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House aimlessly throws his tennis ball against the wall, dexterously catching it as it bounces back. He’s bored, painfully, outrageously bored. The patient’s stable (for now), his team’s busy running meaningless tests (meaningless, as he knows they’ll all be negative).
Unfortunately, there are procedures for this sort of thing that even House can’t wrangle himself out of, so the useless tests must be done, and no one’s nearby to mock. Cuddy’s…somewhere. Probably haunting the clinic, prepared to trap House there for the rest of eternity. She’d lure him in with her magnificent breasts, shove a file in his face, and laugh as he’s forced to live in a hellish nightmare: clinic duty. That only leaves:
Wilson, he thinks as the ball bounces a little harder against the wall unintentionally. Where was his personal pushover, anyway?
Just as House summons the strength to leave his comfortable sanctuary (no one has bothered him for the past half hour, why would he want to risk any outside socialization?) he hears two voices coming down the hallway. Wilson’s vibrant, charismatic voice is accompanied by a much lighter, more shrill tone.
House settles down again and watches through his window as Wilson passes by, talking animatedly with a young, objectively cute nurse. House watches Wilson’s eyes crinkle as he laughs, his head turned towards House’s office, but trained on the nurse’s face.
If Wilson simply flicked his eyes up, he would be looking at House instead. Not that he cares.
Nurse Slut (cause honestly, what else could he possibly call her?) places her small hands on his bicep and rubs slightly. House sees a faint blush creep up his cheeks as they finish passing the glass walls, heading towards Wilson’s office.
House blinks, analyzing the evidence. His ball had at some point rolled under the desk and landed in the middle of the room. Not that he noticed, as his hand still hovers in mid-air with his fingers clenched, ready to catch it.
House didn’t like this, obviously. Why the hell would Wilson want anyone else? House can give him everything that skank can, and more. His brows furrow as he processes. This happens too often for his liking. Wilson, serial panty-charmer, is one of the prime candidates for the ovulating population to latch onto. He’s charming, generous, put-together, and too nice for his own good.
The amount of effort he puts into running his department, maintaining his pristine image, and the quality of patient care would attract anyone with a pulse.
Oh, wait, that’s it. House leans back in his chair, ball forgotten.
He needs to show the hospital who the real Wilson is when he’s not put together. He’s not a perfect, charismatic playboy, he’s unruly, laughs too loud when drunk, he always orients his toothbrush away from the toilet and his eye does this little twitch whenever the dishwasher isn’t arranged right (big bowls and cups on top and smaller ones on the bottom to keep the water circulating properly, duh.)
So House knows him, who cares? The point is, no one else does. He wants to keep it that way, but he can live with letting (making) Wilson lose some of his perfect composure first. Just to decrease the amount of estrogen that always seems to follow him. It’s for his own protection, really.
And if it keeps House’s sanity in check knowing he’s decreasing the chance of the next Mrs. Wilson, well, then that’s just a bonus.
Operation: Embarrass Wilson is a-go.
1.
House is walking with the ducklings throughout he hallways, listening to their increasingly idiotic diagnoses and contemplating the merits of hitting their shins with his cane as a punishment system when he spots him.
Wilson, from a little way down the hallway, leisurely walks towards his office.
Without a word, House speeds up, shuffling towards his target and making the ducklings (particularly Chase) trip over themselves to keep up with his sudden pace. Wilson must hear the determined dubstep shuffle of his cane as his head turns and catches House’s steely gaze.
In one swift movement, House scoops up Wilson’s right hand in his left and swings it amicably as he keeps walking, therefore forcing Wilson to match his pace. As they walk (in Wilson’s case, stumble) forward, still holding and swinging their hands like any 1940s sitcom couple, House continues his DDx as if nothing happened.
“Get an angiogram and check for clots in his brain stem. It’s why he’s seeing stars, and not just cause of my spectacular oral skills,” House remarks over his shoulder as their connected hands swing jovially, like an oversized jump rope.
The ducklings, two parts shocked, one part exasperated, look at each other, then at the back of Wilson, and finally decide House’s latest scheme couldn’t mean any good things for them. They scram, leaving a grinning House, shocked Wilson, and a few confused spectators.
Wilson, whose reddened face looks permanently frozen in shock, slowly comes back to life.
He catalogs their connected hands, still swinging, then drifts his eyes up to House’s smug (joyous) face. They’re halfway down the hallway, now, almost to Wilson’s office.
As House relishes in his befuddlement, Wilson suddenly squeezes his hand tighter and swings their arms higher. House’s eyes widen as Wilson begins skipping (yes, skipping, catching air time and everything) forward, propelling House with him with a death grip on his hand.
House flounders, trying to catch his balance with one good leg and a cane while being dragged by a man whose skip looks more like an uneven hobby horse gallop past official doors that have their official names where they do their official jobs.
As House gets his cane to cooperate and does his own disabled version of a whimsical, romantic frolic, they reach the outside of Wilson’s door. Wilson abruptly stops (House having used his cane to catch himself right before he dove face-first into the door) as their wildly swinging hands come to a rest.
House cranes his neck at Wilson, who’s looking back at him with a pleased smile on his insufferable features. (Distantly, House notes that they’re still holding hands, and that the crowd of three-four? nurses haven’t stopped watching them.)
Wilson blinks his doe eyes once. “Thanks for the escort,” he remarks. Like the evil, secretly cunning whore he is, he then proceeds to squeeze House’s hand (not once, but twice) before lifting it to his lips and bestowing a small, yet smug, kiss on it, all sitcom-couple-like.
House opens his mouth to say something, probably really smart and funny, but he can’t get any sounds out before Wilson drops his hand and enters his office, gently shutting the door behind him.
A few moments pass as he stares at the printed James Wilson, MD, as his brain reboots. It seems he underestimated Wilson’s resolve (or his tolerance for House’s nonsense).
The corner of his lips tick up in a genuine smile as he turns and struts away, making sure to give the (still-oggling, those gossips) nurses a cursory wave and a blown kiss before entering his office, suddenly needing to be alone to cool the heat off his skin.
2.
After his first failed attempt, House decides on a simpler attack. After all, Wilson would expect a grand, elaborate plot in retaliation; what better to keep him on his toes than the opposite?
So, after a day or two of carefully planned avoidance (to give Wilson false hope that it’s over, not because his hand still tingles with the warmth of his surprisingly strong, capable grip), he waits for his prey to come to him.
House stares at the wrinkles in Foreman’s forehead (hah, say that three times fast) while he drones out whatever weak diagnosis Cameron is spewing. Something, something, autoimmune, the patient’s declining, House, are you listening- wait, oh.
House tunes in to catch her disapproving gaze. Her chin points down like it does when she feels all high and mighty, like she’s the only person to give a crap about a dying kid.
“What?” House questions in his best patent-pending Jar Jar Binks voice, “did you say sclerosis? I couldn’t hear you, I was thinking about winged boobies. If you had, on the off chance, said MS, then I’d say you’re a gullible idiot because obviously our patient’s nervous system is fine. His boobs, on the other hand, could use some touch-ups.” House cups his hands over his chest and mimics sagging breasts.
The ducklings look at him. Cameron’s eyebrow raises as Chase tilts his head before dragging his attention back down to the file, as if he’s picturing it against his will.
“Are you that immature?” Cameron asks. “There’s more to him than just,” her face squints as her hands gesture flippantly, “misshapen pecs.”
House rolls his eyes. “I was imagining blue-footed boobies, duh. Get your mind out of the gutter, you perverts.” Cameron’s face scrunches some more as Foreman shakes his head, Chase’s eyes still forcibly trained on the file.
Chase opens his mouth, probably to add another idiotic comment on the patient’s lack of diagnosis, or a new perspective on the idea of winged boobies, House doesn’t care, as at that moment his prey walks into the room.
Wilson stalks into the conference room and heads towards the coffee pot in the back. He looks a bit tired, his normally styled hair askew in the back, and some vague shadows under his eyes. Not that House is cataloging his features, or anything.
Wilson’s back is turned as he puts all his focus into pouring a cup of coffee. It’s go-time.
House cuts Chase off mid-medical explanation. “Oh, Wilson,” he croons, batting his eyelashes outside of Wilson’s sight, “my darling baby boy. Can you please bring daddy some coffee?”
The room goes deadly silent, fast, with only the slow clug of the coffee machine as a tether to reality. Cameron’s eyes go comically wide, and Chase sputters, looking back and forth between the two department heads. Foreman’s lip twitches before he sighs, giving his attention back to the patient’s file.
House can see the backs of Wilson’s ears begin to heat up. Score, he thinks triumphantly.
Slowly, Wilson turns around and faces him without saying a word, his expression vaguely, psychologically disturbed. Not good enough, something in House whispers, always the meddler.
House cocks his head to the side and pouts out his lip. “Please, baby? Don’t be shy, now. I’ll throw in some of your favorite toys tonight. I think you’re ready for vibrators again, after last time. You make the cutest little noises.” House mock whimpers in the silent room.
Wilson slowly puts his hand down on the counter, his eyes wide and neck veins visible. There’s a distinct flush to his cheeks, spreading deeper across his neck and ears. He picks up the finally brewed coffee in silence, letting House stew in the torment he created. Finally, he takes a slow sip, his hand only slightly shaking around a nervous swallow.
Oh, House has this one in the bag.
Wilson purses his lips and tilts his head, as if he’s come to a decision.
“Can we try the six-incher tonight?” He blurts, voice surprisingly level. “It’d be nice to feel something, but I know you try your best.” He takes another calculated sip and stalks forward as House’s triumphant face begins to crack.
He reaches House’s chair and looms over him. “It’s alright, honey,” he pats his shoulders condescendingly, “it’s the opiates, not you, my fine, geriatric man.” He sing-songed the last part, that conniving whore.
Wilson strides towards the door before stopping and turning back, hand poised on his hip, the other carrying his (stolen) coffee mug. “If you’re up to it, I think we should try the beads again,” he calls out, voice suddenly, starkly dead-serious. “You cried like a little bitch.”
With that, he pushes open the door and marches out without a backward glance, leaving chaos and devastation in his wake.
Chase and Cameron look at each other as Foreman tries to quell his laughter. House looks simultaneously awestruck and devastated.
Finally, Chase breaks the silence. “What in the actual hell just happened?” He asks.
Some noises escape Foreman as pure horror sinks into Chase’s expression. Cameron looks as if she can’t decide whether to laugh or cry.
“The patient,” House chokes out, face painted in a shade of slight panic, “what are we missing?”
Foreman composes himself, sitting tall as if nothing happened. House envies him, a little.
“Coronary?” Foreman proposes bravely.
“Aneurysm?” Cameron hopefully adds.
House gets that look in his eyes as his gaze locks onto the door Wilson just strode out of. “Check his feet for discoloration. It’s deep vein thrombosis. Maybe he is a giant booby after all.”
The ducklings take the out for what it is and scatter, leaving House with a confusing amount of emotions to sift through; the opposite of his specialty.
3.
Okay, so Wilson is a bit more evil than he thought. He’s capable of multitudes, apparently. House decides he needs to ramp up his advances. He can’t have goody-two-shoes Dr. Wilson having the last laugh; that’s just absurd!
House always gives as good as he gets (if not better).
House marches down to the clinic (in times of war, sacrifices must be made) and begins his prowl for a doe-eyed, manipulative oncologist in a lab coat.
And there, just as expected. He sees the flash of Wilson’s stupid coat through a clinic door as he ushers in a patient. Is he wearing a sweater vest under it? What a freak. He basically deserves this.
Round three it is. But House is prepared this time. If there’s anything that truly matters to Wilson, it’s his professional image and integrity. He’s annoyingly proud of his dedication to his patients, his ability to gain both their trust and respect in the first introduction.
So, obviously, House wants to destroy it.
Yearns to, even. (He yearns for a lot of things, but that’s neither here nor there.)
He gives a solid, generous five-minute headstart to ensure Wilson’s fully in proper-doctor mode before making his grand entrance.
Unabashedly throwing the door open and relishing in the large bang, House waltzes in. He struts towards the clinic bench and makes himself comfortable, slightly shoving the patient aside in the process. His entire left side presses up against hers. Wilson’s surprised expression quickly morphs into anger, then exasperation. Fascinating as always.
“House!” Wilson scolds. “Get out of here!”
House just smiles and dips his head towards the patient, aligning their faces together.
“Hi,” he greets, ignoring her gasp of shock and desperate lean back to escape him. “I need Dr. Wilson’s help. He’s an expert in his field.”
House hears a low exhale leave Wilson’s nose, where his fingers are pinching the bridge.
“Get out,” he starts, “now. I’m calling security.”
House pouts and kicks his leg out. “But doctor! You promised. I think I sat on something weird. I just figured with your experience on the opposite end of things,” he crudely makes a circle with two fingers, then pokes another finger in and out, “you’re the right person for the job.”
House thinks he hears a scandalized gasp and sputter, but his eyes are locked on Wilson. Wilson’s face turns beet red, and his jaw visibly clenches. His brows furrow as his chest pushes forward just slightly. I’ve got you now, House can’t help but think.
Wilson composes himself enough to wave a placating hand towards the patient, who at some point stood up and was gathering her belongings.
“No, he doesn’t mean that. I’m sorry, he’s from the psych ward, they must have loose security today,” he grits through his clenched teeth.
“But doctor,” House cries, “it hurts. Didn’t you and Dr. Stewart do something similar the other night? I could’ve sworn I wasn’t the only one with a lim-”
“Okay,” Wilson struts forward and firmly grabs House’s bicep, dragging him up and off the bench in one solid, fluid moment. Something in House’s stomach heats and stirs at the effortless manhandling.
“Say bye to Ms. Hemmings.”
“Bye, Ms. Hemmings!” And with that, Wilson boldly shoves him out the door. House barely avoids landing on his face (again).
He rights himself and smiles.
4.
After his moderate success, House contemplates ending his little game. He got a genuine, embarrassed reaction from his prey. What else could he possibly want? That logic makes sense to him: he won, game over.
But something in him wants more. Wants to see just how far he can push his boy scout. Wilson’s interesting, it’s only logical he would want to explore this previously unexplored phenomenon a bit more.
Yeah, House nods to himself, he’s a man of logic. This makes sense to him.
For their regularly scheduled cafeteria food lunch (which oddly enough hasn’t been cancelled, just evidence towards Wilson’s people-pleasing nature and maybe an innate desire to be around House, regardless of torment), House ambushes Wilson in line. He slides up behind him, adds a few bags of chips onto his tray, and orders his usual reuben before Wilson can sigh or snark at him.
As promised, Wilson does sigh, but he dutifully pays for the food without comment. Doormat.
“House,” Wilson casually broaches as they eat in their usual spot, “what the hell is wrong with you?”
“I had my frontal lobe severed by a barracuda as a kid,” he replies with his mouth full of sandwich. It’s extra moist today.
Wilson marginally clocks his head to one side. “Why must you bring me endless torment?”
“If you weren’t shaped like a doormat, I wouldn’t treat you like one.”
“You’re not treating me like a doormat, you’re treating me like-like,” Wilson exclaims around a potato chip, “like a conquest!”
House’s eyebrows shoot up. Has he? He thinks for a moment. No, it’s all part of the game.
“Conquest?” House innocently questions, fishing for a reaction.
“You know, like you want-want to get in my pants!” He gets out after several pauses.
House smirks condescendingly. “Wilson, if you can’t say it, then we shouldn’t be doing it.”
“We’re not doing it!” His voice is a tad louder and higher-pitched than he probably would’ve liked otherwise. It brings House an immeasurable amount of satisfaction. He takes another bite of his sandwich and chews with his mouth full.
“We’re doing something, alright. Jury’s out on what it is exactly,” House retorts. Wilson opens his mouth to most likely snap at him as his pager goes off, instantly sapping his attention. House’s eyes flick down to the device as his jaw clenches without his permission.
Wilson sighs again, exasperated and a tad uneasy. “I have to go,” he starts as he stands and starts assembling his trash on his tray, like the goody-two-shoes he is. House watches his movements, his eyes raking down Wilson’s form to the bunch of his lab coat around his waist where it exposes the top of his slacks.
He’s so stupid, honestly. How does he take himself seriously out in the world? A swell of affection seizes him before he forcibly pushes it down. What the hell?
Wilson balances his tray on one hand as he hovers near the table, checking the details on his pager. “You’re not getting out of this, you know,” he scolds.
“Yes, mom, I’m conquesting. I remember,” House replies, suddenly fixated on the tantalizing curve of Wilson’s ass that the stupid coat has so helpfully revealed. Wilson turns to leave, putting that fixation in close proximity to House, and really, Wilson should’ve known better.
With his cane-bearing hand (strong, dexterous), House rears back and slaps it forward, directly onto Wilson’s (firm and malleable, he’s discovering) ass.
Several things happen at once: the harsh slap of his objectively strong hand against Wilson’s objectively toned ass resounds through the not-quite-busy cafeteria, causing quite a few heads to pop up and stare in their direction.
Wilson honest to god squeaks and drops the tray, sending his half-eaten meal splattering across the tiled floor. House, in response to said adorable squeak, gasps so loudly he chokes on his spit and starts manically coughing.
Wilson swiftly turns around to what- scold, promise retribution? Only to have his indignity overridden by his House complex, and he immediately leans over and begins patting House’s back. House, not one to receive any offer of help, lurches forward to escape said hand, only to smack his face (huh, finally) against the crotch of Wilson’s pants.
They stay suspended for a moment, Wilson half-leaned over, hand awkwardly hovering over House’s back as House pants against the inseam of Wilson’s slacks.
Okay, that’s fine. House has just enough time to catalog the texture and smell (solid, with strong wafts of cedar and honey) before Wilson rips himself backward, stumbling onto the mess.
They stare into each other’s shocked eyes. The eyes of everyone in the cafeteria sink into House’s cognition at the same time as Wilson’s apparently, as they both break their impromptu contest and proceed to stare at some safer, farther object instead.
“Well,” House breaks the uncomfortable silence, as he’s biologically inclined to, “now I know what your dick feels like.”
Apparently, that comment was Wilson’s last straw as he scoffs, wipes a hand down his face (which trails down to the front of his slacks, as if wiping off any physical reminders of the incident but also giving House conflicting emotions), and struts out of the room, leaving his mess (House included) behind.
House blinks a few times in the sudden stillness. He looks at his hand, which tingles with a faint red impression.
Awesome.
5.
House has a theory. And of course, he needs another trial to satisfy his hypothesis. It’s only logical; it’s what scientists have done since the beginning of time.
He’s been contemplating Wilson’s myriad of reactions more than he’s been contemplating the latest patient of the week’s undulating health. She’s fine, probably. The ducklings would have bothered him if he really needed to be there or pay attention.
More important matters, Wilson. They’re not together, romantically or sexually. House has never thought of the possibility of them being together. (Besides late nights alone with a few bottles of scotch, and a perpetual seizing in his leg). Which naturally led him to wonder why he’s been using exclusively sexual advances against Wilson.
In his rationalizations, he’s decided that it’s the best way to get under his skin. Yes, that’s it. He just subconsciously realized that three-time divorcee Wilson would shy away from any queer affection, especially House’s flamboyant (no irony intended) flavor of queer affection.
Okay, this makes sense. The bigger question, the time-consuming, nail-biting question, House naturally, logically, ended up at: why hasn’t Wilson shied away? House stares up at his ceiling, lying haphazardly across his couch. His favorite soap plays in the background, but it doesn’t get his attention. Nothing does, as of late, except for Wilson.
House’s eyes squint at nothing. What is Wilson’s problem? There must be something wrong with him. Maybe he’s lonely and likes the attention, maybe he’s simply fed up with House’s antics and decided to fight back.
Or, maybe, a traitorous part of him whispers, he wants it. Wants you.
House objectively rolls this idea around in his head. Could Wilson want him? Or is he just playing his own twisted game, hoping to get back at House?
No, Wilson’s straight. He has to be. If he isn’t, then what he hell is he doing-? House’s thoughts break off as the chorus of “Dancing Queen” fills his apartment. His lips tick up in a smug smile.
He picks up the phone with a nonchalant, drawn-out, “Hello?”
“House!” Is all he hears against the blare of Aqua’s “Barbie Girl.” “I have a patient, how the hell do I turn this off?!” Wilson squawks in his ear as House relaxes into his cushions.
He twirls an imaginary phone wire between his fingers while enjoying his best friend’s agony.
“I dunno,” he calmly starts, “have you tried embracing the Barbie Girl™ spirit?”
“House, I’m serious.”
“Hi, serious, I’m House. Stop being such a bimbo, and you won’t have to have an appropriate theme song.”
“House, you demented addict, tell me how to turn off or I’ll shove your-”
“Night, Barbie!” House says gleefully as he hangs up, putting his phone on silent for good measure. Just another day. He places his arms beneath his head and exhales. Score.
+1
House, for once, decided to appease the malevolent she-devil he works for (and her accompanying assets) by suffering through about an hour of clinic duty. Nothing more, that would just be absurd. Just enough to get her off his back so he can have his usual full reign of the ICU, no biggie.
House stands in the middle of the clinic, shuffling through files to decide which ones will be worthy of his sustained interest. The fact that he’s here is a miracle; it would be simply catastrophic if he chose patients who didn’t interest him, at least on some small, microscopic level.
As he flips through, he sees a flash of a white lab coat in his peripheral vision. He looks up just enough to see an obsessively styled mop of brown hair enter a clinic room. So Wilson’s doing what’s required of his job; that’s nothing new.
House goes back to flipping and sighs, resolving to pull a random file and diagnose the patient without reading it. He turns to holler out when Wilson emerges from one of the rooms and heads straight towards him. Okay, that’s cool. House puts the file down on the counter, always interested in Wilson.
Without a word, Wilson marches into his space and places his left hand on House’s cheek before pulling him into a haggard kiss. House’s eyes widen as Wilson pulls him in deeper. A small gasp inadvertently leaves his chest which immediately gets swallowed by Wilson’s hungry lips.
Okay, what the fuck?
His eyes, still wide open and startled, flick over the scandalized and entertained faces of the patients, nurses, and some doctors in the clinic. He imagines he must look how they feel: totally shocked and off-center.
Wilson makes an impatient noise and somehow dips House’s head lower, pressing their lips more firmly together, and oh, House still hasn’t kissed him back, has he? Why hasn’t he? This is what he’s always wanted, he’s quickly realizing.
The molten feeling in his gut clenches hard as he closes his eyes and delicately places his hand on Wilson’s waist, the other squeezes his cane in a grip that would kill Bambi.
Their lips move together for a moment as House relaxes into the kiss, cataloging the feel of Wilson’s soft (damn, is that flavored chapstick?) lips against his rough ones. How many licks to find out which flavor it is?
A small sound escapes his mouth, almost similar in tone to a whimper. Wilson strikes.
Wilson’s right hand, which had been (unnoticeably, House was a little busy panicking) hanging by his side, suddenly whips up and slaps down with all its surprising might, perfectly onto House’s crotch.
He rears back from the kiss, stumbling slightly. “What the hell is your problem!” He shouts at an amused Wilson. Wilson smiles, perfectly composed, as they both trail their eyes down to House’s crotch simultaneously.
There, against the black fabric of his beloved jeans, is a crisp white handprint.
Wilson, the fucker, throws his head back and laughs as House looks in blatant disbelief.
“Okay, I repeat, what the hell is wrong with you?” House asks, still unsure how exactly his Wilson had the balls to do this to him. His Wilson. Yeah, that sounds about right.
Wilson, the evil bimbo, laughs harder and struts away, leaving House with a mess on his pants (and not the fun kind) and a certain tightening in his chest. Oh, wait, no. That’s his pants again.
Oh.
Maybe he’s a little gay for Wilson.
He looks up and watches the sway of Wilson’s lab coat disappear into the elevator.
That’s okay, cause maybe, just maybe, Wilson is a little gay for him too.
In any case, he just got infinitely more interesting, and the dull, perpetual want that’s simmered in House’s gut since 1991 finally transforms into an aching need. This needs to be rectified immediately.
Still standing in the middle of the now stock-still clinic, House raises his hand to his lips and feels the residual tingle left behind. His lips tick up in a genuine smile.
House struts towards the elevators, clinic duty so far in his past it might as well be prehistoric. He impatiently waits for the chime of the lift as he taps his fingers against the wood of his cane in a grounding rhythm.
He’s gonna serve himself a nice dish of retribution by kissing the ever-loving daylights out of Wilson. But better, obviously, as House always goes above and beyond.
All it took was a series of gay chicken and a baby powder handprint on his dick.
House might be a little in love, too.