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James Wilson kept a little spiral bound notepad in his bedside drawer. It was always empty and Gregory House knew this because he very frequently checked. Wilson knew this, so in order to ensure the nosy love of his life would never find the contents of what was written inside, Wilson would rip out each page he wrote on and stash it in an old coffee tin on top of the fridge. House and his leg were not particularly keen on ladders or step stool or anything requiring much reaching effort, so it was a prime spot to stuff away Wilson’s deepest and darkest secrets. An unassuming coffee tin somehow happened to be the most personal and only bearer of Wilson’s entire existence.
Sometimes the notepad would be for jotting down quick thoughts like groceries they needed to pick up the next day or something he needed to remind himself of, but more often than not, the pages of the notepad would be filled with poetry. Disgusting, tooth-rotting, embarrassingly sappy, occasionally suggestive, humiliating poetry. House would never let him hear the end of it.
Sometimes it would be a line or two that come to him while he’s on the verge of falling asleep that’s too precious to let go. Sometimes he sits in his office at Princeton Plainsboro, intensely and intentionally formatting, planning, and writing while avoiding whatever piles of hospital paperwork awaited him. Sometimes it was garbage that a fifth grader could mock. Sometimes he surprised himself.
As embarrassing and stupid as Wilson believed it to be, he could at least admit that everything he wrote down was real, therefore should be saved. Not that he thought he was the next Lord Byron, or something. A lot of what he wrote was ridiculous, but he couldn’t help but feel like it was something precious, that he should remember the way his stomach turns when House is painted in a certain light or remember the way love has turned him stupid.
With a relationship like House and his, he didn’t think he’d be one for clichés. But sometimes love was that simple.
One night, Wilson was relaxing in the living room, legs stretched out across the length of the couch, an extra pillow to support his tired back. He was reading a book, specifically Howard’s End by E. M. Forster, when the familiar gait of House trudges in through the hallway and into the living room. He stands almost accusatory, right where Wilson’s feet were propped up on the other end of the couch. His expression is undiscernible.
House is silent for several seconds before he leans his cane on the wall and takes out a crumpled paper from his pants’ pocket. Wilson recognizes the shape, size, texture, and width of the lines in the paper. It’s undoubtedly from his notepad. It was a million in one that the paper House had was something totally innocent—impossible to gawk at.
House dramatically clears his throat, two or three times more than he needed to.
“He walks in beauty, like the night,” House recites, reading from the paper with one arm theatrically in the air. He looks up at Wilson, whose eyes were wider than ever. Oh my fucking God. Wilson’s stomach sinks and his lips part. “Though beauty stands in different light.”
Wilson leaps from his seat and unsuccessfully hurls himself toward House, who evades Wilson’s attempts at tackling. “He walks a drag, a friend of pain—” House continues, the last phrase sounding strained as he swiftly dodges Wilson’s hand that was trying to grab the paper. They circle each other, Wilson desperately trying to cease House’s humiliation. He’s probably already read the whole thing, but that doesn’t mean he could stand to hear it regurgitated back to him. House holds the paper up as high as he could, out of Wilson’s reach. Wilson pathetically tries to reach but House holds him back with his other arm. He squints his eyes to read the words at their new distance. “A starless night… a burnt out flame.”
“House, give me the paper,” Wilson pleads, while firmly holding his hand out, giving up physical attempts at obtaining his poem and attempting to bargain instead. Beg, if he had to.
“Where’s the fun in that?” House taunts, finally acknowledging yet ignoring Wilson. He continues, “He doth not know what I can see—Hey!”
Wilson is finally able to snatch the paper from House’s hands. He unceremoniously folds it and stuffs it in his pants pocket. His eyes are frantic and upset. He looks down at the floor, up at House, and back down at the floor. “His beauty stays the one for me,” Wilson chokes out, finishing the poem. He looks at House again once he feels he’s gained slightly more composure. He hadn’t really given House a good look since he had the paper. Now that he was looking, he didn’t really see any traces of ridicule. House, chronically sarcastic and cynical, didn’t have a hint of intending to mock Wilson. They were quiet for several moments, but House decided to cut the tension.
“Gee, Wilson. I never knew you cared so much about your grandpa,” House remarks. Wilson rolls his eyes and groans. He collapses on the couch, covering his face with his hands in embarrassment. He doesn’t even want to think about how red his face probably is right now, and judging by how warm it feels, it’s likely a decent amount.
“I didn’t write that,” Wilson effortlessly declared, wondering if some nonsense throwaway excuse would redirect House’s attention at all.
“Gee, I never knew Cuddy cared so much about her grandpa!” House joked. He makes his way over to Wilson and sits down on the arm of the couch, next to him. “It’s beautiful,” He says more quietly. Softer. Careful.
“No, it’s—it’s stupid. Just forget about it,” Wilson groans, trying to change the subject and spend as little time on this as possible.
“Wilson. It’s beautiful,” House repeats, looking at Wilson, who doesn’t make eye contact since his hands still remain over his face. “I liked it. Made me feel…Well, I don’t know.”
“Noticed?” Wilson suggested, parting his pointer and middle fingers to look at House through them. House looked at him and chuckled softly. Wilson… was not expecting this reaction.
“Yeah. Noticed. Seen. Loved. An array of other vulnerable adjectives,” House smirked. Wilson looked at House, tentatively giving him a smile. He certainly noticed House, saw everything about him and beyond, and loved him like he’d never loved anything before. As awkward and uncomfortable as this was, if House really felt that way, he considered it a success. He knew this was difficult for him, being genuine, and the little bit he was saying spoke volumes. House being vulnerable like this was a rare thing Wilson to see, damn near impossible for anybody else, so he’d take in as much of it as possible. “You’re some poet, Wilson. You’re also a sap.”
“Can’t a guy write pretty words about the man he loves?” Wilson sits up and smiles sheepishly. House pulls him into a deep kiss. Wilson’s eyes flutter closed and he’s reminded of why he even writes in the first place.
“You got any more poems about me? Maybe I’ll let you read them instead,” House offers, grinning.
“No, House! I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of a commitment!” Wilson jokes. It’s rooted in honesty. House gasps.
“I bet that's why the three ex-Mrs. Wilsons all ran away, huh? You read them your poetry?” House teases.
“Hey, the poems weren’t any good because they weren’t any good,” Wilson smirks, which leaves House speechless for a few moments. The moment of silence is enough to make Wilson question how House had come across this. If House was asking if there were any more poems about him, which there was an abundance of, he couldn’t have found the coffee tin, right? “Hey, House. Just curious, where did you happen to find this?”
“It was crumpled up under the bed. Why, think I’m gonna find your secret stash?” House prods. Wilson shrugs, smiling to himself.
“No reason,” He replies. It was probably one of the late night scribbles before sleep overtook him and he dropped it as his head was hitting the pillow or something. That means House did not find out about the coffee tin. Wilson couldn’t help but think that maybe that slip of paper was meant to be found. Wilson rests his head on House’s shoulder, taking the folded paper out of his pocket and slyly placing it in House’s front shirt pocket, hovering just over where his heart was. A piece of Wilson’s love to keep close to him.
Throughout the night, Wilson replayed the situation and rationalized that House’s reaction wasn’t so bad. Maybe little by little, he’ll ‘accidentally’ leave more slips of paper around, little surprises of love for House. One of the better written ones to cheer him up on a bad day or one of the more suggestive ones to sneakily slip in his hand when delivering his coffee to distract him at work. Written evidence of how deeply he loved House and how deeply he wanted to express it.