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Wilson brings House as his plus-one.
The people-pleasing oncologist can't resist the chance to attend a charity gala, even if it means an evening full of dull handshakes and jazz music. It's for a good cause, he reasons. Raising money for sick kids is altruism central, and at the same time, it's an opportunity to meet other doctors and hear their ideas. It's a win-win.
He brings House as his plus-one.
It's the usual affair with these things - rented tux, forced smiles, too many drinks at the bar. Surprisingly, Wilson lets him have too many drinks. Surprisingly, House doesn't cause any drama.
"I'm your plus-one," he comments giddily as Wilson excuses himself from networking to join him, slender body leaning against the polished wood of the bar. He's taller than House at this angle, brown locks falling across his forehead and soft eyes gazing down at him.
"You're my plus one," Wilson confirms, taking a swig of House's drink. This is far too customary now for either to really notice.
House traces a finger along the bar, closer and closer to the warm body in front of him, then retreats. He's been smiling dopily ever since Wilson came over. What happened to being able to handle his drinks?
He inhales sharply, drawing himself up to his full height. He needs to sober up. "Everyone's brought a date," he observes slowly, hazy brain cataloguing Wilson's reaction. Or lack thereof, as he lazily glances around the room and shrugs. "Not a single person here has brought their friend as their plus one."
Wilson shrugs again. "Yeah, I guess so."
"So..." House continues in his I'm about to make a brilliant diagnosis voice, "I'm your date."
Tugging at his bowtie slightly, Wilson takes another sip of House's drink. He's far less panicky than House had anticipated. Wilson's never this calm in the face of an accusation - unless he already knew, and didn't care that House knew.
House pushes the drink away, replacing his own hand in Wilson's grip. "Dance with me."
Wilson stares a little, that little confused line between his brows. He doesn't move his hand away.
"Come on," House urges, squeezing his hand. The drinks have given him some extra confidence. "I'm your date. You have to dance with me."
Wilson's eyes wander to House's leg and then back up to his eyes, a silent question. House huffs.
"Dance. With. Me."
So they end up on the dance floor, tipsy, carefree. They stumble a little - it's the drinks, not House's leg - and they're leaning too much weight on each other to do more than awkwardly shuffle their feet. Nobody else is properly dancing anyway - not that they notice. In their world, it's just the two of them, holding hands, giggling at some unfunny joke House made.
At some point, Wilson rests his head on House's shoulder, like it's too heavy to hold up by himself, and House moves his arm to fully circle Wilson's waist. To an outsider, they're more hugging at this point than dancing, but it's intimate all the same.
"I should be your plus one again," House murmurs into Wilson's hair. When did he rest his head on top of his? His hair is soft, and it smells of apple shampoo, and House wants to press small kisses there. I want to be your date again.
Wilson's under the limit to drive, so he takes the wheel as they stumble together back to his car. House sits, delighted, in the passenger seat, sobering up a little but still basking in the tingling afterglow of a night out with Wilson. His one and only.
For most of the drive, Wilson remains silent, quietly assessing the road before him. He doesn't tap his fingers along to the radio like usual, and he swallows more often.
"You're moody," House comments, unable to resist. They're not grinning like idiots anymore and House doesn't like it. How does he get back to that point, when they forget about the outside world and focus on the only important thing they have?
"I'm tired," Wilson counters. He even convincingly rubs his eyes in the few minutes of silence that stretch on.
"No." House watches him with a pain in his chest. Wilson's putting up walls again, the same ones he'd gently lowered earlier when they were close enough to feel each other's heartbeat. Now House is struggling to climb back over. "You have tells. You're not tired."
He could elaborate, could propose a theory of what he thinks is happening instead, but he waits first. Wilson has an uncanny knack of revealing things himself.
And sure enough, after another moment's consideration, Wilson sighs and asks, "Can I ask you something?"
"You just did, but sure."
There's a pause again. Every time they pass a streetlight, Wilson's face is painted in its soft glow and House wishes he could rest his head against his again.
"Was tonight," Wilson says carefully, painfully quiet, "really a date?"
"Yeah," House answers without hesitation. Maybe he should've waited a moment. "I think so."
Wilson nods, a question on his lips but his confidence faltering. He's shaking so much that when he turns the next corner, the car swerves slightly. House pretends not to notice.
"Do we have to wait until the next gala to go on another one?"
House looks at Wilson, really looks at him, and smiles softly. He's so in love.
"I've got the day off Saturday," he offers, not even attempting to fight it. Wilson's the only reliable thing that makes the pain go away and lights a spark in him. He's safe, and never boring, and House would do anything for him. "If you wanna..."
For the second time in five minutes, Wilson's car swerves. He's too busy looking at House, utterly enamoured. Really, they've been idiots to miss this.
They arrive at House's street far too soon and House asks Wilson to walk him up. It's only a short distance from the car to his door but they'll take all the time they can get with each other.
House unlocks his door but swivels around to lean against the doorframe. He can almost feel Wilson's breath on his face now, he's studying those gorgeous eyes up close. Yeah, maybe he's smiling, and yeah, maybe he hasn't made a sarcastic comment in hours, but who can blame him, when Wilson's gazing up at him like he's solved world hunger?
He could certainly solve one person's hunger, of a sort, that's for sure.
"So...Saturday?" he murmurs, daring to trace a hand up Wilson's bicep.
Wilson nods, eyes twinkling. "Saturday. I'll let you do all the planning."
"I have a few ideas," House begins. He doesn't want to reveal too much - like the fact he's had these ideas for the past fifteen years, outlined in meticulous detail from too many long yearning nights - and the night's coming to an end, so he says goodbye to Wilson finally, finally, how he wants to. He kisses him.
When they break apart, Wilson is blushing furiously - has he ever looked more adorable? - and can't stop staring at House's lips, then his eyes, then his lips again in disbelief. House doesn't think he's ever seen him smile so wide.
"You okay?" he asks, equal parts gentle and mocking.
"More than okay." Wilson slowly runs a hand down House's chest, as if savouring it for one last time, then steps back. "Good night, House."
"Good night, Wilson."
House stays standing in his doorframe for several moments, smiling to himself about the impossible becoming possible there on one random night. And then Wilson's running back up the steps to kiss him again - who can deny a starving man? - and House vows to attend every single charity gala Wilson's invited to in the future.