Archive of Our Own ^beta

James Wilson has loved Gregory House as long as he can remember. He just didn’t know, and House didn’t know, and they danced around each other like the way a meteor passes by planets. They’ve existed around each other, orbiting, but never fully meeting at the center. Until now, it seems. How did he miss that?

Wilson threw himself into relationship after relationship, without realizing he didn’t love them the same way, both because of his sexuality and because they just weren’t House. He doesn’t quite know why it happened, especially because he remembers the first night they met. He remembers House being the brightest thing in his life at that unremarkable conference. He remembers leaning in towards his lips but never taking, he can recall the way his hands trickled along his waist and shoulders, hesitant to play the song that they both wanted.

He really should’ve noticed that every marriage failed because of House. And not because of him but due to Wilson’s heart already being taken. Only Amber really saw that, really understood that his heart belonged to two of them. She never made him choose, just share, just exist together. He still misses her, and he still dreams that House really did die with her, all for his sake. House was never wrong that he was scared of losing him. It’s funny, in that way they have the same MO. Push the other away to spare them, to spare oneself. To avoid the ache of collapsing over event horizon, stretched apart into unknown territory. It’s easier to control the outcome. That’s at least what he always told himself. He isn’t so sure he’d say that now, nor House. Therapy works for him. Wilson’s fiddled with a few numbers of therapists himself as their realized relationship grows.

It's really quite interesting how easy they came together, aligned in the stars. House would tease him for being too romantic, but it really is just like that. Suddenly he’s at the funeral, and House is saying the unspoken. It’s the guilt he never knew, it’s the guilt he wasn’t trusted enough to know, it’s the guilt he dragged House all the way there and loved him all the more which tore his master plan of moving on apart. He’s still never told him, a true apology for that day. For telling him he wished he had died alone. House has made it clear he forgives him enough times in the quiet bites along his neck muttering Stop thinking about it. I love you, okay? In the way he pulls Wilson’s attention away from buses and that House still calls him on the rare occasion he needs a ride home from the bar. He's made it more than clear how much he’s trusted, loved, and forgiven.

It really has been that easy, being patterned with each other’s souls bright and bare to no one but each other. One day, he’ll get the words out though. It’s important to him with the redefinition of their relationship. For now, he answers in unspoken acts in House’s life. Matching him at his own coordinates.

House is fully moved in now, to his apartment, his and Amber’s. He already almost was, but now it’s official. His old lease is up, his sneakers muck up his polished loafers, and his old mugs clink against the matching dishware set he has. He cooks often, because he enjoys it more than Wilson does. And Wilson enjoys making sappy eyes at him as he eats the warm meals. House puts on records and dances with him, cane a steady pressure against the side of their legs. They’ve kissed on every surface in that place, including against his beautiful Yamaha grand with a few discordant keys pressed between them.

He's doing better too, House, with the addition of his therapy. The chaos remains the same, he doesn’t think that’ll ever change, but the behaviors are healthier. The transition to that, even with other people in his life, was easy as well. Everything has gotten into place.

Well, mostly everything. Wilson has lost the bet.

No one knows that they’re dating whatsoever. The closest thing they have to something is Thirteen recognizing that they’re both queer, but that’s about it. Even Cuddy doesn’t know from their perspective, and they were both stumped on that one. The first day House drove them in on his motorcycle, Wilson’s arms around his waist and House’s leather jacket on his shoulders, no one made a singular conclusion. They asked why House would drive anyone on his precious motorcycle, as if Wilson wasn’t told he was more precious than the creation of the universe over twenty times a day.

So, the bet has become a game of who will figure it out first, and when. A combusting sun and his warmed planet, orbiting until someone pieces it together.

---

Wilson is always marveling on how romantic House can get. Now that they’ve realized, he’s begun to see a side of him that is rarely seen by any. He supposes Stacy could’ve been the only one, or one of. He’s really trying, and Wilson allows himself to trust that it’s because House wants them to last.

He insists on spending every morning putting his tie on even though it makes Wilson do wonderful things that affect his punctuality at work. He massages his aching joints with the finesse he writes melodies in his name. He’s taught Wilson more easy and silly piano duets than he can count even though he blusters and jokes that it’s just an excuse to put my hand in yours Jimmy, don’t take this the wrong way. House sweeps him off his feet every formal date they go to, and he has his own leather jacket in the same closet space as his, though more often than not he’s stealing House’s. House never complains.

And yet, things are the same as they ever are. They bicker, still argue, and they psychoanalyze each other for fun. They stand with their warm breaths in the sky balcony to balcony. House uses his office for his own amusement, his own personal napping and he messes with every item on his desk. Wilson always pays for lunch with only the typical complaints. Things are the same and they are different. He can’t get enough of it.

He can’t wait until other people notice. He’s taken his time to increase the obviousness, by baiting House into showing affection at work.

So today, Wilson’s in the breakroom, apple in hand, and it’s nearing lunch time. Perfect opportunity to get House to notice him, especially since he’s wearing that pleasing tie that makes House crazy. Foreman is making small chatter with him about their latest case, nothing more than the average politeness because of his proximity to House. On cue, House enters on autopilot as the clock ticks towards lunch time, he comes over and snakes an arm down his shoulder to meet the other taking his breath away around his waist. Foreman watches with interest, near surprise.

House whines into the crest of his shoulder, “Buy me lunch.” And then he steals his apple for good measure, one bite only.

Wilson groans because it’s a wonderful habit of theirs, a comfort. He snatches the apple back false annoyed, “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there soon.”

House whispers in his hear, low enough he’s sure Foreman can’t hear. “Hurry, so I can have time kiss you senseless before the line gets too long.”

Wilson coughs and lightly shoves House out of the door, resisting the higher powers call to grab him and do it now. When he looks back Foreman is still staring at him, at the spots that House’s hands roamed.

“Can I give you some advice?” Foreman asks.

“Hah. On how to stop a hungry Gregory House?” Wilson shakes his head, “No. The world will end in an explosive fiery death before he can be stopped at lunch time.”

Foreman’s mouth thins. “No, not about that. But it is about House.”

“Go ahead,” He huffs, trying to maintain the levity that is now sinking below them.

“House is…I know you’re his longest friend. But, I just need to warn you that he takes advantage of your kindness. Everyone’s. It’s his favorite thing to do. The way I’ve always seen it, is that he walks all over you like he does everyone else. I’m just warning you because I know the way you look at him, like Cameron did back in the early days.  You shouldn’t go for it. You’ll only end up hurt and disappointed.” Foreman’s tone is knowing, calm, like he’s rationalized this a long time ago.

Wilson blinks, and the anger fizzles sharply in his throat. What?

“Have a good day, Foreman.”

Foreman laughs, something that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Figures. Well, I warned you, that’s all I needed to do from my end. House is a miserable, careless, asshole. If he could kill you just to solve his favorite case, he would. But, I get it. You’re not ready to hear it. I just hope you do before it’s too late.”

Foreman gets up, satisfied with the talk, before Wilson can respond. The anger bubbles out into his chest and leaves behind a strange ache. He doesn’t think it’d be worth it, defending House to Foreman. Foreman has long had his laundry list of issues with him. It only surprises him that he’s been with him the longest, and he still concludes that House cares little about anything. Just a man who craves a puzzle. He couldn’t be more wrong about him, the fact that House cares too much is his biggest problem. He gave a gun back to a gunman because he wanted to save his life, he nearly died to save Amber’s, and much more.

He should know that. Everyone should know what he’s sacrificed for them.

Though, perhaps that will be the end of that. And to be fair, Foreman does have a conflicting past with House in his own right, one that has irreversibly affected his career. It makes sense. Everyone else will likely play the game to figure out if they’re dating or not.

It’s just Foreman.

---

It isn’t the end of it. After every small intimate act, people have come to Wilson in some attempt to protect him. The story is all the same, don’t date House he’s dangerous, evil, incapable of love. He’s manipulating you.

It’s Taub who warns him that House cares little about love and finds amusement in it being torn apart, as he tried to do between him and his wife. It’s Thirteen who talks about how House is just as self-destructive as she is, and Wilson could do with more stability. It’s Kutner who stares at him when they’re together like he’s watching a rocket’s engine fail as it hurdles to the cold infinite expanse of space. And then it’s Chase too, idealizing to him what House could’ve been. It’s nauseating.

And suddenly, what’s been easy has been obscured.

He knows it’s affecting their newfound rhythm. He works late on purpose. He feigns being so tired till he falls asleep on the couch instead of admitting he doesn’t want to come back to bed with him. He wakes up earlier to avoid showering with him. He avoids him at work by giving himself extra tasks and clinic hours. He skips lunch too and it frustrates him to no end because House gives him the space, he’s clearly begun carving for himself. He doesn’t know what to make of it, it’s not his usual MO. House had him wiretapped when he pushed him away after Amber for goodness sakes, it doesn’t make sense this is the time for him to gain patience.

What was once a game to see who noticed that they were dating before they knew, to who would notice now that they were more aware, is now what’s chilling him to his core warning him to never even try at all, for something that was actually always there. Warning him not to even go there, when he’s so far past going there over the decades of knowing Gregory House.

He hears a rap on his door. The door opens before he can answer, even more impatient than House would be. It’s Cuddy. She walks over to his desk and throws a bunch of maroon folders from the clinic on his desk.

“I’ve already done my hours.” He says.

Cuddy crosses her arms, “Look at the signature.”

He does, he gapes. That’s House’s signature. This is about 50 folders. That’s more hours than House has ever put in a single month. “He-“

“This is just this week.” Cuddy snaps, “Care to explain?”

“What is there to explain? If I thought I could explain House I’d write books on the topic. .”

Cuddy scoffs, “You know what I mean. He’s acting strange, and I know it’s because of you. Because it’s not about his fellows, and it’s not about the Vicodin, and it’s not his insomnia or a bad pain day, and it’s not the patient or the cases. So, it means it’s you, his boyfriend. So, what’s going on?”

He feels the tension in his eyes and his tongue twists in his mouth. He has to stop himself from saying he’s doing his hours, what’s the problem? The restraint pulls a breath out of him, a hard one. He settles on, “You really knew?”

Cuddy gawks, a stilted laugh coming out of her. “Yes? You were in a relationship, clearly an open one…though that’s really none of my business, when you were first hired here. I know you two had a breakup of sorts after, uh, Amber. But yeah, I knew. Was I not supposed to, you two never hid it or anything?”

Wilson coughs, “Uh…well. As true as that is. We didn’t really realize we had been dating until a month ago. Or at least, we never really called it that, but I’m sure we always knew.”

Cuddy shakes her head. “You’re both hopeless. So, what, does House have cold feet or something now that there’s a name to it? Is that why he’s acting like he is?”

“What is he acting like?”

“Hurt,” Cuddy says, “Scared. Like he’s on step away from losing someone.”

Wilson swallows the statement and lets it fester on his conscience. He churns his hands in time to his stomach. “He doesn’t have cold feet. This is my fault.”

“Then, fix it.”

“I will.” And he feels like it’s a lie. He doesn’t really know where to begin.

Cuddy seems to trust him, which both makes sense and doesn’t. She should realize that Wilson’s mischaracterized as the responsible one between them both, especially when he’s going to continue plummeting into nothingness until he gets over why all the fellows have been bothering him so much.

He can at least try to make up for it. He can take House to lunch. Lunch is normal. He can make sure to buy something tempting enough for House to eat three quarters of it, that way it feels even more like the usual. Wilson can ask him something that will get him to ramble for an hour so that he doesn’t have to slip up and speak his unresolved and unknown insecurities aloud.

So, he does. He conceals a grimace when House looks surprised at the invite, but it goes by normally. House jabs at his fatigue and complains about Taub’s latest personal drama. He then steals most of his fries as he speaks to the rhythm of his fingers against his knee. It hits him then, the frictional part of himself, the reason he feels the need to sever them at the seams. House’s hand turns grating, sandpaper scraping against a wall. And it’s not his fault, it’s not. He recognizes how overwhelmed he’s becoming.

He’s insecure, and it’s not because he secretly agrees with everyone that House is the evil guy that they see. It’s because he’s afraid of losing him again considering how many times he’s pushed them apart and his past relationships apart. House is more at risk of Wilson ruining everything, than he is being destroyed by House. Thinking of them as bad for each other has only amplified his own insecurities. And all the same, that means all the people who have warned him are winning. They’re winning because he’s already begun to start the journey all of his relationships have taken, one reason or another. He can’t even remember the last time they’ve sat in the cafeteria like this.

His mouth tastes sharp, unstable nebula bubbling out of him. He pushes the tray back from himself and stands. He can’t be here. He really needs to think and maybe prescribe himself a benzodiazepine before he has a full-blown panic attack.

House’s eyes are calculating, scrutinizing, every bit a diagnosis. He opens his mouth, “James?”

The voice is vulnerable and aching, world crashing down on him. Wilson returns a gruff, “I need to go.”

He tries not to cry when House just mutters an alright, see you instead of fighting for him to stay.

Fix it, she says. I think I made it worse.

And isn’t that funny, how weak he is. He doesn’t even have the defiance to prove them wrong, he pushes House away and, in the end, they’ll tell him it’s the unlovable diagnostician’s self-fulfilling prophecy. And they’ll smile at Wilson, like he’s freed by that and not an equal part of the stability of their relationship.

He makes his way to his office and cancels his appointments feigning headache.

---

Wilson stumbles into his office and finds himself breathing on the floor near his couch. His heartbeat is jamming against the wood paneling, enough that he feels breathless. Thoughts whirr in his mind out of the deepest parts of his anxiety. Images of his heart stopping, or bleeding, or stopping and bleeding race in his mind. And that’s when he chokes.

The air is thin, helmetless astronaut. He sits up to suck in the cold, and thump against the tightness in his lungs. You’re going to ruin him, you moved to fast, you should’ve talked about this, you’re hurting him right now. He focuses on what he can, using his cuff links as a tactile sensation. He focuses on counting breaths between his degradation, he focuses on anything else.

Once he stills, the energy is pulled out of him. The room is small and cramped to his vision, and he barely makes it to his desk. The aftermath leaves an ache around his temples and a dry feeling in his mouth. He tries to tell himself it’ll be alright, that they’re going to be okay, but he’s far too fuzzy to convince himself. He just focuses on relaxing as much as he can, staring into the fading sunlight into the evening.

A knock on the door a few hours later jolts him out of his collapse. Cameron enters wordlessly. He hopes it’s a consult, he hopes it’s cancer, it hopes it’s anything and everything else in the world.

“Hey, Dr. Wilson.”

“Hello Dr. Cameron.”

“Can I talk to you about House?”

Wilson clenches a fist. “No.”

Cameron seems undeterred, “See, listen. Gossip gets around. Chase was telling me about, uh, you. The way you look at him.”

“Chase should keep his thoughts to himself.” He mutters.

Cameron nods, like the conversation’s going well, like Wilson’s just deflecting from the truth. She says, “I just don’t want you to get hurt.” Like I did.

He feels his lips curl back, “I’m so sick of this. Every single one of you, what? Do you think House is some evil shell of a person who just wants to torture everyone around him for his own amusement? Do you think he cares little for everyone and everything that he’ll sacrifice us all to the devil just to solve his precious puzzles? Are you fucking serious?”

“Well…” Cameron trails off.

“Listen. I am not going to defend his behavior for him, he’d kill me for that and God knows he really does need to work on himself. But, the thing is you all don’t get House. What you’re saying to me is you don’t understand him.” He’s standing now, the room is tunneled and focused on the pale nervousness of Cameron’s face.

She murmurs, “Maybe he’s convinced you that he’s a lot nicer and caring than he actually is Dr. Wilson.”

Wilson seethes, “And maybe I have convinced all of you that I’m a lot nicer than I actually am. Did you know that I told him that he should’ve died on that bus alone? Did you know that when I dragged him to his father’s funeral, I incidentally sent him to be forced to give a eulogy to the guy that harmed him the most? Did you know I once slept with a dying patient?”

“Dr. Wilson, I don’t-“

“See how it’s relevant?” He’s shouting now, enough that House can probably hear him through the walls, “It is relevant. Because it seems like all of you are convinced I’m just some helpless, blameless, hopeless romantic whose going to be trapped in a relationship with this evil monster. Despite having all the years to figure him out, to learn how to diagnose the rarest of things, it sickens me how little you get him. I’m done. Dr. Cameron, kindly take your advice and run it over with your car. Goodbye and get out.”

She hesitates only for a moment but she’s soon dashing out and Wilson slams the door behind her. He feels himself fall to his knees in front of the door, a heavy sob coming out of him. He knows Cuddy’s going to be on his trail soon after that display, and he can’t find himself to care. He realizes it’s really time for him to give up for the day, emotionally spent as he is.

So, he climbs up onto his couch and closes his eyes, waiting for a restful thought. He passes out sooner than he expects with the baseline anxiety he has. Though, the sound of him yelling at Cameron remains in his consciousness.

---

Ear against the moonlight, he hears the next-door balcony creak and a familiar cane on the wooden paneling relaxes him for the first time this day. It brings him awake, no less tired than earlier before, headache worse off too. He slips off the couch and out onto his own balcony, though he makes himself hunched and small, hoping House won’t be upset with him.

House jumps over the divider and holds the door open, ever the gentleman. He whispers, “I need a nap. Can you come cuddle me on the couch?”

He almost starts crying again. House hates being cuddled anywhere but home. He knows then that House is doing this more for Wilson than himself. He wordlessly follows him inside and sets himself against the armrest, so House can fit easily against his chest and fiddle rhythms into his fingers over his hip bone.

“I love you.” House says, a gentle vibration against his neck.

Wilson feels his words spill out of him, “Did you know that every one of your fellows, past and present, warned me to not fall for you? That they spent all their time telling me how evil you were than doing their own jobs?”

“Yes,” He answers, tone blank.

“How?”

“They confronted me too, at least a couple of them. Foreman twice.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And I’m also painfully aware of the persona I’ve put out over the years.”

Wilson swallows. “Persona?”

House shrugs, “Mm. Yeah, self-destruction as my therapist would say. In the end, it was easier for me to have everyone believe I couldn’t possibly care about anything other than my own ego, than it was for me to be vulnerable and risk getting hurt first. It was how I protected myself from harm, how I still do. It doesn’t make it right, so I don’t blame them for not wanting to think anything else.”

“God, House. Is that-“ He stops himself. Suddenly, a lot of how House never stopped to defend himself to Wilson over the years makes sense. We were never friends not met with Of course we were, of fucking course we were James. He feels sick.

“Therapy works,” House chuckles, “Wish I knew that 20 years ago! I did know, just wasn’t ready. You know how it is.”

Wilson moves his arms and hugs him tighter. He almost smiles when House relaxes. “Is it awful of me that I don’t feel bad for yelling at Cameron?”

“Ah, so that was that horrible noise coming from over here. I thought you were diagnosing something.”

“No, that’s more your style, love.”

“Oh, stop it, I’ll get all warm and frisky over here.”

Wilson chuckles. “Love. Love. Love. Anyway, yeah so, I yelled. I don’t feel bad. I was defending your honor.”

“That’s my star.” A rare one from House, usually only said in the early morning when he’s still asleep. Wilson’s chest bubbles pleasantly.

“So, should I feel bad?”

“Nah,” House yawns, apparently serious about the nap business, “When they find out that they warned you not to date the person you had already been dating for decades they’ll explode, first case study into spontaneous combustion. Being yelled at by a cutie is the least of their concerns.”

His face burns, “Go to sleep already. And I’m sorry, for being so insecure over all of this. And I love you.”

“Love you too, and I’m already there, slipping into your dreams, doing freak nasty things to your soul. Mmm dream sex. Do a sleep study to see me naked under your sheets, like I’m basking in the light of the night sky.”

He laughs, and he laughs, and his elation melts over. He rubs House’s stomach possessively and calms himself down to the breathing song into House’s restfulness. He feels so stupid, and yet unworried at all. He knows what he’s been doing, but House knows too. He knew. No one knows him better, though he still feels compelled to talk about it.

“Well, I am sorry-“

House shushes him by slapping a hand over his mouth. “Shut up. No apologizing. Kill those insecurities by sleeping with me. Nap style, get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Okay, if you insist.” He jokes. For the first time today, he feels like it’ll be alright.

---

Like all great meteor showers, House crashes into his room with a dangerous plan. Wilson knows, because he was paged for no reason and he’s pacing around like he’s been brought to life by jumper cables.

“Listen.” House barks, and his fellows turn the ear. Chase and Cameron run into the room, instantly irritated it was a false page. “Stop making my boyfriend feel like shit.”

“You-“ “Boyf-“ “House?” “With Wilson?” “Wait-“

“Silence!” House shouts again, “I’m serious. If any of you, and I mean any of you berate Wilson for his dating choices and give him a panic attack I had to diagnose from the wall over again, you’ll know a hell you never even thought someone like me could raise. Be a dickhead somewhere else, or to me, I can take it.”

Thirteen, the guiltiest looking of them, asks, “How long?”

“How long do you think? You are terrible diagnosticians. I am going to spill blood all over your performance evaluations, like some sort of serial killer. You idiots.”

Cameron blinks, mouth parted. “You really love him?”

House gapes, nearly breathing fire and Wilson falls a little bit more in love. “Of course I do!”

As more quiet fills the room House adds, “I know what you’re thinking. Didn’t think that evil boss of mine could love anyone, let alone the dreamboat angel he’s corrupting probably, Dr. James Wilson. Well, I do. Always have. Always will. Suffice to say, love is easy actually you miserable morons. What do you all have to say for your relationship stability? Hm? Mines perfect, thanks for asking.”

Foreman looks ready to say something and House points his cane at him. “No apologizing. Nope. Don’t want it. Don’t care. Think about how evil I secretly am on your own time, ask Cuddy to give you a Psych 101 consult on cognitive dissonance on your lunch break. Get back to work, there’s an MRI to be done.”

As they all stand to leave, House fixes them with a dangerous look. As they approach the door, they each, head hung, mutter “Sorry, Dr. Wilson.” One after the other, the most genuine he’s heard them.

Wilson approaches him and threads their fingers together. “That was interesting.”

“You can say hot.” House sniffs.

“Are you okay?” Don’t deflect.

“Of course. That was fun.” He says easily. I can do what I want.

Bastard. Wilson kisses a knuckle, “What was the deal with your 50 hours of clinic?”

House tenses. “I thought this was about me defending your honor. Not about me and my issues.”

“Can’t it be both?”

House watches his lips carefully, as he makes his way down every finger and joint. “This is unfair. You’re softening me up.”

“That’s a first.”

“Shut up,” House murmurs, the gruff tone leaving his voice. “It was stupid.”

Wilson raises a brow. House scoffs, “Okay, it wasn’t stupid, it was insecure, and I’m embarrassed. Happy?”

“Endlessly.”

“Stop flirting with me, you’re making this difficult.” He laughs. It’s not easy for him.

Wilson pulls them closer, as if they’re about to dance. House adjusts his cane to take the weight, like he’s ready to lead them into tomorrow. “Tell me.”

“It was sort of like this. Imagine a constellation.”

“What?”

“Imagine it.”

“I am, Greg. I really am,” He shakes his head. He doesn’t, not for lack of trying.

“And then like imagine how it would feel to lose the star next to you. Due to some event, like the star dying or something. I don’t know. This analogy isn’t my best, even I can admit that. But imagine you could prevent that star from dying if you just gave a little more energy.” He

Wilson hates that he can understand him. “You thought you had to do clinic hours to keep me around?”

“Well, when you phrase it like that, it makes it sound like I’m dating Cuddy.”

“I’m sorry. That I made you think I was leaving you. You put the right amount of effort into this.”

House’s mouth twitches. “It’s funny, actually. Did I really think you’d be swooned by my clinic hours?”

“I don’t know, is that what you thought?”

“No,” House admits, eyes far away. “I think it was just a distraction. Some sort of way to prove to myself I was working hard enough.”

Wilson brushes his thumbs against his temples, down against his short graying hair. “You always work hard enough. I was stupid to distance myself. I’m sorry.”

“You are always stupid.” Stop apologizing.

“Kiss me.” If you insist.

House does, but just a chaste one on his cheek. And another to his forehead. It’s the shape of a constellation, not any one he could recognize. Probably made up, just some sort of sappy thing he’ll remember for ages.

A cough echoes into the room, but House makes no move to pull back. He allows it, as it’s only fair with how distant he’s made himself. Kutner’s head pops into the room, “Hey so, uh, do we really need all of us to do the MRI. I really think we should explore the lupus route, can I please do the blood test?”

House sighs, “Since you asked nicely. No.”

“Well,” Kutner’s eyes are staring at them, like he’s just realized what an intimate moment he’s popped in on. “What if I ask meanly. Fuck you Greg House, give me my blood test.”

“Sure. Can you go away? You’re blocking the sun.”

“It’s…evening.”

House points to Wilson, pointer finger smushed into his cheek. “This sun right here.”

Kutner giggles, then schools his features. “Okay. I will get that blood test. Right away.”

Wilson blinks and as if reading his thoughts House says, “I don’t think they’ll bother you now. Or me. I think they’ll never take us seriously again.”

He should feel embarrassed, but the moment has made everything align again in a way.

“I hope they never do.”

---

“Wilson?”

“Mm?”

“Baby?”

“What? Yes, I’m awake. What.” He snips, coming to wakefulness.

“What’s your favorite star in the sky?”

“You-“

House interrupts, “Shush. Stop that. Consider myself pre-gamed on the chastising I already fantasized about. Answer me. It’s important, for a case let’s say.”

“House.”

“I can make you shine. See the line doesn’t work if you don’t give me a star or a constellation.”

Wilson sighs, “What does that even mean?”

“It means I’m going to make you shine, baby.”

Wilson feels his stomach tug with beautiful things. A mixture of want, grief, and adoration. He grabs House’s long and pretty hands and leads him to wrap around the feeling. House’s giddiness is felt in the room and the smile against the back of his neck. “I’m shining. Happy?”

“Like the movie?” House giggles, “Baby, I’m ecstatic.”

“Thought we were talking about stars?”

“We are, you’re my star, my whole world, I’d orbit you until I throw up. I’d Give myself metabolic alkalosis for you.”

Wilson feels himself grinning. “What’s with you tonight? What time even is it?”

“Love. Makes me stupid. I think you need to give me mouth to mouth to make me normal again. I also broke the clock. Time is irrelevant.”

Wilson scoots forward so he can flip over and take his breath away. It’s a bit hungry, a little desperate, he pulls the air out of him by biting his lip. He pulls back, marveling at the sleepy and adoring gaze meeting him back.

Wilson turns back around and returns to the comfortable position. “My favorite constellation is Andromeda.”

“I am your Perseus, I suppose? What a romantic you are.”

Wilson snickers, giddy with sleep and everything. “Did you know we were right that Cuddy knew. Actually, Cuddy thought we were in an open relationship this whole time. That we started before we were even hired.”

“For once, she diagnosed right.”

“Wrong.”

“Huh?”

Wilson presses a thumb against his chest, smoothing out any worry. “I think we were always meant to be, even before we met.”

“What a romantic you are.”

“You’re a broken record.”

“You’re a-“ House purses his lips, “Fuck. I don’t know. I have lost my faculties.”

“Maybe a sign we should sleep? Please.”

House grumbles, and makes a big show of stealing more of the covers and flipping over. He wiggles until Wilson scoops up into him. He’s out almost immediately, like it’s what was missing all along. And Wilson follows him, never once leaving trajectory.

“So, which one of us gets the date of our dreams?” House interrupts, one last time. He’s too good at faking sleep.

“I’m already in your dreams.”

“That’s right, you are so damned right.”