Work Text:
DAY 1
House rolled into work at 1:41pm. A new personal best for lateness. He expertly dodged Cuddy in the lobby and made faces at his team when he finally walked into his office.
He had an excuse, okay?
The night before, he and Wilson had been drinking. A lot. It had been a tedious day at work for both of them - House's patient had refused treatment no matter how many people he sent to try and convince her - Wilson's youngest patient had died while the parents were getting food in the cafeteria - and they both agreed they needed some kind of relief from the horrors of their job. Wilson more than House, perhaps, but House was never one to turn down alcohol. Especially if it involved his drunk best friend.
They'd started at one bar, meandered through two or ten others, inevitably ending up sprawled across House's living room carpet staring at the spinning ceiling.
"We're too...we're too old for this," Wilson hiccoughed, fumbling for the beer bottle House was waving in his face. His eyes could make out about three beers above him. How was he supposed to know which one to grab?
Finally, his fingers made purchase around the glass neck and he brought the thing, lined with some kind of whiskey they'd had earlier and House's saliva, to his lips, steadily chugging a good portion of it down. Usually, Wilson winced even at the idea of sharing the same drink with someone - the thought of all the possible germs and infection just made it worse when he had the medical knowledge to back it up. He reluctantly let House steal his fries or whatever food he wanted because he knew that he himself wouldn't have to eat them, wouldn't have to risk the same contact. But a drink passed back and forth involved all of that. Maybe he was too drunk to care. Or maybe he was less paranoid when it was House.
"You are," House argued after a delay processing any kind of auditory information. "Not me."
Wilson laughed, loud and high-pitched. "You're older than me...old man."
"Am not."
"Are too."
House was in too much of a state to produce an adequate reply, so went to snatch the bottle back.
The difficulty with this, however, was that Wilson was holding (or rather, loosely grasping) the beer with his hand furthest away from House, meaning to get it, House had to reach over him. And in his drunken stupor, House full on crawled across the man to do so. And when he grabbed the beer to take a swig, he didn't bother moving from where he now lay diagonally across Wilson's chest.
"House-" came some distant echo from present-day reality.
"Go away," House snapped immediately, banging his head against his office desk, frantically trying to return to the only moment in his memory worth reliving.
Wilson was warm, he recalled. Really warm. Wilson tended to run hot anyway, but when he was drunk, there was this fuzzy glow to him, like he was some kind of cushion and teddy bear and hot water bottle all wrapped up into one. There was a thudding in - on? - his chest, and he couldn't figure out if it was his heart, or Wilson's heart, or someone knocking at the door to tell him this was all a dream, this wasn't happening.
But Wilson was looking at him with those eyes.
Those gorgeous, pleading brown eyes that had curiously locked with his in that prison cell fifteen years ago. Those eyes that House had seen cry, and light up with joy, and bleed with every other possible human emotion.
And now they were focussed on him. Wilson's attention was an addiction - he could never get enough of it. He wanted, he always wanted, goddamn it, more and more and more. He would sacrifice everything in the world to keep it.
He knew Wilson inside out, upside down, better than he knew himself, but maybe he was too alcohol-ridden, or maybe there was suddenly something new in his gaze, but House couldn't work out what was going on behind those eyes. He knew, by some kind of animalistic instinct rather than any tangible recollection, that he had seen this look on Wilson's face before, it wasn't entirely unfamiliar to him, but he found himself at a loss for its meaning. For any kind of cue to react to, or meaning to pick him apart for.
All he could do was helplessly stare back.
It seemed like forever he was trapped in his gaze. And then he was taking in the rest of Wilson. He'd never been allowed - or allowed himself - this up close before. His eyes darted from that little mole just to the side of Wilson's lips, his smooth cheeks shaved only just this morning surely, his unusually pretty eyelashes, the smile lines around his mouth and laugh lines around his eyes - and, perhaps House's favourite to look at, Wilson's soft pink lips.
It was okay, he was drunk. He was too drunk to really focus on anything, he would say if asked. But Wilson would never ask because he would either be too drunk to remember or too embarrassed to bring it up.
And besides, House wasn't the only one. Wilson was staring at his lips, so that made two of them.
"House, we really have to deal with this patient," came one of his lackeys, once more cutting through House's very real fantasy.
He abruptly stood.
"What could possibly be so important that you feel the need to interrupt my journey through my mind palace?"
Foreman rolled his eyes. "She's still refusing treatment."
"Who?" House pulled his best confused face. He'd slept in for hours and yet his hangover still persisted, exacerbating his usual irritation at his team - and the world in general, though that was nothing new. "Ohhhhh, the patient. Right, I see. The one who we diagnosed and thus have no puzzle to solve anymore? Yes, I can see how that would be a problem."
"House, she needs treatment."
"Our job is not to treat," he snapped, distantly wondering if he could go and bother Wilson. Wilson's ability to deal with hangovers was indirectly proportional to his aging - this could be an opportunity for something fun. "Only to diagnose. Go shout, feel bad, whatever, just don't do it here. Not my problem anymore. Nor yours, if you ever took my advice."
When searched, Wilson's office was conspicuously empty. So was the oncology ward. But Wilson wasn't getting away that easy - House had seen his car in the parking lot. He had definitely turned up to work that day.
House's examination of the clinic and other wards also proved unfruitful. He'd resolved to simply wait until lunch, but Wilson still failed to turn up.
Wilson never missed lunch with him.
"Is Wilson living in the O.R. nowadays?"
Cuddy looked up from the files she was preparing in her office. "Go away, House." She paused when he remained hovering in the doorway. "I don't know where he is. Go bother someone else."
For the rest of the day, House couldn't locate Wilson. It was no big deal, really. It was dumb to be upset that he couldn't find his best friend - God, he wasn't codependent or anything. He wanted some entertainment, nothing more. Nothing to do with his heart beating weird in his chest whenever he thought of Wilson.
Just as he'd resigned to leaving for the day, he spotted Wilson in the corridor as he passed, chatting to some nurse from paediatrics.
"Wilson, darling!" He called obnoxiously, waving his cane.
And then it happened.
Wilson glanced at him, detached and assessing as their eyes met, and then after a long second, turned away again and continued walking. His expression remained emotionless as he very noticeably did not look back at House again.
Had he been deliberately avoiding House all day?
House refused to doubt his superior intelligence and yet in that moment felt incredibly stupid. All this time he'd really believed Wilson had just been a busy doctor with a busy schedule that day. Or maybe he had been seeking refuge from House, simply to prevent House making his hangover worse.
But House couldn't shake that look Wilson had given him, entirely devoid of any feeling. This was terminally over-caring Wilson who donated a kidney to a guy because he felt bad - but suddenly he had nothing left to give his best friend of fifteen years?
House knew he could dismiss it as some hungover misinterpretation, or maybe Wilson's mind was elsewhere, but he was never very good at lying to himself.
He went home and debated calling Wilson but ultimately decided not to. He didn't want to know whether Wilson would pick up or not. He had the feeling he wouldn't like the answer.
DAY 2
House made an effort to arrive early at work the next day. This received no complaints from his team - only bemused glances - but it soon became clear House's mind was anywhere but on their new case.
Eventually, he went to his balcony and made his way across to Wilson's, banging on the door insistently with his cane. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed that Wilson wasn't with a patient.
"Got a patient," he opted to start with, despite never being one to state the obvious.
Wilson looked up at him, that expressionless glance again. House wondered how hard he had to try to school his features into nothing.
"Migraines, fever, seizures-"
"I'm busy, House."
Wilson was looking down at his paperwork again, as if House had already left. He froze at the bluntness.
"I don't care. My patient-"
"Busy."
"Maybe you're not hearing me. Migraines, fever, seizures-"
"House," Wilson sighed, exasperated, meeting his eyes again and House was painfully reminded of how pretty they'd looked up close two nights ago. "Go away."
There was a finality to his tone that persuaded House to follow the order, though not without a double take on his way out to make sure Wilson really meant it. Wilson was already scribbling away at another patient file.
It wasn't entirely unusual for them to have an interaction like this, House pondered as he disinterestedly took his seat at the diagnostics table. House bothered Wilson and Wilson urged him to leave him alone so he could get on with his work. The world kept spinning.
But Wilson was colder, this time. More hesitant to reach his eyes. He didn't cave to any of House's demands.
Something was definitely going on - and House couldn't decided whether it was a House problem or a Wilson problem.
DAY 3
Luckily for House, his patient ended up needing an oncology consult.
Unluckily for him, an oncologist who was decidedly not called Dr. Wilson turned up to analyse the scans.
"Where's Wilson?" Foreman asked, and the rest of the team joined him in warily regarding the alternative oncologist.
"Busy," was all the other doctor would supply, spending entirely too much time in House's opinion on the medical side of the matter.
The man was short, rotund, and had an annoyingly nasal voice. He was the stark opposite of Wilson, which meant that House did not like him one bit. He'd drawn up a mental chart over the years comparing all of his acquaintances and there seemed to be a positive correlation between how similar they were to Wilson and how well he got on with them.
Not that anyone could replace Wilson.
Ever.
That part of his heart had a lifelong reservation.
Naturally, House cornered Wilson at lunch instead. Wilson had made no effort to hide how he changed the direction he was walking every time he saw House, how he ignored every page and phone call, how he avoided eye contact through the glass windows.
Wilson had missed lunch, too - three days in a row now. Not that House was counting or anything.
"You're not usually one to give the silent treatment," House stated, sliding into the seat opposite Wilson.
Looking up from his salad, shock was evident all over Wilson's face. Clearly he hadn't expected a confrontation. Or at least not there, not then.
"No, I'm not," was all he said, picking at his lettuce.
House leaned across the table, right into Wilson's personal space. "So what have I done that's so bad to warrant it all of a sudden?"
"Nothing," Wilson muttered and scurried out of the cafeteria so hurriedly he may as well have been running.
"Right, because that really seems like nothing," House said to the now empty seat in front of him.
DAY 4
"Something's wrong with Wilson," House declared, barging into Cuddy's office uninvited (but when was he ever invited?) "He hasn't spoken to me in four days."
Cuddy sighed, unamused. "Four days, huh? No word at all?"
"A couple," House relented. He snapped Cuddy's laptop shut to force her full attention onto him. "He's avoiding me."
"Well, what have you done?"
House made a sound of indignation. "Why do you automatically assume it's my fault?"
It didn't matter that he assumed the exact same. Wilson was the one acting out of character. House hadn't done anything.
"Because it usually is."
Yeah, so House had fucked things up with Wilson before. And yeah, Wilson had left and ignored him before. But at least then he'd done the whole show, making sure House actually could not contact him in any way. This time, however, he still lived at the same address, still resided in the office next to House's, at the same hospital. He wasn't exactly hiding or making himself unavailable. Not physically, anyway.
"I have done nothing," he insisted, disliking how whiny it came out. "We literally got drunk together on Sunday. Then comes Monday morning and he doesn't wanna know me."
Cuddy leaned back in her chair, considering. "How drunk?"
"Why does that matter?"
"Is it possible you said or did something while drunk that you don't remember but he does? Something he might...not be happy about?"
"No," House replied automatically, defensive. The image of Wilson's face, his eyes, up close flashed unhelpfully in his mind "Well..." Oh, but he hadn't done anything. Hadn't even said anything. Looking at someone's lips wasn't a crime now, was it? "No. I think I'd remember."
"I don't know, then." Cuddy shrugged. "Have you done your clinic duty yet today? Might take your mind off it."
House huffed. "You're not getting me that easy."
As he was leaving that day - conspicuously early, nothing new - he perfunctorily glanced towards Cuddy's office. And who was inside but James Wilson himself.
House could barely restrain his anger. Or was it jealousy? Hurt?
He barged into the room, pointing his finger accusingly at Wilson.
"Oh, so you'll talk to her but not me?" he snarled, vicious tone to disguise the wounded animal underneath.
He noticed that while Cuddy looked somewhat guilty and apologetic, Wilson was perfectly calm and composed when he turned around.
"Doctors do have to talk to their boss sometimes, yes," he said simply. House didn't appreciate the condescension. It was too disgustingly unhuman for Wilson.
He also didn't appreciate the unnecessary reminder that Cuddy was his boss. Why would that be relevant to their meeting?
"Are you quitting?"
Now they both looked shocked.
"Nobody's leaving, House," Cuddy mediated, eyeing him like one might a wild dog.
"I am," he huffed and stalked out of the main entrance.
So Wilson wasn't talking to him, fine. So Wilson wasn't talking to him but was talking to other people, fine. So Wilson wasn't talking to him but was talking to his other friend, fine.
House urged his bike to go even faster down the highway.
And Cuddy knew. He saw it in her gaze as her head swivelled between him and Wilson. She knew Wilson's motives.
Had she been lying to him the whole time? Drunk confessions - what crap. She knew, and he didn't, and Wilson still wouldn't properly acknowledge him.
He reduced it in his head down to two options.
Option 1: Wilson had already talked to Cuddy. House had then talked to Cuddy and she had guessed Wilson was ignoring him because of some inebriated mistake.
Option 2: House telling Cuddy was the first she'd heard of the situation. Later, Wilson had told her why and now something made sense.
At least Cuddy didn't seem to hate him. He couldn't have committed such a crime when she was still talking to him and not even reprimanding him. But even when Cuddy was mad at him, Wilson wouldn't be. What could he have done that Cuddy inexplicably didn't view him differently for, but Wilson did?
The speed limit was long behind him now.
Was there really something that had happened that night that he didn't remember?
DAY 5
So Wilson wasn't talking to him. Wasn't giving away any emotions. He wouldn't even get annoyed or mad at House.
Maybe he just had to provoke him?
House knew it was futile. He knew it was poking the bear and could quickly make the whole situation worse. But he was desperate, and desperate House did stupid things.
Locking the door behind him, he stormed into Wilson's office. His leg hurt from stamping around.
Actually, his leg had been hurting since Monday when he first lost Wilson.
"You're an asshole," House boldly started with.
Wilson nodded, not even paying full attention to House. "Sure."
"I hate you."
"Ok." Wilson turned the page he was reading.
"That the file of the five-year-old with multiple myeloma?"
Of course Wilson wasn't even surprised House had stalked his patients files. He simply nodded again, scribbling a note in one of the margins.
"I hope she dies."
There it was. Brief, but unmistakable - a flash of anger in Wilson's eyes as he froze, but then it was gone, and he was flipping the page again.
"It'll be your fault." Still, nothing. "You'll waste time talking to the family, and the poor ittle wittle girl, and telling them how rare it is, maybe they'll have a chance - but they won't, and you'll get their hopes up for nothing, and they'll secretly hate you even though they'll thank you for all you did. Which is nothing, by the way." Wilson was still writing, so House decided to add some extra venom to his words. Wilson could pretend they didn't cut through, but they would, he would make sure they did. "You never help any of your patients, just try to be all pretty and nice to them while they suffer. But they all die, all of them, and it's dumb to pretend for a minute they won't. And you put all this work into your relationship with patients while ruining every other one in your life - with your wives, with your brother, with me. And none of it is even worth it."
"Are you done?" Wilson asked after a pause, still unnervingly calm.
"Fuck you."
DAY 6
So trying to provoke Wilson hadn't worked. House had decided to change tack the previous night, spam calling Wilson - to no avail. He'd probably blocked his number.
What was that saying about killing people with kindness?
House's malicious words hadn't killed him. Maybe apologetic ones would. A true display of genuine compassion that chronic people pleaser Wilson surely couldn't ignore.
He caught Wilson in the clinic this time, under the guise of some random patient.
"Hi, what seems to be the problem tod-" Wilson rolled his eyes when he saw House. "You know, actual patients with actual problems are waiting to be seen."
He went to move past House, but House thrust his cane in front of Wilson's chest, blocking the door.
"I have an 'actual problem'."
"Oh, really." Wilson couldn't have sounded less interested if he tried.
"You're not talking to me."
Wilson had no response to that. Of course he didn't.
"And that's my fault." House paused mostly for dramatic effect, but he noticed Wilson's mouth fall open as if to say something before he shut it again. "I'm...sorry." Wilson blinked. He wasn't quite conveying disbelief - no emotions, remember? - but it was some reaction, at least. "I admit, I don't know what I'm sorry for exactly, but I'm assuming there's a reason you're not talking to me, and I'm sorry I upset you enough for that. I don't..." He swallowed thickly. "I know I've hurt you a lot in the past. It's never intentional."
For an apology given with an ulterior motive, his words sure were genuine. He truly did feel remorse that he might have hurt his best friend, his only friend. For once, it wasn't just selfish self-interest - he wanted more than Wilson talking to him again. He wanted Wilson okay - and by okay, he meant not hurt or upset or mad - and talking to him again.
Wilson nodded. "Thanks."
And then he left the room.
He fucking left.
DAY 7
2am. House couldn't sleep.
He'd hardly slept all week.
His life was falling apart before him. And by his life, he meant whatever fucked up friendship he had with Wilson.
He'd hurt Wilson. And nothing he did got him anywhere. He was going to lose the love of his life - or, at the very least, the best friend he'd ever had - and there was nothing he could do to change it.
His mind drifted to alcohol - no, that was apparently what had gotten them here in the first place. Vicodin, then - no, Wilson would hate him even more if he relapsed. Other drugs - no, he had the feeling nothing could soothe this sting.
No substance he could abuse would ever fill the gap that Wilson left. Wilson was one of those people where before you met him, you always felt like something was missing from your life. And then he came in, filled that last piece of the puzzle, and when he left, you weren't just incomplete - you knew you were.
House had no idea how his ex-wives ever recovered.
He was just contemplating wandering over to the TV and sticking on whatever crap they played at this time of night when there was the unmistakable, ringing sound of a crash down the hall.
Great. Not only was he suffering the worst heartbreak of his life, but now he was getting robbed in the middle of the night too. Life just had to cut him a bad deal, didn't it?
Futilely, he pulled the covers up over his head. He hoped the burglar would just ignore him and take his TV or whatever. Or kill him quickly in his sleep. No more pain and misery please.
Bad news for House, however. The footsteps made their way into his bedroom, around to his side of the bed. Did they have a weapon? Would it be worth trying to fight them?
"I know you're in there, House."
Wait.
No.
It couldn't be...
House peeled back the covers to check. Nope, the face matched the voice.
What the hell was Wilson doing in his apartment at 2am? Had he finally fallen asleep?
Wilson looked a lot taller in the dark, hands surgically attached to his hips as he stared down at House.
"Hi," was all House could croak out.
Wilson's gaze softened a little - for the first time in a week. "I've been thinking about what you said earlier."
"You don't have to say anything," came a voice that certainly was not House's. "I mean... You can if you like. I'd like it if you did. But I didn't do it expecting anything back, if you can believe it. So don't feel like you have to...you know."
Wilson gently nudged House's legs out the way to sit on the edge of the bed. "I know. I think that's kind of why. You never apologise, especially not sincerely. And I just... I just want you to know it's not your fault."
"It's not?"
"No. It's not - it's not about you. Well, it is." Wilson was fully flustered now, picking at the edges of House's covers. "It is to do with you, but it's not your fault. It's nothing you've said, or done, or- I don't know."
"So what is it?" House demanded angrily, sitting up. "I have a right to know why my best friend isn't talking to me."
"I can't," Wilson confessed, eyes full of fear and something else.
"What, someone got a gun to your head? The fuck's going on, Wilson?"
"No, this is my decision. It... We can't do this. I can't do this."
"Why the fuck not?"
But Wilson just shook his head, rising to his feet again.
"Wilson. Wilson, come on. What do you mean you can't do this? I can't do this without you. Wilson, I need you."
Even his vulnerability couldn't sway Wilson's spirit. He'd risked wearing his heart on his sleeve for him and now his arm was all tattered and bloody and even surgery couldn't fix this.
"I'm sorry, House. I wish I could tell you, but I can't. I'm sorry."
He made to leave, and House shuffled after him, bad leg be damned.
"No, no, you don't just get to leave like that. Why did you come here in the middle of the night if you can't even-"
Wilson smiled sadly at him. "I just can't," he whispered, and then the door was closing behind him.
He was gone, and House was alone again.
At work ten hours later, Wilson went back to his routine of avoiding House - so convincingly that House wasn't entirely sure he hadn't made up last night's visit.
He tried consulting Cuddy for a sanity check, but she just gave him a look like a worried mother.
"Talk to him about this, House," was all she would say.
"How can I when he's not talking to me?"
Throwing himself into his work and the case proved pointless, too. The patient's brown eyes reminded him of Wilson. Chase's new girlfriend's name started with a J just like Wilson's did. Even the cafeteria's lunch special that day was Wilson's favourite pasta.
House didn't know what to do with himself. Wilson had all but confirmed their friendship breakup, and he still didn't even know why, and there were no clues, and he felt like shit, and yet he still couldn't bring himself to turn to drugs or alcohol or worse. If he went home, he'd just be reminded of last night's conversation even though everything at work also reminded him of what he couldn't have.
Life was really fucking unfair sometimes.
Not that he was blaming this on life. That would be bordering on believing in destiny or God or something else he'd have a field day arguing with a patient about. Absolutely not. This was his doing (see: his fault) and Wilson's doing. He didn't care if Wilson preached otherwise, that was exactly what the very few symptoms he could observe pointed to.
In the end, he found himself on the hospital roof. Despite the worried remarks he often received for it, it was one of his favourite hideouts. He wasn't planning to do what everyone was so unbelievably afraid of. He just liked the quiet and the view.
The sun was setting early. It was only 4pm, but the days were drawing shorter and the weather colder. The pink lit up the sky in a way that incessantly reminded him of when he and Wilson were much younger, and went on walks in nature and talked about Wilson's residency and House's new department in diagnostics. The infarction had ruined that, of course. Or when they would drive home from work together and Wilson would never fail to point out the pretty sky as if he himself wasn't the epitome of pretty. Or when House had gone on a protest against a misogynistic patient and refused to wear anything but all pink clothing all week (including underwear) and Wilson had laughed his head off in that way he only did around House before telling him in that sincere manner of his that House looked good in pink.
"Thought I might find you here."
House didn't bother turning around. Didn't bother getting his hopes up just to get his heart broken again.
"What do you want?" he mumbled dejectedly.
"I've been thinking-"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it, you've suddenly grown a brain for yourself now. Congratulations. Now go away."
"I will," Wilson promised in that tone that hinted he was about to offer a dog a very tasty treat. "After you let me say this."
Reluctantly, House nodded. If provided with new symptoms, he could diagnose at least - even if treatment wasn't an option anymore.
"You'll probably never want to speak to me again after anyway."
Now, finally, House swivelled around. What the hell could Wilson be hiding that would cause House to turn on him like that? House, who had gone - and would again in a heartbeat - to the end of the earth for him? Had he been trying to protect him all this time?
"I...oh God," Wilson sighed, covering his face with his hands. Whatever secret he'd been hiding was clearly eating away at him, festering in the depths of his heart and rotting him out from the inside. "I'm in love with you, House."
House stared at him dumbly. "Say what now?"
"No, you heard right. I- I'm in love with you." His voice was a little stronger saying it the second time. "I think I have been for a long time, actually. I always thought I could manage it, that I wouldn't let it get in the way of our friendship, and that I could be professional at work, and it would all be okay." His silhouette was outlined by the pink skyline like some fucking masterpiece painting. "But I was wrong. I always did a shit job at handling it anyway, and the other night when we were drunk, I just couldn't stop looking at you-" damn it, House knew Wilson had been looking back at him- "and all I could think about how much I want you. Not even just in a sexual way. Just in general. More than I ever did with my wives. I want you all to myself, more than I've ever wanted anything in my life, and I- I know that's insane, and fucked up, and I know you probably want to hit me or- or run away right now, or something else, I don't know, but I just have to tell you, because I've tried everything, House. I tried denying it and that didn't work. I tried not doing anything and that didn't work. Obviously asking you out is out of the question, so I figured maybe if I avoided you...it'd make it easier for me to get over you. Seeing as being in love with you is impossible to ignore, and every time I'm around you, I just - I can't stop thinking about it. About you. I didn't mean to hurt you in the process. I'm sorry." Wilson was shaking now, both his body and his voice trembling, tears in his eyes threatening to spill over. "I hope you understand. And if you want me to fuck off now, I will, and if you never wanted to speak to me again, I completely understand, and-"
"Did it work?"
Wilson blinked. "Did what work?"
"You said you were avoiding me to try and get over me. Did it work? Are you over me?"
"No," Wilson said slowly, unsure where House was going with this. "No, that's why I'm saying you can go, so you don't have to be around me while I'm still-"
As he was rambling, House made his way closer and closer to him, until they were as close as they'd been on that drunken night. For someone who'd been begging Wilson to speak to him all week, House sure was eager to shut him up all of a sudden. He interrupted Wilson's explanation by grabbing the lapels of his doctor's coat and kissing him, hard. Wilson made a sound of surprise into his mouth but caught up quickly, stepping between House's legs and yanking his hips impossibly closer. House was ecstatic that Wilson didn't really hate him, and that they could talk again, and that most importantly, his feelings were mutual. And as if Wilson's words hadn't reached right past his ribs and squeezed his second most valued organ, his kiss certainly conveyed the strength of his emotions towards House. House relished in the taste he'd been denied so long, studying Wilson's lips like they were the most fascinating thing he'd ever been presented with. It had been one thing to see them up close, but to feel them, and not just that but feeling them move against his, responding with equal enthusiasm and passion, was a near-heaven experience. They kissed and kissed and kissed, deeply, sinfully, two idiot doctors pulling at each other's hair and clothes on a hospital roof for anyone to see.
After a long time, and somehow still not long enough, Wilson pulled them apart, firmly gripping House's collar to keep them standing as close as they were, foreheads joining and breaths mixing.
"No," Wilson whispered, eyes already darting back down to House's lips, "It really did not work one bit."
House grinned, actually grinned. "Good. I would have made you fall back in love with me all over again if it did."
Really, however had Wilson thought House wouldn't speak to him?
"Well," Wilson laughed. "That wouldn't have been hard. I think I fall in love with you again and again every day."
House kissed him again, because there was no way he could verbally match Wilson's romantic sentiments, sappy as they were, but he'd always been much more of a do-er than a say-er anyway. And if that weren't enough, he had all the days left in the world to talk to Wilson and let him know just how much he meant to him.