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He and House were out at a bar. He was bored, and House was bored. So they both did what they did when they were bored; House overanalyzed, and Wilson talked to people. Wilson's current talking companion was a very lovely looking lady with legs up to here (almost all of which she was showing off) and perfectly round breasts (which she was also flaunting). Needless to say, Wilson didn't object when she flirted with him, or when she put her graceful hand on his thigh. In fact, he even flirted back a little. What could be the harm?
He bought her drinks, he told her jokes, and he let her hang on him. He epically failed at ignoring House's presence, but he succeeded relatively well at acting like he hadn't. He knew House wasn't fooled, but the lady seemed to be falling for it. Or she could just be drunk. Either way, she wasn't upset at him for anything, so he was happy.
When she suggested (in a slur) that they go over to her place (lucky she hadn't wanted to go to his) and follow up on this little meeting with something more substantial than talk, Wilson readily agreed. House raised his eyebrow, and Wilson gave him a significant look. Don't tell, House, don't tell. House shook his head, but he didn't stop Wilson from following the lady out the door.
They didn't actually make it up to the lady's apartment. Instead, they ended up having sex in the front seat of Wilson's car. He was mostly okay with that. After all, the less witnesses, the better. House was enough of an issue by himself; Wilson didn't need jealous roommates telling all their girlfriends about that fluffy-haired someone Jane Doe had shagged last night.
Waking up with a hangover the next morning, Wilson forgot everything about Ms. Lady except for her legs and her vagina. He didn't remember her address, he didn't remember how many drinks he'd bought her, he didn't remember when exactly she'd invited him home, and he didn't remember where they had sex. He didn't particularly care, either, until House got into his car for a ride to the hospital.
House took a sniff, raised an eyebrow, broke out in a grin and opened his mouth to say something doubtless clever and crude, but Wilson glared at him. Don't say it, House, don't say it.
So the ride to work was silent, and when they stepped together into an empty elevator, House was serious.
"You're going to end up going through another divorce, Jimmy." Ding.
"I already am." Wilson stepped out of the elevator and made a beeline to his office, shutting the door with finality behind him.
Just under three months later:
Julie was pushing him up against the wall of their used-to-be shared apartment. She licked his neck and gave him love bites on his collarbone. Wilson was confused.
"Julie, I thought you wanted –"
"I do," she interrupted. "Now shut up, I'm trying to imagine you're someone else."
"Oh, gee –"
"Don't go getting all self-conscious, James." She pushed him backwards, and he fell onto their used-to-be shared bed, shocked to find they'd already made it into the bedroom. "I was joking. I want one last time before I never speak to you again."
"Oh."
So they had one last time before they never spoke again.
A week after that:
He and House were out at a bar. House was making fun of him.
"So, how's the wife and kids? Oh, wait, no – how's the divorce?"
"Shut up, House," Wilson muttered, but then gave an answer. "It's almost finalized. Just a bit more paperwork and we're finished." House nodded, took a sip of his beer. Wilson's phone rang. "Hello?"
Wilson jumped and held the phone away from his ear as a whole bunch of angry female screaming assaulted him through it. Apparently something awful was his fault. Cringing, Wilson cautiously moved the phone closer to his head again, trying to understand what was going on. …Oh.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Julie, calm down," Wilson begged the receiver. "I didn't give you Chlamydia." The torrent of words from the other line slowed and quieted. "No. I've… never had Chlamydia." She fell silent, then huffed and hung up. Wilson hung up too, and shook his head at House's amused expression. Don't even, House. Just don't.
House was glad when Wilson picked him up from his office for lunch. He'd been bored since nine o'clock, and he felt too lazy to go pester his best friend and his cancer patients.
"How's your patient?" Wilson asked as they meandered toward the elevator. House snorted.
"Well, it wasn't lupus."
"Of course not." It would be an anomaly in the space-time continuum if one of House's patients actually had lupus.
In the lunch room they sat along the wall like always. House snatched a fry.
"House! Why don't you ever get your own?" Wilson slapped House's hand away playfully, with a hidden indulgent Wilson smile. Two bubbly female doctors passed them. One whispered to the other, and they both giggled.
House snatched another fry and smirked over at his best friend.
"House!" Wilson scolded, with a small smile. House snatched another fry.
A few minutes of companionable silence passed between the two best friends, before House asked an actual serious question.
"So, what are you gonna do now?"
"Well…" Wilson shifted uncomfortably, wondering exactly how to put this. "I never really experimented in college…"
"So you're going to do drugs?"
"No, House, I'm going to do men." Huh, that was funny. Wilson had never seen that smirk before…