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He is a shitty doctor. He’s won awards and accolades and even became a department head. He thinks it’s because he knows how to be soft, kind, and gentle. He knows he’s cute, too. But he isn’t a good doctor. Far too many of his patients die. He doesn’t give them all the level of concern and care they so desperately need. He does his absolute best every fucking day, but it feels like a lie. Just like the projection of himself that won him awards and married women. He isn’t a good doctor, and he isn’t a good person.
One of his patients who’s made a full recovery is a tailor. He won’t let go of the idea Wilson somehow saved him. All Wilson did was prescribe treatment and medication. Gerald did all the healing and fighting himself. Regardless, Gerald is adamant that Wilson visit his store and get fitted for a free suit. He would have totally dismissed the idea and thanked Gerald for his kindness and sent him on his way, but the Thanksgiving charity ball came into view right as Wilson realized all his old wedding tuxedos don’t fit anymore.
Middle age is rapidly approaching, if not already here, and he’s gained a bit of weight around his middle. He hates it and is probably a little too self-conscious about it, but he hasn’t really done anything to try and lose it, so he can’t really complain or act surprised. But now all his suits and tuxes are too tight in an unflattering way. So that’s how he finds himself getting fitted for a suit.
Gerald beams when Wilson visits the shop and ushers him deeper inside. He’s then led to a small step in front of three mirrors, the two on the sides are bent at an angle, so he can see almost all of his body at once.
Gerald makes small talk as he takes measurements. It’s easy to engage in as it always is for him, and Wilson almost believes he did something good seeing how much happier Gerald is now than when he was sick. But, overall, it’s monotonous and boring, and Wilson just has to stand there, surrounded by reflections of himself.
Gerald asks him about colors and fabrics once he and his seamstresses have finished pinning and measuring, and Wilson is so out of his depth and doesn’t quite care enough about a suit to provide specific, sure answers. He tells Gerald he’s the expert, so it’s up to him. Gerald grins at him through the mirror and says he’ll take care of him, repeating the words Wilson had reassured him time and time again when he was sick.
Wilson doesn’t even see the suit that day. He stood in front of the trifecta of mirrors for almost two hours getting measured and shown different fabrics. Gerald seems so certain of what the suit will be like, but all Wilson can really tell is that it should fit him better than any suit he’s had before (it fucking better after all the measurements they took), and that it will be black with deep, forest green accents.
Needless to say, Wilson isn’t prepared for what it actually looks like on him when he returns to Gerald over a fortnight later.
He’s brought to a fitting room, his suit waiting for him on a hanger inside. Wilson is quick, he doesn’t want to stay too long since he hasn’t eaten dinner yet, and hurriedly dresses, not taking time to glance in the mirror until the entire suit is on. He smooths down the suit jacket, absently trying to think which one of his ties will match this, when he finally looks up at the mirror.
He blinks at the nearly unrecognizable man in front of him. The suit is slimming. Must be the way the suit jacket falls. Or something.
He looks, well, fancy for lack of a better word. The suit is clearly high caliber. The black pants and jacket are familiar. There’s deep evergreen accents lining the suit jacket, and a fucking matching hankerchief folded in the breast pocket. The button-up beneath the jacket feels smooth. He thinks it might be silk. There’s a slight glimmer to it, and the dark green brings out his brown eyes and hair. He looks fantastic.
He can’t go to the ball in this. His wedding tuxedos didn’t look this nice.
Gerald had wanted to see it on him, so Wilson steps out of the changing room.
Gerald grins. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah, it’s-it’s great, Gerald.”
“Good, good,” he says absently while sizing Wilson up. “One more time for measurements and last adjustments.”
And then he’s rushed back in front of the three mirrors again. Wilson honestly doesn’t know what Gerald sees that needs editing. And, as Gerald busies himself with pinning and measuring, Wilson catches his own gaze in the mirror. He thinks the antidepressants aren’t working because he hates the man staring back at him.
Despite insisting on paying something for the suit, Gerald refuses. So Wilson takes the suit with him after the receptionist hands him a small laminated paper with dry-cleaning instructions. He hangs the suit inside the hotel closet where it’s forgotten until the night of the ball.
House insisted on picking him up in the convertible for some reason. Wilson had quickly showered after work and threw the suit on. But he can’t for the life of him find a matching tie. He knows he has a black one that will match. He’s basically moved everything out of the hotel closet and onto the bed in an effort to find the stupid tie. He’s becoming irrationally panicked and annoyed when his cellphone rings.
“Where are you?” House demands. “I’m outside.”
“I can’t find a tie!” Wilson cries.
“Are you… Are you serious?”
“Yes, House, some of us actually care how we look!”
“Just go without one.”
“What? No, I—”
“I’m leaving you if you’re not out here in five minutes.” Then he hangs up.
“Fucking, Christ,” Wilson mutters as he dashes to grab his wallet and cellphone before checking himself in the mirror one last time. He unbuttons the top three buttons of his shirt, so he doesn’t look totally stupid and races out of his room.
He’s still basically running when he bursts out of the hotel lobby. The convertible is waiting out front for him, blocking every car just enough so carrying luggage into the hotel is quite a bit more inconvenient. God, he’s such a calculated asshole. And, god, Wilson shouldn’t like it so much.
He opens the car door and gets inside, grateful for the warmth.
“What…are you wearing?”
It would sound sexy in any other scenario with any other inflection.
Wilson feels his face catch on fire and glances down. He knew this suit would be too much.
“Oh, god, it’s too much, isn’t it?” he laments. “Should I change?”
When he turns to House, House’s wide eyes are pinned to his body in mild disbelief. House stares silently at him for a few awkward, tense seconds. Then his eyes zip up to Wilson’s.
“You look fine,” House snips. He shifts the car into drive and somehow almost hits three separate families on his way out of the parking lot.
Wilson berates him for it, so House, of course, drives like a jackass the entire way over to the ball. In retaliation, Wilson makes sure he’s as annoying as possible every time he comments on House’s driving.
When they finally park, House turns to him and says, “You can’t get laid tonight because I drove you, so you don’t have a ride.” Then he pushes himself out of the car before Wilson can reply.
What?
Even if Wilson “gets laid tonight”, he could call a taxi the next morning. Or did House mean he can’t drive a woman back to his hotel room since he doesn’t have a car? What?
Wilson steps out of the car and catches up with House. “What?”
House smiles innocently. “Hmm?”
Wilson rolls his eyes. “You are in rare form tonight.”
“Am I?”
Wilson would steal the moon and the stars for him.
“Are you going to be like this all night?” Wilson asks.
“Like what?” said innocently.
They get inside and check-in their coats at the front desk. He’s handed a couple of paper stubs with numbers on them that match the numbers on the coat hangers holding their jackets and tucks the stubs into his pocket. House somehow slipped away while he was doing this, so when Wilson steps away from the front desk, he scans the room for House, but someone walks into his field of vision, blocking his view.
“Cameron,” he greets, a little unprepared, still hoping he’ll catch sight of House soon. But, no, there’s no sign of him anywhere.
“Wilson.” She smiles, and they hug briefly. Then she eyes him. Not in the way where she wants him seriously, but she looks. “That suit looks great.”
Despite himself, he feels his cheeks grow hot. “Oh, thank you.” And it must look good if his coworker—a woman who’s never shown romantic interest, even—compliments him on it.
He’s feeling slightly better about himself, and they chit-chat for a little bit. They talk about how the coffee machine in the main break room downstairs is broken again, and Wilson asks her what happened to her team’s last patient since all House said was that it was boring. It turned out to be a combination of allergies and a viral infection, so it was kind of boring. At least for House’s standards.
They finish their conversation when Chase appears at Cameron’s side with hearts in his eyes, and Cameron tries to ignore it without realizing she returns the look. It’s somehow endearing and pathetic at the same time.
Wilson’s making his way through the crowd, still unable to see House when he bumps into Cuddy.
“Hi,” he says with a smile.
“Hi,” she replies with a grin of her own. Her eyes wander over him for a second. Linger maybe a moment too long. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks.” And he’s blushing again.
“Has House seen you in this?”
Odd question. “Yeah, he drove me here. …Why?” he asks suspiciously.
She smiles in the patronizing way a teacher does to an adorable yet oblivious child. “No reason.” She pats his arm. Then she leans in like she’s revealing a secret, “He’s upstairs hiding on the balcony.”
How the fuck did he get up there so fast?
“Thank you,” he says and makes his way towards the stairs. He belatedly realizes it was a bit rude to walk off so soon in the conversation, especially without saying goodbye.
As he’s walking up the stairs, he’s awarded two more compliments on his suit. He weaves through the thinning crowd upstairs until he sees a set of paned glass doors and the dark night sky beyond. House is leaning against the balcony, looking up at the stars. The moon illuminates his silhouette in cold silver. A strange longing fills Wilson, almost a physical weight, and he suddenly needs to be beside House.
Wilson pushes one of the glass doors open and is greeted by the frosty night air. House turns, sees it’s him, then faces away, clearly uninterested. Wilson pretends it doesn’t sting.
“Hey,” Wilson says. It’s cold enough he can see his breath.
He can’t help but feel like something is going on with House. He seems preoccupied, and there could be countless things on the man’s mind, especially knowing the chaotic method in which he thinks. He knows it’s hopeless to guess what about and how House is thinking with everything that’s been going on lately from his visibly worsening addiction to Cameron and Chase fucking on the job. At least he doesn’t have any patients right now.
“Ditching me at the Thanksgiving charity event is low, even for you,” Wilson accuses with a pointed finger, hoping to lighten the mood.
He settles beside House, and House eyes him critically.
“Clearly, you’re out to seduce someone tonight, so I didn’t want to get in the way.” He sounds like an angsty teen who was excluded from the birthday party.
“Is this about my suit?” Wilson asks and doesn’t quite manage to leave the hurt out of his voice.
He fucking knew it was too much. He never should’ve worn it. He never should’ve taken Gerald’s offer. All of the compliments he’s gotten tonight mean nothing if House won’t even look at him. He doesn’t fucking understand what he did.
Wilson hates himself for asking—because he might get relentlessly teased for it—but says anyway, “Are you mad at me?”
That finally causes House to fully look at him. He stares at Wilson like he’s an idiot. “Am I your new wife now? Since when do you care if I’m mad at you?”
“Because I didn’t do it on purpose this time!” he exclaims a little more frustratedly than he means to.
House struggles not to smile. “You’re dressed like a whore; what else am I supposed to think??”
Wilson laughs. “House! I’m-I’m wearing a suit.”
“A slutty suit.”
“How is this slutty??”
“How many people have mentioned it so far tonight?” he retorts like he has Wilson in a checkmate.
“I don’t—” He looks away and bites back his exasperation.
He has no idea why House is fixated on this. He finally has a really nice suit, and House is giving him shit for it?? He won’t deny he is basking in this strange attention, but he doesn’t understand what House’s issue is. There isn’t any deeper meaning to this. Maybe that’s what House isn’t understanding. He just got divorced (again) for fuck’s sake! He’s not back on the market quite yet.
Wilson sighs, breath billowing out like a miniature fog, still unsure of House’s motives, then looks directly at him. “One of my former patients fitted me with a suit for free. That’s it!”
“You needed a new suit? Don’t you have any from your annual marriages?”
He knows his face is red. “Why are we still talking about this?”
House’s eyes dart down then slowly take in his appearance. He stares so intensely Wilson swears he can feel it. Moving up past his waist, curiously catching on the exposed skin around his neck. His heart pounds too loudly.
Then House grins evilly. “You couldn’t fit in your suits anymore.”
Wilson rolls his eyes. “Yes, House, mystery solved.”
Then House reaches a hand out, gently pressing against Wilson’s stomach right above his belt. “Your cancer tailor did a good job. I can barely tell you’ve gained any weight at all.”
“Fuck you.”
“Only if you say please.” Then House’s hand moves up. “Is this silk?”
“Yes, wh—”
He stares directly in Wilson’s eyes when he squeezes Wilson’s pec like he’s rocking a set of double D’s.
Wilson grabs House’s wrist and steps forward, forcing House backwards, and pins him between the balcony railing and Wilson.
“What is going on with you tonight?” he asks, keeping a firm grip on House’s wrist.
Wilson can feel House’s pulse beating wildly beneath his fingers. He stares relentlessly into House’s eyes. Nothing is adding up, and now he’s just growing annoyed. So he’s determined to annoy House back. Quid pro quo.
“Nothing,” House answers while his gaze remains fixed to Wilson’s mouth. The vapor from their breath mixes together.
But this isn’t how House avoids eye-contact. He looks off into the middle-distance and dissociates. He doesn’t lazer-focus on something else like this.
Cuddy’s words replay in his mind. “Has House seen you in this?”
“Oh my god, you like this suit,” Wilson says stupidly, steering them directly into something dangerous instead of biting his tongue like he should.
House’s eyes flash and meet his. There’s something there. Not quite anger, but not quite not anger. It’s intense. Smoldering hot like embers in a fire.
The arm Wilson has a hold on lurches forward and balls the front of his new fucking shirt into a fist. Bastard.
“I won’t be your wife,” House hisses. His breath warms Wilson’s face.
And there’s always a choice. In Wilson’s life at least. He can take the path he’s supposed to. The good, simple, ethical path. He tries. He really fucking does. But sometimes he doesn’t think he’s really that good. He doesn’t treat people right, and he makes such horrible, destructive decisions sometimes. And he likes it. He will never, ever, ever admit it, but he does. But not as much as House does. House loves it when Wilson does something fucked up. Delights in his wickedness. So it’s easy. It’s easy to be wicked around House. And he’s let himself be. House encourages it, so, really, it’s all his fault. So Wilson shouldn’t say what he’s about to say, but, more importantly, it’s going to fuck with House, so he does.
Wilson retorts, “Even if I say please?”
House simultaneously yanks him forward by his shirt and crashes their mouths together.
Their lips slide against each other, too rushed, too hungry, to properly fit into each other. Wilson’s entire mouth and chin feels like it’s coated in spit. It’s disgusting. He needs more. House’s beard against his sensitive cheeks and lips feels so fucking good.
Wilson releases House’s wrist to grab him with both hands on his waist. Better to hold him in place and keep track of his leg. He balls the fabric of House’s shirt in his hands and presses him back against the rail.
House gasps, small and quiet, but Wilson still notices and mentally stores it away for later study. He shoves his tongue into House’s mouth between his parted lips and makes sure to ravage his mouth as roughly as he can. He licks against House’s teeth before wrestling with his tongue. Wilson wins by tugging on House’s shirt and slipping his hands beneath the fabric.
A groan stutters out of House, and his skin is hot under Wilson’s touch. He’s too thin, and Wilson can feel his ribs and caresses his fingers across the ridges. He slides his hands farther and rests them on House’s lower back, where he’s warmest, and presses his fingertips into his soft skin.
One of House’s hands tangles in his hair, and they finally fit together. The edges of hunger and desperation fade, until they’re simply embracing, kisses becoming tender brushes of lips.
Wilson feels whole. At peace in a way he’s never felt before.
Then House pulls back slightly. A string of spit keeps their lips connected as they pant into each other’s mouths.
Wilson can feel House’s muscles shift beneath his hands. Then tense.
“Is your leg okay?” Wilson asks, still embarrassingly winded.
“Yeah,” House replies just as breathless, “but my cane fell.”
“Oh.” Wilson pulls back to look down at the ground.
“No, uh, all the way down. Off the balcony.”
Wilson bursts into laughter and buries his face into House’s neck. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
Wilson pulls back, still grinning, and House is wearing an expression Wilson’s only seen a handful of times. He’d seen it most when House was with Stacy. He’d shoot her these warm, open, adoring—human—looks when she wasn’t looking. It had always killed Wilson, knowing she probably didn’t know he stared at her that way. Why couldn’t she ever see in time?
And the look House is giving Wilson now is like that. But more. It shocks Wilson so badly he feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He’s staring at Wilson like he’s…happy. Like he couldn’t be more thrilled to be out in the dark and cold, pinned against the balcony railing, cane lost on the ground far below, with Wilson’s arms around him.
And it’s–it’s everything.
Oh, god, it’s way too much.
It’s like he tried to take a bite out of the Sun.
House raises one of his arms and caresses Wilson’s cheek with the back of his hand, knuckles feeling like a whisper. For one long, lingering moment, he stares at Wilson with that genuine look again. Then it disappears just as quickly and unexpectedly as it arrived.
“Stop having a gay meltdown,” House says, but his voice is rough, chain dragging over asphalt.
“I’m—not,” Wilson barely forces out.
House raises his eyebrows with a knowing look.
Wilson’s voice trembles, “I ruin every relationship I have with sex.”
“Uh, well, hate to break it to you, but that was not sex. Think you’ve been doing it wrong this whole time. I guess that explains all the ex-wives.”
Wilson still has his hands on House’s skin, so he pinches him as hard as he can.
“Ow! Fuck! Jesus!” House grabs Wilson’s forearms and yanks them away from his body.
Then he tightens his grip on Wilson’s arms to a bruising level and shoots him a look alight in mischief. Wilson has one second to realize House is about to do something stupid before he pulls Wilson in for another kiss.