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It’s an ordinary day.
House solves one of his difficult cases, while Wilson carefully oversees his patients' treatment, weeping with them, smiling with them, and comforting them. Wilson eats his snack, and House takes a piece, stubbornly refusing to buy anything for himself. There is that constant tension between them, as always.
"Have you ever kissed a man before?"
In that moment, Wilson wonders exactly where that random question came from.
"What?"
"I'm bored," House says, chewing on half a french fry, a glint in his eyes that Wilson can't decipher.
"Kissing? ...I don't think so." Wilson tries to downplay the subject as he takes a bite of his sandwich. He regrets the answer the instant he gives it, knowing the topic won't be dropped now.
"You don’t think so?" The way he turns his head to look at him reminds Wilson of a meerkat.
Wilson decides to remain silent, fixing House with a questioning look.
"Come on. I’ve meddled in every aspect of your life... is asking if you’ve ever had a homoerotic experience really such a big deal?"
"Have you ever had a homoerotic experience?" Wilson asks sarcastically.
"I was thinking about the neighbor in 4B. The one who thought we were a couple." House ignores the question, steals another fry from Wilson’s plate, and chews with an inquisitive expression that looks almost cartoonish. "She was right. I’m pretty sure you spend more time with me than with any of your wives."
"I thought we’d already faced the reality of our friendship. It’s bad, it’s toxic. We keep coming back to each other under the worst circumstances..." The oncologist wipes his lips with a napkin and rests his arms on the table, staring at House with furrowed brows. "What is this conversation about?"
"It led me to a purely clinical question. Statistical, really. Med school. Sleepless nights. Cheap booze. Have you ever tried the 'other side of the street'?" Wilson’s cheeks flush, he maintains an expression of disbelief that he tries to mask. "It’s a simple question. You have this pathological need to please. To be the 'nice guy.' Psychologically, you’re malleable."
Wilson crosses his arms, sighing and adopting a defensive posture. He should have known by now that a day with House was never ordinary, something always came up to rattle the psychological foundations of anyone talking to him.
"I’ve had three wives, House."
"Failed marriages are your specialty, but that doesn't answer the question. Soldiers at war sleep with other soldiers and come back with a bouquet of flowers for their wives. I’m talking about college. A dark anatomy lab, high pressure, maybe a handsome roommate who played the guitar. No experiments? Not even a 'frat-boy kiss' just to see what it was like?"
As he speaks, Wilson notices an annoying half-smile forming on his face, his blue eyes gleaming with curiosity, his shoulders leaning forward as he watches the oncologist squirm at the sudden question. It’s the look he gets when he gets what he wants, when he manages to corner someone.
Wilson glances around and hesitates, offering a wry smile. "No. Zero. I was too busy studying and trying not to fail pathology."
"You hesitated."
"I didn't hesitate."
"You remembered something." He smiles more. "Who was it? A senior? Someone who praised you after a tough presentation? If someone looked at you with those needy puppy-dog eyes and said you were their savior, you’d agree to anything."
Wilson lets out an annoyed sigh, feeling his cheeks burn with frustration. His sandwich sits half-eaten on the plate while those eyes lock onto his, no matter how hard he tries to look away.
"You want the truth?" He looks at House, who raises his eyebrows, encouraging him to go on. "There was a fraternity party. Lots of tequila. A guy from the rugby team decided I was the most interesting person in the room. We talked for two hours..."
"And?..."
"He kissed me." House leans back in his chair, looking triumphant at having managed to pry that information out of Wilson as if she knew he had been lying the whole time.
"And you?" They lock eyes. Wilson tries to hide his embarrassment. After all, he’s an adult, and it hadn't been a big deal.
"I kissed him back. But that was it. I never saw him again, and I was drunk." House makes a sound of surprise as a silence lasting mere seconds stretches out for what feels like hours. "Don't make it weird."
"You kiss a man to play the nice guy, even though you're straight, now that is something. What are you going to do next?"
"I didn't kiss him because I didn't want to say no. Can we drop the subject?" Wilson glares at him.
"It's just sexuality. Don't be so sensitive about it." House rolls his eyes as if he were the one who had been pestered ever since they sat down at the hospital cafeteria.
"Did you like it?" he asks in a tone Wilson can't quite place; the oncologist huffs and stares at him, finally rolling his eyes and giving in with an answer. After all, there was no longer any reason not to give in.
"It was... Fine," he says, shrugging. "End of story." He stands up, glancing at his watch. As soon as he gets up and leaves House alone at the table, the oncologist knew the subject would come up again. After all, they lived together, there was no way for Wilson to escape House, even if he wanted to.
_°_
Wilson is preparing a homemade dinner, while House is sprawled on the sofa, ordering pizza. Unlike House, Wilson tried to maintain a healthy, balanced diet, partly due to his age and partly because he was prone to gaining weight. As he cooked, he didn't notice the eyes fixed on his back.
House’s curiosity knew no bounds; he didn’t mind risking his own life just to find out what lay on the other side. He would expose others to danger simply to get the answer to a question, becoming so engrossed that everything around him faded into the background. And then, suddenly, Wilson was the only truly interesting person. Interesting enough for House to orbit him, analyzing, provoking, and pestering him more that anyone.
He rises from the sofa with a sigh, pulls the Vicodin from his pocket, and swallows a pill as he walks over to where Wilson is cooking.
There are those strangely domestic moments when they both come home from work and the silence is filled only by the sizzle of the frying pan when Wilson cooks dinner when not completely exhausted. In those quiet moments, the unspoken question hanging between them lingers in the air: "What exactly are we?" Clichéd, annoying as a persistent bug buzzing in one's ear. Real, too.
He walks as quietly as possible and stops beside Wilson, not too close, but near enough to see the oncologist’s focused expression as he stirs the mix of vegetables in the pan.
"Order your food, House. I'm not cooking for you," Wilson replies distractedly, turning to chop more vegetables on the cutting board.
"I want to try something." The oncologist ignores him and keeps chopping what looks like a carrot.
"What?"
House approaches Wilson with calculated steps, slowly reaching out toward the knife Wilson is using, getting close enough that the proximity seems innocent enough not to raise any alarms.
"What? You want to cook...?"
What happens next leaves Wilson unable to finish his sentence, of all the things he expected House to do, this was certainly the last. As House slowly took the knife from Wilson’s hand, his fingers unnaturally cold, he turned Wilson’s face with considerable force, and then his only vision was House’s forehead, inches away, and a faint, damp sensation on his lips.
The jolt that raced through his body didn't make him pull away from House’s hands, which held his face with surprising gentleness. He closed his eyes, feeling another hand slide around his waist in a grip that sent an electric shock down his spine. After a few seconds that felt like hours, House pulled back, hovering mere centimeters from the oncologist’s face with a piercing gaze and the hint of one of those infuriating, lopsided smirks of his.
"Malleable."
"What..." Just as Wilson was beginning to grasp the meaning of it all, lips and movements far more intense and possessive seemed to devour him whole. He felt a hot tongue invade his mouth and couldn't help but surrender, giving in to House’s embrace.
The absurdity of the situation did nothing to diminish the feeling rising from deep within him.
It felt good.
He didn't know what to say. There were no words for it, and he didn't know what to do with his hands, which had suddenly begun clutching the counter behind him.
House’s hands slid over his waist, as if yearning to feel his skin. Neither of them had changed clothes since returning from the hospital, the day’s exhaustion had given way to adrenaline. The frying pan sizzled with the food likely burning, while House seemed determined to devour Wilson.
It was supposed to be an ordinary day.