Chapter Text
House noticed it first in the cafeteria. He always did, even if he pretended not to. Wilson, tray in hand, paused before the salad bar like it had personally offended him. His eyes drifted to the pasta section, where something vaguely Alfredo-shaped was steaming under a sneeze guard.
“Chicken carbonara, huh,” House said from behind him, startling a jump out of the oncologist. “Bold choice. Very midlife crisis of you.”
Wilson gave him the familiar look—part fondness, part exasperation. “It’s lunch, House. Not a cry for help.”
“Speak for yourself,” House said, grabbing two packets of mayo and slipping them into his pocket like contraband.
They ended up at their usual table. Wilson’s tray was heavier than usual. Chicken carbonara, garlic bread, a square of tiramisu balanced precariously on the side. House made a mental note and then immediately hated himself for it.
It wasn’t the first time. He’d clocked it over the past couple of months—tiny shifts in habit, indulgences creeping in like vines. A pastry in the morning instead of toast. A second helping in the lounge when he thought no one was watching. The real giveaway had been that one afternoon House had barged into Wilson’s office unannounced and caught him eating Cheetos with surgical precision, orange dust on his fingertips like pollen.
Now there were love handles. Not glaring. Not grotesque. Just there, edging over the waistband of his slacks when he reached for a file, or leaned against the desk during consults. Little crescents of soft flesh where before there had been nothing but discipline.
It was objectively minor. Probably not even a full ten pounds. But to House, it was monumental.
He was staring again.
Wilson wiped his mouth, then raised an eyebrow. “Do I have something on my face?”
“You’ve got… something everywhere. Is that real cream in the tiramisu?”
Wilson narrowed his eyes. “It’s called enjoying life, House. You should try it.”
“Oh, I enjoy life. I just like to keep track of what it’s doing to yours.”
Wilson rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of something else—unease, maybe, or self-consciousness. House regretted the jab instantly. Not because it was cruel, but because he couldn’t tell why he’d made it.
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That night, House stood in front of his fridge, beer in hand, staring blankly. There was an unopened carton of heavy whipping cream on the top shelf. It had been there since Wilson made that ridiculously buttery mashed potato side last weekend. House hadn’t thrown it out. Couldn’t.
He took a swig of beer and leaned on his cane. Somewhere in the messy architecture of his brain, a theory was forming.
He wanted Wilson to keep eating.
He didn’t want Wilson to keep eating.
It was like watching someone walk a tightrope above something dangerous and beautiful. And House—well, he wasn’t the type to shout “balance” from the sidelines. He was the type to shake the rope.
He closed the fridge. The cream stayed where it was.
Tomorrow, he thought. He’d bring donuts.
Just to see what Wilson would do.