Archive of Our Own ^beta

The drive back to Princeton is quiet. Every bump they hit in the road, Wilson thinks back to the thud they heard while waiting outside their hotel room, the echo rattling around in his brain. He remembers the way that he and House looked at each other, the mutual understanding that this would be never brought up again. Not just an understanding between friends, but an understanding between doctors who have had a terminal patient pass in the middle of the night despite having been stable only hours before. 

For once, House doesn’t fiddle with the radio. He doesn’t even turn it on. Wilson’s never known him to be this still or this quiet in all the years they’ve known each other, but he figures that even someone like House has a breaking point. Not for the first time, he wonders what’s going on in House’s head. He can read the physical signs just fine: lightly furrowed brow, lower lip pulled between his teeth, increased leg pain, more refusal than usual to make eye contact. There’s clearly something bothering him. Wilson just wishes he knew which one of their current problems it was. 

House takes a breath like he’s going to say something, then closes his mouth and shakes his head. Wilson focuses on the road, on getting them back to Princeton and to the hospital so that House can oversee his patient’s recovery. 

He thinks about sacrifice and strangely, of the way House refused to say if he’d been in love again after Stacy.

______________

Of-fucking-course Tritter is putting more pressure on him, Wilson thinks, as he gets off the phone with his bank. Of-fucking-course he’s the target, because he’s House’s only soft spot. Anyone with half a brain can see it, but only those with balls big enough to try and come after House are stupid enough to really press it. He’s pissed. He’s pissed and sad and tired. 

“You’re buying dinner.” He says, as he turns his back on House and walks out the hospital doors. 

They pile into his car, House closing his eyes as he rests his head on the headrest. “Anything you want.” He says quietly. “Wherever you want to go.”

Wilson pauses in the middle of putting his key in the ignition. “Okay,” He says, drawing out the vowels. “Are you sure? No snarky dictating since you’re paying?”

House nods. “It’s the least I can do.”

“House…” Wilson turns to look at his best friend. “What’s going on with you? Are you okay? Does this have to do with coma guy?”

“Just drive us somewhere, Wilson.” House snaps. “I don’t want to do this right now.”

Wilson wonders what the hell House is talking about. 

They end up with Thai food, the take-out boxes laid out on the coffee table of House’s still being put back together apartment. The sight of it makes Wilson’s heart clench, makes him wonder if he should offer to help House put everything back where it’s supposed to go. He wonders if House feels safe here anymore. 

At least there’s some semblance of normalcy as they settle back on the couch together, feet coming up onto the free spots of the coffee table in sync, one foot first and then the other crossed on top. Wilson notices the habitual wince from House as he lifts his bad leg. He thinks again about coma guy, about the whirlwind day they’ve had. About that one fucking question that House refused to answer. 

The curry has a comforting, spiced taste that Wilson didn’t know he needed until he takes his first bite. He lets his eyes close and savors the taste on his tongue, temporarily banishing any stress about House, about Tritter, about his frozen accounts, everything. He distantly registers the TV flipping on, but he stays in his mind for a few more moments because he can. Because he needs to. 

“Do you and your curry need a minute alone?” House’s voice is rough in a way that shoots a bolt of something down his spine. 

Wilson swallows and opens his eyes to meet House’s. “Jealous of the curry?” He teases. 

“Nah.” House looks back at the TV with a focus that seems deliberate. “I know I could do better than the curry, anyway.”

Huh. Interesting. The remark attaches itself to the ever-nagging sensation that he should ask House about the question he wouldn’t answer. He watches House for a few moments. There’s an uneasy tension radiating off of him, like he almost regrets what he just said. Except that can’t be right, Wilson thinks, because he’s never known House to regret anything. 

“House.” He says. “Can I ask you something?”

House still won’t look at him. “I’ve answered enough questions today.” 

“That’s just it. You answered what had to have been hundreds of questions from Gabe except one.” Wilson takes a breath. “Why didn’t you—”

“Don’t.” House finally looks at him, and there’s something both wounded and intensely guarded in his expression. “Do not push this, Wilson.”

“Is it Stacy?” Wilson asks, despite his better judgement. “Because if it is, there’s nothing wrong with that, House. I know how much she meant to you, and how difficult it was to see her ag—”

“I told you,” House starts, his voice rising. “Don’t push this!”

Wilson falls silent. House is staring him down, his gaze searching. He stares back, letting House know that he’s not scared, that he’s not impressed by House’s attempt at intimidating him. 

“Something will break if I push it,” He realizes finally. “Won’t it?”

“Something like that.” House mutters. “Now finish your damn food. I need help moving some of the larger things that Tritter shoved around back into place.”

____________________

While they work silently, Wilson thinks. 

He thinks about the entire fifteen year period that he’s known House, about how he chose House just as much as House chose him. True, House had been the one to bail him out of jail that fateful night at the conference, but Wilson had decided that night that he’d keep House. He thinks about how he’s always found House handsome, how he’s always been attracted to House’s abrasive demeanor. He loves being the exception to House’s misanthropy. Most of all, though, he’s always been attracted to the way that House moves about the world, how he moves through space. He finds House just as interesting as House finds him.

“The thing is,” Wilson starts, speaking before truly thinking it through. “If it was Stacy again, you would’ve just said something.”

“Wilson.” House’s tone is a warning. “I told you not to do this.”

“You would’ve said something, because you wouldn’t care if I knew.” He puts another book back on House’s shelf. “You wouldn’t care because you know that I already know how much that situation bothered you.”

“Wilson, please.” House sighs. “Not now.”

“And it can’t be one of the kids.” Wilson continues, on a roll. “You secretly like Foreman, but not like that. Plus, he’s not your type. Same with Chase. He’s cute, but clearly he thinks of you like a father. And even you in all your fucked up glory wouldn’t like being called daddy. That just leaves Cameron.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” 

“See, that reaction makes me think that Cameron is a possibility.” Wilson turns to face House, who’s sitting on the couch with a tired expression. “Your first date was disastrous, true. But that doesn’t mean that you don’t like her. So if you like her, if you’re in love with her, why wouldn’t you tell me? Why would you care if I found out? You’ve outed me for more embarrassing and career ending things.”

“That’s because sleeping with a patient is far worse than sleeping with one of the Three Idiots.” House shoots back. “Plus, that date should’ve let you know that it’s never been, and never will be Cameron.”

“Hence why I brought it up.” Wilson turns back to putting books on the bookshelf. “So, it’s not Cameron. Cuddy is a good candidate, but despite your propensity for rule breaking, I know you wouldn’t try anything with her unless you absolutely knew it could work.”

“Seriously. Stop it.” House’s voice is a warning again, but Wilson ignores it.

“So if it’s not any of the fellows, if it’s not Cuddy, if it’s not Stacy, then it has to be someone that I know. Or, it’s someone that’s embarrassing enough for you that you don’t want anyone to know. Not even me.” Wilson continues. “Which is ridiculous, because you know that I don’t care who you’re with, House. I never have.”

“Great, thanks. Glad to know my best friend doesn’t give a shit who I date.”

“And when you told Gabe that he could go for the jugular on his final question.” Wilson puts another book on the shelf. “When you told him that he could sacrifice your dignity. Why did you look at me?”

Wilson’s question is met with silence. He puts the stack of books down and turns to face House again, and sees him sitting with a resigned look, his hands clasped together in front of his mouth.  Realization starts to dawn on him, then. If it’s not the fellows, if it’s not Cuddy, if it’s not Stacy, who else does that leave? Who does that leave for House to be in love with?

It leaves him. It leaves Wilson. And Wilson can’t breathe for the force of the realization, for the hope that blooms inside his chest. 

“When Gabe asked you in the car if you’d been in love after Stacy, why did you refuse to answer?” Wilson swallows around a lump in his throat. “Because…because if this someone is someone that you won’t mention in front of me, and that you don’t want me to know about…”

“Not like this.” House whispers. “Not like this, Wilson. Please.”

“Why not, House?” Wilson asks, moving to kneel down in front of House. 

His smile is sad. “Because if I say it now, you won’t believe me.”

“Who says that?”

“It’ll just come across like I’m saying it to get more Vicodin. That I’m doing it to manipulate you.” House sighs, and reaches out to brush his fingers across Wilson’s cheek. “Or if it doesn’t right away, then someday you might start to wonder. I don’t ever want there to be doubt in your mind when it comes to this.”

“But House,” Wilson sucks in a breath, “House, don’t you see? Don’t you realize that I—”

House’s hand clamps over his mouth and his expression is so fierce that Wilson is scared. He’s scared that the hypothetical breaking point he mentioned earlier is here faster than he thought, and that it’s his doing instead of House’s, like he’d predicted. 

“No.” House says, his voice shaking but determined. “Not while Tritter is busy cracking down on all of the people I care about for his asinine vendetta. Not while you’re pissed at me. And don’t,” He pushes his hand harder over Wilson’s mouth and fuck if Wilson’s pulse doesn’t skyrocket, “try and argue with me. I know you’re pissed.”

Wilson pulls House’s hand away from his mouth and tangles their fingers together. “But after…?”

House nods, but his expression is wary. “If you still…want anything to do with me when this is all over.”

Wilson risks it all by leaning forward to rest his forehead against House’s. He watches as House’s eyes slip shut, and he lets his own close as well. It’s nice to share the same air as House, Wilson thinks. It’s nice to know that House does care, even if he refuses to say it. 

And when House brushes their lips together, Wilson goes willingly.