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Chapter Text

Scene: Diagnostics Office, Late Morning

House lounged in his office chair, one leg draped over the desk, bouncing a red rubber ball against the glass wall with infuriating rhythm. A half-eaten bag of peanut M&Ms sat beside a mug that definitely didn’t contain coffee. Wilson leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, wearing that buttoned-down, vaguely disapproving-yet-still-here expression House had mentally filed as “Judgmental But Available.”

“Do you have any actual patients,” Wilson asked, “or are you just planning on annoying the glass until it shatters from despair?”

“I’m multitasking,” House replied. “Annoying the glass and you. That’s two patients right there. Productivity through the roof.”

Wilson smiled, because he always did, even when he clearly knew better. That slightly crooked smile, his eyes doing that soft crinkle thing and, yeah, okay, House noticed. Noticed more than he admitted, even to himself.

Wilson wandered in fully now, claiming the chair opposite House’s, clearly resigning himself to another detour in his day. “You do realise Cuddy isn’t going to keep giving you fake patients just so you’ll stay away from the ER?”

“She will if she knows what’s good for her. Chaos is my element. Besides, why would I need fake patients when the universe keeps sending me real idiots with fascinating symptoms and poor decision-making skills?”

As if on cue, the office door creaked open again and Foreman walked in, followed closely by Chase and Cameron, who was holding a file.

“New case,” Cameron announced, dropping the chart on House’s desk with a practiced thud.

House didn’t move. “Tell me it involves seizures, bleeding from the eyes, and a secret past involving Chernobyl.”

“Close,” Foreman said, snatching the ball mid-air before it could bounce again. “32-year-old woman. Vomiting, dizziness, numbness in both hands. No clear toxin exposure, MRI clean. Blood work is boring.”

“So, your social life,” House muttered, picking up the chart. He flicked through it lazily, one eyebrow arching higher with every page. “Well, at least she’s insured. That always makes the mystery more fun.”

“Are you actually going to diagnose her,” Cameron asked, clearly used to the dance, “or just make fun of our lives for the next hour?”

“Not mutually exclusive,” House said, flipping the chart closed. “Start with an EMG, lumbar puncture, and tox screen for organophosphates. Oh, and dig into her job. Anyone who spends eight hours a day sitting next to toner cartridges is just begging for nerve damage.”

The team filed out, leaving House and Wilson alone again. House reached for his mug, took a sip, winced.

“Not coffee?” Wilson guessed.

“Not even close. It was supposed to be tea. Turns out it’s something that used to be tea in a past life.”

Wilson leaned forward, tapping the desk lightly with two fingers. “You didn’t comment on Cameron’s hair. Are you sick?”

House smirked. “I’m evolving. Developing nuance. Growing as a human being.”

“Oh God.”

“You mock, but it’s true. I’ve decided to channel all my inappropriate comments into more… worthy targets.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Like who?”

House’s eyes locked with his. He smiled, slow and deliberate. “Like people who think three ties in one week is subtle.”

Wilson blinked, and for the briefest moment, his smile faltered, then widened again, equal parts amusement and challenge.

“You flirting with me, House?”

“Just trying to keep my options open. You know, in case your next divorce leaves you emotionally available.”

Wilson chuckled, shaking his head. He glanced down, then sideways, as if searching for something to say and deciding to leave it unsaid. That laugh, though, full and warm, not one of those polite doctor-at-a-funeral chuckles he gave to hospital donors. And yeah, House thought, he looks cute when he laughs like that.

Of course, he said nothing. Not out loud. That would’ve ruined the whole game.

Wilson stood up, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve. “Well, as fun as this isn’t, I do have actual patients. You remember patients, right? People who aren’t just abstract puzzles on paper?”

“Vaguely. I’m much more interested in theoretical medicine these days. Like Schrödinger’s tumor. Both malignant and benign until you biopsy it.”

Wilson snorted and started to leave, then turned back. “Hey, don’t screw up that case. Patient’s brother is a friend of one of the board members. You tank this, you’re going to be explaining yourself to Cuddy.”

“Tell Cuddy she’s welcome to come by any time. I’ll light candles.”

Wilson smirked. “Yeah, I’ll let her know. She loves fire hazard.”

He left, the door clicking softly shut behind him. House stared at the closed door for a moment, lips quirking, then picked up the chart again.

Chapter Text

Scene: House’s apartment, Friday night

A thunk echoed from the living room as a beer bottle landed on the coffee table, narrowly missing a magazine House hadn’t read and never would. The lights were low, casting soft golden shadows against the far wall, and the TV flickered steadily with the opening credits of The L Word Season 2.

“Tell me again,” Wilson said, dropping into the corner of House’s worn couch, “why we’re watching a show about lesbians instead of literally anything else?”

“Science,” House replied, slumping down next to him, legs stretched out, cane within easy reach. “It’s important to study cultures outside your own. I, for example, am a man of medicine, a professional. Yet here I am learning the nuances of queer female relationships. It’s anthropology.”

Wilson grabbed his beer from the table and raised an eyebrow. “You’re watching it because they’re hot.”

House tilted his head, eyes glued to the screen. “Same thing.”

Wilson huffed a laugh, sipping from the bottle. “And you invited me because?”

“You’re my emotional support oncologist. I can’t objectify women alone…it’s inappropriate.”

The smell of curry still hung faintly in the air, remnants of their takeout from earlier. Half a naan lay abandoned in its foil, and a plastic tub of tikka masala was already starting to congeal. House had insisted on ordering enough for four. Wilson, of course, had cleaned most of it up while House stole all the rice.

They’d done this before, quiet nights, food and TV, House being annoying and Wilson pretending he didn’t like it. But tonight had a different undercurrent. A slow hum beneath the static.

As the first episode unspooled, House kept glancing sideways, quick looks, like he was testing the air. Wilson’s tie was gone. His sleeves were rolled up. He looked tired, but relaxed, and House hated how much he liked seeing him like this. Comfortable. A little vulnerable. Like he might stay.

On screen, two characters started arguing over breakfast, one shirtless and mid-panic about commitment. House smirked.

“You know,” he said, “you’re kind of like Bette. You’ve got the good hair, the tragic need to control everything, and the emotional constipation of a Victorian husband.”

Wilson snorted. “You’ve been watching ahead without me, haven’t you?”

“I had to. You have a life. I have… Vicodin and questionable decisions.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to notice.

Then House tilted his head, casual as ever. “Plus, I like watching hot women have sex and pretend it’s for character development. I’m very evolved.”

Wilson looked at him sideways. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

House smirked again. “And you’re cuter when you’re annoyed. It’s a fair trade.”

He said it lightly. Jokingly. Like everything else. The words hovered there a second too long, maybe. Wilson didn’t laugh.

Instead, he put his beer down slowly and turned toward House.

“Okay, stop.”

House blinked. “Stop what?”

“This.” Wilson gestured with his hand, not angry, just tired. “This… flirty-joke-whatever thing you’re doing. I know you think it’s funny, but… just stop.”

House’s smirk faded.

Wilson looked at him, his expression flat but not unkind. “I’m not mad. I just don’t know what you want me to do with it. Laugh? Blush? Play along like it doesn’t mess with my head a little?”

Silence settled between them, awkward and real. The TV kept playing, a new scene starting, someone was crying, someone else was half-naked. Neither of them was watching it now.

House stared down at the bottle in his hand, turning it slowly by the neck.

“Okay,” he said finally. Quietly. “I’ll stop.”

Wilson watched him a second longer, like he didn’t quite believe it. Then he leaned back again, exhaling through his nose, the tension softening around his shoulders.

“I’m not trying to be a jerk,” he added. “It just… it gets confusing, House.”

“I get it,” House said, eyes still on the TV but unfocused. “Lines are blurry. That’s where I live.”

Wilson didn’t respond. He just reached for his beer again and took a long sip.

For a few minutes, they watched the show in silence.

The TV characters laughed. The sound echoed strangely in the quiet room. Outside, a car passed down the street, tires hissing on asphalt.

House didn’t say another word. He didn’t make a joke or poke Wilson in the ribs or comment on how his shirt was unbuttoned.

He just sat there.

For once, letting silence be silence.

And Wilson who had known House longer than anyone, maybe better than anyone, didn’t push him for more.

They watched another episode.

And when Wilson got up to leave around midnight, House didn’t try to stop him. Just handed him his coat, wordlessly, and leaned in the doorway as Wilson pulled it on.

“You’re still a Bette,” House said, softer this time.

Wilson looked at him, gave him a tired half-smile.

“And you’re still an ass.”

Then he left.

Chapter Text

Setting: Princeton, New Jersey –  1997, pre-canon

The roar of the monster truck echoed through the stadium like thunder across an empty sky.

House grinned, a hot dog in one hand, a beer in the other, his cane nowhere in sight because well, his leg still worked just fine. His jeans were ripped in one knee, probably from a bet or a very ill-considered attempt to vault a hospital parking divider last week, and his hoodie was three days shy of clean. Typical House. Completely unconcerned.

Wilson, sitting beside him, wore a button-down shirt far too nice for this environment and a jacket that smelled faintly of his lab. His tie was gone (a rare concession), and the second button on his shirt had popped open at some point in the last hour. He didn’t seem to notice or maybe he did and didn’t care. That was becoming a thing with Wilson lately. Less careful. Less married. Less… guarded.

“So, what exactly is the appeal here?” Wilson asked, raising his voice over the engine snarls as a truck named “Blood Raptor” soared off a ramp and crushed a pair of retired Cadillacs.

House barely turned his head. “Destruction. Power. Poor engineering. Basically sex on wheels.”

Wilson chuckled. “Of course. Subtle, as always.”

They sat in silence for a moment, save for the chaos of the show and the synchronized cheers of the beer-soaked crowd. Wilson sipped his drink, glanced sideways at House, then looked away, then back again. His elbow brushed against House’s. A small thing. Easily chalked up to the narrow bleachers.

But it lingered.

House didn’t move away. He just smirked. “If you wanted to hold hands, Wilson, you could’ve just asked.”

Wilson let out a slow breath, smiling without looking at him. “Would you say yes?”

House turned toward him, raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me as a friend or as the hopeless romantic you pretend you’re not?”

That made Wilson laugh. Nervous. Dry. “Maybe both.”

There was a beat. Just long enough to feel like the moment might pass, until Wilson leaned just a bit closer, voice lower now.

“I met someone,” he said.

House gave a low, theatrical groan. “Another one? What’s this - lucky number three?”

Wilson grinned faintly. “Maybe.”

“Name?”

“Julie.”

House squinted at him. “She hot?”

“She’s…” Wilson hesitated. “Normal. Smart. Sweet. Pretty.”

House narrowed his eyes. “You hate normal.”

Wilson looked at him then, and House saw something new. Not love, not yet. But the potential for it. Dangerous, open, sincere.

“No,” Wilson said. “I think I just hate being alone.”

Another truck exploded on the dirt track. The crowd cheered.

House didn’t.

“You’re not alone,” he said, quietly.

Wilson smiled. “I know.”

The silence between them now wasn’t awkward. It felt… charged. Like something was hanging in the air between them, unspoken, but very, very real.

Then Wilson inched closer again.

“You always flirt like that?” he asked.

House quirked an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Defensively.”

That made House laugh. “I flirt like a guy who knows public affection comes with consequences.”

Wilson leaned in before he could overthink it.

He kissed House.

Soft. Deliberate. Not a joke. Not a dare. Just a question without words.

House froze.

And then, gently, he pushed Wilson back. Not harshly. Just enough.

“James.”

The way he said it made Wilson blink.

“I’m sorry,” House said. “I just… I don’t feel like that.”

Wilson’s face twisted. “You do. You just don’t want to admit it.”

House didn’t flinch. “Don’t.”

“Because of Stacy,” Wilson pressed. “Because if you let yourself—if you even entertain the idea—you’d have to admit she isn’t enough.”

“Stacy is enough,” House snapped. “She’s—she’s the one who puts up with me. That has to count for something.”

Wilson looked at him for a long time. “So does honesty.”

A pause. House swallowed. His smirk was gone now. His voice was flat, a little distant.

“You want proof that I’m not scared? Fine.”

And then he kissed Wilson.

Hard, sure. No hesitation. No drama. Just truth. Mouth against mouth, hands in his hair for a fleeting second. A kiss meant to prove that House could. That he wasn’t afraid.

He pulled away before Wilson could deepen it.

“I can,” House whispered. “I’m not scared.”

Wilson was breathless. “Then why—”

“Because I don’t,” House said, quietly. “Not the way you want. Not enough. Not like that.”

Wilson’s lips trembled. House reached up, brushed a tear off his cheek. He did it like it was no big deal. Like they were still friends. Like everything hadn’t just changed.

Wilson stood up. Slowly. “Goodnight, House.”

House didn’t say anything. He just watched him leave, the echo of the monster truck engines fading behind his back.

One Month Later

House read the wedding announcement in the hospital newsletter over Stacy’s shoulder.

Dr. James Evan Wilson weds Julie Costas in private ceremony.

He stared at it for a long time. Stacy handed him his coffee and kissed his cheek.

“You okay?” she asked.

House smiled faintly. “Yeah. Just glad someone’s still optimistic.”

Chapter Text

The groan tore out of him before he was fully conscious.

House blinked against the gray morning light leaking through his window, face mashed into a pillow that had long since lost its shape. The apartment was quiet, save for the tick of the old wall clock and the distant sound of traffic. No monster trucks. No crowd noise. No Wilson.

Just memory.

He rolled onto his back, groaning again, louder this time, as if sound alone might scare away the thoughts.

“Stupid brain,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Who said you could start reruns?”

The kiss. Wilson walking away. The newsletter. The way Stacy had looked at him like nothing was wrong.

It had all played again last night clean, unedited, sharp around the edges. A mental greatest hits of everything House didn’t want to deal with.

He sat up, bones protesting, and swung his bad leg off the couch. He didn’t even remember falling asleep there. Coffee. That was step one. Step two… well, step two was pretending everything was fine.

Like always.

Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital - Later that Morning

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and House limped out, a paper cup clutched in one hand, a white bag of pastries in the other. His cane thudded with rhythmic indifference down the hallway. Diagnostics was still quiet, his team off running some tests he half-remembered ordering the day before. Not that he cared. The patient wasn’t dying fast enough to hold his interest.

But Wilson’s office door was cracked open.

He didn’t pause. Just pushed it open with his cane and walked in like he owned the place.

Wilson looked up from his desk, brow arching. He was mid-sip of something probably herbal and disgusting. His tie was striped today, conservative. Safe. His eyes flickered down to the coffee cup now being set unceremoniously in front of him.

House dropped the bag beside it. “Peace offering,” he said.

Wilson narrowed his eyes. “Is it drugged?”

“You’ll have to drink it to find out.”

Wilson leaned back slowly, lips twitching. “You woke up and thought, ‘I should poison someone who brings comfort and emotional stability into my life.’ Sounds about right.”

“Please. If I wanted you dead, I’d just take you to a monster truck rally again and wait for the existential dread to do its thing.”

Wilson chuckled, tentative but real. He reached for the cup, took a cautious sip. “Not terrible.”

“I aim for mediocrity,” House said, lowering himself into the visitor’s chair.

They sat in silence for a moment. Comfortable, almost. Familiar, definitely.

Wilson glanced sideways at him. “So… everything’s fine?”

House shrugged. “Was it ever not?”

Wilson hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Guess not.”

They moved on. Or rather, Wilson did. House sat there, talking about the case, making fun of Chase’s hair, mocking Foreman’s overly earnest diagnostic notes. The usual. But underneath all of it, something itched. Some part of him that kept glancing at Wilson’s hand resting near the coffee cup, wondering what it meant that he’d accepted it without hesitation.

What it meant that House had brought it at all.

Midday

Hallway Outside the Oncology Department

House leaned against the wall, balancing on his cane while sipping a bottle of apple juice he’d swiped from the paediatric fridge. Across the corridor, Wilson stood talking to a nurse and laughing. That same soft smile he always gave people when he liked them. House didn’t realize he was staring until Wilson caught his eye and gave him a brief wave.

House looked away. Pretended to be reading a flyer about seasonal allergies.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

He didn’t mean to keep ending up in Wilson’s orbit. It wasn’t like he planned his entire route through the hospital to cross Oncology three times before lunch. And he definitely didn’t loiter outside Wilson’s consults because he liked the sound of his voice. That would be ridiculous.

And yet. He lingered.

Diagnostics Lounge

Later That Afternoon

House sat in the lounge with his team, spinning theories about the patient’s idiopathic dizziness while only half-listening. His fingers drummed against the table. His gaze kept flicking to the door.

“I still think it could be a paraneoplastic syndrome,” Cameron was saying.

“Which is why we ruled that out three hours ago,” Foreman snapped.

Chase sighed. “Can we focus, please?”

House waved a hand dismissively. “Focus is for people who don’t already know the answer.”

He stood up abruptly and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Cameron called.

“Science waits for no man,” he said vaguely. “Also, I need another coffee.”

He didn’t need another coffee.

Wilson’s Office Again

Five Minutes Later

Wilson looked up as House entered without knocking.

“You again.”

House shrugged. “Didn’t want the coffee to get lonely.”

Wilson smiled, setting down a file. “You know you’ve dropped by more times today than in the last two weeks combined?”

“Nope. Don’t keep score.”

Wilson leaned back in his chair, giving him a look. Not suspicious. Just observant.

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re… hovering.”

House blinked. “I don’t hover.”

“You hover like it’s your part-time job.”

House smirked but didn’t answer. Instead, he crossed the room and flopped onto Wilson’s couch like he owned it.

“Maybe I’m just remembering how annoyingly tolerable you are when you’re not dating anyone.”

Wilson looked back down at his papers, trying and failing not to smile. “Well, enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Another Julie on the horizon?”

“Not yet.”

House’s chest felt tighter than he expected.

He stretched out on the couch, staring at the ceiling tiles. “You ever wonder when this happened?”

“When what happened?”

House didn’t look at him. “Me. Ending up in here. Just… being around you all the time.”

Wilson’s voice was quiet. “I thought that was always the case.”

“Yeah,” House said softly. “That’s what I mean.”

For a few seconds, there was only the sound of rustling papers and a cart rolling somewhere down the hallway. The world kept turning.

But House was still there.

Still close.

And wondering when that started to feel like the safest place to be.

Chapter Text

It was a thought so quiet it almost didn’t register.

He was always near.

House sat alone in his office, staring out through the glass wall. The whiteboard behind him was half-scribbled with a theory he no longer cared about. Cameron was running labs. Foreman was consulting Neuro. Chase had disappeared hours ago with a mumbled excuse about stool samples.

None of it mattered.

His leg ached. Not the stabbing pain of a new injury, but the long, dull pull of scar tissue and nerve damage that had become as familiar as breath. He reached for his Vicodin but didn’t take it right away. He just held it in his palm, the small white tablet like a stone.

And then the past rose like smoke in his mind, unbidden and sharp.

2000

Princeton General Hospital – Recovery Ward

The pain hit first.

No gentle wake-up. No easing into consciousness. Just a firestorm of agony that ripped him up from the black and dumped him into a bed soaked with sweat and fury.

House screamed.

It was hoarse, guttural, raw but not from fear, but betrayal. His leg felt like it had been hollowed out and replaced with a furnace. A cold, dead weight of surgical dressing pressed down over the muscle that used to be his.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t sit up. Couldn’t breathe.

And then Stacy was there.

“Greg—Greg, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay—”

Her voice was soft and useless. Her hand reached for him, and he jerked away violently.

“You—” His throat cracked. “ You did it. You—you bitch— ”

“Greg—”

“I TOLD YOU NO!”

The monitors screamed. The machines tracked every spike of rage and pain in clinical, heartless numbers.

He turned his face to the wall.

“Get out.”

“Greg, please—”

“GET OUT!”

The door opened. Closed. She left.

He didn’t cry. Not then.

Not until later, when the morphine wore off enough to leave him with everything: the truth, the permanence, the unbearable silence.

And Wilson.

Wilson was just there.

Sitting in a chair beside the bed like he’d always been there, like he’d never left. Like he had no intention of doing anything else.

House’s voice was a whisper, barely human.

“She cut out my leg.”

Wilson said nothing.

“She butchered me.”

Still, nothing. No defense. No reassurance.

Just a presence. A hand reaching out to hold his, and House humiliated, wrecked, terrified, didn’t pull away.

He cried.

Not because he was weak, but because he was furious. Because everything had been stolen from him (choice, autonomy, the future he’d carved out with reckless defiance).

Wilson stayed.

Even when House screamed again. Even when he thrashed against the restraints they’d gently applied to keep him from hurting himself.

Even when House broke down into incoherent sobs and begged for the pain to stop.

Wilson was there.

Weeks Later

Wilson’s Apartment – Spare Bedroom

House hadn’t planned to move in.

But the hospital discharged him and Stacy didn’t come. Her absence was louder than any goodbye. And Wilson, jacket slung over one arm, keys in hand, didn’t ask. Just picked up House’s bag and said, “You’re coming with me.”

And House didn’t argue.

The first few days were brutal.

House could barely move. The bathroom was a minefield. Stairs were the enemy. Wilson helped him in and out of the tub without saying a word. He made food House didn’t eat, changed bandages House didn’t look at, and watched as House started on the little orange bottle with the name Vicodin stamped neatly on the side.

House tested him. Every day. Sharper insults. Crueler jokes. Endless sarcasm.

“You know this isn’t your job, right? I’m not your wife. You don’t get martyr points for changing my socks.”

Wilson never flinched.

“Shut up and take your meds,” he said. “You smell like hospital pudding and anger.”

And House took them.

It wasn’t kindness. It was necessity. And Wilson understood that. He didn’t hover, didn’t coddle. He just stayed.

Even when House lashed out. Even when House tried to throw a book at him with his non-dominant hand and missed by a mile. Even when the pain was so bad House couldn’t form words and just sat on the floor, sweating and shaking.

Wilson stayed.

Present Day

Diagnostics Office

The memory faded slowly, like music winding down at the end of a record.

House blinked. His thumb rubbed across the surface of the Vicodin tablet still resting in his palm.

He was always near.

Not just recently. Not just after the kiss. Not just now, when things were strange and Wilson smelled like expensive cologne and was technically someone else’s husband again.

Always.

When Stacy left. When his leg was destroyed. When everything changed.

Wilson had been there before the cane. Before the hoodie and the limp and the bitterness carved so deep House couldn’t remember who he was without it.

Wilson was the only constant.

And he’d left once, yes. A few times. But he always came back. Always pulled House back from the edge, like gravity with better hair.

House swallowed. Looked down at the pill in his hand.

He didn’t take it.

Instead, he stood up slowly, the ache in his thigh burning like an old friend, and walked out the door.

House stood in the hallway outside Wilson’s office, balancing two styrofoam containers of greasy noodles and a bottle of flat soda he’d stolen from Paediatrics. He didn’t knock. Just walked in like he always did, like this was his space, too.

Wilson looked up from a stack of paperwork. “You know, most people announce themselves before barging in.”

House dropped the food on the desk. “I’m not most people. Besides, figured your blood sugar was about to hit tragic-romance-coma levels.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow but took the food anyway, flipping it open. “This isn’t even from that good place.”

“You lost ‘good place’ privileges after you compared last week’s dumplings to ‘chewed emotions.’”

“Fair,” Wilson murmured, grabbing a fork.

House sat in the visitor chair (his chair, really) and watched Wilson eat. He made a joke about the fork being sterile-ish and kicked his leg out to rest on the edge of the desk, like always. It was routine. Rehearsed. Muscle memory.

But somewhere in the quiet between noodles and sarcasm, House realised he’d hovered again.

Not just now. For years.

He noticed it the way you notice your own reflection after walking by a window suddenly, clearly, all at once. He was always near Wilson. Always drifting into his orbit, walking the long way to Diagnostics just to pass by Oncology, making coffee runs that required stops near Wilson’s office even when the lounge had perfectly acceptable sludge.

And the thing was, he didn’t mean to do it. Not consciously.

But he never stopped.

Not after the infarction. Not after Stacy. Not after the kiss.

Back then at the rally, under the roar of trucks and irony, Wilson had kissed him. And House had kissed him back. Briefly. Sharply. Like a challenge.

Not because he wanted to return it.

Because he needed to prove he could.

That was the truth. He hadn’t been in love with Wilson then. He wasn’t ready. Not to lose Stacy. Not to give up the story he still told himself that she was the last person who loved him enough to try and save him.

He wasn’t ready for Wilson’s version of truth. Not then.

But Wilson had been. And when House said no—when he pushed Wilson back with that quiet, brutal line about not feeling the same—Wilson had walked away.

For a while.

But he came back.

He always came back.

The hovering probably started then.

House didn’t call it that, of course. He framed it as sarcasm. As disruption. He’d barge into Wilson’s consults under the pretense of needing a second opinion. He’d fake food allergies just to force Wilson to share lunch. He’d mock the latest woman in Wilson’s life while keeping careful notes of when those relationships fizzled and Wilson turned up on his couch instead, watching documentaries and eating old pretzels.

Years went by like that.

Years of Wilson staying.

And somewhere in those years, House didn’t know exactly when, he’d started to rely on it.

Wilson never made him say anything. Never asked him to explain himself. Never demanded more than House could give. And maybe that was why it happened. Maybe that’s how it happened. House didn’t fall in love. Not like other people. He resisted it. He mocked it.

But with Wilson, he just… stopped fighting.

Or maybe he started fighting in a different way.

With quiet things.

Dinner deliveries.

Flirtation disguised as jokes.

Comments like, “If I were trying to seduce you, you’d already be on your back complaining about the thread count.”

Wilson would smile. Shake his head. Roll his eyes.

And House would pretend it was just a bit. Just part of the routine.

But sometimes, when the room went quiet, House caught himself leaning closer than necessary. Not touching. Just… being near.

Because that’s what Wilson had always done.

And now House did it, too.

Later that night, House sat in his apartment alone, flipping through channels with the sound muted. The takeout from earlier sat cold on the table. The beer he’d opened was still half-full, beads of condensation trailing down the side.

His leg throbbed. The Vicodin bottle sat on the end table, unopened. He wasn’t in enough pain to need it. Not physically, anyway.

He didn’t sleep. Not yet.

Instead, he thought about all the years Wilson had been beside him—not just as a friend, but as something else. Something like gravity. Something that kept House tethered even when he swore he didn’t need it.

When did I start hovering? he wondered.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

He was still doing it.

And tomorrow, he’d do it again.

Drop by with coffee. Make a joke about Wilson’s latest haircut. Steal a stapler and pretend it was about boredom, not need. Watch Wilson laugh genuine, warm and pretend he wasn’t drawn to it like a man to the edge of a cliff.

Still not ready to jump.

But always looking down.

Chapter Text

“Mandatory attendance?” House said, incredulous, waving the stapled packet like it had personally insulted him.

Cuddy, arms crossed and heels planted, just smiled that calm, terrifying administrator smile, the one that said fight me, see what happens.

“It’s three days, House. One keynote speech. Two panels. One Q&A, which you are not presenting at, before you ask.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” House grumbled, tossing the packet on her desk and dropping into the nearest chair. “I was going to fake a medical emergency. Or cause one.”

“You’ll behave,” she said, tapping her pen against her notes. “Or I’ll make you share a room with Chase.”

House stood. “Fine. But I’m not clapping.”

He found Wilson in his office, naturally.

The man was sitting behind his desk, reading something that looked mind-numbingly professional. He looked tired, focused, and completely absorbed in whatever patient file he was reviewing.

House stared at him for a beat too long before knocking once and barging in.

Wilson looked up, half-smiling. “Let me guess. You want to whine about the convention.”

“I would never whine,” House said, flopping down on the couch like gravity had betrayed him. “I am protesting. Protesting is noble. Whining is what oncologists do when their coffee’s cold.”

Wilson didn’t look up. “You do realise the hotel has a bar.”

“I realise that everything smells like disinfectant and bad decisions.”

Wilson chuckled. “So nothing’s changed.”

House rolled his cane between his palms absently, then said it too casually, too pointedly: “It’s our anniversary.”

Wilson blinked. “Our what?”

House gave a vague shrug, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall. “The convention. It’s the same one. Same time of year. Same hotel. You know. Window-smashing. Jail cell. Me being the literal definition of a white knight on a motorcycle.”

Wilson stared. “You remember the exact day we met?”

House looked at him, deadpan. “You threw a bottle through a window. You think I forget entertainment that good?”

Wilson laughed, but slower this time, more thoughtful. “Still. That’s… weirdly specific for you.”

“I have a photographic memory for trauma.”

“You weren’t even in the trauma.”

“I was the one who had to listen to your hungover rambling about existential regret while driving back to the hotel on a bike with no backrest. Don’t talk to me about trauma.”

Wilson shook his head, still smiling. “You’re such a jerk.”

“Anniversary-worthy jerk.”

And just like that, House stood and changed the subject.

“I call not-rooming with Foreman. He smells like ambition and hair gel. And if Chase sleeps shirtless again, I’m reporting him to HR.”

Wilson looked back down at his file. “You’re not even going to try and hide that you’re picking me.”

House was already halfway to the door. “Like I’d trust anyone else to stop me from smuggling in a bottle of Laphroaig.”

That night, Wilson sat in his apartment, glass of wine in hand, the file from earlier still unopened on the coffee table.

He kept thinking about what House said.

It’s our anniversary.

He hadn’t remembered. Not until House brought it up. Not the exact day, at least. Not the specific dates or hotel name or year. It had all blurred together over time divorces and conferences and late-night pizza and House being, well, House.

But House had remembered.

He remembered the exact day.

And that meant something.

Wilson knew House. Knew how much of the man was smoke and mirrors, how every real thing he felt came out sideways, through deflection, jokes, carefully planted barbs. He didn’t say anything real directly . He couldn’t. Somewhere along the line, that got trained out of him.

So when he did say something… even a little thing… Wilson had learned to pay attention.

It wasn’t a joke, not really.

It was a timestamp.

A memory.

A quiet sort of admission.

He could still remember the look on House’s face that night in Atlantic City. The way he’d grinned at the broken window story like it was a gift. The way he handed over the helmet like he already knew they’d be riding together for a long time.

They had been, in a way.

Even now, years later, with all the baggage and bruises and unspoken things, they were still riding side by side.

Wilson smiled faintly to himself and leaned back on the couch, swirling the wine in his glass.

“Happy anniversary,” he muttered under his breath, too low for anyone to hear.

He didn’t expect anything to change. Not really. House would keep making jokes. He’d keep flirting through sarcasm and doing nice things like bringing dinner and pretending it didn’t mean anything.

Wilson would keep letting him.

But still he couldn’t help thinking it was sweet.

Weirdly sweet.

Because House remembered.

And that meant, at least on some level, House cared.

Chapter Text

Medical convention - New Orleans 1995

Wilson didn’t even remember the song.

He remembered the man , though, Room 302, two floors above his own at the god-awful Sheraton where the conference was being held. Some smug pharmaceutical rep who’d discovered the repeat button on his stereo and decided to play the same track on an endless loop, like it was some form of modern torture.

It wasn’t just the music, though. It was everything.

The stale hallway air. The ugly floral curtains. The divorce papers folded neatly in his suitcase like a severed limb someone had tried to dress in Sunday clothes. The way he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t stop wondering what he’d done wrong, again. He was fresh out of med school, and already he felt old.

The bottle of cheap whiskey hadn’t helped.

And at some point around 2:00 a.m., when that godforsaken chorus came back for the eighth or ninth or fiftieth time, something in Wilson had snapped.

He didn’t plan to throw the bottle.

But he did.

The crash was satisfying. The cold air less so. Security arrived within minutes.

And that’s how James Wilson, board-certified oncologist and newly divorced sad man, ended up in a holding cell in Atlantic City wearing conference slacks and one sock.

It wasn’t the lowest point of his life.

But it was close.

He was sitting on the bench, head in hands, trying to figure out how he’d explain this to literally anyone, when he heard the voice.

Wilson looked up.

There was a man standing on the other side of the bars, handing paperwork to the officer like he owned the place. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Scruffy. Rugged in a sort of aggressively unshaven way. Jeans, leather jacket, motorcycle helmet under one arm. The kind of guy Wilson would’ve instinctively avoided at a bar because he looked like he’d bite if cornered.

The guy raised an eyebrow. “I took care of it.”

Wilson blinked. “What?”

House handed over the last of the forms and tilted his head. “You broke a window. Got arrested. Someone had to come pick you up before the real criminals tried to sell you something you can’t pronounce. You’re lucky you weren’t cellmates with the meth head who thinks he’s JFK.”

Wilson blinked again. “Why you?”

House grinned. “Why not me?”

The officer unlocked the cell. Wilson stepped out slowly, bewildered.

“I don’t understand. We haven’t even met.”

House handed him his jacket. “You were scheduled to present at the renal panel tomorrow. I was bored. You seemed interesting. Then you threw a bottle through a window and got yourself arrested. I like a man with flair.”

Wilson stared at him. “So you bailed me out… because I made a scene?”

“I admire a good meltdown,” House said. “Besides, I couldn’t sleep either. Now I don’t have to go to the hotel gym and pretend to care about cardio.”

They walked out into the cold air, the chill biting through Wilson’s shirt sleeves.

“I’ll pay you back,” Wilson said quickly, hugging his coat closer. “For the bail.”

“Don’t worry about it,” House replied. “Consider it an investment.”

“In what?”

House smirked. “Future entertainment.”

They stopped beside a sleek black motorcycle. Wilson hesitated.

“You ride a bike?”

“You trusted a whiskey bottle to fly true through a double-pane window. I think you’re qualified to ride pillion.”

Wilson blinked down at the machine. The seat looked small. The night looked long. House handed him a spare helmet.

“Unless you’d prefer the cab of shame?”

Wilson took the helmet.

The ride back to the hotel was loud and fast and absolutely not street-legal in at least three ways.

Wilson didn’t know when it happened, maybe around the second red light or the first sharp turn but he leaned forward. Just a little. Just to stay steady, he told himself. To balance. But House didn’t pull away.

And if House leaned back a little, if they moved in tandem for those twenty minutes like a single animal, it didn’t mean anything.

Except it did.

It meant something.

Wilson’s heart was pounding when they pulled into the lot. Not from fear. From something stranger. Something quieter.

They parked. House swung off the bike and looked at him. Wilson fumbled with the helmet, his fingers colder than they should have been.

“You okay?” House asked.

Wilson nodded. “Yeah. Just… you know. Weird night.”

House snorted. “You threw a bottle through a window and I rescued you from a concrete bed and a guy who thinks fluoride is a government tracking device. That’s not weird. That’s destiny.”

Wilson laughed despite himself. It was the first real laugh he’d had in weeks.

“I meant it,” House said, tilting his head. “About being bored. You’re the first person here who didn’t talk about grant proposals or their kid’s violin recital. I think I like you.”

Wilson looked at him. Really looked. The stubble. The sharp blue eyes. The sarcastic tilt of his mouth. He felt something stir inside him—too early, too complicated, too dangerous.

But real.

“I think I like you too,” Wilson said.

There was a beat. For a second, neither of them moved.

And then House ruined it in the most House-like way possible.

“You’re not gonna try to kiss me now, are you? Because I didn’t bring any breath mints and I don’t believe in gentle rejection.”

Wilson flushed. “God, no. I mean—not that I—”

House clapped him on the back. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”

But as they walked inside, Wilson couldn’t help but wonder: what if he had tried?

And House… hadn’t pulled away?

They stayed up that night talking in House’s room because Wilson’s was confiscated due to broken glass and bad choices. They split a six-pack House had stashed in the minibar and argued about ethics in clinical trials. House made fun of Wilson’s tie. Wilson challenged House’s views on patient honesty.

By sunrise, they were friends.

They didn’t say that. But they were.

And neither of them ever really looked back.

Chapter Text

The moment the hotel room door clicked shut behind them, House dropped his duffel bag to the floor like it was on fire, limped across the room, and faceplanted into the bed nearest the window with the exaggerated groan of a man twelve hours into a shift, not a three-hour drive.

“Dibs,” he mumbled into the comforter.

Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes, shutting the door behind them and clicking the deadbolt.

“You always call dibs on the bed closest to the minibar.”

“Correct. Because I’m not stupid. Also, if you snore again like last time, I want the option of easy alcohol access.”

“You slept through three hotel fire alarms last time,” Wilson said, walking over to the dresser and starting to unpack.

House rolled over onto his back and blinked up at the ceiling. “A man needs goals.”

Wilson shook his head, lifting his carefully folded shirts out of his suitcase. Everything about the way he unpacked was methodical (shirts together, socks rolled, toiletries lined up with toothbrush facing outward). Classic Wilson.

House watched him for a few seconds, then turned his head toward the window.

“It looks better than I remember,” he muttered.

Wilson paused. “The room?”

“No,” House said, then paused. “Your ass.”

Wilson froze halfway through hanging up a button-down. Then Wilson turned slowly, eyes narrowed but mouth twitching at the corner.

“You are unbelievable. ”

House grinned. “You keep saying that, but you’ve never actually denied it.”

In response, Wilson grabbed a clean T-shirt from his bag and lobbed it directly into House’s face.

House batted it away lazily. “That’s assault.”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t my belt.”

“You threatening me with foreplay? Be still, my heart.”

Wilson blushed just faintly, the pink rising to his ears as he turned back to his suitcase and tried to pretend House wasn’t still watching him with that half-smug, half-serious look he got when he was pushing a little too close to something true.

They didn’t say anything for a minute, the silence stretching between them, filled only with the muffled hum of air conditioning and the distant, echoey sound of water running, somewhere in another room, someone was already using the pool.

Wilson zipped up his empty suitcase and slid it into the closet. “They renovated,” he said, changing the subject with professional-grade ease. “Did you notice? There’s a pool now.”

House perked up slightly. “Indoor?”

Wilson nodded.

“Hot tub?”

“Apparently. And a bar.”

House pushed himself up on one elbow. “This is starting to sound less like a conference and more like a vacation you didn’t tell me we were taking.”

Wilson snorted. “Please. You don’t do vacations. You do chaos with room service.”

House climbed to his feet and limped toward the bathroom, cane tapping against the plush carpet. “And yet, you keep inviting me.”

“I don’t invite you,” Wilson muttered, moving toward the closet. “You show up.”

House peeked into the bathroom and let out a low whistle.

“Well, well,” he said, voice echoing slightly against the tiles. “Look at you, fancy hotel. That tub’s big enough to drown a cardiologist. And it’s got buttons. Massage settings.”

Wilson raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to play with it, aren’t you?”

“Wilson, it’s a giant hot water tank with jet propulsion. Of course I’m going to play with it.”

House leaned one hand on the doorframe and looked back toward Wilson with a mock-serious expression.

“You think we can expense a couple’s massage?”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “I think if you keep making comments like that, someone’s going to start asking if we’re married.”

House quirked an eyebrow. “And?”

Wilson didn’t answer, just threw a towel into the bathroom and grabbed a pair of swim trunks from his suitcase.

“We’ve got a few hours before dinner,” he said, avoiding the question. “Want to check out the pool?”

House grinned. “Do I want to watch strangers in Speedos while sipping overpriced cocktails and judging their laps? Wilson, I thought you’d never ask.”

“You know this is a medical conference, right?” Wilson asked as they both moved toward the door, grabbing key cards and phones. “You’re supposed to network. Talk to other doctors. Maybe learn something.”

“I am learning,” House said, already halfway out. “I’m learning how much chlorine it takes to erase the regret of a hundred pharmaceutical pitchmen.”

Wilson just shook his head again, laughing under his breath.

And maybe he didn’t say it but something about this was easy.

Familiar.

Comfortable in the way only long history could make it.

They were walking side by side again.

Same hotel.

Same ridiculous man.

Same quiet gravity.

Chapter Text

The hotel pool was sleeker than House expected. Less “cheap plastic and screaming kids,” more “soft blue lighting and overpriced cocktails in plastic cups with lime wedges.” It was quiet just a couple of doctors floating lazily in the water, a bored teenager manning the towel counter, and the occasional sound of the nearby hot tub bubbling like someone left the kettle on too long.

House stood on the tile at the shallow end, eyeing the water like it owed him money.

Wilson had already ditched his towel and waded in to mid-thigh, arms skimming the surface as he turned back with an easy, relaxed grin.

“Well?” he asked. “You coming in or just here to glare at the chlorine?”

House tapped his cane once against the tile, then set it down on a lounge chair with exaggerated reverence, like parting with a limb. “I’m beginning to think this was entrapment.”

“You said you wanted to come.”

“I said I wanted to watch people be unattractive in wet Lycra. That doesn’t mean I have to join the herd.”

Wilson smirked. “You’ll like it. It’s warm.”

House hesitated just long enough to make a point, then limped forward.

The first few steps weren’t bad. The water was indeed warm, a pleasant pressure wrapping around his calf, then knee, then thigh. But the traction was awful, and the moment his foot hit the slope leading deeper into the pool, his balance shifted.

Wilson was there immediately.

“Hey—” A hand shot out, steadying House with an instinctual sort of care. His palm landed at House’s waist, firm but not grabbing. “I’ve got you.”

“I noticed,” House muttered, gripping the handrail with one hand and Wilson’s shoulder with the other.

“Would’ve made a great lifeguard,” Wilson said. “I’ve got heroic bone structure.”

“You’ve got a hero complex,” House shot back, but he let himself lean into the touch a little. Just enough to keep steady. Just enough not to feel embarrassed about it.

They made it to the flat part of the pool floor, where House could stand upright without too much effort. The water lapped at his waist, warm and enveloping, easing the dull pull in his thigh.

“This doesn’t suck,” House admitted, voice low.

“Told you.”

And then, without warning, House splashed water straight into Wilson’s face.

Wilson sputtered, blinking and wiping his eyes. “You child! ”

House shrugged. “I prefer ‘agent of chaos.’”

Wilson narrowed his eyes and retaliated with a full-armed splash that hit House square in the chest.

They went back and forth like that for a bit, both laughing, the kind of half-muffled, soaked laughter that came out between splashes and mock offenses. House splashed up enough of a wave to slosh water over the edge of the pool, and Wilson responded by lunging at him.

“Take it like a man!”

House laughed, ducked, and moved faster than Wilson expected, he grabbed both of Wilson’s shoulders and shoved, trying to dunk him under.

Wilson yelped, half-laughing, half-panicked, and stumbled backward. Unfortunately, House’s footing wasn’t exactly stable either, and they both went under in a blur of water, flailing limbs, and bubbles.

For one terrifying second, House felt weightless, not in the good way. No traction, no cane, no leverage.

But then, strong arms were under his shoulders. Helping. Supporting.

Wilson came up first, pushing his hair out of his face and gasping.

House followed, sputtering and gripping Wilson’s arm like a lifeline.

“You okay?” Wilson asked, already steadying him before the question finished.

House nodded, blinking water from his eyes, the panic already passing. “Didn’t realize you were such a klutz.”

“You tackled me.”

“I grazed you artistically.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, but the look softened. His hand was still there just at House’s back now. Thumb brushing the edge of his rib cage. Reassuring. Quiet. Not moving unless House did.

And House didn’t move.

Not away.

After a second, Wilson let his other hand settle lightly on House’s side. “You good?”

House gave him a quick, sideways glance. “Do I look like I drowned?”

“You look like you forgot how ankles work.”

“You look like a wet retriever.”

Wilson smirked, then glanced around. “C’mon. Let’s float. Or loiter. Whatever you’re capable of.”

They waded to the edge of the pool where a long tiled bench ran just under the surface. House sank onto it with a groan of exaggerated effort, leaning back against the cool stone. Wilson slid in beside him, a comfortable distance apart but still close enough to count.

House shifted, subtly. Elbow brushing Wilson’s.

Wilson didn’t move away.

The water hummed around them, warm and still. Someone in the hot tub laughed loudly, and somewhere behind the pool deck, steam drifted from a glass door marked Sauna.

House nudged Wilson’s knee with his own. “We’re going in there.”

Wilson glanced over. “The sauna?”

House nodded. “But not sober. Has to be tipsy. Otherwise it’s just sweating in a wooden box.”

Wilson chuckled. “So what you want to pregame?”

“I want to feel the decision. Poorly.”

“Of course,” Wilson said, grinning. “Because nothing says medical professionalism like tipsy cardiovascular stress testing.”

House leaned back a little farther. “We’re men of science. It’s for the data.”

Wilson let his head tilt back, eyes half-closed. “I’ll get the drinks later.”

House watched him for a moment. Quietly. The curve of Wilson’s throat. The faint red mark from a hotel tag he must’ve ripped off his towel too fast. His hair still dripping slightly, darkened at the roots.

And still, his hand lingered, feather-light, just at the back of House’s ribs.

House didn’t say anything about it.

Chapter Text

Dinner was held in one of the hotel’s smaller banquet rooms. White tablecloths, flickering candles in little glass holders, and name placards no one was paying attention to. It was a standard medical conference affair, sterile luxury with the faint scent of buffet salmon and department politics.

House had planned on skipping it entirely, until Wilson reminded him that it was open bar.

They arrived fashionably late or rather, exactly when House wanted to arrive, which was twenty-five minutes in, once the salad had already been served and Cuddy had given up on keeping track of him.

Their table was in the far corner. Secluded. Isolated. Far from the main groups of department heads and presenters. House smirked when he saw it.

“She loves me,” he said, gesturing toward the distance between them and everyone else. “She knows I’m not housebroken.”

“She also knows you’d ask someone about their colonoscopy over the soup course,” Wilson said, pulling out his chair and sitting.

“Small talk is for cowards.”

Wilson didn’t argue.

By the time the entrees were served, they were two glasses of wine in (House with red, Wilson with white) both poured generously and not by the book.

It was easier, somehow, to talk when they were slightly removed from the room. The murmur of the other tables softened into a kind of ambient noise, one that blurred the edges of reality just enough.

“Tell me,” House said, swirling his glass, “how many awkward handshakes and forced laughs did you endure today?”

Wilson sighed. “Five. Maybe six. One person tried to pitch me a new tumor mapping platform.”

“Sexy.”

“Very. I said I’d think about it and pretended my phone was vibrating.”

House grinned. “You always were good at escaping. All that practice from your marriages, I assume.”

Wilson chuckled, but there was a flicker of something quieter in his eyes.

They ate. Slowly. Talked. Not about medicine.

House launched into a story about a botched MRI he witnessed during a fellowship, something involving a steel rod, a poorly read chart, and a very angry janitor.

Wilson, a few more sips in, told him about a patient who tried to flirt her way into early discharge. “She was seventy-two,” Wilson said, “and kept calling me ‘Jimmy’ in a tone that made me deeply uncomfortable.”

House leaned in, smirking. “But you loved it.”

“She offered me her number in front of her son.”

“She knows what she wants. You could learn something.”

Wilson shook his head, smiling but it was smaller now. Slower.

By the time dessert arrived, most of the tables had thinned out. People left in pairs or small groups, trickling away to the bar or to their rooms, or to feign sleep while checking emails under hotel comforters.

House and Wilson didn’t move.

Their wine glasses were replaced with scotch. House’s doing.

“To our continued professional mediocrity,” he toasted, lifting his glass. “And your ability to find an emotionally fragile woman in any zip code.”

Wilson clinked his glass against House’s, but the smile he gave was lopsided. “You always deflect like that?”

“Only when someone starts looking at me like they’re about to suggest I feel something.”

“God forbid.”

They drank.

Another silence, not entirely comfortable.

House leaned back in his chair and looked at him, really looked. The kind of look he only gave when he was too tired or too tipsy to keep the walls up. “You always sit too close to the exit.”

Wilson blinked. “What?”

“Every time. You always pick the chair closest to the door. Like you need a fast way out.”

Wilson looked away. His fingers traced the rim of his glass. “Force of habit.”

“From the marriages?” House asked. The words were almost gentle.

Wilson didn’t answer at first. Then: “From everything.”

They sat in that for a minute.

Long enough for the room to feel too quiet, even with the soft clatter of distant plates being cleared.

House leaned in, elbows on the table now. “You know, if you want to talk about that night—”

“Don’t.”

It came out fast. Reflexive. Too sharp.

Wilson sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I mean—sorry. Just…” He looked at House, eyes softer now. “Don’t say something you’ll make a joke about tomorrow.”

House opened his mouth. Then closed it.

Something flickered behind his eyes, too brief to read.

“I wasn’t going to joke,” he said finally, low. Almost inaudible.

Wilson stared at him.

Their eyes held.

For one second, maybe two, the air was thick with almost.

Wilson almost asked. What are we doing? House almost said it. I remember. I think about it. I think about you.

But the second passed.

Wilson looked down. Smiled. Too polite.

House knocked back the rest of his scotch and let the moment slide into silence.

They didn’t leave right away. They sat there, the only two left in the room, as a tired server cleared nearby tables and glanced their way, probably wondering if they were going to tip.

Eventually, Wilson stood, slow and careful. “We should go.”

House stayed seated a second longer, looking at his empty glass like it had betrayed him.

Then he stood, too.

Neither of them said anything as they walked out.

The room was dim when they got back. Low hotel lighting. One bedside lamp casting a soft golden hue over the mess of clothes, empty wine glasses, and House’s cane tipped at an angle against the wall like it had been abandoned in a hurry.

Wilson kicked off his shoes. Loosened the top two buttons of his shirt. The alcohol buzzed under his skin, warm and indulgent. He felt light, like he was hovering just above the carpet. The kind of looseness that made thoughts come easier, and actions harder to stop.

House, of course, immediately collapsed backward onto his bed, arms spread wide like he was trying to make a snow angel out of overpriced linen.

Wilson hovered at the foot of the bed for a second, awkwardly half-standing.

“Come on, Doctor Empathy,” House drawled, patting the mattress beside him. “This room was practically designed for bad decisions and worse posture.”

Wilson sighed, but sat. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight.

They didn’t turn on the TV. They didn’t talk for a minute.

Just sat there. Side by side. Too close. Legs brushing faintly. Not quite touching but just enough to feel it.

House passed Wilson the bottle of scotch they’d brought back from dinner. No glasses now. Just the kind of drinking that implied neither of them cared what came next.

“You ever think,” House started, staring at the ceiling, “what your career would’ve been if you’d gone into something other than oncology?”

Wilson took a sip, thought for a second. “Veterinarian.”

House rolled his head sideways to look at him, expression unreadable. “You wanted to pet dogs for a living?”

“Dogs don’t sue you,” Wilson said. “Or die with living wills and three estranged daughters who hate each other.”

“Fair,” House said. “You’d be an excellent vet. I’d trust you with my hamster.”

“You don’t have a hamster.”

“Not with that attitude.”

Wilson laughed. Soft and genuine. House turned his gaze to him again just for a second too long.

Then, without saying anything, he reached over and brushed a bit of Wilson’s hair from his forehead. Just a small gesture. A flick of fingertips, calloused and brief.

Wilson froze.

Not tense, just… still.

His hand lifted, hesitant and hovered before resting gently on House’s chest. Right over his shirt. Right where his heart would be.

It stayed there for a moment.

House didn’t move.

Then, after a beat, Wilson slowly withdrew it.

The tension in the room was quiet. Thick. Neither of them said anything.

House leaned a little closer, voice lower now. “Your hair’s gotten stupid soft.”

“Too much conditioner,” Wilson murmured, not quite looking at him.

“Explains why you smell like a meadow.”

Wilson laughed again but this time it caught, something about the sound warmer, messier. He looked at House through his lashes, cheeks just faintly red from either the scotch or the proximity.

“You flirt a lot when you’re drunk,” he said.

House tilted his head. “Do I?”

Wilson nodded, eyes searching his. “Yeah. But this time… it feels different.”

House didn’t answer.

He just leaned in slow, almost tentative. Closer.

Wilson didn’t move away.

But just before House’s lips could brush against his, his elbow nudged the bottle between them.

It tipped.

Then spilled, half a glass worth of amber liquid soaking into House’s comforter like a spreading bruise.

House blinked, jerked back, cursing. “Shit—”

Wilson jumped to his feet, reaching for napkins from the minibar, grabbing anything he could to mop up the mess. “I’m sorry—I should’ve—God, it’s everywhere—”

House just sat there, frowning down at the soaked sheets like they’d personally betrayed him.

“It’s ruined,” Wilson muttered, patting uselessly at the comforter. “We need housekeeping.”

“No,” House said. “We need vengeance.”

Wilson straightened up, hands still holding the ruined napkins. “What?”

House swung his legs off the bed and pointed dramatically toward the door. “We’re stealing blankets. Or—no, better. Pillaging them. Like cold, exhausted Vikings.”

“From where?”

“Unused rooms. Maybe the conference suite. Maybe Cuddy’s room if you’re feeling bold.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, but something in him relaxed. It was easier, suddenly, to laugh. The moment—the almost-kiss—was suspended. Tucked away behind a curtain of sarcasm and scotch and damp sheets.

As they stepped into the hallway, Wilson pulled his hoodie tighter over his shirt. “You know,” he said, “there’s an outdoor pool for VIPs.”

House stopped mid-limp. “You’ve been holding out on me?”

“You weren’t VIP status.”

“I’m always VIP status. I’m the reason they put disclaimers on hospital brochures.”

It took all of five minutes to find the outdoor VIP deck, mostly deserted at this hour, dimly lit, stars above like scattered diamonds.

The pool was heated. Quiet. Steam hovered just above the surface in soft curls.

They sat on the edge together, feet in the water, shoes discarded.

House tilted his head back to look at the stars.

Wilson watched him for a second before doing the same.

The air was cool, the kind that made you pull your arms in close, but the water kept their feet warm.

Neither of them said much.

It wasn’t uncomfortable.

It just… was.

A shared silence.

House’s knee brushed Wilson’s again. Wilson didn’t move it.

And above them, the sky was wide and far and full of things neither of them could say.

Chapter Text

The first thing Wilson noticed was that his spine hurt.

The second thing was that his face was squished into something very warm and definitely not a pillow.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.” House’s voice was sandpaper and smug.

Wilson blinked, pulling back slightly and realizing two very important facts:

1. He was curled on one of the pool lounge chairs, and
2. His head had somehow ended up tucked against House’s chest, his arm half-slung across House’s stomach.

“…Oh no,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with sleep and regret.

“Oh yes,” House croaked, smirking as he tilted his head back against the chair’s headrest. “We had a beautiful night. We whispered under the stars. You told me your middle name. I think we’re bonded now. Or betrothed.”

Wilson groaned and sat up slowly, cradling his pounding head. “Why does it feel like my skull is filled with gravel?”

“Because it is. That’s the thing about cheap hotel scotch. Tastes like nostalgia, punishes like a bad divorce.”

“And why is it so bright?”

“Because God hates you.”

Before Wilson could respond, a sharp voice cut through the hazy morning silence.

“ What the hell is wrong with you two? ”

Wilson squinted upward. Cuddy was standing poolside in heels and a blazer, hands on her hips, sunglasses already in place, exuding maximum administrator rage at seven-thirty in the morning.

House didn’t even flinch. “Hey, Lisa. You’re just in time for the honeymoon brunch.”

She ignored him. “You’re in the VIP section, which you don’t have clearance for. You passed out next to the pool, which is a lawsuit waiting to happen. And you’re scheduled to attend the neurology panel in—” she checked her phone “—twenty-nine minutes.”

Wilson buried his face in his hands.

House simply stretched. “Technically, we’re still at the conference. This is just the wellness portion.”

“You smell like a minibar threw up,” Cuddy snapped. “Go. Inside. Now.”

They staggered upright, half-dressed and wholly dehydrated, and shuffled into the hotel restaurant. Wilson immediately collapsed into a booth. House followed, groaning like he was being exorcised.

They both ordered something greasy and disastrous (pancakes, eggs, hash browns, double bacon, and a side of regret).

Cuddy, like a benevolent overlord with a grudge, returned a few minutes later with two glasses of water and some extra-strength ibuprofen.

“You’re lucky I didn’t throw you out.”

“We’re the hospital’s crown jewels,” House muttered. “Damaged, inappropriate jewels.”

She glared at him. “You’re going to that conference, even if I have to prop you up like Weekend at Bernie’s.”

When she finally stormed off, Wilson rubbed at his eyes and muttered, “Remind me never to follow you into a pool again.”

“You love it.”

“I regret everything.”

They finished breakfast in near silence, aside from the occasional clink of forks and shared grimaces. By the time they reached the conference hall, House was still limping dramatically, and Wilson was squinting like the lights were set to “torture.”

The presentation was, predictably, dry. Charts. Data. A PowerPoint that may have been designed by someone with a vendetta against color theory.

House leaned toward Wilson. “You ever think about death?”

Wilson blinked. “That’s your opener?”

“I’m just saying, if we die here, we die doing what we hate.”

At some point, House didn’t even notice exactly when, Wilson fell asleep, head drifting sideways until it landed softly on House’s shoulder.

House didn’t move.

He just stared straight ahead as if utterly invested in the research on the neurocognitive patterns of post-trauma response… while his heart thumped just a little too loudly under his ribs.

When the clapping started, Wilson startled awake and blinked at the room.

“I fell asleep, didn’t I?”

“You drooled on my shirt.”

“I did not.”

“You emotionally drooled.”

After lunch, Wilson staggered toward the shower first. The bathroom was foggy in seconds, warm and steamy. Wilson ran a hand through his hair, letting the water work the sleep and scotch out of his system.

Then the door creaked open.

“I’m using that bathtub,” House called out, his voice already half inside the room.

Wilson didn’t even turn. “Seriously?”

House responded by audibly flopping into the massive bathtub behind him. The one with the jets. The one they’d both marveled at the night before.

“Don’t mind me,” House said. “Just recovering from the trauma of your public snuggling.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, turning off the water. He wrapped a towel around his waist, but then paused.

Something in him, it might’ve been scotch residue, or maybe something older, quieter, nudged him forward.

He stepped out of the shower.

Walked toward the tub.

And then, still dripping, he let his towel fall to the floor and stepped in opposite House.

House blinked. Just blinked.

Wilson sat. The water sloshed gently around them.

Same tub. Two ends. Facing each other. Steam curling up between them.

“Point proven?” House asked, his voice unreadable.

Wilson didn’t answer. He leaned back, arms over the rim of the tub, wet hair sticking slightly to his temple.

It was House who broke the silence. “Well. This is a new level of married.”

There was a knock at the door.

Both of them jumped slightly.

“Guys?” Cuddy called. “You’re late for the afternoon breakout sessions. What are you doing in there?”

House grinned. Looked Wilson dead in the eye.

“We’re in the bath!” he shouted.

There was a pause. Then the door opened. Cuddy stepped in and stopped.

They were surrounded by bubbles, nothing visible but bare shoulders and slightly-too-relaxed expressions.

Wilson blushed, hard. “Cuddy—”

She stared at them. Then blinked.

House opened his mouth.

Wilson immediately kicked him under the bubbles, sharply. “Don’t,” Wilson warned, eyes narrowed.

Cuddy closed the door without another word.

Silence settled again. The water sloshed gently, the jets humming low.

House’s foot drifted against Wilson’s calf again, slower this time, more deliberate. It wasn’t teasing now, it was something softer, something more exploratory.

Wilson stiffened. Not in anger. Not in fear.

Just in… surprise.

He glanced across the bubbles, eyes locking with House’s. For a moment, neither said anything. Then, slowly almost against his better judgment Wilson let his eyes drift closed. A sigh escaped his lips, not quite audible over the sound of the water, and he leaned his head back.

House didn’t push. But he didn’t pull away either.

His foot moved again, up slightly, skimming just beneath the surface of Wilson’s skin. It wasn’t overt. It wasn’t even flirtatious in the usual House way. It was something else, quiet, unsure.

A kind of question.

Wilson’s brow furrowed faintly, and then he asked, without opening his eyes, “Why are you doing this?”

The silence stretched.

House stopped. His leg stilled in the water.

A shrug. “We’re relaxing. Thought the bubbles were getting lonely.”

Wilson’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite a laugh. He opened his eyes, and for a second he looked like he wanted to say something more.

Something important.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he tilted his head back and let the warm jets pulse at his spine. “Right. Just relaxing.”

Neither of them said anything else.

Eventually, the water began to cool. Wilson got out first, drying off and pulling on clean boxers and a T-shirt. House stayed in the tub a little longer, head tilted toward the ceiling like he was waiting for it to speak first.

When House finally got out, his skin was wrinkled and pink, and he toweled off with little enthusiasm. He limped out of the bathroom, glancing at the bed with a grumble.

Still soaked. Still uninhabitable.

Wilson was already sitting cross-legged on his bed, phone in hand, pretending to scroll through hospital emails.

House just stood there, dripping slightly on the carpet. “Guess I’ll sleep in the tub.”

Without looking up, Wilson flicked back the edge of the blanket beside him. “Get in before you get mildew.”

House smirked. “Don’t tempt me with mildew.”

But he didn’t argue. He slid under the covers, settling beside Wilson in the modest queen-sized hotel bed.

It was snug.

Their shoulders touched. Barely.

House folded his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling like he was waiting for the stars again. Wilson laid back too, arms crossed over his chest, very aware of the inches (or lack thereof) between them.

They didn’t speak for a few minutes.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the sound of House’s leg shifting beneath the sheets.

Then House’s hand moved.

Slowly, lightly, he dragged the tips of his fingers along Wilson’s forearm down, then up again. Featherlight.

Wilson’s breath caught.

He turned to look at House, who didn’t stop. His hand kept tracing patterns, lazy and careful, like it was just something to do.

“Greg,” Wilson said quietly.

House didn’t look at him.

Wilson’s voice was more strained now. “If you don’t want something more… you need to stop this.”

House’s hand paused.

Wilson didn’t blink. “I can’t do that again. Not after the last time. You need to stop if you don’t mean it.”

House didn’t say anything for a beat. His face didn’t shift. His mouth didn’t twitch.

Then, instead of stopping, he slowly moved closer just a few inches and tucked himself in closer against Wilson’s side. One hand resting lightly over Wilson’s chest.

He didn’t say a word.

Wilson froze.

For one, long second, he was too surprised to breathe.

This wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t sarcasm. It wasn’t performative, or defensive, or strategic.

It was House.

Just… snuggling.

Soft and warm and terrifying in how real it felt.

Wilson’s hands stayed motionless for a moment, hovering above House’s back like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to do. But slowly, instinctively, he let them settle, one resting lightly on House’s arm. Still unsure. Still cautious.

House said nothing. He didn’t have to. His breathing slowed. Evened out. And Wilson, somehow, relaxed.

Maybe it wasn’t a confession. Maybe it wasn’t everything he needed.

But it was something.

And for tonight that was enough.

Chapter Text

They walked into breakfast like nothing had happened.

Well, like House hadn’t curled up against Wilson in bed the night before, his arm casually draped over Wilson’s chest like that was a completely normal way to fall asleep next to your best friend.

Wilson, for his part, pretended it didn’t happen.

House, of course, acted like it was nothing but he didn’t bother to stop the little grin every time Wilson looked vaguely uncomfortable over his eggs.

“You’re quiet,” House said, chewing loudly.

“You’re hungover,” Wilson shot back.

“That’s not mutually exclusive.”

Wilson shook his head, sipping coffee like it was the only lifeline tethering him to reality. “Do we have the morning off?”

House leaned back with a theatrical stretch. “Cuddy scheduled us for one afternoon workshop, something on diagnostic risk management. Sounds riveting.”

Wilson raised a brow. “So we’re wasting the morning how?”

House grinned.

Wilson should’ve known better when House suggested they take the bike for “fresh air.” He should’ve known even before they pulled into a dusty side lot next to a massive stadium vibrating with engine growls and pyrotechnics.

Wilson stepped off the motorcycle, removing his helmet with slow dread. “You brought me to a monster truck show?”

House had already hobbled to the ticket window, eyes alight. “Correction: I brought us to the holy land of internal combustion. Try to act like you’ve lived.”

They weren’t going inside for the main event (it wasn’t until the evening) but House had bought “pit access” just to walk around the mechanical beasts.

“Ill try,” Wilson muttered as they stepped past a booth selling shirts that read Eat Dirt or Die . “It’s just oversized pickup trucks trying to prove something.”

“Exactly,” House said, pausing to admire a red-and-black beast named Skull Krusher . “It’s the male psyche, distilled.”

“Ah yes,” Wilson said. “All the grace of ballet, with none of the subtlety.”

“You’re just bitter because your car has airbags and feelings.”

Wilson rolled his eyes, arms crossed, watching House hobble closer to one of the trucks. He didn’t admit it but watching House’s face light up like a kid in a candy store, even as he leaned too heavily on the railing, was… nice. Familiar.

House grinned as he examined a chassis. “This one’s new. You can tell by the smell of rust and disappointment.”

Wilson came to stand beside him, close enough to bump elbows. “You’re weirdly into this.”

“And you’re weirdly into jazz. Let’s not cast stones.”

“Jazz is complex. Nuanced. Thoughtful.”

“This is loud. Pointless. Beautiful.” House paused, then smirked. “Kind of like you.”

Wilson tried not to blush. “Are you hitting on me at a monster truck rally?”

House turned. “Is it working?”

Wilson huffed, walking away toward the exit. House followed a moment later, limping slightly but moving faster than he let on.

They reached the motorcycle, helmets slung in their arms, the mid-morning sun hanging overhead.

House set his helmet on the seat. “You know,” he started, leaning just slightly closer, “when you talk about monster trucks like that, it’s almost a turn-on. Makes me want to educate you.”

Wilson raised a brow, biting back a grin. “Your idea of romance is engine oil and head trauma.”

“Still better than your second marriage.”

Wilson chuckled and took a step closer to the bike, close enough now that they were standing shoulder to shoulder, their arms brushing slightly. Their bodies fit together easily, like magnets slowly finding their proper alignment.

House turned to face Wilson, really face him, his gaze lingering on Wilson’s profile.

Wilson didn’t move. His fingers tightened around the helmet strap.

Then, very briefly, his eyes flicked downward. To House’s mouth.

And back up.

House’s breath hitched.

Something inside him clicked into place. He reached out, gently, and let his fingers brush along Wilson’s forearm just once, deliberate. A caress, not a joke. Not a dare.

Wilson looked up at him, startled. House stepped in closer. Barely an inch between them now.

He leaned forward, slower this time, eyes watching, waiting for resistance.

And then he kissed him.

Softly.

Mouths meeting like something inevitable, finally real. Not drunk. Not joking. Just… them.

It wasn’t possessive or heated, not yet. It was the kind of kiss you only allow yourself after years of almosts.

Wilson let it happen.

Let his mouth move against House’s, lips parting just slightly. His hand hovered like he might reach up and touch House’s jaw, his neck, his chest.

But then… he pulled back.

House’s heart stuttered.

Wilson looked at him.

And then quietly, with that maddening softness said:

“I just don’t feel the same.”

The words landed like a punch.

House’s body went still. His mouth half-open, breath shallow. The scene shifted, blurring into another memory, the night he had said it, back when Wilson kissed him first. The echo hit like déjà vu, cruel and precise.

He blinked once.

Hard.

“Do you mean that?” House asked, voice lower now. Stripped down.

Wilson stared at him.

Then, slowly, shook his head. “No. I just wanted you to know how it felt.”

And Wilson kissed him again.

This time with purpose. No hesitation.

House made a low sound-frustrated, relieved, furious and grabbed Wilson’s waist, pulling him closer. Their helmets thudded to the pavement, forgotten.

Wilson melted into it. His hands fisted in the collar of House’s shirt.

It was clumsy. Messy. Perfect.

When they broke apart, House rested his forehead against Wilson’s, breathless.

“You’re an ass,” he whispered.

“You deserved it.”

“I did.”

Chapter Text

The ride back to the hotel was tense in the best way possible. The engine drummed beneath them, synchronicity in every bump and shift. Wilson leaned forward, catch­ing his shirt against House’s jacket, heat and closeness and stolen friction.

At one red light, everything broke loose.

Wilson’s hand moved. From House’s hip to his chest, fingers pressing lightly, then trailing upward to graze his neck. It was possessive. Suggestive. Chaotic in the way they already were. It made House’s breath hitch, the throttle between anticipation and reason.

House responded with his own boldness. His right hand came up and locked around Wilson’s thigh, thumb squeezing just enough to provoke that delicious flicker of laughter and tension.

They sat there, engines growling and cars lined behind them, but in that moment there was only each other, heat radiating from the seats, palms, thighs pressed together, breath synced over muffled rumble.

The light turned green.

They moved.

At the conference doors, they stepped off the bike, still close House’s boots brushing Wilson’s as they dismounted. House caught Wilson’s gaze and dipped his head, pressing a greedy, hungry kiss to his lips.

It was sudden. Pressing. Electric.

Wilson returned the kiss at first but quickly pulled away, breath shaky, eyes dark with need.

“We need to go,” Wilson whispered voice tight. “Conference.”

House didn’t answer. He just swiped Wilson’s jawline with his thumb, nodding.

They walked in side by side, silent but still tethered.

They sat at the back of a breakout session. Both playing the role of professionals, quietly joking, passing notes about the speaker’s tie, nudging each other when someone started to drone on about risk stratification.

They stole glances.

Small smiles.

Fingertips brushing while passing pens or papers.

Nobody else noticed but each other and they didn’t care.

By the end, their shared look said we might survive this more than any data on the podium.

Later in the evening, they met up with Foreman, Cameron, and Chase at one of the nicer conference restaurants. House and Wilson took the table in the corner, the booth that allowed just a smidge of shoulder contact when Wilson slid in.

Foreman did a double-take but didn’t comment.

Chase winked at Cameron.

Cameron rolled her eyes.

They sat through the usual small talk and clinical war stories, but even as House feigned complaining about the salmon and Wilson shared a mildly embarrassing patient anecdote, their fingers kept grazing underneath the table.

When dessert came, the rest of the dinner group talked about tomorrow’s schedule. Wilson leaned in and murmured softly, “I’ll meet you at the pool ten minutes after it opens?”

House offered a sharp smirk. “Don’t be late.”

They left the group without fanfare.

The night pool, still steaming softly, called them back like a promise. It was quieter than earlier nights, bars down, the city lights dancing across the water’s surface.

House sat on the submerged bench, water up to his chest. Wilson joined him, slipping into the pool. His shoulder brushed House’s.

They bickered as they always did, House mocking Wilson’s tie selection, Wilson teasing House about his foot drag.

But tonight, the laughter was easy. Free. Their eyes were softer. There was no shadow of doubt, no defensiveness just a sense that whatever comes next, we’ll be ok .

Wilson splashed playfully; House splashed back, slowly, almost tenderly. Water droplets ran down their chests in rivulets, the steam rising between them.

Then, nearly simultaneously, their smiles softened.

House reached out, cupped Wilson’s face with one hand. Wilson leaned in.

Their lips met.

Slow.

Soft.

Full of everything that had taken years to untangle.

They stayed there, water swirling, lights shimmering, city humming around them but in that moment there was only each other.

It was the exact date that they shared their first kiss. In a place they first met, only fifteen years later and this time they both were ready for it.