Paper Faces on Parade (2/14)
Title: Paper Faces on Parade
Author: vampmissedith
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: some canon House/Cuddy and canon Wilson/Sam, but eventual House/Wilson slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own House.
Summary: As House and Wilson try to balance their strained friendship and life with their girlfriends, House treats a neo-Nazi he can't trust.
Thanks to dissonata for all of his help!
Previous Chapter
Chapter Two
House sat at his desk, holding his giant ball to his lips, pressing his mouth against it. Clinic. He hated clinic. However, he did enjoy sex, and Cuddy, that damnably attractive wanton woman, knew how to play her cards just right. Were he an evil overlord with bouncy breasts who actually cared about trivial things such as sniffling children and diarrhoea, he would’ve probably done the same thing.
So he sat in his chair in jeans, a white button-up shirt that remained untucked, which he honestly thought looked better, and a tie. Sure, it was a Rolling Stones tie, with the trademark lips and tongue lolling out, but a tie nonetheless. Even if his cuffs were unbuttoned, it still didn’t detract from the fact he’d just returned from clinic duty. With a tie.
He let out a harsh sigh and smacked his thinking ball on the desk top. Really, it wasn’t so bad, otherwise he wouldn’t still be doing this. He was just having a bad day considering Rachel’s bad mood and Cuddy being irritable. She’d been unhappy with the fact House and Wilson had strolled in ten minutes late and when House had explained in her office why (that his leg had been acting up--he forgot to mention it was Rachel that had body slammed him) she seemed to be irritated with the fact he’d called Wilson instead. When he’d explained that he knew she was busy with the board meeting, she’d blinked slowly at him then said; “I was meeting with that potential donor, House. I told you that three times this last night.”
He didn’t admit that she was right, and that she had even reminded him they were having dinner with him that night, because he just wasn’t the type of guy who admitted he was in the wrong, no matter how much she wanted that from him. He didn’t get around to the fact that budget meetings, donors, and Dean of Medicine stuff bored the hell out of him so it was no wonder he forgot or that he missed Wilson so of course he’d called him. He did, however, make a snide comment when she scoffed at his tie, as she usually did. Just because he was going to wear ties didn’t mean he was going to walk in like some sort of . . . Wilson.
Speaking of Wilson, the door swished open and House glanced at the time on his computer monitor. It was eleven-thirty. Almost lunch. They hadn’t had lunch in a long while. In fact, the closest thing to a conversation they’d had recently was House acting like his obvious not-cancer patient had paraneoplastic syndrome and he was sure Wilson wasn’t stupid enough to think House was actually telling the truth, but hey, he had wanted to mock his putrid tie and Wilson still didn’t say anything about the one around House’s neck. He did glance at it, though. And other than the gobbled Egg McMuffin in the car after Sam had been dropped off, they hadn’t had a passable lunch together in what seemed like years although it was really only weeks.
Except for a brief hesitation where Wilson looked around his office quickly and half-heartedly, as if looking for any difference and finding none, he didn’t stop to go over and plop in his seat, idly playing with the end of his chartreuse tie and the only reason House knew the name of the colour was because Wilson saw fit to correct him when he first wore it and House said; “God, what colour is that? Pissed in pea soup or what?” House would’ve wondered why the hell Wilson knew the colour except that Wilson knew things that no straight man should, such as what culottes were.
“What’s up?” House asked.
Wilson shrugged. “Nothing. You, uh . . . nicked yourself shaving.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” he replied.
Wilson smiled softly. “So . . . I bought you something,” he informed, reaching into the deep pocket of his lab-coat. He revealed a rectangular-shaped gift, wrapped in green. The same wrapping paper as the Christmas gift he’d decided not to open. He slid it across his desk slowly and House watched it warily. He’d seen that shape of present before, just not for him.
House continued staring at it for a few seconds, then pushed it aside. “I’ll open it later.”
Wilson scoffed. “I’m not falling for that again, House. Just open it.”
He sighed and jerked it to him, ignoring that fact that the wrapping paper was the exact same shade of the green tie that made Wilson look pretty, and was unsurprised to find, inside the rectangular box, a tie of his very own. “You shouldn’t have,” he gushed. Wilson lowered his eyes, staring at his fingers that idly tugged on the ends and shook his head. “No, really. You shouldn’t have,” he insisted, then pulled out the tie.
“Well, I figure it won’t be too long until you grow tired of the Rolling Stones and Daffy Duck.”
House rolled his eyes but held his gift and analyzed it. The ties he’d come to work in were all childish or obnoxious. His favourite so far had been covered in flames--a tie Wilson had bought for him years ago for some inexplicable reason--but this tie was far from ridiculous. It wasn’t covered in lightning, jumbled words, cartoon characters, or trademarked band logos. It was silk and slightly thinner than most ties, and it was a deep burgundy but when the light hit it the colour shone an almost cherry colour. It was a beautiful tie, really; a waste to give it to a man who didn’t want to wear it.
He didn’t give his thanks, and he doubted Wilson expected it. He just put it back in the box. “What’s the occasion?”
“Reminded me of you,” Wilson explained with a one-armed shrug, eyes still focusing on his fingers that danced along the edges of his stupid piss-green noose. The colour itself was muted but bright; smart, eye-catching colour, but not worth a second glance. Wilson bought the ugly tie for himself, yet the tie he bought for House was far better.
“Ties remind you of me? God, have I really changed that much?” he asked with a scowl.
Wilson laughed and met House’s eyes; the first time since the rear-view mirror, which had been the first time in . . . well, since he kicked House out of the loft. “Not really, but if you were a tie-wearing man, that would be the one.”
“Cuddy talked to you. She doesn’t like my ties,” House accused.
Wilson snorted. “No, she didn’t talk to me. You started wearing ties, I figured Cuddy had something to do with it . . .”
“Did you buy it for me or her?” he asked and he didn’t mean to sound so irritated but he didn’t mind the fact that he did.
“It reminded me of you. I bought it for you.”
“It’s a far cry from the flames.”
“You’re wearing ties and moving in with Cuddy; you’re a far cry from flames,” Wilson responded calmly and matter-of-factly and House realized it wasn’t meant as an insult--just truth. His eyes moved away from House’s and focused on his lap and finally stopped fidgeting with his tie. “It’s bold. It’s . . . interesting. It’s you.”
He sighed and nodded slowly. He doubted he would ever find an excuse to wear it, unless he had to don a tux and watch Sam walk down the aisle, all aglow with momentary marital bliss.
“So did you want to get lunch?” Wilson offered after a long silence, eyes meeting his fleetingly.
“You’re buying,” he stated, knowing that at least that wouldn’t have changed as he pushed out of his chair and grabbed his cane.
“Naturally,” Wilson agreed and stood.
As they both moved to leave the room at the same time, their shoulders knocked roughly and they both looked at each other. They moved to leave the door simultaneously a second time and bumped again, and Wilson laughed nervously and House felt something in his gut churn before Wilson made a sweeping gesture with his, indicating House should go first and he did. They had never had this problem before he gradually-yet-accidentally moved in with Cuddy one month ago--something that Wilson had hypocritically been upset over; as if he hadn’t kicked his best friend out to make room for his sociopath of an ex-wife; as if their relationship would work anymore than it did last time.
For some reason there was enough space between them for a second person to walk which, while not completely and utterly mind-blowingly strange, did send a jolt right to House’s chest. Actually, when the elevator door pinged open and they walked into the empty space, he noticed the gap was actually larger than he had originally thought. Enough to fit two people. Generally, they walked close enough where, even if their arms or hands weren’t brushing, someone could not walk between them. Now, they stood on opposite sides of the elevator, Wilson folding his arms and looking at the numbers atop the silver doors, and House stared at his brand-new shiny cane--a simple wooden thing, the colour of soft gold, shiny with some sort of lacquer, and remembered leaving his cane at the crash site as penance for taking Hannah’s leg, or hell, maybe in remembrance. He didn’t deserve to walk with assistance if she couldn’t--not when he hadn’t allowed her to choose what he would’ve done.
It wouldn’t have mattered either way but now he wasn’t so sure he should’ve ripped off her limb. Better to die whole than incomplete with the false hope of actually making it through.
“If you can crawl through the wreckage of the site for Hannah, Greg, I don’t think you need to be taking that many pills so soon after your last batch.”
Sometimes he was House. Other times he was Greg. She was always Cuddy in his mind, whether or not her given name slipped out during conversation. He didn’t know why that bothered her so much considering that Wilson had never been James to him, either.
“Wilson,” he began with no actual idea of what he wanted to say.
Wilson looked over at him, brown eyes wide with interest. He hummed in question and House furrowed his eyes, eyeing the distance. Wilson shifted awkwardly when House stared at him again and then tilted his head, staring at the floor.
“House--” Wilson started at the same House said; “I just--”
They both shut up awkwardly and House eyed the distance again.
House tried to remember the last time they were in an elevator together and felt sick when he failed.
The look on Wilson’s face mirrored the sickening dread in House’s stomach, and the doors opened. They both left, House timing it purposely so they had to squeeze out together with their shoulders pushing and grinding, but when they left they took up the normal distance between two colleagues--enough for a third person to stand comfortably between them and still have a foot of space on either side of whoever the third person was.
“I was thinking,” Wilson said as he pushed open the door for House, allowing him to walk into the cafeteria first, “that you and I should get together tonight. Do something.”
“Well, I don’t normally put out this soon, but if you’re really lucky you might get a kiss on the porch,” he quipped, but only to cover up the awkwardness of the realization of just how distant they’d become. Brief head-nods in greeting and an email sent once or twice a week did not constitute a friendship, considering that their offices were so damn close.
Wilson brushed by him, standing in front of him in the lunch line, and smiled, turning his head so House could only see his profile as he piled more fries than was strictly necessary onto his plate. “So, am I to take that as a yes?”
“It’s a date,” he stated and Wilson glanced at him long enough to smile.
* * *
Clinic duty, whilst never the most exhilarating part of his day, did not irritate Wilson as much as it irritated House, so he didn’t spend the better part of his day hiding in his office or other people’s patients’ rooms. Then again, lately, although House hadn’t completely given up on avoiding work (because he most assuredly did avoid it) he was doing his hours a bit more frequently than was strictly necessary. In fact, the on-duty nurse had commented on it vaguely a few times and when House did manage to lock himself away Cuddy didn’t look for him because he had appeased her for the time being.
Then again, if House had ceased all impromptu hide-and-seek games, Wilson wouldn’t know because they hadn’t been very close lately--but all that would be remedied, hopefully, after tonight. He wasn’t naïve enough to think all would be put right and they would be able to be as close as they were, seeing as they were both dating at the moment, but they could at least get back to some version of normalcy. Something more than this relationship they had somehow dwindled into where they were just colleagues with a past.
If anybody noticed that they were drifting apart nobody said anything about it. He was sure Sam had noticed it, as Cuddy most likely did as well (granted, Cuddy probably noticed it more) but Sam probably didn’t mind the fact. It wasn’t that he thought Sam hated House by any means but he knew she disliked him more than she let on, seeing as whenever Wilson spoke about him she got a disinterested expression or anything she said was sickly sweet, as if in an ironic way. It did bother him, as it always had with his other girlfriends or wives, but he also knew House was an acquired taste and he couldn’t expect them to adore his best friend.
When he walked into his office, he wasn’t entirely surprised to see House lying on his couch, ankles crossed on the arm, Wilson’s coat stuffed underneath his head, one arm dropped to the floor and the other was across his abdomen, lips parted slightly and a small bit of drool hanging by the side of his mouth. His cane was leant against Wilson’s desk and Wilson just shook his head, removing his lab-coat which he normally would’ve hung up on the coat rock, but instead draped it over House, despite knowing that it couldn’t have warmed him that much. The fabric was too thin.
House smacked his lips together tiredly and made a sleepy little moan, and Wilson stared at his clean-shaven face. It didn’t seem possible that it could make him look simultaneously old and young at the same time. He hovered for a moment, just standing above his best friend, then sighed and returned to his desk, sitting at his desk quietly and pulling up a pen.
He contemplated locking the door and doing his work elsewhere, but for some reason he just didn’t feel like it. He wanted to be there when House woke up, like some sort of reassurance that they were okay. Anyway, House wasn’t so annoying when he was silent. He was looking forward to their night out together and even if House would just brush it off and act nonchalant, he knew he was looking forward to it too. And neither of them were dumb enough to deny that things had changed and not for the better--it had been awkward between them in the elevator, and even if they wouldn’t verbally admit it, they both knew it was there.
When he stared at House, sleeping on his couch like a toddler, it almost felt like nothing had changed. This hadn’t really changed; not really. House used to commandeer his couch to sleep on the nights his leg kept him up all night or when insomnia attacked him so that he puttered through the loft, watching television and playing piano and waking Wilson up to pester him. Of course, now that House didn’t live with him he didn’t have to deal with Mozart swelling into the night, drifting over him and enveloping him like a blanket; didn’t have to hear House’s deep chuckle at something inane muttered on the television; didn’t have to think about what sort of superpowers they would have had heroes and villains existed.
Wilson had to remind himself that not dealing with those situations was a good thing.
He scribbled his signature quickly then rubbed his hand over his face. House made some sort of sleepy noise and he glanced upwards to watch him shift slightly. His Rolling Stones tie twisted awkwardly around his throat, like it was trying to strangle him, and the sleeve of the arm across his abdomen was pushed halfway up his forearm and his untucked shirt had ridden up his stomach an inch. Only a sliver of skin was visible.
Wilson looked at his paperwork and started reading about finances; about new chemotherapy treatments; about House’s unbuttoned cuffs. Actually, he didn’t read anything about cuffs. He was just suddenly staring at them.
Actually, if he were to be honest, House slept on his couch more often now than he did before. He had fake cancer consults, too. Obviously House noticed the detachment as well and Wilson had noticed it a long time ago but the problem was the both of them had separate lives from each other now; not only did Wilson live with his girlfriend, but so did House. Not only did they have stressful jobs that took a lot of work (although it had never stopped House before, except House had steadily begun to work more often) but House also had a toddler to take care of in the morning after Cuddy left.
When Wilson tried to imagine House weaving a spoonful of food through the air making airplane noises, he scrunched up his face. He felt guilty for not being able to imagine House tickling Rachel, or them reading large books together, or going through their ABC’s . . . He sighed. It was horrible but it didn’t compute and the fact he couldn’t see it made Wilson feel like such a terrible friend.
The door opened like a cannon blast, which Wilson knew was a hyperbole, and Cuddy walked in. “Wilson have you seen--”
He pressed his finger to his lips and shushed, gesturing at House with his chin.
Cuddy looked at House and there was a brief smile on her face, and then she rolled her eyes irritably. “If he takes a nap now he won’t be able to sleep tonight and then he’ll be up all night an--”
“He’s not an infant,” Wilson told her calmly.
She folded her arms and raised a thin eyebrow at him, the amused arch coming off as almost smug. “And how long have you known House?”
Wilson felt something odd stir in his chest that wasn’t exactly a great feeling and swallowed. “All right, so he’s infantile, but he’s always taken naps in the middle of the afternoon--or day--or, well, evening . . .” He blinked rapidly for a few moments, the he shook his head. “This is just House.”
Cuddy bit down on her bottom lip and sighed, chest heaving and she nodded as if accepting that she had just lost her job. Then she rubbed her eyes and delicately plopped on the chair reserved for his patients. “How do you do it?”
“Well, normally one closes one’s eyes and relaxes--”
“Wilson,” she warned, icy eyes locked onto his.
He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. “It takes time, Cuddy. There is no one way to . . . Why are we talking about this?”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t . . . I mean, you two were never . . . together,” she brushed aside with a small headshake.
Despite the fact he knew what Cuddy meant, it still irked him that she would brush what they had away simply because they’d never been romantic. “Well, no, we were never--I mean, we’re just friends. We’re--we’re not gay. But, even still, that doesn’t mean that--well, it’s not that we don’t--we’re still close. We’re still friends. It just--I mean, we’ve known each other for years. I know you two met before we did, but I’ve still known him longer. I’m going to know things that, well, you wouldn’t.”
She pressed her fingers lightly to her temple and nodded slowly. “How do you . . .” She gestured vaguely, then tilted her head. “I mean, it’s great. Being with House. Really. It’s just . . . Sometimes he gets . . . moody.”
“A moody House. Stop the presses; that’s headline news.” Cuddy lowered her chin at him and he recognized that ‘I am not amused’ expression seeing as it was usually on his own face and generally directed at House. He couldn’t remember the last time he and Cuddy had talked, but he had a feeling it had something to do with furniture. It had seemed that once House was out of her life and she’d started dating Lucas, she had no need of Wilson. Once she had House, she hadn’t talked to Wilson as if . . . Well, she didn’t need him.
He’d always known that the common denominator between him and Cuddy had been House. It still didn’t mean he was pleased with the fact that once she got what she wanted, she had no need of him anymore. It was only when she wanted help with House that spoke with him. Like always.
“Cuddy, look . . . House is going to be House. There is no cure-all to make him more . . . I don’t know; presentable? What exactly do you want?”
“This isn’t about him being presentable, Wilson,” she stated and she almost sounded irritated. “I need him to be happy. I’m not saying he’s miserable, but there are times . . . I don’t know what to do. And when he’s upset, he’s less likely to . . . play nice.”
“Play nice,” he repeated and blinked once. “You want him to . . . ?” She stared openly at him and he saw the desperate need reflected in her eyes; the eyes of a woman who thought she might be losing someone she cared about; the eyes he’d seen in his reflection recently for some reason and he’d recognized only because all of his wives had stared at him like that before. “Macadamia nut pancakes,” he answered, then looked down at the paperwork.
“I’m serious,” she said and he realized that they were barely speaking in a voice above a whisper.
He blinked at her. “I know. So am I. He loves macadamia nut pancakes. I’m not saying he’ll be a right little ray of sunshine, but whenever we have an argument it seems to work.” Granted, he didn’t only make the pancakes after arguments--he made them when he was in a particularly good mood, or when he wanted the pancakes as well, but a day or two after an argument he always made them as a sort of ‘burying the hatchet’ deal. He and House would never verbally apologize--well, all right, so it had happened once or twice--so he pretended like he wasn’t apologizing when he cooked them and House pretended like sitting through a Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant marathon wasn’t torture for him although Wilson knew it was.
“I only ask because, well . . . a potential donor wants to meet with House before he decides so we were in discussion with having a dinner at our place.” Wilson hid the fact his brain screeched like a scratched record for a brief moment. Our place. Not too long ago, the loft had been ‘our place’ when he spoke of it to House. Strange hearing those same words from Cuddy regarding the same man. “I know House doesn’t like talking with donors so I . . . wanted to make it up to him.”
“So cook him pancakes for breakfast.”
“I’ll need a recipe,” she asked quietly.
It wasn’t until Wilson had smiled politely and started inscribing the ingredients that he had a moment of hesitation. His finger stopped just long enough for a small black dot to bleed out on the second G of eggs, and something felt wrong, as if he were betraying a whispered secret of a friend. The moment was brief before he hastily finished the rest of the ingredients.
He pushed it across the desk and she took it, her brows lowered as she read over the ingredients and she looked more upset than pleased. He thought over the ingredients, remembered the milk and eggs, and he sighed. “You can’t expect House to live a vegan lifestyle.”
She glanced at him. “I don’t. I wasn’t expecting . . .” She folded the scrap of paper and stared at his desk instead of him. “All this time and it never occurred to me to even ask what he liked to eat.”
“He’s . . . not a very open guy, Cuddy. Even when you ask, he’s . . .”
“You knew.”
“I’ve also slept on his couch, went through the infarction, stood beside him when Stacy left . . . This is just the beginning for you two. What House and I have been through, well . . . you learn a few things.”
Cuddy frowned for a moment and there was a flicker of some odd emotion before she smiled briefly. “Thank you, Wilson,” she whispered, then stood and brushed off her skirt. She nodded once, then left his office.
The click of his door sounded hollow and almost eerie, despite the fact he’d heard it a thousand times before, and when he looked over at the peacefully napping House, he wondered if Cuddy would ever allow him to sleep on her couch.
* * *
House supposed, considering how the morning started, his day actually hadn’t been too bad. Clinic, although absolutely loathsome as per usual, was actually a little less irritating than normal seeing as his third clinic patient had perky breasts, legs that went on for miles, and a completely embarrassing malady (she had a roll of quarters stuck inside her vagina) and he almost paged Wilson for ‘help’ but then remembered they were both dating someone else and considering the fact she hadn’t been wearing a ring but there was a strip of lighter skin, it meant she was recently divorced and despite the amazing tits, House wasn’t sure he wanted Wilson to hop from Sam right into Needy Clinic Patient.
However, even if the day could have been worse, it wasn’t exactly great, and after some idiotic toddler with a bean shoved in his ear, he’d dragged his tired ass to Wilson’s couch and plopped on it with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, and woke up sometime later with the smell of watermelon wafting over him and pens staring innocently at him, seeing as Wilson’s pocket had somehow managed to shift right in front of his face. The lab-coat actually did nothing to warm him, although he didn’t complain when he sat up and knocked both the lab-coat and the jacket he’d been using as a pillow to the floor.
“Time is it?” he asked sluggishly.
“Four,” Wilson answered, and House realized that although this wasn’t the first time he’d woken up in Wilson’s office, the door locked and the tell-tale signs of Wilson having been in there recently, it was the first time since he’d started dating Cuddy that he’d woken up with Wilson still in the room.
He yawned and stretched, his back popping satisfyingly and when he stretched out his legs, his thigh muscle tightened uncomfortably and almost verged on pain. He hissed a bit when it throbbed dully, and he pressed his palm into his muscle with a slight wince.
Wilson eyed it and raised his eyebrows briefly in question, but didn’t say anything.
House almost explained that Rachel had slammed into him, but for some reason decided against it like it would somehow break something precious; like mentioning the recently dead kitten daddy ran over with his car that night at dinner only a few minutes after the daughter finally stopped crying. He grimaced when he thought of fur on his motorbike’s wheels, and let out a sigh.
“Don’t you have rounds?” House asked when he glanced at his watch and found that it was actually nearer to four-thirty.
Wilson looked away from his paperwork to meet House’s eyes. “In a minute,” he answered after a brief pause.
House wasn’t an idiot and Wilson was always early for his rounds. If he left within the next ten minutes he wouldn’t be late, but he always showed up early and talked longer than necessary with his dying cue balls. Since Wilson’s head bowed again to stare at his paperwork, House allowed a brief smile that was more of a half-smirk since Wilson couldn’t see.
“What time are we going out?” he asked, needing to remind Wilson of the fact they were getting together later before any blonde harpies convinced him otherwise.
“I need to pick up my dry-cleaning before six; if you’re not opposed to doing errands with me, we can leave right after work.”
“Do we hafta?” he half-whined and although Wilson’s head was bowed House could still tell he was smiling.
Wilson finally pushed out of his chair and pointed at the lab-coat House had knocked to the floor. House used his cane to pick it up from the floor and tossed it in the direction of Wilson, who fumbled with it briefly, all of his pens flipping out of his pocket and twisting through the air before thudding to the carpet. Wilson dropped his chin a little and blinked once at him, a thin, almost-annoyed grimace turning into a half-amused smile as he knelt down and picked up the pens, shaking his head at the carpet.
House stood off of the couch while Wilson continued to gather his fallen comrades. Wilson glanced upward to glare good-naturedly at him and House leered. “Well, since you’re down there . . .” House said huskily with an over-the-top waggle of his eyebrows.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to exacerbate your leg. Besides, I have to get a head start on my rounds,” he replied as he stood, slipping into his lab coat with an ease House had never managed to exude, considering he never actually wore the thing. With his eyebrows raised and his eyes wide and open, looking entirely serious, he finished with; “Rain check?”
“Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep,” House retorted, sounding slightly more serious than he’d intended.
Neither of them froze; they just didn’t move. In fact, it wasn’t until two seconds later that House realized they were still looking at each other, one step away from each other. Wilson’s thin-but-playful smile faded from his face and House tilted his head to the side a bit, as if contemplating a piece of art in front of him.
Wilson cleared his throat and then went to the door, opening it for House. He walked out first and it wasn’t until they separated that he realized he felt something in his chest he couldn’t quite describe.
* * *
House was surprisingly unobtrusive as he picked up his dry-cleaning and as they stopped by the grocery store. He’d momentarily forgotten he’d given his macadamia nut pancake recipe to Cuddy until, as they had been walking down the aisle, House plucked a bag of macadamia nuts from the shelf and plopped it into the cart, which when he thought about it didn’t make much sense seeing as they didn’t live together--unless House was planning on staying the night sometime in the future. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking on his part, but Wilson almost felt touched at the thought, until he remembered Cuddy would be the one cooking the pancakes from now on.
He would just have to find something else to cook instead.
However, although House had his cynical-yet-true-and-amusing comments on just about everything, and even asked completely ridiculous questions as if delving into the topic meant all the world to him, he didn’t pry, which was . . . strange. He’d been expecting a full-blown analysis of his and Sam’s relationship, along with perhaps some bragging with how much better he and Cuddy were doing, and maybe even a thinly-veiled comment about Wilson’s philandering ways and an accusation or two.
However, all topics relating to relationships and dating and girlfriends were conspicuously absent. Had he not known better he would assume it just hadn’t crossed his mind. However, since he did know better, he knew House was purposely avoiding the topic and he only avoided topics he didn’t want to discuss or analyze. Perhaps he was afraid that he and Sam were working out just fine and another marriage was on the way which . . . Well, might not be entirely inaccurate, not that Wilson was planning on proposing anytime soon. Or maybe House just didn’t want the questions turned around on him.
House moved in with Cuddy after only a month into their new relationship which, all right, in House’s standards wasn’t necessarily fast. Stacy had moved in after a week and he hadn’t even known her. He’d known Cuddy for ages. Still, though, something didn’t feel right about that. Getting up early, taking care of Rachel, wearing ties and shaving and actually working . . .
Maybe Wilson was just jealous because he was willing to do all of those things for Cuddy, but for him he wouldn’t have even bothered to pick up his dirty towels from the bathroom floor after he specifically told him not to use his tub. But, the more he thought about it, House pounding away on his organ past midnight, or him camping out in Coma Guy’s room with his Game Boy while one of his soaps blared on the television, or even stealing his food hadn’t actually been all that irksome.
Shaving and wearing ties didn’t change a man any more than donning a black shirt and spiking one’s hair out did. However it still felt like something was changing; something had changed. They’d gone from being as close as they had ever been to being practically strangers in two months. The ties weren’t to blame and maybe House wasn’t entirely different in personality, but something was still off enough for him to feel displeased with the situation.
For once in his life, he actually understood what it was like to be House, watching as his best friend sidled up beside some woman who was completely wrong for him.
Now he was just being unfair. It wasn’t for him to decide if Cuddy was wrong for House or not.
After they’d finished Wilson’s errands (many complaints from House colouring the event) Wilson didn’t bother stopping by the loft. Instead he drove to the nearest diner, they sat in the furthest, darkest booth, and the familiar waitress flounced over to them and bubbled in her practiced flirtatious way that probably earned her outrageous tips.
“Haven’t seen you two for awhile,” she greeted with a grin. “Want the usual or do you think you’ll need some time to discuss your options?” She caught Wilson’s eye a bit longer than she caught House’s, but he was sure it was only because she knew by then who would be paying.
“I’m in the mood for a change,” House murmured, then whipped open the menu.
It wasn’t anything dire. House getting bored of the same meal he usually had wasn’t anything strange. House often got a new ‘usual’ especially since he was easily bored. Still, something about it unnerved Wilson and he nodded his agreement at their waitress with a smile.
“I’ll be back once you’ve had time to consider,” she promised with a light touch to House’s shoulder and she walked away.
Wilson watched House’s electric blue eyes dart over the menu. His eyes were similar to Cuddy’s--sharp, vivid, blue. He imagined family pictures with a clean-shaven House standing slightly behind Cuddy, right hand clasped over her left shoulder and a five-year-old Rachel standing in front of them, all three of them smiling false smiles, as family pictures always sported, at the camera. He imagined all the perfectly posed and carefully positioned portraits, placed in some sort of pattern along Cuddy’s walls. He thought of the plastic-y feel to each picture; the false, fake representations of their lives at home.
Oh, God. He was even starting to think like House.
“How’s work?” Wilson asked after his eyes dragged over to his usual, as if magnetized.
“Small talk? Really?” House blurted in a tone of disgust and he dropped the menu to stare at Wilson like one would stare at particularly nasty bug.
Wilson reeled back at the realization. “Wow. I hadn’t even--I didn’t mean . . .” He shook his head, then let out a long, resigned sigh as he folded his menu and placed it on the table, hands clasped on top. “Why is this so awkward?” he asked finally, unable to verbally ignore it any longer.
“Because small talk sucks,” House answered or maybe evaded. It was hard to tell which sometimes. “It’s not very fun being on this end of the my-best-buddy’s-dating shtick, is it?”
“Ah, yes. I clearly see your motivation now--you dating Cuddy was all an elaborate scheme to get revenge on me for dating Sam.” There was a brief pause where they teetered from joking into serious, and Wilson swallowed. “I’ve been busy, House,” he explained, hating how guilty he felt so suddenly at their distance.
“I know,” House admitted, his eyes ticking downward and staring at his closed menu.
“With Sam and my caseload, I just haven’t--”
House’s warm palm pressed against Wilson’s knuckles briefly--just long enough for him to feel the pressure and to shut his mouth. “I know,” he repeated firmly.
Although his hand was gone, Wilson’s skin was still a little warmer than it should have been.
“Sam approve of our little night out?” House asked, that familiar note of disbelief in his tone. And perhaps a bit of mocking, too.
Wilson should have had a moment of panic where he suddenly remembered Sam had suggested a double-date and that he hadn’t called her to inform her of his change in plan. The truth was, though, he hadn’t forgotten--he’d just . . . evaded. If he called her to tell her he’d decided to go out with House, alone, he’d have to hear the brief and awkward pause, and the strained questions that followed, tinged with a tone that he knew was supposed to make him feel a little guilty but didn’t work, which actually made him feel worse. So, like the fact she often used his books as coasters, he ignored the whole thing.
“We haven’t seen each other for awhile, House. I talked to her about it this morning, actually. She was receptive to the idea.”
“That’s a lengthy yes. Evasion?”
“She wanted to double-date,” he answered.
House scowled. “Sounds fun,” he murmured sarcastically, although there was a slight curve on the side of his mouth; a tell-tale sign he was attempting to hide a grin. “Who would’ve won, you think?”
“Me, naturally,” he replied with a shrug. “You’d be too busy trying to get Sam and I to fight, and Cuddy would be trying too hard to be professional.”
“Sam would be all sickeningly sweet and overly-domestic. But you know how vicious girls can be, Wilson. There might’ve been a cat-fight.”
“Oh, damn. If only I’d had the foresight to think of that. I suppose we’ll have to go without.”
“Yeah, the eye-gouging would’ve totally been worth it,” House stated sincerely, and Wilson chuckled. They both smiled at each other and Wilson felt warmth spread through him; warmth he hadn’t felt for a long while.
Wilson thought of Sam watching the clock and glancing at her phone. He knew she wouldn’t text until it was nearing nine, but he also knew that while he was gone she would probably be thinking of all the times he’d had to stay late at work when in actuality he’d been keeping someone else’s bed warm. She wasn’t paranoid like House was, or jealous, despite the fact she had every right to be seeing as he’d been unfaithful. Worse, even knowing how it would make her pace and worry, he still didn’t want to go through the inconvenience of having to listen to her fail to hide the fact she was disappointed.
“Perhaps we’ll have to have a double-date, then.”
“I’ll bring the Jell-O,” House promised, motioning over the waitress.
“Jell-O?”
“For the wrestling. Mud is so last decade,” he explained as their waitress practically glided to the edge of their table, eyes bright with what Wilson assumed was practiced sincerity. She looked at House expectantly. “I changed my mind. I’ll think I’ll go with the usual,” he told her, but his eyes were on Wilson instead.
* * *
Other than the minor hiccup during the beginning of their meal, sliding into familiar banter with House was easy. Once that hurdle had been handled, everything seemed to spill forth and they ended up having several refills and slowly picking away at their dinner (or rather, Wilson slowly picking away at his dinner while House casually ate from both plates.) House told him about a clinic patient with a roll of quarters in an uncomfortable place, and Wilson told him about a twelve-year-old terminal female patient of his that had a crush on him and shamelessly flirted with him despite her parents’ embarrassment. House made a joke about Chase, thus proving that House never let good material slide even years later, and that he could still make Wilson choke on his iced tea and laugh to the point of near tears.
They’d ordered dessert and Wilson momentarily forgot about his love-handles and cholesterol long enough to order something that would’ve made Sam cluck her tongue. House ordered something that would’ve made Sam fall over and die had Wilson ordered it, and they both ate and finally discussed life with their girlfriends, even if it was brief and not incredibly informative. Wilson told House about how he and Sam alternated cooking and House explained that Cuddy was great in bed.
Talking about their love lives was superficial and brief and they quickly moved onto different topics. Wilson didn’t mind it; he’d rather avoid talking about Sam around House, anyway.
It was eight-thirty by the time they finally decided to leave; Wilson paid the check, avoided flirting with the waitress but House still made a comment anyway, and they both moved to turn up the stereo when a Rolling Stones song began to play so that their hands knocked.
Wilson rolled to a stop in front of Cuddy’s house and he stared up the walkway at the porch light and through the windows and the golden glow of her home. He’d been in there a few times; enough to know the layout. The fact that he’d stopped the car so that the passenger window faced the yard meant that he was also looking at House, who turned his head to reciprocate the glance. Wilson refocused his eyes so that they weren’t gazing past him.
The car idled; he wasn’t parked. The thrum of the engine and the soft, barely-audible music washed over him and filled him with an odd mixture of nostalgia, longing, and comfort. House didn’t smile at him or do anything comforting or reassuring, but it somehow felt like he had.
“Well,” House started, dragging the L sound out a bit longer than necessary.
Wilson nodded at him.
House opened his mouth as if to say something else, then he closed it and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m stealing your lunch tomorrow. I need some fattening up. Tofu sucks.”
Wilson barely suppressed a grin. He knew House was asking to eat lunch with him tomorrow. “This might be a completely ridiculous suggestion, but perhaps telling Cuddy what you like to eat would be wise?”
“You’re right.” House smirked. “That is a completely ridiculous suggestion.”
Wilson shook his head, smiled thinly, and the silence dragged on for a second longer before he realized they were looking at each other, smiling thinly.
“I should probably get home before Sam worries about me,” he blurted when that one second evolved into three and the air surrounding them started to feel less like dropping a friend off and more like something he’d rather not name.
“That tight leash starting to chafe yet?” House murmured as he pushed open the car door and slipped out. Before Wilson could comment, he slammed the door shut.
Wilson sighed and drove away.
Next Chapter
Author: vampmissedith
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: some canon House/Cuddy and canon Wilson/Sam, but eventual House/Wilson slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own House.
Summary: As House and Wilson try to balance their strained friendship and life with their girlfriends, House treats a neo-Nazi he can't trust.
Thanks to dissonata for all of his help!
Previous Chapter
Chapter Two
House sat at his desk, holding his giant ball to his lips, pressing his mouth against it. Clinic. He hated clinic. However, he did enjoy sex, and Cuddy, that damnably attractive wanton woman, knew how to play her cards just right. Were he an evil overlord with bouncy breasts who actually cared about trivial things such as sniffling children and diarrhoea, he would’ve probably done the same thing.
So he sat in his chair in jeans, a white button-up shirt that remained untucked, which he honestly thought looked better, and a tie. Sure, it was a Rolling Stones tie, with the trademark lips and tongue lolling out, but a tie nonetheless. Even if his cuffs were unbuttoned, it still didn’t detract from the fact he’d just returned from clinic duty. With a tie.
He let out a harsh sigh and smacked his thinking ball on the desk top. Really, it wasn’t so bad, otherwise he wouldn’t still be doing this. He was just having a bad day considering Rachel’s bad mood and Cuddy being irritable. She’d been unhappy with the fact House and Wilson had strolled in ten minutes late and when House had explained in her office why (that his leg had been acting up--he forgot to mention it was Rachel that had body slammed him) she seemed to be irritated with the fact he’d called Wilson instead. When he’d explained that he knew she was busy with the board meeting, she’d blinked slowly at him then said; “I was meeting with that potential donor, House. I told you that three times this last night.”
He didn’t admit that she was right, and that she had even reminded him they were having dinner with him that night, because he just wasn’t the type of guy who admitted he was in the wrong, no matter how much she wanted that from him. He didn’t get around to the fact that budget meetings, donors, and Dean of Medicine stuff bored the hell out of him so it was no wonder he forgot or that he missed Wilson so of course he’d called him. He did, however, make a snide comment when she scoffed at his tie, as she usually did. Just because he was going to wear ties didn’t mean he was going to walk in like some sort of . . . Wilson.
Speaking of Wilson, the door swished open and House glanced at the time on his computer monitor. It was eleven-thirty. Almost lunch. They hadn’t had lunch in a long while. In fact, the closest thing to a conversation they’d had recently was House acting like his obvious not-cancer patient had paraneoplastic syndrome and he was sure Wilson wasn’t stupid enough to think House was actually telling the truth, but hey, he had wanted to mock his putrid tie and Wilson still didn’t say anything about the one around House’s neck. He did glance at it, though. And other than the gobbled Egg McMuffin in the car after Sam had been dropped off, they hadn’t had a passable lunch together in what seemed like years although it was really only weeks.
Except for a brief hesitation where Wilson looked around his office quickly and half-heartedly, as if looking for any difference and finding none, he didn’t stop to go over and plop in his seat, idly playing with the end of his chartreuse tie and the only reason House knew the name of the colour was because Wilson saw fit to correct him when he first wore it and House said; “God, what colour is that? Pissed in pea soup or what?” House would’ve wondered why the hell Wilson knew the colour except that Wilson knew things that no straight man should, such as what culottes were.
“What’s up?” House asked.
Wilson shrugged. “Nothing. You, uh . . . nicked yourself shaving.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” he replied.
Wilson smiled softly. “So . . . I bought you something,” he informed, reaching into the deep pocket of his lab-coat. He revealed a rectangular-shaped gift, wrapped in green. The same wrapping paper as the Christmas gift he’d decided not to open. He slid it across his desk slowly and House watched it warily. He’d seen that shape of present before, just not for him.
House continued staring at it for a few seconds, then pushed it aside. “I’ll open it later.”
Wilson scoffed. “I’m not falling for that again, House. Just open it.”
He sighed and jerked it to him, ignoring that fact that the wrapping paper was the exact same shade of the green tie that made Wilson look pretty, and was unsurprised to find, inside the rectangular box, a tie of his very own. “You shouldn’t have,” he gushed. Wilson lowered his eyes, staring at his fingers that idly tugged on the ends and shook his head. “No, really. You shouldn’t have,” he insisted, then pulled out the tie.
“Well, I figure it won’t be too long until you grow tired of the Rolling Stones and Daffy Duck.”
House rolled his eyes but held his gift and analyzed it. The ties he’d come to work in were all childish or obnoxious. His favourite so far had been covered in flames--a tie Wilson had bought for him years ago for some inexplicable reason--but this tie was far from ridiculous. It wasn’t covered in lightning, jumbled words, cartoon characters, or trademarked band logos. It was silk and slightly thinner than most ties, and it was a deep burgundy but when the light hit it the colour shone an almost cherry colour. It was a beautiful tie, really; a waste to give it to a man who didn’t want to wear it.
He didn’t give his thanks, and he doubted Wilson expected it. He just put it back in the box. “What’s the occasion?”
“Reminded me of you,” Wilson explained with a one-armed shrug, eyes still focusing on his fingers that danced along the edges of his stupid piss-green noose. The colour itself was muted but bright; smart, eye-catching colour, but not worth a second glance. Wilson bought the ugly tie for himself, yet the tie he bought for House was far better.
“Ties remind you of me? God, have I really changed that much?” he asked with a scowl.
Wilson laughed and met House’s eyes; the first time since the rear-view mirror, which had been the first time in . . . well, since he kicked House out of the loft. “Not really, but if you were a tie-wearing man, that would be the one.”
“Cuddy talked to you. She doesn’t like my ties,” House accused.
Wilson snorted. “No, she didn’t talk to me. You started wearing ties, I figured Cuddy had something to do with it . . .”
“Did you buy it for me or her?” he asked and he didn’t mean to sound so irritated but he didn’t mind the fact that he did.
“It reminded me of you. I bought it for you.”
“It’s a far cry from the flames.”
“You’re wearing ties and moving in with Cuddy; you’re a far cry from flames,” Wilson responded calmly and matter-of-factly and House realized it wasn’t meant as an insult--just truth. His eyes moved away from House’s and focused on his lap and finally stopped fidgeting with his tie. “It’s bold. It’s . . . interesting. It’s you.”
He sighed and nodded slowly. He doubted he would ever find an excuse to wear it, unless he had to don a tux and watch Sam walk down the aisle, all aglow with momentary marital bliss.
“So did you want to get lunch?” Wilson offered after a long silence, eyes meeting his fleetingly.
“You’re buying,” he stated, knowing that at least that wouldn’t have changed as he pushed out of his chair and grabbed his cane.
“Naturally,” Wilson agreed and stood.
As they both moved to leave the room at the same time, their shoulders knocked roughly and they both looked at each other. They moved to leave the door simultaneously a second time and bumped again, and Wilson laughed nervously and House felt something in his gut churn before Wilson made a sweeping gesture with his, indicating House should go first and he did. They had never had this problem before he gradually-yet-accidentally moved in with Cuddy one month ago--something that Wilson had hypocritically been upset over; as if he hadn’t kicked his best friend out to make room for his sociopath of an ex-wife; as if their relationship would work anymore than it did last time.
For some reason there was enough space between them for a second person to walk which, while not completely and utterly mind-blowingly strange, did send a jolt right to House’s chest. Actually, when the elevator door pinged open and they walked into the empty space, he noticed the gap was actually larger than he had originally thought. Enough to fit two people. Generally, they walked close enough where, even if their arms or hands weren’t brushing, someone could not walk between them. Now, they stood on opposite sides of the elevator, Wilson folding his arms and looking at the numbers atop the silver doors, and House stared at his brand-new shiny cane--a simple wooden thing, the colour of soft gold, shiny with some sort of lacquer, and remembered leaving his cane at the crash site as penance for taking Hannah’s leg, or hell, maybe in remembrance. He didn’t deserve to walk with assistance if she couldn’t--not when he hadn’t allowed her to choose what he would’ve done.
It wouldn’t have mattered either way but now he wasn’t so sure he should’ve ripped off her limb. Better to die whole than incomplete with the false hope of actually making it through.
“If you can crawl through the wreckage of the site for Hannah, Greg, I don’t think you need to be taking that many pills so soon after your last batch.”
Sometimes he was House. Other times he was Greg. She was always Cuddy in his mind, whether or not her given name slipped out during conversation. He didn’t know why that bothered her so much considering that Wilson had never been James to him, either.
“Wilson,” he began with no actual idea of what he wanted to say.
Wilson looked over at him, brown eyes wide with interest. He hummed in question and House furrowed his eyes, eyeing the distance. Wilson shifted awkwardly when House stared at him again and then tilted his head, staring at the floor.
“House--” Wilson started at the same House said; “I just--”
They both shut up awkwardly and House eyed the distance again.
House tried to remember the last time they were in an elevator together and felt sick when he failed.
The look on Wilson’s face mirrored the sickening dread in House’s stomach, and the doors opened. They both left, House timing it purposely so they had to squeeze out together with their shoulders pushing and grinding, but when they left they took up the normal distance between two colleagues--enough for a third person to stand comfortably between them and still have a foot of space on either side of whoever the third person was.
“I was thinking,” Wilson said as he pushed open the door for House, allowing him to walk into the cafeteria first, “that you and I should get together tonight. Do something.”
“Well, I don’t normally put out this soon, but if you’re really lucky you might get a kiss on the porch,” he quipped, but only to cover up the awkwardness of the realization of just how distant they’d become. Brief head-nods in greeting and an email sent once or twice a week did not constitute a friendship, considering that their offices were so damn close.
Wilson brushed by him, standing in front of him in the lunch line, and smiled, turning his head so House could only see his profile as he piled more fries than was strictly necessary onto his plate. “So, am I to take that as a yes?”
“It’s a date,” he stated and Wilson glanced at him long enough to smile.
* * *
Clinic duty, whilst never the most exhilarating part of his day, did not irritate Wilson as much as it irritated House, so he didn’t spend the better part of his day hiding in his office or other people’s patients’ rooms. Then again, lately, although House hadn’t completely given up on avoiding work (because he most assuredly did avoid it) he was doing his hours a bit more frequently than was strictly necessary. In fact, the on-duty nurse had commented on it vaguely a few times and when House did manage to lock himself away Cuddy didn’t look for him because he had appeased her for the time being.
Then again, if House had ceased all impromptu hide-and-seek games, Wilson wouldn’t know because they hadn’t been very close lately--but all that would be remedied, hopefully, after tonight. He wasn’t naïve enough to think all would be put right and they would be able to be as close as they were, seeing as they were both dating at the moment, but they could at least get back to some version of normalcy. Something more than this relationship they had somehow dwindled into where they were just colleagues with a past.
If anybody noticed that they were drifting apart nobody said anything about it. He was sure Sam had noticed it, as Cuddy most likely did as well (granted, Cuddy probably noticed it more) but Sam probably didn’t mind the fact. It wasn’t that he thought Sam hated House by any means but he knew she disliked him more than she let on, seeing as whenever Wilson spoke about him she got a disinterested expression or anything she said was sickly sweet, as if in an ironic way. It did bother him, as it always had with his other girlfriends or wives, but he also knew House was an acquired taste and he couldn’t expect them to adore his best friend.
When he walked into his office, he wasn’t entirely surprised to see House lying on his couch, ankles crossed on the arm, Wilson’s coat stuffed underneath his head, one arm dropped to the floor and the other was across his abdomen, lips parted slightly and a small bit of drool hanging by the side of his mouth. His cane was leant against Wilson’s desk and Wilson just shook his head, removing his lab-coat which he normally would’ve hung up on the coat rock, but instead draped it over House, despite knowing that it couldn’t have warmed him that much. The fabric was too thin.
House smacked his lips together tiredly and made a sleepy little moan, and Wilson stared at his clean-shaven face. It didn’t seem possible that it could make him look simultaneously old and young at the same time. He hovered for a moment, just standing above his best friend, then sighed and returned to his desk, sitting at his desk quietly and pulling up a pen.
He contemplated locking the door and doing his work elsewhere, but for some reason he just didn’t feel like it. He wanted to be there when House woke up, like some sort of reassurance that they were okay. Anyway, House wasn’t so annoying when he was silent. He was looking forward to their night out together and even if House would just brush it off and act nonchalant, he knew he was looking forward to it too. And neither of them were dumb enough to deny that things had changed and not for the better--it had been awkward between them in the elevator, and even if they wouldn’t verbally admit it, they both knew it was there.
When he stared at House, sleeping on his couch like a toddler, it almost felt like nothing had changed. This hadn’t really changed; not really. House used to commandeer his couch to sleep on the nights his leg kept him up all night or when insomnia attacked him so that he puttered through the loft, watching television and playing piano and waking Wilson up to pester him. Of course, now that House didn’t live with him he didn’t have to deal with Mozart swelling into the night, drifting over him and enveloping him like a blanket; didn’t have to hear House’s deep chuckle at something inane muttered on the television; didn’t have to think about what sort of superpowers they would have had heroes and villains existed.
Wilson had to remind himself that not dealing with those situations was a good thing.
He scribbled his signature quickly then rubbed his hand over his face. House made some sort of sleepy noise and he glanced upwards to watch him shift slightly. His Rolling Stones tie twisted awkwardly around his throat, like it was trying to strangle him, and the sleeve of the arm across his abdomen was pushed halfway up his forearm and his untucked shirt had ridden up his stomach an inch. Only a sliver of skin was visible.
Wilson looked at his paperwork and started reading about finances; about new chemotherapy treatments; about House’s unbuttoned cuffs. Actually, he didn’t read anything about cuffs. He was just suddenly staring at them.
Actually, if he were to be honest, House slept on his couch more often now than he did before. He had fake cancer consults, too. Obviously House noticed the detachment as well and Wilson had noticed it a long time ago but the problem was the both of them had separate lives from each other now; not only did Wilson live with his girlfriend, but so did House. Not only did they have stressful jobs that took a lot of work (although it had never stopped House before, except House had steadily begun to work more often) but House also had a toddler to take care of in the morning after Cuddy left.
When Wilson tried to imagine House weaving a spoonful of food through the air making airplane noises, he scrunched up his face. He felt guilty for not being able to imagine House tickling Rachel, or them reading large books together, or going through their ABC’s . . . He sighed. It was horrible but it didn’t compute and the fact he couldn’t see it made Wilson feel like such a terrible friend.
The door opened like a cannon blast, which Wilson knew was a hyperbole, and Cuddy walked in. “Wilson have you seen--”
He pressed his finger to his lips and shushed, gesturing at House with his chin.
Cuddy looked at House and there was a brief smile on her face, and then she rolled her eyes irritably. “If he takes a nap now he won’t be able to sleep tonight and then he’ll be up all night an--”
“He’s not an infant,” Wilson told her calmly.
She folded her arms and raised a thin eyebrow at him, the amused arch coming off as almost smug. “And how long have you known House?”
Wilson felt something odd stir in his chest that wasn’t exactly a great feeling and swallowed. “All right, so he’s infantile, but he’s always taken naps in the middle of the afternoon--or day--or, well, evening . . .” He blinked rapidly for a few moments, the he shook his head. “This is just House.”
Cuddy bit down on her bottom lip and sighed, chest heaving and she nodded as if accepting that she had just lost her job. Then she rubbed her eyes and delicately plopped on the chair reserved for his patients. “How do you do it?”
“Well, normally one closes one’s eyes and relaxes--”
“Wilson,” she warned, icy eyes locked onto his.
He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. “It takes time, Cuddy. There is no one way to . . . Why are we talking about this?”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t . . . I mean, you two were never . . . together,” she brushed aside with a small headshake.
Despite the fact he knew what Cuddy meant, it still irked him that she would brush what they had away simply because they’d never been romantic. “Well, no, we were never--I mean, we’re just friends. We’re--we’re not gay. But, even still, that doesn’t mean that--well, it’s not that we don’t--we’re still close. We’re still friends. It just--I mean, we’ve known each other for years. I know you two met before we did, but I’ve still known him longer. I’m going to know things that, well, you wouldn’t.”
She pressed her fingers lightly to her temple and nodded slowly. “How do you . . .” She gestured vaguely, then tilted her head. “I mean, it’s great. Being with House. Really. It’s just . . . Sometimes he gets . . . moody.”
“A moody House. Stop the presses; that’s headline news.” Cuddy lowered her chin at him and he recognized that ‘I am not amused’ expression seeing as it was usually on his own face and generally directed at House. He couldn’t remember the last time he and Cuddy had talked, but he had a feeling it had something to do with furniture. It had seemed that once House was out of her life and she’d started dating Lucas, she had no need of Wilson. Once she had House, she hadn’t talked to Wilson as if . . . Well, she didn’t need him.
He’d always known that the common denominator between him and Cuddy had been House. It still didn’t mean he was pleased with the fact that once she got what she wanted, she had no need of him anymore. It was only when she wanted help with House that spoke with him. Like always.
“Cuddy, look . . . House is going to be House. There is no cure-all to make him more . . . I don’t know; presentable? What exactly do you want?”
“This isn’t about him being presentable, Wilson,” she stated and she almost sounded irritated. “I need him to be happy. I’m not saying he’s miserable, but there are times . . . I don’t know what to do. And when he’s upset, he’s less likely to . . . play nice.”
“Play nice,” he repeated and blinked once. “You want him to . . . ?” She stared openly at him and he saw the desperate need reflected in her eyes; the eyes of a woman who thought she might be losing someone she cared about; the eyes he’d seen in his reflection recently for some reason and he’d recognized only because all of his wives had stared at him like that before. “Macadamia nut pancakes,” he answered, then looked down at the paperwork.
“I’m serious,” she said and he realized that they were barely speaking in a voice above a whisper.
He blinked at her. “I know. So am I. He loves macadamia nut pancakes. I’m not saying he’ll be a right little ray of sunshine, but whenever we have an argument it seems to work.” Granted, he didn’t only make the pancakes after arguments--he made them when he was in a particularly good mood, or when he wanted the pancakes as well, but a day or two after an argument he always made them as a sort of ‘burying the hatchet’ deal. He and House would never verbally apologize--well, all right, so it had happened once or twice--so he pretended like he wasn’t apologizing when he cooked them and House pretended like sitting through a Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant marathon wasn’t torture for him although Wilson knew it was.
“I only ask because, well . . . a potential donor wants to meet with House before he decides so we were in discussion with having a dinner at our place.” Wilson hid the fact his brain screeched like a scratched record for a brief moment. Our place. Not too long ago, the loft had been ‘our place’ when he spoke of it to House. Strange hearing those same words from Cuddy regarding the same man. “I know House doesn’t like talking with donors so I . . . wanted to make it up to him.”
“So cook him pancakes for breakfast.”
“I’ll need a recipe,” she asked quietly.
It wasn’t until Wilson had smiled politely and started inscribing the ingredients that he had a moment of hesitation. His finger stopped just long enough for a small black dot to bleed out on the second G of eggs, and something felt wrong, as if he were betraying a whispered secret of a friend. The moment was brief before he hastily finished the rest of the ingredients.
He pushed it across the desk and she took it, her brows lowered as she read over the ingredients and she looked more upset than pleased. He thought over the ingredients, remembered the milk and eggs, and he sighed. “You can’t expect House to live a vegan lifestyle.”
She glanced at him. “I don’t. I wasn’t expecting . . .” She folded the scrap of paper and stared at his desk instead of him. “All this time and it never occurred to me to even ask what he liked to eat.”
“He’s . . . not a very open guy, Cuddy. Even when you ask, he’s . . .”
“You knew.”
“I’ve also slept on his couch, went through the infarction, stood beside him when Stacy left . . . This is just the beginning for you two. What House and I have been through, well . . . you learn a few things.”
Cuddy frowned for a moment and there was a flicker of some odd emotion before she smiled briefly. “Thank you, Wilson,” she whispered, then stood and brushed off her skirt. She nodded once, then left his office.
The click of his door sounded hollow and almost eerie, despite the fact he’d heard it a thousand times before, and when he looked over at the peacefully napping House, he wondered if Cuddy would ever allow him to sleep on her couch.
* * *
House supposed, considering how the morning started, his day actually hadn’t been too bad. Clinic, although absolutely loathsome as per usual, was actually a little less irritating than normal seeing as his third clinic patient had perky breasts, legs that went on for miles, and a completely embarrassing malady (she had a roll of quarters stuck inside her vagina) and he almost paged Wilson for ‘help’ but then remembered they were both dating someone else and considering the fact she hadn’t been wearing a ring but there was a strip of lighter skin, it meant she was recently divorced and despite the amazing tits, House wasn’t sure he wanted Wilson to hop from Sam right into Needy Clinic Patient.
However, even if the day could have been worse, it wasn’t exactly great, and after some idiotic toddler with a bean shoved in his ear, he’d dragged his tired ass to Wilson’s couch and plopped on it with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, and woke up sometime later with the smell of watermelon wafting over him and pens staring innocently at him, seeing as Wilson’s pocket had somehow managed to shift right in front of his face. The lab-coat actually did nothing to warm him, although he didn’t complain when he sat up and knocked both the lab-coat and the jacket he’d been using as a pillow to the floor.
“Time is it?” he asked sluggishly.
“Four,” Wilson answered, and House realized that although this wasn’t the first time he’d woken up in Wilson’s office, the door locked and the tell-tale signs of Wilson having been in there recently, it was the first time since he’d started dating Cuddy that he’d woken up with Wilson still in the room.
He yawned and stretched, his back popping satisfyingly and when he stretched out his legs, his thigh muscle tightened uncomfortably and almost verged on pain. He hissed a bit when it throbbed dully, and he pressed his palm into his muscle with a slight wince.
Wilson eyed it and raised his eyebrows briefly in question, but didn’t say anything.
House almost explained that Rachel had slammed into him, but for some reason decided against it like it would somehow break something precious; like mentioning the recently dead kitten daddy ran over with his car that night at dinner only a few minutes after the daughter finally stopped crying. He grimaced when he thought of fur on his motorbike’s wheels, and let out a sigh.
“Don’t you have rounds?” House asked when he glanced at his watch and found that it was actually nearer to four-thirty.
Wilson looked away from his paperwork to meet House’s eyes. “In a minute,” he answered after a brief pause.
House wasn’t an idiot and Wilson was always early for his rounds. If he left within the next ten minutes he wouldn’t be late, but he always showed up early and talked longer than necessary with his dying cue balls. Since Wilson’s head bowed again to stare at his paperwork, House allowed a brief smile that was more of a half-smirk since Wilson couldn’t see.
“What time are we going out?” he asked, needing to remind Wilson of the fact they were getting together later before any blonde harpies convinced him otherwise.
“I need to pick up my dry-cleaning before six; if you’re not opposed to doing errands with me, we can leave right after work.”
“Do we hafta?” he half-whined and although Wilson’s head was bowed House could still tell he was smiling.
Wilson finally pushed out of his chair and pointed at the lab-coat House had knocked to the floor. House used his cane to pick it up from the floor and tossed it in the direction of Wilson, who fumbled with it briefly, all of his pens flipping out of his pocket and twisting through the air before thudding to the carpet. Wilson dropped his chin a little and blinked once at him, a thin, almost-annoyed grimace turning into a half-amused smile as he knelt down and picked up the pens, shaking his head at the carpet.
House stood off of the couch while Wilson continued to gather his fallen comrades. Wilson glanced upward to glare good-naturedly at him and House leered. “Well, since you’re down there . . .” House said huskily with an over-the-top waggle of his eyebrows.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to exacerbate your leg. Besides, I have to get a head start on my rounds,” he replied as he stood, slipping into his lab coat with an ease House had never managed to exude, considering he never actually wore the thing. With his eyebrows raised and his eyes wide and open, looking entirely serious, he finished with; “Rain check?”
“Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep,” House retorted, sounding slightly more serious than he’d intended.
Neither of them froze; they just didn’t move. In fact, it wasn’t until two seconds later that House realized they were still looking at each other, one step away from each other. Wilson’s thin-but-playful smile faded from his face and House tilted his head to the side a bit, as if contemplating a piece of art in front of him.
Wilson cleared his throat and then went to the door, opening it for House. He walked out first and it wasn’t until they separated that he realized he felt something in his chest he couldn’t quite describe.
* * *
House was surprisingly unobtrusive as he picked up his dry-cleaning and as they stopped by the grocery store. He’d momentarily forgotten he’d given his macadamia nut pancake recipe to Cuddy until, as they had been walking down the aisle, House plucked a bag of macadamia nuts from the shelf and plopped it into the cart, which when he thought about it didn’t make much sense seeing as they didn’t live together--unless House was planning on staying the night sometime in the future. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking on his part, but Wilson almost felt touched at the thought, until he remembered Cuddy would be the one cooking the pancakes from now on.
He would just have to find something else to cook instead.
However, although House had his cynical-yet-true-and-amusing comments on just about everything, and even asked completely ridiculous questions as if delving into the topic meant all the world to him, he didn’t pry, which was . . . strange. He’d been expecting a full-blown analysis of his and Sam’s relationship, along with perhaps some bragging with how much better he and Cuddy were doing, and maybe even a thinly-veiled comment about Wilson’s philandering ways and an accusation or two.
However, all topics relating to relationships and dating and girlfriends were conspicuously absent. Had he not known better he would assume it just hadn’t crossed his mind. However, since he did know better, he knew House was purposely avoiding the topic and he only avoided topics he didn’t want to discuss or analyze. Perhaps he was afraid that he and Sam were working out just fine and another marriage was on the way which . . . Well, might not be entirely inaccurate, not that Wilson was planning on proposing anytime soon. Or maybe House just didn’t want the questions turned around on him.
House moved in with Cuddy after only a month into their new relationship which, all right, in House’s standards wasn’t necessarily fast. Stacy had moved in after a week and he hadn’t even known her. He’d known Cuddy for ages. Still, though, something didn’t feel right about that. Getting up early, taking care of Rachel, wearing ties and shaving and actually working . . .
Maybe Wilson was just jealous because he was willing to do all of those things for Cuddy, but for him he wouldn’t have even bothered to pick up his dirty towels from the bathroom floor after he specifically told him not to use his tub. But, the more he thought about it, House pounding away on his organ past midnight, or him camping out in Coma Guy’s room with his Game Boy while one of his soaps blared on the television, or even stealing his food hadn’t actually been all that irksome.
Shaving and wearing ties didn’t change a man any more than donning a black shirt and spiking one’s hair out did. However it still felt like something was changing; something had changed. They’d gone from being as close as they had ever been to being practically strangers in two months. The ties weren’t to blame and maybe House wasn’t entirely different in personality, but something was still off enough for him to feel displeased with the situation.
For once in his life, he actually understood what it was like to be House, watching as his best friend sidled up beside some woman who was completely wrong for him.
Now he was just being unfair. It wasn’t for him to decide if Cuddy was wrong for House or not.
After they’d finished Wilson’s errands (many complaints from House colouring the event) Wilson didn’t bother stopping by the loft. Instead he drove to the nearest diner, they sat in the furthest, darkest booth, and the familiar waitress flounced over to them and bubbled in her practiced flirtatious way that probably earned her outrageous tips.
“Haven’t seen you two for awhile,” she greeted with a grin. “Want the usual or do you think you’ll need some time to discuss your options?” She caught Wilson’s eye a bit longer than she caught House’s, but he was sure it was only because she knew by then who would be paying.
“I’m in the mood for a change,” House murmured, then whipped open the menu.
It wasn’t anything dire. House getting bored of the same meal he usually had wasn’t anything strange. House often got a new ‘usual’ especially since he was easily bored. Still, something about it unnerved Wilson and he nodded his agreement at their waitress with a smile.
“I’ll be back once you’ve had time to consider,” she promised with a light touch to House’s shoulder and she walked away.
Wilson watched House’s electric blue eyes dart over the menu. His eyes were similar to Cuddy’s--sharp, vivid, blue. He imagined family pictures with a clean-shaven House standing slightly behind Cuddy, right hand clasped over her left shoulder and a five-year-old Rachel standing in front of them, all three of them smiling false smiles, as family pictures always sported, at the camera. He imagined all the perfectly posed and carefully positioned portraits, placed in some sort of pattern along Cuddy’s walls. He thought of the plastic-y feel to each picture; the false, fake representations of their lives at home.
Oh, God. He was even starting to think like House.
“How’s work?” Wilson asked after his eyes dragged over to his usual, as if magnetized.
“Small talk? Really?” House blurted in a tone of disgust and he dropped the menu to stare at Wilson like one would stare at particularly nasty bug.
Wilson reeled back at the realization. “Wow. I hadn’t even--I didn’t mean . . .” He shook his head, then let out a long, resigned sigh as he folded his menu and placed it on the table, hands clasped on top. “Why is this so awkward?” he asked finally, unable to verbally ignore it any longer.
“Because small talk sucks,” House answered or maybe evaded. It was hard to tell which sometimes. “It’s not very fun being on this end of the my-best-buddy’s-dating shtick, is it?”
“Ah, yes. I clearly see your motivation now--you dating Cuddy was all an elaborate scheme to get revenge on me for dating Sam.” There was a brief pause where they teetered from joking into serious, and Wilson swallowed. “I’ve been busy, House,” he explained, hating how guilty he felt so suddenly at their distance.
“I know,” House admitted, his eyes ticking downward and staring at his closed menu.
“With Sam and my caseload, I just haven’t--”
House’s warm palm pressed against Wilson’s knuckles briefly--just long enough for him to feel the pressure and to shut his mouth. “I know,” he repeated firmly.
Although his hand was gone, Wilson’s skin was still a little warmer than it should have been.
“Sam approve of our little night out?” House asked, that familiar note of disbelief in his tone. And perhaps a bit of mocking, too.
Wilson should have had a moment of panic where he suddenly remembered Sam had suggested a double-date and that he hadn’t called her to inform her of his change in plan. The truth was, though, he hadn’t forgotten--he’d just . . . evaded. If he called her to tell her he’d decided to go out with House, alone, he’d have to hear the brief and awkward pause, and the strained questions that followed, tinged with a tone that he knew was supposed to make him feel a little guilty but didn’t work, which actually made him feel worse. So, like the fact she often used his books as coasters, he ignored the whole thing.
“We haven’t seen each other for awhile, House. I talked to her about it this morning, actually. She was receptive to the idea.”
“That’s a lengthy yes. Evasion?”
“She wanted to double-date,” he answered.
House scowled. “Sounds fun,” he murmured sarcastically, although there was a slight curve on the side of his mouth; a tell-tale sign he was attempting to hide a grin. “Who would’ve won, you think?”
“Me, naturally,” he replied with a shrug. “You’d be too busy trying to get Sam and I to fight, and Cuddy would be trying too hard to be professional.”
“Sam would be all sickeningly sweet and overly-domestic. But you know how vicious girls can be, Wilson. There might’ve been a cat-fight.”
“Oh, damn. If only I’d had the foresight to think of that. I suppose we’ll have to go without.”
“Yeah, the eye-gouging would’ve totally been worth it,” House stated sincerely, and Wilson chuckled. They both smiled at each other and Wilson felt warmth spread through him; warmth he hadn’t felt for a long while.
Wilson thought of Sam watching the clock and glancing at her phone. He knew she wouldn’t text until it was nearing nine, but he also knew that while he was gone she would probably be thinking of all the times he’d had to stay late at work when in actuality he’d been keeping someone else’s bed warm. She wasn’t paranoid like House was, or jealous, despite the fact she had every right to be seeing as he’d been unfaithful. Worse, even knowing how it would make her pace and worry, he still didn’t want to go through the inconvenience of having to listen to her fail to hide the fact she was disappointed.
“Perhaps we’ll have to have a double-date, then.”
“I’ll bring the Jell-O,” House promised, motioning over the waitress.
“Jell-O?”
“For the wrestling. Mud is so last decade,” he explained as their waitress practically glided to the edge of their table, eyes bright with what Wilson assumed was practiced sincerity. She looked at House expectantly. “I changed my mind. I’ll think I’ll go with the usual,” he told her, but his eyes were on Wilson instead.
* * *
Other than the minor hiccup during the beginning of their meal, sliding into familiar banter with House was easy. Once that hurdle had been handled, everything seemed to spill forth and they ended up having several refills and slowly picking away at their dinner (or rather, Wilson slowly picking away at his dinner while House casually ate from both plates.) House told him about a clinic patient with a roll of quarters in an uncomfortable place, and Wilson told him about a twelve-year-old terminal female patient of his that had a crush on him and shamelessly flirted with him despite her parents’ embarrassment. House made a joke about Chase, thus proving that House never let good material slide even years later, and that he could still make Wilson choke on his iced tea and laugh to the point of near tears.
They’d ordered dessert and Wilson momentarily forgot about his love-handles and cholesterol long enough to order something that would’ve made Sam cluck her tongue. House ordered something that would’ve made Sam fall over and die had Wilson ordered it, and they both ate and finally discussed life with their girlfriends, even if it was brief and not incredibly informative. Wilson told House about how he and Sam alternated cooking and House explained that Cuddy was great in bed.
Talking about their love lives was superficial and brief and they quickly moved onto different topics. Wilson didn’t mind it; he’d rather avoid talking about Sam around House, anyway.
It was eight-thirty by the time they finally decided to leave; Wilson paid the check, avoided flirting with the waitress but House still made a comment anyway, and they both moved to turn up the stereo when a Rolling Stones song began to play so that their hands knocked.
Wilson rolled to a stop in front of Cuddy’s house and he stared up the walkway at the porch light and through the windows and the golden glow of her home. He’d been in there a few times; enough to know the layout. The fact that he’d stopped the car so that the passenger window faced the yard meant that he was also looking at House, who turned his head to reciprocate the glance. Wilson refocused his eyes so that they weren’t gazing past him.
The car idled; he wasn’t parked. The thrum of the engine and the soft, barely-audible music washed over him and filled him with an odd mixture of nostalgia, longing, and comfort. House didn’t smile at him or do anything comforting or reassuring, but it somehow felt like he had.
“Well,” House started, dragging the L sound out a bit longer than necessary.
Wilson nodded at him.
House opened his mouth as if to say something else, then he closed it and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m stealing your lunch tomorrow. I need some fattening up. Tofu sucks.”
Wilson barely suppressed a grin. He knew House was asking to eat lunch with him tomorrow. “This might be a completely ridiculous suggestion, but perhaps telling Cuddy what you like to eat would be wise?”
“You’re right.” House smirked. “That is a completely ridiculous suggestion.”
Wilson shook his head, smiled thinly, and the silence dragged on for a second longer before he realized they were looking at each other, smiling thinly.
“I should probably get home before Sam worries about me,” he blurted when that one second evolved into three and the air surrounding them started to feel less like dropping a friend off and more like something he’d rather not name.
“That tight leash starting to chafe yet?” House murmured as he pushed open the car door and slipped out. Before Wilson could comment, he slammed the door shut.
Wilson sighed and drove away.
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