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“Attention, ladies, gentlemen, and those of you still undecided.” House boomed.
Most conversations in the cafeteria stopped, the people instead trading glances with each other before turning to look at the man standing in the center of the room.
"I’m making this announcement because Wilson is too shy to do it himself, and frankly, he’s worried about his professional reputation, which is adorable but ultimately stifling."
Cuddy— halfway to the salad bar—exhaustedly rested her forehead in her hand.
If you think you’ve seen it all, it is probably because you never spent five minutes in the same building as Gregory House. Otherwise, you would know the man never runs out of surprises to share with the world. He even cleared his throat before speaking,
"Wilson and I have been together for quite some time; six months, to be precise. It’s been a beautiful, complicated, and evidently very well-hidden journey of the heart."
A ripple of confused, horrified silence washed over the room.
“I’ve grown tired of the secrecy. From now on, when you see him, try to show a little respect for the domestic unit… it is a relief to finally let it out in the open.” he placed a hand on his chest and nodded to himself, like actors do when receiving applause. “Thank you.”
The cafeteria remained silent for a full ten seconds before the murmuring started.
Wilson—good, sweet, clueless Wilson—was in the middle of a story about a nurse who’d spent her weekend trying to teach her rescue cat to play fetch. He was gesturing vaguely, blissfully unaware of the tectonic shift that had occurred in the cafeteria that morning.
"So, she gets to Monday, and she’s convinced the cat has a learning disability, but really—"
Wilson stopped.
A group of residents had just rounded the corner. They had collectively slowed their pace, their eyes widening with a mixture of confusion and even a bit of pity as they looked at Wilson, then at House, then back to Wilson. One of them elbowed the one next to them.
Wilson watched them whisper as they hurried away, looking deeply unsettled. He frowned, turning back to House. "...Is there something on my face?"
House was leaning against the wall, looking remarkably relaxed. He was just watching the passing traffic with the serene, patient expression of a man who had already won the lottery.
A passing nurse—usually friendly—clutched her chart to her chest and power-walked past them, avoiding eye contact entirely.
He didn't bother finishing the story about the cat. He turned, fully facing House, and leaned in until they were inches apart.
"What did you do?"
House didn't tense up. He didn't blink. He simply let out a long, exaggerated shrug—a full-body, cartoonish movement where his shoulders touched his ears, his lips puckered in a look of exaggerated, wide-eyed innocence, and his eyebrows arched toward his hairline.
He stayed in that pose for a beat too long.
Wilson let out a long sigh.He didn't ask for clarification. He didn't ask for the specifics. He just knew, with a terrifying clarity, that whatever House had done, he was now, by association, the most scrutinized man in Princeton-Plainsboro.
"I hate you," Wilson muttered, though the lack of conviction was obvious.
"Love you too, honey," House chirped, his voice smooth and entirely too loud for the hallway.
Wilson just closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cold tile of the wall.
The door to House’s office slammed hard enough for the glass partition to shudder.
House was currently balancing his tennis ball on the edge of his desk. He didn’t look up, “You’re late, I thought we agreed on a lunch time. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, you have always been one to prioritize your work over our emotional intimacy…”
“Do you have any idea what I just heard in the breakroom?” he hissed. “Sarah from admin just asked me if we were ‘doing alright’ after the little scene you staged at the cafeteria!”
House finally looked up, his expression one of weary disappointment. He sighed, a soft, wounded sound, and pushed the tennis ball aside. "Sarah is a gossip, Wilson. You shouldn't listen to her. She’s just jealous that we’ve made it this far without the traditional fanfare."
“We haven’t made it anywhere!” Wilson shouted. “We’re not a thing, we have never been a thing! Why would you tell people that?” He started gesturing with his hands and arms, like threatened bears do when they’re trying to make themselves look bigger.
House leaned back, "See? This is exactly why I didn't want to go public. You’re already getting defensive. We’re in a fragile stage, Wilson. Don't ruin it by being insecure."
"I’m not… I’m not being insecure! I’m being sane!" Wilson leaned over the desk, his eyes wide. "People are looking at me like I’m a charity case! They’re congratulating me, House! Do you know how humiliating it is to have Cuddy look at me with 'understanding eyes'?"
House’s face softened into a patronizing, soothing mask. He even reached out as if to pat Wilson’s hand before Wilson jerked it away. "Cuddy is just a romantic, but if it makes you feel better, I told them it was a volatile relationship. Passionate... high-stakes."
"I am not passionate with you!" Wilson felt his pulse thrumming in his ears. "Right now, you’re going to go back out there, and you’re going to tell everyone that you were lying."
House stared at him, offering him a look of such wounded, pathetic vulnerability that it was physically painful to witness. "Why? Are you ashamed of who we are, James?"
Wilson felt the breath hitch in his throat, "...Oh my god, House."
"If we break this off now," House said, his voice dropping to a low register, "you’ll look like the guy who dumped the cripple on the same day he came out of the closet. Do you have any idea how that looks to the board? That’s a career-ender, James."
Wilson’s jaw dropped. "That—that is the most manipulative, nonsensical pile of—"
"Think about it," House interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "Do you really want to be the guy who shattered my heart in front of the entire hospital? Your patients won't trust you, Cuddy will put you on probation for 'emotional instability,' and I’ll have to go back to being the sad, lonely misanthrope. Is that what you want? To be the villain in our little tragedy?"
Wilson stared at him. He searched House’s face for a glimmer of a joke, for the familiar smirk that signaled a prank, but he found nothing. Just that same, infuriatingly blank expectation. He looked out the glass door, imagining Cuddy’s face, imagining the whispers in the hallways, and he realized with a sinking heart that House was absolutely right.
"A week," Wilson pointed a finger at House’s chest. "We do this for a week tops. Then you announce we had a 'tragic, irreconcilable falling out' and you never speak of this again."
"Deal," House murmured, his voice annoyingly soft.
Wilson made a strangled, gargling sound in the back of his throat and stormed out of the office, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frames on the wall. He didn't see House lean back in his chair, pull a lollipop from his desk drawer, and let out a satisfied hum.
Cuddy walked into House’s office with a serene smile plastered on her face.
Once again, he didn’t look up. This time he was busy with his gameboy. "If this is about the breakroom, the seating arrangement is non-negotiable. We like to be near the exit."
"I’m not here about the breakroom," Cuddy said, stepping further into the room. Her eyes flicked to the closed door, then back to House. "I’m here about the romance. Everyone is just so touched, House. It’s truly inspiring to see you finally find someone to share your life with."
House squinted at her, his radar immediately pinging for sarcasm. "Yes, well. It’s a lot of work. Wilson is very demanding. You wouldn't understand."
Cuddy sat down in the guest chair, crossing her legs with slow, deliberate grace. "I’m sure he is. In fact, I was just thinking that the two of you deserve some quality time away from these four walls. I heard about that new bistro that opened up downtown…”
House blinked. He knew that look.
"We’re more of a 'takeout on the couch' couple. We prefer privacy," he said.
"Nonsense," she countered, her smile widening. "The staff has been talking about your 'high-stakes, volatile relationship' all afternoon. You need a public outing to solidify your status as a power couple… I already got you a reservation for two tonight at 8:00 PM."
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small, embossed card, and slid it across the desk.
"I’ll be checking with the staff tomorrow morning to see how it went," she added, standing up. "Make sure you wear something nice, House. You wouldn't want to embarrass him."
She walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the frame. "If I hear you didn't go, I’m putting you on clinic duty for the next month. Every single hour of it."
She exited, the soft click of the door echoing like a gavel.
House stared at the reservation card. He picked up his cane, a grin creeping across his face.
He didn’t knock—when did he?
"Wilson!" he bellowed, his voice carrying across the floor. "Cuddy got us a reservation for tonight. Don't worry about your tie—I’ll pick out something that hides the stain on your shirt."
Wilson froze, his pen hovering mid-air, a look of horror dawning on his face as he turned to see House waving the reservation card like a golden ticket to the guillotine.
The office door clicked shut, locking behind them.
Wilson didn’t wait for House to start. He bypassed the desk, paced once, and spun around, his face a mask of controlled panic. "We are not going. Tell her you lost it, tell her you ate it—I don’t care. You’re the one who started this, you fix it."
"Cuddy isn't an idiot, Wilson. She’s playing with us. If we bail, she wins, and I’m stuck in the clinic until I’m eighty.” He tossed the card towards Wilson. “Do you want to spend your weekends covering my shifts? Because I’ll make sure you do." He stated.
Wilson rubbed his temples, his eyes squeezing shut. "I hate you. I really, truly hate you."
"No, sweetcheeks, listen. It’ll be nice… We go. We sit there for an hour. We order wine, we complain about the food, we pay the bill, and we leave.” he offered. “For the optics.”
Wilson opened his eyes, "You do not touch me, you do not use pet names that make me want to vomit, and you absolutely do not attempt to hold my hand in public.”
House touched his chest with one hand, held up his pinky with the other. “Loud and clear.”
Wilson arrived at House’s apartment building at exactly 7:40 PM, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. He’d spent the last hour trying to talk himself out of this, but the thought of House—completely unmonitored and drunk on his own narrative—unleashing a version of the truth at the restaurant was a fate worse than death.
House emerged from the building wearing a dark blazer and a pink button-down.
“Oh, so you dressed-dressed for the occasion.” Wilson mocked.
House slid into the passenger seat. He adjusted his cuff, looking at Wilson’s own ironed shirt and blazer with an appreciative hum. "You clean up well, too. You look like the long-suffering spouse who’s hoping for a divorce settlement. It’s a very nuanced look. I like it."
"Shut up," Wilson snapped, pulling out into traffic. “Remember the rules.”
“I’ll make sure to sigh heavily if the waiter asks about our day."
"I am not going to sigh," Wilson muttered, glancing over. "I'm just going to eat my meal, make polite conversation about the hospital, and then we are going to go home."
"Whatever you say, honey," House said, the word dripping with just enough saccharine sweetness to make Wilson swerve slightly.
As they pulled up to the curb of the bistro—a place with dimmed lights, flickering candles, and an atmosphere so romantic it was almost offensive—Wilson realized with a jolt of panic that the valet was already opening his door.
House was already looking at him, a glint of genuine, chaotic delight in his eyes.
"Showtime," he whispered.
The maître d' guided them to the best table in the house—a secluded, candlelit booth tucked into the corner, which was almost certainly Cuddy’s doing.
Wilson had mentally braced himself for a miserable hour of forced performance and House’s theatrics. But the red wine arrived, and the appetizers were technically flawless.
They fell into a rhythm. The situation stopped feeling so weird, though they could blame the wine for it. They debated a ridiculous case from the previous week, mocked the hospital's new chairs, and—for once—neither of them was trying to win or lose. They were just talking.
Wilson found himself laughing when House did an impression of a particularly pompous department head. House, in turn, actually listened when Wilson spoke about a difficult patient, offering a rare moment of genuine— albeit cynical—insight instead of a deflection.
The low light of the bistro softened House’s features, hiding the usual jagged edges of his exhaustion. He looked, for a few hours, like someone who wasn't currently waging a psychological war against an entire hospital staff.
"You know," House said, his eyes tracing the rim of his wine glass. "The food is decent. But the service is abysmal. I’ve been trying to get the waiter’s attention for five minutes."
Wilson shook his head, a small, involuntary smile tugging at his lips. He took a sip of his wine, the warmth of it grounded him. "We have to stop this, you know," he said, a tad too softly. "Eventually. We have to go back to being… not a heartwarming romantic couple."
House looked up, the playfulness in his eyes dimming into something unreadable. He held Wilson’s gaze for a second longer than was strictly necessary for a fake couple to be believable, the silence between them lingered with the unspoken recognition that they were having a significantly better time than either of them would ever be willing to admit.
"Yeah," House said. His voice got its usual tone back, "Eventually. But we’ve still got dessert to get through. And I heard the chocolate torte is the only reason to stay in this city."
Wilson didn't push it. He just picked up his wine glass and leaned back into the booth. They were acting, they were lying, and they were, by every metric, nothing more than friends.
The drive home was quiet.
House kept his eyes fixed on the passing streetlights, his hand resting idly on the armrest, dangerously close to Wilson’s. He was busy cataloging the night: the way Wilson’s eyes had crinkled when he actually laughed, the way he’d let his guard down over the second bottle of wine, and the terrifying, inconvenient realization that he didn't want to go back to his empty apartment. A purely chemical reaction, he told himself. Too much Merlot, not enough logic.
Beside him, Wilson was staring at the road with a faint, bemused smile that he was failing to suppress. He was replaying the conversation about the medical board, the shared eye-rolls at the pretentious waiter, and the comfortable, terrifying weight of House’s presence. He was smart enough to know that what he was feeling—this warmth in his chest—was a dangerous, slippery slope. I wouldn't mind if it were real, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. He immediately shoved it into a locked drawer in his brain, labeling it ‘Drunkness.’
They pulled in front of House’s apartment. Wilson killed the engine, the sudden absence of the car's hum leaving a vacuum in the air. He turned to House, clearing his throat, his expression carefully composed back into one of ‘long-suffering friend.’
"Well," Wilson said, his voice a little steadier than he felt. "That was... efficient. The ruse is thoroughly established. I think we’ve convinced them."
House leaned his head against the window, watching Wilson with an soft expression that he covered with a yawn. "Yeah. Totally convincing.” he agreed. “But maybe… if we don't follow up with another outing, it will look too fake. We wouldn't want to waste the investment..."
"Right," Wilson said, his voice dropping. "We have to maintain the narrative. Consistency is key in any long-term… deception."
"Exactly," House said, his voice thick. "There’s a jazz club on 5th that just opened. Very dimly lit. Perfect for two people who are supposedly hopelessly devoted to each other."
Wilson’s heart did a strange, traitorous flip. "Saturday?"
"Saturday," House agreed.
They sat there for a few seconds longer than necessary.
House finally reached for the door handle. "I’ll see you tomorrow, Wilson."
"See you, House.”