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Living with Wilson is different than anything House has tried in his life, although he’d never admit that to his face, and although it’s as shocking of a revelation to himself as it would be to anyone else.
It’s shocking because they have lived together before, but this is not like when the oncologist crashed at his apartment after Julie divorced him, or the many times Wilson has picked him up drunk at a bar and practically spent more time at his place than his own.
This time around, Wilson succumbed to his own sexual repression. Or as his fellows would say, House succumbed to his own pride.
Whatever it may be, he and his best friend of over a decade are in a relationship, a romantic relationship, one that started with a tender kiss followed by mindblowing sex followed by frustrating discussions over three nights in a row, where House eventually stopped pushing him away and started letting him in. Where Wilson stubbornly sat next to him in silence and where he wondered why he wouldn’t ever leave, because everyone leaves, in the end.
Stacy left, after all.
He figured Wilson would know a thing or two about abandonment, given the three divorces in his metaphorical baggage, yet, here they are, eight months of living together and being a couple and driving each other crazy like they always have, but this is different.
He never thought he’d experience something like this again, after Stacy.
It’s a thing called love, and with that comes hope, and joy, and all those other disgusting, unbearable yet wonderful things.
It’s eight months and here they are, being the same them they’ve always been yet different, because now House can drive Wilson crazy in entirely new ways, which is just splendid.
He cashed in on this new opportunity the week following getting together in the first place, where he just had to barge into Cuddy’s office and announce Wilson’s relationship status over the speaker system to the entire hospital, much to the frustration of his best friend turned partner.
Or boyfriend. Or soulmate. Whichever title brings him the most joy and satisfaction and Wilson the most annoyance and simultaneous adoration.
But the importance of that relationship was at the top of his list, and very urgent at that. No longer single, officially taken, my condolences to the nursing department.
And oh, was there disappointment to find amidst the halls of his workplace, several nurses hanging their heads, who had been lovestruck the moment they met the oncologist with puppy dog eyes and a killer reputation in bed. That reputation he could confirm was very much true, also, although both Wilson and Cuddy managed to stop him before he managed to announce this fact to the general public, as well.
Living with him like this, like a couple, it’s different because of small, insignificant things.
It’s glaringly different, because obviously the sex is fucking amazing, and House doesn’t miss a single opportunity to subject his unlucky fellows with details of their sex life, or sexual innuendos that are just complete lies, too. He likes to mix it up, after all, much to the displeasure of absolutely everyone.
Although he’s certain that his partner finds this bragging of his skilled tongue and hands secretly charming, Wilson pretends, because he values professionalism, the boring mad man.
What does House even see in him?
Well, he sees the differences that aren’t just about getting to sleep with the other man on a daily basis. That’s a major perk, naturally, but their living situation, their relationship with each other, it’s much different now because of those ridiculous, dull things, things that he would look at any other couple do and throw up in his mouth.
It’s things like waking up to breakfast in bed, or his partner snoring lightly on his shoulder in front of the television, or his partner shaking his head at him while unable to hide that special kind of smile that appears on his lips whenever the two of them look each other in the eyes for too long.
The one where House tries his best to make a joke of it, or rile him up with a meaningless argument, and his boyfriend just smiles.
Smiles with fond eyes and finds his hands with his own and kisses his knuckles softly, even on those days where he gets especially sick of his usual pessimistic and sadistic jokes and lack of consideration for his own or anyone’s else's general safety.
That’s a Wilson thing, apparently.
It’s a Wilson thing to comfort and feel and love, not push away. It’s a Wilson thing to do all that when House feels sick of himself, and it’s a Wilson thing to know that, too.
So, really, it’s not all that different from their previous living situation, to be fair. The difference is that now he selfishly feels needier for the other man’s touch than ever, and for the first time in all the years they’ve known each other, he finally selfishly takes it and his best friend gives it to him.
Forcing Wilson to be needy, too, that’s a challenge. There’s not many frustrating things about being in this new form of relationship with him, but there is that, and then there is the looming threat of his friend turned boyfriend suffering from being dreadfully yet impressively boring.
It’s not exactly a recently discovered fact about him, because he’d be an idiot not to notice that, the thing that makes his partner different from all these other dull individuals is that, contrary to popular belief, Wilson isn’t boring.
See, he pretends to be boring. He pretends to care about professionalism and normalcy and routines, and sure, maybe he does, but the reason why he fascinates House is because of everything in between, and everything that the other man only cares to show him and no one else.
This is why he bailed him out of custody all those years ago, because he was anything but dull.
Because now, Wilson doesn’t push him away; he argues with him and yells at him and sighs at him and touches him and loves him. He doesn’t attempt to twist reality into something that isn’t there, rather, he tries to understand.
Maybe he’s always understood why House pushes everyone away, maybe he doesn’t even need to try. Maybe that’s why he’s different.
It’s infuriating. But what’s even more infuriating is the restlessness that falls over his partner on the first days of September.
You see, Wilson has always been rather content with his facade of normalcy, boredom, the one he only breaks once House ropes him into convoluted pranks that he knows will fill him with otherworldly glee.
But as they enter the fall season, only their second one as an official couple, he notices his best picking up these tiny tells at home, outside the confined frames of his office and inside those walls that the both of them now call their home.
He’s tapping the table mindlessly at dinner, staring out at the cold, and frankly boring, weather as they catch their breaths in bed, indecisively switching channels into oblivion and only stopping when House finally snatches the remote of his hand and pulls him by his tie to get his full, devoted attention.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asks him, as he’s met with his partner’s exasperated and confused facial expression, “You’re restless. If you need me to take this to the bedroom, all you have to do is ask.”
Wilson groans at him, his eyes tired, but takes his hand and laces their fingers together when he tries to remove it from his tie, because that man reads too many god awful romantic novels for his own good.
Not that House will complain, though. Contrary to popular belief, he likes the touch of a human every once in a while, because he isn’t completely heartless.
Or maybe he is, just like some of the nurses and hospital higher ups may believe, and it’s fun to toy around with that idea of complete strangers knowing him better than himself. But to be fair, he always preferred Wilson’s touch over anyone else’s.
“Do you have anything else other than sex on your mind?” his partner asks, only he continues before House can even open his mouth, “Don’t answer that.”
“What could you possibly be implying?” he ignores him, feigning offense, “I think about death, too.”
“House.”
“We’re doctors, Jimmy, in case you’ve forgotten,” he reminds him, “Both sex and death are medically relevant. The cycle of life!”
Wilson sighs, “Why do I put up with you?”
“Because you love me.”
“I do,” he admits, which is exactly what House needed to smile smugly at him, almost forgetting his previous grievance in favor of fantasies of tearing each other’s clothes off again, but nevertheless, he persists.
“Anyway,” he brushes his partner’s questions off, deciding that he’s simply too stubborn about this to let him avoid it. Not that Wilson probably doesn’t already know this, because he’s got a knack for stubbornness, much to the general displeasure of just about everyone around him, and much to his own amusement, “Tell me what’s bothering you so much so I can distract you.”
His partner rubs his temple with his free hand before he speaks again, the live feed of this weekend’s monster truck show long forgotten.
“Nothing is bothering me,” he says, a blatant lie, but Wilson is a bad liar, as he and everyone else knows, “I was just thinking.”
“Okay,” House replies, nowhere near letting him off the hook, “Do you care to elaborate?”
“God, House,” his best friend exclaims, but funnily enough, keeps a hold of his hand in his lap, absentmindedly tracing circles inside his palm for a moment. He watches him in silence, waiting, until Wilson finally decides to look at him again, “I just think I could use a hobby.”
A beat or two passes where he looks at his partner in pure disbelief.
Then, he laughs, and the other man immediately groans again, resorting his face in his hand out of what is probably equal amounts of embarrassment and frustration, which is understandable.
But House isn’t a complete asshole, either, although many, many people would disagree. So, he pokes his arm and puts a finger under his chin until he looks at him, and although he still can’t quite believe the ridiculousness of what he just heard, he figures it must worry Wilson a lot, so much that this is his confession, so much so that he’s embarrassed about it.
If it matters to him, it must matter to House. That has pretty much become one of the rules to his whole life and to the matter of the universe, at this point.
“You have hobbies,” he tells him, “You like monster trucks.”
“You like monster trucks.”
“Well, you love your job.”
“Yes,” Wilson replies, the obvious duh left unsaid, “But that’s my job.”
“You like cooking,” he shrugs.
“Everyone likes food.”
“Good grief,” House says, “Is this really that important to you?”
His partner sighs again, “You have hobbies. All our friends have hobbies. I don’t feel like I’ve ever been… passionate about anything. Well, besides my job. Is that so wrong to long for?”
“Of course not,” he decides to answer, feeling himself growing impatient but not wanting to alienate his partner completely tonight, after all, “Why don’t you learn something new, then? Cuddy has started going to this pottery class, if that’s your thing. Dreadful.”
Shockingly enough, something in his partner’s eyes light up at this second hand suggestion. He smiles, like that's the most genius idea he’s ever heard, and although it’s smug and definitely looks like this search for passion might steal some of his dedicated Wilson time away, he can’t possibly bother to argue with it right now.
Relationships are about sacrifice, right, that’s what Cameron said once?
Well, he can just annoy him another time, he’ll have plenty of chances. Besides, that smile is specifically meant for him and no else, so it’s worth it.
“Maybe it will be my thing.”
…
House did not believe for a second that pottery would be Dr. James Wilson’s thing.
His partner did inquire Cuddy about it the week after, and he suggested it in the first place, because this whole missing a hobby thing clearly mattered so much to me that it caused him distress, and well, House can’t really live with that.
His fellows would call him a sap, but he’s just being logical. It was a lie, but everybody lies, and his boyfriend seemed less distracted after his first class, so much so that he burst through the door of their apartment and kissed his neck until House decided that their patient of the week could definitely wait with a new diagnosis until the morning.
His best friend has that teasing, annoying love drunk smile on his face lately. Annoying in that he loves it, obviously, but it’s also incredibly distracting, and incredibly frustrating that it takes two hours of what is supposed to be his time with Wilson and his alone.
The things he does for love.
But it only takes a month to confirm the conclusion he had already drawn from the beginning; pottery is not his partner’s thing, not by a mile.
You see, after two weeks of Wilson and Cuddy going to classes together, he brought his first product home. Said product was wrapped carefully and protectively and was unveiled later that night to be the possibly the ugliest fruit bowl he’d ever seen in all his years of living. He hesitates to even call it a bowl, having no words to describe the shape or the shabby paint job, but his partner looked at him with excited and expectant eyes as he placed it proudly on their dining table.
He knows House better than anyone else, which is naturally why he proceeded to look up at his frankly speechless demeanor and tell him simply, “You’re allowed to laugh, House.”
Hilarious, albeit he couldn’t even laugh sarcastically, like he expected him to. He just stared at his boyfriend like he had just committed medical malpractice, which is no strange occurance for his own team but a once in a lifetime for the goody two shoes that he somehow has fallen in love with.
That bowl must be some violation against some law, though, he just needed some time to find it.
“Are you serious about this?” he asked him in disbelief, and Wilson even more surprisingly chuckled, moving inside his space with cup his cheeks and closing the distance between their lips, unable to rub that smug smile off his face.
“Deadly serious,” he laughed, “It’s my first time, I know it’s not perfect.”
“I can think of plenty of other things to call it-”
“House, you perfect idiot,” his partner sighed, “This is partially your doing, you know that, right? I have decided to interpret your encouragement as a symbol of your undying love for me. That ugly bowl is practically our baby.”
Safe to say House is rarely stunned or speechless, but this was one of those few, rare times.
But Wilson was happy and packed him lunch the whole week and fucked him over the desk in his office, so yes, this search for a hobby was mostly a success, up until September fades into October, and the frustration he had recognized in his partner a month ago makes a dramatic return one Monday night.
“I quit,” his boyfriend mumbles as he’s preparing dinner, passing it off as a casual part of telling him about his day, but as with absolutely anything, House is just too stubborn to let it go, and he knows that if he doesn’t dig into it now, the other man will sulk about it for far too long than is completely necessary.
“You quit medicine?” he quips, “I know you love me, but I didn’t peg you for a stay at home husband just yet.”
“Shut up,” Wilson snaps back without any venom in his voice at all, “Pottery isn’t for me.”
“Well, I could have told you that two weeks ago.”
“You’re the worst person I know,” his boyfriend replies in monotone and kisses his cheek before setting down their plates, “I know you still think having a hobby is stupid, but I’m not going to give up this easily. I’m just bad at this one thing.”
“Oh, come on, Jimmy,” he drawls, “I never called it stupid, per say. You’re just not patient enough for a hobby like that, but most people aren’t.”
Wilson widens his eyes at him like he just said the most outrageous thing he’s ever heard, which happens a lot more often than you’d think for the two of them. “Who are you calling impatient?”
“I never said I wasn’t, sweetheart,” he answers with his mouth full, which his partner hates, but he’s pretty sure his sarcasm is conveyed through it regardless, “This is why we’re a match made in heaven, after all. But one of us has to be self-aware and it certainly isn’t you.”
“When did you become so romantic?” the other man asks him with the most tired expression on his face, but he can’t keep it up, not while he looks at him with one hand under his chin and the other mindlessly tapping patterns with his fingers on House’s knuckles, every thought of food seemingly already abandoned for him.
The horny bastard. That is obviously something he would never complain about, but he’s so romantic about it that it sometimes makes him want to laugh, or smile, or cry, even. He hasn’t told Wilson those kinds of pointless, illogical things, but he thinks he might already know.
“The day I met you, of course,” House jokes, “I’m offended it took you this long to notice, Jimmy.”
“You’ll be the death of me.”
“Happily.”
Needless to say, his partner quickly forgot about the tragedy of his pottery endeavor for the night, so much so that House shockingly managed to convince him they should sleep late the morning after.
Maybe this hobby thing wasn’t such a bad idea, after all. He found it tiring for the month, but Wilson didn’t seem all that beat up about giving it up, all things considered.
They don’t fall asleep that night, though, before his best friend mutters something into his shoulder, as he can practically hear his thoughts churning away inside his brain. His wondrous smile is endearing, yes, but House still has the urge to tell him to shut up. He decides they both need more sleep instead.
“Did I tell you that Cameron is an expert at knitting?”
…
True to his premonition earlier this month, Wilson has started spending Sunday afternoons at the Cameron-Chase residence, where House’s trusty former fellow is apparently teaching his boyfriend how to knit scarves and gloves and other items that they own a plethora of already.
He rolls his eyes at the other man’s first announcement of this deal, having planned their Sunday schedule consisting of morning sex and poker and dinner and more sex, but Wilson just smiled fondly at him and promised a massage once he got home.
He did keep his promise, but he also carried a basket full of various colors of yarn and two books with patterns that were about three times too long than any book about knitting needed to be, in House’s opinion. Nevertheless, his partner persisted, so much so that he found him rambling away to Cameron down in the E.R. when the two of them were supposed to eat lunch, like they always did.
Who else was he supposed to steal food from, to who else was he supposed to dramatically recount just how stupid his fellows are?
“I can’t believe it,” he’d told them, “Stood up for a lunch date by Doctor Wilson himself. What will the nurses think?”
“I didn’t expect you to be the jealous kind, House,” Cameron had replied with a smirk, while his partner threw up his arms in feigned shock and tilted his head at him in mild disapproval at the interruption.
“Possessive might be a more accurate description, don’t you think?”
“It’s not my fault that the entire nursing department practically salivates over you,” he told him with a mocking, sulky tone, one that never fails to make his best friend laugh, one that everyone else grows annoyed of but that Wilson seemingly never gets tired of.
It’s funny how this love thing works, isn’t it? If he wasn’t too proud to ever admit it, he’d relay just how much he doesn’t understand it.
“They’re not salivating.”
“They had a betting pool on how long every one of your marriages would last.”
“That is just unbelievable,” Wilson retaliated, “Only you could initiate such a thing, House.”
“You’re right there,” his former fellow interrupted their beloved bickering, “He was the one who started it.”
Although it is true that this close friendship Wilson and Cameron have isn’t necessarily a bad thing, that it grows stronger with this shared hobby isn’t a bad thing, but it is degrees more annoying that the pottery classes ever were, in retrospect. Especially with how he suddenly started to invite his buddy and her husband over for dinner at their place, where drinking beer and watching football with Chase while their partners were almost in their own world entirely became just a little too heterosexual for his taste.
But if that wasn’t bad enough, it only lasts a month before his boyfriend puts down the knitting needles ever so dramatically one late night at the office, and looks at the hat and scarf combo he only just finished as if they are the sources of all evil in the universe.
House is only just about to doze off on his couch when his partner groans loudly and abandons the desk to sit at his feet and wallow in the sour mood that has now taken over the room. He finds it funny, the other man looking like he’s about to throw a childish fit, and he figures the other man might need a lighthearted joke more than a lesson in his own impatience, again.
“Is there any particular reason why you’re disturbing my much-needed beauty sleep?” he asks him, immediately proceeding to put his feet in his boyfriend’s lap, who begrudgingly stares at him in the meanest expression he can muster, which isn’t all that mean and much more what he imagines a normal person would look like if they were given a crappy gift for Christmas for one time.
Certainly not the face of any normal person who knows House and his usual self, but Wilson isn’t normal in that sense, as everyone knows. How else would he have put up with him for all these years?
Sometimes, he himself doesn’t really get it, either. It frustrates him sometimes, even, because it shouldn’t really make sense, but he loves him for it, anyway.
The other man’s grumpy silence only lasts a couple of minutes before he tells House of his peril, while giving his feet an extremely appreciated massage, one he promised two days ago as he lost track of time with Cameron but never actually cashed in on until today.
He’ll show his appreciation later, of course, but he has a feeling that Wilson might not be in the mood for workplace sex right now, unfortunately enough.
“I’m done with knitting,” his best friend tells him in the most disappointed tone ever, “I feel like I’m just wasting hours for nothing.”
House considers his words, not bothering to crane his neck to look back at whatever finished product is lying on the desktop. His leg hurts and he’s tired, so who cares? He’ll try some comforting words to his boyfriend, instead.
“I would tell you how Cameron would be sad to lose her new best friend,” he starts, “But I wouldn’t mind stealing that Wilson-time for myself, quite frankly.”
The other man chuckles, not even scolding him, which is the strangest thing of all. “I should just throw that out. It’s hideous.”
“I agree.”
“Have you even looked at it?”
“No,” he simply admits, “I trust your judgment, doctor.”
As it would turn out later, Wilson never gets to throw those disturbing excuses for a hat and scarf out, not out of forgetfulness, but rather because of House and an irrational feeling of his that he should grab it and store it in a drawer in his office for later use in prank wars or public humiliation that the two of them so love to engage in.
It’s blackmail material, mainly, and nothing else that he’d like to admit anytime soon.
Before that night ends and they go home after a particularly long day at the hospital, his partner does propose yet another one of his wildly confusing ideas that only vexes House more and more each day. He starts to think this might turn into some sort of pattern.
“Didn’t Foreman say he and Taub play a lot of video games?”
…
Wilson’s next project in his mission of finding a hobby was a tad more surprising to House, because his partner was never the person to play video games in a sweaty dorm room or drink a six pack or swearing loudly for everyone to hear.
Yet, his best friend decided to pursue House’s fellows and their gaming activities.
Once again, it did nothing but steal away from his own precious Wilson time, time he could’ve used to scheme elaborate pranks against him or sleep in with him or other couple-like activities. Alas, the other man was excited about it, like was about pottery, like he was about knitting, albeit this joy lasted much shorter than the previous.
So come December, House thinks there might be some sort of pattern starting to form.
They were barely two weeks into November before Wilson became entirely too overwhelmed with Foreman and Taub and their intense competition on high scores, which is nowhere near surprising. What is surprising is how he finds that the amusement he felt when his partner first aired his need of a hobby to him has severely diminished.
Not because of boredom, although that would make sense. The reason is entirely illogical, because these feelings of seeing Wilson disappointed in himself over and over again are manifesting by clenching at his heart, boggling his mind, tightening his chest, which is nothing but emotional fodder and anything but medical.
It’s a puzzle he can easily solve, that question, but there’s no solution to it, no way to operate and cut away those cursed feelings, and House isn’t sure he would want to cut them out, either.
If there is one thing he is tired of, it’s romance. But somehow, it’s familiarity isn’t shameful or embarrassing or even scary, rather, it’s welcoming.
Perhaps, this is because of how different his partner is from himself, as it always has been, as it always will be. Most people would deem House incapable of empathy, because they don’t realize how much effort he puts in to stop caring every single day.
Stacy understood this until she had enough, but it’s peculiar how Wilson is still here, after all this time.
He thinks maybe these feelings make him long to be him. Not just to be with him, but be him, see the world through Wilson’s eyes and try to understand what he sees that he cannot. Hope, naivety, trust, that’s how he views the world. Not with pride or judgment or hatred, as much as House deems it all justified.
And so, he watches his partner cycle through numerous failed attempts at finding this thing to be passionate about, as fall turns into winter turns into spring.
He joins Taub’s book club for a couple of weeks during the holidays, the one that he initially just came along to because his wife was there, but Wilson has never been one to let others decide what to read or what to watch, so that attempt dies quickly.
Then there’s the nude painting classes that he and Cuddy both drop out a week after the fact, and he tries to keep up with Chase, too, although House struggles to see how his fellow could have any hobbies besides surfing or gelling his hair.
Thirteen ropes him in for martial arts, but his partner sucks at it, horribly so, and so Wilson moves on to collect stamps and then crochet and then a variety of different dance classes with Cuddy and Foreman and his new girlfriend, but you can imagine how fast those exciting projects fizzle out, as well.
In an attempt to soften the inevitable blow for his boyfriend and also just to avoid drawing any further conclusions on his pent up emotions, he even suggests to teach Wilson to play the guitar or the piano, or that he takes up learning a new language, but his best friend flat out refuses it simply because he doesn’t want House as his teacher.
“I don’t want you helping me out of pity,” he’d tell him, and House would laugh and shake his head and grab his hand before he could leave the bed again.
“It’s not out of pity, I just want to see how badly you’ll fail,” he’d joke back, which is what he always does, what he always says when he pushes things away, but that particular day it hit Wilson differently, it hit him harder, and he left no soft touch and instead left while taking the words to heart.
“Very funny, House.”
See, this wasn’t his intention at all. Their arguments never last long, they circulate back towards each other as they always do, but House seems to have lost any idea on how to handle the hobby issue.
He thinks Wilson might run out of ideas soon, and he figures, when it happens, he should not rub it in his face. That would be his instinct, this is their routine, this is how they work, even after Stacy, even after Amber, but, well, maybe some voice inside tells him that he should try to do things differently.
Differently like Wilson. Not burn the only bridge he has left like he’s burned every other that came before him, not burn the only one that has lasted so long.
He doesn’t get far in cracking the solution, the different solution, something unexpected, something unusual, because of how his partner looks at him strangely as he arrives home at the most awful time of night. Anything else than unusual for either of them, although House typically abandons his fellows with the load while he goes home to sleep late or grab a drink with Wilson when he can convince him to punch out early, but this night was long and not completely satisfactory and the January cold only makes his pain worse, so all thoughts of the string of his best friend’s hobbies are long forgotten until he sees his face again.
Once again, he could be accused of being a sap if he actually spoke up, because he missed him. It’s been eight hours, and he missed him.
It’s strange and illogical, but Stacy would nod approvingly and laugh knowingly and that would be the end of it. He doesn’t know how Wilson would react, but he imagines it would look similar to how the confused gaze morphs into a soft smile, which confuses him in return, because he doesn't do anything to earn that.
“What’s the matter?” he asks his partner while he shrugs off his shoes and jacket, “Let me guess, you’re playing table tennis now. Model trains? Soap making?”
His best friend all but ignores his questions to voice a statement, a proud statement at that, “I didn’t know you were so sentimental, House.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You kept the hat and scarf,” Wilson comments.
And yes, that is irrevocably true. He only realizes when he says it, and then takes one glance at the mirror for him to notice that he’s put on those ugly creations that his partner made last year and then recklessly abandoned the memory of.
And House hid them away for safekeeping, for some reason. He couldn’t tell himself the same reason he did back then, because he had also forgotten all about them, until the unforgiven wind and rain had him scrambling for anything he could find at his office to protect him from the unforgiving weather.
“So I did,” he replies unimpressed, “I forgot how hideous they are.”
“You could have thrown them out,” Wilson hums, which he laughs at in return.
“You could have thrown them out.”
“I could, but you kept them,” his partner says with the most smug grin he’s ever seen, “You kept the bowl, too.”
“This is your home as much as it’s mine,” he groans, “Why didn’t you do it yourself.”
His best friend shrugs. “I forgot. I thought you would get rid of it sooner or later. But you didn’t,” he goes on, “And you were right, I really don’t have the patience for these hobbies. It’s unlike you to entertain such boring activities, though.”
“I hate it,” House is quick to quip, “These things you dare to call products.”
“No, you don’t,” Wilson disagrees, and with nothing more to say, he simply reaches one hand out to him from the couch, signaling for him to come over. When he does, he leaves his cane hanging on the armrest and decides to invade his partner’s space by lying down with his head in his lap, which would normally annoy him with the paperwork he’s still rifling through.
But no, the other man scandalously discards it all on the coffee table in favor of running his fingers through House’s hair. Maybe they’re both trying new things, after all.
They’re silent for a while, reveling in the peace that falls over them, until he speaks up again, “Most of them were dreadfully boring,” he comments, to which the other man chuckles, “But I can never stop you once you set your mind onto something.”
“We have that in common,” Wilson says, “I think my mistake is stressing over finding something that felt right immediately. I should take my time, shouldn’t I?”
“Perhaps,” House replies, “I suppose that’s not entirely illogical.”
“High praise,” his best friend laughs, “Maybe I would like to take up your offer, anyway.”
“Hm?”
“About teaching me the piano,” he recalls, “I figure it would be nice for us to do something together that doesn’t necessarily end in sex, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t suggest that out of pity,” House tells him, feeling strangely defensive and protective at the same time, “Hurting your feelings isn’t something I plan to make a pattern of.”
“I know, House.”
“I strongly disagree with your evaluation on the subject of sex, by the way,” he adds, not even bothering to make more jokes or turn the television on the monster truck show he knows premieres tonight. He could fall asleep here, and they could stay forever, and he wouldn’t mind any of it.
Maybe sentimentality or romance can be a new thing of his. He’ll give it a try, anyway, just to see what the appeal of it could be.
“We could also just consider it foreplay,” Wilson suggests.
“Well, consider me hooked, Doctor.”