yesterday, that Wilson gathers the courage to finally approach the conversation they’ve been avoiding.

“House,” he starts, nervously wetting his lip. “What is this, really?” He glances at the other man, rather anxious. “I mean, what are we doing? Are we just messing around, or is this—you know… serious?”

House takes his time to respond. He looks at the TV, his throat bobbing. “I think we’re past the point of just messing around with no strings attached,” he eventually says, sounding deceptively casual. 

Wilson rolls his lip between his teeth. Nervously he picks at a hangnail. He looks at House again, hesitating. “So are we—” He cuts himself off, trying to find the right words. “Is this—do you want this to be a…relationship?” He feels weird saying it, the word rolling strangely off his lips. He swallows, but doesn’t take it back. 

“My, Wilson, are you asking me to be your date to the prom? I don’t know if I’ve got the legs to rock a dress, much less wear heels.”

“House,” Wilson says—pleads, really, for him to treat this seriously. 

House looks at him. After a moment he shrugs as he looks at the TV again. “Half the hospital already thinks we’re a couple. Might as well make it official.”

Wilson exhales slowly. A part of him feels the urge to flee, to escape this conversation, but he forces himself to stay put. His hands are damp with sweat, and he wipes them on the fabric of his pants. “I don’t think I’m ready to be…out, you know. At work.” Wilson looks nervously at House after he’s worked himself up to voice this thought. “I know we joked about it, but—”

“Wilson,” House cuts him off. “It’s fine.”

He must look rather stupid the way he looks at House at the moment he processes those words. He’s worked himself up so much, perhaps even braced himself to defend his point, when it seemingly wasn’t needed in the first place. 

“Our- this, or whatever, is nobody’s business.” He turns to face Wilson, who feels some of his earlier tension bleed out of him in favor of relief. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t give a shit what other people think. If you suddenly decide to change your mind and hire a bunch of drag queens to refurbish your office to look like a unicorn threw up all over it and roll out a rainbow welcome mat that spells out ‘I am gay and fucking Gregory House’ in pink glittery font, that’s your prerogative.”

Wilson’s lips twitch faintly. “I think that might be a tad too much. The glittery font, I mean. I’m more of a green kind of guy anyway. Goes well with my eyes, I’m told.”

“The person who sold you that tie ripped you off,” House quips. “And just to be clear, whenever you decide on a rug, I’d appreciate some warning. Because I call dibs on telling Cuddy.” 

Wilson huffs, feeling a bit more relaxed. “Of course you are.”

“Glad we’ve established that,” House says. “Pestering Cuddy into quitting is mine and my pleasure alone.”

“Well, for both of our sakes, let’s hope she holds out until you’re squared away into retirement, because I doubt her successor will be quite as willing to humor your quirks. Also, I don’t think my wallet could take supporting us both.”

“Hey now, you love my quirks,” House counters.

Wilson rolls his eyes, fondly exasperated, and he smiles. “Sure, House,” he says, almost absently patting House’s thigh before registering his actions. The tips of his ears are pink.

Clearing his throat, he throws his arm across the back of the couch and looks at the TV. 

House looks at him, smirking. 

Wilson glances at him. “What?” he asks when the other man keeps staring. 

House’s lips twitch. “No yawn. Very suave.”

Huffing a laugh, Wilson shakes his head and turns towards the TV. 

They watch the whole episode and then switch to some kind of wrestling match that’s on, accompanied by House voicing his opinion that the whole sport is rather gay, what with the men in leather masks, all oiled up and sweaty. That in turn leads into a discussion about gladiator fights in ancient Rome, followed by an ardent debate about whether they could take on a starving lion. 

Their knees are brushing now, though Wilson hardly notices, more invested in making his point by saying, “In no way could you survive being locked into an arena with an emaciated lion! Cane or not. It would only get more pissed if you hit it on the nose — and that’s sharks, by the way, not lions — and it’s preposterous to assume that just because you’ve watched a few videos—” 

Wilson slows down in his rant when he notices that House is looking at him oddly, tonguing at his teeth, seemingly caught up in a contemplation or another. 

“What? Are you going to point out that the females are generally the hunters again? Because we’ve been over this. The difference in bite force is negligible at best.” 

Wilson’s last word dies on his lips when House abruptly leans forward and he finds himself being kissed.

House pulls back, and Wilson blinks, rather speechless. “Huh. That’s one way to win an argument.”

“You didn’t win—”

Wilson is being kissed again, and this time, he kisses back, overcoming his initial startlement. 

After a few exponentially more heated growing minutes, when they’re heading down into groping territory, he breathily murmurs against House’s lips, “I’ve heard that blow jobs get better with practice. Care to test that theory?”

“I think I might love you.” Though it’s said reflexively and with the appropriate joking intonation, such a statement coming from House deserves—and Wilson knows that; he knows that it was just a quip of an answer—he still can’t help his initial reaction.

His breath rushes out of his lungs, while his belly seems to experience a repeat of the sensation he felt that one time he let himself be convinced by Sam to ride that horrible roller coaster in Orlando, Florida, after which he went to throw up in a garbage can. Only that it’s not nausea.

House freezes, pulling back, his smug grin fading as he only now seems to realize what he’s said. His throat bobs when he swallows, his eyes wide and startled as he stares at Wilson. He huffs, a bad copy of a chuckle climbing up his chest. “You know that wasn’t—”

Wilson leans back in, forcefully kissing House before he can finish that statement, whatever it may be. And because what else is he supposed to do after hearing that?

“Bed,” House manages a few minutes later in a brief pause between breaths, sounding all but wrecked. 

Wilson doesn’t even think House took his cane with him when the man already drags him through the closest bedroom door, which happens to be Wilson’s, halfway into undoing his belt. 

“I just changed the sheets,” Wilson protests, only partially for show, just when House manages to get his belt open. 

“Great,” House voices and unzips Wilson’s fly. “I once heard that painters create their most inspired works on a clear canvas.”

“I don’t think that statement can be applied to—” And Wilson promptly swallows the rest of his words in favor of a curse, because House has stuck his hands down his pants.

“Personally,” House says, smirking deviously at Wilson, “I’m aiming for a Pollock.”

Roughly twenty minutes and two satisfying orgasms between them later, Wilson says, “We’re not skipping work tomorrow.”

“Ruin my afterglow, why don’t you?” House retorts, but the biting tone loses some of its edge when paired with him dragging his nose up Wilson’s neck to suck a bruise into his skin. 

“If you give me a hickey, House, I swear—”

“You wear high collars,” the other man mumbles, though he does move a bit further down, only to resume his activities. 

Wilson figures it would be unwise to argue with the man who’s currently in the process of reaching for his dick to rouse it into an encore.

The next morning when his alarm goes off, Wilson drags himself out of bed, even if it’s ever so reluctantly. 

House makes a sound of wordless protest, but Wilson just pats his flank and gets up anyway. The other man groans and turns on the mattress, taking the blankets with him as he buries his face in the pillows. 

He goes to use the toilet and brushes his teeth before stepping into the shower. He even feels magnanimous enough to forgo blow-drying his hair for now and instead pads back into the bedroom. He flicks the light on. 

House groans. 

“You went to bed at the same time as me,” Wilson says, looking somewhat amused at the other man while he sets out for his closet.

“’m asleep,” House mumbles. The only response he manages. 

“And you gave me a hickey. It’s like high school all over again.”

“Just pick a shirt and one of your hideous ties to cover it up,” House grumbles, his voice still thick with sleep.

“I’m going to make coffee, and then I’m going to blow-dry my hair.”

House groans again. 

Wilson shakes his head. He gets dressed and heads into the kitchen to follow up on his words. He even finishes his coffee before taking the other cup back into the bedroom with him, setting it down on the bedside table closest to House. 

And then he blow-dries his hair. 

When he leaves the bathroom, he’s greeted by House glaring at him. He’s leaning against the headboard, blankets pooling around his lap, but holding the coffee Wilson brought him. “This is not me declaring that I can be swayed by your blatant attempts at bribery,” House says darkly. 

Never mind that he takes a sip of his coffee and the fact that he’s looking rather ridiculous, with his hair sticking out at odd angles and the definite bruise standing out against his skin on the side of his neck. 

Shit. Wilson forgot he put it there yesterday, recalling vaguely thinking at one point last night it would be a great idea to pay House back in kind, though he’s definitely been less chivalrous in his placement.

Still, somehow, a small part in the back of his mind likes it. Likes it a lot. 

House tilts his head, looking at him. His lips curve into a smirk. He opens his mouth—

“We’re going to work,” Wilson says sternly, tearing his gaze away from House’s neck and turning around to convince himself of that while he heads for the kitchen. 

House shows up some time during Wilson’s second bowl of cereal. 

“Hypocrite!” House exclaims, pointing an accusing finger at Wilson, who looks up, a spoon hovering in front of his mouth. 

“Wha-”

“You dare complain to me about hickeys?! I look like I was mauled by a bear! I had to button up my shirt!”

Wilson clears his throat to disguise humor. “This might come as a surprise to you, but that’s why they call it a button-up.”

“It’s almost summer! It has a—” House pauses as he gestures at the windows—“a bazillion degrees outside!”

Wilson’s lips twitch. “Yeah?” he replies calmly. “Looks more like 75. A bit cloudy too. Maybe you can jump from shadow to shadow.” 

“Yeah?!” House exclaims, throwing his arms wide. “Well, you can bring a shovel to work. Because when I inevitably fail, you’ll be the one who’ll have to scrape my dried-up husk off the sidewalk where I’ll undoubtedly have melted into a gross flesh-puddle thanks to you!”

“The hospital has air conditioning,” Wilson points out. 

“And thank God for that!” House says, limping over to the fridge. “I’ll look ridiculous in my leather jacket. A buttoned-up shirt, honestly.”

Wilson smirks. “Who’s the one obsessed with their looks now?” 

“Zip it,” House retorts, turning away from the fridge to pour himself a bowl of cereal and pointedly putting the milk in the door before slamming it shut. 

Wilson spoons some cereal into his mouth because otherwise he thinks he won’t be able to keep it together. 

They end up driving into work separately, and from the way Wilson left House—on the couch fiddling with a Rubik’s cube—he’s probably not going to show up till at least half an hour later. 

He’s a bit relieved by that actually, because he’s going to need all that time to compose himself, and while it’s not necessarily uncommon for them to show up at work at the same time, it’s certainly not usual either, and today of all days, Wilson can’t take any chances. 

Wilson doesn’t seek out House, even when he’s peripherally aware of him having arrived at the hospital at one point. Instead he focuses on work, trying to go about his day as he would at any other time, painfully aware of any and all of his actions and smiles and whatnot. 

It’s irrational to think that people can tell that he sucked off House the night before, but he still can’t shake the thought. 

Especially when he notices Chase stepping up to the stainless steel sink where he’s currently in the process of scrubbing in for a surgery he’s supervising. He knew the other man was on the schedule, but he’d hoped that they wouldn’t run into each other at all until they were standing in front of his patient's open torso with other things to worry about than idle conversation. 

God, he hopes House kept his end of the bargain. 

Wilson deliberately keeps his eyes fixed on his hands, hoping that none of his inner turmoil shows on his face. 

Every so often Wilson feels the younger man glancing at him. 

He seems to work himself up to something.

Please, God, let it be something mundane.

There’s always Wilson bringing up Cameron if he really has to shift the topic, but he’d rather not. 

Wilson almost thinks he’s out of the water when, just before he finishes up, Chase blurts out, “Did House really pay a hooker to fuck him on your bed last night?”

Wilson blinks. That is not what he was expecting. He rinses off his hands, buying himself a few seconds to push down any reflexive questions. It seems House didn’t manage to keep even a single hickey hidden.

“Her name was Krystle,” Wilson says. “With a K. Don’t ask me how I know. I really don’t want to relive the experience.” 

“Wow,” Chase says, shaking his head. Wilson turns his back on the other man, desperately glad that he can put his mask on to hide his expression. 

Three hours later, Taub passes him on his way out of the clinic, stopping by to briefly pat his shoulder to proclaim his condolences. 

Wilson just nods somberly, though it only occurs to him later that the other doctor may not have referred to the death of Maddie Fletcher, a long-term brain-cancer patient of his, but instead something or other that House cocked up. 

That theory is only underlined sometime later when he goes to grab a soda from a vending machine and he’s startled out of his actions by a voice suddenly addressing him. 

“How’s your back?”

Wilson briefly stiffens before he draws his drink out of the slot. When he looks up, he finds Thirteen leaning against the wall. “Fine?” he replies. 

Thirteen hums. “That must be the first time a man in his forties said that after spending a night on the couch,” she comments.

Wilson cracks open his soda and deliberately doesn’t check on whether his collar is all the way buttoned up like he so desperately wants to. 

“Can I help you with something, Dr. Hadley?” He asks, pitching his voice in what he hopes to be an adequate tone for someone who hasn’t been made out as having slept with his roommate.

Thirteen stares at him with her creepily pale eyes for a moment. Then she holds out a clipboard she’d been carrying. “There’s a clinic patient who presented with a suspicious lump in her breast. She complained about soreness. I scheduled her for a mammogram, but I thought I’d ask whether you’d mind taking a look.”

Wilson takes the clipboard, glancing down at the data. He sighs. “Which room?”

After they exchange a few more cursory pleasantries, Thirteen finally leaves. 

Wilson sips on his soda, idly making his way down the hallway. As soon as he watches the woman turn a corner, he all but dives into the next men’s room, checking his reflection to gauge whether his collar has slipped in any way. It has not, but it doesn’t reassure him much, past the initial burst of relief at finding there are no visible marks left on his persona. 

“I hear you had sex with a hooker on my bed last night,” Wilson tells House in lieu of a hello when he sets his tray down on their usual table in the cafeteria to join the other man for lunch. “Also, I’d like my wallet back.”

House digs around in his pocket and slides it across the table. “Who snitched?”

“The lunch lady. I assume you’re referring to you taking my credit card to pay for your sandwich,” Wilson retorts, as he slides into his seat, “since I’m already aware of the hooker.”

“Damn,” House says and reaches across the table to steal one of Wilson’s fries. “And here I hoped you’d just put it down to you having developed spontaneous sexomnia and were too embarrassed to bring it up.”

Wilson bats away House’s hand to get his hands on the ketchup. “Thirteen asked me how I slept on the couch,” he reveals.

“Ah,” House says. 

“Your fellows are as relentless as they are transparent,” Wilson states, setting down the ketchup and using that moment to level House with a look. “And disproportionately invested in your personal life.”

“I told Cuddy I didn’t want to hire anyone, but she just had to insist. Something about justifying the expenses of funding a department spearheaded only by a single employee.” He scoffs with affected derision. “Just because one competent doctor looks bad on paper, I’m now stuck herding a bunch of morons on top of doing all the heavy lifting myself anyway.”

Wilson snorts while chewing on a bite of his burger before saying, “I’m sure that you’d have been more than happy to handle any and all patient interactions personally, not to speak of getting stool samples, working the lab, consoling teary-eyed parents, doing your billing reports—”

“Yes, yes. You made your point,” House cuts him off. “And that’s what residents are for, by the way. They at least would’ve been too intimidated to voice any hypothetical observations about my persona indicating I have a sex life.”

Reflexively, Wilson’s gaze flicks down to where House apparently has given up on disguising his hickey, the top few buttons of his wrinkly shirt unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, before he tries to subtly gauge whether anyone in the cafeteria is paying attention to them. 

Meanwhile, the other man continues bemoaning his fate: “And yet here I am, stuck with a bunch of nosey doctors who’ve somehow gained the delusional impression that me not having fired them yet means that they’re free to speculate about my private life.”

“Yes. Who could’ve predicted that you hiring them for their questionable ethics and skewed morals would in any way backfire on you?” Wilson says wryly, his eyes tracking the way the skin on House’s bare throat shifts, exposing the purpling mark. 

The other man’s lips twitch into a knowing smirk. 

Wilson tears his gaze away from his neck and deliberately looks anywhere but at the hickey. When that becomes too awkward to maintain, he busies himself with his food. “What did you tell them anyhow?” he asks with feigned casualness.

House smirks as he props his elbows up on the table. “Why, the truth, of course.”

Wilson feels hot and cold all of a sudden, cold sweat blooming across his back. His breathing turns a bit shallow. 

“Their foolproof interrogation tactics pried it right out of me. I was shocked when they didn’t believe me when I said I’d burnt myself on a curling iron.”

Wilson exhales with no little amount of relief, conscious of the aftershocks of his heart racing beneath his ribs. He clears his throat. “But they bought the story about the hooker?”

“Apparently, they do now, seeing as we’re talking about it.”

Wilson stares at House, while his mind goes over his interactions with the other man’s employees. He sighs, leaning back in his seat as he drives a hand over his face in sudden realization, cursing under his breath. “That may be my fault, actually,” he admits.

“Wilson, are you telling me our very platonic bromance has transcended the laws of physics to the point of you spontaneously developing the urge to confirm any and all my made-up excuses? Don’t tell Cuddy; we ought to make use of that.”

“I confirmed it for Chase when he asked me about it this morning. I thought you’d already come up with a story.”

House steals another fry, gesturing at Wilson with it when he says, “Of course you can’t expect my great evasion tactics to work if you don’t give up on your ill-advised habits of talking to people.”

Wilson finds it only appropriate to point out that, “There wouldn’t be any need for evasion tactics in the first place if you could stand wearing a buttoned-up shirt in an air-conditioned room.”

“Anyone who wears a button-up while it’s got that many degrees outside is a pretentious douchebag.”

“That,” Wilson starts, as he picks up his burger, “or they follow the hospital guidelines regarding appropriate attire.”

“Conformity is the jailer of freedom and the enemy of growth,” House shoots back. 

“Did you memorize that quote to justify your no-lab-coat rule to Cuddy, or did you happen to doodle it into all your schoolbooks after you decided to appropriate it as your own life motto?”

“I’m single-handedly steering against our country falling into the trap of communism, and you’re judging me? For shame, Wilson.”

Wilson just quirks a brow at him. 

“My lab coat is itchy.”

“Spoken like someone who’s been wearing their lab coat for years and can still tell what it feels like.”

“Why, Wilson, would you like me to wear it? Here I’d planned to nab some scrubs from the nursing lockers, but if some doctor-on-doctor role-play is more up your alley...”

Wilson rolls his eyes, huffing, but his eyes dart through the room reflexively. 

“Your accusations are completely unfounded, by the way,” House says after a beat. 

Wilson looks at the other man, confused for a moment, till he adds, “I have a long neck.”

Wilson’s lips twitch, amused despite himself, even if he’s not quite sure whether House is lying. 

“And really,” House continues, grabbing yet more fries from Wilson’s plate, “if you think about it, it’s the hooker’s fault.” He quirks his lips with a pointed look at Wilson. “No sense of professionalism these days. How is a man supposed to hide his extracurricular activities from his wife if his neck is all marked up?”

Wilson tries not to let on that he’s getting a bit warm. “I wouldn’t know,” he deflects. “You’re the expert on the matter.”

“And here I thought you had me beat, considering the ‘wives’ part of the equation.” House counters. 

“As you so often like to remind me, I’m divorced. Thrice,” Wilson replies deadpan. 

“And thank God for that,” House retorts. “I don’t think the wife would’ve been very understanding about finding me fucking a hooker in your bed.” 

Wilson’s lips curve into an amused smile. “While we’re at it, I expect you to do the sheets. They looked like some mad painter had gone wild…”

House grins smugly. “What can I say? It was great sex. Spectacular even, one might say.” 

Blood rushes to Wilson’s cheeks, though the statement has him feeling flattered as well. 

The other man leans in conspiratorially. 

Wilson tilts his torso forward, his pulse racing. He stares into House’s blue eyes as the man appropriates a serious expression, only to say, “Her tits were huge.”

Abruptly, Wilson’s flusteredness is drowned out by startled laughter. “Next you tell me she wore a leopard skirt.”

House throws an arm across the back of his seat, and Wilson straightens up too. “Please, she was a classy lady.”

“I told Chase her name was Krystle,” Wilson says, smirking. “With a K.”

House gestures with his sandwich. “That's on her parents.”

“I think she was a chain smoker,” Wilson muses out loud, spinning the story further. “I ran into her in the elevator. She gave me twenty out of pity. For having had to put up with living with you.”

“Yeah? That’s rather altruistic of her. Those twenty bucks were half of what I paid her. She worked hard for that. I’d hate to see you waste it.”

“I’ll reinvest it. Into the lube you borrowed off me halfway through,” Wilson says, waving his fork, “to do something called … a German butter nutter or something. That sounds believable, right?”

“I don't know if I'm flexible enough for that,” House says as he digs into his meal. “Though the ‘German’ was a nice touch. Just say that she held a dildo and keep the rest ambiguous. I’ll try to come up with a reason to mention that I appreciated the banana flavor.”

“Strawberry,” Wilson says.

“Hm?” House looks up from his sandwich.

“Going with a theme is overdoing it, don't you think?”

“Maybe I appreciate the poetic symmetry,” House voices after he’s swallowed. Suddenly he smirks, raising a brow at Wilson. “Strawberry? My, my, I’m learning new things about you every day.”

“I’d like to point out that I was made aware of the superiority of food-flavored lube only recently.”

House grins. “Must’ve been a smart man who told you about that.”

Wilson snorts. 

“I still get a boner when I so much as smell guava in my vicinity. Reminds me of the times I was still bendy enough for the butter churner, you see.”

Wilson gets a bit flustered again, despite himself. “I don’t think that’s really lunch conversation,” he says, but feeling cheeky, he adds, “Maybe you can expand on that some other time.”

House stills briefly, even forgetting he was about to steal another one of Wilson’s fries. Instead he looks at him, his pupils expanding. He wets his lips. “I’ll add it to the agenda.”

Beneath the table, Wilson feels House’s legs bump into his. Slowly, his sneaker is sliding up Wilson’s ankle. 

He swallows, while House continues, “I bet it will be a rousing and lengthy discussion. Maybe I’ll even get to touch upon the advantages of oil-based lube.”

“Yeah?” Wilson asks distractedly, his paranoid gaze darting around to see whether someone is paying attention to them. They’re venturing into rather dangerous topics. 

House hums, sizing Wilson up, and abruptly retrieves his legs. “Though of course a man as experienced and well-versed as you knows all about that.”

Wilson arches a brow. “Do I, now?”

House grins at him in that smug kind of way that makes it seem like he knows something Wilson doesn’t.

And thanks to many years of experience and being conditioned appropriately, Wilson immediately feels on guard. 

When Foreman knocks on his office door a few hours later with a file in hand, Wilson doesn’t even look up from his desk before he says, “Yes, it’s true. And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”

So far the tale of House’s apparent wild hookup has made the rounds, and it’s getting increasingly more ridiculous, in no little part owed to both Wilson and House trying to one-up each other by dropping random made-up facts the other is forced to confirm. 

They’ve somehow, in mutual understanding and without so much as speaking since lunch started, started to play a game of improv, with the sole rule being ‘yes and.’ Mainly because denial on either part would have the story behind House’s hickey collapse like a house of cards.

“I actually just came by to ask you your opinion on these protein markers,” Foreman responds wryly. 

“Thank god,” Wilson breathes, only partially for show, and reaches out to take the proffered file, slightly embarrassed when he notices the sweat stains under his arms. 

The AC is working overtime—ridiculous considering it’s only May—but the window is cracked too to air out that familiar kind of odor that comes with dealing with chemo patients on a regular basis: that sickly smell, which lingers even afterwards and sometimes tends to stick in Wilson’s nose, even long after he gets home, depending on the day. On the bad ones, not even a shower washes away that scent of illness and death.

Psychosomatic, his therapist told him. 

Wilson is inclined to disagree, but then again, he still opened the window after handing out his second terminal diagnosis today. 

Not that it does anything to abate the prevailing humidity. It looks like there might be a thunderstorm in the works. 

Wilson hums as he flips through the file. “Looks alright. I don’t think it’s cancer. That’s what you were going for, I’m assuming. But the sat levels are off by a bit.”

Foreman takes the file back. “Yeah, I’m aware. Thanks.” He turns to leave, but a few strides in, he slows down, stopping in the middle of the room. He bumps the file against his thigh before he spins around and looks at Wilson, hesitating. “How can you put up with House? After everything he pulls. Hell, you could throw him out. I would have. Any sensible person would’ve.”

Wilson sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “Look,” he says, “House is—” He trails off, trying to find the words to explain himself. 

“An ass?”

Wilson snorts and leans back in his chair to look at the other doctor across his desk. “And yet he’s my friend. What does that tell you?"

“That you’re more insane than people give you credit for?” Forment quips. 

Wilson’s lips curve up, amused. “Look, I don’t expect you to understand.”

“I don’t,” Foreman bluntly admits. 

Wilson considers him. “You’ve worked for House for how long now? Four years?”

“Five,” Foreman corrects. 

“Five, then,” Wilson echoes, a bit surprised that it’s been that long. “So I’d say you probably have a fair idea of what House is like even outside of him being your boss or a colleague. Still, not to discredit your own experiences, I’d like to argue that for every story you come up with that paints him at his worst, I can likely come up with three to top it.”

Foreman huffs and just looks pointedly at Wilson. 

Wilson shifts, realizing he may have missed getting his point across. “I’ve known House now for nineteen years,” he says. “I know what he’s like. And against all common sense, he’s still my best friend. After all that, do you think we’d be living together if we didn’t think we could put up with each other?”

Foreman opens his mouth before he shakes his head. “I suppose that’s fair. Still insane though.”

Wilson hides a smile behind his hand. “Probably.”

Foreman shakes his head, chuckling to himself as he leaves. 

Somehow, in between killing time before his last appointment of the day, when he really should be doing his overdue paperwork, Wilson finds himself opening Google instead. 

It’s not without some apprehension when he types in ‘butter churner sex position’ because House’s offhanded comments won’t leave him alone. His brows rise a few inches, graced with that visual, and yet it’s only after he googles the advantages of ‘oil-based ’lubes’ that he has to take a few moments to compose himself.

Not because of the initial results, but because when he adds the word ‘gay’ at the end, feeling rather like he’s venturing down into something illegal, a few more detailed accounts come up in his search. 

All in all, it results in Wilson bumping his appointment with Mr. O’Malley by twenty minutes. 

But honestly, he can’t be expected to discuss a man’s prostate cancer while the only thought bouncing around in his anxious mind is anal sex.

When Wilson finishes up for the day and steps out of the hospital, the sky has turned dark and grey with thick rolling clouds. The wind has picked up, the breeze a welcome sensation in the overarching humidity. The first raindrops start to fall, dark splotches appear on the tarmac, and he pauses briefly to help one of the patients in a wheelchair out smoking back under the roof. 

By then, it’s started to pour, and Wilson jogs towards the parking garage, his shoulders soaked by the time he finally escapes the rain. 

Sitting in his car, he catches his breath for a bit, staring into thin air wrapped up in his own thoughts, before eventually he starts his car. Chewing at his lip, he types away on his GPS, looking for drugstores in the area. 

Perhaps it’s paranoid, but he picks the one that’s farther out than the places he usually frequents — half an hour detour — before he sets out. 

Some forty-five minutes later, fat droplets are still prattling against his windshield, the wipers barely managing to keep up as he drives home. 

Nervously, he chews at his thumbnail while driving, the lights of a gas station sign advertising diesel and fuel by the gallon refracting through the wet windshield. He pulls over on a whim, stopping next to one of the pumps. He hurries inside through the rain, prepaying 40 bucks for gas. He grabs a pack of shitty, overpriced gum and a cheap Bic lighter before telling the clerk to toss in a pack of Marlboros.

He pumps gas quickly and lights the first cigarette before he even pulls back out onto the road, his hands shaking as he goes through the motions, inhaling smoke. He holds it in, fumbling to press the window switch, coughing when he exhales as soon as they’ve halfway rolled down. 

His hair gets tousled by the wind while he drives, his ears cold as he smokes. 

Rain prattles on the door trims, the occasional spray hitting his face, but it’s the better alternative to his car reeking, or worse, House picking up on it.

His second smoke goes down smoother.

Every so often he glances at the unassuming plastic bag on his passenger seat, flexing his free hand around the steering wheel. The reason for why he had to delete his browser history. Repeatedly. 

When he pulls up in front of their apartment complex, he tosses two gums into his mouth—a sharp, minty smell burning through his sinuses—and wipes the door trims down with his sleeves before he rolls up the windows. 

Subtly he sniffs his collar when he makes his way inside, but all he gets is mint.

House isn’t home yet. Fortunately. 

Wilson toes off his wet shoes, heading for his room, where he takes off his damp clothes, stuffing them in the washing machine, and leaves his plastic bag in the bottommost drawer of his dresser, trying his best to forget about it.

Merely thinking of what it contains makes him blush and break out in cold sweats at the same time. 

“Honey, I’m home!” House exclaims as he steps into their apartment. 

Wilson looks up from the couch, having already showered and changed into his worn McGill sweater and pajama pants, his fingers tapping anxiously against the glass of his beer bottle. “I’m hoping you’re not referring to Krystle, whom you’ve hidden away in a closet somewhere.”

House’s shirt is drenched, all but clinging to his torso, and his thighs are dark from the rain, thoroughly soaked. Wilson doesn’t envy him for having been forced to take his bike in that weather. 

“And her sister,” House replies. His sneakers squelch when he takes them off. “You missed out on that tidbit by leaving early.”

“I didn’t leave early,” Wilson points out. “You left late.”

“My patient spontaneously decided to let his liver go to shit and needed a transplant. Never mind your feigned call in front of Cuddy about our landlord informing you that some unsavory person defiled our lobby. I had to spend nearly half an hour in her office justifying myself. And that was after I’d managed to convince her that I’m not back on drugs.”

Wilson snorts. He shifts to watch House dumping his backpack, taking out his paperwork before limping over to the kitchen, where he’s tossing it onto the counter. Likely to make sure it won’t get soaked anymore than it already is. He’s putting more weight on his cane than this morning too, Wilson notices. 

“You’ll be paying for that, you know,” the other man declares ominously, interrupting Wilson’s observation. 

“Oh, really? How?” 

“Now, that would be telling.”

“I hate to break it to you, but I run faster than you,” Wilson says. From the way House is carrying himself, his shoulder must be bothering him too. Rain sometimes messes with his leg, though usually fall is the worst for it. It may also be all the standing from the aforementioned surgery. 

House downs two ibuprofen, washing them down with a mouthful of orange juice straight from the bottle before he says, “Low blow, Wilson. What would your patients think of you if they knew you were so blatantly ableist?”

“I’d introduce them to you; I feel like that would balance out their opinion of me.”

House clicks his tongue as he shuts the fridge. “I could revoke your sex privileges.”

Blood rushes to Wilson’s heated cheeks, his mind conjuring the rather explicit information he came upon during his Google search earlier today. Still, he retorts, “That’s a false threat if I’ve ever heard it.”

“Yeah? How would you know?” 

“Even you’re not petty enough to enter into a lose-lose scenario,” Wilson states with more confidence than he feels, trying not to be too obvious in ogling the other man’s arms through the damp shirt. 

House just levels him with a look. 

“Alright, I retract my statement. Still, I’ve got a fair idea as to who’ll break first in that standoff.”

“Why, Jimmy, are you planning on playing unfairly?” 

House smirks at him, and Wilson swallows. “That would be telling, now,” he deflects with warm ears. 

The other man just looks at him, amused for one reason or another. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be busy hogging your bathtub while working out the details of my revenge plans.”

“Should I be surfing Amazon in the meantime to look for high-backed black swivel chairs for your eventual reveal, Dr. No, or are you going to do that by yourself?”

“You underestimate me, Mr. Bond,” House says. “I have already acquired funding from less than reputable means. Though if you could set it up once it arrives, that’d be great.”

“I’ll be sure to keep an ear out for the doorbell,” Wilson replies, amused. 

House spends nearly three hours in Wilson’s tub, which is rather telling of his chronic pain flaring up. When he finally emerges, he looks soft and sleepy, already dressed for bed as he grabs some of the leftover pasta from the fridge and joins Wilson on the couch, his hands wrinkled like prunes as he starts to eat straight from the Tupperware. 

Rain is still drumming against the windows, the occasional thunderclap sounding in the distance. 

He smells of his coconut shampoo, Wilson notes, swallowing. He tries to focus on his telenovela. 

It speaks volumes that House keeps silent, not even piping up to make fun of him for his pick in entertainment. 

“How’s your leg?” he asks after a few moments.

“Attached,” House replies, clipped, his hand twitching towards his thigh in a reflexive motion until he aborts the movement in favor of aggressively spearing his fork into a tomato. 

Wilson bites his lip, looking at House’s pinched profile, and after a moment of hesitation, he places his hand on the other man’s thigh.

House pauses, glancing at him. 

Wilson resolutely looks at the TV as he starts to put pressure on the muscle with his thumb. 

The other man continues eating, chewing slowly and sucking in a breath every so often when Wilson digs his thumb into one of the tenser parts.

When he hits a particular spot, House curses violently, his leg jolting. 

Wilson abruptly takes his hand away, but House catches his wrist. They look at each other. 

Wilson swallows. He puts his hand back on House’s thigh to continue his massage.

Some twenty minutes later, the other man appears more relaxed, having leaned against the back of the couch and gesturing with his fork while he comments, “I don’t get why you like that show. It’s all in subtitles!” 

“You speak Spanish,” Wilson counters, watching how Carmen stomps down a hallway to confront her fiancé’s affair partner. 

“And? That doesn’t mean I want to have to put in the effort to listen.”

“Then don’t,” Wilson says. “I’m watching it.”

House huffs. He looks at the screen, watching the two women arguing at the top of the landing. 

“Twenty bucks says that wifey is going to push Rosita off the stairs,” House announces. 

“I’ll raise you ten that she’s going to slap her first.”

“Please, that’s just obvious.”

“And she isn’t going to be pushed off the stairs. Enriqué is going to show up first.”

House discards his empty Tupperware, wiping his hands. “Deal.”

Enriqué shows up moments later on screen. 

“Oh, come on!” House exclaims. 

“Pay up,” Wilson demands, smirking, lifting his hand from House’s thigh to offer his palm. 

“You’ve seen that before! It clearly doesn’t count,” House argues. 

“Should’ve thought about that before.”

House scoffs but concedes. “Put it on my tab.”

Wilson rolls his eyes but drops his hand, suddenly awkward about where to put it. 

God, this is ridiculous.

Briefly glancing at House, he hesitates before he places it on his thigh again. He feels like a fucking teenager all over again.

He’s in his forties, for fuck’s sake. He’s been married thrice!

The other man doesn’t comment on it, seemingly content to just relax back into the couch and look at the TV. 

He wonders if this would count as a date. It’s hard to tell. But it’s not like he’d invite House on a casual outing to a nice coffee shop. The man would laugh him out of the house if he proposed them visiting a musical. A third date activity, usually, as categorized in Wilson’s head.

House likes to mock him on occasion, likening his approach of getting women into bed to a cancer treatment plan, alluding to the fact that he has perfected the art of dating with an almost scientific approach.

Lunch at a public place the first time, low commitment. Art shows for second dates to have something to talk about, and dinner in a slightly nicer place after an activity on the third date to conclude the evening with a few drinks. A few compliments are strewn into the conversation, not overtly sexual, but conveying that he’s noticed the effort put into the outfit, perhaps ordering a wine showing off taste, and a chat about the food and personal preferences and whatever else comes up. And at the end of the night, he’d insist on covering the tab and tip generously before politely offering to drive his date home.

A few simple touches here and there—shoulders, small of her back, that kind of stuff—and a hint of a glance conveying interest when escorting her back home. Maybe a kiss goodbye on the doorstep. Ideally the fourth date would conclude in him being invited in under some sort of pretense or another, which would lead to sex. He’d have an overnight bag in his car, just in case, but wouldn’t bring it with him so as to not seem too presumptuous. It would be nice, vanilla sex. Decent, but not great, and hopefully resulting in a call the day after to schedule another date.

But House isn’t some random woman. And Wilson feels his stomach lurch when he so much as thinks about applying the same tactics on the man—never mind that House would just call him out on it. 

Wilson swallows. The soft body heat of House’s leg radiates through the cotton of his pajama pants and against his palm. 

Still, it shouldn’t be this stressful. Nor should he feel like a nervous high schooler about to put the moves on his crush for the first time.

This is fine, he forcibly reminds himself. 

Wilson has done this before. Many times, with different women. Done much more with them. Done more with House too. 

His palm is getting a bit sweaty. He leaves it where it is. 

Before long, he’s rubbing absent circles into the fabric without really noticing. What he does notice, though, is when House readjusts the way he sits. And then again a few moments later, his legs shifting. 

House is exhaling quietly through his nose when he does it for a third time, and that is when Wilson finally spares him a look.

He’s faced with House’s profile, his eyes seemingly locked onto the TV. The muscle in his thigh flexes. Wilson’s gaze tracks the movement. 

Oh. 

His face heating up, Wilson looks at the screen again. Though he starts widening the circles he draws across the soft cotton of House’s pants, his hand inches upwards at a snail’s pace, following the inseam, towards where the fabric is starting to tent a bit. 

House turns to look at him. “Not that I want to discourage you,” he says, “but if you’re expecting an acrobatic performance from me tonight, you’ll find yourself disappointed.”

Wilson swallows. “That’s fine,” he replies. House’s blue eyes flick down to where Wilson is wetting his bottom lip. 

A smirk starts to spread over House’s face, his eyes glinting. 

Wilson feels a faint flutter in his belly. 

“By all means, then,” the other man tells him. “Feel free to continue.” 

They don’t get into the advantages of oil-based lube that night.

But Wilson gets House off by sucking him off on the couch, and the favor is returned in the form of a handjob, and then they’re off to bed, falling asleep in his room like some old married couple before it’s even nine o’clock. 

Wilson wakes up early because of it. He extracts himself carefully from House’s tangled legs, feeling a bit gross at the spot of drool in the sheets, before sitting up. 

Goosebumps ripple over his skin when the blanket slides from his body, despite the room being stuffy and the obvious smell of sweat lingering in the air. 

House makes a sleepy noise of some kind, and Wilson turns to look at him, just in time to watch him nuzzle into the pillow as he subconsciously rolls into the space Wilson occupied earlier, where the remnants of his body heat are still warming the sheets. 

Wilson inhales quietly, overcome suddenly with a deep and profound wave of affection.

The mattress dips when he bends across the bed, tugging the blanket across House’s shoulders, trailing his fingers further up House’s neck, behind the shell of his ear, and through his hair. 

House snuffles deeper into the pillow.

Wilson looks at him for a moment longer before he quietly gets up. 

He pads over to the kitchen on bare feet, reaching for the cabinet to get himself a glass of water. Standing in front of the sink, absently sipping on his drink, he looks out of the window, watching the soft morning light falling through the glass, where it paints a yellowish square onto the hardwood floor.

There’s a slight surreality to it all, standing here, the edges of reality blurring as time seems nearly nonexistent.

Wilson sips his water and watches the sunrise, simply letting himself sit with his emotions.

It’s quiet. Peaceful, somehow. 

Eventually, he puts his glass into the sink and walks over to his bathroom to use the toilet. 

Afterwards, Wilson makes himself some coffee and starts on some easy lunches—some chickpea salads he knows House will hate but eat anyway if they’re labeled with Wilson’s name and if he strategically hides the second container in the orthopedics lounge—and after he puts them in the fridge, he decides he might as well make them breakfast.

House is roused by the scent of food, judging by Wilson hearing him clatter around and the toilet flushing. 

He shows up just about when Wilson’s settled at the counter with breakfast and his coffee, limping over in his underwear and wearing one of his ancient band shirts he must’ve thrown on after getting up. 

“Morning,” Wilson says, smiling at House across the rim of his mug, while House returns the greeting with a smile of his own. Wilson notes, somewhat amused, that his short curls stick up in all directions, only exacerbated by House carding a hand through his hair, though he looks distinctly more awake than usual.

“Macadamia-nut pancakes?” he asks, seeming pleased, as he throws a look at the stove. “You just know me too well, snookums.”

“You’re welcome,” Wilson replies, before he takes a sip of his coffee, watching House rummage around their kitchen. 

“How’s your leg?” he asks, knowing it’s a bad idea to bring it up, and House scoffs as expected.

“The NOC called earlier. I'm the new runner-up for the next Olympic hurdle champion.” 

House turns to grab something from a cabinet, and Wilson’s gaze trails down to his leg, trying to gauge how much weight he’s putting on it. 

Judging from the way House moves and the fact that his cane is dangling from the cutlery drawer at the moment, he does seem to be doing better, at least. 

Wilson relaxes into his seat, sipping his coffee, proceeding to stare some more, mainly a bit farther north of House’s thigh, while the other man puts together his breakfast. Before long, he’s dragged a stool over to settle down diagonally across from him. Wilson watches him pour an unhealthy amount of syrup over his pancakes. 

When House notices him looking, he sets the syrup down and says, “If you’re going to nag me about my cholesterol, Wilson, you better do it in the knowledge that you’re fast-tracking into your fourth divorce.”

Wilson’s lips twitch around the rim of his mug. “I appreciate the heads-up. I don’t think my paycheck could take being halved by yet another alimony.”

House snorts as he saws into his pancakes and takes a bite. Though before long, he slows in his chewing, his brows furrowing. “You did something to my pancakes,” he states. 

“Damn. You’ve seen through my master plan of poisoning you,” Wilson says dryly. 

House chews slowly, squinting at Wilson, suspicious. Momentarily, he forks up a pancake and sniffs it.

Wilson’s lips twitch. Eventually, when it looks like House is about ready to dump the pancakes in favor of cereal, he admits, “I used almond milk.”

House pauses to stare at him, appalled. 

Wilson shrugs. “I read it was healthy.”

Predictably, that statement is the gateway into a heated discussion over Wilson’s decision to substitute the regular milk for what House calls an unnecessary and expensive alternative marketed to guileless hipsters, which Wilson counters by saying that House is free to make his own breakfast, and yet, somehow, they still end up playing footsie beneath the counter like some sort of honeymooning couple. 

It’s nice, though eventually Wilson gets up to put his plate in the dishwasher and heads over to his bathroom to get ready for work. 

When he returns to the kitchen, House has left to go about his morning routine as well, and Wilson busies himself with bringing down the trash and getting their mail. He chats a bit with their neighbor from 5b before he heads back upstairs to pack their lunches and his briefcase. 

Wilson is sitting at the kitchen island, halfway into his second cup of coffee, idly flipping through the paper, when House emerges from his room, his beard trimmed, hair still damp from the shower, and wearing jeans and a wrinkly grey button-up. He stops to comment on Wilson’s tie of the day before launching into a speech about his current case while he throws on the coffee machine and grabs his thermos from a cabinet. 

Already, their quiet morning seems distant, in a way, hazy, as if a veil was drawn up between what happened between them earlier and who they are now. An invisible line drawn in the sand, separating who they are when they interact late at night or in the early hours when they still share a bed, solely marked by them wearing their respective work outfits.

Wilson occasionally interjects with a comment but keeps silent for the most part, long used to House’s using him as a soundboard to straighten out his intricately jumbled thought processes, never mind that he privately thinks a rubber duck would do. Even if House insists, it’s not the same. 

They chat a bit about Wilson’s latest email inquiring whether he’d be interested in overseeing a clinical trial and discuss the merits of it while killing time till they have to head out.

Eventually, though, Wilson figures he might as well get a head start on his paperwork before he has to start his rounds, saying as much before he grabs his stuff and picks up his keys. He hesitates briefly as he spares a look at House, who’s packing his backpack. For a short, endless second, he pictures walking up to him and kissing him.

Instead, he tells him that they’ll see each other at lunch and heads out. 

Wilson agonizes about his decision the whole drive to work. 

Over the duration of the following week, Wilson finds that, strangely, him and House being what they are now doesn’t change a lot in how they’re interacting. 

Work is almost the same. House gets wrapped up in his case, and Wilson resumes his rounds and makes nice with the nurses and catches up on the latest gossip, and they touch base in the cafeteria, except for Wednesday, when Cuddy tells Wilson to hunt House down so that he’ll actually do his clinic hours, to which he agrees with an affable smile and instead proceeds to spend an hour watching a baseball game in a coma patient’s room with House, while they split a bag of pretzels from the vending machine. 

They banter, they argue over House bursting into Wilson’s office, interrupting him yet again during an appointment with a terminal patient, and make up over a shared cigarette on the balcony, which House pickpocketed from Taub’s jacket, and theorize about that being an indicator for Taub sleeping with nurse Smith from the E.R., whom Wilson saw smoking the same brand.

At home the pattern continues, except for late at night in front of the TV, loosened up by beer or food, or when they’re generally too exhausted from work to bother with small talk. Initiating something somehow always seems preempted by some sort of awkward tension until one of them gets over it and crosses that line, after which they fall into an easy dynamic, which concludes in them getting each other off and falling asleep in the same bed. 

Not that they really talk about it outside of those moments. There are a few jokes, here and there, double entendres Wilson is vividly aware of. 

Still, the shopping bag in his dresser remains untouched. As well as the topic of oil-based lube, which sparked the whole shopping trip in the first place.

Not that Wilson brings it up, frankly a bit relieved, though somewhat surprised House doesn’t press the topic either. 

Regardless of Wilson thinking about it almost all the time while playing ignorant—and he thinks he’s gotten pretty good at hiding things from House when he puts his mind to it—it still hangs in the air. Unspoken, to the point where Wilson even questions whether it was a deliberate comment on House’s part in the first place. 

Oh, who is he kidding?

House is almost always following some sort of agenda. And even if that’s not true, Wilson has learned over the years that it’s best to at least operate on that assumption, lest he suddenly find his coffee spiked with amphetamines again. 

Though he doesn’t mind so much, because whatever agenda it is, its steps apparently involve House getting him off on the couch and then again on House’s bed and once more afterwards, when he’s already showered, rendering that whole thing obsolete.

It’s frankly ridiculous, and Wilson idly wonders whether his libido is making up for lost time. 

That is to say, House doesn’t end up unscathed either. He’s got more bruises now, on his thighs, courtesy of Wilson’s teeth and him discovering a kink he didn’t know he had. 

Their blowjobs are getting better. 

And then, when the weekend finally arrives, after a particularly trying Friday, Wilson gathers all his courage and broaches the topic. 

“So,” he starts, leaning against their kitchen counter and watching House cook, twirling the stem of his wineglass in his hand, which he poured himself in preparation. “I looked up the advantages of oil-based lube.”

House turns to look at Wilson. “Have you now?”

“Yup,” Wilson says, taking a sip of his wine. House props himself up against the counter, his lips curving up further. He’s wearing the blue apron. It’s just a tad darker than his eyes. 

“I went shopping too.”

“Found anything interesting?” House asks, his lips twitching. 

But Wilson stares at the man’s hands instead, looking at the sinews standing out on his arms instead of his face. “Maybe.”

A beat goes by. “Are you going to show me?”

Wilson’s eyes dart up. House looks amused. 

“It’s in my dresser.”

House gestures at the pans on the stove. “As much as I enjoy you getting all flustered like a virginal teenage girl, you’ll actually have to get it, otherwise I won’t be able to see it.”

Wilson swallows and sets down his wine glass. “Fine,” he huffs. He doesn’t know why he’s so irritated when he stomps over to his room and digs out the bag. 

Holding it in his hand, fingers clenching and his heart seemingly in his throat, he needs a whole two minutes before he can work himself up to leave his room again.

The plastic crinkles when Wilson dumps it on one end of the kitchen island. He walks around the island, settling on the stool on the farthest end, just when House has finished turning down the heat of the stove and wipes his hand on a dishtowel. 

Wilson abruptly realizes he didn’t get his wine and leans across the island to drag his glass over. He hides behind its rim while House opens the bag. He tries not to be too overt about anxiously staring at the other man’s face to catalogue his expressions. 

House whistles. “My, Jimmy, and here I thought you’d only looked up the oil-based kind,” he says, lifting his head and grinning at Wilson. 

He promptly takes another sip of his wine, feeling his face take on the same color again. “The woman in the store said it was bad with condoms.”

House looks delighted. The way his eyes crinkle makes Wilson feel like he’s laughing at him. “So, were you the one who approached the sales assistant, or did she take one look at your lost puppy-dog eyes and take pity on you?”

“It seemed prudent,” Wilson mutters, neither confirming nor denying but terribly embarrassed and slightly defensive. He has to remind himself to not clutch his glass too tightly, lest it burst in his hand. 

House laughs properly this time. “What excuse did you come up with?” he asks, seeing right through him anyway. “I can’t imagine her having taken it well when you told her you were a doctor stocking up for prostate exams.” 

Wilson mumbles into his glass. 

“What?” House asks, smirking. “I didn’t quite get that?”

“Daughter,” Wilson replies. “I told her it was for my daughter. To practice safe sex.”

House blinks at him before he throws his head back and laughs. “Seriously?”

Wilson sinks further into his chair. He had been panicking; sue him. It was the first thing that shot through his mind once he’d been startled half to death by the worker in the store speaking to him after having been standing in front of the shelf for nearly a quarter hour agonizing over his decisions. 

“I don’t know if you were aware, but the term ‘fun dad’ usually carries a different connotation. I sure hope you mentioned she’s your stepdaughter, though it seems you at least came prepared.” Smirking, House waves with a pack of condoms. He pauses when the writing catches his attention. His brows rise. “Ribbed for her pleasure—Wilson! You dog! Already planning on breaking our saccharinely avowed monogamy, are you? A single week. My, that surely must be a new record even for you. Should I feel special?” 

Wilson buries his blushing face in his hands. He’d just grabbed the first two random brands before he’d been all but sprinting towards the checkout.

House laughs again. Wilson dares a peek when he hears rustling again.

House is rummaging through the bag. He hums. “Not bad, for a rookie.”

Wilson glowers at him. “I’ve had anal sex before.”

“Really? And here I thought your wives were all prudes. Who was it? Julie looked like she might stick a finger up your ass during a blowie.”

“House,” Wilson snaps, flustered. It had been Bonnie, actually, and they had a huge row over it.

“Ever tried some pegging?” House asks, unperturbed. 

Wilson takes a sip of his wine, deliberately not looking at House, who stares at him intently. 

“That’s a no, I’m guessing. 

“What about you then?” Wilson counters, flustered and slightly indignant at being called out like that. 

“Tried it a couple of times. Really hits the spot if you catch my drift,” he wriggles his brows at Wilson. “My doctor could barely look me in the eye after my annual physical.”

Wilson does his best to drown himself in wine. 

House looks at him for a moment before he leaves the bag and turns back to the stove again to turn over his meatballs. 

Wilson watches him for a bit. “So…” he starts, wetting his lip nervously. He’s feeling hot and cold at the same time. 

“So?” House says, seemingly indifferent. 

“Now what?”

“I don’t know,” House says cheerfully. “Why’d you go shopping?”

Wilson huffs, trying to get a handle on his frustration. It’s not like he doesn’t see where House is coming from. Still, it’s just typical of him to play at being thick on purpose. 

“I’d like to try it,” Wilson forces himself to spell out. “With you.”

House looks at him, feigning ignorance. “Yeah? What?”

Wilson glares at him. “You know what.”

“People always say you shouldn’t assume. I hear it makes an ass out of ‘u’ and ‘me’,” House voices, his amusement audible. 

“Anal sex. Penetrative sex, whatever,” Wilson bites out, irrationally rankled and embarrassed.

“Put a bit more venom into your voice, or I’ll actually believe you.”

Flustered and angry, Wilson downs the rest of his wine. “Fine. Forget I ever brought it up.”

“Come on. Don’t get all prissy on me now,” House says. “Otherwise people will think you’re the girl in the relationship.”

Wilson stares at House, for a moment, speechless. Then he gets up resolutely, intent on tossing the bag in some old, forgotten corner of his closet. 

“Wilson,” House says, his grin fading when he sees he’s serious, taking a limping step along the kitchen island to cross their distance. “James.”

Wilson pauses. He feels embarrassed and humiliated as he meets House’s gaze, glaring. 

“What?” he snaps. 

House wets his lip, hesitating, seemingly not having thought any further than this moment. 

A part of Wilson experiences a stab of vindictive satisfaction at registering it. 

House makes an aborted movement, his hand briefly hovering in the air, before it ends up on the counter, tracing its surface. 

Neither of them is saying anything. 

Wilson is working his jaw as he stares at House, who stares back, the tension drawing out. 

The meatballs in the pan are sizzling. 

“You look hot when you’re pissed,” House says unprompted, breaking the silence. 

Wilson doesn’t mean for the reflexive laugh to burst from his lips, but it escapes him anyway. 

“Really does it for me,” House continues, his lips ticking up, surer now. “Makes me feel like you’re going to throw me over your lap and spank me any moment.”

“We can arrange for that,” Wilson shoots back, his anger somewhat mollified, but the aftereffects of his humiliation are still felt.

House’s lips stretch into a grin, his eyes sparkling. “I knew that sadistic streak of yours wasn’t just a figment of my imagination.” 

Wilson looks at him before he sighs, lifting a hand to wipe it over his eyes, the other one on his hip. He breathes out a long exhale. “Look, House,” he starts, floundering a bit. “This isn’t … easy for me, okay? I need you to not be you for a second there.”

He somewhat regrets the words as soon as he sees the way House looks at him.

Wilson drives a hand through his hair before he clarifies, “I need you to be serious with me when it comes to stuff like that, not—not make some sort of joke out of it.”

“But I know so many jokes,” House pouts exaggeratedly. 

“House.”

“Fine,” the other man huffs. 

Wilson stares at him. 

House huffs, driving his thumb over his mouth as his gaze briefly darts to the side. “I know. Alright.” He looks at Wilson again. “It’s not like I—you’re not the only one setting out into unknown waters.”

Wilson quirks a brow at him, faintly amused. “What are we? Vikings?”

“I’d rather think Spartans, if we’re already drawing metaphors. Much cooler. Way more badass than boring farmers raiding surrounding settlements. Way gayer too.”

Wilson’s lips quirk, feeling a bit more settled now. At least until he glances at the nondescript plastic bag on the counter, which stares accusingly at him. 

House follows his gaze. He taps his fingers against the counter. His throat bobs as he swallows. “So. You went shopping.”

“I went shopping,” Wilson echoes, nervous again. 

House looks at him, gauging his face. “How were you thinking this would go down?”

“Better than this conversation,” Wilson retorts. He pauses, chewing at the inside of his cheek. More hesitant, he admits, “I suppose I just wanted to try it.”

“Like you on the bottom or, uh, top?” House seems a bit flustered too now, his tongue darting briefly over his lip. 

Wilson feels his face heat up again. He holds House’s gaze when he says, “Kinda already tried the one way.”

“Yeah?” House breathes. His lips curve up. “So you’re up for going off the deep end.”

Wilson shrugs. He regrets he emptied his wine already. His eyes drift over to the bottle. 

“You should try it first,” House states. 

Wilson looks at the other man then, feeling like he just missed a step. “I thought that was what we were talking about?”

“No,” House says, sounding serious for once. “By yourself. See if you like it. Get used to having something shoved up your ass.”

Wilson flusters. “Nice,” he replies wryly. 

“Hopefully,” House retorts, smirking suggestively.

Wilson shakes his head, vaguely amused but mostly flustered. “Alright. I—I’ll try it.” 

They look at each other, Wilson embarrassed and awkward, and House—who knows—but his throat is bobbing as he swallows, twin spots on his cheeks starting to gain more color as the moment draws out.

Something is smelling a bit burnt. 

Wilson frowns. The other man blinks before abruptly cursing and turning towards the stove to save his meatballs.

Wilson feels very, very awkward when he excuses himself to bed that night. Without House, that is. 

The other man looks like he wants to shoot back a comment of some sort, but miraculously, he restrains himself and looks back at the TV. 

Wilson swallows, fruitlessly trying to prevent the plastic bag from rustling when he picks it up from the counter.

The door of his bedroom shuts behind him with a final-sounding click. 

And then Wilson stands there awkwardly, the bag in hand. 

There’s nothing forcing him to do this, he has to remind himself when he finds that he’s starting to spiral. He wants to. Maybe. Kind of. And regardless of whether he’s doing it, he doubts House’s restraint will last longer than twelve hours. He will probably ask him about it. Or make some comment of some sort, fishing for answers. He already thinks Wilson is going to jerk off by himself while having his fingers shoved up his ass; he may as well bite the bullet and go through with it. 

He tosses the bag on the bed and digs out some comfortable clothes and fresh underwear. 

God. 

Wilson stares at the bag again. He picks it up and heads into the bathroom. He goes about his routine, brushing his teeth and checking for gray hairs, noting he should probably do the laundry again. He turns on the shower and uses the toilet while he waits for it to warm up, staring at the bag again.

It’s not like he didn’t have anal sex before. Bonnie had brought it up first, and it had become a thing they’d done once in a blue moon, the dates usually aligning with some sort of anniversary or holiday. Never mind that those occasions had died a swift death alongside their declining marriage. Julie had wanted to try it once before deciding it wasn’t her thing. 

Wilson knows about prep, knows what goes into it in a distant sort of way, and it’s not like he didn’t have various patients whom he had to educate about what is and what isn’t safe to shove up there. 

It’s just, he’s never been on the receiving end. The results of his internet research were as intimidating as they were enlightening. 

His shower is steaming up by the time he’s finished washing his hands, and he knows he’s wasting water when he approaches the bag again. A few bottles of different kinds of lubes, condoms, not only the pack for ‘her,’ which he let the winking sales assistant put into his bag, and a squeeze bottle at the bottom. 

Wilson grabs it before he can think twice about it, alongside the silicone lube, and steps into the shower. He knows it’s technically not necessary, but whatever his Google searches may tell him, he’d rather be …clean. 

He sets it down and takes his time washing and conditioning his hair, working himself up to what he’s about to do. 

Distantly he hears the sounds of House playing his organ. 

He rinses out his hair and looks down. Steeling himself, he grabs the squeeze bottle. His hands are slippery when he tries to get it open to dump out the liquid to replace it with plain water.

Fumbles a bit with the tube until it eventually clicks open. He squeezes a liberal amount on it. 

Bracing himself against the wall, his arm in the spray of his shower, he shakes his head and gets to work.

It’s awkward. Not too uncomfortable but strange, to say the least. And Wilson asks himself what the hell he’s doing. 

He curses as he slips, barely managing to catch himself on the glass, and he laughs, startled and not really knowing why.

That would just be perfect. Him cracking his head open in the shower and House finding him like that. 

Wilson chuckles some more, edging on hysterical, picturing it. It helps distract him somewhat when he heads for the toilet again. 

When he figures he’s done, the water is starting to run cold. He readjusts the temperature before he grabs the lube. 

God. Wilson stares at the ceiling, wrapping a lube-slick hand around his dick to get this show on the road. 

Somehow he has to think about yesterday’s surgery, where he spent nearly an hour digging around in some fifty-year-old’s colon. 

Forcibly, he redirects his thoughts to something more conducive to what he’s actually trying to accomplish here. 

He manages to rouse his cock to life eventually. The silicone lube at least was a good pick for the shower, even though it takes a while for it to warm up. 

Wilson pauses briefly to squeeze more of it onto his hand before he dares to venture a bit further between his legs.

The lube is smoothing the glide, and it’s actually not too hard to get a finger up his ass. It’s…strange, he finds. Not really adding much to the experience. It may be partially because he’s trying rather hard to not compare the sensation to undergoing a prostate exam.

He focuses on his dick a bit more, which manages to take his mind off it. Although it’s actually quite difficult to manage both hands while standing in a rather slippery shower. 

When he tries to readjust his stance, he almost brains himself on the tiles. 

The water is getting cold again, even though it’s on the hottest setting. 

For fuck’s sake. 

Huffing in frustration, both sexually and because nothing seems to work out in his favor, Wilson abandons all his attempts and rinses himself off.

So much for figuring his shit out. 

While he towels himself off, his gaze falls upon the cabinet. He hesitates.

Momentarily he huffs and grabs a fresh towel and the lube from the bottom of the shower and steps into his bedroom, his hair still wet. 

He spreads the towel out on the mattress and gets under his blankets. Gets up again to grab tissues and toss the lube onto the sheets. 

Gets back under it. 

Then he gets back up to close the curtains and shuts the light off. 

Finally, Wilson settles in the bed. His wet hair is soaking through the pillow, and it bugs him to the point where he towels his hair off again and shuffles a bit to readjust his position. 

When he finds he’s got no more excuses, he grabs the lube, squeezing a liberal amount on his palm before he guides it under the sheets.

He’s got to tuck his legs to gain better access, and he feels rather awkward attempting it, staring at the blanket sagging between his legs.

In the same vein, he’s reminded that he’s not as flexible as he used to be.

He readjusts himself a bit. 

The lube is cold, but it makes it easy to slip a finger up his ass. And once he gets over the unfamiliarity of the sensation and manages to block out House’s organ playing, he finds that it’s…fine. Weird, but fine. 

The second one goes easy as well. He reaches for his dick with the other hand, easing himself into the situation. 

Eventually he manages a halfway decent rhythm, even though his angle is shit. 

After a while, he finds it’s…good. Not mind-blowing, mind you, just one additional sensation to jerking himself off. 

Huffing, he bites his lip and tries to get a better angle. When he actually manages to find his prostate, he amends his opinion because that feels, admittedly, really good. 

He manages to graze it again, and for some reason his dick seems to take this as the cue to drool precum. 

His breath hitches, and he bites his lip hard to keep all noises down.

Letting his mind wander, he starts to picture what it’d be like if someone else were doing that. Better, probably, going by the angle. And then his rational thought takes a backseat when it occurs to him that the notion of it is actually quite a turn-on.

He has to stifle a sound against his pillow, vividly aware of House being just a single door and a hallway away. 

Somehow it makes it both worse and better. 

His cock throbs angrily in his fist as he speeds up. 

Wilson pants against his pillow, the fabric getting damp, a hint of saliva sticking to it when he presses his open mouth against it to muffle all sounds, self-conscious of his heavy breathing until he forgets to care. 

Somehow he figures it out, and then it barely takes him more than a few minutes to get close. 

His arms are aching from the awkward position, his abs straining as he supports himself. 

Somehow his orgasm surprises him. It arrives suddenly and unexpectedly at a lucky hit of his fingers, a strangled sound climbing out his throat, his dick pulsing in his grasp, hips twitching, not quite knowing whether to roll back against where his fingers are buried in his ass or to fuck into his fist. 

Wilson pants as he works himself through it, white-hot pleasure rolling through his body. 

It takes him a minute to come down before he’s gathered enough bearings to reach for a Kleenex with a shaky hand. 

“Morning,” House greets him the next day after he ambles out of his room. 

“It’s almost noon.” Wilson’s already halfway done with his laundry and in the process of folding his sheets, while rewatching season two of ‘El fuego del amor,’ he rediscovered lying around in a DVD box set earlier. 

“Semantics,” House retorts, limping around the kitchen. A slim strip of his back flashes when he reaches up to grab a mug from an overhead cabinet. “Coffee?” he asks, turning to look over his shoulder. 

Somewhat bemused at this unexpected thoughtfulness, Wilson quirks his brows. “A bit early for you to drug me, isn’t it?” 

“Don’t worry, I left my roofies at work.”

“Then yes,” Wilson says, turning back to watch Carmen and Enriqué getting it on in a pool house. 

He shakes out a sheet and spreads his arms wide before getting to the second fold. It’s not as pristine as how his former housekeeper would’ve managed, but he’s long resigned himself to his own inadequacy in that regard. 

The scene has turned a bit steamy by the time House is balancing two mugs in his free hand by the handles while he limps over before he sets them down on the coffee table, dangerously close next to Wilson’s white towels. 

“Sleep well?” House asks, once he’s dropped down in the chair diagonal to the couch. 

“I can’t complain,” Wilson replies. “You?”

“Same,” House replies, his eyes fixed on Wilson’s face like some circling vulture across a starving animal in the desert. 

Wilson pretends not to notice. He just continues folding his pillowcase before dumping it in a basket and reaching for a towel. 

“Any revelations?” House inquiries casually. “Something you want to share?”

Wilson shrugs before spreading his arms wide to align the corners of his towel. From his periphery he can tell that House’s expression is one of desperate curiosity, badly disguised by almost painful-looking self-restraint. 

Wilson pretends to be invested in his telenovela while trying to not let any of his amusement show on his face. 

Though he can’t quite help the way his lips twitch, after a minute or so, House starts bouncing his cane back and forth between his hands. 

“You are enjoying this,” House accuses him, pointing at Wilson with his cane. 

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Wilson says, feigning ignorance, as he reaches for his mug to disguise the smirk threatening to betray him. The heady scent of milky coffee wafts into his nose.

“Liar,” House says. 

Wilson takes a sip of his coffee. Unfortunately, he times it for exactly the moment House says, “So did you discover the pleasures of prostate stimulation yesterday or not?”

Wilson chokes on the hot liquid, burning his tongue and a part of his leg when he spills coffee over himself. Still sputtering and coughing, he frantically sits down in favor of grabbing one of his pristine towels to dab at the stain spreading through his pants, in an attempt at damage control, while thumping a fist against his chest. When he’s finally able to focus his teary-eyed gaze enough, he finds House smirking at him across his own mug. 

“Extrapolating from your reaction there, I figure it’s safe to assume that you experimented a bit.”

Once Wilson gets — mostly — over his coughing fit, he says. “Fine. Yes. You’ve caught me.” He tosses his now stained towel onto the couch. Everything smells of coffee.

“And what’s the verdict?” House asks. 

The way he’s looking at him, his torso tilting forward in an almost subconscious movement as he’s waiting for his answer, in an almost endearing manner. 

Wilson’s ears feel warm. He shrugs, somehow not able to look at House. “’s fine.” 

For a while he just stares at the TV, but when House says nothing, Wilson can’t help but sneak a glance. The man is grinning at him, but as they make eye contact, that grin turns a bit leery, and House rakes his eyes over Wilson in a way that can’t be called anything but suggestive. He lingers on where the coffee stain has soaked into Wilson’s trousers, which happens to be rather close to his crotch.

Flustered, heat prickles up Wilson’s nape. He grabs his coffee, pointing at House with the same hand. “You’re taking me out first,” he declares. 

The corners of House’s lips stretch up further. “You already set a precedent, Wilson.”

“Not everything’s a two-man job,” Wilson counters. 

“I was more referring to the fact that you put out on the first date,” the other man says, reclining in his chair with an amused look. “Bit late to prove you’re not a slut.”

“Who’s to say I wasn’t the one who got you to put out?”

House lets out a mock gasp. “I’m shocked and appalled! Who could’ve predicted that James Wilson, innocent people-pleasing golden boy and model oncologist of Princeton-Plainsboro, is just a facade disguising the true diabolical character behind?!”

“It helps that people are too distracted by your outward evilness to question my villainous nature,” Wilson jokes. “Keep it up, and we’ll have achieved world domination by the end of the year.”

House smirks. “You are a perfidious and downright devious man, Wilson,” he says. “It’s an extreme turn-on.”

Wilson snorts. 

House grins as he leans forward. “You laugh, but I’m serious. If I were any more turned on than I am now, I’d be a lamp.”

That causes Wilson to crack up, and he laughs properly, his shoulders shaking. “Well, I’m glad you haven’t turned into a mindless piece of furniture yet.”

After a minute or so, House pipes up, “So I was thinking the farmers market.”

“What?”

“As a date,” House says, and Wilson swallows around the flutter in his belly and the embarrassing warmth he feels at hearing those words. That’s when he actually processes what House said. “Wait. Did you say the farmers market?”

House shrugs. “You don’t want to go?”

“No, I do. But you?” Wilson turns on the couch to face House. “Are you seriously telling me that you’re voluntarily offering to go to the farmers market?”

“Why not?”

Wilson laughs. “Will wonders never cease?”

House’s lips curve up into a lopsided and mischievous smirk. “Why waste an opportunity to stock up on fibrous foods?” 

Wilson’s bemusement lasts for a long second. 

House looks smug. 

In a fit of immaturity, Wilson throws the coffee-stained towel at said man’s face. 

They actually do end up going to the farmers market, and Wilson catches some heat from House for bringing his reusable jute bag and getting all ‘preppy’ on him.

Somehow they even manage to get some shopping done before the stalls close down for the day and grab lunch at a nearby café, despite House’s inherent apprehension for trying out new places. 

House complains about the pickles on his sandwich, the seasonally themed lemonade flavors, and the hipster interior and mocks Wilson’s quinoa salad, but somehow through it all doesn’t so much as breathe a word about taking care of the bill. By the end of it, Wilson manages to make an additional ten dollars courtesy of a long-time bet regarding him getting the numbers of unsuspecting waitresses.

House pockets the receipt it’s scribbled on under the pretense of proof, but Wilson spots him tossing it into a garbage can on their stroll down the sidewalk. 

And since Wilson figures House has humored him enough, he agrees to accompany him into a record shop, idly thumbing through the tracks while House picks up a few vinyls for his collection and gets into an argument with the rather emo-looking kid hanging out behind the counter over whether modal jazz or harmon jazz is superior, taking the antagonistic side of the debate just for the fun of it. 

Despite what outward appearances may belie, Wilson has to admit that he has a good time. He can tell that all the walking is wearing on House, even though he doesn’t say so, but Wilson suspects that his shoulder is getting a bit stiff from his reliance on the cane. 

He manages to guide them down to a bench in the park, and it’s late enough for them to get a bit peckish after the—admittedly—unsatisfying lunch they had earlier, so they end up splitting some overpriced nachos from a food truck. 

It’s nice out. The sun is warming their shoulders, a few clouds drifting across the blue sky while a small breeze disturbs the crowns of the trees. 

A handful of doves are pecking around on the ground near a fountain, fighting over a half-eaten granola bar, and there are people walking their dogs, a group of college-aged kids drunkenly playing frisbee, and families hanging out on blankets or enjoying the nice weather. 

House has his legs stretched out next to him, ankles crossed, his cane propped up against the bench while their shopping bags are sitting at Wilson’s feet, their nachos on the bench between them. And although they’re not touching, Wilson is vividly aware of House’s arm resting on the back of the bench, barely a handful of inches of air separating his collar from the other man’s hand. 

Every so often, he sneaks a glance at House’s profile, tracing the shape of his face and the line of his exposed throat, a hint of sweat on his nape turning his skin shiny, pooling in the hollow of his throat. 

He remembers abruptly that House used to wear a chain till his mid-thirties. A silvery thing that would catch the glint of the sun and that he would fidget with almost habitually, tugging it left and right without seeming to notice while gesturing wildly when going down tangents. 

He stopped wearing it sometime after meeting Stacy, who somehow got House to invest in aftershave and brought a more coherent sense of style into his overall wardrobe, which at the time had mostly consisted of ancient t-shirts on the verge of fraying, with cracked prints denoting various military bases and the name of his college; a single well-worn pair of jeans; and two jackets he’d been rotating between: a leather one and a boxy canvas jacket. 

He’s torn out of his musings by the sound of a phone ringing. Reflexively, Wilson checks his pockets, but it’s House’s. 

“Are you on call?” Wilson asks, frowning. 

“No,” House replies as he flips his phone open. 

Wilson’s cheese has apparently lost its fight against gravity while he wasn’t paying attention, only making him aware of it when it drips all over his knuckles. Cursing, he swiftly stuffs the chip into his mouth while he starts to look for a paper towel or tissue of some kind. 

“Not my problem,” House’s voice sounds. “It’s my day off.”

Wilson considers whether he could feasibly wipe his hand on the bench without inconveniencing the next person.

“Yeah, well, is she on the verge of dying right now?”

Wilson still hasn’t found a tissue.

Next to him, House uncrosses his legs and sits up straighter.

Wilson gives up and simply sucks the cheese off his knuckles.

Some subconscious part in his brain registers a change, neither House nor the tinny voice on the other end of the call speaking, and so he looks up, finding the other man staring at him.

“House?” it echoes from the phone. 

Said man wets his lip before he clears his throat. “Just give her a bucket and put her on IV fluids. I’ll be in on Monday.”

“That’s not—” 

House snaps his phone shut. 

Wilson’s lips twitch into a smirk. “New case?” 

House just scoffs. “Chase is on call. He can handle keeping the woman alive for a few days.” He stretches his legs again and tosses a chip into his mouth before adding, “Contrary to what his stupid accent may belie, he actually did manage to get board certified twice.”

“He is a talented doctor,” Wilson agrees. “Probably the best surgeon in the hospital.”

House hums absently in agreement, dipping a chip into the cheesy dip. Halfway into putting it into his mouth, he pauses and looks at Wilson. “Don’t you dare tell him.”

Wilson smiles, amused. “God forbid your employees actually believe that you appreciate them.” 

“I prefer my underlings disillusioned with my character. Makes intimidating them easier.” 

“Right,” Wilson says. “And the file labelled ‘fantasy football’ on your computer charting your favorite of the week is just a vivid hallucination of mine.”

“First of all, I feel violated that you invaded my privacy like that, and secondly, I throw darts at their headshots to determine their points.”

“And I’m assuming that’s why Chase is winning?” Wilson voices sarcastically.

“He’s worked for me the longest; it’s just math adding up.”

“Foreman’s worked for you almost as long.”

“My subconscious has been conditioned to aim for that stupid Australian smile.”

“Right,” Wilson replies, amused. 

“Besides, Thirteen is gaining on him. Every time she mentions girl-on-girl action, she gets a bonus point.”

“Not Taub?”

“Taub gets a point when he stops living in the delusion that his marriage is going to work out.”

Wilson smirks, gesturing with a chip. “Your darts theory is starting to crumble.”

“There’s a separate board for suckers who got married. It’s a coin flip whether it’s a deductible or an additional point, though. You dominated that for a while; it was a nail-biter, let me tell you.”

Wilson snorts. “So going by that logic, you mean to tell me I’ve already tanked so far I’m not even registering on the chart anymore?” 

House waves him off. “As long as you don’t change your credit card PIN, I’ll make sure to keep you out of the red.”

Wilson snorts. “I’m glad to hear your continued financial extortion of me has some upsides.”

“You aren’t going to snitch on me, are you?” House asks after a few moments, looking at him from the corner of his eyes. “Them vying for Daddy’s attention is a vital part of my teaching process.” 

“A near Sisyphean task, I’m sure.” Wilson voices sarcastically.

“The illusion that they can become the favorite child by trying to impress me is what keeps them on their toes.” 

Wilson inclines his head, amused. “I still doubt Thirteen will be as easily suckered into writing your annual reviews as Cameron.”

House just shrugs and says, “I’ll just reuse some old ones of yours and switch out the names.”

Wilson quirks his brows. “I’m not going to print them out for you.”

House scoffs, scraping a chip through the cheesy corners of the containers. “I’ll just email your assistant.”

“She has hated you ever since she found out you’re not actually working for my department. And good luck figuring out my password.”

House waves him off with his cheesy chip. “You always use the same three variations anyway.”

“I had it generated this time.”

“And Cuddy will grant you a gold star for taking her hospital-wide memo seriously,” House drawls, “Onc0man66.” He smirks before crunching through his chip with a decisive bite. 

Wilson is flustered, called out on his bluff. “Who even can remember a random string of numbers?”

House snorts. 

Before long their chips are running low, and House tosses the last one towards the doves before heading over to the trash can. Wilson follows suit and gets up too, grabbing their shopping bags. 

House turns to look at him, a brief moment of awkwardness ensuing as they just stare at each other. “You, uh, want to do something else?” he asks. 

Wilson looks at the bags. “We should probably get the perishables into the fridge,” he says, before it occurs to him that actually yes, he’d very much like to delay their arrival at their apartment for a while longer. 

House shrugs. “You ready to head home then?” he asks, scanning Wilson’s expression. 

Wilson takes a deep breath, forcing himself to face his anxiety. “Yeah.”

House briefly pulls his bottom lip between his teeth before he abruptly releases it. “Okay,” he replies, though when he turns, Wilson catches the hint of a smile on his face. 

About half an hour later, they step back into their apartment, and Wilson starts putting away their shopping while House walks over to the record player to put on one of the vinyls he bought today. 

Wilson thinks he’s heard it before, or at least something similar. He turns to ask House about it, only to find the man sprawled out supine on the floor next to the speakers. 

Wilson opens his mouth and closes it again before he turns back to the cabinets. 

“Having fun?” he eventually asks when he’s put away everything, stepping up to the man. "Or do you need help getting up?"

House tilts his head back, looking at Wilson’s socked feet until his gaze trails up to meet his eyes.

“Why, Wilson? Are you getting jealous of the hardwood floor? I promise we’ve kept it strictly platonic.”

Wilson huffs a laugh. 

“You should join me,” House voices. 

“We have a perfectly serviceable couch.”

“And other communities have made do without them for centuries,” House counters. “Being a white doctor in our day and age has made you ignorant of your priviledge. You, Wilson, need a reality check."

Wilson returns House's gaze amused. "By laying on the floor?"

"Buying into the arbitrary rules of society doesn't make you look cool, it only makes you a sucker.”

Wilson huffs, amused, shaking his head, but proceeds to lay down on the floor next to House anyway. “You know, I always suspected that couches were the first step of our world leaders' master plan to indoctrinate us into idiocracy,” he says. 

"That's the spirit! Let's stick it to those bourgois bitches."

Laughing, Wilson folds his hands on his stomach and looks up at the ceiling. 

For a few minutes, the soft sounds of smooth jazz are the only noise in the room.

“I’ve heard that before, I think,” Wilson voices eventually, pitching his voice low, somewhat reluctant to disturb the moment.

House hums. “A first edition of John Henry Giles’ first-ever album. Pristine condition.” 

“I thought you’d bought that for fifteen bucks,” Wilson voices, frowning. 

“What can I say, the kid in the shop was an idiot,” House replies. “And now shut up. Here comes the good part.”

The melodic sounds of a saxophone solo start overtaking the piano, which had dominated the track so far. 

Wilson turns his head so he can look at House. He’s got his eyes closed, looking relaxed, although his micro-expressions shift ever so slightly with the tune. His fingers are tapping away on his thigh in an imaginary melody. 

He looks relaxed. Unguarded, almost.

After a minute or two, House says, “I can hear you not listening.”

“Yeah? You should open an act in Vegas with those supernatural skills instead of practicing medicine. You could’ve made millions by now.”

House cracks an eye open and turns his head properly to look at him. “We could make it a two-man act,” he proposes, and his face takes on a mischievous expression. “But you’ll have to wear the sequin dress. You’ve got the better legs.”

“I don’t know. You made a good Frank-N-Furter in your high school production of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. The fishnets really sold me on it.”

House looks surprised, his mouth drooping open, and Wilson smirks at him.

“I thought I’d burned all those photographs. When the hell did you see those?”

Wilson’s lips split into a grin. “Blythe showed me your yearbook.”

House exhales through his nose. “You and my mother are too close for your own good.”

“We only phone like four times a year.”

“Four times too much if you ask me.”

“You should really call her more often. She asks about you, you know?”

“Why should I, considering it seems you’re keeping her in the loop anyway?”

“I don’t know; how about because she’s your mother?”

“Yeah. Breaking her marriage vows by getting it on with my bio-dad to get that zygote going must’ve been quite the sacrifice.”

Wilson huffs in exasperated fondness. “She wants to hear how you’re doing,” he tries anyway. “From you,” he adds pointedly, preempting an interjection. 

“I call her,” House defends himself.

“Yeah. Three times a year, leaving a voicemail for Christmas, her birthday, and Mother's Day. She complained that she never catches your calls because you’re so ‘busy’ you always manage to phone her at the most inopportune times. It’s frankly staggering that she hasn’t called you out on your bullshit yet. She’s way too nice of a woman.” 

“Yes, she’s nice,” House says. “That doesn’t mean I want to hear her talking about what it’s like to get back into dating in her seventies.”

Wilson laughs, deciding to give the topic a rest. For now. 

The solo ends on a mournful note, and there are a few crackling sounds when the needle of the record player slides through dust before the next track. 

“We have root beer left in the fridge, right?” Wilson asks on a whim.

“I think so. Why?”

“We should make Scotch floats,” Wilson proposes. The music has kind of put him in the mood, and alcohol sounds like a good idea right now. 

“The only bottle we’ve got left right now is a college-aged bottle of Aberfeldy. You’re willing to defile it with ice cream?”

“Why not?”

“‘Why not?’ he says,” House echoes, but he seems amused. He sits up. “Sure. Let’s violate a twenty-one-year-old bottle of scotch.”

Wilson gets to his feet as well, his knee joints creaking, but he offers House his palm to pull him to his feet. Their hands remain clasped for a moment that drags out longer than really necessary, aware of the undercurrent of tension hanging between them. Wilson wets his lip, and House swallows. 

Wilson clenches his fist, aware of the phantom warmth lingering even after they’ve let go. 

He trails after House, taking the two glass tumblers to carry them over to the kitchen island, and the other man shortly follows suit with the bottle he pulled out of the shelf. 

There’s some vanilla ice cream in the freezer, its top already crusting over with ice crystals from how long it’s been sitting in there. 

Wilson’s forced to jam it open with a butter knife, and the lumps of ice cream sitting in their glasses take on a rather squarish shape after he uses it to cut out two adequate chunks, too impatient to wait for it to thaw. 

House pours a generous amount of scotch in either glass before topping them off with the singular can of root beer, which collected dust in the far end of their fridge till now.

They end up sitting on the stools at the counter, each with their respective scotch floats. They’re a bit heavy on the whisky, but Wilson doesn’t complain. 

“I think the last time I had one of these was at the Super Bowl two years ago,” he muses out loud.

“I’m surprised you even remember that evening, considering you decided to puke all over my kitchen sink,” House voices, grinning. 

“I’m fairly sure that can be blamed on the expiration date of those sodas. Who even buys grape soda? It was the most disgusting thing I ever had the displeasure of trying in a float.”

House smirks. “Could’ve fooled me the way you were slamming it.”

“On your dare! A taste I never wanted nor needed to know.”

House’s eyes sparkle brightly as he grins. “You were so wasted it was a miracle you even found your way to the sink.”

Wilson amicably knocks his socked foot against House’s shin. “Hey, I cleaned it up! And the rest of your apartment, I might add, while you were whining about your hangover on the couch the next morning.”

House kicks him back. “Good on you for honoring your betting debts.”

“If I’d known the coin toss would’ve turned out that way, I would’ve wagered money. It took me nearly two hours. Amber was so pissed I came back late, she almost wouldn’t let me go to poker night on Friday.” 

His words subside, but they hang between them anyway, a heavy unspoken weight in the air. Wilson’s smile fades, and so does House’s. 

For a few long moments, they just sit there, sipping on their scotch floats. Wilson drags his hand across the surface of the counter. 

Another minute ticks by before House wets his lip. He glances at Wilson. “Is it fucked up that I’m glad she’s gone?”

Wilson’s breath catches in his lungs as he stares at the other man with a dark look. “Are you seriously expecting me to answer that question, House?” 

“I’m not saying I’m glad that she’s dead,” the other man says, and Wilson can’t help but laugh, something bitter and ugly welling up in his stomach. He takes a deep pull of his float before he says something he regrets.

“It’s just… you know.” House sounds hesitant now. 

Wilson wipes a hand over his face. He exhales, and with it some of his anger. “I know.” The clipped acknowledgement is about the only concession he can manage at this moment.

The uncomfortable silence between them drags out. 

“I liked her,” House voices eventually. “Cutthroat bitch that she was.”

Wilson huffs, leaning back in his seat. “No, you didn’t,” he calls him out.

“Fine,” the other man replies. “She was a cold-hearted bitch who suckered you into dating her.”

“She was the best girlfriend I ever had, I think.” Wilson states, melancholically twirling his glass in his hand. 

“It would’ve crashed and burned like all your other relationships.”

Wilson huffs bitterly around the cutting and unwelcome truth. “Sugar-coat it, why don’t you?”

He downs almost half his float in one go, leaving a sad little clump of ice cream melting into the liquid, sugar, and alcohol coating his tongue in a bittersweet mix.

For a while, there’s no sound except for the record and House’s fingers tapping against the glass. 

“I’m fucking this up, aren’t I?” 

Wilson sighs deeply as he shifts in his chair. “House…” he starts, lifting his hand before he lets it drop against the counter again, before he actually registers the other man’s expression.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think House looked afraid. 

It occurs to him suddenly that he might be referring to more than making a mess of their date. 

Wilson pauses, forcing himself to ignore his bitter emotions as he considers his reply. “You’re always going to be who you are, House. It’s frankly a miracle that you’ve changed as much as you have, but I’m not suddenly expecting you to turn a new leaf. I’m under no illusion that you’re going to stop being an abrasive, misanthropic bastard, just as much as I know that I’m going to continue to be dragged into your antics, if not enable you in them.” He looks at House, feeling bare and stripped of all defenses when he voices what he already knew deep down. “Truth is, I don’t really think there’s anything you can say or do that’s going to fuck this up irrevocably.”

House stares at him, inhaling quietly, an odd look in his intense blue eyes. 

Wilson averts his gaze, not quite able to deal with the aftermath of his confession. 

“Psychologists would have a field day with you,” House says, clearing his throat, when his voice comes out a bit hoarse.

Wilson huffs a laugh. “Pot, meet kettle.”

“Hey, Nolan tells me I’ve improved by leaps and bounds,” House argues with a humorous tone. “My last session in the loony bin was very enlightening regarding our unhealthy codependent relationship.” 

Wilson pauses, glancing at House. To say that there was a kernel of truth to those words would be an understatement, regardless of their delivery. He feels a flicker of uncertainty.

But then the other man says, “I expect you to pay for the sturdier cane I’ll undoubtedly need if I’m going to continue to let you use me as your crutch.”

Oh.

Wilson wets his lips. “Are you sure? I hear this codependency thing really impedes individual growth.” 

There’s the hint of a smile on House’s lips when he says, “We’re both accomplished doctors. I think we’ll manage.”

Wilson feels his mouth curve upwards.

Their conversation takes a lighter turn, and before long, their glasses have run dry. They collectively decide that they’re not going to waste any more of the good scotch, and when Wilson steps up to the sink to rinse out his glass, House gets up too to hand him his own. 

Wilson’s just put them into the dishwasher, grabbing a dish towel to dry his hands when House catches his attention by saying his name. 

He looks up distractedly, only to find House standing right in front of him. Without breaking eye contact, the other man draws the towel from his hands, tossing it somewhere onto the counter.

Wilson feels his breath catch in his lungs, unable to look away from House’s blue gaze.

There’s intent written into them. 

Wilson takes a small step back, reflexively bumping into the counter, but House follows him. It makes him feel trapped, in a way, yet somehow he can’t bring himself to mind it as much.

He swallows as House puts his hands on his hip, hooking his fingers into the loops of his pants. His warm breath brushes over Wilson’s face as he inches closer, sticky and sweet from the scotch floats they just had. Wilson wraps his damp hands into House’s shirt, bunching the fabric in his fingers.

His eyes flutter shut when House kisses him. Soft at first, a light coaxing pressure against his mouth. 

Wilson can’t help himself, his tongue darting out, a hesitant swipe across House’s bottom lip; a silent question. 

The other man’s mouth parts with a quiet sound, and then, abruptly, Wilson is overcome by a wave of aching need. He kisses back hungrily, his knuckles pressing into House’s side when he pushes closer. 

Arousal like hot coals heats up his belly, simmering beneath his skin, when House wedges a thigh between his legs. 

The counter presses uncomfortably against the small of his back, but he can’t be bothered, all his focus taken up by the sensation of stubble scratching against his lips and the sticky-sweet taste of sugar and root beer and House.

His hand drives up the other man’s back, crinkling fabric beneath, dragging him closer. Their hips meet in a delicious way, and Wilson clasps his fingers around House’s warm nape for more leverage, the prickle of short hair against his palm. 

A distinct bulge is pressing against his thigh, and Wilson can feel himself stir as well. He exhales in a sharp burst when House starts to bite along his jaw, hot and wet, his thumbs digging bruises into his hips, his own fingers flexing, driving through the other man’s hair. 

Wilson is panting by the time the other man pulls back, just barely enough to look him in the face. 

“Hate to cut this short, but if this is going somewhere,” House rasps, “we really ought to relocate.”

Wilson swallows, his eyes reflexively darting down to where House’s leg is trembling. “Okay,” he says, catching his breath. 

House drives his tongue over his bottom lip, and Wilson feels the image of pink against tan reverberate in his groin. 

“So. Your room or mine?”

Wilson’s nerves are making a comeback. He swallows. “I, uh. Mine. Probably. I should, uhm, shower.”

House’s throat bobs. “Yeah?”

Wilson takes a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yes.”

House smirks. They slowly extract themselves, and Wilson grabs House’s cane to hand it to him, trying to not let his anxiety take over. He’s only partially successful.

He sucks his lip between his teeth. “I’m going to… You know.”

House nods, swallowing. 

Wilson makes it to his bedroom first, nervous and frantic, but also a bit anticipatory. 

He locks the bathroom door behind himself. 

Wilson wastes a few precious minutes of his life staring into the mirror above the sink, trying not to spiral and trying to pump himself up, before he turns on the shower and waits for it to warm up while he uses the toilet. 

He tries to make it quick, somewhat negated by his compulsive need to be thorough, attempting to ride the wave of wavering self-confidence he’s managed to gaslight himself into as well as the remnants of his fading arousal. But when he steps out of the shower some fifteen minutes later, both have died a miserable death, and his stomach is churning with anxiety. 

He preps himself clinically and perfunctorily, cursing when a glob of lube drips to the floor, courtesy of his nervous hands, before he abandons his task.

Even though he’s put his underwear on again, out of some irrational urge to feel less exposed, it still takes him nearly three minutes before he works up the courage to step back into the bedroom. 

“I considered lighting some candles,” House says. “But I figured that would just scream porno, and I wanted to keep the expectations realistic.” He’s propped up against the headboard, having shucked off his pants and shirt, watching him, ankles crossed above the sheets. Wilson can’t even laugh, feeling dead awkward about the lube he’s holding as he stiffly walks up to the bed, vividly aware of the…odd sensation. 

He sets the lube down on the bedside table, taking a few deep breaths, his back turned to the other man.

“You good?” House asks. 

“I’m fine,” Wilson replies reflexively. 

House huffs. “You know that this isn’t an obligatory commitment? It’s not like you sent me an RSVP, checking the box for ‘taking it up the ass’ tonight.”

“I know,” Wilson retorts, almost grumpily. 

House laughs. 

Wilson chews on his lip for a moment before he joins House on the bed, the mattress dipping.

The other man looks at him amused, but his mirth is joined by other emotions betrayed by his expressive eyes. “Don’t worry,” he still jokes. “I promise I won’t leave you high and dry if you end up pregnant, even if I’ll have to sacrifice my sports scholarship. Coach will be disappointed, but he’ll have to deal.”

Wilson’s mind is swimming with nerves, but he inches a bit closer to House, awkwardly shuffling across the bed on his knees, swallowing as he looks at the other man. 

Deciding to throw all caution to the wind, Wilson supports himself with one hand on the mattress and leans in for a kiss.

It tastes distinctly more of alcohol now, as if House had downed another finger of scotch without the root beer diluting it, but the notion calms some of Wilson’s nerves. Because that means he’s not the only one nervous about this.

They fumble somewhat to settle into a more comfortable position, cursing and laughing in between kisses and roaming hands. 

Somehow, Wilson ends up in House’s lap, straddling his legs, licking slowly into his mouth, his thumbs dragging over bristly stubble. Meanwhile, the other man’s hands are wandering over his torso, touching, exploring, brushing across a nipple in a way that has Wilson’s breath hitch, before petting down his ribs and squeezing his love handles.

Wilson dismisses his self-consciousness in favor of sucking on House’s tongue. And then, after a particularly distracting bite at his bottom lip, which draws a groan out of Wilson, House grabs his ass and bodily manhandles him closer, hip on hip. 

It’s startlingly hot, and Wilson feels a flush creeping up his chest. He gasps when another shift has him become aware of House's budding erection bumping against his balls through the layers of underwear separating them. 

He rolls his hips a little to get some friction. 

It helps too in distracting him from the nervous flutter in his belly when House takes this as the cue to dip his finger below his waistband. 

They continue to kiss, but Wilson is deeply conscious of House’s hands continuing to slide lower, before they’ve fully slipped beneath his underwear, settling on naked skin. And of course, because he’s House, he pauses to give his ass a cursory squeeze. 

It breaks up some of the tension, and Wilson laughs quietly into the kiss, feeling the other man’s lips curve into a smirk against his. 

Still, that doesn’t make it any less embarrassing when House eventually sneaks his hand between his ass cheeks, pressing the pad of his finger against his hole. 

Wilson’s breath stutters in his lungs, heat licking up his neck. It’s not unpleasant, but he’s mainly flustered, a blotchy flush rising to the surface of his skin. 

If the other man can tell that he’s already wet, he doesn’t comment on it. 

Wilson tips his face against House’s shoulder, hiding his blush, smelling warm skin and a hint of sweat, and exhaling shudderingly. 

Beneath him, House moves, and then the telltale snick of a lube bottle opening sounds through the room. To Wilson, it’s as poignant as a gunshot. 

“Okay?” House asks quietly, his warm breath brushing against the shell of his ear. Goosebumps prickle over his skin, hot and cold, and Wilson nods, not trusting his voice. There’s a nervous flutter low in his belly.

House slips his hand beneath his underwear again, and Wilson sucks in a sharp breath at the sudden cold when he probes him with a finger.

The other man starts to push it in, slowly at first, back and forth until he’s in past the knuckle, continuing his ministrations. It’s accompanied shortly by a quiet but distinctly slick sound. 

Wilson breathes shallowly against House’s skin. The other man moves experimentally, dragging his finger against his walls, before working in a second one. Wilson bites his lip, stifling a noise while his hand shoots out to grab House’s shoulder to have something to hold on to.

A strangled sound escapes him anyway, hips jerking reflexively when the other man hits a spot. His dick twitches. 

“Fuck, Jimmy,” House curses breathily, a hint of awe in his voice. “Just—fuck.”

Wilson huffs, half nodding, half laughing over the ridiculousness of the whole situation, his face flushed red with embarrassment but also arousal. House turns his head and bites a stubbly kiss against his jaw. 

The intimacy of the moment is staggering. Neither of them seems to be willing or able to disturb the silence with words, even if House is muttering quiet curses under his breath while he stretches his fingers. 

Wilson muffles a gasp, hand flexing around House’s wiry shoulder.

He can feel his cock straining against his underwear, the fabric sticking to his tip where it’s gotten a bit damp.

For a while after that, the only sounds in the room are their breaths, the occasional creaking of the bed, and the intermittent noises of lube squelching, only exacerbated when House adds more. The third finger is a bit of a stretch, accompanied by a somewhat uncomfortable burn. Wilson bites his lip, exhaling sharply through his nose. 

House slows down a bit, more careful, and Wilson rolls his hips a bit to take more agency, getting used to the feeling. Before long, though, those movements become a bit more natural, and he finds himself turned on and flustered at the realization.

“I’m ready,” he says eventually. 

“Are you sure?” House asks, as if there weren’t currently three of his fingers buried in Wilson’s ass. 

“Shut up and get on with it before I lose my nerve,” Wilson bites out, and House laughs quietly. 

He pulls his fingers back, painting a sticky trail over Wilson’s tailbone as he draws them out of his underwear. 

Sitting up straighter, Wilson looks at House for the first time in long minutes. He must be blushing violently, judging by how hot his face feels, but House doesn’t look unaffected either. If his erection pressing into his thigh weren’t proof enough, his blue eyes are a mere ring around blown pupils, his parted lips shiny from where he drove his tongue across them in a quick nervous tick. 

Wilson swallows, using the excuse of bending over to the side to retrieve some condoms from the drawer of his bedside table to avert his eyes. The mattress dips under his weight, and he can feel House shuffling too as he scoots down his boxers. 

Awkwardly, Wilson hands him a rubber, not able to look House in the eye, and he shuffles out of his underwear, discarding them somewhere on the sheets.

He looks up in time to see House spit the wrapper off to the side where he tore it open with his teeth, which shouldn’t be as hot as it is, before he rolls it on. 

Somehow it’s easier to watch House slick himself up with a liberal amount of lube than to look at his face.

But once the other man’s hands settle on his hips, the right sticky with lube, his gaze flicks up anyway, swallowing as he returns House’s look, experiencing a strange moment of dissociation at them both finding themselves in this position.

House wets his lip again. “How do you want to…” he rasps, sounding about as awkward as Wilson feels before he clears his throat. 

The situation is no less surreal than it was a minute ago, but somehow hearing House’s voice makes it sink in for Wilson that they’re actually doing this. That they’ve found themselves in this situation for no other reason than them wanting to be.

“I think I’m just…” Wilson gauchely shuffles forward on his knees, and House scoots down a bit, aligning them. 

House’s lashes throw shadows on his cheeks as his gaze flicks down. 

Wilson feels blindly for House’s erection behind him, taking a deep breath as he lowers himself.

He has to close his eyes to block out the other man’s face, somehow not able to bear him watching as he does this, the sounds of their breaths suddenly loud in the silence.

The lube turns everything wet and slippery, and he messes up the first attempt by letting go too soon, the lack of traction causing House’s dick to skid past his hole and against his butt cheek. Steading himself against House’s shoulder, Wilson tries again. There’s a hint of pressure, and he clenches down reflexively at the sensation of the cold lube, but it’s doing its job alongside the prep. There’s barely a moment of resistance before the tip slips inside.

Wilson’s breathing picks up, and House’s hands flex around his hips. 

After a beat, Wilson tries to take more, feeling discomfort taking over. He draws back a bit before lowering himself again, thighs straining. It’s a slow process, and he keeps with the pattern, intermittently moving back before he tries to gain more ground, breathing through the feeling. 

After a minute or two, House groans. “God, you’re killing me here,” he pants between clenched teeth. 

“The name’s James,” Wilson jokes breathily, but he pauses briefly to actually look at House properly, his attention no longer split. 

House huffs a laugh in response, but he’s got his eyes screwed shut, appearing to be hanging on to his self-control by a thread. 

Inhaling, Wilson tries to sink down a bit more, ignoring the low burn. It kind of feels like he’s got to use the bathroom but also not. It’s weird. 

His erection is flagging at this point, and his thighs are working themselves up to a tremor. 

He tries to shift into a better position, but the sheet slips under his left knee, and-

“Oh, fuck,” Wilson curses with feeling when he drops down onto the other man’s dick in one go. 

A thump sounds when House’s skull knocks against the headboard, having thrown his head back with a surprised moan, followed by a hiss.

“Shit,” Wilson pants, frankly feeling like his breath was punched out of his lungs, grimacing. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Don’t hear me complaining,” House manages. He looks at Wilson, a thin blue ring surrounding his blown pupils. There’s a pretty blush staining his cheeks, his lips parted.

“Yeah?” Wilson retorts, trying to breathe through the initial burn until it fades to something more manageable, though still distinctly uncomfortable. He feels full to the point of choking. Mentally, he’s applauding House for his foresight in using so much lube, despite his undue resentment of the other man at this moment. “Speaking as someone who just shoved a whole dick up their ass, I reserve the sole right to form opinions on the matter.”

House huffs a breathy laugh before he looks up at Wilson and asks, “You good?”

“Not sure yet,” Wilson replies. 

He clenches down experimentally, and House’s grip around Wilson’s hips tightens as he curses.

“Fuck.”

“That’s the idea,” Wilson retorts. 

House’s lips twitch, but any appreciation of Wilson’s humor is lost in a sharp breath when he dares a small movement.

It’s something to get used to for certain. His cock is standing barely at half-mast now, but he doesn’t let himself be discouraged by it. 

Experimentally, he moves again. 

“Shit,” House grunts out, his hips lifting as he digs his heels into the mattress. 

Wilson curses, jolting forward in response, a stab of deep unfamiliar pleasure jolting through his stomach, instinctively throwing out a hand to catch himself against the mattress before he can head-butt the other man.

He blinks, startled at their sudden proximity, a shuddering exhale spilling past his lips.

House looks up at him, and peripherally Wilson takes note of his warm breath brushing against his skin, though he is mainly occupied with processing the sensation of House’s dick having grazed his prostate. 

The other man’s thumbs are digging into his hip bones, and his lips curve into a smirk. He rolls his hips again, slower this time and with more deliberation, and Wilson gasps as he feels the man’s cock grind deeper. 

Pleasure sparks deep in his belly, foreign but intense, and his dick throbs where it’s resting, fat and heavy, on House’s belly, spitting precum.

Another thrust and he’s moving with it, breath hitching in a gasp, his revived erection sliding across House’s underbelly, smearing sticky fluid across his House’s happy trail.

Wilson pants, bracing himself against the headboard as he tries to move with the next grind. 

A part of him is aware that House is trying to restrain himself as he rolls his hips slowly, but it’s still almost too much. 

They’re both breathing heavily as they start to settle into a rhythm. 

Wilson’s acutely aware of any and all sensations, the initial burn beginning to fade, though he finds himself distracted by watching House, whose expression has twisted with pleasure in a way that almost makes him appear pained. 

Wilson stares at him, rapt. 

Growing more confident, he starts to meet House halfway, and it’s mostly accidental when they manage to hit at an angle that draws a deep, unwitting moan from the depth of his chest. 

It takes some trial and error to repeat the feat, but before long Wilson is rocking his hips, chasing after the sensation. 

At one point, House grabs his ass for more leverage, and then he starts working his hips with more fervor, cursing intermittently, barely audible over the creaking of the bed, seemingly close to cumming already.

Their mouths meet in a kiss again, sloppy, more teeth and tongue than finesse, stubble scraping against Wilson’s lips. 

Somehow, House worms a hand between them to tug at his dick, starting to jerk him off in quick, desperate movements.

Wilson moans, his mouth landing messily on House’s neck, mouthing at the sweat-salty skin. Every so often a particular thrust evokes a bolt of pleasure that almost shocks him in its intensity, jolting through his body. 

He feels flayed open in a way, stripped from all pretenses and exposed down to his bare bones, rendered a gasping and whimpering mess, sounds being drawn out of him he didn’t know he could make.

Still, it’s House who comes first, his movements becoming irregular, abandoning his task of jerking Wilson off in favor of grabbing at his hips, pulling him close, pelvis grinding when his face screws up, and he spills with a guttural groan.

There’s sweat beading on his forehead, turning his greying hair spiky and plastering it to his temples. A blotchy flush mars his cheeks, skin turned ruddy with blood, his spit-slick lips curled back, revealing his teeth, even the one that’s slightly crooked at the bottom. 

Wilson’s hands reach out to cup House’s face almost without a conscious thought, framing it, feeling the heat of his blush heating up his palms. His body is still aflame with arousal, and he can feel House’s cock pulse inside of him, but at that moment, it’s only a secondary. 

He’s beautiful like that, it shoots through Wilson’s head; a raw, unbidden thought, but no less true because of it. 

He drags a thumb through House’s stubble, across the corner of his mouth, pressing down on his lip, till he can feel his teeth against the tip of his thumbnail. House’s tongue darts out, swiping across his finger, tasting almost reflexively. Wilson sucks in a shuddering inhale. 

Leaning forward, he kisses the other man, meaning to make it sweet, but the effect is ruined by the way he’s hooking his thumb into the inside of House’s cheek, feeling the velvety walls, while dragging his tongue across House’s teeth, turning the whole kiss delectably filthy and slick with spit.

House is softening inside him, and Wilson waits a beat before he pulls back and lifts himself off. 

He makes a face at the feeling of the other man’s dick slipping out of him, lube squelching unused to the sensation, before he settles next to House. 

Though he has little time to contemplate the implications of it all, nor to catalogue how he’s feeling before House has sat up and discarded the used condom, cupping his jaw to turn his head to draw him into a desperate and hungry kiss. 

Wilson’s cock is throbbing angrily at him, forcefully reminding him of its existence. Suddenly he’s aching to be touched, his arousal something he can’t ignore any longer.

Luckily he doesn’t have to wait for long, because momentarily, he’s manhandled on the sheets so that House can make a grab for his dick, resuming his earlier ministrations. 

It draws a groan out of him, and he doesn’t protest when House puts his hand on his thigh, sliding it beneath the hinge of his knee to push it up. It’s all quite a blur from then on, especially when the other man manages to slip two fingers back into his hole and aims them with startling accuracy.

It’s almost embarrassing the sounds he draws out of him, causing him to all but writhe in the sheets. When House puts his mouth on Wilson’s cock, his fingers pressing against his prostate, he cums so hard he sees stars. 

It takes Wilson about thrice that time until he feels like he’s able to form his first coherent thought again, that being the realization that he may get what all the fuss is about now. 

Vaguely, he takes note of House cleaning him up with a tissue, but he’s still too out of it to feel any embarrassment about it. 

There’s a hand brushing his hair away from his sweaty forehead, and he blinks stupidly at House, whose lips stretch into a smile. 

“You look like a mess,” he says, a teasing hint audible in his amusement.

Wilson forces himself to form words. “We should do that again sometime,” he pants, his mind still hazy with post-orgasmic bliss.

House huffs a breathy laugh, patting his chest as he lays down next to him. He turns his head to look at him. 

Wilson doesn’t even think before he stretches his neck and presses a chaste kiss against his lips. House’s smile fades, swallowing. 

There’s a look in his eyes that Wilson has never quite seen on his face. 

House’s hand drifts into his view as he brushes a stubborn strand of hair away from his forehead and continues the motion by carding his fingers through his hair in a way that can’t be described as anything but gentle.

Wilson’s breath stutters in his lungs. An emotion swells in his chest, spreading through his ribs till he feels like it might burst out of him. 

He kisses House again, lest he blurt out something he isn’t ready to express. They make out for a bit, lazily and with no real aim, limbs loose and relaxed.

Wilson doesn’t quite recall which of them was the one to pull the blanket over them first, but he falls asleep before long, a warm arm thrown over his torso. 

He wakes with his face stuck somewhere close to House’s armpit, wrinkling his nose at the stink of sweat and sex. Sitting up is accompanied by a type of soreness he didn’t think he’d ever experience and the knowledge that he should really exercise more if his aching thighs are anything to go by. 

He feels sweaty and sticky and overall a bit gross as he gingerly makes his way to the bathroom, waiting for his morning wood to die down to be able to take a piss followed by a shower even before he brushes his teeth. 

When he glances into the mirror and inspects his reflection with a toothbrush stuck in his cheek, he finds that, against all expectations, he doesn’t look any different. If one doesn’t count the distinct marks on his hips. 

It’s an odd and strangely comforting realization that everything’s still the same. That the world didn’t somehow turn on its axis just because James Wilson took it up the ass from a man. 

He’s more sore than usual, perhaps, and he’s figured out a few things about himself, but other than that—still the same old face looking back at him from the mirror.

Wilson spits into the sink, feeling a bit lighter all around. He towels off his hair, and when he steps back into the bedroom, he finds that House has stirred in the sheets, roused into wakefulness by the noise of him clattering around in the bathroom. “Morning,” he rasps in his sleep-deep voice. 

Wilson finds he likes the way he looks right now. Disheveled and softer somehow, his edges not quite as sharp, the prickly walls yet to be raised. “Morning,” he returns with a fond smile. 

House props himself up on the pillows. “A whole day off. Whatever could we do to pass the time?” A lazy smirk spreads over his face. There’s a pillow crease on his cheek.

“The laundry, for one,” Wilson says dryly, with a pointed look at the stained sheets. The bottle of lube must’ve ended up at the bottom of the bed at one point, dangerously close to the edge. There are a few telling stains surrounding it. He walks over to the dresser to grab some fresh clothes, and while he pulls them on, he clocks the tied-off condom on the floor on the other side of the bed, alongside a few balled-up Kleenex. 

It makes him blush something terrible. 

House grins broadly at him. Wilson can virtually taste his amusement in the air. And the sex. 

The other man opens his mouth, and Wilson promptly decides that it’s probably wiser if he makes breakfast, because god only knows that’ll be the last break before he’ll have to listen to a litany of comments. 

“I’m making coffee,” Wilson says, already turning on his heel.

House’s laughter follows him all the way to the kitchen. 

He isn’t alone for long. House is emerging from the hallway when Wilson’s coffee has barely run through the machine. 

The other man joins him at the counter, still looking a bit hazy from sleep, pulling a mug out of a cabinet and handing it to Wilson, who proceeds to press the button on the coffee machine again, while House downs an ibuprofen before settling on the stool at the kitchen island. 

Wilson grabs some bagels from the fridge as well as the milk to fix his coffee. Afterwards he makes to sit down on his usual stool but promptly decides that it couldn’t hurt if he checked on the bagels in the toaster instead, regardless of him just having pushed down the lever. 

House, who'd been trailing his movements with his eyes, seems to become progressively more amused. A wide, obnoxious smirk is spreading over his face as he looks at Wilson, who stands leaning against the counter. 

Wilson takes a measured sip of his coffee, feigning ignorance. 

The moment drags out, and stupidly he relaxes, letting himself be lulled into a false sense of security by the prevailing silence. 

That is until House almost offhandedly says, “You know, it should be pretty easy to write off one of the hemorrhoid pillows we’ve got stocked at work. I doubt anybody will miss them.”

Wilson slowly looks up from his coffee, leveling House with a dark, pointed glare. 

“Just saying,” the other man voices, lips twitching, before he grabs the newspaper and flips to the sports section, seemingly biting the inside of his cheek, before hiding his face behind the paper.

Wilson hopes that will be the extent of it, but privately he resigns himself to a long morning. 

And indeed. Breakfast is dominated by thinly veiled innuendos, and less veiled ones, jokes about virginity, and ginger walking, which reach their peak when House proposes they could invest in matching canes and Wilson comes to the conclusion that his choices having led him to this moment must be some sort of skewed karma for him having cheated on his wives. 

Still, his exasperation, as real as it may be, doesn't quite manage to put a damper on his overall great mood, soreness or not. Even when House walks up to the fridge to grab some butter and slaps his ass in passing, Wilson yelps, sputtering, briefly rendered speechless. 

Though he learns he doesn’t mind as much when that devolves into a make-out session right in their kitchen shortly after.

By midday, Wilson feels comfortable enough to sit down on the couch, shooting the shit with House as they watch the most recent episode of his medical drama and bickering over whether to get pizza or Thai for lunch.

House eventually gets dressed, throwing on a pair of jeans and stealing one of Wilson’s shirts when they head out to pick up the pizza. 

They split a bottle of wine in front of the TV afterwards, pizza cartons strewn over the coffee table, and watched some inane reality show when House, in his usual blunt manner, asked Wilson whether he wanted to fuck.

Perhaps it’s not his smoothest move to answer that with pointing out that they’re only halfway into demolishing their respective pizzas, privately thinking he just got over his soreness. It takes them a whole minute and some awkward clarifications until Wilson’s caught up to the fact that House was referring to them switching things around. Quid pro quo, and all that.

By that point, it merely takes him a fraction of a second to agree. 

Wilson finds himself wandering House’s bedroom some half hour later, nervous but anticipatory, hearing the shower in the adjacent bathroom run. He fidgets, bouncing his leg as he sits down on the bed, before getting up again, not quite knowing what to do with himself. 

He retrieves some condoms from his room, setting them on the bedside table, pausing and irrationally wondering if that makes him look too presumptive, promptly feeling stupid about it, but still placing them on the bed instead, tucked away behind a pillow.

Eventually, he strips down to his underwear and lies down on House’s bed, listening to the rush of the pipes and running water. With nothing else to occupy himself, his mind starts to wander, conjuring images, and before long, he’s lazily palming himself through his boxers, his dick stirring. 

He takes his hand away, a bit embarrassed, when he hears the door, looking up to find House emerging from the bathroom. 

He’s barely towelled himself off, still dripping water, leaving dark outlines of footprints on the hardwood floor as he stalks over to the bed, tossing a bottle of lube at Wilson in the process. 

“I figured you’d want to do the honors.”

Wilson fumbles to catch it, slightly perplexed; the outside is damp and slick, and he almost drops it. 

He could blame it on the slipperiness, but mainly it’s because he’s too distracted by the sight of House naked, his body backlit by the light of the afternoon sun falling in through the window, water glistening on his skin. 

It’s no conscious decision when his eyes track one droplet’s movements across the other man’s torso, across his belly where it catches in the hairs of his happy trail, before his gaze skips lower. 

Not that he’s got a lot of time to stare, considering House is already discarding his cane and getting onto the bed, and Wilson scoots back to give him room, swallowing around a dry mouth, conscious of his dick twitching with interest. 

It occurs to Wilson then, rather seriously, that he wants to make it good for House. Emboldened by this resolve, he looks at House, who meets his gaze with an almost stubborn determination. 

Wilson tries to bite back his smile, because that wouldn’t be very conducive to the whole situation. He puts the lube away for now, the sheets rustling when he bends over to cup House’s cheek, initiating a kiss. 

House grabs his neck, his fingers spreading across his nape, thumb pressing into the sensitive spot behind his ear, breathing through his nose. 

“You’re still going to respect me in the morning, I hope,” House voices in a brief pause when Wilson draws back to catch his breath. 

“Professionally or personally?” Wilson inquires, smirking against House’s lips. “If it’s the latter, I can reassure you, there’s little to be lost.” 

“I’ll tell everyone that you cry during sex,” House replies. 

Wilson hums amused against his lips. “Good luck with that,” he replies, dragging a hand through House’s chest hair, through the dip in his sternum and lower, towards the other man’s mostly soft cock. House’s belly twitches under his featherlight touch. 

“Spoken with the confidence of a man who’s already established a stellar reputation by fucking himself through half the nurse’s population,” House tells him. 

Wilson aborts his movement and pinches the inner part of House’s thigh, causing the man’s leg to jolt, a hiss spilling out between his teeth. “Jerk,” House bites out. 

“You like it when I’m a jerk,” Wilson counters, somewhat contrary to how he’s apologetically rubbing over the abused spot of skin with his thumb. 

“When I told you to grow some balls when dealing with obnoxious people instead of acting all agreeable, I wasn’t referring to me.” 

“And here I thought you’d be happy I was taking your advice for once,” Wilson replies, amused. “You should’ve clarified.”

“I blame this oversight on the consequence of me being brought up in an authoritarian home,” House says, his breath hitching a bit, when Wilson slides his hand higher on his thigh. 

“Daddy issues?” Wilson asks, with a somewhat gleeful grin.

The other man lifts his head, pinning him with a look. “You want to get laid today, Wilson? Because if you’re more interested in psychoanalyzing me, we can do that too, but that’s going to take a while, and it will be a mood killer.”

The bed frame creaks when Wilson shifts on the mattress and settles between the other man’s legs. “I think I’m good.”

“Wise decision,” House replies, looking down at him through his lashes. Wilson places his hands on the other man’s knees, thumbing across the damp surface.

There’s a slight outline around his body where the linens have started to soak up the water. “You’re leaving stains,” he points out. 

In response, House just looks at Wilson, raising his brows. “Are you implying we should relocate to the floor? I mean, I can order some plastic covers to satisfy your inner sixties housewife, but that might take a while.”

Wilson flusters a bit, acknowledging the point. He slides his hand up House’s thighs in lieu of a verbal reply. 

House sucks in a shallow breath when the fingers of Wilson’s left hand dip into the dent in his thigh where he’s missing a chunk of muscle, hands clenching around the sheets. Wilson pretends he doesn’t notice, neither lingering nor avoiding the scarred skin as he nudges House’s legs apart a bit further before he grasps House’s cock and bends down to lick a wet stripe across its thickening length. 

It doesn’t take long till House is hard, and soon his hand is buried in Wilson’s hair while he’s blowing him, applying all his recently acquired knowledge to the best of his abilities.

House is breathing heavily, scraping his nails across Wilson’s scalp. 

Eventually, Wilson blindly extends his hand, driving it across the sheets to locate the bottle of lube. 

He’s forced to pull back briefly to snap it open and squeeze a generous glob into his hand, rubbing his palms together to warm it up to be accommodating. 

House is watching him, not commenting when Wilson moves to heft his good leg over his shoulder. 

Bending back down, he continues his ministrations before he presses a finger against House’s hole, spreading the lube. 

He can’t help but want to tease him a bit, but in the end he slips a finger in, feeling House’s heel dig into his back when he tenses up briefly before relaxing again. 

Wilson swallows around House’s cock, noticing he isn’t quite unaffected either, his dick heavy between his legs and getting harder when he listens to the sounds the other man makes, quiet hitching breaths while he slowly moves his finger.

It takes him a bit to locate the other man’s prostate, not used to working this angle, but when he does, House lets out a string of curses, thrusting his pelvis, and Wilson chokes, forced to grab onto the other man’s hip to stabilize himself. 

Still, the temporary discomfort does little to keep him from feeling rather accomplished at this moment.

He works in a second digit before long, growing more confident in his movements by tracking House’s reactions. Said man is getting a bit more vocal, his breaths coming sharper, while Wilson continues to blow him, dragging his fingers across his walls, but after a few minutes, House tugs on his hair. 

“You’re doing a bit too well down there,” he presses out between his teeth.

Wilson lets himself be pulled off, wiping drool from his mouth and feeling a bit smug. “Is that supposed to be a discouragement?”

“I’m an old man, Wilson. I can’t exactly brag about my refractory period,” House counters, breathily. His dick is twitching into thin air, wet from Wilson’s saliva and precum, while the latter’s fingers are still buried in his ass. 

“Not that old,” Wilson says, somewhat distracted by the sight. 

“Says the boy scout,” House pants.

“I’m forty-three.”

“And yet you still have a baby face.”

“I do not,” Wilson counters, somewhat affronted. 

House snorts as he looks at him. “Don’t worry. Some people are into that.”

A slow smirk spreads over Wilson’s face, and he quirks his brows. “Some people, huh?”

“My kink is people who look like idiots, if you must know.”

Wilson laughs, breathlessly, before he returns to his task at hand. He does stop teasing House, becoming more perfunctory in his attentions, even if a part of him would love to see him fall apart under his hands like this. 

He’s never minded forgoing sex in favor of making his partners orgasm by using just his hands and mouth, privately taking rather smug pride in his skills in that regard. Besides, it hadn’t hurt to be validated either in his abilities in the bedroom, which he figured made more than up for the occasional case of whisky dick. 

He enjoys focusing on his partners and likes taking care of them. Likes knowing it’s him who’s making them feel good, even if sometimes that comes at the cost of denying himself personal gratification. And it applies even now. There’s a different kind of pleasure found in focusing on House, regardless of his ambivalence about his personal feelings. 

Yet somehow he finds, startlingly, that he’s more affected than he’d anticipated. It’s starting to become an actual challenge to ignore his aching cock tenting his underwear.

Blame it on the circumstances, but he’s actually getting a bit impatient to fit a third finger in. 

Recalling his own experience, he sits up on his knees to add more lube to the point of it almost feeling excessive before returning to the task with more ambition. 

That is to say, he forgoes blowing House again in favor of staying where he is, watching his own fingers move inside the other man. 

When it gets to the point where he can comfortably fit in three fingers, he drives a hand between his own legs to squeeze the base of his dick through his underwear to take the edge off. 

That turns out to be a mistake on his part, considering he feels like he might actually stroke if he doesn’t start jerking himself off right this second. 

It takes a monumental effort to cease all movement. 

Staring at the wet and shiny mess, lube smeared between House’s thighs, the skin around his hole flushed, almost as pink as the man’s ignored cock, Wilson swallows around the saliva pooling in his mouth and wonders how he could ever delude himself into thinking that he was attracted to women. He figures ignorance might have been the key to success, because right now he thinks if he ever ventured down the dangerous road of gay porn, he may have been less inclined to believe his own rationalizations. 

“Are you done ogling me, or do you need a moment to fetch your phone to snap a picture?” House says, forcibly drawing him back into the present. 

Wilson’s eyes flick up where House is looking at him with a hint of amusement and flusteredness, which materializes itself in a glare, but his cheeks are sporting a blotchy flush, even visible through the stubble, which betrays him. 

Wilson swallows, turned on and fond and everything in between. And then House’s words register, and without meaning to, his eyes slide back down, trailing across the other man’s blushing body, catching between the man’s legs. 

His dick twitches. “Fuck, House,” Wilson manages, strangled, surprising himself by how gone he sounds. 

“You’re so fucking gay,” the other man replies, his amusement a bit more genuine now.

“Pretty much,” Wilson admits, wetting his lip. 

His statement seems to take the wind out of House’s sails, and the vulnerability of that moment sinks in again, settling between them like a blanket. 

Wilson stares at the other man’s face, his mouth opening and closing. “House—” he starts, an admission sitting on the tip of his tongue, something heartfelt and emotional and earnest, which he’s trying to fit into words. House seems to sense it too, judging by the way his eyes widen infinitesimally, his gaze darting to the side, before he abruptly turns and grabs the packet of condoms from the sheets, momentarily chucking it at Wilson’s head, thus preventing any emotional confessions. 

Never mind that Wilson promptly forgets what he meant to say in the first place, because House follows that up by tucking his legs and twisting on the mattress, getting on all fours. 

“You—” he starts, suddenly extremely turned on, cutting himself off before clearing his throat and starting anew. “Like that?”

“What does it look like?” House bites out a reply, his voice a bit muffled against a pillow or his arm; Wilson can’t tell. 

His mouth is dry. “Okay,” he says and then again, quieter, mostly to himself. He fumbles with the condom packet and the wrapper, suddenly desperate to get it on. His hands are slippery with lube, and he wipes them on the sheets, leaving dark streaks in the shape of his fingers before he finally gets it open. 

He shoves down his underwear, not even bothering to pull it off fully before rolling a condom on. 

Shuffling closer on his knees, he pets a hand over House’s back, feeling the knobs in his spine and raised skin where old, faded scars stretch across the planes of his back. 

A different conversation, held years ago, during the worst time, in the wrecked bathroom suite of Stacey’s old apartment, next to a shattered mirror, cosmetics and shampoo bottles strewn in between the glass and House sitting on the rim of the bathtub, where he’d apparently sat for hours after lashing out, not speaking a word, while Wilson was crouching on the floor, restitching his leg, still jet-lagged from his flight and sun-burnt from his cut-short honeymoon, broaching the topic, because it had been better than the horrible silence, and the only thing he could think of that wasn’t Stacy calling him – crying and sounding afraid – or the amount of drying blood streaking House’s leg, or the deterioration of two relationships hanging above their heads. 

Right now, though, Wilson is more occupied with the shiver running down House’s back, a barely noticeable raising of goosebumps trailing after his touch. 

Wilson swallows, hesitating, not able to shake the feeling that he should double-check before taking what feels like a monumental step in their relationship. “You…” he starts, feeling a bit stupid in his current state of mind. “Uh, can I?”

“If you’re done with your painting—I’m assuming that’s what you’re doing back there since it’s taking you so long to get a move on.”

“Shut up,” Wilson mutters, flustered. 

“Shut me up yourself,” House says, and for some reason that hits Wilson like a punch to the gut. His dick throbs. 

He drives his palm up House’s back, settling it firmly above the joint of his shoulder, thumb on House’s neck, and he hears him suck in a breath, muscles tensing briefly, even before he lines himself up with the other man’s hole. 

It takes everything in him to not push in immediately. Wilson forces himself to go slow, folding himself across the other man’s body, pressing kisses into his skin, and whispering mindless reassurances and compliments into his nape, testing the limits of his self-control as he works himself deeper.

House is trembling beneath him, hips jerking slightly. He feels painfully tight, in a terrific sort of way.

When Wilson finally bottoms out, he needs a minute to compose himself, panting against House’s skin, his sweaty forehead pressed against his spine. 

He doesn’t doubt that House is grateful for the break as well, even when he’s the one who ends up breaking their silence by saying, “You haven’t forgotten how to fuck, have you?” His voice sounds wrecked. 

That’s about as good a go-ahead as he’s going to get, Wilson figures, and he’s frankly too gone to wait any longer. He draws back slowly and pushes back in, causing House to grunt into a pillow.

Wilson curses, pleasure radiating through his body, his dick leaking into the condom. He can already tell that he isn’t going to last long. Reaching around the other man’s torso, he finds his dick, half-hard, tugging on it rapidly while resuming his movements, reminding himself to go slowly, for both their sakes. 

He figures he’s found the perfect angle when House makes a strangled sound and his dick gives a valiant twitch beneath his fingers and tries to keep steady. 

Before long, the other man is spitting muffled curses into a pillow, panting heavily, but Wilson isn’t any better off. 

He picks up speed without meaning to; the sounds of flesh hitting flesh sound through the room. Wilson only falters when House slaps a hand into the sheets, tensing up, and he stops, concerned, when he hears the other man grunt. 

It takes him a moment to realize that House’s cock is pulsing in his hand, and he hurries to stroke him through his orgasm, wet spurts spilling over his knuckles, despite being rather distracted by the way House’s hole is seemingly doing its best to strangle his dick. 

He barely manages to hold out until he feels the other man softening in his hand before he lets go in favor of grabbing him by the hips, smearing cum over his skin, and starting to thrust with abandon. 

House is making different noises now, strangled and punched out, cursing, and at one point, there’s something like a bitten-back whimper. It’s what tips Wilson over the edge, and he shudders as he thrusts in deep, his glutes flexing, pressing his teeth against House’s shoulder, sweat pearling on his forehead.

“Fuck,” House gasps momentarily, and he somehow gets an arm back to slap his palm against Wilson’s thigh. “Get off.”

Panting, Wilson lifts his head, reluctant but complying, strands of sweat-damp hair falling into his face as he eases himself out. 

House curses again, already flopping down on the bed, belly first. Wilson’s hands are trembling as he pulls off the condom, tying it off and dropping it onto the floor. 

He drags a hand up House’s spine as he lays down next to him, settling it around his nape, intent on pulling him into a kiss. 

Only that when House turns his head to look at him, inches between their faces on the pillow they both share, Wilson stills. 

House’s whole face is flushed, pupils blown wide, eyes wet with unspilled tears, and his bottom lip red and raw, showing indents of teeth marks. 

Wilson feels his breath catch in his lungs, the sight of it burning itself into his retinas. He kisses him anyway after a moment, long and sweet, before pulling back to stare some more. 

He resolves that if they’re doing this again, he’s going to look at House, even if he has to chain him to the headboard to do it.

There’s an idea. 

He wets his lip, a warm feeling stirring in his loins, even if his dick is too tired to react much.

“What are you? A teenager?” House voices, too observant for Wilson’s own good, but the way he still sounds does little to curb his arousal. 

“You good?” Wilson asks softly, forcing himself to shelve those feelings for now. His hand is still resting on the other man’s neck, and he moves his thumb, petting back and forth behind his ear and brushing through sweaty bristles of short hair. 

House makes a sound, a quiet noise in the back of his throat. 

Wilson feels a smile stretch across his face in response. 

House grasps his wrist, pulling it away from his head and between them. “Don’t expect me to make you breakfast,” he says after doing so, still sounding a bit breathy, his words a sharp dichotomy to how softly his thumb is resting on Wilson’s pulse point. “One good fuck does not a stay-at-home wife make. You’ll have to earn extended services.” 

“Don’t you mean housewife?” Wilson asks, his lips stretching into a grin. “House-spouse?”

House snorts, and Wilson’s lips twitch, mirroring his smile as he absently spreads his fingers, putting them palm to palm. 

House’s eyes flicker down to where their hands are resting against each other before he fixes Wilson with a look. “I swear to God, Wilson, if you’re so much as thinking about ring sizes right now, I will not hesitate to throw you out of a window.” 

“I wasn't," Wilson says truthfully, after a beat, just when an unbidden memory rises to the forefront of his mind, a tidbit of information he didn’t ever think he’d recall, but which he does anyway; namely, the fact that same-sex marriage was declared legal earlier that year in New Hampshire. It both tips him towards the edge of a panic and makes him feel warm and rosy in a way that he hasn’t since he discarded all his plans about marriage and family and whatnot. Because that would mean that maybe he doesn’t have to give up on everything, even if he doesn’t follow through, but the possibility exists, and somehow that makes him feel hopeful and nauseated at the same time, and oh god, he can’t really picture it, but he can because he did actually propose to House over that whole Nora thing, in public nonetheless, even if it was just a joke— 

House’s voice cuts through his jumbled thoughts. “Good. Because if you think that the fourth time's the charm, you’d be, what doctors like to call, an idiot.” 

“Lucky for me, stupid people are your kink,” Wilson replies, without thinking. 

House stills, blinking at him, seemingly not knowing what to say. 

A rarer occasion than a meteorite shower.

“You’ve got tiny fingers,” he tells Wilson, abruptly, which is not true at all, but against House’s piano hands, they do come up somewhat short.

Wilson laughs. “It’s not the size, it's knowing how to use what you have,” he jokes. 

“You’ve got the advantage there,” House muses, his lips twitching. “They are distinctly phallic in shape.” 

Wilson scoffs. “Firstly, you need glasses, and secondly, you’re a child.”

“Careful, Jimmy, you’re about to confess to a felony. I suppose there is a certain appeal to the whole criminal thing, but I do have to draw some lines-”

Wilson interlaces their fingers and tips his head forward, kissing House. Mainly to shut him up, but also because he wants to. 

Eventually, though, they part, and Wilson gets up to drink some water, and House joins him in the bathroom before long to clean himself up.

Wilson leaves him be, busying himself by tidying up the bedroom, stripping the sheets and tossing away the used condom, and steals one of House’s sweatpants, putting them on, figuring the other man doesn’t have a leg to stand on should he comment on it, considering Wilson’s McGill shirt is lying on top of his hamper, before he sets out to grab some fresh sheets from a closet. 

House seems to have rinsed himself off, emerging from the bathroom with a towel slung around his hips and the proclamation, “I feel like a French hooker, all sticky and used. All I’m missing is a smoke to round off the experience.”

Wilson snorts, looking up from his task of putting new sheets on House’s bed. “I’ve got a pack in my room; help yourself.”

“Wilson, you bad boy. Where’d you hide the weed?”

“No weed, I’m afraid,” Wilson says. 

“Well, that’s disappointing,” House says before he limps over to his closet. He gets dressed in a t-shirt whose print denotes some kind of obscure band and sweatpants whose original black color has faded to a charcoal grey. “Where are you keeping the smokes?” he asks, just about when Wilson’s finished with the sheets.

“You were serious?” he asks. 

“You weren’t?” House counters. 

They look at each other before Wilson breaks their standoff by huffing, shaking his head bemused but also entertained, before he sets out to retrieve his forgotten pack of cigarettes, which he bought alongside the lube and condoms earlier that week. 

House trails him, waiting in his doorway, watching him dig around in his dresser. “Lighter?” he asks. 

“Got it here,” Wilson replies. 

Somehow he ends up getting roped into joining House on their rarely used balcony, still topless and only clad in his borrowed sweatpants, watching the other man light a cigarette before he holds it out to Wilson. 

Huffing, he gives in and takes the proffered smoke, while House lights his own. 

They never got around to furnishing the balcony, and Wilson is embarrassed to notice that the decorator he hired apparently did it for them in the form of a square table and matching metal chairs. Their cushions must’ve been blown off by the wind at one point, and the decorative vase on top of the table has tipped over, the remnants of a dried-up flower bouquet sticking to its surface, weathered by time and rain, having turned into some sort of rotting slush. 

He jerks his chin towards it. “Did you know we had a patio set out here?” he asks House, the other man turning to look.

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

House laughs at him, smoke billowing off his lips. 

Wilson wanders over, sticking his cigarette between his lips before he bends down to pick up the closest throw pillow, patting it off before he puts it in its designated place, the chair scraping over the floor as he pulls it towards him before sitting down.

He smirks at House, taking a relishing drag of his cigarette, the effect somewhat ruined by the cough tickling in the back of his throat. 

House snorts, watching him hacking out his lungful of smoke. “Wimp.”

“Hey,” Wilson defends himself, gesturing with his cigarette. “That wimp just got laid.”

“Evidently,” House voices, leaning against the railing. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be allowed to smoke with the cool kids.”

“Strange,” Wilson says, looking around exaggeratedly. “I only see this creepy guy with a cane. Must be summer break.”

House snorts, shaking his head as he looks at Wilson with mirthful eyes. “Don’t ruin this moment for me. I’m celebrating a milestone… with a fag — as the British so aptly call it.”

“Cheers to you then, old chap,” Wilson replies with a rather bad iteration of an accent, mock toasting with his cigarette.

“You’re such a dork. I don’t even know why I hang out with you,” House says, with twitching lips. 

“What can I say? I’m a great fuck,” Wilson replies cheekily. 

House laughs. 

Chapter Text

In retrospect, Wilson would say that it was an enlightening weekend they spent with each other. By the end of it, he’s figured out that he does not possess the limber constitution of a twenty-year-old, going by his soreness, nor that bottoming twice within the span of two days is something his body thanks him for. Somehow, though, he's actually looking forward to repeating the experience, despite all the hassle and preparation that goes into it and the obvious drawbacks the morning after. 

Especially when said morning after is a Monday when he actually has to get back into work. And unlike House, he can’t exactly blame his stiff gait on a bum leg. 

He manages, though, and congratulates him for shelling out a considerable chunk of money for a great office chair way back when. An investment that will pay for itself in a few years, indeed. 

Wilson doesn’t see a lot of House starting that week, courtesy of him being wrapped up in his newest case about some sort of blogger, returning to his usual habits of staying till late in the night and returning only briefly to grab a shower at their apartment. When he does run into House, it’s at work, between appointments, in hallways, or in his office, where House is occupying the couch, raving about his patient before disappearing again at a moment's notice when he comes to some sort of epiphany or is called away by his pager. 

Wilson isn’t exactly ignorant of the fact that they’re both workaholics, but he gains a new awareness of the nuance of their respective flavors thereof in the sense that Wilson is used to getting invested in certain patients, going out of his way by personally overseeing every test and perpetually staying late, while House oscillates wildly between trying to do as little work as possible—leaving early and coming in late—until he sinks his teeth into a case and practically lives at the hospital for days at a time, forgetting to sleep and eat in favor of working insane hours that more than make up for all the ones he missed.

It’s not exactly a new development, and it wouldn’t bother him, really, but by Thursday, he can’t deny that apparently a fortnight of continuous orgasms wrought by something other than his hand followed by a sudden cut-off renders him unusually irritated.

It doesn’t help that he loses three patients in short succession, or that he’s being sneezed on during his clinic hours, or that House presses around on his Game Boy at full volume at three in the morning when he can’t sleep because of the heat, while Wilson is in a similar predicament but actually has to get up early the next morning to attend a seminar. 

When he finds it discarded on the counter the next morning, still groggy from the sleeping pill he took and House still dead to the world, Wilson pettily chucks it into a closet before he drives off to work. 

He gets home late, tired and exhausted, ready for a beer before he’ll collapse into his pillows, only to be accosted by House as soon as he steps through the doorway, questioning him about the theft of his Game Boy. 

Wilson has frankly forgotten that he even took it, loosening his tie and not in the mood to deal with an interrogation. 

Half an hour later, though, all his woes are dissipating like smoke in the wind as he’s clawing at a pillow on the couch, his trousers hanging around his ankles with the other man between his legs. 

House convinces him to remember its location through a very mean and wicked means until Wilson is all but promising that he’ll never do it again if House will just let him fucking come, god please—

He privately considers stealing House’s things more often. He figures it’s the man’s own fault for forgetting how classical conditioning works.

A few hours later, Wilson—feeling a bit more like the adult he pretends to be—reminds himself that he actually is invested in not messing that relationship up through his lack of communication and resolves to bring up the issue of him missing sex (and maybe missing House a bit) in so many words. 

Not that he can quite bring himself to broach the topic. 

Not that he really finds an opportunity to either, considering he wakes to a text sent by House informing him that the latter will likely spend most of Saturday at the hospital. 

Sunday goes by in a similar manner, and Wilson busies himself by doing passive-aggressive grocery shopping—i.e., buying the healthy brand of everything—and dealing with the laundry that has piled up. He re-watches A Chorus Line and proceeds to make stuffed peppers afterwards, just about to pull the tray out of the oven when he gets called in for an emergency consult.

It’s less of an emergency but more of an issue in terms of a scan having been mislabeled, and after that’s resolved, Wilson invades House’s office when it looks like he’s going to spend the third consecutive night there, sternly telling him to go the fuck to sleep before slapping a Tupperware onto his table and shooing his bemused fellows home to take a shower and get some rest.

While House eats a stuffed pepper out of the container, whose contents are still steaming, the lid thick with condensation, looking more or less like death warmed over, Wilson does bring up what’s been bothering him. 

It goes about as awkwardly as such conversations go if they’re started with the words, “We have to talk,” two weeks into a kinda-sorta relationship. 

Though Wilson figures he can’t hold a grudge when he’s woken with a blowjob early Monday morning before he is even awake enough to function. 

Over the duration of the following week, they settle into something of an equilibrium. House takes the time to actually drop by at home, case or not, though it certainly helps that House actually cracks the diagnosis and raves about it being a fucking bee sting of all things for nearly two hours on his office couch. 

They have sex that afternoon too, great sex, actually, which leaves Wilson feeling like a puddle of goo, not even bothered by the wet spot he’s lying in. 

And before long, Wilson notes that they become less hesitant to breach their distance, even when they’re not intimate. 

Like Wilson thoughtlessly putting his hands on House’s hips when he scoots past him in the narrow aisle between the kitchen island and the counter. Or House propping up his socked feet on Wilson’s lap when they’re sitting on the couch while they’re reading and playing on a Game Boy, respectively. Or Wilson putting a hand on House’s back as he leans over his shoulder to peer at whatever he’s typing on his phone.
Or House walking into Wilson’s bathroom while he’s in the shower, declaring he’s going to use his bathtub, and telling him to wrap things up quickly before he uses up all the hot water.

The latter isn’t exactly a new development, but now it comes with a leering look and an appreciative whistle when Wilson steps out of the shower, which causes him to be both annoyed and flustered and maybe, secretly, a bit pleased.

The Monday following a weekend that can’t be considered anything else but domestic, despite them both having been called into work for a few hours, respectively, Wilson presses an absent kiss against the corner of House’s mouth when he says his goodbye in the morning, distractedly looking for his phone and only realizing what he did on the elevator ride down.

Still, it takes Wilson about another week of frequent—and increasingly better—sex as well as easy domesticity to freeze in front of the mirror, his razor nicking his skin, staring at the mug with House’s toothbrush, which has somehow appeared in his bathroom, to suddenly realize that they’re a couple. 

Hell, he was talking to Nora in the hallway yesterday, complaining about House never doing their sheets. 

He goes about his morning routine in a strange haze, spiraling over the coffee machine and pondering the implications of him finding himself in his first relationship after Amber. The fact that it’s with another man is a whole other issue. 

Wilson compensates for his newfound awareness of that fact by scheduling an emergency session with his therapist—sacrificing his lunch hour to do so—and retaining the invisible line separating their life at home from work with an almost neurotic diligence. 

He puts more effort into maintaining his personal space when it comes to interacting with House at the hospital, making sure there’s at least five inches distance between them while they’re walking to lunch together, and painstakingly going over every interaction with the man lest he let something slip in a moment of inattentiveness.

Nevertheless, there are small things that bleed through the cracks without him even realizing. Like Wilson barely being able to focus on the CT scan he’s been called to consult on because House is wearing one of his t-shirts to work, claiming his laundry is backed up. 

Or how House brings him a coffee unprompted and places it on his desk in his office. He even got the sugar ratio right, which probably means he stole it from Chase. 

It puts him in a good mood for a full two hours until he’s vomited on by a six-year-old leukemia patient. 

He all but flees and hides in one of the coma patient’s rooms after Cuddy corners him after a board meeting, asking him bluntly whether he’s seeing someone, because he’s been in such a good mood lately, before inquiring about House, guilty and fishing for whether he’s still mad about her rejecting him because he seems to have been avoiding her lately. 

Never mind that House’s fellows accost him the day after an evening of fantastic sex, prying not so subtly whether he’s seen House sneaking Vicodin again.

He escapes by the skin of his teeth, uttering a believable but hurried lie about him having taken to spiking House’s coffee with antidepressants on a whim. 

The second time he arrives late to work with his hair barely dry from the shower, he realizes abruptly that he’s shifted around his whole morning routine via careful manipulation on House’s part, which he only picks up on way too late. 

It’s getting harder and harder to maintain the balance between the two aspects of his life. 

When Wilson confronts House about it, irritated and anxious, he’s only laughed at and informed that if he dislikes getting off in the morning—which apparently buys House at least half an hour of additional sleep—he should complain the next time. 

Wilson sets his alarm half an hour earlier. 

Two days later he’s forced to drive into work with damp hair, cursing House’s name and swearing vengeance.

Their silent war over the alarm is an afterthought when House discovers that half of his episodes of Prescription Passion have been taped over.

Wilson finds his hairdryer inexplicably missing. 

The day after, House receives no less than twelve stool samples handed to him by nervous-looking residents until he makes the last one cry, and in turn, Wilson finds his email address spammed with less than work-appropriate pop-ups and ads about penis-enlargement pills. 

It turns into a whole thing. 

After Wilson signs up House for additional clinic hours, the door to his office is thrown open with so much force it ricochets off the door stopper, causing Mrs. Puth to scream, clutching her son’s arm, and Wilson to startle in his chair. 

House points his cane at him. “You’ve done it now, Wilson. You want war? You’ll get war,” he declares ominously, before he disappears, leaving an owlish-looking Mrs. Puth and son, as well as a startled Wilson, in his wake. 

Before he knows it, Wilson is called to consult on the worst cases with the most annoying people he’s ever had the displeasure of dealing with, and coincidentally, House finds his phone number leaked to multiple religious organizations. 

Wilson’s office chair turns up missing, and House receives the bolts of his own in a small bag tied up with a neat bow taped beneath the bottom of his desk. 

Chase proceeds to high-five him in the hallway for that one, and Thirteen texts him the pictures.

After a downright painful encounter with a stripper interrupting him breaking the news of a terminal diagnosis to a patient, Wilson figures he may have been too lenient. 

In hindsight, the glitter bomb might have been a bad idea, but he couldn’t have anticipated that Foreman would be the one to open the package instead of House. 

Their prank war concludes with them both being summoned into Cuddy’s office, standing in front of her desk like a pair of naughty schoolboys.

“—are grown men and professionals! I can’t believe that it’s come to this—again.” Cuddy pinches the bridge of her nose before she looks up, fixating on House. “You’ll be doing clinic hours for the foreseeable future; I’ll have my P.A. send you the schedule, and don’t you dare so much as insult her. She’s on the verge of quitting as it is.”

“I’ve been having some issues with my email address lately—”

“Then I will personally inform you! And I will double-check if your employees are the ones signing all the charts instead of you. Don’t even try to weasel yourself out of this.” Then she looks at Wilson, sighing. “I figure I don’t have to reiterate my thoughts, considering you’re the sensible one out of the two of you. Or so I thought,” she tacks on pointedly. 

Wilson tries to look chided, though a pissed-off Foreman glowering with crossed arms still covered in purple and pink glitter makes it somewhat hard to retain a poker face. 

“Wait a minute,” House starts, his grin fading—so far he hadn’t even tried to hide his amusement—“That“’s all you’re going to say to him? He gets off scot-free, and I get saddled with clinic duty?”

“I’m sure it will be very educational for you,” Cuddy retorts. 

“Seriously?”

Wilson bites the inside of his cheek to hide his smirk. 

“Seriously,” Cuddy says, snapping a file shut, before she mutters something about needing an aspirin. “Now if you’d please leave my office. I have an actual child to deal with at home; I don’t want to have to do it at work too.”

Wilson does feel a bit guilty then. 

“But mooom,” House whines affectatiously, “That’s so unfair! Wilson started it—”

“I don’t care,” Cuddy cuts him off. “Sort your shit out outside of your work hours.” 

“I’m gonna go home and clean up,” Forman declares and pushes himself away from the wall.

Nobody says anything to the contrary or mentions that there are showers in the hospital. 

He leaves a trail of sparkles in his wake when he walks out, and Wilson thinks he sees Cuddy’s lips twitch briefly before she levels them both with a stern look. “I better find no trace of glitter if I step into the Diagnostic’s office tomorrow. Are we understood?”

House gasps, exaggeratedly. “You heard that, right?” He looks at Wilson, and there’s a glint in his eyes that promises nothing good, before turning towards Cuddy again, with feigned affront in his voice. “I thought this was a progressive workplace. And yet, here we are experiencing discrimination from the upper echelons of leadership!”

Wilson feels his head swivel around very slowly, fixing House with a dangerous look. 

“Blatant homophobia inside this hospital! You can’t stop our gay love!”

Cuddy settles in her chair, crossing her legs, looking rather over House’s bullshit. “Are you done?” she asks, already reaching for her phone. 

“Wilson is my witness. You will hear from our lawyers!” House exclaims, “And I’m a cripple. The board will eat it up; you’ve got no chance against us!”

Wilson decides the best course of action is to apologize profusely while grabbing House by the elbow to bodily haul him out of Cuddy’s office. 

“I don’t believe you!” Wilson exclaims, the words that have been simmering under his skin bursting out as soon as they’re alone in the elevator, and he shifts his weight, hands stemmed into his hips, kind of wanting to pace but not able to in the confined space. 

“And I can’t believe you continue to get away with zero consequences,” House replies, standing as calm as he can be, hands propped up on his cane as he watches the number of the floor switch. 

“You all but told her!” Wilson counters, throwing his hands in the air. 

“If I were terrorizing your department with glitter, I’d have been suspended for a week.”

“I don’t get you, House. Is this some …convoluted way of trying to get back at me for not having been ‘punished’ with more clinic hours? Some inane jealousy over Cuddy’s treatment—”

He cuts himself off when the elevator doors slide open, a family of visitors standing in front of them. 

House spares him a glance and gets off before the people can file in, and Wilson trails after him, despite it being the wrong floor. Looking over his shoulder, he starts ranting at House under his breath again, gesturing and barely even aware of where they’re going, until he realizes he’s followed House all the way into a supply closet.

“What—”

House shuts the door behind them, and then Wilson is backed against said aforementioned door, vividly aware of their proximity. “What are you doing?” Wilson hisses. It’s more of a rhetorical question, but House answers anyway. 

“Proving a point,” he says, smirking, underlining his words by nudging his thigh between Wilson’s legs.

Heat shoots to Wilson’s cheeks. “We’re at work,” he stresses, putting his hands on House’s shoulders and somehow leaving them there in an aborted attempt at pushing him away.

House looks amused. “It’s not like anyone’s going to burst in at any moment in desperate need of floor cleaner.”

“We can’t,” Wilson says, agitatedly.

“Why not?” House voices. 

“You know why,” Wilson retorts lamely, but any more protests are prevented by House kissing him. A part of him curses himself for being so easy, but the majority of his attention is occupied with kissing House back. And it’s a very suggestive kiss. 

Extracting himself takes more effort than it should, especially considering House doesn’t actually put up much—if any—of a fight. Still somehow, Wilson barely manages to put more than half an inch of space between them. “This is so inappropriate,” Wilson mutters, keenly aware of the other man’s fingers having slipped under his shirt, threatening to dip beneath his waistband and thumbing at his belt.

Neither House nor his dick seems to be very interested in getting the message. Wilson blames the latter on having been conditioned.

House sucks on his earlobe, lips stretching into a smirk as they brush against his ear when he says in a low voice, “I’ve yet to hear you telling me to stop.”

It drives right to Wilson’s groin, but he still tries to pull together his self-control and tell him as much. Perhaps, he takes a bit too long in contemplating whether this would be quicker than him trying to will down his erection by himself, because by the time he actually comes close to finding an answer, House has already undone his belt. And then it doesn’t really matter anymore, because all words die on Wilson’s lips in favor of a curse when House shoves his hand down his underwear.

“House,” Wilson breathes, rapidly working himself up to a full-on erection while the other man is slowly stroking his cock into hardness. “This is such a bad idea,” he protests half-heartedly, his breath hitching. 

House just hums, dragging his teeth across Wilson’s jaw. He accompanies that with a wicked twist of his hand, and Wilson sucks in a sharp inhale, his hands winding into House’s shirt. The other man tugs on his pants till they’re hanging around his thighs, giving himself more room.

“I hate you,” Wilson says, breathing heavily, his dick throbbing against House’s warm palm.

House just smirks and kisses him again, and damn it all, Wilson kisses him back, groaning as his hips push against the other man’s fist. 

Before long, Wilson is forced to stifle his moans against his fist, adrenaline coursing through his body, somehow only fuelinghis arousal. 

Damn it all. 

“You should probably try to keep more quiet, Wilson, unless you’re actually trying to get us caught,” House says, sounding obnoxiously smug after drawing a particularly strangled sound out of Wilson’s throat. 

“Shut up,” Wilson tells him, breathily grabbing House’s wrist to get him to move quicker. 

When he comes, he bites the meat of his palm to stifle the noise, his hips twitching, legs trembling while he spills over House’s fist and into his boxers. 

Eventually the other man draws out his hand and wipes it on the inside of Wilson’s coat, looking smugly accomplished, while the latter is still trying to come down from his orgasm. 

“You are an ass,” is the first thing Wilson tells him once he’s caught his breath, grimacing as he tugs up his pants and tries to unstick his underwear. 

House just grins, patronizingly patting his cheek with a slightly sticky hand. “You can thank me at home,” he voices, and then he reaches past Wilson to open the door. 

Wilson promptly darts to the side lest someone actually see him, wiping his cheek, while House steps out with a whistle, leaving him to deal with the aftermath. 

Motherfucker. 

It is frankly miraculous that Wilson manages to reach the closest men’s room without anyone commenting on his state.

It’s not as bad as it could’ve been, and after he cleans up in a stall and washes his hands and fixes his hair, he looks passable, despite being painfully aware of the drying mess in his pants.

He tries to walk normally as he heads to his office—taking the stairs for one because sharing an elevator would just be plain hell—to get a change of clothes, while cursing House in his mind. 

Through the glass walls of the Diagnostic’s department, he catches a glimpse of House’s fellows sweeping up glitter, while the man himself is sitting in a chair, meeting Wilson’s gaze with a cheerful grin and jaunty salute. 

Wilson restrains himself from storming in and shouting at him, mainly because Thirteen is looking up, which reminds him that he’s got more pressing issues to deal with. Still, it’s a near thing. 

He levels House with a glare that could thaw glaciers before he stalks towards his office. Still, that doesn’t stop him from overhearing the tail end of a conversation when Thirteen asks, “What’s up with him?”

And House replies, “Wilson’s working through an epiphany about his hypocritism. And now more sweeping, less talking.”

The sounds of House’s fellows arguing with him are cut off by Wilson slamming his door shut and locking it behind him. 

Wilson does work through his annoyance with House in the form of drawing out a blowjob that evening to the point of having the other man curse his name and his bloodline and whatever else he can think of until he stops being able to voice any complaints at all when Wilson fucks him sweetly and thoroughly into the mattress. 

It’s still kind of early, so they end up in front of the TV, watching some kind of wrestling game to kill the time before they head to bed. House’s likely, because his own sheets are still a mess.

House’s legs are propped up on Wilson’s thighs, the latter’s hands rubbing idle circles into his bare ankle, a beer in his hand, resting it loosely on his knee. 

“You know there’s a betting pool, right?” House voices unprompted. 

Wilson hums. “What betting pool?” he asks, lifting his bottle to his mouth. 

“About us. Doing it.”

Wilson almost gets beer up his nose, coughing. He knew, vaguely, that there had been rumors over the years, but House bringing it up now… He turns to look at the other man.

House glances at him for the briefest of seconds before looking at the TV again. “Now’s probably the time to get into it. You know. Just in case. To collect the winnings down the line. If you think it’d be a worthwhile idea.” His eyes flick over to Wilson again before he takes a long swallow of his own beer.

Wilson bites back a reflexive smile, hearing the roundabout question that House isn’t asking. He chews at the inside of his cheek, thinking about it. “Maybe.” He rolls his lip between his teeth. “Sounds sensible.”

The corners of House’s mouth lift up. “Yeah? You think so?” he still asks. 

Wilson smiles, a bit bashful, but still serious. “It would be a pity to waste a good opportunity. Down the line.”

House grins. “You know, I’ve held onto the knowledge of where Chase keeps the books for years, waiting for a moment like this. We’re a single amended wager and an explosive coming-out party away from becoming made men.”

Wilson laughs as he relaxes into the couch. “Just out of curiosity, what are the odds? ”

House tilts his head. “Steadily rising in favor of us banging with every one of your divorces and taking a dip whenever you snatched another one of the nurses up, if past experiences are anything to go by.”

Wilson’s brows inch up. He’d known there had been talk, but he hadn’t thought it had extended that far. 

“We’ve got a few staunch supporters, who haven’t changed their wagers in years—”

“Who?” Wilson asks, blurting out the question. 

House looks at him amused. “The rotation has for one—”

“Martha?” Wilson gapes at House. 

“Yeah. I know. And Treiber, from the morgue, I think.”

“I’ve barely even spoken to the man!”

“He’s an odd egg,” House retorts easily.

Wilson huffs. “From your lips,” he comments, and House shoots him a look before continuing. 

“Though despite their steadfast championing for our cause, it should be divided enough for us to turn a profit, especially if we time it right and put down a specific date.”

Wilson feels his nerves rearing up again, his stomach lurching, but he breathes through it. “Sounds feasible,” he says after a moment, trying and failing to not sound a bit strangled. 

“And there’s no hurry,” House voices. “I mean, the longer we were to drag it out, the better to steer the odds in our favor.”

Wilson’s lips tick up, and he smiles at House, grateful and with something that may be one of the disgustingly cow-eyed looks the other man likes to complain about. They both take a sip of their beers, and Wilson squeezes House’s ankle when they both turn back to watch the match.

A few days later, Wilson arrives rather late at work, despite all resolutions to actually manage his time well. 

He stops to chat with the nurses downstairs, exchanging pleasantries with Carlos from accounting until he eventually makes his way to his office, intent on dropping off his stuff before making his rounds. 

Only that he stops dead in his tracks as soon as his eyes fall upon his desk. There’s a bouquet of reddish-pink and violet flowers sitting right in the middle of it. 

Wilson is too stunned at first to react before he approaches it as if it might explode at any moment. It’s a fair guess, in all honesty. 

It’s not like he never received flowers from patients before, but considering he’s just coming out of a prank war with House, that assumption might as well bite him in the ass. 

And House knows him well enough to know that he won’t retaliate at that equivalent of getting his last word in with the threat of Cuddy breathing down their necks if they start the whole thing up again. 

There’s a card tucked between the blooms, and Wilson pulls it out warily, flipping it open to read it. 

“To: Doctor J.E.W.,” it reads. “Your work ethic during late nights and steady hands during treatment have been deeply appreciated. For your unwavering commitment and exceptional care, thank you.”

Wilson blinks at it. Then reads it again. He’s received similar thank-you notes over the years, and yet the ambiguity paired with the lack of signature and the choice to use his initials as an address instead of his name are a good hint as to his origin. 

He cracks up without meaning to, laughing quietly before he wipes a hand over his face. His fingers come to rest against his mouth as he looks at the card again. His lips twitch into a smile against his knuckles. 

Fuck. 

Wilson might actually, definitely be in love with that bastard. 

He doesn’t see the other man until noon-ish, when House bursts into his office in his usual blunt manner. “Lunch?”

Wilson looks up from behind his desk. Since he actually needs it to work, the flowers have found a place on a side table—sweet peas, he figured out after a bit of googling—next to the balcony door, the card tucked away in the topmost drawer of his desk. 

Wilson’s lips twitch into a smile. “Sure. I just have to wrap this up real quick.”

House hums his agreement, wandering his office in the meantime before flopping down on the couch. 

When Wilson briefly looks up from his typing, he catches House glancing at the flowers.

Wilson finds himself smiling. “Thanks,” he says. 

House turns his head to look at Wilson. “I always appreciate being thanked, so I suppose you’re welcome for—whatever it is you’re referring to.”

Wilson’s smile grows. 

“If you don’t lose that smug grin of yours, people will assume all kinds of things about your character,” House voices. “Arrogance doesn’t become the well-reputed figurehead of this hospital’s Oncology Department.”

“I would worry about that if there were people actually believing you spreading those rumors.”

“That almost sounds like a dare, Wilson,” House says, smirking.

It wasn’t, but out loud, Wilson says, “Feel free to try your luck. It might actually be a nice change of pace to have people avoid me unless they actually need me for an actual work issue. I could do with some culling of unnecessary social interaction. Helps with productivity I hear.” 

Partially, because it’s true, and partially because there's a fifty-fifty chance of his reply taking the fun out of spreading rumours for House. 

“If people could hear you talk like that, there wouldn't be any need for rumors in the first place,” House points out, an amused expression on his face. 

Wilson huffs and makes a face. “Mendez keeps trying to talk to me about his cases ever since I've recovered from my amnesia,” he complains. “He’s calling me for consultations all day and night for the simplest things, just because he can’t be bothered to deal with it himself. I’m one asinine query about skin melanoma away from hitting him over the head with a clipboard.” 

House laughs. “It's a mystery that nobody has realized you're actually as much of a callous bastard as me.”

“Should’ve worn a wire if you wanted proof,” Wilson replies lightly, before he tries to actually focus on finishing typing out his email.

Another minute or so goes by before House abruptly gets up, pushing himself upright on his cane. “You done yet?”

“Yeah. I’m done,” Wilson says, pressing send before he swivels around in his chair and gets up.  

“Good. My lunch doesn’t buy itself,” House retorts. 

Wilson huffs in fond exasperation. When he rounds his desk, he pauses briefly, his lips twitching, before he leans in, quickly, before he can change his mind and presses a kiss against House’s lips, windows be damned. 

He smirks when he pulls back eventually, finding House blinking, almost seeming to need a moment to process this. “What was that for?”

“You got me flowers,” Wilson points out.

“A patient got you flowers,” House says. “The fact that we’ve been bumping uglies for a while doesn’t have anything to do with that. Not that I’m complaining about the nature your gratitude takes nor if you want to expand on that later tonight, but if you continue to read into this kind of stuff, you will probably end up being disappointed.”  

Wilson hesitates, uncertain. He looks at House, considering him, trying to gauge whether he’s lying or not. 

House wet his lips, his fingers flexing around his cane as he meets his gaze, steadily.

Wilson hums, taking a calculated stab into the dark. “I think you’re lying,” he says. “I think you just don’t want to admit you did something that could be considered romantic.” 

“I’m offended you’d dare even accuse me of such things,” House counters. 

But Wilson has paid close attention and thus he doesn’t miss the way the tips of his ears turn a shade pinker. He stems his hands into his hips, smirking. “Admit it House; you like like me,” he states, a bit giddy and rather smug.  

“What are you? A first-grader?” House scoffs but his lips are quirking.

“Must be your immaturity rubbing off on me.”

House smirks, raking his eyes across Wilson. “Oh yes. Immaturity. Lot’s of immaturity. With all that immaturity going on lately, I believe it’s my doctorly duty to advise you to get tested for cooties,” he says with mirthfully sparkling eyes. 

His last words are accompanied by the door opening, the knock merely cursory, considering Chase has already stuck his head in through the doorway. 

“House-” he starts before cutting himself off. “Am I interrupting something?” he asks, his brows furrowing. 

Wilson and House are standing closer than usual, and Wilson resists the urge to jump back, because that would only make the situation look more compromising.  

His tongue darts over his lip reflexively and he promptly chides himself for it, glancing at House to check whether there’s anything giving them away. 

“Just a thrilling conversation about cooties,” House provides meanwhile, “Care to chip in?”

Chase snorts. “You’ll actually have to have a girl want to touch you to get those,” he points out in his accented voice. 

It’s meant to be a jab probably, at House, though Wilson can’t help but make a strange sound, half caught between a hysterical laugh and a hiccup. He feigns a cough, using the opportunity to hide his lips behind his fist as well in case they look swollen, but it’s a weak attempt at disguise at best. 

House spares him a brief glance, raising his brows at him as if to ask him ‘seriously?’ before he wipes the expression from his face and turns back to Chase. “Luckily, they take cash,” he says, before setting himself in motion. “I’m about to go to lunch. This better not be taking longer than the walk to the elevator.”

Chase hurriedly starts to ramble about his case, trying to keep up with House who can put forth quite the speed if he puts his mind to it, striding down the hallway, Wilson trailing after them at a more measured pace, barely listening.

He catches himself staring at House’s ass – again, but these jeans are really doing something for him – forcefully redirecting his gaze. He’s present enough to realize that it looks like he’s going to have lunch by himself after all, when House slows down in front of the elevator to grab Chase’s file. 

“Rain-check?” Wilson asks, touching House’s elbow to catch his attention. The man hums, nodding distractedly. 

Wilson smiles fondly as he presses the button for the elevator.

He spends a lovely lunch with some of the nurses who welcome him with open arms, though he kind of misses his banter with House even if he saves on money, realizing he’s left half his fries uneaten anyway. 

He continues chatting with Marcy from peds, accompanying her on his way to check in with some of his younger patients, and he doesn’t read much into it, until she stops in front of the nurse’s lounge, hesitating in front of the door. “Doctor Wilson,” she says, after a deep inhale and Wilson pauses. “This might be a bit foreward, but I was wondering if you’d mind grabbing some coffee later?”

For a brief bemused moment, Wilson does think that it is kind of audacious of her to ask him to go for a coffee run, when he’s actually adhering to quite the busy schedule whereas he’s seen more than enough nurses smoking outside, barely a block from the campus café. He’s about to politely tell her off, until he actually sees the way she’s looking at him; biting the inside of her cheek, glancing at him from under her lashes while she bounces her sensible shoes against the doorway and it hits him. 

Heat prickles up his neck abruptly and his collar feels suddenly tight. 

Oh god. 

A spark of hysterical amusement strikes him when a part of him points out the irony of him being asked out by an attractive nurse – something which he would’ve jumped at just a few months ago – marking the most uncomfortable interaction of his week so far.  

Behind her, in the nurse’s lounge he can see a few of her colleagues craning their necks, watching their interaction. 

He resists the urge to fidget or loosen his tie, feeling hot and cold at the same time. 

It occurs to him just then, that he should probably say something instead of doing a good job of impersonating a fish on dry water. 

“Uhm, actually, I don’t think now’s a good time-”

She flushes a bit. “Oh, okay. Yeah. I get it.” She laughs nervously, hooking a finger behind her pendant. “I mean, you’re probably really busy. Maybe some other time?”

Wilson swallows, feeling perspiration build beneath his shirt and his pits. The way she’s playing with her necklace suddenly reminds him of House, in his early thirties or thereabouts, sitting across from him at a conference in New Orleans, tugging on his chain and going on about how Wilson is the best thing that happened to him all week to break up this dreadful monotony and that Doctor Fitch is just such an incompetent bore, somebody should probably exchange his notes with a more interesting topic – in hindsight it was probably the beginning of Wilson’s streak of constantly enabling the other man – and smirking mischievously at a hungover Wilson. 

Wilson finds himself straightening up subconsciously, drawing on some recessive pool of courage he didn’t know he possessed, nervous and steeling himself when he says, “I’m actually, kind of seeing someone, right now.”

“Oh,” Marcy says. “Uhm, that’s awkward. Sorry, I didn’t know.”

Wilson laughs, nervously rubbing his neck. “No, it's perfectly alright. I do feel flattered, it’s just, uh, well…”

Marcy nods, abruptly letting go of her necklace. “Gosh, I feel embarrassed now. People just said- and I thought… God. Sorry.”

Wilson blinks, barely registering her flusteredness as he straightens up imperceptibly. “What are people saying?”

Marcy pauses as she looks at him, laughing a bit nervously. “Ah, nothing bad. Forget I even said anything.”

“It’s alright,” Wilson says, feeling rather like it’s not alright and that he very much would like to know what people are saying and so he tacks on, “But you don’t have to worry about me holding anything against you, uh, if you were to tell me that is,” he says. “I don’t put much stock in gossip anyway,” he tacks on. While the former statement can still be counted as a half-truth, the latter is a blatant lie. Half his and House’s lunches are spent discussing the tidbits they picked up during work to keep each other up to date. 

She bites her lip. “Ah, it’s nothing.”

Wilson puts forth his best encouraging expression, the one which House likes to dub his kicked-puppy-look. Not that Wilson can see it, though he does know about its advantages.  

“Oh fuck it,” she says, before glancing up at him from under her lashes and looking away again. “It’s really just some chatter about you and House being attached at the hip-” Wilson feels a shard of ice-cold panic driving down his spine- “and I mean you were so nice when I started, I mean I’ve only been here for what; three months? And then I learned you guys were friends-”

Wilson all but slumps with relief. 

“-and he’s always so rude to us nurses you know, but the others said I shouldn’t let my opinion of you be influenced by that, and I meant to ask you about this actually. I mean, maybe I read into it, but I thought you wanted to ask me out, but then you got amnesia and I didn’t know if you remembered me until now and-” She cuts herself off. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. I’m probably making an ass out of myself.”

She looks at him chagrined, oblivious to Wilson’s desire to exit this conversation now that that’s confirmed. Still, he feels the urge to reassure her, so he says, “It’s alright, Marcy,” deliberate in the use of her name. He once read in a psychology journal that people liked hearing it and he’s made a habit of it since. 

“I’m sorry,” she says again, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I just, uh, asked around and people said you were single.”

“It’s fine,” Wilson replies, already checking out of the interaction and distractedly, he adds, “You couldn’t have known, it’s not like we advertised it-” Abruptly he closes his mouth and clears his throat. 

The nurses in the lounge are still listening, barely even making an effort to pretend not to. One of them is leaning over to whisper to her colleague. 

“Oh,” Marcy says again, staring at him as if in sudden realization. “Oh god. It’s actually someone I know, isn’t it?” Her face turns even redder with mortification, clashing horribly and charmingly with her ginger hair while she presses a hand in front of her face. 

Wilson stiffens, suddenly wanting nothing more than to flee this conversation. Why didn’t he leave earlier?

A simple no would have sufficed.

He can just imagine House laughing at him, smugly pointing out that it’s his own fault for humoring people. 

“I’m truly sorry,” Marcy says for the utmost time. “Uhm. Really, god. Could you just, like please let her know I didn’t mean to overstep.”

Wilson feels hysterical laughter build in his chest. “I wouldn’t worry about that.” The chance of him telling House about this interaction is slim to nil. And as an afterthought he adds, “I would appreciate it if you kept this whole relationship thing between the two of us. It’s pretty new, so…” he trails off meaningfully. 

“Oh. Of course. I completely understand,” Marcy says with a low voice, leaning in. Her eyes dart to his mouth.

Wilson’s never been more glad about a patient crashing out than at this moment, when his pager goes off, and he even forgets to excuse himself, already taking this chance to hurry down the hallway. 

“So, I heard you got asked out by the foxy red-head from peds,” is the first thing House tells him when Wilson enters their apartment, barely having taken off his shoes. 

“Of course you heard,” Wilson sighs resignedly, before he walks over to the kitchen to set down the take-out he picked up on the way home. 

House leans across the island, his elbows spread over the counter. “How could I not? It’s been the talk of the tonne: James Wilson, notorious panty-peeler of Princeton-Plainsboro turns down a hot nurse.”

Wilson feels an irrational blush creeping up his collar, even as he levels House with a look. “Yes, it’s an exceptional incident,” he voices sarcastically, “Now that we’ve acknowledged it, could we please move on and eat.”

House hums, not making a move in joining him when Wilson rummages around the plastic bag to grab his takeout container. “You’re a pathological people-pleaser, no way you turned her down flat-out.”

Wilson sighs, putting down his noodles. “I know you’re not exactly a staunch believer in humanity, but is it so hard a concept to grasp that I could turn someone down when they invite me for a coffee?”

“Yeah, I’m sure your rejection left her angry-crying on the roof, smoking her first cigarette since highschool, cursing the male population and swearing off dating for the next three years.”

Wilson huffs, frustrated, abandoning his current task in favour of placing his hands on the cool counter and fixating the man across it. “House, it’s late, I just came home from work. If you’ve got a point, please make it now, so we can eat and sit down on the couch with a beer and watch some stupid reality show.”

House tilts his head in an almost bird-like way as he stares at Wilson’s face, before he says, “So you’re telling me you weren’t at least a little bit tempted? Twenty-six year-old pediatric nurse, attractive, and frankly too young for you, but evidently needy enough to go for a man in his forties, who’s been divorced thrice and hauling around enough baggage to fill a swimming pool.”

“You forgot to mention the ex-drug addict roommate,” Wilson points out a bit prickly.

House laughs, but it sounds forced. “Yes. The ‘roommate’-” he draws the last word out meaninfully- “I’m sure that would’ve gone over well. But who knows, she sounds a bit naive, hell, why not go for it? She might even be gullible enough to believe you when you tell her it all comes down to a bit of ‘whisky-dick’ when you console her after a disappointing quicky in the nurse’s lounge. Maybe you’ll get to sucker her into sticking it out long-term.”  

The words sting. Mainly because they’re hitting right home. 

Because it would be a lie to say Wilson hadn’t thought about it.

After attending that code blue, he’d been standing in the men’s room, washing his hands and had thought about what would’ve been if he’d said yes. If he’d had coffee with Marcy, a simple date out in the café, in public, without worrying about being seen or judged or-
It would’ve been easy. A bad idea, really, and nothing he seriously considered going through with, but he’d mourned a bit the simplicity of his former dating life. Instead, he’s got this convoluted, complicated …thing with House, which despite – or perhaps just because of – their colourful history seems so much more difficult to navigate at times.   

Wilson, grinds his teeth, chagrined, embarrassed, at being called out like this. 

Guilt wells up and he can taste it in mouth, as he avoids House’s eyes. He steps away from the counter, suddenly wanting nothing more than a moment to himself, without the other man’s scrutinizing gaze boring into him. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Great tactic,” House voices while Wilson walks towards his bedroom. “Running away. Don’t think about fucking the nurse while you’re there.”

Wilson stops and spins around. He walks back into the kitchen and stems his hands into his hips.  

“What’s your problem?” he hisses. 

“I don’t know,” House says with feigned and biting cheer. “Whatever could be my problem? Can’t be your track record, no that’s pristine.”

“Oh, come off it,” Wilson bites out, pissed off and finding that House looks rather punchable at this moment. “So I thought about it. For one second. It’s not like I ever would’ve gone through with it.”

House laughs again, vindicated. “I knew it.”

“Not everything’s about you, House! Why do you have to be so-”

“So what?” House baits him. “Don’t hold back on my account, honesty is the core of healthy communication, isn’t it?”

“Difficult!” Wilson exclaims. “God!” He throws his hands in the air. “And for the record; I don’t want to fuck the goddamn nurse!”

“Yeah? Why should I believe that after you so blatantly admitted to considering it.” 

“You know why,” he bites out, embarrassed. 

House snorts. “You can’t even say it, can you? Come on, Wilson. It’s not that hard. Starts with a ‘g’ ends with ‘ay’.”

“It’s not because I’m gay. God, House,” Wilson retorts, exasperated. He wipes a hand over his face, exhaling loudly.  

House pauses briefly. “Yeah? Whatever elusive reasons are driving you then, Wilson? I’m not a fucking mindreader.”

Wilson pins him with an irritated look. “No, you’re jealous and riding my ass about something that’s really nothing and blowing it up into a whole goddamn argument!”

House laughs. “I don’t give a shit if you wanna hook up with moronic nurses to stroke your own ego. But don’t expect me to soothe your insecurities after you come crawling back, dripping with self-loathing and crying about it. It’s only gonna make you look pathetic.”  

“God, House,” Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose, at the end of his rope and frankly fed up with this insane argument. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” A joyless chuckle spills past his lips. “I’m not dealing with that.” He takes a step around the counter, intent on grabbing his keys to head out, food be damned, huffing. “Don’t even fucking know why I’m in love with you, sometimes,” he mutters, as he bends down to pick up his briefcase. 

It takes him a few seconds of sudden silence, and noticing House having frozen where he stands, staring at him, until he realizes what he just said. 

Wilson stares wide-eyed at House, clutching his briefcase as if it could somehow erase the last few seconds, his mouth dry and his anger startled out of him, replaced by plain unadulterated fear. 

“You’re in love with me,” House echoes, the first thing he says after Wilson’s unwitting confession, shattering his hopes that they would simply not address it.

Wilson’s face blooms with heat, mortification settling in. “Yeah, well,” he sputters, keenly aware of the furious blush on his face. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” House echoes. His lips twitch. 

Wilson wipes over his face, glancing at House between his fingers, before he lowers his hand and averts his eyes. He can feel the phantom warmth of his face still on his palms. Perspiration is building up there and he resists the urge to wipe his hands on his trousers.

When he can’t help but glance at House again, the man is smirking at him.

“You’re still a dick,” Wilson tells him.

“But you love me,” House says, grinning smugly. 

“You’re insufferable,” Wilson says, highly embarrassed, “Foreman recently asked me why I haven’t thrown you out yet and I’m really reconsidering the reasons I gave him for why I put up with you -”

“A big ol’ gay crush?” House cuts him off amused. “You can admit it now, you know. Cat’s already out of the bag.” 

Wilson pauses, still flushed as he looks at House, who stares at him across the kitchen island, his palms spread over the counter, his smug grin still in place, but there’s something about the way he looks at Wilson; when he wets his lip and echoes, “Come on. Say it,” in a voice, that betrays his lack of indifference. 

“I’m in love with you,” Wilson confesses, flustered and almost shy, swallowing nervously.  

House stares at him unblinkingly, the sounds of his breaths loud in the quiet. And then he rounds the counter at a rather swift pace for a cripple and even before he’s reached Wilson, he bridges their gap by dragging him closer by his tie – and Wilson almost stumbles into the other man – until they meet in a forceful kiss.  

House draws back, cursing, swiping his thumb over Wilson’s jaw, staring before he tips his head back up and crushes his lips against his mouth again. It’s almost soft, the way he kisses him, long and sweet and Wilson grabs House’s wrist, to have something to hold on to, while he’s dealing with an overwhelming wave of emotion, attempting to ground himself in the sensation of bony tendons shifting under warm skin. 

House draws back again, exhaling quietly. “I-” he starts, wetting his lips. 

Wilson looks at him from under his lashes. 

“Me too,” House says, all but blurting it out in one breath, before he swallows. 

Wilson’s lips curve into a smile, his stomach doing a rather embarrassing flip. He feels a wave of warm affection blooming in his body. 

This time, he’s the one who closes their gap. 

Long minutes after, when they’ve put some distance between each other again, both somewhat flustered and deliberately ignoring their lapse in emotionality, focusing on their respective take-out containers, the smell of greasy chinese food permeating the air, Wilson looks at House across his chopsticks, contemplative. “You were jealous,” he states. 

House falters briefly, before he continues to stuff his mouth full of noodles. He chews slowly. “I admit to nothing,” he says momentarily, thus admitting to it. 

Wilson smirks. 

Two days later, Wilson finds himself held back by Cuddy after the board meeting. He’s about to pack up his stuff to file out with his fellow doctors, when she touches his elbow, asking, “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure,” Wilson says, tucking his briefcase under his arm, bemused and a little apprehensive. 

She’s smoothing out her pencil skirt – dressed as impeccably as always, with a matching blouse, which leaves her cleavage on display in a way that would’ve had House shooting off no less than three comments by now. 

Her expensive lacquered heels click over the floor as she guides them to her office. 

“May I ask, what this is about?” Wilson inquires trailing after her. She nods at her P.A., before holding the door open for him. 

“Can’t I just invite you in for a nice chat? It’s been a while since we talked.”

Wilson laughs. “That alone tells me you’ve got an agenda.” 

She waits with her answer before she closes the door behind them. “Maybe. Yes. I don’t know,” she says, before she sits down on her couch. 

Wilson takes the seat diagonally from her. 

She sighs, sliding her palms against each other before placing them in her lap. “I think Lucas is gonna propose soon.”

“Oh,” Wilson says, surprised, but happy for her. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling at him. “We’ve been talking about moving in with each other actually.”

“But that’s great, Lisa.”

“Yeah.” Her smile fades a bit as she looks away. 

“Are you not …happy with that?”

“No, no,” she hurries to reassure him. “I’m happy. He’s great with Rachel and,” she bites her lip, cutting herself off. “But enough about me.” She smiles at Wilson, her eyes twinkling. “Not to buy into the rumour mill, but I’ve heard you’ve been seeing someone as well?”

Wilson blinks like a deer in headlights. Perspiration is building at the small of his back and his palms. He subtly wipes his hands on his trousers. “Yes,” he admits after a long moment. 

She smiles at him. “I’m happy for you.” 

Wilson drives a hand over the back of his neck. “Thanks.”

She chews on her lip. “How’s House taking it?”

“What?” Wilson clears his throat, to make up for how croaky his voice sounds. He pushes down the distinctly sexual image that her innocent inquiry has brought to the forefront of his mind. 

“That’s what I meant to talk to you about, actually.” 

“Really? Why?” Wilson asks, shifting on his seat. Oh god. She doesn’t know, does she?

She sighs, reaching over to a side table, and picking up a glass, pouring herself some cucumber water from a pitcher. She tips her glass towards Wilson with an inquisitive brow and he shakes his head.  

“It can’t be easy for him. God, I barely know what’s going on in his life right now.” She preempts her next words with a sip of water. “I mean he seems to be doing well, but we haven’t spoken really at all since… you know.”

“Yeah,” Wilson sighs. “I know.”

Cuddy recrosses her legs and tilts her torso forward without realizing it when she asks him, seriously, “How’s he doing? Really?”

Wilson wets his lip. He could tell her that she’s got nothing to worry about. That House is still being his usual misanthropic self, who slams cupboards to get his attention rather than talk to him, who breaks into Wilson’s laptop when he’s too lazy to get up from the couch to fetch his own, claiming his leg is acting up, regardless of whether that’s the case or not, who’s being a bastard just because he can, citing how House messed up Wilson’s careful arrangement of ties or — to Wilson’s initial exasperation – somehow quietly got rid of a good chunk off his wardrobe declaring it grotesque upon Wilson’s discovery when he was looking for his rarely used running shorts only to find an assortment of House’s crumpled sleep shirts in his dresser. 

He could tell her that while House’s sarcasm hasn’t lost its edge, it’s starting to feel less biting, in that almost endearing way it used to be before the whole infarction.

Or about that time last week, when he found House sprawled across the kitchen floor at two in the morning, clad in naught but a robe and underwear tossing a fidget toy into the air, while muttering to himself, pondering over his case before he managed to drag him into bed.  

Wilson could tell her that when House drove up to Mayfield for his latest appointment with Nolan, he put forth barely the minimum of expected complaints before he left. 

Could tell her that lately, when he arrives home after House, he finds him cooking, or playing the organ or reading medical journals instead of sitting on the couch with a bottle of bourbon, staring at a black TV-screen in a dark room.

Wilson could tell her all about how House is doing, and what he's been up to lately. Could elaborate in great detail about how House has been his usual self in so many ways, and that he’s somehow been different anyway. In a good way. That she’s just been too wrapped up in her own bubble to notice. 

But Wilson finds that he’s reluctant to do so. It feels private in a way. Like a betrayal almost to snitch, even when there’s nothing to snitch on. “Good,” is what he settles on and when Cuddy looks at him expectantly, adds. “I think so at least.” 

The woman looks at him for a long moment, studying him, before she exhales. “Has he met her?” she asks him. 

Wilson blinks confused. “Who?”

“Your girlfriend,” Cuddy clarifies. 

 Reflexive laughter builds in Wilson’s chest. “You could say that,” he replies, chuckling nervously. 

Cuddy recrosses her legs. “Gosh. I hope it didn’t go too badly. I know how he is.”

Wilson laughs, not knowing why. 

She gazes down at the water glass in her hand. “I don’t know if I should tell him about Lucas. I mean, I figure he’s gonna have to know sooner or later, but things have been strained. Weird. I don’t know.” She looks up at Wilson. “I just want us to be friends, you know. Not this…”

She gestures vaguely. 

Wilson nods. He gets it. Gets it better than most probably. He’s seen it play out right in front of his eyes for his years now at this point after all. 

There’s always been this …thing, between House and Cuddy. 

And Wilson – plain old reliable Wilson – had somehow found himself being the middle-man and sounding board for both sides. Like a note passed back and forth in class, said note being him.  

Cuddy asking him into his office to talk about House, countless times, inquiring about House in that roundabout way even when they meant to not talk about him at all. 

Or House interrupting Wilson during appointments, dragging him out onto the balcony to ask him his opinion on his latest scheme about annoying Cuddy, like a boy with a crush pulling a girl’s pigtails. 

And sexual tension is only the tip of the ice-berg.

There’s a part of Wilson, who privately takes pride in knowing House as well as he does. 

Through gruelling years of ups and downs and sticking by his side in a stubborn refusal to back down, he’s somehow been granted a glimpse behind the curtain, where others struggled – or not even tried – to look beyond the prickly surface hiding the multifaceted depths that make up the enigmatic and brilliant Gregory House.  

It’s an accomplishment not many can pride themselves on. 

But if there were a contest to be launched, to figure out who could claim his spot in that regard, Cuddy would be a close contender, coming only second to Stacy. And at this point, he isn’t even sure that is true.  

It irks him, at this moment, knowing that Cuddy and House had slept together, years ago, the former a fresh-faced resident – probably even more attractive in youth – and the latter, barely out of med-school but already having made a name for himself as a brilliant upcoming addition to the medical field through a series of essays discussing new and unconventional methods of treating kidney disease published in the Johns Hopkins medical journal.  

Wilson had read them, impressed, even back then, and even more impressed once he’d gotten to know House, who’d mentioned offhandedly a year into their acquaintance that he’d not even finished his residency when he started writing them. 

“You should tell him,” Wilson says abruptly, with conviction and no little amount of personal agenda. 

Not too long ago, House had harboured vivid vicodin-fuelled hallucinations about a passionate night spent with one Doctor Lisa Cuddy and had burst into his office to tell him the good news with a smile so broad and infectious, it had fooled even Wilson.

Had let it fool him. And it had been easy to not look at it too closely. Easier to delude himself into feeling happy for his friend, than to focus on the fact that it meant he didn’t have to feel guilty about ditching House for yet another failure of a date or to investigate why his first reaction at hearing those news had been an uncomfortable stab of disappointed followed by resignation.  

And even after Mayfield, when it all had turned out to be a lie, House still had made a move, had tried earnestly and honestly to win Cuddy’s affection. 

Mere weeks before Wilson took a header into the hospital floor and got amnesia.   

And as things stand now, he hopes rather selfishly that Cuddy telling House about her engagement will put a concluding lid on the whole thing. 

“You really think so?” Cuddy says and Wilson feels a sudden spark of annoyance at her reluctance to break the news to House. 

He tries to mask it by schooling his face and looking at the tasteful painting hung above her head. 

Cuddy continues obliviously. “I hate to put it like that but the only thing I can think of is how some people with depressive episodes suddenly seem to be doing well-”

That pulls Wilson back into the moment. “He is not suicidal,” he exclaims, offended on House’s behalf and perhaps a bit indignant as well.

“No, I don’t mean it that way,” Cuddy immediately backpedals. “I know what it sounds like. I do. But he’s really doing okay? You’re not- I mean, I’m not trying to accuse you of anything, and it’s not like you owe him anything, you’re doing more than enough for him after Mayfield and everything, but you know how he gets when you start dating someone-”

“How does he get?” Wilson interrupts her, bemusement taking over momentarily, replacing his growing irkedness.  

“You know,” Cuddy says, gesturing, “All House-like and cynical. Making the new residents miserable and having them question their life choices. And that whole prank-war, I’m assuming that’s what it was all about. He can act like a right child when he feels like he’s being ignored. I can only imagine what it’s like at home. Though considering everything, you can’t deny that he seems to be taking it unusually well this time.” 

Wilson abruptly has to clear his throat, resisting the urge to make a pun. “I suppose,” he voices. 

She looks at him seriously. “He isn’t back on vicodin is he?”

“No. No, I would’ve known,” Wilson says. 

She studies his expression, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure,” Wilson replies, trying to keep his own irritation out of his voice. 

“Okay.” She leans back in her seat, laughing a bit. “That’s actually a relief.” She takes another sip of her water. “Your new girlfriend, he’s not making her miserable, is he?”

Wilson shifts, uncomfortable at her sudden interest in his life. Which coincidentally happens to be House’s. “Uhm, about as miserable as he makes himself, I suppose,” he dares.  

Cuddy laughs. “Well, I guess one can’t have anything.” She smiles at Wilson. “Am I gonna be introduced soon?”

Wilson abruptly swallows. “It’s pretty new…”

She waves him off. “No worries. I didn’t ask you here to pry into your personal life. But I’d like to think we’re friends, so if you ever want to talk, or go out and have dinner with me and Lucas, we’d love to have you.”

“I’ll think about it,” Wilson somehow manages, somewhat hysterically picturing himself and House in front of their door, with a bottle of wine in hand. 

She taps her painted nails against her glass. “So, do you think I should tell him about Lucas?”

Wilson shrugs. “Ultimately, it’s up to you. But like you said, he’s gonna find out sooner than later. Probably better if it’s coming from you.”

She sighs. “I know.” Chewing brielfy at her lip before cutting that motion off, she regards him. “I mean, should I invite him for dinner? Do you think he’d agree? Or would that be weird?”

“I honestly don't know,” Wilson says. “Uhm, I could, uh, brace him for the eventuality?”

“No, like you said. It has to come from me. But, actually,” she looks at him. “Maybe you could come too? Act as a buffer? If it’s not too much to ask.” 

Wilson has to bite back a snort at the irony of it all. “No, I think actually that wouldn’t be too bad of an idea.” 

“Great. Thank you, James, I really appreciate it.” 

“Did you have a date in mind?”

“No,” she says. “It’d probably be better to wait till there is actual news to break. It’s all up in the air right now anyway. And frankly, I’m gonna need some time to brace myself for that interaction.”

Wilson nods, amused. 

“It’s a shame we don’t get together more often,” Cuddy says out of the blue. 

“We do see each other almost every day,” Wilson comments, but Cuddy waves him off. 

“That’s work. That’s different. The invitation stands, by the way. If you want to come over for dinner sometime and the eventual housewarming. Girlfriend included.”

Wilson feels the urge to leave again. “Thanks, Lisa. Yeah. Maybe. Soon.”

She smiles at him. “Great.”

Wilson’s pager goes off. He gets up, already checking what it says. “I should-”

“Yes, yeah. Of course. Thanks, James.”

“No worries,” he waves her off, already leaving. 

It’s hard, not telling House about the whole Cuddy-Lucas situation. A part of him wants to blurt it out, wants to be tone to draw that line in the sand, but Wilson restrains himself.
Cuddy wouldn't thank him for it and it’s not his place anyway. Nevermind that he’d rather not remind House of his long-harboured affections for Cuddy, or that there is a not insignificant risk of House dragging Wilson along to her doorstep, without his knowledge confirming the attendance of him and his ‘girlfriend’ for dinner, simply for the entertainment factor.  

So he lets himself forget about the whole thing. 

And it’s easy to forget too, wrapped up in his own life and happiness like that. 

The first time House properly tells Wilson that he loves him is when he’s still half-asleep and groggy from having gotten up way too late – and Wilson presses a coffee into his hand, already ready to leave for work. 

“God, I love you,” he rasps, bleary-eyed, before promptly drowning himself in the liquid. 

Wilson startles briefly, staring at House, who’s once again claimed his McGill sweater – its sleeves are a bit short on him, exposing his wrists where his hands wrapped around the mug, the hem barely meeting the waistband of his boxer shorts – before he bites back a smile. 

He can’t help but press his lips against the crown of House’s head in passing, when he says goodbye, the other man just waving him off grumbling. 

Wilson wouldn’t have believed him if someone told him, but it becomes a thing. 

Because, while he doesn’t hold back really in reaffirming his confession after it’s out, he mostly does it in bed, muttering against House’s skin while pressing kisses against his back, or afterwards, sleepy, and sated, in the dark of their shared bedrooms. 

But House – House starts to say it all the time. When Wilson hands him a heating pad, or a coffee, when he lets House pick the show they’re watching, hell, even when they’re in a heated discussion and Wilson is in the midst of arguing his point.

Throwaway comments almost, a tossed out, ‘Love ya,” in passing or a grumpy, “you’re lucky I love you,” when Wilson professes that he will blow-dry his hair regardless of whether House will get up or not, and one very earnest, but slurred, “I love you, Wilson, you know that right?” while they’re both downright wasted after a night spent at the bar and Wilson is trying to tug House’s sneaker off his shoe without falling flat on his ass, the other man sitting on the bench in their checkered entrance area, looking down at him with glassy drunken eyes, before trying to pat his head and missing, clipping his ear, which causes Wilson to dissolve into giggles. 

Not to mention the nicknames. The horrible and embarrassing nicknames, which House finds humour in tacking on behind various statements, starting from snookums, to honeybunch to a singular sarcastic, ‘right baby?’ which Wilson cuts off right then and there.

Wilson figures out House’s kryptonite though, by virtue of responding in kind, but in a very earnest manner, which shuts him right up. 

Still, it gets to the point where he knocks onto Nora’s door one Friday evening with a bottle of wine in hand, when House meets up with his poker buddies, because he needs a break and someone to vent to and she is literally the only one who actually knows that he and House are dating. 

It takes some fudging on his part, regarding the whole relationship timeline and he feels a bit bad about it, but frankly, he figures it’s not technically lying if he’s lying by omission.  

It’s actually somewhat of a relief, having found someone who he can talk to about all the little things that he can’t or doesn’t want to talk about with House. 

His therapist may have had a point with him needing to expand his social circles. 

And it feels nice, getting buzzed on wine, not having to worry about how to interact with an attractive woman, always thinking about what and how he should go about things, or whether he should make a move or not. 

Nevermind that he thinks Nora would literally slap him if he so much as attempted it anyway. 

They might actually be something like friends now. 

At work, Wilson still makes a point to keep their relationship under the wraps, though it’s getting distinctively harder to focus when he stands leaning against the counter of the coffee corner in the diagnostic's department, called in for a consult, while watching House shoot down his fellows’ propositions, when he knows that the legs he’s got propped up on the table are sporting two mirroring hickeys on the insides of those thighs, which he put there. 

There's one time in the cafeteria, when House is sucking a bunch of salt from his fingers courtesy of a stolen fry that leads to Wilson being forced to push the pitiful last two bites of his salad around his plate for nearly fifteen minutes lest he’s forced to walk around with a tent in his trousers, courtesy of the vivid fantasy playing out in his mind.  

On one occasion, he barely catches himself before kissing House in the middle of his office, too distracted to really pay attention before he leaves, forced to make an aborted movement that ends up in a weird shoulder pat, which reaps him Thirteen’s quirked brows and an odd look from Chase. 

House makes fun of him for days for it.  

Or in general, whenever House gets that fevered passionate look in his face, like a kid in a candy store, when he raves about a case, Wilson wants nothing more than to kiss the expression off his features. 

Privately, he resolves to resign himself to the fact that maybe he won’t be able to keep up with that separation of his relationship and work for that much longer, considering that the involved party is actually working at the same hospital as him.  

It’s lucky too, that he’s braced himself for the eventuality of the lines blurring, when House invades his office in his usual manner of storming in unannounced, before he plops down in the chair across from him. 

Wilson cuts his call short, lying to his patient about an urgent page, and tells them that he’ll call them back, knowing he won’t get anything done while House is in his office anyway before hanging up.

“I met an interesting patient today,” House says. 

“Yeah? What’s it they’ve got?” Wilson asks, while trying to subtly pull his zen garden out of House’s reach before he defaces it again and he, in his distraction, forgets to fix it until one of his patients points out the less than work appropriate drawings in the sand. “Bubonic plague? African sleeping sickness? A new and never-before seen disease that you are dying to name after yourself?”

House drives his tongue over his teeth behind his lips, making a chirping kind of sound when he sucks air through his lips. “Aphasia, syncope and pleural effusion.”

“Interesting,” Wilson says after a moment, leaning back in his chair studying House.

The other man scoffs. “That’s the opposite of interesting.”

“Exactly,” Wilson says. “Meaning that when you said ‘interesting patient’ you actually meant ‘interesting patient’ and not ‘interesting case’.”

“Well, he’s not interesting per se either. Predictably boring, actually.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Wilson says. “It’s not the sickness, it’s not the patient, meaning it’s something about the patient. Funny voice? Missing an eye? Peg leg? A second Y chromosome? Feel free to tell me when I’m getting close.” 

House twirls his cane between his legs, clicking his tongue. “Patient collapsed in front of the altar; turns out he’s not actually playing sick to ditch the vows, but is actually intent on going through with the marriage as soon as he’s cured.”

“And that is interesting why?” Wilson asks, feeling like he’s missing something. 

“Well, the unlucky wife to be doesn’t know about the ex-boyfriend of three years nor the conversion therapy.”

“Ah,” Wilson says after a long moment, leaning into the bounce of his chair. “And are you coming to me because this is a …moral dilemma for you?”

“No,” House says. 

“Care to elaborate?” Wilson asks after a moment.

“Just got me thinking, I suppose.”

“Because that isn’t vague,” Wilson says. “Come on. What’s the real reason for you bringing it up? It can’t be because you’re thinking I’m the expert on the matter.” 

“Yeah, no, you’re all about doing it the other way round. Getting married before realizing you couldn’t live without the capital-d.”

Wilson levels House with a look. “Not dignifying that with an answer, I think you’re bringing it up because you’re actually caring for your patient for once.” 

“Wrong,” House immediately protests. “Chase could’ve come up with a better guess and that guy’s a moron.”

“No, I think I’m right,” Wilson says after a moment, more certain.

“Don’t project your bleeding heart onto me.” 

“This is actually bothering you,” Wilson says, sticking to his guns. “On a personal level.” Something occurs to him just then, and he scrutinises the other man suspiciously. “This patient, whom you’re talking about, he actually exists, right? This whole thing isn’t some sort of convoluted metaphor you’ve come up with to get me to admit to my secret plans of leaving you for a woman — which I’m not by the way.”  

House glances at him, and snorts. “I figure you’d have learned your lesson by now, considering your marriages tend to have about the same success rate as that guy’s conversion therapy. If you’re still living in denial, I’ve got to wonder what I’m doing.”  

Wilson huffs amused. “Yeah, because my continued enlightenment hinges on you self-lessly offering up your body to keep me on the path of self-awareness.” 

“You’re welcome, Bhava Wilson,” House quips. “Henceforth, you’ve shed your title as the King of denial.”

Wilson snorts. “Can’t say I’m upset about handing over that torch. I presume your patient is the runner up?”  

House appropriates a thoughtful expression as he leans back in his chair. “Really depends on how you want to interpret his statement about him being as straight as any of us. Considering it was me, Taub and Thirteen in the room, his subconscious might be trying to tell us he’s about a two on the kinsey scale. Give it a day of him being on oxygen and maybe he’ll admit to a larger score once his higher brain function kicks in again.”

“Yet another soul saved from the dreadful plights of straight marriage,” Wilson jokes.  

“Man rejoices; God weeps,” House quotes and Wilson snorts. “While we’re already on topic,” the former adds, “Did you know that Taub is seeing the cute physio from orthopedics? The blond one.”

Wilson curses. “Damn. I still had money on Smith from the E.R.”

House hums in agreement. “Try to keep up, Wilson. I can add you to the pool if you want but you gotta be quick about it. My money’s on his marriage imploding by the end of the week, unless he actually comes up with some star-spangled pottery to present to his wife after his ‘ceramics course’ ends. Though it will come at the price of finding your credit card charged for some kitschy independence-day themed napkin rings. The bidding war is ongoing as we speak.” 

Wilson stares at House, considering whether getting annoyed by that is actually worth the argument, before he sighs. “I suppose you warning me is actually an improvement to your usual m. o. of simply using my card without asking.”

“Just think of it as a continued investment in upholding the privilege of getting to tap that rockin bod’,” House supplies and winks. 

“...like a sugar-baby situation?” Wilson responds, blinking startled at the comparison his mind came up with. 

House stares back, appalled as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. 

Momentarily, Wilson cracks up at witnessing this expression, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Before long, House snorts too, infected by his amusement.  

“I’m expecting a convertible at the six-month line,” he says mirthfully. 

“I’m gonna note it down in my calendar.”

“You better.”

Their amusement lingers in the air for a bit, but after a while their smiles fade and Wilson watches House bounce his cane between his hands.

“Did you want me to talk to him? Your patient, I mean?” 

House takes a breath, before exhaling through his nose, seemingly considering it for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders, “Could be interesting to see if your magical-girl-powers transpond and he’s gonna thank you too after you diagnose him with a congenital case of homosexuality. On the other hand, he might cause a scene, considering you’re his basically personal boogie man.”

Bemused, Wilson raises his brows. 

House waves his hand at him in an off handed gesture. “Man in his forties, married thrice over, deciding to ditch the heterosexual lifestyle in favour of taking it up the ass on a regular basis from his close and devilishly handsome older roommate,” he elaborates. “You’re the personification of his greatest fears and failures. He still thinks he’s got a fighting chance. Might be a bit cruel to rob him of that delusion.”

Wilson hums. “I don’t know. Being in denial doesn’t exactly lend itself to happiness.”

“Are you saying you’re happy?” House asks, blue eyes twinkling. 

Wilson chews at the inside of his cheek, biting back a smile. “Yeah, House. I’m happy. Though I’d probably be happier if you actually did the sheets like you said you would – two days ago. At this point the excuse of keeping separate rooms falls a bit flat.”

“This is an ‘at-home’ conversation,” House promptly says, already getting up. “Issues relating to our relationship are to be treated strictly outside of work hours-” Wilson opens his mouth to protest, only for House to talk over him even while he limps over towards the door- “A rule you set up by the way, so if you wanna pick that up later, you can shoot me a text. I’ll see if I can pencil you in, there might be a free spot on Tuesday two weeks from now.”

“Just do the goddamn sheets, House,” Wilson calls after him, but House pretends he doesn’t hear him, already heading out into the hallway. He leaves the door open, because of course he does.

Wilson huffs and shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. 

Chewing at his lip, his mind drifts back to House’s patient in the former’s absence. 

Wilson doesn’t get around to talking to the man until two days later, buried in work and his own patients as well as a certain apprehension he can’t quite shake, but once House declares somewhat victoriously that he’s cracked the case, he’s reminded again of the matter. 

The glass sliding door to the guy’s room opens with a quiet hiss when Wilson steps inside after a late shift. It’s dark outside already, but the curtains are drawn anyhow, likely for privacy though the patient is still awake, looking up at his entry. 

He’s a young man, with dark hair, likely in his early thirties and handsome, despite the latter impression being somewhat ruined by the dark bags under his eyes and the fact that he could do with a shower. 

“Who’re you?”

Now that he’s here, Wilson feels rather awkward. “My name is Doctor Wilson,” he introduces himself, before picking up the man’s chart to give himself something to do. 

The name on the file reads Taylor, Theodore P..

He’s scheduled for surgery, but Wilson already knew that part courtesy of House. 

“I thought they’d already figured out what’s wrong with me,” Theodore says. 

“They did,” Wilson says. “Everything else looks good.”

“Thanks,” Theodore says, before tacking on, “Why are you here then?”

Wilson glances at the man, briefly chewing on the inside of his cheek. “To uh, talk to you, I suppose.”

Theodore squints at him suspiciously. “Are you a shrink? Did they send me a shrink?”

“I’m not a psychologist,” Wilson replies. 

“Good. Because I don’t need one.”

Wilson drags his thumb across his mouth. “It can help, talking to a therapist.”

Theodore scoffs. “I suppose you’re here to convince me that I’m gay after all. But you’re wasting your time. So you might as well leave.”

Wilson inhales, losely smacking his palm against the chart he’s still holding before putting it back. “I’m not here to convince you of anything.” Which kind of, is a lie. He does have an agenda, even if he doesn’t quite know yet what it entails. 

“That’s a first,” Theodore replies.

Wilson tongues at the insides of his teeth, hesitant about how to go about all of this. Somehow, this concludes in him blurting out, “I’m gay.”

The silence in the room is deafening and Wilson feels it intimately, keenly aware of how loud his breathing sounds. 

Theodore looks at him, his head tilted. “Uh, good for you, man? I’m not though. I would’ve gotten married, you know. If you lot hadn’t convinced my fiancé that I was.” His voice takes on more heat as he all but spits the last part. 

Wilson drives a hand through his hair. “Uh, I got married.”

“Congrats?”

“And divorced. Thrice,” Wilson admits. “To women. Before I figured it out.”

“Okay.”

Wilson wets his lip, before he wanders over to a chair. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

Theodore turns his head away, looking at the ceiling. “Whatever.”

Wilson sits down, forcing his legs to not bounce. “I’ve never actually told anyone that before.” The gay part. Except for House that is. And his therapist. She’d be proud. That witch. 

Theodore shrugs. 

“I- I don’t really know why I’m here.”

“You are free to leave.”

Wilson wets his lip. “I think I know what you’re going through, Theodore- uh, if you don’t mind me calling you that.”

“Ted. And don’t presume to know what the hell I’m going through. My fiancé just left me, everything’s gone to shit. Even my family- everyone thinks I’m- I’m that way. But I’m normal.” Tears of frustration are brimming in Ted’s eyes as he stares at the ceiling, blinking valiantly. “Why won’t anyone believe me?!”

God. This is uncomfortable. Wilson feels the distinct urge to leave, but something keeps him here. Perhaps it’s his own emotions, curdling in his belly like milk. A mix of pity and empathy for this young man who feels like a distorted mirror image of himself. Younger, a different version of himself making different but similar choices. “I’m really sorry about your fiancé,” Wilson says, because that is the easiest topic to breach. “This must be very difficult.”

Ted scoffs. He wipes a subtle hand over his face, sniffing. “It’s funny,” he says, sounding like it’s not funny at all, “But you’re the first person who actually told me that.”

Wilson shrugs, swallowing. He traces the fabric of the chair he’s sitting in. “I’ve been in your shoes. Though I suppose I got married before it all went to shit.”

Bonnie accused him once of sleeping with House. At the very end. He drank himself into a stupor after, figuring she had not the slightest idea of anything and if she was thinking of him that way, it was all good and well that they got divorced, considering she didn’t seem to know him at all. Nevermind that that was the day he confessed to cheating on her with a nurse. A female nurse that is to change the topic. It had been better than to confront the other thing – which hadn’t been true anyway. 

“It’s not a fix-all, getting married,” Wilson says. “It’s not gonna make you feel any differently, or better. At least in the long-term. It only makes you more miserable.”

“For you, maybe. I loved- love my fiancé. Not that it matters now.”

Wilson shrugs again, wincing inwardly and finding that he’s grateful that he isn’t that person anymore. He never thought he was steeped this deeply in denial, but right now, he figures he may have lied to himself in that way too. 

“I thought I’d grow old with my last girlfriend. I loved her too,” he says.

“Yeah? Seems like you didn’t after all.”

“She died.”

“Sorry.”

Wilson presses his palms together, looking at his hands. “Yeah,” he echoes. “She- I really liked her. Loved her. But not in the way she deserved. It would’ve been unfair to her to stay together. I recognize that now.”

Being together with House, feeling what he feels now, it’s glaringly obvious to him in hindsight. He may have even used her as a stand-in at times. Taking notice of Amber in the first place for the characteristics she shared with House. 

Ted works his jaw. 

“Nobody can tell you what you feel. Should tell you how you feel. But, my therapist told me… I, uhm. It’s pretty on point for repressed people to jump into relationships. With, uhm, women. Or the opposite sex, you know.” God, Wilson feels awkward now. “I’m still kind of working through it all.”

Ted scoffs. 

“But,” Wilson forces himself to go on, feeling like it’s important. “I’m seeing someone now. A guy. A man, I mean. And it’s good. I’m, uh, really happy.”

A muscle in Ted’s jaw jumps. 

“How’d your family take it?” he asks after a long moment. 

Wilson inhales. “I, uh, haven’t told them. Yet.” Another problem he’s delaying dealing with. 

Ted laughs. 

“I want to tell them,” Wilson admits, “at one point, but that’s my decision.” He’s talked about it with his therapist too, all but quoting her when he continues, “Nobody has to come out. It’s not something you owe to people, hell it’s nobody’s business really but your own, but I think, for me, personally, I’d probably be happier if I didn’t have to hide. Long term, I mean. I’m still working myself up to it though. Probably easier since I barely see them anyway.”

“My dad hasn’t spoken to me since this whole thing.”  

“That’s on him, not you.”

“Yeah, well, that’s easy to say for someone who doesn’t see their family anyway.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Wilson concedes. He puts his hand in his pocket, fiddling with the folded piece of paper in there. 

Getting up, he pulls it out. Ted looks at him, and at the proffered piece of paper. 

“Uhm, it’s got some numbers on it. Resources.” He’d emailed his therapist for it to get proper ones. Even put in a good word with her, though she said she was already at her maximum capacity, but jotted down the name of a colleague. “It’s got my own contact info on it as well. Just in case.”

“In case of what?” Ted bites out. 

Wilson shrugs, carding a clammy hand through his hair. “If you want to talk, I guess.”

Ted looks up at the ceiling again. Wilson puts the folded piece of paper down on the night stand. 

He flexes his fingers, keenly aware of how awkwardly his hands are hanging down on his sides. God? What is he usually doing with his arms?

“I’m really sorry about what you’re going through,” Wilson says. Even to him it rings empty, although he means it.

“Thanks,” Ted bites out. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Wilson says, awkwardly. “You probably want to sleep.”

“Yeah.”

“Good luck with your surgery. Your surgeon, he’s a good one. The best in the hospital really,” Wilson tacks on, trying to at least grant reassurance where he can. 

“Great.”

“Okay.” Wilson looks at Ted again, who’s working his jaw, not looking at him. “Alright. Uhm. Goodnight.”

He leaves the room, closing the sliding door behind him and feels exhausted. He hopes, really, that Ted will do well, but he can’t imagine being in this situation again. Wilson supposes, he had House to fall back on after his marriages imploded, but that really doesn’t seem like an option for that guy. Wiping over his face, Wilson wanders down the hallway, exchanging a few cursory nods with the nurses from the night shift, who are settling down behind the front desk. 

Wilson’s legs carry him all the way to the diagnostic’s department, without even really thinking about his destination. It’s dark, safe for a lamp on House’s office desk, and he’s not surprised to find the man sitting there, the glow of his screen reflected in his reading glasses while he clicks away on his computer. 

Wilson pauses in the doorway, watching him for a bit. 

Eventually House raises his head and quirks his brows at him inquisitively. 

Wilson sighs quietly, but he enters anyway, flopping down in the chair in front of his desk. 

House draws his glasses off his face, leaning back. 

“I talked to your patient.”

“Yeah? How’d it go?”

Wilson huffs, smiling wryly. “I have no idea.”

House’s lips twitch. “He thank you?”

Wilson looks up, leveling House with a look. “I didn’t diagnose him as terminal, if that’s what you’re alluding to.”

“What did you tell him?”

Wilson shrugs, picking up a marble from the statue of House’s desk and rolling it between his hands. “About me, I suppose.”

House studies him. 

“I told him I was seeing someone. And that it’s, uh, good. That I was happy.”

The other man smiles. Wilson pockets the marble. 

“I was wondering where those went,” House voices amused. “Looks like I accused Chase for nothing.”

“Oh please,” Wilson says, looking up, “You knew. You’ve rummaged around my drawer often enough at this point.”

“Doesn’t hurt to keep them on their toes.”

Wilson’s lip twitches into a faint smile. He feels the weariness of the day settle into his bones. “I wanna call my parents,” he says, deciding it on a whim. “Tell them about us.”

“Yeah?” House sits up straighter in his chair. 

“Not today. But soon,” Wilson admits. “Maybe my siblings.”

“You’re still visiting Danny?”

“Haven’t in a while. But we spoke over the phone. He’s doing well.”

“You said, you’d introduce me at one point.”

“Guess I did.”

“I suppose if things go badly, there’s always the wardens around to sedate him. You could use it as a trial.”

Wilson huffs amused. 

“Cuddy came by earlier,” House offers. “Invited me for dinner.”

Wilson lifts his head. “What’d you say?” 

“That I had to check my calendar.” House pauses as he looks at him. “You wouldn’t know anything about that?” he inquires, suspicion evident. 

Wilson sighs, wiping a hand over his face.

House scrutinizes him, his features illuminated by the bright light of the screen. Its reflection is visible in the dark window panels and Wilson recognizes the logo of the NY medical journal. As much as House might project his indifference for work at times, he actually tries to keep up with the most recent publishings. “Come on,” the man says. “Spill. Or would you rather I page a nurse to get me pliers to pry it out of you.” 

“I honestly forgot about it,” Wilson says. “She mentioned something. About her and Lucas wanting to move in with each other.”

“That’s it?” House scoffs, spinning in his chair. “I already knew that.”

Of course he does. 

“And they’re getting engaged,” Wilson blurts out before he can think twice about it. 

House studies him, tonguing at his lip. “How long have you been sitting on that info?”

Wilson feels a bit of guilt welling up. “I don’t know.” He drives a nervous hand through his hair. “Two weeks, maybe?”

House shakes his head. “I don’t know whether I should slap you or congratulate you for keeping this from me.”

Wilson studies him for a long moment. “That’s all you have to say about that?”

House snorts, twisting in his chair. “Good god, Wilson, next you’ll ask me how this makes me feel. It's a bit late for you to decide to venture down another career path, don’t you think? I already have one annoying therapist in my life who asks me how I’m doing. One hour a week spent on introspection is enough.”

Wilson sighs. “Forget I asked.”

House’s chair creaks as he swivels in it. “Good for her, I guess,” he says after a few long moments. 

Wilson looks up, staring at the other man. “You’re serious,” he voices momentarily, surprised and a knot of tension he hadn’t even realized was sitting in his chest unravels. 

House shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Wilson feels his breath rush out his lungs. “You and Cuddy, I mean- You’re not…”

House shrugs again, reaching for his cane. “Cuddy… She’s great. Hot. Bangin’ body; I mean, those tits – it’s like perusing the fruit aisle, if you catch my drift – but she’s also got that annoying uppity tone down to a t, you know. I don’t know if I could put up with that. And she’d pester me all the time about my clinic hours, can you imagine? Besides, I don’t think she’s gonna let me do the thing I did the other day-” Wilson feels his face grow hot and House’s smirk widens- “so yeah. You can shelf that insecure jealousy of yours, Wilson, although I do have to say that I kind of like how possessive you’re getting. Didn’t think I’d warrant that.”

House is grinning fully now as he gets up and rounds the table, while Wilson is still trying to fight down his blush and losing. 

“You were jealous first,” he points out, but House just grins at him before he bends down to kiss him. And Wilson lets him, glass walls and all. 

“Ready to head home?” House asks him afterwards. 

“Yeah,” Wilson says, getting up. “Want me to drive?”

House’s lips twitch. “I wouldn’t say no to a ride.” His eyes sparkle with suggestive mirth. 

Wilson huffs not dignifying that with a verbal reply.  

At Wilson’s pestering, House confirms the dinner with Cuddy. On Saturday that is, because they actually have tickets for a monster truck rally for the 4th of July, which Wilson has to admit to buying, thus ruining the surprise, though he doesn’t regret it even if the subsequent reveal leads to them both being late for work the next day. 

Wilson half-heartedly considers blaming it on House, since he left his bike at work the day prior, but finds he can’t muster a lot of enthusiasm in selling the excuse. Not that he needs to really. 

Everyone assumes it’s the case anyway and it’s Friday so everybody’s looking forward to the weekend anyhow and can’t be bothered to bring it up. 

He sloughs through paperwork and takes on another case, quite tragically actually, since it concerns a five-year-old boy, and the hour spent with the family after confirming the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer leaves him drained. There’s only so much hope he can project without giving them an unrealistic expression of the outcome. 

He misses lunch with House because of it, and finds himself rather put out by that. He doesn’t see the man until later, when he’s working off his clinic hours that afternoon, to lose himself a bit in mundane cases instead of dealing with all sad and heavy reality of his usual work. 

“Wilson, are you interested in napkin rings?” House shouts at him through the lobby, waving with a small package from where he’s stood next to the front desk. 

Wilson feels his lips tick up reflexively, veering off his path to call in the next patient and instead walks over to him. 

“If that’s some roundabout way of proposing to me, I’ll have to disappoint you. I’m seeing someone,” Wilson retorts cheekily. 

House returns his smirk with an amused grin of his own. He clutches his heart with a theatrical gasp. “And here I thought you inviting me to live with you was a come-on. Really, you shouldn’t give people false hopes like that. It’s downright cruel.”

Wilson snorts. “Besides,” he adds, placing his file on the counter instead of holding onto it until later. “Unless you’ve hidden your most recent hobby of monogramming from me, I don’t think we even have napkins at home.” 

Nurse Sparkman picks up the file. 

House turns his head, holding out the package at Sparkman. “Napkin rings? They’re themed.” He grins obnoxiously. “I hear they’re all the rage with the fags.”

Wilson’s brain goes blank, buffering as he processes what he just heard. Then he stares at House, leveling with him a downright murderous look. “You didn’t,” he says in a low voice. 

House grins at him cheerfully. “What’s he gonna do? Complain to HR?”

Wilson figures he might actually strangle House with his bare hands, witnesses be damned. 

“I’ll add it to the file I’m compiling,” Sparkman sniffs, before he trails off in favour of staring between the two of them, blinking once before he raises his meticulously kept eyebrows at Wilson. 

Wilson feels his face heat up rapidly. He clears his throat. “I apologize for him. His mother dropped him on his head as a baby, he hasn’t been the same since.”

Sparkman plucks the box of napkin rings from House’s hand, before he proceeds to rake his eyes across the man and looks at Wilson again. “Really?”

Wilson’s face gets even hotter. “Sorry,” he says again, before he bodily drags House away from the desk, though House turns, twisting in his grasp, exclaiming over his shoulder, “Snitches get stitches, Sparkman!” 

Sparkman snorts. “I want to be paid off!” he shouts. 

“Join the pool!” House yells back. “Like a normal person!”

Wilson slaps House over the back of his head, which doesn’t shut him up but has the intended effect of rerouting his attention as well as reaping Wilson some approving giggles and smirks from the hospital staff witnessing the interaction. 

“What?” House asks. 

Wilson stares at him, a litany of replies on the tip of his tongue. “You’re cutting our earnings short,” is what he settles on. 

House smirks. 

“Wipe that smug grin off your face,” Wilson tells him. 

“But it suits my complexion,” House counters. “I hear it’s an attractive look on me.”

Wilson looks at the ceiling, praying for strength. The worst part is that House is right. “You’re paying for your lunch by yourself for the next week,” he says eventually. 

“Whatever you say, honey,” House drawls with a smirk, which promptly fades, when he realizes that he’s followed Wilson all the way into the clinic waiting room, and he stops. 

Wilson turns to look at him, or rather across his shoulder, raising his brows and says, “Ah, hello, Dr. Cuddy,” raising his hand as if in greeting. 

House whirls around only to find that nobody’s standing behind him, before staring at Wilson again, this time with a glare. “Give a man a heart-attack, why don’t you?”

Wilson smirks. “I was willing to take the risk, seeing as we’re in a hospital and all that.” 

“Excuse me,” a young woman pipes up, interrupting them. “Me and my son have been waiting here for nearly an hour.” She’s stood up, indicating a disgruntled looking teenager, who buries his face in his hands in second-hand embarrassment with a suffering breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Oh my god.”

House looks at her and then at Wilson again. “Wow. Maybe you should check her out first, Wilson, it seems like this woman is suffering from acute adult-onset illiteration.”

“Excuse me?” the woman pipes up, with a sour look. 

House clacks his cane against the sign reading ‘Waiting room’. “Maybe it’s a brain tumor. Going by her kid’s reaction it might have been going downhill for a while.”  

The woman stares at House, before looking at Wilson. “Is this man a doctor? If yes, I’d like to file a complaint.”

Wilson opens his mouth but House speaks up first. “Oh please, do,” he says. “That reminds me. I’ve got some important medical stuff to take care of. Actual sick people, you see. I’m a very busy neurologist. The name’s Foreman, by the way. Starts with an F and with an e after the r.”

He’s already halfway out the door. 

Wilson clears his throat, amused despite himself and tries to not let anything show on his face. 

While Wilson turns to find his next patient, House ducks back inside. “Pizza tonight?”

Wilson smiles. “Sure. If you’re buying.”

“The things I do,” House huffs, but his lips are also twitching, before he turns and limps away. 

“I want a different doctor,” the woman says, now looking at Wilson as if he’d personally offended her after that familiar interaction. 

“Of course,” Wilson says with a toothy smile. “I can page a female colleague if you’d be more comfortable with that.”

“Please do,” the woman sniffs. 

Wilson walks back over to the nurses station before returning a few minutes later. “Doctor Cuddy is busy in a meeting right now, but she’ll attend to you as soon as she’s finished up.”

The woman stares at him, her lips pinched but she sits down again, huffing and crossing her arms. Her son groans. 

Wilson may have told Cuddy that she could take her time. “Thomas Fitzgerald?” he asks, turning to the other people sniffling and coughing in the waiting room. An elderly man gets up and that’s that. 

That evening, he bites the bullet and calls his mother to tell her he’s seeing House. Romantically that is. 

She starts crying once he brings himself to broach the topic after fifteen minutes of small-talk, which frankly makes him feel terrible, but he figures out via deciphering the words muttered in between sobs that she seems to take this as him telling her that he would never have children, which is kind of the truth, but not the point. 

It takes Wilson consoling her for an additional ten minutes by reminding her that she already has grandchildren courtesy of his eldest brother, to have her compose herself. And then she asks him about ‘that AIDS’, going down a tangent about some person or other whom he doesn’t know but apparently she thinks he should, which is an even more awkward topic to handle, despite him interjecting that he is a doctor and is actually more well-informed than she is about the whole thing.   

He has to put the phone down for nearly a minute before picking it up again, finding that she’s still talking about it. 

Eventually though, and after half an hour of more questions he’s forced to answer and letting it slip that he’s living with his ‘boyfriend’ she asks to speak to said ‘boyfriend’. 

House, who’s watching him from the couch, is already making a cutting motion across his throat as soon as Wilson holds out the phone.  

He’s forced to chase House down, all but tackling him before he can get farther than the coffee table. The other man is cursing under his breath but cuts himself off when Wilson presses the phone against his ear. 

If he’s going to suffer, House will have too. 

Said man glares at him, while he drags himself up back onto the couch, but appropriates a downright charming tone, when he replies that no, he isn’t religious but did read the Torah once recreationally. 

Judging by his answer, Wilson’s mother asked him whether he was jewish; an odd hangup, considering out of his other partners only Julie was jewish and his mother had never really warmed up to her. 

Unfortunately, House is aware of that fact and apparently familiar enough with his mother to twist that in his favour. 

To sum it up, Wilson is forced to listen to a downright humiliating conversation, which he catches only half of, during which his mother and House talk shit about his ex-wives, the latter wearing a shit-eating grin as he dodges Wilson’s attempts at stealing the phone back – half-hearted ones really, since it appears House somehow manages to worm himself into his mother’s good graces and Wilson is willing to make that sacrifice even if it comes at the price of his dignity.  

When House finally – finally – hands the phone back to Wilson, his mother, very seriously and sternly, makes him promise to bring over ‘that nice boy’ for Thanksgiving. 

Wilson agrees mostly out of spite, glaring at House. 

All in all, it could’ve gone worse. 

“You know of nothing,” Wilson reminds House on Saturday on the drive to the frankly upscale restaurant Cuddy reserved a table at, briefly checking his reflection in the mirror.  

“Yeah, yeah,” House sighs. “I’m not about to shoot my own informant.” He’s drumming his fingers on his cane. 

“Your informant?”

“I was speaking metaphorically. The shooting part didn’t give it away? Besides, your trustworthy aura won’t suddenly go to shit if I admit to having known of their engagement all along. You could just say that I blackmailed you into giving the info up. It’s not too late to turn the car around.”

“We’ve been over this,” Wilson says, a bit annoyed, slowing down as they approach a stoplight. He turns to look at House once they come to a halt. Said man is miserably tugging on his tie. 

Wilson watches him for a moment, before saying, “You don’t have to wear it if you hate it.”

“Thanks for the permission,” House bites out, already taking it off. 

“Why did you put one on in the first place?” Wilson asks, eyeing him from the corner of his vision. “It’s not like going to dinner at a fancy place ever kept you from disregarding the dress code.” 

House is dressed surprisingly nice today, he’s noticed. With a button-up and a blazer and slacks. If his shirt were pressed, Wilson would seriously question it. Though House by virtue of his appearance had distracted him rather successfully from wondering about what the hell warranted his pick in outfit.
In truth, he’d briefly fantasized about actually delaying their arrival by a handful of minutes because House had looked like he stepped straight out of one of the photographs depicting him as the best man at one of Wilson’s weddings. His therapist would probably have some words for him if he ever brought it up – not that there’s anything to bring up, considering Wilson figured if he gave House even the slightest excuse to draw out their departure, they would’ve never even gotten around to leaving for dinner in the first place. 

“I figured it would save me the hassle of asking the waiter to get me a rope to hang myself with,” House replies to his question.

“And you’ve suddenly decided you won’t need that escape route? I’m proud of you, House. You've finally discovered what it means to be a mature adult.”

House scoffs, and stuffs his tie into the glovebox, before popping open the first few buttons of his shirt, revealing the hollow of his throat. 

“Light’s green,” he says and Wilson curses, turning his attention back onto the road.

Once he’s caught up to the car in front of him, the other man says, “I’m trusting you to speed dial me beneath the table if you see me blinking SOS in morse code, so I can fake an emergency.”

“We’re sharing a ride,” Wilson points out. “Besides, I’m not the reason we’re going to dinner in the first place. I’m merely a mediator.”

“Which only supports my point. It would only save you the hassle of coming up with an excuse to ditch yourself,” House says. A moment later he breaches the silence by tacking on, “I don’t know why Cuddy couldn’t leave a message on my voicemail. That would’ve gone over easier than this whole circus.”

“It’s one dinner,” Wilson repeats a little exasperated. “Besides, she wants to be friends with you.” 

“After rejecting my advances. Great basis for a friendship,” House voices sarcastically. Besides, I don’t need friends. I’ve got you.”

Wilson’s face feels warm and he has to bite back a pleased smile. “It doesn’t hurt to expand your social circle,” he points out anyhow. 

“Don’t quote your therapist at me. Besides, it’s not like you follow your own advice.”

“I’ve got friends other than you,” Wilson defends himself reflexively. 

“Yeah? Who? And don’t say it’s the guy who’s carrying around a quarter of your liver. He was a right asshole.”

“Nora,” Wilson says, deliberately not touching that other topic with a ten-foot pole. He could’ve said Cuddy, but he doesn’t think it would’ve gone over particularly well either. Not that he’s feeling very charitable either towards her at the moment. 

House might have implied that he was over Cuddy, but Wilson is starting to have doubts. His reluctance to attend this dinner has only hit the impression home and it’s bugging Wilson more than he likes to admit. 

“Right,” House replies. “Nora. Don’t think I don’t know about your little gossip-circle that meets up conveniently when I’m not home.”  

“You could join us,” Wilson offers, guiltily, realizing that House has a point, what with him heading over to Nora’s usually when House has driven up to Mayfield to have his appointments with Nolan or the occasional poker game. “We can do something together.”

“No thanks. You’ve got your girls night and paint your nails or whatever you do and I’m gonna keep having my poker nights.”

“Like a manly man,” Wilson says with theatrical exaggeration.  

“Exactly. And you need other people to play poker, by the way, which means I do have a social circle.”

“Yeah, that’s right. What were their names again, remind me? Bus-stop-guy and night-janitor?”

“It’s a well-honed military tradition to go by call-signs, we’re just appropriating the culture of renouncing first names. Makes us feel more in tune with our masculine sides, you see.”

Momentarily, Wilson snorts but his grin is fading as he drums his fingers onto the steering wheel. 

“I think we should tell Cuddy,” he proposes, voicing a thought he’s been turning over in his head ever since speaking to his mother. “About us.” 

He swallows, a bit nervous but certain as he glances at House.

When the man turns his head to look at him, Wilson deliberately flicks his gaze back to the road. He’s keenly aware of that decision in no little part having been influenced by his own insecurities rearing his head again regarding the whole Cuddy-House situation.  

“She asked me to bring my girlfriend over for dinner sometime,” Wilson admits somewhat embarrassed, trying to preempt House poking further into his true reasonings. 

House laughs at him. “Should I have worn a wig?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wilson tells him. 

“I bet I would look great in drag,” House muses, the humour in his voice audible. 

“The heels might be a problem,” Wilson tells him, clicking the turn signal.

“I could let myself be carried in by two dancers a la Moulin Rouge.”

“A bit much, don’t you think?”

“As opposed to you taking away the attention of Cuddy’s engagement announcement by having us come out?”

Wilson bites his lip, briefly glancing at House. “She’s not engaged yet. As far as I know.” He pauses briefly. “It was just a thought. We don’t have to do it today.”

“Nah. Why not,” House says. 

“Okay,” Wilson replies quietly. His breath is going a bit shallower. 

“So killing two birds with one stone today, huh?”

“I guess,” Wilson says, trying to keep his eye open for a parking spot since they’re getting close to the restaurant, bemoaning a bit that he didn’t think of asking House to bring his disability parking permit. 

House seems to think similarly, cursing under his breath about it. 

Eventually, they find a spot just around the block and Wilson puts the car in park, but makes no move to get out. House looks at him again after a minute or so. “Are you trying to work up the nerve to ask me to put the tie on again? I don’t think it will distract from you introducing me as your ‘girlfriend’ but it might make for a good conversation starter to bridge the awkward gap after.”

“You’re fine the way you are,” Wilson says distractedly. 

“Do you want to leave?”

“We’re going to dinner,” Wilson reiterates almost reflexively. But he flexes his fingers around the steering wheel, swallowing, suddenly nervous. 

He can feel House’s stare burning on his temple. A beat goes by. “How about this?” the other man proposes. “We’re gonna scout the room for escape routes before we’re gonna let Cuddy make a fool out herself by very awkwardly trying to break the news to me that she’s moving in with her idiot of a boyfriend, while we work our way through two very expensive steaks.
And when the waiter brings the bill, we enter a hot and inappropriate make-out session, and while they’re still processing that news we make a break for it.
Or we can skip the whole kissing part and excuse ourselves to the bathroom before escaping through the window anyhow to stick them with the bill. You’ll probably have to give me a boost though, but I have no doubt in your abilities.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Wilson says, smiling faintly. 

House is still looking at him. “I know I said I’m calling dibs on telling Cuddy, but I’ll generously leave it up to you today.” 

Wilson finally turns to return his look, surprised and relieved in equal measures.

“Of course I’ll expect to be compensated for this sacrifice,” House adds just then. 

That is less surprising. “Of course,” Wilson echoes, huffing. 

“Pinky-promise?” House voices with a playful grin, holding out his hand. 

Wilson rolls his eyes but hooks his pinky into House’s proffered hand, before looking the man in the eyes and very seriously proclaims, “I promise that I will compensate you.”

“With a blowjob.”

“With a blowjob,” Wilson voices, fondly exasperated. 

House nods self-satisfied. “Good. Now let's get this shitshow on the road.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Wilson says, but pushes open his car door anyway. “It's dinner. With people you like, I might add.” He slams his car door shut, waiting on the side-walk for House to join him. “I don’t know why you’re so apprehensive.”

It’s a warm night and the smell wafting up from the canalization only underlines the observation. Wilson wrinkles his nose. 

"People I tolerate,” House shoots back, rounding the car. “And this whole dinner is an arbitrary engagement, solely founded in me being forced to pretend to be surprised by news I already know. I can come up with half a dozen more productive things we could do in the meantime.”

“Tell me one that doesn’t involve sex,” Wilson says across the hood of the car. 

“I’ve always been interested in the neurochemics of conjoined twins. There’s been this interesting case in India about two boys who were attached at the brain and shared their-”

“Unfortunately for you, I don’t think you, I don’t think you’ll even arrive in India in time, even if you were to charter a personal plane,” Wilson cuts him off. 

House wrinkles his nose. “Learning how to embroider, then,” he throws out at random.

Wilson turns as he joins him on the side-walk. “I wasn’t aware you were harbouring an interest in needlework?” Wilson looks at House, his brows raised and a little amused. 

“I’ve got fun ideas for some throw pillows,” House says as they set themselves in motion, “but I get how it might be confusing to you, what with you only associating me with larger equipment.” He smirks at him. 

Wilson rolls his eyes, amused, despite himself. 

Though he feels his nerves rear up again the closer they get to the restaurant. It’s an upscale place, very expensive-seeming with white tablecloths and candles on every table, and a long curved bar running across the left of the room made of dark polished wood and mirrored backing in an intimate setting with dimmed lights. 

He tugs on the cuffs of his shirt. He’s actually glad he wore a suit, otherwise he’d feel rather underdressed. Even House doesn’t stand out, however rare seeing him in a blazer and slacks is. 

Cuddy and Lucas are already seated at a table, talking in hushed voices, before they notice them hanging around in the entrance area and Cuddy waves them over. 

Wilson excuses himself from the greeter, by telling them they’ve already located their party, while House is already striding past without so much as a word. 

“You made it,” Cuddy greets them, as they reach their table. “And on time even.”

“I’ll try to be late next time,” House says. While he and Lucas seem to size each other up, Cuddy catches Wilson’s look behind their back, mouthing a grateful ‘thank you’.

Wilson hides a chagrined expression behind a smile. “Nice place,” he voices. 

“Thanks. I picked it,” Lucas replies, grinning. 

“Trying to overcompensate for something?” House asks, already in the process of shucking off his suit jacket, throwing it over the back of his chair before hooking his cane over it as well and sits down. 

“That’s a lovely dress,” Wilson interjects, deciding that whatever dick-measuring-contest is going on between Lucas and House is distinctly not his problem and looks at Cuddy instead, while sitting down in the empty chair next to House.  

She’s wearing a tight red wrapping dress, which suits her well. It’s low cut and Wilson has no doubt that House would ogle her cleavage at this very moment if he weren’t busy trying to win a staring contest with Lucas. 

She waves Wilson off with a smile, her earrings sparkling as they catch the light. “You don’t look too shabby yourself.”

“Careful,” Lucas says, grinning as he throws a hand across the back of Cuddy’s chair. “That’s my lady you’re talking to. Who closed the deal on our house yesterday.”

“Lucas,” she hisses under her breath, glancing at House. 

“What?” Lucas retorts, turning to look at her. “I thought we were gonna tell them?”

“Yes,” Cuddy says, seemingly uncomfortable at having been put on the spot like that. “Later.”

Wilson leans back, glancing at House, just when he says, “Do you guys need a minute to convene? Maybe to fight it out in the back? Call the real estate agent to cancel?” 

Cuddy shifts in her chair, looking at House. She seems a bit flustered. “I’m sorry,” she says and Wilson hides an uncomfortable wince, glancing at Lucas, and keeping an eye out for the waiter. He wishes they had wine already on the table. “I meant to tell you. More tactfully,” she adds a bit pointedly. 

“Congratulations,” Wilson says, feeling the urge to jump in. God, this is already turning uncomfortable. They’ve been here for barely five minutes. 

House turns his head to look at him. The corner of his mouth twitches, before smoothing over his expression. “You seem awfully unsurprised by that news, Wilson,” he says.

“Why don’t we order some appetizers. And some wine,” Cuddy interjects. 

“That sounds lovely,” Wilson voices, ignoring the other man.

“You knew,” House exclaims, false accusation streaking his voice, still looking at him, almost obnoxious in his theatrics. 

Wilson spares him a deadpan look. House looks back, his expression giving little away, but his eyes are radiating mischievous amusement.

He gains the distinct impression that this is payback for him having convinced House to attend this dinner.

“Hey now,” Lucas comments. “We only closed yesterday. How was he supposed to know?”

“Yes,” House says, looking at him and then at Cuddy. “How would Wilson know?”

Cuddy stares at House as if she would love nothing more than to bash his skull with her plate. 

Wilson gets up. “I have to use the restroom,” he lies, rather self-servingly. 

He gets up, trying to navigate the tables while trying to locate the men’s room. As well as any other possible escape routes. 

It’s ironic, in a way, that Wilson now finds himself regretting not having taken House up on the offer to turn the car around. Meanwhile the other man seems to have gained a newfound motivation for sticking out this dinner. 

Rather uncharitably, Wilson thinks that when House mentioned this would be a shitshow, he could’ve led with the fact that he actually meant that he’d be the instigating party. 

He uses the toilet even though he doesn’t have to, and buys himself a few more minutes by thoroughly washing his hands. They even have nice towels. The fancy kind, a thick weave like he’s only ever seen in high-end hotels. 

When he returns to the table, everyone’s looking over their menus in silence. Wilson gets the impression of stepping into an invisible minefield.  

Lucas is glaring at House across his menu, Cuddy glancing between them, while House is perusing his menu with a casualness, likely only Wilson knows isn’t feigned.  

He wants to ask what the hell House said in his absence but bites his tongue. He picks up the menu. “The steak looks good,” he proclaims after a few endless moments.  

“Yes, I was thinking the same,” Cuddy says, seemingly latching onto the topic with desperate relief. 

“I’m rather thinking the lobster,” House announces. Wilson scans over his menu and almost does a double-take at the price. 

House looks up from behind his menu with a smirk. “Lucas generously offered to cover the bill.”

“That is very generous,” Wilson echoes.

“Well I suppose, that’s one way to appease one’s guilt for living on the dime of one's sugar mommy,” House voices. 

Lucas looks like he bit into a lemon, while Cuddy seems torn between indignance and keeping the peace by simply pretending to overlook House’s comment. 

“Thought it’s really not necessary,” Wilson pipes up, “I’m more than happy to cover-”

House kicks him beneath the table, and Wilson schools his face at the burst of pain on his shin, while trying to respond in kind, but the angle makes him miss. 

House looks smug. 

Meanwhile Cuddy laughs, uncomfortable. “No. Really it’s no trouble. We invited you here anyway.” She looks guilty. Oh god. She really shouldn’t be. 

“If you’re certain,” Wilson says, equally discomforted, but leaves it at that. 

Before long a waiter arrives to take their order, jotting down Wilson and Cuddy’s steak, Lucas’ pasta dish — one of the cheapest options – which barely makes up for House’s pick of the exorbitantly overpriced lobster. Cuddy has the foresight to order three bottles of wine from the get-go, which seems over the top at first glance, but Wilson can find no fault in her logic. 

“How’s Rachel?” Wilson asks, while they’re waiting, House seemingly enjoys drawing out the awkward tension. That seems like a safe topic. 

Cuddy lights up. “Oh, she’s just great. She’s really getting more vocal now, right into the asking-phase. There’s barely a minute in which she doesn’t go on about this or that. I already miss her.”

“She’s with the babysitter?” Wilson inquires. 

“Yeah. I swear that woman is a saint. I wouldn’t know what to do without her.”

“That’s nice,” Wilson says, for lack of anything to contribute. House is amusing himself by staring unblinkingly at Lucas, who seems to get more grumpy as the minutes drag on. Before long, the latter deliberately starts to drag his fingers across Cuddy’s shoulder, and Wilson can’t help but glance at House, but he has a hard time gauging his expression, his face hidden behind the rim of his wineglass before Cuddy adds, “She’s really quite bright for her age.” 

“Don’t all parents think that of their children?” Wilson voices, distractedly.  

“Well, I’m a doctor. I know when it’s true,” Cuddy says, winking at him. 

“Fair enough,” Wilson concedes, appropriating an affable smile even if he doesn’t feel like it. 

Just then the waiter arrives with their wine. Cuddy declines tasting it, having ordered by name. Their waiter pours them all a glass and once he’s gone, Cuddy tops herself off and Wilson follows suit. 

Taking a sip, he resolves to remember it. It’s good wine. Which is great because the small-talk that follows is nothing but painful. 

Not on the surface, but there’s an underlying tension brimming and Wilson all but slumps in relief when their food arrives, proving a welcome and needed break. 

Unfortunately, that is followed up by House obnoxiously cracking open his lobster, taking over nearly half the table with his plates, while Lucas stabs into his meagre pasta. 

Cuddy valiantly tries to make conversation, mostly with House, inquiring what he’s been up to lately, despite the man answering in clipped and ambivious ways, while Lucas seems progressively more peaked. 

Wilson gets the distinct impression that House is enjoyig himself immensely – likely in part due to how Cuddy looks guilty throughout all of it – and that if he’s continuing to match Cuddy glass for glass with the wine, he won’t be able to drive them home for much longer.

Somehow, he’s still surprised when she opens the third bottle, and when she tips it towards him in a silent offer, he takes it with a sigh to top off his glass.  

“So,” she says, looking at him, seemingly having exhausted her energy by trying to fruitlessly rope House into a conversation. “How are things with your girlfriend?”

“Uhm,” Wilson says unintelligibly and delays having to answer by taking a long sip of his wine, while House turns in his chair.  

“Yes, Wilson,” he asks, his eyes wide and lips twitching, “How is your girlfriend?”

His glee is palpable.

“It’s a guy. Actually. Who I’m seeing,” Wilson blurts out. 

Cuddy looks at him, and for a moment she looks taken aback. “Oh,” she says. “Oh. I didn’t realize you… uhm…” She looks a bit at a loss for words, staring at him, rapidly processing. 

“Good on you, bud,” Lucas says, and Wilson didn’t know he could feel so grateful for his presence. 

“I’m very happy for you,” Cuddy says, having regained her bearings and she leans across the table putting a horribly empathetic hand on his arm. “And I feel honoured that you feel comfortable enough to tell us.”

House makes a retching sound. Cuddy’s teal eyes flick up at him. 

“This is like watching a guy accidentally getting his arm caught in a wood-chipper in real time,” House offers. “Can’t help but feel disgusted but can’t look away either.”

Cuddy seems appalled. She glances at Wilson who feels flustered, even if he privately agrees. “That’s- I don’t know why I’m even surprised,” she voices, leaning back in her chair before looking at Wilson again, who can’t bear her expression and looks at House instead, who’s all but lounging in his seat with a smirk stretching across his lips.  

“How long have you known?” Cuddy asks House after a beat. 

“Probably from the get-go,” the man says, looking at Wilson. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Uhm. Yeah. Pretty much,” Wilson says, fiddling with his knife. 

Lucas looks between the two of them, and Wilson can all but see the wheels turning behind his expressive face before realization hits home.

“I’m astonished that you managed to keep the secret,” Cuddy tells House, as she leans back in her chair. “I figured by now the whole hospital would be in the know, where you are concerned.” She turns to look at Wilson, with a small smile on her lips. “How ever did you manage to bribe him into silence?” 

“Uh, Lis’,” Lucas starts.

House displays a shark-like grin. “Through sex, mostly,” he says, perfectly timing his answer with Cuddy taking a sip of her glass. 

Wilson feels a wave-of second-hand embarrassment alongside his own when Cuddy chokes on her wine, before she coughs, red droplets soaking the formerly pristine tablecloth. 

“Yup,” Lucas says. “I tried.” He hands Cuddy a napkin, before empathetically patting her back  

Wilson accidentally makes eye-contact with one of their onlookers, the scene having drawn the attention of a few fellow patrons seated at the surrounding tables.

Promptly, he takes a deep pull off his glass. 

Meanwhile Cuddy wipes her mouth, shoulder still shaking with coughs, even while her eyes are already darting between House and Wilson. Overall though, she regains her composure surprisingly quickly and with well-honed dignity. “Well. Now I feel kind of stupid for not having seen that coming,” she says, eventually. 

“Really?” House asks. “And here I thought, I gave you so many hints.” He grins smugly, no longer hiding his amusement. 

Cuddy stares at House, blinking before she suddenly discards her napkin with a jerky movement. “You ass!” she exclaims, gesturing at the man, “You’re paying for your own lobster.”

Lucas looks smug. 

“That’s just rude,” House counters, lips twitching, “I didn’t even bring my wallet.”

“I’m gonna pay for it,” Wilson sighs. 

“No you aren’t,” both House and Cuddy say at the same time for different reasons. 

Momentarily, both regard each other across the table. 

Wilson turns to look at the only other party, grasping for a life-line. “How’s work?” he asks Lucas. 

“Pretty good,” the man says. “I was hired by a law-firm to do some investigating into a hotel chain. They’re probably gonna settle outside court, and I’m bound to secrecy, but between us,” he leans across the table, lowering his voice, “perhaps steer clear of any hotels starting with an ‘M’ for the foreseeable future if you don’t want to wake up with bed bugs burrowing under your skin.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Wilson says. 

“No,” Cuddy interjects. “We’re talking about this.” She gestures between Wilson and House. “How long has this been going on?”

Wilson stuffs his mouth with a piece of steak. 

“I can’t say,” House says. “You’re gonna ruin the betting pool for us.”

She looks at him. “I’m gonna hazard a guess, and say about two months.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” House says, while Wilson has reached a count of twenty with his chews.  

Cuddy looks at Wilson again. “This is not some sort of elaborate game, is it?”

Wilson realizes if he’s gonna chew any longer, it’s gonna be weird, so he swallows and reaches for his glass, taking his time to wash down his bite. “No,” he admits, somewhat flustered and uncomfortable. He glances at House, promptly feeling a bit guilty but not able to quite shake his embarrassment. 

Cuddy seems sceptical as she squints at him and then at House again. “I’m not sure if I buy it.”

“Are you saying that two men loving each other isn’t a real relationship?” House says, appropriating an appalled tone and loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear.

Around them silence falls, safe for the occasional clink of cutlery. 

In his periphery, Wilson spots a blond woman pulling out her phone, while her girlfriend takes a long pull of her cocktail, eyes fixed on the drama. 

“I’m really disappointed at your blatant homophobia, Doctor Lisa Cuddy,” House says, shaking his head with appalment. 

Wilson sinks deeper into his chair, mortified as he clutches his glass. 

“I’ll pay for your goddamn lobster,” Cuddy hisses. 

“No, hon-” Lucas starts but House cuts him off. 

“And Wilson’s food.”

“And Wilson’s food,” Cuddy echoes. 

“My mistake,” House says loudly, smiling appeasingly at the onlookers. “Terrible misunderstanding.”

Wilson makes eye-contact with the blond woman who shoots him an encouraging smile, before flicking her eyes towards Cuddy with a brief shake off her head. 

God. 

House, in the meantime, settles smugly back into his chair, before throwing his arm across the back of Wilson’s. 

Wilson looks at Cuddy, with a see-this-is-what-I-have-to-put-up-with look, which she returns with her own flat, that's-on-you expression. 

“So,” she says. “You two are…”

“Dancing the rainbow tango?” House says. “Tossing hot dogs down the hallway? Making the beast with two backs? Banging? I can go on.”  

Wilson exhales slowly and resigned and takes another sip of wine.

“I expect the paperwork on my desk by Monday,” Cuddy says before heaving a sigh. “This will be an HR nightmare.”

“Wilson can still write me prescriptions. I checked,” House says. 

“No vicodin,” Wilson says. 

“No vicodin,” House parrots. “Take the fun out of it, why don’t you.” 

Wilson tries to kick him, but the angle makes it so that his ankle bumps into House’s foot rather than being a proper kick. 

House bumps him back. 

The dinner proceeds in a more orderly manner afterwards, as Wilson manages to shift the topic towards Cuddy’s and Lucas’ new place and his ex-wife who’s apparently still her realtor, before Cuddy starts fishing for details about their relationship again. Wilson feels uncomfortable, but also a bit relieved at finally having it out in the open, and before long gets on rambling about House’s inability to do the sheets, which leads to House shooting off a comment about his hair-drying habit and soon they’re bickering, the other two parties forgotten. 

They’re only interrupted by Cuddy’s snort, before she points out that one would think they had been married for years at this point. 

At one point, Wilson’s put a hand on House’s thigh beneath the table without noticing, too lost in an avid discussion with Cuddy about the more annoying members of the board, which probably has got to do with the fact that he’s pretty buzzed at that point.  

Wilson returns from his toilet break, while Cuddy picks up the bill despite Lucas’ half-hearted protests and bumps into his chair, forced to catch himself by supporting himself on the table. 

Cuddy snorts an ugly snort, looking at him, exuberant in her amusement. She’s pretty tipsy too, Wilson figures. There are five bottles of wine on the table and they drank the majority of it. 

“This went better than I thought it would,” Wilson proclaims, once they’re outside, watching Cuddy and Lucas walk away, the latter steading his girlfriend with an arm around her waist. They look happy.  

“That’s because your perception is shot,” House tells him. 

“It’s not,” Wilson denies childishly, holding on to the remnants of House’s lobster in a white styrofoam container. 

“Yes it is,” House tells him, regarding him with an amused look. 

The glow of the light pouring out from the restaurant doors illuminates his face, painting a golden halo around his curls and softens his sharp features, setting his eyes aglow. 

Wilson wants to kiss the smirk off his face. Seeing no reason why he shouldn’t, he leans in.  

House has to steady him by the shoulders, catching him as he presses a messy kiss against the corner of his mouth and he almost drops House’s take-out.

He looks even more amused now. 

“Love you,” Wilson mumbles, before drawing back. 

“You are wasted,” House replies, grinning. “You’re lucky I noticed and cut back when you and Cuddy beheaded the third bottle.”

“I’m a little tipsy. At best,” Wilson says miffed, making an attempt at straightening up and appearing sober, taking deep breaths of the warm night air. “It was great wine,” he adds with a sigh. 

“In that case, you won’t be complaining tomorrow when we have to get up for the rally,” House voices, before setting himself in motion. 

Wilson follows him after a beat. “I swear a solemn oath,” he proclaims. 

House just laughs, but they fall into step with each other. 

Their shoulders bump occasionally, on the way back to the car, arms brushing. 

Once they’re there, Wilson struggles to dig for the keys in his pockets, trying to balance the take-out container, while he pats down his jacket and pants, finding solely his wallet and phone. He checks thrice, before he eventually has to admit defeat. Cursing and chargrined he looks at House. “I think I lost my keys.”

House stares at him amused. It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to realize the jiggling sound is coming from the man’s hand where he is wriggling said aforementioned keys. “I’m driving us,” he says. 

“Okay,” Wilson replies. He might be a little bit drunk. He rounds the car, steadying himself on the hood with a hand, before he eventually settles into the passenger seat, dropping into it with loose-limbed grace – or the lack thereof – propping the styrofoam container up on his lap and fumbling with the seatbelt. 

It takes him three attempts to click it in. 

“You think Cuddy’s gonna tell on us?” he asks, once House slams the door of the driver’s side shut, lifting his leg with a hand to settle it on the pedals. 

“Why? Are you aiming for a lawsuit?"

“I don’t mind if she does,” Wilson says, stretching out his feet and looking out the window. 

“Tell it to me sober tomorrow and I’ll believe you.”

“I mean it,” Wilson says. His eyes slide across dark storefronts and brighter windows and illuminated signs above the few restaurants that are still open. There’s a group of people standing outside a wine-bar beneath a street-light smoking and a couple walking down the side-walk, giggling and getting handsy. “We should go bar hopping,” he declares. 

“Any other day I’d take you up on it, but we have to get up early. Besides, from the looks of it, you’re gonna conk out beforehand,” House says, smiling. 

“‘M not. Gonna compensate you, remember?” Wilson says. 

House smirks at him, starting the car. “If you hold out until we’re at home, but I doubt it.”

“Wanna bet?”

Wilson becomes aware of the fact that he’s just lost twenty bucks when House shakes him awake. He didn’t even notice he fell asleep.

“We’re here,” House’s voice breaks through his grogginess. 

“Mhm,” Wilson says, grimacing at his stiff neck. 

“Come on. Up. I can’t carry you.”

“No, you can’t,” Wilson sighs, somewhat put out by that. 

“Are you pouting?” House asks him, laughing. He’s holding his take out container now, seemingly having nicked it from Wilson’s lap when he wasn’t paying attention. 

“No,” Wilson replies, scrubbing a hand over his face. He scrambles out of the car. 

The elevator ride feels endless and he can feel his eyes slipping shut. House pokes him awake with his cane. 

Wilson stumbles into their apartment after House unlocks their door, dropping down on the cubby containing mainly House’s collection of sneakers, sighing over being forced to put effort into taking off his shoes. Getting up, he wanders into the living room, struggling to take off his jacket before tossing it across the back of the couch, while House puts his leftovers into the fridge.

Once in the bathroom, Wilson haphazardly brushes his teeth. His blurry reflection stares back at him through glassy eyes and when he sits down on the toilet it hits him that he really is quite drunk. The room is spinning a bit when he blinks into the bright light. 

He leaves his pants off, stepping out of them and kicks them towards the hamper before he heads for the sink again, rinsing his hands in a mockery of a proper wash and drinking a few mouthfuls straight from the faucet. 

Eventually, Wilson drops down on the edge of his mattress, cursing over his tie, fumbling with the knot. He all but jumps when he notices House has materialized in front of him. “How can someone using a cane be so sneaky?” Wilson asks. “Like a- a ghost.”

“I got the spy-edition cane. Sound-muffling. You should see the other gadgets,” House replies amused, stepping between his legs and batting his hands away, taking over.

Wilson is content watching him undo his tie with nimble fingers. “You’ve got nice hands,” he says, reaching out to capture one. 

He drags his pointer across the meat of House’s palm. 

“Trying to read my future?” House asks him amused, pulling off his tie with the other hand. 

“Your life-line says you’re gay,” Wilson tells House, dropping his head and looking up at him with a grin.  

House snorts, tossing Wilson’s tie onto the floor. Tomorrow, Wilson knows it will bother him but right now he doesn’t care. 

“Do you have regressed to pre-k levels, or do you think you’ll manage with the buttons?” House asks him with a smirk, tugging on his shirt to underline his statement.

“You could take it off,” Wilson replies, smirking, trying and failing to hook his fingers into House’s belt loops. 

“I draw the line of sleeping with people with the motoric skills of a five-year old,” House tells him. “Makes me feel icky, you know.”

“I won’t snitch on you,” Wilson tells him. He finally finds House’s belt loops. 

House responds by leaning in, his warm palm sliding up Wilson’s neck, thumb settling on his cheek. 

Wilson’s lips part automatically, and he blinks up at House with half-lidded eyes, breath hitching anticipatory as his face comes closer-  

“Go the fuck to sleep,” House tells him, his breath washing over Wilson’s face. 

And then he’s already retreated, stepping away from Wilson. 

The latter wrinkles his nose, disgruntled and disappointed. “Ass,” he says. 

The room is spinning a bit. 

House just smirks at him, picking up his cane from where he put it on the bed. “I’m not gonna clean up your vomit.”

“I’m not gonna throw up,” Wilson says, but House is already in the bathroom. 

Sighing, he wrestles off his shirt and drops it next to his tie before flopping down on the bed like a starfish, crawling till his head meets the pillow. 

He grumbles a bit when House reappears, tugging at the blanket. 

Groaning, Wilson lifts his body, so House can get it loose. He tosses it across his body. “You’re so drunk,” House says again. 

“You’re drunk,” Wilson mumbles. 

“I had three glasses of wine,” House says. Wilson feels the mattress dip on the other side of the bed. “That’s the equivalent of you downing a thimble.”

“Thimble,” Wilson echoes before devolving into laughter. “You said you want to learn how to embroider.”

House joins him under the sheets, and as he lays down, he says, “Drunk you is like a toddler on speed. Maybe we should’ve gone bar hopping after all. You on the dance floor, that would’ve been pictures for the ages.”

Wilson turns over with effort to look at the other man. “Because you’re so mature.”

“I can hold my liquor. Lean right if you have to puke.”

“I’m drunk, I’m not a highschooler getting wasted for the first time,” Wilson retorts. 

“Ah, so we’ve reached the acceptance stage. That’s progress,” House tells him. “I’ll still hold you to your promise that you’re not gonna complain tomorrow.”

“I won’t,” Wilson says, yawning. 

If House says anything else, he doesn’t hear him, because he’s out like a light before he can so much as register a retort.

Wilson wakes to a horrible headache and groans into the pillow, his mouth dry as a desert. 

He turns in the sheets, burying his face in the nearest surface. 

“HOW ARE YOU FEELING?"

Hissing, Wilson presses his hands against his ears, the echoes of House’s yelling still ringing.  “Shhh,” he voices, miserably.

House’s laughter rings in his ears. 

Wilson is still hungover when they arrive at the monster-truck rally, sweaty and miserable even after the three-hour drive in an ac-cooled car, clutching a warm gatorade bottle, its contents sloshing, and rather grateful for the sunglasses perched on his nose. 

If he’s ever gonna smell wine again, it’s too soon. 

He drops onto one of the hot plastic seats in the stands with a groan belaying a much higher age than he actually is, while House leaves to get them something to drink. 

It’s really unbearably hot today.
Enviously, Wilson stares at a family a bit further to his left, who possessed the foresight of bringing an umbrella, even if the people behind them seem to be less than thrilled. 

Yet more sweat is collecting at his temples, plastering his hair to his skin. 

Wilson fans himself a bit by tugging on his shirt, breathing in the warm air, and looking down at the dusty pit where an announcer climbs onto the pile of car wrecks between two large ramps that are already set up there, tapping against a microphone. 

House reappears some twenty minutes later, and Wilson is alerted of his presence by his voice standing out against the roar of the crowd announcing, “Cripple coming through,” every so often, while knocking his cane against other people’s shins in a deliberately non-deliberate way when they aren’t quick enough to tuck in their legs. 

He stops at their seats, sweat plastering his grey v-neck shirt onto his chest, perspiration turning his skin shiny as he sets down a cup-holder. Somehow he has acquired a baseball cap, which he wears backwards, a red and blue thing screaming patriotism. 

“Got you something,” he says, before producing a second baseball cap where it’s stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans. He bends the visor, smoothing out the narrow curve it’s retained from being rolled up. 

Wilson catches a glimpse of the lettering on the front. It reads ‘I’M ONLY HERE FOR THE WEINERS’, before House plops it down onto his sweaty mop of hair. 

He stares at House with a deadpan look. “Thanks,” he says dryly. 

House’s teeth glinting in the sun when he grins. “What can I say, it made me think of you.” 

Wilson huffs, perhaps a little amused, and flustered, but he adjusts the cap on his head, because anything providing shade is a welcome gift. “What does yours say?” he asks momentarily. 

House turns to show him. A stylized eagle with an american flag as a backdrop. Figures. 

After he’s sat down, House hands him a can of beer.  

Wilson drags his thumb through the condensation, the metal cold and wet from the ice it undoubtedly sat in and promptly presses it against his forehead. He groans with relief, cool water droplets mingling with the sweat on his skin. He rolls it across his forehead and then further down till it’s pressed against his jugular, tilting his head with a relishing sigh.  

House eyes him amused. “You know, if you open the tab, you’ll find you can actually drink the contents. It’s a cool feature. You should check it out.”

“I think I’m already taking advantage of its ‘cool’ features, thanks,” Wilson says, looking down at the pit, where clouds of dust are being stirred up by a few motocross drivers drifting around in circles, engines roaring alongside the crowd. 

“If that’s the best you can come up with, you’re really hungover,” House says. “Do I have to remind you that you swore a solemn oath?”

“Do you hear me complaining?” Wilson counters, wincing at the sudden cheer of the crowd when the motorcyclists finish up their show with acrobatic jumps across the uneven hills in the pit.  

“You don’t have to. Your aura is killing my vibe,” House says, while cracking open his own beer.  

Wilson snorts. “My aura? When did you become a wiccan?”  

“People are nuanced,” House tells him. “Come on Wilson. Hair of the dog is the best cure for a hangover.”

“My medical degree would claim differently,” Wilson replies. 

“If you wanna be miserable for the next, say four hours, judging by your current state, that’s your prerogative.”

Wilson keeps the beer on his neck for a few more moments, but its cooling effects are already wearing off. 

Sighing, he takes it down, rolling it between his fingers. “You’re a terrible influence on me,” he says, before he cracks it open after all. 

House toasts him with a grin. After Wilson’s taken his first careful sip, the man adds, “It’s not my fault that you’re so easily peer-pressured.”

“I’ll make a note to work on it during my next therapy appointment.”

Wilson’s headache starts to subside some fifteen minutes later. 

House doesn’t have to tell him ‘I told you so’. The smug grin on his face says it all. 

The rally ends up being quite fun anyway, especially once the monster trucks come out, and both he and House are cheering when they start to light the pile of cars on fire after they’ve already been thoroughly crushed. 

Afterwards they end up wandering around the tailgate on the parking lot, eating hotdogs, while House is on a quest to bum more beer off some gullible people. 

Wilson uses that opportunity to borrow some sunscreen off a group of college kids occupying the bed of a truck – way too late to stave off the sunburn which he can already feel coming on. 

He’ll be peeling two days from now, he can just tell. 

After putting it on and handing it back, he spots House a few paces away, engaged in a philosophical argument with a young woman, who’s in the process of applying a temporary tattoo on her friend’s buttcheek beneath her rather short, star-spangled hotpants. 

He takes advantage of House’s tipsiness and steals his baseball cap from his head, exchanging it with his own, more embarrassing one. 

Wilson smirks at the other man, jumping out of the reach of House’s grasping arm and saluting him after putting on his newly acquired headwear. 

Though Wilson miscalculated, because House momentarily stabs his cane between his ankles causing him to stumble. And then it’s on.
Before long they’re wrestling like a bunch of adolescents, cursing and poking at each other, baseball caps are being held out of reach, and Wilson lowers himself to doing a silly little jump – a distraction before jabbing House in the side and setting him off balance – steadying him by the belt though because he isn’t a total dick – before claiming victory to the bemused entertainment of their onlookers. 

Somehow that ends with House being tossed a condolence beer and Wilson being roped into joining the earlier discussion, and by the time they get back to their car, it’s late enough for them to pick up some take-out on the way. 

They eat it out on the balcony, settling on their rarely used patio chairs listening to the muffled sounds of a live-band in the nearby park, while they’re waiting for the sun to set to watch the fire-works.

Wilson is sporting a proper sunburn at this point, his legs propped up on the railing, nursing a cold beer, fondly listening to House going down a tangent about the Boston tea party, watching his animated gestures and the way his lips move more so than paying attention to the words.  

After a brief trip into their kitchen to get them new beers, Wilson steps back onto the balcony, only for House to casually mention that he scored some weed at the tailgate. 

He doesn’t know what makes him agree. Perhaps it’s owed to the beers they had with dinner, or some twisted sense of nostalgia, or the rationalization that after a crippling vicodin addiction some weed isn’t gonna tip House over the edge. 

They’ve smoked before, together, at multiple occasions over the years, and it would be a lie to say that House was always the instigator. 

It’s frighteningly easy actually to abuse his profession as an oncologist with a prescription pad, which mainly occurred to him after his second divorce. 

Sometimes, he really wonders how people are actually still surprised when they learn that he and House are friends.

In any case, it leads to Wilson watching House break up one of his drying up cigarettes, rolling a fat blunt with nimble fingers before licking the rolling paper and closing it up.  

He lights it, taking a slow drag and then the smell of sweet smoke starts to overtake the scent of greasy take-out still lingering in the air. 

Eventually, he hands the spliff to Wilson, who takes a few drags before handing it back and just then the first fireworks start to crackle across the light-polluted sky.

Before long, Wilson finds himself relaxing in his chair, watching House. He lets himself look, feeling almost indulgant, as he allows himself to stare. 

House is watching the fireworks, a small smile on his face, while profile lights up in interchanging red and blue hues, the whites of his eyes catching the light. His hair almost seems as if illuminated by a halo. 

“What?” House says eventually, lazily turning his head, his smile growing. 

“You look pretty,” Wilson voices, his uninhibited brain going straight from thought to his fuzzy mouth without a filter. 

“Pretty. And here I was aiming for hot.”

Wilson snorts. “Well, yeah. But I meant, it’s like- You look like you’re in a- a Monét.” He’s thinking of another artist really, which he can’t recall at the moment, but he feels too lazy to put his thoughts into words and he figures it’s close enough to make a conclusive statement.

House blinks at him, smile fading. “The weed is getting to your brain,” he states after a moment.

“Well, yeah,” Wilson admits, and heaves himself across the table to pluck the spliff from House’s fingers anyway. 

House snorts as he watches him taking a drag.  

Slowly, Wilson exhales. 

House hums, his beer sloshing in the bottle when he shifts in his chair and props it back up on his thigh. “Before or after he got cataracts?"

“What?” Wilson asks, wholly confused. He takes another drag, more weed than tobacco now, before he hands the spliff to House to keep it going. 

“Monét got declared blind in one eye. Cataracts. That’s like… common knowledge."

“No it’s not,” Wilson says, watching House’s lips wrap themselves against the end of the spliff as he takes a long drag, an orange glow illuminating his fingers. “How do you even know about that?"

House exhales a cloud of blue smoke. “Museums and stuff,” he says afterwards, putting his beer to his mouth to take a pull.  

“Ah. That makes sense,” Wilson says, even though he feels like it doesn’t make sense at all at this moment. 

House hands him back the spliff and only when Wilson hands it back for House to finish off, he says, “Why Monét?” 

“You know,” Wilson says, feeling the last drag hit a bit heavier as he waves his hand. “The colours from the lights. From the fireworks,” he adds, but not feeling much like elaborating further. 

A long pause follows during which Wilson stares into the sky and House stares at him. His brows knit together. “You’re not seeing spots right now, are you?”

“What?” Wilson asks again. 

“That dosage shouldn’t have made you hallucinate, but I didn’t check whether it was laced. If you’re hallucinating already, I’m in for another psychosis.”

“You’re not gonna end up with a psychosis,” Wilson says, turning to look at House.

“How would you know? If you’re already hallucinating. I could be a figment of your mind.”

Wilson squints at House. And then he throws a bottle cap at his face, with surprisingly good aim. 

House startles a tad too late, his reaction time shot, and he looks down at where the bottle cap tumbled into his lap before he looks across the table again. “What the fuck, Wilson?”

For a moment they just stare at each other and for some reason, Wilson cracks up. He starts laughing and then House starts laughing too, infected by his mirth, and before long they’re gasping for air in between laughter, giggling really to the point where Wilson almost falls off his chair which sets House off even more. 

When Wilson clambers back up into his chair, he finds House grinning at him, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkling. 

“I meant it though,” Wilson says. 

“What?”

“The thing. About you, looking pretty,” he admits.

A grin grows on House’s face. “Can’t say I’ve heard that in a while,” he says. 

“Well,” Wilson voices, a bit flustered, before settling more comfortably in his seat. “Deal with it,” he declares momentarily.  

House looks at him, his eyes scanning his expression. 

Wilson can hazard a guess at what he’s thinking. 

House isn’t what one would usually consider conventionally pretty. 

He used to have a bit more of a roguish charm when he was younger and paired with the handsomeness of youth and an inherent charisma, Wilson remembers House didn’t lack admirers. 

But now, with the thinning hair of age, a drug addiction behind his belt and his features carved with the expressions someone suffering from chronic pain on a regular basis, the best he can aim for objectively is being called ruggedly handsome maybe. On a good day. 

Not that Wilson minds. Not that he really thinks so either. 

But he may be biased when it comes to House’s attractiveness. He has to conciously remind himself not to stare at times. He’s been conditioned to react to that smirk. 

And right now, be it the weed or the lights, or the rather mushy emotions curling in his belly, ‘pretty’ seems like an apt description to Wilson. 

Somehow, House seems to read it in his expression because he looks a bit flustered now. He sucks on the spliff, looking up at the fireworks, but Wilson catches him sneaking a glance at him after a moment. 

It has him smile.  

Eventually, they come to the shared conclusion that they ought to get snacks, which concludes in them sitting on their kitchen floor, leaning against the island a bag of chips wedged between their legs. 

At one point, Wilson heaves himself up to drink straight from the faucet because his mouth feels fuzzy and House pokes his ass with his cane and that in turn leads to them making out. 

Eventually, Wilson recalls that they have to get to work tomorrow, but it takes some hemming and hawing before they finally do make it to their bedroom, laughing intermittently and frankly rather high, where they kiss even more, with no real aim, and somehow still only fall asleep way past midnight.  

Chapter Text

Getting up the next day for work takes a momentous amount of effort. 

The kitchen island and the floor are littered with crumbs, and Wilson is suddenly reminded of the mess they must’ve left outside as well, which still needs cleaning up. Not that either of them feels much in the mood to do so.

All Wilson manages is a half-hearted sweep across the island and throwing away the crumpled bag of chips he finds wedged between the legs of a stool before he sits down at the kitchen island, waiting for the coffee machine to run through. 

For once, he finds himself grateful for House’s liberal interpretation of punctuality, relishing the minutes he’s got till the other man is ready for them to leave.

Wilson ends up driving them, his hands jittery from the two cups of coffee he downed earlier, which are now insistently pressing on his bladder. He glances enviously at House, who’s taking a power nap in the passenger seat, sunglasses perched on his nose to hide his bloodshot eyes. He drank more than Wilson yesterday, and even though he doesn’t admit it, he’s probably a little hungover. 

Of course, as soon as they step into the lobby, Cuddy emerges from the clinic with impeccable timing. 

House curses.

“If we split up, we might have a viable chance. She can only get to one of us,” Wilson whispers, half joking, half serious. 

“I don’t have any reservations over knocking you out with my cane to gain an advantage,” House tells him. 

“In that case, you’ll have to act quickly,” Wilson says, “because she’s spotted us.” 

And indeed. Cuddy’s already crossing their distance, heels clicking across the floor, her lab coat fluttering behind her. 

“Had a fun Fourth of July?” she asks, dragging her eyes across them. 

“Yes, thank you,” Wilson says politely, vividly aware of his sunburn and already cold sweating from the caffeine, rather looking forward to his dark and AC-cooled office. 

House tries to subtly inch towards the elevator, but Cuddy intercepts him by grabbing his elbow. “I’ve got a case for you,” she tells House. 

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Wilson says, not without some glee. In wise foresight he’d bumped all appointments to the afternoon. He’s only got to do rounds for now and catch up on paperwork unless he’s called in for consultations. 

“Traitor!” House exclaims when Wilson heads for the elevator.

“Every man for himself,” Wilson calls back over his shoulder. 

“I hope that sunburn gives you melanoma!”

Someone gasps. 

House shows up in his office about an hour later, actually closing the door behind himself before flopping down on his couch with a deep sigh, sprawling himself across it like a particularly dramatic iteration of a Victorian painting.

Wilson looks up from behind his computer, giving up his pretense at appearing productive now that he knows it's House instead of his assistant Sandy materializing in his office.

“Case not interesting?” he asks.

“Retrograde amnesiac,” House says. “Been there, done that. I’m sure you can appreciate the irony.”

Wilson snorts. 

“Thirteen and Chase are on a hunt through her old neighborhood, hoping to spark some of her memories while babysitting. Until they’re back, I’m not going to move a single finger.”

“Your work ethic astounds me,” Wilson voices. 

“Like you’re not playing solitaire right now,” House counters. 

“I’m not,” Wilson says, clicking the tab shut. 

“Not anymore,” House voices knowingly. 

“I can’t believe we smoked weed yesterday,” Wilson says, deciding to not further the solitaire debate, and reaches for his cooling cup of coffee, wedged between his zen garden and a stack of files. 

“You can mull over the detrimental effects of your enabling ways while I’m taking a nap,” House mumbles.

Huffing, Wilson shakes his head but gets up anyway, closing the curtains to block out most of the sunlight before he heads over to the cabinet to unearth a pillow he keeps there for late nights spent in the office. 

He wanders over to the couch and pokes House with it. 

“I love you,” the man proclaims with theatrical sappiness that belies a kernel of truth once he’s cracked his eyes open to see what he’s being offered.

“I know.”

“Hey, if anyone gets to be Han, that’s me,” House says, lifting his head to stuff the pillow beneath it and the armrest.

Wilson snorts as he settles back in his chair. “I suppose I can live with being Leia in that metaphor. That means I get all the cool Force powers.”

“You’re such a nerd.”

“You started the conversation.”

House huffs. 

After a few minutes, while Wilson has actually turned his attention back upon his computer, House says, “If you’re anyone, you’re the Wookie. What with your eyebrows and the hair and whatnot. Starts with a ‘W’ too.”

“Chewbacca starts with a ‘C.’”

“Nerd,” House repeats more pointedly. 

“Go take your nap so I can actually pretend to work.”

Wilson does actually manage to be productive afterwards, listening to House’s breathing growing softer as he slips into sleep, following up on some emails he meant to reply to but pushed back in favor of other work. Following that, he looks over some of the publishings a few promising residents had handed in regarding cases he consulted on and jots down some advice on sticky notes he puts between the pages. 

House’s phone starts to ring, disturbing the silence some indeterminable time later, and the man groans as he’s woken. Blindly he fishes for his phone and tosses it in Wilson’s general direction. It clatters against his table before tumbling off.

Sighing, Wilson picks it up and answers it. 

“House, we managed to find her husband—”

“It’s Wilson.”

“Oh. Okay. Where’s House?”

Wilson looks at House, who’s sprawled across the couch and has resolutely closed his eyes again. 

“Around. I can take a message.”

“Okay? Umm, well, tell him that we found the husband of the woman. Her name is Sydney Merrick; she was a long-distance runner, like he said. She’s being taken to the hospital in an ambulance. Her leg went numb before she urinated on herself.”

“A seizure?” Wilson asks. 

House stirs and sits up. 

“Probably. We can’t know for sure. ETA’s roughly fifteen minutes. Thirteen rode in the ambulance with her. We managed to direct it to Princeton—”

The other man waves his hand at Wilson, and he gets up to hand him the phone. ‘Chase,’ he mouths. 

“Wombat,” House croaks out. “Once more, but with feeling. But make it the short version.”

House nods along for a bit before he grabs his cane. He leaves Wilson’s office with an offhanded wave, already talking rapidly to Chase on the other end of the line. 

Wilson stares at his empty couch and the flat pillow, considering whether twenty minutes sacrificed for a nap now will be worth it to up his general productivity. His phone rings before he can come to a conclusion. Heaving a sigh, he walks over to his desk to answer it, listening to his assistant telling him of one of his former patients showing up in the ER. He downs the rest of his water and throws on his lab coat, hoping he doesn’t look too hungover.

Shortly before lunch, he texts House before heading for the cafeteria.

He picks the greasiest option and grabs some fries in wise foresight alongside a pack of chips. 

House materializes just in time to steal Wilson’s burger from his plate and takes a bite out of it before he slides into the opposite side of the booth. 

“I think you’re forgetting that you’re paying for your own food this week,” Wilson reminds him, less charitable in overlooking House’s theft today because he skipped breakfast and was actually looking forward to that burger.

“This is your food,” House points out, chewing, already dragging the plate of fries towards him. “Ergo, I don't have to pay for it.”

Wilson sighs and tears open the pack of chips, pushing it across the table to exchange it for the fries, resolving to keep an eye open for an opportunity to reclaim his burger. “How’s the female Jason Bourne?” he asks. 

“Still amnesiac, but now she’s dealing with a stranger coming onto her who thinks she’s his wife,” House says, grease dripping from the patty straight onto the table. 

“Yeah, that’s… well,” Wilson says, while picking up a napkin and tossing it onto the growing stain.

House considers him amused. He shifts his elbow on the table, so the burger continues to drip onto the napkin-less surface. “I can introduce you, if you want. You can compare diaries. Though fair warning, Foreman is going to cream himself if he catches wind of it. You’ll be the retrograde cherries on top of his sundae. And when I say sundae, I mean a disappointing and boring career that’s heading nowhere.” 

“You could promote him,” Wilson points out. “He’s probably earned it at this point.”

“And blow up his enormous ego further? No thanks.”

“Afraid you’re going to be toppled off your throne?” 

“Arrogance is earned,” House retorts. “And Foreman’s got some earning to do yet.”

Wilson hums. “Well, he can do that by prodding the other amnesiac,” he says, grabbing a handful of fries. “The one who’s actually your patient. I’ve got my own.”

“I knew you’d come around and recognize my superior opinion,” House jokes, pulling the plate of fries onto his side of the table again before tossing a few into his mouth.

Wilson watches him with narrowed eyes. “While we’re on topic,” he starts, dragging the plate back till it's next to his tray. “I’ve got a file that I’d like you to look over.”

“If it looks like cancer and acts like cancer, it’s usually cancer,” House tells him, underlining his indifference by taking another bite out of the burger and promptly making a face. He spits his bite onto the napkin before he looks at Wilson, his disgust evident. “Why do you have to get pickles?” 

“Buy your own food, then you get to complain. Just putting that out there,” Wilson says, leaning across the table to reclaim his burger—finally—grinning before continuing, “Adrienne Callum, seventeen, presents with headaches and frequent absence seizures. She had surgery two months ago, after a year of radiation. On her lungs. She’s cancer-free as far as I’m concerned. No history of seizures, nor any signs of her cancer having metastasized to her brain. I checked everything I could think of, but I’m still waiting for the results of her MRI.”

“Did she facilitate her parent’s divorce or something?” House says, finally cleaning up his side of the table with the crumpled-up napkin before he tosses it onto Wilson’s tray as if he had personally offended him. “That’s a lot of crappy karma she’s accumulated in her few years on this earth,” he adds, while reclaiming the plate of fries. Wilson doesn’t stop him, since he mostly bought it with the other man in mind anyway. 

Swallowing around a mouthful of burger, he voices, “Her parents are still happily married—”

“And what a happy marriage it must be,” House interjects. “Very wholesome. Are you sure their cancer-ridden kid isn’t the glue to their crumbling relationship?” 

“I don’t know; I tend to try to not let my own pessimistic worldview taint my impression of other people’s happy and strong relationships.”

“Yes, I’m sure their life is just butterflies and rainbows, exactly as picture perfect as they imagined when they got together as high school sweethearts.”

“Their kid’s a nice girl.”

“Who needs a referral to a neurologist." House points out before he sighs. “If the MRI comes back clean, you can leave the file on my desk. I’ll have Foreman take a look.”

Wilson nods his appreciation around a bite of his burger. House, meanwhile, drags a fry through the puddle of ketchup on the plate. Wilson watches him eat for a bit before he says, “I was thinking—”

“Color me surprised,” House comments. 

Wilson shoots him an unimpressed look before he continues. “I was thinking that maybe we could head over to your place this week and see whether there are any things you’d like to move over into the condo.”

House raises his brows, fries hovering in the air halfway between his plate and mouth. “It might be a bit of a hassle to climb over the piano anytime we want to reach the kitchen.”

Wilson flusters a bit. “Umm, there could be room. There would be room. If, uh, you’d want to get rid of your bed.” 

“How devious of you, Wilson,” House says, waving with a fry. “I’m presuming that’s your way of gaining leverage by being able to banish me to the couch?”

“I thought you wouldn’t mind. Considering the circumstances.” 

The circumstances being that House hasn’t slept in his own room for nearly a month. 

House grins. Though it seems he still can’t help but poke Wilson, since he says, “Are you sure? What if we have guests over? They might ask uncomfortable questions.”

“Unless those guests are hookers you invited over, I don’t think there will be much of a risk of them being shown into a bedroom,” Wilson replies dryly.

House hums. “So you’ve decided to stick by your tried and true method of fast-tracking your relationships because that’s always worked out just like you imagined.” 

Wilson fixes House with a look. But the man’s lips are twitching, and so he veers off his reflexive defensiveness and instead states, “I weighed the risks and found they were negated by the fact that we’re already living together.”

“Competing with Cuddy, are you?” House’s blue eyes twinkle as he looks at him across the table. 

Wilson tongues at his teeth, a bit irked, for some reason. “Well, if there were a competition, I figured we'd be winning, considering she and Lucas are still packing boxes, while we’ve been sharing an apartment for months.”

House regards him amused, for one reason or another, before his lips stretch into a smirk. “So, you’ve come to terms with sacrificing your mattress?”

Wilson needs a second to catch up with the conversation. “Seeing you’ve all but claimed it as your own lately, I figured you wouldn’t mind keeping it,” he says.

“Oh, no,” House says. “I’ve tolerated it. But compromises have to be made, Wilson.”

“So, that’s a yes?” Wilson asks, his lips already curving into a smile.

House mirrors his expression. “We’ll have to go mattress shopping. Do you think you can overcome your apprehension regarding picking out furniture?”

“It’s a mattress,” Wilson says. “I think I’ll deal.”

House smirks at him. “If you say so.”

Together, after work, they head over to House’s old apartment, and Wilson waits, watching the other man pull out his keys to unlock the door. 

Only that it barely opens. 

“What the—”

Frowning, House shimmies the door, but it doesn’t open farther than a handspan, meeting resistance in one form or another. 

“Hey!” a voice shouts from inside. “I’ve already got the cops on speed dial! B and E is so not cool, man!”

Wilson stares at House, bewildered, though the other man’s confusion seems to be turning into something like bemused recognition. House sighs before he raises his head and calls through the gap of the door, “Alvie?” 

“House? Is that you?” 

The distinct noises of clattering and someone navigating through the apartment sound, followed by muffled scraping like something heavy sliding over the hardwood floor. 

Wilson looks at House, but the man is wiping over his face with a resigned expression. 

Then the door is pulled open, and Wilson finds himself staring at a young Hispanic man, whose face he only catches a glimpse of, because said man has launched himself forward to wrap an unresponsive House into a hug after exclaiming, “House, my man!”

Wilson raises a questioning brow at House, who meets his gaze, suffering and a bit flustered, before pushing the other man off him. 

“Wilson, Alvie, Alvie, Wilson.” He says, gesturing between the two of them, before he disappears into his apartment. 

Alvie grins at Wilson. He’s young-ish, probably in his thirties, with disheveled dark hair and a goatee and clad in a paint-splattered shirt, short athletic pants, and mismatching socks. “Yo, Wilson! That’s a banging name. All like Wilsooon, Wilsooon,” he yells in a bad impression of Tom Hanks in Castaway. 

He sticks out his palm, and for lack of knowing what else to do, Wilson shakes it. 

“I’m Juan Alvarez, but you can call me Alvie. Every buddy of House is a buddy of mine.”

Wilson opens his mouth but doesn’t quite know what he means to say in the first place, so he just nods. Just then, House’s voice sounds from inside the apartment. 

“Alvie!” he barks. “What the hell did you do to my apartment?!”

Alvie spares Wilson a last look before he darts through the door. “Hey, man, just some redecorating,” his voice sounds, muffled from the living room. “This place looked bleak. And I thought if my buddy House is already letting me live here, I’d surprise him with a new coat of paint. Su casa es mi casa and all that.”

Wilson steps into House’s familiar apartment, navigating around the piano blocking the way, and finds it doesn’t look that familiar after all, considering the canary yellow swathes of paint on the walls, the torn pages of newspaper stuck to the windows and doorways, and the distinct lack of some furniture pieces that used to be there.

“I didn’t invite you to live here,” House says, standing in the middle of what looks like a renovation gone awry. 

“Yeah, I meant to ask you, but you never showed up,” Alvie says. 

“Why are you here?” House asks him. 

“When I left Mayfield, I went back to the old neighborhood,” Alvie says, and Wilson feels a few puzzle pieces slotting into place. Meanwhile, Alvie points in the direction of the hallway. “You know, you shouldn’t leave the bathroom window unlocked.”

Idly he wonders whether the man should still be in treatment. He tries to catch House’s gaze, but the man is busy looking around his apartment.

“Yeah, thanks for the safety lesson,” House says dryly, before he adds more pointedly, “What are you doing here?”

“Like I said,” Alvie replies, “when I went back to the neighborhood, I found out immigration was looking for me. So I decided to visit my old buddy, House!”

“And turn his apartment into a giant prison jumpsuit,” House voices deadpan, staring at the glaring walls. 

“Juan Alvarez is no freeloader. I do my part and earn my keep. The first week I made you dinner, but you never showed up. The second week I organized your stuff.”

Wilson promptly looks at House. 

“My stuff?” House asks. 

“But still, you never showed up. So this week, since I'm a real good painter, I decided to feng shui the living room.”

“It does lighten up the place,” Wilson voices wryly and a little amused, now that he’s reasonably sure that Alvie is actually not some random madman squatting in House’s apartment. Though the jury’s still out on the mad part. 

“Yo, my man Wilson’s got the right idea,” Alvie says, jumping towards him, his hand raised in an offer at a high five. 

Wilson gets the distinct impression of a hyperactive puppy. 

“Where’d you put my coffee table? The bedroom?” House asks. Alvie drops his hand, chagrined, looking at House. 

“The paint’s not cheap, House. It’s a custom color. It’s a mix of titanium yellow and ochre. I don’t even like that stuff. Ochre. It’s like a fruit. It’s got hair on it-”

“I think you’re confusing it with a quince,” Wilson says, as he steps across a few loose newspapers splattered with paint.

“Are you sure?” Alvie says, turning to look at him. 

“Ochre is a pigment. It’s made from clay earth.”

“Really? Because I heard it’s some kind of vegetable—” 

“Thank you for that thrilling interjection,” House interrupts them, “but can we talk about the fact that he sold my table?! To pay for paint that I don’t even want?” He sounds pissed. 

Alvie ruffles a hand through his hair before he bashfully admits, “Uh. I had to sell some other things too.” 

“I guess that should make moving things easier,” Wilson says, to break the sudden and uncomfortable silence following those words.

House levels him with an unimpressed look. 

Wilson decides he’s rather interested in how the composition of dripping yellow paint contrasts against the blue of the walls. 

“Wait, you’re moving?” Alvie asks House. 

House shakes his head, huffing, ignoring his question. “Who’d you sell my stuff to?”

“Uh, a pawn shop down the block?”

Wilson, meanwhile, wanders over into the kitchen to see whether it’s still intact. Cutlery is strewn over the counter alongside empty take-out containers and a handful of dirty bowls, which have accumulated in the sink. 

He pokes his head inside the fridge, finding yet more takeout containers, a jar of peanut butter, and a sad-looking pack of salad alongside a few Modelos. When he returns to the living room, House just tells Alvie, “You can’t live here.”

“Yeah, no, I know, but immigration’s on my ass. Can’t I stay here for a while?”

“You’re gone by the end of the week. And by then my walls are a less exciting color.”

“Ey yo, House, you can’t—”

“I can, and I will.”

House walks around the couch, perusing his bookshelf with a deep frown, before he heads for the exit. 

Wilson, at a loss for what to do, follows him, Alvie on his heels.

“House, man, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t set my apartment on fire,” House tells Alvie, which seems like a reasonable and rather gracious reaction to finding his place invaded. “I’ll be back tomorrow, and you’re going to help me get my stuff back.”

“Right on, House,” Alvie says, bouncing on his heels. “I’ve got you.”

“You better,” House says and heads outside. 

“Uhm,” Wilson says, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. “ “Do you, uhm, need money for food? To tide you over?”

“Nah, man,” Alvie says. “I’m good. Still got fifty bucks left.”

“Okay,” Wilson says, feeling like that’s not enough at all. He resolves to check in maybe tomorrow or the day after if House doesn’t. “Uhm. Bye.”

“You’re a cool guy, Wilson,” Alvie shouts after him. 

Wilson catches up with House in the hallway. “So. Alvie. He seems …lively?”

House sighs. “We met in Mayfield. He is a crazed bipolar guy with the attention span of a goldfish.”

Wilson looks at House’s profile and finds his lips ticking up into a smile. “Whom you like.”

House scoffs. “He’s a moron who thought it would be easier to forge a birth certificate than to go through the hassle of applying for it through the appropriate channels and missed his hearing afterwards.” He looks at Wilson, sarcasm dripping from his lips, when he says, “Yes, you’re right. That’s the kind of guy who’s right on my wavelength."

“Well, judging by his seemingly anti-establishment attitude, I figured you guys bonded over your shared anarchist ideals,” Wilson replies, still amused. 

“I’m all for anarchy, as long as it isn’t anarchy personified taking shelter in my apartment,” House shoots back. 

Wilson hums. “Maybe something to consider before you hand out your address to said personification.”

“A lapse of judgement I made while I wasn’t yet properly medicated and deeply regret in my post-nuthouse clarity.” 

Wilson grins. “Well, that lapse, it seems, was you making a friend.”

House huffs while they step out of the building and into the warm evening sun. “Don’t wet your pants from excitement. It was strictly business.”

“Right…”

“I taught him how to cheek pills, and he helped me instigate a riot. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. If I’d gone to prison and joined a gang, you wouldn’t be so eager to call my Hispanic associates friends now, would you?”

“Whatever you say, House,” Wilson voices as he rounds his Volvo and unlocks the doors. 

He gets inside, fiddling with the AC, while House slips into the passenger seat, slamming his door shut. Through the windshield, the latter looks up at the building. “I want my stuff back,” he says, scowling. 

When Wilson looks at House, the man is wearing an expression that’s probably the closest thing to pouting that he can get. Feeling terribly fond and perhaps a bit pitying, he tries to sound reassuring rather than amused when he says, “The pawnshop probably still has all of it. Who even wants to buy a scuffed coffee table? That thing looked like it was straight out of the sixties.”

“Exactly,” House retorts darkly, the furrows between his brows deepening some more. “I bet there are already dozens of those hipsters drooling over it for its vintage flair.” He says ‘hipsters’ with the same tone an elderly conservative woman might say ‘immigrants’ after her third glass of wine during a Christmas dinner at her country club. 

Wilson bites back a smile and pats House’s jean-clad thigh. “It’ll be fine.”

“You say that now,” the other man says, scowling. 

House’s mood doesn’t lift the whole evening, and he complains all throughout dinner about the stuff he’s missing, already compiling a list of all the things Alvie sold and going into detail about how and when he acquired them and coming up with reasons for why he needs them back, even the furniture, which has basically been rendered obsolete by virtue of House not even living in his apartment anymore.
Wilson just tries to keep his comments to himself, nodding along and handing House the dirty dishes, which he rinses and puts away seemingly without noticing. Afterwards, he grabs two beers from the fridge before walking over to the living room, House trailing after him before he sits down on the couch next to him. 

It does take him a while to notice that House hasn’t interrupted the program for a while, nor has he complained when Wilson switched over to a history channel, and so when he looks over, he finds House sulking in silence, drinking his beer and glowering at the coffee table.

The next morning Wilson leaves for work, while House is still dressed in the clothes he slept in, brooding over a cup of coffee and looking up the common rates of pawnshops.

Therefore, Wilson isn’t very worried when he doesn’t see House around the hospital, and around eleven, he figures he’ll check in in an hour or two to see how his quest at reclaiming his possession is going so far. 

He’s in his office with a patient when his landline starts to ring, and he picks it up distractedly, muttering an apologetic, “Excuse me,” to the elderly woman currently sitting in the seat across his desk, sobbing into a handkerchief, but figures she won’t mind, considering she doesn’t seem to be able to form words at the moment anyhow. 

“Oncology Department, Doctor Wilson speaking?”

“My issue of the Approach to the Acute Abdomen is missing,” House’s tinny voice echoes through the speaker. 

Wilson exhales, leaning back in his chair and glancing at his patient across the desk, who’s dabbing her eyes with a crinkled handkerchief. His whole office is shrouded in a cloud of eau de cologne. “I see,” he says. “And I take it you’re calling because you’re in need of a consult regarding this particular …issue?”

“I need you to go in there and get the pawnshop guy to tell you the address.”

Wilson hums. “Have you attempted to, uh, ask the patient about his history?”

“Don’t you think I tried that? Why do you think I’m calling? I need you to work your magic. Put on your best puppy-dog eyes and all that.”

“I’m available at, uh,” Wilson checks his calendar, “two.”

“Pawn shop closes in an hour,” House says. 

“I see,” he voices, schooling his expression with an eye on his patient, who’s stopped crying and is now looking at him with wide, bloodshot, and glassy eyes through her wire-rimmed glasses, sniffling.

A beat goes by before House says, “From your lack of bitchiness in that reply and your prior choice of wording, I take it you’re with a patient?”

“Yes,” Wilson says, a bit strained, while he rummages through his drawer and offers the woman a tissue. She takes it with a shaky, age-spotted hand and promptly blows her nose.

“They won’t mind you taking five minutes out of your day to take a personal phone call. Just send them away if you’re worried about your impeccable image. Besides, you’ll have to cut this short anyway and get your ass over here. I’ll text you the address. Twenty minutes. I’ll be waiting.”

House hangs up. 

“Ah, yes, of course. No, no need to thank me. It’s my pleasure. No, you have a nice day,” Wilson says to nobody before he hangs up the phone and looks at his patient again. “Sorry about that. Where were we again?”

“I have breast cancer,” the woman chokes out, and promptly breaks down again. 

Wilson winces. 

Oh yes. That. 

He takes a deep breath, smelling nothing but Eau de Cologne, and affixes his face into something more fitting. “I understand that this is very difficult news to receive, Mrs. McCain,” he says, once he figures it would be appropriate, “but there are options. Breast cancer is very treatable.”

The woman blows her nose into her already soggy tissue. “You think so?”

Wilson gives her a quick rundown about the statistics of breast cancer treatments, with an eye on the clock, before he eventually concludes this with, “I have good hopes for your outcome, Mrs. McCain. How about you take some time to digest all this, and then after a good hearty lunch, we’ll reconvene here and go over your treatment options in more detail?”

“Thank you, Doctor Wilson,” she says and gets up, offering up her hand to shake, the tissue with which she blew her nose still cradled in her palm. 

Wilson shakes it. 

“It’s going to be perfectly alright, Mrs. McCain; I have no doubt.”

“You’re too kind.” 

Wilson escorts her out of his office and points her towards the cafeteria before he circles back to pump a liberal amount of hand sanitizer onto his palms and grabs his car keys. 

“We said twenty minutes. It’s been over half an hour,” are the words House greets him with, pushing himself off some random person’s car. 

“I was telling a patient about her breast cancer,” Wilson says pitilessly. “I had to cut our appointment short, and I’m sacrificing my lunch hour for this. This book better be worth its weight in gold.”

“It is,” House says. “But that’s not the issue. I want it back.”

Wilson sighs, figuring there’s no use in complaining or making a pretense of denying he didn’t come here for House in the first place. “Approach to the acute abdomen, was it?”

“Yeah.”

Wilson exhales. He looks at the pawnshop. “Fine.”

Some fifteen minutes later, he emerges from the shop waving an address. “I had to tell the guy your book was contaminated with anthrax spores. And then I gave him three hundred dollars.”

House grins. “I knew you could do it.”

“You owe me,” Wilson tells him, but his dark look is ruined by his reflexively twitching lips. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” House says, smirking, and Wilson hands him the address. 

“You better. I expect compensation,” he adds with a pointed look, holding on to the piece of paper, when House tries to tug it from his grasp. 

House’s lips stretch wider. “I pinky-promise,” he says meaningfully, with a toothy grin.

Only then does Wilson let go of the note. He sniffs, satisfied, before his smile turns genuine. “I have to go,” he says, feeling a bit reluctant actually. “I’ve got an appointment right after lunch, and I hope to at least manage to buy a sandwich beforehand.”

“Okay,” House says, distractedly, already absorbed in reading the address on the paper. “Love you.”

Wilson huffs, shaking his head, smiling to himself. 

He does manage to get a quick lunch in, just about wiping his hands on his napkin before Mrs. McCain shows up in his office again.

Wilson is very thorough in laying out her options, feeling a bit guilty about having cut their earlier appointment short, and she leaves only about two hours later. 

Checking his watch, he finds he’s got about fifteen minutes before his next patient is going to arrive, and he actually meant to get some paperwork done in between. Sighing, he walks over to his balcony door and cracks it open to air out his office and resigns himself to staying late to do his paperwork and resolves to relish the brief break he’s got now that he isn’t going to do it now after all.

Getting up, he cracks open his balcony door to air out his office, and he’s just about sat down when his door is slammed open again.

For a brief second, he thinks it’s Mrs. McCain with a follow-up question but finds himself surprised to find Alvie wandering in instead, pushing past House, who stops in the doorway. 

“Yo, it’s Wilson! Good to see you, man!”

“Hello, Alvie,” Wilson says, already looking at House with a pointed and questioning expression.

“I need you to babysit,” House states bluntly. 

Wilson stares at him. “I’ve got work to do,” he tells him after a beat, feeling the need to point out the obvious.

“So do I,” House counters. “And it looks like my patient is going to get her amygdala cut out.”

“I’ve got a surgery in half an hour,” Wilson lies. 

“No, you don’t. I checked.”

“Fine, I don’t, but House—”

“Lobotomy tops cancer consult.”

“House—” Wilson starts again. 

“Man,” Alvie exclaims, looking up from where he’s currently poking through his office. “That’s so awesome that you’re a doc too. It’s Doctor House in the house and Doctor W, yo.”

“No more raps,” House says. 

“House,” Wilson repeats more pointedly, trying to get the man’s attention. He lets his eyes dart meaningfully between him and Alvie, who’s already exploring the balcony. “I already had to push back my earlier appointment, and my next one’s in fifteen minutes,” he whispers. 

“Just give him some water if you lock him out on the balcony. You had a dog; you know the drill. He’ll be fine.” 

“I can’t,” Wilson hisses more pointedly.

“Maybe a fidget toy; that should occupy him for a while.”

Meanwhile, Alvie’s started yelling down at some passerby.

“I feel like I’ve become a specter, and you’re not even hearing me. House?” Wilson starts, miming talking into a walkie-talkie. “Do you copy? The answer is no, over.” 

Alvie reappears from the balcony. “People are so rude nowadays. No common courtesy, really,” he yells the last sentence over his shoulder towards the open door, wholly oblivious to the whole issue of the matter, before he flops down on Wilson’s office couch, testing out the springs. “So, doc, I hear I’m hanging out with you? It’s going to be all like Prescription Passion, but for real. House says I’m not allowed in surgery and all that, but he said I could stick with you. Shadow you, like a proper doc in training.”

Wilson looks at House, who’s appropriating an over-exaggerated pleading expression. 

Wilson sighs, very loudly and suffering.

“Great,” House says, his expression wiped in favor of a broad grin, not even waiting for verbal confirmation before he’s already retreating. “Love ya,” he tacks on, just before he pulls the door shut behind him.

Alvie looks at Wilson. “Man. You guys are tight,” he states.

Wilson sighs and wipes a hand over his face before he turns. He walks over to his office chair and digs out his wallet, producing a few bills. He holds them out to Alvie. “There’s a vending machine down in the lobby. Can’t miss it.”

Alvie grins at him. “Thanks, doc.”

Wilson watches him leave, rather hoping Alvie does miss it and feeling like he’s going to need all the minutes he gets to brace himself. 

Working with Alvie in his office is…

Wilson thought he’d built up something of a tolerance, what with him being used to House’s antics, but having Alvie in his office is like herding cats. On speed. 

He bumps his next appointment, pushing it back by two hours, personally calling his patient instead of having Sandy handle it, to somehow make up for that short notice— House would tell him he’s just punishing himself, though right now, Wilson thinks uncharitably anything, even a figment of his mind taking the shape of the man, has to say to him deserves no regard whatsoever—apologizing profusely and his patient’s terribly understanding in a way they likely wouldn’t be if they knew the real reason behind his excuse. 

House owes him big-time, even if he now at least gets to do some of the paperwork—or so he thought. 

Wilson tries to be productive; he really does, but then he has to intercept Alvie trying to juggle with the rather breakable mementos of his former patients, and then there’s his zen garden—he’s wincing at the amount of sand strewn over the floor—and the rapping. 

God. The rapping.

Wilson seriously contemplates whether it would be terribly unethical of him to sedate Alvie before he realizes that he’s actually got enough money in his wallet to cover the cab fare from the hospital to House’s apartment. 

And Alvie, who’s been disillusioned with the exciting everyday of an oncologist after Wilson spent the majority of the last two hours not doing his paperwork, is happy to leave him to his devices. 

He feels like he’s never been more efficient in handling his appointments afterwards. 

When he stretches his legs a bit, pondering whether he should get a soda, he runs into Thirteen in the hallway and turns around, getting her attention. “Doctor Hadley.”

“Wilson. What’s up?”

“Is your patient’s brain surgery still ongoing?” he asks, trying to figure out whether it’d be easier to have her tell House that he sent Alvie home with a cab or whether he’ll be able to catch the man himself before his last consult of the day. 

Thirteen walks up to him. “Oh. The initial surgery was cancelled. Turns out her old tattoo was responsible for her encephalitis. She had it removed; that’s why we missed it, but the ink was still lodged in the deeper layers. All she needed was a skin graft. She’s recovering as we speak. Now all she’s got to deal with is her amnesia.”

“Really?” Wilson voices, darkly. A skin graft. Something so terribly mundane House would’ve undoubtedly left to the regular surgeons. “And when exactly did you realize that it was her tattoo causing the encephalitis?"

Thirteen frowns, puzzled. “I don’t know. Around three or thereabouts?"

Wilson smiles toothily at her. “Excuse me. I’ve got to kill someone.”

Thirteen turns her head, watching him already stalk towards the Diagnostic department. 

“When did you plan on telling me your surgery was cancelled?” Wilson starts heatedly as he bursts into House’s office, startling Taub, Forman, and Chase, who are bent over the table in the adjacent room and promptly look up to watch the unfolding drama. 

Thirteen slinks in through the door, stopping to lean against the doorway. 

House looks up from behind his desk, his legs propped up on its surface, pausing in tossing his ball back and forth. “I knew there was something I forgot.” He feigns a regretful expression. “Damn. My bad.”

Wilson plants his hands on House’s desk, staring him down. 

House smiles cheerfully at him before his eyes slide across his shoulder, taking in the room. “Where’d you leave Alvie?”

“I sent him home with a cab,” Wilson bites back. 

House frowns and takes his legs off the desk, swiveling in his chair. “To my apartment?”

“No, to the condo,” Wilson says sarcastically, and House blinks at him before he throws his hands in the air and exclaims, “Of course to your apartment!”

House’s brows knit together. “I hope you gave him an allowance before he pawns any more of my stuff.”

“I might actually have,” Wilson counters, “but I ran out of cash after bribing that pawn shop owner earlier to get your book back!”

House’s lips twitch. “If you continue to yell at me like that, I don’t think I'll be able to restrain myself. It gets me all tingly inside.”

“Then take a cold shower,” Wilson snaps at him. “I swear to god, House. I’m not your goddamn babysitter. And if you’re so upset about having Alvie occupying your apartment unsupervised, then resolve his goddamn immigration issue!”

House clicks his tongue. “Already in the works.”

Wilson pauses, some wind taken out of his sails. 

House smirks at him. “You didn’t think I stuck you with Alvie for no reason? I actually did have work to do. How am I supposed to prove to the court that he got his DNA tested for his Puerto Rican heritage if he didn’t at least spend a few hours at the hospital?”

“One hour wouldn’t have sufficed?” Wilson asks snippily.

House tilts his head. “Eh. Probably. But it never hurts to aim big. To eradicate all doubt and all that. I hear the court's big on that.” 

Wilson glares at him. 

House looks at his face. “You’re actually angry,” he states.

“Brilliant observation, House,” Wilson exclaims, before he drags a hand across his face. “You owe me,” he says, pointing at the other man. 

“I thought we’d already agreed on compensation?”

Wilson laughs. “Oh, no. That was for me cutting my appointment short. Regular compensation won’t cut it.”

House blinks at him, and for the first time since Wilson entered his office, he doesn’t look so sure anymore. “I’m willing to double it?”

Wilson shakes his head. “Oh no. We’re past the point of haggling.”

“Are you sure?” House asks, hesitating. 

“Yeah,” Wilson confirms. “You owe me four hours of work; I’ve lost.” He smiles, and House’s throat bobs as he swallows, seemingly sensing the danger even before Wilson says, “I’m thinking you can cover my clinic hours so I can catch up with the paperwork I was supposed to get done today. You can manage that, right? You’ve just wrapped up your case after all.”

Somewhere in the background he can hear a few ‘oohs’ and one gasp, which he hazards a guess would come with an Australian accent if gasps could be accented. 

“I’ll pay you back. In cash,” House says. 

“Oh, you’ll pay in cash too. Because I’m not paying for that mattress.”

House is scowling at him now too. 

Wilson smiles wider. “Should I tell Cuddy that you’re covering for me, or maybe it won’t matter? Since you’ve got my signature down anyhow, right?”

“You’re a cruel man, Wilson. Cruel,” House says after a moment. 

“You’ll do it?” Wilson asks, actually a bit surprised, before he chides himself for showing weakness. 

House leans back in his chair, seemingly scenting it like a hound does blood. “I don’t know,” he backpedals and picks up his ball again, tossing it back and forth. “That’s a big sacrifice. My reputation would take a hit. Who’s to say Cuddy isn’t going to jump on that knowledge? She’s going to think she can bully me into clinic hours if she only butters up to you.”

Wilson wets his lip, and he meets House’s defiant stare with a stubborn one of his own. “No,” he says after a moment, more bluffing than not. “I think you’ll do it."

House leans forward, placing the ball on the table, keeping it still with his hand. “Yeah? What makes you so sure?”

“Leverage,” Wilson voices ominously. 

House narrows his eyes. “A Mexican standoff, Wilson. How quaint. You think I’m going to break first?”

“I know you will,” Wilson states with feigned confidence. 

House hums. 

“And I’ll have you know that compensation doesn’t fall under that umbrella,” Wilson says, just to make sure they’re on the same page. 

House clicks his tongue. He leans back in his chair. “Two clinic hours.”

“Deal,” Wilson says almost immediately. 

House curses. He picks up his ball and points at Wilson. “I knew you were bluffing.”

“No, you didn’t,” Wilson replies, smirking before he moves to leave House’s office, almost bumping into Thirteen, who’s still standing next to the door, when he says over his shoulder, “And I’ll hold you to it. Two of my clinic hours. Tomorrow.”

House flips him off. 

Wilson grins. 

House’s fellows are staring between him and House, even if Foreman is trying to project an air of indifference. 

Feeling smugly accomplished, Wilson steps out into the hallway. 

Wilson gets compensated that night. Oh, he gets compensated well. 

Afterwards, when they lie in the sheets, sweaty and still out of breath, Wilson turns to look at House. “I’m still banking on those clinic hours.”

“Yeah, yeah,” House replies, still a bit breathy. “I can’t believe I fell for your bluff. You so would’ve caved first. Mexican standoff, my ass. You were shooting blanks at best.”

Wilson smirks. “I guess we’ll never know.”

House huffs, amused. 

Eventually Wilson gets up to use the bathroom and shower and afterwards heads back into the bedroom to put on a pair of pajama pants and a random worn shirt, which happens to be one of House’s, which have somehow started to invade his dresser. 

By the time he returns back to the bathroom, House is standing in front of the sink to brush his teeth. 

Wilson joins him there and grabs his own toothbrush. “I actually meant to ask, did you get your book back?”

“Yeah,” House says through a mouthfulof foam. 

“What was so important about it anyhow?” Wilson asks, making a grab for the toothpaste.

House doesn’t reply for a long moment. He spits and rinses his mouth. Eventually, he says, “Approach to the Acute Abdomen. By Doctor E. Cuddy.”

“Cuddy,” Wilson says, bemused, taking his toothbrush back out from where it was stuck in his cheek. He turns to look at House, who’s drying his face with a towel. “Our Cuddy?”

“Her grandfather.” House turns to hang the towel back up, shrugging. “I thought it’d be a good housewarming gift. I gave it to her after work.”

“Right,” Wilson says, a bit bitter. 

“Don’t tell me you’re still jealous?” House asks him, amusement streaking his voice. 

Wilson sighs, gesturing with his toothbrush. “I don’t fucking know, House,” it bursts out of him, his tone perhaps a bit more biting than he meant to. “You and Cuddy—that’s like ten years in the making. Half a year ago you were still trying to get in her pants.”

House huffs. “She’s about to be engaged,” he points out. 

“And you give her a book that you said was worth its weight in gold. Is it so unreasonable to think that this might raise some questions for me?”

House looks at him, and Wilson suddenly can’t bring himself to meet his gaze. He starts brushing his teeth to occupy himself.

Unfortunately, he’s staring into a mirror, and House stares right back at him through it. 

“So ask them,” House says after a moment. 

Wilson makes an indecipherable noise that could mean anything while hiding behind the pretense of having his mouth full. He actually doesn’t want to know the answer. 

Eventually, House sits down on the rim of the tub, seemingly making a point in waiting out Wilson’s very thorough cleaning of his teeth, and thus he spits and rinses his teeth before he says, “Never mind,” drying his mouth off with a towel. “I’m tired. Forget it. Let’s just go to bed.”

House sighs. “Wilson.”

Wilson has already turned and exhales through his nose, hesitating before he reaches for the door handle after all. He feels embarrassed. 

“Wilson,” House says again, and this time Wilson pauses. He turns back around, and his gaze darts across the tile and at the ceiling and at the floor. Anywhere that isn’t House, who’s pushing himself up from the tub to walk up to him.

“First of all, I think it deserves mentioning that I’m not the one who’s jumping from bed to bed, going by our comparative track records, and secondly—I’m taking an educated guess here—I’m just going to follow that up by telling you that I’m not in love with Cuddy.”

Wilson huffs. 

“And what I say now will never leave this room—and I will deny it if you ever bring it up again—and I’ll only say it once, but,” House exhales, “I’m in love with you. And I’m happy. With us. With you. Regardless of the lack of tits between the two of us. Though if you’re ever open to hiring a hooker or something to double-tap, I’d be open to the suggestion.” 

Wilson huffs, amused at this very ‘House’ declaration, but a reflexive flutter spreads through his belly anyway, and his face warms up. 

When he looks at House, the man is smiling at him.

Wilson realizes he's smiling too. 

Suddenly, House’s lips stretch into a smirk. “And I said the book was from the two of us. Just to set the record straight. Signed it for you and everything.”

“You could’ve mentioned that earlier,” Wilson says, a bit flustered. 

House grins. “Why should I? I wouldn’t get to see you get all adorably bothered about it.”

“Dick,” Wilson says. 

House laughs at him. He takes another step, steadying himself on the sink because he left his cane hooked onto the towel rack, and closes their distance to kiss him. Wilson leans in almost reflexively, and it almost turns into another make-out session, and if Wilson were a bit younger, he’d probably try to start something again. 

But alas, he is not, and neither is House, so they eventually part and go to bed like respectable people. Wilson still tastes mint on his tongue.

“I’m never ever doing this again,” House tells Wilson, by virtue of invading his office, some three hours into work the next day. 

Wilson gestures at the phone he’s currently got pressed against the shell of his ear.

“I’m drawing a line in the sand right here, right now,” House continues. 

“Excuse me,” Wilson says, “Could you hold that a minute?” He puts down the phone before he looks at House. “What are we talking about?”

“No more clinic hours,” House states. “That’s my one boundary.”

“You actually did them?” Wilson asks. “You actually treated patients? And signed in for my hours?”

“Worst two hours of my life,” House replies. 

Wilson smiles. 

“This was a one-time thing that will never happen again,” House declares, before he tilts his face. “Damn. Never thought I’d be me uttering those words.”

“Okay,” Wilson concedes easily, leaning back in his chair. 

“Okay?” House blinks at him. 

“Okay,” Wilson echoes. 

“Wow, deja-vu,” House says. His lips quirk before he points his cane at Wilson. “No take-backsies.”

Wilson grins. “I think I’ve established myself in this power dynamic.”

House huffs. “This means nothing.”

Wilson smirks. “I think we both know that’s a lie.”

“I’m heading down right now to readjust the names on the charts.”

“And brave the clinic again?” Wilson sucks in a hissing breath. “You have to make sure Cuddy doesn’t see you there. You’ve got—what?—about fifty years to work off the clinic hours you still owe going by your current streak?”

House stares at him. 

Wilson returns his look, unbothered. 

House glares. “You may have won this battle, Wilson, but you haven’t won the war,” he declares dramatically before he spins around and leaves. 

Wilson grins to himself before he picks up his phone again to resume his call. 

Two days later, Wilson receives a phone call from House that Alvie has left for Phoenix to live with his cousin. 

Peripherally, Wilson was aware of the whole immigration and court thing House arranged, but he’s still surprised to hear Alvie left without saying goodbye. Not that he’s terribly disappointed. 

Friday they leave work early to pick out a mattress, which goes so-so and is mostly dominated by them bickering, but somehow they manage to find one they both agree on, which is supposed to be delivered by Monday. 

They’re kept pretty busy over the weekend overall, what with them actually going through with the plans of grabbing some stuff from House’s apartment—whose walls are surprisingly sporting a fresh coat of inoffensive paint—and Wilson’s forced to bear the brunt of hauling said boxes up into their condo. In classical fashion, they order pizza and have beers before setting out to dismantle House’s bed, which is a whole other issue, especially since they’ve got the movers coming over soon to bring House’s piano. 

The whole affair is dominated by a whole lot of cursing, and House gets upset by his piano having gained a new scratch and argues with the movers and tries to shift blame, and their night concludes with an attempt at sex, which is foiled by a cramp in Wilson’s calf.

House gives him shit for it, of course, jokingly offering to lend him his cane, and Wilson pettily proclaims he should’ve just let House deal with everything and gone to the wine bar with Nora, who invited him out to her girls night—something which tickled his pride and made him refuse flat-out—and there’s more bickering about that, followed by a half-hearted fight which ends with them somehow falling into bed with each other after all, because by then Wilson’s gotten over his cramp and House somehow took Wilson heatedly arguing at him as some cue to make out. 

Sunday in comparison feels almost indulgently lazy. Mainly, because they’ve both deigned to ignore the mess of boxes and the dismantled bed alongside the piano in House’s bedroom in favor of rediscovering House’s PlayStation, which the former apparently tossed into a box on a whim, and they spend the majority of the day trying to one-up each other in Street Fighter. 

By Monday, their new mattress arrives, and even though neither of them is much in a mood to set it up after work, they end up doing it after all—meaning the mattress Wilson bought with Amber ends up crammed into House’s old bedroom alongside all the other clutter—followed up by them breaking it in. 

Work the following day passes in a rather usual manner, but still, Wilson rather looks forward to going home, feeling a stab of envy at House, who somehow skipped out early, ditching his clinic hours if Cuddy’s inquiring texts are anything to go by. 

Wilson’s sweaty, he’s exhausted, and he’s fantasizing about which pizza he’s going to order to eat while lazing about on the couch with House and watching the Bond marathon that’s going to be on tonight when he gets a call. 

He answers it on a whim, his phone tucked into the crook of his neck while he turns the steering wheel, ten minutes out from home. 

Wilson’s gaze darkens as he listens to the voice on the other end before he hangs up, cursing, already turning the car around. 

Half an hour later, he’s clambering his way through the bustling ER, plucking glass out of skin, packing wounds, splinting broken bones, and ordering MRIs for the more severe cases caused by a crane collapsing in Trenton. 

Everything smells of antiseptic, sweat, blood, and concrete dust. 

House is on-site; Wilson knows—having managed a brief call between examining a sprained leg and checking a concussed woman’s skull for lesions—and is undoubtedly up to his elbows in blood and guts doing triage.

The small TV in the corner above the nurse’s desk shows live footage of the whole thing, with news banners running below, and Wilson thinks to have spotted Foreman on the screen in passing. 

It’s barely audible over all the noise. 

There are people crying, nurses wheeling beds, and doctors yelling instructions over people screaming. 

Someone in a shock blanket settled in a corner, being talked to by a nurse, while a resident is puking into a bucket, not having been able to handle the sight of a thoroughly shattered arm of a man, who’d already been carted down for emergency surgery. 

One of the nurses shoves a bandage kit at the resident, telling him to either help or get out of the way. 

Their beds are already packed, and yet it’s a never-ending flood of new patients, ambulances rolling in minutely before hauling out again, while Wilson falls into a sort of professional trance as he handles patients with an efficiency that barely even seems to put a dent into the wave of new arrivals. 

Eventually, Wilson feels like he can breathe again. The most severe cases have been carted off to hospitals, and now it’s mostly sprains and shock and bandaging scrapes and giving people directions towards where they can find their relatives. 

He texts House while draining a crappy coffee during a moment of respite to let him know how things are going and to check in. 

All he gets back is a brief ‘Busy. Triage,’ before he returns to the ER. 

It’s past midnight when everything quiets down. Wilson exchanges an exhausted look with his fellow doctors by the time he pulls his gloves off and tosses them into a nearby trash can. Weariness has settled into his bones, and he feels dead on his feet. He smiles gratefully at Thirteen, who tosses him a granola bar and a water bottle, before moving on while Wilson continues his path, nodding at a few nurses who’ve simply given up, sitting on the floor leaning against the walls, dark circles under their eyes, still in their blood-stained scrubs after they were absolved by the night shift arriving. 

Wilson eats his granola bar, flipping his phone open to let House know that he’s going to meet him at home. Just looking at the buttons makes him feel tired, and so he resolves to forgo a text message and instead just calls him. 

He listens to the familiar beeping of the phone dialing before waiting for the call to be picked up. It never does. 

Sighing, Wilson snaps his phone shut. 

He makes it as far as to change out of his scrubs and throws them into a locker when the door cracks open. 

“There you are.”

Wilson looks up only to find Cuddy standing in the doorway, bemusedly taking in her appearance in what’s distinctly a men’s locker room, with disheveled hair, sensible shoes, and dust all over her scrubs. 

Perhaps it’s his exhaustion, but it takes him a long moment to notice the expression on her face. 

“Is everything alright?” Wilson asks, turning to face her properly. 

“It’s House,” she says. 

Wilson straightens up, abruptly alert. “What happened?”

The frown between her brows deepens. “So he hasn’t called you either.”

“No. I tried calling him earlier, but he didn’t pick up. I assumed he was busy. What happened?”

She sinks down on a bench, exhaling as she wipes over her face. “Damn. I thought…” She sighs. 

“Lisa. What’s going on?” Wilson asks more urgently, rapidly pulling on a shirt, low dread welling up.

“He lost a patient,” she says, looking up with an exhausted face, her elbows placed on her knees. “We had to amputate her leg on-site. I just heard from Foreman. He didn’t take it well.”

“Where is he?” Wilson asks. 

She laughs faintly. “I don’t know. I’d check out his old apartment. I guess if he’s still got a stash left, it’s there.”

Wilson curses. 

He’s still cursing on the drive, fingers drumming impatiently onto the steering wheel when he has to stop at a red light. 

He tries calling House again. For the third time since Cuddy found him in the locker room. He curses under his breath again, his cellphone tucked between his neck and shoulder, his eyes on the road with anxious frustration as he considers whether it’d be a better idea to turn left and try to forgo the main street. 

Somebody behind him honks as he switches lanes. It takes him a moment to realize that the beeping of the phone has stopped and then another moment to realize that it’s because his call has finally gone through. 

The other end of the line is silent. He hears faint breathing. “House?” Wilson asks, and his hand drives up to his phone as he puts it against his other ear to shift the stick. 

Someone’s honking behind him again, but Wilson pays them no mind. 

A long moment goes by, and then, finally, “Yeah.”

“House, where are you? I’m on the way to your place.”

Another pause. “I’m at home.”

Wilson exhales with desperate relief. He flicks the turn signal. 

“How far out are you?”

Wilson is already turning the car around. “I’m almost home.”

“How far?”

“About twenty minutes. Are you okay? I heard about your patient.”

The silence following his inquiry sparks both concern and dread.

“House?” Wilson asks, swallowing around an anxious lump in his throat. 

“I’m still here.”

“Okay,” Wilson breathes, mostly to himself. “Okay.” He blinks against the glare of lights fractured into starry shapes by his windshield and presses on the gas when the stoplight ahead turns yellow. 

“Tell me something,” House’s tinny voice echoes through the speaker. 

Wilson draws a desperate blank. “Tell you something. Anything?”

“Yeah. Anything.”

“I,” Wilson says, trying to think of a topic that isn’t him picturing House falling back into his addiction of the last few hours he spent bandaging up wounded people in the ER. “I, uh, ran into Martha today in the lobby. She told me she’s retiring soon. She wants to move to Florida.”

“Florida,” House says after a long moment. “...sounds nice.”

“Yeah. Her daughter’s got a house there, I heard.”

Wilson hears House’s quiet breathing on the other end of the line.

Wilson decides to continue talking. “She married a guy who’s got family in Naples. Apparently. Pretty wealthy, I’m guessing. He’s some kind of lawyer or something. He’s working for his family’s company. I know. Nepotism at its finest and all that.”

Wilson continues prattling on, starting about how his day went and the paperwork he filed today when that other topic runs dry before switching over to talk about the traffic. 

The minutes till he finally pulls into the parking lot in front of their building go by in a haze and feel endless at the same time. 

He kills the engine, his car cutting into their neighbor's designated parking spot like an asshole, but Wilson just hurries out of the car anyway, slamming the door shut behind him, not bothering to take anything but his keys. 

“You’re home?” House asks, the first proper sentence he’s spoken since he asked Wilson to talk to him about anything. 

“Yeah. Just parked outfront.”

“Okay,” House says. 

Wilson falters briefly in his step, when the call cuts out. He looks down at his phone, where the display lets him know House hung up before he finishes crossing the parking lot illuminated by a few moth-swarmed street lights. 

He chews on his thumbnail, while he stands in the brightly lit elevator, watching the numbers above the door switch as it climbs up floors. 

His keys jingle when he unlocks their apartment door, but finds his hands steady. 

The condo is dark, when he enters, and he takes a few wary steps inside. “House?” he calls, hesitating as he drops his keys into the bowl on the side. 

“Here.” 

Wilson steps into the living room and flicks on the light. 

House is sitting on the couch. Wilson crosses their distance in a few swift steps, slowing down only when he rounds the seating area. 

House looks… Frankly, he looks like shit. 

He’s still wearing his leather jacket, covered in concrete dust, just like every other part of his body, his jeans crusted with dirt and blood. He sits, slumped, arms resting on his knees, drying blood flaking off his sinewy hands, a deep furrow between his brows, only exacerbated by the way the dirt still clings to where he must’ve sweat earlier, streaking across his temples and making his hair seem even grayer. His whole cheek is a red bruise, like he was hit by falling debris, a bloody scrape stretching across his nose. 

And that’s when Wilson notices the orange pill bottle on the coffee table, next to a half-empty bottle of bourbon. 

Wilson swallows, his breaths sound harsh in the silence. He remains standing next to the couch, his eyes flicking back to House. 

“Did you take any?” he asks quietly. 

House inhales through his nose, his voice rough when he replies, “Just the whisky.”

Wilson swallows, exhaling with no little amount of relief. He doesn’t think House is lying. And if he were, now wouldn’t be the time to confront him. 

Wilson decides to believe him. For now. 

Sighing, he picks up House’s cane from where it’s leaning against the coffee table, gently placing it on the couch, before he crouches down in front of the other man, putting his hands on his thighs. 

Finally, House looks up. His eyes look blood-shot from lack of sleep and glassy from the alcohol. Exhaustion is written into his feature as his blue gaze finally settles on Wilson. 

“I wanted to,” House says. Wilson can smell the whisky on his breath now. 

Wilson just looks at him. “But you didn’t.”

“I almost did,” House voices quietly. “I still want to.”

Wilson swallows. He takes House’s hands as he gets up. “Come on. Let’s get you into the tub. You’re filthy.” He refrains from mentioning the blood. 

House’s eyes flicker towards the vicodin bottle, before he lets Wilson pull him up from the couch. 

They leave the cane behind and Wilson supports House instead as they make their way over to the bedroom. 

Wilson flicks on the light in the bathroom and House settles on the rim of the bathtub. His face looks drawn and pale. 

Wilson briefly chews on the inside of his cheek. He resents leaving House like that but needs must. “I’ll be right back,” he says and as soon as he’s in the hallway, he hurries back into the living room. 

He empties up-ends the vicodin bottle above the sink, watching the pills go down the drain, briefly wondering where House kept it, considering he thought their condo was clean, but figuring that’s a topic that can be shelved for now. He runs the faucet, before grabs a glass from the sink, filling it with water and briefly stops in the bedroom to grab a shirt, underwear and sweatpants for House. 

While he rummages through the drawer, he can hear the distinct sounds of retching from the adjacent bathroom. 

When he enters, he finds House kneeling in front of the toilet, spitting into the bowl after seemingly just having finished puking before he flushes it with a stretched out hand. 

Wilson says nothing, just puts down the clothes and walks up to him to hand him the glass with water. 

House takes it, swallowing and swishing it around his mouth before spitting in the toilet again, but he’s sipping it by the time Wilson starts to run the water in the tub.  

“Do you want help?” he asks. 

“I’m not a child,” House bites out, before he sets the water glass down on the floor. Wilson patiently watches him struggle to push himself up from the floor. 

He swallows another offer of help when House starts to undress, shucking off pieces of clothing one by one, dust trickling out of his hair as he discards them where he stands. 

“Your shoulder…” Wilson says, staring at the bloody bandage taped to the other man’s skin. 

“It’s fine,” House says, gruffly as he makes moves to get into the bathtub. 

It’s not fine, but Wilson says nothing, just makes space and grabs the other man’s arm to steady him when he steps across the rim. 

Wilson goes to retrieve a washcloth from a cabinet, finding that from now on House could refrain from making fun of him for owning washcloths, but now is certainly not the time to voice that thought. 

Wilson kneels down next to the tub and after letting the water soak the cloth, before he starts to wipe down House’s hands.

The other man lets him, staring at the white tiles of the wall instead. 

When he rinses the washcloth watches rust-coloured and dirty water sluicing down into the drain. 

For a while, the only sounds in the bathroom are the rush of running water and their quiet breaths. Wilson tries to focus on nothing but the task at hand as he wipes House’s palm and between his fingers, getting rid of the blood and dust, till it’s only the latter remaining. 

After his hands, Wilson moves on to House’s face, dabbing at the red bruise on House’s cheek. It’s scraped too, he notices once the dirt is wiped away but the other man barely winces. 

Wilson rinses the cloth again and House moves his leg so he can put in the stopper. 

“What happened?” he eventually dares ask. 

House exhales through his nose in a sharp burst. “Just… shit. It was bullshit,” he says. 

Wilson just looks at him, waiting for House to elaborate. 

House swallows. “I found a woman. Buried in the rubble. Her leg was trapped. We had to amputate on site. It was a mess. She died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”

“That’s fucked up,” Wilson says after a beat.

House barks a brief joyless laugh. “Her husband shouted at me to do something.”

Wilson nods. It happens rarely with his patients, what with them knowing what to expect most of the time. But he’s experienced it too. The desperate and anguished anger of family members directed at him. 

House sighs and leans back against the tub, wiping a hand over his face. His damp fingers leave streaks. 

Wilson cards a hand through House’s hair, shaking dust loose and it trickles down, joining the layer still coating his ears.

House closes his eyes. “I hate these fucking days.”

“I know,” Wilson says quietly. “Me too.”

His knees pop when he gets up. 

“Stay,” House says. His voice sounds hoarse. 

“I’m just putting your clothes away.”

“Leave them.”

Wilson stays. He sits down next to the tub, leaning against it. In a rare moment of pure affection, House reaches for his hand, tangling their fingers on the rim of the tub. 

They sit in silence while the water sloshes in the bathtub as it slowly rises. Eventually, Wilson turns the water off before he sits back down again. 

The water has run cold and murky, greyish foam coating its surface when House eventually gets up. Wilson hands him a towel and House barely dries off before he pulls on the clothes Wilson got him. 

They change House’s bandage and brush their teeth in weighty silence and Wilson strips down to his underwear feeling too tired truly to get into the shower he’d looked forward to earlier. 

In silent agreement they get into bed, slipping under the sheets and House rolls over to throw an arm around Wilson.

There’s not a moment of hesitation before he shifts, and pulls House close as well. The other man exhales shudderingly, pressing his face against his shoulder, his warm breath fanning across Wilson’s bare skin. 

Outside, the morning is already dawning, pale light creeping across the horizon. 

Wilson hugs him tighter, before he presses a kiss against the wet crown of House’s hair. “Love you,” he says quietly, into the cover of darkness. 

He doesn’t mention the dampness he feels trickling across his shoulder. He just holds the other man and they fall asleep like that, wrapped up in each other to the sound of a stray bird singing outside. 

Wilson wakes sometime around the late afternoon to the sound of traffic outside, light flooding the room. 

At some point during the night – or well morning – they must’ve ended up on different sides of the bed. House stirs when Wilson shifts on the mattress, rolling over to throw an arm around the other man, ignoring his bladder, not wanting to get up yet. 

He feels like he went through a meat grinder, coming once more to the conclusion that he’s past the age of pulling all-nighters.  

Eventually, he can’t deny his urge to use the bathroom any longer and he gets up reluctantly, staring at his tired face in the mirror afterwards, and dragging a hand over his stubble, before he reaches for his toothbrush. 

By the time he’s finished putting away the bourbon from the coffee table and has circled back into the bedroom, House’s cane in hand he finds the man in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. 

He meets the man’s eyes in the mirror, neither seemingly much in the mood to talk yet. He just hooks the cane onto the top of the door and gets ready to take a shower. 

House has left when Wilson finishes up with his perfunctory shower, yet both the kitchen and living room are empty when he emerges from the hallway. 

Bemused, Wilson throws on the coffee machine and sighs over the lack of milk in the fridge, remembering he meant to go grocery shopping today, before it occurs to him to perhaps ge concerned about House’s continued absence. 

Worry mounting, he looks around, almost getting ready to fetch his phone to call him when he spots that the balcony door is cracked. 

Grabbing his coffee, Wilson heads outside. 

A humid wall of air meets him, clouds darkening the horizon where a storm may or may not be brewing accompanied by the familiar scent of cigarette smoke. 

House is sitting in one of the patio chairs, smoking and dressed in a washed out black band-shirt and boxers, a cup of coffee propped up on his thigh. 

At Wilson’s approach, he looks away from the orange glint of the skyscrapers in the distance, the sun almost ready to touch down on their tips and turns his head to look at him, exhaling a lungful of smoke in the process. 

The bruise on his cheek has taken on a few different hues, starting to heal, same with the scrape on his nose. 

“I ordered pizza,” House offers momentarily. “I figured you wouldn’t mind. The cabinets were empty and I wasn’t exactly in the mood for cereal with water.”

Wilson’s stomach grumbles just then, reminding him that all he had since yesterday lunch was a single granola bar. 

“Good call,” he says, before he shuffles past House and the table and sits down on the other chair, listening to the sounds of the cars and people down in the streets. 

“I know,” House says, before he takes another drag of the cigarette. Wilson throws a glance at the pack he bought weeks ago. It’s slowly but surely looking rather empty.

His gaze slides back to House, watching him smoke. 

“If we could field the sermon about its cancerous effects, I’d be grateful,” House says once he catches him watching. 

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” Wilson says, and crosses his ankles while he takes a sip of his drearily black coffee.  

He pulls a face and House’s lips twitch, before his half-smile fades again. He rubs a hand across his scruffy jaw. “Thanks,” he rasps after a moment. “About yesterday.”

Wilson feels the heat of his coffee radiate through the mug when his palm briefly flexes around it. “It’s nothing,” he says. 

House briefly looks at him, before he shakes his head and takes another drag of his smoke. “It was a shitshow. All of it,” he states momentarily. 

“Yeah,” Wilson replies. “The city’s in for a hell of a lawsuit. Not to mention that crane operator.”

House hums. “I wouldn’t be sure. He was sick.”

“Yeah? I must’ve missed that.”

House hums. “The team handled the case.”

Wilson hums and sips his coffee. He eyes House from his periphery. He feels the urge to reach out but the table separates them. He rests his hand on its surface instead, before long scraping idly at the remnants of the dried up leaves sticking to it, watching House. 

“How are you?” he asks after a moment, casually hiding behind the rim of his cup. 

“Fine,” House says. 

Wilson continues to stare at him and the other man briefly meets his gaze. 

After a beat, House sighs. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. Something other than what’s obviously a lie? You almost relapsed yesterday.”

House expels a sharp burst of air. “I felt like shit. It was crappy. I’m over it.”

“House,” Wilson sighs, turning to look at the other man properly. 

House takes a drag of his cigarette.

“It’s okay if you’re not, you know.” Wilson says. “I was there last night. You don’t have to pretend you’re fine.”

“You’re not my therapist,” House replies, clipped. 

“No. I’m your boyfriend.”

House glances at him. His lips tick up a bit. “So we’re putting a label on it now?”

Wilson returns his gaze unamused. “You’re deflecting.”

House sighs, deep and suffering, but he turns a bit more serious. He looks at Wilson. “You got rid of the pills?”

“Yeah.”

House nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Wilson raises his brows.

“Okay,” House retorts, “Good. Whatever." He gestures with his cigarette, painting a trail of smoke through the air. 

Wilson wets his lips. “Where did you get them from?”  

House takes a drag of his smoke before abruptly flicking his cigarette across the railing of the balcony. “I drove by my place. Before coming here.”

“You didn’t have any here?” Wilson watches House attentively. 

“No.”

Wilson shifts on his seat. “You can’t lie to me about that.”

“I’m not,” House says, meeting his eyes. 

Wilson studies the other man’s expression intently and he keeps at it for a long moment, until he nods, acknowledging and a bit relieved. “Good,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Tomorrow, we’re getting rid of the rest of your stash in the old apartment,” he declares. 

House seems introspective for a moment. “Yeah,” he voices afterwards, not denying the presence of additional stashes. 

Wilson snorts, shaking his head. 

Each of them move simultaneously, taking a sip of their respective coffees. “And we’ll have to pick up milk,” Wilson tacks on, making a face. 

House laughs. 

Before long, the pizza arrives and Wilson picks up the first piece before he’s even sat down, stealing it out of the box as soon as it’s placed on the coffee table, shining with grease and stringy cheese, all but moaning when it hits his tastebuds. 

House drops down in the couch cushions, leaning forward to pull the other box towards him, seemingly similarly starved. 

They demolish half of their respective pizzas in record time before slowing down and by then House turns on the TV. 

They spend the majority of the evening on the couch, zapping through trashy reality shows and talking about lighter topics they’re in desperate need of following the prior day. 

Somehow their thighs being pressed against each other turns into hands settling on said thighs, and before long, they shed all pretenses kissing under the flashing light of the TV, hands wandering until they decide they’re better off moving away from the couch, because listening to rich house-wives screaming at each other across a table over interior decoration is something of a mood killer. 

They’re still off work the next morning and Wilson makes good on his promise and drags House over to his old place, where he finds the bathroom mirror in shambles and a distinct hole in the wall behind where it used to hang, now empty of the pill bottle it used to hold. 

Wilson feels rather like a stern drill master while he has House show him each and every stash, and even check the old hiding spots House insists are empty. 

They unearth two more pill bottles and about a dozen loose ones. Vicodin and a few oxys, which Wilson resolutely flushes down the toilet. 

They manage to grab a quick lunch from a food truck before they head back to the hospital and only after Wilson gives the apartment another cursory screening. 

His comment about being proud of House reaps him a whole speech about clichéed and uninspired phrases during the drive to Princeton-Plainsboro and once they pull into the parking lot, Wilson is back to his usual level of awe when it comes to House. 

Speak a healthy dose of annoyance, mixed with reluctant amusement and fond exasperation. 

They banter all the way up to their respective offices, where they part and Wilson seeks out his assistant to figure out when to reschedule his cancelled appointments.

Sometime around two, House snows into his office, slamming a thick book onto his desk with nigh a word of explanation. 

Wilson raises his brows, after having glanced at the upside down title, looking at House. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that, considering this seems to be more your area of expertise than mine,” he says.

House works his jaw for a moment, his fingers flexing around his cane, before he drawls, “It’s never Lupus, Wilson, you should know that by now.”

“Okay?” Wilson voices. He looks at the book again. 

House looks at it too, his fingers twitching. 

Slowly, Wilson reaches for the book, watching House watching him reach for it. 

He picks it up, still bemused, but something about its weight throws him off. It also happens to rattle in a way that no book aimed towards anyone above the age of three should. 

Wilson’s expression changes with sudden realization and he stares at House. “You didn’t…” he gapes.. 

House shrugs. 

“Seriously? You kept a stash in your office?! Anyone could’ve found it!”

“In my defense,” House says, “It’s really never Lupus.”

Wilson huffs, disbelieving, resigned and a tiny bit amused, before he unceremoniously cracks the book open and finds a jagged square space cut-out of the pages, a pill bottle rattling in the middle. He plucks it out, shaking it and squinting past the opaque orange plastic. There are maybe four vicodin left in it and he pockets the bottle before he waves the books. 

“I presume you don’t need that anymore?”

House shrugs again. “Not particularly. Unless you want to relocate some of the weed you skim off your patients’ prescriptions.”

He smirks at Wilson, who feigns appallment. “I’m shocked you’d accuse me of such things. I’d never.”

“Sure,” House voices amused. 

“Not since my second divorce at least,” Wilson admits, his lips quirking, before he chucks the book into the waste basket.  

“Apropos,” House says. “I think Cuddy’s engaged now.”

“She is?” Wilson asks, looking up. 

“Judging by the giant rock on her finger, yeah. Seems like Lucas grew some balls.”

“Good for them,” Wilson voices. 

“I’m impressed by your earnest delivery. Keep up with the lack of bitterness when you congratulate Cuddy, and she might even continue to live under the delusion that marriage is something one should strive for.”

“You know, civil unions are legal in our state,” Wilson teases with a smirk.

“Don’t you dare, Wilson,” House declares grimly. “I’d rather throw myself off a bridge.” 

“Harsh,” he counters, still amused as he leans back in his chair, watching House turn toward the door. 

Though before finishing the motion, House spins back around, pausing. “If anything, I’d consider eloping after a wild weekend in Vegas following two nights of excessive drinking, illegal gambling and strip clubs.”

“Seems efficient,” Wilson says, his chair creaking when he leans back amused. “We could pay for each other’s lap dances during the shared stag night.”

“And they say romance is dead,” House voices, mirroring his expression. 

Wilson hums, with feigned thoughtfulness. “Though, I suppose, one of us would have to dress up in drag to fool the officiant in one of the chapels.”

“I know a guy who’s open to bribes,” House says. “Though with your rap sheet, you’re probably better off not committing fraud. One open warrant in New Orleans is one thing, but another one in Nevada? Seems a bit risky.” 

Wilson laughs. “All I’m hearing is you volunteering to dress up in drag.”

“Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you want me to turn all transvestite,” House says, “At least going by the topic coming up with alarming regularity. I sure hope that’s founded in some sort of kink and not a desire fuelled by the remnants of sexual repression knocking about your skull.”

Wilson snorts. “No thanks. I’m good.”

“You don’t think I could pull off a dress?” House asks with put upon indignation. 

Wilson theatrically rakes his eyes across House, before he looks at his face again and shakes his head with an affected sigh. “No offense, but I don’t think you could pull off the illusion.”

“You’re not helping yourself with that rhetoric. I’m continuously more convinced it’s a kink thing after all and you’re just too chicken to bring it up.”

“For the record, I don’t have a kink for you in drag,” Wilson feels the need to state. 

“Whew,” House breathes. “That’s a weight off my shoulders. And here I thought you were trying to hint at spicing up our sex life in increasingly unsubtle ways. I mean, usually, people just start out with something ordinary, like tying each other up, but with you I’ve learned to expect the unexpected.”  

Wilson’s suddenly thrown back to that interaction of him and House in the elevator during the time he was still under the false impression that they were dating shortly following his amnesia when he pictured something of the like. He flusters a bit at the unwitting mental image.

House stares at him for a beat, before his lips curve into a smirk. “Wilson, you dog.”

Wilson clears his throat and busies himself by adjusting his keyboard. 

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” House probes further. 

Wilson doesn’t look up from his computer when he says, “Anyone who hasn’t pictured cuffing you to some piping in a basement before leaving you there hasn’t worked with you long enough.”

House’s lips stretch wider, revealing a toothy grin. “Interesting.”

“I thought that was common knowledge,” Wilson replies, trying at sounding casual. “Sorry to burst your bubble.”

House hums as he shakes his head, a smug grin on his face. “You forget, Wilson, that most of those people hate me. You, on the other hand,” he says, putting a on the desk as he leans closer, “like me.”

“And god only knows why,” Wilson sighs, vividly aware of House getting dangerously close to invading his personal space, but deliberately pretending not to be. He feels a bit hot under his collar when he clicks on his browser icon to give himself something to do.

House doesn’t let up, both vindicated and mirthful as he looks at Wilson, bolstered by whatever he seems to read in his expression. “I’m no psychotherapist,” he drawls, “but I think there’s something to be read into you jumping to picturing me as the tied up party.” He grins before he slams both palms onto the table, his cane knocking against the wood as if he were cast as some beat cop in a cheesy police show during an interrogation, and leans in to stare Wilson down. “Admit it. You’re just salivating over getting some decent use out of those ugly ties of yours.”  

Wilson clears his throat, his ears heating up, at the idea House has singlehandedly put into his mind, blankly staring at his screen. 

Momentarily, House pulls back from his desk and straightens up. 

“I’m thinking the stripy purple one.”

Wilson’s head snaps up and he stares at House. “You’re serious,” he says after a beat. 

House grins at him knowingly. “What self-respecting man wears silk ties to work anyway? It was about time you retired it.”

Wilson stares at House.

“Down boy,” said man voices humorously, his eyes sparking with amusement. “We’re at work.”

Wilson resents the blush he colouring his cheeks, judging by the heat he feels spreading across his face. His mouth opens, but no sound emerges and he closes it, before he can look any stupider.   

House winks at him and he’s out of the office before Wilson has even processed what just transpired. 

Wilson doesn’t retire the tie, but it’s fair to say that it's found a new purpose. 

For some reason no arguing on his part manages to keep House from being gloatingly smug about that achievement nor from claiming it being him committing a public service. 

Wilson congratulates Cuddy on her engagement on Friday after the monthly board meeting, being rather late to the party, but she seems to appreciate it anyway, waving him off with her diamond-accessorised hand and sparkling smile. 

Wilson’s infected by her happiness and realizes that somehow, any suppressed resentment he may have harboured for her has dissipated at that moment, feeling lighter for it. He’s earnest in his well-wishes, and their conversation comes easy to him when they chat on the way to the elevator, even when she inquires about House. But it seems she’s already mostly already come to the conclusion that Tuesday was a one-off, what with her and House apparently already having had that conversation, and Wilson only confirming what she knew, considering she appears happy enough to shelf that topic of worrying about him. 

Wilson can’t help but feel that he’s been handed over a metaphorical torch of some kind. 

He pops into the diagnostic’s department before heading out early that day courtesy of a cancelled appointment, where House is in the process of reaming out his fellows over some sort of diagnosis to be put up on the whiteboard.

Apparently, he got a new case, but a cursory scan of the symptoms listed in black marker tells Wilson that it’s probably not a very interesting one. 

House’s got that look about him too, the one that tells him he’s already figured it out and exasperated about his employees missing the — to him — obvious. 

Chase looks relieved when House cuts off in his rant mid-sentence at noticing Wilson enter and Taub breathes a quiet, “Thank god.” 

Foreman watches on stoically, while Thirteen seems her usual unruffled self.

“Wilson,” House greets him, tipping forward in his chair which he’d been balancing in dangerously before and throws his arm wide as he gestures into the round. “Care to tell my underlings why they’re all idiots?”

Wilson glances at the whiteboard again, and he could hazard a few guesses, but he went into oncology for a reason instead of diagnostics. “No thanks,” he says amused. “I think they’re already catching enough smack from you, I’ll spare them the indignity.”

“See?” House says, addressing his fellows. “Even Wilson knows, and he looked at the board for five seconds tops.” He throws his hands up in the air. “I’m surrounded by morons.”

Wilson, who’s reaping a few sour looks now too, adds, “I might be wrong. But I figure, I leave the diagnosing up to you in order to prevent myself from experiencing more gloating on your part. No need to fuel that god complex you’re developing.” 

“Please,” House huffs, cracking a grin when he looks at Wilson again. “It’s not gloating if I’m right.”

Taub exchanges a look with Foreman. 

“Right,” Chase mutters sarcastically in his telltale accent and Wilson spares him a glance, somewhat pleasantly surprised by that development considering he was fairly sure just some years ago he would’ve swallowed any comment of that sort in favour of defending House to his colleagues.  

“Anyway,” Wilson says, momentarily looking at House again. “I just dropped by to let you know I’m heading home.”

“They let you out early?” House asks. 

Wilson grins, perhaps gloating a bit, hypocritical as it is considering his earlier accusations. “Yeah. I’m off.”

“Lucky bastard,” House grumbles without true heat. 

“Please,” Wilson says, gesturing at the whiteboard. “You obviously know what’s up with your patient. If you move on to treating the guy within the next say, twenty minutes, you might make it home in time for dinner. I was thinking I could make chicken alfredo.”

House sighs. “I’m harbouring little hopes,” he voices, gesturing at his fellows. “They’ve been at it for half an hour already. It’s almost a bit pathetic.”

“Or you could just tell us,” Foreman points out rather validly. “And we could all head home at a reasonable time for once.”

House looks at him. “But then, how would you learn anything?”

Taub scoffs. “Or you’re just letting us suffer because you’re a sadist.”

House turns his blue gaze upon Taub, fixing him with an unimpressed stare. “If you used even half of the brain cell it took you to make that insightful observation, you’d have already figured out what’s wrong with our guy. But alas,” he tells him and leans back in his chair, “we’re still here wasting valuable time we could all spend enjoying our weekend.”  

“Our. Right. I’m sure you’re gonna stick around to treat the guy and supervise his treatment,” Thirteen interjects. 

“That’s a point off for giving me cheek,” House says, pointing at her with his cane. “You’re about to lose your spot in the ranking of the least annoying.”

“I’ll have a good cry about it in my car on the drive home,” Thirteen replies deadpan. 

“That’s my cue,” Wilson interjects. “I’m heading out.” 

The man waves him off distractedly, “Alright.” 

Wilson …pauses.

House seems to notice his lack of movement and looks at him inquisitively. 

It occurs to Wilson, that now's about as good a time as any to claim the betting pool. 

Feeling a bit mischivious, he aborts his earlier intention of heading for the door and instead walks up to House instead. Still, he projects what he’s about to do, giving House ample time to stop him, before he bends down to unceremoniously plant a kiss on the other man’s lips.

Somehow, House still manages to look a bit owlish when he pulls back. Wilson has to bite back a smirk.

Straightening up, he fixes his expression and casually says, “See you at home,” before he turns around, facing House’s fellows. 

Chase stares at him, then at House and then Wilson again. 

Thirteen leans back in her chair, her gaze sliding across Wilson with an amused smirk. 

Foreman simply raises a brow. 

“Did I- You saw that right?” Taub asks, looking at his colleagues for confirmation, waving his hand. 

“Good luck,” Wilson says, gesturing at the whiteboard seemingly addressing the fellows but when he turns, he smirks at House. 

The man blinks at him for a moment, before realization hits home and his expression darkens. He glowers at Wilson. “You bastard,” he declares.  

Wilson smiles brightly at him before he strides towards the exit with a cheerful wave. 

“Wilson!” House yells after him. “You’re not leaving me to deal with this alone!”

“Love you!” Wilson calls back across his shoulder, grinning, already feeling laughter bubbling in his chest. 

“Get fucked!” House yells after him once he’s almost out of the diagnostic’s department.

Wilson briefly slows down to shoot him an amused look.  

“I meant that metaphorically!” the other man shouts.  

Wilson graces him with a jaunty salute and House glares at him but a twitch in his lips betrays him. 

In the hallway, Wilson catches a last glimpse through the transparent glass panels, witnessing Foreman digging out his wallet and resignedly handing a crisp bill to a smug looking Chase.

He laughs to himself all the way during the ride down in the elevator, reaping strange looks which do nothing to stymie his humor. 

Wilson’s in a good mood once he gets home. He puts on some music on the stereo, and changes into more comfortable clothes, before he gets to cooking. He’s just about done, contemplating whether House will be home on time when the door to their apartment opens. 

Listening to House taking off his shoes and dumping his backpack, he retrieves another plate from the cabinet. The other man appears in the living room, when Wilson’s reaching into the cutlery drawer. 

“So, your fellows figured out what’s wrong with your patient after all,” he states, not bothering to disguise his amusement when he looks up to address House, who is crossing their distance with determined strides. 

“I had to tell them and send them off to treat the guy to get them off my case,” House announces darkly and instead of stopping at the kitchen island, where a plate is already set out, he rounds it and limps up to Wilson. 

“I have a knife,” Wilson says, lifting up said tool, in a joking manner. “And I’m willing to use it to defend myself.”

“You’re an evil man, evil man,” House declares. “Taking joy in other people’s suffering.” He takes the knife from Wilson’s hand and tosses it on the counter, before he hauls Wilson in by his shirt crushing their lips together. 

Wilson smiles into the kiss. “I’ll be optimistic, and interpret this as me being forgiven,” he voices against House’s lips. 

“Then you’re dumber than you look,” House mumbles back. 

Though, considering he’s currently attempting to work his hand into Wilson’s pants, it makes it rather hard to take that statement seriously. 

“Dinner will get cold,” Wilson points out, sounding a bit out of breath. 

“Fuck the dinner,” House says.

And then he wraps a hand around Wilson's neck to pull him closer, leaning in again to kiss him.