Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s not the latest time of night that Wilson’s phone has lit up with a vague text from House.

House: Are you awake?

Wilson didn’t answer at first, suppressing a scoff and ignoring a strange stirring in his chest. He knew that House knew that that was a stupid question. It was rare for either of them to even be home at this hour, let alone asleep.

(If he didn’t know better, he’d call the jolt of emotion in his chest something like excitement. A little buzz of happy fear, like a little kid with a crush. But he knew better, so he wondered idly if he was suffering from menopause. )

It’s not like Wilson had anything better to do—he was sitting in front of the hotel’s laundry room TV, folding a load of slightly damp laundry.

The dryer had not produced such mediocrely dried clothes before, at least not for the past few weeks he’d been staying at the hotel. Wilson frowned at the moist button-up shirt stretched between his hands, then shot off a quick “Yes” in response.

There were a few beats before his phone buzzed again.

House: Wanna drive to West Chester with me?

Wilson really did scoff aloud this time. He double checked the time just to be sure. 10:24. He thumbed back a message. 

Wilson: It’s 10:24. Are you insane?

Wilson: Of course.

Wilson: I’d go halfway around the globe if you’d just ask.

He typed. Deleted. Then again. And again. He made a frustrated sound , then finally hit send.

Wilson: Like…now?

The response was immediate.

House: Well, I’m off in 5.

Unbidden, an image of House shrugging on his sleek leather bike jacket and grabbing his keys sprang to his mind. (Wilson felt a little light-headed. He once again considered early onset menopause.)

Suddenly feeling self-conscious of his pajamas, Wilson wiggled into some worn-in jeans and a flattering tee.

He immediately felt faintly embarrassed. What the fuck did he care. He put on his ratty McGill sweater in a small act of protest, then scowled at his phone as if his expression would go through the line, too. 

Wilson went on separating the clothes into two piles: one to be put through the drier again, and the other to put away. He already halfway knew what he would say in answer to House’s question—what he always said, whenever House asked. Still, he hedged.

Wilson: Why?

A buzz back. The message, when he read it, almost made Wilson laugh out loud.

House: There’s this chicken place I want to try.

Wilson managed to wrangle the guffaw into a giggle. God, he might as well just have pigtails with a pink bow on each end. He responded.

Wilson: Lord have mercy…let me throw clothes in the dryer.

Wilson switched off his phone, taking stock of the piles of laundry around him for the first time since House first pinged him.

The hotel was tranquil, but not quiet. The low-grade hum of the hotel's utilities served as a docile backdrop to the rattle and tumble of the washer and dryer. At this time of night, he could almost pretend that he didn't miss Julia—could almost pretend that the only thing filling his mind was him and his too-damp laundry.

It wasn't even a particularly unhappy marriage. Wilson might almost have been happy, if that was the word for it. So it seemed a cruel twist of fate that his almost-happiness had crumbled almost as spectacularly as his other marriages.

Other marriages, he scoffed to himself ruefully. It seemed oxymoronic. Or maybe just moronic.

He fished in his pockets for some change and fed the dryer a few coins. There it went. He huffed a sigh, then pushed himself off his knees with a pop. When he looked up, he wasn’t surprised when his eyes fell on a figure by the doorway. House, blue-eyed and smirking in his favorite leather biker jacket, a helmet tucked under his lanky arm.

Wilson slid the empty hamper on top of the dryer, cutting a look over his shoulder at the other man.

"That was absolutely not five minutes,” he drawled wryly.

House just smiled smugly back at him.

"I may have already been waiting outside when I texted you," House admitted without a trace of shame and a shrug of his shoulders.

Wilson rolled his eyes and plucked the proffered helmet from the other man haughtily. "Who said I would say yes?"

House, thankfully, deigned not to answer. He just shrugged, throwing a knowing sort of self-satisfied smirk over his shoulder as he pressed his thumb to the down button of the elevator. Wilson huffed at him indignantly.

Wilson began to shrug his coat on as the elevator approached the floor, fishing in his pockets for a pair of gloves. He grimaced, not finding any.

As he looked up from his pockets, he noticed the receptionist giving him a small smile. He'd seen her a few times before and thought she was cute. She was young—probably too young for him, if he were being honest—and pretty, light eyes under a sweep of dark brown hair.  Wilson smiled back warmly and—

Too late, Wilson noticed an evil spark dawning in House’s eyes. Before he could abort the half-formed flirtation, House whacked him—none-too-gently—with his cane in the back of his knee, feigning a scorned lover. He put on a mock, shrill squawk: "James! This night is supposed to be about you and me! I can't believe you, you dog." 

He flounced away as best he could, limp be damned.

Wilson cringed, rubbing the point of contact sorely. He dared make eye contact with the receptionist again, whose expression had gone from slight interest to slightly bewildered disapproval. Wilson opened his mouth and gestured after House helplessly. "He's not—we're not—" 

She pursed her lips disapprovingly. Wilson shut up. Ah, well. He hurried after House, cursing under his breath.

He scowled as he stalked toward the motorcycle, coming to a stop and folding his arms tightly. "Ha ha, House. When are you getting over that little bit?"

House's smile was cheery, and his eyes crinkled around the corners. Wilson couldn’t help but be momentarily distracted. There was really no other word for it. House was handsome. "Whenever it stops making me smile."

Wilson wasn't sure what to say to that, so he was grateful for the rev of the bike engine as it turned over. He suspected he looked a bit like a blushing fish, gaping for air. (He made a mental note to see if these symptoms were also consistent with menopause. He was building quite a case for himself.) Wilson changed the subject.

"God, you know I hate this thing," muttered Wilson, taking a glance at the motorcycle. He rattled off automatically: "Motorcyclists are five times more likely to be injured in a crash, you know."

House said mildly, "That's not why you don't like riding the bike."

It was true. That wasn't why Wilson didn't like riding the bike. Wilson liked to ride a bike just fine. What he didn't like was being a passenger on one. For one thing, riding shotgun was nearly always frustratingly uncomfortable. Besides, it was much too physical, too intimate. When on a bike, you had to give yourself up: your weight and gravity were something to be shared with another person. You had to be someone sturdy, someone grounded and steadfast. Someone to hold on to.

It didn’t suit Wilson, flitting here and there with the world-shattering, dizzying force of his affection and yanking it back in the same breath. It was probably for the best anyways. It just meant that Wilson always protested, even as a habit, when riding passenger with House.

But both House and Wilson knew just what did made these reckless joyrides worth it. It was something in the kick of his heart—in the whipping of the wind around his face, in the precarious tilt of weight, in the bursts of sights and smells and feels. Something in the living of it.

So Wilson shut up and tugged his helmet over his head. 

***

The trip itself wasn't too far; in the nighttime like it was, the roads were almost completely empty. It was a far cry from the normally busy streets of the daytime. Wilson’s knuckles were white on the back of the vehicle, but his eyes were open wide with appreciation for the sights flying by. Intersections and streetlights were much more calming in the cooling nighttime; stoplights more like friendly suggestions and lanes more in the abstract sense of the word.

House had always liked fast things, as long as Wilson had known him. Whatever it was, he wanted it faster, pushing limits, straining forward further faster. He'd always preferred whatever would put him personally into the stirrups of speed; out of everything he loved to run, but a close second was a bike. He'd loved the burn of each pedal pushing him forward, loved to watch his surroundings whip past him like a dream and feel the ache of his thighs and know it was real.

(Wilson tried not to think about the fact that he might be a fast thing. Tried not to think about being a firecracker twenty-something heartbroken in a bar, the way his heart somersaulted and kicked into red hot passion in a manner of minutes, the way it dragged him out just as fast.) 

There wasn’t much talking on a motorcycle, apart from the universal grunts of “Look!”, “I see!” and “Slow down, dipshit!”. For tonight, though, Wilson was content to let his hands settle atop the slope of House’s waist and watch the road whip by. Time and space melted into an oozy puddle, and it felt like just a heartbeat before the two pulled into the parking lot, lit up by a garish spread of neon light signs.

WINGS!!!, it exclaimed angrily at anyone who dared look at it. Open 24 hours, it assured, in a more casual font size.

House’s gleeful face was lit by the neon lights, hair slightly curled with sweat from under his helmet. He clapped his hands and leaned over the bike. “Jimmy boy, we’ve made it to heaven.”

Wilson was rubbing the inside of his thigh with a wince. He straightened up and squinted at the establishment. “I’m disappointed at the prevalence of poultry-themed mascots in heaven.” 

House flapped his hand dismissively and turned around to go inside. Wilson, as usual, followed.

***

The inside of the restaurant was not as empty as Wilson thought it might be. A few clumps of people perched at barstools talked and drank in front of some football reruns, and there were even one or two patrons sitting at tables to eat. The entrance where the two doctors had come in was clearly marked with a sign that read: Please wait to be seated. House, for his part, ignored it decisively, sliding into a booth.

Wilson slid in reluctantly in front of him, hissing to House, “This clearly says wait to be—”

He was interrupted by a cute young waiter who greeted them with a passive aggressive smile. “You really should wait before sitting down. Restaurant rules.”

“Oh, so sorry about that,” simpered House sweetly. “Bum leg, you know.”

He patted his leg with one hand and eyeballed his cane mournfully. The waiter regarded him dubiously but readied his pen and pad, shifting his attention to Wilson. He clearly liked what he saw, because his voice dropped into a flirtatious lilt. “How can I help you, gorgeous? Anything to drink?”

Wilson opened his mouth to answer, flattered, but petered out when he caught a glimpse of House’s face, which resembled a sullen puppy. He cleared his throat. “Um. No, just water please.”

House visibly brightened, and Wilson had to fight to press back a sweet smile from his lips. (Hormonal imbalances, he thought sagely to himself. Increased sensitivity, that was all.) The waiter brought back two glasses of water. Wilson sipped his delicately as he watched House chatter on, ordering the pair an impressive array of wings and driving their poor server up the wall.

The restaurant’s whole schtick was being open 24 hours, which explained its name: Night Bird. House thought the name was a bit reductive, but Wilson got the gist. There were the standard flavors of wings: barbecue, honeyed, garlic parmesan, but there were also some more interesting ones, with names like “more barbecue”, “green goblin”, and “chest-nut”. The spiciness of the hot wings was fun too, going from a scale of Early Bird, to Night Bird, to a truly horrifying Night Terror.

Which is how Wilson ended up nearly shitting his pants from laughter as House flailed for a glass of water after a nibble on the Night Terror. The wings themselves were not anything to be trifled with, smothered in an intimidatingly dark sauce and sprinkled with red hot flakes.

House had pushed the plate towards him, waggling an eyebrow at Wilson. “Best for last?”

Wilson shook his head and put up his hands, chuckling. He’d thus far been keeping up with House, but he knew his limits. “That’s all you.”

House had grabbed a wing, not breaking eye contact with Wilson, and ripped into it viciously. The rest, much like House as he spluttered and coughed from the heat, was history.

After House finished hacking up a lung, Wilson waved the waiter over and asked for the check. He pulled out his wallet automatically, but stopped short when House waved him off, eyes still watery.

“I got it,” he croaked, with as much of a suave air as one could muster after nearly dying to a chicken wing. The waiter took his card primly and Wilson blinked at House in bewilderment as his stomach did funny gymnastics.

“What?” House groused after noticing Wilson’s shock. He looked almost sheepish as he packed up the leftovers, adding gruffly. “It was my idea anyway.”

Wilson just laughed and shook his head a little in disbelief. House went back to chattering about a recent study about laser treatment for diabetic macular edema, and it wasn’t until Wilson had pushed open the door back out to the parking lot until it dawned on him.

Wilson stopped short and furrowed his brow, a few feet behind the bike. “House.”

House kept walking, only turning when he reached his bike. He reached over to unlatch the top-box, looking determinedly casual as he loaded the leftovers in. “Mhm?”

“Did you just take me on a date.”

It was more a statement than a question.  Wilson scowled at his friend with equal parts utter confusion and whole-hearted irritation.

House looked infuriatingly unaffected in the light of the streetlamp. He turned his back to Wilson before chirruping brightly, “No.”

Wilson did a double take, affronted. He chewed on this for a while, casting about for something to say. He opened and shut his mouth, as if he were writing and rewriting a text.

Wilson: You absolute fucking idiot.

Wilson: What if I wanted it to be?

Wilson: You make me feel

He came up with nothing. House had stepped closer, curiosity piqued, peering at Wilson for a response. There was something more behind his usual analytical stare, a glimmer of nervousness flashing in his practiced gaze. Wilson should not find that hot. He leaned away, his face heating rapidly. He blurted, instead, “Differential diagnosis…!” 

House gave him a charged look, a frown tugging his lips down and his eyebrow curling up. Wilson felt slightly panicked. Maybe he could explain this in a way House understood better.

Wilson tried again, clearing his throat. “Differential diagnosis for a patient, early forties, who’s experiencing spells of warmth in chest and head, mood swings, flushing, and difficulty thinking.” 

He paused, then added, “Patient has not menstruated in the past 12 months.”

There was that familiar flash of realization across House’s face, the one usually reserved for discovering a patient had a rare disease. He tilted his head and let a self-satisfied smirk creep onto his face. House straightened up, and Wilson remembered that House was actually the barest bit taller than him. Ice blue eyes bored into Wilson's, and House spoke lowly but with no small bit of pleasure.

"Based on the symptoms given, the patient seems to have a clear-cut case of early onset menopause," said House with a wicked smile. "Based on the symptoms not given, the patient may be experiencing mild to moderate infatuation with his best friend." 

Wilson stared at House, somewhat entranced by the blues of his eyes. He protested weakly: "I only said that I—that the patient—hadn't menstruated in the last 12 months. Who's to say I've never gotten my period?"

House looked at him sardonically, a glimmer of affection brushing the crinkles of his eyes, "Well, Wilson, no matter how bitchy you get near the end of the month, we can't call that menstruating." 

House stepped closer, studying him closely. Wilson, unmoved, studied him back. House never scared him away like he did others.  

"Hey." House interrupted his train of thought with that terrifyingly intense gaze of his. "You never asked what the treatment was for that."

Wilson opened his mouth, momentarily at a loss for words. "I—um—"

He stopped. Steeled himself. Let himself slip into the familiar flirtatious face as he'd given the hotel receptionist. Let himself become a fast thing.  He smirked back from under his lashes, a heat in his eyes that always sent women reeling, drawling, "No, I guess I didn't."

Emotions flashed across House's face in quick succession: alarm, attraction, frustration, affection, fear, ire. He cupped Wilson's face fiercely, and Wilson shut his eyes, prepared to be kissed furiously. Only to be brushed by the gentlest press of dry lips against his, punctuated by the cool of House's fingertips on the curve of his jaw. The kiss was soft, and sarcastic, and sweet, and Wilson had to stop himself from chasing after it when it had gone. 

Wilson opened his eyes. He knew his eyes were warm with affection, his mouth twisted in gentle amusement. "What is it, then?"

He peered at House, whose eyes danced in reply but held a hint of uncertainty. Eyes that said more than House ever could with his mouth. I want you. More than I need you, I want you.

House opened his mouth and said, dumbly, "We should make out, probably."

Wilson pulled back and smirked, plucking the keys from House’s slack hand. He sauntered back towards the motorcycle with keys in hand. He tugged on his black leather jacket, raking back the brown strands of hair that fell into his eyes with his fingers.

His eyes fell back onto a smitten looking House, and he gave him his best smirk. “Well, you better get on it, because menopause is no joke.”