Sing me no song, read me no rhyme
Don't waste my time, show me
"House, what is this?"
"That? Big square thing sucking out the brains of our country's future work source? Com. Pu. Ter."
"Yes, thank you. I recognize the technology. No, this."
Wilson rotated the screen toward House, who gave it a cursory glance before resuming his game of paddle ball. "Are you trying to impress me with the fact you have an unlimited line of credit with American Express? Because frankly, at this point in my life, the only way I'm gonna put out is if you get one of those Black cards. You get one of those and I'm yours for life."
Wilson's lips tightened. "House, you'd put out for a bag of pita chips and bus fare. No, look at this."
An insistent finger pointed toward one of the charges listed on the screen. House squinted at it as he stuffed the paddle into his lab coat pocket, currently worn in concession to a small disagreement he was having with Cuddy.
"A flower arrangement. Oh, and a nice one, too. Two hundred dollars worth." He shook his head. "Seems a bit like overkill—what's her name?"
"Damn it, stop screwing around. You used my card to send flowers to someone!"
House drew back, his voice suffused with wounded dignity. "I never! You distinctly said, when you loaned me your card when mine mysteriously disappeared, that I could use it only for the repairs on the bike. Do you really think I'd betray your trust and abuse your good nature? And by sending flowers, of all things? Now, if it was a charge for a case of Ketel One and a suite at the Hilton, I'd say your suspicions had merit."
"Who'd you send them to?" Wilson's tone was grim. "It was Stacy, wasn't it. You're still regretting sending her away."
House felt something inside him slip; he grabbed for it and held on, refusing to relinquish control of the situation. He couldn't think of Stacy now, didn't dare remember the clenching in his gut when he'd told her to leave. He'd kept telling her it was for her own good, but that brutal internal voice he could never quite stifle hadn't let him get away with that for long. He'd never been very good at self-sacrifice and the truth of the statement was sitting beside him now, staring up at him with distrust and no small amount of annoyance.
"You haven't established that I've sent anyone flowers and if I had, it wouldn't have been to Stacy. A bit awkward, sending flowers to your former lover while she's busy reconciling with her husband."
Wilson's eyes narrowed. "Not that that would stop you."
"Well, no," House agreed. "And yet I didn't send her flowers."
"Then who?"
"Why are you so obsessed with this?" House complained. "Aren't there other things you should be doing, like saving lives and chasing buxom nurses?"
"Business is slow and I don't chase nurses." Wilson turned the screen back with a sigh. House was reaching for his paddle when there was another outraged snort from Wilson.
"My God—here's another one!"
"More flowers? You'd better call Amex and tell them there's a serial florist charging up your account."
"Not flowers, you idiot. Another charge you put on my card! Eight hundred dollars at Nordstrom?" Wilson looked him up and down with scorn. "Well, we know it didn't go for clothes—and what the hell do you have all over your coat?"
House looked down. "Let's see. Blood, room three. Baby poop, room six, um..." He gathered the front of the coat and sniffed a stain near its hem. "Vomit, I think. Rooms one and four." He looked up. "Busy day at the clinic."
"That's disgusting. Why don't you change your—oh, I get it. Cuddy's making you wear a coat again so you'll make sure it's as gross as possible and she'll order you to take it off."
"Wrong. It's a little way Cuddy has of showing that she's hot for me. She thinks I look studly in white, but since my heart belongs to someone else, I'm doing my best to dissuade her."
"Your heart? Give me a break." Wilson sounded disdainful, but House heard the soft thread of uncertainty. He suppressed a smile when Wilson steered the conversation back to the credit card bill. "So what did you charge at Nordstrom, or should I be afraid to ask?"
"I couldn't possibly be charging anything on your card, my dear James, because you made me give it back."
"Then how—" Wilson stood up abruptly. "Oh, my God. Please don't tell me you got a card issued in your name on my account."
House's mouth widened into a satisfied grin. Wilson had figured it out faster than he'd anticipated. Not that he minded; the sooner they got through the preliminaries, the faster they'd move on the main event, namely James Wilson's total surrender to the inevitable.
"It wasn't that hard," he said with a modest shrug. "All they needed was your personal information. I just happened to know most of it and what I didn't know, I looked up on Cuddy's computer. She really needs to lock it up when she's out of her office. Privacy issues, you know."
"You impersonated me." Wilson stared at him, somewhere between outraged and impressed, just the way House wanted him to be. Right now, anyway; he had plans for another, less varied range of emotions later.
"More or less. Seems I have a talent for pretending to be handsome, young—hmm, maybe not so young anymore, but still fetching—oncologists who want to help out their best friend in his time of need. Really quite generous of you. This divorce has made you go all gooey inside."
Silence fell inside the office as Wilson raised his eyes to the ceiling in helpless supplication. House fingered the paddle in his pocket and watched Wilson out of the corner of his eye, waiting to see which way Wilson was going to go. His ability to predict Wilson's behavior had been severely curtailed since the divorce had turned bitter—another reason why he loathed the current Mrs. Almost-Not-Wilson. He'd hate her even more if she hadn't come to her senses and left the poor slob alone and vulnerable.
"Fine." Wilson's voice was flat. "Keep the card, just write a check for the charges."
House's face sagged into folds of wounded dignity. "You expect me to pay you back? You're a cold bastard, you really—"
He was interrupted when Wilson's phone rang. The conversation was brief and awkward and House loved every minute of it, even after Wilson had hung up the phone and turned to face him with fire in his eyes. Wilson's mouth opened and closed a few times as House watched him wind himself into a fine rage, but in the end, it didn't come. House was anticipating an enormous storm to erupt, for Wilson to throw up his hands, maybe throw him out of his office or maybe the hospital, if he was lucky. He was a little disappointed when Wilson made a strong effort to rein in his emotions.
"That was Julie, obviously. Apparently the delivery was just made, which explains your perfect timing on being in my office at this particular time of day." Wilson bit his lower lip, drawing House's gaze. Wilson caught the look and stepped backward, doing a turn around the office and stopping when his desk was between them. "I don't pretend to understand the way your mind works, but this is strange, even for you. I assume this is some psychic blowback from that debacle of a love affair you just concluded, some kind of karmic insurance so that I'm as miserable as you."
"No one can be as miserable as I am," House replied blandly. "It's the one place where I have no competition. But let's make one thing crystal clear, shall we? Stacy was mine. I had her. She fucking betrayed her crippled husband for me. And I told her to go. I didn't ask her, I didn't suggest it—I told her to leave."
"For reasons only you understand, of course."
"And I'm trying to rectify that, if you'd just pay attention."
"You want me to add my justification for one of the stupidest moves you've ever made?"
"Tsk, tsk, dear Wilson." House reached for his cane. "You're being outstandingly obtuse, even for you. I'd love to take this conversation to its logical end, but your desk is too small and my back would never be the same. So, tell you what. I'll sleep with you tonight and we'll call it even on the Amex bill."
"Oh, no. If you want to sleep with a boy, ask Chase. Odds are three to one he's bi, according to the oncology nursing staff betting pool."
"I don't want to sleep with a boy, I want to sleep with a man. And not just any man, or I'd ask Foreman. Tempting, though. I bet he likes rough sex," he added with a pleasurable shudder before turning serious again. "I want to sleep with you."
"But—but we're friends. Best friends, according to everyone else in the hospital, including you and me. It would ruin everything."
"Okay." House hooked his cane on the desk and made a motion in the air like ripping a page in half. "There. No more best friends. Can we be lovers now?"
Wilson was growing paler by the minute, something House took as a good sign. "It's not that easy."
"It's not because you won't let it be. You'd rather believe that Stacy and I are star-crossed lovers and you're the faithful sidekick who supports me in my time of need. Nice and safe, eh, Sancho?"
"That's not true."
"Oh, it is. Be honest, you were more upset when Stacy left than I was, especially with you heading toward the break up of your, let's see, that would be your third marriage. You're scared shitless and you can't even admit it."
"What am I scared of?"
"Of having to be accountable for everything that's between us. Take away Julie, take away Stacy and hey, look—nothing but House and Wilson, the dynamic doctoring duo."
"Juvenile alliteration aside, I know damn well you don't feel—"
"I do. I have. I sent flowers to your ex-wife, thanking her for divorcing you. What else do I need to do to prove it to you?"
"And the Nordstrom charge?"
"Sheets. We're gonna need a lot of them, I think."
"That's—that's—"
"Perverted?"
"Sexy." Wilson cleared his throat. "It's sexy," he repeated. "That coat, however, is nauseating."
Victory at last, House thought. He picked up his cane and moved toward the door.
"Fine. I'll slip into something more comfortable and meet you later."
House glanced over his shoulder. Wilson was looking almost bereft, his hands sunk in his pockets and brown eyes cast toward the floor. He wanted to tell him that everything would be all right, but he kept his mouth shut. Actions spoke louder than words, so action was exactly what Wilson was going to get.
When Wilson answered the door later that night, House's amusement was swiftly concealed. Given more toward sweat pants and college tee shirts at home, Wilson was wearing a dark red polo shirt and black jeans. Date outfit, House thought with satisfaction. Life is good.
"What are you doing here?" Wilson kept himself wedged between the door and the jamb. House ignored the obvious meaning and shoved his cane against the door.
"Oh, stop it. I know you don't have anyone here. Let me in, the fish tacos are getting cold."
The door was released and House pushed in, shoving the warm bag into Wilson's hands. No words were spoken as Wilson retreated to the kitchen, giving House a chance to get a good look at Wilson's temporary digs.
They were pretty dull, considering how much Wilson made in a year, another fact gleaned from House's information gathering to get his card. There was nothing of Wilson's personality in the small apartment, no pictures, no mementos of any kind that House could see. The furniture was sturdy and uninspiring, the artwork on the walls generic. He took a seat in the middle of the couch and slowly lifted his aching leg onto the coffee table. When Wilson re-entered the room with two plates laden with tacos and tortilla chips, he was looking through TV Guide and surfing TV channels with the sound muted.
"Just like old times," Wilson said as he sat one plate next to House's hip. "Except now I get to throw you out, not the other way around."
House chewed on a chip before replying. "Not exactly. I threw you out because you were a miserable roommate and I wasn't getting laid. I don't see that scenario happening here."
Wilson sat on the floor next to House, using the couch as a back rest. "You're delusional. What's on TLC?"
Dinner was companionable, but House felt the tingling thrill of growing sexual tension. Wilson hadn't offered him anything stronger than diet soda, which told House that he was determined to keep a clear head. That was fine with him; he'd taken his Vicodin before coming over and by the time the dinner mess had been cleared away, he was as comfortable as he was going to be.
House patted the space on the couch beside him as Wilson returned from the kitchen.
"Take a load off."
Wilson eyed him suspiciously. "What makes you think I want to sleep with you?" he asked abruptly.
House's brows drew together in confusion. "You mean you don't?"
He was counting on Wilson's inherent honesty—and it came through for him.
"Maybe I do," Wilson said with a touch of defiance. "Doesn't mean it's a great idea."
House patted the couch again. "Have a seat and let's discuss it."
Wilson sat down, angling his body toward House as he pressed his back against the arm of the sofa. Feigning annoyance, House closed his eyes and tilted his head backward until it rested on the couch's edge.
"In case you haven't noticed, I have a bum leg. That makes it very hard to make out on a couch if you don't do some of the work."
"Make out?" Wilson said hoarsely. "You take a lot for granted."
Eyes still closed, House reached out until his hand connected with Wilson's arm. He slid his hand down until his palm rested on top of Wilson's. When Wilson didn't draw away, he curved his fingers around Wilson's hand and gave it a firm tug.
The couch dipped as Wilson's weight shifted. House turned his head, looking directly into Wilson's worried eyes.
"You know me better than that," he murmured. "I take nothing for granted."
Who leaned forward the last few inches, House neither knew nor cared. He was immediately swept up into the dizzy sweetness he'd always suspected would be found in Wilson's mouth. Tentative at first, Wilson's lips moved gently against his as each of them began the sensuous journey of taste and texture. House knew the skin on his face was abrasive with half-grown beard, but Wilson didn't seem to mind, scooting closer as he laid his hand high on House's leg. The touch forced a groan from House and he twisted his hips, allowing Wilson's fingers to slide into the warm fold of fabric at House's thigh.
His fingers were just beginning to explore the supple skin at the base of Wilson's throat when Wilson broke off the kiss and pulled back. Stricken by the terrifying possibility that Wilson was having second thoughts, he squeezed his eyes closed and clenched the fabric of Wilson's shirt tightly in his fist.
"Whatever you're thinking, don't do it," he said between gritted teeth.
There was a heartbeat of silence before he felt Wilson slide closer still, aligning their bodies until there was no space between them. He felt a soft, warm draught of breath at his ear and he shivered, fearful and aroused and all too aware that he was more vulnerable to Wilson than he'd ever been with Stacy.
"Just one thing," Wilson whispered. "Don't tear up the friendship, okay? Can we try and be both lovers and friends first before we really fuck things up?"
House opened his eyes, so relieved he had to blink twice before he could meet Wilson's gaze. "Lovers and friends simultaneously? Sounds a hell of a lot like marriage to me."
For the first time that day, Wilson smiled. "It does, doesn't it. Well, I'm game—are you?"
House answered the question wordlessly, letting his actions speak for themselves.
Don't talk of love lasting through time
Make me no undying vow
Show me now
Feedback: email.