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Sometimes House looks at Wilson and thinks to himself, God, I wish I knew how to love you the way you deserve to be loved.
The first time it happens, it's alarming. House labels it an intrusive thought, because he isn't gay, that would be ridiculous.
He’s never done anything with the same sex before- except for, well, that time in high school, and that time in Vegas, and that one TA in med school and, well.
Then House starts to think that maybe him not sleeping with men has more to do with the fact that he usually only encounters female hookers. He does a bit of a thought experiment to test his upcoming hypothesis (namely, if you knew a male hooker would you hit that ) and comes to the conclusion that yeah, alright.
He might be a little bit gay.
This realization is simultaneously obvious and shocking at the same time. It takes him about three business days to fully process it, and then he starts mentally cataloging all of the new slurs he can say to terrorize his team (“What, you're gonna say that a faggot can't call himself a faggot? Now that's just discriminatory. I'm calling HR.”)
But none of that is really relevant to the initial problem.
House wants to be in love so badly that he thinks it could kill him. But he hasn't been in love with anybody since Stacy, let alone a man, and he doesn't really think he’s capable of it anymore. That doesn't even matter.
House is, regardless, not good enough for someone like Wilson. And this isn't some self loathing wankfest of an observation; it has basis in reality.
Wilson is attractive and generally very kind and yeah, he has some self worth issues and mental problems to work through but really, who doesn't?
House, on the other hand, is a crippled asshole addicted to Vicodin. He’s mean and cruel and has driven most people in his life away, save for Wilson. He’s not exactly marriage material by nearly every possible standard; he’s not boyfriend material either. It's that simple.
Also, with Wilson’s body count (theoretically; Wilson doesn't actually keep count of the women he’s slept with, but if he did… wow) he’s probably damn near the straightest man alive. He wouldn't be into House regardless.
So according to all calculations, House’s crush doesn't matter. Not in the slightest.
It is, infuriatingly, the little things that get to him.
It's the slight quiver in Wilson’s voice when he gets pissed off, it's the way he cooks fantastically when he’s anxious about something. It's the way that Wilson’s mouth will curve into a half-smile when House says something awful even though he’s desperately trying to feign disapproval.
Living with someone is so much more intimate then House remembers. They're always talking about things, moving around each other, making contact - not to mention the whole sleeping in the same bed thing. But it's good. It's great, actually. House is almost happy.
It's possibly the most terrifying thing to ever happen to him.
Wilson woke up in the middle of the night because the hallway light was on.
He rolled over and blinked blearily at the door and the light reaching out from behind it, creeping into the room. House wasn't in bed. Confused, Wilson sat up.
“House?” he called. No response. Something like dread coagulated in the pit of his stomach, but Wilson tried to ignore it. House was probably just getting something to eat, midnight munchies- except his cane was still leaning against the bedside table on his side.
With a bit more urgency, Wilson pushed the bedroom door open and walked into the kitchen. Some sort of relief fell over him when he realized House was standing in the hallways, leaning against the wall.
“House?” Wilson said again, walking closer to him. “What are you doing up?”
“I, uh…” his voice trailed off. He sounded confused, half-awake. From how foggy his eyes looked, Wilson guessed that he probably was. “I messed up.” Wilson stared at him.
“You messed up?” he prompted gently. House swallowed, eyes darting around the room.
“I- I have to sleep outside,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “I'm supposed to- I need to…”
“Outside… of the bedroom?” Wilson asked.
“Outside of the house,” House said. Wilson swallowed.
House was upset- clearly vulnerable, possibly sleep walking, and with the way that House carefully maintained his image of invincibility, seeing him like this felt almost violating.
Wilson knew House very well, possibly better than anyone. Wilson still didn't have the faintest clue what was going on here, or why, or what to do about it. But he also knew that he couldn't very well leave House to stumble out into the street while barely conscious.
“Okay,” Wilson said. “Why?” No answer. Slowly, Wilson approached him, putting an arm around House’s shoulders. House flinched away, but not quickly enough for Wilson to pull back. A belated reaction. House’s muscles were stiff, at first, before he leaned into the contact.
“House? Can you hear me?” House blinked, thoroughly disoriented. His blue eyes cleared slightly.
“I'm… everything is… shit. I don't know where I am. I don't-”
“We’re in your apartment,” Wilson said. House blinked again.
“Wilson?”
“Yeah. It's just me. No one else is here.”
“I'm not… what the fuck is going on?” House leaned against him more fully then, taking nearly all the weight off of his bad leg. “Jesus, I feel like I'm underwater.”
“Dissociative episode?” Wilson posited. House didn't respond. “House? Hey. Listen to me. Differential diagnosis for late-night confusion and disorientation.” House swallowed as Wilson helped him turn around, the two of them ambling back towards the bedroom.
“Differential diagnosis for late-night confusion…” House repeated, the gears turning slowly in his head.
“Substance abuse is likely a contributing factor. Possible low vitamin D or iron deficiency. Breathing disorder or neurological condition. Restless leg syndrome and sleep apnea- patient wakes up sleep deprived, doesn't know what's going on. Night terrors caused by post-traumatic stress dis…” House trailed off. “Fuck.”
“You're alright,” Wilson assured him. Clumsily, the two of them climbed onto the mattress. House sat on his knees for a moment, silent, before leaning forward and setting his forehead against Wilson’s chest, hands fisted in the front of his shirt like he was holding on for dear life.
He didn't cry. Just stared, unseeing, breathing unevenly. Wilson put his arms around House. They stayed like that for a long time.
“You're alright,” Wilson mumbled into his shoulder. “You're alright. Everything is fine.” House clenched and unclenched his fingers in Wilson’s shirt but otherwise didn't answer or give any notification that he’d heard it.
They fell asleep like that. When Wilson woke up in the morning, House wasn't in bed. He found the other man in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with one hand while using the other to lean against his cane. House glanced over his shoulder.
“Sleeping beauty!” he called. “You're awake!”
“Yes, well, I certainly am now,” Wilson replied, eyeing the food.
“Pull up a chair, darling. We close at eleven.” The pancakes weren't actually that good, but Wilson was willing to let it slide this time. They were halfway through eating when Wilson broached the topic.
“So uh… what was that, last night?” he asked. The only indication House gave that he heard was a slight twitch in the hand holding his fork.
“I'm not telling you what it was about,” House said, matter of fact.
“I'm not asking you to tell me what it was about, I'm asking what it was . Because if this is some kind of psychotic break-”
“It wasn't a psychotic break,” House said. “I… had a nightmare. I got confused. I'm fine.”
But that isn't entirely what happened, Wilson wanted to say.
You thought you were somewhere else - you thought I was someone else, you thought something was going to happen, and you wanted to sleep outside. You were scared. I've never seen you scared, so now I'm scared, you fucking idiot, and I need you to tell me whats going on.
He didn't say any of that. Instead he forked another piece of pancake into his mouth.
“Alright,” Wilson said. And that was it.
So, okay. House’s plan was generally intact.
He decided very quickly that telling Wilson he was attracted to him was a no go. Not to be done under any circumstances. It did mean that he had to switch up the porn he was watching because for some reason, girls weren't quite doing it (they didn't look like Wilson by any stretch of the imagination).
And it also meant that he made slightly more sexual innuendo around Wilson, which Wilson didn't catch onto, but he very well could have. So House needed to keep things as far under wraps as he could manage.
Living together meant increased emotional intimacy; especially with House’s little midnight trip to Abuse Dreamland, which meant he had to keep himself on double lockdown. Except, well. Things fall apart.
Let it at least be said that the first time they have sex is almost an accident.
It goes like this: they stumble home from a bar.
Wilson is wasted because he lost a prepubescent cancer patient earlier that day; House is a little tipsy and high out of his mind on vicodin because it's been a spectacularly terrible pain day.
There’s something crackling between them, some sort of anxious, electric energy that makes things somehow more intense. Neither of them understand it. Neither of them are paying attention to it. And maybe that's why it happens.
They watch monster trucks, because of course they do. Squinting at the television, Wilson made a ridiculous comment.
“It's kind of like sex, if you think about it,” he said.
“What does that even mean?” House grumbled.
“It's like- immovable force meets, meets unknowable… whatever. One, one of the cars goes up over the other car, it's like. It's like, uh, the. The position. You know.”
“How have you been married three times with communication skills like that?” House marveled aloud.
“I give very good head,” Wilson replied intelligently. House snorted.
“Is it even called head when it's with a woman?” House wondered.
“A dick can't be that different,” Wilson replied. “I'd still be good at it.” House was quiet for a while after that. Eventually Wilson glanced over at him, questioning. House looked up and said,
“Prove it.”
Things kind of- well. They unraveled a bit from there.
At first it was just a friendly bout of gay chicken, “oh haha Wilson you look good on your knees,” and then Wilson noticed how hungry House looked and he started to get a bit more serious about it.
It was not actually Wilson’s first time giving someone a blowjob. He’d slept with one woman who had similar equipment and one man; that put it at two. For his third blowjob ever, Wilson actually thought he did pretty well. House certainly seemed to think so.
That wasn't all they did that night, but honestly, it was kind of a blur. Plenty of things happened, or didn't happen, and they both woke up on the floor in front of the TV the next morning.
They spent the rest of that Saturday on opposite sides of the apartment, silently losing their minds. Wilson felt guilty because House was high out of his mind and in pain when it happened, and House felt guilty because Wilson was obviously drunk and grieving. They didn't talk about it. They totally, totally didn't talk about it.
And then Wilson had a bad mental health day thing, and they spent most of it laying in bed next to each other and eating ice cream.
House took the day off and swore it was just because he didn't want to deal with his team, and not because he actually cared about his friend-he-fucked-that-one-time. Except he did.
Except he did, and eventually the cuddling got a little bit much, and Wilson got hard and House wasn't not going to take care of that, thank you very much, I'm a gentleman , James.
After that things went along more naturally. It was nice. It was great. They might have had a little bit of newly-wed syndrome, because House had no idea he could have sex in the shower twice in one day without fracturing his spine, but lo and behold. It turned out that miracles were real, and Wilson was surprisingly flexible for a forty-something year old man.
It was fine. Things were fine, and that was- well, that was a problem.
House came home from clinic work and the apartment smelled like something delicious. That wasn't uncommon, not necessarily.
Wilson was standing in front of the stove, pushing something in a pan around. There was scotch on the table already, plates set up, and Wilson smiled when he turned around, even though there was exhaustion pulling at the corners of his eyes. House blinked.
“Hey! I got home a little early, I figured we could-”
“I'm not one of your wives, Wilson,” House said, and Wilson’s smile faded for a moment before he laughed nervously.
“Yeah, I know. I've had your dick in my mouth.”
“Wilson,” House said, and Wilson swallowed. “You're doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“You came home early, and you're making chicken teriyaki- you hate that stuff, and you're making it for me. You're clearly upset about something, and your smile’s fake. This is what you do. You do everything you can to ignore your own needs and then you get angry and distant.”
Wilson pursed his lips and turned off the stove.
“Can we not do this right now?” he said, weary.
“You know I'm right,” House said, “You know that you're-”
“If I wanted to be psychoanalyzed, I'd go back to therapy,” Wilson snapped.
“Maybe you should,” House replied, icy. “Because you're going about this wrong.”
“What's wrong with how I'm acting? Does behaving like a normal human being-”
“Normal? This is not normal!” House shouted, gesturing vaguely. “You tried to kill yourself, Wilson, and you're trying to take care of me . Nothing about that is normal!”
“This isn't going to work,” Wilson said abruptly, breathing hard. House stared at him.
“What do you mean, this isn't going to work?” House demanded. Wilson shook his head, frantic.
“Just, shut up, okay? Shut up. I can't do this right now.” Wilson didn't say anything when he pushed past House. He didn't say anything when he grabbed his coat, threw it over his shoulder, and slammed the door behind him, too fast for House to grab him.
When House lunged for the door and pulled it open, Wilson was already gone. He stood there in the doorway for a long time, panting and silent, before taking a step back and closing the door again.
He poured some scotch and sat down at the piano to play Rachmaninoff- symphonies complex enough to get his mind off of the idea of Wilson’s dead body, of helping to organize the funeral, of surviving without him.
Death is awfully mundane, even if your amygdala would never allow you to conceptualize it as such. There was nothing House could do. He couldn't follow Wilson, and he knew Wilson wasn't stupid- if he wanted to kill himself and planned on getting away with it, this time he wouldn't whiff it.
At 3:24 AM, when House was halfway through Piano Concerto No. 3, the door was pushed open. Wilson stood there, out of breath and soaked through with water from the heavy rain outside. Abruptly, House stopped playing and stared at him. Something fragile fizzled in the air between them, volatile, like cracked glass.
“You need to tell me what this is,” Wilson demanded, his voice wavering. “And don't- don't fucking lie , House, for once in your life, don't lie. You have to tell me what this is, because if you're just- if it's too much for you, if I'm too much for you, then you need to tell me now.”
“You-”
“I'm serious,” Wilson snapped, walking into the apartment and closing the door behind him. He didn't close the distance. “I'm serious, House, you- you have to tell me what this is. Because if this is nothing to you, if this is another fucking game to you-”
“Wilson-”
“You let me down and it won't be easy, alright? Y-you let me down and it'll be a fifteen story drop straight onto the concrete. So don't fucking lie to me about this, okay? D-don't…” Wilson sunk down to the floor, still breathing hard. House dropped down too, wincing a bit at the pain in his leg, but deciding it didn't matter right now. Wilson sniffled and wiped at his eyes.
“Nothing lasts. Not for me. Either it's too difficult, or we aren't good for each other, or I fuck it up because I can't help myself. You have to tell me if you want me here, and you can't lie to me. You can't fucking lie. Not this time.” House closed the distance between them and laughed breathlessly, a small, bitter thing.
“You idiot,” he said, “Fuck, Wilson- you think I could let go of you? You think I could walk away from this even if I wanted to? You're stuck with me, James.” Wilson made a choked off sound that could have been a laugh and buried his head in his hands.
“I'll cheat on you,” he croaked. “I'll- I'll mess up, and get clingy, and lie to you-”
“And I'll keep popping pills,” House continued, “And I'll get mean when I'm in pain, and I'll be difficult for no reason. For fuck’s sake, Wilson, you think I'm well adjusted? You think I'm the picture perfect boyfriend? Jesus. You'll be lucky to last a week with me.”
“I've lasted damn near twenty years,” Wilson mumbled, exhausted from his emotional outburst. “And maybe I'll last twenty more.” He paused. “I'm scared,” he admitted quietly. “I'm scared of fucking this up. I'm scared of losing you.”
“I'm scared to,” House replied, just as tired. “But we can do scary things, can't we?” Wilson looked up at him for a long moment.
“Yeah,” Wilson said at last, lacing his fingers through House’s. “Yeah, I think we can.”