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House was seething.
It was Friday evening, the end of another week of watching idiots nearly kill themselves and then thank him for saving their lives. He should have been smugly satisfied. He should have been in his office, popping Vicodin and planning which takeout he and Wilson would argue about having for dinner.
Because that was the plan, his plan. Wilson would finish his last consult, House would limp in, demand food, and drag him home for their usual Friday night: bad television, good scotch, maybe monster trucks or The L Word if Wilson pretended not to like it.
But apparently, Wilson had made other plans.
He’d shown up that morning in a good mood. Too good. The kind of good that made House suspicious. He’d been humming. Humming. The last time Wilson had hummed, he’d been cheating on his second wife.
And then there was the outfit. The stupid tie - the one Wilson always wore when he was trying to get laid - and that lavender shirt that made his skin look annoyingly good. House wanted to punch something. Or set that shirt on fire. Preferably while Wilson was wearing it.
It hadn’t taken long to figure it out. A few pointed questions, some light emotional manipulation, and a quick chat with Nurse Brenda, who had no concept of patient confidentiality or gossip restraint, and House had his answer.
Wilson had a date.
Not a casual “let’s get coffee” situation. A date-date. Dinner, wine, candlelight, all the disgusting trimmings.
House stared at his friend from across the cafeteria later that afternoon. Wilson was texting, smiling down at his phone with that stupid soft grin that House wanted to wipe off his face. Wilson hadn’t smiled like that at him in weeks.
House’s cane thudded against the floor as he walked past, muttering under his breath.
He told himself it wasn’t jealousy. It was concern. Wilson had a history - a type - and that type could be described in two words: emotionally unstable. The nurse from radiology was no exception. Blonde, pretty, kind, the type who’d see Wilson’s sad-puppy eyes and think she could keep him.
House didn’t like her. He didn’t like her laugh. He didn’t like her face. He didn’t like the fact that she existed in the same universe as Wilson.
He could have left it alone. He could have let Wilson have his evening, let him go and make a fool of himself with yet another doomed romance. But House was nothing if not self-aware and self-destructive.
He’d never been good at watching Wilson fall in love with other people. It made something ugly twist in his chest. The kind of feeling that made him want to pull the fire alarm, fake a seizure, or crash the restaurant just to see the look on Wilson’s face.
Wilson was his. His best friend. His co-conspirator. His conscience. His punching bag. His only constant.
He wasn’t his, though. Not really.
House swallowed the bitterness. He should’ve done something years ago - kissed him when Wilson showed up after him and Julie split, eyes tired and voice soft, when he’d crashed on House’s couch for weeks. That had been his chance. But House didn’t take chances. Not when the cost was losing the one person who still tolerated him.
And anyway, Wilson was straight. Probably. Maybe. House didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The ambiguity was safer.
But this, this date, was not.
House decided to do what any mature, emotionally stable, fully grown man would do: sabotage the hell out of it.
He started small. A few casual text messages throughout the afternoon.
House: So, what’s the dress code for getting rejected? Business casual or full tux?
Wilson: Don’t you have better things to do?
House: Nope.
Wilson: It’s just dinner, House.
House: Sure. Dinner. With a woman who laughed when I called her “Nurse Ratchet.” Clearly doomed.
By the time the clock hit five, House had a plan.
He’d spent the entire day refusing to take his Vicodin. The ache in his leg was pulsing sharp and steady, a reminder of what he was willing to endure when he really wanted something. The pain made his mind sharper. Meaner.
Once he was sure Wilson was at the restaurant, probably halfway through his second glass of wine, leaning in too close, doing that nervous laugh, House gathered his team in the conference room.
They looked exhausted, all three of them.
Chase sighed. “Can’t we go home and try again tomorrow? The patient’s stable.”
Foreman nodded. “We’ve done every test. There’s nothing new to find tonight.”
House twirled his cane, hiding a smile. “That’s what unimaginative people say right before they get replaced by robots.”
Cameron looked hopeful. “Are you saying we’re done?”
“I’m saying,” House said, “we’re missing something. Which means I need a fresh perspective. Preferably from an oncologist who loves moral superiority and emotional manipulation almost as much as he loves candlelit dinners.”
Cameron frowned. “You can’t mean-”
“Cameron, call Wilson.”
Foreman groaned. “House.”
House’s eyes glittered. “You heard me. Cancer consult. Urgent. Life or death.”
Chase glanced at Cameron, who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else. “He’s going to kill you.”
Cameron looked uncomfortable but still pulled out her phone. “You’re really doing this?”
House leaned back in his chair. “What can I say? I believe in teamwork.”
She hesitated, then sighed and dialled. The room went silent except for the faint buzz of the speaker. After a few rings, Wilson picked up, voice warm and polite in that way he always was when he didn’t know who was calling.
“This is Dr. Wilson.”
“Hey, Jimmy!” House sing-songed, snatching the phone from Cameron’s hand.
There was a pause. “House,” Wilson said flatly. “Why are you using someone else's phone?”
“Because mine was busy,” House said innocently. “Saving lives.”
Another pause. He could hear the low hum of chatter in the background, the faint clink of cutlery, and the subtle shift in Wilson’s tone that told him he was smiling for someone else.
“I’m actually in the middle of something, House.”
“Oh, you mean your romantic disaster in progress? Yeah, about that, I need a consult.”
Wilson exhaled loudly. “You have an entire team of doctors. You don’t need me.”
“Well, technically, I don’t need anyone,” House said. “But I want you.”
He could practically hear Wilson closing his eyes. “You are not calling me out of a date because you’re bored.”
“I’m not bored. I’m desperate. Patient’s crashing. Might have cancer. Could die. Probably already dying. Their only hope is you.”
“Nice try.”
House smirked. “You don’t even know what the case is yet.”
“I don’t care what the case is,” Wilson said, voice tight now. “House, I told you earlier I had plans.”
“Plans involving bodily fluids? Because that’s technically a consult.”
“Goodbye, House.”
The line went dead.
House lowered the phone slowly, staring at it as if it had personally betrayed him. Chase made a small noise that might’ve been a laugh before wisely turning it into a cough.
“Didn’t work,” Foreman said. “You done now?”
House’s eyes flicked up, gleaming with mischief. “Oh, Foreman. Do I ever stop at one attempt?”
Foreman groaned. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you,” House smirked.
15 minutes later, House limped into his favourite bar - the kind of dimly lit place that smelled like old beer and regret. He was on a mission. A childish, petty, self-sabotaging mission, sure, but a mission nonetheless.
He slid onto a stool and waved to the bartender. “Whiskey. The good stuff. And when I say good, I mean cheap.”
The bartender, Frank, smirked. “Bad day?”
“Tragic,” House deadpanned. “My best friend’s trying to have a social life.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “So… you’re here to drink about it?”
“Drink about it, plot about it, same thing.”
He sipped his drink, staring down at the amber liquid, then looked up with a grin. “Say, Frank. You still got that phone back there?”
Frank hesitated. “Yeah…”
House leaned forward. “How’d you like to earn twenty bucks for making a phone call?”
Frank frowned. “You want me to prank someone?”
“I prefer the term ‘conduct a psychological experiment.’”
Frank sighed but took the bill when House slid it over. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“I’m aware,” House said, flashing a grin. “Call James Wilson, tell him Greg House’s had one too many and needs a ride before he gets arrested.”
Frank dialled the number while House listened, smirking to himself.
****
Across town, Wilson’s phone buzzed on the restaurant table. He apologies to Hannah and once again checked his phone.
He checked the ID, unknown number. He frowned, answered. “Hello?”
“Uh, yeah, this is Frank over at the Fox & Hound Bar. You the guy who knows Greg House?”
Wilson’s expression didn’t even change. He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly through his nose, then said dryly, “Let me guess. He’s ‘had a few’ and needs a ride?”
“Yeah,” Frank said uncertainly. “Said he didn’t have anyone else to call-”
“Uh-huh.” Wilson’s tone was flat. “Well, you can tell him he’s very clever and that I’m not falling for it. There is no way he got drunk enough in the last 20 minutes to need me to fetch him.”
There was a pause. “So… you’re not coming?”
“No, I’m not coming.”
Wilson hung up.
Across from him, Hannah tilted her head. “Everything okay?”
Wilson smiled tightly. “Yeah. Just House being House.”
She laughed, half in disbelief. “I know he has a reputation around the hospital, but I’ve never really spoken to him before. You weren’t kidding about him being intense, huh?”
Wilson sighed. “You have no idea.”
***
Back at the bar, Frank hung up and turned to House. “He says you’re very clever. And that he’s not falling for it.”
“Of course he told you to say that.”
He pulled out his phone, thumbs flying across the screen.
House: Rude. I could be dying from alcohol poisoning.
Wilson: You’re pathetic.
House: You’re the one checking your phone during your date.
There was a pause, then another buzz.
Wilson: That’s because my date just went to the bathroom. I have a whole ninety seconds to remind myself why I keep you around.
House: Because I’m the only one who’ll tell you that lavender shirt makes you look like an undertaker with a bubble-gum fetish.
Wilson: You’re jealous.
House: Of your shirt? Always.
Another pause. House could almost see him: Wilson at the restaurant, phone half-hidden under the table, smiling despite himself.
Wilson: You could’ve just said you didn’t want me to go out tonight.
House’s fingers hovered. He could - should - deflect. Say something sarcastic. But instead, what came out was:
House: You’re terrible company when you’re happy.
There was no reply for a long moment. Then:
Wilson: You’re worse when I’m not.
House stared at the screen, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
Frank came back over. “You want another drink?”
House shook his head. “Nah. I think my night’s already ruined.”
*****
Meanwhile, Wilson slipped his phone back into his pocket just as Hannah returned to the table. She smiled, and Wilson smiled back, automatically, politely.
But his heart wasn’t in it.
He couldn’t stop thinking about House, sitting in that bar, alone and half-smirking at his own misery.
Because the truth was, for all of House’s selfishness, for all his manipulations, Wilson never really minded being needed by him.
And as Hannah launched into a story about her residency, Wilson nodded at the right moments, smiled in all the right places… but in the back of his mind, he could hear House’s voice, low and sardonic:
You’re terrible company when you’re happy.
Wilson’s lips twitched. Yeah. He was.
****
House wasn’t done sabotaging Wilson’s date.
Sure, his first two plans hadn’t worked, but this was Wilson. His Wilson. If House knew anything in this world, it was how to push Wilson’s buttons until he cracked.
He left the bar and headed home, limping harder than usual. The Vicodin fast had been a mistake, he could admit that now. Every step sent a pulse of fire up his thigh, and by the time he reached his apartment, he was drenched in sweat and seething.
At least his next attempt at sabotage would be authentic.
He tossed his cane against the wall, kicked the door shut, and collapsed on the floor just inside the living room. The cool hardwood felt almost good against his cheek, though his leg screamed in agony.
He stayed like that for a while, half out of spite and half because standing up would’ve taken more energy than he had left.
Wilson’s dates typically lasted a few hours at the restaurant. Then, if things went well, his date would go home with him.
House couldn’t let that happen. The thought alone made his stomach twist, made him want to throw himself into a volcano, preferably one active enough to make sure there were no remains.
He stared up at the ceiling, panting, and muttered, “You did this to yourself.”
Then he reached for his phone.
He scrolled to Wilson’s name and hovered over it for a long time. He could almost see Wilson now, sitting across from that blonde nurse, leaning forward with his soft, earnest eyes, his ridiculous lavender shirt unbuttoned just enough to look approachable. The nurse would laugh at something, and Wilson would smile that infuriatingly gentle smile, the one that always made House’s chest ache.
No. Not tonight.
House hit call.
The phone rang twice before Wilson picked up. “House?” He sounded distracted, but not annoyed, not yet.
House didn’t answer right away. He let out a shaky breath instead, loud enough for Wilson to hear.
“…House?”
“My leg,” House rasped. “It’s bad.”
There was a pause. “You’re lying.”
House smiled faintly, even as another throb of pain went up his leg. “Usually. Not this time.”
“House,” Wilson sighed. “You’re doing this because I’m on a date. This is the third phone call in under 2 hours.”
House said nothing. He let his breathing hitch, not dramatically, but enough. A quiet, strangled sound that wasn’t entirely fake.
That did it. He could practically hear the shift in Wilson’s tone, the familiar, helpless concern flooding in. “House? Talk to me. What happened?”
“I… dropped my cane,” House said, voice cracking. “Tried to get up. Can’t.”
Wilson cursed softly under his breath. “Where are you?”
“Home.”
Another sigh, heavier this time. There was the muffled sound of movement - Wilson getting up, probably throwing a twenty on the table, apologizing to the nurse. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Don’t,” House said quickly.
“House-”
“I’ll be fine. Just.. just stay. Finish your date.”
“House,” Wilson said again, voice tight. “Stop pretending you don’t need help. I’ll be there soon.”
The line went dead.
House stared at the phone for a long moment, then let it fall from his hand. He stared up at the ceiling, pain pulsing through his thigh, a twisted grin tugging at his mouth.
“Worked,” he murmured to himself.
*****
Ten minutes later, Wilson was at House’s door, his jacket half on and his tie askew. He didn’t bother knocking, he had a key, and right now he wasn’t in the mood for House’s games.
“House?” he called, stepping inside.
The place was dark, lit only by the soft glow of the TV, some late-night infomercial babbling to no one. The sound of uneven breathing came from the floor near the couch.
Wilson’s stomach dropped. “House-?”
He hurried forward and found him lying there, one leg stretched out stiffly, his cane discarded a few feet away. House looked pale, sweat beading his forehead, his breath coming shallow and ragged.
“House,” Wilson muttered, crouching beside him. “You couldn’t call me before it got this bad?”
House gave a pained half-smile. “Wanted to see if crawling to the Vicodin bottle would count as cardio.”
Wilson rolled his eyes, reaching for House’s leg. “You overdid it again, didn’t you? What were you even doing?”
“Thinking,” House said weakly. “Dangerous hobby.”
Wilson exhaled through his nose, trying to stay calm. “You need to take something. Where’s your Vicodin?”
House looked away.
“House,” Wilson said, his tone sharpening. “Where. Is. It.”
House nodded toward the kitchen counter. Wilson stood and crossed the room, grabbing the familiar orange bottle. When he shook it, he froze - it was still nearly full. House was due a refill soon, this bottle should be emptier.
He turned back slowly. “You didn’t take any today, did you?”
House didn’t answer.
Wilson stared at him, realisation dawning like a slow, awful sunrise. “You son of a bitch.”
House blinked up at him, feigning confusion. “What?”
“You did this on purpose,” Wilson said, voice rising. “You let yourself get like this. You wanted me to come running.”
House opened his mouth, closed it, then smirked faintly. “Well. You did.”
Wilson’s hands clenched at his sides. “You manipulative bastard. Do you have any idea how worried I was? I left-” He stopped himself. “I dropped everything because I thought you were-”
House’s voice softened just slightly. “I am in pain.”
“Oh, spare me,” Wilson snapped. “You’ve had worse pain than this, and you know it. You timed it, didn’t you? Waited until you knew I’d be out. Until you could make it sound believable. You knew I wouldn’t fall for your other attempts at ruining my date, so instead you purposefully let yourself get like this!”
House’s eyes flickered, a flash of guilt, maybe, quickly buried beneath his usual mask. “It’s not like you were doing anything important.”
Wilson’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get to decide that.”
They stared at each other for a long, tense moment - House on the floor, half-defiant, half-exhausted, Wilson standing over him, furious and aching.
Finally, Wilson sighed and crouched back down beside him. “You are the most selfish, impossible person I have ever met.”
House gave a weak grin. “And yet… here you are.”
Wilson’s glare softened, despite himself. “Yeah. Here I am.”
He reached down, slipped an arm under House’s shoulder, and helped him up. House winced but didn’t protest, leaning more heavily on him than he probably needed to.
As Wilson guided him toward the couch, House murmured, “You could’ve stayed at dinner.”
Wilson huffed out a quiet, bitter laugh. “And miss the chance to rescue your sorry ass? Please.”
House looked at him sidelong, something almost tender in his eyes. “You’re a terrible date.”
Wilson managed a small smile. “And you’re a terrible person.”
They settled onto the couch, breathless and quiet, the argument simmering into silence.
House finally muttered, “So… second date?”
Wilson groaned, but couldn’t quite hide the way the corner of his mouth twitched. “Don’t know if she’ll want to see me again. Not after all your interruptions and me leaving her before dessert to come see you.”
House felt a smug grin pull at his lips. Mission success, then.
Wilson sighed and then pressed the Vicodin bottle into House’s hand.
“Take one,” he ordered.
House arched an eyebrow. “Doctor’s orders?”
“Friend’s orders,” Wilson said sharply.
House’s smirk faltered, just for a moment. He popped a pill, grimacing. Wilson stayed standing, arms crossed, watching him like a hawk. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
“I’ve heard rumours,” House said, sinking back into the couch.
“Do you even hear yourself?” Wilson snapped. “You deliberately put yourself through agony just to ruin my night. You think that’s normal?”
House tilted his head, studying him. “You think it’s about your night?”
Wilson frowned. “What else would it be about?”
House shrugged, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”
There it was. The confession, buried under layers of sarcasm and painkillers.
Wilson sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You said that already.”
Wilson sagged further into the couch, exhaustion finally catching up. “You don’t get to sabotage my life just because you can’t handle being alone for five minutes.”
House’s voice was quieter now. “You really think that’s what this is about? Me being bored?”
Wilson didn’t answer, but his silence was loud.
House stared at him, jaw working. “I was trying not to take the pills because you said I depend on them too much. I figured,” He gave a humourless laugh. “I’d try to be better for five minutes. Bad idea, apparently.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. Yes, he’d skipped the pills to intentionally sabotage Wilson, But he also knew that Wilson was right. He was too dependent on the pills and he did need to reduce his dosage. He just decided to kill two birds with one stone.
Wilson blinked, looking thrown off by the hint of sincerity. “You… skipped them because of something I said?”
House’s mouth twitched. “Don’t look so surprised. I occasionally listen when you nag.”
Wilson looked like didn’t know whether to believe him.
“Right,” Wilson said flatly. “You skipped your medication because of me, but then called me halfway through my dinner to watch you writhe on the floor. That’s your version of growth?”
“Baby steps,” House said.
Wilson let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.”
“Still your favourite person,” House said lightly.
Wilson looked at him for a long moment, that familiar mix of frustration and fondness visible on his face. “I should go.”
House’s expression flickered, before he covered it with a smirk. “Sure. Wouldn’t want your date to get lonely.”
“She’s not waiting,” he admitted quietly.
House’s head tilted. “Oh?”
“Told her you needed me and she should go home.”
House tried, really tried, to suppress the smug grin that tugged at his mouth. “Poor woman, abandoned on the first date.”
“Don’t,” Wilson warned, but his tone lacked heat. “Don’t you dare look proud of yourself.”
House spread his hands innocently. “What? I’m just saying, anyone who knows you knows who you’ll drop everything for.”
Wilson sighed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”
House smiled faintly. “Takes one to know one.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. The TV buzzed softly in the background. The storm that had been brewing between them all night slowly ebbed into something quieter, heavier.
Wilson looked up, his voice softer now. “You can’t keep doing this, House. You can’t… pull me back every time I try to have a life outside of you.”
House’s expression was unreadable. “Maybe you shouldn’t have a life outside of me.”
Wilson’s breath caught, and for once, he didn’t have a comeback.
The silence between them stretched, filled with all the words neither of them had ever been brave enough to say. House shifted slightly, grimacing at his leg, and he watched as Wilson’s frustration melted away like it always did.
“Here,” Wilson murmured, as he adjusted the pillow under House’s leg, his movements gentle, familiar.
House watched him, eyes soft. “You really didn’t have to come.”
“Yeah,” Wilson said quietly, meeting his gaze. “I did.”
House opened his mouth - he didn’t know what to say, maybe to make a joke, maybe not - but Wilson spoke first.
“You’re impossible,” he said, voice low. “And selfish. And manipulative. And I hate that you know exactly how to get me here.”
House smiled faintly. “But you’re still here.”
Wilson exhaled, leaning back beside him. “Yeah. I’m still here.”
For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the steady hum of the TV and the soft rhythm of their breathing, perfectly in sync.
Wilson sighed and House tilted his head to look at him. “What?”
Wilson’s lips quirked and House desperately wanted to kiss him.
“You’re an idiot,” Wilson said, sounding fond.
“Yours, apparently,” House said under his breath.
House hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
The words slipped out, lazy and automatic, just another quip, except it wasn’t. Not this time.
Wilson’s head turned sharply toward him, and House felt that familiar jolt of panic, like he’d just taken a scalpel to his own chest.
Wilson blinked, eyes narrowing just slightly. “What did you say?”
House tilted his head, feigning confusion. “You need your hearing checked. I said nothing.”
Wilson’s expression softened, but he didn’t look away. “You said something.”
House shifted, pretending to adjust his leg, buying time. “You’re hearing what you want to hear, Jimmy. Common problem in romantic comedies and oncology departments.”
Wilson huffed a laugh, quiet, but genuine. He leaned back again, eyes fixed on the TV, though he wasn’t really watching. House could tell by the way his fingers twitched against his knee.
Silence settled between them again. Not the comfortable kind they used to share when one of them was pretending to read and the other was pretending not to watch. This was heavier, charged.
House’s leg throbbed, reminding him of why he’d started this whole stupid charade in the first place. The pain had dulled a little, Vicodin finally kicking in, but the ache was still there, under his skin, in his chest.
Wilson was right there. Close enough that House could feel the heat of him, could smell his stupid citrusy shampoo. Close enough that if he just turned his head, just a little…
No. Bad idea. Terrible idea. The kind of idea that ruined everything.
Wilson sighed again, breaking the spell. “You can’t keep doing this, you know.”
House raised an eyebrow. “Breathing? I’ve been trying to quit.”
Wilson didn’t take the bait. “You can’t keep… needing me like this.”
That landed like a punch to the gut.
House frowned, sitting up straighter. “You make it sound like I’ve got you chained to the radiator.”
Wilson gave a short laugh, tired but warm. “You don’t need to. You know exactly which buttons to push. You always have.”
House leaned back, letting his eyes drift to the ceiling. “And yet, here you are. Voluntarily. Maybe you like it.”
“Maybe I’m an idiot too,” Wilson said softly.
That shut him up.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The credits on the TV rolled and restarted. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbour slammed a door. Wilson’s hand rested on the back of the couch, not touching him, but close enough that House could feel every tiny movement.
It was ridiculous how aware he was of him. Every breath, every shift, every sigh.
“Why’d you really skip the Vicodin?” Wilson asked suddenly.
House’s mouth twitched. “Told you. Self-improvement. Trying to be the man you deserve.”
Wilson rolled his eyes, but his voice was gentle. “House…”
The sound of his name like that, soft, pleading, did things to him. Dangerous things.
He met Wilson’s gaze, and for once, didn’t look away.
“Maybe,” he said finally, voice low, “I just wanted to see if you’d come.”
Wilson’s breath hitched, barely audible, but House caught it.
“I always come,” Wilson said quietly.
“Yeah,” House said, forcing a smirk to cover the weight of it. “That’s what she said.”
Wilson groaned, leaning his head back. “You ruin everything.”
House’s grin faltered, softer this time. “I try.”
Wilson turned to look at him again, that same fond, exasperated look that always made House feel like he could breathe and drown at the same time.
House held his gaze. Wilson’s eyes were soft, that warm, impossible hazel that always gave too much away. They were watching him now, patient, questioning, like Wilson was waiting for House to do something he wasn’t sure he could.
His hair was a mess, that artfully careless way that made House’s fingers itch to touch it. Hell, he wanted to touch him. To press his fingers into that soft hair, to pull him close and finally do the thing he’d been thinking about for years.
“Wilson,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. Then he stopped. What the hell was he doing? This was stupid. Reckless. He’d ruin everything.
But Wilson didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just looked at him, eyes wide and bright and terrified and hopeful all at once.
“What?” Wilson whispered.
House’s throat was dry. He didn’t trust himself to answer. He didn’t trust himself not to.
And then he stopped thinking.
He leaned forward, slow enough to give Wilson time to stop him, fast enough to make sure he didn’t change his own mind.
Wilson’s eyes flicked down to his lips, and that was it. That was all the permission House needed.
Their lips met.
It wasn’t perfect. House didn’t do perfect. It was clumsy and desperate and far too soft for the years of tension behind it.
Wilson froze for half a heartbeat and then exhaled, the sound breaking against House’s mouth as he kissed him back.
The world tilted.
House felt everything - the warmth of Wilson’s breath, the taste of coffee and something sweet on his tongue, the faint tremor in Wilson’s hands when they found his shoulders. He hadn’t realised how starved he was for this, for him, until right now.
Wilson’s fingers brushed the side of his face, tentative, like he was still afraid this was a dream. House tilted his head, deepened the kiss, and Wilson made a quiet, helpless sound that went straight to his chest.
When they finally pulled apart, they didn’t go far. Their foreheads stayed pressed together, breaths uneven, mingling in the charged silence between them.
House swallowed hard. “You really shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure if he was talking to Wilson or himself.
Wilson gave a shaky laugh, eyes still closed. “You started it.”
“Yeah,” House said, voice rough. “I tend to start disasters.”
Wilson smiled - that soft, unguarded smile that ruined him every time - and whispered, “Maybe this won’t be one.”
House tilted his head and gently brushed their lips back together.
It was like something inside him snapped or maybe finally gave way. A dam breaking after years of pressure.
He caught Wilson by the back of the neck and pulled him closer, their mouths colliding in something hungry, frantic, almost violent in its urgency. Wilson didn’t resist; he met House’s desperation with his own, kissing back just as fiercely.
All he knew was Wilson - the warmth of him, the weight of him, the taste of him. He pulled, tugged, urged until Wilson was half sprawled over him on the couch, braced on his elbows, their chests pressed together.
House’s hands were everywhere, sliding up Wilson’s back, tracing the curve of his spine, finding the hem of his shirt and pushing underneath it. Wilson’s skin was warm, impossibly soft, and House swore he could feel the tremor that ran through him at the first touch.
Wilson made a sound - something between a moan and a gasp - and the noise went straight through House, igniting every nerve.
“House…” he breathed, voice breaking, and then quieter, rougher: “Greg…”
That single word undid him. House’s fingers dug into his sides, dragging him closer still, until there was no space left to close. Wilson’s breath hitched as he pressed down against him, hips shifting, lips finding House’s again in a series of desperate, dizzying kisses.
It was clumsy and breathless and completely out of control. Every kiss felt like a confession, all the years of tension and restraint and want pouring out at once.
Wilson broke away just long enough to breathe, his forehead resting against House’s. They were both panting, eyes wild, lips red and swollen.
“Shit,” Wilson whispered, a shaky laugh catching in his throat. “What are we doing?”
House’s answering grin was crooked and wrecked. “Something we should’ve done ten years ago.”
And then Wilson kissed him again, deeper this time, slower but no less intense, and House let himself drown in it.
****
House was in an unnervingly good mood.
That should’ve been everyone’s first clue that something had happened.
He limped into Princeton-Plainsboro that morning with his cane tapping in rhythm to a tune only he could hear. He’d even shaved, mostly, and his shirt was, for once, only half-wrinkled. The clinic nurses stared like they were witnessing a solar eclipse. Cuddy stopped him in the hallway just long enough to squint suspiciously before deciding she didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to deal with whatever this was.
By the time House reached the conference room, he was practically humming.
Inside, his team was already there. Cameron and Chase were debating a rash. Foreman looked like he wanted to resign again. The usual.
House threw open the door. “Morning, children!” he said cheerfully, sweeping in and plopping into his chair. “What miraculous breakthroughs did you achieve without me? Wait, don’t tell me. None.”
They all just stared.
“You’re smiling,” Chase said slowly. “You never smile.”
Cameron frowned. “Are you… okay?”
“I’m better than okay,” House replied, leaning back and propping his feet on the table. “I’m radiant. Positively glowing.”
“Did you steal morphine again?” Foreman asked.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Foreman. Neither does that tie.”
He flipped through the patient’s chart, pretending to care. His mind wasn’t on the case, though; it kept drifting back to Wilson, to the feel of his mouth, the quiet sound he’d made when House had finally kissed him again before they’d both fallen asleep on the couch, tangled and exhausted and more content than House could remember being in years.
He could still smell Wilson’s shampoo on his skin.
House cleared his throat and glanced up. Everyone was still watching him like he’d grown an extra head.
“What?” he demanded.
“You’re happy,” Cameron said carefully. “That’s… unusual.”
Foreman folded his arms. “Enjoy ruining Wilson’s date last night? What’d you do this time, fake a heart attack?”
House smirked. “Better. I lured him into my apartment and seduced him.”
Chase tilted his head, unimpressed. “Right. And I’m the next Dean of Medicine.”
“I’m serious,” House said, grinning wider. “I banged James Evan Wilson.”
That earned him three simultaneous looks of pure scepticism.
“Uh-huh,” Foreman muttered, flipping through the chart. “Great story. Back to reality, our patient’s white cell count’s rising again.”
House leaned back in his chair, smug. “You’ll all owe me an apology before the end of this meeting.”
As if on cue, the glass door swung open.
Wilson stepped inside, looking freshly showered and painfully well-rested for someone who’d supposedly had a stressful night. He carried two coffees.
Without hesitation, he walked straight to House, handed him one, and leaned down to press a quick, casual kiss to his lips.
“Hey,” Wilson said quietly, smiling. “See you at lunch?”
House’s grin turned downright feral. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Wilson gave a tiny, knowing nod to the fellows and walked out, the door hissing closed behind him.
The room was silent.
Cameron’s mouth opened. Chase blinked twice. Foreman stared, expression unreadable.
House sipped his coffee, utterly pleased with himself. “Told you.”
He leaned back farther, smirk tugging at his lips. Then he sighed and stood up, turning to the whiteboard.
“All right, kiddies, back to work. Love waits for no man, but bacterial infections definitely do.”
He started scribbling on the whiteboard again, but as he did, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, not the smirk he used to hide behind, but something gentler, quieter, more dangerous.
Maybe he was happy. Maybe that was terrifying. Maybe he didn’t care.
Because, for once, Gregory House had everything he wanted and he wasn’t about to sabotage it.
He leaned on his cane, looked at the team, and said, “Well, what are you waiting for? Miracles don’t diagnose themselves.”
And as they all rolled their eyes and got back to work, House found himself grinning again.
Yep, he thought to himself, thinking of Wilson and his stupid hair and eyes and smile, I’m in love.