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Flagging: The use of different set symbols to indicate that one is part of a certain group, especially to indicate queerness. Traditional examples of flagging in the queer community include using certain rings, keys, handkerchiefs and piercings.
The Hanky Code: A series of different coloured handkerchiefs traditionally deployed by queer men to subtly indicate their preferences regarding sexual roles and activities. The practice started sometime in the mid-twentieth century. By the nineteen-eighties, it was widespread in the North American cruising scene.
New Orleans, 1994
House had been eyeing the guy as soon as he had spotted him. Normally, whether or not was straight was the first thing House tried to determine in these situations. In this guy’s case, however, the fact that he was a dyed-in-wool cheater was the most obvious thing about him. Nobody moved through a crowd like that if they weren’t actively looking for someone. He was prowling, eyes scanning the crowd, briefly talking to people but moving on quickly. House knew the look and he would bet anything that this wasn’t friendly mingling at a conference. Hence the getting served divorce papers, something he seemed neither distraught nor surprised over. He certainly seemed like he had no intention of spending the night alone, as even from across the room, House could feel his desperate need to not be left with his own thoughts coming off him in waves. And yet he was still wearing that ring.... This guy was interesting, and House was more than happy to supply a distraction should his interest run in that direction.
House shifted his position as he leaned against the far wall of the hotel lobby. He could stand here all evening watching this guy but he would have to move in closer to get a better read on him. He was certainly pretty and definitely carefully dressed enough to be a twink, but then again he could just as well be an unfortunately fussy, charming-looking yuppie. House got off the wall and got closer by walking towards the sad, drooping buffet. As he loaded crudités that were destined for the trash onto a paper plate, he saw Mr. Pretty-Boy scan the crowd one last time before taking off his tie, slipping it into his back pocket and walking out the door.
“Hello, Houston, we have a development!” House thought as he summarily dropped sthe sad vegetables into the trash as he followed his Maybe-Yuppie-Maybe-More out the door. “ He took his tie off before walking into the street, meaning it wasn’t because he was too hot. Plus what kind of a straight guy doesn't know by now to not leave fabric hanging out of his back pocket if he doesn’t want to get cruised?”
Another—more rational part of House—pointed out that was pretty flimsy evidence to convince himself to follow a strange man around in a city he barely knew. “I’ll just be discreet. You know, no obvious flaming, making sure to follow him from at least half a block back, that kind of thing.”
The stranger eventually led him to a bar in the French Quarter that he had obviously picked by walking into the first ‘authentic-looking’ bar that the doorman at the hotel hadn’t been recommending to everyone at the conference. House had almost lost him several times in the crowd as they had been walking over (as he wasn’t that distinctive from behind, his best asset has definitely his face and those pants weren’t doing him any favors) but he would always eventually be able to pick him out based on the vivid green tie hanging out of his left hip pocket. “Lime green: looking for a dinner plate,” House thought, “’I’ll make sure to buy him food before we head back to the hotel.” House walked into the dimly-lit bar and took a corner booth where he could watch his target surreptitiously. “Even if he isn’t intentionally flagging, I think that buying him dinner first could hardly hurt my chances.” He smirked as he took a sip from his freshly-bought beer and planned how the night was going to go.
Unfortunately, things did not go according to plan. Some tease came by his table and by the time House had realized that she was not in fact, the proverbial bird-in-the-hand, the bird-in-the-bush had snapped and had started a brawl over a Billy Joel deep cut. Luckily, some forethought meant that he had called the hotel and figured out what this mystery man’s name was before sauntering over to police HQ. “James Wilson, you better be a phenomenal lay, because bail was a lot more than I thought I was going to have to spend to get a piece tonight.”
And then, suddenly there he was. Mr. Pretty-Boy himself was walking towards him. He was obviously suffering and he looked like death warmed over, but he had finally opened those divorce papers, so maybe a night in the cells was just what the doctor had ordered. Wilson made the effort to perk up and smile as he introduced himself. “ This is it. The moment of truth,” House thought. “Either it's going to happen now or I just wasted a night not sleeping in pursuit of an interesting stranger when I could have been not sleeping in the company of any of the guys I still know from the CDC.”
As he earnestly pumped his hand up and down, Wilson looked him right in the eye and said: “Thank you so much for dealing with this for me. I can’t believe you bailed me out—I have no idea why!” House groaned internally as he let the suggestive smile fall off his face: “ No one could play this dumb. He really is a hapless yuppie .” House turned abruptly once Wilson dropped his hand and started walking towards the hotel; Wilson scrambling to keep up. As they walked back in relative silence, House promised himself: “Whatever else happens, I am never buying him food until he puts out like he should have tonight. There has to be a punishment for false flagging after all.”
Princeton, 2004
Most people would argue that Wilson was an unfaithful person. House thought those people were being incredibly short-sighted. “Wilson is very faithful, he is steadfast in his commitment to sleeping around.” As soon as he had seen the tie, he had known that it was starting up again. This man was already paying two sets of alimony, and he was apparently cruising for a third. There was no way that Julie would have let him out of the house like that if she had seen him (she hated green that much) and happily married men don’t let their lecherous co-worker drag them into a ‘consult’ to ogle a patient’s rack, even if her rack was phenomenal. That said, he had been acting different lately. House had known Wilson for ten years and yet in the past few months he had been hovering more. Staring at him more. Drifting into his office and inserting himself into House’s cases more. Eliminating the possibility that the patient had cancer had been necessary, but the Head of Oncology himself didn’t have to do it.
House groaned as he stood up and started limping towards the door. It was late, and not personally having to stay late was practically the whole reason he had fellows. As he left his office, he saw Wilson standing in the hall. He was leaning against the wall, shifting his weight back and forth; his arms cycling through being crossed, uncrossed and akimbo. Wilson was waiting for him. When he saw House, he stopped fidgeting and leaned back against the wall, suddenly still. Trying to act as though he had been calmly waiting there for hours. House snorted at the futile attempt.
Wilson met his gaze, he looked directly into his eyes. Recently, this had always led to Wilson either nervously looking away or staring right into his eyes while trying to scrutinize his soul. Not tonight though. Tonight, Wilson smoothly took off his tie and slipped into his back pocket while maintaining eye contact. He smirked.
House nodded once, turned, and started walking in the opposite direction. He didn’t need to see Wilson’s expression so know exactly the confused, brow-wrinkled look he would have at this apparent rejection. And right on cue, he started scuttling towards House.
“House, wait! Where are you going?” Wilson asked, his question far too loud considering it was so late. He easily caught up with House, but House deftly avoided the hand that Wilson had been extending to spin him around. It was House’s turn to gaze into the other’s eyes. He did so, and suppressing a smile, he said: “I’m headed to your car, idiot. Unless you would rather we take my motorcycle and you would get to ride bitch.” Wilson’s smile cracked his face in two, and he fell in step as they walked towards Wilson’s parking spot in the back of the building.
Wilson started driving towards House’s apartment without being told. They didn’t say anything else to each other for the rest of the night. Wilson respected him too much to use his regular patter on House. House didn’t even consider speaking. They had spent over a decade talking. Tonight was for something new. It was the culmination of a game that had started too long ago, and that House had thought would never get this far.
The next morning, while waiting for the Greek place up the street to deliver (it was the only place that had been willing to accept House’s bribes and deliver food at 6:30am) House felt that they had bathed in the afterglow long enough. It was time to ruin an otherwise perfect, tender moment. “You know, it is supposed to be lime green if you want to signal that you are looking for dinner on the house,” Here, House paused to waggle his eyebrows. Wilson acknowledged the pun by rolling his eyes and shaking his head slowly. “That tie is way too dark,” House continued warming to the theme. “It’s practically forest. By all rights, I should hav—” Wilson, who in the past would have been reduced to explaining the difficulty of obtaining a lime green tie, realized he now had a much more effective tool at his disposal. He pulled House on top of him and kissed him. House melted immediately and deepened the kiss, all thoughts of color comparison gone. And later, when he kicked Wilson out of bed to go pay for their exorbitant food, he handed over his wallet. After all, this time, he had finally delivered.