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To say House pulling pranks was normal was to say water is wet. Whether it was putting a whoopee cushion on the waiting room chairs in the clinic, changing the password to one of the front desk computers after hours, or stealing one sock from every pair in Wilson’s sock drawer, House’s pranks were to be expected at a certain point. Hell, it would be more concerning if House wasn't up to something, and Wilson had come to peace with that.
Until now.
See, there were things House never did, and while an unspoken rule, it was there nonetheless. Anything that involved intimacy of any kind, for one. With the way he acted towards touch and vulnerability, you’d think he knew of an apocalypse and the rest of the world missed the memo. Therapy? Hell no. Venting to anyone in general to help carry the burden of his thoughts and feelings? Fuck that. Hugs? What, does he live on Sesame Street? No, no, and absolutely the fuck not.
So when House came home from work one day and laid his head down on Wilson's lap, he had right to worry. He froze, looking down at House with a blank expression at first, which quickly creased to a furrowed brow. House didn't seem particularly depressed or in pain—quite the opposite, pointing and barking at the TV as he always did. That's when suspicion crept in.
If House wasn't unwell, this was some kind of game. It had to be, hence the list of things House wouldn't be caught dead doing. But then, that left the question: what kind of game was this? What was House getting at? Was he trying to be annoying? Encroach on Wilson's personal space? See how far he’d let this go?
Ah, probably that last one, huh. Well, two could play that game, then.
“Tsk, that's what they get for screwing in the office,” House tutted, smugly watching as some doctor in his medical soap started shouting. Wilson hadn't been watching, but he could only assume the other two characters had been doing something scandalous. Typical trashy television, he noted with a sigh. House looked over and tilted his head back to look up at Wilson.
“What's got your panties in a twist?" he prodded, scrubbing his chin in exaggerated thought. “Hopefully they’re red and lacy like Cuddy’s.” Wilson rolled his eyes with a slight smile.
“Tidy widies, actually. You know what they say about assuming.” House gasped dramatically at the quip, putting a hand over his chest in faux shock.
“How uncouth, Dr. Wilson! You sure know how to get a girl hot and bothered…” That got a chuckle out of him, and he was a little surprised to feel House relax against his legs. Wilson decided it was the perfect time to strike. He kicked his feet up on the coffee table and rested his hand on House’s head, running his fingers through scruffy locks with a soft exhalation.
“Long day at work, but it's nothing new,” he commented easily, answering House’s convoluted way of asking about his well-being. Wilson had to hold back a triumphant grin when he felt House freeze, knowing he'd (at least momentarily) won their game.
Until House melted into the touch. A content hum drifted from his lips, much akin to a cat purring when its owner pets it. Wilson swore in his head, victory slipping from his clutches in an instant. He should've known House wouldn't be phased—petting? Come on, that was nothing.
“Long day at work?” House prompted, his raised eyebrows almost audible. Almost as if—
“Are you voluntarily asking me to tell you about my day?” Wilson sputtered incredulously, his hand ceasing its movement. “Either Cuddy really did show you her underwear or you got abducted by aliens.” The older man leaned his head back again, seemingly rolling the possibility around in his head.
“Well, I still haven't seen the infamous Cuddy Cupboard, and as far as I know, extraterrestrial life forms haven't been discovered. Yet,” he conceded. Wilson blinked, his brown, doe eyes wide in confusion and disbelief.
“No. I simply refuse to believe you're actually being nice. Dare I say, thoughtful.”
“Not the T word!” House exclaimed, horror and anguish pouring off his lithe figure in waves. Wilson scoffed, still looking skeptical as House settled back in.
“I mean… if you really want to know,” he started slowly, almost cautious in his approach, “it was a mostly normal day.”
“Mostly?”
“Well, one of my child patients puked on me after her first chemo session—” House snickered, much to Wilson’s irritation, “—then after lunch, an elderly patient started hitting on me because she thought I was her husband.” House’s teasing smirk fell instantly.
“And whose grandma was it? Names, Jimmy, I need names!” Wilson shook his head, looking unamused.
“House, she's 80 and has Alzheimer's, that's hardly reason enough to file an HR report.”
“Maybe not, but if she's well enough to make a pass at our Boy Wonder oncologist, she can call her husband and ask to see his Johnson instead.”
“And why do you care so much about who's asking to see my Johnson?”
“You're entering my end of the dating pool, Jimmy,” House crooned solemnly. “Stealing all the geriatric women—from a disabled man nonetheless! For shame!”
“Oh please, all your hookers are five to ten years younger than you.”
“Still! I don't want a slutty serial cheater at my bingo night birthday bash— Oh wait…” House covered his mouth scandalously, but Wilson hardly batted an eye at the deflections. He narrowed his eyes, thinking for a moment before speaking again.
“I think there's an actual reason you're pissed, and you're not telling me.” House fluttered his eyelashes innocently.
“And I think you're wrong.” He nudged Wilson's hand with his head, making the other pause before he realized he'd stopped moving his hand. House sighed contently when Wilson started petting him again, the latter trying not to think about how soft House’s hair felt between his fingers.
After that, the conversation went silent, House sated for the time being and Wilson giving up on trying to get a straightforward answer out of him. He wondered when House would bore of… whatever it was he was trying to do. When he'd get up and say, ‘Aha, I was messing with your head and you fell for it!’ Or something to that effect. But he continued to lay there, commentating on the soap opera as he always did while Wilson tried to focus on anything but the feeling of House’s breath against the skin of his thigh. Eventually, House’s commentary quieted, until it flitted out entirely and faded into soft snores. When Wilson finally looked down at House, he was at a loss for words.
House was truly asleep on his lap. The occasional twitch of an eyelid, the absent crease of his brows that often marked the long investigation of a case, smoothed plains where there would otherwise be lines of stress—if House was faking, he was definitely winning an Oscar. The sight made Wilson's heart skip a beat.
As cheesy as it sounded, he felt honored in a way that House trusted him enough to use him as a pillow. It positively tickled Wilson that in the rare times House wasn't being an ass, it was towards him. Sometimes Cuddy or possibly his teammates if the situation was life or death, but even then, it was rarer than rare, like finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. In a way, it was like House was Wilson's to have and Wilson's only—
Wilson stopped, his breath exiting his chest in a whoosh and his face flushing.
Perhaps he could understand why House cared about who was hitting on him. He wouldn't go as far as to say House was a sap like Wilson, but being someone's person wasn't so bad. Maybe House had figured that out himself. As Wilson let his eyes fall shut, he couldn't help but sit with this possibility: that was the real reason behind their game.
…
Or he was just being an ass.
…
Yeahhh, it was probably that.
Nay, definitely that.