Archive of Our Own

The first cane House agreed to was collapsible. It came apart, allowing you to break it into four pieces and store it away. Stacy and Wilson presented it to him, side by side, holding it out like parents giving their kid a birthday gift. They severely misread the tone of the situation. 

“Vive,” House read the brand name aloud, not moving to take the box from them. “Do you know what that means?”

Stacy shifted uncomfortably. “Greg, it’s just a—”

“The él/ella/usted form of vivir. To live. He or she lives. Or you live,” House cut her off, staring back at the television. Well, through it. Shapes and colors danced in his vision, but cutting into the middle, the word vive pierced through like a stereogram. 

Wilson huffed. “Yes, House, the company wanted to draw attention to the fact that their mobility aid is aiding mobility and therefore improving people’s lives. Pardon them for marketing.” He took the box from Stacy and dropped it onto the couch beside House. “You know it’s going to help.”

“If I was really living, I wouldn’t need it,” House said. 

“You’re alive. You have your leg—you easily could have lost it, and at the end of the day, you’d still be alive,” Wilson said. House didn’t respond, so Wilson grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. “Use the damn cane, House.”

In Wilson’s defense, he’d tried the Friendly Neighborhood Oncologist techniques on House for weeks. House, understanding intrinsically that it’s always bullshit, wasn’t exactly a willing recipient of his bedside manner. He’d rather have Wilson yell at him than be on the business end of his pity. Still, neither were his favorite options. 

“It’s discreet, and you can fold it up and put it away when you don’t need it,” Stacy offered. 

Finally, House looked up solely to glare at her. “When I don’t need it. Huh. When will that be again? After I’ve made my full recovery?”

“House,” Wilson said in his warning tone. “Just try it around the apartment for now.”

Wilson and Stacy went to talk in the kitchen for a while, doubtlessly about how insufferable House had been, while he put a movie on to drown them out. Eventually, Wilson went home. Stacy went to bed. 

And there was House, with this stupid box. He opened it at sometime around three in the morning, sparked by the need to go pee and his lack of current assistance. As promised, it came in four pieces attached by an elastic string. The handle was grippy. It was so… clinical. He assembled it quickly, adjusted it to his height, then lightly brought it to the floor, so as to not make a noise.

Gritting his teeth, House set to standing. He nearly screamed with the pain it sparked in his thigh, grunting through his breaths, his chest tightening from a lack of relief. But, once he was up, he leaned on the cane, taking a prolonged moment to adjust. 

One smack of the cane onto the carpet at a time, House limped his way to the bathroom. He had to say, he didn’t hate the way it allowed him to get there without putting his weight onto his leg. 

The moment House shut the bathroom door behind himself and caught a glimpse of the sight in the mirror, he began to cry. 

House screamed at Stacy the first time she walked in on him using a cane. 

It was a private affair for him. He used it only at night, or if everyone was out—which was a rarity, given that they were convinced he’d down three bottles of pills if ever left to his own devices. Their fears were, unfortunately, valid ones. But House would never admit to that. 

So, he would use it in those fleeting moments, making sure to leave it in the same place every time so as to pretend he wasn’t. Once, Wilson walked in while he was using it down the hallway, and House flung it across the room. Wilson watched it fly, then pursed his lips. Put his hands on his hips. Looked at House, leaning against the wall. Then, grabbed the cane and brought it over to him, placing it against the wall rather than handing it back. He walked right into the bathroom after, giving House his privacy. It was the kindest act House could remember anyone ever having done for him. 

This time, he didn’t have the chance to throw the cane. Stacy had practically tiptoed in, judging by House’s inability to hear her. His ears were perked too, waiting for when he’d need to give up the cane. As he made his way into the living room, Stacy calmly greeted him from the kitchen. 

Blood rushed into House’s face and head, rendering him hot as he stared at her incredulously. “What the fuck are you doing home?”

Stacy blinked in surprise. “Um. I was just grabbing groceries. I thought I should bring them here and not leave them at the store.” 

House tossed his cane to the floor. “You should have warned me.”

“I didn’t think you’d need warning.” 

“No, you never think about what I need, do you?” House asked, his throat tightening on him. God, his leg was fucking burning. 

Stacy looked down at the cane, then at him. “Do you want me to turn around?”

“A little late for that,” House bit back. 

She covered her face with her hands, not to give him any privacy, but out of exhaustion. House was intimately familiar with the gesture by now. “I don’t know what you want me to do here, then. You don’t have to be embarrassed. I got you the cane, I want you to use it.” 

“You want me to be pathetic,” House said. “What, was the plan to keep me docile?”

“The plan was to keep you alive,” Stacy said. “Can I pick it up for you so that you can get back to the couch?” 

“I don’t want the fucking cane,” House yelled. On instinct, he turned to storm off and was met with a spasm in his thigh that brought his shoulder crashing into the wall. He clutched at his thigh, the tightness and still raw scarring searing through his bones into every cavity of his body as he landed flat on his ass in front of Stacy, who got there just in time to uselessly cling to his shoulder. House managed the energy to shrug her off as he fought off what felt like cardiac arrest. 

“Do you need ice? Heat? Vicodin?” Stacy asked, crouching down to his level. 

“Get out,” House managed between labored breaths. 

“Greg, I’m not leaving you on the floor.” Stacy got up and disappeared somewhere. House couldn’t look, tilting his head back and gritting his teeth, trying not to faint. 

After what felt like an hour but was probably less than a minute, pills were shoved into his hand, and a cup of water followed them. House shakily downed the pills, then used his leftover energy to throw the cup of water. It didn’t help as much as he thought it would. 

“Let’s get you up,” Stacy said, taking hold of his arm. 

House pulled away yet again. He met her eyes to ensure she wouldn’t miss his sincerity when he repeated himself, low and filled with as much venom as he could possibly muster. “Get. Out.” 

This proved itself more effective than throwing things or yelling. Stacy’s eyes flared with hurt, her lips drawing tightly together. She was so tired. House saw it in every inch of her, all day, all night. She was there out of pity, now. It’s pretty shitty to cripple someone and then leave them. 

Yet here she was, leaving his cane beside him and walking out the door. To go where, House didn’t know. Maybe to Wilson’s. Maybe a friend’s. House wasn’t sure what friends Stacy had left. She wouldn’t need anyone to take her in, though. House was going to get a new place when she inevitably had enough of him. This one… this one would be impossible to come back to every night. He wouldn’t trust himself not to burn the entire thing down. 

The arguments about the cane didn’t stop until she left. His own words would ring in his ears as he picked it up to make his short trips. You like seeing me like this? You turned me into this. This is what I am now, because of you. House was sure Stacy wasn’t quick to forget, either. There are some things you can’t come back from. 

House spent a bit of time on Wilson and Bonnie’s sofa after he and Stacy hit their breaking point. The newlyweds were an entertaining mix. Bonnie hated House’s guts, as made evident every time she so much as heard his name. House delighted in this. Inconveniencing Wilson should have made him feel guilty, but with a marriage this doomed, misery loved company. 

“So,” Wilson said one night, passing House a container of lo mein, “what’s your deal with mobility aids? Is the cane working for you, or do you want something else?”

He said it so casually, House had a hard time trying to get worked up about it. It didn’t stop him from trying. “I don’t want the cane.”

“You want me to get a wheelchair? I could probably find one decked out with spikes,” Wilson said. He didn’t look at him while he spoke, concentrated on Baywatch instead. 

“I don’t want anything,” House said, searching for judgment in Wilson’s side profile and not finding any. “I’m already cranking down the hotness factor with the crater in my leg. I don’t need anything else making me look more pathetic.”

Wilson finally turned to meet his gaze. “That’s what this is about? You think a cane will make you less hot? You’re dooming yourself to thirty-minute walks to destinations three seconds away and worsening pain because, what, women will find the cane to be off-putting?” 

Suddenly, House wished Wilson wasn’t looking at him anymore. “To put it plainly.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “There’s a ten-page list of things that are off-putting about you, and it doesn’t even reach anything leg-related. Canes are cool. You can do a dance routine. Or pull someone off a stage.”

“Is there anything someone outside of a black-and-white film could do?” House asked.

Wilson glanced up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “Hm. Walk?”

“Boring.” 

“Hit someone with it?”

“Getting  better.” 

“You’re a secret agent with a self-defense weapon,” Wilson decided. 

“Now I feel like one of your pediatric patients getting talked into the butterfly needle,” House said, shoving the noodles back into Wilson’s grasp. 

“I knew I’d gone too far with that last one,” Wilson said. “You have a cane. So what? You can hit people with it, knock on doors with it, have sword fights with it. And, knowing you, you’ll probably think of depraved uses for it after you get over yourself.”

Finally, House cracked a smile. 

Wilson took House to get a new cane. One he picked for himself. He’d taken to using it all day after their talk, mostly poking Wilson with it. He’d stop him in doorways by blocking it off, jab his stomach, hook his waist, swipe his feet. House still fucking hated it. But it was a little more bearable when viewed as a Torture Wilson Device. 

“How about this one?” Wilson asked, picking up a pink one with glitter on the handle. 

“We’re shopping for my cane, not your dildo,” House said, loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear. 

Wilson glanced around and waved awkwardly to an onlooker. “Thanks, House. Another store I can never go into again because of you.” 

“How often were you planning on going cane shopping? You still talk to Stacy, there’s always time for her to cut off part of your leg, too,” House said, examining a red cane. Far too obvious. 

He could feel rather than observe Wilson roll his eyes. “What kind of handle are you looking for?” 

“What kind is the best, ergonomically?” 

“Probably something a little cushioned, maybe rubber, and rounded but not too rounded—“

“Then whatever the opposite of that is,” House said. As he said it, he spotted a brown cane with a clearance tag on it. The handle was a tad impractical, as was the narrow grip on the bottom. It appeared to be solid wood, sleek, discrete. He approached it carefully, refusing to show any outward emotion towards it, lest Wilson think he liked it in any way. “Hey, Wilson.”

Wilson materialized at his side, inspecting the cane with him. “Is it the most practical?”

“Your disapproval is all I needed,” House said, grabbing the cane and shoving his current one into Wilson’s hands. “Sold, to the man with half a thigh.” 

House pickpocketed Wilson on the way to the register, and Wilson didn’t notice until House handed him his wallet back post-purchase. He sighed but didn’t otherwise complain. This wasn’t special treatment, though. House was doing the same thing six months ago. Wilson hadn’t changed his lecturing tendencies, either. If anything, he yelled at him more often now. House hated it—to Wilson’s face, at least. That bastard knew how to maintain normalcy. 

“For the record,” Wilson said later on, as they waited for their slices of pizza to be ready at the shop they’d wandered into, “I’d bang someone with that cane.” 

House grinned. “I knew you were into dildos.” 

“Yeah, you got me,” Wilson said, not missing a beat. “The bigger the better.”

Their names were called, and the topic changed to pizza toppings that should be declared illegal. House’s new cane, which he struggled to get used to but eventually did, was codified into the reality of their situation as if it had never been an issue. 

“Okay, it’s bothering me,” Wilson said one day, out of the blue. 

“You need to give me more than that,” House said, sinking onto his couch. “The divorce? Living on my couch? The fact that I swapped all your shoelaces out for ones that are a little too long for each shoe?”

“You what?”

“Huh. If not that, then what?” House asked, handing Wilson one of the beers he’d just grabbed.

Wilson leaned down to inspect his shoe, untied it, examined the length, and then promptly gave up the endeavor. Really, House had only done it to one pair of shoes. But now, Wilson would replace all of them. One of his finer, yet subtle pranks. It had class. 

“I’m talking about the cane,” Wilson said, gesturing to it. “Why do you use it on the wrong side?” 

A pang went off in House’s chest. He was used to the cane by now. In public, it took him a few months to not actively try to hide it. Eventually, it just became too much of a hassle. It was muscle memory. Get up, grab the cane, and go on about the day. But a part of him still resented it. A huge part of him. “Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

Wilson gave him a disapproving look, which was predicted, therefore House didn’t bother actually turning to observe it. “Doesn’t it hurt more like that?”

“Weight leverage,” House said plainly, taking a sip of his beer. 

“I gotta believe it’ll do long-term damage,” Wilson said.

“I gotta believe you have better uses of your brain power than noticing my cane preferences. Not enough dying kids to satisfy you intellectually today?”

Wilson pursed his lips. “Whatever. Continue being ergonomically challenged.” 

House leaned in close. “You want to know the real reason?”

“This is going to be a joke, isn’t it.”

“I hang to the left. The heft really just makes it impossible not to—”

“Please stop talking,” Wilson interrupted, wincing and holding up a hand as if to physically block his words. 

House grinned, returning to his previous state of lounging. After a moment of silence, he caved, as they both knew he would. “I don’t know.” 

Wilson, damn him, let that linger between them for a moment. House snuck a look at what he knew would be there—a tugging at the corner of his mouth at the victory. “Okay,” he said eventually. “Well, does it hurt you more?”

“No,” House said. He was factoring in psychological torture, of course. Wilson knew that.

“Then alright,” Wilson said. Much like House, all he needed was his answer. 

Their ensuing silence solidified their mutual understanding. 

House’s cane became an extension of his body. The coping mechanisms came quickly to him, chiefly humor heading up the front lines. He knew what people thought when they looked at him—might as well beat them to the jump. So, cane jokes. Usually of the phallic variety. Hey, it was always a cheap shot, but even the dollar tequila shots did the job. 

Turns out, it did work on some of the ladies. Pity wasn’t House’s favorite way of getting action, but he wasn’t going to object, either. He’d tell himself it must be his wit and charm, that the sympathy was just the cherry on top of the Greg Pie. 

Beneath it, though, he’d blanch at the thought. It never left him. Especially when he’d actually go to bed with someone. He’d turn the lights off before he’d dare to touch his zipper. Once, he ruined a blowjob by jumping back and screaming for a woman to stop after she caressed his thigh in curiosity. After she left, he regretted the outburst, of course. Talk about a mistake you don’t make twice. 

He gave up on the idea of women finding him attractive without some sort of moral incentive behind it—the worst motivator—quickly. That’s not to say some women didn’t overlook it, but those were one-night-stands who didn’t get the pleasure of getting to know him. 

“Why don’t you try not being an ass,” Wilson inquired once. “I’ve found that women respond to that.”

“Is Julie responding to that?” House shot back. Wilson’s new object of “affection.” Meek, needy, and a personality that Wilson clearly didn’t understand. House was positive she’d be wife number three. 

Wilson brushed past the remark. “I’m telling you, you could be a catch if you just listened to people and responded like a normal human being.” 

“No thanks,” House said. He wagged his cane in Wilson’s face. “They see this before they even get to my mouth.” 

They were stalking through the clinic, Wilson stopping at the circulation desk to look for a file. House searched for something in his face. What, he didn’t know. 

“You’re equally attractive with and without it,” Wilson said. He was preoccupied with the files, his face betraying zero. 

“You have to say that, Mom,” House said, pouting to cover the way his heart did something unpleasant that made him feel vaguely nauseated. 

“Believe me or don’t, makes no difference to me,” Wilson said nonchalantly. 

“Wait,” House said, “you didn’t say I was attractive. You said I was equally attractive with and without it. That could be a base level of unappealing.” 

“Last time I compliment you,” Wilson said, finally finding whatever he’d been looking for. 

“That was a compliment ? What does Julie see in you?” House asked, walking with Wilson to wherever he was planning on going. Is he on clinic duty? House didn’t bother asking when he spotted him and loudly announced “I need to get laid,” to Wilson and the general vicinity of victims caught in the crossfire. 

“Speaking of Julie, I can’t come by tonight,” Wilson said, just as he reached the door of exam room one. He likely thought that this would end the conversation. 

House followed Wilson into the room as he greeted the patient, a woman with dark skin and salt-and-pepper hair of probably fifty-something. “What? Proposing?” 

“No. Dinner with her parents,” Wilson said. “Now go away.”

“Nuhuh. Bros before hoes,” House said, standing between Wilson and the patient. 

“I wouldn’t consider Julie’s parents hoes,” Wilson said disdainfully before shoving House to the side and smiling at the patient. “I’m Dr. Wilson. What brings you in today?”

The woman opened her mouth, but House’s hadn’t closed, so he naturally beat her to the punch.

“Settle an argument,” he said. He hid the cane behind his back. “Am I attractive?”

The woman floundered, and Wilson waved his hands apologetically. “Ignore him, he’s leaving,” he said.

Shockingly, the woman ignored Wilson. “I think you’re very handsome.”

House revealed the cane then, leaning on it. “Alright, how about now? Same? Less? More?”

“The same,” she said, as Wilson buried his face in his hands. “Or more. Are you a vet?” 

“No, I’m in infectious disease and nephrology,” House said as an automatic response, before rewinding and replaying in his head. “That’s a fantastic idea, though. A war hero. How didn’t I think of that before?” 

“Well, it’s fraudulent, so I’m equally shocked that you hadn’t been using it yet,” Wilson said. “Now can you please get out?”

“Settle something else, dear,” House said instead. “He said he’d hang out with me tonight, but he wants to see his girlfriend’s parents instead. Shouldn’t a man honor his word?”

The woman shrugged. “It sounds like you’re free tonight, then?”

Wilson slowly turned around to look at House, bug-eyed and flushed. House smirked. She was likely fifteen years his senior, but… well. 

“I take it you’re not here for an STD check?”

“Just my flu shot.”

“Oh, I think you’ll need a more thorough exam than that.”

“Oh my god ,” Wilson said, rudely interrupting their banter. “You can violate the ethics code after I’m done with the patient.”

House sighed dramatically. “I wouldn’t have to search for love in the clinic if you weren’t so frigid at home.”

“House.”

“Fine.”

On the third anniversary of the infarction, House awoke to an incessant knocking at his door, which he valiantly ignored until he couldn’t.

House simply watched as Wilson entered his bedroom. He expected this, of course. Listened to Wilson’s key turn in the lock and heard his footsteps grow closer, a passive observer. 

“I’m taking you to work today,” Wilson said. When House didn’t answer, Wilson began rifling through his clothes. “Cuddy says she has a fun case for you. Princeton undergrad’s lungs look like a seventy-year-old smoker’s, but she swears that she’s never smoked a day in her—”

“I’m naked under here, you know,” House said, referring to his blanket. 

Wilson turned to glance at House, unfazed. “Hence me getting you your clothes.” 

“I’m capable of getting my own clothes.”

“Really? Your fashion sense would beg to differ,” Wilson said, tossing House his boxers from the top drawer of his dresser. “Start with these.” 

House didn’t make a move to grab them. “I called out for today.”

“And I’m calling you back in,” Wilson said, grabbing a pair of jeans off the floor. 

“Doesn’t work like that.”

“Are you sick?”

“Some would argue that. You included.” 

Wilson grabbed a t-shirt and threw the pants-shirt combo on the bed. “Then it's no different from any other day. Get up.”

“Fine, I’ll get up,” House said. “But I’m not putting my clothes on. I’m getting up stark naked.” 

“Nothing I haven’t seen before. I’ll dress you myself if I have to,” Wilson said, meeting his glare. 

A tough moment for House, whose bluffs are rarely called, considering he mostly suggests absurd ideas. He should have known better. Wilson’s the only person on the planet who ever takes the risk. 

Normally, on any other day, he’d do it. Get up and make Wilson inevitably back down. But today of all days? Voluntarily baring his leg? He couldn’t. Yeah, Wilson has been forced to see it many times. House wouldn’t let today be one of those times. He didn’t even want to look himself. 

“You forgot the most crucial part of my signature look,” House said finally.

“What’s that?” 

“I left my Vicodin in the pocket of my other jeans,” House said, lazily gesturing to the pair closer to his bed. 

Wilson shook his head disapprovingly, but still retrieved the Vicodin and tossed it to House, who swallowed two dry. 

“I’ll leave you to get dressed,” Wilson said. “You have two minutes before I come back in.” 

“I could always lock the door.”

“I could always break it.”

House bit the inside of his cheek to prevent a smile. He didn’t want to find Wilson’s nagging amusing today. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

It must have been a figment of House’s imagination, but for a moment, the tips of Wilson’s ears looked like they tinged pink. “Two minutes.” 

Wilson left the room, letting the door slam behind him. He was sure that Wilson would give him two minutes and about forty-five seconds, so he counted in his head while he got dressed. When it hit the two-minute mark and Wilson hadn’t opened the door, House was self-satisfied in his prediction. Wilson always gives a grace period. But he won’t be dumb enough to let it get to three. 

House was fully clothed and sitting on his bed when Wilson barged back in at two minutes and forty-one seconds. “Dammit, you couldn’t have waited four more seconds?”

The response confused Wilson, who furrowed his brow, parting his lips in that lost way he did, looking around as if he couldn’t have possibly been the person House was referring to. “I… gave you two minutes.”

“I’d bet on forty-five, you did forty-one,” House said, grabbing his cane and standing up, shaking his head. “You think you know a guy.”

Wilson’s mouth quirked upwards as if he was proud of evading House’s prophecy. “Alright, Cuddy’s waiting.”

“Nope,” House said plainly. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Not seeing Cuddy today,” House said, stalking down the hallway and into his living room. “We’re going to go do something else.”

“We have patients,” Wilson said, once again winning the Obvious Statement of the Year Award. 

House grabbed his leather jacket. “They’ll live.”

Wilson checked his pager, like the idea of skipping out on a patient would summon one. “They actually probably will not. That’s, like, the whole point of our profession.” 

“Well, they’ll probably maybe live until tomorrow,” House said. “Now, either you come with me and play hooky, or I go out alone with five thousand dollars cash and impure intentions.” 

To House’s credit, he did feel a twinge of pity at how distraught Wilson looked at his options. He pinched the bridge of his nose, but House knew it was already decided. “You’re a manipulative bastard.” 

“I can call Cuddy, if that would help,” House said, holding his hand out expectantly.

“No, no, you’re going to say something that’ll get us fired,” Wilson said, putting a protective hand over his pocket. “I’ll call.” 

“Suit yourself,” House said, and opened his door. He did not, however, maintain this vow. The moment Cuddy answered Wilson, House snatched the phone. “Hello, Dr. Cuddy. If you haven’t checked the calendar, it’s been three years since you approved the mangling of my thigh, so I’ll be taking the day off. So will Dr. Wilson, my new medical proxy, for a training day of things not to say when presented with the opportunity to remove half of my leg. I’m sure you understand.” 

He promptly hung up without waiting for a response, handing the phone back to Wilson, who was certainly not surprised but disappointed all the same. 

“You can’t hold that against her forever, you know,” Wilson said, pocketing the phone.

“I don’t,” House said, and it was only half a lie, “but today, it was necessary.”

Their first stop was the diner. House had an ongoing joke there with one of the waitresses, Jean. As far as she was concerned, House and Wilson were secretly gay lovers, but Wilson was married and in denial about his sexuality so the PDA was kept to nothing. It was a juicy story, really, and only sort of borrowed from one of House’s soaps. Jean loved it and asked for updates any time Wilson left for the bathroom or House came in alone. When the ring disappeared from Wilson’s finger, Jean was ecstatic. Life’s little joys. 

“My favorite customers,” Jean said as she sat them. She filled their mugs with coffee without being asked, then threw a wink in their direction. “On the house.”

“He already wants to dump hot liquid on me, no need to encourage it,” House joked, earning an eye roll from Wilson and a big laugh from Jean. 

“Oh, I didn’t even realize! You’re such a kidder. I’ll be back to take your orders,” she said. Her midwestern twang was such a delight. House guessed she moved to Manhattan in her late teens or early twenties and wound up in a loveless marriage in New Jersey later on. Loveless, because her ring isn’t consistent. Sometimes there, sometimes not, sometimes on the wrong hand, meaning she never wore it enough to bother learning what side it goes on. She’s also way too vigilant about her hair, getting it dyed frequently enough to not let a singular gray peep out. Still windowshopping. Jean was great. 

“I think she was flirting with you,” Wilson said, once she walked away. “Or me.”

“Or us,” House said, and waited for Wilson to take a sip of coffee before adding, “Down for a threesome?” 

As planned, Wilson choked on the coffee. He grimaced, patting the resulting stains off of his tie to no avail. “Rain check. So, did you have a plan for today, or did you want to just keep innovating new ways to embarrass me?” 

“Hm. Innovation is generally celebrated. If there’s anything I’ve learned from capitalism, it’s that I have to be inventive.” 

“I don’t know if getting off on my humiliation is currency.” 

“It is in Houseica,” House said, leaning across the table with a grin. 

Jean came back at that moment, and House exaggeratedly jumped back from his close proximity to Wilson, as if caught in the act. Of course, Wilson hardly noticed the odd behavior, but Jean got a kick out of it. She smiled knowingly, pulling out her notepad. 

After breakfast—House stealing half of Wilson’s heart-attack-baiting stack of waffles and bacon—the two set off again. House drove, since he still didn’t trust that Wilson wouldn’t drive them to work. Only problem was, he couldn’t think of anything interesting.

“We’ve been driving for quite some time,” Wilson said eventually, breaking up their conversation about if they’d rather fight ten emus or one gorilla. “You don’t have a destination, do you?”

“I do,” House lied, sure that if he didn’t, Wilson would force him to go home. 

“If you did, we wouldn’t be circling around so aimlessly,” Wilson said. “We should go into work, or at least go to—”

House suddenly made a sharp left that sent Wilson flying into his door. “Thought of something!”

“Jesus, House!” Wilson yelled, rubbing his shoulder.

“If you hated that, you’re gonna love this.”

“Go-karting?” Wilson asked as they pulled in. “Are we seven?” 

“I never understood why they give the kids all the fun activities to blow off steam. What, do they need it after their hard days at work?” House asked, getting out of the car, Wilson following as per usual. 

“Yes, actually,” Wilson said. “But I agree with you. Children’s mentalities require them to do things like this to make their schoolwork pay off. Which is why it makes total sense that you’d want to come.” 

House widened his eyes and affected a laugh. “Oh! You’re implying that I’m a child! Oh, that is good. Well done.”

Wilson shook his head, but when they got inside, he paid for their tickets.

“What a gentleman,” House said, taking his when it was handed to him. “One more thing on your tab and you might get lucky tonight.” 

“I have a feeling you have a hooker on speeddial that’ll take care of that for you,” Wilson said, picking out a helmet and inspecting it. 

House waved the helmet guy off, then begrudgingly took the one Wilson handed him. “Yeah, but why pay for what you can get for free?”

Wilson carefully placed the helmet on his head, adjusting it. “What makes you think it’d be free?”

“Actually,” House said, watching him clip the helmet on, “now that you’re wearing that, I’m not into it anymore. Rain check?” 

“Safety doesn’t turn you on?” Wilson asked, wiggling his bushy eyebrows. 

“You ruin everything,” House whined, groaning to cover his urge to laugh. 

It had been a while since House went on one of these. Years. So many years that out of muscle memory, he swung his leg into the go-kart and immediately froze in his tracks as he was hit with a spasm. He gripped his thigh, gasping for air, tension building behind his eyes as he became lightheaded with the effort it took not to scream. House grit his teeth, attempting to lower himself. All he had to do was get seated. Then, he could take his Vicodin. Then, he could pretend it was fine. Then, he could crash this stupid fucking vehicle into the wall. 

Warmth blossomed on House’s elbow in the form of Wilson’s hand, which he instinctively shrugged off. Wilson didn’t miss a beat. “Are you alright? Do you need a second?”

“I’m fine,” House bit back. He just had to leverage himself in. Just another moment of his weight on that leg. Just one more. 

“Fine, you’re good. On an unrelated note, could you step out of there for a second?” Wilson asked. 

House couldn’t look at him. He’d be straight-faced, betraying no signs of concern or pity. It’s a practiced expression. Three years of doing this will get someone there. “I don’t need to.”

“Didn’t say you did,” Wilson said. “But you’re a forty-three-year-old man who was about to break a hip lunging into a go-kart, so who would judge you if you did?” 

Impossibly, and albeit strained, the corner of House’s mouth quirked up. Old, he could deal with. With an active effort not to hold his breath, House took his leg back out of the go-kart, putting it on the ground. Wilson’s elbow was outstretched, like he was asking to accompany House to the debutante ball. He ignored it. “We can’t all be thirty-three and beautiful.” 

Wilson scoffed, but House enjoyed watching his cheeks twinge pink. Nothing like taking the embarrassment off of yourself. “Just get in so that I don’t have to spend any more time in what is essentially a child’s playground than I have to.”

The Hypocrite James Wilson had, undoubtedly, more fun than House. Most of House’s enjoyment came chiefly from Wilson’s glee, nearly crashing multiple times because he was so preoccupied in watching how his affected stoicism melted away under the weight of a tiny car that feels too powerful for its own good. As for House’s experience, whenever he lost sight of Wilson… he was a forty-three-year-old man with a mangled leg and the poor enough disposition to take his best friend away from the job where he’s instrumental in the preservation of multiple lives on a daily basis. What was that he’d said this morning about a Princeton undergrad? If the case found its way to him, nobody else could figure out why her… what had he said? 

Their race was ending and Wilson was either way ahead or way behind, House couldn’t tell. Either way, he tried some strategic angling to try to get ahead of him. To no avail, apparently, judging by Wilson’s unceremonious stop followed by him springing out of his seat, whooping and hollering. 

“That was insane,” Wilson yelled. House enjoyed, with the part of him that was still capable of appreciating these things, that kind of exhilaration which is too big to be contained in anything other than a scream. Especially when it came from someone as typically reserved as Wilson. “Did you see that? I thought I was going to flip over.”

Wilson took his helmet off—oh, how House wished he could photograph the resulting hair and use it to blackmail Wilson for the rest of eternity—and rushed to reach a hand out to House. It was such a natural move that House momentarily forgot himself and took his hand, letting himself get pulled up. At least he was still taller than Wilson.

“What did you say about the Princeton undergrad?” House asked. 

Wilson’s face fell. “Oh, come on. Do not pull the ‘I was distracted by a case’ card on me. That was a well deserved win.”

“If that helps you sleep,” House said, stepping out of the go-kart and grabbing his cane. “The patient?”

“Twenty, female, lungs of a seventy-year-old smoker,” Wilson said. “Did you want to go to work?”

“No,” House said automatically. “How are they so sure she hasn’t smoked? Everybody lies.”

“You do keep saying that,” Wilson said. “I don’t know. They seem sure. Her parents aren’t around, so she can’t be lying for their sake.” 

“Huh,” House said, idly walking towards the exit. Once he was out of the actual racing track, he stopped to grab his Vicodin from his pocket. He shook out two and dry swallowed. Wilson had long since stopped telling him that he’d burn a hole in the back of his throat if he continued the habit. If it wasn’t already there, it likely wasn’t coming. “What are her other symptoms? Something had to have happened.” 

“She’s at the school on a track and field scholarship and collapsed at a meet, I think,” Wilson said. “I’m sure Cuddy won’t notice if we stop in.” 

Of course Wilson would know why House was hesitant to go back in. Well, half of it. Why would he want to be at the scene of the crime? Have that extra layer of reminder? “How dire is it? Is she looking at an inconvenience, or five hours to live?” 

“No way to say until we know if it’s acute or chronic,” Wilson said. “What if you saw the patient briefly, and I stayed with you?” 

House furrowed his brows. “You don’t trust me alone?” 

Wilson raised a bushy brow of his own. “You threatened me into hanging out with you today. I think we’re past that.” 

Well. House couldn’t argue that. “I was just giving you the out you needed from work in order to fulfill your deep desire to hang out with me.” 

“If that helps you sleep,” Wilson said, with a spiteful smile. What a bastard. House felt a sense of pride. “Quick detour to the hospital so we can figure out if the girl is dying today or not, then we leave?” 

It was frustrating to be played to that degree. The one that worked, in other words. At least he had the win of being able to get Wilson to call out. “Emphasis on quick.” 

“You,” House said, pointing his cane accusatorily at the redhead in the hospital bed. “What did you smoke?”

“I didn’t smoke anything,” she said, defensive from the jump. She’d likely heard the same thing from everyone else she spoke to. Good. 

“Weed counts. Crack counts,” House said. “Anything ringing a bell? Even if you tried it one time at a party because Brad looked so hot doing it and maybe he’d think you were just as cool if you took a drag, but, like, it totally didn’t even reach your lungs.” 

“Never in my life have I smoked anything, nor have I done any drugs. Well, I had a bite of an edible last semester. Could that have done this to me? It was one bite and I felt really sick but I was okay a few hours later and I felt fine the next day and was able to—“

“Stop talking,” House said. He regarded her, deep in thought, as if the answer would jump out from her deer-in-headlights expression.

“Hi,” Wilson said. “This is Dr. House, he’s your attending. I’m Dr. Wilson, just here in case he needs a consult.” 

“What do you think I have?” the girl asked. 

It was such a stupid question, House could only glance at Wilson for some sort of acknowledgment that it had been asked. He gave him a look, so House didn’t respond with, “it’s been five seconds, how the fuck should I know?” Instead, he grabbed her chart, glossing over the unimportant details like her name and skipping to the history. He can’t imagine it was taken very well. 

“Track and field?” he asked. She nodded. “And you’ve never noticed a problem with your air intake?”

“Not ‘til recently. Last month or so. I started getting lightheaded at meets, and it started feeling like my throat was burning. My chest would get tight and I’d have to sit out. I thought I was getting out of shape or something,” she said. 

“If it helps, you’re right,” House said, picking up the CT scan. “These things are definitely not in the shape they’re meant to be in. You’re sure you didn’t trip and consume eight thousand cartons of cigarettes?” 

“Positive,” she said. “Am I dying?”

“I dunno. You go to the Ivy League. You tell me,” House said, tucking the file under his arm. 

“You’re in great hands,” Wilson interjected. “We’re going to figure this out together.”

“Track and field scholarship at Princeton. Are you smart, or were they desperate?” House asked, at this point putting a pin in the medical stuff and genuinely curious about his question.

“We’ll be back,” Wilson said, dragging House out of the room. 

“Check for lung cancer,” House said. “Then, we’re going back out.”

“Back out?” Wilson asked.

“I’m gonna get a list of everywhere she frequents, and you and I are going to eliminate or potentially find environmental factors,” House said. Who cared if it was an excuse to leave? It was a valid medical pursuit. 

Wilson split to hold up his end of the instructions, and for a moment, House was left alone. He glanced down each end of the hallway. Specters of limping down the hall, IV drip in hand, hospital gown secured around his waist all around him. Where is it that Stacy would have stood while she made the decision? Stood with Cuddy, neatly signing away his personhood with a nifty little legal fucking loophole? 

The Vicodin seemed to pop itself into House’s mouth. 

House and Wilson froze when the young woman walked in. Her eyes widened in fear. A natural response to seeing two grown men foraging through your dorm room.

“Hi,” Wilson said with the cadence of a hostage negotiator. “I’m Dr. Wilson, this is Dr. House, we’re from the teaching hospital. Your roommate Sabine is our patient, so we’re checking out her living space for potential environmental factors for her illness. Do you smoke, by any chance? Or frequently have anyone in here who does?”

House was grateful for the help. What he was going to say was definitely going to get one or both of them arrested. 

“Can I have some kind of proof that you’re not about to murder me?” the girl asked with a nervous laugh.

Wilson took out his hospital ID. House said, “How is proof that we’re doctors proof that—“

“House, just show her the damn ID.”

House rolled his eyes, but showed her the damn ID. 

“Do doctors normally break into their patients’ dorms?” 

“God, you Princeton kids and your questions,” House said. “I’m very thorough. It’s called caring. Now, the question?”

“Um,” she said. Eloquent. “No. It’s a non-smoking building. I don’t smoke anyway, so it’s not a problem. I don’t know if she’s ever had anyone over that—“

“I’m not here from housing, I’m trying to save your friend’s life,” House said. “I don’t give a crap what you do. I just need to know if you know of anyone who has smoked in here.”

She crumbled under House’s tone. “I might have smoked once or twice, but never with Sabine home, and always with the window open. Any significant amount would set off the smoke alarm, and ours has never gone off, so I figured it wasn’t that bad.” 

House nodded. It’s a start. “Anyone else?”

“I don’t think so. Once at the most, and not recently. Maybe last semester. Sabine doesn’t really have a lot of people over,” she said. “Are you gonna tell?”

House walked out of the room, Wilson trailing apologetically behind.

Their next stop was the track. The girls were doing a drill, so House had to make a show of stopping to admire them, with little to no genuineness behind the action. Wilson led the way, of course, and asked the coach if there was any recent work going on that he could think of, to which he said no, of course, of course.

House investigated. Took samples of the grass to check for pesticides. Looked around the locker room with the coach and called a group meeting to ask everyone if they smoked and if they used aerosols in the room. Nothing, nothing, nothing. They could be lying, but odds are that even if one of them was a chain smoker, it couldn’t have caused whatever is going on in the girl’s lungs. 

On their way back out to House’s car, House cut through the field by way of the track. The second his ankle hit the ground, he recognized the feeling. Like riding a bike, he imagined. He wouldn’t be doing that anymore. 

House ran track in high school and, yes, embarrassingly, undergrad. It was easy and got his energy out. Helped him think. 

Wilson watched him carefully while he walked along the track. “Do you think we’ll find anything in the grass?”

“Why are you asking me dumb questions? Did you go to Princeton too?” House asked, limping along. God, this kind of ground was murder on his leg. 

“We should probably get back quickly,” he said. 

“Afraid I’m veering into dangerous territory?” House asked. It came out more aggressively than intended.

Wilson flinched. “No, I’m just thinking about the girl with the popcorn lungs. I should be able to get answers on the cancer front by—“

“You’ve been humoring me all day, you have other patients to get to,” House said. “I’m crippled, not a child.”

“I think you’re perfectly capable of being both. The child predates the leg, by the way,” Wilson said. “You’re not doing this to me today.”

“Doing what?” House asked, turning to block Wilson’s path.

Wilson put his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know, House. Isolating yourself from me.”

“Isn’t that the better option?” House asked. 

“No. It’s not.” Wilson’s jaw went hard, and he glared at House, half squinting from the sun, wind blowing bits of the top pieces of his hair to the right. He was, really, younger than House. So fresh-faced. There was a twisted sort of… something that felt fragile that House wanted to smash as much as he wanted to protect it. Something so precious, ruining it felt inevitable. “I left my new bride to stay at your side after the infarction. I spent every free moment with you, and all I got was spite and anger in return. You used every ounce of energy you had pushing Stacy and I away. But I knew what you were doing, I knew you, so I reminded myself that you were going through something and I had to not take it personally. And some days, it was really fucking hard to not take it personally. Yet, I stayed. And I’m glad I did. But today, of all days, I’m not going to hear this from you, I’m not going to let you pull away again. I’m happy to stay with you, it’s not a problem, but don’t you sit here and take it out on me when you feel inadequate.” 

Wilson, much to House’s shock, didn’t allow him time for his rebuttal. Instead, he walked away, still going in the direction of House’s car. No room for argument, an open and shut discussion. 

House stared down at the track for a moment longer. Then, he followed Wilson. 

He knew it was inevitable. Cuddy, wearing a black blazer and matching black skirt and statement red pumps to match her blouse, marching across the lobby. She spotted them as they spotted her, and both parties stopped. 

“Let me guess,” House started, loud enough for the surrounding patrons to hear, “black to represent mourning your wrongdoing and my leg, red to represent the bloodshed?”

House would be lying if he said the resulting battle between guilt and annoyance evident in Cuddy’s expression wasn’t satisfying to him. “Couldn’t stay away from the Princeton girl?” she decided on. Probably a good choice.

“We just did some investigating, now we have to run more tests,” Wilson said. 

Cuddy didn’t question Wilson’s involvement. She was smart not to. Damn, it was no fun fighting with her. “Don’t let me get in your way, then,” she said. What a refreshing and frustrating thing to hear.

House and Wilson resumed their trek to their floor. The sound of the cane hitting the ground was particularly unbearable today. Just like that, it felt as if all the progress was undone. His leg ached. 

“Hey,” Wilson said, as they reached the elevator. “Booze and Baywatch tonight? I think there’s a marathon on.”

“Then we can braid each other’s hair,” House said. They both knew it was his way of agreeing to the plan.

Pesticides. Pesticides and a simple underlying condition. House was—not almost, but wholly disappointed in the news. So much so that he balled up the results and threw them, pushing away violently from his desk and rattling off the course of treatment to whatever nurse was standing behind Wilson. 

“You figured it out,” Wilson said, once she left. “Is that not good?”

House merely stared ahead, past Wilson, past the hall, past this hospital. 

Wilson sat in the chair opposite him, leaning his elbows on the desk. “House. She might have died without you. Everyone else you’ve ever helped, too. You’ve saved—“

“Please, save the speech about the function of doctors in society. The surgeons get all the glory, anyway,” House cut him off. “I know I save lives.”

“Which is more than enough. More than what most can say for themselves. No matter how much of a bastard you can be,” Wilson said. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” 

The whole ride back to House’s apartment, he ruminated on Wilson’s little confession from earlier. It rarely occurred to him to think of how his infarction may have impacted Wilson because, well, it wasn’t his fucking infarction. But wasn’t it, in a way? Was it not Wilson grabbing the groceries? Filling prescriptions? Doing the things House was too embarrassed to ask of Stacy? He’d just gotten married and yet never once complained about needing to see his wife, even though House was sure that Bonnie gave him hell over it. 

Wilson had been doing all the talking as they got to House’s place. Endless babbling about work drama, the characters of which House only vaguely recognized but couldn’t put the names to the faces. Sometimes he’d catch a sentence he knew he could use against someone in the future, but that was about it. Wilson walked through House’s door after him, taking his rightful place on the couch. He reached for the remote, but House blocked him with the tip of his cane.

“Why did you stick by me?” 

Wilson looked up at him. “What?”

“After the infarction,” House said. “I was a dick to you day in and day out. You played housewife to me and Stacy. You and Bonnie were newlyweds, I had nothing to offer you. Why’d you do it? Pure pity?”

Their eye contact was making House’s chest ache as he regretted beginning this line of questioning. With how uneven his breathing felt, he was half starting to think that girl’s lung issues were contagious. 

Wilson turned and put his head in his hands. “I don’t know, House.”

House crossed the room to stand in front of Wilson where he sat. “Did I become a patient to you?”

“God, no,” Wilson said, looking up, elbows resting on his knees. “Why can’t you just accept that that’s what friends do for each other? You wouldn’t do the same for me, then?”

“So you were doing it to carry out your end of the social contract?” House asked. “Because you want me to do the same for you?”

Wilson chuckled sardonically. “I can’t believe you.”

“Tell me where I’m wrong,” House said. It was always a strange feeling, doing this sort of thing. Pushing. Bending. Trying to find the splinters, those hairline fractures that would eventually lead to him being alone. It was unconscious and entirely in his hands, an active decision. Why did he do this? Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone?

“I thought I asked you not to try to push me away today,” Wilson said, measured. 

“I’m not pushing you, I’m asking you a question,” House said, fully aware that he was, indeed, pushing Wilson away by breaking the ever-sacred vow of “don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” 

Wilson shook his head. “I’m your friend. You were going through a hard time. I wanted to help out in whatever way I could because I thought it might make a difference.” 

Hm. Wilson wanted to make a difference. Maybe he really was just a deeply considerate person who cared about House. Or, “So you value yourself that little that you took my harassment? Did you think you owed me? Was your marriage already failing? Why did you care—“

“Jesus, House,” Wilson said, stopping him with two hands. “You sound like an insecure thirteen-year-old girl. Not everything goes as deep as you want it to. Spend the rest of your life questioning why I wanted to be kind to my best friend after he nearly died. See if I care.”

House’s gears were turning. He fidgeted with his cane. “You went beyond the normal level of kindness dictated by the social contract.”

“I think there was a compliment somewhere in there,” Wilson said, thoughtfully. “Maybe even some gratitude. So, thank you, and you’re welcome.”

House replayed some of his worst hits. Wilson finally showing up at the hospital. Stacy and Wilson talking outside the room in hushed voices. Stacy and Wilson conspiracizing to get House to do physical therapy, then to use the cane. Wilson bringing them takeout, and eating with Stacy in the living room while House felt sorry for himself in the bedroom. 

“Oh my god.” House ceased all movement, his jaw going slack. 

“What?” Wilson asked.

He couldn’t believe it. But it fit, it all fit. It made sense. “You had feelings for Stacy.”

Wilson looked at him like he grew a fourth leg. “Excuse me?”

“You spent all your time with her. She needed you. You love that, you eat it up. Did you sleep with her?” House asked, taking a step closer to Wilson, which prompted him to stand. 

“I did not sleep with, nor did I ever have feelings for Stacy,” he said, and House didn’t miss the genuine hurt in his eyes. “You’re just trying to find a reason why anyone would ever care about your sorry ass. I question it myself sometimes.”

“You slept with Stacy in a moment of weakness, and felt you had to repent for it,” House concluded. 

“A perfect theory, aside from the fact that it isn’t fucking true,” Wilson said. “How dare you accuse me of sleeping with her, how bad of a friend do you think I am?”

House could feel himself slipping through his own fingers. “Nothing else makes sense.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t make sense to me either. Sometimes, things don’t make sense. Once you get that through your head, you’ll stop being such a miserable ass,” Wilson said. House had a feeling these sentiments had been bubbling up under the surface for three years, waiting to boil over. “I’ll call Stacy right now. But if you need that kind of empirical evidence to believe me, I’m walking out, and I’m not coming back.”

Not coming back. He was bluffing. He had to be. But… he had never given House an ultimatum. Not even at his very cruelest had he threatened to leave. That was precisely House’s problem. Why not? And why now?

House nodded. “I believe you.”

Wilson sat back down, rubbing his face. “I can’t believe, after everything, that you would think for one second—“

“You’re right,” House said. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Why do you have to think anything at all?” Wilson asked. “Why can’t it just be what it is?” 

“Because you uprooted your life for a selfish bastard who hardly ever so much as said thank you.” House blurted it out, knowing that if he didn’t say it as it came to mind, it would always go unsaid. “That doesn’t… If I, or someone, did that for you, it would make sense. You’d deserve it. I didn’t.”

“I thought you deserved it,” Wilson said. His doe eyes were so soft, yet so piercing. “Are you asking me to list your redeeming qualities? The things I like about you? Is that what’s happening here?”

Was it? “No.”

“If you wanted me to compliment you, all you had to do was say that. Would have saved us a lot of time,” Wilson said. There was an extra layer of gruffness to his tone, as if he subconsciously added it as a disclaimer. 

“I thought I was an egomaniac?” House asked. “That’s the last person you should compliment.”

“You’re not an egomaniac,” Wilson said. He laughed at the thought before adding, “I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone who hated themselves more.”

House blanched against his will. His reaction came in phases, all localized to his brain. First, he wanted to punch him. That urge dissipated the moment it materialized. Then, he wanted to run, but his leg wouldn’t love it, and there was also the fact that this was his own apartment—though that hadn’t stopped him in the past. Bypassing this all, he reached into his pocket and grabbed his trusty Vicodin bottle, shaking out two. “I think I’m all the rage, actually.”

“Yeah, totally not overcompensating,” Wilson said, pushing the sleeves of his button-down up and sitting back, crossing his arms. He was enjoying this. 

There was a challenge to Wilson’s amusement. If there’s one thing House will always do, it’s accept one of those. “Compliment me, then, if you’re so desperate.” 

Wilson shrugged, infuriatingly. “Well, you know you’re smart.” 

House nodded. “You played Florence Nightingale because I’m smart?”

“No,” Wilson said, glaring. “You’re a good friend. You’re worthless when it comes to talking about anything real, but—“

“Time out,” House said, making a T with his hands and nearly whacking Wilson in the head with his cane. “We’re talking about something real right now, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, after you let it fester for three entire years,” Wilson said. “But when I was going through my divorce, you never asked how I was unless you had an ulterior motive. Usually of a manipulative nature.”

“I let you sleep on my couch, didn’t I?” House asked. “When did this become an insult-sesh?” 

“You’re right,” Wilson said, “you already do enough of that for yourself.”

There was a flare of recklessness in Wilson’s eyes that mirrored House’s. He recognized it immediately, and that external and so foreign placement of it on Wilson pulled House out of his own spiral of adrenaline. “You’re… mad,” House ventured. A stupid observation. He’s spent too much time at Princeton. 

“I’m not mad,” Wilson said. “Just fed up with the fact that you think you’re the only one allowed to have feelings.”

House’s eyebrows shot up. “Where is that coming from?”

Wilson pushed himself up and off the couch, passing House to pace beside him. House observed, distantly fascinated by the sudden behavioral shift. Wilson rarely ever got like this, and it was a spectacle when it happened. House nearly forgot he was on the receiving end. 

Finally, Wilson faced him, apparently ready to speak. “You’ve always been like this, but since the infarction, you don’t give a damn about what anyone else is going through because all you care about is what you’ve gone through. And I get it, it was rough, I was there. So I don’t complain to you. That’s fine. I don’t need to. But I get divorced, and you’re most of the cause, and you act like it’s not happening. It’s not as bad, I know, I know. But playing emotional second fiddle to you, and then having to endure these lines of questioning—“

“You were really upset about divorcing Bonnie?” House asked. He could physically feel some distant, logical, sensitive part of his brain begging him not to say it. 

Wilson’s eyes opened wide, flabbergasted. “Yes! I got fucking divorced!”

Yelling at House. Truly, genuinely yelling. It’d been a while. It gave him a rush. “You never really loved her.”

“Oh, great, now not only am I not allowed to have feelings, but you get to assign them to me,” Wilson said, incredulously. 

“If you loved her that much, I wouldn’t have been able to get in the way of the relationship,” House said. “If you loved her, you could have proven it.”

Most of House was expecting Wilson to punch him. Craved it, in a way. Instead, Wilson searched House’s face, yet never met his eyes. He paled. Just as House was about to break the silence, Wilson began to walk away.

House limped to the door faster than he had gone in three years, creating a physical barrier between it and Wilson. If Wilson shoved him out of the way, he’d deserve it. 

“Let me go, House,” Wilson said, looking past him to the door.

“Not until you look at me,” House said, out of breath and fighting not to show it.

Wilson huffed, shaking his head. He met House’s eyes. “Now let me leave.”

Why was he so upset? “No.”

“You said—“

“I don’t care what I said.”

“I’ll push you if I have to.”

House nodded. “Then do it.”

Wilson looked between him and the door. His hand shot out to grab the doorknob, calling House’s bluff. House called it right back, grabbing Wilson’s arm.

“Why are you doing this?” Wilson asked, laser-focused on House’s hand.

“There’s something you’re not saying,” House said. “Yeah, I’m an ass, I don’t talk about your feelings enough. I got that. There’s something else.” He watched Wilson’s expression; his pallor. “You look like you’re gonna puke.”

Wilson visibly swallowed hard. 

House wished he had his whiteboard. Some time. Pause the moment, rewind. All this from, what, complimenting him? No, further back. Stacy. He wasn’t in love with Stacy. He avoided his new bride in favor of House. Logically, Wilson simply didn’t care about Bonnie. House could see that, even made jokes about it throughout the duration of their relationship leading up to the marriage. So, that couldn’t elicit a reaction like this. No, this is something different. 

If he loved her, I wouldn’t have gotten in the way. 

That was the catalyst, was it not? Why did House get in the way? If not Stacy, then—

House’s grip on Wilson tightened. Wilson’s eyes closed. Maybe so that House might not read the fear he detected. Or his mind.

He said it quietly. “You weren’t in love with Stacy.”

Wilson choked out an empty laugh. “No.” 

“You—“ House stopped. It was so ridiculous, how could he voice it? So arrogant, so conceited, so everything he’s accused of. But, God, House loved to live up to expectations. “You were in love with me.”

It lingered in the air for a moment. When Wilson blinked, a tear came with it, quietly rolling its way down the high point of his cheek. “Let me leave, House.”

The room lost its air. The space seemed smaller, more clunky. He had never been so aware of Wilson’s warmth, the physical reality of him, the flesh, the bone, the muscle between. House had a hold of him. 

“If I’m about to screw everything up,” House said, wishing Wilson would glance back up at him to give him some sort of hint, “stop me.”

Except he didn’t give Wilson the time. House dropped his cane, using his grip on Wilson to pull him in, and kissed him. 

It was clunky for a moment, unexpected, unpracticed. Definitely not his best work. It was akin to his first kiss as a teen. In both cases, scared shitless. In both cases, wanting it too bad to worry about form.

Wilson kissed back immediately, saving House from himself, releasing the doorknob and allowing House to press his back against the door. The kiss became something desperate; charged with something that filled the void of a room. 

This was a different landscape. Familiar territory, yet untouched by him. How had he gone all this time knowing Wilson without knowing these parts? How the fuck did he miss this? Right in front of his eyes and yet evaded his notice? 

He’d have the sexuality debate later. He’d think later about the softness of Wilson’s lips, the shocking smoothness of his skin, the way the little dip of his top lip felt between House’s teeth. Now wasn’t the time for thinking about the way Wilson’s cheekbones, so carved, so defined, felt beneath House’s thumb. 

House suddenly remembered something. He didn’t quite stop kissing Wilson—a sentence he couldn’t believe was possible—just changed his track to the side of Wilson’s face, chasing the tear from earlier, kissing down Wilson’s face and down to his throat, the ghost of salt on his tongue now. 

A noise came from Wilson’s throat, something like a moan, when House sucked down on his neck. Later, he’d think about how he could possibly not have known that it would be the hottest fucking thing he’d ever heard. His dick throbbed, and he had to kiss his lips again, had to let his hands travel down Wilson’s chest, had to get as close as—

House hissed, breaking off the kiss, very much not out of his own volition. He grabbed his thigh, his breath hitching as the remaining muscle twitched. He’d tried to move it between Wilson’s thighs. Big mistake. Wilson looked down at it briefly, then nodded at House. “Is this gonna take long?” 

That bastard. House couldn’t bite back his grin, but he could bite Wilson’s lip—hard, and almost surely drawing blood—and that was even better. 

House grabbed Wilson’s collar and pulled him off the door. “Listen, I’ve never had gay sex before, but I intend on making you my maiden voyage, so do you need to have a crisis about this now, or can it wait ‘til the cuddling afterwards?” 

The bluntness brought pink to Wilson’s cheeks, and he nodded. His voice cracked as he spoke. “Yeah, it can wait.”

“Cool,” House said plainly, pulling him back into a kiss.

Making it into the bedroom was sloppy, painful (for House, at least), and involved an embarrassing amount of support from Wilson’s arms. House could write it off as Wilson trying to be a top. He’d need to update himself on the lingo if he was going to be gay now. 

They stumbled back to the bed, and House tried not to let his mind wander. He was plenty aroused, that wasn’t an issue. It was the past that entered the room. Wilson watching as House rotted in his bed, screaming at him, trying to shrink himself and contort his body into something he could recognize. Of course, Wilson had seen his leg. He saw it at its worst. He was about to see it again. 

As if sensing what House was thinking, Wilson twisted them around and shoved House onto the bed. Shockingly, it sent a pleasant hum through him. “You’re distracted.”

“I’m not.”

“Crisis?”

“No. Get down here.”

Wilson crossed his arms. Had House not noticed how attractive that was? Surely he had. He’d noticed a lot of things like that, but in a passive, bro way. House was a keen observer of facts. Facts like Wilson having a fatter ass than most, and chocolatey eyes that made you want to fold to his whim, and forearms that could probably strangle a man in a way that wouldn’t make him complain. Just the normal stuff, really.

“I’m withholding sex until you tell me the truth,” Wilson said. “You’re rubbing your leg. Is it bothering you?”

House hadn’t even noticed he was doing it. Normally, he wouldn’t say. When the first real sexual encounter in nearly three years with someone he wasn’t paying was on the table, however, “No. The idea of you seeing my leg? I might have a different answer. No promises, though.”

Wilson nodded, not in a pitying way, but in the way he might nod in thought when House bounced a difficult case off of him. “I assume you’re aware that I’ve seen it.”

“That would be correct.”

“I assume it hasn’t crossed your mind that I am obviously knowledgeable about what it looks like, and that it doesn’t in any way impact my perception of you.”

“You assume that I’d believe you?”

“I assumed that you would say something like that out of self consciousness, even though it doesn’t reflect reality.”

“Ah,” House said, digging his palm into his thigh, “but you’re just saying that for sex.”

“You’re right,” Wilson said, pouting, “I’m so eager to have sex with you, which involves your body, that I’d tell you that I’m attracted to that body.”

“You’re attracted to my mind,” House said, and he could hear it as he said it.

Wilson glared. “It’ll only be your body if you keep being a dick.”

“To be fair,” House said, “I was right the first time.”

In an apparent hail mary, Wilson knelt down. He started slowly unbuttoning his own shirt. “Spread your legs for me.”

House had no idea where he was going with it, but his legs spread without consent from his brain. The downstairs head seemed to be dominant on his lower half. 

Wilson made a space for himself between House’s thighs, still working down the buttons of his shirt, peeks of his chest visible now. His nose was close to House’s crotch, breath hot enough to feel the ghost of in between his thighs. Jesus fucking Christ. 

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Wilson said, looking up at him through hooded eyes. House’s jeans were so tight, he thought they might burst open. “I’m going to put your dick in my mouth, and then you’re going to fuck me. Sound fair?”

House nodded, any and all qualms forgotten. 

Wilson’s nose made brief contact with House’s zipper, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning. He’d never felt anything like this in his life, no matter how much he’d wanted it. It’s not just someone giving him a blowjob, it’s Wilson giving him a blowjob. Wilson, with his floppy hair, his tanned skin, his sharp wit, his quick reads of House, his mirage of morality, Wilson, his Wilson, and the lips he’d spent hundreds of hours watching. 

He couldn’t look away, no matter how much his eyes wanted to roll back into his head. Wilson undid his fly, not giving House the satisfaction of looking at him quite yet. He did his job methodically, which House vaguely found funny. Of course he would. He helped him get his pants further down his legs, along with his boxers, and House held his breath.

There it was, in all its glory. Not his dick, although that too, but his stupid fucking leg. He couldn’t not look. He hadn’t brought himself to yet today. Sometimes he forgot what it looked like. He spent weeks avoiding it, getting dressed in the dark, never looking down whenever possible. Here, trying to focus on Wilson between his thighs, it was unavoidable.

And yet, Wilson didn’t seem to even notice it was there. He was staring at House’s crotch like he’d never seen the anatomy before. 

“You have one too, don’t you?” House asked. “I’ve seen it. It’s pretty similar. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all, amirite?” 

“I’ve just—“ Wilson stopped. “Never been this up-close and personal.”

“You’re not realizing you’re straight at this point in the hookup, are you?” House asked, partially as a joke, mostly out of fear.

“Definitely not,” Wilson said. “But I am realizing that I don’t know how to give good… gay head.”

House grinned. “I think opening up is a good start.”

Wilson nodded, still focused. “That could work.”

As if he was dipping a toe into the water first to check the temperature, Wilson put his lips to House’s tip, softly kissing before sliding his tongue up the slit. House shuddered, and Wilson tentatively added a hand, wrapping it around House, venturing to put the entire tip in his open mouth. Lips red and puffy, eyes closed. House wanted them open.

He grabbed at Wilson’s hair, tugging at it, and as planned, Wilson’s eyes met his in response. God, he loved to mess up his hair. Pet at it as Wilson tried using his tongue in new and creative ways, beating out enabling as the top thing House loved Wilson doing with his mouth. He was gorgeous. And, holy crap, it had been a long time since House was this impurely aroused. 

As Wilson added more, House had to up his level of restraint to keep himself from taking control. Let Wilson have it for once. He deserved it after everything, even if House didn’t deserve him. Although, at the end of the day, he was still the one getting head. He’d rectify the imbalance after. 

Unfortunately, since it had been so long, he was having a bit of a problem. As in, staring at this man House was certain he’d kill and die for going down on him, cheeks hollowed, humming around him, sending a vibration that hit House in places he didn’t know he had pleasure centers, had him just about ready to bust. House’s dick was spit-slick when he pulled on Wilson’s hair—not in the direction his body so desperately wanted from him. 

“If we don’t pause here, you’re not getting a part two,” House said, shocked at his shaky voice. He cleared his throat. “If you catch my drift.”

Wilson’s eyes lit up. “I guess I didn’t do too poorly, then.”

House felt like he was going to explode and die. “Should I agree? I don’t know if you have a praise kink or a degradation kink yet.”

It’s the kind of joke House could have easily made this morning, to be met with a glare. Now, Wilson laughed like he couldn’t help it. “Really? I’m offended that you don’t have fully developed theories on it.”

House appraised him, and his chest ached. No wonder he didn’t know. This wasn’t how he felt with Stacy at all. Nowhere near this safe. Nowhere near this insane. “I do have some thoughts.”

“Tell me about them while we get naked,” Wilson said, and House embarrassingly felt his dick twitch. 

Wilson gestured for House to speak as he finished taking his shirt off, standing as he did so. It was rare to see Wilson tower over him, but oh so appreciated at the moment. No wonder the man already blew through two marriages, if he looked at all the girls this way. House felt a pang of unmistakable jealousy at the thought as he watched Wilson’s hands, bones and veins and all, work the last button only to reveal the undershirt beneath his button-down. Not to worry—Wilson made quick work of that too, pulling it off. House relished the softness of his midsection, the definition of his arms, the freckles on his shoulders. He wanted to bite them off. 

“I think you enjoy praise when it comes from what you’ve done for someone else. Not so much praise, but gratitude from the needy,” House said, as Wilson nodded and leaned down to kiss House’s neck. He swallowed hard. “You strike me as the type to get off on degradation because you never get it.”

Wilson’s teeth scraped against the base of House’s throat before he slid his hands down to House’s waist and began tugging up on his shirt. House had no choice but to let him take it off. “Mhmm, and you get off on degradation because you think you have to?”

House utilized his newfound superpower of grabbing at Wilson’s hair. They lock eyes, mere inches away, noses touching. “You planning on degrading me?”

Wilson didn’t back down. “We’ll see where the night takes us.”

“I’d say you need to buy me dinner first, but you did,” House said. 

“We can debate what kinks you want to try out after I’ve taken my pants off, if that’s okay with you,” Wilson said, pulling away.

It wasn’t a mystery why Wilson was so desperate; the front of his slacks was as tented as the material would allow. So, naturally, House found an advantage in it. 

He pulled Wilson in by his belt loop, undoing the belt buckle slowly, looking up at Wilson through hooded eyelids. Wilson looked as if he was about to scream, breathing heavy, chest moving up and down, uneven. House undid the top button, and as he slid the zipper down, Wilson groaned in relief. And there, eye level, was his bulge. House was happy to say that he also was not about to discover that he was straight. 

Ever eager for action, House pulled Wilson’s boxers down to his thighs—God, his thighs could singlehandedly kill him, or double-leggedly, whatever—and was faced with Wilson’s dick that, of course, he’d already seen, but never with the intention of interacting with it. How strange, and yet how utterly natural, as if it had been the plan all along. 

“Get on the bed,” House said, looking back up to Wilson, who suddenly seemed nervous again, as if House would change his mind. 

The two of them finished getting their pants completely off, and Wilson sat on the bed as House searched his nightstand for lube and a condom. God knows how long they’ve been there, untouched as House was. Did they even make these brands anymore? 

“In a medical professional way, I know you’re supposed to ease into this sort of thing. Stretch out, and what have you,” House said, glancing over at Wilson, who looked like he had no clue what to do with himself. If House wasn’t absolutely bloodthirsty in his horniness, he’d have laughed. 

“Okay,” Wilson said, nodding. “Um. Do you have to, or is that optional?”

“Do you want to be able to sit tomorrow?” House asked. 

Wilson flushed, but gave it some thought. “Ideally, no, either way.”

In that moment, House was sure he’d always loved him, but never quite as much as he did at that second. 

House all but lunged at him, careful not to maneuver his leg in a way that would ruin the moment, lips and teeth crashing together, House grabbing at Wilson in whatever way he could, fingers never in the same spot twice. Wilson was favoring House’s face and back, and House hoped he left enough marks on him to last a month. Not that he’d accept going less than a day without accruing more ever again after this. 

He pushed Wilson onto his back, and used the moment to safely plant his kees on the bed, between Wilson’s thighs. House couldn’t help but lean down, biting down gently on Wilson’s inner thigh, the hand not holding it coming up to stroke his dick a few times. It was soft in texture but certainly not in nature, and House wanted a turn to ride next time. 

Wilson’s breaths were delectable, laced with moans and whimpers. House grabbed the lube and covered his fingers with it, teasing Wilson’s hole before sliding one in. Shockingly, it wasn’t met with much resistance. 

“Oh, you are such a slut,” House said, gratified by hearing the words in his own mouth, relishing that they were going to Wilson, that he was hearing them, that he was adding a second finger and Wilson, hot and writhing, was tightening and loosening around him. “You sure this is your first time having gay sex?”

Wilson was biting his lip, and nodded. 

“Talk to me,” House ordered. “You alright?”

Wilson nodded again.

“I said talk,” House said, spreading his fingers out a bit. 

In response, Wilson drew in a sharp breath. “Fuck. Yes. I’m alright.” House kept scissoring his fingers, concentrating, hand cramping, ‘til Wilson spoke again. “Alright that’s enough of that, don’t you think?”

House raised an eyebrow. “Impatient?”

“Sue me,” Wilson said, “it’s been ten years, I’ve waited long enough.”

“Then don’t let me get in your way,” House said, reaching for the condom, as much as he didn’t want to use it. Wilson would surely be a stickler about it. What is he, a doctor? 

In the meantime, Wilson flipped himself over, getting on his hands and knees without House telling him to. House was about to protest, but realized quickly that it would be the only way this could tangibly happen without killing his leg. 

Once the condom was on, House added some more lube, and Wilson’s back arched ever-so-slightly, but enough to speed up House’s process. 

The feeling of mounting Wilson was indescribable, gripping his hips and carefully sliding in gently yet greedily all the same. House filled him to the hilt, groaning shamelessly as he did. He felt so fucking good around him, warm and just the right amount of tight. As if in apology for his own pleasure, House leaned down and pressed soft, feathered kisses to Wilson’s back. 

“You feel alright?” House asked gruffly, not trusting his voice so much at the moment. 

“Yeah,” Wilson said, his signature voice crack making an appearance. It was so characteristic of him, House’s hips jerked forward before he could stop himself. “Oh, fuck, House.”

House stilled, worried that he’d hurt him. “What do you need from me?”

Wilson hardly paused. “For you to move,” he said, before looking back at him with big eyes and adding, “Please.” 

That was all House needed to hear. He started slow, really feeling all of Wilson, familiarizing himself with the inside of him and outside of him all at once, running his fingers down his sides, pressing hard. The strength of his ribcage, the plush of his stomach, the give of his sides til House’s hungry fingers couldn’t sink into the muscle any further. 

Then, with a better grip, and a tightness building up in House’s stomach and groin and thighs, he pounded harder into Wilson to the sweet sounds of his whorish moans—House always thought that’s how he’d sound—and the sweetness of skin on skin. Not just any skin. Their skin. Wilson’s familiar and yet entirely new flesh, contrasting what House found so dull about his own. He wanted Wilson to absorb him somehow. For his and Wilson’s bodies to never part from one being. 

That thought consumed House as he fucked Wilson into the mattress, every groan of his own name sending him into further ecstasy for the fact of Wilson knowing him. 

But it still wasn’t enough. House pulled out without warning, Wilson shuddering under him. 

“On your back,” House ordered, sitting back on his heels and trying not to wince at the way it stretched his thigh. He could handle it. He’d find an angle if it killed him. 

Wilson wasted no time flipping over for him, albeit taking a little longer on the lower half. But once he was there, House between his legs, they stared at each other for a long moment. The pure material fact of it all. 

“I never thought I’d have you,” Wilson said quietly, as if he’d intended it to be an inside thought. Those weren’t allowed around House. 

House ran his thumb up and down the inside of Wilson’s thigh, marveling at how the physical feeling of another human being’s body had never felt so beautiful. “Why?” 

“We never even hugged,” Wilson said. “You felt so… untouchable.” 

“But you wanted me?” House asked, flicking his eyes back up to meet Wilson’s. 

“I didn’t know,” Wilson said. His next breath alerted House that his thought wasn’t complete. “It was such a non-option that I didn’t think about it. I was perfectly straight as far as I was aware.” 

House grinned. “You’re able to spot shoe brand names. You have a favorite musical.”

“Stereotypes aside,” Wilson said, rolling his eyes. “The funny thing, though, is that I want you to fuck my brains out right now and yet I feel like I don’t feel any differently now than I did a year ago.” 

The feeling that House hadn’t quite been able to name until now was entirely mutual. “Me neither.” 

“Glad that’s settled,” Wilson said. “If you could get back to the part where you’re inside me now, that’d be great.” 

House’s smile was wicked. “Fine by me.”

This time, House was about to lay their stomachs flush together, propping himself up with one forearm and using the other hand to guide himself back into Wilson. Only, however, after taking his lips between his teeth. He bit down, tugging as he buried himself in Wilson again, Wilson squirming pleasantly beneath him, groaning into House’s mouth. 

He grabbed House’s face as he began fucking into Wilson again, House releasing his hold on his lips just so that he can recapture them in Wilson’s kiss. It was passionate and deep at first, fueled by the words they’d put on pause. Then, as House pounded him harder, it became sloppy and openmouthed, and the words couldn’t seem to stop flying out of them, out of their control. 

You’re so fucking good. Harder. Fuck, House. Yes. Please. There, right there. Wilson. 

House reached down and started jerking Wilson off, feeling close to his own climax and not wanting him to miss out on all the fun. Wilson’s head rolled back, pressed into the mattress, opening his throat for House to leave what was sure to be an obscene hickey on it. His. 

“House, I’m gonna—“

“Me too,” House said, and, because he can’t let an opportunity for a joke fly by ever, “race you to the finish?” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Wilson said, grabbing House by the chin to kiss him. 

It didn’t last long—Wilson could only go slack jawed as he came onto House’s hand and their stomachs, the contracting of muscles and pure unadulterated pleasure on Wilson’s face causing House to come right after. The knowledge of who he was in alone made it all the more intense, their shared breaths wracking their chests and leaving them as a writhing entity of perverse gratification. 

House never wanted to pull out. Never wanted the moment to end. He could have stayed there for the rest of his life and been happy, no matter if that was ten minutes or a hundred years. He’d be satisfied being with him. As if detecting this, Wilson arched his back in a way that pushed House deeper into him, and he nearly collapsed from the feeling, dick still contracting as House wished he could somehow weld himself into one with Wilson forever. 

Yet, all good things must come to and end. Or, rather, House’s muscles weren’t as in love as he was. 

He pulled out and laid next to Wilson, taking the opportunity to stare at him. The sweat glistening all over his forehead, chin, neck, chest. The come still on him. House managed to muster up enough strength to lick Wilson’s stomach, and Wilson audibly reacted, muscles moving beneath skin. 

“Hm,” House said. “Not as bad of a taste as people make it sound.”

“Must be the cranberry juice I drink,” Wilson joked, not missing a beat. 

House laid back down. “So.”

“So.”

“I forget what your rates are.”

Wilson looked at him. “Not being a pain in the ass for a night.”

House screwed up his mouth. “If memory serves, your ass will probably be in a bit of pain tonight.”

Finally, an eye roll. Good—dynamic intact. “By the way, you know I’m an honest man now.”

“Huh?”

“I told you I’d fuck you with or without the cane,” Wilson said, and then immediately looked regretful for having said it.

“No,” House said, “you said you’d fuck someone with that cane. I remember it distinctly because I was mad that you didn’t specifically say me.”

Wilson, visibly relieved, nodded. “Can’t be too obvious, now, can I?” He sat up. “Now can we go wash up before I get an embarrassing rash?”

House obliged, taking Wilson’s hand when he offered it to help him up.

“Wilson?”

“Yeah?” 

“Mind if I ask you if I can be Mrs. Wilson number three tomorrow? Two anniversaries on the same day seems like a bit much.”

Wilson started to glare at him, but his eyes widened in fear instead. “Oh, fuck. Julie.”

Unfortunately for everyone under the ridiculous impression that House was a stand-up guy, he smiled pridefully. “Don’t worry. It’s not cheating if you’re gay.”

“I’m not sure she’ll see it that way,” Wilson said, as House guided him out of the room. 

““I’ll send her a fruit basket.”

On the fourth anniversary of the infarction, and House and Wilson’s bangiversary, as House had dubbed it—much to Wilson’s dismay—House gave Stacy a call.

“Stacy Warner, how may I help you?”

House clenched his hand around the phone, white-knuckling it. Wilson gently stroked his elbow. 

“Hi.”

It took a moment for Stacy to respond. “I’m sorry, who am I speaking with?”

“Judging by that pause, I think you already know,” House said, meeting Wilson’s worry-filled, yet supportive gaze. 

“Hi, Greg,” Stacy said, and it came out as a breath. A sigh, already. He deserved that. “Everything alright? Kill someone and need an attorney?”

House breathed out a nervous laugh. “No, I, uh…” he clenched his eyes tight. He and Wilson worked on this. He doesn’t have to agree with what she did. Hell, he never has to forgive her. But, “I wanted to say I was sorry for… well, you know.”

“Tell James I say thank you,” Stacy said, but House could hear a smile in her voice. “But thank you, Greg. Because even if it was Jimmy’s idea, there’s no way in hell you’d say it if you didn’t mean it at least a little bit. And, Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t screw it up with James. God knows if you’d ever find another person on this planet capable of loving you the way he always has.”

House opened his eyes to meet Wilson’s, clearly eager to hear both ends of the call but respecting House’s space, as always. Attentive, patient, Wilson. With him, it was a life. He smiled. “I won’t.”