Chapter Text
David (4 missed calls)
David (2 voicemails)
He didn’t notice the state of his phone until halfway through his shift, when the pager went quiet long enough for him to sit down and pretend he had five uninterrupted minutes. Three missed calls. All from David. That alone was enough to make his shoulders tense.
He closed his office door, paced to the window and called back.
David picked up on the second ring, sounding pleased with himself. “Hey. There he is.”
“Is someone dead,” Wilson said, already rubbing at the bridge of his nose, “or is this a family emergency?”
“Relax. It’s neither. I just wanted to loop you in.”
“In on what?”
“The retreat.”
Wilson paused. “What retreat?”
There was a brief silence on the other end, the kind that meant David had assumed he’d already said something important. “The Poconos,” he said. “Five days. In five days from now. Big family thing. You’re coming.”
Wilson leaned back, chair creaking. He stared out the window of his office, the glass reflecting fluorescent light. He blinked, confused. “I thought you’d dropped that.”
“Why would I drop that? You even gave me your deposit. Are you swimming in so much cash you forgot about it?”
“You could’ve told me!”
“Just—listen. I wasn’t sure when to tell you because most of it’s supposed to be a surprise, logistics-wise I needed to wait.”
“Usually it’s common courtesy to give someone a week — at least —- heads up before ambushing them with a vacation.”
“Oh, pull the stick out of your ass, I’m taking you on a vacation, you should be happy. Thankful, even, that I’m taking you out of that hospital.”
“I have to take days off at work.” He complained, considering the logistics, the paperwork he should’ve done.
“I already called your assistant, who told Lisa. I had to make sure you couldn’t feel bad for leaving your patients for a couple of days.” Wilson blinked, surprised, he hadn’t expected that much effort from his brother, though he had a tendency to always get what he wanted.
“I’m always going to feel bad.” He muttered, lowering himself onto the leather couch with a groan, facing the window. “How’s this gonna work? Are we sharing a suite?”
“How would we even do that? Grandma’s coming. You think we’re just gonna have her sharing a bunk bed with Ellie?”
“Knowing her, she’d probably like it,” Wilson muttered, lips pursed as he picked lint off the sofa.
Wilson blinked. He stared out over the parking lot, the rows of cars dusted with salt, the winter sky flat and gray. Cabins. Plural. He did the math.
“Wow,” he said. “I doubt my deposit covered even half of that.”
“I got a deal,” David said quickly. “I’ve been planning ahead and I know the owners. It’s gonna be fun.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Wilson said, rubbing his thumb against the window frame. “It just sounds… way more complex than what I expected.”
“You know I do things right,” David replied. “And I had to one-up that spring break family trip of yours.”
Wilson huffed a quiet laugh. “I think you have.” He paused, then gestured vaguely with his free hand, as if David could see him through the phone. “So I’m not sharing a twin bed with you?”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Well, you know,” Wilson said dryly, “your deviated septum snores lull me to sleep like a baby.”
“You’ll have your own cabin,” David said. “Unless you… want to share it. We can join a few if you don’t wanna be alone.”
David’s voice had gone careful there — softened, padded around the edges. He’d been that way since Amber died, cautious with pauses, leaving space where Wilson might need it.
“I’d rather not share it with Dad,” Wilson said. “I’m not nine anymore. I can’t be within five feet of him for an extended period of time.”
“Don’t worry,” David said immediately. “I’m keeping Dad away from all of us. He even has his own activities.”
“Of course he does,” Wilson said. “Let me guess. Competitive walking and unsolicited advice.”
“Something like that.”
Outside, the sight of the balcony was pretty uneventful except for the faint, rhythmic view of a rubber ball hitting the wall of the office across from it. He couldn’t see House from this angle, just the ball arcing into frame and disappearing again.
There was a lull — he waited to see if something else needed to be said. When David remained quiet, Wilson hesitated, shifting his weight, watching the ball hit the wall again. He hadn’t planned to bring it up. It felt presumptuous. Or worse, out of place.
"This might be weird.”
“Try me.”
“I was thinking,” Wilson said, then stopped, annoyed at himself. He started again. “I was thinking maybe… House could come?”
There it was. He waited for the pause, for the question, for the gentle ‘no’.
Instead: “Oh. Yeah! Yeah. Sure. I wanted to ask you about that, I wasn’t sure how to… y’know?”
Wilson blinked. “You wanted to ask me if House could come to our family vacation?”
“Well, he hasn’t missed a Hanukkah since the Clinton administration. I mean, he missed… what, two? Over fifteen years?” David said easily. “I assumed he would come, I just didn’t know if he…”
“Yeah, he’s out of rehab, David, you can say the word.”
“Is he okay?”
“Is he ever?” Wilson paused, watching the ball, then felt compelled to add: “He’s… much better.”
“That’s good. That’s really good. Yeah, invite him along. He’s fun.”
“He tags along.”
“As he should,” David said. “He’s family.”
“He’s a parasite.” Wilson corrected him, exhaled.
"Most family members are."
“It might be good for him,” he added, more quietly. “To get out of the apartment.”
David didn’t tease him. “Definitely bring him. It’ll do you some good to get out, too.”
Wilson nodded, even though David couldn’t see it. The ball bounced again outside, perfectly timed, like it was listening.
“Okay,” Wilson said. “Okay.”
“Good,” David replied. “I’ll get things sorted. I emailed you the address and the info. You have some things you need to bring. Jen said I should make a list of the necessary clothing too, so I did that. But feel free not to bring your own mittens.”
They kept talking, discussing schedules, Wilson closed his eyes, leaned his forehead briefly against the glass, and wondered — not for the first time — when exactly House had stopped being an add-on and started being an assumption.
Back at the condo that night, Wilson waited for it.
He waited for the sigh, the complaint about forced cheer, the inevitable rant about family vacations being a jail sentence centered around a capitalistic view of religious festivities. He waited for House to circle the idea like a shark and then tear into it with surgical disdain.
Instead, House was already packing.
Not fully, not neatly — just standing in the bedroom doorway with a duffel bag open on the bed, tossing things in with the distracted efficiency of someone who had already accepted the premise. Socks. A hoodie. Wilson’s underwear,for some reason.
Wilson hovered in the hallway, coat still on, briefcase abandoned by the door.
“You’re… okay with this?” Wilson asked finally.
House didn’t look up. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Wilson frowned. “My entire family. For five days. In cabins.”
House shrugged, bending with a wince he pretended not to notice. He zipped the bag halfway, thought better of it, unzipped it again. “It’s probably wise for me to distance myself from the hospital right now that Chase has taken a liking to targeting political figures.”
Wilson blinked. “What?”
“Who’s going to be there?” House continued, already moving on.
Wilson let the missed reference go. He always did. “My parents. David, Jen. Michael and Ellie. Jen’s sister, her husband, their kids.”
House paused, glancing over his shoulder, almost offended. “And you’re telling me now?”
“I told you it was a family thing.”
“You told me it was a family thing,” House corrected. “You didn’t tell me it was a children thing.”
Wilson watched him do the math in real time, the way his eyes shifted slightly as the problem expanded. “They’re good kids,” he offered.
“That’s not the point,” House said. “I haven’t had enough head start to get them gifts.”
"It's fine."
House opened a cabinet, stared into it like answers might be stored between socks. “Ellie,” he said, tapping the counter with his fingers. “What does she like now? Is she emo yet? Or is it over already?”
“She’s more musical theatre.”
“Of course she is. Your blood running in her veins.” House muttered, then recalled: “She liked Bratz.”
“Yeah,” Wilson said, leaning against the counterframe, “when she was seven.”
“Once a Bratz girl, always a Bratz girl,” House said, glancing over his shoulder as he limped towards his drawer. “Personally, I’m a Yasmin.”
Wilson frowned, crossing his arms over his chest with a fond look. “You don’t have to get them gifts.”
House looked up at him then, expression genuinely confused. “Of course I do.”
“Why?”
“I always get them gifts,” House said easily. “Mainly to spite David’s wife.”
Wilson snorted despite himself. “Well, you’ve been successful so far.”
They left early in the morning. House hadn’t argued. He’d folded himself into the passenger seat, cane wedged between the door and his thigh, and immediately started flicking through radio stations to establish territorial rights.
As houses thinned and yards grew into fields, the air felt fresher. Old stone walls and weathered barns replaced strip malls. Reservoirs flashed like cut glass. The sky opened and the light went thin and honest; the world was suddenly simpler, edged by fenceposts and low hills that rose and fell like the folds of a coat.
As they climbed north, the trees thickened. Maples and oaks gave way to stands of fir and spruce, and the road began to take the soft, slow curves of mountain access. Small towns unspooled, signs for trout streams and ski areas appeared, polite and insistent. The air grew colder, sharp enough to make the inside of the car smell like the heating vents and Wilson’s aftershave.
The last stretch pushed them through a stand of pines and then the resort came into view, low and deliberate against the slope: timber and stone, wide eaves, large windows catching the sun and making the whole building look like it had been carved out of the mountain itself.
The reception building itself had the practiced, weathered look of something that had been made to look inevitable. From a distance it read as an old lodge with heavy stone walls, dark-stained beams, a slate roof pitched low to shrug off snow, but close up the materials were too clean, too new in the way of things that had been deliberately aged. The porch ran the length of the façade, wide enough for rocking chairs and wrapped in a railing of iron and wood.
He pulled into the circular drive and killed the engine. The car settled down to silence. Wilson stepped out into air that bit at his face, the clean scent of pine, the sharpness of cold, the polished wood under the eaves, the distant thump of some maintenance truck. When he opened the trunk out of habit, forgetting the stacked mountain of bags and boxes, some in shopping bags, some wrapped, some anonymous.
“I think I told you to pack light.” Wilson muttered, closing the trunk and opening the back door instead, pulling out their bags between grunts.
“I’m compensating for your incompetence as an uncle.” House muttered, stepping out of the car with a groan.
He craned his neck and took in the sight. Beyond the lodge, the land opened into a shallow valley. Pines crowded close at the edges, their branches dusted white, the forest dense enough to feel private without feeling claustrophobic. The cabins were spaced in a loose ring along cleared paths, each one its own small, careful shape, wood siding, stone chimneys, broad decks facing outward toward the trees. Smoke rose lazily from a few flues.
“That lavish bastard.” Wilson muttered before he could stop himself.
House had already closed his door and was moving toward the entrance. House had already begun to move toward the entrance. He walked with that lurch at first, then straightened out into a purposeful, almost jaunty gait; the limp was manageable when his attention was elsewhere. He glanced back at Wilson over his shoulder, one eyebrow lifting in that expression that read as both concession and provocation. “I can spot David’s Toyota from here,” he said, voice a pitch higher. “Don’t make them wait.”
He kept walking, toward the glass doors, leaving Wilson at the trunk with the bags. For a second Wilson simply watched him go: the way House’s shoulders set under his heavy coat, the tiny wince he masked as he shifted his weight.
Wilson bent and hauled the first bag out. It was heavier than it looked.
He walked into the lobby carrying both his and House’s bags over each shoulder. The straps dug into his coat, the weight uneven and awkward, and he adjusted them instinctively as the automatic doors slid shut behind him. Warm air from the heater hit him all at once, heavy and dry, immediately flushing his face pink. The smell of wood and warmth settled over him, softening the edge of the cold he’d brought in.
His family had clustered just to the side of the entrance, coats half-off, scarves draped over suitcase handles, bags nudged into a loose pile by the wall. Their luggage sat untouched at their feet, abandoned in favor of greetings. And at the center of it all stood House, already surrounded by the Wilsons.
Wilson’s mother had both her hands on House’s face, thumbs resting just below his cheekbones as if she were assessing his quality of sleep just by looking at him. She stroked the side of his buzzcut with gentle, proprietary familiarity, guiding him down to her height without resistance. House bent automatically, cane hooked on his forearm, expression indulgent in a way Wilson rarely saw.
“Oh, you look so handsome like this. With your hair short. With that little white patch, oh, look at you.” She said happily, stroking his cheek. “It looks fuller.”
“My hair hasn’t been full since I was 25.” House deadpanned, then offered her a charming smile.
Wilson almost scoffed. House always did his best to charm his parents, he never behaved like this with anyone else. He let them fuss over him, let himself be touched and admired, as if this was how he usually acted with everyone.
The rest of the family hovered close, rotating through hugs and greetings with a man who usually avoided physical contact like it was contagious. Michael clapped him on the back, Noah tried to sneak around his cane, Sophie peeked up at him from behind Anne’s leg. Ellie waited patiently off to the side, a bright, unguarded smile on her face. She really liked House — always had — drawn to his attention and his refusal to talk down to her. Her mother, Jennifer, stood just a little apart, hands folded around the strap of her purse, wearing a polite, measured smile. She liked House best in small doses. As one should.
David wasn’t part of the knot of greetings. He stood further away at the reception desk, papers spread out in front of him, leaning in to speak with the clerk, keys and envelopes already being sorted. He glanced over once, caught Wilson’s eye, and lifted his hand in a brief, apologetic wave before turning back to logistics.
Wilson shifted his grip on the bags and stepped forward. His father was in the middle of giving House a firm handshake when he noticed him.
“There he is.” His mother lit up when he saw him.
“Took you long enough.” Ezra Wilson said with a soft smile.
“You took a plane. I drove here.” His son replied, dropping the heavy bags on the floor carefully.
“And I still got here before you did.” The old man gave Wilson a pat on the shoulder, the most affection he’d show his son. “You look older.”
“I am.” Wilson said and turned to his mother. “Hi, mom.”
She cupped his face immediately, as if afraid the moment would pass if she didn’t claim it, and kissed his cheek.
“You’re so cold, did you have the heater on in the car?”
“Yes, I just had the windows rolled down a little…” Wilson answered, trailing off as he glanced at his brother from afar. He turned back to his mother and added, “You look great.”
She did — older, but rested, warm and happy — but said it mostly because it made her smile. She reached up and smoothed his coat lapel, her hand lingering on his shoulder before he moved on to greet everyone else. He moved to hug Anne, Jen’s sister, shook her husband Caleb’s hand, and finally scooped up his youngest nephew with a heavy groan, the effort pulling a sound from him he didn’t bother to hide. He wasn’t as young as he wished he was.
Somewhere behind him, House had already drifted toward Ellie. Wilson caught it in his peripheral vision, the way House angled his body toward her, how she leaned in, talking animatedly, clearly pleased to have his attention. Ellie always liked having him around during Hanukkah. House treated her like a person, not a child, and she responded to that with easy loyalty.
Wilson looked away before he could read anything into it, nudged his bags closer to the wall with his foot, and told himself that this was going to be fine.
Wilson stepped away from the knot of his family and crossed the lobby toward the reception desk, weaving around suitcases and a bell cart parked at a slight angle. David looked up as he approached, relief flickering across his face as if Wilson were reinforcement rather than just his brother. They hugged in the quick, familiar way they always had — one arm, a firm pat between the shoulders — before stepping back into their respective spaces.
David asked how the trip had been, and Wilson answered casually, the words automatic. David nodded, only half-listening, his attention drifting past Wilson’s shoulder.
“Greg looks good.” He said genuinely.
Wilson squinted, reflexively defensive, then followed David’s line of sight. House was laughing at something Ellie had said, head tipped to the side slightly, relaxed in a way he rarely was at work. Wilson nodded, slow.
“Yeah. I guess he… I guess he does.” He said rapidly, then sighed and added, “There’s a lot of us.”
“Yeah. It was hard enough to wrangle dad into the airplane. Kept losing him at the liquor shop.”
Wilson leaned closer to the desk, peeking at the neat stack of pamphlets and key cards spread in David’s hands, each one labeled and organized with careful intent.
“How’s this gonna work?” Wilson asked.
“The kids get their own cabin. Michael’s gonna babysit them. Us couples get their own couple cabins. Even mom and dad, who haven't been a couple since ‘82, I think. They get the big cabin too.”
Wilson’s mouth twitched. “What do House and I get? The bachelor bunk bed?”
“Actually, since it was the only one available, you get the honeymoon cabin.” David held up the pamphlet. “I hope you don’t mind that I sped up the process. Hope you got a ring on you. I assume you always do.”
“All my ex-wives kept their rings in the divorce.” Wilson said, glaring at him. “Is there gonna be a honeymoon kit on the bed?”
“There can be. We could ask.” David said with a shrug, then leaned in and whispered: “Jen and I brought our own.”
“Oh, so did we.” House’s voice slid easily into the space beside them. Wilson startled despite himself. House appeared at David’s shoulder, leaning on his cane, expression smug with triumph. David laughed and pulled him in, clapping him on the shoulder before hugging him properly.
“You got us a honeymoon suite? Good, I’ve been trying to get your brother to unzip the whole drive here but he said he can’t do two things at once.”
“You’ll have plenty of room.” David said with a smile and handed him a pamphlet for the honeymoon cabin before stepping away to go hand each group their respective key cards.
Wilson leaned over House’s shoulder, confused despite himself. He hadn’t actually expected David to be serious. The glossy page stared back at him: dark wood paneling, lace curtains, and a massive heart-shaped bed dominating the room.
“Why didn't you tell me we were sharing a bed? I would've gotten a pedi.” House muttered, flipping the pamphlet open wider.
“I didn't know.” Wilson whispered, ears burning.
“Guess we’ll be rubbing bunions tonight.” House added, punctuating it with an overexaggerated wink.
“Great.” Wilson said flatly.
“I thought we could start slow. We can progress to choking the chicken once you get more comfortable.”
The image hit Wilson fully formed and entirely unwelcome. He groaned, scrubbed a hand over his face, and shook his head hard as he turned away.
“I’ll go talk to David.”
He didn’t do it immediately.
Wilson lingered near the edge of the lobby instead, pretending to check his phone while the rest of the family sorted themselves out. Keys were handed out, pamphlets tucked under arms, kids called back from darting too close to the fireplace. One by one, they began to drift toward the doors and down the cleared paths toward the cabins, voices fading into the high-ceilinged space. House passed him on the way out, with a mocking smirk, pamphlet tucked under his arm. Wilson waited until he was gone too, feeling the panic stir.
Only when the reception desk had quieted, when the clerk turned to another task and the lobby felt briefly hollow, did Wilson move.
He caught David just as he was stacking the remaining papers, reached out and hooked two fingers lightly into the sleeve of his jacket. “Hey,” he said, low. David turned, puzzled, and Wilson steered him a few steps to the side, into a corner half-hidden by a potted pine and a rack of brochures. Wilson scratched the back of his neck, breathy laugh escaping him before he could stop it.
“Why did you get a couple’s cabin for me and House?”
“Oh, yeah, well, originally you were supposed to get the single cabin but you told me Greg was coming along, I figured I could make a call and upgrade you guys.” David said genuinely “Why? You don’t like the idea of chocolates on the nightstands?"
Wilson blinked, processing, then frowned, brows pulling together.
“Why a couple’s cabin?”
David mirrored the confusion, brow furrowing.
“What do you mean?”
“I didn't expect you to get two. That would've been insane. But you could've asked for separate beds.”
“Why? You guys don't sleep together?”
Wilson’s eyebrows shot up, surprise flashing across his face before he could mask it.
“Not usually, no.”
“Are you becoming our mother? James, don't do that. Jen and I tried it too, we fought for a month. The leg room’s not worth it-”
Wilson laughed despite himself, a real sound that startled him.
“We don't sleep in separate beds-”
“Good-”
“We have separate rooms.”
David paused, genuinely thrown.
“Why would you do that?”
“I feel like I’m missing something here. When I told you I moved in with House, I meant a condo. Not his one bedroom apartment. I showed you the pictures.”
“Yeah, you did. Which is why it’s insane to me that you're not sharing the master bedroom. Who took it? Don't tell me you did.”
“Of course I did. I paid for the house.”
“You're actually becoming mom.” David said, completely missing the point.
Wilson scoffed, frustration sharpening his voice.
“House and I are not a couple.”
David let out a breathy chuckle, amused.
“What are you then? Did you elope again? Can you do that? Was it in Vegas?”
“We're not- What are you…” Wilson’s smile fell away, jaw tightening. “We're friends.”
“Yeah, one would hope.” David giggled.
“Just friends. Nothing more.” Wilson said firmly, the words planted like stakes in the ground.
David studied him for a moment, then laughed again, softer this time.
“Jimmy, come on.”
“Don’t ‘Jimmy’ me.” Wilson whined, the pitch betraying him.
David stepped closer, placed a steady hand on his shoulder, and lowered his voice.
“I’m not stupid.”
“You make that hard to believe.” Wilson whispered back, reflexively mocking.
“I know about you guys. We all do.”
“Well, I don't!”
“Why do we have to do this 'Don't Ask Don't Tell’ thing? It's 2010. We're fine. We know. It's not gonna be a thing.” David argued, earnest and calm.
“David-”
“Jen’s older sister is a lesbian.” David whispered.
“Good for her. Great.”
“I invited her too but she couldn't take days off work. But you've seen her, you've met her, mom’s met her.”
“I know-”
“We don't care about these things.” David insisted, unwavering.
"What things? There's no things! This isn't a thing!” Wilson’s voice jumped despite himself.
“We know you're dating. Even mom knows.”
He felt his stomach drop.
“What does mom know?!”
“James, seriously. I know we didn't talk about it. I understand. It probably sucks being out for you. Be private at work, I get it. But we're family. You can be honest here. Nobody's gonna judge.” David said, steady and sincere.
“I am being honest! I’ve always been.”
“I mean, yeah, it's not like you were hiding it.”
Wilson went still, confusion creeping in.
“What are you talking about?”
“Greg’s been at almost every single Hanukkah since, what? 1992?”
“He always tags along to family events!”
“As he should! Because he is family!”
“No! No, he's a friend! A friend with very low standards of boundaries!”
David stepped back, rubbing his temples, clearly done. He waved Wilson off with a tired gesture.
“You're giving me a headache. Just go change or take a nap. Go have sex. Just be calmer in an hour.”
He clapped Wilson on the shoulder and walked away, already pulling his phone out of his pocket.
“There's no sex to be had!” Wilson whisper-yelled after him, the words swallowed by the lobby’s quiet.
Wilson scowled all the way to their cabin, his jaw set tight as he followed the cleared path through the trees. The snow crunched under his boots in a steady, irritated rhythm. He carried his bag slung over one shoulder, the strap biting into his coat, every step feeding the loop of David’s words in his head. The cabins glowed softly between the pines, warm light leaking through curtains, smoke curling lazily from chimneys. Romantic, private, expensive. Exactly what he didn’t want, not with House.
He swiped the key card and pushed the door open.
Heat rushed out to meet him. The cabin was absurdly cozy — wood-paneled walls, a small fireplace already lit, lamps casting a low amber glow. And right in the center of it all was the bed: enormous, heart-shaped, dressed in crisp white sheets and too many pillows to count. House was sprawled across it in his underwear and an old T-shirt, one leg bent awkwardly, the other stretched out, remote in hand as he flipped through channels with bored concentration.
“Hi, honey.” House said flatly. “You didn't have to be chivalrous. The bed is comfortable, the pillows are fluffy, the chocolates were delicious.”
Wilson’s eyes flicked to the empty wrappers on the nightstand.
“I won’t mind being spooned tonight. I think I might even enjoy it.” House continued.
Wilson dropped his bag by the door a little harder than necessary.
“Could you not do that?” He started, raising his hands. “This… thing you do.”
“Spooning?”
“Making everyone think we're gay.”
House immediately smirked, like a ninth grader at the mention of the word ‘gay’.
“Your haircut does that too but I don't complain about it.”
“What’s your deal? You're suddenly tired of my homoerotic jokes now that we have to snuggle up?” House continued.
Wilson rubbed his forehead and turned away, pacing toward the bag to unpack, then back again, hands lifted briefly in defeat.
“I’ve always been tired of them.”
“No, you haven't. You proposed to me for the love of the game. You don't shy away from the parody of homosexual tendencies.”
Wilson paced once more, then stopped short, hands planted on his hips, breath sharp.
“My family thinks we're dating.”
House paused mid-click. The remote stilled. After a beat, he smiled wider.
“I mean…”
“I told David we aren't and he didn't believe me.”
“Look, once might be a mistake but twice?” He paused, glancing at Wilson before looking back at the TV. “I think you have to change your haircut.”
“I think you have to stop joking about us being a couple.”
“It's not my fault people believe me.”
“Yes, it is!”
“Why is there no porn on this TV?” House asked, distracted.
Wilson groaned and retreated into the bathroom, desperate for a smaller space. He unzipped his toiletry bag and set it on the shelf, lining things up with unnecessary precision. The mirror reflected his irritation back at him, flushed and tight around the eyes.
A minute later, House appeared in the doorway, having ditched his cane, one hand braced against his thigh. He leaned there like he belonged.
“It can't all be my doing.” he stated. “You probably talked about me in some way that made him think that.”
“Oh, yeah, I wax poetically about you behind your back. I just can't hold it in.” Wilson deadpanned, not looking at him.
“You like me. And everyone knows you like me. And since I’m so unlikable people assume it's either Nightingale syndrome or sexual attraction. Maybe even both.” House watched him through the mirror, eyes sharp and thoughtful as he spoke. “You probably said something to him."
“Nothing that would make him think we're sleeping together!”
“You told them about me.” House said, the realization settling in. “They asked how I was doing. They never do. They usually ask ‘how’s work?’ or ‘any new cases?’, ‘how was the drive?’, they don't ask how I’m doing because they know it's pointless conversation to me. They asked because you told them they put me in the looney bin.”
He stepped closer, close enough that Wilson could feel his eyes on his nape.
“Of course I did, you disappeared for months. I tried telling them you were in Thailand but they got suspicious after a while.”
“You were worried. And you talked to them. You were probably mushy about it. Overly sentimental. Slightly homosexual.”
Wilson rolled his eyes hard.
“You made them think we had something.”
“Sure. It's my fault I care. If I had done the straight thing, I would've cracked one open and cheered that they finally put you in solitary confinement.”
“You like me.” House accused. “You publicly like me. That’s the stain on your reputation. Amongst various degrees of adultery and medical malpractice.”
“I’ve never been more than a friend to you in front of them. I’ve never— I don't remember the last time we've hugged!”
“Because that's gay.” House said, pulling a face of exaggerated disgust.
“I don't act… gay in front of them.” Wilson said, almost sheepishly.
House smirked slightly at that, eyes narrowing with interest. Wilson gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening.
“I don’t… I’m not gay.” He added.
“You don't have to tell me. You have to tell them.” House said, lips pursed. “It’ll be a little hard to believe with your boyfriend tagging along, though.”
After a rich breakfast, the first day’s activity was billed as an easy hike to Marshall’s Falls. The trail wound gently away from the cabins, narrow and well-worn, bordered by low wooden posts and patches of snow that hadn’t yet surrendered to the weak winter sun. The forest was dense but orderly, tall pines breaking the light into long slats that stretched across the path. Water could be heard long before it was seen, a steady, distant rush that rose and fell with the terrain, threading itself through conversation and footsteps alike.
The group had naturally split into clusters. The kids surged ahead in a loose pack, boots crunching loudly, arguing about who had seen the waterfall first last time, stopping every few feet to kick snow or poke at frozen puddles with sticks. Anne walked with Wilson a little behind them, her attention divided between the path and the movement of children in front of her. She spoke calmly, asking about the hospital, about Princeton, about things that required no emotional investment. Wilson answered on autopilot, nodding at the right times, smiling when appropriate.
His eyes, however, kept drifting back.
House had positioned himself neatly with Ezra and Lilian, matching their slower, measured pace. With his cane and their age, it looked intentional, almost considerate. He walked beside Wilson’s mother, occasionally offering an arm when the trail dipped or narrowed, leaning in close enough that from a distance it looked intimate. Ellie flanked him on the other side, glued to his presence, chattering endlessly about school, about a book she was reading, about how cold the water probably was this time of year. House listened with exaggerated seriousness, occasionally responding with something dry enough to make her laugh.
Wilson barely registered the scenery, even as the trail narrowed and the sound of the falls grew louder, the air turning colder and damper. His stomach stayed tight, waiting for something to go wrong, with House fully leaning into this dating thing just like he’d done with their neighbor Nora.
At some point, Wilson stopped walking and waited for his parents’ group to reach him, stepping beside him casually.
“You didn't tell me you had moved in already. I would've sent you a housewarming gift.” His mom said immediately, disappointed. “Greg said you're lacking potholders, I could send you a couple.”
Wilson glared at his roommate. “Don't worry, mom, we have all we need.”
“He said you hired a designer to furnish your home.” She said with some mortification. “Why would you do that?”
“The good thing about owning a house is being in charge of all the decisions and you leave that to someone else?” his father continued. Wilson sighed quietly to himself.
“He did get me a Hammond organ.” House chimed in.
“A real one?” his father asked, surprised.
“Yes.” Wilson said hurriedly.
“A Hammond B3, in the tens of thousands.” House said smugly.
Wilson felt his jaw tighten. He watched Lilian’s eyebrows lift, delighted.
“Anniversary gift?” his mother asked.
“Not even. He got it just because.” House said with a shrug, which was technically the truth but didn’t help Wilson’s case.
“Oh, that's just lovely.” His mother said, then turned to her husband. “I don't get gifts on anniversaries, let alone on weekdays.”
“My pension is nowhere close to his salary.” Ezra argued back, then turned to House. “You can play the organ?”
“I was a church boy.” House lied with a smile.
“About that, have you ever considered converting in case of marriage?” Lilian asked, hooking her arm around House’s.
Wilson nearly stumbled over a root.
“If I find the right woman, I might.” He said with a smile.
Lilian laughed, warm and unguarded, and gave his forearm a soft, playful slap.
Dinner was at the main lodge, a long, low building lit from the inside with amber light that spilled out onto the snow. Inside, everything smelled like wood smoke and roasted meat. They were seated at two pushed-together tables near a wide window, the glass fogging slowly as coats were shed and chairs scraped back. Conversation overlapped easily, Ezra and Caleb comparing the drive up, Anne and Jennifer discussing work hours, the kids negotiating dessert before they’d even ordered.
Wilson found himself watching House more than the menu.
House looked… good, David was right. Not in the performative way he did lately, but relaxed. He wasn’t pretending just to show therapy was working. He leaned back in his chair, cane propped casually against the table leg, one arm draped along the back of Ellie’s chair as she animatedly explained something about school.
Lilian laughed at something House said and reached out to touch his wrist. Ezra nodded along, clearly engaged, asking follow-up questions. Even Jennifer, usually reserved around House, seemed less stiff, her polite smile loosening as the evening wore on. It could’ve been the wine, the holiday spirit, he didn’t care. Wilson felt a quiet, unfamiliar warmth settle in his chest at the sight of it. He liked this version of House. Liked seeing him fold so easily into the noise and warmth of a family dinner.
Wilson smiled despite himself.
It was unsettling, how easily House fit. How naturally his parents leaned toward him, how Ezra asked his opinion on the wine, how his mother laughed at jokes Wilson had heard a hundred times before. It made something warm and uncomfortable settle in Wilson’s chest. Pride, maybe. Or something like it.
House caught Wilson looking and raised his glass slightly, a private acknowledgment. Wilson looked away, suddenly too aware of his own smile.
By the time they left, the kids were glassy-eyed and slow, coats half-zipped, heads resting against shoulders. House’s limp was still there when he stood to let a server pass, but it was lighter, less guarded, like he wasn’t thinking about it. He smiled more, too, small, real ones, the kind Wilson usually only saw late at night or after a successful case.
Outside, the cold snapped them all awake just long enough to herd everyone toward their respective cabins. Goodnights were exchanged in a flurry of hugs and reminders about breakfast times.
The honeymoon cabin was quiet when Wilson finally unlocked it. Warmth rushed out to meet them, the soft lighting already dimmed. House kicked the door shut behind them and toed off his shoes, stretching like he owned the place.
Wilson barely had time to undress before House climbed onto the bed and rolled onto his side, patting the space behind him.
Wilson glared at him.
When he finally joined after his nighttime routine in the bathroom and settled under the heavy covers, House shifted closer anyway, draping an arm around Wilson’s waist with exaggerated care, chin pressing lightly between his shoulder blades.
Wilson stiffened immediately and shoved him back.
“Don’t even think about it.”
House sighed, dramatically, but didn’t argue. He rolled onto his back instead, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach.
“Worth a shot.”
Wilson lay down on his side of the bed, leaving a deliberate gap between them, though a small smirk found its way on his lips.
“You didn’t tell your brother we’re not an item.” House pointed out, almost satisfied with himself.
“You’ve been doing the opposite all day. We’re not sending clear signals.”
“I’m sending a very clear signal: you’re tragically repressed.”
Wilson sighed. “I haven’t had time to talk to him alone. He’s always with the kids or with Jen. I don’t want to make a scene.”
“It doesn’t look like they care.” House muttered, genuinely. “I’ve been poking all day and not a hint of homophobia escaped the Wilson mishpacha. I managed to be more homophobic than them.”
“They’ve never been… conservative, exactly. Traditional but in the sense that my mother will probably ask you why I haven’t proposed to you yet.”
“You should stay far away from wedding venues for the rest of your miserable life. You’ve had enough.”
“Try telling her.” Wilson paused for a moment. “She’s never pressured me into marrying my wives.”
House paused for a moment, clearly satisfied by the statement, silently gloating.
“Because I’m better.”
“Optics.”
The mattress dipped slightly under House’s weight, the space warmer than it should’ve been. He stared at the opposite wall, listening to the faint hum of the heater and the muffled sounds of other cabins settling for the night.
After a moment, House shifted again, inching closer, not touching, just close enough that Wilson could feel the heat from him.
Wilson didn’t push him away this time.
He told himself it was because he was tired. Because it was late. Because it wasn’t worth starting another argument.
But as he lay there, staring into the dark, he kept thinking about the way his mother had looked at House across the dinner table. The way his father had nodded at him, approving. The way Ellie had leaned into him without hesitation.
He exhaled slowly, tension easing just a fraction. House didn’t say anything. Neither did Wilson. The space between them stayed small.
The next morning started early and loud, the lodge buzzed with kids ricocheting off furniture, boots thudding against wood floors, coats being shoved into unwilling sleeves. Wilson barely finished his coffee before David was clapping his hands and herding everyone toward the cars to get to the mountain coaster like a camp counselor on a deadline.
The coaster cut through the slope of the mountain in long, swooping rails, metal glinting against the snow-dusted trees. Cars clicked and rattled as they climbed, then dropped, screaming downhill in tight curves that made the kids shriek with delight. Wilson rode with Michael, gripping the handle more tightly than he cared to admit. Somewhere ahead of them, he heard House laughing with Ellie, an unguarded, sharp sound that carried over the wind.
When they reached the bottom, House looked almost flushed, eyes bright. His limp seemed lighter again, like gravity had agreed to give him a break for the day. Ellie immediately latched onto him, breathless and grinning. The climbing park followed, ropes and platforms suspended between tall trees, nets and ladders crisscrossing overhead. Harnesses were strapped on, helmets adjusted. Some of the adults opted out, citing knees or vertigo or dignity. Others — Anne, Caleb, even Ezra at his old age — surprised everyone by giving it a shot.
House hovered near the ground-level obstacles, making a show of moral support and sharp commentary, cane hooked over his arm. Ellie climbed confidently, taunting her cousins from above. Wilson watched her for a while, then House, heart thudding every time he saw the man shift his weight a little too fast.
Eventually Ellie spotted the archery corner tucked off to the side and beelined for it. House followed.
The range was quiet compared to the rest of the park, hay bales stacked neatly behind circular targets. House took a bow with casual familiarity, testing the string, adjusting his stance. When he shot the first arrow, it struck near the center with a dull thud.
Ellie stared at him, impressed. House didn’t look surprised. He hit the target again. And again. Wilson tried next. His arrow flew wide, skidding uselessly into the dirt. House raised an eyebrow. Wilson adjusted his grip, tried again. Worse. Ellie laughed, not unkindly.
House leaned over, offering advice that sounded suspiciously like an insult. Wilson ignored most of it and still missed. House hit the bullseye. Wilson groaned, lowering the bow.
House cooked.
He insisted on it, planted firmly in the kitchen like it was a personal challenge rather than a favor. He waved away objections with sharp looks and sarcasm, commandeered counter space, and redistributed tasks with surprising efficiency. David chopped vegetables under his direction, Jen handled sauces, and Mrs. Wilson hovered nearby, offering advice House partially ignored and partially incorporated, to her visible delight. The kitchen of the big cabin was a tight fit but they managed. They were rehearsing for Zose Hanukkah. He leaned on the counter, leg clearly bothering him, but he powered through it anyway, sleeves rolled up, jaw set in concentration. The result was loud praise around the table and the rare sight of House pretending not to enjoy it.
After lunch, there was a lull, coming from full stomachs and fatigue. Then, jackets were grabbed again, sunglasses perched on heads. The kids were handed off to Michael, who marched them toward the small kids’ park near the lake with exaggerated confidence. That left the adults to the docks. Some decided canoeing, someone suggested boats, and soon Wilson, David, their parents and House were stepping onto a pontoon boat, wide and steady, its flat deck perfect for lingering without balance becoming a concern.
The lake stretched out calm and pale under the afternoon sun, surrounded by trees dusted with snow. The pontoon glided easily, barely rocking, the motor low and unobtrusive. David and Ezra took up fishing rods near the railing, falling into an old rhythm that came back to them without effort. They didn’t talk much, just enough: comments about bait, about water depth, about how long it had been since they’d last done this together.
Wilson sat back on one of the padded benches beside his mother, legs stretched out, face tipped toward the sun. The light reflected off the water and warmed his cheeks despite the cold air. House had claimed a seat on the prow of the boat and promptly fallen asleep, coat still on, head tilted back, mouth slightly open. His cane lay at his feet. For once, he looked unguarded. Peaceful. Wilson had even convinced him to wear sunscreen.
Lilian sat, coat folded neatly on her lap, gray hair pulled back, hands resting one over the other. She watched the water for a while before turning to him, studying his face the way she had when he was a teenager and came home too quiet.
“How are you doing, JimJam?” Lilian asked gently, reaching out to fix his hair, Wilson let her.
“Still digesting lunch. Surprised I haven’t thrown up yet.”
“I mean lately.” She said, softly, looking at him.
Wilson exhaled through his nose and tilted his head back toward the sun.
“I’m fine,” he said easily. Too easily. “It’s been nice. The place is… relaxing.”
She hummed, unconvinced.
“At home?” she pressed. “Are you happy?”
He shrugged, eyes still on the sky.
“I’m okay. Work’s steady. Things are… good.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, as if happiness were a logistical detail he’d already filed away.
Lilian didn’t let it go. She rarely did.
“You're being vague.”
“I am happy,” Wilson replied, a touch defensive now. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
She smiled at that, soft but knowing, then followed his line of sight briefly before speaking again.
“I like Greg,” she said simply.
Wilson’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“I know you do,” he muttered.
“I mean it,” she continued. “I’ve always liked him. He’s sharp, he’s kind when it matters, and he makes you laugh even when you pretend he doesn’t.” She paused. “I was glad when you told us he was coming.”
Wilson shifted on the bench.
“He’s always around.” he said, as if that explained everything.
Lilian glanced over at the man stretched out a few feet away, asleep in the sun, chest rising and falling evenly.
“I always thought it would just be a matter of time,” she said quietly. “Before you told us.”
Wilson frowned.
“Told you what?”
She didn’t look at him when she answered.
“That you were… different. That you liked men.”
His breath caught.
“Mom—”
But she kept going, gently, as if she knew exactly when to press forward.
“And then you’d come home with another woman. Another girlfriend. Another wife. And I thought— well, that’s fine. People take time. You were always thinking things through more than most.”
Wilson opened his mouth, closed it again. His fingers curled against the bench.
“I thought maybe you just needed to… digest it,” she said. “Figure it out in your own way.”
He swallowed.
“No, mom—”
“But then,” she cut in softly, finally turning to him, “you brought home Amber.”
The words landed between them like something fragile. Wilson went very still.
"It was clear you loved her. Unlike the others. Then I thought maybe the issue wasn't women. It was just those women you'd picked. I figured maybe you weren’t… maybe you could love both sides. Nothing wrong with that... I saw it on your face when you first brought her home... I knew she was something else."
She sighed, eyes shining now, voice thickening.
“That sweet girl…”
He swallowed. She continued.
“You know I… I never liked your wives. I think you know. But she was different, she… she was an angel.”
Wilson’s throat tightened painfully. He stared straight ahead, blinking hard.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice rough. “Yeah.”
"When she... left us, I didn't know how to ask. I want to ask. A mother always does. If there's anyone taking care of you, loving you..." She glanced at House and bit the inside of her cheek. "I'm glad you took the first step and brought him here... I can tell it's different from other times... and you moved in together. That's good. I was happy when you moved in with her, too. But I think you did the right thing to leave that home... you deserve to move on. I know it's hard but... you're young and surrounded by people that love you." Lilian continued. “She really loved you. That’s all one can wish for their kid…”
She reached out and placed a hand on his knee. He felt its warmth through the fabric.
“And Greg, he loves you, too. I’m happy it’s him. Anyone else would’ve paled in comparison to her.”
Wilson didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He let her hand find his hand, let her thumb brush slow, comforting circles there. The words weren’t meant for the truth he carried, but they still wrapped around him all the same, heavy and tender and wrong in a way that made his chest ache.
“I know we haven’t talked about you being…” she trailed off, searching his face. “It doesn’t matter.”
Wilson finally turned to her, eyes wet, and managed a small, tight smile. It was reassurance aimed at the wrong version of him, but it still reached somewhere deep and vulnerable. The idea that her love would survive whatever truth eventually surfaced sat strangely in his stomach — comforting and nauseating all at once. He didn’t find it in himself to correct her.
He shifted, suddenly restless, needing something simple and physical to do.
“Coffee?” he gestured toward the bag beside House.
“That would be lovely,” she said warmly. “Thank you, honey.”
She let him go without question, already turning her attention back to the lake. Wilson rose carefully, mindful of the gentle sway of the pontoon, and made his way across the deck toward his roommate.
House lay sprawled on the bench, coat unzipped, head tipped back into the sun like a man who had earned the nap. His face looked softer asleep, mouth slack, brow smooth. For a brief second, Wilson hesitated, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the cane resting where it had slipped against the deck.
Then he nudged House’s shin with his knee. House stirred with a low sound of irritation, squinting up at him and raising a hand to shield his eyes from the glare.
“I need you,” Wilson whispered through gritted teeth, leaning in just enough to keep the conversation private.
House smirked without opening his eyes fully.
“I’m not big into public sex,” he said lazily. “But I can be convinced.”
Wilson shot him a warning look, jaw tight.
“You have to distract my mother,” he said, hurried now, words tumbling out. “She’s getting into heavy topics. I need you to make her laugh. I don’t know.”
House blinked up at him, the humor fading just a fraction as he actually looked at Wilson this time. He followed Wilson’s gaze to the other end of the boat, where Lilian sat quietly, watching her husband.
Something in House’s expression shifted. Understanding, maybe. Or at least willingness.
With a soft irritated groan, he hauled himself upright and reached for his cane, movements practiced and uncomplaining. He stood, adjusted his balance, and cleared his throat.
“Any pickerels?” he yelled toward David and Ezra with sudden enthusiasm, already limping away.
The abruptness of it was almost comical. David looked up, startled, Ezra squinting as if assessing whether House was serious or just being House. Wilson exhaled, tension draining out of his shoulders as he watched House insert himself seamlessly into the conversation. He stayed where he was for a moment, gripping the coffee thermos from the bag a little too tightly, grateful in a way he didn’t have the language for.
House asked it that night in the cabin before they turned the lights out, voice small in the dim: “How long do I have to keep pretending we’re an item?”
Wilson paused with the toothbrush halfway to his mouth, a ridiculous, wet taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with mint. He spat, rinsed, wiped his hands on a towel.
“Bored already?” he asked, and the words came sharper than he meant.
House shrugged, one shoulder lifting under the T-shirt like it was nothing. “I’m just wondering how long it will take you to disappoint your family,” he said, quiet and oddly earnest, “since you rarely ever confront anyone. Anyone that isn't me.”
Wilson blinked at that. His jaw loosened in a sheepish little grin that he didn’t bother to hide. He rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead and let out a breath. “My mom’s happy,” he admitted, softer. “She’s been... careful since Amber. She… she’s happy I’m allegedly finding my footing again. I don’t want to disappoint her.”
There was a pause, he walked back into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, the throw cushioning his weight. He looked at House — at the half-moon of light the bathroom left on the floor — and tried for casual.
"You don't have to do anything you don't usually do. They already believe it."
"For good reasons." House replied. Wilson looked down.
"This won't follow you home. I'll find a way to... break things off over the phone later down the line. Now... it doesn't hurt anyone." Wilson let that hang in the silence, hoping for reassurance. It doesn't hurt anyone, he hoped he'd hear. He knew he wouldn't but he needed it. He needed to know this wasn't completely stupid.
House nodded once, slow. Then folded himself under the covers as if it was routine now.
“Does this mean we have one more night of cuddles?”
“Make the most of it.” Wilson simply replied.
They lay there with the little hum of the wind, the occasional creak of settling wood. Wilson turned the exhausted ceiling into a sky, counting the familiar constellations of guilt and possibility. He told himself he would sleep like a good roommate — polite, distant, unambiguous.
But sometime in the shallow hours, House shifted closer. Wilson wasn’t asleep; he pretended to be because pretending had become, lately, a muscle he could flex on command.
He watched House breathe in the dim light leaking from the bathroom. The man’s hand rubbed his own thigh in an unconscious, circular motion, fingers traveling the path House always tested because of the old ache. Wilson recognized that motion. Then House moved closer, seeking warmth, childishly hoping it would ease the pain in his leg.
After a few minutes of restless turning — tucking one leg, stretching another, adjusting the blanket — Wilson scooted until his calf brushed House’s. The contact was accidental the first time, then deliberate. He pressed his leg against House’s, side by side, the warmth transferring slowly like a small truce.
Wilson stared at the ceiling and thought. He couldn't help it. It wouldn't get any quieter. He figured a different approach could help.
He turned, very slowly, until he was facing House. The bathroom light left on with the door cracked threw a faint, forgiving glow across House’s face and cut the room into two softened halves. Wilson watched his side profile, the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw, the crease at his brow that tightened even in sleep. House’s lips were parted slightly; his brows were furrowed, not from restlessness but something like residual pain.
Wilson felt the urge to move closer, a small, selfish impulse he could have called kindness. He slid his leg an inch more until his left thigh lay flush against House’s right. House shifted as if instinct had taught him where to find warmth; he leaned into the contact and his breathing eased.
Wilson told himself that this was nothing more than a favor to a friend. One night. A kindness. Just like a lie was a way to keep his mother’s easing smile intact for another day. And it was cold; the thought was mundane but honest, and it made the decision feel practical instead of treacherous.
He let his cheek rest near the curve of House’s shoulder and, for the first time in the last few years, relaxed into the small, steadying press of another person beside him. They would sleep like this for one night. That’s all it would be: a borrowed warmth.