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Wilson had spent all evening actually doing work. He had finished most of the admin that had been piling up on his desk for months, seen patient's without interruption, scheduled medication and appointments and procedures, made the usual blandly pleasant comment about the new nurse's hair or shoes or something. Sandy perhaps? Harriet?
It had been nice. Pleasant. Uninterrupted.
Wilson actually had free time, for the first time in - months? Years?
It was fine. Nice. It was nice.
He sat in his office. The clock ticked. An insect crawled across his computer screen. It was peaceful. Nice.
Wilson bounced his leg and the desk rattled a little with the movement. There was muffled voices from the room beside his - House's torture chamber, as he liked to call it - that he had been trying desperately not to listen to. Yes, okay, House hadn't interrupted him or burst in to ask him a stupid question or even seen him today, but that was nice. Calm. Tranquil.
The insect was now crawling on the window pane, silhouetted against the almost-setting sun. Something dripped.
Okay, maybe he was a little bored. Perhaps, maybe, yes, without House - of course without House - it was boring. God it was boring. And possibly, yes, he had missed House. Just a little, and not in a weird way, just-
He had missed House today. And maybe he was hurt, just a little, again not in a weird way, it's not like they were even like that, just he had... if he was honest with himself (he wasn't) if he was really, really honest with himself (he wasn't), then maybe he felt ignored by House.
He probably had a really complex case. Probably.
And anyway, it wasn't like Wilson needed him to make things engaging, to make things interesting for him - Wilson could make himself happy! He could enjoy himself without him, it wasn't like he relied on him for...
But he does make me happy, Wilson thought in a resigned sort of way.
House did make him happy. They had fun. A lot of fun. And more than anything, Wilson loved making House have fun. Seeing the crinkles in his eyes when he was trying not to laugh at one of Wilson's better jokes, or the openess of his smile when they were alone, or the way he never guarded his leg around him, never, not even from the start-
Wilson huffed out a sigh and hit his head against the table. Surely he could enjoy himself when House wasn't there to be annoying and stupid and House, surely he could enjoy himself - maybe, yes, not with himself, but with the others? His other... friends?
His other friends.
See, that was the thing about House, that being around him, in being Wilson, he had isolated him, in a way that Wilson had barely objected to, through his classic House way, of being a territorial (jealous), weird asshole. It was House's way of saying he cared. Wilson liked it.
But no matter how much he liked it (not in that way, but-) it was still isolating. And it meant that House was essentially his main source of joy. Wilson, oddly, didn't feel particularly surprised or appalled by that epiphany.
Maybe he did like being House's only friend. Only person who he really, truly cared about. In their weird twisted way, like, Wilson was his emergency contact and medical proxy, and an endless list of other ways that House used Wilson as a crutch (literally), it was almost like they were partners, not really, but still, like-
But Wilson wasn't gay. And House wasn't either - to his knowledge - and, it didn't matter anyway, because House wasn't in love with him, judging from the endless stream of prostitutes in and out of his door. And Wilson wasn't in love with House, he wasn't, despite what many drunken confessions and late night spirals might lead one to think. He wasn't. Because House wasn't in love with him. And Wilson...
He hit his head against the desk again.
House never seemed like he loved him anyway, not in the way that Wilson did(nt!), and Wilson had enough wives to know what love felt like, and it wasn't this. House was unstable and annoying and volatile, and that warm, fluttery thing that bloomed in his chest whenever he was around was just good ol' comradeship. Pals being pals. Platonic friendly bro feelings.
Friends always made him feel like that! He had a friend at medical school who-
Well he had turned out to be in love with Wilson, but that wasn't the point.
Wilson gave up ignoring it and leaned out on his chair so that he could just barely see House grilling Taub on his marriage or whatever else he felt like in that particular moment. Wilson was right, he clearly had that manic sort of look in his eye that he got whenever a particularly strange or complex case presented itself. He probably hadn't slept in the last two days, judging from the array of coffee cups littered around their shared balcony. His shirt was crinkled unflatteringly around him and his tshirt underneath - one of his favourites, the faded pale blue one with the yellow smiley-face on the front - had a coffee stain and a mustard stain and another reddish-brown stain next to it that Wilson really hoped wasn't blood. He looked like shit, leaning heavily on his cane and making some biting remark that Chase would pretend didn't affect him. Wilson couldn't stop looking at him.
He was fascinated by the way that the setting sun had hit his face, that made him - not beautiful, but... okay, yes beautiful. He looked unfairly good in that light even with various dubious stains on his shirt and bags under his eyes, but then again, Wilson always thought that. He was constantly beautiful, and Wilson was constantly revelling in it, and how he never failed to look like it, to grin at him and make some sardonic comment while looking so utterly beautiful it made Wilson's chest hurt.
Not that they- not that he was in love with him. Or anything.
But sometimes, sometimes he wondered. That maybe if- if House was a woman - maybe things would be different. Him and woman-House would have probably already been married by now, probably living together with their disgustingly happy lives in a nice house with a cat or a dog or a rabbit or some other domesticated normal animal. Wilson wouldn't have really cared if it was House.
Not that he - not that he felt like that, he didn't want to do those things with House, those disgusting, domestic, happy things with him. Maybe he had considered sex with House... more than a few times, but that was normal, surely? But he didn't want to love him like that. He didn't. He really didn't. But maybe...
Maybe he would have liked it. If House were a woman, of course. Maybe he would have liked living with him and arguing over the dinner table about something stupid and waking up with him and going out for nice dinners and treating him and... and loving him.
Wilson's chest hurt. This wasn't going to work.
He gave up and opened the door to the balcony just as he saw House shoo his Houselings away.
He hopped over wall separating the balconies, House catching his eye as he did.
Yeah. He was beautiful.