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Las Vegas sits from New Jersey around 2,527 miles of distance, some 4 hour whatever minute layover and plane ride— it lies from the typical realm of Princeton Plainsboro Hospital.
Wilson is an orderly man, if you look past his relationships, his personal life, and maybe his work life too…ok maybe not orderly but still. This is a business trip, he knows that, knew that? Still knows that? He might still be drunk to be fair. He knows it's professional, a case or whatever House calls them now. But House cracked the thing in barely two days and the flight tickets were prebought there and back so they had some extra time to kill.
Currently thinking about it, House being extremely adamant that he needed specifically four days was most likely a ploy. Who is he kidding it was 100% a ploy, he probably had the diagnosis 80% complete the second they stepped onto that plane. But Wilson is so good normally, can’t he just accept that his friend got him some paid vacation time in Las Vegas? Doesn't he deserve just that little bit? It’s not really a vacation when House is with him, he is his own issue but he digresses.
He suffered through a four hour plane ride with the man. The stewardess looked like she wanted the ability to kick someone off midflight by the end. He did keep putting frankly astonishing things on his in-flight entertainment screen. Wilson doesn’t even know how he did most of them. Luckily he passed out and gave Wilson approximately 32 minutes of freedom before waking up and convincing the poor old lady next to him that House is married with four kids who are named Billy, Willy, Willy jr, and Jill(he calls her Jilly).
Once again, balancing out probability, this whole flight fiasco was to lower Wilson’s restraint to House trying to get him to quote “fuck it up Vegas style wink wink.” Sadly though Wilson realized this 3 jello shots in but by then House had his claws in him and it was more likely that House actually did have a secret wife and four kids than for Wilson to pull out now.
The night was easy. Not mellow. Easy. Each event seemed to blend into the other. The barhopping seemed more like sliding as each shitty dive seemed the same as the next. You could tell Wilson that he went to 2 bars or 20 and he wouldn’t be surprised. The only distinguishing mark was some hour during the night when House and Wilson spent in a shitty bathroom in the shitty dive while Wilson attempted to stop the bloody nose House got from an angry man at the last bar. He didn’t come in angry but House changed that.
“Stop licking the blood, what is wrong with you?”
“Mm n’t likng it”
“Your tongue is out of your mouth, stupid.”
“Fr mxim protctng.”
“Stop put it back in there and talk normally, I can’t understand you”
“I said ‘for maximum protection’ I wouldn’t want blood on my shirt would I?”
“There’s already blood on your shirt.”
“Guess you’re going to the drycleaner.”
“Why am I going and not you? It’s not my shirt.”
“Cause your lazy ass barely helped me on the case.”
“What was I supposed to do? We knew she didn’t have cancer before we took off.”
“I don’t know, blow job?”
“I’m gonna punch you again.”
“You do that, I'm not buying you any more drinks.”
“I’ve bought all the drinks so far, House.”
“No, no, remember that water?”
“The free hotel lobby water?”
“Yeah but I grabbed it for you.”
“Oh yes right I’m oh so grateful for that, thank you genius.” Wilson pauses while dabbing his nose. Red blooms on the off hue white of the paper towel that they grabbed from the dispenser. House’s teeth have a slight stain of the blood from his big idea of stopping the flow. For a doctor he’s a pretty stupid patient.
“Isn’t all the blood just going down your throat for you to cough back up?”
“Yeah but then I can aim it at you.”
“You already got blood on me.”
“It’s not enough to sate my hunger.”
“...do you think we’re drunk?”
“You’re drunk because I’ve been doubling up all your shots so they're twice as strong and I’m stone cold sober cause I’m pure of heart.”
“You’re heart is full of hate and malice”
“If that was true I wouldn’t be blessed at gambling.”
“House.”
“Not to worry compadre, our hotel has a casino under it. God I love Vegas.”
“You realize you're still bleeding?”
“Bleeding is a state of mind and my mind is set on black not red.”
“You’re gonna lose your apartment.”
Vegas, being the amalgamation that it is, not only had an adjoined casino to the hotel but also a barely legal chapel. House isn’t known for making the best decisions. You pump him full of crappy alcohol and the influence of his best friend being with him? He’s screwed. His exact thought process behind the idea probably started as some grand joke but the drunk brain can hardly tell the difference between screwing with your best friend and the buckets of suppressed affection one holds. He is an unwilling party when it comes to admitting it. Luckily drunk House is easy to coax. Drunk Wilson on the other hand is very unbelieving that the words or actions have any actual meaning or affect. He goes along with it sure, but he’s convinced it's some grand prank. Which technically he is right about. It’s just a law binding prank not a “haha jokes on you” prank. Being practically blackout didn’t help. Or maybe it did; depends on if one wants to forget the night itself. The legally binding papers are a particularly tough hangover alongside the real ones though.
In the morning after, the sun pools in alongside neon from the building out the window, lighting up the flicks of dust in the hotel room. The lamp shade on the night stand has been replaced with a shitty Las Vegas souvenir shirt from the chapel. The pillows that were on the couch are nowhere near the couch (one somehow even ended up in the bathroom). Spilled drinks on a fake silver platter sit on a tiny kitchen counter, mixing together half drunken fruity cocktails and crappy IPA tasters. Champagne flutes sit empty alongside the lamp. The aroma of warm alcohol, sweat, and crappy hotel air freshener mix into a sickenly sweet smell that drifts out the window slightly cracked as far as it will open.
Wilson wakes up second, House will never admit that. His eyes unsteadily flicker open, stinging against the morning light and the raging hangover. His eyes land on the unidentifiable article of clothing that hangs on the ceiling fan. He sits up to get a grip of his surroundings while trying to piece together how much he remembers or at the least how much he has forgotten. He winces as he sits up and quickly realizes there is a big piece missing. Not only because of the fact that House isn’t in his own room but also the fact that they are missing various(if not all) apparel. That and the current arm tightly wrapped around his waist preventing him from fully getting off the bed. He doubts he could stomach getting up though.
“House.” Wilson roughly nudges his shoulder, getting a mumbled grumble in response. “More mouse bites…”
“What?”
House tilts his head from being pressed into Wilson’s side to speak, “I said ‘stop or I bite.’”
“What happened?”
“I hired someone to make it seem like we slept together. He’s done a good job but I think he went a little far with the tranquilizer."
“House.” Wilson’s voice is more stern compared to the previous call.
“You don’t need me to solve this Jim boy.” Wilson sinks back into the messed up bedding. His head rests against the backboard. House doesn’t move his arm, if anything he lightly gives him a subconscious reassuring squeeze that he'd deny if asked. “Fuck.” Wilson winces again
“Yeah I think we did that, who really knows though?”
“Shut up.” Wilson absent mindedly plays with the silver band that sits next to a fully eaten ring pop. “Oh no.”
“I think that’s the nicest thing someone has said waking up next to me.”
“No House, why are there rings?”
“Where?”
“My hand you idiot.”
“Ah…probably not good.” Wilson takes in the room, his eyes catch on the muddled up paper work that sits contradictory to the rest of the room. “Did you propose with a ring pop?”
“Pshh” House huffs while thinking which looks to physically pain him, “will you take a probably?"
“Still a cheap ass when you’re drunk.”
“And in the grips of love.”
“You have one too.”
“Wonder why…” House says sarcastically while turning on his back to look at the ceiling.
“How’d we even get married?”
“Maybe we’re not and this is all a dream, your dream.”
“My dream isn’t to marry a misanthropic vicodin addict you ass.”
“Sounds like the life to me.” He sighs as his eyes go to Wilson's face which is staring absently at the paperwork. “If you have bad soaps and complicated cases you’ll be sated.”
“They’re not bad, Roxy and her child need to find out the father or else how will she stake her claim? This is gripping stuff Wilson, and it’s vital to my work.”
“The only thing vital to your work is your intrigue. When did you solve the case anyways?”
“Yesterday, when you were with me. God were you drunk then too? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you drink on the job. We could've been having so much more fun.”
“No. I know that’s when you say you solved it but when did it actually click into place?”
“...I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m gonna order me and no one else breakfast.”
“beforewegotontheplane.” House mumbles
“HOUSE.”
“Whattt? I got us a vacation.”
“And practically tortured that poor girl.”
“I solved it, didn't I? She’s cured thanks to me. What's a few extra days?” Wilson huffs but he knows what he signed up for. He knew House had most likely solved it early but he didn’t expect it to be that early. It’s hard to keep up your morals around a man like House though. Especially with all the whining and stupid faces he makes. In all respects it makes sense House proposed rather than Wilson. He has a convincing dramatic flair. “Order me breakfast now.”
“Is that anyway to talk to your spouse?” Wilson goes from looking at the papers back to House. Who is frankly disheveled.
“You’re the woman in the relationship so it’s fine.”
“That’s how you’d treat your wife? Demanding her to buy you breakfast after your wedding?”
“It gives me a loveable ‘you can fix me’ vibe. Very convincing. And the only real way to fix me is to go pick up that phone and order me as much as I can stomach.”
“You paying for all that crap?” Wilson raises a brow while unbelievingly looking at House.
“Business expense.”
“You finished the business already idiot.”
“Bonus business expense for my good behavior.”
“What part of any of this was good?”
“I’ll make a lovely wife.”
“I thought I was the woman?”
“What is with you and these heteronormative gender roles Wilson? Disgraceful really. And unless you buy me breakfast I’ll be forced too–”
“Ok Jesus shut up I’ll order.” Wilson moves to stand and grab the phone but House refuses to release his grip that now wraps around Wilson’s back. “I’m ordering you food!”
“Just reach with your arms” House whines
“Let me stand-” He pushes House’s face with his palm to no avail, “Oh gross don’t lick me!”
“I can lick whatever I want.”
“You’re impossible. I can't do anything right by your simultaneous non-existent and extremely critical standards.”
Wilson gives up and just grabs the phone by pulling on the chord attached to the wall.
“You’re a genius Wilson, so inventive.”
Wilson orders them a slightly absurd order of food mostly just to screw with his newly found husband-wife thing. As they wait for the food to be delivered by some underpaid staff member, Wilson’s eyes go back to scanning the room. “Are we going to talk about it?”
“Don’t know what you mean.” House, ever moving, rolls to shove his face into the mattress and releases his grip on Wilson.
He’s never been one for talking despite the fact he never shuts up. Wilson has found the more he speaks the less he talks. Even if that doesn’t make sense it doesn’t matter because it makes sense to Wilson and it makes sense to House. House turns his head to stare out the edge of the window. A view worth the price of the room, encapsulating in its frame the wonders of the wall of the next door building. Neon blue from the sign across casts a thin line across House’s face. “You know what I mean.”
“My brains all fuzzed from the alcohol.” House lies, he’s resistant enough to a hangover to be able to think clearly in the morning.
“We did more than get married.”
“I think that is what you're supposed to do.”
“Not when you're coworkers.” In a moment of hangover induced weakness House tenses. “...not when you’re best friends.”
“Weren’t you besties with your wives?” House’s tone sounds like an eye roll.
“Hardly.”
“Maybe that’s why it never worked out.” House tries to disguise the words in a jokingish tone but his bitter tinge bleeds through. Wilson breaks and asks “Are you gay?”
“No...Are you?”
“No…I think we screwed.”
“I know we did. I can’t remember most of it.”
“Neither can I.”
“I don’t think we knew we weren’t gay.”
“Oh really Wilson?”
“Well what should we do if you're so smart?”
“Tax fraud.”
“We’re not staying married.”
“I’m out of ideas then.”
“This is serious, House.”
“That’s my serious answer.”
“Stay married?”
“I’m gonna take all your money”
“You do that enough normally.” Before they can continue the semblance of a “serious” conversation the knock on the door signals the food being delivered.
“I have to let them in so you get your important breakfast so you have to let me go this time.” Wilson patronizes.
“I’m not even touching you drama queen.” House counters. “Oh don’t even.” Wilson sputters.
Unrivaled Wilson gets out the bed and finds some semblance of clothes in the mess that is the current hotel room. There’s no explanation for some of the placements of items. He opens the door and allows the food cart to be pushed in before the attendant departs.
“I didn’t think I was that good.” House teases.
“You said as much as you could stomach, stomach that.” Wilson mumbles.
House sits up and jumps from his spot on the bed to the low sitting couch. He’s at least in underwear. The couch’s mismatched patterns of disadorned patches disgrace the already crude carpet. The arm of the sofa is sticky, Wilson imagines it’s from a spilled margarita, House vocalizes otherwise. Using the even lower coffee table they make their own plates. House gave up “healthy” food long ago. A man with an addiction to an opioid doesn’t care about a bit of extra sweets. Plus he’s accepted he doesn’t exactly have to be that appealing. I mean who would he appeal to anyways? Wilson apparently. As far as the deep purple marks that litter his torso go. House stabs a bite from Wilson's plate. “We have practically identical plates.”
“No two pancakes are the same.” Wilson lifts his fork to make for House’s plate.
“You even think about that and I’m having words with your employer.”
“You’re a hypocrite."
“I was doing a scientific study.”
“On what?”
“Private. No more questions unless you want me to talk and eat.”
“Normally you don’t have the decency for a warning.” House shoves a too big bite of pancake into his mouth.
“How dare you call me decent.” He mumbles through the starch.
“You’re disgusting.” Wilson retorts.
House sticks out his tongue before washing down the food with a swig of orange juice. “Hey you said yes not me.”
“You asked, doesn't that make you more at fault?”
“I’m an innocent party to your destructive and crude ways Wilson.”
“Tell that to the room.”
“I’m 90% sure that I sat peacefully on the bed while you clearly degraded this wonderful place.”
“Not a combined effort?”
“Don’t accuse me, you reprobate.”
“Eat your stupid pancakes. Not MINE yours.” Wilson defends his plate with his mighty steel fork, sadly House is more talented in the ways of silverware war and wins the battle. Wilson, too tired from the hangover, quickly succumbs his plunder from the food cart.
Turning tactics from a skirmish one of wits and wiles he says, “You know there’s a little gift I graciously ordered but I’m starting to think maybe you don’t want it…”
House stops his thieving, “It better be what I think it is.”
With a flare Wilson lifts up the cover of the cart to show two Bloody Mary’s underneath. “Best marriage ever. Give me your olives and celery or I’m taking the house.”
“I live in an apartment, you know this.”
“You underestimate what I can get my hands on.”
“Trust me I do not.” Wilson silently takes the celery and olives and plops them in House’s drink.
“Is that your tie on the fan?” House asks.
“I genuinely can’t tell.”
“Hotel’s tie now.”
“I don’t think that thing is a tie anymore.”
“It’s an emotional tie.” House says with fake sentimentality. “Of our unbreakable bond.” Jokingly, House grabs Wilson's hand. But against his better judgment it blends to a blur between joking and slightly unnatural longing. Maybe unnatural is the wrong word. Maybe unwonted fits better. Maybe it’s mutual. In the silent agreement they drop their hands. House’s pinky grabs Wilson’s, neither will mention it.
“House…” Wilson starts.
“Not yet.” House for the first time this morning takes up his typical misanthropic personality while reaching for the discarded bottle of vicodin that has been squished into the cushions. He shakes out his regular amount, an amount that is 100% not the recommended amount on the label. The bitter pills dissolve with the gulp of bloody mary. He carelessly tosses the bottle back to its spot. His other hand still lays busy, at least a part of it. Despite the comments on House’s cold heart his hand is unusually warm. This is typical. Most likely it's the extensive caffeine he consumes but he jokes it’s gods joke to lull his patients into false security by his warm touch. God would argue he has a warm heart. House tells people he has a heart of stone but rarely does he mention it's made of igneous rock. The bleeding heart next to him sips his own bloody mary.
“Out of all things how did your pill bottle make it back in one piece?” asks Wilson.
“I make sure the things I love end back in my room.”
“That’s a backup bottle isn’t it.”
“A magician never tells.” House devotes his attention back to the breakfast, quieting his babble for the time being. Despite the amount the two of them talk— they easily settle into a comfortable silence. House is rarely quiet at work but he finds it to be an easier task when not at the hospital. Plus normally he steals at least half of Wilson’s lunch so stealing a quarter of his breakfast was a merciful decision. Wilson should feel honored but currently he’s distracted by emotions even the voice inside him will not diagnose.
Unfeeling an emotion is much harder after the words have been verbalized. This way maybe they’re a placebo from the dopamine his limbic system delivers. He tells himself the dopamine rush is from the leftover alcohol in his system, he won’t tell House this theory though because House knows what fake dopamine feels like.
Wilson breaks the silence, “Who was the witness at the wedding?” House scrunches his nose before leaning back on the couch, his arms loosely take over the backing of the small sofa. “I’m hurt you don’t remember.”
“God you have no clue, we were so hammered.” Wilson groans and puts his face back into his hands.
“How’d this even happen-”
“I am a very charming drunk, don't solely blame yourself.”
“I’m mostly blaming you but thanks.” Wilson sarcastically rants through his palms.
“What? Why me?” House’s question is rhetorical, he knows the answer. He proposed after all, not only the wedding but Wilson coming with him to Vegas. He proposed he needed Wilson with him to solve the case even though he already solved it. He proposed he needed to go down and see the patient in person. He proposed he needed four days. Wilson said yes to all proposals made. One would think a man with such a bad marriage record would be more wary of proposals but House makes him weak. In a rare attempt, House tries to lighten the mood, “We should ask for a longer honeymoon. Some nurse in the clinic got almost 2 weeks. I'm sure Cuddy’s favorite doctors could get a month.”
“House please…”
“I hear Alaska has nice hot springs.”
“You can’t seriously mean we stay like this.”
“Are you getting married anytime soon?”
“I think I’m done on that front.”
“Then what's the issue?”
“What are you even proposing? What we stay like this?!”
“It’ll probably take years to get an annulment.”
“So?”
“We tell everyone we hid our relationship, get a month of vacation time, and get the annulment all the same.”
“House we aren’t staying married. I’m not— I don’t…” Wilson sighs, sinking alongside House into the sofa. His inside voice is weak and at some point lost the battle of the bleeding heart.
“...Want to go on a date?” Wilson asks, House raises an eyebrow. “Like a date date? I think we’re doing the steps out of order here.”
“Since when do you conform to normal society?"
“Fine, date date with my best friend.”
“Husband.”
“For now.” House smirks while bumping Wilson with his elbow. Wilson smiles in return.
Secretly, House’s heart has a magma core.