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Chapter Text

“House, that was so stupid.”

The two men were slumped against House’s old couch, watching monster trucks crush regular trucks, legs stretched out. Their ties were undone, jackets taken off, and socks half-worn. Lo mien in soggy containers and chopsticks which always gave Wilson a splinter sat in front of them. This was their regular life, their routine. 

"Wow, James ,” House had snarked, emphasizing Wilson’s first name. “I would have really thought that you would’ve grown fond of our old-new-found relationship.”

“Shut up,” Wilson had grumbled, heat rushing to his cheeks. “We collected our money, blew it on Vegas, and we’re done .” 

“Breaking up with me so soon?” House had mocked, he twisted the zinc wedding band around his finger. The material had honestly irritated his skin, and the poorly cut edges dug into his fingers every time he bent them, but the indignation of Wilson’s face was worth it. “I guess your proposal rejection was a sign, but I never knew it was really over!” House gasped, putting his hands up to his mouth, but not before wiggling his fingers, allowing the gleam of the band’s metal to shine in Wilson’s eyes, “Is it a woman? I thought you were one of us!” 

“House,” Wilson rubbed his eyes. “Will you please take that off? I really don’t need a physical reminder for why all of the doctors and nurses alike in the hospital hate us right now.” 

House gave a cheeky grin and shoved a mouthful of soggy noodles into his mouth, “I just want to remember our love.” House rested his head on Wilson’s shoulder. 

“I remember that well enough every time I see a splash shaped burn on my chest.” Wilson sighed, rubbing his hand against where the injury was still recovering. However much it had hurt, he owed Cameron one; it had gotten a good chunk of nurses to change their bets to the pro- “Hilson,” their "ship name" was deemed before the proposal blew up their “ship.” Like if the Hindenburg and the Titanic had a non-gay child. Cameron had stomped off after the failed proposal, muttering about how House “was an abomination to love itself.” Chase had sat there shell shocked in the cafeteria, as if witnessing another pair of parental figures get divorced. Wilson could’ve sworn Chase had let out a faint “...penis?” though he must have been mistaken. Foreman had buried his head in his hands and possibly cried, probably imagining the money he didn’t have go into his boss’ hands. 

House and Wilson really had expected a bigger return, though. Somehow, Cuddy had caught wind of their plans, or maybe she had always suspected something, or maybe she had changed her bet after House let it slip that they knew about the pool. Nonetheless, she had gotten a third of the earnings and bought herself a new watch, which Foreman had eyed hungrily the next time he had gone to file a report about House. Well, a report not about some complaint about “exploitation” on Wilson and House’s part. Wilson swears that they were nearly faced with a full-on lawsuit if not for Cuddy backing them up. 

Cuddy had also gotten the brunt of the disdain in the office. Although she truly had no idea about the actual nature of House and Wilson’s relationship, she was hit with various allegations “Do you really think House would properly file a status update about his relationship?” she had argued, to no avail. 

In Wilson’s defence, he hadn’t really “gone along” nor “was aware of House’s nasty plans all along” nor was a “manipulative son of a bitch,” as the nurses had hurled at him when he arrived for clinic duty the next day. House had started to act sweet around him, offering coffees, paying for dinners, calling him nicknames that Wilson really hadn’t minded even though they were clearly romantic, a “honey” here or a “sweetie” there. It made him feel… wanted. He had never known the nature of his and House’s relationship; it had always felt like an all-give and no-take kind of dynamic. House would desperately need Wilson one day, then push him away the next. 

But Wilson had kept chasing. He ran after House, sacrificing his heart and body to the seemingly godlike man. For a couple of good weeks, Wilson was spoiled rotten. If it meant that nurses had taken longer suspicious glances at him or House’s little fellows that followed him around incessantly giggled to themselves as if he didn’t notice, then Wilson really hadn’t minded. 

He wouldn’t have minded loving House, if it meant that he was with House. But now that the ruse was over and House had stopped being un-House-like, Wilson wanted to re-establish their distance. He was in the middle of a messy divorce with Julie, the lawyers still scrambling to handle the alimony and the prenup, and he knew eventually he would have to find another woman to date, and he knew he needed House out of it. 

Looking back on it, it was a little odd that people thought he was with House when it was public knowledge that he was an (un)happily married man. Though he had cheated on his wives with at least 20 nurses, so maybe they figured House hadn’t minded being the second woman–err– lover , a side piece, in Wilson’s wife. 

Wilson snorted at the idea. God. As if House could possibly be the side- anything . He was like those baby birds that demanded more and more while the mama bird worked herself to the bone paying for the baby bird’s lunches. He should get House out of the nest, have him find someone to love that isn’t Wilson. 

“At least we’re matching in our burns,” House commented, chuckling at the memory. “Wanna see?” House had unbuttoned a top button and pulled it down so Wilson could see the edges of the inflamed skin on his collarbone, raising his eyebrows seductively. 

Wilson laughed, “Yeah, we can compare it as we’re exploring each others’ bodies on our honeymoon.” 

“You know, if you had said yes, the nurses would probably be imagining us banging booties right about now.” House had whispered seductively into Wilson’s ear. 

Wilson shook his head, trying to shake House off, “Ugh, never say that again. What were you even thinking at that moment?” 

“Besides how much I love my sweet honey hubby-kins?” 

“Yes, besides that,” Wilson said, exasperated. 

“Biggest romantic gesture I could think of that you could refute. If I just kissed you and you stopped me from doing so, the nurses would just think it’s another sexual harassment case taken to HR,” House shrugged. “I guess we were just too good that they thought it was real.” 

“Look,” Wilson sighed. “I get it with the ‘love who you love’ stuff, but come on, are we really the kind to do that ? We’re obviously straight!” 

“What color are my curtains?” House questioned, pointing to the offending furniture. 

“Like a dirty mauve, maybe a sangria?” Wilson responded instantly. “Why?” 

“Oh please, just start wearing make-up and talk with a limp wrist now, won’t you?” House rolled his eyes. House had worn make-up as a teen. He had a particularly bad pimple on his jaw that shone an ugly red. He had snuck into his mother’s bathroom before school started and dabbed a little concealer on the offending protrusion. His father had caught him heading out, and House, the ever so desperate and hasty teen, had poorly blended the make-up on his face. His father had forced him to scrub his face until it turned a raw, painful red every single morning for a month. “No son of mine would be a faggot,” John House had repeated into his son’s head every morning. 

“Oh, yes House, you are just too sexy to resist that you’ve turned me into a straight man again!” Wilson leaned over and rested his head on House’s lap for a couple of seconds. House went stiff. He felt his relaxed posture straighten, his face went neutral as his brain flew a million miles a second, questioning his next response, and he felt his leg tense up. House had silently thanked the infarction for once; his leg’s movement probably just felt like a spasm. Wilson had shot up as his favorite truck rolled into the stadium, seemingly enraptured by the destruction to come, leaving House to ponder about the brief interaction.

He took a silent breath. Categorize, Organize, File.

Wilson had made a joke about the two being in a relationship. Standard. He had rested his head against House’s lap. Non-standard. The heat of Wilson’s body seemed to linger on House’s lap. What had Wilson meant out of it? The two were comfortable with the idea of gay people existing and had clearly made jokes about those types of people before. Had he done it on purpose? Had it really meant anything? Was he thinking about this lingering moment just as much as he did? As House flew through 10 years of interactions with Wilson, House came to a shocking realization: Wilson and House never really touched each other. Sure they would bump into each other, stay in each other’s presence, support each other to the bathroom when one was suffering from an infarction, but hugs, pats on the back, even high fives, true acts of pure friendship and camaraderie, not for necessity, were rare. 

House twisted his wedding band. 

Why was he even thinking about this more than he should?

Forget what it meant about Wilson, what did it mean about him ? 

The blossoming of his heart in his chest, opening itself up once again for something more, something for someone to make its way into and settle there for eternity, the stares and eye contact which suddenly would feel like something more, the silent prayers that they wouldn’t find out about his true feelings, the gifts and trips which teetered dangerously into being something so much more, something desired. House had feared it. House had coveted it. House had embraced it with his every being many years ago, only to be left broken and bruised and tattered. House had allowed it to embody himself, forcing him to walk blindly. The emotional part of him which roared to be unleashed.

But how did he know it wasn’t simply wanting to be closer to Wilson?

Was he truly, really? 

No son of mine would be a faggot.

No son of mine would be a faggot.

No son…

House was too scared to answer the question. He swallowed hard, allowing himself to take a lingering glance. Wilson, in all his glory, remained fixated on the screen, his bangs sticking to his forehead in an oily sheen, his noodles in his lap. This was...nice. It was comfortable. He would savor this friendship for as long as possible. 

He would be a piece of space debris if it meant remaining in his distant orbit, enraptured by his intense pull of gravity. 

House loved his sun to a fault. 

Chapter Text

“New case!” House announces, slamming a file onto the table. Chase, Cameron, and Foreman jolt awake, but don’t say a word. Instead, they stare at him with distrustful and betrayed eyes. House stares back at them, then scoffs, “Oh, come on. For a prank? How much money did you guys lose anyways?” 

Chase stares at him. “Four hundred dollars,” he deadpans. He clearly hasn’t told his father why he needs a new transfer of money to his account (so he can afford his rent for the month with House’s meager pay), as his shoulders are tenser and he looks like he’s on the verge of tears. No, scratch that last part; he always looks like he’s on the verge of tears. Foreman looks like he’s already cried his eyes out the night before. And Cameron just looks defeated. She's slumped against the chair and picking at the beds of her fingernails. 

Foreman catches the glint of House’s wedding band against the light and eyes it hungrily. “I could probably pay off half of my rent with that ring of yours.” 

Cameron looks in the direction at whatever Foreman’s desperate eyes are fixed on. “You have got to be kidding me!” She shouts, “You kept that stupid ring on?” 

Chase notices the engraving, “That’s an expensive brand…That could be sold off at a hefty price… And you bought that for a fake proposal?” 

“Well, unlike you guys, I’m a world famous doctor,” House snarks. “Women, or Cuddy, are willing to buy me at a hefty price.”

Just then, the door swings open. In comes their former-Messiah but newfound-Judas, one Dr. James Wilson. The traitor had let half the hospital get fooled into House’s tricks. “Oh please,” he snorted. “Cuddy got you cheap.” He paused, thinking, “Though your furniture is trash. Nothing in there could cost more than a couple hundred dollars.” He nearly doesn’t notice how House hands him a coffee despite their act being long exposed. Nearly. 

“Dr. Wilson!” House gasped. “You may not love me, you may cheat on me with heterosexual women heterosexually, and you may refuse to let me drill into a patient’s head, but you can not offend my furniture.” 

“So, Dr. Wilson,” Foreman continued, searching Wilson’s hands. “Where’s your ring? We’d be happy to take it off your hands.” Cameron and Chase perked up, nodding their heads and grinning ear to ear. 

“More than willing!” Cameron added. 

“It’d be such a hassle to get rid of on your own!” Chase added. 

“Hm?” Wilson said. “Oh, uh, I gave it back to House.” 

House felt the slow turn of heads back towards his person. Oh boy. 

“Well, I’ll get going,” Wilson said, clearly satisfied after causing a day's worth of headaches onto House. Wow. House still can't believe that he's the relatively evil one in their relationship. Wilson shot him a luck, turned around, and began walking for the door but certianly not before smacking House on the butt, “Thanks for the coffee, honey .” 

House stiffened. The ducklings widened their eyes in glee. A million thoughts began running through House's head, none of which were appropriate. A million thoughts began running through their heads, only half of which were inappropriate. The other half were about money. 

Their case was unimportant and uneventful, thank god. Unfortunately, this gave rise to two operations: 

    1. Operation Steal House’s Spare Ring and Sell it Before We are Kicked to the Streets

Essentially, they would dig through House’s pockets, search his person, search his house, and search Wilson’s desk until they found their silver savior. 

    2. Operation Figure Out If Wilson Likes Him or Not While Avoiding Wilson 

In other words, House would be avoiding clinic duty. That was simple enough. 

The ducklings were used to this game of song and dance with House. 

“So, you want me to… go towards that guy in the cane, and vomit on him?” some guy in the clinic clarified. Chase kept his smile and nodded, as if waiting for more questions. 

“And that’s the only way you’ll give me treatment?” 

“He’s a doctor, he'll be fine,” Chase rolled his eyes. 

“You know I could just request another doctor, right?”

“And we’ll accuse you of being a drug-seeker,” Foreman threatened. A night without dinner really did numbers on a person. 

“For tylenol?” None of this could be legal. But three broke fellows really didn’t care about legalities. Especially when they’ve broken into enough houses to be arrested for a lifetime. They shoved the patient forward. 

At the exact same time, House is doing a poor job in terms of his plan. Wilson found him and was conveniently dragging him towards some poor cancer patient he insisted held some underlying disease they needed to treat before they sent her to chemo 

“Do it for me,” Wilson had said. And House’s manly resolve and macho-ism seemed to crumble. 

“Okay,” House had said without hesitation and definitely not on purpose. The words had seemed to slip out like butter. He hadn’t even meant it. He had to get a hold of this Wilson business. 

In the corner of his eye, he saw a patient stumbling towards him, clearly nauseous and clutching his stomach, “Woah, Wilson, look over there!” 

“Huh–” was all Wilson could make out before he abruptly vomited. Mission accomplished. “House!” Wilson roared before stomping off towards the showers. “Unebelievable,” he muttered as he left. 

Cameron, Chase, and Foreman shot the clinic patient a nasty look. They mouthed varying phrases such as “Do it!” from Cameron, “Again!” from Chase, or “If you want to see the light of day or your Tylenol you better do it you goddamn, motherfucking son of a bi–” from Foreman. They were making various threatening and violent gestures. A nurse looked askance towards the trio but chose not to comment. 

House noticed the man retching again. Oh hell no. He booked it. 

No . 

He limped it. 

It was an odd sight. One old doctor hobbling in circles as a patient follows him trying to puke on him when in range but holding it in while not in range. 

If it wasn’t such high stakes for both House (to save his dignity) and the fellows (to save their livelihoods) it would’ve been hilarious. In fact, it was hilarious for the clinic nurses and one Dean of Medicine watching the scene. 

The patient grew even more nauseous spinning in circles and eventually threw up onto the wall next to House’s patient’s room, who was still receiving antibiotics for the mildly bothersome ear infection. Seriously, how do those patients get up to House’s radar? House blames the internet. Back in his day, you had to search through textbooks of medical knowledge to do their homework, and now those millennials are just “searching” the answer online. It’s like they can’t think for themselves anymore. 

But time passes quickly. 

He hates how it works. He’s still very much of his past self, like layers peeling off like an onion. Indents made years ago still end up warping the newest layers. If you dig too deep, you might end up crying. He still remembers the screaming agony of the infarction, but also the dampening hours where Stacy would sit by his side just so he knew he wasn’t alone. He still remembers his fateful meeting with Wilson in some New Orleans conference. Wilson was still so young, maybe fresh out of his residency. He still remembers his days as a medical student so vividly, minus the hours where he was blackout drunk in his dorm. God, he threw up so much. He still remembers the first tastes of fresh freedom in college, where he was guaranteed a roof over his head so long as he studied well. He still remembers the biting comments of his father, and House’s biting comments back, which remain pervasive in his teenage years. He still remembers the nights crying, fingers burning with cold when pressed against the sliding glass door on cold winter nights. He still remembers the warmth of his years in Egypt, sun beating on his back as he waited for his father to lift him up into the stratosphere and spin him around until he cried with laughter for him to stop. He still remembers the warmth of just him and his mother, bundled snugly in her arms. 

THe unconditional love he received when he was younger bore a stark contrast to what he deserved. Perhaps the last he truly received was Stacy. He had dearly loved Stacy, but he grew to learn that he could only love himself. John House was a respectable man; you earned what you received. At the end of the day, as a narcissistic, drug-addled, crippled doctor, who would truly care for Gregory House? 

Not him. 

House twisted his cheap ring once more. It was a constant load to remind him of what was in reach, but what he was undeserving of. He could change, but how could he possibly recover? He would spend the rest of his good days in deep bitterness, at his more caustic past self who was still buried deep in one of his many layers. Ultimately, he would become the same man he was today. The ouroboros. That stupid snake that ate its own tail. His life was a never-ending cycle of misery where he would destroy his own body and mind then force itself to generate more to feed his misery. 

Soon, the ring would swell in size as House continued to destroy himself with Vicodin. It would squeeze on his vessels until he became no more. A fitting symbol. 

Gregory House didn’t do love. 

He slipped off his ring, allowing the cheap metal to spin and clatter to a stop on the glass of his desk. His fellows have surely been eyeing it. House reached into his pocket and hesitated. The cool metal of Wilson’s ring still sunk in his pocket, bearing a heavy load. 

Perhaps he was being overdramatic with Wilson’s rejection. House might have simply wanted proof of Wilson’s commitment to House, a promise to stay by his side as House breathed shallowly after another Vicodin overdose, another bad pain day, another unbearable death added to House’s shallow list of failed patients. It was simply a selfish greed for more.The two would never truly be together; Wilson was far too straight and uncomfortable with gay jokes to ever reach that point. But it was a nice dream to have. 

Wilson’s matching ring too clattered to the glass, finally coming to a stop when it hit House’s ring. The two sat side by side, cold and untouched, together. 

“Aha!” Chase triumphantly held up, “We didn’t even need to do anything!”

“Sucker!” Cameron said. “He needs to trust us a little less!” 

“No he doesn’t.” Foreman paused. “This still makes it a team effort right?” Foreman frowned. “We still get to split the money? Not a finders-keepers situation?” 

The three made shoddy excuses to Cuddy about leaving work at 1 pm in the afternoon (“Manicure,” said Chase; "Weightlifting competition,” said Cameron, flexing her biceps; “I really hate House,” said Foreman), then booked it to Foreman’s crappy car. “Sorry, the AC doesn’t work. Nor do the blinkers. Nor does the radio. Nor…”

“We get it, we get it, you’re broke,” Chase said. “Now, book it!” 

“My car also can’t drive above 40 mph,” Foreman deadpanned. “It’s really old.” 

“Drive!” 

After 30 minutes of sputtering down the New Jersey roads and getting flipped off more times than Chase could count (“New Jersey drivers really like going 80 in a 30 zone, and I’m a black man in America,” Foreman had deadpanned), they made it to a Jeweler’s. 

“I don’t know, sonny. Looks like one of them’s pretty valuable, maybe somewhere around $1,500? The other’s a cheap zinc fake.” 

Cameron “Why would one of them be re–”

Oh. 

Oh. 

Chapter Text

‘Fuck me,’ was Gregory House’s first thought when he saw James Wilson standing in front of his apartment, suitcase in hand, and frankly, he meant both meanings of the phrase. Judging from the messy bangs and tear-sunken eyes (and Wilson’s chronic habit of cheating on his wives), it was obvious that he had finally been kicked to the curb. 

House sighed before opening the door a bit wider, letting Wilson in. The two knew that House didn’t have to ask what happened; they both knew and had expected this outcome for quite a while. Wilson took his rightful place on House’s sweat-stained couch, only to find that some of Wilson’s dirty socks still lay on the couch from his last visit. Huh. Running out of laundry wouldn’t be a problem then. 

Wilson undoes his tie, tossing it onto the coffee table, and grabs a carton of Pad Thai. It was half-eaten and House’s, but neither of them really minded. 

“You’re a free man now, Wilson!” House grinned. “Wanna celebrate?” 

“I’m not having sex with your hookers, House.” Wilson mumbled, shoveling noodles in his mouth to avoid further conversation. Despite the marriage being a sham for nearly the entirety of its duration, the potential finality of it was still a load too heavy to bear. 

“Oh, you’re right; you’ve been doing that regardless of your marriage.” House nudged Wilson to the right, making space for himself on the couch, “Was it your guilt or Julie who finally ended it?” 

“Julie,” Wilson pauses. “She said she was having an affair. Said she couldn’t handle me being away all the time. Though I think she knew.” 

“Oh, Julie, that rascal ,” House mock-growls. “Doesn’t feel so good being the cuck in this situation, huh?” 

“Shut up ,” Wilson looks at House’s finger, presumably searching for a ring. Huh. Now that House thought about it, he really wondered if the other doctors and nurses knew if Wilson was even married to Julie in the first place. Maybe the marriage was truly that loveless. Or Wilson flirted with too many nurses for it to be humanly possible for him to be married. Or maybe it had something to do with House screwing with Wilson’s files to screw with his fellows. “You got rid of the ring?” Wilson asked, snapping House out of his train of unresolved questions. 

“Yeah, so now you ruined two marriages instead of one,” House snarked. “That’s a new record, even for you. Maybe the fifth time’s the charm.” 

Wilson snorted, and then House realized a very dangerous fact. 

House would love to have the luxury to be in love with Wilson. 

Instead, he has the luxury to remain Wilson’s friend. And that would be more than enough. 

“You’re cooking if you’re staying rent-free though.” 

“Not a problem.” 

“You’re also doing all the dishes.” 

“Not a chance.” 

This feeling of domesticity had become the norm between the two, and that would certainly be more than enough. The two had teased the edge of platonic relationships, and perhaps House had simply stumbled over the line. This also meant that a simple stumble back would revert their friendship to how it used to be. Well, to how House had perceived it to be. Their friendship hadn’t truly changed, House had at least hoped. 

“My leg hurts if I stand too long.”

“Then do the dishes in five minute intervals.” 

“Wow, Wilson. What would the ADA say?” 

“They’d say to do the damn dishes.” 

Two days later, when a tall box with a beautiful bar stool came in the mail, neither of them mentioned it. There was a silent acknowledgement set between them, and House began to join Wilson in doing the dishes. 

“Your mother called,” Wilson had nonchalantly mentioned one night as House was drying a fork. He really was trying to be casual about it, but House could tell how Wilson glanced over to House or how Wilson had to force the words out into the conversation that it would end up being a sensitive topic. “She said that she’s visiting with your father.” 

House sucked in his breath. “No.” 

“No? House, they’re your parents.” 

“Yes and no.” 

“Your mother’s very lovely.” 

“Yes,” House put his fork down and faced Wilson. “My father is a different story.” 

“It’s one dinner.”

“Which will be excruciatingly long.” 

“ One ,” Wilson repeated. “One dinner for the people who raised you.” 

“That doesn’t entitle them to have dinner with me.” 

“Your mother misses you,” Wilson lowered his voice. “They’re getting old, House. You’d regret it if you missed out on seeing them for one last time.” House winced. Wilson had recently lost his father. He had always meant to take a road trip with House to visit him, but constantly put it off for later due to his work, and Wilson was forced to miss the funeral for an important conference where he would present his groundbreaking findings in a clinical trial. 

House didn’t say anything, and Wilson seemed satisfied at the response. 

They sat in silence for a while before House tried again. “You know, there was a summer where my dad wouldn’t talk to me.” 

Wilson groaned, “ One dinner.” 

House took a swig of his beer. Frankly, it had been one of his favorite summers. It was during the time when he lived in the Philippines. He had spent the early mornings getting to know the locals, swiping ice pops off of street vendors with the other kids, then would return home to his mother while his dad would simply stay silent. No lectures about “slumming it” nor threats to sleep outside after he tracked mud into the house; the Philippines meant that he would probably be eaten alive by the mosquitos before sunrise anyways.

House suddenly blurted, “Then you’re joining me.” He winced, instantly regretting his words. The last thing he wanted was for Wilson to face his father and his vile remarks. But House was a selfish man who needed someone to anchor him. Someone who didn’t idolize him nor reduce him to a fly on the window. Wilson was a form of comfort to him, someone who could make him feel relaxed, slow his heartrate. Wilson was his lifeline. 

Wilson snorted, "Introducing me to the parents?” 

“Yeah, then I’m surely never getting invited to dinner again,” House shoots. “Great plan, Wilson.” 

There was another military brat in the Philippines. Henry. He was in the gang of boys which House would roughhouse with all day. He was the epitome of a military boy, short hair, perfect posture, and training to be a marine. He was older than House by a couple years, around 15 and sure showed it. He would lecture House about doing a service for the country and leaving “lesser” ones in a better place. House would roll his eyes and push him in the water. 

One day, House came home, cheeks covered in dust and red from the Philippine sun to his father sitting at the dinner table with his mother. Henry was caught kissing one of the local boys. Henry’s father had tried to defend him, but John House ultimately convinced Henry that it was a disservice to the country for being a homosexual. Henry had taken his father’s gun and killed himself. It was the first words that John House had spoken to him in months. 

A couple weeks later, his parents announced that they would be leaving for Japan. 

That memory shook House to his core. His mother had shook her head and said it was a pity, while his dad’s eyebrows simply furrowed. 

House had found the cheap zinc ring sitting on his desk that night, although misplaced, clearly swiped by his fellows to be appraised. House had slipped it back into his pocket. 

After Wilson started to yawn and the two started getting ready for bed, or the couch, in Wilson’s case, House took it out again and examined it. 

It dully reflected the yellow lamp light next to his bed. It was the dusty color of a bullet. Gregory House silently knew that he could not afford to love James Wilson. 

He turned off the light and laid on his back. 

He could barely see the ring now, its outline faintly shown in the dark. He placed it on his chest, right on his sternum, over his heart. 

It would ultimately kill him. 

He had to force himself away from him . No matter the cost. 

Wilson would find a new friend, and House would return to his regular loneliness, where it was safe for him. Those were his last thoughts before drifting off to sleep. 

The morning brought clarity. 

The ring had slipped off his chest at night and now rested under his bed, rolling so far that House could never contort his body or leg far down enough to fetch it. 

Perhaps he never truly loved Wilson. Perhaps they were the delusions of a sleep-deprived brain. To love Wilson was an arbitrary and outlandish thought. And it didn’t feel like it had belonged in House’s heart. 

Days later, when the answering machine had a reply to Wilson’s inquiry for new apartments, House had silently deleted it. He was never truly in love with the man, and therefore did not have to push him away. 

Wilson would stay his. 

And House would live.