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Wilson likes being a dad, he really does. Duncan's exactly what he would've wanted in a kid - kind, polite, smart. He can imagine a series of weekends in their future - he can't wait to take him to the planetarium, to the aquarium, to the theater. He wonders if Beth would be open to a camping trip - not now, it’s still early days, but maybe in a few months’ time, once he’s shown that he can be a reliable guy.
It’s the camping trip that he’s thinking about when Duncan says his mom wants them to move. That would’ve been a fun weekend. Maybe he’ll get to see him over the holidays. Summer vacation. He could even go to Costa Rica for a week, he could take the time off -
And then there’s a kid in front of him asking him if he can live with him, this kid he barely knows but who calls him Dad already, and what else is he supposed to say but yes?
House is right, he thinks as he hides out in his office and considers fleeing the state. House is always right. He’s not ready for this. He doesn’t want this. He’s too selfish for this (not a word anyone else would use to describe him), a trait he’s fought against his whole life (if you’re not there for people, you lose them; that’s how it works, that’s how the world punishes you) but can’t deny any more. When it comes down to it, when it’s something this big, he can’t pretend. He can’t treat a kid the way he’s treated women. Fatherhood does not come with an escape hatch.
He’s screwed.
When he admits as much to House, there is a part of him hoping it will fix things. It’s not logical, he knows that. Crude jokes or I-told-you-so’s or outrageous schemes won’t undo this mess - this mess he’s made. He called Beth. He has only himself to blame.
And then.
Objectively, this is the worst thing House has ever done to him. He shoos both him and his fake-son out of his office, furious, indignant, because who the fuck does something like this? How on earth is he still friends with this man? This level of, of toying with his emotions - it’s unhinged.
He should never want to speak to House again. That would be the correct response to something like this. It’s too much. It’s a line crossed. It’s unforgivable.
Meanwhile: his body is already a whole lot looser and calmer than it’s been all day, his breathing less strained, his stomach acid easing up. If he wasn’t so exhausted, he’d be dancing around the room - it’s okay! He’s dodged a bullet! He’s not really a father! He doesn’t need to worry about breaking an innocent kid’s heart - and his own heart might be a little dented but it’s also singing out in relief.
When House shows up at his door that night, bottle in hand, he looks almost contrite. “Figured since you’re not on daddy duty tonight…”
Wilson pauses, and then smiles. “Sure. C’mon in.”
He’s been putting a pizza together for himself, using up what’s left from when Duncan came over. (Prosciutto. What eleven-year-old asks for prosciutto? Or thinks to add "a drizzle" of Dijon mustard? He should’ve seen it.) He lets House make his own, and gently nudges him on some of the finer points of this latest prank. The woman he spoke to really was Beth, who still holds a mild grudge - he can’t remember exactly why, but he suspects it’s something to do with bringing House along to a party and him insulting her friends. Or maybe he screwed it up all on his own; he’s more than capable of that.
Maybe he just wants to blame House, for knowing him too well. For his arrogance, his certainty, his infuriating ability to be right even when Wilson’s so sure he’s wrong. It’s not perfect - he misses things, he gets things wrong, he’s too quick to attribute actions to the most cynical motive possible - but this latest win is a biggie.
Which means Wilson needs to force him into being wrong about something. That’s how it works, the push-and-pull of their relationship over twenty years. That’s why he settles into the couch with his pizza on his lap and says, “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but you were right. That insane stunt of yours actually -” He shakes his head. “I think you actually did something good.”
House twitches, as Wilson knew he would. “No, no, don’t make it into - no!” He’s horrified. “I just wanted to show you that your weird little fantasy was just that. I did this to -”
“To prove you’re right,” he finishes, smiling. He knows he sounds sincere here. It helps that he is, a little. But underneath it, he is laying groundwork. “Seriously, House. It got me thinking about - my life. All the - assumptions I made about what I wanted.” He allows himself a small bite of his lip here, as though he’s touched on something huge here. Something he can barely let himself admit, even to himself, but that is starting to become clear to him. He looks away, feigning shyness, and focuses on his pizza.
Next to him, he can practically hear House’s brain whizzing into action.
It’s been a little over a week since House revealed that Wilson’s ‘son’ was an actor - four days since they found one of his commercials online and laughed at the cheesiness of it - and Wilson’s been acting weird.
Sulky or cold, House was prepared for. A risky business, giving someone a fake kid, even if it was with the best of intentions. Wilson’s moments of broodiness need to be tempered with reality; he doesn’t want the responsibility of a kid, but he’d never admit to himself unless forced to. He might think it makes him selfish - the last thing Wilson ever wants to be - but House thinks it’s a whole lot more selfish to bring a kid into the world for the reasons so many people do, to fix a broken marriage or a hole in their soul or worst of all, because it’s what people feel they’re supposed to do. People are idiots.
So he’s not sorry about what he’s done, but he is surprised by how Wilson’s taken it - the way he’s been smiling at him, like it was a nice thing. But there’s something else in there, too. He’s brought him coffee. Not-drugged coffee (House tested it, obviously). He’s been making these little comments about how he’s been thinking about his life, and expectations, and today’s latest, in the cafeteria, “I think I’ve been scared to acknowledge what I actually - want. You know?”
“No,” House had replied, impatiently, and he noted the little hurt expression on Wilson’s face but seriously, what else was he supposed to say? “What’s wrong with you?”
Wilson held up his hands. “Nothing! I’m just - considering my life choices.”
House could not roll his eyes hard enough. But then Wilson was paged, which meant House could steal his utensils, and along with some other bodily fluids he’d managed to nab in the past twenty-four hours, by various undignified and frowned-upon means, he can now run some tests. Because something’s up.
When House comes into his office, looking solemn, Wilson is pretty sure he knows what this is about. He’s about to get The Talk - a gentle letdown about how House has realized that Wilson’s in love with him. It’s been eight days of shy glances and blushes and coded references to big realizations and hidden desires - sometimes it’s felt so obvious that he can’t believe House hasn’t picked up on it sooner.
“You’ve been acting weird,” House begins slowly, and Wilson, still at his desk, hides a smile beneath his hand.
He’s been waiting for House to make fun of him, but this is even better - House being thoughtful about his best friend’s alleged secret gay crush on him? House being kind?
Wilson’s so caught up in the fantasies of how he might use this to his own advantage, and in ensuring that his face remains serious, that he doesn’t quite take it in at first, the details House is listing off for him. But he’s an oncologist, and a good one; even distracted there’s still part of his brain piecing it all together.
“Oh,” he says, and then he grins. “Okay. You got me.”
“It’s not - do you seriously think I’d make this up?”
“Yeah,” Wilson says, which he thinks is fair.
House takes a moment, and then sighs. “Yeah. Okay. Talk to Foreman. Talk to your staff. Get someone else to run the tests again. Please.”
“You want me to waste their time with -” But he’s uncertain now. There’s a level of quiet desperation on House’s face that he’s only ever seen at the really bad times. This doesn’t feel like a prank anymore. It feels like those bad times - after Stacy left, or just before House checked into Mayfield.
House hands him the file. “You know what to look for.” And then he limps out of the room, leaving Wilson shaken. It can’t be - he can’t actually be sick - this must be some kind of - but there’s enough of a ‘what if’ in there to make him wonder.
He asks one of his colleagues to re-run the tests, and as he waits for the results he tries to imagine why House would want to trick him into believing that he’s sick. It’s too soon, after the Duncan prank, to prompt him into another epiphany, surely? Maybe Wilson’s retaliation has worked too well - maybe House has picked up on the secretly-in-love-with-you vibes he’s been deliberately sending, and instead of mocking him, wants to shake him out of it by making him think he has cancer.
Maybe House thinks that someone falling in love with him is a symptom, it suddenly occurs to him, and there’s a little pang in his chest at this. For all his infuriating arrogance, the guy also carries enough self-loathing in his back pocket to torpedo almost any affection toward him. And now Wilson feels like a jerk. He should tell House he loves him - not in that way, not in that your-eyes-are-dreamy way he’s been pretending this past week (his eyes are dreamy, but that’s not the point), but in that of-course-I-love-you-you-idiot way that people need to say to each other sometimes.
Most people don’t - not with people they don’t want to sleep with (and if it’s someone they want to sleep with, the I-love-you is not necessarily an honest one) - until it’s too late. He can’t count up the number of patients he’s had who’ve confessed love from hospital beds, and by then it’s always safe - no one turns down someone dying of cancer. (It’s when recoveries happen that the relationships fall apart.)
Maybe, he thinks suddenly, with a burst of optimism, this is the point of this little scheme of House’s. His fake-romantic-love has been seen through, but scaring him into thinking he might be dying - that’ll make him see that he needs to own up to the actual love. Okay, he thinks, okay, House, you’ve won this one. Again.
“I’m sorry, Dr Wilson,” the voice says, sounding like it’s coming from a galaxy away. “It’s cancer.”
House’s spies (his team, and a couple of nurses from oncology he regularly blackmails) have alerted him to Wilson going for tests, which means his heart rate is something close to normal. If it hadn’t happened by now, he’d have to take more serious action, bring Foreman in; no way he was going to let Wilson cling onto the delusion that this was some silly joke.
House doesn’t fool around with cancer. Not with people he cares about. He may have occasionally lied to strangers to try to get better - adequate - pain management, but he’s never pretended to the people around him that he’s got the damn thing. It’s boring, for one, and for another: who needs another thing wrong with them when they have crippling chronic pain and this charming personality to go with it?
They’re bringing him in for surgery that evening, he discovers. Good. He waits for Wilson to turn up at his office, and then figures he’s probably already being prepped, and waits for the phone call, and when there’s nothing, he crams four pills into his mouth and heads for the OR board to find out which gallery he needs to be in.
It’s been three years or so, he thinks, since he watched Wilson go under and give part of his liver to that moronic friend of his. That time, he almost didn’t show up. This time, Wilson didn’t even ask him - which he gets. He’s screwed up so often since then. Fled the country. Done jail time. But he’s here, anyway - his eyes meeting Wilson’s briefly before he goes under, his heart rate speeding up again.
He has to be okay. Wilson has to be okay. They have to be able to treat this.
“We can’t discuss it with a non-family member,” the doctor keeps saying, and House’s cane is dangerously close to venturing somewhere the sun doesn’t shine when Foreman intervenes.
“House,” he says sharply.
In Foreman’s office, he gets the details (“In the interest of keeping you from doing something that’ll get you sent back to jail” is the preface): the thymoma’s been excised completely, and hasn’t spread. No symptoms - they caught it early, which happens sometimes with this kind of cancer, but usually only when something else is up, and a patient’s going in for a scan for something else. “Your obsession with Wilson saved his life,” Foreman says. “I guess he deserves it, for putting up with you all this time.”
House can’t even pretend to hide his grin. “He’s going to be okay?”
“Yeah.” Foreman even manages a manly clap to his shoulder. “Go check on him.”
“I love you!” Wilson declares as soon as he walks in the room. “I should’ve told you, House. I love you.”
House smirks. “Wanna share some of that morphine?”
“It’s not - House! It’s true! I should’ve said something, but then I thought I might die, and no one ever tells people until it’s too late, and I do, House, I do. Not in a gay way.” Wilson suddenly adopts a very serious look, or tries to. “Not that you’re not a very - very attractive man. If I was. Then. I mean. But you might think. Because I was trying to make you think - but I’m not secretly in love with you.”
House is suddenly deeply regretting not filming this on his phone from the beginning. Doped-up Wilson is the greatest thing he’s ever seen. “Aw, honey, you’re breaking my heart.”
“No, no, see, that’s the thing! The thing!” He’s waving his fingers around vaguely now. “I do still love you. I should tell you. House, I need to tell you something.”
“You love me.”
“How’d you know?” Wilson looks truly bewildered. “No, no! Not in love,” he says. “The prank, the stupid prank…” He drifts off.
House’s brain is slotting it all together nicely, alongside being amused at just how hard the drugs have hit his best friend. Oh, to have such a low tolerance! All of those little hints this past while - it was Wilson scheming. Trying to convince him that he was secretly in big gay love with him, that House’s own prank had prompted such a drastic reconsidering of his own life that it had led him to realize this.
He grins. Okay. He deserved this level of payback for the kid thing, and Wilson stepped up to the plate. This little tumor has been a distraction, but now it’s back to work.
The game is on.
Wilson’s a little out of it in the hours after the operation; time moves in strange ways and the doctors tell him more than once about what happened, that the surgery was successful, that he’s going to be okay.
House is there, by his side, and he’s pretty sure he tells him he loves him, but it’s all hazy, and when he’s properly awake and with-it he makes a point of saying it again. “Look. Thank you for - all this. I don’t say it often enough, but - I love you.”
House smirks.
“Said it when I was high on morphine, didn’t I,” Wilson chuckles. “Well. Hey. I mean it!”
House looks at the floor. “No, I get it. When stuff like this happens, it makes you realize…”
“Yeah.” He’s glad House gets it, that he’s letting him have this tiny moment. He’s also relieved when House leans in to share some outrageous gossip about what’s going on with the nurses in the clinic. His addled brain has only just remembered why he didn't call House before going under: the last time House was in this situation, after someone he cared about had a cancer scare, it ended badly.
He's said what he needed to say. Now they can get back to normal.
Hospital policy would prefer he not drive himself home, but he knows he’s fine, so he lies cheerfully and says that House is driving. He’s pretty sure no one will want to check, and even if they do, they’ll assume House is lying. Having a sociopath for a friend is sometimes helpful, he thinks, until he gets back to his apartment and sees that said sociopath has broken in.
“You’re - ” He stands in the doorway, blinking.
“Cooking,” House says.
“Seriously?”
House pauses, looks around. “There was a lion-tamer around here somewhere but I guess he got bored.” He returns to the steaming pots. “It’s all stuff from your stupid list, relax.”
Wilson hasn’t looked too closely at his post-surgery healthy-eating plan. He’s seen enough of them. “You’re - making me dinner?”
House rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe your surgeons didn’t spot that thing had spread to your brain. Yes, I’m making you dinner. Sit.”
Wilson does. He’s a little confused, and surprised - but it’s nice. House is capable of niceness, he knows, though he doesn’t often show it. Wilson’s brush with cancer has shaken them both, it seems. This is House’s version of saying I-love-you, maybe his way of redeeming himself for past failures, too. And, hey, the man can cook. He’ll take it.
House sets the paper cup on his desk.
“You’re bringing me tea?” Wilson is suspicious. He’s been back at work a few days, and surely House’s niceness should have run out by now.
“You’re supposed to avoid coffee,” House reminds him, “and you had one this morning anyway, so - tea.”
Wilson stares, and then stands. “Okay. What’s up?”
“What?”
“This! All - this!” He gestures around the room. “You’ve come over to cook for me, you’re bringing me tea, you haven’t barged in on me with a patient once -”
“Oh, what a monster I am,” House says, rolling his eyes. “Isn’t this exactly the kind of behavior you’ve been trying to instill in me for the past two decades?”
“But why now?” Wilson asks, exasperated, and then as soon as he’s said it - and House flinches - he wishes he hadn’t.
“You know why,” House mumbles, suddenly fascinated with the carpet.
Wilson exhales slowly. “I’m okay, House.”
House nods once, jerkily, and Wilson decides it might be safe to move a little closer. He puts one hand on House’s arm, tentatively at first, and then lets himself a gentle squeeze once he’s not shaken off.
“Wanna go out this evening?” he suggests. “Italian?”
House nods again. “Sure.”
He got a hand on the arm! He can’t stop himself from grinning as he returns to his office, ignoring the strange looks his team are giving him. Wilson hardly ever touches him, knows how he feels about those little sentimental movements he associates with delivering bad news to patients.
House wonders how far he can push this, how much Wilson would give him before breaking. If he suggested that a handjob or two between friends might make them feel closer - might make him feel a little more emotionally open, maybe - would Wilson go for it?
Not that he wants that (though he probably wouldn’t say no; things are quiet on the hooker front at the moment, with Emily giving it all up for marriage - let’s see how long that lasts - and Dominika’s citizenship has just come through, so she’ll be moving out). But his favorite schemes have always been the ones with him and Wilson, playing with each other, seeing how far they can take things.
Really, he’s just taking a step out of Wilson’s book. Wilson was pretending to be secretly in love with him? No one can match Greg House. He’s been gazing lovingly at him ever since he got through surgery, playing the role like he’s one of Wilson’s simpering wives, pre-divorce, obviously. He’s been thoughtful and caring - doing a better job, really, than any of the wives could have managed, because he knows the real Wilson. He knows the right ratio of healthy, virtuous food to indulgent treats, knows when to push and when to pull back about suggesting he get some rest or take more time off or get an extra blanket. He -
“At what point,” he wonders aloud, “does acting like something’s true actually make it true?”
Adams frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Taub sighs. “Our patient. Somehow.” He squints, looking at his notes again. “The liver.”
Chase jumps in. “It’s been acting like it’s working - but it’s not. We need to run a -”
“Go, go.” House waves them off, irritably. He takes a moment to consider that yes, they have just figured out what’s wrong with their latest patient, well done everyone, and then returns to the bigger concern. What if he’s been so good at pretending to be in love with Wilson that it’s gone past the possibility of being a prank, and Wilson’s just decided to accept it? What if he thinks that House has really been in love with him all this time, and wants to avoid the awkward conversation about how he couldn’t possibly ever feel that way?
(He couldn’t, right? He said as much, after surgery - he loves House, but not in an in-love way, he wanted to be very clear about that, and why does that suddenly hurt instead of feeling like a relief?)
Talking to Wilson is, of course, out of the question. So he persuades Taub and Chase into drinks after work on Friday.
“One drink,” Taub says. “I have the girls tomorrow.”
“Five drinks,” Chase says, “but you’re buying.”
House agrees to these terms. Possibly also makes a derogatory reference to the drinking habits of Australians, but keeps it nationality-specific instead of bringing up Chase’s mother, so, really, incredibly kind, on his part.
“You’re not in love with Wilson,” Taub says wearily, who has accepted a second drink despite the previous boundaries established. House insists they toast Dominika - that thirty grand has provided a much-needed boost to his bank account since his salary’s plummeted - and then gets back to the business at hand.
“I think I might be.” House is as uncomfortable as the next man - i.e. Taub - at having to say this. But his options are extremely limited.
“You’re not,” Chase scoffs. “You’re just telling us this to win the pool.”
“The what?” House wonders, as Taub mutters wearily, “Of course.” He looks between the two of them. “What?”
“You must know about the betting pool,” Chase says.
“He probably started it,” Taub notes.
“There’s a - ” He pieces it together quickly. “Are you telling me that the fine and noble staff of Princeton-Plainsboro have a pool going on whether me and Wilson are bumping uglies?”
“Yes,” Taub says.
“C’mon, you have to have known about it.” Chase squints at him. “It’s not whether, it’s - when. When the two of you finally get together. Only you’re both so secretive and weird that we’ve had to change it to whenever someone finds out. Either one of you says it, or we have to catch you in the act.” He looks to Taub to confirm. “Those are the rules, right?”
“I don’t know,” Taub says with the air of someone very much above all of this. “I can’t keep up with the latest amendments to the file.”
“There’s a file?”
“Foreman’s office,” Chase says, nodding.
House’s head is spinning, and it’s far too early in the evening for that. “So the entire hospital is betting that we’re going to hook up, but I tell you that I’m in love with him and you assume it has to be a prank? You idiot.”
Chase shrugs. “You wouldn’t tell us. I always figured I’d need to walk in on you on your knees.”
House splutters. “Why am I on my knees? Why not Wilson? I’m the cripple, he’s the one who should be -” He stops himself. “That’s not the point.” He blinks, hoping that might banish the image from his brain.
Taub frowns, and takes a sip of his drink. “Hmmm.”
“Hmmm?” House repeats.
“Do you know how quickly babies grow out of things? I could use the extra cash.” Taub adopts a faux-kind expression. “Go on, House, tell us all about your feelings for Wilson.”
“This was a very bad idea,” House realizes.
When Foreman took over as the dean of medicine, he was in the unfortunate position of knowing too much about what went on in the hospital. Whatever he might have done in his own time as an underling was beside the point - he was in charge now, and he needed to do it right. So he was attentive to the attendings and department heads who enjoyed complimenting their subordinates a little too often, and had a quiet word with the fellows who turned up visibly hungover more than once, and cracked down on gambling of any kind whenever he saw it. Stupid bets about patients - irresponsible. Unethical. An absolute nightmare.
But the betting pool on House and Wilson - something that’s been going longer than Foreman’s been working there - felt too significant to just put an end to. Chase told him about it, one drunken night back when they were House’s fellows, and they’d laughed hysterically about it and how it’d break Cameron’s heart if they really did ever - and then Chase had told him that Cameron had placed a bet of her own, and they laughed even harder.
Anyway. It’s not about the patients; it can’t influence anyone’s medical outcome. It is, at best, a little silly, and maybe a HR violation, but the last thing Foreman worries about with either of those two is being on the wrong side of HR. He knows where the bodies are buried (a metaphor, but only just).
No one’s enquired about it for a few months; there was a little flurry of interest when House came back to work here, but it’s been quiet ever since. Now, though, there are updates: a cryptic text from Chase about tweaking a date, a ten slipped into his hand in the cafeteria while Taub nods significantly like he’s copied the gesture from a mafia movie, a handwritten note from Dr McGill with a fifty stapled to it.
Foreman updates the file and goes to check on Wilson.
The knock is a formality, the door swings open a second later. “How’s it going?”
Wilson looks up to see Foreman, seemingly attempting some kind of Good Manager posture. “Fine.”
“You’re doing okay with - your recovery? Workload?”
“Yeah.” Wilson waits. Something’s up. Nine times out of ten, this means House. “What’s he done?” he asks after a too-long pause.
“Who? House? Nothing, today.” Foreman freezes. “Is there something I should know about?”
Wilson shakes his head. “What can I help you with, Eric?” It’s a pointed move, the first name - remember I am older than you, have worked here longer than you, and quite frankly could pull enough strings to get you fired if I weren’t such a nice guy.
Foreman is no idiot. “Nothing. Just checking in.”
Wilson nods pleasantly. He wonders how much money’s gathered in the pool at this stage.
House has been thinking. (House is always thinking.) The betting pool is a jolt, sure, but it’s also an opportunity. There’s a whole clause for catching the two of them on the balcony together - making out will do, no one needs to get on their middle-aged knees for this - and he has Chase and Park ready to walk in on them almost immediately.
He’ll get to kiss Wilson, see what it might be like, see if he - well, actually, his thinking has led him to believe that he probably will like it. A lot. But he’ll get to see how Wilson responds, and if it’s a disaster - he has an out. His minions will interrupt them, and he can play it off as a gag, and they’ll get some cash out of it (a cut of Chase’s win has been negotiated).
The element he’s forgotten to plan for is actually getting Wilson out onto the balcony. “It’s a beautiful day!” he calls from outside. “Blue skies… birds… flying…”
“I’m busy, House,” Wilson calls back.
He lets his cane clatter to the floor. “Oh no! I can’t get up!” he cries dramatically.
“Oh dear,” Wilson replies, unmoved.
House sighs. “Can you just come out here?” he says impatiently.
“Why?”
“I wanna - talk.”
He hates that this is the thing that makes Wilson get up from his desk and join him. “Okay. What is it?”
“I - never said it back.”
“What?”
House waves a hand, irritably. “You know. When you were all doped up and smitten. I should’ve told you that I love you too.”
He hadn’t quite planned on saying that. But it’s true, he realizes as the words come out. Wilson needs to hear these things, even if House thinks they’re stupid.
Wilson’s eyes are soft, and he steps a little closer, and House is looking at his lips and he’s not sure he’s ever going to be able to look away, and shit, shit, this is too real, he wants it too much, Wilson will know, he’ll never be able to undo this…
Wilson tugs gently at his shirt, pulls him closer. Their lips are almost touching, and then Wilson moves his head slightly, and whispers in House’s ear. “Who’s catching us on the balcony?”
It takes a moment for House’s brain to recalibrate, and he’s both relieved and disappointed at this new state of affairs. “Chase,” he admits. “And Park.”
“Nope. Corridor.” Wilson pushes him back inside, and nudges him toward the main door. “I’ll be out a sec.”
House half-expects the office door to lock behind him, but Wilson follows him a few seconds later, and pushes him up against the wall. House gasps, just a little, and then Wilson’s mouth is on his, hard and hungry, and he’s kissing him back like he’s going to die if he doesn’t (he thinks he might die if he doesn’t), and it feels better than a stupid prank has any right to, fuck, it has to be real, doesn’t it?
Or can all their future pranks just involve Wilson kissing him like this? What does he need to do to make that happen?
He’s a little dizzy, and insanely already half-hard (not a thing that’s happened without pharmaceutical assistance in quite some time), when Wilson lets him go, the bastard, and he stares at his best friend and thinks: shit, yes, I am in love with you. Maybe he always has been.
“Oh my god,” someone whispers near them, and when House looks around he can see that quite a crowd has accumulated, including his own team.
An older nurse tut-tuts at them. “You’re at work, doctors,” she says.
“Sorry, Judy,” Wilson calls over cheerfully. He holds up his hands. “Sorry, everyone, we got a bit carried away - it’s just -” He waves his right hand back and forth.
There’s a ring on it. House is pretty sure it’s the same ring Wilson once pulled out of a little box for him. He knows his role here. “He said yes!” he says, sounding a little awkward, but he would be, wouldn’t he, if this was real?
(Why can’t it be real?)
“No way,” Chase says.
“Way,” Wilson replies with a grin, and House watches, stunned, as the onlookers turn from vaguely pervy coworkers into friends delighted to congratulate them on their engagement. Even the grumpy nurse is prepared to offer her best wishes once she’s learned they’re a serious committed couple and not just looking for a bit of nookie in between consults.
The commotion travels fast; he’s still accepting handshakes and shoulder squeezes when Foreman turns up. “I can’t believe it,” he says.
Finally, House thinks. Someone who’ll see through -
Then Foreman leans in to hug him. “I’m happy for you guys.”
They finally make it back to his office, and Wilson closes the door and waits for House’s inevitable meltdown.
“I think I missed that bit where I proposed,” House says, a little sharp, and Wilson winces.
“Yeah.” He didn’t think that many people would find out, not this quickly. He didn’t realize how many of them would be happy for them, instead of quietly pulling him aside and asking if he was sure about this. And when he placed that bet, all those years ago, it had felt more like an insurance policy, rather than something he'd ever prove with a public makeout session. “It got a bit out of hand.”
His own hand is in House’s now, the ring being slid off. “If I asked,” House says, “you’d tell me I was crazy, right?”
Wilson’s heart stops just a little. House has taken the ring off, but he’s still holding Wilson’s hand, his fingers warm against the palm, and he’s looking at him -
“You’re screwing with me,” Wilson checks. “Right?”
“Right,” House agrees cheerfully, and then kisses him, slow and gentle, making him want to melt, and Wilson understands now, the point of this prank is to make him whimper pathetically with how much he wants it, but that’s okay, his brain decides, he can let that happen, because this feels so good, so right.
And then they’re both half-naked on his couch and either this has gone way beyond a prank or else it’s a really, really good one.
“Hey,” House says when Wilson’s at the door.
“What?” Wilson looks up and down, checking he appears suitably professional and not like he’s just gotten off in his office in the middle of the workday. He looks cute, House lets himself admit.
“The ring,” House points out. “You should wear it.” He pauses. “You’ve won the pool, right?”
“Right.”
“So.” House picks it up from the desk, and takes Wilson’s hand in his. “You should -” He slides it on, and catches Wilson’s glance, and then he’s lost, completely, because he knows he’s not sliding this on in a fun, bro-y, prank sort of way. There is no excuse for how he’s putting this ring on Wilson’s finger, and gazing at him like this, except for the truth. Love. Big fat stupid gay love.
House takes a breath. “Fuck the bet,” he mutters, and leans in for another kiss - he’s lost track of how many times they’ve done this today, already, and yet he can’t get enough of it.
Wilson puts a hand to his chest. “Hey. Hey. That bet is paying for our honeymoon.”
“So, all you need to do is introduce yourself as Dr McGill - he’ll be expecting you - and pick up the cash. Maybe nod a little. Say you always knew this was going to happen.” Wilson pauses, and resists the urge to offer further direction to the guy he’s hired for half an hour.
“Doctor,” the guy repeats. “He’s not going to ask me any medical questions, is he?”
“This is very much a - non-medical matter,” Wilson reassures him.
They’re interrupted in their little scene prep by Foreman, who deposits a clinking cash box on his desk. Wilson feigns innocence for a moment.
“Checked the registry. There’s no Dr McGill working here.” Foreman raises an eyebrow. “That bet’s been going back since before you started here. How long did it take you to get in on it?”
Wilson shrugs. “What would you have done, if you knew all your colleagues were speculating about you and - oh, I don’t know, Chase?”
Foreman scoffs.
The actor looks between them. “Guess I’m not needed here.”
“Sorry, Bert.” Wilson pats him on the back, and hands him the cash he was going to pay him anyway. “See you around. Hope you get that callback!” he calls after him.
Foreman’s still staring at him, shaking his head. “Seriously. Talk about playing the long game. When did you know?”
Wilson sighs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I suppose some part of me always knew there was something there, some - stupid little spark between us. From the moment I met him.” He leans in toward Foreman’s chest. “Those mischievous blue eyes, that adorable smile…” He tugs gently at the wire and pulls out the tiny mic. “The bald spot he keeps thinking no one notices,” he continues.
Foreman shrugs, unbothered at being found out. “Yeah. I told him you wouldn’t buy me caring enough to ask.”
“Bu-ut,” House whines that night, “when did you know you had the hots for me?”
“I didn’t. I’m still messing with you,” Wilson says, deadpan, which House might believe if they weren’t this level of sweaty and sticky.
“Shut up,” he mutters, secretly pleased, and leans in to kiss him again.
“I’m serious, House. Foreman’s paying me extra to sleep with you so that you’ll be a better employee. He figures it’s worth it, the money he’ll save on HR cases. Complaints have gone down considerably in the last week alone.” Wilson sounds very compelling on this point, but the serious expression is let down by the messy hair and glowing cheeks.
“Well.” House pretends to run with it. “If it’s for the good of the hospital...”
“Who won the pool, anyway?” Adams asks a few weeks later.
Taub shrugs. “Not me. Good thing. What would I have done with all that money.”
Chase frowns. “I can’t believe House screwed us over with that balcony thing.” He had such plans for his windfall, he thinks wistfully. Earned it, after everything he's put up with.
“I don’t know if he did,” Park chimes in. “He seemed kinda spacey about the whole thing. Dr Wilson looked like he was taking the lead.”
“I can’t believe they’re getting married,” Adams says, shaking her head.
“They’re not really going to get married,” Taub insists.
Chase raises an eyebrow. “Foreman just called. We’re due down in the chapel in half an hour.”
There are minor grumbles over the short notice, but mostly they're pleased, particularly when they learn that their boss will be off on his honeymoon immediately after the ceremony - which means the rest of them are effectively on vacation until he returns. Chase has already made reservations for the team to grab dinner this evening. Though he will be insisting they split the bill.