Archive of Our Own ^beta

"I’m sure he’s been in some kind of relationship that didn’t end badly.”

“No way.”

“Come on, you can’t actually believe—”

“No way, Cameron, and you can’t be the one to fix that.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

“And you’re wrong,” says Foreman. His arms are crossed over his chest and his chin is tilted up, which is what he always does when he’s informing Chase and Cameron that they’re both idiots. With all things regarding House, Foreman believes that he has the upper hand, and therefore never fails to be high-and-mighty around them. “Being in a successful relationship would involve having feelings, which House doesn’t.”

Chase opens his mouth in that pretty, schoolboy-innocent way that he does when he’s about to defend himself, but it snaps shut the second the glass door to Foreman’s right opens and House says, rather casually, “Well, that’s just mean. I’ve had at least two emotions in my life: anger and annoyance.”

“Annoyance isn’t an emotion, it’s a subset of anger,” Cameron corrects, which she would only be arrogant enough to do if she knew she was the innocent party. She kicks her feet up onto the chair beside her and crosses her arms like Foreman. Foreman uncurls and looks like he has something to say, but can’t.

House, all the meanwhile, has walked up to the whiteboard and hooked his cane around it. “Well, then, I feel one general emotion which has various subsets which I can also feel, but that’s it,” he replies over his shoulder. He has the marker cap in his mouth and the felt tip pressed against the board as he’s saying, “So. The alcoholic party-girl.”

“House,” Foreman interrupts, all melodramatic, “Sorry. I didn’t know you were listening.”

House turns around and raises one eyebrow. “Are you sorry for talking about my romantic past or sorry that I heard about it?” As Foreman begins to reply, House interjects, “No, forget it. If you wanted to figure out if I was single, you could just ask.”

“House—”

“Actually, Foreman, you’re not really my type. Chase, on the other hand…”

“So-rry,” Chase grumbles, two heavy syllables, as he slouches in his chair. He’s turning a little pink. He’s more bitter about getting teased than getting caught; Chase is perfectly fine with bitching about House when they are only separated by a thin glass wall, which is a trait that House admires in him.

“I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. Chase, meet me in my office when I’ve sent the others off for a quickie. So,” declares House again, “The alcoholic party girl.”

Cameron points at House. “You know, you could get in trouble for hitting on every single member of your staff.”

“Excuse me, Cameron, but I never hit on you. I just act all gruff and unlovable which makes you throw yourself at me. I never give you the time of day.” He turns back to the board with a bit of exasperation. “The girl.”

“You kissed me back.”

“It was a pity kiss. You thought I was dying of brain cancer and that you were being clever, so I slipped in a little tongue to make up for your inevitable soul-crushing self-doubt. Everyone deserves to have a little House action, anyways. Chase is next. So, back to our actual patient—”

“You kissed him?” Foreman asks, still standing. He has that scrunched-up expression that he always has whenever he hasn't predicted the proceedings.

“I told you I was getting a blood sample. I just didn’t tell you how.”

“I’m with Foreman. That seems like a dumb idea,” Chase adds, sulking a little more than usual. “And possibly illegal. Plus, tongue?”

Cameron is turned entirely away from Chase and seems to be ignoring, instead looking only at House. “Do you think you flirt with us as a proxy for romantic relationships?”

“If I wanted to be given a Freudian analysis, I’d go to Wilson, who responds to my flirting way better than any of you do. Can we please focus?”

Foreman says, “She’s been throwing up all morning and her liver’s probably shot,” in a way that makes it clear that the previous conversation is over. He seems just as uncomfortable as House was.

“Okay, and?”

“And she’s complained about diarrhea and chest pain. She had a fever last night which seems to have been going down,” Chase adds.

“…which has nothing to do with the liver,” House mutters, writing those symptoms in a second column. “Okay. Anything else?”

“She’s thin,” Cameron announces. “Emaciated, even. Might be a sign of anorexia or loss of appetite. Which suggests that this is a more long-term affliction.” As House is writing this, she says, “Do you flirt with Wilson because he’s the only person who puts up with it?”

“No, I flirt with Wilson because I like to give him some fodder for when he’s in the shower. A friendly gesture. Is that all you’ve got?”

“We should monitor her for further changes,” Chase says, but it sounds an awful lot like he just wants an excuse to get out of the office.

“Chase, you keep an eye on her, see if this is more than just her alcoholism making her a mess. Foreman, liver biopsy. Cameron, since you think you’re so keen on analyzing me, get a psychiatric workup, and try to get someone who actually studied that in college to do it. All good?”

“Why do you think Wilson flirts back?” says Chase. 

“Because he’s a sad, sad man going through his third divorce who’s deeply, secretly in love with his best friend. Go away,” House replies, then takes his cane and hobbles into his office. Over his shoulder, he calls, “And stop thinking I’m hitting on you!” before letting the door shut behind him.

House is playing Grand Theft Auto on his GameBoy when Wilson interrupts with the intention of inviting him to lunch, but then House mentions that he’s got the most recent episode of The L Word on TiVo and suddenly they’re rating various characters by how hot they are. Wilson is in the guest chair, propping his feet up on the desk in a parallel to House.

“You can’t argue that Bette is hotter than Jenny just because Bette has better sex scenes,” Wilson is saying, his elbows pressed into the arms of the chair and held out sideways like he finds House entirely ridiculous.

“Actions speak louder than words. Plus, don’t even try to tell me you wouldn’t do Bette.”

“Obviously I would! I have eyes! I’m just saying—”

At this point, Cameron enters with a folder and paper in hand. Wilson swivels in his chair to see her, eyes wide like he's getting caught in the act. House looks up at her with disinterest. “I have the psychiatric report,” she says, slowly, like she’s the only responsible person in the room.

“Well, Wilson and I are having a very important conversation about the merits of lesbian sex scenes, so you better make it snappy.”

Wilson grumbles, “Don’t say it like that. It makes us sound creepy,” and falls a little further into his seat.

“It’s because you are creepy,” Cameron comments.

House makes an angry scoffing noise. “Oh, come on. Are you mad that I was flirting with Chase? I’ll back off your boy toy, I promise.”

“You were flirting with Chase?”

“Oh, now everyone’s jealous,” House says dramatically, taking his feet off of the desk in a careful motion. “I’m sorry, honey, you never said the hot Australian was off-limits.”

Wilson ignores that. “You really should stop flirting with your fellows.”

“You sound just like her!”

“It’s true.”

“And coming from you.”

“Coming from me,” Wilson repeats simply, folding his hands across his stomach. He tilts his head back to glance at Cameron again. “Psychiatric results?”

“She hasn’t been eating healthy in weeks. Her memory is foggy, but that might be because of the binge drinking. Chase says her fever's spiked again and she’s experiencing signs of tinnitus. Otherwise, she seems to be perfectly healthy.”

“Her liver is probably in shreds,” scoffs Wilson.

Cameron shakes her head. “Foreman is still working on the liver biopsy. Chase is trying to control at least one of the factors first.”

“Tell Foreman to suck it up and do it,” House pipes up. “Not that it’ll matter.”

“She’s an alcoholic. Of course doing a liver biopsy is important,” Wilson says, in that falsely condescending, House-is-being-an-idiot way.

“Sorry, whose case is this again?” he asks, all sarcasm. Wilson rolls his eyes. “Stick to your cancer, wonder-boy. I’ve got this covered.”

“… then we can start treatment?”

“Wait until Foreman does that biopsy, Cameron. Jeez, you’re all so ready to pounce.”

“So you don’t know what it is.”

“I thought you were the one that exercised caution?”

“Are you trying to get a rise out of everyone?” says Wilson.

“No, it’s just a bonus for me.”

“I’m going,” Cameron announces, fingers already splayed against the door. “You two can get back to… platonically talking about the lesbian porn that you watch together, I guess.”

“What, are you jealous?” asks House, and as the door starts closing behind her, “If you bring a friend, we can do a live show!”

The silence sets after a beat or two. Wilson is twiddling his thumbs. He watches House and the way he settles back into himself with that doctorly interest that always makes House shift, something which he suppresses by examining the handle of his cane. “Are you purposefully messing with everyone extra hard today, or is that just a byproduct of your increased asshole-ness?”

House scoffs. “The kids were either digging into my romantic past or trying to make a move on me. I’m retaliating at the implication that I’ve ever had feelings.”

“… by flirting with them?”

“And you. But that’s mostly for show.”

Wilson purses his lips. “I don’t think Cameron really noticed.”

“Ugh, sexism is so real these days. Why doesn’t she care about our secret love affair?”

Wilson gives House a look, like that wasn’t very funny and he should try harder next time, and stands. “I’m getting lunch,” he says, “Want to come with? We can pretend it’s a date and play footsie under the table. I’m sure we can horrify Chase into submission.”

“Don’t sweet-talk me, Wilson. I might try to marry you.”

Wilson makes a little humming noise at the back of his throat and brushes off his pants for no reason at all. He raises his eyebrows at House, a genuine inquiry about lunch, to which House shakes his head. “Do you want me to grab you anything? Coffee, chips?”

“And you wonder why I steal food from you. You’re going to offer it anyway because of that too-good doctor heart of yours,” House replies, almost smiling. He picks up the GameBoy and resettles into his position. “I’m good. See you tonight?”

“Yeah. What time?”

“8:30. Grab food?”

“Chinese?”

“Of course.”

“Okay,” Wilson says, taking a hold of the handle, “See you then,” and then he’s gone.

Vaguely, he can hear Cameron’s voice in the back of his head saying, Did you just schedule a date with Wilson?, but instead of pondering on that, he lets the door shut closed and starts the game again.

Wilson is just leaving the cafeteria, two bags of chips tucked in the crook of his arm (one for himself and one for House) as he checks his pager, when Cameron accosts him. She has a pen tucked behind her ear and a few other folders and pieces of paper pressed against her chest. She seems in a rush when she really shouldn’t be. “Dr. Wilson.”

“Hey, Cameron,” he says, taking a step backward. They’re standing in the doorway of the dining hall, which would be inconvenient if there were actually people here, but it’s fairly empty for the moment. “What’s up?”

“I had a question,” she manages, carefully, “about House.”

Wilson’s hand is already raising his hand to lay across his eyes in exasperation. “Is this about your weird interest in his romantic past? I assure you, it’s not that interesting.”

“So you do know his romantic past.”

“I’ve been his best friend for over a decade. Of course I know it.”

“Did he tell you?” Cameron asks, inching closer.

“Yeah, House and I traded secrets last night and then he wrote in his diary about it,” Wilson says, all deadpan. It never works quite as well for him as it does for House. That heart of gold of his always gets in the way. “No. I’ve just lived through it.”

“So, is there much to tell?”

Wilson takes a moment then sighs. “Cameron, I know that this has been going on for a while, but the chances of actually dating House… I just don’t think he’s interested. I don’t mean to…”

“Not me,” Cameron interjects like he’s an idiot for even thinking that, which is unfair, because practically everyone in the hospital thinks that, "We have a bet. I’m trying to prove Chase and Foreman wrong.”

"Did you just make this bet, ten seconds after leaving House's office?"

"We were going to the same place. Plus, gotta make money wherever you can."

“And what’s the bet?”

“That he’s had some romantic relationship that hasn’t ended badly.”

“Oh,” says Wilson, all the air leaving his lungs with a little puff. “Um. Well.”

“Well?” Cameron adds. It feels like she has the upper hand when she shouldn’t because she’s asking Wilson for information about House. The ball, on all accounts, should be in Wilson’s court.

“It’s… um… there aren’t many. Look, Cameron, I don’t know if I should—"

“You can’t be serious,” she interrupts. “You throw House under the bus once a week. At least this time you can do it in a helpful way.”

Wilson’s mouth goes open in indignance-slash-annoyance at the accusation. “I do not throw him under the bus!” he replies, kind of squeaky, then continues, “You’re taking too much after House. I can’t have everyone in Diagnostics on my ass all the time.”

“And I’ll stop being on your ass if you just tell me the truth. Names and dates.” Wilson raises his eyebrow in a way that hopefully expresses his horror appropriately. “So I can prove it. I’m not going to talk to them. Jeez, you’ve picked up on House’s constant doubt of my psyche.”

“Cameron, I don’t think I should tell you.”

She sighs, heavy and melodramatic. “Come on. It’s not like I’m in love with him. This is just for a friendly bet.”

Wilson considers this for a moment, presses his lips together and shifts so he’s holding the bags of potato chips instead of keeping it precariously tucked beneath his arm. Cameron has a sweet look of exasperation on her face, which once again reminds him why he’s glad House never slept with her. The emotional repercussions would’ve been too great, primarily on Cameron and Wilson’s parts, with Wilson as a proxy for House and any form of conscience that he’s ever had.

“No, Allison. I’m sorry. It’s not my story to tell,” he says after a second then brushes past her and starts climbing the stairs towards his office where he can hide properly. Behind him, Cameron calls, “Well, fine!” and then there is the sound of her feet stomping in the opposite direction.

Yeah, Wilson is really glad House never slept with her.

House’s patient has almost died two more times before they meet outside the hospital. Wilson has a hot coffee and a scarf pulled up to his chin; the winter months are just melting away, but the wind is still too brisk. Technically, House was casually seated at the bench right outside and then Wilson joined him without question, but they still have time before the Chinese place closes, before the sun fully sets, and before Cuddy notices them and tells them to get their asses out of here or just come inside.

They’re sitting in silence because Wilson can’t think of anything to say before he realizes that he hasn’t mentioned his attack from Cameron. “One of your ducklings tried to squeeze information out of me.”

“Which one? Makes the squeezing have totally different contexts.”

“Who do you think? Cameron.” Wilson takes another sip. “They really care an awful lot about your romantic history.”

House presses his lips to the handle of his cane. “They’re all doing it to figure out which of them actually has a shot at me. There’s no point in trying: it’s obviously Foreman.”

“I thought Chase was your favorite this morning?”

“I was just trying to throw him off my scent. Foreman’s much sexier when he thinks he doesn’t stand a chance.”

Wilson hums, like this is a normal conversation to be having, then settles back against the bench. He taps a little tune against the side of his cup. “Are you going to tell them to stop or are you going to wait until they run out of energy?”

“Surely I’ll do something to scare the shit out of them soon enough, then they’ll be too busy bleaching their eyes to think about it,” House says.

“Like what?”

“Figuring it out. Show them a fake, sappy OkCupid account? Pretend to be in love with one of the patients? There are just so many options.”

Wilson nods. They watch a few cars pull out and head home. Another two park in the newly emptied spots. The sky turns a little pinker.

From beside him, House announces, abruptly, “Wilson, you’re a genius.”

“What did I do this time?”

“About playing footsie under the table. It’ll be the perfect way to get them off my back.”

Wilson looks to where they sit three inches apart on the bench and where Wilson’s ankles are crossed. “You want to play footsie… here? I don’t think Chase will see. Nor would it go very well.”

“More than footsie, idiot. We pretend we’re dating.”

Wilson comically chokes on his coffee, which is actually funnier because of the way he scowls at his drink afterward and then at House with a more accusatory expression. “That’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.”

“What, you think you’re out of my league? You’ve done more questionable things in the past.”

“No one’s going to believe that we’re dating.”

“People already think we’re dating.”

“People who don’t know us,” Wilson insists. He’s tilted himself sideways so that an arm is thrown around the back of the bench and the whole of his torso is angled directly at House in order to properly berate him. “They would call bullshit after five seconds.”

House shakes his head. “It’s so ridiculous that it’s believable.”

“That’s not how these things work.”

“It is,” House says as if that’s the end of that. “The very thought of us being involved is enough to make them give it up.”

“And how do you intend to convince them that we’re dating?”

House hums, carefully considering. “I’ll figure it out,” he replies, then catapults himself to his feet and takes his cane beneath his hand properly. “See you at 8:30?”

Wilson rolls his eyes but concedes. “Yeah. Do you want beef or chicken lo mein?”

House pulls his mouth to the side as he often does when thinking. “Surprise me,” he says, then starts hobbling to his car.

Wilson watches him, shakes his head, and takes another sip of coffee.

Twenty minutes into The L Word, House puts his arm around the back of the couch so it curves just around Wilson. They have Chinese food containers all over the coffee table and glasses of scotch balanced on the cushions. The volume is turned heinously high up so every time someone moans, Wilson shifts uncomfortably in his seat and looks at the way his hands are tangled in his lap. This is not particularly uncommon for when they’re watching this. House’s arm around the back of the couch, however, is.

Wilson ignores it at first, assuming it’s House having a rare moment of kindness and possibly affection. It’s easy to make a big deal of it, but it’s better to simply ignore because if Wilson comments, House will get snippy and pull away. Wilson likes it when House acts outside the norm. An anomaly.

Then, five minutes later, as Wilson is delightfully picking at rice from the container with his chopsticks, House’s hand comes into contact with Wilson’s opposite shoulder and he moves closer so their thighs are flush. The action is very subtle but ringing in Wilson’s ears because suddenly he has House right up against him and his hand almost daring to rub odd, tight little motions in his shoulder.

He looks from their legs to the hand to their legs again. “Um,” he says, voice a little raw. They don’t normally talk during these unless absolutely necessary. “What’s up?”

House has the gall to scoff at him like Wilson is the one acting out of the ordinary. “Preparing you for tomorrow,” he replies simply, “now shut up. Alice is talking.”

“Preparing me?”

“So you don’t get all weird and closet-case-y in front of the kids.”

Wilson makes an indignant noise at the back of his throat and, in a flurry, throws down the food container and the chopsticks. “I would not come off as a closet case!” he protests, a little high-pitched, then, leaning back into the cushion (and into House’s arm), “Why can’t you just ask Cuddy to be your fake girlfriend?”

House contorts his face into an ugly scowl. “No one would believe that. Cuddy and I have built our relationship atop unresolved sexual tension. It becoming resolved is way too unrealistic.”

Wilson has half a mind to say that their relationship has been built atop of unresolved sexual tension, but that would decidedly ruin the mood. House continues, “What, are you a homophobe? Afraid of being seen as gay to the pretty little nurses?”

Wilson pulls a face. “It would be bisexual, and no. I just don’t think they’d believe it.”

“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” House replies nonchalantly, even though he’s currently watching two women play tonsil hockey on the small screen with the volume turned up two notches higher than it needs to be.

“No, no, it was my idea. Or, the footsie was my idea. And it’s a good idea. Just don’t make it weird.”

“You don’t make it weird.”

Wilson puts his hands out as if to placate them both. “Okay, neither of us will make it weird and then we’ll scare your fellows and then everything will go back to normal. Okay?”

House, for some reason, is smirking at the side of his mouth. It makes Wilson squirm a little even though he isn’t under House’s scrutiny. House says, “Okay,” and then settles back in.

Wilson sits frozen for a few seconds, watching the way House returns as if everything is normal. This is the closest he has ever been and probably ever will be to him, House always at an arm’s length distance, Wilson always fighting his way closer. Now, there is no resistance, and it startles him. Carefully, as if House is a wild deer that he might scare away, he tilts his head to the side instead of resisting gravity, pressing his ear into House’s shoulder. He waits for the comment to come, but it never does, so he crosses his arms over his chest in a half-defensive maneuver and watches the scene unfold.

The next morning, Chase, Foreman, and Cameron are all nursing coffee around the table as House bursts in and says, “Good morning, everyone! Rise and shine! How are all of my pretty little fellows doing today?”

Chase says, “What?” rather stupidly while Foreman glances at his watch and announces, “You aren’t supposed to get here for another hour.”

“Can’t I have an early morning and want to greet my lovely colleagues with enthusiasm?”

“No,” replies Cameron, looking exhausted and exasperated. She slides the folder across the table in House’s direction. “Your patient isn’t responding to the treatment.”

“Our patient isn’t responding to the treatment,” House corrects, then turns around on his good foot to face the whiteboard. He hooks the cane over it again and takes the marker. “Any new symptoms?”

“Fever spiked again and now her eyes are losing function. Decreased movement and vision.”

“She’ll be blind by noon,” Foreman comments.

“Oh-kay,” says House, twirling around again. It’s an unsettling motion that makes Cameron furrow her eyebrows and cross her arms. “Any thoughts?”

Foreman says, “What if we ignore the alcoholism and just look at the other symptoms? Could be Crohn’s.”

“Doesn’t explain the chest pain,” Chase replies. “What medication is she on? Might be AAD.”

Cameron hums. “Unlikely, she’s only on birth control and has been for two years now. Maybe Celiac?”

“Stop forgetting the chest pain and the eyesight,” House quips. “And don’t ignore the alcoholism. Could be a symptom.”

Just as Cameron is about to open her mouth and add something, Wilson slips his way through the glass door and has the most innocent expression on his face. Four sets of eyes fall to him. “Morning,” he says. “Just wanted to get some coffee.”

House nods as approval from the whole room and Wilson crosses in front of him to get to the machine. House redirects his attention to the board. “Come on, think. Take all of them together. Stop ignoring things.”

“Isn’t it more likely that the alcoholism is separate? Her dad was one, too,” Chase replies, pressing his pretty chin into his palm.

“Okay, we can play your little hypothetical: forget the alcoholism but don’t ignore the symptoms of it. Puking and disorientation,” House says, circling them.

“I still think it could be Celiac. Combined with drinking beer, that can’t go well.”

House replies, “It would be late-onset, but Cameron, test for it. Do you two boys have any actually relevant thoughts?”

“Ulcerative colitis?”

“Better. Take a look at her colon, Chase. Foreman, go look at her eyes, since none of you are having any clever ideas about that one. Any questions?” House asks, then takes the offered mug of coffee from Wilson’s hand like it’s nothing. He leans against the countertop with his legs stretched before him.

Cameron squints. “Why are you so happy?”

“I’m unhappy, you think there’s something wrong with me. I’m happy, you think there’s something wrong with me. Is there any winning with you people?”

“It is weird,” Foreman adds. “Normally you aren’t awake for another half an hour.”

“Maybe I’ve changed my ways.”

“I’m heading out,” says Wilson, cutting them off. He has his coffee in one of those womanly travel mugs that House always teases him about. His hair is still a little wet from showering. “See you later.”

“Bye,” House says, then cradles Wilson’s face with one hand and pulls him in for a kiss.

It lasts maybe two seconds and is entirely chaste, with Wilson doing most of the work of leaning in since House is propped up against the counter. Wilson’s thumb rubs twice at the skin at House’s jaw before he pulls away, smile quietly playing on his lips, before he turns on his heel and shows himself out. House is actually grinning. He takes a sip of coffee to hide the small and looks to his fellows. “What’s holding you up? I gave you all little tasks, remember?”

Foreman gains coherence first. “Did you just…”

“What?” Chase asks, again, like an echo of earlier. “Are you two—?”

“Oh my God,” says Cameron. “Of course.”

“Of course they’re gay or of course they’re together?”

“Both.”

“Not of course! This is ridiculous! Are you pranking us?” asks Chase, petulantly.

“And why would I prank you by pretending to date my best friend?”

Foreman says, “That is a little far, even for House.”

Chase whips around to face him. “Is it? Is it really a little far?”

“It’s not that big a deal,” House replies casually from the countertop where he adds an extra splash of milk. “I know I’m a little out of Wilson’s league, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt.”

Cameron leans forward onto her elbows. “How long have you two…?”

“Our one-year anniversary is next month. Make sure to buy us something nice. Wilson needs some new fine china.”

“One year?” Chase repeats. “You’re kidding.”

“Why are you doing this now?” Cameron asks suspiciously instead of being a supportive colleague. “There’s no reason for you to tell us about your relationship.”

House throws himself up onto his cane and starts walking towards the door. “Well, Wilson was concerned about all of you flirting with me, so he decided now was the time to claim what’s his.” He gives them a toothy, mean smile. “Satisfied?”

“No,” says Cameron, leaning back in her seat.

“Well, you’ll all just have to come up with conspiracy theories together. I have work to do,” House replies, then saunters into his office and closes the blinds.

“Dr. Wilson.”

“Cameron,” Wilson says through a mouthful of donut. He’s holding various patient charts, his second coffee of the day, and his unhealthy breakfast. He’s supposed to meet a long-term cancer patient in five minutes and he hasn’t even reviewed her most recent information.

With all of that on his plate, it takes him a second to notice Chase. “Chase. Hi.”

Chase clears his throat and looks to the floor while Cameron takes a step closer. “I just had a question. About House.”

Wilson looks between them. “Okay. If this is about my personal life, then I’d really rather not—”

“Has he ever ended a relationship well?” Chase asks, unnecessarily loudly. “We have a bet against Foreman and we put fifty dollars on it.”

“Collectively?”

“Each.”

“Ouch,” says Wilson before melodramatically shifting to make it clear that he has somewhere to be. “Okay, but I don’t see what that has to do with me. I already told you I’m not telling you anything, Cameron.”

She gives him a look, like he’s the most thickheaded person she’s ever met. “I’m not trying to make a move on House. That’s why Chase is here. We’re asking for the sake of the bet.”

“And for the sake of proving Foreman wrong,” Chase adds.

“That too.”

“I’m not worried about you making a move on House,” Wilson replies carefully, “I just don’t think I should tell you.”

Chase says, “House said you were worried.”

Wilson looks between the two of them. “Even if I am… with House, it’s not my place.”

“You’re his boyfriend,” Cameron sneers. “It’s obviously your place.”

The usage of the word ‘boyfriend’ and Cameron’s unperturbed air makes Wilson blink his eyes stupidly for a few seconds before he can come up with an intelligent response. Something about it is so ridiculously casual that it makes him angry. He spent a whole hour last night going over the details of their fake relationship for this annoying, accepting nonsense. Chase and Cameron take it like it’s nothing, which it certainly isn’t, because they’ve just been informed that the head of oncology and their boss are sleeping together. They’re handling it far too well.

“Um,” he manages, “no. I just don’t think its right. I told you this yesterday, Cameron. I'm not helping you with... whatever this is.”

Chase sighs heavily through his nose and leans into Cameron’s ear. “I told you he wouldn’t budge.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“The side with my money. Which you made me switch, by the way.”

“I did not.”

“You said you’d be sure about—”

“Okay, guys,” says Wilson slowly, “I actually have work to do, which you also do, so I’ll leave you to it. Have fun with your little investigation.”

Chase and Cameron aren’t paying attention as he slips past them to get to his office. They’re too busy bickering about the details of the bet to notice. Wilson thanks God for it.

Wilson makes an impressive, angry U-turn out of his office and into House’s after his patient has left and he’s properly switched from Doctor mode to House’s Best Friend mode, which also conveniently is the same as House’s Conscience mode. He opens the door and says, in his screechy, outraged voice, “They’re still not letting up!”

House has his feet on his desk and his glasses on. They’re cute and a little too small for his face, pushed down too low as he reads the magazine on his lap. He scrunches up his nose. “Who? The cancer?”

“Your fellows. They just accepted that we’re dating as it if it’s nothing!”

House looks annoyed and pulls his feet to the ground while letting his glasses slide off his face. “Well, I guess we’re gonna have to get married to one-up them.”

“House. They’re still asking about your… history.”

“They didn’t even cry thinking about us kissing?”

“They didn’t even flinch.”

House fake-gasps. “Maybe it’s because they’ve already imagined us kissing. Maybe we’re the subject of their dirty fantasies.”

“Okay, ew,” Wilson says, pointing at House as he steps further into the office, “And I’m not pretending to date you for more than a day. It’s too exhausting.”

“You kissed me once and now you’re exhausted? There wasn’t even tongue!” House furrows his brow. “Or do you want tongue? I can slip a little in next time.”

“I don’t—” Wilson begins too loudly, then leans onto House’s desk and continues, in his harsh little whisper, “I don’t want the whole hospital thinking that you and I are together."

“Why? Fewer nurses to have sex with if you’re a taken man? That certainly never stopped them before.”

“Because I’d be taken with you,” Wilson presses, “and anyone who dates you is a psychopath.”

“Stacy wasn’t a psychopath.”

Wilson flaps his hand. “They don’t know the details of your romantic history, which is sort of the point. They’ll see me with you and assume I’ve gone insane.”

“You already spend most of your waking hours with me. Insanity is the next step.” House pauses to smirk. “And it is about the nurses. You are getting way too predictable.”

“For your information, I’m not looking for anything right now. I just don’t want this to tarnish my reputation.”

“Your reputation which consists of you only hanging out with me and cheating on your wives.”

Wilson makes a frustrated noise and rubs his hand over his face. “Okay,” he says, “what do you want to do about Chase and Cameron?”

House shrugs. “Having sex in the office seems a little extreme, but I’m willing to give my body to the art.”

“Okay, other than having sex.”

House takes a moment before contorting his face into one of those evil-looking smiles. “I have an idea,” he says, reaching for his cane and moving around the desk. “You just stay here and look pretty.”

“I have work to do.”

“Keep on looking pretty!” House calls, then leaves the room without another word.

Wilson supposes he has time. He takes the magazine, props up his feet, and relaxes.

Cuddy is on a phone call when House approaches, but he makes a display of knocking on her window with his cane then waiting five seconds before barging in anyway. She, unfortunately, does not use the bonus time to end her call, but when House sits in the chair opposite her and throws an arm around the back and looks expectantly at her, she rushes an apology then slams the phone into the receiver. “Can I help you?”

“Well, that’s no way to treat a treasured employee. Who were you calling? Sex line?”

“A potential donor. What do you want?”

“Well,” says House, “my fellows are digging into my romantic past and have unfortunately discovered that Wilson and I are happily in love.”

“You and Wilson,” she repeats, looking through her papers in that false-busy way that she always is.

“Yes. I came here to inform you that you probably shouldn’t tell them anything that you know about any of my romantic history, because if so, I’ll send Wilson after you. And he bites." 

Cuddy looks up at him for a second, tilting her head to the side. “You and Wilson?”

“We put on a very good show.”

She considers that for a moment. Lately, she’s been more willing to put up with Diagnostics’ antics and Wilson’s attempts at friendship which suggests something of a streak going on and a lucky bet for House. She persists with her usual level of irritation at everything that House does, but her fuse is just slightly longer than it used to be, and in medical situations sometimes she actually trusts him. The thought is monumental.

“You don’t want me to tell them about Stacy,” she says, almost a question.

“Or our secret, intense affair. Try not to let that one slip, either.”

She nods, clearly only responding to the first point, not the second. After a breath, she asks, “Did you ever figure out what that girl had? The college student?”

“Not as young as she looks. And Whipple Disease, but they haven’t figured that one out yet.”

“You’re letting them chase their own tails?” asks Cuddy, like that’s entirely unethical.

“If I keep them distracted with the case then maybe they’ll stop asking me things about my personal history. Ugh,” he replies and shudders. “It’s gross. Like they care about me. I’m going to have to fire them all.”

Cuddy begins looking at her paperwork again, those manicured fingers peeking through papers. “You start her on treatment.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll ask the nurses to start her on antibiotics. Leave them in the dark for another hour.”

“Good,” Cuddy says, and as House stands up again and starts heading towards the door, she asks, “House?”

“No, Cuddy, I’m not having sex with you in your office just to prove my colleagues wrong. Now that’s just unprofessional.”

She stops, exasperated with that, then regains herself and says, “If you and Wilson do… ever… well, if anything ever happens—”

“What the hell are you—?”

“Just make sure to fill out the right paperwork.”

House furrows his brow, looks at Cuddy, then opens and closes his mouth before settling on closed. Then there’s a clever quip at the tip of his tongue, but it disappears the second he sees that earnest look in her eyes, the down-turned seriousness that only a hospital administrator can manage. He breathes in again, looking for a comment, then, when he can’t find one, turns on his heel and leaves the office.

“Wow, you really do have nothing to do.”

“Most of my patient meetings aren’t till later. What was your plan?”

House walks to his own side of the desk, snatching the magazine out of Wilson’s hand as he goes. He leans on his cane heavily and settles with his hands across his stomach, propped against the desk. “Well, I was going to get Cuddy to sabotage Chase and Cameron, but then she sabotaged the whole thing by believing it.”

“Believing it?” Wilson repeats incredulously.

“She reminded me to fill out the proper paperwork. As if you’d ever fill out paperwork for having sex with a nurse.”

Wilson scoffs. “As if you’d ever.”

“I have sex with prostitutes like a normal red-blooded man who doesn’t want to destroy his work-life balance. What’s important is that now there is no barrier between us and the kiddies.” House taps the ground with his cane. “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: we can always try the old coitus interruptus.”

“I’m not having sex with you for a prank.”

“So you would have sex with me if it weren’t for a prank?”

Wilson glares. House rolls his eyes and succumbs. “Okay, fine. We can try something else.”

“We can just give it up. I don’t think your fellows are going to care either way,” Wilson says.

“They care more than they let on,” House replies, looking at the space five feet above Wilson’s head. “We can always try the opposite.”

“The opposite of what?”

“Sex.”

Wilson sighs, like he is incredibly put-upon by this discussion. “And what’s the opposite of sex?”

“Romance,” House says, smirking like some sort of evil cartoon character, which perhaps he is. 

“That… doesn’t sound true.”

“If we’re lovey-dovey enough, they’ll be terrified into silence.”

Wilson considers that. “That would mean admitting to having feelings.”

House sighs and says, “We all have to make sacrifices. You, your tenuous grasp on heterosexuality. Me, my unpenetrable wall around all emotions.”

“Ha. Penetrable.”

“As I said, your image of the perfectly straight pretty boy oncologist is crumbling.”

Wilson looks at him for a moment, wondering quite what he means by that and if he knows what he’s saying. He, personally, isn’t in a mood to deal with it, as he often isn’t, but the gravity of it remains. House has never mentioned this, and neither has Wilson, as they do whenever their friendship or lives are faced with something serious. Always pushing till it breaks.

House isn’t watching him, or is watching him and is pretending he isn’t. It’s always hard to tell and Wilson isn’t paying the most attention. “I’m headed back,” he announces, placing his palms flat on the arms of his chair. “Work to do.”

“Of course.”

“What time do you wanna…” he begins, then struggles to find the right way to politely say pretend to be in love. Saying that isn’t quite funny enough to be worth it.

House stretches his leg out before rolling his neck. “Just before heading home when they’ve figured it out. 6:15?”

“Am I eating dinner with you again?”

House raises an eyebrow. “I rented Blade Runner.”

Wilson lets out all the air in his lungs dramatically, saying, “That’s not fair. I love Blade Runner.”

“And I love free Indian food. Make sure to grab extra naan.”

He rolls his eyes again, makes a little humming noise, then leaves. House watches him go but doesn’t tease as the door shuts behind him.

“House knew it was Whipple’s and didn’t tell us,” Foreman repeats, in awe. “That has to be unethical.”

“Cuddy let him,” Cameron says. “Cuddy let him manipulate us.”

Chase scoffs. “Cuddy manipulates him, he manipulates us. Classic hospital administration.”

“Stop being so negative,” Foreman is replying as he pushes through the main office with the back of his shoulder, “We have people we can manipulate, too.”

Whatever sharp response is on the tip of Chase’s tongue disappears into thin air as he fully looks into the room in front of him. House and Wilson are at the main table, House propped against it and Wilson in between his legs. Wilson’s face is pressed into the hollow of House’s throat, his eyes closed. House’s hand runs through Wilson's hair.

Chase practically squeaks. Cameron covers her mouth with her hand. Foreman clears his throat obnoxiously. At it, Wilson untangles, the front of his hair askew from being pressed flat into House. He looks sleepy, content, and a little confused by the interruption.

“Hi,” says House bitterly, all dry in his throat. “Nice to see you too.”

“Now how does this keep on happening,” Foreman deadpans, just as Cameron is tripping over a sorry excuse for an apology. The words get all tangled so House ignores her. Chase is still looking dumbfounded, but he often is.

“I’m sorry,” Wilson says sleepily, “I was just…”

“Getting sad about all those little cancer patients. You three, leave.”

“We’re just leaving,” Wilson counters, grabbing his jacket which is draped over the chair. He takes House’s hand which is pressed against his leg and pulls him upright before he tangles their fingers together. He turns, abruptly, to the fellows. “You can stay.”

“You knew she had Whipple’s and you didn’t tell us,” Cameron replies in one breath, staring at where their hands are intertwined.

“Yes. You were being idiots.”

“We were working on your case,” Foreman corrects.

“Same thing,” says House, then takes his cane (leaning against a chair) and lets Wilson tug him forward. “She’ll be better by tomorrow morning. Get some rest, try not to get brought down by your inability to notice the obvious.”

“You two aren’t actually dating,” Foreman interrupts, which is to say he brings up something which is not at all relevant to what House just said. “You’re faking it.”

“And why would I do that?”

He shrugs. “To get us off your back.”

“Yeah, House is pretending to date me just to prank you,” Wilson replies in that soft-sarcastic way as he takes his briefcase from the countertop. He turns to House. “You’ve made them all too suspicious of everything.”

He bares his teeth. “It’s a part of my charm.”

“I’m with Foreman,” Chase says, completely unnecessarily. “You’re both being suspicious.”

“By dating each other?” House asks, then leans in. “What, do you hate gay people, Chase? Do you think my obsession with sneakers is stupid and that I don’t have the right to get gay-married?”

“House.”

“Wilson.”

“We’re going,” Wilson says, a little bit louder this time, then firmly takes House by the wrist and pulls him out. House waves dramatically, smiling with an evil quality like he knows something they don’t, and then is lost behind the glass where he is shoved into Wilson’s office before he can make a further comment.

“It’s weird. Whether or not they’re dating, I wouldn’t be that surprised.”

“Chase, you just said you didn’t believe them.”

“Yeah, but if it was true… I could believe it. They’re always so weird with each other. And they’ve been friends for a decade. And they lived together.”

“Also, he flirts with Wilson extra-hard.”

“You two are both idiots.”

“Am I coming over tomorrow, too?”

“I have Star Wars.”

“You always have Star Wars.”

“Star Wars and a hunger for your home-cooked meals. Coming?”

“Yes. Fine.”

It isn’t until three days later at dinner that it comes up again.

In Wilson’s office, Wilson had insisted that they stop making big scenes about their easy-to-see-through dating scheme and just let the imagination of House’s fellows run wild. That idea seemed so devilish that it was perfectly up House’s ally, and House had jabbed his finger into Wilson’s hip and said, I didn’t know you had it in you. Wilson had made a little scoffing noise before crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes, as he often does when accused of being too similar to House in any way, shape, or form.

Now they’re pressed together on the couch watching Top Gun. House’s elbow jams into Wilson’s arm as he pushes around the salad that Wilson forced onto his plate along with the pizza, which is an act of passive-aggressive revenge. There are four beer bottles on the table and one precariously balancing on the arm of the chair at Wilson’s side. Wilson watches. House eats.

“You know,” House says, poking at a cherry tomato, “I’m almost a little sad that we’re not putting on a show for them.”

Wilson blinks at him. “What?”

“The ducklings, us dating, duh. It was fun to confuse them.”

“The fact that you get a joke out of harassing your employees is probably an issue.”

“At least I’m not sleeping with them,” House replies, raising his eyebrows as a challenge and popping the tomato into his mouth.

Wilson sighs, a little dramatically, and says, “Not necessary. And what do you mean by show?”

“Oh, you know. Parade you around a little. Like you do with your nurses,” explains House, stretching forward to slide his plate onto the ottoman. “Make a big spectacle out of it.”

“Well, there wouldn’t be you there to watch while ignoring your fellows telling you about a differential,” Wilson quips in an entirely false-casual way. “What’d be the point?”

House scoffs like that’s the stupidest thing he’s heard in the world. “My fellows would be doing the watching, Wilson. Come on. And I knew you always slept with those nurses to mess with me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course.”

“The point: imagine their little faces. Absolutely disgusted,” House continues, “I doubt Cameron would be able to get a word out to either of us if she found us canoodling.”

“We did canoodle and she couldn’t get a word out.”

“By ‘canoodling’ I mean making out,” House corrects, “You know, full on. Tongues and everything.”

Wilson curls his face up into an unattractive scowl. “I would be disgusted, too.”

“Coward.”

Wilson scoffs. “I’d kiss you if I wanted to,” he says, redirecting his attention to the television. “But you’d taste like…Vicodin and depression. Not my favorite combination.”

“You’d get used to it.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Yeah huh.” House says, then, at Wilson’s sulking, “Wow, it’s just like third grade again. Are we playing gay chicken? Should we sniff some glue, too?”

“You sniffed glue?” Wilson asks, incredulous. “Actually, that explains a lot.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“And you’re acting like a ten-year-old. You’re daring me to kiss you!”

“Not daring,” House protests, “Just peer-pressuring. We could amp up this fake-dating thing by several notches.”

“And scare the shit out of your employees.”

“Isn’t that everything I do?” House asks, which is true. House always has a point, which is what makes everything far more irritating. Wilson makes a little huff through his nose for what seems like the hundredth time today and tries to focus on Tom Cruise, but he’s been zoning out for far too long to really get back into it.

Meanwhile, House shifts a little closer, taking a swig from his beer and pressing his shoulder against Wilson’s. He’s warm and very, very annoying. “House.”

“I’m just saying, I get gloating rights.”

“I’m trying to watch the movie.”

“And I’m exercising my right to hold this over your head. Your heterosexuality has never been firmer.”

“House.”

“Don’t be a sore loser. You set yourself up for this. Don’t you think that you—”

Just as House is saying this, Wilson takes him by the crumpled collar of his button-down and pulls his face firmly against his. Their lips press together in a solid, sort of angry connection which is mostly just Wilson keeping his lips closed and House making a surprised little hum. Before House can tease him anymore, Wilson pulls away, throwing himself closer to the arm of the couch and away from House. He takes a sip of beer and tries to settle into some semblance of normalcy again.

He can feel House’s eyes on him, and the soft appreciative expression on his face. He can see it already: the way his eyes curve down at the edges, the grin which is open-mouthed and more on one side of his face. It makes his stomach flip, stupidly. All of this is stupid.

Through his peripherals, he finally sees House turn back to the television and relax against the cushions. After what feels like a minute, House says, “That’s not how I would’ve done it.”

Wilson makes an indignant noise and whips his head around. “What?”

“If it was in front of the fellows, I wouldn’t have done it like that,” he explains, slouching a little. “Give them more action.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” House says, turning his head to face Wilson, before he cups Wilson’s cheek with one hand and leans up into him, pressing their mouths together again.

This time, it is gentle, but still firm. Far more calculated. Wilson finds himself responding without really noticing, because first their lips are just pressed together, but then House is pushing his tongue past Wilson’s lips and Wilson is letting him, leaning down so their noses bump together and opening his mouth. House moves softly but pushes his limits with ease, first exploring deeply then sucking at his bottom lip then kissing him shortly, once then twice then a third time, before he pulls away.

Wilson’s hand is holding House’s thigh with an iron grip by the time he ends it. The other hand is cradling the side of House’s face at the ear in a parallel to what House does to him, though House holds himself steady, carefully. The place where House’s thumb touches Wilson’s temple makes him shiver, belatedly. He breathes out heavily for no reason at all. “Um,” Wilson announces as if this is a complete sentence. “Uh.”

“Left speechless?” House asks with his lips three inches from Wilson’s. The smirk is, predictably, pulling more at one side of his mouth than the other. Wilson could run his tongue along House’s lips far too easily from this angle.

“We just kissed.”

“Yes.”

“I kissed you back.”

“Is that the surprising part of it?” House replies, moving away, and at once Wilson wants to cry out at it, the still-warm space at his jaw where House’s palm had rested. The thought fills him with self-pity instantaneously. Has he not been with a woman for that long that he seeks intimacy in his best friend playing a middle schooler’s game?

“House,” Wilson says solemnly, like he’s scolding a child. The image is slightly disconcerting. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. I play gay chicken to the death.”

“That wasn’t…” he begins, but then stops short with a huff through his nose before turning back to the television. “Never mind.”

Wilson’s face is flushed and he shifts his hips to make himself more comfortable. He hopes House doesn’t notice. He knows House probably already has.

After thirty seconds of vague noises from the television screen, Wilson clears his throat again. “So… we just made out, and now we’re not going to talk about it?”

“Making out includes some light groping. We just kissed.”

“Making out doesn’t need groping, and you’re avoiding the question.”

House scoffs and finally turns to face Wilson again. “Your question is stupid. Did you never play this game as a kid?”

“Everyone already thought I was gay, House. No one wanted to play gay chicken with me. Are we going to talk about this?”

“You sound like my mom,” House retorts, “‘Are we going to talk about this’.”

“Greg—”

“You were the one who suggested we pretend to date.”

“No, you suggested we pretend to date. I suggested we just play footsie.”

House flaps his hand. “Same thing. Stop getting on me about this.”

“Are you getting annoyed with me?”

“Christ, Wilson, I’m just trying to watch some Top Gun,” he snaps, then turns back to the television with a note of finality. “Take it or leave it.”

Wilson makes a little noise. It’s always like this with House: a back and forth until one of them snaps. Normally, it is Wilson, a wire stretched thin between whichever divorce and whatever cancer patient he has at the time, a pile of things and people on his plate until it cracks, or until the straw breaks the camel’s back—the metaphors are too plentiful for the pressure which weighs on his shoulders. Wilson breaks, House bends: it is slower, more careful, a fire churning in his stomach until he bites and chases Wilson away. Wilson will always be chased away, never the opposite, and they are both content with this, validated by their own isolation. And yet, Wilson never likes it like this—apart, waiting, worrying when House (because it is always House) will enter his office and act as if nothing happened. Sometimes Wilson doesn’t let him. Most of the time he does, because it is only when the edges are smoothed over that Wilson can breathe again. Otherwise, his chest tightens up, deep at his sternum, a tight dark burn that only House can cool.

Wilson is not at his snapping point. He can feel the tension that dares to constrict his lungs but he washes it down with beer, no longer cold but still a shadow of it. House reaches for the remote and turns it up three notches.

Wilson will watch, and drink his beer, and leave when the movie is over. They will not say much, he knows; they never do after moments like this. He’ll think about it as he goes to sleep and forget it tomorrow morning and everything will continue on as it has.

“Wilson.”

“Jesus Christ, Cameron, can’t you at least wait until I get inside the building?” Wilson asks. He has only had one cup of coffee and he’s already running late for the early department head meeting. Why Cameron is already here is a mystery that he does not care to look into, and he’s just trying to lock his car and get inside the building as quickly as possible.

She glares at him and holds out a piece of paper to add to his stack. “It’s about House.”

“It’s always about House,” he says, shuffling it into his pile all the same. “What?”

“I just…” she begins, suddenly having lost all of that confidence. Her falter makes Wilson pause; he often thinks they’re evenly matched, the two of them, with their pure hearts and foolish decisions in the name of House. Knowing when to push back, knowing when to give in. It’s a careful balance. They both understand it.

Wilson raises both of his eyebrows, holds his briefcase closer to him, and nods to encourage her.

“I wanted to apologize,” she manages. “About getting into your business and not believing you.”

“Oh.”

“I know how it feels with House, is all. Sorry.”

This charade has gone on perhaps a little too long, Wilson thinks, but he nods again. “It’s all right,” he replies as professionally as he can. “Uh, what’s the paper for then?”

“A report on all of House’s finished tax filings.” She smiles, uncomfortably, half-bashful. “As an apology.”

He looks at her for a moment. She is far more than House believes her to be and perhaps far more than Wilson believes her to be, too. She is competent and clever and willing to get her hands dirty, but she knows just as well when to step back. Perhaps she’s smarter than Wilson, caught in the tornado of House and their take-out food and their legs brushing on House’s couch until the early hours of the morning.

“Thanks,” he replies, then walks past, trying to ignore the whole of it.

House pages him at 12:14pm into his office; Wilson enters two minutes later. He stands, accusatorially, in the doorframe of the private office. “We’re going to talk about it.”

“Surprisingly, that’s not actually why I paged you. Wanna get lunch?”

“Do I want to buy you lunch? No. We’re talking about this.”

House does not look up from his computer. “Look, we’re talking about it! Now: lunch? I’ll pay for my chips, at least.”

Wilson scowls. “You won’t. You’ll shove them on me at the last minute.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Yeah huh.”

“Nuh uh.”

“House,” Wilson barks out, “Please.”

House looks up at him, finally, with a fast, angry tilt of the head. A quiet flame beneath the eyes. Always like this when Wilson fights back like this, with that fatherly tone of voice, hands on hips, brows furrowed. Wilson knows that House hates it and he does it all the same.

He replies, violently, “All right, I’m sorry for sticking my tongue down your throat, can we get back to being normal and you buying my lunches and me putting up with you, please,” then slams down his pencil and reads whatever has suddenly become so important on his desk.

Wilson considers him for a moment. Tilts his head to the side like a dog. Raises his eyebrows. “You’re mad,” he announces, suddenly calm. “Not just mad in general, mad at me.”

“Because you’re being an idiot.”

“No, no,” Wilson says, shaking his head, “Something else. Something that’s annoying you.”

“It’s you.”

Wilson crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe. It’s easier like this, when he feels like he has the upper hand. House slouching in his seat, Wilson above him. House’s brow is furrowed with faux-focus, but he glances up briefly with something of softness in his eyes that has Wilson staggering. A pressure point to dig his fingers into. A fault, for once.

Softness in House is far more poignant than anything else. “Something’s wrong,” Wilson announces in his performative investigative voice. “You only get like this when something is actually bothering you. You’re…” he looks at the edges of House’s eyes, the downturned quality, the way he pretends to focus on something else when Wilson knows better. “Oh my god. You wanted to kiss me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” House retorts through a huff with far more indignance than necessary.

“You did! And you’re mad that I want to talk about it!” Wilson laughs. “You are really just that stuck-up that you can’t admit that you wanted to stick your tongue down my throat.”

House glares seriously, makes a fist with his hand and pounds it on his desk. “Not everything is about you,” he says like that is the end of the conversation. Quick and biting. Baring his teeth.

“You didn’t experiment enough in college?”

“I did just fine in college, thanks,” House replies with a toxic sort of tone. “Go away. If you’re not buying me food, it’s not worth it.”

“Are you scared that I’m going to tell all your fellows that you wanted to kiss me?” Wilson asks, his eyes twinkling.

“Wilson,” House barks. The sound comes from deep in his throat, gruff, only used in dire circumstances: patient being an idiot, a life on the line, something bigger than the rest of them. He’s pulling out his power card when he doesn’t need to.

“I see,” Wilson says. His chin is tilted upwards, a half-challenge, because he knows this is a game and that he isn’t going to let House win it. Perhaps he did it to spite Cuddy, or to have something to hold over Wilson’s head, or anything at all. “Can’t string me along forever, House.”

“Goodbye, James,” House replies, standing abruptly, grabbing his cane, and pushing past Wilson to get out through the main door of his office. His limp has more violence to it than usual. Wilson watches and slips out the door after him, smirking just slightly into his hand so the fellows can’t see.

“It could be cancer,” Cameron announces from the head of the table. House is gnawing on the end of the marker and looking at a spot just above the board and the list of symptoms. Cuddy’s newest patient, the child of one of her "college friends" which House assumes she hooked up with at least once, sits on a hospital bed with needles in his arms. He can't be more than eight. The father isn't even that hot.

Foreman says, “A Wilms tumor?” then turns to House, playing adults for a moment. “Checks out with the symptoms.”

“What about a parasite,” Chase pipes up, “has he been out of the country?”

Cameron slides the file to him. “No. But the bruising might indicate hemolytic uremic syndrome.”

“Or it could just be salmonella,” Foreman adds. “Anything, House?”

“Salmonella is idiotic and you know it. We need to rule out if it’s the kidney or the stomach. Get a renal biopsy.”

“…and call Wilson over?”

House scoffs in Cameron’s face. “Don’t be ridiculous. This kid is eight years old. I think I can tell if there’s a Wilms tumor.”

“So you aren’t going to just call Wilson over just because it’s cancer-related,” Foreman repeats.

“Are you two fighting?” asks Cameron, crossing her arms.

Chase says, “A lover’s spat?”

“Do your job,” House replies, throwing it over his shoulder as he marches to his office. “What I do in my free time is none of your business.”

“Until you’re making out in the office,” Chase snarks like he’s very cunning.

The response that he gets is the closing of the door.

“So the consensus is that they’re actually dating.”

“And now they’re fighting.”

“Definitely.”

“All right. Foreman, pay up.”

“We didn’t put any money on it.”

“Still.”

House avoids him spectacularly for the whole day, even when Wilson almost bumps into him when walking back to his office from the bathroom, but doesn’t manage to get a word out before House shoves past him towards where his patient is presumably dying in the correct hospital wing. Wilson almost gets approached by a duckling (Chase) but he gets pulled away at the last moment by his pager beeping obnoxiously at his hip. The Diagnostics staff is a well-oiled machine who is avoiding Wilson properly.

Because of this, it is Wilson’s brilliant idea to show up at House’s apartment at 7pm with a bag of Vietnamese food and a copy of the second Godfather, presuming that he won’t be turned away.

Wilson knocks twice and hears, “Go away,” in a half-muffled shout, to which he pulls out his key and enters anyway. House is bracing himself for him before the door even opens: one person has the key, and that one person has and always will be Wilson.

“And why would you knock if you had a key?” House half-shouts from where he lays stationary on the couch. “Save me the extra time.”

“I wanted to give you a warning,” Wilson replies at a normal volume, shrugging off his jacket. “It’s the polite thing to do.”

“Manners are useless when you’re barging into someone’s home!” he retorts. Slightly drunk, voice a little lower and the room smells vaguely of brandy. Wilson places the food onto the desk in the back corner and approaches so he’s finally in House’s line of sight.

Wilson assesses. Drink resting just within arm’s reach of the couch, no cups, sipping from the bottle. TV on, but muted. Vicodin lying next to him on the couch. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. Just drinking away my sorrows,” he says, grabbing it by the neck and raising it in a display of intoxication that Wilson knows is almost entirely fake. “Want a glass?”

Wilson considers it, considers saying no, but realizes he’s going to have to stay here and work this out before he can leave. “I’ll get a glass,” he replies in lieu of an answer, slipping into the kitchen. He grabs two, for propriety’s sake, and waits for House to sit up properly on the couch and pour.

While pulling his leg around and waking himself up, House glares at him from beneath squinted eyes. “Why are you here? Trying to get me to open up my secret heart of gold to you again?”

“I brought food,” Wilson says, “and your team has been avoiding me all day.”

House takes the glasses and serves them both with steady hands. “What kind?”

“Vietnamese. Did you think it was cancer but wouldn’t let your team talk to me?”

“Who squealed? Cameron?” House hands Wilson his cup. “She thought we were having a lover’s spat.”

“You really have to tell them the truth,” Wilson replies, all moral compass for a moment, then says, “And it was Chase. I thought he was trying to talk to me but got rushed off to the patient.”

House puts on an expression of contempt, making it clear that it was all a part of his scheme. “Can’t have my guys fraternizing with the enemy,” he retorts, then kicks back the drink. Wilson follows for lack of anything better to do.

“So I’m the enemy?”

“You are if you aren’t bringing over that food,” House quips. He gets the bag, gets the napkins, gets the plastic forks and hands the containers to House to sort through. Wilson will begin with whatever House prefers least before they switch three-quarters in. They sit side-by-side on the sofa, knees far from touching. House leans onto his legs to eat over the coffee table and Wilson slouches back against the couch.

“Sorry for prying,” Wilson says like he always does. Most of the apology is in this (the shared brandy, the food, the way their fingers bump easily as House takes the fork and napkin from him and neither of them watches the contact) but the verbal confirmation sets in stone the beginning of a new cycle of normalcy-fuck up-half apology. Easy stability. Wilson has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and he looks at the food instead of House.

House grunts, like that is the way a human being replies to an apology. He doesn’t know what he expected. They work in silence for a little longer, and House lets the television hum with the evening news. Normalcy, fuck up, half apology. Once again. House pours them two more rounds of brandy and nurses his slowly, carefully. Wilson downs it because he doesn’t know any better, likes to take it as a shot rather than a sip. Easier that way.

Eventually, House leans back. He turns the volume up so he can hear the words rather than the mumbling, tosses aside his food while Wilson is still eating, and flips the channel to find Dirty Dancing, which he doesn’t care for but puts on anyway. Wilson half-offers the copy of The Godfather Part II, which he had thrown atop the food inside the brown paper bag, but House pulls a face and amuses himself with the remote. Wilson watches him watching it. He sets aside the empty container and throws his arm around the back of the couch, careful not to touch. The night is settled, heavy and dark and empty outside of the window for which House has been too lazy to close the blinds. Wilson will have to go home in this, in the ringing evening. This thought always made him almost refuse to come to House's in the first place. He hates the loneliness of driving home past midnight.

“Why did you?” Wilson asks, like he always does. He stares through the window at the yellow-orange streetlamp. He clarifies: “Kiss me. Why did you kiss me.”

House doesn’t reply for a moment. First, he keeps on staring at the television, where a plot he doesn't care for catapults itself forward, but turns to look at Wilson once he feels the eyes boring holes on the side of his head. Heavy: the dark, the silence, Wilson's eyes turned to him instead of the hollow night. He looks at Wilson for a few moments like he’s trying to solve a puzzle, eyebrows furrowed, but then notices, with visible surprise, there’s no puzzle to be solved. “You’re an idiot,” he says, like it’s a realization, voice scratchy from not speaking, light from the recognition, and grabs Wilson by the neck to kiss him.

His mouth is hard and firm and this time tastes like brandy. Wilson's eyes close too late, a startled noise pulled through his throat, quickly cut-off. House presses, chaste, for all of three seconds before Wilson finds himself pressing his tongue into House’s mouth, this time expecting it, like that’s some sensical instinct, and House responds with appropriate energy and takes the invitation to explore his way into Wilson’s mouth, hand climbing up to grip at his hair and hold him still. He does not move like he is drunk at all. Proving a point. Hard and sort of angry, but not quite reaching frustration. For the first time, Wilson feels the pressure of their contact, where House dares to tug at him, where his other hand falls to Wilson's bent knee, where their noses bump and slot next to each other like they're supposed to.

“Oh,” Wilson says when they pull away. Mutual this time. Close to panting, nerve endings at the base of his neck all frizzed.

“Yeah, oh.”

It is only now, the fourth kiss of five days, that the glass shatters and Wilson suddenly becomes aware of not just the past week behind him but the months and years and decade and a half which stretches forth. House and his girlfriends, Wilson and his, self-sabotage and a more deliberate destruction, external ruination for the sake of internal pride. Always collapsing back into each other. Wilson at House’s side. House at Wilson’s, too. Wilson digs his face into his hands. “Oh, my god. I’m an idiot.”

“I just said that,” House replies, mildly taking a sip of brandy again. It is far too easy to be like this. It scares the shit out of him. “Sit back up and let me stick my tongue into your mouth.”

Wilson doesn’t grant that with a response. He knows there are things to say. A cycle still runs if the context changes. Is this the apology? The fuck up? Will it be normalcy? He doesn't know and doesn't let himself care. Instead, he removes his hands from his face, cradles House’s jaw in his hands, and sticks his tongue into House’s mouth.

That’ll show him.

They’ve been necking like teenagers on House’s couch—Wilson straddling House and avoiding his bad leg, occasionally rubbing their hips together in encouragement before he firmly places his thigh right between House’s legs and elicits a half-muffled moan—before Wilson sits up, hands on House’s chest, to make them stop. “Shouldn’t we be talking about something?”

“What’s the something?” House asks, playing dumb. His hair is ruined about his head, and the button-up which he pretends makes his outfits acceptable has been removed, leaving him in the band t-shirt which shows off his arms in a way that distracts Wilson from his mission. He looks entirely fucked, which sends a further jolt down his spine.

“I don’t know. This,” Wilson replies, gesturing between them. “We were just pretending to be dating and now we’re making out in your apartment.”

“An incredible observation of the situation, yes. Speaking of, can we get back to it?”

“We’re going to have to file to Cuddy,” Wilson says, with a sudden cold fear.

“We’re going to have to do a lot of things,” House retorts, and all the meanwhile he has realized that if he rubs little circles into Wilson’s hips, he’ll melt right into a puddle, so he obliges. “But right now, we can be gross, horny men in their mid-forties acting like seventeen-year-olds, which I think sounds a lot better.”

“This is not how we should be solving our problems,” Wilson manages while trying not to collapse into House’s arms. His voice has a little tremor to it, which probably has something to do with the way House’s hand is curving around his hip and rubbing forward and backward around the circumference.

“What, you want me to talk about my feelings? I hated you because I thought you were a straight, perfect little oncologist who made out with me for the sake of a bet. I like you because you actually like my tongue down your mouth. All good?”

“All good,” Wilson says with no heart it in, too focused on the feeling of House touching him, and lets his best friend pull him down with hands framing his face and leave a hickey on his neck with no care for how he looks tomorrow.

“Hi,” says House to his fellows the next morning. He saunters in ten minutes earlier than he’s supposed to, his hair combed and his stubble shaven. Cameron raises an eyebrow. “Morning. We all ready for this case?”

“Why didn’t you answer your phone last night?” Chase asks. He has prominent bags beneath his eyes. “Foreman and I were up all night.”

“Busy,” House replies, pouring himself the half-hour old coffee into two separate mugs. “More important business.”

“It’s a patient,” Foreman interjects.

“More important than the patient. But, you’ll have to inform me of all the juicy details later. I have to go give Wilson this coffee as an excuse for making out with him in his office,” House says, and means it, treading carefully towards the door and past the irritated expressions on his fellows’ faces. “Excuse me,” he says, not meaning that at all, and slips out the door. 

“Make-up sex?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely make-up sex.”