Archive of Our Own

Wilson never intended to write the first letter. 

It was supposed to be a joke, something to help release the little frustrations that had built over time. House had been unusually nice that day, which threw him off a bit. House had gotten Wilson a coffee from the cafeteria, but there was no twist to it. Just a regular coffee for his best friend. Wilson knew house, he knew how rare these random bursts of generosity were. 

So, naturally, Wilson had written it down. Just to get it out of his system. 

The words flowed easily. Wilson was never the type to write letters like these, but there was something about this moment where he just felt that urge to write. It wasn’t anything like a grand confession but something more honest and sweet. 

He started the letter with something simple: 

You’re insufferable house, but I suppose that’s why I keep you around. 

Thank you for the coffee. 

He laughed to himself about the sheer absurdity of it. But the letter didn’t end there, it grew into something more— something softer. 

I hate how much I care about you. 

If you ever read this, I’ll crawl into a hole and never come out. 

Wilson paused, he knew he was being ridiculous, but the words just kept coming out. He could almost hear house mocking him in the back of his mind for doing something so childish like this. Yet, that still didn’t stop him from writing. 

The worst part is I’m never going to stop caring, not for a second. And maybe that’s what drives me insane. You’ll always be a confusing, frustrating mess, yet I still care. How do you do that? 

Wilson signed off the letter with a simple, P.S. I love you. 

He stared at the letter for a moment, then shoved it in the back of his drawer without thinking. He wasn’t entirely sure why he wrote it or what he expected to do with it. It wasn’t like he was going to give it to house. No, that’ll be a nightmare. 

But it felt good to let out. 

He was probably just overthinking all of this. Maybe tomorrow when he would come to work it wouldn’t seem like such a big deal. 

But for now, he just sat in his chair, rubbing his face in frustration. Maybe he’d forgotten what it felt like to care about someone like this— someone who drove him crazy. But… house didn’t drive him crazy, at least not in that sense. No, no he shouldn’t think about his best friend in that way. Because that’s what he was, nothing more than a friend. 

Wilson let out a shallow breath, eyes locked on the drawer with the letter. He should just forget about it. Get up, go home, and pretend this never even happened. 

But his brain wouldn’t let it go. 

He shook his head, closing the drawer with a little bit too much force, as if that would be enough to close up his mind too. 

It wasn’t. 

He sighed, running his hand through his hair before pushing himself up off of the chair. He just needed sleep— that was all. In the morning this would be nothing more than a stupid thought. 

Nothing more. 

Except the next day, house was still in his head and it was really starting to piss him off. 

It wasn’t even for any particular reason. Everytime he thought he was done thinking about house, there was something dragging him right back— a dumb joke he could hear in his voice, the way his office felt too quiet without any interruptions, and the fact he nearly ordered two coffee’s out of habit. 

It was frustrating. Infuriating. 

So now here he was. Pen in hand. Again… 

I’m writing this because my brain decided that you’re the center of attention even in my thoughts. It really does get annoying after a while.. 

You didn’t even do anything, which I should probably be grateful for, but still it's obnoxious, you’re obnoxious. 

So congratulations. You win. You’re officially living rent free in my head. I hope you’re happy.

P.S. I (still) love you. 

Wilson put aside his pen. He stared at the page as his lips pressed together to form a thin line. 

This had to be the last one. It had to be.  

The second letter was just a slip-up, a moment of weakness. A bad day, a tired brain, a temporary lapse in judgement. Any excuse he could come up with. 

But then there was a third, and then a fourth, and they just kept coming after that. At some point he just wasn’t bothered to justify them anymore. 

It's not like he meant to write them, they just… happened. 

He’d sit down just to jot something down on a sticky note and somehow, he’d end up with another letter. It was muscle memory at this point— pen in hand, the sound of faint scratching on the paper. 

It was therapeutic, he felt lighter after writing. 

That was the excuse he clung to. That it wasn’t about house, not really, it was a way to clear his mind, untangle his thoughts. It could’ve been about anyone really. 

Expect that wasn’t true. 

Every letter had houses name at the top. Every thought circled back to him. It was absurd, how easily wilsons mind gravitated towards him. 

But it wasn’t a big deal. Not really. 

Because Wilson wasn’t in love with house.

That would be ridiculous. 

But that didn’t stop him from writing. 

Each letter was another small lie he told himself. It wasn’t about house. It wasn’t. 

It was about the mess in his mind, the frustrations building up, the things he couldn’t say out loud. So he wrote it all instead. Just a few more lines, a few more thoughts and then he’d be done with it. 

But as the days went on, the letters started to pile up, and this habit grew deeper. It was almost automatic now— sit down, pick up a pen, and just let the words flow. There was a feeling of comfort in it. 

And so, the days blurred together, and life went on. Work. Patients. The usual chaos that followed Wilson around the hospital. He kept his head down, avoiding any extra thoughts, and pretending that the ever-growing pile of letters in his desk didn’t exist. It was easier that way if he didn’t acknowledge it. It was just scraps of paper, words scribbled down in a vulnerable moment. 

And yet, everytime he opened the drawer, his eyes would linger a second too long. He told himself it was to make sure that they were still there— that he wasn’t being careless with them. 

It was getting harder to ignore. The stack thicker than it should be, the pages slightly crumpled from being handled more than necessary. Some nights, when he stayed late in his office, he’d pull out one just to reread it. He always put them back, but not before tracing over certain words with his fingers— as if he was trying to grasp something he couldn’t name. 

Wilson shook his head, shutting the drawer. 

They were just letters. Just a stupid habit. That’s all.

So then why did it feel like something else?

Wilson exhaled slowly, pressing his palms against his desk. He should be getting work done, focusing on something else. But his mind kept circling back— back to the drawer. 

Maybe he was just tired. That’s why his mind was a tangled mess. 

He grabbed a patient file, forcing himself to work through it. As long as he was busy, he didn’t think about it. It was fine 

He was fine. 

He just had to stop writing. 

House sat at his desk, the familiar red and grey ball bounced against the wall, his eyes scanning the case file sitting on his desk. He was in the middle of a challenging case, none of the symptoms added up. Based on the last MRI, there was a mass but no way of knowing for sure if it was benign without a biopsy. Cancer seemed like the most likely diagnosis, but nothing in diagnostics was ever straight forward. 

He sighed and pushed himself up, gritting his teeth at the ache in his leg. He grabbed his cane and walked towards the balcony door. It was routine at this point, if he needed a consult, he’d just go bother wilson. He jumped the slight fence between the offices. He didn’t bother to knock, just simply rapping his cane against the metal door frame. 

When no answer came, he glanced down at his watch. Probably tied up with some cancer patient, he thought. Wilson did have the ability to attract terminal patients like a magnet. 

He shrugged it off, letting himself in the office. Something about it felt off, like the atmosphere shifted. Papers and pens were scattered across the desk, books were stacked haphazardly on the floor, and empty coffee mugs and dishes made themselves visible on the desk. 

House limped towards the desk with a faint tap of his cane against the carpeted floor. As he scanned the room, his eyes flickered towards the slightly ajar drawer. He hadn’t noticed it before but now knowing it's there, it was almost too hard to look away. His fingers brushed over the handle, gripping it lightly. With a slight pull, the contents revealed itself with the sounds of rustling papers filling the room. 

Inside the drawer, there was a stack of papers— nearly a dozen, neatly folded into thirds. House reached out to grab the first one off the stack. As he unfolded it, he realized it was a letter, addressed to him. His name scribbled on the top left corner of the page, unmistakably in wilson’s handwriting. 

He read the first few lines, his brows furrowed in confusion. Why would wilson be writing letters like these? What the hell was going on with him?

Curiosity killed the cat, and house reached over again to pick up the next letter off of the pile. His eyes carefully scanned over each line of the page. There was something about it— he’d never seen Wilson write anything like this before. It was different… too soft, too pure. 

And it was about house. 

Wilson had been writing love letters directed to his best friend?

That house would’ve never expected. 

He read through each letter carefully, one by one. Each one had ended in almost the same way— P.S. I love you. House didn’t know if Wilson meant it the way it sounded. They cared about each other, sure, but as friends… not lovers. There was something too personal about the way these were written, something that made House feel like he saw a part of Wilson that he wasn’t supposed to. 

House had to get to the bottom of this. He didn’t know what he was looking for or what he wanted to find, but he knew he couldn’t just let it go. 

His fingers tapped against the desk, his eyes looking over the letters. Wilson didn’t do anything without a reason. So why these? Why now?

House exhaled sharply, and grabbed a blank piece of paper from the corner of the desk. Maybe if he put it in writing it would all make sense. He twirled the pen between his fingers, adn then carefully pressed it to the page. 

Wilson… 

And then what? 

He wasn’t even sure why he was doing this. He wasn’t sentimental. He didn’t write letters. Hell, he barely wrote anything that wasn’t a prescription or a symptom. But his hand moved anyway, and the words flowed effortlessly. 

House stared at the page, the words stared back, taunting him. His grip tightened around the pen. He had no idea why he was still sitting here. 

This was stupid. 

Wilson was the one that wrote stupid love letters. Wilson was the one who’d obsess over feelings he would never say out loud. Wilson was the one who bottled up everything until it bleed onto a page. 

House wasn’t like that. 

House would never admit there was some truth behind what he wrote. He would never admit that, somewhere deep down, he wished things were different. 

With a sigh, he pushed the chair back and stood up. He hesitated for a second, staring down at the letter, his fingers itching to grab it and shove it in his pocket. 

He didn't. 

Instead he put the pen down and left the letter sitting there— folded in thirds and with Wilson's name printed across the fold. 

If Wilson wanted to pretend he wasn’t in love with him, fine. 

But now he didnt have that option. 

House pulled the door shut without looking back. 

Wilson had just finished speaking with a cancer patient— a 53 year old woman. Lung cancer. Stage 4. Terminal. He guided her through the process of palliative treatment, answering questions he had answered a thousand times before. Explaining how they could manage the pain, make her as comfortable as possible, how long—

Wilson exhaled sharply, pushing the thought down before it could linger. 

Yes he loved his job, but days like these drained him. 

He walked back to his office on autopilot, his fingers trembling slightly as they reached for the handle. All he wanted was a moment to sit down, take a breath, to regain some sense of control. 

But the moment he stepped foot inside, something was off. 

It wasn’t obvious at first glance. Nothing was out of place and there were no signs of intrusion. 

His eyes flickered to the desk. 

A single piece of paper sat on top of the scattered files and empty coffee cups. It was perfectly placed, too deliberate to be an accident. 

Wilson’s pulse quickened. Carefully, he took a step forward. 

His name was written on top. 

Not in his own harndwritting. 

His breath caught. His fingers tightened around the edges as he unfolded the letter carefully. 

And then he read: 

Wilson,

You’d think that after all these years, I’d have run out of things to say to you. But here we are.

I don’t know what’s more pathetic: the fact that you’ve been writing letters like some lovesick teenager, or the fact that I sat here and read every single one of them.

I could make fun of you for this. I should make fun of you, but instead, I’m sitting here with a pen in my hand, writing a letter of my own. I’d say you’re rubbing off on me, but we both know I’ve always been the influence in this friendship.

Why am I doing this?

Maybe I just want to see what it’s like to put things down on paper, saying things without really saying them. Seems to be working out for you.

Or maybe I just want to see what it feels like to tell the truth in a way that doesn’t require looking you in the eye.

I could tell you to stop writing. To get a grip. To find some other way to work through whatever this is. But we both know you won’t.

And we both know I don’t actually want you to.

P.S. I— 

— House 

Wilson gripped the paper even tighter. His heart pounded in his chest, too fast. The words on the page blurred slightly as his mind tried to catch up. 

House knew. 

He had read them— all of them. 

A wave of panic rushed over him. For a moment, all he could hear was the dull thudding of his own pulse. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He never meant for house to see them. 

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

He forced himself to take a step back, stumbling slightly as the adrenaline clouded his thoughts. His mind scrambled, trying to process the situation. 

Was there any point in pretending anymore?

He almost wished house hadn’t done this. That he would’ve mocked him or told him to stop writing these stupid letters. At least then it wouldn’t have been so personal. And now Wilson had to face the fact that House wasn’t indifferent. That House cared enough to respond.

Wilson’s gaze fell back to the paper in his hand. The words were still blurry, but they were clearer than his racing thoughts.

It was the ‘P.S.’ that stung the most, where House almost said it. Almost gave in.

Wilson wasn’t sure if that was worse than the silence. Because if House had actually said it, if he had finished the sentence... Maybe then Wilson would’ve known for sure where they stood. But House hadn’t.

“Never mind,” Wilson whispered to himself, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

Wilson’s eyes flickered toward the door. He had to see House, had to confront him, but the fear of what might come out of his mouth kept him frozen. He didn’t know what he wanted from House. 

He took a deep breath, his legs unsteady beneath him. There was no avoiding this. He had to face it. And whatever came next, he’d have to deal with it.

Wilson walked toward the door, his steps slow.The closer he got to the door, the more his chest tightened. It felt like walking to the edge of a cliff, knowing that one step would change everything.

He paused, hand on the doorknob. What was he even going to say to House? What did he want from this conversation?

A thousand possible scenarios flashed through his mind. 

Wilson slowly turned the knob, letting the door creak open. He stepped inside, and there was House, sitting at his desk with his cane leaning against the edge. He didn’t look up right away, he was too into whatever he was doing, but that didn’t matter.

Wilson opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first. 

Finally, house looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly, “You’re still here, huh?”

Wilson swallowed his nerves, “I– yeah, I don’t know why I even came,” he admitted quietly. He wasn’t sure what else to say, but it was the truth. 

House didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied wilson. It seemed like he was able to see right through him, like house knew exactly what was happening in his head. 

And maybe, house had been waiting for this too. 

Wilson shifted his weight slightly as he felt the weight of the silence around them. 

“I read them,” house finally said, his voice a bit quieter than wilson expected. There was no teasing, no deflection. 

Wilson exhaled shakily, “I know.” He should’ve prepared for this, should’ve had something to go off of. 

House tilted his head , watching him. “And?”

Wilson’s throat felt dry. He could just pretend it wasn’t happening, brush it off like a joke. But house wouldn’t believe it. He’s already read everything— seen everything. 

Wilson swallowed, “I– um…” he hesitated, looking down for just a moment before meeting house’s gaze again. “I don’t know what to do about this.” 

House didn’t look surprised, if anything he looked patient, waiting for Wilson to be able to find the right words. 

“That's a first,” house’s lips twitched to form a slight smile, “You usually have a plan for everything.” 

Wilson let out an unsteady laugh, “Not for this.”

House leaned back in his chair, “So now what?”

Wilson didn;t have an answer, but he didn’t want to leave either. 

He ran his hand through his hair, like that was going to give him an idea. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. 

It was the truth, he didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He didn’t know what house wanted to hear from him. All he knew was that he couldn’t walk away from this. Not now. 

House tapped his fingers against the glass desk, watching him with the same patience, “you always make things complicated, wilson.” he said, but there was no bite to it. 

Wilson let out a breath, “Well, yeah, this is complicated.”

House didn’t argue. He just stared at wilson. Then with a slow movement, he picked himself up from the chair. 

Wilson’s breath hitched. 

House wasn’t standing close enough to touch, but he was close enough to be able to see every little detail. 

“You love me.” house said, it wasn’t a question. It was a fact. Something that had been true for longer than wilson realized. 

Wilson’s chest tighten. He could deny it, come up with a joke, an excuse. But house would see right through it. He already saw through it. 

Wilson swallowed hard, his hands pressed into fist at his sides, his heartbeat present in his ears. “Yeah.” he whispered, “I do.” 

House’s lips parted slightly, part of him wasn’t expecting wilson to actually say it out loud. 

“Good,” he murmured, then he smirked, “About time.”

Wilson let out a shaky breath, his entire body felt lighter. He shook his head, “You already knew.”

“Yeah.” house said, like it was obvious. “But I wanted to hear you say it.”

Wilson took a short breath, letting it feel real. Finally, he smiled, “Well, there you go.”

House’s smirk deepend, “I’m keeping the letter’s by the way.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, “of course you are.”

House just shrugged, “I figure if I ever need evidence of how much you adore me, I have a dozen hand-written love letters.” he paused for a moment, “Well, mostly love letters. Some of them youre just complaining about me.”

Wilson huffed, crossing his arms, “If you bring those up in conversation, I will actually kill you.”

House’s eyes glimmered with amusement, “sure you will, jimmy.” 

Wilson sighed, running a hand over his face, “Why do I even put up with you.”  

House shifted slightly, putting more weight onto his good leg, “So what now?” he asked, voice softer than before. 

Wilson smiled, “I was thinking about dinner maybe?”

House’s eyebrows rose, he’d been expecting something more, “dinner, huh?”

“Yeah,” Wilson shrugged, “Unless you have a better idea.” 

House looked at him for a moment, and then smiled, “Yeah, dinner’s good.”