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Greg remembers being a kid during the holidays. Not that he finds much use in dwelling on it, given that he’s an adult who doesn’t visit his family or have one of his own to celebrate with, but every now and then…
It wasn’t spectacularly horrible. If anything, he has some vague memories of a forcibly pleasant week and a half, the branch of Christmas Eve to the New Year inspiring neutral will within his household. Neutral was about as good as things got, compared to the rest of the year, and while his childhood doesn’t influence his life in the present, holidays still put something of a sour taste in his mouth.
Gregory House is the kind of man who spits in the face of any day that makes people pretend to like each other. Why should he abide by some arbitrary, calendar-based code of conduct? He doesn’t abide by most codes of conduct, why would a holiday be any different? It doesn’t make sense to him when Cuddy smiles at him as if she isn’t annoyed that he skipped out on clinic hours last week. It doesn’t make sense when Cameron leaves a gift on his desk, or when Wilson wears his stupid headband to work.
People are still sick, people are still dying, and people still lie. It doesn’t matter what time of the year it is.
“Looks like the Grinch’s heart is still three sizes too small. Should get that looked at.” Wilson steps over the threshold of his office door, the bells on his ridiculous headband announcing his arrival before he even speaks.
“Works well enough, better not mess with it.” Greg replies, not looking away from his computer. He might not be one for holiday niceties, but the holiday lingerie isn’t bad on the right actresses.
“Still keeping ourselves miserable this year? Then again, who am I kidding?” Wilson sinks down into the chair across from him, crossing his legs in an effort to get comfortable. Greg always liked Wilson’s legs, though he looked better in jeans than he did in the usual things he wore to work.
Restraining a sigh, his eyes pull from the computer screen onto Wilson’s form. He leans back in his chair, grabbing his ball and turning it in his hands.
“Not miserable. I’m plenty happy with my life.” Greg raises his eyebrows, leaning in slightly. His voice pitches in a whisper. “I save lives, you know,” the sarcasm drips from his tone. “Most rewarding profession one can have. If anything, I’ve been on the nice list for a couple decades by now. Unlike you,” he leans back again, “you don’t even celebrate Christmas. Santa doesn’t even bring you coal.”
Wilson rolls his eyes. “The horror. Whatever shall I do.” He looks back at Greg, and the latter senses something irritating is about to happen. “Listen, Greg-”
“Absolutely not.” The words are out of his mouth before he can even really think.
Sighing, Wilson levels a deadpan look at him. “Come to my apartment for dinner. General holiday… whatever. I’m cooking, all you have to do is bring yourself.”
He raises an eyebrow. So rarely is there an invitation like this without some sort of stipulation.
Wilson sees his next sentence from twelve miles away, and speaks again before he can even open his mouth.
“Nobody else. Just you, and me, and a fireplace on the TV, or something. Try to dress nice, I know you own at least one turtleneck.”
He still doesn’t trust it, not fully, but… “Since you’re so desperate for my company, I guess I could make an appearance. Turtleneck pending.”
“Well… fine. Good, even.” Wilson nods, standing up. He looks too happy as he heads for the door, and Greg feels like there’s a leash around his neck that’s being pulled.
“This better not be a trick,” he calls at Wilson’s back. “Halloween went out of season already, it would be criminal to use my good nature against me!”
“As if there’s anything ‘good’ about your nature,” is all Wilson says before he’s out of earshot.
Greg sinks down in his chair, frowning to himself. Wilson is harmless. Dinner with Wilson is usually good, especially since he isn’t doing dishes. Holidays with Wilson between wives are… unusual. Normally he has somebody to dote on, someone to pretend to be tender with, using the time of year to try and make up for every missed evening in bed, every lonely breakfast, every birthday or anniversary gone by.
So why is Wilson asking to have dinner with him, instead of finding some lonely nurse to offer the warmth of his home to?
He straightens up in his chair when Cameron comes in, forcing himself to get back to work.
Greg knocks on the door twenty minutes after he’s supposed to be there. He actually arrived thirty minutes ago, but he spent all that time sitting in his car on the street, waiting to see if anyone else pulled in. When he didn't see anyone else go inside, he figured it was safe to enter the building.
His cane only does so much as he painfully ascends the stairs, and he knocks back some vicodin before rapping his cane on the door. It only takes a minute or so for the locks to click as they’re turned, and suddenly, he’s face to face with Wilson.
Looking over his shoulder, Wilson’s apartment is decorated enough to be warm, but not so much that it gives away that he doesn’t celebrate much of anything. There’s a wreath on the door, electric candles in the windows, and poinsettias on the table in the living room. Other than that, not a lot is going on. True to his word, a fireplace recording is playing on the TV, and there’s jazz music warming the apartment.
Greg… likes it. Even though he’s never enjoyed the way that Wilson's apartments are decorated, at the very least, what he does put effort into is as nice as a few throwaway pieces can be.
“I’m astonished you’re this early. Maybe you actually want to be here,” Wilson says, actually sounding surprised. Greg silently curses to himself. He should’ve waited an extra ten or twenty minutes.
“I like to eat hot food, actually. I figured you ran behind and would start cooking later than intended anyway.” Greg answers, nudging Wilson aside with his cane before walking into the apartment.
“And you’re actually wearing a turtleneck,” Wilson adds, closing the door behind him. There’s something warm in his voice, just beyond the surprise. Greg ignores the way he feels when that tone is directed at him.
“Was behind on laundry,” he retorts, going to sit down on the couch. He looks at Wilson over his shoulder, noticing the dress pants he can usually be seen in at work, in addition to a dress shirt and sweater-vest, argyle, of course.
Before the silence can stretch, Greg speaks again. “So what’s for dinner?”
“You’ll know when I’m done cooking,” Wilson hums, walking into the kitchen.
Greg can’t help but laugh to himself, even if it’s a brief exhale. Wilson is hardly ever determined to do anything, more the type to keep to himself and keep his head down. He’s a shoe-kisser, a groveler, and his lack of backbone makes up the stepping stones of their friendship. And yet, there is something in him, a fire, that makes him better than Chase, a bitterness that makes him better than Cameron, and a distinct fatalistic attitude that makes him better than Foreman. Greg has to admit, he knows how to pick them.
By the time he’s done pondering Wilson’s nature, he can hear his host setting the table in preparation. So, Greg gets up with only minor arguments from his muscles, and he ambles into the open dining room, his cane thudding against the wood floor as he goes.
Soon enough, dinner is laid out between the two of them, sat across from each other. The head of the table remains empty, Wilson sitting across from him with his back to the kitchen. Each of them has a glass of wine, some italian import that Greg doesn’t bother reading the label for once he tastes the first sip.
“Satisfactory?” Wilson asks, his eyebrow raised as he starts serving himself dinner. Greg follows close behind, piling food onto his plate.
“You aren’t supposed to pair red wine with white meat, but alcohol is alcohol,” he answers, beginning to cut his food and eat.
They don’t speak for several moments before Wilson decides to break the silence. He sounds awkward as he speaks.
“Have you started working on any new music pieces lately?” The topic is so… mundane, conversational, it’s almost-
Wilson has invited him to dinner, during the holidays. They’re both dressed nicely, eating what could be considered delicious food (if Greg was capable of a compliment better than ‘it’s mediocre’), they’re sharing a bottle of wine, and Wilson is asking him about something not work-related.
“Ah. You’re finally admitting you’re gay.” He smirks, leaning back in his seat with the glass of wine in his hand.
Wilson sputters, clearly confused by the line of thinking that led to that question.
“What do you mean, ‘I’m finally admitting I’m gay’? I can’t be invested in your hobbies?” He sounds as defensive as he always does when someone accuses him of being gay, and House can’t help but want to press as many pretty red buttons as he can.
“You’re spending a holiday that you could be using to schmooze up some nurse or, as the record shows, a dying patient, with me. You told me to dress nice-”
“And you did,” Wilson points out.
“-and then you serve me a home-cooked meal that you definitely practiced, in addition to expensive Italian wine. Either you’re gay, or you’re checking to see if I’m gay.”
There’s a pause, Greg and Wilson staring at each other over their glasses of wine. In his mind’s eye, Greg can see Wilson thinking through all of the things he’s said, determining how he wants to tread next to avoid being made fun of any more.
“Well, are you?” Wilson asks, surprising him.
“What? Gay?” Greg asks, taking a brief sip of his wine before he continues. “No, I believe the kids call it being bisexual. And by the kids, I mean anyone who knows what an acronym is.”
Wilson pauses, eyes narrowing while he tries to determine if Greg is telling the truth or not. The wheels turn as he looks for some invisible tell, some way to know for sure.
“Seriously?” He finally asks, and Greg sighs, shaking his head as if he’s disappointed.
The automatic response is hot on Greg’s tongue, “Didn't take you for a biphobic asshole, Wilson-”
“I’m not biphobic, you’re just- you’re impossible to read when you say stuff like this.” Wilson’s voice comes in a rush, his free hand gesticulating.
Greg chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re too easy. I figured by now, you’d know for sure. Then again, even if you pretend to be one of the girls, I suppose you wouldn’t be as good at MySpace stalking as they are.”
Now there’s just utter confusion painted on Wilson’s face, a silent request for Greg to explain what he could possibly mean by that.
Greg rolls his eyes. “I fucked a guy in college. A few, actually. One of them turned into a brief round of dates. There’s pictures.”
Utter confusion turns into wide-eyed shock.
“And you never said anything? And wait- pictures? Like, of the guys or the sex?”
Greg smirks, his eyebrow raised. "Why, interested?"
Wilson groans, running a hand through his hair and tugging slightly. "You're impossible. Who else knows?"
"Stacy, Cuddy. Probably some other people who never bothered to bring it up or didn't want to," he shrugs. He watches Wilson process what he's just said, and Greg feels a creeping suspicion that this conversation is about to become interesting.
“Well, then fine. Yes.” Wilson says, taking a bite of his food.
Greg thinks over his questions. “... Yes to what?”
“I’m admitting it, you got me,” and Greg can’t detect anything in his tone that says he’s lying.
“Seriously?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Didn't take you for a homophobic asshole, House,” Wilson smirks, and the final pieces fall into place.
“I always knew you just talked to me to get into my pants,” Greg accuses, no heat to his tone. He likes this Wilson, flirty Wilson. Well. He likes when it’s directed at him, anyway.
“Yes, that’s exactly why I’ve put myself in the line of fire countless times, whether it be from you or a stray bullet.” Wilson rolls his eyes.
The conversation dies as they finish their dinner and wine, then pour another pair of glasses before they migrate to the living room. They sit next to each other on the couch, the both of them in thought. Comfortable silence, only enhanced by the music playing in the background, settles between them.
“Well since you’re trying to fuck me, I might as well get to talk about myself. I’ve been working on Prelude in C Major…”
They talk for hours, opening a second bottle of wine despite knowing that Wilson will want to die in the morning.
Greg wakes up to the sun shining in his face, a pounding headache, and an irritating buzz in his leg; but when he looks down and sees Wilson splayed over him, ever-so-carefully avoiding his bad leg, he can’t find it in himself to wake the poor bastard up. He looks younger in his sleep, her features soft and slightly swollen with the warmth of rest.
He leans his head back against the arm of the couch and closes his eyes. Everything else can wait for noon.