Chapter Text
"Want to make some quick cash?"
Wilson's pen froze over his paperwork. Up until this moment, he had had a relatively good morning. He woke up feeling well-rested, the traffic on the road to Princeton-Plainsboro was minimal, and he hadn't had to break any bad news nor deal with anyone's (read: House's) antics.
Of course, nice things never last.
House was standing in the doorway, leaning on his cane. His head was tilted lightly up, face contorted into a smug grin. Uh oh.
Wilson laid the pen down slowly and narrowed his eyes, searching House's face to no avail. "Why do I get the awful, sinking feeling that I'm about to be roped into a crazy scheme. You haven't joined an MLM, have you? Sorry, but I won't buy any of your scented candles."
"Word is my team is betting."
"Right."
"On if we're sleeping with each other or not."
"Right," Wilson exhaled like a punched balloon. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course there is. Why wouldn't there be?" There was now officially no good way this conversation could go. "And this will earn me cash... how? I can't exactly place a bet on my own sex life."
House didn't even have the decency to hesitate before saying the most disturbing thing he possibly could have. "We neck each other in my office until someone sees. Thirteen'll give us a cut of her winnings."
Wilson laughed. When House didn't continue, his face fell. "You're not... you can't be serious."
No reply.
"Let me get this straight. There is a bet currently ongoing on whether or not we are sleeping together—which we are not—and instead of, I don't know, not sleeping together, you want to pretend that we are? Can you smell burnt toast by any chance?"
House rolled his eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He crossed the room to Wilson's couch and threw himself down onto it, twirling his cane. "Because you can't prove that two people aren't sleeping together. They say they don't, they're liars. No one's ever seen them going at it, they're not into exhibitionism. One of them gets into a relationship, they're cheating. You'd know all about that last one already, though."
Wilson shot him a look but didn't comment.
"And anyway, I wouldn't exactly be able to convince the 'not sleeping together' group to give us any cash, would I?"
Wilson tilted his head, pupils twitching from left to right as he considered. "Who bet on what exactly?"
"Thirteen, Kutner and Cameron bet sleeping together; Taub, Foreman and Chase bet not."
"Kutner?"
"The Indian one. Don't worry, I forget their names sometimes too. I only hired most of them to fill a diversity quota."
"No no, I know—" Wilson waved his hands. "I just... seriously? He didn't seem like the type to think about us doing... that."
The diagnostician's eyebrows raised. "You'd be surprised. He's probably thinking about it right now." His expression switched to a frown as his nose scrunched. "He probably thinks about it too much."
Wilson looked pained. "Okay, ew. I didn't need that mental image." He shook the unpleasant picture out of his head. "Anyway, I'm—
"...And Cameron? Really?"
"Yep," House stated lazily, popping the 'p'.
"She still doesn't think your heart is all shrivelled and dead, even after— with Chase and stuff?"
In the same cadence: "Nope."
"Wow. Okay. I'm getting distracted." Wilson buried his head in his hands for a few moments before lifting it again. "House, I'm not going to make out with you for chump change. How much money's Remy even gonna give us?"
"About a thousand dollars."
Wilson's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. "You're joking."
"Obviously."
Wilson deflated, massaging his temples. He could feel a headache coming on already.
"I should know by now not to believe a word you say," the oncologist muttered, partly from shame and partly from genuine disappointment. He absolutely did not want to swap spit with any man, House least of all, but for a thousand dollars? He'd suck the guy off for that kind of money.
...Actually, don't think about that.
The older man snorted. "No need to be so harsh. I'm a very honest person most of the time. She'd actually only give us two hundred dollars."
"You're joking!"
House laughed. "I'm not this time!"
"Seriously?!"
"Seriously!"
"Why?!"
House mimicked a thinking expression. "It's not exactly like she'll be needing her money for very long, what with the terminal diagnosis."
Wilson blinked. "Jesus Christ."
"Your people killed him and now you dare take his name in vain? For shame, Wilson. How do you think the Lord feels about being dragged into this sinful conversation?"
"Shut up." He dropped his forehead onto the desk.
House, for once in his life, did.
Wilson sighed through his nose. "It's just— what's the point in betting if she's just going to give two hundred dollars to us anyway?" A solid five seconds of silence passed between them. "Fine." The younger man raised his head to the sight of House's smirk.
"Great."
Another silence.
"So, should we head to your office and... get it over and done with?"
The older man tilted his head, brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"
"What?" Wilson mind drew a blank. "Don't make me say it."
"Say what?"
Wilson earnestly considered leaving the room. Two hundred dollars. "Should we go to your office and..." a deep sigh, "make out?"
House cocked his head. "You didn't think we were starting with that, did you?"
Wilson felt the way his own expression collapsed into slack-jawed shock. "What."
"A bet starts on whether or not we're sleeping together and my team walk in on us going at it on the same day? No one will believe it." House was smiling now, explaining as if they were discussing the weather rather than Frenching each other in a public hospital building. He stood, leaning heavily on his cane for a moment, then limped back over to Wilson's office door. "We'll have to pretend to date each other for at least a week or two."
Wilson's face dropped further into a frown of disbelief at that bombshell. "Wait, but if we're going to—"
House turned to face him. "Tomorrow morning, bring flowers. Green carnations ideally. And page me at quarter past ten. See you, sweetheart." He blew the dismayed oncologist a kiss, spun on his heel, and limped away. He shut the door behind him with a deepening sense of finality.
Wilson stared at where the older man had previously stood before clutching his head. There was the headache in full swing. What the Hell had he just signed himself up to?
...
Remember, James. Two hundred dollars.