Work Text:
Remy has never been able to hold on to a relationship for longer than a year. No matter how in love and sure she thought she was, the relationship would always come to an abrupt end. And, it always hit her full force, as if she didn’t already know that it was coming.
She usually lets herself think that it has something to do with the fact that she has an expiry date on her life, but deep down she knows it’s an excuse designed to make her feel better about it all. Not that it does, but that’s completely beside the point.
It doesn’t stop her from repeating it like a mantra when she packs all her shit into cardboard boxes at ten in the middle of the night. Or, later, when she pulls into the hospital parking lot, car packed to the brim.
Leaving was a hasty decision, but it was also one she had to make. There’s no going back from finding your girlfriend with a man in bed, no matter how she looks at it. She had to get out of the, but it resulted in her having to sleep at the office. No hotel around had an available room that late in the night.
She’s hoping with all her might that no one will be there to see her as she parks her car. Trying to get herself together proves to be a hard task, but after a few minutes, the smell of cardboard and failure motivates her enough to at least stop crying. She manages to get out of the car, slams the door shut, and wipes her face when she suddenly walks into someone. Hard.
“Sorry, sorry,” she mumbles, not looking up. She fumbles with her badge trying to get it to latch to her pants but it’s a failed attempt that only gets her even more frustrated with the whole situation.
“Thirteen,” a soft voice says. There’s only one person in the entire hospital who fits the description of ‘nice, sweet, and calls her Thirteen. She wipes any last remainder of the tears from her face before she gathers the courage to look up.
“Dr. Wilson, hi. Sorry.”
He waves his hand dismissively, smiling at her. “Are you okay? I thought you left hours ago?”
She tries to smile but she feels that it comes out fake, and can see in Wilson’s eyes that he doesn’t buy it in the slightest. His eyes go soft with what looks like genuine concern, and he goes as far as opening his briefcase and pulling a folded piece of clean tissue paper, handing it to her. Something in Remy can’t help but wonder how, out of all the people in the world, it’s her misanthropic boss that won this care-bear in disguise.
She’s about to dismiss him when she realizes he’s not going to leave her be until she tells him something that satisfies his worries. She just stands there for a second contemplating her options. She has no idea how, but it seems like Wilson wins the battle. Because she soon finds herself telling him everything.
Right there in the middle of the parking lot, she finds herself telling him about the man in her bed, the doomed relationship, and the hotel employees that laughed when she asked for a room. She tells him she has a hotel for tomorrow, and that she’s coming back now planning to crash on House’s couch in his office. And then Wilson shakes his head.
“What?” she asks, because it confuses her.
“You’re not sleeping in the office Thirteen, there’s absolutely no way I’m letting you do that.”
“Fine, then I’ll sleep in the car. It doesn’t actually matter it’s just tonight.”
“No, no,” Wilson says. He moves closer and puts a hand on her forearm. “Look, why don’t you come to our place tonight? I’m heading there just now, and we have a spare bedroom you can use tonight. I’m sure a bed will be more comfortable than the lounge chair in House’s office, no matter how hard you try to think of it as a couch.”
She snorts because he’s right. It barely passes as a lounge chair, that old thing. But the thought of invading her boss’s home for the night scares her. “Have you met your husband?” she responds with a kind bite, “he’ll kill both of us if you show up with me tonight.”
It’s Wilson’s turn to snort. “He’ll live. You’re not spending the night in the office, or the car. Absolutely not. Come on, you can follow my car there, I’ll call House from the way there to give him a warning so he doesn’t bite your head off when you come in.”
Wilson gives her a kind smile, just to show that he’s kidding, and starts walking to the car. When she doesn’t turn to move he turns back and gives her a stern look. “Move it,” he warns. She does.
She pulls into a free spot right behind Wilson’s car. She waits for him to get out of the car and pull his briefcase with him before she gets out with her backpack in hand. It feels weird, showing up at her boss’s house like that, but at least she’ll be able to hide behind Wilson when House loses his shit. There isn’t much chance of him hurting his Husband with that cane of his.
She follows Wilson up the elevator, and walks a step behind him to apartment B. “Thanks,” she tells him before he puts the key in the door, and he just turns and smiles at her. “It’s no problem, come on. Don’t worry, he’ll behave, I’ll see to that.”
It feels surreal, to walk behind Wilson into his house. It’s like watching a scene of weird domesticity evolve in front of her. While it’s a well-known fact among those close to them that Wilson and House have been married for over a decade, the two aren’t big on showing it to the public. Their relationship at the hospital is very much like that of an old married couple, but it’s only in the stereotypical way. Everything minus the PDA.
There’s a slow, jazz-like music drifting out from the main area of the house when they walk in. It’s beautiful and flawless and feels somewhat out of place. The main area is dimly lit, and Remy can see House’s right side as he sits in front of the piano. His cane is resting on the piano’s side, and House is playing, focused.
“Greg?” Wilson says as he walks in. The music stops, and House moves to get up. Remy does a small double take that she hopes both men miss at hearing her boss’s first name on his Husband’s lips. The smile on House’s face when they walk in is even more foreign to her.
House is wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. He’s barefoot, and something about him, about how comfortable he looks, makes him feel less intimidating, less bitter to Remy. She gives him an awkward smile as he picks his cane up and walks towards them slowly.
“I thought you’d never leave there, did you finish the report?” House asks, his lips closing into Wilson’s in a soft, unexpected kiss. When they part he nods at her. “Thirteen.”
“I didn’t,” Wilson sighs. “But it was getting late and I just wanted to get home. I’ll finish it here I think.”
He turns around to look at Remy with a soft smile. “Why don’t I show you to your room so you can change and put your stuff away?” She gives him a grateful nod.
Wilson lets his briefcase fall onto the couch and starts walking down the corridor, so Remy follows him silently. He stops in front of a closed door and turns again. “I asked Greg to put a couple of towels in there, let’s see if any of what I said registered.” He gives her a smirk and opens the door
The room is well-lit, and the bed in the center is big and looks awfully soft. Remy feels thankful that she had the courage to accept Wilson’s offer. Just thinking of the lounge chair makes her wince. There are, indeed, a couple of folded towels on the bed, and by Wilson’s look on his face, he’s as surprised to find them there as she is. “The bathroom is right there, last door on the right. Feel free, and please make yourself at home. There’s probably leftovers from dinner if you’re feeling hungry, I made enough for the both of us but then ended up eating at the office.”
Remy shakes her head, because with everything she’s been through tonight the last thing she wants is food. She’d be thankful for anything boozy though, she thinks, but she doesn’t say that. “Thanks though,” she smiles.
“No problem, if you change your mind let one of us know. I’d say to just take it, but it’s like operating nuclear bombs to try and operate the stupid microwave.” He chuckles, and it’s sweet how hard he’s trying to make her feel comfortable. “I’ll let you get ready then. Come find us in the living room when you’re done, I think I have a couple of beer bottles with your name on them.”
“Oh that would be wonderful,” she sighs thankfully. And at that, he turns around with a smile.
She takes her time in the room. First, because she needs a couple of minutes to gather herself. She uses the time to go wash herself and collect her dignity before she can face her boss and his husband. And second, because she wants to give them a second to themselves. She can hear hushed conversations as she gets ready, but she can’t make out exactly what is being said.
When she walks out of the bedroom, the piano is back. House is playing something she doesn’t recognize, but it’s nice and relaxing in a way. Wilson is sitting on the couch with his glasses on, papers, and pen in hand. He looks up at her when she walks into the living room.
“Are you sure about dinner?” he asks, peering at her from above his glasses sitting low on his nose.
“Yeah, I don’t think I can stomach any food right now, and I don’t think House will appreciate that in his house,” she reasons with a small smile. Her boss glares at her from his spot by the piano, not stopping.
“I will not,” he grumbles, but there’s almost no bite to it. Not as scary in sweats and no shoes, absolutely.
“Okay,” Wilson smiles. He sets the pen and paper on the coffee table and gets up. “Sit down, I’ll get us some beers. We can see if there’s anything stupid on TV.”
She sits at the edge of the couch, opposite where Wilson was sitting. When he’s back she accepts the beer from his hand with a quiet thank you. The TV acts as an excuse to not speak for a while, even though Wilson is too invested in the report in his hands, House is still playing quietly in the background, and Remy isn’t paying attention at all.
Eventually, House gets tired of playing the piano and limps his way to the couch. He sits next to Wilson, so close Remy thinks for a second that he is about to sit on top of him. “Give me the remote,” he tells Wilson. “I don’t know what this crap is, but you can’t make us watch that while you read this stupid report. This is torture.”
Wilson sighs, a long, tired sigh, but Remy can see on his face that there’s this sort of fondness to it, a hidden smile. He hands House the remote and House smirks at Remy in victory as if he’s just won the lottery. “Football?” he asks.
“Sure,” Remy laughs. Some mindless sports never hurt anyone.
It’s weird, sitting in her boss’s apartment in the middle of the night watching football with him and his husband. But she’s grateful for the distraction. And House is being uncharacteristically okay with it, which is very surprising.
It’s nearing midnight and she expects Wilson to grow tired of the stupid report. But House beats him to it. “Will you stop it?” he asks, but Wilson doesn’t even dignify it with a look. Remy sits there and watches as House crosses into frustration. “James,” he whines, and it’s a full-on whine, it’s weird. It doesn’t sit with how he yells ‘Wilson!’ at the office whenever he’s frustrated. “Come on, it’s almost midnight.”
Wilson’s eyes don’t leave the report, but one of his hands moves up around House’s back and he pulls him closer into a cuddle. It’s cute, but also very, very weird, because it seems to shut House up. Like Wilson, unsurprisingly, knew exactly what House wanted. Like Wilson speaks fluent House. He wiggles a bit, his head falling on Wilson’s shoulder, and he looks back at the TV, back to watching the game.
Closer to one, Remy’s eyes start to droop. Deciding to make sure she doesn’t make a fool of herself, she excuses herself to the bathroom to get ready, telling them thank you again and wishing them a good night. When she gets up she can see that House’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing slowly, probably already almost asleep himself.
When she’s in the bedroom collecting her stuff, she can hear the two talking in the living room. “Greg?” Wilson says softly. There’s a mumbled response that Remy doesn’t get.
“Come on, darling, get up, you’re already falling asleep. Let’s go to bed.”
She can hear them getting up just as she walks into the bathroom. “Come on, I can see your leg is killing you, let’s go,” Wilson says, a second before she closes the door to the bathroom.
She’s still standing with her hand on the handle when they walk by the door and into their bedroom. “I love you,” she hears her sleepy boss mumbles. “I know, darling, I love you too,” she hears his husband whisper. It’s odd, she thinks. Because House never struck her as a conventional husband. But everything about him tonight was exactly that.
And she thinks that maybe, just maybe, if he can commit like that, maybe she should give it a try too.