Chapter Text
It’s fine. It’s more than fine, actually. On a scale of 1 to all the bullshit House has put him through, this rests at a comfortable 6.2. A bit higher than Wilson would like, but it’s not like beggars can be choosers.
After all, you can’t always get what you want. Or whatever House likes to say, the point remains.
Doctor Diggs is a respectable college. Around House’s age with an equally wiry build, there’s no particular reason that Wilson should feel at all put off around him.
Besides, of course, the way the man’s eyes seem to linger on him whenever they’re in the same room. And how Diggs seems to make a point of being the last to leave any rare, mandatory all-staff meeting when Wilson is known to have a habit of lingering behind to shit-talk the idiotic things their colleagues say to kiss Cuddy’s ass afterward with House.
That’s the only reason House even goes to those meetings, and the only reason Wilson enjoys them. Well, he enjoys them for the 35% of the time House actually attends them. Not even the promise of well-deserved gossiping is enough to rouse him from his affairs when there’s no promise of Wilson buying him a treat afterward for his hard work.
But since Diggs was hired as part of a power play/compromise between a Union director and Cuddy, and therefore is unfortunately forced to hang around for a while, Wilson started to dread every time they’re in the same room.
The man hasn’t done anything to him, or, to his knowledge, anyone else, so it’s not a big deal or anything.
But still. It’s a bit freaky.
Just a few lingering glances, the odd brush-up against his side when they pass each other during their rounds, and the one time Wilson was exiting a clinic room with his head still in the patient’s file while walking past Diggs, who was standing just outside the door. Wilson had strutted off after a half-hearted, mostly done just to be polite wave, but not before he could have sworn he heard a distinct sniff while his back was turned.
Usually, he would brush aside things like that. After all, a lifetime (God, has it been that long already?) spent with House has unfortunately resulted in his guard being up 24/7, constantly on the alert for any hidden drugs, whoopee cushions, or ulterior agendas. But something about it just doesn’t stick well with him.
It’s not House’s brand of playful cruelty; it feels more… a predator assessing their prey.
Unfortunately, due to his constant vigilance with House, he can’t really set aside the time to look deeper into it. Funny how life works.
Wilson’s putting a few spare coins into the vending machine down the hall during one of his rare breaks when a presence approaches his right-hand side.
He’s already spinning around to see the newcomer before said newcomer approaches him.
“Oh, good afternoon,” he lamely greets with an equally lame head-nod. Doctor Diggs smiles and steps up to him, bending slightly to see the vending machine.
“Doctor Wilson, hey, just the man I wanted to catch,” Diggs greets while almost fully in Wilson’s space. Wilson takes a half-step to the left. Maybe the man just really wanted to see what’s available in the machine, who is he to leap to conclusions?
“Is everything alright?” He asks what he hopes comes across as empathetic in his response, but his gaze is already flicking back to the machine.
Rookie move, he didn’t check to make sure it had House’s preferred chocolate bar beforehand. He mentally braces himself for the consequences later.
Diggs takes a half-step to his left, putting him firmly in Wilson’s space again. “Yeah, as fine as it ever gets. You know how it is,” the man chuckles while playfully elbowing Wilson’s side. Wilson chuckles awkwardly and shuffles an inch away, trying to dislodge the arm as quickly as possible.
Damn his ingrained need to please people. “It never really ends, huh,” he replies flatly while jamming the number for what he hopes will be a close substitute for the usual chocolate. It’s nutty, apparently.
Diggs chuckles a bit too loudly for something that wasn’t remotely funny. “Wouldn’t I know it!” He bolsters, turning his feet to face Wilson more directly. Now the full, suffocating scent of artificial pinecone cologne smacks him in the face along with the slight scent of fried chicken.
Wilson tries not to scrunch his nose too much in disgust. It’s ten am, who the hell eats fried chicken for breakfast?
At that thought, he presses the button for two chocolate bars instead of one. Suddenly, he needs the sugar.
He hums noncommittally and watches the ancient metal spiral holding the treats whir into action. It shouldn’t take too long, then he can beeline for House’s office like he planned, drop it off, and establish a temporary peace offering where he hopefully won’t have to worry about ill-timed pranks and intrusions on his patient care, then shuffle back into his own office and pretend to do his work.
It’s foolproof. Until there’s a hand on his shoulder.
“Right, well,” Diggs starts with a lopsided smile tugging on the ends of his lips. Wilson glances at him out of the corner of his vision: the man looks like he had a stroke.
“I wanted to talk to you, actually. Say…are you busy tonight?” The edges of Wilson’s vision seem to blur as Diggs runs his other hand through his auburn, unkempt hair.
“We could do something, get some dinner maybe. I’m a nice guy, I promise I won’t bite.” Diggs leans further down into Wilson’s space, crowding him against the hard side of the vending machine. Wide, chapped lips are right there.
“Unless, of course, you want me to,” Diggs finishes with a leer, hazel irises drifting lethargically to Wilson’s lips and back up.
Goddammit. He can’t have one normal interaction with his coworkers. Why do these things happen to him?
With a swallow and a fraction of a smile that hopefully exudes more confidence than he feels, Wilson slowly stands straight up, dislodging their close proximity.
Wilson tries to avoid looking directly into his eyes, but it’s hard to ignore the supernova beaming straight at him. “Oh, I-I’m sorry, but I don’t, uh, exactly swing that-”
“Really?” Diggs’ face hardens as his fingers twitch where they still rest on Wilson’s shoulder. Wilson’s focus immediately snap to his colleague’s; even he knows that this could go bad at any second.
Diggs continues, a disbelieving furrow forming in the middle of this forehead. “'Cause I just figured with the way you always hang around House,” he spits the name like it burns him, “That your looks were for more than just…peeling panties.” Diggs cocks his head and trails his gaze up and down Wilson’s awkward, tense form.
Wilson blinks rapidly, his brain trying to parse through all that heated sentiment to come up with something of substance. In the distance, heels clack as various shoes scuttle back and forth, the typical business of the hospital relatively uninterrupted by what’s proving to be one of the more uncomfortable instances of Wilson’s life.
Awesome. Why is there never a medical emergency when he needs it? He immediately feels a wave of guilt for wishing for that.
“Um,” he finally manages to string together, a tight, uncomfortable pressure building in his lower abdomen. He raises his hands to punctuate his point; if they also double as putting some distance between them and as a physical defense if he needs it, then that’s neither here nor there.
“I’m sorry? But there’s really no-” in an instant, Diggs’ face smooths over into his usual optimistic aloofness, leaving no trace of his earlier, eerie stoniness. The drastic change sends shivers down his spine.
“That’s alright, man,” he claps Wilson on the shoulder harshly before removing his hand entirely, much to Wilson’s relief.
Wilson harshly blinks at the dissonance. Distantly, he wonders if this is real. Diggs is moving like they’re in a dream, all robotic-like.
Diggs takes a step back, finally putting some much-needed air between them. “We’re all on our own paths. I’ll catch you later, alright?” He shoots Wilson finger guns and winks before swiftly turning on his heel and strutting towards the elevators, hands nonchalantly tucked away into his lab coat.
Wilson stands there gobsmacked, watching the man’s retreating back and the way he casually greets the nurses he passes as if he personally knows all of them. It’s very odd, like a porcelain doll trying to be human.
His face feels tight. If he had to guess, his brows are probably furrowed to oblivion while his mouth hangs slightly open. Slowly, as if coming back from a mid-day trance, he lowers his hands to his sides and closes his mouth, smoothing over his expression as much as he possibly can.
He squeezes his hands into balls just to check if he’s not dreaming, still standing in utter disbelief. His short nails send small pricks of pain shooting into his hands.
Yep, not dreaming. Slowly unfurling, he deigns to ignore it for now and straightens his shoulders, assuming his usual professional countenance. He retrieves the briefly ignored chocolates and numbly walks the short distance to Diagnostics.
He shouldn’t dwell on that too much; it’s not like men can be…what is it, sexually assaulted? Wilson shakes his head, physically dislodging the thought. No, that’s not what happened. It was just two guys in a close space with a bit more touching than he would have otherwise preferred.
That’s it. Even if the word choice ‘catch you later’ sent an actual sliver of fear up his spine.
Wilson walks through House’s office door without knocking (he’s too frazzled to uphold societal norms right now) and glides over to where his friend sits, precariously reclined in his chair with a Busty Asian Beauties magazine draped over his face. Soft snores echo through the darkened glass room.
Apparently, he’s intruded on nap time.
Standing over him, Wilson takes a moment to decide whether to be nice or an asshole. Well, he already bought the man chocolate, that’s a pretty solid tick in the nice column. So it really seems as if he has no choice but to be an ass.
It’ll make him feel better.
With a soft smirk that almost fizzles out completely with how much he’s still tingling, Wilson raises his hand as high up as it can go and turns the chocolate bar so that the short, stubby edge faces down. Then, he opens his hand and watches it plummet directly on top of the magazine with a dull thunk.
House sputters violently from his dream, but before he can rip the magazine away, Wilson’s already leaning over and turning on the desk lamp, flooding the space with blinding light.
“Hey!” House whines indignantly while sending the magazine careening carelessly towards the floor. A pair of brilliant blue irises catches his gaze. “Usually you have to wait till I’m awake to get some of this,” the wrinkles deepen on his forehead as House wags his eyebrows and gestures towards his relaxed body. “I didn’t pay the somnophilia charge.”
Wilson raises a brow. “Do any of your hookers actually offer that?”
“I’m a very valued commodity, they’d be crazy to not-” House cuts himself off abruptly and squints.
“What’s wrong with you?” He asks suddenly with a pointed jut of his chin.
Oh, shit. Wilson makes sure not a single muscle moves, knowing House will pick it apart immediately.
“Nothing. What’s wrong with you?” He brilliantly retorts.
House narrows his eyes a bit more before that piercing gaze flicks across Wilson’s face as if cataloging every piece of his puzzle right in front of him.
“You’re shaking,” House states simply while reconnecting their gaze.
That’s insane, he’s not–the hand lying at his side jumps slightly. Oh, maybe he was. He casually presses them closer to his lab coat in an effort to still them.
“No, I’m not. You can’t just project a puzzle onto me because you’re bored. What happened with the latest medical mystery?” He asks suavely, hoping House will drop it.Of course, House never drops things. “Solved it. Classic PE, those idiots didn’t run the coag panel right. The better question is, what would prompt the composed Doctor Wilson to practically tremble in fear?” House’s voice kicks up a few notches in his mockery. “Nurse rejected you? Took too many happy pills to prove you still got it?”
Wilson looks up to the ceiling for guidance, already annoyed. But it’s a good distraction, just as he knew it would be; he idly traces over the cracks in his mind.
“A world-renowned diagnostican started assuming things about me, and I just got so scared and emotional I couldn’t help but tremble in fright,” he replies with a dramatic quivering tone, resettling his gaze back on House so he can dimly look up at the man through his fluttering lashes, trying to sell the persona.
House continues to stare at him, but there is a significant trace of mirth in the corners of his eyes.
“What’s that?” House barks suddenly while lurching forward.
Wilson automatically flinches, still frazzled from his earlier interaction. House just uses his cane to slide the forlorn chocolate bars on the floor over to him before scooping them up. Wilson takes a minute to calm his racing heart, reminding himself that it’s just House, who would never do anything to hurt him.
Then he scolds himself by thinking he had any reason to think that in the first place: Diggs wouldn’t hurt him, he’s being irrational.
House juggles the bars, leaning back into his seat and appearing as casual as ever.
“Classic deflection. Your reaction tells me something's going on. No use denying it now, Mr. Bonds,” House sing-songs, carefully balancing the serious topic with his usual carefree countenance.
Clearing his throat slightly, Wilson crosses his arms over his chest. “Looks like the tooth fairy came early,” he tries to deflect.
“Tooth fairy gets rid of cavities, she doesn’t hand-deliver them to unsuspecting civilians,” House snarks back while placing on the desk and carefully inspecting the wrapper on the other, turning it over and over in his hand.
“Maybe there’s a financial crisis in fairy land. I hear the cost of living has skyrocketed since TinkerBell left with Peter Pan,” Wilson drolls while eyeing House’s movements carefully, mentally begging the man to give into the banter and drop the other topic.
House chuckles softly at the response, still focused on the candy in his hands. After a moment, House looks up and stares at him.
“Wilson, you can’t avoid this forever.” Bummer, he knew it wouldn’t last long. “Why were you shaking like a Chihuahua in my office, and why are you hand-delivering diabetes?” House interrogates with every bit of laser focus plastered directly on him while holding up a chocolate bar like it's evidence at a crime scene.
Wilson huffs in exasperation. “For the last time, the only ‘shaking’,” he uses finger quotes on the last word, “Here is when you miss a dose of Vicodin. And since when did it become a crime to do something nice?”
House doesn’t move a muscle. “I never miss a dose. And you’re only nice when you want something. So…that only leaves a girl to assume there’s a correlation, here. What makes an oncologist shake and go trick-or-treating?” The room suddenly seems a tad too big, too exposed.
“Why can’t there be two independent factors?”
“Ah!” House’s eyes widen as his lips stretch across his face. “So something did happen to you!”
“No, I-House! Nothing happened!” Wilson scolds through gritted teeth, already turning to start heading to the exit. He knew this was a bad idea. House is always relentless.
A hand reaches out and grabs onto his sleeve. “You just admitted it!” House triumphs without ever breaking his one-sided staring contest with Wilson’s head. It would meet his eyes, had Wilson been looking at him at any point in the past two minutes.
He’s afraid that if he looks directly at the man, House would be able to read him like an open book.
“No,” Wilson replies slowly, stepping back to dislodge the offending hand from his coat sleeve. “You talked in circles and expected me to walk in a straight line. Let it go, nothing happened.”
House continues to stare at him with a skeptical expression, probably wishing he could read Wilson’s mind and have access to all of his secrets. The man harrumphs.
“I’ll figure it out.” It sounds like a promise. “You can’t hide from me forever.”
Wilson huffs, and with a split-second decision, he’s reaching over House and snatching both chocolate bars off the desk.
“Hey!” House protests with an appalled expression. “I earned those!”
Wilson doesn’t humor him. “You’ve earned nothing.”
“But I need brain fuel!” House whines in response, leaning over and trying to swipe the treats from Wilson’s hands. Unsuccessfully, as Wilson keeps turning and twisting out of reach. The whole sequence reads very juvenile, but god if it doesn’t make Wilson’s heart pump faster in delight.
“I need it to figure out what’s wrong with you,” House keeps complaining, now using his cane and good leg to stick between Wilson’s legs and attempt to kick him off balance. Wilson rolls his eyes, expertly dodging House’s advancements (he’s had twenty years of fending off House’s childish antics as practice) and playing keep-away with the chocolates raised far above his head.
A determined look flashes across House’s face before he leans back and holds his cane as if he’s about to ram it right into Wilson’s groin. Startled, Wilson immediately lowers his arms to fend off the intrusion just as House uses his cane to smack Wilson’s clasped hands, causing one of the chocolates to tumble to the ground.
House immediately snatches it and shows it off with a taunting, “Ha ha, guess you’re not as spry as you like to think you are, Doctor.”
Wilson gives him a stink eye while retreating slightly, making sure to clasp his own victorious chocolate tightly in his grasp.
“You may have won this battle, Sir Lancelot,” he replies with a theatrical low voice, “But rest assured, I will win the war.”
And with that, he turns and struts toward the exit, having absolutely no idea what to think of their interaction. He feels better after that playful banter with his friend, but at the same time, he still doesn’t know what to do about his little…problem.
Shaking his head, the entire walk to the door he feels House’s gaze lasered onto him. Stepping just outside the doorway, he turns and finds himself locked in a staring match with a nonchalant diagnostician.
Wilson’s lip purses in thought before he turns and heads toward his own office, choosing to ignore House’s persistence in meddling in his personal life.
He feels watched the entire way.
Though he does have to note that it doesn’t carry the world-ending vigilance that Diggs prompted in him. This makes him feel…wanted. Almost like he matters.
It’s crazy, but everything related to House is so crazy it rounds back the other side of the spectrum and becomes normal.
***
A few normal days later, Wilson’s in the middle of chatting with one of the nurses in the clinic when he feels a presence approach.
Turning, he comes face-to-face with Diggs, who sports a wide, open grin on his stubbled face.
“Wilson! Hey!” The man greets enthusiastically, coming to a stop right in front of him. The nurse bids him a cordial goodbye before strutting off somewhere with an armful of patient files.
Traitor, Wilson thinks mournfully. Now he has to figure out how to interact with him.
Wilson plants his most convincing smile and greets him back. What else is he supposed to do?
“Morning, Doctor,” he greets with a nod, as politely as he can manage. He puts one foot forward to turn the other way when Diggs stops him with a hand on his elbow. Immediately, Wilson tenses. It’s a public place, he can’t do anything to hurt him…can he? There are patients and doctors everywhere, and Cuddy’s office is right there, for God’s sake.
“Hey, don’t run off so soon,” Diggs makes a show of looking Wilson up and down, taking in every part of him as if he’s on display. In return, Wilson shuffles slightly and subtly tugs his lab coat tighter around him.
“I just wanted to tell you how good you look in that tie. The color really brings out your complexion, you know,” the man shamelessly flirts, still holding onto Wilson’s elbow with his bony fingers.
Wilson clears his throat and shifts his weight. “Uh, thanks. I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”
Diggs remains still for a moment, seemingly intent on memorizing every inch of Wilson. His face seems to be stuck in a creepy, almost-smiling thousand-yard stare. A bead of sweat builds on the back of his neck as his heart starts to beat slightly faster. He’s actually, genuinely nervous about the man’s reaction.
In an instant, Diggs chuckles and flares his nostrils before toddling slightly out of his space.
What the fuck. Did Diggs just smell him again?
“Of course!” Diggs bolsters a bit too loudly, causing Wilson to flinch at the abrupt volume. “What did you say the other day? It never ends, right?” He finally dislodges his hand, using the movement to run his free hand through his ear-length hair.
“Hah,” Diggs taps his bottom lip and flutters his eyelashes. “You have such a way with words. No one really appreciates that about you,” Diggs practically purrs in the middle of the bustling clinic, head cocked slightly to the right.
Wilson truly cannot find it in himself to find the will to live at this point.
“Right,” is all he can say.
‘It never ends’ is maybe the most basic thing he or anyone on planet Earth could have said. Who does this guy think Wilson is, Socrates?
“Well, thanks for checking in, but I really should go,” he says huskily with a significant strain.
“Hm. Think about giving the nice guys a chance, yeah? I’m not like what you’re used to, with…the other guys,” he tensely settles on after a moment where it looks like he’s dying to say something else.
Maybe a noun that rhymes with ‘mouse.’
“Just think about it, James. There’s a first time for everyone,” Diggs has the audacity to wink.
Then, while Wilson’s face is flushed with tense embarrassment and his stomach is filling with knots, Diggs casually waves and bids him a frankly lustful farewell before swiftly turning on his heel and strutting back into the hospital, lab coat blowing almost cinematically behind him.
God, this guy and his exits.
Wilson tries to shake away the static buzzing in his head and picks up a random clinic file. Maybe it will distract him enough to forget that it even happened, as strange as it was. He’s halfway through pretending to read a blur of words when he looks down at himself, suddenly curious (terrified, wanting to change it right away) as to what Diggs could have possibly seen in him.
Nothing. He looks average. There is not a singular remarkable thing about Doctor James Wilson, so why is he being not so subtly harassed by a coworker?
Some things just never make sense.
He ignores the tremor in his fingers and takes a deep breath in, holding it in his nose for four beats, then exhaling. It’s fine. He’ll probably lose interest soon.
Right? The rapid beating of his heart and sweat cooling on his neck say otherwise.
***
Wilson’s seated on House’s couch in his apartment later that night, looking at the flashing pictures on the TV but not actually seeing anything. Beside him, House is sprawled across the furniture in his usual scraggly demeanor, quickly working his way through a container of Lo Mein.
He wishes he could pay attention, but his stupid brain keeps replaying his interactions with Diggs over and over again, looking for any way he can get the man to back off without it becoming something too big to handle.
There’s no way in hell he wants to involve HR, Cuddy, or worst of all, House. Though he has a feeling House will involve himself whenever he spots an opening in Wilson’s facade.
Shifting in place, Wilson worries his lip between his teeth as he idly moves his fried rice around the takeout container. If he were a bit more cognizant, he would notice the way House has been openly shooting him glances the entire time they’ve been lounging.
Wilson hears a sigh at an undetermined point in time before he feels the couch dip under the weight of someone moving. He glances at House, who has turned to face him and is studying him with a curious expression.
“Alright,” House finally breaks their fragile silence. “What is going on with you?”
Before Wilson can open his mouth and protest, House raises a finger and beats him to the punch: “The truth this time, or so help me, I will slip a methoxetamine in your coffee and harass you until you spit it up.”
Wilson blinks, but something inside him unfurls at the promise, at House’s persistence. “I think telling me your plan dulls the chances of it working.”
“Wilson.” House gives him a stink eye and crowds forward slightly, but stops immediately when Wilson automatically leans back.
The wrinkles on House’s forehead deepen as his face contorts in shock.
“Alright, that’s a start,” he says, almost to himself while shuffling back safely against his side of the couch.
Wilson squeezes his eyes shut and breathes. “No, I didn’t mean to-” he sighs before swiveling his head back to face House. “It’s not you, I just-”
“I know it’s not me, dumbass,” House snipes back. “That’s what I’m about to find out. Cough it up, Goldilocks. Lying is too cold, but telling the truth is just right. At least, that’s what my mommy used to tell me,” House lightly jokes with a higher-pitched voice, trying to calm Wilson down the best way he knows how.
And damn him, it’s just so familiar that it works. Wilson spares the barest twitch of his lips before he turns back to the TV.
“It’s nothing, House. Really.”
He doesn’t have to look his best friend to know he doesn’t believe a word Wilson’s saying. House scoffs before lapsing into silence for a moment. Just when Wilson manages to convince himself that the topic dropped, House begins to speak in a soft, almost hushed tone.
“You know you can’t keep things from me. Aside from my brilliant intellect, I’m your best friend. This, whatever the hell it may be, is affecting you. If you really won’t tell me to help yourself, then tell me to help me. After all, I can’t have my only friend spiral. There’s only room for one of us to be in pain,” House ends his short speech with the barest volume to his voice, but Wilson hears it clear as day.
He swallows and hangs his head, taking a moment to breathe in through his nose and out his mouth. A quiet tapping of what he imagines to be House’s fingers against the couch is the only other thing he hears. Huh, so House is affected, too.
Wilson knows that House cares about him, but having the confirmation is always nice.
Finally, against his better judgment, Wilson turns back to his only friend over the past two decades and makes a decision.
“Recently, there has been a slight…miscommunication,” he starts hesitantly, testing the waters.
House doesn’t speak, but he does look as if he’s hanging on to every word. The silence actually fuels him to keep speaking.
“You know Doctor Diggs, right? In nephrology?”
There’s a nod before House replies when Wilson doesn’t immediately follow up.
“Girly hair, about yea-” he holds up a hand to his own shoulder, “-tall with a smile, tells anyone that will listen that he’s from Kentucky and kind of looks like Geppetto carved into Annabelle instead of a real boy?”
Wilson huffs out a strained laugh but nods. Yeah, that about sums him up.
“Yeah, well. He’s been a bit…adamant that he uh, likes me,” Wilson finishes lamely, suddenly sheepish. House’s expression hardens at the edges.
“Likes you how?” He asks, clear to the point.
The lack of jokes catches Wilson off guard. “Like…he always watches me, even stays back after meetings to watch me, he always finds an excuse to uh, touch me,” Wilson shivers at the unpleasant memories while watching House’s face practically harden into stone, not a single morsel of his typical callousness evident.
“And he asked me on a date.”
If he didn’t know any better, he would say House looks murderous. But just as quickly as that particular expression flashes across his friend’s face, it disappears and is replaced with something equally serious, but less threatening.
“Are you…interested in him?” House asks tightly, face inscrutinable.
Wilson’s recoiling before the question is finished.
“God, no! I told him I wasn’t interested, and he just said that he assumed that with,” here he begins to slow down, suddenly incredibly conscious of what he is about to reveal, “How much I hang around you,” he speaks with the speed of pulling teeth, “That he thought I was gay. When I said I wasn’t, he kind of ignored it? Until today when he complimented me again,” he finishes in a rush, desperately wanting to end his recountment and simultaneously scared of House’s reaction.
Speaking of House’s reaction. Wilson peeks at his friend; it’s hard to describe exactly what House may be feeling.
The man is one of the most complex people he’s ever met, but if he had to settle on an emotion, it would probably be indignation. Deep wrinkles permeate the sharp, displeased lines of his gruff face.
House sits frozen in place, glowering at the couch cushions. Wilson has half a mind to think they might combust under the scrutiny.
Wilson swallows, unsure how to navigate this particular social scenario.
“House?” He softly asks.
At the sound of his voice, House breaks from his stupor, shifting his death-glare from the upholstery to Wilson’s fidgeting figure.
Finally, in a voice as rough as nails and carrying a finality that he’s only heard in movies, House speaks. “I’ll kill him.”
All the air whooshes out of him, leaving a panicked static in his veins. “No, what?”
He can only see House through his lashes; he’s blinking so much, but what he can see makes him worry.
“House, come on. Don’t do anything stupid. I can handle it, it’s just taking a bit longer than I thought-”
“Have you met yourself?” House harshly interrupts, finally locking their gazes again.
House looks manic, angry in a way that probably should send some sort of alarm off in his head, but this is House. If there’s one thing he knows for certain in this world, it’s that House would never physically hurt him. Embarrass and humiliate him, sure. But he would never in a million years purposefully harm Wilson just for fun.
The diagnostician continues, almost spitting the harsh consonants on Wilson’s face. “You’re a category one people pleaser. You have a better chance of fending him off with Cameron. Actually, Cameron would tell him off, while you would just come up with the easiest excuse and avoid it while you idiotically hope for it to go away on its own.”
House looks as if he’s gearing to say more, but Wilson decides to employ one of the best weapons known to mankind: a subtle, unmistakable pout. Smooth enough that he won’t be called a teenage girl, but potent enough to tug directly on House’s not-so-secret obsession with him.
Looking down demurely, Wilson doesn’t have to pretend that hard when he wrings his hands together and sighs to himself.
There’s a low grumble from beside him and an echoing sigh before he hears House fall back onto the couch, letting it handle all of his weight instead of resuming the straight-up, coked-up bear posture he had going on a moment prior.
“Please,” Wilson speaks into the tense silence, “I just needed…”
Reassurance? Comfort? A friend? He’s not too sure, but he does know he doesn’t want House involved. That can only end poorly for everyone, and probably on a new headline.
House grumbles again but acquiesces. “Fine. But you need to tell him off. And tell Cuddy.” A fraction of a second passes before House’s head whips to the side and blazes into Wilson’s side profile.
“How did he touch you?”
Wilson shifts in place but answers. “Nothing major, just a clap on the shoulder and once on the elbow. It’s fine, House, really. If it gets worse, I’ll say something, I promise.”
“You’ll say something now. You’re obviously uncomfortable.”
“Yeah, but it’s not worth making a fuss over,” Wilson mumbles, catching the clench of House’s fists lying in his lap.
“Wilson,” House murmurs in a softer tone and waits for Wilson to look at him again. Once he ensures he has Wilson’s entire attention, he speaks slowly with no room for misinterpretation.
“You don’t deserve to be uncomfortable. Tell that jackass he can go fuck himself with a chainsaw if he wants, cause you’re not interested. You said no the first time and that’s final. After that, go to Cuddy and report his Kentucky fried ass. Make sure the lesson sticks on paper. Alright?”
They enter a sort of stalemate after, with House refusing to move a muscle until Wilson agrees and Wilson refusing to admit that it’s a problem. When he sees no hint of backing down on House’s end (the man hasn’t even blinked, for god’s sake), Wilson exhales a shaky breath.
“Okay. Yeah, I’ll do…that.” Probably a tamer version of it, but the point will still be there.
Hopefully. He hasn’t had the best luck the past two times he tried.
“Fantastic,” House sarcastically replies, still watching Wilson’s every move closely. “And if that fails, then I have an extra thirty-six inches of polished chestnut I can ram right up his ass,” House threatens while holding up his cane and wiggling it in the air. “Just say the word, Jimmy.”
Jimmy, not Wilson. A small smile tugs on Wilson’s lips. He’s always liked that; House is the first person to care enough about him to give him a nickname. The degrading ones from childhood obviously don’t count.
“That won’t be necessary, but thanks. I’m sure you’ve been dying to experiment with it.”
House wags his eyebrows. “Who says I haven’t?”
Wilson chuckles with House following right after. For a moment, nothing is different. Once the lingering traces of laughter organically recede they turn back to the TV and watch whatever was left playing.
A couple of minutes pass where they both pretend to pay attention.
“I have mafia connections, you know,” House voices randomly. Wilson turns to him in surprise and mild alarm. When did this happen? And more importantly, how didn’t he know about it?
House isn’t looking at him, instead reclining forward with his chin perched on the end of his cane.
“I can get his balls strung up as ornaments by Monday. Tuesday if they’re lazy.”
He says it so casually, as if he’s simply reciting a grocery list. Wilson knows deep in his core that House would do it, actually, genuinely do it without a thought the moment Wilson says yes.
He tries not to let that power go to his head.
“House,” he scolds instantaneously, purposefully letting his typical Boy Scout displeasure seep through his tone to combat the warmth settling in his chest. He’s always wanted someone to care for him that much, even if he prefers fewer threats of organized murder-torture.
“Ugh. Fine, whatever,” House rolls his eyes and throws himself back against the couch.
“Just let me know.” And with that, he picks up his almost-forgotten container of Lo Mein and begins to steadily slurp it obnoxiously down his throat, much to the detriment of Wilson’s ears.
Eventually, they resettle into their respective positions, and no further mention of the…incident is brought up again.
Although it's exactly how it was before Wilson spilled the metaphorical beans, he has the distinct feeling that it’s only going to get worse from here.