Work Text:
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Doctor Wilson.” House scoffs sarcastically, thumping into the room with his cane. The first thing Wilson heard when House rounded the corner was those familiar, uneven footsteps, they calmed, excited and sent anger through him all the same.
He opened the door to his office with just as much velocity when he slammed it shut. “You’re even more dramatic than usual,” Wilson sighed, typing in one more sentence before closing his laptop and pushing it aside. “If there’s something you—“
“I have plenty of bones to pick with you.” House threw himself down on the man’s couch, it was a lot softer than his. He noted that down for a long, jealous conversation with Cuddy. ‘You’d really give the cripple a rock to lay on after a hard day of clinic work?’
It had been a long day, Wilson was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. The second he’d file a patient’s good report in its respective folder on a door, he’d be in the next one telling them news you’d only hear in a nightmare. Thankfully, today there was a lack of tears and more resilience to fight through and accept treatment.
He was knee high in clinic work, and didn’t have much time to chat it up. Uncharacteristically, he had even denied House his usual time slot to bother him… He didn’t even have lunch today, thinking back. His stomach was growling, but ignored in favor of wanting to get home before dark.
Wilson stayed quiet, his brown eyes scanning House's figure from his desk.
He didn’t think it was that big of a deal. House had gone weeks without talking to him before, albeit with a sour attitude towards others. A long day of work, that would eventually end with them sat in the others apartment watching brain rotting television over fast food—that should be easy for him to manage.
People around Wilson tended to keep him on a shelf for when it was convenient—he was… fine. Fine to be that for a while. He fixed things, and then they stopped needing him.
That was the hard part.
House was a constant in staying. Allowing Wilson to uselessly glue back pieces of shredded paper that would never align, and ultimately crumble apart again.
“Okay,” House sighed, twirling his cane once. “Couples therapy it is, I’ll start!” He pulled out his wallet with a huff, it was tarnished, brown leather that he’d been using since middle school. “My wallet has thirty seven dollars, and a free coupon for a massage. This morning it had twenty five extra dollars and some cents.”
“Uh, ookay,” Wilson dragged his words, eyes squinting further in confusion. “Do you think I stole it? If you should be pointing fingers at anyone, I’d suggest your team—“
“I bought lunch today, usually you do that with your big salary. Not even sure how I’ll afford rent this month.”
Wilson couldn’t stifle his smile, a laugh bubbling over his strained lips. “Big salary? I just manage my cash better than you do.”
House waved dismissively, pocketing his wallet. “Whatever the case may be, the usual booth we get was taken.”
“It’s usually only reserved because I get there early, and put my coat down as a placeholder. You could do the same thing, you know.”
But the oncologist's words went right in one ear and out the other. These days, he thought maybe the words weren’t even making it that far.
“Then, I run into my best buddy in the hall, and he walks right past me at, might I add, such a leisurely pace that a cripple couldn’t catch up.” House spits sarcastically. Though, there was truth in all his statements.
“I had a lot of appointments today, you can’t possibly be this torn up about a busy day? You’ve ignored me in favor of patients plenty of times.”
House rolls his eyes, sighing loudly. He reached for his Vicodin, but there was the fourth discrepancy. The bottle was empty as the doctor shook it.
“Seems like you have a bone to pick with Tuesdays,” Wilson looked at House empathetically. “Is there anything I can do to help? I have another appointment in an hour.”
From the couch, House curled in on himself, he never was big on expressing emotions. He left Wilson to guess a lot of the time, though the oncologist prided himself in knowing. The diagnostician had been closed off ever since his failed relationship with Stacy, a defense mechanism.
On top of the fact he was already lacking vulnerability, the last five years of zero emotion that wasn’t devoted to work, shitty soap operas or Monster Trucks meant the man was a time bomb of pent up angst. Those walls slowly came down as him and Wilson settled into something more. He allowed small glimpses into his mental state here and there without having to be on the precipice of a breakdown every time.
But again, Wilson would stitch him back together through the good and bad—somedays, House's words felt like tiny daggers. Recently, he had the luxury of catching House before he could shatter.
Wilson got up from his seat, dragging tired limbs over to his couch. “Are you honestly that upset that I accidentally ignored you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Wilson. I’m not a thirteen-year-old high school girl.” House’s actions didn’t reflect his words. He nervously picked at a stray string on his pants.
Their first official date was two weeks ago, though, months prior to that, House had been coming to Wilson with grievances. His day was bad, his leg was just in a little too much pain, his gameboy died, he lost his ball.
The small things meant the world to Wilson. Communication made a relationship go round, that was true for both romantic and platonic alike. House was allowing him to see through his icy exterior for once. The mutual pinning came to a close not long after—a shared kiss in a sterile smelling office, not everyone’s idea of romance but in that moment, was perfect.
With the nature of their friendship changing, Wilson got to see a side of House reserved for partners. He had to admit, it was better than sex. You think you know a guy for years, fall in love with the husk he held himself in and when you get to peer behind the curtain…It was like a candy that had a surprise center.
Only two things were missing: A solid term on what they were, and the ‘L’ word the doctors kept skirting around.
“No biggie, I know you’re probably just flirting it up with the nurses again.” House remarked with a monotoned voice, but a pang of jealousy seeped through.
Wilson sighed, the familiarity of frustration lingering in his head. “Why would I-“ He pinched his nose, the silly accusation which might’ve been true if he wasn’t in a situation ship with the Gregory House. “Okay, even you know that’s not true.”
House lolled his head back, sighing.
“I-I’ll make it up to you. How about dinner tonight?” Wilson landed on. A compromise for missing lunch.
House contemplated that, lips pressed tight in fake concentration. “What’s the fanciest reservation you can make in the next hour?”
“If I’m solely buying, you’re lucky if it’s McDonald’s.” Wilson joked, but deep down he would bankroll House’s every want. He was far too caring for his own good, and pathetically whipped for the doctor.
House smiled, pretty and genuine. “It’s a date,” the diagnostician winced when he stood, his body stiff and retaliating against any form of relaxing. “If you need me I’ll be harassing the pharmacy for my prescription.”
He was gone as fast as he came, for a man who complains about how the world moves faster than he can keep up he’s always three strides ahead of everyone else. Physically and mentally—it was easy to feel small and inferior around House.
Though not many around him dwelled on that too much. When you’re a difficult person to be around you garner people that take on that challenge rather than run, tail tucked between their legs.
Wilson lingered on the couch for a moment longer, patting the cushion where House had just been before getting up. He had to straighten up his office before the next appointment…
Before that, he pulled out his laptop once again to book a reservation for one of their favorite restaurants. It was on the higher end, definitely not something he’d expect House to enjoy but the man’s palate was much more refined when he wasn’t paying.
Chivalry wasn’t dead after all. Wilson peered into his wallet with a relieved sigh, payday was truly a blessing…
The day dragged on, a whirlwind of patients and paperwork. After the couples therapy, Wilson took the time to smile at House every chance they walked past each other.
In a streak of luck, Wilson found them both at the reception desk with the ducklings in tow. “How’s your case going?”
House peered down at Wilson’s hand, grabbing his wrist to check his watch. “Fine, in thirty six minutes it won’t be my problem unless he’s dying.”
Wilson huffed a laugh at that. House quirked a smile, digging into the complimentary lollipops for a handful, much to the receptionists distaste.
“The- I made reservations.” Wilson stuttered out, his voice barely a whisper, his hand on the small of House’s back in a comforting rub. The tension briefly slipped out of House’s shoulders, his bright blue eyes meeting Wilson’s.
“The good spot?”
Wilson nodded, a subtle flush to his face. This would be their second official date. House fidgeted with the wrapper to a lollipop, worming it into his mouth a lot more licentiously than Wilson could handle.
The subtle PDA was over as quick as it started. When Wilson took his hand back, the ducklings let out a breath they didn’t know they were holding. Silent apologies were sent their way in the form of dark, brown eyes creasing into a frownless pout.
He must’ve been a pain in the ass to them all day… Just stewing in pain, anger, and jealousy—unfounded jealousy at that.
The ducklings following House around had taken the brunt of their boss’s behavior. This morning he was sour, a lot more miserable than usual if that was possible. Cameron was sure he’d seen him slip multiple Vicodin into his coffee.
After lunch, he was practically inconsolable. Their patient was suffering from blood in the urine and a much higher fever. “We should get Wilson to rule out any cancers-“ Chase had begun innocently.
“Mommy and daddy are going through the turmoil of marriage, kids!” House bit, leaning forward on his cane. He peered back towards the whiteboard. “What’s your next bright idea?”
“No that would make sense,” Foreman defended. “It lines up with almost five of their present symptoms. Wilson would be able to have it on our desk in an hour.”
“And since when did you make friends?” House furrowed his brow. “Wouldn’t explain the other symptoms, we would’ve gotten a clue on the prior test, not my favorite theory but we need a scan anyway.”
Foreman put his head in his hands, willing his fingers to rub the ache out of his eyes.
Sometime after the second diagnostic meeting, House went off and bothered Wilson. Chase watched him waltz into the other's office like he owned the place—When the ducklings found him wandering the hallway, hellbent on grabbing goodies from the receptionist, he was completely normal again.
As strange as House was, after being around him for a while it was actually almost easy to tell how he was feeling. The slope of his eyebrow was subtle, too subtle for anyone who didn’t know him. Often you’d see his shoulders less tense after a short talk with Wilson, those around him didn’t even know if the man carried anxieties or stress at all.
The biggest tell tale was when he was no longer angrily insulting every single word that came out of his fellows mouths. Going back to his usual relentless teasing.
After the eye-fuck of the century right in front of underpaid workers and exhausted doctors, Cameron noted the way Wilson held onto her bosses lower back, she tilted her head in thought.
The trio hadn’t heard exactly what Dr. Wilson said, but the way his face lit up and flushed was suspicious. Chase held his tongue, the last thing he needed was to be wrong about the nature of their relationship and face House’s wrath.
Foreman couldn’t have cared less. Really. His eyes were only wide because he just had a House-style epiphany on the case! So what if he conveniently instantly forgot it. He tried to peel his gaze away, not make eye contact with Wilson. He wanted to set an example, don’t get into House’s business.
Really, that guy's business was not something to gawk at. Foreman knew he’d never live it down, constant ridicule and unhealthy banter could only get worse around here. It never got better.
The team found their way back to the diagnostic room for one final debriefing before their boss went home for the night. The curious ducklings, bred from years of an undeterred House who had taught them this exact brand of nosiness, shared glances at each other. Chase nodded at Cameron, yeah, they didn’t just dream up the weird PDA.
“I’ll ask Wilson to come by tomorrow, a fresh pair of eyes might be good for you!” House stuck the eraser back on its Velcro strip, eyeing his work once over. “That’s code word for every diagnosis thus far has been sub optimal, an oncologist might have a better chance.”
“Get a good night’s sleep, Cuddy might notice I’ve been arriving three hours late since last Friday if my first line of defense wasn’t here on time.” He said with nonchalance.
House picked up his bag, limping over to the door with newfound energy. His team didn’t take a lot of his insults to heart, not anymore at least.
Just before he could make his way over the threshold of the door, “Are you and Wilson seeing each other?” Cameron inquired, no longer able to contain her curiosity as she stood walking up behind House.
House turned his face, feigning innocence sarcastically. “What could you possibly be talking about? Doctor Wilson? The infamous panty peeler? Sorry, Cameron, unless you’re talking about the ophthalmologist, our cancer-guy doesn’t prefer briefs.”
He eyed the woman a second longer, eyes scanning the room for any more inquisitive questions. His eyebrows quirked up, mildly amused by the stillness of the room.
He pulled the blue slinged bag further up on his shoulder, smiling mischievously. Chase opened his mouth to comment, but thought better of it last second. “Glad to know we’re all on the same page. Don’t call me unless he’s dying.” House reiterates, the door closing shut behind him, leaving his team with more questions than answers.
Though that was the norm around here.
The ducklings watched House walk down the hall from the glass office, “I don’t need to know about his personal business.” Foreman sighed.
Cameron and Chase squished themselves up against the glass, unapologetically tracking their boss all the way to the elevator. In some way, they were half expecting Wilson to come and sweep him off his feet, comically like they were in a Hallmark movie. That just seemed too convenient to confirm their suspicions. They were gonna have to stalk harder to figure that out.
“We should follow him.” Chase and Cameron deadpanned at the same time.
“That’s not gonna work, he’s taught us all of his tricks. He’s probably got landmines waiting for us.” Foreman scolded, finally getting up from his seat. He could feel his fourth migraine coming on. With any luck if he retired in the next thirty years he might avoid becoming another Vicodin addict. “He’s gonna chew our ass out if we don’t have something good by tomorrow.”
Chase groaned, rubbing his forehead against the glass.
“You know, I thought Wilson and that nurse from Oncology were doing it.” Chase sighed, the weariness of his tone told a story of somebody with money on the situation.
“Him and House…” Cameron contemplated that, the way those words fit on her tongue. She couldn’t imagine it too hard.
Wilson walked by a few minutes later, his shift ending in about an hour, his head felt groggy but he could’ve sworn he saw all of House’s team in the diagnostic room huddled up in a circle, giggling and shutting up the minute the oncologist walked by. It felt like high school all over again, he shivered.
In less fuzzy-mind, he might have dropped in to see what the fuss was about. But knowing House’s fellows, they were eager to ask questions and in his current state, he would probably fall over each one and spill to his own disadvantage.
He couldn’t help but feel a little hopeful about tonight. Giddy, and young again. Which, with House, is hard to come by. He hadn’t had a lot of meaningful connection since his last marriage, though, even that was pushing it.
With his hand held high, standing tall, Wilson filled out the rest of his paperwork and did one last look around before clocking out. He smoothed down his hair, grabbed his belongings and was out of the building in record time. He didn’t pass go, skipping out on his daily small talk with colleagues.
Cuddy watched with a glint in her eye as the man walked out with an infectious smile, dimples accentuating his face with a youthful glow. Wilson was her friend, a guy she could invite to a casual lunch and gossip with. House was many things; a felon, an idiot, narcissistic, egomaniac, and an addict she ultimately hired. Of course, the addiction did come later, but who was keeping score.
But despite the negatives, the two made an uncannily good pair. Enablers at best, but when you’re as neurotic as House could get he needed somebody who played into it and kept him from running it down solo on a war path.
Really, Cuddy couldn’t find it in herself to be upset at the prospects of them getting together. The work environment might actually be less hostile, if she could convince Wilson to play the devil's advocate for her side sometimes too. “Get him to do his clinic duty. I don’t care how you do it as long as it’s not in my office or on top of that comatose guy.”
She made a note to subtly hand Wilson the ‘Consensual Relationship’ form tomorrow, the last thing she would need is more House lawsuits. The dean picked up her office phone, dialing a number inside the hospital with haste. “It’s Cuddy, I want four hundred dollars on Wilson’s new ‘girlfriend’ being Dr. Gregory House.”
—
Wilson tapped his steering wheel, nervous jitters making their way out via his fingertips. It’s just House! Why was he so nervous? He doted on his appearance extra hard, the minute he got home from work he showered like a madman, blow drying his hair for an ungodly amount of time and he still was just barely satisfied with it. Four dabs of cologne and a bottle of hairspray later, and he could still smell that familiar antiseptic scent from the hospital. It was too late to have a mid-life career crisis, the scent poured out of his pores now, clearly.
He fumbled with the last ironed dress shirt he had, his pants were impossible to cooperate with when he had the nervous shakes. Digging through his closet, he contemplated a tie but the dress code was definitely casual, casual. He was lucky if House even bothered to wear dress shoes at all, the man was likely already in his pajamas.
He fixed his collar, every motion leaked with admiration. Wilson wanted to look… good. Not the kind that gets him a cheap lay, or a few compliments that he’ll ride for the coming days. He was trying to impress the most emotionally repressed man in the observable universe, a green tie or a sharp smile wouldn’t cut it.
And that’s where it led him, in the car, preparing himself for how he should go about this—Wilson stepped out, the familiar apartment door looming in his vision. He swallowed thickly, pushing the buzzer on the door and waiting.
He looked down at his shoes, sighing the anxiety away with a rub to the back of his neck with a sweaty palm. A beat later he heard the thumps of a cane, that sound made his heart flutter when the door finally opened. “You’re not the hooker I ordered.”
“Very funny, House—“ Wilson stifled a gasp, his brown eyes going wide at House’s attire. The graying man sported his usual dress shirt, bunched at the elbow, though overall it seemed to have less wrinkles with his usual two buttons missing for just a subtle view of his chest from the front. He was in actual pants, and not jeans, even his shoes looked nice.
They kind of mirrored each other without trying. House narrowed his gaze, piercing blue eyes analyzing the oncologist like he was picking him apart muscle by muscle in his brain. “Someone looks like they’re trying to get laid.” House leans in with a strong sniff. “You’re wearing cologne.”
Wilson looked into his eyes innocently, a nervous smile on his face. “Are you ready to go? We’re gonna be late.”
“Sorry Doctor, I only sleep with people on the first date. The second one is for contemplating where we’ll move our assets after we’ve been married and died, you know, the boring stuff.” House’s voice dripped sarcasm, as it usually did, but he followed behind Wilson to his car.
In another lifetime, maybe Wilson would hold the door for House as he got into the passenger seat—pretend they’re both romantic, spry, and young again. But that’d probably make House grimace and tease the oncologist for longer than it was worth.
They both got in separately, arms meeting in the center console. “Okay, riddle time. If we were a booth, which corner would we be in?” House quizzed, blue eyes staring into brown voids patiently. Their faces were close, close enough Wilson’s brain short circuited in favor of tracing his fine lines.
“Trick question? You got a table?” He continued.
Wilson shook his head, feeling the dryness in his throat he didn’t remember being there. “N-no, no. It’s the same booth as always, furthest to the right in the very back.”
House nodded, satisfied with that. “You’re driving, no wine for the missus tonight?”
The gentle hum of the engine starting and their banter didn’t leave a lot of room for music, but House still fumbled with all of his own CDs—they were placed in Wilson’s car over the years, usually removed when they had their mini arguments, but now were a permanent, abundant fixture in his vehicle.
He really did not enjoy FM radio. “You can drink as much as you’d like, House,” Wilson sighed. “I have work tomorrow.”
“We all have work tomorrow, that’s irrelevant.”
“Some of us are better at hangovers than others.” Wilson offered secretive glances in House's direction. The same old, routine scene was a little more than his heart could take—the atmosphere was different. He wasn’t just his best friend in his car, messing with his radio and rummaging his glovebox and toying with the overhead lights.
The quirks that usually annoyed him still did, very much so. But the annoyance came with a certain longing that he hid for much of their friendship. Emotions he drowned out in meaningless relationships, bodies and a little too much bourbon on sad nights.
And of course, withholding his affection was now more of a punishment than ever. A misplaced prank, or an untimely barge in when he was with a patient—all Wilson needed to do was threaten to skip lunch, or refuse to indulge in their game of footsie under the table and he’d be generously served a half-assed apology.
It wasn’t much. He didn’t want much.
“You’re smiling,” House deadpanned. “Smiling manically and you almost missed your turn. You know, statistics show most murder victims aren’t kidnapped by a stranger, it’s usually their most trusted friend, or a family member they know.”
Wilson fixed his face, running a hand down his achy jaw. He was smiling a lot more these days. “I’m not ‘smiling manically’, you just don’t smile at all… Are- are you implying I have a murder plan?”
“Look, parking spot right in the front.” House deflected, pointing his finger at a parallel spot just out front of the restaurant. With the lack of Vicodin in his system, choosing to not bring the bottle with him against his better judgement, the less walking the better.
The night was young, their bones weren’t. It didn’t matter any more than if the sky fell. The hours passed like seconds, the more expensive wine poured into House’s cup slowly brought down his inhibitions. Not in the bad way, not in a way Wilson would be afraid that if the genius bunched up his collar, and devoured his mouth like a starving man it would just be the wine talking.
It would be all House. Pliant, free and fun for once. The crinkles of his eyes weren’t so forced, his breathing wasn’t so tight and erratic with pain, hell, Wilson might even say for once he looked content. Happy.
Wilson wouldn’t comment when their platters came that House stole all of his french fries, and he wouldn’t admit that was the only reason he ever got them. The clanking of their forks were drowned out in never ending conversation. “The CT scan? You’re doing work-talk right now? I’ll pretend to care—maybe we should biopsy the appendix after that. Or here’s a better thought, I’ll just take it out! Case solved, you can live without it.”
House’s voice dripped from his throat like honey, something Wilson could listen to all day if half of it wasn’t utter nonsense about himself.
On his third refill of water, Wilson watched as House raised his glass, forcing it in his direction. “Here, a small sip won’t impair you. I’ve driven home on worse.”
Wilson waved it away, “No, I shouldn’t—“ but the rim snuggled up to his lips, titling messily and almost spilling down his chin. He had no choice but to take a gulp or two.
He had to admit, it was damn good. “Next time, your cheap ass should get a taxi. Like the good ol’ days.” House grinned, finishing the cup off.
The oncologist flushed, pink and undeniable. He quickly hid behind the menu, attempting to read random words. “Uh- do you wanna share a dessert?”
“Ooh, I feel like a teenager. Maybe we could get the milkshake with two silly straws next.”
The bustling restaurant settled to a low murmur by the time a hefty slice of Tiramisu was placed in front of them. Wilson wiggled closer to the table, fitting both elbows to lean in the middle with his spoon. “Elbows on the table? What awful manners, I’ll have to break up with you.”
House fit his body in the same position, their arms close together—beside himself, the first date, the first kiss, the gentle eye contact from across a room. That wasn’t nearly as intimate as this was feeling right now. Wilson could hardly breathe as House did what he does best.
Take, and take without thinking too hard about it. He dug his spoon in, securing the first bite. “God,” he moaned, “It tastes even better when you don’t pay for it.”
But that was another neutral quality. He took the tension right out of the air with his all to natural sarcasm. Wilson watched with a keen eye as House licked the spoon clean.
The two ate the dessert in bashful moans, and playful quips. It really was good, Wilson didn’t have the luxury of eating as poorly as House did. He had thoughts of living past 60 without needing a heart transplant or insulin.
Wilson pinched his brow when the bill came, suddenly regretting letting House drink as much as he did. He laid out the money, stringing in some extra for the tip. The waitress put up with a lot more than she got paid for tonight, coincidentally coming by at the worst times when they were their loudest, and raunchiest.
It was becoming quite the frigid night, but it felt so much warmer when House was around. He could feel that familiar eerie chill creep into his bones at the prospects of dropping him off and going back to his place. “What’re you thinking about, Jim. You’re making my head hurt.” House interrupted his thinking, rustling his legs to push out of the booth.
“Thinking about how we didn’t pack coats. And you don’t ever stop thinking, how is mine making your head hurt?”
“Easy. I’m assured. You have that crease in your forehead you only get when you’re contemplating yelling at, or kissing me.” House raised an eyebrow, standing with a grunt.
That pink dusting was back with vengeance, Wilson ducked his head down, opening and closing his mouth in search for the right words.
“Don’t you just wish the nights went on for a little longer? The weekends, for example—like there should be an extra day? Right between Saturday and Sunday.”
Wilson furrowed his brow, he spoke with his hands as House watched from his position at the edge of the table. He could feel those blue eyes on him, nervously, he opted to slide out of his booth and dusted invisible crumbs. The silence prolonged, House took his time to find an answer.
“Your nights go on til 10:30, that’s your problem. I know you’re old and all, Jimmy, but you can’t base your schedule around when Jeopardy turns off.” House made a grabby hand, uncharacteristic that made Wilson’s pulse quicken. He lingered, looking at it as if it’d bite him when, finally, he reached for it. Their hands slotted together like a puzzle. “And there is a day between Saturday and Sunday, it’s called nap time. You should try it.”
Wilson laughed, breathy and light as they made their way out of the restaurant. House tightened his hold around him when a step off the curb or a small stumble nearly took him off balance. But he trusted the oncologist to have him the whole way through.
This time, Wilson did hold the car door for him, closing it behind him and choosing to ignore the way his features softened with the gesture. When he got into the driver's seat, he anticipated and accepted the end of the night nostalgia. House wasn’t going anywhere, not really.
They always refound each other. That was enough.
Driving home, or more appropriately driving to House’s apartment was unsurprisingly quiet. They talked about everything and nothing at the same time, using up all their conversational pieces over dinner—of course, House took that time to slide in one of the CDs but the slow, melancholy melody was pleasant.
Wilson wished the red lights lasted a little longer—the bridge between Saturday and Sunday. Like a nap. He absentmindedly fidgeted with his steering wheel, tracing small circles with his thumb. He forgot what he even had in mind for today, any goal, tension or expectation went out the window.
Though, he was hoping for one goodnight kiss. Sealing the deal for the day, a high he’d be able to ride on a lonesome drive home.
Jersey almost looked good at night. The trees shivered with the wind, littering their leaves on the ground that were shifting more to orange with each passing day—the little things.
When he hit the brake, driving his car close to the curb but not parking, he let House linger while he gathered his thoughts. He was obstructing traffic, maybe. But it was late anyway.
“You got any plans tonight?”
“That’s a stupid question,” Wilson chuckled. “I spent the whole night with you.”
House sighed, pressing his lips into a thin line. “You got any hot babes coming over from the yellow pages or are you sleeping alone tonight?” He punctuated with a badly faked surfer accent that trailed back into his usual gruffness.
“I can’t get drunk at your place and rewatch The L Word, House. I have work- We have work tomorrow.”
Wilson frowned, though staying over did sound great. “Goodness me, I forgot I’m going celibate and sober. There’s not a trace of alcohol in my place.”
He gasped, like the words shocked even himself. Wilson deadpanned, his eyes sagging with effort to not laugh and encourage this. “Everybody lies, even you, apparently.”
“Technically both are true. We could break one of those streaks tonight, but I drank the last of my reserves two days ago.”
It fell silent, comfortable, neutral but all encompassing. The crickets chirped away, their little lives continuing on into the night—“Alright then. Don’t ever say I didn’t try to save you from the cold. But, the couch does like you.”
“Likes me? Is it sentient?”
House opened his door, the chill creeping into the heated car. “Sometimes it yells at me for sitting on it the wrong way. Really inconvenient if you ask me.” House pauses, one foot planting itself on the cement outside while the rest of his body was reluctant to leave. He kept his gaze centered on Wilson.
He narrowed his eyes, thinking once before pushing himself into Wilson’s space to steal a gentle kiss. The oncologist, caught off guard, had no time to peck him back, his lips chasing nothing when House pulled back.
The stunned look on Wilson’s face didn’t match House’s satisfied grin. They’d kissed once before, a lot more spicy than this, but the buildup of the night made it feel like a silent proposal. “Goodnight.” House settled on, finally pushing his body to the edge of the seat, leaving with a pained groan. His leg wouldn’t be thanking him tomorrow. “I forgive you for missing lunch, just this once. I’m in a generous mood.”
And the door finally shut, leaving behind remnants of House’s smell, and the bitter chill of a night that had been slowly slipping from his fingers since he first pulled up to the door at sunset. He would see House again, just after noon if he was lucky.
They’d pass by each other in the hall, exchange knowing looks, House would tease him about something, insult his hair and routine—in the cafeteria, Wilson would get extra fries though he never was a huge fan of the oily food, he would watch with glee as House finished them off.
Wilson would watch him fumble around with his fellows, yelling at them about something he already knew the answer to. His cane was loud, he’d always hear it coming from the front, and notice the lanky man climb the small wall from their shared balcony when he preferred to be extra annoying.
He’d hold his head in his hands, cradling the rest of his sanity while it slipped through the gaps in his fingers. But then House would walk in—he’d see all the cracks in Wilson, the way his stress pulled at his shoulders, and instead of comforting him about the patient he lost and being a good confidant… He would sit in the seat adjacent to Wilson, prop his legs up on the table and pull out his PSP.
Somehow, somewhere in his equally sick brain, that was enough.
And maybe, just maybe, House would invite him to his apartment and they’d have their normal thigh-to-thigh on a too small couch watch party of some show Wilson would pretend to care about after a long day's work. The lazy, somehow rushed, organized and yet messy routine of pull-and-push they had was chaotic enough to keep them both entertained in the moment.
It made everyday worth the hassle, worth the bittersweet ache of nostalgia when a really good day was past him.
Wilson’s body moved before his brain could catch up. His car was parked haphazardly, if a cop was feeling too big for his badge he could easily ticket it, but Wilson didn’t care.
The engine was turned off and he was jogging up to the door. House had just managed to open it, ready to close it behind him for the night when a strong hand slithered its way into the crack. “You remembered your murder plan?”
Wilson pushed the door open, standing one foot on the step. “I- changed my mind.”
“If I knew I was gonna be in a Hallmark movie I would’ve put up my Christmas tree next to the mistletoe and secured a visit to the state fair.” House's face contorted into a grimace, though his eyes softened ever so slightly at the sight of Wilson. He seemed surprised the man came back.
A sharp gust of wind sent a shiver right through Wilson, he grabbed his arms, hugging his body in an attempt to preserve heat. “Shut up,” Wilson couldn’t hide his grin, voice not able to uphold any malice. “But no drinks, I have too many appointments tomorrow for a migraine.”
“Right, we can just use Dr. Weber’s pharmaceutical drug and get you right back up to speed.” Even the mention of the name made House’s ears red with frustration. “Come on,” He beckoned Wilson, turning on his heel. “You’re gonna catch a cold.”
Wilson exhaled, shaky but he didn’t know if that was the anxiety or the fact a dress shirt provided virtually zero protection against the harsh weather—he stepped past the threshold of the apartment building towards the first door on his left, he’d seen it a hundred times.
Hell, he even had a spare key. He’d seen it in disarray, and in mint condition to save a maid's salary. It felt the same as it always did, like a basement to a friend's house that was filled with spiders, beat up furniture, and smelled strongly of pot but it nestled and protected some of the best memories in it.
Tonight, it was…cozy, not a word he would usually use to describe anything that belonged to the diagnostician. House grit his teeth, slouching down to flick on a lamp, hobbling into the kitchen to turn the overhead light on. Wilson heard the clinking of a glass, and the familiar pop of a prescription bottle.
On the leather couch, House kept one of Wilson’s favorite blankets draped across the back. It was a dark green color, extraordinarily fluffy with just enough thickness to keep the warmth from escaping. He liked to use it when he came over for the evening.
House kept his polish on his side of the couch’s end table. Embarrassingly, he walked in on Wilson far too many times applying that—another sign he was there, and that the diagnostician didn’t box him up for when he was convenient.
The door behind him closed with a soft click. The date that was supposed to end in the car, already tucked away in his memory alongside the rest of them, was given a generous extension on its lifespan. Wilson felt the warmth spread through his chest, he knew deep down he was utterly ruined for anything else.
House had barely returned from the kitchen, holding a glass of plain water with some ice. “Take a load off, the couch even remembered to get your blanket, it must have an army of gnomes we just haven’t seen yet.”
Your. Wilson felt his heart grow and his cheeks tighten with a lopsided, goofy smile—he should feel wary. He should be waiting for the other shoe to drop. The inevitability of House pushing him away when it got too real. They’d destroy each other, rush towards the same shared demise under a delusion that Wilson could somehow soften the blow if he just got there first.
Wilson would brave the sick feeling in his stomach he’ll have for days on end that only House could cause. And it would repeat again, because even through clouded judgement and blurry eyes filled with tears—Wilson would be right there when House turned his back.
The sanctuary they’ve created made that reality feel like a distant possibility.
Wilson couldn’t register how fast he was moving, but it must’ve been pretty fast to catch House so off guard when their lips crashed. It was clumsy, uncoordinated but he remembered the missed opportunity from the car. The spilled regret washing away between mixed saliva.
He was too in his own head about the future then. House pulled away too fast—This was the present, and House clung onto Wilson’s side like he would’ve dematerialized. Grounded in the moment, he could still taste the sweet sugar from their dessert on the other lips, the last remaining proof the date had even existed.
The lazy, slow smack of their lips echoed in the small living room. Wilson’s hand snaked up, plans to grab at House’s waist and probably drag him into the sunset like a cheesy romcom, had instead stalled. They hovered uselessly around House as if he was afraid he’d break under the oncologist's touch like a fragile vase.
House murmured into the kiss, something about this being a huge scandal at work—the man never truly did shut up.
Wilson pulled away first, drawing in breaths through his open mouth. “Fine, I won’t throw you out into the cold.” House’s voice was rough, tightly restrained with red lips and blown pupils that overridden his attempt at hiding.
He was happy. He felt lightheaded, content with checking a mark off his bucketlist; get a second kiss from the diagnostician—if he was lucky, maybe he could steal his third tomorrow. Wilson twitched when stubble met his face again, planting the gentlest tickle of lips onto his beauty mark just to the left of his chin.
House trailed down to his chin. The subtle sensation felt like a burn mark, forever etched into his skin. He wanted to wear it out like an old, faded tee you just couldn’t bring yourself to throw out.
Their bubble. It was a safeguard from the outside, from their conflicting personalities that seemed to merge into one cell over the years. The codependency that was able to just… be, in private.
“I love you,” Wilson tumbled over. The words almost felt foreign on his tongue, he’d said those words so much throughout his life. Three words that bound people together, three words you could lie about, three words. They were whispered into ears, said at altars, spoken at dinners… Sorrowfully cried into shoulders, accidentally spewed at call girls, spoken in jest.
They finally clicked into place.
He watched House’s body stiffen. He watched tired blue eyes meet his own in shock, the creases in his face softening—the subtle way his mouth hung slightly agape, like he didn’t quite believe it. “I… think?”
“You think?”
House froze, staring at Wilson a fraction too long. He shifted under the harsh, unchanging gaze. He felt another stitch pop out, one he would spend weeks correctly finding yarn for.
Wilson rubbed at the back of his neck, ready to vomit up apology after apology, he couldn’t lie that well, couldn’t make up a deflecting joke.
He saw House’s shoulders shake—in that split second, he thought he tore holes through their bubble, ruining months, years of work. But he watched with morbid curiosity, watching as House smiled wide. His mouth opened with a snort. He tipped his head back, half contained chuckles turning into honest, boisterous laughter at Wilson.
“You are terrible at this, Jimmy! Three divorces in and you’re gunning for a fourth.” House painfully clutched at his stomach.
“Hey-! Come on, I was- I was nervous!” Wilson pouted, shaky hands finding purchase on House’s sides.
His laugh sounded like sunrise, a watering hole in the desert. A choir, something to be treasured in the hard times when he felt like maybe this wasn’t all that worth it.
House shifted them back towards the couch, thigh to thigh, and they were suddenly back in their routine. “Not a top ten love confession but, again, feeling generous.”
And just like that he was back to gruff House. Unyielding and grouchy.
“We’re not exactly normal, House.”
“That’s overrated.” He fumbled with the remote for a beat too long, kicking his bad leg up on the table. “Rents due, I take payments in macadamia nut pancakes. Make a few extra, I need them for my lunchbox. I’m a growing boy.”
“You’re impossible, you know that? Do you even have clean pans for me to cook?”
House shrugged, “Cook on aluminum foil like they do in prison.”
Wilson sighed for the umpteenth time tonight—it was worth it. He was sure of that, the gentle beating in his heart told him so. He fumbled with the blanket, pulling it across his lap.
And he’d offer up the edge when House yanked gently on it, the large blanket pulling them shoulder to shoulder. Wilson felt the day wearing on him, he really hadn’t rested at all since he woke up this morning.
The sharp edge of House’s shoulder felt like heaven when he finally pressed up against it. He half expected the man to shrug him off—instead the arm he took refuge on moved to wrap around him securely, his face finding a new home pressing against his chest.
He felt the rippling motion of House’s other arm massaging his own damaged thigh, the rhythmic movement lulled him further to sleep. The night wasn’t running from him anymore, it was pushing him forward into tomorrow encouragingly.
The bittersweet nostalgia of a good day gone past him wrapped around him like a warm hug.
—
“We can never do that again.” Wilson groaned, the chair in his office felt like he was sitting on a rock. His back painfully contorted where he rubbed it soothingly.
House ignored his complaints in favor of shoving another slice of pancake in his mouth, drenched in too much sugary syrup for a doctor. He sat across from him, taking up valuable space on his desk with all the Tupperware.
“Do what again.” House finally commented, eyes narrowed. Blunt, not a man of many words as usual.
The pair woke up the next morning with their legs intertwined, horizontal on the couch. Wilson was lying on top of House, a small string of drool pooling on the other man’s shirt. He wiped it with embarrassment just as the diagnostician's eyes fluttered open.
The blanket was barely covering either of them, kicked off and bunched in the night. Wilson’s head was disorientated, his hair sticking up in every which way, he looked a mess—Hell, he felt a mess. But House looked at him with all the admiration in the world. “Hey.”
Morning voice was definitely not going to make him miss work. Wilson could practice restraint. “Goodmorning.”
He kept his arm on House’s chest, their faces close enough to feel their breathing intermingle. Wilson faintly smoothed out the fine lines on House’s face, using this opportunity while he’s pliant and relaxed to dote on him.
Mornings rocked. Sometimes. They leaned in synchronously, sharing a morning kiss ignorant of their morning breath or their shift starting in less than two hours. House wasn’t gonna be in for a while, but Wilson was always punctual.
“‘Should stay, at least go in when I do.”
Wilson contemplated that, burying his face against his warm neck. “I shouldn’t.”
“We don’t have to be anywhere yet. They’d page us.” House was a master at playing hooky, really, he should’ve known what he was getting into when he forced himself inside the apartment door last night—an exploratory thumb rubbing at the exposed skin of his waist made it seem all the more tempting.
“I still have to feed you, or you’ll get cranky at work.” Wilson could see the faint smile tug at House’s lips. He pressed one last kiss to his lips, before slowly peeling himself off of House, orientating himself back onto the floor.
It’s when he finally stood that he realized he wasn’t exactly young anymore. They fell asleep upright for more than half of the night, the knot in Wilson’s back and neck was treacherous. He shakily breathed out the initial wave of pain, the tight feeling getting worse as he moved around.
He spent the morning trying to evenly massage it out, even as he cooked pancakes in the last remaining pan House had—this meant he had company in the shower, “Just in case your back gives out, we can’t have two cripples living around here.” A poor excuse, and an extra delay.
That led them to now, sitting in Wilson’s office with yesterday's pants on; House’s wrinkled cyan dress shirt, a near unbearable pain in his back and two hours late. Cuddy was surprisingly forgiving of the fact. “I’m never sleeping on your couch again.”
“Next time we’ll use the bed.”
Next time… Wilson thought that was a bit too vaguely far out. Would he be jumping the gun if he said,
“Tonight?”
House fake contemplated, running through invisible possibilities and sorting through a nonexistent schedule. “You’ll have to pay for the Chinese. Or the groceries if you want to get all Ramsay on me.” Wilson watched House literally lick his fork clean, savoring every last ounce of batter.
“Uh- yeah, alright.” His chest felt a little tight, maybe he was dying. At least he was in the hospital already—he kneaded the back of his neck, checking his watch. “I have a patient in-“
A loud beeping filled the space, jolting the peaceful atmosphere into unknown chaos.
“Lucky for you.” House pulled out his pager with a sigh. He pushed the empty Tupperware forward, leaving Wilson with the remnants.
He stood up shakily, finding his cane and making his way towards the door. Wilson shuffled his desk around, placing the dirty dishes out of sight and placing the patient's file in front of him. “Wilson,”
House called softly, holding onto the doorknob. He stayed in place, facing Wilson. “I love you.”
Three words, said in sincerity. Three words, spoken with clarity of the day, shadowed not obstructed in the dark.
Wilson’s mouth went dry, he fumbled to say something—anything. He wanted to scream from the rooftops, whisper it and send it out to sea in a bottle.
“I figure I get that out of the way now so when I say it next time, on my death bed, you won’t be so shocked.” He scrunched his nose, the door opened and closed hastily, leaving Wilson once again with a dumbfounded look.
“Ugh, we can never do that again.”
“Next time we’ll use the bed.”
Chase’s face went ghostly pale, stomach twisting. “Did you-“
“Gross! I don’t want to hear about that.” Cameron clamped her hands over her ears. Grimacing, despite the fact all three of them were pressed close to the wall in an eavesdropping attempt. These walls were really thin.
Foreman moved away first, shaking his head. “Nope, I’m out.” He started to protest, eager to give the other ducklings an ear beating about privacy and what not. Instead, Cameron decided she couldn’t bear to hear anymore and rushed off to tend to their patient.
A page came shortly after. Foreman couldn’t shake the disturbing conversation he heard out of his head, and Chase made a quick phone call upstairs to up a bet.
Cameron didn’t look House in the eyes all day. Guilty, and he pried and pried til eventually he got to the bottom of it. He didn’t confirm or deny any details, but informed Wilson they had ‘children in the room’ any time they’d have an adult conversation in his office from now on.
Contrary to his earlier words,
Wilson would hear those three little words again at lunch, whispered into his ear in exchange for half of his sandwich. The bastard—and once more, said between sweaty bodies before laying down for bed that night. Everybody lies, he was happy for that stupid, misanthropic saying for once.
When the next date night rolled around it seemed to go on forever. A Saturday night dinner where they left from their shared apartment, and came back home in a taxi, pleasantly buzzed and relaxed. House allowed Wilson to see parts of himself even the diagnostician didn’t know existed, and it was almost as good as sex, he was quickly finding that out.
The prize pool went mostly to Cuddy, and Chase a month later. Through the grape vine, House found this out and promptly made Chase pay for the group's lunch after finding out he was flush with cash on account of his first real relationship in a long while. Wilson didn’t mind it.
He found his extra day. Somebody who needed him, and who he needed.
“I love you, Greg.”