Archive of Our Own ^beta

The dull, relentless ache that had settled there since he'd quit Vicodin was tolerable most days, a low hum in the background of his life. But today, it screamed. The kind of day where his breath came in sharp, uneven bursts and he couldn’t summon the energy to do more than glare at the TV. Even the glowing screen seemed to mock him. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to reach for the remote without feeling a sharp pain shoot through his hip.

Wilson was in the kitchen, clattering pans and humming under his breath as he prepped dinner. Normally, House would have been there too, critiquing Wilson’s ingredient choices or smugly taking over with a flourish of culinary superiority. But tonight, he couldn’t muster the effort, and Wilson, ever observant, hadn’t said a word. That silence was its own kind of care.

“Dinner’s almost ready.” Wilson called softly.

House grunted, leaning forward to grab his cane. His thigh burned in protest, and when he pushed himself upright, his leg buckled beneath him. A sharp whimper escaped before he could catch it. Wilson was at his side in an instant, not reaching out to touch him, he knew House hated when people helped him without his consent and his best friend wasn’t an exception.

So the oncologist simply watched, forcing himself not to act, as House groaned loudly and sat back down on the couch, letting go of the cane to bring the heels of his hands to cover his eyes as a grimace spread on his face.

Wilson sighed softly and stepped forward carefully, trying not to convey pity in his eyes.

“Do you want me to call Ingrid?” He finally asked, peering at him with concern.

“Out of town for the rest of the week.” House muttered, his voice tight with pain.

“The guy? What’s his name?” Wilson asked.

“No, not him,” House said, dropping his head back onto the couch. “He doesn’t dig in enough. He’s good for a back rub in the Poconos, but he’s not actually helpful.”

“I could do it.” Wilson offered.

“Absolutely not.” House snapped, uncovering his eyes and dropping his hands by his sides.

“I’ve done it before. You never complained.” Wilson crossed his arms, his tone steady but warm. “

“It’s gotten worse since the last time.”

“I can dig in. You can give me directions, I’ll listen.”

The diagnostician sighed.

“Are you giving me a pass to boss you around?”

“I figured you might like a change in our dynamic for once.” Wilson said, cracking a small smile. “Come on, guide me.”

House hesitated, his jaw tightening. But the ache in his thigh seemed to flare in response, and he relented with a reluctant nod. Wilson perched on the coffee table, kneading his fingers before beginning. He started over the jeans, pressing into House’s thigh with careful but firm strokes.

“Fabric’s making it worse.” House hissed, shifting uncomfortably. “This is not working.”

Wilson paused. “Take them off, then.”

House shot him a wary look, but the pain drowned out any pride he might have mustered. 

He unbuttoned his jeans and slid them off with effort, lying back on the couch in his boxers. 

“Do you have any oil?”

“You’re not getting to third base tonight.” Wilson sighed from the kitchen, as he pulled the chicken out of the oven and placed it on the counter to deal with later, dropping the oven mittens beside it to return to his friend.

“You really don’t have anything?”

“Just lube.”

Wilson returned to his position on the coffee table, his hands careful as he reached to touch House’s skin.

“Your hands are clammy.” The older doctor immediately complained, he didn’t mean it, he actually enjoyed the warmth, it felt oddly soothing but he couldn’t have admitted that.

“I get nervous on first dates.” That seemed to crack a smirk from House, who eased just slightly as his hands started moving with purpose.

At first, the pressure was sharp, the pain making him wince. But Wilson’s hands worked with practiced care, easing the tension in his thigh bit by bit. He was precise, listening to House’s short directions and adjusting the pressure without argument. Slowly, relief began to spread through the searing ache.

Wilson kept going, truly digging in like he’d promised. The friction of his hands wasn’t uncomfortable as House had expected. His hands weren’t exactly smooth like Ingrid’s, but they weren’t as calloused as his own either.

Wilson didn’t stop there.

“Give me your hand,” he said, his voice soft.

“What?”

“The right one.” Wilson clarified, holding out his own. House frowned but offered it. The oncologist began massaging the wrist of the hand that gripped the cane day in and day out. His fingers traced over strained tendons and stiff joints, working out the tightness with patient care.

By the time Wilson finished, House felt something he hadn’t felt all day: gratitude.

“Thank you.” He found himself saying, his voice rough but genuine.

Wilson smirked, gloating, as his brows arched in surprise.
“I must’ve been really good for you to thank me.”

“Yeah.” House nodded, breathlessly and watched as his friend stood up, stretched his back and made his way to the kitchen, giving him privacy as he put his jeans back on. “How much do you charge for something like this every night?”

“Just make dinner next time.” Wilson replied, scrubbing the spatula on the oven tray, having clearly burnt something. 

“That’s it?” House asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not gonna ask for the tens of thousands you owe me. That would be insane.” Wilson quipped. “And I think I have to accept I’m a better doctor than I am a cook.”

House smiled, a faint but real expression of ease as he settled deeper into the couch. For a moment, the pain faded into the background, replaced by the quiet comfort of their routine.

They rapidly fell into the routine without ever explicitly acknowledging it. Each night after dinner, whether it was a gourmet meal House cooked with his usual flair or something simple when the pain dulled his energy, Wilson would find his way to the couch, rolling up his sleeves almost reflexively. He’d also bought the oil.

At first, House would grumble about it, offering sarcastic quips about Wilson’s technique or doubting his strength. But Wilson’s massages, careful and methodical, worked wonders. Each time, he felt the gnawing pain subside, replaced by the impossible warmth that radiated from Wilson’s hands. The relief was profound, and House went to bed better than he had in years, the sheets no longer an enemy to his aching muscles.

At some point Wilson began rolling up his sleeves the moment they sat down on the couch. House smirked.

“Can’t wait to get your hands on me, huh?”

Wilson didn’t dignify it with a response, just patted the couch with an expectant look. House stretched out, allowing Wilson to ease the tension in his thigh, calf, and even his hand. The younger doctor worked in silence, his focus on every knot and tight tendon, and House, for once, didn’t complain.

One night, when they opted for Chinese takeout instead of House cooking, due to a bad pain day, glanced at his watch as he finished up, flexing his fingers.

“Alright, I have to shower and go to bed. I need to be up at six. Drop your pants.”

House raised an eyebrow as he sat up slightly. “You could’ve asked me on a date first.”

“I’ll give you forty minutes of my attention.”

“That’s it?”

Before Wilson could retort, House hissed through his teeth, his face contorting in pain. His thigh spasmed violently, the muscles locking in a painful cramp.

House groaned, his fingers clawing at his leg. “God.”

Wilson was instantly beside him. “I’ll help you up. Come here.”

“I’m not getting up anytime soon.” House gritted out.

“Putting your weight on it will help.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

Wilson knelt, placing a steadying hand on House’s shoulder. 

“I’ll help you. Come on.”

He didn’t know what exactly it was about Wilson’s tone that convinced him, he always had that effect. He let himself be manhandled in a standing up position, completely relying on Wilson’s strength. It seemed much worse standing.

House tried to comply, but as Wilson bent his leg, the pain shot through him like fire. “Stop. Stop, it’s doing worse.”

Instinctively, House grabbed onto Wilson’s arm, gripping it tightly as if it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

“Do you want me to pick you up?” Wilson asked softly.

“You couldn’t do that even if you tried.”

Wilson sighed, clearly unimpressed with the challenge. He moved to lift House, but a firm grip on his wrist stopped him cold.

“Don’t you dare.” House growled. Wilson paused, obedient. “I’ll walk.”

“Okay.” Wilson replied, his tone neutral, though his eyes were still full of concern.

“The idea of you showing off your upper body strength is pretty sexy,” House said dryly. “but I’m not gonna let you humiliate me like this.”

“There’s nothing humiliating about this,” Wilson countered, his voice calm but firm. He shifted his position and began massaging House’s calf, kneeling beside the couch.

“Reserve it for our honeymoon.” House muttered, his voice laced with deflection and pain.

“House,” Wilson said quietly, “relax.”

The older man let out a bitter chuckle. “Wow. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Wilson helped him carefully to the bedroom, guiding him with patience. Once there, Wilson laid a towel under House’s leg, gently bending it to test the resistance. He worked on the cramped muscles, alternating between soothing strokes and deep pressure until the pain began to ebb away.

He didn’t stop at forty minutes. Wilson spent nearly an hour, ensuring that every knot was worked out and every tender spot soothed.

House felt like melting back into the mattress, liquified by Wilson’s soft touch.

He broke the silence with a sudden question. “Why are you doing this?”

Wilson glanced up, mid-motion. “You said it pulled here-"

“I mean, why do you care so much?”

“Should I not?” Wilson deflected, his voice even.

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Wilson paused, considering his words carefully. “I’d like to think you’d do the same for me.”

House scoffed. “I never have.”

“Not to this extent,” Wilson admitted. “I’ve never needed it. But I might, someday.”

“You don’t know that I’m gonna give back.” House pressed.

“I’m foolishly hopeful.”

“You devote yourself to me in hopes that I’ll someday pay you back?”

“I don’t wish to find myself incapacitated enough to call for your help,” Wilson replied with a sigh.

“Because you’re afraid I won't help.”

“Because, like most people , I have no interest in falling ill.”

House’s voice softened, giving him a sad look.
“Deep down, you know there’s not a single person in the world I would do this for.”

Wilson didn’t let that affect him, brushing off the statement like he knew House didn’t mean it. 

“Fine, I get it. You wouldn’t rub my foot if I sprained my ankle. I don’t care. I didn’t ask. I don’t have a fantasy where I get sick to the point you would have to look after me. I just do this because I’m your friend. I don’t care if you wouldn’t do it back.”

“I would.” House said after a long pause, his tone turning unexpectedly sincere. “I wouldn’t pass up a chance to play doctor with you.”

Wilson shrugged. “If you have to experiment on me to justify looking after my health, then so be it.”

House hesitated for a beat. “You’re the only person I would quit my job for. If it came to it.”

Wilson blinked, visibly surprised. “That’s… a bold claim.”

House shrugged, already regretting his words. “Maybe I want an excuse to get out of clinic duty.”

Wilson stopped, looking up at him.

“Are you serious?”

“I’d rather put a gun between my eyes than do clinic, so, yeah.”

Wilson’s expression softened, the weight of House’s words settling in. “I meant quitting your job. You would do that?”

House gave a small shrug, feeling too much attention on himself.

“I have no intention to do that in the near future, so try to remain at least somewhat healthy.”

Wilson nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips as he went back to massaging House’s leg.

"Masseuse? Your services are needed.” House asked once, after his evening shower, then proceeded to drop onto his own bed, wearing nothing but his bedroom robe and briefs. 

Getting into a routine meant some things that normally would’ve made them step back now no longer did. They were both doctors, they were aware that bodies could have involuntary reactions to being intimately touched. So they weren’t weirded out by House’s briefs tenting by the end of every session, it was normal, it was human. Wilson didn’t care, he knew he wasn’t the reason.

His body was meant to find the pressure and touching arousing, it meant the pain was eased enough that pleasure could take its place instead. 

The thing that wasn’t in the norm, however, was the second body in the room to react the same way. 

So, when House watched Wilson stand up after their session and spotted a clear boner poking against his slacks, his eyebrows arched against his will. The oncologist wished him goodnight and walked out of the room with urgency, leaving House in equal parts confused and shocked.

House had always known Wilson had a thing for being needed. It wasn’t a secret. The man practically radiated selflessness, pouring his energy into anyone with a sob story or a terminal diagnosis. Over the years, House had watched this compulsion ruin Wilson’s marriages, friendships, and even his self-respect. Everyone knew Wilson had a Florence Nightingale flare about him, an almost pathetic need to care for the broken.

But this? This was new.

By the end of every massage, Wilson looked flustered. His cheeks would flush, his hands a little unsteady as he packed up or flexed his fingers. House couldn’t ignore the way Wilson avoided eye contact when he groaned in relief or leaned back with a sigh. It wasn’t just compassion or kindness anymore. Wilson was getting a kick out of this.

House was used to analyzing people, dismantling their behavior with ruthless efficiency, but this one took him a minute. He couldn’t have been aroused just by seeing House’s own erection, they weren’t middle schoolers, he must’ve been more complex than that, at least House liked to think. Or maybe he was just that touch starved. It had been a while since Amber, after all, it would’ve explained his lack of care for the gender of the person he was touching.

Then the thought hit him: Wilson had a fetish.  

Not for pain relief, exactly, but for curing broken people, for fixing them. 

Gender apparently didn’t matter for Wilson, he just needed to be needed that bad. 

He gravitated toward the hopeless cases, those who would suck the life out of him but keep him fulfilled in the process. House was no different in that sense. Except now, Wilson wasn’t just helping him; he was enjoying it.

The idea of Wilson getting off on easing his pain was simultaneously disturbing and fascinating. It explained so much: why Wilson’s marriages fell apart when his partners stopped needing him, why he never knew when to stop giving, and now, why his hands lingered just a little too long on House’s thigh. House smirked at the thought.

This theory needed proof.

The next night, after dinner, House let Wilson take his usual place on the side of the bed, sleeves already rolled up. As Wilson started kneading the knots out of his leg, House paid attention to every detail: the subtle flush creeping up Wilson’s neck, the way he wet his lips when House winced, the soft sigh when House muttered: “That’s better.”

Wilson gulped.

“Something wrong, Wilson?” House asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet.

The oncologist paused, his hands hovering over House’s thigh. “What? No. Why?”

House leaned his head back, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “You’re unusually quiet. That’s all.”

“I’m focusing.” Wilson said, too quickly. He returned to his work, but his hands were stiffer now, his movements less fluid.

Interesting. House filed that reaction away, his smirk widening.

Over the next week, House started experimenting. He exaggerated his pain some nights, groaning more loudly than necessary when Wilson hit the right spots. Other times, he’d stretch luxuriously after a particularly effective massage, letting out a low moan that he knew sounded just suggestive enough.

Wilson, predictably, got more flustered. He’d stammer when House asked him a direct question or drop the occasional, “Do you want me to stop?”, as if House hadn’t spent years mocking him for his oversensitivity.

“No, keep going,” House would say, his tone laced with mock innocence. “You’re so good at this.”

Wilson’s flush would deepen every time.

House’s plan was simple, if not slightly juvenile: pay a rotating cast of women from the clinic to flirt with Wilson during their appointments. From college students with sprained wrists to middle-aged moms battling sinus infections, each was subtly coached to compliment Wilson: his smile, his bedside manner, his supposed charm. 

House sat in on the visits under the guise of hiding from Cuddy, slouched in the corner with a clipboard and a smug grin, watching the experiment unfold.

The results were infuriatingly consistent. Wilson didn’t take the bait.

Every compliment was met with a polite smile and a quiet “thank you”, followed by a seamless redirection to their medical concerns. He never lingered on the attention, never encouraged it, and certainly never reciprocated in a way that could be considered out of line. No blushes, no nervous stammering, just classic Wilson: professional, kind, and annoyingly wholesome.

It wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be. House’s brow furrowed as he scribbled on his clipboard during a particularly enthusiastic attempt from a young woman with a broken ankle who gushed about how lucky her future husband would be to have a doctor like Wilson. Wilson smiled, deflected, and then asked how her pain was on a scale from one to ten, completely unfazed.

Either Wilson was a saint, or House was aiming in the wrong direction. Maybe Wilson wasn’t into men but was into fixing broken men, such as himself, that was the only explanation he could come up with for how intense Wilson’s care would be when it came to his leg.

His plan B was flawless. Or at least, it was flawless in House’s mind, a place where schemes were rarely burdened by ethics or practicality. If Wilson didn’t respond to the charming advances of various women, maybe House was targeting the wrong gender entirely. The next logical step? Enlist the help of someone who fit Wilson’s supposed “type” : a man who was broken, both physically and emotionally, and who oozed charisma.

That was where Dr. Andrew Stevens came in.

Stevens, the head of pediatrics, was the perfect candidate. A devastatingly handsome man in a wheelchair, he carried himself with an effortless confidence that clashed spectacularly with House’s sarcasm and abrasiveness. 

Their banter over the years had become legendary among the hospital staff, House’s jabs met with Stevens’s sharp, catty comebacks. Stevens’s reputation as a snappy dresser and his unapologetic openness about being gay made him a natural choice for House’s latest experiment.

Not that he needed any coming out, his face and fashionable haircut spoke volumes for him.

House found Stevens in the cafeteria during the late afternoon lull, sitting at a table with his lunch tray and a copy of The New Yorker. Stevens glanced up when House rolled up to him, a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth.

“This is a rare sight.” Stevens said, arching a perfectly groomed brow. “The great Dr. House, gracing us common folk with his presence. I assume you’re here to ruin my afternoon?”

House smirked, dropping into the chair across from him without invitation. “ “Ruin” implies I care about your feelings. Let’s call it an opportunistic interruption.”

Stevens set his spoon down and folded his hands neatly. “Right. So, what do you want?”

House leaned back, feigning casualness. “You’re a man of many talents, Stevens. Quick wit, impeccable fashion sense, and an undeniable ability to turn heads when you speed down the hallway with your ride.”

Stevens squinted at him. “Cut the foreplay, House. What are you trying to con me into?”

“Hit on Wilson.” House said bluntly.

There was a beat of silence. Then Stevens let out a short, incredulous laugh.
“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.” House said, his tone breezy. “He’s overdue for some male attention, and I think you’re just the man for the job.”

Stevens’s expression turned from amused to annoyed in record time. “Let me get this straight, well, not too straight, obviously, you want me to flirt with your best friend?”

“Not flirt,” House corrected, holding up a finger. “Hit on. There’s a difference.”

Stevens crossed his arms, staring at House as if he were an alien who had just crash-landed in the cafeteria. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“For science.”

Stevens snorted, sitting back in his chair.

"If you want to know if he's cheating on you, ask someone else. I'm not helping you," Stevens said flatly, his tone heavy with annoyance.

House feigned a wounded expression. “I’m just trying to be a wingman. He’s been a bit sad and lonely lately, I thought I should give him a hand.”

Stevens arched a brow. “Then why does he need my hand if he already has yours?”

“We’re not an item.”

Stevens blinked, looking genuinely surprised for the first time. “Seriously?”

“Are you seriously skipping an occasion to couple up with the boy-wonder oncologist?”

Stevens smirked, leaning back in his wheelchair. “Since when does he bat for our team?”

House tilted his head, giving Stevens an exaggerated look of exasperation. “Wouldn’t that be implied in the assumption that he’s dating me?”

The pediatrician narrowed his eyes. “And why would he be interested in me?”

“Why can’t he be? Do you think we don’t deserve love like any other able-bodied person in this cafeteria?”

“Oh, cut it, princess, I don’t have time for this.”

House leaned forward again, narrowing his eyes. 

“He might like you,” he said, rolling his eyes as if annoyed by Stevens’s obtuseness. Then, lowering his voice, he added, “Look, he made a throwaway comment about how you look much hotter now that you’ve grown out your beard.”

Stevens paused, his expression shifting just slightly. “That’s it?”

House groaned. 

“God, you’re picky for someone your stature.” Stevens shot him a glare. House held up a hand in mock surrender. “Fine. He said you’re great with kids. He likes people that have a soft spot for little pests.”

Stevens crossed his arms, clearly still unconvinced. “And you’re telling me all this because, what? You want my parking spot?”

“I want you to go to town with my best friend so he can forget about his tragically deceased ex-girlfriend.” House said bluntly, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

Stevens drummed his fingers on the table, considering. “What time does he get off?”

“He has a meeting at 6:15, then should go home unless someone else sweeps him off his feet in the meantime.”

Stevens smirked. “Technically, you have a meeting as well. And so do I, since it’s for Department Heads.”

“You’re not as charming as you think you are.” House muttered, rising to his feet and tapping his cane on the floor as he turned to leave.

“And yet you keep coming back.” Stevens called after him, a smug grin spreading across his face as he returned to his soup.

The conference room was filled with the usual hum of pre-meeting chatter, but House’s focus was elsewhere. He leaned against the wall near the back of the room, ostensibly ignoring the proceedings while surreptitiously observing the seating arrangements. Sure enough, Stevens had rolled up to a spot beside Wilson, and the two were talking in low voices.

Stevens was all charm: leaning slightly toward Wilson, his expression a practiced mixture of warmth and interest. Wilson, ever the polite conversationalist, smiled and nodded as he responded, occasionally glancing at the agenda but always returning his focus to Stevens.

As the meeting concluded, House lingered, pretending to shuffle through papers he didn’t care about. Stevens and Wilson exited together, still chatting, their pace leisurely. Just before reaching the elevators, Stevens gestured to a quieter spot in the hallway.

House moved closer, lingering near the vending machines under the guise of needing a snack he had no intention of buying. From his vantage point, he watched as Wilson sat down on the bench beside Stevens, likely to bring himself to eye level, something that could have easily come off as patronizing if done by anyone else. But with Wilson, it seemed natural, effortless, like he belonged there.

Their conversation continued, punctuated by occasional gestures from Stevens and a steady stream of Wilson’s attentive nods. At one point, Wilson placed a hand lightly on Stevens’s forearm. The touch wasn’t overly familiar, but it was undeniably warm, enough to make House’s eyebrows twitch upward.

When Wilson finally walked away, Stevens didn’t follow. Wilson's expression remained unreadable ad he made his way towards the vending machines.

Wilson stopped beside House, looking faintly puzzled.

“Do you have any idea why Stevens from Pediatrics asked me out for drinks?” He asked, watching house pressing buttons on the machine.

House smirked, leaning casually on his cane. “Word must be spreading that you’re still single.”

Wilson frowned, crossing his arms. “I didn’t realize I looked that depressed, to the point of earning pity from colleagues I barely talk to.”

House tilted his head, scrutinizing him. “Why does it have to be pity?”

Wilson blinked, thrown off by the question, and House felt a flicker of triumph. It was just the response he’d been hoping for.

The next day, House limped into Wilson’s office, letting the door close with an audible click . Without waiting for an invitation, he dropped heavily into the guest chair, his cane leaning against the side of the desk. Wilson glanced up briefly, acknowledging House’s presence with a weary sigh before returning to the stack of paperwork in front of him.

House watched him in silence for a moment, twirling his cane idly before finally leaning back with a loud sigh of his own. Wilson, clearly expecting this, didn’t even look up as he spoke.

“I went out with Stevens last night.”

House’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Liberace on wheels?”

Wilson finally looked up, a mix of annoyance and resignation on his face. “I think he wanted to have sex with me.”

House grinned. “Guess you’ll finally answer the question of whether or not he just looks like a bottom or is one as well.”

Wilson set his pen down and narrowed his eyes. “The mystery remains because I did not sleep with him.”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean, why not ?”

“He’s not ugly.”

Wilson stared at him, incredulous, flailing his hand between them. “Is this... a bit? I’m not gay.”

“You need to expand your horizons, especially after wife number three starts draining your account. You might want to look into same-sex affairs. At least you won’t get married again.”

Wilson cocked his head to the side. “You’re very thoughtful, but he’s not my type.”

“Is it because of the mechanical attachment?”

Wilson frowned, confused. “What... you mean the wheelchair?”

“His booster seat, yeah.”

Wilson gave him a flat look, raising his hands. “It’s not- no. It’s not because of that. That’s the least of my problems, actually.”

“ Is it? ”

Wilson narrowed his eyes. “The issue more likely resides in the fact he has a penis.”

“He might not have one, depending on how he lost his legs.”

“You’re teetering a very dangerous line today.”

“Hey, I can say that. I have disabled friends!”

Wilson sighed, leaning back in his chair. “The night wasn’t awful, all things considered. I had fun.”

House’s face shifted into a mock-serious expression. “Are you breaking up with me?”

Wilson let out a short laugh. “I could never. I don’t want Stevens dead before dawn.”

“I would finally have his parking spot. Is this how you’re gonna announce my replacement with a younger cripple?”

Wilson rolled his eyes again. “I can’t even express positive emotions about a colleague without you flashing your fangs and mentally listing their weaknesses.”

“We’re at war, Wilson! Casualties are inevitable.”

Wilson shook his head, chuckling despite himself. He paused for a moment, his eyes on the paperwork, then shrugged. “He’s fun. He has a good sense of humor.”

“At least tell me I’m better endowed.”

“Again, I haven’t been anywhere near his penis.”

“You’re losing your touch.”

“You’re sending mixed signals. Do you want me to sleep with him?”

House feigned innocence with a shrug. “You’ve been single for too long, and you get jittery when you don’t get laid. If I have to plow that furrow myself, then so be it.”

Wilson held up a hand. “I’m fine! I’m completely fine with my sex life.”

“Or its lack thereof.”

“I’ve had hookups since Amber.”

“But none of them meaningful enough to prevent you from considering switching teams. “ He earned a glare from the oncologist, which made him smirk victoriously. “So... how did you turn him down?”

Wilson sighed, leaning forward on his desk. “I just told him I wasn’t interested.”

“You didn’t give him a reason?”

“I said I wasn’t ready. I’ve just gotten out of a serious relationship, and I didn’t want to rush myself- which is true, to some extent.”

House knit his eyebrows.

“You didn’t think to mention the fact you’re not gay?”

“He doesn’t need to know that. I don’t want to break his heart.”

House raised his eyebrows, impressed despite himself, placing a mocking hand on his chest. “You’re so noble.”

Wilson smirked. “You might not know this, but there is something called ‘turning people down gently and politely.’ It’s still a new concept; you might not have heard of it from the confines of your bat cave.”

“I would’ve told him he could’ve been my type exactly if it hadn’t been for the wheelchair.”

Wilson scoffed. “And they say you’re not an empath.”

“Like I said, not a problem. He’s very straightforward about how to engage with it.” Wilson’s tone shifted, becoming reflective. “He just... gave me clear directions on how to behave, and he’s very vocal about his needs. He tells people to move out of his way when they get cut off. He scolds people when they act out of line with him or infantilize him. I almost pushed his chair when we were leaving the bar, and he told me to absolutely never do that again. Or that he hates when people bend over or sit down to speak to him. I like that. I like that he advocates for himself.”

House rolled his eyes dramatically. “I have the sense this conversation is turning into a lecture.”

“Oh, you should advocate for yourself less. You let your thoughts be too known.”

“I thought you liked that.”

“I like that he is himself, genuinely, in every sense. And he’s not ashamed of it.”

“Here comes the lecture.”

“I’m just saying he behaves very differently.”

“Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean he is any different than the rest of us.”

“He doesn’t treat his disability like a burden he needs to apologize for.”

“I’ve never apologized for a single thing in my life.”

“He doesn’t let it affect his confidence.”

“Right. Maybe you would like me better if I came out of the closet.”

“Or you could take my words in context.”

House snorted. “Maybe if you complimented my dashing looks more often, I’d be less insecure about my body. You didn’t even notice I got highlights.” He paused, then smirked again. “So… you liked him. You enjoyed his confidence, his sense of humor, you laughed at his jokes, thought he was funny and had fun with him, and you turned him down just because he was a man.”

“Yes, that miniscule detail. What can I say? I’m picky.”

“Would you have slept with him if he’d been a woman?”

“Would I have become a doctor if people could just cure themselves at home?”

“You know what I mean.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Oh, I know what you mean, but I’m not gonna fall for your tricks and admit anything you might use against me.”

“So you would’ve.”

“Too bad he isn’t a woman.”

“You probably would’ve married her.”

Wilson sighed heavily. “What’s going on with you today? Are you that bored? Do you not have a case?”

House leaned back in the chair, rubbing his leg absentmindedly. “I have one, but it’s boring.” He winced slightly. “It’s bad.”

Wilson’s expression softened, concern flickering across his face as he glanced at House’s leg. “Do you want me to—?”

House waved him off. “Not now.”

“I can lock the door.”

House’s smirk grew.

“You already went on a date with the queen of pediatrics, do you want nurses to talk even more?”

“I don’t care.” The oncologist said, genuinely. “Seriously, I have oil.”

“Do you jerk off under the desk often?”

“It’s for you.”

“You think of me when you jerk off under the desk?”

“Do you want the massage or not? I have a patient in thirty minutes.”

“Tonight. Bring Gino’s.”

“Fine.”

House pushed himself up to his feet but took a moment to stand in front of the desk and whisper a genuine: “Thank you.”

Wilson looked up, his brown eyes surprised and tender as his cheeks seemed to turn imperceptibly pinker.

That night, the room was dimly lit, with the bedside lamp casting a soft glow over the space. House lay on his stomach, his hands folded over his stomach, his eyes on the ceiling, as Wilson worked his hands over the knots in his leg. The tension in the air was almost tangible, though Wilson’s hands moved with their usual precision and care.

House had been unusually quiet throughout the massage, letting Wilson focus on his task. His hands pressed firmly into the muscles of House’s thigh, the rhythmic motion almost lulling them both into a relaxed state.

Then House spoke.

“Do you think Stevens is more of a cat or a dog person?”

The suddenness of his voice made Wilson jolt, his fingers slipping awkwardly as he lost his balance and his hand inadvertently pressed against House’s crotch for the briefest moment.

Wilson froze, his face turning crimson as he scrambled backward. “Sorry! God, I thought you were asleep.” His voice was rushed, flustered. “Sorry about- you startled me.”

House propped himself up slightly, turning his head to study Wilson, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “If you want to take Ingrid’s job, you just have to say it.”

“I don’t.” Wilson said quickly, his words tumbling over themselves. He held up his hands defensively. “You just scared me, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting you to still be awake.”

House’s eyes narrowed slightly, his sharp gaze locking on Wilson’s face, reading every flicker of emotion there. The way Wilson was blushing furiously and avoiding direct eye contact didn’t go unnoticed.

“I won’t interrupt you anymore.” House said, inviting him to get back to work.

Wilson cleared his throat and finished the massage in record time, his movements hurried and lacking their usual precision. “There. All done,” he said hastily, pulling back and standing up. “I need to wash my hands.”

He practically bolted for the bathroom, leaving House lying there, one eyebrow arched in curiosity. The sound of running water came a moment later, and House listened as it went on and on, much longer than necessary.

When Wilson finally walked back by his room, he avoided looking directly at House. “I’ll be on the couch if you need me.” he mumbled, heading for the hallway.

“Get me some water, will you?” House called, stopping him in his tracks. Wilson hesitated, his hand on the doorframe. 

Wilson nodded without a word and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned with a glass, he handed it over quickly, his eyes fixed firmly on a spot on the wall.

“Thanks.” House said, casually trying to glance downward at Wilson’s crotch, but before he could get a proper look, his friend turned and practically fled the room.

“Goodnight.” Wilson called over his shoulder, already halfway down the hall.

“Night, Wilson.” House replied, his tone thoughtful as his eyes lingered on the door. A slow smile crept across his face as he set the glass down on the nightstand.

House couldn't stop himself from diving deeper into the experiment. His obsession with proving his theory had reached new heights.

The first step: the blind woman . House paid an actress to wear dark glasses, put on a hesitant demeanor, and approach Wilson under the pretense of needing help walking. She was instructed to ask Wilson for assistance getting from the parking lot to the hospital entrance.

Wilson, as expected, took her arm without hesitation. He didn’t hesitate to offer comfort and polite conversation, his voice warm as he guided her through the parking lot with steady, practiced hands. House observed closely from behind the reception desk, scrutinizing every nuance of Wilson’s actions. The result? Nothing. Wilson wasn't blushing, there was no awkwardness, no arousal. Just professionalism, typical, expected, boring professionalism.

House was undeterred. This was only the beginning.

Next, House recruited one of his trusted contacts, a hooker who owed him a favor, and told her to pose as a clinic patient. He’d arranged for her to pretend to be in a wheelchair, with the intention of seducing Wilson. The setup was flawless. The woman flirted, gave Wilson all the signals, but once again, Wilson was not swayed. He remained composed, helping her with her needs in the clinic with absolutely no sign of interest beyond professional care. It was an utter failure.

House gritted his teeth, but his resolve only strengthened. The more Wilson resisted, the more House was convinced that he was on to something. So, he escalated. He approached a woman in the cafeteria with a broken leg and crutches, casually mentioning that Wilson had recently become single. The woman, intrigued and somewhat sympathetic to his situation, took the bait and approached Wilson. She flirted with him, laughing at his jokes, leaning in just a little too close. And then, finally, she gave him her number.

Wilson returned to the table, looking smug rather than flustered, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t seem rattled or overwhelmed by the attention. Instead, he looked like a man who had just been offered dessert at a fine restaurant, pleased, but completely composed. He didn’t even mention the woman’s advances, as if they were completely normal.

But once again, Wilson wasn’t reacting in any way that House could interpret as attraction, much less excitement.

House's attempts grew more extravagant. He tried bribing more clinic patients to put on performances for him, thinking maybe it was just bad luck, or perhaps the wrong people. 

But many flat-out refused, telling him it wasn’t their scene or they didn’t want to be part of his strange experiments. The more rejection House faced, the more frustrated he became. Nothing was working the way he had imagined.

His latest attempt, though, seemed to be his best shot yet—he just needed to find the right person, the right situation, and the right moment.

The next evening, Wilson was approaching his car, keys in hand, when a woman waved at him from across the lot. “Dr. Wilson!”

Wilson turned, his brow furrowing slightly as he watched the bald woman walk towards him. 

“You sat in for a consultation with Dr. Brown a few months ago. I’m his patient.” She kindly explained. She was very pretty.

“Oh, right,” Wilson said, looking apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry, I’m bad with faces.”

“Erica Williams.” She extended her hand, he shook it carefully with a smile.

“Right, yes.” He hesitated, his tone softening. 

“Lung, stage two.”

“I’m sorry.” He pressed his lips into a thin line as their hands separated. 

“It’s alright,” Erica said with a weak smile. “I just wanted to say ‘hi.’ You were so kind to me when we met last time.”

Wilson smiled warmly, feeling even more guilty for not remembering her. “Oh, thank you, Erica. I’m glad you remember me fondly.”

“Who doesn’t?” she said lightly, glancing at her watch. “I guess I’ll go then. My bus should arrive in four minutes, hopefully.”

Wilson’s keys dangled in his hand as he took a step closer. “Do you need a ride?”

“Oh, you don’t have to.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause I can drop you off, no problem.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course.”

Erica hesitated, then smiled gratefully. “Okay, thank you.”

Wilson opened the passenger door and helped Erica inside. 

He pulled up to a bustling restaurant. Erica gestured toward it, saying, “My friend works here, and I told her I’d drop by.”

Wilson glanced at the restaurant’s sign, he knew it well, it was House’s favorite Korean place. “Oh, this is one of my favorite restaurants.”

“Really? You should come in, then. My treat for the ride.” She grinned, but Wilson waved the offer off.

“Let’s make it my treat.” he said, surprising himself as he decided to follow her inside.

Dinner was pleasant, even charming. Wilson found himself laughing at Erica’s stories, enjoying her quick wit and easy conversation. They flirted lightly, and though Wilson couldn’t quite shake a nagging sense of something being off, he attributed it to his lingering reservations about getting back into the dating pool.

When they returned to the car, Erica lingered. “Thank you for tonight,” she said softly, stepping closer. 

Before Wilson could respond, she leaned in and kissed him.

At first, he tried to resist, mumbling something about professionalism, but she silenced him with a smile and another kiss. Wilson gave in, his hands gently brushing against her face as their kiss deepened.

That’s when he felt it, something strange near her ear. His thumb caught on an edge that didn’t feel like skin. His finger felt like it was sticking to her face. He pulled back, frowning as he glanced at his hand, and then at her.

He notices the pad of his thumb was attached to some sort of adhesive. He slowly pulled his thumb back and her skin followed.

He stared in horror for a moment until the skin teared open and a patch of hair popped out.

Erica’s hand flew up to cover the spot, relief and terror in equal measure washing over Wilson as he realized it was a bald cap starting to peel off.

 “I-I have to go!” she stammered, turning and running down the sidewalk.

Wilson stood frozen for a moment, the bizarre scene playing out in his head. Relief and irritation warred within him. Relief that she wasn’t actually sick, but irritation and confusion over why someone would go to such lengths to deceive him.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, and climbed into his car. He clenched his jaw with frustration. This had his fingerprints all over it.

When he returned home, he marched to House’s bedroom, only to find it empty.

He went to bed furious, House still hadn’t come back.

Wilson stormed into the Diagnostics department, his face tight with frustration. The team was gathered around the whiteboard, discussing the latest case, but House barely glanced up from his desk, tapping his cane rhythmically against the floor.

“I have to admit,” Wilson started, his voice low and tense, “you’ve officially raised the stakes vertiginously.”

The team exchanged looks, sensing trouble. House finally lifted his gaze, raising an eyebrow. “Are you complimenting my outfit? I’m trying something new.”

Wilson didn’t acknowledge the sarcasm. “Hiring hookers to wear bald caps and seduce me?” he snapped, walking up to the whiteboard and staring House down.

The team, already wary of House’s usual antics, tensed as House shifted in his chair, slowly leaning forward with a smirk. “I admit that’s hilarious, but why would I do that?”

“I never know why with you! Prank war? Humiliation ritual? Who can say?” Wilson shot back, his tone clipped.

Chase, leaning against the table, raised a brow, oblivious. “Why would the hooker have to be bald?”

House grinned like a cat that caught the canary. 

“She pretended to be Dr. Brown’s patient, terminal lung cancer. She even coughed when going up the stairs.” Wilson continued, throwing his hand up.

“She’s dedicated.” Thirteen remarked, impressed.

“Because she was hired.” Wilson deadpanned, looking directly at House for his reaction.

The diagnostician didn’t bite. “Why would I pay for a bald chick to bang you?”

“Don’t act like it’s so out of character for you!” Wilson rolled his eyes.

“Why would I pay one when there’s plenty that would do it for free?” House countered, raising an eyebrow, though the tension was already cracking a little.

“Oh, she was wearing a bald cap to pretend to be on chemo.” Chase said, piecing it together with an awkward laugh. “That’s cool.”

The team glared at him.

Wilson looked around the room, clearly done with the conversation, but not quite able to let it go. 

“How did you know it was a bald cap?” Taub asked.

“Must’ve come off in the throes of increasing pleasure,” House said mockingly, tilting his head back with a smirk.

“You should've used better adhesive on her.”

House’s grin widened. “Maybe you’re too passionate of a lover.”

Wilson shot him a look that could’ve frozen water. “Just admit it already, so I can tell my assistant to stop writing the Stalking Report.”

“I genuinely don’t see the point in wasting money on any of this,” House responded nonchalantly. “And none of my hookers are good enough actresses to pull that off. If they were, they wouldn't need me as their client.”

“I’m not defending him,” Thirteen quickly interjected, “but he was here last night for the case.”

Wilson narrowed his eyes at her, clearly frustrated. “Don’t defend him.”

Chase, enjoying the chaos, added, “I think you might have a very dedicated stalker, mate.”

“See? The ducklings agree,” House said with a sly grin, knowing he had the upper hand now.

“They would agree with anything as long as you validate them,” Wilson countered, clearly done with the conversation. He folded his arms and glared at House. “Foreman?”

“Don’t bring me into this,” Foreman muttered, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked at the scene unfolding in front of him.

House motioned dramatically toward Taub. “Tiebreaker?”

Wilson was now giving House a look that was part exhaustion, part annoyance. 

“He was here ‘til three in the morning.”

Wilson shrugged, unfazed. “He could’ve planned it ahead.”

“I’m sure he could've, but I don’t see the point in doing all of this,” Taub said, voice flat, though there was a flicker of curiosity beneath his irritation. “Although, I could say that about most of the pranks you two get involved in.”

House sat back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “Five against one.”

Wilson didn’t flinch, but instead pointed a finger at him. “I don’t trust you.”

House had been working his angles all day, his eyes watching Wilson carefully, observing how people interacted with him. He’d even gone so far as to approach a few of Wilson’s patients, mostly women, asking, with his usual bluntness, if they found him attractive. Some of them had been scandalized by the question, while others just smiled and blushed, their expressions flattered.

He pushed a little further, asking if any of them had tried flirting with Wilson. Most patients were kind enough to say they hadn’t, but House had been able to pick out the few who had. He kept up the pretense, telling them that he just wanted to make sure Wilson was recovering properly after the tragic death of his last girlfriend. He wanted to ensure Wilson wasn’t hiding away, that he was still open to moving on, even if the doctor himself didn’t see it that way. The pity in their eyes was palpable.

Later that day, House was walking out of the OR with urgency when Wilson caught up to him. He hadn’t even heard him approach, too lost in his own thoughts.

“Did you go around telling my patients that I’m single?” Wilson’s voice was quiet but sharp, the frustration clear.

House grinned, barely looking at him. “Rumors spread like wildfire these days.” 

He shifted his weight on the cane, moving a little quicker down the hallway. He had to admit, it was always fun pushing Wilson’s buttons.

Wilson huffed in exasperation, his voice low as he muttered, “I’ve had three women over sixty rubbing my arm and telling me there’s still time.”

“For you to find a fourth Mrs. Wilson or for them to get banged one last time before they go?” House threw a glance at him, then smirked.

Wilson sighed, half annoyed, half embarrassed, but continued walking beside him.

“I didn’t want to ask.” House glanced over at him, amused by Wilson’s reluctance. “Seriously, why are you so interested in getting me laid? I’m doing fine.”

“Not really,” House muttered under his breath. He didn’t even try to hide his smirk as he glanced sideways at Wilson. “You almost slept with a stalker. You’re one boner away from renting a sex doll.”

Wilson hissed: “No, I’m not. Lower your voice.”

“They all know, Wilson.” House continued, his voice getting louder with his confidence. “If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be itching to get a chance to jump you. They’re running background checks on you and faking terminal illness just to get into your pa-”

As House spoke, he felt his sneaker slip under him, and before he could stop it, his cane didn’t catch his fall in time. He stumbled back, his body lurching with force. He only noticed the ‘Wet Floor’ sign as he collided with the ground. His shoulder hit it first, and then the rest of his body made an unpleasant thud as his ass hit the slick tile.

The noise was loud enough to make the few passersby stop in their tracks, but the real impact was on Wilson. He froze, his eyes widening in alarm, and his papers dropped to the floor. Without missing a beat, Wilson rushed to House’s side, his usual professional demeanor replaced by an urgent worry.

“House? House, are you okay?” Wilson’s voice was sharp, but his hands were gentle, helping House slowly back to his feet.

House gritted his teeth, trying to hide the pain as Wilson steadied him. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He hadn’t wanted to make a fool of himself or hurt himself to prove his theory, but here they were.

Instead of focusing on the sharp pain radiating up from his hip, House let himself be supported by Wilson, feeling the warmth of his hands on his arm and shoulder, the way he kept asking him if he was okay, the intensity in his eyes. 

Wilson wasn’t just helping him get back on his feet—he was carefully guiding him, paying attention to the smallest shifts in House’s expression, the way he winced slightly at the pain.

Wilson was practically holding him up as they moved toward the elevator, his grip firm but gentle, guiding him like he was afraid House might collapse. House noticed the flush on the oncologist’s cheeks, the way his breath was a little more rapid, but most of all, House noticed how his pupils were a little wider than usual. His care, his concern, it was all so obvious. It made House feel something that he wasn’t ready to process.

When they finally reached House’s office, Wilson helped him into his Eames lounge chair, his hands lingering a little longer than necessary before he pulled away. He was sitting right next to him, on the footrest part of the chair, hovering just enough that House couldn’t escape his attention.

Wilson kept asking him questions, but House wasn’t really listening. The dull ache in his hip was nothing compared to the way Wilson’s gaze stayed on him, warm and soft. His cheeks were still pink, and House couldn’t help but notice how close they were. The tension between them felt different.

Wilson kept trying to get House’s attention, but the older doctor couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. He felt the heat of Wilson’s touch on his forearm as he placed a hand there, steadying him, making sure he was still paying attention.

“House, are you okay?” Wilson repeated, a little firmer this time.

House blinked, trying to shake off the thoughts swirling in his mind, but when he looked up at Wilson again, there was nothing but care in his eyes. No awkwardness. No tension. Just... tenderness. 

House’s mouth went dry, and for the first time that day, he felt something else, something he wasn’t used to feeling, especially not with Wilson. His expression was soft, and House had no idea how to process any of it. He wasn’t sure how to respond, not with the way Wilson was looking at him, not with that hand still resting on his arm.

“Yeah,” House finally muttered, his voice rough, “I’m fine.” 

House leaned back in his chair, his body still sore from the fall, but his mind had shifted. The silence stretched between them before Wilson cleared his throat and spoke again.

“I have a thing tonight, but I can cancel it if you need my help.” he offered, standing up from the chair, looking down at him with an expression that was half concerned, half uncertain, his movements hesitant as if unsure if he should leave or stay.

“No. You don’t have to.” House dismissed him with a wave of his hand, not quite looking up. He was trying to brush it off, but then the thought hit him. He looked up at Wilson, his brow furrowing. “What thing?”

Wilson paused for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he didn’t want to reveal too much. “I’m just… I’m going out,” he said with a shrug, trying to deflect the question, his voice a little less sure than before.

“Without me?” House couldn’t help the slight edge to his voice, even though he was trying to hide it behind the usual sarcasm.

“With Stevens.” Wilson replied quickly, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Huh.” House’s voice had gone flat, even though his mind was racing. He could feel the unease creeping in, the small pang of something that didn’t quite sit right in his chest. 

Wilson shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation now. 

“It seemed rude to not return the favor,” he said, looking away, suddenly very invested in the edge of the chair, like it held all the answers.

“Right.” House stared at him for a long moment, his lips pressing together in an unreadable expression. He wasn’t sure what was happening, why it bothered him so much, why this felt like more than just a casual statement. He didn’t usually care who Wilson went out with, but tonight, the idea of him going out with Stevens hit a little differently.

Wilson shifted again, looking like he was about to say something else, but House cut him off before he could continue.

“But, again, I can totally tell him I’m busy-” Wilson started, then stopped when House gave him a pointed look.

“Don’t. Just go.” House’s voice was flat, but his eyes narrowed slightly as if to suggest he wasn’t going to push it any further. He didn’t want to appear possessive or needy, but it was hard to ignore the strange tug of frustration that had crept up inside him.

Wilson hesitated, clearly still unsure. “Maybe we can hang out later?”

“Sure,” House replied, his tone lacking enthusiasm but not dismissing the offer entirely. He shrugged, trying to play it cool, but the thought of Wilson going out, leaving him alone again, still lingered in the back of his mind. “Whatever.”

Wilson gave him a small, apologetic smile, but House noticed the way he shifted his weight again, still unsure if he should leave.

“Okay. But call me if you need anything,” he said, his voice softening, the care evident once again in his eyes.

“Thanks, mom.” House muttered, rolling his eyes but trying to mask the vulnerability that came with hearing Wilson’s concern. He didn’t need a ride, he didn’t need anything, but Wilson’s offer lingered in the air, as if he knew something House wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge.

Wilson chuckled quietly at the nickname, his lips curving into a brief smile. “It goes without saying, but I’m driving you home later.”

House stiffened slightly, then leaned back in the chair with a halfhearted smirk.

“It’s not that serious.” he muttered, though his words didn’t match the way he was feeling. He was trying to downplay it, like usual, but deep down, he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Wilson or himself.

“Just let me-” Wilson said, his tone soft but firm, a quiet insistence that said more than his words. It was as if Wilson wasn’t going to let him refuse, as if he’d already made up his mind about taking care of him, no matter how much House tried to push him away.

House could hear the soft shuffle of Wilson’s footsteps as he walked toward the door, but before he could leave, Wilson paused just for a second, looking over his shoulder. 

“I’ll be back later, alright?”

House opened his eyes just enough to catch his gaze, a brief, silent exchange passing between them. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he replied, but his words were softer this time, the usual bravado slipping away.

With one last look, Wilson nodded, his smile still there, but it was tinged with something else, something House wasn’t ready to deal with.

“Yeah.” House murmured, watching as Wilson disappeared from view. He was left alone, the silence wrapping around him like a heavy blanket.

Wilson drove House home in silence, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. House shifted in the seat, his leg aching from the fall earlier. He had never liked being driven around, but tonight, with everything that had been happening, he appreciated his best friend’s insistence.

When they reached the condo, Wilson turned off the car and immediately began to get out, clearly eager to get inside. He helped House in, against his will, and House was grateful for it.

His leg did really hurt, he didn’t want to admit it, he felt ashamed about how it had all gone down but he was clenching his jaw and teetering the edge of tears when Wilson gently lowered him onto the couch.

Once sure he was okay, Wilson rushed to shower.

When he walked back into the living room, House couldn’t help but notice how he was dressed sharply, well-tailored jacket, dark slacks, shoes polished to a shine. There was a hint of cologne too, something subtle but sophisticated. Wilson’s usual comfort was replaced with an almost meticulous effort.

House raised an eyebrow as he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “I thought you weren’t looking for a fourth Mrs. Wilson.”

Wilson shot him a brief look as he adjusted his watch, he’d worn one from his expensive collection. “It’s just a night out. Don’t make it weird.”

“Wear any more Chanel Allure Sport pour Homme and people will mistake you for a mall clerk.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, stepping past him into the apartment, but then he paused at the coathanger to turn and look at House. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice soft but serious, his brow furrowed with genuine concern.

House stared at him for a long moment, surprised by the sudden shift in Wilson’s attitude. He’d dressed to impress. This wasn’t just a friendly outing. This was something deeper, something House couldn’t quite place. But instead of feeling pride in the fact Wilson’s behavior could be confirming his theory, all House felt was a wave of disappointment. He was sure he should feel something else, but instead, all he could focus on was how excited Wilson seemed right now, the way he had a foot already towards the door. House waved him off with a dismissive hand.

“I’m fine,” House muttered, his leg throbbing again. He rubbed his thigh to soothe the pain as he flicked on the TV, not really paying attention to what was on, just letting the noise fill the space.

Wilson didn’t argue. He just nodded, and without another word, disappeared into the bedroom to change. House focused on the dull ache in his leg, trying to distract himself. The TV wasn’t holding his attention, but he kept watching, waiting for Wilson to return, even though he wasn’t sure why.

Hours later, Wilson finally came back. It was late, way later than House had expected. When he entered, he looked surprised to see House still awake, sitting on the couch, waiting for him.

The oncologist’s hair was messy, his shirt slightly untucked, his face a little flushed. He looked ruffled, as if something about the night had thrown him off, but not in a way that he was letting on.

He froze for a moment when he saw House, and House took note of how quickly he set down his coat. 

“Hey, how are you doing?”

“Did he rob you?” House asked, his voice dry but curious.

Wilson blinked at him, a nervous laugh escaping him. “I don’t think so.” 

“Okay. Then, did you run all the way here?” House’s tone was sharp, skeptical. He was trying to make light of it, but there was something about Wilson’s sudden appearance that made House uneasy.

“I’m fine, House. Just tired.” Wilson was trying to downplay it, but his exhaustion was evident, in the way his shoulders slumped and his movements were slower than usual.

“How did it go?” House asked, not missing the way Wilson was still avoiding his gaze.

“Good.” Wilson replied briefly, as he sat down on the couch next to House, leaning back with a sigh. His body language was all about retreating, as if trying to shield himself from whatever conversation was about to happen.

“Good.” House repeated, his eyebrow raising in suspicion. Something wasn’t adding up. “That’s it?”

“Yeah. It was perfectly fine,” Wilson said, but there was a subtle shift in his voice that House couldn’t ignore. He could tell he was lying or hiding something.

“What happened?” House asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Nothing happened. We just had a few drinks at a bar and talked.” Wilson’s response was quick, but his gaze flickered to the heating pad House had placed on his leg. He seemed to notice House’s discomfort, and for a split second, his face softened. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice gentle.

“Great,” House replied, brushing off the concern. He needed to focus on something else, so he returned to his interrogation, his eyes now fixed on Wilson’s neck. He saw the telltale signs of a bruise, barely visible but definitely there. “You know, I always figured he’d be boring.”

Wilson laughed, though it was tight, nervous. “He’s not.”

“Right, how can someone who gives their colleagues hickeys in a bar be boring?” House’s words were cutting, meant to provoke.

Wilson shifted uncomfortably, his fingers lightly gripping the couch cushion. His eyes avoided House’s, focusing on anything but his face.

“Are you talking from experience?” The younger doctor asked, finally looking up at him, and trying to joke.

“No, but I’m sure you can provide the details.” House saw Wilson’s sudden shift in demeanor when he realized his gaze on his own jaw. Wilson froze, his cheeks flushing slightly as he realized what House was referring to. House tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “You buttoned your collar all the way up to hide whatever you’ve got going on down there, but I think you missed that one on your jaw in the mirror.”

Wilson’s expression hardened. “It wasn't him.”

“Right, he can't reach that high,” House deadpanned.

Wilson bit the inside of his cheek and was silent for a minute, then let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Fine,” he said, his voice a little strained. “I slept with him.”

House’s face froze, his mouth agape as the words hung in the air. He didn’t know what to say, so he just stared at Wilson, unable to process what had just been revealed.

“I thought…” House’s voice faltered. “I thought you just made out.”

“At the bar, yes,” Wilson replied, looking away, guilt written all over his face. “But he… he invited me back to his place.”

“You actually had sex with Hot Wheels?” House asked, incredulous.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean for the night to take that turn!” Wilson said quickly, his hands up in a defensive gesture.

“How could you do that?” House’s voice cracked with a mix of disbelief and betrayal.

“He’s fun! And handsome. I just… I was curious, I guess.” Wilson’s words rushed out, almost pleading.

“So, what, you’re gay now?” House couldn’t help the bitterness that crept into his voice. He was trying to keep control of the situation, but all he felt was a strange swirl of confusion and something that felt too close to jealousy for comfort.

“No.” Wilson replied, his voice quieter now. “I don’t… I don’t know, I’m… exploring.”

“Wow, you really are sick.” House muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He couldn’t believe it, he should’ve felt disgusted.

“What?” Wilson asked, his brow furrowing, genuinely confused.

“Not even the confines of gender are stopping you, you’re too far gone,” House added, his voice dry, a sarcastic edge to it.

“I’m not too far gone, I’m having fun.” Wilson shot back, his expression growing more defensive.

“With charity cases.” House sneered, trying to mask his hurt with anger.

“He’s not a charity case, he’s great.” Wilson snapped, the defensiveness in his voice unmistakable.

“I bet he is. You’re not exploring, you just have a thing for people like him.”

“What, like you?” Wilson asked, his voice laced with anger. He scoffed, crossing his arms. “It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that I like him, then. You should be flattered if anything.”

House paused for a long moment, a knot tightening in his chest. He didn’t know what to feel: anger, frustration, disgust? In his mind, Wilson basically confirmed he had a weird, perverted thing for disabled people. He should belittle him for it, he should shame him, but instead he feels sort of relieved, even hopeful.

But then, in the middle of that confusing storm of emotions, House felt a strange sense of relief. Something in his chest loosened. Maybe Wilson had just confirmed the theory he had been running in his head for a month. Maybe Wilson had a kink for damaged people. But instead of pushing him away, instead of wanting to shame him for it, House felt an unexpected surge of hope.

Without thinking, without warning, House leaned forward and kissed Wilson, his lips pressing against his with a surprising tenderness.

Wilson froze for a moment, then kissed him back hesitantly.

As they parted, breathless, Wilson blinked at him in surprise, confusion flashing across his face. “Why did you do that?”

House’s voice was hoarse, his explanation almost stupid: “You like people like him.”

The oncologist stared at him, the words hanging in the air between them, before he kissed him again.

Wilson’s lips met House’s with an intensity that caught him off guard, as if he had been holding back for so long that now, with the smallest contact, he couldn’t stop himself. 

It hadn’t been a tentative kiss, not one that asked for permission. It was as though Wilson had been waiting for that moment, craving it. His hands had found their way to House’s face, cradling it with a sense of urgency and tenderness, guiding him deeper into the kiss. His touch had been firm but gentle, like he was both claiming him and asking for something in return, as if he’d been holding all this emotion inside, just waiting for the right moment to pour it out.

The moment their lips had locked, House had felt the immediate shift, how Wilson’s body had pressed in closer, the tension in his muscles, the way his breath had caught just slightly before deepening the kiss. It had been the kind of kiss that said “I’ve wanted this for so long” , one that spoke volumes even in silence. There had been no hesitation in Wilson’s movements, just a desperate need to close the space between them. He had been fully into it, no second thoughts or doubt clouding his actions. It had been raw, real, and everything House hadn’t expected but somehow needed.

For a second, House had been swept away by the heat of Wilson’s mouth against his, by the intensity of the kiss, as though the younger man couldn’t pull away. His lips had been soft but insistent, urging House to follow his lead, and House had done so, slowly letting go of the doubts that had clouded his mind. He hadn’t known how long it had been since someone had kissed him with that kind of need, but Wilson’s hands on him, holding him close, had made it feel like that moment had been years in the making.

House didn’t pull away, even though he had been caught off guard. Instead, he let Wilson kiss him deeply, feeling his body respond despite himself, the heat from Wilson’s hands and the intensity of the kiss overriding any reservations. 

“Bed.” Wilson  almost begged against House’s lips, his voice thick with desire and a quiet urgency.

House hummed softly in response, pushing himself off the couch with a groan, his leg protesting the movement. He leaned heavily on his cane for support, his gaze still locked with Wilson’s.

Wilson, sensing House’s unsteady stance, had handed him the cane, his fingers brushing lightly against House’s as he had helped him to his feet. The gesture had been gentle, almost intimate, and House hadn’t pulled away. Instead, he had nodded in thanks.

“I need some water first.” Wilson had said, his voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself. “To sober up. I don’t want to be dreaming all of this.”

House watched as Wilson turned and headed for the kitchen, the sound of his footsteps soft on the hardwood floor. The sight of him, moving confidently despite his earlier hesitation, caused a strange flutter in House’s chest. He waited for a moment, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn’t quite make sense of, then limped towards his bedroom.

As he walked, an unexpected self-consciousness had hit him. His room, his sanctuary, suddenly felt like a judgmental observer. The disheveled sheets, the scattered papers, the half-empty bottles on the nightstand. It all seemed a mess, just like he felt at that moment. He was freshly showered, yes, but his hair was still damp, and he hadn’t bothered to shave or groom. His reflection in the mirror made him pause, regret and doubt creeping in. He looked tired. Really tired. Not the kind of tired that could be fixed by sleep. There was really no reason why anyone would look at him and think he was attractive right then. Especially not someone like Wilson.

He stood in front of the mirror for a beat, staring at his reflection, feeling the weight of his doubts and regrets. Maybe he made a mistake. Maybe Wilson hadn’t deserved this, or maybe it wasn’t what he had thought it was.

Just as he started to second-guess everything, he heard the soft sound of footsteps in the hallway. The door to his room pushed open, and Wilson stormed in, almost like he had been waiting for the moment to catch up to House. Without a word, Wilson gently took the cane from House’s hand, hooking it over the dresser with a soft click.

Then, with surprising tenderness, Wilson framed House’s face with both hands, guiding him in for a kiss. It wasn’t rushed or hungry. It was deliberate, slow, full of intent. House let himself be drawn in, caught up in the warmth and softness of Wilson’s lips against his. The kiss was tender, almost painfully so, and House felt something inside him crack open.

Wilson placed a warm hand on the small of his back, urging him closer, his touch soft but insistent. House arched into it instinctively, feeling a swell of heat spread through him at the sensation. The kiss deepened, gentle and sweet, sickeningly tender. It was everything House hadn’t expected and everything he never thought he needed.

He pulled back for just a moment, staring at Wilson, his breath coming in uneven gasps. His mind raced, but the feeling of Wilson’s hands still on him kept him grounded. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been kissed so tenderly. It must’ve been Stacy, he thought, maybe Lydia. But theirs was a  gentle, almost cautious way of touching him, compared to this rawness.

House blinked, his thoughts fogging up, but Wilson didn’t give him the chance to think for long. He gently guided him back onto the bed, hovering over him as he continued to kiss him, moving lower with every touch.

House watched in silence as Wilson slowly undressed him. There was no rush, no urgency. It was as though Wilson was savoring each piece of clothing he removed, each kiss he placed on House’s skin. He asked for permission each time, his voice soft and careful.

“Can I?” Wilson asked, his fingers ghosting over the waistband of House’s briefs, and House nodded in response, his throat dry as he had watched Wilson’s eyes focus entirely on him, every inch of him.

Wilson continued, kissing his way down House’s body, his hands sliding over his chest, down his stomach, each touch making House’s heart race. As Wilson’s mouth descended lower, he kissed up House’s legs, slow and deliberate. When he reached the scar on House’s thigh, his touch faltered for a split second before he ran his hand gently over it. His fingers traced the scar carefully, as if it was something precious, before pressing a soft kiss to it.

Any other time, House would have stopped anyone from doing that, he would’ve pulled away, uncomfortable. But tonight, in that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, he watched Wilson closely, curious and a little vulnerable as he touched him in ways no one ever had.

Wilson continued, his eyes closed in concentration as he caressed the inner and outer parts of House’s thigh, each hand moving in slow, gentle motions. He pressed featherlight kisses along the scar, his lips soft against the imperfect skin.

The air was thick with silence and anticipation as Wilson moved lower, his hands gripping House’s thighs gently, his mouth following the path of his touch.

But then, Wilson paused, his gaze flicking up to House’s face, sensing something. His lips hovered over House’s skin before he stopped altogether, lifting himself up and kissing him  on the lips instead, tenderly, as though offering reassurance.

He peppered House’s face with more kisses, soft and sweet, his hands caressing every part of him as if he were trying to memorize the feel of him. The tenderness of Wilson’s touch was something House couldn’t ignore, it hadn’t been what he had expected at all. 

Actually, he’d never expected this outcome at all. It wasn’t supposed to go this way, it had never been in his plans. He was only supposed to frame Wilson for his weird kinks. 

And, even if this was confirming his theory, it didn’t feel like Wilson was using him for second motives. It didn’t feel like a fetish, but he guessed Wilson was just that good a liar. 

He didn’t feel like just some conquest, nor an object of pity. He felt like he wasn’t a broken thing to be fixed.

No, Wilson made him feel like he was something worth desiring, even if that wasn’t the truth.

The sweet, soft kisses, the reverent way Wilson worshiped his body, it was all like a ritual, each moment infused with a care House couldn’t quite wrap his mind around at first. But as Wilson’s mouth continued to explore his body, and the heat between them grew, House finally gave in. 

He let himself relax. Let himself feel the weight of every kiss and the tenderness in every touch. His body, once stiff with uncertainty, softened under Wilson’s hands and it completely melted once Wilson took him in his mouth. 

He let the confidence build inside him, piece by piece, until he was no longer trying to hide or resist. He threw his head back and moaned, softly, but let the younger man hear.

The oncologist stopped, right before he could reach his climax, enjoying toying with him.

His lips parted in response to Wilson’s when their mouths met again, it was different, softer, but more intense. He kissed Wilson back with a newfound confidence, letting himself enjoy it without worrying about the consequences, without wondering if it was all a mistake. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t second-guessing himself.

“Show me how you fucked him.” He whispered against Wilson’s mouth.

It was Wilson’s turn to stutter.

“I didn’t…” He let out a breathy chuckle. “I wasn't the one doing the fucking.”

“And how did he…” House narrowed his eyes as a wolfish grin spread on his lips. “Did you ride him?”

The lack of an answer confirmed his theory.

“You did.” House gasped. “Seriously?”

“No, I- I suggested it. I thought it wouldn't be that hard. Amber did it all the time.”

House let out an amused chuckle.

“Your thighs must be on fire.”

“They hurt like hell.” Wilson smiled, shaking his head with some shame, looking down at him. “But I can… I can do it again.”

“Don’t.” House whispered. “Do me.”

The invite took them both by surprise.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

Wilson felt a surge of passion as he kissed him again.

“Fuck, House.” He whispered against his lips.

He took awfully long to prep him, like he was afraid he’d break him. The caregiver side jumped out when he also fluffed up the pillow and placed it under his ass.

Before House could mock him for the gesture, Wilson bended his left leg almost expertly and draped it over his shoulder.

If only to confirm his theory, he let the selfless doctor do everything he wished to his body. For science, of course.

House woke up with a soft groan, blinking against the morning light streaming through the blinds. His body was still heavy with the remnants of sleep, but the warmth next to him made it easier to stay cocooned in the comfort of the bed. He turned his head, expecting the empty space beside him, but instead, he found Wilson lying there, fully dressed. One hand held the newspaper, the other was lazily toying with House’s hair. Wilson’s fingers moved over his silver buzzcut, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine.

House’s voice was rough from sleep as he mumbled, “I figured you’d be gone in the morning.”

Wilson glanced down at him with a small, knowing smile. “Did you want me to be gone?”

House’s gaze flicked up to meet Wilson’s eyes, and he shrugged, trying to act indifferent. “When did I say that?”

Wilson set the newspaper aside on the nightstand, shifting to lie closer, the warmth of his body inching toward House’s.

 “I’m driving you to work,” he said, his voice casual, but there was a slight teasing edge to it.

House’s lips curled into a mock frown. “Don’t start this.”

“Start what?” Wilson pressed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He rolled over a little more, getting closer to House’s face. 

“By this speed, you’ll be divorcing me within the month.” The oncologist let out a tired, almost irritated sigh, but there was no real malice in it. 

His eyes softened, and his expression became more serious as he inched closer, his fingers gently brushing House’s cheek. “We need to talk about what happened.”

“We know what happened.” House muttered, not wanting to revisit it, but his words were drowned out by Wilson’s next statement.

“I want it to happen again.” Wilson’s voice was quieter now, his hand moving to House’s hair, gently cupping his head. His lips hovered just above his, urging him with a softness House wasn’t prepared for.

House scoffed lightly. “My breath smells awful.”

“I don’t care.” Wilson kissed him then, soft and sweet, with none of the urgency House expected.

“What is wrong with you?” House asked, his voice thick with sleep and something else he couldn’t quite identify. He was still trying to make sense of what was going on.

Wilson grinned, pulling away only slightly. “I assume we’re dating now, right?”

House blinked, still half in a fog. “Did I agree to any of this?”

Wilson chuckled, his thumb gently brushing House’s lower lip. “You mumbled something that sounded like agreement during post-coital haze.”

House’s face flushed slightly as he rolled his eyes. “I was probably saying ‘Again… again.’”

Wilson grinned, leaning down again to place a soft kiss on his lips. “I’ll gladly give it to you again. Tonight?”

House raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. “Call your assistant. You’ll be twenty minutes late.”

“No, I won’t.” Wilson responded, pulling away with a playful smile.

House sighed dramatically. “This is what you get for dating me.”

Wilson beamed at the admission, his eyes sparkling with something House couldn’t quite ignore. 

He kissed House again, this time with more passion, and as they pulled away, Wilson rolled off the bed and got up, pulling on his shoes with ease. House remained in the bed for a few moments, the weight of everything between them sinking in. He didn’t know how to handle it, how to handle Wilson’s unwavering presence, his kindness, and his desire.

But he didn’t have time to dwell on it, because Wilson was already rushing him out the door.

The drive to work was quiet, the car humming along the road, but the silence wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, like something unspoken but understood between them. As they neared House’s usual handicapped parking spot, Wilson briefly stopped at it, glancing over at him.

Wilson tilted his head toward him. “Does the chauffeur get a kiss?”

House groaned loudly, but he didn’t hesitate. He leaned in and kissed him, a soft and lingering touch, as Wilson’s hand rested on the gearshift.

But then, a car honked, cutting through the stillness, and House pulled back, glancing over his shoulder.

“Hop off.” Wilson said, cocking his head towards the door.

“They can wait.” House said, his voice laced with a mix of annoyance and amusement.

“They clearly can’t.” Wilson insisted, trying to convince him. “I’ll see you later.”

With that, Wilson pulled back, but House gave him one last, quick peck on the lips before turning his head to look in the rearview mirror. His stomach tightened as he saw it was Stevens’ car parked just behind them.

“You might want to get out of here fast.” House said with a smirk.

 “Yeah, I am going to if you—why?” Wilson’s face fell as he turned his head and caught sight of Stevens. “Oh, fuck. Fuck. Get out.”

House pushed the door open and swung his legs out of the car, wincing slightly at the ache in his thigh. He didn’t look back as he limped quickly towards the elevator.

Wilson sped out of the parking spot, tires squealing, and House didn’t look back, only focusing on getting to the elevator without making it seem like he was running away.

House and Foreman walked down the hallway at a brisk pace, their conversation still revolving around their patient’s complicated symptoms.

House glanced over at Foreman, his tone sharp. “Treat vasculitis like a toxic partner, sometimes it’s better to just cross things off.”

Foreman sighe. “We can’t cross it off. The fever, weight loss, malaise all fit, and the skin lesions we saw on his arms are characteristic of a vasculitic rash. I would also not rule out an infectious cause.”

House raised an eyebrow, clearly uninterested in the possibility. “Infections don’t cause the top tier kind of systemic involvement he’s getting. His liver enzymes are elevated, but not enough to suggest a full-blown hepatitis. The skin changes point more to a vascular cause, and the elevated ESR is a classic sign of something inflammatory.”

“It could be Behçet’s disease.”

House’s brows shot up. “Behçet’s? It reminds me of something someone once said about horses and zebras.” 

Foreman sighed, clearly frustrated with House’s dismissal. “I still think you’re jumping the gun with lupus. The full picture doesn’t quite match.”

“I’m not jumping, I can’t jump, that would be out of character for me.” House mocked. “We’ve got systemic vasculitis, peripheral neuropathy, and kidney dysfunction, what else do you want?”

“Alright, alright,” Foreman said, holding up a hand. “Let’s run the lupus panel, but we can’t ignore the possibility of something rarer.”

“Sometimes the obvious answer is the right one.”

“Sometimes the obvious answer is the wrong one,” Foreman countered, his tone level but firm. “We won’t know until we run the tests.”

As they rounded the corner, House was about to continue their back-and-forth when they were interrupted.

“Hey, asshole!”

House’s head whipped around at the sound of the voice.

“At least you know they’re calling you.” Foreman commented under his breath.

Stevens rolled quickly toward them in his wheelchair, called out with a sly grin. “Didn’t want to make him jealous, huh?” 

Before House could react, he tossed a coffee cup at him. It hit him square in the chest. Hot coffee splashed across his t-shirt and button-down, the dark liquid staining his clothes immediately and scalding him through the fabric.

He let out a soft hiss as the handsome man in wheelchair, looking pleased with himself.

House looked down at the mess, an annoyed sigh escaping him. 

Foreman watched the interaction with an amused expression, a small smile on his lips. “What was that about?”

House’s hand hovered over the coffee stain on his chest, futilely trying to pat it dry. 

“I stole his conventionally attractive parking spot.”

House limped down the hallway, his stained shirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin as he made his way to Wilson’s office. Foreman left him to go run tests before he barged into the room.

Wilson caught sight of the coffee stain and raised an eyebrow.

“Wet t-shirt contest without me?” Wilson joked, his lips curling into a smirk.

“I got third place. You should've seen the others.” House shot back, trying to play it off.

“Patient?” Wilson asked, standing up from his desk, clearly not fooled by House’s casual demeanor.

“Your first taste of the rainbow,” House replied with a wry grin.

Wilson narrowed his eyes. “Stevens? Seriously?”

“You should be glad he aimed a bit higher because his trajectory normally points to crotch level.” House quipped.

“Thank God.” Wilson said with sarcasm, walking over to House. “Do you need a change?”

“I can tie my shoes now, mommy, I’m a big boy.” House mocked, although he was already looking around Wilson’s office for a change of clothes, despite the sarcasm.

Wilson rolled his eyes but smiled. “I have fresh clothes here. You have them in the lockers in the showers downstairs. And mine smell better.”

“Arguably.” House muttered, though he couldn’t deny the appeal of the offer. Wilson moved over and locked the door with a quiet click, the sound making House look up at him with a raised eyebrow. “What are you gonna do to me?”

Wilson smirked, a playful glint in his eyes. “Sadly, nothing because I have an appointment in ten minutes.”

“You know I last way less than that.” House shot back, his voice teasing but edged with something else.

“I should’ve known you’d find a way to brag about it.” Wilson responded, smiling at House’s irreverence.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Then Wilson leaned forward and pecked House on the lips before stepping back with a soft smile. 

He opened a drawer and pulled out a perfectly folded, crisp baby blue button-up shirt and a pair of pressed slacks.

“Do you need underwear too?” Wilson asked casually, still holding out the clothes.

“I’m not making you undress me in your office under false pretenses.” House said with a smirk.

“Well, I tried.” Wilson replied, with a shrug, as if he had given it his best effort.

Wilson walked back to House and handed him the clothes, his fingers brushing over House’s as he did so. House took them, holding them loosely in his hands, trying to focus on the task of changing. But before he could even think about it, Wilson was unbuttoning House’s stained shirt slowly, his fingers moving with purpose.

He shot Wilson a glare but was genuinely too aroused by the sight and the touch to protest. He could feel Wilson’s hands kneading his love handles as he kissed his neck, and House couldn’t suppress the quiet sound that escaped him.

“This is unfair,” he said hoarsely, his voice betraying how much he was enjoying it.

“You came to my office.” Wilson replied with a knowing look.

“But I don't mean to come in your office.” House murmured, trying to ignore how much he wanted it.

“You mean to, you just don't want to be rushed,” Wilson corrected him, his voice soft but teasing as he helped House into the fresh clothes. Smugness looked very attractive on him.

As Wilson adjusted the fit of the shirt, he lingered, looking at House in the clothes, taking in the sight with a satisfied smile.

“Can you try on the tie just for a minute?” Wilson asked, already reaching for the tie with eager hands.

House groaned in mock annoyance but agreed.

Wilson worked the tie into a Windsor knot, looking up at House with admiration as he finished. “You give it a rugged look.”

House raised an eyebrow. “Gentle way of calling me homeless.”

Wilson shrugged. “You make it look more rock and roll.”

“As opposed to your boy-next-door result?” House shot back. “Yeah, I’d bet. You’d look Mormon in this.”

Wilson smirked. “You’re so hot.” he said suddenly, his words soft but full of meaning.

House froze, stunned into silence. He huffed out an incredulous laugh. “You can’t be serious.” 

The oncologist rolled his eyes. “Don’t pretend to be insecure to fish for compliments from me.”

House faltered, confused. “When did you even start liking me physically? When did this happen?”

Wilson raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. “Right, I found you repulsive yesterday.”

House shook his head, still in disbelief and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “I’ve seen the people you date. I’m one of the weakest links. I’m surely the oldest.”

Wilson’s expression softened. “You’re not that old.”

“Yes, I am.” House replied firmly.

“Okay. You’re the oldest. What’s wrong with that?” Wilson said, shrugging as if it didn’t matter to him.

“There’s something wrong with you. What is it? Do I look like your dad?” The diagnostician asked, his voice laced with a mixture of humor and curiosity.

“Why do you always have to make it weird?” Wilson said with a groan of disgust.

“What did he look like at my age?”

“Not like you.” Wilson said, shooting him a glare.

“Were you inappropriately touched by a professor in med school?” 

Wilson stopped, a confused and slightly concerned expression on his face. 

“House, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I will get to the bottom of this,” House said, his tone playful but with a hint of mock seriousness.

“You’d have to look in the mirror for that-” Wilson was cut off as House suddenly pushed him away lightly.

Wilson stared at him, a loving smile on his face, and House couldn’t help but smile back before storming out of the office.

After a strenuous day of trying to deny he was wearing Wilson’s clothes to his team and Cuddy, he drove his bike back home before Wilson could offer to drive him again.

The moment Wilson stepped into the condo, the smell of cooking greeted him, a mix of garlic, onions, and something rich and savory. He turned the corner to see House standing by the kitchen counter, stirring a saucepan with exaggerated nonchalance, as if he hadn’t noticed Wilson’s arrival. But the smirk on House’s face gave him away.

Wilson didn’t bother with pleasantries. In a few long strides, he closed the distance between them, grabbed House by the waist, and pinned him against the counter. His lips crashed into House’s, and House let out a muffled sound of surprise before melting into the kiss. Wilson’s hands gripped his hips, holding him close as their mouths moved together in a heated rhythm.

House, never one to let an opportunity for drama pass, decided to test Wilson’s reaction for his theory. He hissed softly, a sound almost swallowed by the kiss, and tensed slightly under Wilson’s hands.

Wilson immediately pulled back, breathless and concerned. “Are you okay?”

House grimaced but waved it off. “Yeah. Yeah, don’t mind it.” He leaned in again to kiss Wilson, but the oncologist stopped him, his eyes scanning House’s face and then trailing down to the source of the tension.

“Bad?” Wilson asked softly, his voice tinged with worry.

House shrugged, trying to play it off. “It always is. I can manage.”

Wilson’s expression softened. “Bed?” he reformulated with a small smile.

House quirked an eyebrow and turned off the stove. “I thought we were headed that way already.”

Wilson gave a small chuckle, wrapping his hands firmly around House’s waist. With practiced ease, he guided him through the condo, taking a shortcut through the bathroom to his own bedroom. House allowed himself to be maneuvered, grumbling softly about being manhandled but secretly enjoying Wilson’s care.

Wilson eased House onto the bed, his movements deliberate and tender. He bent down and undid House’s jeans, sliding them off with a gentle tug. 

Then, Wilson stood back, shrugging off his jacket and loosening his tie before unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt. Rolling up his sleeves, he looked down at House with a mix of focus and affection.

Wilson tipped his head down and pressed a kiss to House’s thigh, just above the scar, his lips lingering there. His thumbs followed, kneading gently at first, then with more pressure, careful not to overstep but clearly intent on relieving the tension.

House frowned, realizing Wilson wasn’t moving toward anything more intimate. Instead, the oncologist seemed entirely focused on massaging him. 

“I wanted a ride, not a massage,” House protested, his voice tinged with mock indignation.

Wilson didn’t miss a beat. “Why not both?” he replied, still pressing kisses to House’s skin.

“Do I have to pay for this?” House quipped.

“You could lend me some of the tens of thousands you owe me,” Wilson said, smiling as he spoke between kisses. “but why should you?”

Wilson’s lips moved over House’s body, leaving a trail of kisses from his chest to his inner thighs. He sucked softly on House’s nipples, drawing a surprised gasp from him, then marked the sensitive skin of his inner thighs with small, deliberate bites. He even kissed down to House’s ankles, his touch light and teasing, before briefly pressing his lips to the arch of his foot.

With focus, Wilson reached for a bottle of massage oil, uncapped it, and warmed it in his hands.

“Turn around.” he murmured, his voice low but firm.

Wilson started with his shoulders, his strong hands working out knots with practiced ease. He moved to his arms, kneading his biceps and forearms with steady pressure. House let out a soft groan, his head lolling to the side as he let himself relax under Wilson’s touch.

When Wilson reached his back, he lingered, tracing the lines of muscle with his thumbs before applying firm pressure in circular motions. He worked on each side methodically, coaxing the tension out of House’s spine and shoulders. Leaning down, Wilson pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck, the combination of touch and affection leaving House in a dazed, blissful state.

Wilson’s hands moved lower, kneading the muscles of his lower back before sliding to his glutes. His fingers teased lightly at first, drawing a low chuckle from House. 

“Careful, don’t enjoy it too much. I might start charging you for this.” House muttered, though his voice was sluggish with relaxation.

Wilson smirked, leaned down, and murmured against House’s ear. “Flip over.”

House complied, rolling onto his back with a dramatic sigh. “What’s next? Tarot reading?”

Wilson ignored the sarcasm, instead pressing another kiss to House’s chest as he began working his way down again. His hands slid over House’s torso, massaging with firm but gentle pressure, as his eyes locked on House’s, full of warmth. For the first time in a long while, House let himself relax completely, letting Wilson’s care wash over him.

The oncologist let his eyes glance down and a mischievous smirk appeared on his lips.

“Did you pop a blue pill?”

“Or maybe I’m just happy to see you.” House joked, then looked up at Wilson to study his reaction. “What if I did?”

“Fuck.” The younger man whispered and dropped down to kiss his neck.

“What does that mean?”

“You're gonna last so long.” He explained, nipping at House’s skin.

“Not necessarily.”

“I’m gonna make you.”

House didn’t know if he was afraid or very turned on, but let him proceed anyway.

“I’ve wanted to do this for months.” Wilson muttered, almost to himself, once he reached his crotch. He let his hand slide lower and palmed him through the briefs, leaving an imprint of massage oil on the light gray fabric.

Wilson pulled down the elastic of the underwear with his teeth and took him in his mouth. House realized the feeling was probably never going to become old.  

He bobbed his head up and down almost expertly, he only gagged twice and collected himself by leaning into House’s hand on his cheek.

His thumb dried Wilson’s tears and for a moment he almost forgot about his theory.

What came next was so intense he barely even realized Wilson was riding him until he was the one coming next. Wilson only reached his climax after House, which was probably something he should’ve filed away into the folder of proof to his theory, but the way Wilson kept kissing his temple repeatedly, right over his salt and pepper patch, made him forget to be coherent at all.

Their relationship didn’t stop House’s determination to test his theory that Wilson’s attraction to him stemmed from some twisted kink for damaged people. And if that were true, House intended to push it to its limits.

It started with House putting on a theatrical display of misery. He groaned loudly as he shuffled into the living room, making a show of rubbing his lower back and muttering about “the joys of decrepitude.” Wilson glanced up from his coffee, concern flickering across his face, but House ignored him, slumping onto the couch with exaggerated effort.

“My back’s killing me,” House groused, grabbing the remote to flip on the TV. “Guess I’ll just suffer through it.”

Wilson, unfazed, walked over and placed a hand on House’s shoulder. “I can massage it later if you want.”

House squinted at him. “Is this how you get your rocks off? Rubbing down broken old men?”

Wilson just smiled and went back to his coffee.

House ramped things up later that morning. During a particularly dramatic exit from the bathroom, he deliberately snapped his cane against the doorframe, which took a lot more strength than expected, the sound echoing through the condo. 

“Are you okay?” The selfless man called.

House hobbled out into the living room, scowling, and tossed the broken pieces onto the floor with a flourish.

“Cane’s dead. Guess I’m going without one today.” he announced, his voice laced with irritation.

Wilson frowned, his gaze darting to House’s leg. “You’re going to walk around all day without support?”

“I’ll manage.” House snapped. “It’s not like I have a choice.”

By lunchtime, House’s test took an unexpected turn. He heard the door of his office open and Wilson walked in carrying three new canes, each wrapped in sleek protective plastic.

“Seriously?” House asked, incredulous, as Wilson set them down in front of him.

“They’re all yours.” Wilson said, looking far too pleased with himself. “Consider them early Christmas gifts.”

House eyed the options skeptically. One was dark mahogany with a classic, understated look. The second was black with thunderbolts running up its length, tacky like the old one with the flame stickers he used to love. The last was elegant, black with silver accents, clearly designed for formal events.

“Do you get a kick out of this?” House asked, gesturing to the canes with an arched brow.

Wilson ignored the question, crouching to unwrap one of them. “Do you dislike them? I can return them if you don’t-”

“I’m keeping them.” House cut in, grabbing the thunderbolt cane and testing its weight. Despite himself, he had to admit it felt good in his hand. He shot Wilson a suspicious look, but Wilson just grinned and walked away, leaving House alone with his three new canes and no closer to cracking the mystery of his partner’s love for him.

House, determined to push Wilson to his breaking point and force him to confess his insecurities, decided to exploit Wilson’s greatest weakness: the fear of being replaced. All it required was the right scenario to plant the seed of doubt.

When Wilson came home, the soft sound of groans filtered out from the bedroom, accompanied by a light, feminine giggle. 

His brow furrowed in confusion, and he made his way down the hallway. Walking into the room, he found House lying face down in just his boxers on the bed, with Ingrid kneeling beside him on the mattress, her hands working expertly over his shoulders.

Wilson blinked, taken aback

“Oh, hey,” He said hesitantly, from the doorway.

“Dr. Wilson, hi.” Ingrid greeted him politely.

House smirked and mimicked her greeting mockingly. “Hello, Dr. Wilson.”

Wilson’s confusion deepened. “Are you feeling unwell?” he asked, his gaze flicking between them.

“Just needed a reminder of what feminine hands felt like.” House replied, his words dripping with calculated nonchalance.

“He called because it was urgent.” Ingrid added quickly, as if to reassure Wilson.

“Okay…” Wilson said hesitantly, though his expression tightened. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Much better.” House said with a grin. “She’s magical.”

“You’re not bribing me into another hour.” Ingrid joked with a laugh.

“Can’t I?” House teased, chuckling with her as if they shared a private joke.

Wilson shifted awkwardly. 

“I’ll… I’ll go get dinner started.” he said, clearly feeling out of place.

“Ingrid used to be a chef!” House called after him. “She has a great recipe for bolognese. Tell him.”

Ingrid smiled politely. “It’s just something I picked up over the years.”

“I can make bolognese too.” Wilson replied quickly, his voice edged with defensiveness. “Pretty well.”

“For a doctor, sure.” House said, his tone deliberately dismissive.

Wilson swallowed hard, his jaw tightening, and left the room without another word. House smirked to himself. The plan was working.

That night, when Wilson climbed into bed, his demeanor was subdued. House made a show of stretching luxuriously and sighing in exaggerated satisfaction.

“God, I feel incredible.” he said, throwing Wilson a sly look. “The girl’s really got the magic touch. I’m a new man.”

Wilson gave him a short, clipped reply. “That’s great.”

“You should let her work on you sometime,” House continued, as if oblivious to Wilson’s mood. “She said my shoulder tension was the worst she’s ever seen.”

Wilson pulled the covers up and turned onto his side. “I have to wake up at six. I need to sleep.”

House’s grin widened as he curled up next to Wilson. He could see the cracks forming. Wilson’s curt responses and tightly drawn expression were signs that he was finally getting to him. Satisfied, House nestled into the covers, triumphant in his calculated game.

So he decided to escalate it.

The next day, Wilson opened the door to his office, but it hit something solid. He peeked around to find Ingrid standing in the middle of the room, her massage table set up and the furniture pushed to the sides to accommodate it. House lay sprawled on the table, almost naked and gleaming with oil.

“Cuddy said I couldn’t get a rub in my office because there’s too many windows.” House said lazily, turning his head toward Wilson with a smirk. “I know you’ve got clinic and OR today, so I thought we’d crash here for an hour or two.”

“One hour.” Ingrid corrected softly as she worked on House’s shoulders.

“One and a half.” House teased, earning a chuckle from her.

Wilson stood frozen, blinking at the absurdity of the scene. 

“I have appointments...”

“At four.” House said, waving dismissively. “By then, everything will be back in its place, honeybuns.”

Wilson’s tone remained soft but firm. “I have paperwork to do now...”

“We’re not bothering you, are we?” House asked with a smirk, clearly daring him to admit otherwise.

Wilson sighed and sat down at his desk, attempting to focus on his files. 

But it was impossible. House’s loud groans and exaggerated moans echoed through the room, interrupted by chuckles and inside jokes exchanged between him and Ingrid. Every time House praised her skill, Wilson’s focus faltered, his irritation mounting.

Finally, House’s voice broke through again. “Oh, that’s the spot. You’re incredible. I was dying before you came. My leg was killing me. Thank god you’re here.”

Wilson slammed his pen down. “If the pain is that bad, wouldn’t it be wise to get an MRI-”

“It’s just the cold.” House interrupted smoothly. “It’s making it worse. But she’s making it all go away now.”

Wilson dropped his hands onto the desk with a sigh of defeat. 

When House’s next groan was particularly loud, Wilson flinched, stood abruptly, and muttered, “I’ve been paged.” Without waiting for a response, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

House grinned smugly on the table, reveling in his apparent victory. 

Still, he pressed forward with his plan.

That night, over dinner, House upped the ante. As they ate, he kept praising Ingrid’s talent, recounting her skillful massages in detail. Wilson mostly stayed silent, focusing on his plate.

Finally, House dropped his trump card. “You know, I really missed her happy endings.”

Wilson froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. He looked up at House, stuttered, and then said nothing. His expression darkened, but instead of anger, there was a deep sadness in his eyes.

House expected a fight, a jealous outburst- but Wilson said nothing. He quietly finished his meal, stood, and began washing the dishes.

House felt a pang of discomfort but brushed it aside. Later, Wilson took a shower and crawled into bed smelling fresh and clean, curling up to House like always. He kissed House goodnight, his voice as warm as ever. The next day, it was as though nothing had happened.

That didn’t make sense. That wasn’t part of the plan.

House escalated his experiment. Ingrid came over almost every night. Wilson didn’t comment or offer to massage him anymore. The bottle of oil on Wilson’s nightstand sat unused, gathering dust. 

Their relationship remained outwardly unchanged. Wilson still kissed House in the morning and smiled at his jokes. He entertained his differentials and played footsie with him in the cafeteria. They had quickies in his office and they made love regularly. Nothing had changed.

But whenever Ingrid arrived, Wilson simply walked into another room without a word. He didn’t argue. He didn’t even look jealous, he was just quiet.

House began to feel uneasy. The massages, which he hadn’t truly enjoyed to begin with, felt hollow. Wilson’s calm demeanor gnawed at him. He wanted a reaction, a real one. But Wilson continued to treat him the same way he always had, with gentle affection and unwavering patience.

One night, as Ingrid packed up her things, House sat in the quiet condo, staring at the unused bottle of oil on the nightstand. The experiment wasn’t fun anymore. The game had lost its edge. His leg still ached.

Wilson’s refusal to fight back, to challenge him, made House question what he was trying to prove in the first place.

The moment Wilson walked into the living room after Ingrid had left the condo, House’s sharp blue eyes followed Wilson as he moved into the room. The warm smile the oncologist threw at him was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Why aren’t you reacting?” House asked suddenly, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity.

Wilson paused mid-step, looking over his shoulder. “I mean, you just trimmed your beard. I didn’t think it was worth commenting on.” He smirked, trying to lighten the mood.

House tilted his head, unimpressed. “Do you not care that I’m cheating on you?”

Wilson’s brows furrowed slightly as he crossed the room, walking towards the couch. “Are you seeing someone else in the fifteen minutes a day we don’t see each other?”

“Ingrid,” House replied, his voice sharp, testing.

Wilson looked down at him with narrowed eyes. “You want me to be jealous of her?”

“You’re not?”

Wilson scoffed, his tone light but firm as he sat down on the couch and looked at him with genuine tenderness. 

“House, I know you love me. If you feel the need to have Ingrid over, I’m sure you have your reasons. Even if it includes a handjob.”

House leaned forward slightly, narrowing his eyes. “Are you serious?”

Wilson shrugged, his shoulder leaning against the couch as he exhaled deeply. “I don’t care. You’re not cheating on me. You’re doing it in plain sight, and that’s comforting enough for me.”

House blinked, genuinely surprised. “I’m getting handjobs from another woman.”

“You’re getting massages. The handjobs are just a bonus.” Wilson replied smoothly, rolling his eyes.

“She’s rubbing one out almost daily.” House corrected him, almost speechless.

Wilson’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression steady. “Okay. Did you want me to be jealous?”

House hesitated, his lips parting slightly before he answered. “Well, I… expected you to be.”

Wilson straightened. His voice softened, but the intensity in his gaze didn’t waver. 

“I am jealous. I’m partially envious that I don’t get to do it. But this isn’t about me. I’m not a masseuse, House. I’m just some guy. If your leg feels better with a professional, then I want you to see the professional.”

“What if the professional has a huge rack?” House pushed, his smirk returning as he tried to provoke a reaction.

Wilson’s lips twitched, suppressing a grin. “I know you like making sex-change jokes about me, but I’m not yet jealous of her rack, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

House’s smirk faded as his tone shifted, becoming more serious, almost hurt. 

“You're only with me because you get a kick out of taking care of me, do you not?”

Wilson’s face froze for a second before he blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” House said, gesturing lazily at his leg. “The playing nurse thing. You, fixing the broken. Gets your motor running, doesn’t it?”

Wilson pulled back, his posture stiffening as if he’d been slapped. “That’s- what? No.”

House’s grin turned feline, sensing the crack in Wilson’s composure. 

“Come on. I’ve seen you fawn over cancer patients, offer your couch to every sad sack with a sob story, and now here you are, blushing like a teenager because I said your massages are good. You’re into this. Admit it.”

Wilson’s jaw tightened as he sat up. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re avoiding the question,” House pressed, his voice dripping with smug certainty. “It’s fine, you know. Everyone has their thing. Some people like leather, some people like pain, and you, well, you like curing people. Even the ones who don’t deserve it.”

Wilson scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”

House raised an eyebrow, leaning back into the couch. “Relax. It’s harmless. Flattering, even. I’m just saying, if you’ve got a fetish for fixing people, you can admit it.”

Wilson clenched his fists, his face flushing deep red. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m right.” House countered, his voice teasing yet firm.

““House, I’m not dating you out of some sick need to play caretaker.” House shrugged, unfazed. “Sure. If I can take care of you, that’s a bonus-”

“Because you have a kink,” House interrupted.

“Because I love you.” Wilson’s voice softened, though his posture remained tense. “And I care for you. That’s what people do when they care about each other, or so I’ve been told.”

House narrowed his eyes, leaning forward slightly. “You don’t find it even a little bit arousing?”

Wilson hesitated, then sighed. “I do, when you need me for other reasons. Not when you’re in pain.”

House tilted his head, studying him. “What reasons, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must know.”

Wilson looked away briefly, his cheeks faintly pink. “I dunno. When you call me in for a differential?”

“Is that it?”

Wilson rolled his eyes but smiled faintly. “It makes me feel important. I like knowing you care about my opinions.”

“You’re more qualified than all four of those guys combined.”

Wilson glanced at him, his lips quirked up. “It’s nice of you to say that.”

“You should know that.”

“Oh, trust me, I do know that,” Wilson replied with a smirk. “I just want to hear it coming from your mouth.”

House’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Words of affirmation? Is that your thing? Hearing me say I need you?”

“It can’t just fit in a box, House. It’s… more than that.” Wilson waved vaguely, trying to articulate it, as he reached over to grab House’s hand.

“You like driving me around.” The diagnostician murmured, toying with his fingers.

Wilson chuckled lightly. “Yeah. When you’re not overstimulated by the radio and flipping through channels incessantly, sure.”

House leaned forward with a sly grin. “So you don’t care that I spend all your money. You get a kick out of it.”

Wilson shook his head, exasperated. “I don’t.”

“But you let me.”

Wilson sighed, his voice patient. “It’s harmless. I can afford to pay for your lunch. I don’t spend it on much else anyway.”

House’s gaze softened slightly. “It should be reciprocal.”

Wilson smiled faintly. “I’m okay, House.”

“Because you get horny over being my provider and caretaker,” House teased.

Wilson leaned in, enough for their lips to touch as he said: “Because you’re more important than a few bucks in my bank account.”

That night, as the conversation wound down, Wilson leaned in and kissed him, his lips warm and deliberate. The kiss deepened, not out of passion alone, but with a sense of purpose. Wilson's hands cupped his face, his touch gentle but firm, as if trying to hold House together piece by piece.

He spent the rest of the evening coaxing House out of his defensive shell, whispering reassurances between kisses. “You’re worth loving,” Wilson murmured against his lips, his voice steady, though his own emotions threatened to crack through. “Why would you even think otherwise?”

“So you don’t care about Ingrid?” House leaned back slightly, staring at Wilson, his blue eyes searching his partner’s face. 

“No. I just want what’s best for you.” There was something vulnerable in them, something raw. He opened his mouth to reply but found no words.

Wilson didn’t stop. He worshiped House’s body like it was sacred, touching every scar and imperfection as though they were proof of survival and strength, not damage. His lips trailed down his neck, his hands roaming over his sides, tracing the lines of his ribcage. He kissed the faded scars, murmured praises into his skin, and made sure to linger on every spot House would normally shy away from.

The older man felt his defenses falter, his usual biting remarks replaced with quiet breaths and occasional groans of appreciation. At some point, the weight of Wilson’s affection began to feel like a balm rather than an attack. For the first time in a long time, he wondered if he wasn’t as broken or repulsive as he had always believed.

The shift came naturally, and before he realized it, House was the one taking the lead. Confidence surged in him as he kissed Wilson with urgency, his hands gripping Wilson’s shirt as though pulling him closer would tether him to this newfound sense of worth.

The next morning, House woke feeling... lighter. The usual cloud of cynicism wasn’t completely gone, but there was a quiet space in his mind where doubt usually lived. As they shared breakfast, House leaned back in his chair, tapping his cane against the table as he smirked.

“So,” he began, his voice teasing but probing, “you’re seriously telling me you weren’t even a little bit jealous at the idea of Ingrid giving me the ol’ reach around?”

“Of course not.” Wilson scoffed, the sound bright and genuine. “I know you’re too devoted to me to even think about cheating.”

House’s smirk faltered for a split second, replaced by something thoughtful. His eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned forward. “Wait. Does that mean you want to sleep around with other women?”

Wilson’s laughter turned incredulous. “What? No, House. Absolutely not.”

House’s cane tapped the floor with finality as he sat back and crossed his arms. “Good,” he said firmly. “You better not. You don’t get to do that.”

Wilson rolled his eyes fondly and reached across the table to squeeze House’s hand. “Trust me, I don’t want to. You’re more than enough to handle.”

House raised an eyebrow, feigning indignation. “Are you saying I’m high-maintenance?”

“I’m saying you’re one of a kind,” Wilson replied, his voice filled with affection.

House smirked again, though this time it was softer. 

“She never gave me happy endings.” He suddenly confessed. “I lied. She just massaged.”

Wilson’s expression changed imperceptibly. He shrugged.

“Wouldn’t have changed a thing if she had.”

House narrowed his eyes at him but didn’t press further.

A week went by, with Wilson being closer than usual, kissing him with more passion than the week before, praising him louder than the week before and even asking him if he needed massages again.

House agreed, damning himself for going as far as to admit:

"I miss your hands."

"They've alway been here." Wilson had replied with a sultry voice and a kiss.

The massage oil was used again and, God, did House feel worshiped by the younger man.

Every time he brought up Ingrid, Wilson never outwardly talked ill of her, he insisted House could still keep on calling her over, but in the same breath he ended up inviting House to another massage with his warm hands and House always ended up agreeing.

It was clear Wilson really did love him, he'd pushed aside the idea that he needed a fetish for him to find him sexually appealing, he didn't agree still but he let him, without conspiring about it.

That said, Wilson was still showing symptoms of needing to look after him, things he'd pushed down so far, in the name of friendship.

House grew suspicious. Wilson had clearly been jealous of Ingrid, but he still loudly pretended not to be, then went around and offered his services instead.

And House loved his services, in all honesty, so he didn't ask further questions and he didn't feel the need to ring her up.

Only by the end of the week he noticed an unfamiliar jacket hanging underneath his own on the coat hanger. Wilson had already left for work because House insisted he wanted to take the Repsol, so he stood in their living room and dialed Ingrid's number.

"Too busy, house. Please don't call." She immediately replied, seemingly in a rush. 

"Hey, hey I don't need your services anymore, don't worry, you just-"

"I can't come to you tonight." She cut him off. 

"I didn't want to-" 

"I'm busy tomorrow, too." 

He furrowed his brows.

"You left your jacket here, I thought you might want it back." 

"Too busy. I'm booked full.” She stuttered, 

"I thought you said you weren't." 

"I'm not working anymore."She suddenly announced, sounding suspiciously desperate to come up with a reason to hang up on him. "I'm at the salon now, busy, bye bye."

House stood there, confused looking at his phone then at Ingrid’s jacket in his hand. The realization hit him, it was the perfect excuse to poke at the strange way she’d rushed him off the phone. Still speechless, he slung the jacket over his shoulder, and headed for his bike.

The bell above the door jingled as House walked into the brightly lit nail salon, his cane clicking against the tiled floor. The room smelled of acetone and lavender. His eyes scanned the rows of manicure stations until they landed on Ingrid. She was hunched over an older woman’s hands, chatting as she painted the woman’s nails. When Ingrid noticed him, her smile vanished instantly.

Her voice was sharp, but low enough not to disturb her client. “You have to go right now!”

House tilted his head, amused. “Relax. I’m just here to return your jacket.” He held it up as if it were a peace offering.

Ingrid marched towards him, her steps hurried and firm. She snatched the jacket from his hand and said: “Thank you. Now go.”

House leaned on his cane, refusing to move. His lips twitched into a smirk. “Was I really that bad of a customer?”

Ingrid’s eyes darted nervously around the salon. “No, no, of course not” she said genuinely, her tone clipped. “But I changed jobs. I will never massage again.”

House’s brows lifted in faux surprise. “I wasn’t going to call you anymore anyway.” 

He narrowed his eyes, catching her hesitation and the nervous shuffle of her hands.

“Good! Don’t. I’m done with that forever.” She patted his chest, her movements brisk as she gestured toward the door. “Now, please, just go.”

House glanced down at her wrist and tilted her hand gently, catching sight of a gleaming bracelet. “Cartier?”

Ingrid yanked her hand back, flustered. “Yes. Go now.”

"Did you leave me for a very expensive client?"

“No, don’t be stupid.” She sighed.

“Does this new client live underneath my roof, perhaps?”

"No. I told you, I left my job."

"They must pay well here, to afford that bag” House’s smirk deepened as his eyes roved to the designer handbag perched next to her station. “Didn’t have that last week, either. How much is that? almost the salary of an esteemed oncologist?"

Ingrid sighed, her shoulders slumping. Her voice dropped to a whisper. 

“Dr. Wilson paid me to decline your calls, okay?”

House’s smirk spread into a full grin. “Did he now?”

"He told me to stay away from you and tell you I was busy. Please don't tell him I told you, I promised I wouldn't tell you."

“Fascinating.” He said, amused.

She held up a hand, pleading. “Please don’t tell him I told you. I promised I wouldn’t say anything.”

House cocked his head, pretending to mull it over. “How much is the price of his selfishness, exactly?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered. “What matters is that he really cares for you. He just wants what’s best.”

“How much?” House pressed, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

Ingrid hesitated before holding up her hand and spreading her fingers.

“Grand?” House asked, his brows arching as his smirk grew wider. Ingrid nodded.

House let out a low whistle, stepping back as if impressed. “Wow. I guess you’re formally fired, then.”

“I’m sorry.” Ingrid said, her voice tinged with genuine regret.

House turned to the exit, exhilaration bubbling in his chest. “Don’t be. I have a very sick and perverted oncologist looking after me.”

The salon door jingled as House stepped out, his grin never wavering as he strode to his bike.