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Wilson finds House in the bathroom.
He’s pushed against the corner in the handicap stall against a toilet and squished up so that he looks small, too small, unlike himself. His eyes are all glassy, dull blue. Wilson takes a moment to ache at the whole scene, because seeing House like this makes everything in his stomach feel soft and breakable. But Wilson has work to do. He presses himself beside House as best he can, trying to make himself small, and House smirks at him and Wilson grabs his wrist before he can say something dirty or offensive, or, in the worst case scenario, something sentimental. Wilson hates sentimentalism, because for House it was always a blip, a mistake. For Wilson it hurt, made him want to hold House very close and never let go. But the sentiment never lasted, even if that funny feeling did for Wilson. House’s wrists were small, and his pulse fluttered desperately into Wilson’s hand. If House wasn’t overdosing, Wilson always feels quite useless (there wasn’t much to do while waiting for House to come down,) so he busies himself tucking his jacket around House, asking him quiet questions to bring him down.
“Full name?”
”Shut up.”
Wilson doesn’t miss the way House winces when he speaks, the way his eyelids flutter like he’s about to fall asleep. Someone walks in, and when the door slams against the wall House flinches, hard, and the jacket falls a few inches. House’s breath comes out short and shallow, and Wilson has him whisper deductions about the poor nurse who just walked in.
“Gay, surely… the soles of those shoes are worn and yet impeccably clean, so he’s either insanely OCD or insanely into men. And wait, wait for his pants to ride up again… there we go. novelty socks. Gay.”
Wilson snorts and knocks his shiny oxfords against House’s sneakers. “What does that make us, then?”
“We’re not nurses. The rules are entirely different. The amount of product in your hair is the tell, really.” Wilson splutters in a disbelieving way and goes to punch House before thinking better of it. House rolls his eyes. “What, you’re gay. That’s just like, a universal truth.”
Wilson scoots a few inches from House to soothe his irrational fear that House will hear that thumping of his heart, the way his throat catches. Wilson can’t be having this conversation. So he stays silent, waits for the drugs to carry House to some other wildly offensive declaration.
“And you like me” House giggles, and it was so uniquely un-House, that giggle, that Wilson has to spend a moment to be shocked by it before remembering to panic panic panic. He doesn’t, doesn’t really. Like him. But. Sometimes, Wilson thinks.
“You’re stoned, House. If you keep speaking gibberish I’ll have you admitted.” Wilson hopes the faux authority he stuffs his voice with will disguise the shake in his throat, the way his voice catches once, twice, three times.
“Oh, but I’m right. James Wilson. Gay. That explains a lot, right?” House was being cruel, and that was how Wilson knew that House really knew, that he had been sitting on this knowledge for all the years that Wilson had quietly wanted him. Or thought about wanting him. House knew, and he hated Wilson, and somehow Wilson never thought this was possible, House hating him for something so trivial. But he did. So Wilson pushes himself onto shaky feet and takes a shakier breath.
“Er - yeah. I’d better go.” And something like regret flashes across House’s eyes, but regret for what Wilson isn’t sure. As he shut the stall door behind him - soft, still soft, for House - he winces a little at the realization that hating Wilson for his sexuality (a sexuality he wasn’t even sure of. A sexuality that was his to mull over, not Houses.) wasn’t even the worst House had ever done. He wonders when he became numb to it, the barbs and the whispers and the insults. Wilson hates that he would still turn over and expose the soft flesh of his stomach if House asked him with those wide eyes, that sad brow. He hates himself, suddenly and surely, and he’s in his office with the door locked before he has time to really realize what’s happening. His office is safe - warm and enclosed and fitted with all his movie posters, the ones he found with House. And now he’s thinking of the way House argued with the cashier at the thrift store and got Wilson half off his posters, and he’s thinking of the way House grabbed the rolled-up posters from Wilson's hands and poked him with them as he drove. And now it doesn’t feel so safe, this room that’s made up of memories of House, his voice, his figure.
House shoves himself through the halls to get to Wilson’s office with very little grace, stumbling and grabbing onto the railings for support, and then hating himself for using the support system meant for broken people, unfixable people. But he makes it, even with his head spinning a little from the Vicodin, and he jangles the door until it opens and really falls in more than walks, and he realizes it looks like he’s in some great rush to get here and he really, really doesn’t want Wilson getting all soft about it so he shouts “Go away!” At a random nurse to rationalize it. He stands there and looks at Wilson while he sits on his desk, face in a fragile little grimace, one that House thought, when they first met, was him judging everyone around him. Really, that specific twist of his mouth just means that he’s supremely uncomfortable, and House’s leg throbs thinking about how much effort he puts into keeping that look of Wilson's face.
“I don’t hate you for being gay, god. I just -” I want to slot my hand into the dip of your neck and I don’t know what to do about it. I spend my nights thinking of horrible things I can say to make your face get all twisted and honorable, to make you sputter and stumble. He swallows. “Yeah.” And it’s not an answer, it’s not even a sentence, but House hopes that the way his voice catches on the vowel convinces him. Wilson makes a strangled, painful kind of sound and House flinches a little, at the loudness or the pain or who knows what. House seems to always be doing this, hurting Wilson. He’s bitter, he realizes. Bitter that he loves Wilson and Wilson doesn’t love him, no matter how much he tries to make it true.
“I don’t have feelings for you. And I’m not gay, and I don’t really want to talk, so I’m just going - I’m just going to finish this report, yeah? 12 year old with leukemia, gonna be long -” And House is gone, out the door and into the hall, breathing heavy and loud, and the drugs aren’t working because everything kind of hurts right now, a subtle ache. But he feels stupid, out here, and the drugs are making him a little bit optimistic which is the worst thing he can imagine right now. But everything is loud and painful and he can’t help it so he shoves his shoulder back into the door, stumbles back into Wilson’s office. Wilson is standing, now, back to him in faux indifference while he turns the blinds to let some light in. House takes a few unsure steps and he grabs him and kisses him, hard. Wilson is wide-eyed and confused when House opens his eyes.
“’m sorry.”
And then he’s gone.
Wilson knows he looks pathetic, deep breaths making him shake a little, a cough threatening to ruin this whole thing (something psychosomatic?) blazer askew and pants wrinkled and face wet from the rain, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care that he’s a cliche, out here in the storm with his eyes wide and wanting, pounding on the door to House’s apartment in fast staccato bursts. He doesn’t care if he wakes the neighbors, if everyone hears him and points at him and laughs, calls him names. He just needs to see House, the crease of his jaw, the open collar of his wrinkled button ups, his blue eyes rolling in distaste. The lips that tasted like that shitty toothpaste Wilson always used when he was over at his house, that defined cupid bow, the spot under his jaw that Wilson had held when they kissed. His mind is chanting House’s name, an endless sort of wanting that hurts and hurts and he knows he just needs to see him, quick.
When House opens the door he’s rumpled and sleepy-eyed, propping himself up against the door frame to keep weight off his bad leg, pants bunched up around his calves. The warmth from inside hits Wilson like a truck right beside the look of House, soft around the edges, frail looking. Wilson swallows. And then swallows again. And House rolls his eyes.
“You’re letting the cold in. Come in or leave.” And so Wilson takes a soggy step inside, shaking like a dog once he’s across the room from House. He takes a moment to cough, clear his throat, whatever. With the door closed, everything feels quiet and intimate - the sound of the rain, the yellow light of the lamp on House’s desk, the place on the coach that he’s nested in for so many nights. He clears his throat again and it feels loud, too loud.
“Can we be normal?” Another cough. He’s starting to feel pathetic.
House rolls his eyes so hard they go white, and Wilson cringes at himself, how childlike he sounds. “You came all the way here - ran through the rain, by the looks of it, to ask if we can be normal?”
Wilson stares at him like he’s still waiting for a damn answer, and so House sighs. “Yes. We are normal. I’ll pretend -” He sighs. “Yeah, I’ll pretend.” Wilson makes a little grimace and knows, knows he shouldn’t have come here, not when he’s still thinking about the kiss, playing it over, and over, and over. And the coughing is getting worse, wet and harsh and his nose is running. House squints.
“are you - are you ok?” He’s beside Wilson alarmingly fast, taking one big step and wobbling for a moment before pressing the back of his hand against Wilson’s forehead. If Wilson shivers at his touch, leans into it, House doesn’t notice.
“Runny nose, cough…either my tongue in your mouth was so upsetting to you that you’re tearing up or…” Wilson huffs, a sound House did not know he could make, and he smiles his terrorist smile and keeps going “… yeah. Cold, or flu, or.. something. I’ll get you something to help. and a thermometer” He nods towards the couch. “Get comfortable. You’re not going to want to go back into the rain.” He stops in the hallway. “The mouth kind, not the ass one- you can keep your pants on.” And Wilson makes that little alarmed sound again.
When he comes back Wilson is small on the couch, so House hobbles over to take his temperature. “High, but not so bad.” He smirks. “Get comfortable.”
Wilson falls asleep late, his nose and his cough keeping him awake until sleep drags him down. When he wakes up, House is up. Which is weird - for all his time spent on this couch, never has House been awake first. His mouth is thick with sleep, and his neck has a bit of a creak from how he slept. “wh’ time is it?” he slurs.
“Noon.” House is pulling something from the cabinet, uninterested. Wilson makes a sound.
“Wait, what? What are you doing here? What-” he breaks off to cough, and the weight of how horrible he feels hits him hard. House frowns.
“I lied. It’s more like ten - I just wanted to see you indignant that I didn’t wake up your pathetic germy body up to go to work.” He props himself up the edge of the couch, turning to face Wilson. “I called us both in sick. Sent some photos of you looking pale and corpse-y to convince Cuddy not to smite us.” Wilson pales further at that. He had a few appointments today, a few patient visits, a biopsy.
“I think I might be hungry.”
House scoffs. “Yeah. I got you saltines.” He nods towards the little pile of groceries. Wilson is thinking about House getting on the bike early - he must have left at 9, at the least. Which means he woke up early, for Wilson. Which definitely doesn’t make Wilson ache somewhere in his gut. House is looking a little away from him, like he doesn’t want Wilson to read him. Wilson reads him anyway. House breaks the silence by rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, make the guy with the bum leg get your damn crackers. Your cold is really impacting your mobility, I’m sure.” And the warmth is gone very quickly. Wilson struggles to stand and House’s eyes flash and he’s up, supporting Wilson on his good side. Wilson tries very hard not to lean into his warmth, but House only pulls him closer when he shivers. They get set up at the table, facing each other. House is picking at a breakfast sandwich that’s flat from the bike ride. Wilson is nibbling on a cracker.
“You’re not going through withdrawal.” Wilson’s voice is hoarse - he cringes at how desperate it is.
“Good to see your cold hasn’t made you stupid.” House is defensive. House is also giving him a warm place to sleep, waking up early to get him food and medicine. Calling in sick for himself. “Stupider, I guess.”
“I’m just saying. You’re not sober, right now. Wasn’t sober when -” House makes a dramatic hacking sound, cuts off Wilson nicely. Wilson finds himself a bit thankful.
“Normal, remember?”
Wilson scoffs. “I’m only wondering. Like - what even set you off? It was months, House-” House’s eyes flash in that dangerous way.
“4 months. And you wouldn’t get it. I would have been done, anyway. If you hadn’t shown up.” Wilson makes an indignant sound.
“Don’t blame me for making this relapse longer. You would never-” he clears his throat, wonders if his toothbrush is still here from last time he stayed. He wants to say You would never do that for me, but he can’t give House another reason to mock him. So he lets it hang. When House speaks, it comes out soft, strained.
“You don’t know what I would do for you.”
And suddenly Wilson is getting the feeling in his gut that he hates and suddenly Wilson wishes he never came here, because House in his pajamas has always made him feel a little soft on the inside, a little undone. And he knew that - something about being sick made him want House. Something about House made him feel a little less ill. So Wilson asks about the toothbrush, and House turns on the TV, and they spend the day like that - Wilson curled up in the corner, wrapped up in blankets that smell like House’s cologne and detergent and monster trucks and chinese getting stale on the coffee table. And House sits, taking shots between vicodin, eyes going more and more glassy, smile growing looser and easier for Wilson to tease out. And there it is, the sentiment. House whispers into the darkening room,
“I sometimes make dirty dishes just to see you clean them. The way you roll up your sleeves when you’re back from work-” He stops. He swallows. Wilson watches his adams apple bob and tries not to collapse in on himself.
And then-
“I hated your wives for how much of your time they took above all else. And their blind dates. Actually, above all except for the blind dates they would force me on.” Wilson argues that Julie’s friend, that blonde one, wasn’t so bad. House sniffs.
When the room is lit just barely by the television-
“I checked that you were breathing a few times last night. I know you would be. I just had to check.”
Wilson is pressing himself further into the couch - further, further. Because he can’t, can’t give in, can’t say when you walk into my office it’s like a breath of fresh air. The first thing I thought when Julie divorced me was how much I missed your couch. I only sleep well when I know you're safe. He can’t say anything, can’t risk it, because House is stoned and Wilson isn’t. Wilson is just him, a man with too much heart and not enough skin, all his hand-me-down parts working against him to make him some horrible being who loves more than anyone will ever be able to return - except, horribly, House when he’s inebriated. House’s eyes are the only parts of him he can see, shiny from the TV reflection, and Wilson wants to reach over and touch his thigh, the inside of his wrist, the soft spot under his ear. But he won’t, can’t. If he does something he looks foolish - House must initiate for them to keep playing this game where they give each other tiny slivers of each other until they become a single unit, HouseandWilson. Wilson listens while House becomes incoherent, mumbling and laughing at the screen while it flickers. He’s pouring himself another shot and Wilson watches the glass, lit up with artificial light, shake once, twice, before it falls into House’s lap and spills unceremoniously into the couch, sinking into all the crevices and dips of the side where Wilson’s upper body would be had he been sleeping.
“Shit!” Wilson watches House sober up as the cold seeps into his skin.
“No, it’s fine-” Wilson sneezes - that started a few hours ago, the sneezing. “I’ll sleep with my head on the other side.” He reaches a tentative foot to where the couch is wet, winces at the cold. “Yeah. It’ll be… fine.”
“No, no, I’ll-” House stands abruptly, and Wilson laughs at how absurd he looks, soaking down his crotch and through his pants.
“House, you need to like- change.”
“Really? Do I need to change out of my wet clothes? Has anyone ever told you how bright you are, Dr. Wilson?” He tucked his chin out, wobbled his upper lip. How House can be coherent enough to mock Wilson with all the substances in him is some medical miracle. House stumbles into his room, shuts the door. Wilson takes the various slamming and grunting sounds to be House changing. And then he begins the task of getting comfortable on the sofa.
Objectively, it wasn’t incredibly comfortable, even when dry. Wet, Wilson felt like an orange in a wet plastic bag. He’s found a spot and convinced himself it’s not so bad when House’s door creaks open.
“Wilson!”
“Why are you whispering? This is your home. And I’m obviously not asleep-”
”Do you ever shut up? Ok, listen. I know- I know you're going to bitch and moan, because you have this weird complex about being within 4 feet of me when I’m drunk. Or high. Or both.” Wilson is preparing to say that he has no such complex, but House barrels on.
“Sleep in the bed with me. Logistically, it’s not impossible. I can fit me and two hookers in here, easily. So… you’ll fit. We don’t need to spoon. I can’t promise I won't poke you with my foot, or something. But. It’ll work.”
“I’m good.” It comes out choked and frail - Wilson hates how his voice betrays him, screams Pleasepleaseplease.
“So you do have a complex, then.” House is saying it in that kind of sing-songy voice, leaning against the door and swaying slightly.
”Fuck you.” Wilson turns over to end the conversation and lands his legs into the wet spot firmly. He groans.
“I’m just saying… if we were normal guy friends you wouldn’t hesitate.” House has that black cat smile, Wilson can hear it. It’s infuriating.
“Fuck you” he says it with feeling this time- the rustle of blankets as he goes to stand gives him away. He convinces himself that it’s just to get House to stop standing there, all wobbly and drugged up. Who knows how he’s still standing.
House goes back to bed, leaves the door cracked, and Wilson makes his way with his pillow, sniffling and wiping at watery eyes all the way.
“Get comfortable. It’s no water bed, but…” House’s room is lit dimly,
“How did you know I’ve always wanted a water bed?” Wilson stays standing at the doorway. House is sitting upright in bed.
“You mentioned it a few years ago. When we were stuck in that disgusting hotel, at… what conference was that? The one where you were a guest speaker?”
“Colorado. I’m pretty sure my mattress had bedbugs.” Wilson would like this conversation to never end. Maybe he and House could sit here, talking about nothing, until the sun came up. And then Wilson could run away and-
“Get in.”
“Okay.” Because Wilson couldn’t ever really say no to House.
Wilson lumbers to the empty side of the bed, sits just like House is sitting, legs extended over the covers. There’s something under the covers between them, a thick outline showing through the comforter.
“What’s that?”
“Dildo.” Wilson scrunches up his eyes and waves his hands a bit in response. When he opens them, House is holding a remote with a toothy smile
“Of course.” Wilson sighs.
“Stupider, then.” House looks gleeful at terrorizing Wilson.“Shut up.” Wilson wants to melt into himself. House looks so damn soft, surrounded by white linens and wrapped up in that baby blue shirt he always wears to sleep.
“Go to bed.” House drawls.
“You first. Get comfortable, and I’ll.. slot into whatever space is left.”
“So yes to spooning then?” House can’t seem to stop ruining his life.
“You are insufferable.”
“And you are incredible.” Wilson is a little stumped at that, because House’s eyes are wide and open and he sells the whole thing with a level of truth, of adoration, that Wilson almost believes it. Almost. House looks away and shuffles under the blankets, propping himself up with the pillow that Wilson bought for himself. Which means Wilson has to use one of House’s pillows, which he is incredibly cool about. House switches off the lamp and Wilson tries to breathe quietly, so that maybe House won’t notice him. In the silence of the room, Wilson thinks.
Wilson spent a very large amount of energy on not looking at House. This he was aware of, this he was ok with. House often felt like some kind of blinding light, red-hot and perpetually angry at this or that, or most frighteningly him, and so it was fair, the averted gaze, the peering from behind shelves or desks. Harder to rationalize was the feeling - a curl in his chest, warm and familiar - something he was hungry for - this feeling he got when he looked, when those hungry gazes found their mark. He figured it out one afternoon, after House ran off with an epiphany and left Wilson’s office echoing. He wanted the rush, the success, the fear. Like a jump off a cliff, House was a spout of neverending adrenaline, and that was a fair thing to say about your best friend, if it ever came up. So Wilson continued not looking, except for when he did, and when he did, he let himself enjoy it. He ponders this, and he keeps taking those shallow breaths.
“Stop.” House’s hand grabs at Wilson’s wrist.
“I didn’t-”
“You’re overthinking, James.”
Wilson shivers at that - the use of his first name, the warm hand on his arm. The darkness of the room. The sound of House breathing, fast and sharp.
“I just-” Wilson’s voice comes out cracked and desperate.
“I know.” House’s voice is soft and Wilson hates when his voice is soft like that. Hates how he wants to turn over and hold House, hates how he wants to say you were right, you were right. I love you. Hates how it would be true.
When House wakes up sunlight is streaming through the curtains that he forgot to close and Wilson is sleeping, still facing away from him. House cranes his neck to look at him. His nose is rubbed red from all the tissues he’s be scratching at it with, and his hairs a mess, and House’s eyes are watering from how much he would like this to be normal, how much he wishes he could tuck his face into Wilson’s neck and listen to him grumble as he wakes up, kiss him silent when he tries to say good morning. But no matter how much he tries to convince himself it makes any sense, no matter how much he adds and divides and subtracts.
House is good at solving puzzles. Often, people accuse him of solving puzzles that aren’t really there, of grasping at invisible straws. But he knows when something is off, when something is askew. When someone loves him, when someone doesn’t. He knew Stacy loved him. He knew Wilson loved his wife. He knew Cameron never really loved Chase. When he put his head to it, he knew Wilson could never love him. It was an equation that he had done everything to find a different answer to, but here it was. He could want Wilson to love him - he did want Wilson to love him - but saying it would never make it true. So he settled for ghosting his fingers over Wilson’s wrist where it splayed out between them, watching the soft rise of his chest. He lumbered out of bed to take a vicodin, rip into another bag of saltines. When Wilson woke up, he was sleepy eyed and rough looking. House insults him, Wilson rolls his eyes. House can’t help but feel like he’s digging himself deeper into a hole he’ll never be able to climb out of.
Wilson is doing the dishes - he’s feeling better, he says - and House is watching him with hungry eyes when Wilson speaks.
“Thank you.”
“You didn’t give me much of a choice.” House hates this idea that Wilson has, that he’s a terrible burden to everyone around him. He wants to say that he felt a vicious sort of glee when he realized Wilson would be staying the night. He wants to say that the best he ever slept was with Wilson beside him, his fingers around his wrist like a lifeline. Wilson stops scrubbing for a moment, turns the sink off.
“No.” He clears his throat. His voice is still scratchy from the cough, and House wonders if he has any cough drops around here. “Thanks for last night. I was kind of… freaking out.”<
House hates how his mind digs into that, makes assumptions where he knows he can’t. Hates how if we were as high as he was when he kissed him yesterday, he would have said something sly and flirtatious right then and not even regretted it.
“I’m sure a real bed helped, too.”
“Don’t do that.” Wilson is back to scrubbing. House feels like he missed something, like there’s a conversation underneath this one in the tilt of Wilson’s neck, the twitch in his wrist while he lathers soap onto a plate. House never feels that way. Usually, he makes other people feel that way.
“Do what?” House is trying to extend an olive branch. Don’t do this. Don’t hurt us.
“You know what. Pretending. Like last night never happened, like you didn’t say things, like you didn’t-”
“You wanted to be normal, James.”
“Stop!”
“What, saying your name?” House is mad now, anger red hot and spilling out of him. “I’m nice to you and you hate it. I kiss you-” The water is still running but Wilson is gripping the sink with vengeance. “-and you hate me. So I was normal. You show up sick and I help you like I’m your keeper, or something. What do you want from me?”
Wilson is breathing fast and deep - House watches his shoulders heave.
"You know what I want.” And Wilson’s voice catches and House hates himself, suddenly and surely.
“You want me to stop fucking with you, fine. I don’t want-” He hates how he sounds right now, trying to scrub away all his stupid drunk words and stupider kisses. Hates how he’s still, even now, watching everything fall apart around him, thinking that Wilson wants him. Hates how he couldn’t be a little stupider, a little more naive, to think it was true.
Wilson turns the water off.
“Do you really -” His voice catches. House winces. “You don’t really think-”
“Will you get to the point?” And Wilson turns at that, and he’s looking at him in that soft way that only Wilson does, that way that makes House feel like he isn’t so broken, so horrible.
House swallows. “Don’t do this.” His voice comes out as a whisper, almost. Wilson groans.
“Now who’s being vague? House, you can’t keep doing this. Can’t keep mocking me for the way I feel, or don’t feel, can’t keep trying to get me to say something for you to use as some kind of ammo-”
“James.” and House is up, standing close to Wilson so that he has to look down a little to look at him. “James.” And this time he hears his voice come out tiny and soft, and he says his name again, this time with “I’m going to hug you, now.”
Hugging Wilson feels a bit inevitable - of course he’d end up here, face buried in Wilson’s neck, hands splayed across his solid back. He’s thinking I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, and he doesn’t even realize he’s saying it out loud until Wilson whispers back it’s ok. He pulls away but keeps his hands on Wilson, holding tight. House whispers I love you, and for one terrifying moment Wilson looks confused, looks scared. But then it’s there - that downturned smile, those heavy eyes. House thinks deliriously that he was right - Wilson loves him. He was right.
Wilson -slow, thoughtful, always thoughtful - brings his hand up to rest at House’s jaw, and House holds himself there for a moment, stiff and unforgiving, before easing into it, letting his head rest in Wilson’s full palm. He lets his eyes flutter shut, savors that last look at Wilsons soft eyes, and lets the tension from his shoulders out. Wilson is rubbing lazy circles around the underside of House's chin, and the intimacy of it makes him shiver a little, makes him whine in a primal, wanting sort of way. Wilson chuckles at that sound, at making House make it. He takes his hands from his jaw to lead House to the bed, to where the covers are strewn about and rolled up.
“House” They’re both sitting on the end of the bed, Wilsons leg propped up so he can look at House, take in all the rough edges of him. “House.” He says it urgently this time, and House is looking at him like he’d agree to anything, like he would do anything for Wilson.
“House. I’m going to kiss you.”
He wants it to be slow, to be sensual. He wants to scrub that last kiss away, wants to make a new HouseandWilson where they tell each other about how much they want each other all day, where they wake each other up and use each other's toothpaste and kiss in his office between cases. But House gets there first - Wilson realizes that House has wanted that all this time, maybe for longer than him. House is familiar and loose, hands calloused and grabbing at whatever part of Wilson is available. He’s responsive - Wilson savors the sounds he makes, the way he kisses in fits, hesitating and then latching onto Wilson’s neck, his ear. They make out for what feels like hours, both of them desperate to make up for lost time. Wilson keeps thinking this is it. This is what I was looking for. And he keeps wanting to cry when he meets House’s eyes, blue and blinding, and yet it’s the happiest he’s ever been, he thinks.
House is strewn out on the mattress and Wilson is curled beside him, his breath warm against House’s shoulder. He speaks first.
“I buy that stupid beer you like even though I kind of hate it.” Wilson startles.
“Wait, what? I thought you loved it!” House laughs.
“Nope. I’m also getting kind of sick of Chinese…”
“Wait, are you going to stop humoring me now that we’ve kissed?” Wilson seems genuinely upset at that - House reaches up to kiss him.
When he pulls away, he grins. “I’ll still watch your telenovelas with you. And teach you Spanish. And come into your office for consults that I don’t need. And force you to watch monster trucks with me…”
Wilson furrows his brow, and House leans forward to kiss it flat, but Wilson speaks.
"Are you sober? You realize you're going to go through withdrawal, and-"
House cuts him off. "Thought it was about time. Your turn to take care of me, Doctor."
Wilson kisses him, and House lets himself stop thinking.