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Wilson isn't quite expecting it when he opens his door to find House sitting on the edge of his desk in the mostly dark. Which is to say, he's expecting it as much as he ever is with someone as space-invasive as House, but he doesn't know of anything that would have incited such a stealth attack.
Then his eyes light on the unfamiliar box on his desk: smack in the middle, perfectly framed.
"Oh no."
He didn't mean to say it out loud, but it's hard to fully regret when House smiles in response: not his usual smarmy, or ironic, or even to hide a grimace, but a genuine smile, just a hint of a laugh that remains unvoiced in the quiet office. Contrary to popular belief, he is capable of it, and Wilson would know better than most, but it's still heartwarming. It's been a long year.
"Oh yes," House says theatrically. "Jimmy Wilson, this is your present."
Yet neither of them moves. Something small and square winks in and out of existence behind House's fingers. Wilson has always kind of hated him for the casual sleight of hand shit, unbearably jealous.
Wilson sighs. "I'll bite. What is it?"
He snaps the yellow paper open triumphantly, like it's a particularly good fortune cookie fortune he's about to recite. Instead, he just turns it around for Wilson to read his own name.
"Had to have one in there for myself to sell the bit," House explains. "Don't worry, I would never have let any of them draw you." He makes the paper just as easily disappear. "Ta-da."
Wilson takes a moment to examine it from afar before approaching. No wires coming in or out of it, though of course House would be too smart for that. It's not very heavy when he picks it up, but it's not lightweight either. There's clearly something in it. But what has always been the real concern.
It's a nice box. House tied a ribbon around it; Wilson can tell, because it doesn't quite match the box, which is also nice and nondescript but in a different way. Probably a box he got somewhere and has been hoarding in a corner of his apartment for if he ever needed it. Another red flag.
"If I open this and it blows my eyebrows off, I'm colonizing your apartment for the rest of the break. And you're paying for the takeout every night."
"What makes you think that wasn't exactly my plans anyway?" House volleys back. "The one and only perk of a teaching hospital: mandated vacations."
"Seriously, is whatever's inside here covered in itching powder or capsaicin or something else that's going to ruin my day? Because I'd rather wait til I'm home, if that's the case, and take a decontamination shower in the privacy of my own home." He shakes it. Whatever is inside is only just smaller than the exterior. "It doesn't sound like a mouse is in there. Scorpion, maybe?"
"Can't a man be in the holiday spirit? Brotherhood of man, gift giving traditions? Or are you just being grumpy because you think I owe you another seven?" House waves this imaginary Wilson off. "You're surprised enough by one measly gift. I was just thinking of your middle aged heart."
"I'm not the one who shoved a knife in an outlet this year," Wilson says to that. He meant it to come out stern, but it's a bit too quiet for that. Not sharp enough. He's still holding the box.
House taps his cane on the floor between his feet. Waiting. He doesn't reach over to tug the ribbon, make Wilson actually get on with it, or heckle him in some way to the same effect. Just sits there in his coat and scarf and waits.
Which leads Wilson to the most horrifying conclusion of all: that it's sincere.
The thing about House is he's incredibly good at giving gifts, which is infuriating in no small part because he doesn't seem to realize how strange it is. It's one of the things that makes Wilson sort of glad they don't do birthdays. An actual Hanukkah with House would be like emotional waterboarding. It's because he's so damn attentive, absorbing every preference and interest like a sponge, that it takes a second of thought to come up with and acquire the perfect gift, especially when it comes to Wilson. A book about a strange thing he once expressed brief but sincere interest in. Every single one of his movie posters, all his favorites and also linked to something meaningful in the year before. It's maddening thoughtful.
Last year, it was an Edo period woodcut of a set of fishing boats "to counteract the Kennedyesque grotesquerie of the rest of your decor, and wow, I didn't realize how fun that was gonna be to say," and Wilson had almost kissed and/or punched him.
Also, Wilson is usually not very good at giving gifts. Which means he's going to have to chuck the Pink Floyd boxset he got and find something else before the year ends.
Fuck.
With one last skeptical glance, he takes the plunge and pulls off the ribbon, careful to not so much as glance up at House, lest he find himself being watched. Loose inside the box but fitting perfectly, it's... a watch.
"Huh," he says under his breath, pure reaction.
A watch. Tame, for a House gift, and oddly tasteful. The face ticks just audibly enough, hefty in his hand but not too heavy. It's a nice watch. Exactly what Wilson would have picked for himself. In fact... Holding it up to the light, he realizes it's almost exactly like one he had twenty years ago—that he was wearing when they met, he remembers with clarity, because he can picture it in the plastic bin in Nola PD lockup when House picked him up. Or maybe not so "almost"; same shade of leather, same hands, same bevel around the face. Just a little too fancy, thought at least it's now in a way that Wilson can feel fond about.
His fingers catch on an unfamiliar texture, on the back of the face, and he turns it over to see something engraved on the back, other than the maker mark he's used to.
It winks in the light: #1 Reluctant Partner in Crime.
"Thanks for another year of saving my ass."
Wilson's eyes jump up to meet House's. He still hasn't moved, patient the way he never is, still waiting, now for Wilson to look back up. In the shadows of the office, his eyes are bright, not the way House always is but the way he is when it's just the two of them, lighter. Soft like putty. A memory, not old enough to be calloused, arises of looking up from House's chart and finding the man himself finally awake to look back. Bloodshot and weary and entirely too honest. The memory sours in the back of his throat, but Wilson still feels the relief he tried to hide that night, like a phantom limb.
When their eyes meet now, House doesn't say anything more, just keeps looking back with that odd patience. Oddly human, and yet not odd at all.
Without another word, House nods and stands, headed for the door. There's a vague feeling that he should do—say—something, but nothing comes to Wilson until he's at the door.
"Merry Christmas, House," he calls after him.
Then it's one backwards glance—that same human smile, sincerity and silence—and before Wilson knows it, the elevator is dinging beyond his once-again closed door. It feels like something passing him by, like a train passing the station just as you arrive, or maybe like taking one more step than there are in a staircase, but the feeling is gone as quickly as it arrived, leaving just a vague itch at the center of his spine, right where he could never reach it.
Wilson stares back down at the watch in his hand. The ridges of the words catch just barely against his thumb. It's the exact right size when he puts it on—and if Wilson imagines he can feel the engraving against his skin, well, that's nobody's business.
He definitely has some shopping to do.