Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"It was stupid. And preventable."

Late spring rain was running down the glass window of the diner, blurring and refracting the headlights of cars passing along the nearby street. House was bent in what couldn't be a comfortable posture, elbows on the table, both hands on one shoulder, head bowed and tilted towards the window. His plate, with most of the french fries and almost all of his hamburger still on it, sat at the edge, a tacit hint for the waitress to come take it away. Wilson dumped the fries onto his own plate.

"What was it?" he asked.

"Vitamins."

"Hm?"

"Vitamins," House said.

"Your patient died of vitamins?"

"Reaction to the binders in the pills combined with the virus, masking the fever -- misdirected us. Stupid mistake," House said. "Gimme my damn fries back."

Wilson pushed his plate carefully into the middle of the table. House dipped one of the french fries in gravy left over from Wilson's mashed potatoes and ate it, still staring out the window.

"This is really weird," Wilson said. House looked up long enough to scowl and take a sip of his beer.

"What's that?"

"You, caring. It's freaking me out, frankly," Wilson continued. "You solved the puzzle, and yet you're...well, woeful. Full of woe."

"I am not full of woe, I'm full of beer. Cheap beer."

"You have so much woe it's practically your cologne. Eau de woe. You're like some fifteen year old who just got dumped by her boyfriend."

"Well, I wouldn't put out," House muttered.

"You must have really liked that patient."

"I did."

Wilson stared at him, startled. "You liked him?"

"Sure. He was cool, for a nineteen-year-old. He liked the blues. He was weird. He didn't lie to me."

"Everybody lies. What about the vitamins?"

House sighed. "His mother was grinding them up and sprinkling them on his food."

"Wow. Mom killed him. How Greek."

"Can I get a Coke over here?" House called. The waitress gave him a look and flounced off. "The service sucks."

"You're an asshole."

"Yeah, but I tip well."

"Oh, not a cheap asshole, that's heartening," Wilson said. "Seriously, you liked a patient?"

"Yeah. And it sucks, because he's dead. He was unpredictable. It was challenging," House said. He accepted the glass of Coke from the waitress and ate another french fry.

"You like unpredictable?"

"Keeps me on my toes. I like you, don't I?"

Wilson gawped outright this time. "How were those two thoughts linked?"

"Now you're just being coy," House said, setting his drink down and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. "You don't really think I admire your caring personality or your way with the ladies."

"The thought had crossed my mind that my good example might have been one reason you keep slinking around," Wilson retorted.

"Yang to my yin?" House asked. "Nope. You're unpredictable. Thus, tolerable."

He popped another gravy-laden fry into his mouth.

"I'm sorry, have you met me? I'm the one who wears the same tie every Tuesday," Wilson said.

"Candystripe. Yeah, I noticed."

"Not unpredictable."

"Fuck ties," House said, rather more loudly than was warranted. Wilson hissed at him and he rolled his eyes before dropping his voice. "Are you really going to make me break out the reasons-I-like-you speech?"

"You tested our friendship by borrowing five grand from me. I think I'm owed," Wilson said.

"Fine." House held up a hand and ticked points off on his fingers. "You're the goody-two-shoes doctor right up to the point where you make fun of Cameron in fantastically insensitive fashion. That blew me out of the water, in case you didn't notice."

"You didn't say."

"I was in drama club in high school. Your sense of humor is just bizarre enough to be amusing, you act remarkably stupid for a man your age, your marital drama is unending, it's better than the soaps..."

Wilson gave him a martyred look.

"And you never go above the speed limit, but you buy pot and roll joints for terminal cancer patients." House slumped over again, all the way this time, folding his arms on the table and resting his chin on his crossed wrists. Wilson leaned back, tapping a fry on the edge of the plate.

"So, what, you're trying to figure me out?" he asked finally. "I know you, House. People are just puzzles until you find out which part to tug to make the whole thing unravel."

House studied him warily. "It's not a hobby, you know."

"Sure looks like one."

"It's just what I do. I can't help it."

Silence. Finally, House drew a breath.

"You're not easy," he said. "You're not simple. You change. I don't know what's going on in your head, I don't know what you're going to say next. It's a fucking relief, not having to fake being interested when I know everything everyone's going to say."

"Your ego certainly isn't suffering," Wilson replied, but his heart wasn't in it.

"I'm crying on the inside," House answered. He turned his head to stare out the window again. "People suck. They think there's this way they're supposed to act, and they do, and then they're miserable."

"Common courtesy isn't -- "

"I'm not talking about saying thank you and holding doors," House snarled. Wilson lifted an eyebrow. "It's this stupid -- like everything's a game of what the right thing to say is, except an idiot invented the rules -- mmh." He sat up and drank the last of his Coke. "It's not worth the time it would take to explain."

He took a handful of crumpled bills out of his pocket, smoothed out a twenty, and set it under one of the empty beer bottles. Wilson added fifteen overly-crisp dollars and stopped House as he started past on the way to the door.

"You're not taking the bike," he said, physically blocking him. House smacked him in the shin with his cane, but Wilson just winced and stood his ground.

"I had two beers, over the course of two hours, and a Coke. Trust me, if I die in a horrible fiery crash I promise not to blame you," he said.

"It's not the beers, House. It's the rain." Wilson nodded at the window. "It's dark, the roads are slick, and triage calls your bike a donorcycle for a reason. Not happening."

"What, you want to toss it in the back of your two-door Porsche?" House asked.

"Leave the bike here. We're both going to your place anyway, I'll drive."

House opened his mouth to speak, but Wilson cut him off.

"Or you drive. At least in a car you're not going to skid out and lose a leg."

"Gee, yeah, that'd be horrible. I might never walk normally again," House said.

"It's the Porsche or we stand here and if you hit my other leg with your cane I'm going to take it and beat you into submission with it and then take your keys," Wilson said firmly. House narrowed his eyes.

"I'll drive," he said, holding out his hand for Wilson's keys.

"Swap," Wilson insisted.

"You don't trust me?"

"No."

House took his keyring out of his pocket and held it up by two fingers. Wilson took out his own keys and held them up. They each grasped the other's keys and warily let go of their own. The waitresses watched, fascinated.

"What, you've never seen a hostage exchange before?" House asked them. Wilson stood aside and they made their way out of the diner, to the top-up Porsche parked next to the bike in the handicapped spot. House patted the handlebars.

"Be good while papa's gone," he said sweetly. "Don't let any other nasty cripples into this spot."

***

It wasn't immediately obvious whether House's excessively safe driving on the way from the diner to his apartment was the result of actually caring what the road conditions were or annoyance over Wilson's lack of faith in his abilities. Either way, they were approaching the intersection for their turn at a near-crawl when they saw it happen.

An SUV was coming down House's street, faster than it should have, and something at the last minute made it swerve; it swung wildly across the oncoming-traffic lane, spun back into its own as it entered the intersection, collided with the front of a car in the next lane over from House, and crashed over the curb opposite, rolling onto its side -- but not before the windshield shattered as a body went through it. House hit the brakes so fast the Porsche almost spun too, then flicked the emergency blinkers on and leaned over the steering wheel.

"Awesome," he said. Wilson stared.

"Call 911," he said.

"What, no OnStar?"

"House!"

"Fine, Christ." House dug out his cellphone and dialled.

"And then come help!"

"I'm on hold!" House shouted, as Wilson got out of the car and was immediately drenched in the pouring rain.

"You're a doctor!"

House pulled the lever on the door, but he told himself it was only because there was no way Wilson was getting the last word. "I'm a diagnostician! What do you want me to do, look at them and say yep, they're dead?"

The people in the car that the SUV clipped on its headlong flight were climbing out, looking shaken but whole; a baby was screaming in the backseat. House made his way to where the driver, apparently Father Of Annoying Child, was standing.

"Oh god -- is that a phone? Are you calling for help?" the man asked. House held up a finger. "Tell them we're okay -- "

"Can I tell them I assaulted you in order to shut you up?" House asked. The man took the hint and went to see about his baby. Wilson was crouching by a dark shape near the sideways SUV, which was still rocking back and forth slightly as it settled.

"Nine One One, what is your emergency?"

House sighed. "This is Dr. Gregory House, I'm standing at the intersection of South Fifth and Baker, near the Hudson apartment complex. I'm reporting an automobile accident."

"Are there injuries at the scene?"

"Uh...yeah. So I'm going to go give aid or something. Nice talking to you."

He hung up the phone and walked past Wilson to the SUV. He crouched, stiffly, and gazed into the wrecked car through the shattered driver's-side door.

"This is a Kodak moment," he said.

"House, shut up and help me," Wilson called.

"Can't," House said.

"Is this really the time to be a dickhead?"

"Such witty repartee," House said, wiping wet hair out of his eyes. "Leave him, he's a moron."

He grasped the rear door and tugged; when it didn't open, he took precise aim and shattered the window with a single good jab, then reached inside and unlocked the door. Wilson stood up slowly.

"Kids?" he asked.

"I can't get in there," House said, opening the door. "You can."

"Driver's bleeding," Wilson said, hoisting himself up onto the runnerboard and looking down in. "Carseats."

"They come pre-backboarded these days."

"I'll get them out."

"There better be a cash reward in this," House grumbled as he stood and limped to where Wilson had deposited the driver. The man was coming round, moaning and rubbing his head, where a huge gash was bleeding.

"No touching," House said, slapping the man's hand away. "No moving, and hopefully no talking."

"What happened?"

"You're a lousy driver. Hold still, or your scalp's going to kill you," House said, pressing the wound closed. With his other hand he reached into his pocket and took out a pill bottle, flipping the cap off.

"Are you a paramedic? What are those?" the driver asked confusedly.

"They're mine, get your own," House retorted, tipping two into his mouth. "Don't worry, I'm sure they'll have some for you soon."

His last words were lost in the shriek of the ambulance as Wilson climbed back out, carefully lowering two car-seats onto the damp grass. He picked them up and began to carry them to the paramedics; House turned back to their father, who was still stupidly trying to move.

There was a warm breath of air across the back of his neck, like a foreshock, and then the SUV exploded in flames.

House slid down until he was sitting in the mud, one hand still holding the man firmly on the ground and keeping the gaping slash in his scalp from bleeding too much.

"Your kids are fine," he said. "Now please shut up until someone who's paid to do this kind of thing comes around."

***

Relief for the father didn't take long to arrive, but the night was far from over; Wilson, having made sure the kids were safe and called the ER to ask one of his pals there to treat them, found House arguing furiously with a police officer.

"Twenty feet!" House was saying, in that really loud voice that made Cuddy's nervous eyebrow twitch start up. "Twenty feet from here to my warm, dry sofa."

"I'm sorry, sir," the policeman said patiently, "But until you've given your statement -- "

"You know what this is?" House said, holding out his hand. The policeman stared at it. "It's rain. Falling on me."

"I'll -- just -- " Wilson said, shoving House away slightly. "Listen, our place is just across the street. Can't he give his statement there? I've got to move the car anyway," he added, jerking his thumb at the Porsche. "Besides, there's probably hot coffee and towels..."

The last came out rather more wistfully than he intended, but it must have struck a chord with the equally drenched cop, who tucked his notebook in the inside pocket of his coat.

"Fine," he said. "But you, keep your smart mouth shut."

House made a face as the man walked past towards the street, but at Wilson's warning look, he followed the cop. Wilson climbed into the car, sighed at the mud he was getting all over the upholstery, and pulled it the half-block to the turn, carefully crunching across broken glass and into the designated GUEST parking spot.

Inside, House was undressing. The cop was trying not to be annoyed by this. At least he was doing it in the bedroom, and shouting his replies down the hallway.

"Is he always like this?" the man asked Wilson in an undertone.

"No. Usually he's worse."

House came out of the bedroom in a white shirt and shapeless black trousers, glaring angrily at the man who was intruding on his evening. He dumped his muddy clothes in a heap by the door. Wilson longed to do the same, but he made do with taking off his tie and walking into the kitchen to wash his hands and face. He listened as House continued to give his only mildly sarcastic statement, standing in the living room and tapping his cane impatiently on the floor. At one point, his pillbottle rattled as he shook a painkiller out and swallowed it. Wilson, because he was that kind of person, dried off his hands and went about making some decaf coffee and a nice plate of snacks.

"And this is your residence?" the man asked. "221, Apartment B, Baker Avenue?"

"No, this is just my pad on the DL, away from the wife," House said with an exaggerated wink. The cop glanced at Wilson and took the coffee he offered with a nod.

"And you live here too?" he asked Wilson, who glanced at House.

"I'm staying here. My house is being fumigated," he said, fumbling a little on the lie.

"So you both live here," the cop said.

"Yes," Wilson confirmed.

"Together?"

"Is he implying something?" House asked Wilson, who felt sudden horror rising in the back of his mind.

"Hey, it's none of my business," the cop continued. "I think that's all I need -- we'll call if there's anything else. Your...friend has the number of the hospital they were taken to."

He touched his hat, gulped the coffee, said thank-you and showed himself out. House all but collapsed on the couch.

"Well, that was exciting," Wilson said, digging some clean clothes out of his suitcase and walking into the bathroom to change. He didn't bother closing the door; it wasn't like House was going to look.

"Sure," House answered, and Wilson heard the tap of his cane against the floor, idle, like fingers tapping on a table.

"Sorry I called you a dickhead."

"You really need to stop apologising for stuff."

"Fire's out," Wilson said, looking out the bathroom window at the crash-scene across the street. "I think I'll go down in the morning and make sure everyone got taken care of."

"Sure," House said absently. Wilson did up the drawstring on his pyjama trousers and returned, tossing his soaking-wet clothes on top of House's.

"Nother beer?" he asked, passing the couch again and walking into the kitchen.

"No, thanks," House answered, still in a distracted tone of voice. Wilson could tell, because House didn't use words like "thanks" unless his brain was on autopilot. Oddly enough, House was much more polite when he was ignoring people completely.

"Coffee?"

House didn't even answer, that time. Wilson poured him a cup and brought it back, along with his bottle of beer. House reached automatically for the beer, so Wilson sat down next to him and propped his legs on the coffee table, setting the mug nearby.

"Are you okay?" he asked. House tapped the mouth of the beer bottle against his lips, not drinking.

"Jung invented synchronicity when he saw a scarab beetle fly through a window at the same time one of his patients was telling him that she'd had a dream about a scarab beetle," he said. His voice sounded distant, like when he was turning over a case in his head.

"I hate bugs," Wilson said adamantly. House glanced at him.

"What?"

"Bugs. Spiders, beetles, flies...ugh." Wilson sipped his coffee. House continued to stare. "What? Like you're the king of relevant statements all of a sudden? Did you have a dream about seeing an SUV crash into a tree or something?"

House blinked at him, then turned back to his contemplation of the black TV screen and took a sip of the beer.

"How well do you think a Kawasaki sport oh-five would stand up against the front bumper of a hydroplaning oh-four Ford Explorer?"

Wilson felt a slow chill start at the base of his spine and slide upwards. "What?"

"Theoretically speaking."

"Why do you ask?"

"It clipped that car in front of us, the station wagon. If that car had been the bike, do you think I would have actually died, or just spent the rest of my life doing a Christopher Reeve?"

"That's a morbid thing to say," Wilson blurted.

"You're right." House drank thoughtfully. Wilson found himself unable to resist considering it.

"Depends on where it hit," he said finally. "I mean, if it had hit the Porsche, you'd be looking at multiple fractures, punctured eardrum, broken nose from the airbag, and I'd probably have a cracked rib or eight..."

"Yeah."

"Bike...my bet would be organ donor."

House grunted.

"Listen, the point is, it didn't hit you on the bike, or in the Porsche, but you could get hit by a car tomorrow or the next day or shot by an annoyed patient, which I think is far more likely, and you've already had one flatline in this lifetime, so there's no real point in brooding on it," Wilson said. "Besides, you're more maneuverable on a bike. You might have been able to swerve around it completely."

"I didn't ask for a dissertation on the subject," House said irritably, finishing off the beer.

"Well, then I'll give you a moral instead. Next time I tell you not to take your motorcycle joyriding on wet streets, don't hit me in the shin," Wilson replied. "Now, I'm kicking you out because I want some sleep. You should sleep too. You'll be sore tomorrow."

"Yes, mom," House said, but he didn't move. His fingers tightened on his cane.

"Any time now," Wilson said. "Unless you have some other existential crisis that needs dealing with. The doctor is in."

House grimaced. Wilson could feel the tension from three feet away.

"You can't get up, can you?" he asked.

"Fuck you, I'll get up when I'm ready," House answered. Wilson groaned and leaned over, shoving his shoulder under House's arm.

"On three, and fuck you back," he said. "One, two, three -- "

House didn't pull punches, once help was offered; Wilson almost fell back down as his shoulder was used as leverage by muscles that were considerably stronger than they looked. House twisted his hand around deftly and caught his arm, underbalancing them both for just a second, until they found themselves gripping each other for balance, unsteady on the slick wooden floor.

House was breathing heavy. The doctor in Wilson noted that his pupils were dilated, too, and wondered briefly if he wasn't having some kind of attack, but the sensible human being in Wilson got the better of him, because he was breathing heavily too.

"Okay?" House asked. and for once the bite wasn't in his voice.

"Dunno. Are you?"

"No."

Typical.

Wilson leaned forward, smelled grass and mud and antiseptic soap, sweat and scorched metal.

"Unpredictable enough for you?" he asked. House's hand tightened on his arm. He took the hint and inclined his head just so, a little too close for either of them to quite focus on the other's face. When House didn't pull back or flinch or say something stupid and cruel, he kissed him.

It wasn't swelling orchestras or love's true dream or anything, and somewhat to his disappointment there wasn't any tongue, but when he leaned back House's eyes were closed, which he figured was a pretty big accomplishment.

"Don't let go of me," House said. "I'm going to fall over."

Wilson grinned.

"No, seriously -- alcohol and Vicodin..."

"Oh, shit," Wilson said, catching House as he made good on his statement. "How many did you take?"

"Annually, or do you want it broken down by hour?" House asked. Wilson got them both upright and took the much less romantic role of extra crutch as House lurched down the hall to his bedroom.

"You know how to kill a mood," he muttered under his breath. House chuckled.

"Put me to bed, Romeo," he replied. "I promise I'll make it up to you."

"Cute."

"You just kissed me."

"I didn't notice you screaming and running."

"I'm past the whole cooties thing," House answered as he was deposited rather unceremoniously on the bed. He managed to sit up and stare, wide-eyed, at Wilson. "Why?"

"Cooties? I think it's some kind of childhood psych -- "

"Why'd you do that?"

Wilson crossed his arms. "Why do you think I've had three wives?"

House looked down, then almost fell down. He caught himself on the edge of the bed. "Oh."

"Sleep it off, House. With any luck neither of us will remember it in the morning."

Wilson turned to leave, because House could get under his own damn blankets, but there was a sharp tug as House grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him down, kissing him with a lot less friendly intent and a lot more tongue. There might even have been orchestras, but Wilson couldn't hear them over the ringing in his ears and the creak of the bedsprings as he toppled over on top of House, who was now lying on the bed, feet dangling off the side.

"Surprise," House muttered. Wilson managed to prop himself on his elbows, but that really only gave him a better vantage point from which to stare down in shock.

"Why'd you do that?" he asked. House laughed drily and struggled up on his own elbows, kissing Wilson's throat just below the jawline.

"Because I'm not going to get to do much more," he said.

Then he passed out.

Wilson watched, counted the barely-visible pulsebeats in his jugular, then lowered his head slowly and let it rest on House's shoulder.

"You're sharing the bed tonight, you bastard," he said.

***

There was a buzzing noise, as of a telephone, somewhere in the foggy distance.

There was movement, as of someone's arm reaching across his shoulder to the nightstand.

Then there was another noise, as of a small, buzzing electronic object hitting a large object made primarily of drywall.

"Cammon?" Wilson asked sleepily.

"No," House's voice answered, slightly more lucid-sounding than his own. "Cuddy."

"Mmh."

James Wilson went back to sleep.

Chapter Text

When Wilson woke for the second time, he had a brief moment of concern; there hadn't been any alarm, and he had no idea what time it was, and it felt like he was in a real bed, which was unsettling after a few weeks on House's couch.

He remembered ending up in Greg House's bed, actually.

And what had happened beforehand.

The new development, actually, was that Greg House himself was curled against Wilson's back, face pressed into his neck, one arm slung over his waist. And he wasn't asleep.

Wilson pondered what one said in this situation. "Good morning" seemed banal, but "are you awake enough to make out with me now" was tres high school. While he was considering other options, House (as usual) figured out exactly the inappropriate thing to do, and did it.

Wilson tilted his head back a little as House's hand slid under the waistband of his pyjamas. The pads of his fingertips explored, more slowly than was preferable, but House only hurried when he wanted, and Wilson, still half-asleep, had the time to wait. He'd waited much longer for much less from House before now.

"You're awake," House said in his ear.

"Observant," Wilson replied. House's hand tensed on his thigh. "You were about to molest me?" he asked hopefully.

"Observant," House answered, fingers tracing upwards. His fingernails just brushed Wilson's fast-growing erection. "And...responsive."

Wilson caught his breath when House's hand finally tightened around his cock. His hips jerked slightly.

House kissed him just below his ear, then his jaw, then low on his throat, but Wilson was paying more attention to the way his hand moved, fingers tightening and releasing every time Wilson moaned. They didn't talk, which somewhere in the back of his mind was noted with surprise, because normally House never shut up. Of course, normally House wasn't giving him the best early-morning sex he'd had in years, either. And it wasn't properly even sex.

He could feel himself tense, could feel how close he was to the edge, and he just barely managed "House -- Greg -- Christ -- " and House instead of saying "best two out of three" said "James" in an expectant, commanding voice he'd never quite heard him use in a decade of friendship and then House bit him.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually enjoyed an orgasm that much. It felt so good. He could hear House making fun of this thought even as he thought it, but most of the past few months -- years, really -- it had just felt so good to get it over with.

When he caught his breath, and after House had deftly removed his hand from his best friend's pyjamas, he opened his eyes and turned his head slightly.

"You bit me," he said. House looked unrepentant.

"Covers up the hickey."

"You gave me a hickey? Are we in the tenth grade again?"

"Man, if only I was getting play like this in the tenth grade," House replied, sitting up and wincing. Wilson rolled over fully and studied the curve of House's back for a moment.

"How's your leg?" he asked.

"Mornings aren't great," House answered. Wilson, who was thinking a shower and a load of laundry might be in order, sat up and pressed his forehead against House's.

"Bet I could help," he offered, hooking his fingers in House's white t-shirt.

"Coffee helps," House replied, pulling away and sliding off the bed. Wilson sat stunned for a second before he reacted.

"Coffee? I'm offering you a blowjob and you want coffee?" he asked, as House limped his way into the living room. House paused, looked at where his cane lay on the floor, decided not to bother, and kept going.

"A little louder, I don't think our upstairs neighbors heard that," he called from the kitchen.

"Is there something wrong with you?" Wilson asked, leaning forward for a clear view of the kitchen. House was pouring coffee from last night's pot into a mug.

"Physically? No," House said. "Aside from a splitting hangover and stabbing pain in my leg."

He put the coffee in the microwave and pressed the minute-plus button. A thousand Starbucks baristas screamed out in agony, and then were silent.

"Here's the thing," House continued, turning to face him. "I'm not a morning person. I don't even like that they exist. I hurt, a lot, and I'm subhuman until the hurting dies down, and then I have to decide what to wear and whether today's the day I actually have to shave, and it's a whole big thing. Morning sex, no."

Wilson pursed his lips. "But you just..."

"Well, just because my morning sucks doesn't mean yours should. Besides, it's a reminder."

"Of what?"

"What you'll be missing if you decide to freak out about this, like you sometimes do," House said, carrying the coffee back into the bedroom and leaning against the doorway. He sipped, winced, gulped, winced some more, and glanced at the nightstand. The pill bottle sat there, temptingly close. Wilson followed his gaze, then looked back; House was watching him, now.

"I'm going to...take a shower, then," he said. "But I'll, uh, hang around until you're ready, we should go pick your bike up before it gets a ticket or something."

"Or something," House agreed.

***

Wilson fixed breakfast while House was showering, but given the time and the fact that at some point that morning Cuddy had called, they ate in the car. House was all for breakfast number two at the diner, but Wilson insisted on following his motorcycle to the hospital.

They didn't talk much as they walked in together, but then they never had. Talking was reserved for moments of angst on Wilson's part and extreme fuckheadedness on House's. Or times when they were simply amusing each other. That wasn't really the case either way, this morning. So, they were quiet. And that was fine.

Wilson seemed....satisfied, so that was all right, and House wasn't actually sure what he himself was. He probably could have handled the whole "please don't give me a blowjob" conversation better, on reflection.

"So," Wilson said, as they reached Diagnostics. "Lunch?"

"Yeah," House said, stopping just shy of his office. "I'm in favor of lunch."

"And maybe -- "

" -- dinner in."

"Right, right. Want me to pick up Chinese?"

House grinned. He was enjoying this on so many levels, not the least of which was Wilson's total lack of clue about how to handle it. Two spots of color appeared on Wilson's cheeks.

"You're staring at me," he whispered.

"No, I'm laughing at you," House whispered back.

Then the door of his office opened.

And people came out.

Way more people than should have been in his office, in fact. And Cuddy, who knew she wasn't allowed in his office unless he got to talk about her panties in front of his ducklings.

"Doctor House," Cuddy said suavely. Too suavely. "And Dr. Wilson, excellent. This way, gentlemen..."

"No," House said, as if this ought to be obvious. "Who are they? What were they doing in my office?"

"It's almost ten in the morning. They were waiting for you to deign to put in an appearance. Smile nice for the cameras," Cuddy said. "Apparently you two saved a bunch of peoples' lives last night. I'm guessing maybe Wilson was behind that."

"I save lives every day," House objected. "Nobody ever calls a press conference about it."

"I....need to go," Wilson said. House grabbed his arm. "House!"

"Neither of you are going anywhere except into House's office to tell the harrowing story of how you rescued puppies and small children from a burning car."

"Were there puppies?" House asked, twisting around to look at Wilson as Cuddy hauled him forward by his sleeve.

"No, seriously, I need to go -- "

"Dr. Wilson," Cuddy said.

"Or...not," Wilson sighed, following them into House's office.

I give him one hand-job and they call the newspapers, House thought to himself as he kicked and cane-smacked his way through the room to his chair. If he was going to have strangers in his office, he was going to make full use of the Seat Of Power. Wilson was busy fussing with his tie. Part of the bitemark stood out just over one side, but they wouldn't all notice it if he'd stop drawing all their attention to it.

He waited for Cuddy to start talking.

Three.

Two.

One.

"All right, I think we can -- "

"Let me be clear about this," House said. Interrupting Cuddy was a joke that never got old. "We are very busy and important doctors and have lots of life-saving to do of people who aren't stupid enough to crash their SUVs full of children and potentially puppies into a tree. You get one question each, which should be a nice challenge for you. My name is Doctor Gregory House, I'm a diagnostician, that means I tell people what's wrong with them, which is the best job ever. That's Doctor James Wilson, he does something with cancer, I've never really asked."

Wilson pursed his lips. House grinned at him again. It was a good morning for grinning.

"You, with the weird hair," he said, pointing his cane at one of the younger reporters in the room. "You want to ask a question or are you just going to get the press release from Dr. Cuddy later?"

The man made a fish-face. House sighed. It was going to be a very long, very tedious morning, and the female reporter standing near his desk was going to ask him if he'd have a look at the undiagnosed impetigo on her arms.

He wondered just how many points Cuddy's blood pressure would spike if he popped a painkiller for the cameras.

***

Cameron was about halfway through her sandwich when Foreman showed up.

"You too?" he asked, closing the door behind him and making sure the blinds were drawn.

"I couldn't deal with it anymore," she said. "You want my potato chips? I got ranch-flavor by mistake."

"Your loss," Foreman said, taking the snack bag of chips and unpacking his own lunch onto the empty half of the hospital-bed tray. "Hi, Charlie," he added, to the unconscious man beneath the tray.

"Is that his name?" Cameron asked.

"I call him that. Comatose Charlie," Foreman explained.

"Oh. I call him Rip."

"Rip?"

"Like Van Winkel?" she said hesitantly.

"Can I join the party? I brought Coke," Chase said, putting his head in through the doorway and holding up a Diet Coke. Cameron and Foreman obligingly made space for his salad on Charlie's tray. "Thanks," he said to Charlie.

"Do you know his name?" Foreman asked.

"Who?"

Foreman gestured at the man in the hospital bed. "Comatose Charlie."

"I call him Rip Van Winkel," Cameron supplied.

Chase gave them both a wide-eyed, confused look. "I just call him 'that coma guy'," he said, bemused. "Are you hiding from House?"

"He's being really weird," Cameron said. "He's smiling a lot."

"He's planning something," Foreman added. "He's gotta be. Some kind of horrible, twisted prank."

"Nah, come on," Chase said. "He hasn't even got a patient to be mean to. Maybe he just..."

"Well?" Cameron prompted.

"I was going to say, maybe he got a good night's sleep, but I think maybe it's that he didn't."

Cameron glanced at Foreman. "It's a thought," Foreman said. "He's showing all the signs."

"With who?" she demanded. "Twelve hours ago he was pulling someone's broken body out of a car. You don't go out clubbing after something like that."

"Well, there's this concept I've heard of called prostitution, I hear it's really big in some areas," Chase said.

"Maybe he's upped his pain meds," Foreman said thoughtfully.

"If he has, we should probably keep an eye on him. He's always doing stupid stuff like that," Cameron sighed.

"Or," Chase offered, "Wilson's staying with him. Maybe he made those pancakes again. Or House went out somewhere and got a massage or something."

Foreman rubbed his chin. "We should know. If we diagnose, we can treat, right?"

"Do we want the old House back?" Chase asked. There was a moment of silence.

"So, Differential?" Cameron suggested. The other two leaned forward interestedly. "Symptoms."

"Euphoria -- "

"I wouldn't call him euphoric," Chase argued.

"For House?" Foreman asked.

"All right."

"Increased appetite -- he left for lunch like an hour early," Cameron added.

"We should check his iPod, see what his playlist is," Foreman decided.

"He was playing it really loud this morning when you guys were getting coffee -- sounded like Wagner," Chase said. "Um, and the Pixies. And the usual Blues and stuff, just not quite so much of it."

"Let's rule out a medication change," Foreman said. "If he was high I don't think Wagner would be his music of choice. Besides, he has increased motor skills, most painkillers don't do that."

"Could still be a rush of endorphins," Cameron mused.

"Pretty strong endorphins, to last through that circus about the car accident this morning," Chase said. "Not to mention what happened yesterday. Did he smell like massage oil?"

"Did anyone sniff him?" Foreman asked. They both turned to Cameron, who turned pink.

"I don't go around smelling him," she said quickly.

"But he didn't, did he?"

"Cologne, like usual," she muttered.

"What's left? Pancakes?" Foreman asked skeptically.

"Prostitute's still on the table," Chase said. Cameron snickered. "You have a filthy mind."

"No, I was just..." she stopped and snickered again. "No, sorry. I was just picturing House hiring a prostitute and then diagnosing her while they -- "

Both men interrupted her with moans of disgust.

"Sorry, sorry," she said, still smiling. "Could be he just enjoyed all the press attention he and Wilson got this morning."

"Yeah, that sounds like House," Foreman answered.

"Wait a minute," Chase said slowly. "Who's actually spoken to Wilson this morning?"

"I...delivered some labs up to him, why?" Cameron asked.

"How was he?"

"Cheerful, relaxed -- but he's always like that," she said. "What are you thinking?"

"Maybe they had post-trauma life-affirming nookie," Chase said.

The other two stared at him, then burst out laughing.

"You almost had me," Cameron gasped, pointing at him. He grinned at her. "Right up until nookie."

"Ahh, haa." Foreman wiped his eyes. "Nice. Hoo. House and Dr. Wilson."

"Seriously though, I have heard of it happening," Chase said. "I mean, not House, sure, but I knew these two guys, right, totally straight -- "

"Suuure," Cameron interjected.

"This was back in med school, and we all were studying for our final exam together, and the night before the big day, we all had a last-cram session at one guy's house. So when we all leave the other guy stays to help clean up, and the next morning they both come up to me -- "

"Why you?" Foreman asked.

"I don't know, maybe I project a sympathetic aura, unlike some people -- "

"Hey!"

" -- anyway, they come up to me, separately, and have these little freakouts about having had sex with the other the night before."

"What did you do?" Cameron asked. Chase downed the last of his Coke.

"I told them it was just blowing off steam with the only person that happened to be around," he shrugged. "It wasn't that weird."

"How about you, were you blowing off steam?" Foreman asked.

"I waited until the test was over," Chase said.

"And?"

"And...then went out and used 'I'm a doctor, you know' as a pick-up line for the first time."

***

House was already eating when Wilson sat down; he'd been held up by Leukemia. Which, you know, sometimes happens.

"Steak and salad again?" Wilson asked as House scraped all the lettuce off the concealed T-Bone underneath.

"It's healthy and hearty. Nice soup."

"I like soup. Good for the digestion."

"Given up on cooking, hm?"

"Well, you keep eating my lunch when I do. Listen, if you had a patient with -- "

" -- huh uh," House stopped him with a wave of his fork. "Do I have a patient?"

"Probably not."

"Proceed."

"I have a patient with breast cancer, in remission, but she's developing benign tumors. And there's arrhythmia. Is this some weird disease you're going to know off the top of your head, or is it just something I can write up for the NEJ of M?"

"It's just weird," House said. "Your bitemark's showing."

Wilson put a hand to his neck. House groaned and dropped his head.

"No, no, no. You say, what bitemark, and then I say the one on your neck, and then you say a pediatrics patient clocked you. You're never going to keep any of this from Cuddy if you keep up like that."

"House, there's no this to keep. Not yet, anyway. One...early morning incident..."

House smirked. "Do I give good incident?"

"I'm trying to keep things discreet for now," Wilson said. "You may not care, but I'm in the middle of a divorce. This is the kind of thing a wife uses to get ridiculous amounts of alimony."

"Mmh," House said. "So here's a question. When I asked you why you -- "

"Hst!" Wilson hissed. "People are listening!"

House rolled his eyes. "When I asked you why you intubated my patient last night and you asked me why I thought you'd had...three pelvic exams today..."

"Yeah."

"Did you mean that the pelvic exams were to cover for your preference for intubation, or did you mean intubating my patient in particular?"

Wilson stared at him.

"I...am...pretty good with both intubation and pelvic exams," he said slowly. "I assumed you were too."

"I like biopsies," House said.

"Uh, do you mean what I think you mean?"

"What do you think I mean?"

Wilson dropped his voice. "Like....whips and...?"

House tried really hard to keep a straight face. Wilson sighed.

"You're just messing with me. You are, aren't you? I'm trying to have a serious conversation about intubation and you're messing with me."

"It's just so easy sometimes," House said. "Fine. We can talk about intubation all you want over dinner. And after dinner."

Wilson watched as House glanced down at his plate, eyelids dropping slightly. He licked his lips. Dinner suddenly seemed a long way off.

"I enjoy this part," House said quietly.

"What part is that?" Wilson asked. House didn't grin at the pun.

"The part where you can't wait to get alone. The part where you stare at the person a lot and act really stupid. Been a long time since I was doing anything more than watching that happen for someone else."

"It's moving fast."

"What, thirteen years? That's pretty slow," House said, looking up. He licked his lips again. Wilson was going to have to sit there and think about naked geriatric patients before he could go back to work.

"Let's not screw it up," Wilson said. House nodded.

With the utmost timing, Cuddy appeared.

"I should have known I'd find you two together. I hope you paid for that steak," she said to House, not waiting for an invitation to sit down. "You have a case."

"You lied to me," House said to Wilson.

"A very wealthy donor to the hospital -- and this pains me greatly to say -- has requested you," Cuddy said. "You will treat her. You will be kind to her. She's leaving us fifty million in her will."

"How old is she?" House asked. Cuddy looked surprised.

"Forty-two," she said.

"I could kill her," he offered.

"Oh, I can't wait to hear you explain this one."

"Conflict of interest. She's leaving the hospital money after she dies. Cut me in for fifty percent and I'll off her. Discreetly."

"I'd do it for twenty percent," Wilson put in.

"That's why you're still working for a living," House replied.

"Whatever, I'm beyond caring," Cuddy said. "Don't kill her, House. She's leaving the money to the OB-GYN program."

"Damn."

"Tomorrow at nine. You will be here and you will look nice. And if you cure her, I'll give you a month off clinic," she said. She stood to leave, but at the last minute she hesitated.

"Dr. Wilson, there's something on your neck," she said. Wilson clapped a hand over the bitemark.

"Yeah, uh, pediatric oncology patient. Clocked me one," he said unconvincingly.

"Looks nasty. You should have someone take a look at it."

"I'll do it," House volunteered.

"No MRIs on Wilson so you two can giggle at pictures of his brain!" Cuddy called as she departed.

"She never lets us have any fun," House grumbled.

Chapter Text

House's bike wasn't in its parking spot when Wilson left the building after paging him twice and getting informed by Chase that House had left for the day. He didn't answer his phone, either. Wilson was beginning to be just a little ticked off that House had talked about him freaking out, but he gave it up as a lost cause and made for House's apartment, where there was probably something edible. Probably.

House's bike was parked here, which was a promising sign at any rate.

House himself was parked on the couch, leg propped on the coffee table, with a beer nearby and a plate of food on his lap.

"Chivalry is dead," Wilson said, dropping his briefcase and loosening his tie. "Is it just a goal to beat me to every meal?"

"What? I got you some orange chicken," House replied. "You were the one who was all eager to have dinner and talk about intubation."

"I was treating patients! Patients with life-threatening cancer!"

"And I was eating delicious sweet-and-sour beef," House answered. Wilson sighed.

"Did you get potstickers?" he asked hopefully.

"Did I get potstickers. No, I've learned nothing from the last decade," House answered. "Everything's in a bag in the kitchen."

Wilson took down a plate and opened the bag, inspecting each take-away box before serving himself.

"Are you making art with it?" House called.

"I don't like my -- "

"Rice getting on the chicken, I know."

"Then you know that I'll be in there in just a minute, darling, and why can't you talk to me from there? It's ten feet."

"I want to show you something."

"Oh ho!" Wilson uncapped a beer from the fridge and carried his meal into the living room, dropping onto the couch next to House. He glanced sideways at him, trying to determine his mood and whether blowjobs were still an option. House reached forward and picked up a thin stack of paper, offering it to him. Wilson glanced through them, expecting a case, while on television someone in the OC had an argument about relationships with someone else.

"This is...a photocopy of the hospital regulations handbook. Wow, I thought you dipped yours in blood, used it in some occult ritual, and then burned it."

"Sexual Harassment on top. Diversity Tolerance on bottom."

Wilson snickered, but dutifully looked through it while he ate, taking note of the red arrows House had apparently drawn to mark out what he should read. House idly flicked channels.

"Mmmh. I love lawyerspeak," Wilson said eventually. "It's okay to date co-workers so long as we don't catch you doing it and you agree that you'll never break up and if you do one of you will quit and never return. Also, according to this, every nurse on our floor could sue you for creating a sexually hostile work environment."

"Not if I tell them I'm doing the head of Oncology. Then I'm just their funny gay friend," House answered. "Keep reading."

Wilson sighed and turned to the Diversity Tolerance photocopies. After a while, he set them down.

"So, that was a mixed message," he said finally. "Legally we can't be fired for the love that dare not speak its name, but it's not cool to date your co-worker, and we both know that Diversity Tolerance isn't worth the paper it's printed on."

"I like to be informed," House said without looking at him.

"And what does this inform you of, exactly?"

"I don't know."

Wilson put his plate down on top of the paperwork. "Listen, if you're scared or something -- "

"I'm not scared."

"It wasn't a dare, House."

"You're right. You're in the middle of a divorce. For you -- "

"Is that what this is about? Jesus, I wasn't saying we shouldn't try it. I'm just saying, can we please not talk about it at work. And don't give me any out and proud crap, once the divorce is final I'll send you singing telegrams about your sexual prowess if that's what you want."

House was silent for a moment. Then he made the face, the face he always made when he was trying to brood but something was too funny. Eventually, he grinned.

"Singing telegrams?" he asked. "Then you can put on your straw hat and we'll go punting down the Thames..."

"You," Wilson said, turning to him, "Have been a smartass for the last time today -- "

House fought back valiantly, but he hadn't been expecting a sudden wrestling match and he had the remote in one hand; by the time he gave in and shouted "Okay okay okay!" Wilson was straddling him, holding his wrists against the back of the couch.

Wilson was straddling him.

Holding his wrists against the back of the couch.

This was interesting. Gratifying, too.

House looked up at him, gravely. "The OC's still on."

"You tivo'd it," Wilson answered, bending to kiss him just below the ear. House made a noise that Wilson had never in all honesty expected to hear. "And I am tired..." House made another noise as he kissed his jaw, "...of being distracted."

House's mouth was warm and tasted like apricots from the food he'd been eating; Wilson took his time, not planning on being interrupted by sudden bouts of unconsciousness this time.

"This doesn't worry you?" House asked, tilting his head back to rest it against the edge of the couch, eyes still closed. "You saw me and Stacy -- "

"And you and Lila before her, and you and Andrea before that." Wilson let go of his wrist and tugged his shirt out and up, sliding a hand underneath it. "And even if there was a you and Thomas or a you and Aaron or a you and anyone, I was there. Remember?"

House actually gasped when Wilson curled his hand against his chest and raked his fingernails back down to his belt buckle.

"You can't screw this up, because you might be smarter or meaner or louder than I am, but I am way more stubborn than you are," Wilson said. "So now I'm going to take your clothes off and do things that will make even you unable to sulk. And you won't stop me."

House gave him a look, mouth slightly open, eyes wide, that was...hungry. Wilson kissed him again while he was working the back of his shirt out of his trousers. When he leaned back to pull it off, House reached up and tried to undo his top button. Aha, so this was how it was going to be...

"No," he said, taking House's wrists again and putting his hands firmly back where they'd been, on the couch.

"I want -- "

"No."

House closed his eyes and Wilson saw him trying to breathe deeply, the muscles in his shoulders knotting. He kissed the side of his throat, the same place House had bitten his own.

"Hold still," he said, reaching down to undo House's belt buckle. He could feel his erection through his trousers.

"Bed," House said.

"No -- "

"Yes. My -- " House made a frustrated noise. Wilson cupped his face with one hand.

"You all right?" he asked.

"I won't be," House said. Wilson nodded and stood up, slowly, offering his arm. House pulled himself up and reached for his cane, moving as quickly as he could towards the bedroom. "Are you coming?" he called over his shoulder.

"I'm admiring your ass," Wilson called back, but he followed hastily. House eased himself onto the bed, swung his leg up using his hands, and looked up at him.

"You could -- "

"House, and I say this with every possible degree of affection, shut up."

"If I had a nickel for -- "

Wilson put his hand over House's mouth and pushed him down on the bed, until they were lying nose-to-nose. House grinned behind his hand and then licked one of his fingers. Wilson took his hand away, slowly, and kissed him.

House's whole body relaxed by degrees. It was flattering, in a very weird way.

He sat up and finished removing the half-off belt, then undid his flies. He waited for House to hitch his hips up a little, so that he could slide the pants off entirely, but instead he saw him raise his hands to his face, rubbing it anxiously.

What a ball of nerves. Fine, he'd done this without undressing someone before...

He tugged them just below the line of House's hip, enough to get his boxers (blue linen. Nice.) down around his thighs. Without looking up, he could tell House was about to say something stupid, so he breathed in and blew warm air across his cock instead.

Instead of whatever he was going to say, House said "Ahhck -- hmh -- mm." which was much more fun.

Part of him, the entire time, was watching from outside with fascination; so this was what House was like with his lovers, with Stacey and Lila and all the rest of them, the women that had made him furious first with envy and then because they had no clue what to do with House and then because they hurt him. He hurt them back, but that was irrelevant; they hurt him more.

The rest of him, the parts of his mind that were involved in how he licked his way down House's cock and felt House's hand in his hair, were enjoying themselves thoroughly.

The bed had been a good idea. House did buck his hips, wanting more, and he could barely manage it lying flat -- on the couch it would have been out of the question. Wilson grinned to himself and did a trick with his tongue he'd actually learned from Wife #2 (not an entirely useless marriage) and House moaned. It was possibly the least-controlled thing he'd ever done in the entire time they'd been friends. Wilson dug his fingers into House's hip and House moaned again and tried to push him away and yeah, that was going to happen --

Wilson swallowed, twice, then grinned again and looked up at House, wiping off just the bare corner of his mouth with his thumb. House was lying limply, one arm dangling off the bed, eyes blinking at the ceiling.

"Now you may talk," Wilson said magnanimously.

***

There had been some talk, true, and then there had been some more touching, and House's amazing hands again, and then some quiet, while they rested. He'd actually almost fallen asleep, lying across the bed with his head on House's chest just below his ribcage, when House touched his ear, finger tracing the curve of it down to his jaw.

"Mmh?" he asked, twisting slightly to look up at him. House was staring at the ceiling.

"I lost my virginity when I was fifteen," House said, apropos of nothing.

"Well done, young Gregory," Wilson answered drily.

"We were living in California. I would have slit my wrists if I thought it would get me away from the base for a few hours. I didn't even get off for school. There was an on-base high school for gifted kids."

"Gifted kids?"

"Who the government wanted to cultivate into gifted officers and gifted arms specialists and gifted military surgeons."

"Ah." Wilson wondered vaguely where this was going, but if it was going to involve House and some muscular Marine, he was all for it.

"They had an athletics program that got me off the base two hours twice a week, so I signed up."

"I'm guessing you and your dad -- "

"Yeah." House paused -- not quite a hesitation. "The bus picked us up Tuesdays and Fridays and took us to the beach, about half an hour away. Had to pay for my own wetsuit, but I was running a pretty tidy papers-on-demand operation by then. I could afford it."

"What did you need a wetsuit for?"

"And a surfboard."

Wilson lifted his head. "You surfed?"

House extended his thumb and pinky, wiggling them slightly. "Totally rad, man."

Wilson laughed. "Were you any good?"

"It's just balance, and knowing how the wave was going to go. I always knew."

"So you met some girl surfing, took her to the weenie roast, danced to the Beach Boys..."

"I deliberately missed the bus back one time. Nobody noticed. It was April, I thought I could sleep on the beach, get a job...somewhere, doing something."

"You ran away from home?"

"I got picked up by the surfing instructor, who thought I had a legitimate excuse for missing the bus. He called my dad, said he'd look after me, I was too chicken to speak up..."

"Sounds like you."

"I was fifteen."

"Sorry, do continue."

"He bought me dinner."

Wilson bit his lip. "You lost your virginity to a surfing instructor?"

"I look awesome in a wetsuit."

"Did you...enjoy it? I mean, he didn't..."

House shook his head. "No. I definitely enjoyed it. He wasn't the smartest bum on the beach, he probably still thinks it was his idea."

"You never even told me you liked...uh, this. Not in years of friendship."

House shrugged. "Never seemed relevant. After college, I didn't have that hey, it's just experimentation excuse anymore. Dating women is easier. Well, okay, dating women is a lot harder, they're all insane, but dating men is professionally difficult. You never told me, either."

"It's...different. Jesus, you knew when you were fifteen? I didn't know until I was out of med school."

"But you've done this before."

"Once. Well, twice, but only once with someone whose name I actually knew."

House started to laugh. "You had anonymous gay sex?"

"It wasn't like -- "

"You had anonymous gay sex."

Wilson glared. "Is there a reason I shouldn't have?"

"You, James Wilson..."

"I was -- frustrated."

"Clearly."

"It's not funny."

"It's very funny. What about this other time? If you were out of med school -- do I know him?"

Wilson shook his head. "He was just after my first divorce. I should have told you, but...I didn't think it would be important. And it wasn't. I thought maybe..."

"Maybe if you tried it with a man you'd shake off the feeling, because it had to be a feeling," House said slowly. "Because you liked your wives, you liked having your wives, you just didn't like living with your wives or imagining the next fifty years with them. You...were fixated on someone you couldn't have, and you thought that meant it was just the possibility of the thing, not the thing itself."

Wilson stared at him.

"I read a lot of psychology books," House said. "I probably should have noticed sooner."

"You didn't notice at all," Wilson replied. "I'm the one who kissed you, remember?"

House nodded. "How long?"

"Oh, let's see...three hours after we met, I think. Took me a week to realise it. Took me two years to figure out why I thought you were an asshole and still liked you."

"And thirteen to kiss me."

"Yeah, but be fair. From kissing to sex only took a day and a half."

House closed his eyes and actually smiled, without the faintest hint of sarcasm or bitterness or irony.

"The day your divorce goes through," he said, "I'll expect that singing telegram."

THE END

UNLESS

YOU WANT THE OPTIONAL GOOPY HAPPY ENDING THAT HOUSE DISAPPROVES OF.

***

"HOUSE!"

Cuddy was trying to be heard over the noise in the hallway, but it wasn't working. "HOUSE! What the hell..."

"They just arrived," Cameron said, staring haplessly at the four men in red striped jackets standing outside House's office. Foreman's patented Eyebrow would have been in his hairline if he had any hair. Chase was grinning. "I don't know why they're here."

"It's a singing telegram," Chase said. "For House!"

Cuddy stared at him.

"What, I didn't send it!"

"WHO DID?"

"I can't tell. It's something about intubation, and uh...surfing?" Cameron said.

"Dr. Cuddy?" Chase said faintly. He was peering through the blinds on the conference-room side, past the glass divider and into House's office. Cuddy joined him.

"Oh my," she said. "Is it warm in here?"

"What are you -- oh," Cameron said. "Oh my."

"Did you know about -- "

"No, but I want season tickets," Cameron said quickly.

Dr. Wilson, lab-coat still on, was standing with his back to the door, both hands on Dr. House's face, holding him quite still while they kissed. House already had his hand in a very inappropriate place, unless he was giving Dr. Wilson an exam for testicular cancer.

Cuddy sighed. "Only House would come up with a totally new sexual identity just to fuck with me."

"I don't think it's you he's fucking with," Chase replied. Wilson let House go and said something quietly, their foreheads almost touching. The singing-telegram men offered Cuddy their business card and then went on their way.

House looked up over Wilson's shoulder, caught the spies looking in at them, and leaned forward, biting Wilson's neck.

THE REAL END.