Calendar, House MD- Wouse

January 1st, 2:47 am

One of the larger conference rooms had been transformed into a slightly kitschy silver and white wonderland. Ice sculptures decorated the buffet table and tinsel adorned every surface that would stand still long enough. But seeing the ordinary room transformed didn’t even begin to rival the weirdness of seeing his coworkers decked out in their festive best, leaving behind the scrubs and lab coats for evening gowns and tuxes. Wilson had never much cared for office parties; there was always something vaguely unsettling about them. No one could quite forget that these people were their colleagues, that their boss was watching and that their reputation was still at stake. Well, almost no one…

“Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville…searchin’ for my lost shaker of salt!”

Wilson had to give House credit; what he lacked in singing ability he made up in volume. Though judging by the sidelong looks and outright stares, most of the PPTH staff disagreed. Wilson didn’t know why they were surprised at the display; he would have thought they’d be used to House’s antics. At least now he was away from patients and not on the clock. Everyone was allowed to misbehave at the New Year’s party. Some more than others.

“Take it away, Jimmy!” House threw an arm around his shoulder and raised his cane as if to conduct. Wilson staggered under the unexpected weight, and then righted them both. He spared an apologetic smile for their audience. House didn’t have any work relationships to maintain, but Wilson rather hoped to leave the soiree with most of his intact.

“Um, thanks but no thanks. There’s no way I can match your dulcet tones.”

House nodded seriously. “So true. Fine, then get us a drink!” He nearly clocked a passing obstetrician with an expansive wave of his cane.

“I think maybe we’ve had enough to drink.” Wilson tried to maneuver them over to the nearest table, which was made a touch difficult since House was refusing to help in the slightest.

“Nonsense. This is New Year’s. It’s practically our duty to get absolutely plastered. Because nothing gets a year off to a good start like a roaring hangover.” Wilson got House settled into one of the chairs with minimal leg-jostling, and sunk into the chair next to him, hoping that House would be content to sit for a while. A hope that was, as per usual, completely in vain. Three sexist comments and a sports-inspired rant later, House rose awkwardly, nearly tipping the chair over backward.

“Wilson, I’m ready to blow this joint.” He fished his keys out of a pocket, brandishing them in what was probably supposed to be an onwards-type gesture.

Wilson made a grab for them, successfully snagging them from House’s grasp. “Not a chance. You’re in no condition to drive.” He stashed the keys in his own pocket, twisting to avoid the recovery attempt; considering House’s coordination right now, there was no telling where those grasping hands could end up. “I’m going to call you a cab. You will wait here.” As if orders ever had any effect on House.

“Sure thing.” House gave a mock salute. He was definitely wearing that mischievous expression that invariably meant trouble. Wilson considered; even if he called a cab and managed to manhandle House into it, there was no way he could prevent House from telling the driver to turn around once Wilson was out of sight. He knew from personal experience that even when drunker than a skunk House could almost always pass for sober if he put his mind to it. Wilson didn’t want to know how he’d gotten the practice.

“Dammit.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Fine, I’m going to take you home.”

“Take me home?” House purred. “Shouldn’t you at least buy me dinner first?” A couple of the ICU nurses looked at them sharply as House’s voice carried and Wilson reddened, which probably just confirmed their suspicions.

“I buy you dinner all the time and haven’t gotten any yet,” he pointed out.

“Don’t mind him,” House told the nurses. “He’s just sexually frustrated.”

“Not just sexually,” Wilson muttered under his breath.

Thankfully the long halls of the hospital were dim and empty and they made it Wilson’s car without major incident, though Wilson was sure House was making an effort to be difficult, practically forcing Wilson to carry him. He helped House into the passenger seat, confiscating the cane and throwing it in the back seat after the third time House ‘accidentally’ jabbed him in the ribs with it.

Wilson kept a careful eye on House on the way to his apartment. House could hold a remarkable amount of alcohol, but Wilson wasn’t willing to risk a vomit-drenched dashboard on that. But House seemed in remarkably good spirits, keeping a lively, if somewhat one-sided dialogue that may or may not have been about allegory in Gormenghast. Wilson wasn’t sure, busy as he was avoiding other drivers who’d clearly had too good a time at whatever party they were leaving, but whatever it was, House definitely felt strongly about it.

At House’s apartment, he left the cane in the car. He could run back for it later, and House was in no shape to use it now anyway. And though he’d never admit it, it gave him an excuse to hang onto House a little longer. Greg had never been affectionate kind of guy; he kept people as distant physically as he did emotionally. Punches on the arm were okay, but anything not masquerading as violence was off limits. Except for times like this, when alcohol was providing a comfortable buffer. Wilson lived for times like this.

He waited patiently, ignoring the bitter cold as House fumbled with his keys.

“Want to come in?” House said casually enough, perhaps he wasn’t as far gone as Wilson had thought.

Wilson hesitated. “No, I should get back.”

“What? Planning on going back to the party and picking up one of the interns?”

“No.” Wilson checked his watch; it was almost six. “They’ve all left by now anyway.” He said it just to annoy House.

“Then come in, have one last drink.”

“That’s okay, as much fun as watching you pass out is…”

“What, you’re going to risk me choking on my own vomit?”

“House. It’s fucking cold. At this point, I’m hoping you’ll choke on your vomit. Wouldn’t that be ironic, you choking by your own bile?”

“Mmm, very,” House agreed. “But then who would you feel morally superior to? You have to keep me around; you look too good by comparison.”

“Fine.” Wilson grimaced, knowing that this argument would end like all of their arguments and he would cede, might as well cut the time he spent freezing his ass off short. “But only one drink.”

But in the way it usually did, one drink rather quickly became two, then three and Wilson quickly caught up to House. They sprawled on House’s couch, watching late night television until it became early morning television.

Happy New Year.

February 14th

It lay on House’s desk, pink and red and unbelievably girly. House picked the envelope up gingerly as though it might bite or explode or something and looked at Wilson, who’d situated himself in the chair across from the desk.

“What is this?” House’s voice managed to convey equal parts disgust and annoyance.

Wilson propped his feet up and considered. “Well, knowing you, I’d say it was either hate mail or a death threat, but it certainly looks like a valentine.”

House tore the envelope open and examined the card.

“So?” Wilson prompted after a moment. The expression House was wearing was an interesting one; and if it had been anybody other than House, Wilson would have said he looked almost embarrassed. House caught Wilson’s considering look and quickly schooled his features into a more customary scowl.

“It’s nothing. A moronic ‘thank you’ for being so unbelievably clever as to correctly diagnose a case of whooping cough. I already told her if she wants to show her thanks, she should do it with money or sexual favors. Preferably both.” House moved to toss the card in the trash, but Wilson intercepted it, snatching it from House’s grasp and dancing out of reach before House could protest.

“Dear House,” Wilson read aloud, “I hope this Valentine’s Day you will think, however briefly, of me. With Much Affection, Allison. P.S. I’m free this evening.’” Wilson stared at the card a moment longer. “Wow. She’s not one to mince words.” House reached in his pocket and produced his pill bottle. This was probably going to be a two-Vicodin conversation. “Gotta admire that go-getter attitude.”

Wilson turned the card over as if looking for another postscript that revealed the joke.

“But didn’t you tell her you weren’t interested?” House shrugged in a way that indicated he knew Wilson wouldn’t like the answer and took the card back from him; Wilson yielded it without contest. “You can’t possibly be thinking of going out with her again. It’s such a colossally bad idea. You already know it won’t work, hell, you probably don’t even want it to.”

“So glad I have you here. Clearly you know me better than I know myself.”

“She’s half your age, House.”

“But not too young for you? It that what this is? Some kind of geriatric cock-block?” Wilson froze, his mouth slightly agape. House took it as a sign he was on the right track. “You could have just said you had the hots for her. It’ll make it ever so much more satisfying when I nail her. This cock will not be blocked.”

“House…” Wilson said half warning, half pleading.

“Surely she’s not your type, not nearly needy enough. But then again, if marrying the dying doesn’t count as messed up, what does?”

“I’m not interested in Cameron,” Wilson said.

“Then why do you care?” House asked, eyes narrowing.

“I…I’m just worried about you. Last I checked it was sort of in the job description as your best friend.”

“Bullshit. You’re always telling me I need to get some. It’s just now that that ‘some’ might be coming from Cameron that you’re worried.”

“She’s your employee,” Wilson pointed out, already knowing the scorn it would earn him.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you. Since when have sexual indiscretions ever been a concern of yours? Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t shown more interest in young Cameron. Only a matter of time, I suppose.”

“I’m not interested in Cameron,” Wilson said again, more vehemently.

House paused, watching Wilson carefully as he stopped to consider and decide upon his next offensive. Wilson breathed a little harder. If House was good at anything it was figuring things out. It had only been because House hadn’t bothered to think about things at all that he hadn’t figured this out. But now Wilson had given him a reason to consider.

“Who are you interested in, Jimmy?” House’s voice was softer now, mildness finding weaknesses sarcasm had missed.

Wilson took a steadying breath and looked House in the eye. “I’m not currently dating.”

“Okay,” House said, and Wilson relaxed just a bit. “But that’s not what I asked. I know you’re not dating. I want to know who you’re interested in. You’ve always got your eye on someone. If not Cameron, then who?”

Wilson grimaced. “No one.”

“Lying.” House’s voice was a mocking sing-song.

“Fine then. How about I’m not telling you?” Wilson said, irritation getting the better of him.

“What are we in? The fifth grade?” House said, then affected a school girl’s squeal. “Come on, Jimmy, teeeeeell meeeeee, please? I promise not to tell anyone, cross my heart and hope to die.” He resumed his usual sardonic tone. “So, one of the nurses? Not still sweet on Debbie in Accounting, are you? It’s been months since you’ve been down to go over spreadsheets.”

“House.” Wilson sank down into one of the chairs, rubbing his eyes so hard that he saw spots for a few moments afterwards and wondered just how House had maneuvered the conversation from his love life to Wilson’s. “Just drop it. I’m not feeling up to this.”

“Not up to this?” House sneered. “Then why are you still here? This is my office and you’re the one with two good legs. Why don’t you use them to walk out? Unless you actually really want to tell me.” Wilson really wanted to wipe that smug look off House’s face, but trying to do so would just confirm House’s suspicions not allay them. House sat down in the chair next to his, leaning in so that their faces were mere inches apart. Wilson kept his gaze stubbornly on his clasped hands and wondered if avoiding House’s eyes was more telling than if he met them. After so many years of friendship, House could guess his thoughts to a degree that was downright uncanny. Wilson let the silence stretch out, uncomfortably aware of it and of the question that still hung between them. Finally he pushed away, stood, and walked out. At the door he paused, but didn’t look back.

They spent the rest of the afternoon avoiding each other. Or at least, Wilson avoided House; he couldn’t say if House was avoiding him too, but he had his suspicions. He tried to get some work done, but as it turned out, House could be just as distracting in his absence as he was in person. Wilson kept replaying their conversation, analyzing and reanalyzing every word, expression and weighty pause. After awhile he graduated to imagining House and Cameron’s future relationship. It would end badly, he knew. Cameron would eventually get tired of her pet project, would end things, and then Wilson would be left to pick up the pieces again.

But…what if it did work out? Cameron was beautiful, smart, and had shown a surprising tolerance for House’s crap. The thought that the relationship actually could work had simply never occurred to Wilson before and suddenly he felt like a prize fool. House had always shown an uncharacteristic soft spot for Cameron. Maybe she was he needed.

Wilson froze, half-way through reorganizing his desk. He needed to talk to House, and he needed to do it now. House was in none of his regular haunts: empty clinic room, the roof, the maternity lounge. Wilson finally caught him in the parking lot, making an even earlier departure than usual. House ignored his approach, stowing his cane and strapping on his helmet. Wilson stepped in front of the bike, impeding the getaway; House revved the engine in response. Wilson refused to flinch, denying House the satisfaction of a response.

“If this is a game of chicken, I’m so going to win,” House said, voice muffled by the helmet. Wilson just settled his hands on his hips, prepared to wait, but it didn’t take long for House to cut the engine and pull off his helmet.

“I think you should go out with Cameron,” Wilson started without preamble.

House looked momentarily taken aback. “That’s a remarkable 180 from this afternoon. Any particular reason for the complete change of heart? And why you couldn’t wait to say this?”

Wilson shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his lab coat and wished he’d grabbed his overcoat. New Jersey winters were not conductive to long conversations. Or anything else, really.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea, but I understand that it’s not really any of my business and you are, at least in theory, a mature adult capable of making his own decisions.” Wilson pressed on before House could respond to that. “And if you want to go out with Cameron, well, then, you should go out with Cameron. I’m happy for you.”

House digested that. “…Okay. Can I go now?”

“What, that’s all you’ve got to say? Nothing else?”

“That I’m glad I have your permission? Yeah, great, thanks so much.” House watched Wilson shiver for a moment. “Are you trying to catch pneumonia? Because if you think I’m going to nurse you through…”

“Don’t worry on my account; I come from hardy stock.” The fact that his teeth were chattering undermined that statement somewhat. There was a long pause in which neither of them moved and Wilson considered the best treatment for the case of hypothermia he was quickly developing.

“I’m not going on a date with Cameron.”

“What?” Wilson said dumbly.

“I’m not going on a date with Cameron,” House repeated. “She’s too nice.” The way House said nice made it sound obscene.

“Oh.” It was the best Wilson could do under the circumstances. Extreme cold seemed to have an adverse effect on his ability to string together sentences. Or maybe that was just the way House was looking at him now. “Okay, then. Whatever you think is best. I’m going to go in now. Before I lose anything to frostbite.”

“You’re the idiot who seems to have forgotten how to use his cell phone-”

“I didn’t think you’d pick up,” Wilson objected.

“-Or leave messages.” House rolled his eyes. “I’m glad we had this chat. Now get out of my way. I have a need for speed.”

“Among other drugs,” Wilson said, but stepped out of the way.

“You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d have said you’re jealous. And if it’s not Cameron you’re interested in…”

“That’s right,” Wilson scoffed. “I am desperately in love with you. Greg, darling, say you’ll be mine.”

House grinned and nearly clipped him as his bike squealed out of the parking lot, in flagrant disregard of the clearly marked speeding limit. Wilson looked after him for a moment in a way that was definitely, absolutely not wistful and then hurried as quickly as he could on numb feet for the well-heated halls of PPTH.

March 17th

The fact that his beer was supposed to be green didn’t make it any more appealing. It didn’t seem to bother House, however, who was well into his third pint; apparently his distaste for all things festive didn’t actually extend to alcohol. The bar was as Irish as you could reasonably expect to get in New Jersey, speakers blaring The Chieftains, and the widescreen TV showing a football match that seemed to mostly be rioting fans.

“Soccer is football,” Wilson said, wincing as one player met the field face first. “But is football soccer? And you should probably slow down.”

“I don’t think they have football. And it’s not your fucking business.”

“It will be if I get stuck carting your drunken ass around.”

“You love my drunken ass.”

“Yeah, you’re such a charming, lovable drunk.”

House grinned and crooked his index finger, beckoning Wilson closer, a conspiratorial expression on his features. Wilson rolled his eyes and obligingly leaned in, just glad that House was electing to whisper whatever obscenity or snarky remark he was thinking rather then shouting it over the din of the bar. He stopped when he’d halved the distance between them. House continued beckoning. Wilson leaned in a little closer. And a little closer.

“House, what? People are going to think I’m about to kiss you.” That was, of course, the moment House chose to kiss Wilson. For a moment Wilson failed to react, too busy processing the fact that House’s lips were on his. He opened his mouth to complain, protest, say something, anything, but House just took it as an invitation to deepen the kiss and then Wilson’s tongue had far more interesting things to do than talk. Finally House ended it, sitting back and looking smug while Wilson tried to do some surreptitious clean-up with the back of his hand, praying their little scene hadn’t attracted attention.

“Hey, kids, this isn’t a gay bar,” the barkeep said gruffly. Wilson blushed hotly, so much for going unnoticed.

“Oh, I assure you, it’s an extremely gay bar,” House said, clearly unruffled. “But I have to say, the green tinsel? So last season.”

Wilson grabbed House’s elbow and half hauled him off his bar stool and out of the bar before further commentary could be made. House might enjoy an audience, but Wilson did not. The chilly air felt good on his heated cheeks; he took a deep breath to clear his head from the heat and haze of the bar.

“You just kissed me.”

“Your powers of observation never cease to amaze,” House drawled, looking far more self-possessed than anyone had a right to after a kiss like that.

“Really kissed me,” Wilson hissed.

“Oh please, don’t look so shocked, princess. You know you wanted it.”

Wilson scrubbed his face with his hands in a futile attempt to regain some kind of composure. “House. Is this a joke? Some kind of bizarre test?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” House’s tone, though light, held none of its usual mockery.

“I don’t know,” Wilson confessed. “That’s sort of why I’m asking. I swear to God, House, if this is supposed to be funny…”

House pretended to consider. “Well, definitely not in a haha way.”

“So, you’re serious. About me.” Wilson tried to swallow the wad of cotton currently lodged in his throat.

House shrugged dismissively, as if Wilson had just inquired whether or not it was going to rain. “Maybe.”

“No, you don’t get to say ‘maybe’ after that. Yes or no.” Wilson’s voice was a little shriller than he would have liked.

House watched a trio of drunken college boys stagger out of the bar. One of them recognized them and whistled suggestively. House flipped him the bird absently as Wilson blushed anew. He watched the young men retreat down the street only to disappear into another bar on the corner and then turned back to House, who was apparently feeling suddenly taciturn. Well, damned if he was going to beg for an answer. Wilson crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture he hoped conveyed steely frustration and not pissy pique. The standoff continued, only interrupted when they were jostled by the occasional reveler. It was a miserable day for revelry. The sky was a particularly ugly shade of gray and the wind held considerable bite. Wilson had always wondered why they scheduled such a cheerful holiday for such a miserable month. Or maybe that was the point, a bright spot of tasteless good fun in the bleakest stretch of season.

“House.” But House seemed wildly interested in passing traffic; he failed to even glance in Wilson’s direction. Wilson sighed. “Fine. I’m going. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He made it five steps before he heard “Jimmy. Wait.” Wilson turned slowly to see House, leaning heavily on his cane, cap pulled down low over his eyes. Grudgingly, he made his way back.

“What?” he didn’t bother to hide his irritation, but was surprised when House actually looked chagrined.

“Yes.” It took a Wilson a moment to rewind the conversation and figure out what to attach the ‘yes’ to and by then House was speaking again. “I was serious about the kiss. Unless you don’t want me to be, then it was just ‘oh, look at that Greg, taking humorous liberties with his best friend. What a card!’”

Wilson gaped, belatedly remembering to shut his mouth. His mind reeled and he suddenly felt dangerously unsteady. House couldn’t possibly be saying what Wilson thought he was saying. He opened his mouth to respond, realized he could think of nothing even resembling English to say and closed it again. House looked away, shifting uncomfortably.

“Look, forget it. Apparently green beer is more potent than the non-green variety.”

Wilson’s reeling brain finally got its gears to work. “No! Er, I mean, if I get a choice, then I think I want you to be serious. If you are serious.”

“We sound like teenage girls,” House observed.

“Little bit, yeah. So are you serious?”

House took a deep breath, held it for a moment and then released it sharply. “Yeah. I am.” He was carefully keeping his attention on anything but Wilson, but kept stealing anxious sidelong glances. Wilson knew the confession had cost his friend dearly. House would rather admit to murder or a highly embarrassing rash than actually having emotions.

“Okay,” Wilson said, sidling a little closer. “Now what?” He’d never been in this sort of situation before; with all his wives and girlfriends, he’d been able to coast on charm and good looks. Neither were of particular use to him now.

“Well, how about if I-” House started, but Wilson cut him short, meeting House’s lips with his own. He was almost as surprised as he had been the first time, even though he’d initiated. House was so shockingly real. The idle fantasies Wilson had occasionally (or not so occasionally, if he was being honest) entertained always missed the little details: the feel of leather jacket under his finger tips, the scent of House’s soap, the rough feel of bristles against his chin… House would have to start shaving if they were going to make a regular thing of this, Wilson decided. After a few moments of tentative exploration, Wilson grew bolder, pulling House hard against him into a full-body contact embrace. House allowed it. Parts of Wilson wondered just how much more House would allow, other parts of him also reminded him that they were currently snogging on a busy sidewalk and that he had an extreme dislike for Inappropriate Public Displays of Affection. Really, he did…

“Get a room!” a passerby yelled, guffawing at their own cleverness.

This time it was Wilson who flipped them off, not bothering to break the kiss. House must be rubbing off on him. At this proximity, it would be hard for him not to.