Work Text:
The Beginning
House notices. Of course, he notices. That’s essentially his whole thing. He perceives, he connects the dots, he understands. And his fellows aren’t that subtle to begin with.
One morning as House strolls into the DDX room at half past ten in the morning, his fellows startle at the sound of the door, and then look up at him like they’ve seen a ghost. Clue no. 1: they don’t want him to hear what they’ve been discussing.
They’re out of a case right now, so the fellows must have just been idly chatting amongst themselves as they did their paperwork, and they must have stumbled across a topic they’re either embarrassed or ashamed to get caught talking about.
And considering House knows the horrible intricacies of their lives, complete with their sob stories as well as who’s currently doing who, that just leaves one option: they were talking about House. And not talking shit about him, or complaining about how late he is and how he’s making them do paperwork that he should be doing. No, they’d say all that to his face. Which means it must have been personal.
House is oddly elated at the realization. In the absence of a case, he’s been bored out of his mind. There was nothing on his agenda past playing video games and bothering Wilson in between his unending string of cancer patient meetings, and at least this gives him something to turn over in the meantime.
Clue no. 2 presents itself half an hour later when Wilson strolls into the diagnostics department uninvited and unbothered. He tends to do that. Apparently, the coffee here is better than in the oncology lounge – which, in his defense, is true, House had made sure of that – but House assumes Wilson likes to stop by the diagnostics department as much as House likes to make himself at home in Wilson’s office for much the same reasons. Wilson’s just sneakier about it.
Still, the interesting part of that is the fellows’ reaction to what is really quite a common occurrence. Cameron catches Chase’s eye, and then as one they turn to Foreman, who raises his eyebrows in a sort of yes I can see it, can you guys be cool motion.
Wilson doesn’t seem too bothered as he says a pleasant greeting into the room. House watches from his office as he prepares himself a cup of coffee, and then a second, less sweet one for House, in complete silence. Which is part of the clue. Usually, when Wilson stops by to steal their coffee and gossip with House, the fellows at least make some small talk.
Wilson doesn’t let it get him down, and then he’s on his way into House’s secluded little office, two cups of coffee in his hand and a smile on his face.
“Your fellows are acting odd,” he points out the second the door has fallen closed behind him, voice low enough that he shouldn’t be heard in the DDX room. “Should I be worried?”
Through the glass door, House catches Chase give them quite an obvious stare, and Foreman giving them a less obvious glance. Clues upon clues. After all the time spent working under him, House had really assumed they’d be at least a little more subtle.
“They’ve been acting like that since I came in,” House responds as he makes grabby hands towards the red mug Wilson is holding just out of reach.
Wilson concedes, apparently satisfied that House is not planning his demise with the help of his fellows and hands it over. “Well, let me know if you figure out what’s wrong with them.”
House looks up at Wilson, fellows momentarily forgotten. Wilson had had to leave early this morning, before House was even awake, and this is the first they’re actually seeing of each other today. In a terribly sentimental way, Housen feels the odd need to reach out towards him.
And Wilson, horribly perceptive man that he is, seems to understand exactly what is going on in his head. “I’d stay longer,” he says, softer now. “But I have a meeting with one of my patients in a few minutes.”
“Lunch?” House asks, as if there’s really any question. Excluding medical emergencies, Wilson and he have eaten lunch together for as long as they’ve worked at Plainsboro. Actually, they’ve had lunch together during quite a few active medical emergencies, too.
Wilson smiles. “Yeah,” he responds, and then, quick as lightning, reaches out a hand to squeeze House’s shoulder. It seems to be about the height of PDA he’s willing to engage in right now, what with the odd vibe in the diagnostics department and them being in plain view of three very curious, very nosy fellows. House can’t help but lean into the touch, just a little.
Wilson hovers close for a second longer than strictly necessary, his fingers sliding up ever so briefly so they can brush across House’s pulse point. Out of the corner of his eyes, House spots Chase saying something inaudible, looking quite pleased with himself. In response, Foreman rolls his eyes.
And then Wilson pulls away and makes his way out of the office without another word, which leaves House with nothing to do but pick at the riddle that has presented itself to him.
And sure, this truly was a treasure trove of clues, with the odd reaction to Wilson’s mere presence and then the obvious glances and muted conversation in response to what was really a fairly run-of-the-mill interaction between House and Wilson. But it all counts as clue no. 2.
Clue no. 3 comes when House announces that he will go bother Wilson, and if a case comes along, they’ll find him in Wilson’s office. The meeting with the patient must be over by now, and House has grown bored of continuously throwing his ball at the wall and catching it with his cane. In response to the announcement, Chase looks at the other two and wiggles his eyebrows.
Cameron bites down a laugh, and even Foreman snorts, and House thinks he finally has a notion of the glaring neon sign that clues 1, 2 and 3 are pointing towards.
Still, why reveal what he’s figured out if he could have a little fun with it? The day’s long without a case to dissect, and messing with his fellows has always been one of his favorite past times. As he limps the short distance to Wilson’s office, he has to bite down a grin.
“The kids are betting on whether we’re fucking,” House announces proudly as he rips the door open to Wilson’s office.
Wilson, sitting at his desk and immersed in paperwork, barely spares him a glance. “No, they’re not.”
House makes a mock-offended sound as he lowers himself into the chair set out for visitors. “Yes,” he responds, emphatically. “They are. That’s why they were so twitchy earlier.”
Wilson spares him a longer glance this time, and seems to find that House’s expression is just elated enough that he’s willing to entertain the theory. “We’re not exactly hiding it,” he points out, tentatively.
House can’t bite down his grin this time. The fellows have just really given him prime bullying material for years to come. “I know.”
Wilson sighs and pulls his glasses off, apparently giving up on getting back to his paperwork anytime soon. “I know you think they’re stupid,” he says, finally. “But even they’re not that stupid.”
“But they are!” House replies. “That why they were acting so weird towards you earlier. They were trying to figure out if they have to call you mommy now.”
Wilson scoffs at the notion. House can practically hear it as the gears in his head turn, debating whether it’s worth it to argue who exactly would be mommy in this scenario. House is almost a little sad when he seems to decide against it.
“I’m your medical proxy,” Wilson reminds, then, apparently choosing the logical route. “They know I’m your medical proxy. They know we live together, they know-“
“That we’re super good heterosexual buddies.”
Wilson gives him an almost offended look, like the notion itself is insulting.
“And what about that impromptu trip to Massachusetts when they legalized same-sex marriage? You’re seriously trying to tell me they all missed that?”
House just grins at him. “They’re idiots.”
“We were gone for a full week!” Wilson exclaims, exasperated.
House just shrugs and repeats himself, “They’re big, fat idiots.”
Wilson stares him down for a long second, like he’s thinking through all their public interactions looking for more proof that they’re obviously happily gay married, but seems to give up soon enough. Instead, he sighs. “Wanna bet on it?”
And that’s- not quite what House had expected of him. House was supposed to be the one to suggest an incredibly juvenile bet. Which can only mean one thing. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
Wilson doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes.”
House gasps theatrically. “I want my ring back!”
Wilson rolls his eyes. He looks almost fond now. “No, you don’t,” he says, terribly secure, and then: “So. Bet?”
And House caves, because of course he does. Because he loves a nice little bet to distract himself from his utter boredom, and he loves winning, and at his core, he even loves indulging Wilson, just a little.
“What are you betting on?”
“I’m betting you’re wrong,” Wilson says, deadpan.
“That’s not-”
Wilson sighs, exasperated. He must really want to get on with his paperwork. “I’m betting you can’t prove your little hypothesis until our anniversary,” he says, and then, just for good measure, adds, “Because it’s wrong.”
Which would give House a little over a week. That’s a challenge House is more than willing to take. His fellows are just obvious enough that it should be plenty of time to reveal their stupidity for all the world, but more importantly for Wilson to see.
And their upcoming anniversary gives him just the proper idea for a reward. “Winner gets to call the shots for the entire night?”
For emphasis, House wiggles his eyebrows to make sure Wilson understands he’s talking about a sex thing. Wilson rolls his eyes again, a little less fondly this time.
“Sure, whatever,” he responds, all nonchalant. House knows exactly how much he likes being the one in charge, so this lack of interest is a little unconvincing. He must be so sure he’ll win. What an idiot. “Now get out so I can finish this before lunch.”
House protests, even as he hauls himself out of the chair. “Sometimes I feel like you don’t even want me,” he laments dramatically.
“Right now, you’d be right. Go.” Wilson shoos him away with one hand, eyes already back on his paperwork. What a bore. “Go gather your evidence and report back.”
House intends to do just that.
Chase / T – 8 days
A case comes along soon enough, because it always does. Cuddy tracks him down in his office, sends him into the clinic and within an hour, a college-aged boy complaining of a mild cold collapses before he even makes it into the exam room to be begrudgingly reminded that the sniffles don’t really necessitate a trip to the hospital.
There’s no apparent cause for it, and when House rucks up his shirt, more on a hunch than anything else, there’s the telltale bruises of internal bleeding that mean the boy really should have gone to the ER instead of the clinic. Still, in true you-break-it-you-bought-it-fashion, Cuddy forces him to take the case.
House whines about it all the way until his fellows report back that they’ve stopped the bleeding, but haven’t actually found a cause for it, and then House is all ears. The current theory is bleeding disorder, which means that for the rest of the evening, there’s nothing for House to do but wait for either another symptom to appear and completely blow their theory out of the water or for his fellows to come back from the lab and tell him all the tests were negative or inconclusive.
It's like this, waiting quite late in the evening, his legs up on the table as he throws his stress ball against the wall again and again, racking his brain for possibilities, that Wilson finds him, armed with two takeout boxes from their standard Vietnamese place. House isn’t particularly surprised when he makes his way into the office, and Wilson doesn’t bother explaining himself.
They both know he could have gone home about two hours ago. He’s done his rounds, finished most of his paperwork, had a meeting with the nightshift crew. But between having dinner alone in an empty apartment or having dinner with House, he always chooses the latter.
House likes to make fun of him for it, as if he’s not quite literally in the same boat.
Dinner is an unhurried affair, as it always is with them, and by the time Chase finds them, they’re already through it, takeout boxes empty and abandoned on the floor of House’s office. He doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the mess, or by the way they’ve positioned the stolen OB/GYN monitor House keeps in his office in a way that allows them to both watch one of Wilson’s boring telenovelas and keep an eye on the glass door for Cuddy at the same time. Working for House long enough will make you capable of ignoring ways of slacking off previously unknown to man.
What he does seem to be bothered by is the way House has slung his bad leg across Wilson’s thighs, and the way Wilson’s hand absently runs gentle circles into the damaged tissue of House’s thigh. At least if the way he’s staring at the point of contact is anything to go by.
Wilson frowns slightly, like he’s somewhat worried by the reaction. Maybe he’s finally realizing he’s going to lose his bet with House.
House would gloat about it, if he wasn’t so keen to hear what exactly Chase is here to report.
“It gets stiff,” he explains gruffly, and Chase startles at being caught staring. “What’s wrong with the patient?”
“Bloodwork’s normal,” Chase says, eyes still very much glued to Wilson’s hand. “No clotting issues. We’re still waiting for the genetic testing, but-“
House’s eyebrows raise. “You’re here to tell me nothing happened? You know, I could’ve intuited that by-“
Finally, Chase’s eyes settle on House. “He wants to go home,” he says bluntly.
House can’t help but roll his eyes. “So do I. He’s not special.”
“You’re not the one bleeding out.”
Now that he’s established Chase doesn’t have any interesting medical fact for him, House’s focus is already back on the telenovela. María is pregnant with twins, and trying to figure out who’s the father, which is stupid, since it’s obviously Alejandro. “Tell him he’ll die if he goes home now.”
Chase scoffs audibly. “We did. He’s got midterms next week, and apparently that’s more important.”
Sometimes, House thinks patients do stupid shit specifically to annoy him. Right now, it’s decidedly working. Still, House really can’t be bothered to get up and go put the fear of god into his patient right now. His leg hurts, he wants to watch Wilson’s stupid telenovela, and really, his fellows should have learned enough by now to be able to convince one stupid college kid that dying’s a bigger deal than exams.
Next to him Wilson chuckles, which gives House an idea. According to his file, the kid’s a med student. Aiming to specialize in oncology, if he remembers correctly.
“Tell him if he stays, we’ll get him an interview with our resident boy wonder.”
“House,” Wilson warns, and then: “You know I don’t take interns.”
House just shrugs. “He doesn’t. Probably.”
Wilson sighs. “Just tell him he’s excused from midterms or something. I’m sure Cuddy can pull some strings.”
“But then I’d have to ask her real nice,” House responds, wide-eyed and innocent. Or at least trying for it. “And she’d probably want me to do clinic hours in return, which is so bad for the leg, and-“
When House spares a glance towards Chase, he finds him watching their little exchange with rapt attention. Attention that their stupid banter has never gotten from any of his fellows before this week. House suddenly remembers the bet, and decides to switch course.
“I’ll blow you for it,” he says, half-serious, half-trying to spurn Chase into action, into revealing something.
Wilson doesn’t even do him the favor of giving him a big reaction- no blush, no embarrassed sputtering, nothing. Instead, he snorts. “You’re cheap.”
And then he turns towards Chase, whose eyebrows are all the way up to his hairline. “One interview.”
House grins when Chase looks from Wilson to House, clearly trying to gage if either of them are serious. “You’re cheap,” he points out towards Wilson, and then makes a shooing motion towards Chase, who continues to stand rooted in House’s office, looking somewhat like a deer in headlights.
“Do you seriously think that’ll work?” he asks, finally, when he’s apparently decided for himself that at least Wilson was being serious about the interview. “The kid was willing to die-“
“For his career,” House interjects. Wilson’s hand is still on his thigh, and now that he’s put the thought of blowjobs into his own head, he can’t quite get it back out. And he really doesn’t need Chase here for that. “A couple of failed midterms won’t matter to any future employer if they see he’s worked with our boy wonder. Any aspiring oncologist would know that.”
Chase’s eyebrows are still decidedly higher than they normally are, which is why House adds, “I know the charm wears off when you have to spend time with him, but Wilson’s pretty good at what he does. The only thing he’s better at is-“
“House,” Wilson chastises, sounding soft and fond and slightly annoyed, all at once. Which is his normal tone when he addresses House.
Chase seems to do some internal math and comes to the conclusion that he’d rather try his luck with the suicidal med student than listen to a single innuendo more. His eyes flit very briefly back to Wilson’s hand, still very much on House’s thigh. “I’ll let the kid know,” he blurts out, and then, “Sorry, Wilson,” and then he finally, finally scurries out of the room.
“Pretty good?” Wilson asks, once he’s quite sure Chase is out of earshot.
House snorts. “Don’t try to avoid the inevitable,” he says. “Chase was looking at you like a blushing maiden. You lost, so pay up.”
Wilson’s eyebrows raise. On the screen in front of them, María is firing off rapid-fire Spanish about true love or something, but House doesn’t care anymore at the promise of what a won bet has in store for him tonight.
“Did I miss the part where Chase said something about a bet he’s part of? That he’s just won or lost?” Wilson asks, head tilted. “Because to me he mostly just seemed appalled at how workplace inappropriate his old, married boss was acting.”
“You’re in denial,” House points out, only halfway sure. “Scared of what I’ll do to you?”
“Scared of what I’ll do to you when I win?” Wilson counters, hand wandering from the fucked-up, overly sensitive tissue of his missing thigh muscle to the regular old, overly sensitive inside of his thigh. “Get me concrete proof and I’ll let you do whatever you want,” he adds, with a sense of finality. “Until then, I don’t owe you anything.”
House swallows, trying and failing to come up with a clever response as Wilson’s thumb runs across the pulse point in his thigh, distracting even through the fabric of his pants. So maybe he hasn’t won quite yet. It’ll be easy enough to prove, once the ducklings stop watching every interaction between him and Wilson with eagle eyes, or once one or two of them show up to work tomorrow, bitter and sore about the money they’ve lost. Or maybe even once one of them slips up and calls Wilson mom. It’ll reveal itself soon enough. For now, though-
Wilson grins, all teeth, and all thoughts of their bet evaporate. “You, on the other hand…”
The next morning, Wilson very briefly touches House’s waist as he makes his way through their active differential diagnosis, pushing him out of the way ever so gently so he has free reign over their coffee machine. House catches Chase’s eyes glued to the point of contact, catches Cameron’s only slightly less obvious staring as Wilson just continues on like nothing happened.
He even catches Foreman sneaking a glance.
Which leads him to a very terrible diagnosis regarding his team: They’re fucking idiots.
Wilson seems to notice their staring too, though he must interpret it differently as he gives House a smug look, completely sure of his own victory. House chooses to ignore it.
Just because his fellows are idiots who can’t even tell that, when he offers Wilson a blowjob right in front of them, he’s being dead serious, doesn’t mean the game is lost. It just means he has to try harder.
And never let it be said House isn’t willing to try hard when mind blowing sex is on the line.
Cameron / T – 4 days
Once they’ve solved their current case of the mysteriously bleeding idiot oncologist-to-be – the kid had lied about some seriously questionable studying methods – and hooked him up to the proper treatment, House decides to make his move.
The move being breaking into Wilson’s office and forcing Cameron to play lookout.
Wilson has a new tie, he reasons, so clearly he must be sleeping with one of the nurses. It only follows that House must look through his office for tangible proof. If in the process he makes himself look like an overly jealous, insecure lover and incidentally either costs or wins Cameron a couple hundred bucks, then, well- his fellow’s sacrifice (or gain, possibly, as unlikely as it seems for Cameron to bet on him and Wilson) will be greatly appreciated.
Really, Wilson and House have already had their big dramatic fight about the tie House found in Wilson’s bedside drawer a week ago, and after one and a half days of passive aggressiveness to outright insults from House, Wilson sheepishly admitted that it was supposed to be an anniversary present for House. Apparently, it was supposed to be Wilson’s excuse of a joke: House had spent about half their wedding ceremony making fun of the tie Wilson was wearing.
But Cameron doesn’t know that. She only knows what House has told her, and also that Wilson was wearing a new tie today.
A pretty baby blue thing that apparently matches House’s eyes, or so Wilson had said. House had refused to wear it, and then insisted that Wilson shouldn’t just waste it, and somehow just seeing the color wrapped around Wilson’s throat this morning had made House feel all possessive in a way he thought he was over after years of marriage, and then they both ended up late to work.
But Cameron doesn’t know that, either.
“House,” she calls, just as he begins to root through the drawer of Wilson’s desk. “Did you seriously page me to play lookout?”
“Of course,” House calls back as he skips over a half-eaten power bar and some patient files. He’s not really looking for anything in particular, but he has to stay here long enough for it to be believable. “Can’t have Wilson catching me sleuthing. He’s going to start hiding his secrets better if he does.”
Cameron sighs audibly, and then sticks her head through the door, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. “What are you even looking for? A signed love letter from one of the oncology nurses?”
House makes a shooing motion, and she rolls her eyes, but does retreat. “Ideally,” he responds brightly as he moves on to the second drawer. “Or maybe some panties she’s left here. Or condoms, or-“
House’s voice dies in his throat as his hand closes around something quite unexpected. Thankfully, Cameron doesn’t seem to notice.
“This is a gross invasion of privacy,” she points out, and then, “Wilson wouldn’t be caught slacking like that.”
Which is true. But it’s not what makes House stop rooting through his husband’s belongings. Buried underneath patient files and a stamp card for the café down the street, lie two tickets to a monster truck show next Saturday.
Their anniversary is this Friday, and after his initial present was cruelly shot down Wilson must have decided to change course. Or maybe the tie was a distraction from the very beginning, and House fell for it hook, line and sinker.
“House?” Cameron calls, confused at his sudden quiet. House doesn’t pay her any mind.
The monster truck thing- it’s a bit of an ongoing bit between them. One day Wilson likes monster trucks, the next he hates them and is only indulging House. Years into their marriage, House still isn’t entirely sure which is true. Staring down at the tickets, House feels undeniably, overwhelmingly fond.
Then, he slides the drawer back closed and limps out of the office. He must look awfully pleased, because Cameron eyes him up suspiciously. “Find anything good?”
Suddenly, he remembers his initial plan. This break-in was mostly just to convince Cameron he was jealous. So, if he’s happier now than he was when this started, that would mean-
“I found nothing,” he says, brightly. Cameron’s eyebrows narrow, which he takes as a good sign. Without another word, he strolls to the elevators, mostly just to give his fellows some time to discuss amongst themselves, exchange money, mope.
Winning his bet with Wilson might just be the icing on top of what is shaping out to be a pretty good anniversary already.
If House had to guess, Foreman probably bet against. He has a preconception of House, and no matter how obvious House is, Foreman will probably never believe there’s anything good in House’s life until House breaks and ravishes Wilson right in front of his eyes. And even then, he’d probably assume House was just pulling a prank, specifically to fuck with Foreman.
Chase probably bet for. Half to contradict Foreman, half because he’s had front row seats to House not so subtly propositioning Wilson more than any of the others. He essentially has tenure in watching House offer Wilson sexual favors in return for consults.
Cameron- Cameron, he’s not sure about. Considering her schoolgirl crush, there’s a chance she’d bet against, if only for hope. Then again, she has an uncomfortably good read of House these days, a way to look through his bullshit that is almost Wilson-like in nature, so who knows.
It doesn’t really matter, anyway.
When House strolls into his office later that afternoon to all three of his fellows frowning over a file together, Foreman doesn’t have the look of a man who’s just lost quite a lot of money. And Chase, who’s worse at hiding his emotions, doesn’t have the look of a man who’s just won quite a lot of money off his pissy, know-it-all colleague. They’re just acting normal. Like they always do.
Which means their stupid bet isn’t resolved. A very, very horrifying thought occurs to House in that very moment.
He might just lose to Wilson.
Wilson stops by later, armed with half a sandwich and a bag of chips that he drops unceremoniously on House’s desk. He’d been busy with a patient all throughout lunch, and he knows that House probably hasn’t eaten.
He tends not to, when Wilson’s not there to bother and steal from.
“Presents are supposed to be surprises, you know?” he asks, as he drops himself into the spare chair in House’s office. Of course, he’s noticed that House has rooted through his desk once again. It’s a common enough occurrence that he seems to have developed a sixth sense for it, picking up on it even when House is convinced he’s left everything the way he’s found it. Maybe Wilson has him tagged.
“I wasn’t looking for your present,” House points out as he rips the bag of chips open. “I was looking for proof you’re cheating.”
Wilson has been with him too long to still be shocked by these kinds of statements, it seems, because all he does is roll his eyes. “Part of your genius plan to win the bet? I’m guessing it didn’t work.”
“They’re idiots,” House responds bitterly.
Wilson smiles. “No, they’re not. Which is why you’re going to lose.”
“Look at them!” House responds, nodding towards his fellows in the DDX room somewhat subtly following their every move, clearly trying to figure out what Wilson and he are discussing. When Wilson turns towards them, Chase startles so obviously he almost drops his mug. “If they’re not betting on us, why else would they be acting like this?”
“Maybe they’re planning our demise,” Wilson says cheerily. “Doesn’t really matter. You’re running out of time.”
House scoffs. Instead of responding, he gets started on the sandwich Wilson has brought him. Wilson’s not wrong, is the thing. It’s looking grim for House, because sure, his fellows are idiots, but even they can’t be that dense.
Wilson grants him about two seconds to wallow in his misery before he changes topic. “About the present-” he says, and he sounds more serious now. House fights down the urge to preemptively roll his eyes before Wilson has even made his point.
“I know you think it’s silly, but I really did want to surprise you.”
House scoffs. “Then you need to find better hiding places.”
Wilson bristles, the way he always does when House says something mildly insensitive. “Sorry, I don’t-“
“And I don’t think it’s stupid.”
That shuts Wilson up. House snorts at the sudden suspicious look gracing his husband’s face. “You- You got me a present?”
House grins. “Of course not.” Wilson relaxes almost imperceptibly, like the statement has restored balance to his world. Of course, House didn’t get him a present.
It’s not like there’s anything in particular Wilson would want from him, anyway. Wilson is an absolute nightmare to buy for, rich enough to not need anything, self-sacrificing enough to not actually want anything. They’ve been working on that, on finding out what Wilson likes and wants, but it’s baby steps, and the whole point of it is for Wilson to buy himself stuff he wants.
The way to get him, House has found, is to not buy him anything at all.
“I’m going to cook for you.”
Wilson’s reaction to that is physical, eyes widening, mouth falling open. The way to get him has always been with something as simple as caring. About him. For him.
“House-“ Wilson says, sounding almost breathless, and then, “Greg.”
Which isn’t something Wilson usually calls him anywhere but their apartment. Some pathetic part of House half hopes he’s about to jump across the table and kiss House silly. So they can settle their bet, of course. Even his idiot fellows wouldn’t miss something as obvious as Wilson losing control and shoving his tongue down House’s throat in plain view. Probably.
Across from House, Wilson licks his lips, and House’s eyes are glued to the slip of tongue. “Give up,” Wilson says, then, in that tone of voice that doesn’t usually make an appearance at their workplace. “Let me win.”
House scoffs, trying to hide how good that proposition sounds right now. “Why would I-“
“So I can take care of you,” Wilson responds, like it’s obvious, like it’s not the hottest thing he’s said since- well, since not all that long ago, really. Much to House’s delight, the man that can’t get himself to say the word sex in polite company has quite the potty mouth when it actually gets down to it. “So that next Friday, you take care of me, and then you let me take care of you.”
The pathetic, down-bad-for-Wilson part of House really, really wants to. It’d be so easy to give in, so easy to step back. But one of House’s defining character traits has always been his stubbornness. He has a hypothesis; he’ll be damned before he gives up on proving it. “You think I’m that easy?”
Wilson smiles as he leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on his thighs as he stares House down. “I do.”
House’s mind is racing, trying to come up with a response that’s not mind-numbingly horny and frankly pathetic, and is graciously saved by the bell. The door to his office opens with a soft clicking noise to reveal Chase, startling both House and Wilson. It’s somewhat impressive that he’s managed to sneak up on them in a room with glass walls. Then again, they were a little distracted.
Chase looks from House, to Wilson, back to House. “Case,” he says, bluntly, and doesn’t even bother to explain where he could have possibly gotten his hands on an interesting case in the maybe five minutes he wasn’t in House’s direct line of sight.
House scoffs. “We’re busy.”
Wilson smiles, polite and collected. “No,” he says, his voice back to his normal, nice oncologist shtick. “We’re not.”
And then he proceeds to usher House out of his own damn office, like he’s not the one who’s got House all hot and bothered in the first place. He stays for the briefing, bent over House to read the file over his shoulder, one of his hands resting possessively against House’s nape.
The fellows watch them curiously, three sets of eyes trained on the point of contact. House catches them exchanging glances, some unspoken conversation happening between them. Maybe they’re wondering why House is allowing this.
House also catches Wilson give him a sidelong glance as Cameron, Chase and Foreman argue amongst themselves about possible explanations for how their patient could have gotten an allergic reaction in a clean room. He’s smirking, his thumb drawing across House’s pulse point once, twice, before he withdraws.
House isn’t entirely sure why Wilson is tempting fate at this point with his obvious PDA. Maybe he’s so sure the fellows already know about them that he wants to test his own hypothesis. Maybe he’s just come to the conclusion that no matter who wins, he’s in for a fun night.
House genuinely doesn’t know. What he does know is that his fellows watch him like a hawk, showing absolutely no sign of stopping no matter how obvious Wilson is.
What he does know is that he wants to win this stupid fucking bet, no matter how bad his odds are looking.
Foreman / T – 1 day
House has decided to pull out the big guns. It’s the day before their anniversary, which is probably the only reason why Wilson lets himself be pulled into an empty exam room in the clinic with grabby hands. While he’s usually more than happy to slack off during work hours with House, sex is something he strictly keeps out of the hospital.
Still, the proximity of their anniversary has made him easy, and more than willing to push House up onto an exam table with barely any prompting. The ease with which he settles between House’s spread thighs is almost practiced, like they do this all the time.
Which, to be fair, they do. Just at home on their kitchen counter.
House doesn’t let himself be distracted as he buries his hands in Wilson’s hair and pulls him close, Wilson going willingly, and then there’s a tongue in House’s mouth, hands roaming his hips, and all thoughts of the bet vacate House’s head. Wilson’s always been a good kisser, and House has always been just that side of easy, so it’s really no surprise that House ends up painfully hard painfully quick.
Without pulling away, Wilson grinds his hips forward, and House can’t help but groan into his mouth at the sudden friction. Wilson smirks against House’s lips, which is so mind-numbingly hot House feels a little delirious.
In response, House curls his fingers in Wilson’s hair hard enough to hurt, and Wilson sighs something that sounds suspiciously like Greg into House’s mouth. Undeterred, House does it again, bites at Wilson’s lower lip for good measure.
Finally, Wilson seems to get the message, and pulls away. When House blinks his eyes open, he finds his husband’s face open, cheeks flushed, pupils blown, and has to fight the urge to lean back in. He didn’t drag Wilson here just to kiss.
“What are you waiting for, Jimmy?” House asks, surprised at how breathless he sounds just from a little kissing. Maybe Wilson isn’t the only one affected by the proximity of their anniversary. When did House become such a sap? “Fuck me.”
Wilson makes a punched-out sound, and House feels almost cruel for a moment. After all, they both know Wilson won’t actually get to fuck House here, no matter how much both of them want it.
Because, sure, there’s lube and condoms aplenty in a hospital, but between prep and House’s bum leg, actually getting anyone’s dick into anyone on a tight schedule was an exercise in futility. Still, that doesn’t mean they can’t have a little fun.
Wilson’s eyes are dark as his hands travel lower, and House pulls his hands from Wilson’s hair a little remorsefully to instead settle them on the exam table to steady himself in order to get his pants off as quickly as possible.
Wilson’s hands are just starting on House’s belt when Foreman bursts through the door and gets all the way to “House, we’ve got a-“ before he realizes their compromising position.
Wilson has frozen with his hands still on House’s belt, staring at Foreman with wide eyes. He’s flushed, his lips spit-slick. He says, blankly, “I was about to examine his leg.”
House has to try very hard not to burst out laughing.
Foreman stands very still for a long second, clearly trying to process the picture in front of him. Wilson’s clothes are rumpled. His hair is mussed from where House has run his hands through it, and there’s just the slightest flush dusting his cheeks. He is so obviously lying it’s almost ridiculous.
Foreman looks from Wilson to House. “Has it been getting worse?”
House very briefly has to fight down the urge to stalk over to Foreman, grab him by the shoulders, and shake him. Maybe even exclaim something juvenile like Who cares about the leg, I was about to get my dick wet.
“It’s always getting worse,” he grunts out instead, and ignores the painfully sincere look Wilson shoots him.
“Oh,” Foreman says stiffly, decidedly still not looking at Wilson. There’s a long moment where the room is quiet, Foreman clearly debating whether whatever he wanted is worth staying even a second longer. Finally, he says, “When you’re done, our patients’ parents want to speak to you.”
House rolls his eyes. Wilson’s hands are still squarely on his belt and it takes all his brain power to ignore that little fact. “Parents always want to speak to me.”
“Cuddy insisted,” Foreman responds, and then he’s gone, the door falling closed behind him.
In the sudden quiet of the room, Wilson turns back towards House. When he speaks, his voice is carefully detached. “Did you page him?”
“I left a note on my desk,” House says, brightly. “You know, in case my fellows need me.”
Wilson rolls his eyes, but his face is still flushed, so the effect is a little lost. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Clock’s ticking,” House responds. “Had to make it obvious.”
“It’s always obvious,” Wilson says hotly. He’s still in House’s space, still a heavy weight between his thighs, and it’s increasingly hard to focus on the conversation at hand. “Of course, they know. We’ve always been obvious. Ramping it up to 11 won’t make them know it more.”
House shrugs, as if part of him doesn’t agree. They are always obvious, and if his fellows haven’t picked up on it yet, he needs to fire them. Still, he clings on to hope.
“They know now,” he says, and ignores the way Wilson rolls his eyes again. “If we go upstairs now, we’ll find them exchanging money.”
Wilson sighs softly, like this conversation is an exercise in futility and makes no move to step out of House’s space, instead looking his husband up and down with hooded eyes. His lips are still shiny with House’s spit. His hands feel all-consuming and distracting where they’re still firmly on House’s belt buckle. “You really want to go check on the kids right now?”
House can’t help but lick his lips. Truly, genuinely, a big part of House wants to. He has a hypothesis to test, and he loves being right. He just loves getting laid a little more.
When House manages to limp into his office half an hour later, none of his fellows look particularly dejected or elated. No one gives him a clap on the back for winning them a lot of money. Nothing at all has changed.
Settling down into his chair, the realization is almost enough to dull his good mood. If that didn’t resolve the fellow’s little bet that means that either they’re dumber than he thought or- or House was genuinely, truly wrong.
What a horrifying concept.
The Reveal / Dawn of The Final Day
The next day, the fellows’ bet is decidedly not resolved. When House and Wilson stroll into the office together in the morning, all three of them stare at Wilson’s hand on House’s elbow like they’ve never seen physical contact before, and House thinks he might go insane.
If they’re not betting on whether House and Wilson are together, what the fuck is going on?
House and Wilson have always been a little touchy, a little workplace inappropriate. The only reason they don’t regularly get HR called on them is because HR has given up on House in general. So why, pray tell, are his fellows acting like they’ve never seen it before?
Foreman had seemed undeterred when he walked in on Wilson between House’s legs, so as loathe as House is to admit it, they must at the very least know that there’s a relationship there. They have to know.
So, House is losing his bet. Bummer. At this point, he just wants to know what’s going on with his fellows.
The final clue that occurs to him is barely a clue at all. His leg is bad, as it always is in the morning, and Wilson’s hand is at his elbow, steadying him as they make their way from his office to the DDX room. It’s soft, practiced. It had taken years for House to allow him even this miniscule amount of help without shrugging him off. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Chase staring at the point of contact for a second then two, before he turns to Foreman with his eyebrows raised. Foreman, for his part, only rolls his eyes, unconvinced.
He thinks back, suddenly, to all those times he’s caught his fellows staring. Wilson getting him coffee, taking care of him. Wilson’s hand on his nape, all possessive. Wilson touching, House letting him touch.
“Oh,” House says, to no one in particular. Leave it to his ducklings to genuinely surprise him. “They’re not betting on whether we’re together.”
Every eye in the room is on him now, Chase, Cameron and Foreman with increasing levels of alarm. Wilson with slight exasperation. “That’s what I’ve been saying-“
“They’re betting on who tops.”
Next to House, Wilson’s mouth falls open, but House isn’t focusing on Wilson right now. Chase’s face is unnaturally pale, Foreman’s mouth set in a tight line he must think gives nothing away. Most obvious of all, Cameron is halfway through an apology before anyone else has an opportunity to say much of anything else.
Which settles it. House was mostly just throwing shit at the wall, only about 45% sure of his deduction. But he was right. God, he thinks to himself. He’s good.
Wilson turns from House to the fellows, eyes wide. “That is- That is incredibly inappropriate.”
But House isn’t concerned with what’s appropriate, or frankly ethical. He’s mostly just elated about a puzzle solved.
“I’m guessing Chase’s money is on you,” he points out. Now that he’s solved the matter of what his fellows are betting on, the rest comes easy.
Chase stays unnaturally still, like he’s hoping to fade into the background. Wilson sighs, very heavily, and decides to indulge his husband. “And why’s that?”
House grins brightly. “Well, he’s a bottom and me and him- we’re just so similar, you know?”
Chase, face buried in his hands, mumbles, “Please shut up.” His ears, House notices with an inappropriate amount of glee, are bright red. Spot on. “My money’s on Wilson because of your leg.”
House can’t bite down a snort, not that he’s trying particularly hard. “Sure. Tell yourself that.” And then, to Wilson: “Now you do one!”
Wilson’s hand is still settled around House’s elbow, but that’s about the only affection he’s currently showing. His eyebrows are knitted together, his mouth an even line. “I am not getting involved in this.”
House sighs heavily. His husband’s such a spoilsport. Still, he doesn’t let that deter him. “Foreman thinks it’s me.”
Wilson sighs, dejectedly, like he’s decided the only way out is through. “Because I take better care of my appearance.”
“So you’re gayer.”
Wilson turns from House to Foreman. “That’s really not how this works, Dr. Foreman.”
Foreman doesn’t even do Wilson the favor of looking ashamed of himself. Maybe House is rubbing off on his fellows. “It’s not that,” he defends himself, “It’s just- You let him get away with anything.”
“So you think I’d let him get away with-“ Wilson stops himself to run a tired hand down his face. “Never mind. I said I’m not getting involved.”
House turns towards his final fellow, who at least has the tact to look guilty. “And Cameron’s money is on me too, of course. Wishful thinking, I guess.”
There’s a long second of quiet in the wake of House’s successful psychoanalysis slash puzzle solving, no one entirely sure where to go from here. House is undeterred by the awkward silence.
“Two to one,” House grins at Wilson. “Guess I win.”
Wilson’s eyes have that annoyed glint in his eye, the one he gets when House pushes him too far. The one he gets before he spends an afternoon filing through his cane or spiking his coffee. Heat brews behind House’s navel before he even has a chance to speak.
“You want me to tell them who wins?”
Someone makes a choked noise, but House doesn’t pay it any mind. “Of course not,” he says, in that tone he uses when he thinks Wilson is being an idiot. Or when he wants to push Wilson’s buttons. “That would ruin the game”
“Cameron’s money is on Wilson, actually,” Chase points out, sheepishly.
House and Wilson turn to her as one, equally as surprised. She’d seemed like such a safe bet. Cameron shoots Chase an incredibly betrayed look.
“You’re kind of-“ she says to House when both men continue to stare at her. “You like it when he takes care of you.”
Which is- true. House very briefly considers firing Cameron, only because she’s gotten too good at reading him, but shuts that down. Next to House, Wilson snorts softly.
Chase must have decided that whatever payout is on the line here is more important than his career, because he asks, “So, who wins?”
Wilson turns towards him, eyebrows raised. “You can’t seriously think-“
“I’ll tell you if you make your case,” House interrupts, more intrigued than he cares to admit. Sue him, this is fun.
Chase doesn’t even take a moment to consider. “You take care of him,“ he accuses Wilson. “You cook for him, you rub his leg. Clearly-“
Wilson looks a little like he’s about to have a psychotic break. “He’s my husband! Isn’t that just normal?”
A loud cracking noise echoes through the room as Foreman drops his mug. A quick glance towards him reveals that he’s wide eyed, mouth hanging open as he stares at Wilson. Chase and Cameron are in a similar state.
Wilson looks from one to the other. “Oh my god,” he says, more to himself than anyone in particular. “House was right. You’re all idiots.”
Chase turns from Wilson to House, equally as accusatory. “You’re his what?”
“It’s our anniversary today,” House responds brightly “Three years!”
Foreman makes a choked noise. Cameron stares at them, wide eyed, and blankly repeats the words three years to herself.
“We thought-“ Chase says stupidly. “We thought you guys were just hooking up.”
“You thought we were just hooking up,” Wilson repeats blankly. “Oh god, you thought we were just hooking up.”
House snorts. “Aren’t we a bit old for that?”
Chase bristles. He must have a lot of money on the line. “You’re still young!” he says, a little too emphatically to be entirely convincing. “You can still-“
“Don’t-“ Wilson interrupts. “Just don’t.” He pinches the bridge of his nose ever so briefly, like maybe if he does that hard enough, this entire situation will never have happened.
“I-“ he says, then, with a tone of finality that books no argument, “am reporting all of you for sexual harassment.”
House makes a fist, mocking. “That’ll show them.”
“You as well.”
The Payoff / Dusk of The Final Day
It’s later, much later, after dinner, that the bet comes up again. House had cooked for Wilson as promised, and they ate on their couch, House’s legs slung across Wilson’s. The dishes are still on their coffee table, neither of them quite willing to get up and deal with them.
“You know that I won, right?” Wilson asks, voice soft.
House scoffs. “I was right,” he defends himself, almost petulantly. “They didn’t know we were married.”
Wilson’s hand is resting familiarly on House’s knee, and he swipes his thumb across it once, twice. “That wasn’t what you bet on, love.”
And that’s- unfair. Pulling out pet names when he knows the effect they have on House is just playing dirty. In House’s stunned silence, Wilson moves closer, hand sneaking up House’s thigh as he leans in like he intends to kiss him.
“Just let me take care of you tonight,” he murmurs, ever so softly, and all of this is unfair.
House closes his eyes, tries very hard to even his breathing. He hasn’t lost. The fellows really were idiots, and they really did bet on their relationship. Kind of. He hasn’t lost.
“Love?” Wilson asks, barely a hair’s breadth from House’s lips. “Tell me?”
“Yeah-“ House chokes out stupidly. He hasn’t lost, obviously, but- but maybe Wilson’s proposition doesn’t sound too bad right about now. “Yeah, you won.”
The force with which Wilson kisses him is almost enough to knock House off the couch. It’s definitely enough to make him forget all about his idiot fellows.