itooaminthisepisode

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i love the idea of 2024!house and fidget toys. 

like, i see him as not being initially onboard, thinking they're stupid, his rubber bands and his paper clip strings and his ball work just fine, thank you very much. 

but then at some point thirteen - avid fidget toy user and undiagnosed autistic - "forgets" one of her toys when she leaves work one day, maybe a little spinner or something (cleverly placing it somewhere she knows house will find it). 

so since it's after hours and everyone else has left for the day, house sits in his office and gives it a whirl...and he LOVES it. it's fun and spinny and colorful and has a really nice weight to it, and he has no intention of ever returning it.

the next day thirteen notices him playing with it and makes a show of asking for it back, and house retorts that if you kids start leaving toys in my office overnight, they become mine by default, tough luck thirteen. thus the "stolen" spinner is added to house's collection of various random items he fidgets with.

and every once in a while - not too often lest house catch on - thirteen repeats the process with different types of toys. house "steals" all of them and thirteen buys new ones for herself and they continue to do the back and forth dance until thirteen feels that house has a proper collection.

(a bunch of their toys are matching now)

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can I come over and stare at u like this

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i couldnt fix him but i could make him my little purse dog

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And The Microphone Smells Like A Beer

Written for the @housemdanniversary exchange! 2.7k [Ao3] Gift for @island-ofthelost. Enjoy!

Wilson heard House’s lopsided gait approaching his office and immediately picked up a random file. He didn’t look up when the door flew open, the sound of House’s steps pausing in the doorway.

“What’s this?”

“Hmm?” Wilson said, looking up even though he knew what House would be holding. He looked at the box, anyway. It was wrapped in newspaper. A Lady Gaga article was facing up. “A present,” he answered, pretending to turn his attention back to the file.

“Presents are wrapped in shiny paper,” House said. “This is garbage.”

“I’m recycling,” he said. “You can open it before deciding it’s garbage.”

“You just told me you were recycling.”

“The paper, not the present,” Wilson rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to open it.”

House scoffed, tossing the box carelessly on Wilson’s desk. He collapsed with a grunt in the opposite chair. “You don’t want me to open it?” 

Wilson shrugged, moving his eyes back over the file he was holding like he wasn’t at all interested in this conversation. “Makes no difference to me.”

“Oh no, of course not,” House said, hooking one leg on the corner of the desk and using his hands to pull his bad leg over it. “You just got me a present and wrapped it all up because you don’t care if I open it.”

Wilson put down the file, playing up his exasperation as he looked at House. “I saw it. I thought you could use it. The wrapping, I admit, was an indulgence.” He waved vaguely at the wrapped box as if he could wipe away the transgression. “But, honestly, throw it out if you want, it doesn’t matter.”

House made a disbelieving noise before snatching the box back off of Wilson’t desk and tearing at the paper. Wilson very carefully hid his smile.

House managed to get the device out of the box without identifying it, holding it up to his face in complete confusion. 

“Is this some kind of kinky metal bit gag?”

Wilson huffed a laugh. “Do you see any kind of tightening mechanism? Shitty ineffective gag.”

House hummed, putting it over his head. Once the bar rested in front of his mouth, he figured it out.

“Oh,” he groaned, whipping it back off. “A harmonica harness?”

Wilson grinned. “So I guess it is kind of a gag, in a way.”

House scoffed, holding up the harness with disgust. “This is the dorkiest thing you could have possibly given me.”

“It’s useful,” Wilson insisted. “I’ve seen you play and you always have to take one hand off the piano to play the harmonica. Don’t you want to keep your treble hand in play?”

“‘Georgie On My Mind�� doesn’t need treble during the harmonica portion.”

“But what if I wanted you to play ‘Piano Man’?”

“I refuse to play ‘Piano Man’.”

Wilson shook his head, amused, and held up his hands in defeat. “Fine. You don’t have to use it.”

“I wasn’t going to use it.”

“Good,” Wilson smiled.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

  House came into work with the harmonica holder around his neck, his harmonica strapped in and ready.

Wilson heard him before he saw him, standing at the nurse’s station at the clinic and glancing over the file of his next patient. He heard House coming, as he usually did, but in symphony with the usual three beat footsteps was a discordant heeee and hoooo timed with each of House’s breaths.

Wilson looked over at him, amused to see House dressed as he usually was in his sneakers, jeans, and blazer over band-tee combo, but with the shiny new harmonica harness around his neck.

“You’re looking dorky today,” Wilson greeted him.

House played a sort of ‘womp womp’ on the harmonica before pulling his mouth away and grinning.”This has made being annoying so much more efficient. I don’t even need hands.”

Wilson nodded, noting that House’s hands were otherwise occupied with his cane and a takeaway coffee. He never usually stopped for coffee on his way in. He probably wanted to test out how annoying he could be before he hard launched the harness at the hospital..

“Very efficient,” Wilson agreed, stealing House’s coffee while he was being too pleased with himself to notice. “Are you angling for something from Cuddy or is this just your usual pursuit of chaos?”

“I was going for ‘make you regret giving me this,’ but now I’m thinking I should have saved it. Do you think Cuddy would cut my clinic hours?”

Wilson sipped House’s coffee and shrugged. “Probably not just for this. It’s pretty benign, for you.”

House finally noticed Wilson stole his coffee and snatched it back. Wilson just smirked. “This is just the first phase of my irritating scheme,” House assured him, taking a spiteful sip of his own coffee. It was still too hot and Wilson enjoyed watching him pretend not to wince. “I’ve got more tricks up my sleeve.”

“I would never doubt that,” Wilson said. He tapped his clinic file on the counter then smacked House on the arm with it. “See you at lunch.”

  The next few hours passed with Wilson treating patients and people coming up to tell him about House’s latest shenanigans. And then lunch passed with House telling Wilson about his shenanigans and Wilson acting like it was the first time he was hearing them.

He laughed around a bite of his reuben. “And she just never acknowledged you?”

“She let me follow them down eight hallways. The rich donor or whatever looked back at me a lot. Which is normal! I was playing every step she took! But Cuddy pretended like she didn’t hear anything.” He grinned admiringly, stealing a chip from Wilson’s tray. “Cold-blooded bitch.”

“She probably only walked that much because she knew it would hurt you,” Wilson noted.

“Probably.” House sighed, the air blowing through his still-mounted harmonica and producing a soft note. “I will have to become even more disruptive.”

“Good God, man,” Wilson said dramatically, pausing with his drink halfway to his mouth. “A disruption? You go too far!”

“I will disrupt, I will agitate, might even do some light discombobulating.”

“Please no disturbances or I fear I may faint.”

House smirked, picking up the other half of Wilson’s sandwich and taking a bite. Some sauerkraut leaked out and dripped on his harmonica.

“That’s gonna taste like that forever, now,” Wilson commented, lightly.

House grimaced, wiping it off with his thumb before sucking it into his mouth. “I eat a reuben every day. My mouth always tastes like sauerkraut.”

Wilson hummed, allowing the hyperbole. House had other harmonicas.

  Wilson’s afternoon was back-to-back patient consults, so he wasn’t privy to what disruptions House was executing. It didn’t escalate enough that anyone from House’s team saw fit to interrupt him, so it couldn’t have been that bad.

This was all but confirmed when Wilson came home to the condo that evening and House was pouting on the couch. House would take issue with the word “pouting” and it might look more like brooding or scheming to the casual observer but Wilson was a connoisseur. Sitting slumped on the couch, legs spread, idly twirling his cane in one hand was peak House pouting behavior.

“Wow,” Wilson started, tossing his keys in the bowl. He heaved a huge breath of relief as he shrugged off his jacket. “I had such a relaxing afternoon. No commotions, kerfuffles, not even a brouhaha.”

House scowled. “Shut up, you sound like a middle school vocab quiz.”

“No, seriously,” Wilson said, setting his briefcase on a kitchen island chair. “I got so much work done! My patients were comfortable, my office was orderly. Peace and love on planet earth.”

“I’m gonna piss in your desk drawer.”

“That would still only be half as annoying as you said you were going to be.”

House groaned, stilling his cane and bringing it up to butt against his forehead. “I got a case. Got distracted. It’s surprisingly interesting. But not as interesting as how much Thirteen and Chase seem to care about it.”

“So, what, you forgot to be annoying?”

“No, of course I was annoying,” House said, rolling his eyes. “It was just localized to my team. Who are practically immune.” He blew out a breath. “I could try again tomorrow but I’ll still be working on the case.”

Wilson hummed, cracking a beer and bringing another one to the couch for House. House took it, leaning a little to the side so Wilson could sit next to him. “Maybe I can bring it back later. Save it for a better time.”

Wilson scoffed, making himself comfortable. “You just got on my case for recycling.”

“It wouldn’t be recycling, it would be a callback. Self-referential humor.”

“Cliche. Not usually your style.”

“You’re right, I need way more bullhorns and whipped cream.”

“How about this,” Wilson said, leaning more of his weight against House. “You already know what’s wrong with the patient, right?”

House swiveled his head, waffling. “I have theories.”

“You know,” Wilson repeated, rolling his eyes. “You’re just playing with your food so you can watch whatever’s happening with Thirteen and Chase.”

House just took a sip of his beer, not confirming nor denying.

“I bet you you can’t last a whole day only communicating through the harmonica,” Wilson said.

House scoffed but in an interested way.

Wilson smirked. “You can still do your DDX on the whiteboard, but you can’t write or text or type or whatever to say words, you have to speak with your music.”

House rolled his eyes but took another sip of his beer, consideringly.

Wilson waited, settling back into the couch and taking a sip of his own beer.

And of course House answered how he knew he would: “You’re on.”

Wilson let himself into the Diagnostics outer office the next morning, greeting the fellows who were already there and helping himself to their coffee set up. The patient must have been stable because no one was panicking and Taub and Foreman were bickering about something outside the case. He let himself dawdle, hiding House’s mug in a lower cabinet and brewing a fresh pot. He didn’t mind waiting. Actually, waiting was kind of the point.

He was pouring himself a fresh cup in the mug that used to be Cameron’s when the ducklings all sat up a little straighter, catching the sound of House’s approach just moments before Wilson.

Not that it was hard to miss. He was breathing into the harmonica as he walked again.

Wilson smiled down at his mug as he stirred his cream in, turning and resting his ass against the counter to watch the show.

House opened the glass door, the harmonica making a kind of “hello” shaped sound as he entered.

“Oh good, we’re still doing this,” Thirteen sighed, turning back to her file.

“Patient’s responding to treatment but started presenting a rash on her pelvis,” Chase reported, unbothered.

House dropped his backpack and cane at his seat, making another sound on the harmonica that could really only be interpreted as a joke about syphilis.

“STI panel was clean,” Foreman answered. “And she’s not allergic to what we’ve given her. Which makes it a new symptom.”

House played a chord in reluctant agreement, limping over to the whiteboard and uncapping his marker.

Wilson wanted to ask him if the rash changed the diagnosis House had already come up with, but he wasn’t about to give the game away. Not when the team didn’t seem to realize what was happening yet.

House added “pelvic rash” to the list of symptoms and then “blurry vision” right below it.

“The patient hasn’t complained of blurry vision,” Taub said.

“Well, she does wear glasses,” Thirteen said.

“And she’s worn glasses since she was 10, why would this only now be a symptom?”

“She probably does need glasses, but if her vision got blurrier, she might just think she needs to change her prescription, not that it’s a new symptom.”

House played a delighted note and pointed at Thirteen.

“There’s no reason to think she has blurry vision,” Foreman argued.

“Unless you think you know what it is,” Chase said, talking to House.

House shrugged and made an ‘I don’t know’ kind of sound. Foreman sighed.

“It doesn’t hurt to check her eyes,” Thirteen offered.

House played a loud bleat of agreement. Then he pointed at Chase, pointed at Taub, played a little trill and pointed out the door.

Chase sighed, getting up, “Fine, we’ll go do an eye test.”

“We’re wasting our time,” Foreman argued.

House played a sarcastic little riff that probably amounted to ‘the patient’s not presently dying, just do the damn test,’ and Foreman scoffed and let Chase and Taub leave.

“What are we supposed to do?” Thirteen asked.

“I can answer that,” Wilson said, standing straight from his slouch.

House narrowed his eyes and played an agitated eight count. Wilson rolled his eyes at him. “You would say that.”

Thirteen looked between them, her eyes lighting with mischief. “I’m assuming we don’t think it’s cancer and you’re here about the harmonica.”

“I am,” Wilson said. “And it’s extremely telling that no one even asked about it this morning.”

Foreman shrugged. “He was messing with it all day yesterday.”

“Yes, but he hasn’t spoken.”

Wilson watched as Foreman and Thirteen blinked, looked at each other, looked at House, and smiled.

“Do you have to talk through the harmonica?” Thirteen guessed.

“Did you lose a bet or is this the bet?” Foreman asked.

“This is the bet. And I need you both to tell me if he cheats.”

House made a discordant sound of outrage, gesturing some mean stuff to Wilson.

“No typing or texting or writing stuff to communicate. The white board is fine and he can gesture,” Wilson told them, grinning at House over his coffee. “Just for today.”

“Done,” Thirteen agreed, immediately. “So do we just tail him all day or…”

“No, I'm sure there’s something doctor-y he needs you to do,” Wilson said, making his way to the door. “And while I’d love to watch him attempt to explain whatever that is, I should get back to work. Have fun, House!”

House flipped him off as he left and Wilson let himself cackle down the hallway.

  House lost, of course he lost, but Wilson had fun watching him try.

As usually happened, the case got complicated, and House couldn’t resist telling his team why they were idiots. He did make it through most of the day, though, so Wilson couldn’t gloat about his victory too much.

He could, however, hold House hostage in his victory, back at House’s old apartment, and make him play for him.

“This is humiliating,” House said, playing the opening keys to “Piano Man” on his own piano. “I’m better than this. You’re better than this.”

“Silence, music man, or there will be no bread for your jar.”

House rolled his eyes but leaned forward to play the opening harmonica. Wilson raised his beer in praise.

He sang along with House on the choruses but let House sing the verses, enjoying his rough baritone giving the song a jazzier sound. He pushed his way onto the piano bench with House, forcing House to sway with him. House shot him annoyed looks but didn’t falter on the music, even smiling at Wilson when he held up his beer to be a microphone.

House played out the song with the harmonica and piano chords at the same time and Wison went in with raucous applause.

“You’re a dork,” House told him, but his eyes were soft. He took off the harmonica harness and laid it gently on the piano. “And a terrible winner. You could have made me do this at an actual piano bar. Or at the hospital. You didn’t even take a video.”

“Why should other people get to hear you play?” Wilson said, leaning his body into House. “They didn’t win a bet. They didn’t get you a good present.”

“This is not a good present.”

“You love it.”

“I do not.”

“Yes you do – you love it and you love me.”

House sighed, bringing his arm around Wilson’s waist. “You got me there.”

Wilson hummed, leaning in to kiss House. House kissed him back hard and they very quickly got carried away.

Wilson could not be blamed: that harmonica had been hogging House’s mouth for days.

[itooaminthisepisode]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: House M.D. Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Robert Chase/Gregory House Characters: Robert Chase, Gregory House, Allison Cameron, Eric Foreman (House M.D.) Additional Tags: gay clubs, Harass Your Employee versus Seduce Your Boss, no winners only losers, Flirting, Outing, awkward workplace conversations, the line between flirting and insulting is in smithereens Summary:

Locking eyes with your boss at a gay club should entail mutually assured destruction. So, why is Chase the only one suffering?

Gift for @ljblueteak hope you enjoy!! @housemdanniversary

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: House M.D. Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Remy “Thirteen” Hadley/Amber Volakis Characters: Remy “Thirteen” Hadley, Amber Volakis, Lawrence Kutner, Chris Taub, Gregory House, Lisa Cuddy, James Wilson (House M.D.), Stacy Warner Additional Tags: fellows and friendship, Rivalry, Competition, clinic bingo and other workplace shenanigans, Humor, Banter, Secret Relationship, Flirting Summary:

The Next Generation of fellows don’t need House to fan the flames of rivalry—they challenge each other to PPTH’s first (and if Cuddy has her way, last) workplace triathlon for the greatest prize of all: a weekend off.

Gift for @ferretwhomst I hope you enjoy!! @housemdanniversary

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a little doodle for the @housemdanniversary gift exchange for @steve-cat! <3 i'm still trying to find my way around drawing on an ipad so it's not much, but i hope you will enjoy!

[itooaminthisepisode]

FIC: Feminist Sisterhood Something Something (House M.D.)

for @moremousebites as part of @housemdanniversary

link to a03

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: F/F

Fandom: House M.D.

Relationship: Lisa Cuddy/Stacy Warner

Characters: Stacy Warner, Lisa Cuddy

Additional Tags: Pre-Season/Series 01, Pre-Canon, Femslash, House MD 20th Anniversary Gift Exchange, Post-Infarction (House M.D.)

By: tornyourdress

Summary: After a fight with House, Stacy calls Lisa Cuddy. (Pre-series.)

Stacy hesitates before ringing the doorbell. There's still time to back out, to go back to the apartment and sort things out with Greg. In this fantasy version of her life, she arrives home to 221B Baker Street and Greg admits he's been an ass, and apologizes for it.

More realistically: there's still time to get a hotel room and not bother Lisa. Stacy’s finger on the doorbell is gentle, tentative. She called on her way over, and got the "sure, no, come over" response she was expecting and yet is suspicious of. She can't tell if Lisa's being polite or if she's really a friend, if the "call me anytime" was something genuine or not.

"Oh, honey." Lisa Cuddy opens the door and looks her up and down. "I was going to ask if you wanted a cup of tea, but -"

"Anything's fine," Stacy says.

"Vodka?"

"Hell yes." She exhales, and wheels her suitcase into the main living space. Lisa vanishes into the kitchen, pouring things, and Stacy settles herself on the couch. She's been here once before, with Greg; Lisa had a small dinner party as a kind of housewarming, even though she'd been in the place almost a year at that point.

It's different, being here solo. 

Lisa returns, and hands her a glass. "Cheers."

Stacy clinks, and drinks, and then observes: the fancy outfit. Tight blouse, slinky skirt. "Were you on a date?"

Lisa half-smiles, half-grimaces.

"You were! How'd it go? Did I - I hope I didn't -" 

"No, no," Lisa reassures. She sighs. "It went great. We had dinner. Nice place. Thai. I told him -"

Stacy waits.

"I told him I was the assistant to the dean of medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro," Lisa finishes.

Stacy winces, sympathetically. "And it went great?"

"Great!" Lisa is a fraction high-pitched here.

"Did you eventually tell him…"

"Nope."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Silence. Vodka-sipping.

"I'm gonna change into something more comfortable," Lisa says, fidgeting with the zip of her skirt.

"You do you," Stacy responds, almost automatically.

She's not expecting Lisa to return in a slinky nightgown. "This is you doing more comfortable?" she asks incredulously.

Lisa shrugs, then flushes slightly. "What?"

"You still look like you're trying to seduce someone," Stacy says bluntly.

Lisa's face closes down. "This is what I sleep in," she snaps.

Shit. "I didn't mean," Stacy begins, but suddenly she can't find the words. Embarrassing, given her profession. "I should go."

Lisa twitches. "No, don't. Sorry. I'm, I'm sorry." She sighs. "I overreacted."

"It's okay. I shouldn't have said anything." Stacy considers, carefully, what to say next. "You look hot, is all."

And then: "I wish… Do you think if I dressed up for Greg like that…?" She wouldn't have said it, not as directly, if not for the glass in her hand. So much of her life depends on seeming confident, sure of herself - not like an insecure teenage girl flipping through glossy magazines trying to figure out the top ten ways of making a boy pay attention to you.  

"Have you tried it?"

Lisa's directness is surprising; Stacy needs a second. "I. Um."

"Try it," Lisa says, half-encouraging and half-impatient.

"I didn't realize you two had gotten that far," Stacy snaps. 

Lisa freezes.

"Oh, shit. You actually -"

"Med school," Lisa says. She bites her lip. "Just the once."

Stacy considers her options, distantly, as though they're in the next room. She could get mad. Sulky, bratty (Greg-like). Or. "Were you wearing that? I mean, I'd go for you, in that."

She means it to sound cute. Not quite like flirting. Definitely not creepy. But then she hears herself, and she hides her face in her hands. "Oh, god. Forget I said anything."

"It's okay." Lisa sounds amused.

"It's been a crazy night."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Yeah. But -"

"More vodka," Lisa says with a little smile. "Coming right up."

Stacy sinks into the couch while Lisa fetches things from the kitchen. Good hostessing - in addition to the replenished booze, a couple of bowls of pretzels appear on the coffee table. She reaches over to grab a handful.

"How much of a dick was he?" Lisa asks bluntly, settling down next to her, now.

"He hates me." Stacy takes a gulp of her drink.

"He hates all of us, right now."

Stacy shakes her head. "He can't forgive me. He thinks I should've listened to him, but -"

"But he'd have died," Lisa supplies gently.

"He's punishing me for keeping him alive." Stacy swallows. She's never said it out loud before.

"Yeah," Lisa says heavily.

Stacy realizes. "He's doing the same to you."

"Yeah. But I'm his boss. Not his girlfriend. I can take it. You shouldn't have to." Lisa reaches out and squeezes her hand, briefly.

"Tell me about your date." Stacy needs the distraction.

"Ugh. What do you want to know?"

"You really told him you were your own assistant?"

"Yep."

"I'd ask why," Stacy begins carefully, "but I get it."

"Yeah." Lisa sips her drink. "I mean, yeah, of course you do. Fancy lawyer." She moves in for a playful shove, hands briefly on Stacy’s arm.

It shouldn't feel as electric as it does. But they've been drinking.

Stacy ducks her head. "I'm not that -"

"Stop!" Lisa says sharply. "No downplaying yourself. You're brilliant. Own it. Even if that jerk can't see it."

Stacy can't help but smile. "Okay."

"What is it with us that we can't see -" Lisa begins. She sighs, and puts down her glass. "The men are not worrying about this."

"Why would they? They're always right." Stacy doesn't mean to sound quite so tired as she says this.

"He's not, you know," Lisa says softly.

"Yeah. I know." Stacy sits up slightly. "I know that, intellectually. But there's this part of me that keeps doubting myself."

"And you don't know whether it's because you really do, or because that's how he wants you to feel."

Something settles inside her, at this. "Yeah. That's exactly it. Only it's not just him, it's - part of something bigger."

"You're a partner, right? At your firm?"

Stacy nods.

"What percentage of the partners are women?"

Stacy considers. "Actually, they're pretty equal," she says, almost by rote, because she has actually looked at the figures. Except: of course she knows it's not really equal. To be a partner, you need to be a particular kind of woman. Young, childless, attractive. Late, long hours, and enduring the gropings of senior partners - that's how the game is played. Fair? No. Realistic? Yes, and a hell of a lot better than being mommy-tracked.

"Do you want kids?" she asks Lisa suddenly.

"You offering?" 

The husky laugh is a surprise. It warms something inside her.

"I guess - yeah," Lisa continues. "Just waiting for the right guy."

"You have time," Stacy says, and then feels like an idiot. It's the kind of reassuring thing she'd say to anyone else, but the brilliant dean of medicine at PPTH doesn't need it.

"I have some time." Lisa flops back now, a movement that draws attention to the slinky black nightgown, to her curves beneath it.

God, she's beautiful. Stacy can imagine, suddenly, reaching out...

Stacy has perhaps had too much to drink, she realizes. "I should go," she says unsteadily, which is actually the last thing she wants to do.

"What? Stay! It's late. You're -" Lisa pauses. "I'm glad you called."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Lisa offers a little smile. It's friendly, Stacy tells herself. Supportive. Feminist sisterhood something something - and then she can't think anymore because Lisa's leaned in to press her lips gently against her own, and fireworks are going off inside her.

It's not the first time Stacy’s been kissed by another woman, but this is a world away from silly college sorority games - being dared to make out in front of the guys, usually. This is without an audience, without any need to perform.

Stacy doesn't need to pretend to anyone that she's enjoying this. But. Oh. She is.

Lisa pulls back. "I probably shouldn't have done that," she says, biting her lower lip in a way Stacy suspects must be rehearsed - it's unfairly attractive.

"It's okay," Stacy says. Inadequate words, she realizes. She uses words all the time in her work and now the only thing she wants to do is to pull Lisa's face toward her again and kiss her - harder, surer this time - and so she does.

Time dissolves around them. At some point Lisa asks, "Are you sure? You're really vulnerable right now…" and Stacy replies, "Yeah, but you're really hot right now", and they laugh-kiss their way to the bedroom, giddily stumbling, wrapped around one another.

[itooaminthisepisode]

title: That One Date

pairing: House x Cuddy x Wilson, Hudson

description: During 03X19, this takes place when House gives Wilson the two tickets saying, “Maybe there’s someone you wanna see naked.”

warnings: usual house's jerk behavior, this is somewhat fluff? Idk.

***

For @sourjabloki @housemdanniversary

***

Wilson let out a heavy sigh as he stared blankly on his patient’s chart for an hour now. He keeps thinking what’s House trying to convey to him? What is he cooking now?

The misanthrope clearly knows that he is not seeing anyone at the moment and he, James Wilson, is taking a break from any romantic relationship.

Another sigh left his lips as his fingers slowly danced on the paper that he should be signing now. A knock wakes him from his trance, as if a solution is being served to him so he could be put in peace… or this is House playing him. It should be because there is no other reason for House’s generosity and now, Cuddy entering his office is a perfect timing that it screams suspicious.

“Wilson, I need that budget report today. You okayed me yesterday and I expected the folder to be laying prettily on my desks earlier this morning. Are you okay? I didn’t receive treatment plans and orders about your recent patient too. What’s going on?”

If he ever thinks of deflecting the situation, he is too late. Cuddy already made herself comfortable on his couch with her composure screaming, ‘Spill your guts out or I’ll make you.’

He stares pathetically in Cuddy’s eyes and says, “Nothing.”

Cuddy’s lips twisted into a smile but not those sweet and innocent smiles, it is a malicious one. “James Wilson. I need you to keep your sanity together. I won’t push you to say anything to me about your personal conflicts but I need you to deal with them.” The oncologist scratches his nape and avoids looking at Cuddy.

“I know. I’ll get the reports done at the end of the day.” He forces a smile and when Cuddy smoothened the creases on her skirt, a thought dawned on him. His palm began to sweat and his throat went dry, he repeatedly reminded himself to not panic over asking Cuddy to accompany him on a play.

“Are you busy?” Cuddy stood up and opened her mouth to fire her response away. But Wilson rises from his seat as well and he slowly approaches her.

“I-I know you are busy of course. But I have these tickets to a play and… do you want to come with me?” Cuddy is waiting for a cue that will indicate that this is a mere stunt to antagonize her for unknown reasons but none of it came.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” She inquired quietly as if everything would vanish if she raised her voice.

“I am. As a friend of course… Unless you are busy, which is fine. I totally get it.” He rambles and rambles as he paces back and forth.

“Wilson. Wilson! Shut up. Okay. I am going with you.” Cuddy is still skeptical but she is testing the waters. For now, she will go with the flow and will attack at the right time.

“Y-You are? Okay.” He smiled like a golden retriever; a smile that would make the eyes go thin as a line, the nose crunching, and the lips that would move so softly. The kind of expression that will make your heart melt.

Cuddy’s brow went up as if she was not expecting such a reaction from him. Wilson walked towards her, squinting at her little figure.

“Wait. You.” He pointed a finger at Cuddy and she just tongue her cheeks and looked everywhere but the man, guilty.

“You don’t actually believe me? You think that I am messing with you.” The dean of medicine dismissed him by patting his arm, an indication that she is done with the conversation. 

“Why?” His expressions remained the same and the woman rolled her eyes.

“Cuddy.” There’s a hint of forcefulness in his voice that made Cuddy fully put her attention to him.

“So you don’t think we can be a thing huh?” He stated in a matter of fact.

“Well-”

“Why?” The man doesn’t know where he is getting the courage he is summoning but he feels quite proud of himself for flustering his intimidating boss.

“Well. Before you cut me off, I did not expect you to be asking me on a date that you well put together and I quote: as a friend.” He can feel that the dean of medicine is treading this response for him.

A moment passed between them before Wilson make a segue to squash the awkwardness away.

“Okay. I'll be giving you the reports later. I’ll pick you up at 9:00PM?”

“Okay.”

***

After House and Wilson’s shenanigans: the flowers and going insane about liking Cuddy. The misanthrope did not stop tearing his two friends from having a romantic relationship. 

Greg House is actually frightened as if Cuddy and Wilson dating would be the cause of human extinction.

After the head of oncologist's little art therapy for Cuddy failed, it's been two weeks and Wuddy seems to be going stronger. House must put a stop to all of it. Wilson's not tolerating him on a normal basis and Cuddy ignores his offending humor which further offends him. 

Wilson's pattern is: act like a nice friend, care for your well-being, cater your needs, and when you are finally attached and comfortable that's when he will yank himself away from you. At least, that's how House comprehended the information from his friend's ex after the condo stunt he pulled.

Now, based on his observations, Wilson's making Cuddy relax every time he sees her.

It's lunch time and he cannot find his dear friend. The last time House checked, when the boy wonder is MIA, he'll be trying to nail their boss. This time, cancer boy is making a move in the cafeteria.

“Whoopsie. Sorry to interrupt. Don't mind the cripple doctor.” He sarcastically jab at the two as he perfectly seated himself on Wilson's side.

He grabs some fries from Wilson and tries to snatch Cuddy’s orange juice. She smirks at him and silently enjoys her lunch.

“Why are you drinking orange juice?” The two lovebirds look at each other and shake their heads, readying themselves for House’s scrutinization.

The diagnostician examines Cuddy’s meal and his lips twitch; a mannerism of him that he does when he is thinking deeply.

“Wilson got this for you. Gee.” The oncologist grumbled and dropped his utensils carefully on the table. 

“House. What's your deal? So what if I gave Lisa a lunch?” House's face twisted as if he ate something sour. 

“Lisa? Tell me if you two are getting married tomorrow so I'll be feeling sorry for you in advance about divorce.” His response is full of malice and mockery. 

“Will you drop it?” Wilson is not having any of House's jerkness. He really just wants to be the support system that Lisa Cuddy needs.

The dean of medicine reached out across the table to comfort the oncologist. Cuddy let out a sigh.

“House, I won't repeat anything that I will say so you must use your brilliant brain to listen.” Wilson resigned into eating his salad and just accepted what's about to happen. He cannot convince Cuddy to ignore House since she is approaching the situation right.

“What? You'll tell me how you wanted to rock both our jocks?” House felt so proud of his statement that he snatched the rest of Wilson's fries and put it in his mouth.

When no one objects nor reprimands him of his remark, the said fries fall down from his lips.

“Aren’t you?” The misanthrope leaned towards the both of them and observed the complexion of their faces. 

“Interesting. So what’s the setup going to be? He’ll get to have you at day and you are mine at night?” Knowing House, he is making every matter into a joke, a mere bliss to deflect. But Cuddy and Wilson remained serious. 

“Can you for once act like a grown up? Just tell us what you think and if you don’t like it then you can leave it.” Cuddy looks at Wilson with a knowing look that says, “Calm down.”

“Just tell us if you're in or not, House. Also, we're official. We just don't parade our relationship for public amusement.” The dean of medicine tidies the remains of her meal and stands up. Wilson, even if he's not yet done with his lunch, also unclutters his table. 

House grumbles and softly answers. “Fine.” The two secretly hide their smirks and stop on their tracks though their backs are turned at the misanthrope.

“I want in.” Cuddy and Wilson both walked towards House and his eyes widened when the woman of his dream reached down to place a soft kiss on his lips. His throat went dry and it intensified when his best friend leaned down and did the same.

He felt his cheeks flushed and his mind went completely blank for a moment. 

“We'll be waiting for you at my house. See you at 7:00PM.” House watched Cuddy wrapped her arms around Wilson and the oncologist placed his hand around her shoulder.

“I told you. We are the death of that man.” Wilson whispered into Cuddy’s ear and she giggled. 

“For that, I'll be giving you a pat in your head tonight.” She whispered back and House felt himself having a panic attack.

***

A/N:

Hope some of you will enjoy it! Especially @sourjabloki !! I am not quite good at creating fics hehe and it's my first time posting a fic here! Thank you @housemdanniversary for being able to organize this wonderful event! I am so happy to be part of it!

[itooaminthisepisode]

"I'll kill you. When the time comes, if you want me to."

House finding Thirteen after Wilsons death and fulfilling his promise to her post canon is a common headcanon and for good reasons.. I feel like ive wanted to draw something with these two for a while now but never had the chance.

Gift for @morehousebites !!!! Hope you like it even a little bit <3 Prompt: Gregory House & Remy Hadley, Chronic illness.

@housemdanniversary huge thanks for organising all of this <3 happy twenty years of house md ! 🐁

Bonus (silly) under the cut.

Foreman transmasc and pregnant...

Loosely based on the prompt: "pregnancy (I'm autistic and it's a special interest of mine, not in a sexual way it's just genuinely fascinating to me), also if it involves Chase or Foreman- I headcannon both as transmasc individuals!" the disclaimer made me giggle lol. Also tbh i just wanted to draw my man Foreman.

[itooaminthisepisode]

House MD 20th Anniversary Fanfic Gift Exchange!!

Want/Deserve/Receive is my gift for @irenespring for the @housemdanniversary gift exchange (it's also below the cut)

Wilson and House start dating and Wilson freaks out because he isn't convinced he's allowed to feel happy or be selfish*.

*To Wilson, selfishness means pursuing his own desires and having good things in his life because of course it does.

Wilson spends his first week of dating House in a state of low-grade anxiety. It's not the big gay freakout that House predicted that first morning after, when his limbs were strewn across Wilson's body, sapping his body heat and possessively holding onto him.

“If you insist on proposing tomorrow,” House had said, voice deliciously rough from sleep, “I'm not changing my name.”

“Liar,” Wilson said, pressing a kiss to House's forehead just to watch him melt. “You'd love being the fourth Mrs Wilson.”

No, he's been surprisingly well adjusted in that regard. It's hard to deny the reality of his feelings when his chest fills with warmth every time House smiles at him or tugs his tie to pull him in for a kiss or sits on the couch beside him like they've always done but this time their thighs are touching and House's hand is on Wilson's leg or curled around his shoulders.

Dating House is a lot like being friends with House. Wilson knew that years ago, seeing how he acted when he was with Stacy. House isn't one to censor parts of his personality for the sake of whoever he's dating—that'd be too much like lying to him and would undoubtedly lead to a rant about hypocrisy.

That applies to his friendships too—or it would, if he had more than one of them. The only real difference in their relationship dynamic now is the level of physical affection.

The reason he's anxious has less to do with House and more to do with himself. Much like he knows what House is like in relationships, Wilson knows what he's like in relationships.

He goes through the motions, hits all the important Good Boyfriend standards, then he finds someone new who needs him more and he convinces himself he's okay with his decisions, pretends he's happy. He lives with it.

He doesn't want to do that with House, but that doesn't mean anything. It's not like he wanted to cheat on his previous partners at the start of the relationship, back when he thought he'd finally found someone to be happy with.

And House wouldn't want Wilson to be the usual boyfriend-Wilson. But Wilson doesn't know how to be anything different. What is happiness meant to look like for him? Is he supposed to learn how to be in a happy relationship with House? Like an experiment? What if he doesn't figure it out in time?

God. He's never dated a man before either. Navigating his newfound sexuality, trying to unlearn his every dating instinct, hoping he doesn't mess up either bad enough to lose the only good thing in his life.

He should've known he isn't meant to be happy. Happiness is for other people.

House had a patient for the past week, so they haven't had much time together outside of exhaustedly climbing into bed together in the early hours. Now that his case is solved, there are no distractions from their relationship.

And Wilson is terrified. He's falling off the cliff of denial, ready to resign himself to the reality waiting for him at the bottom: he's going to screw this up. When, not if.

House, naturally, thinks he's an idiot, judging by the argument they've been having for the past half hour. House keeps deflecting, diverting the conversation back to his position and dismissing Wilson's.

“I'm going to ruin this,” Wilson says, spelling it out so House can't willfully misinterpret his point this time. “And when I do, I can't show up at your door.”

“Sue you can,” House says, “it's not far to walk, even I could do it. And if it leads to mind-blowing breakup sex, even better.”

Wilson groans and pushes his shirt sleeves further up his forearms. Arguing with House always makes his body heat increase, and seeing House passionately angry always has the same effect, although for different reasons.

“I'm trying to be serious,” Wilson says.

“I know.”

“So, what, you don't care?”

House just looks at him and raises his eyebrows. Yeah, bad question.

“Fine,” Wilson says. “You care. I just can't—”

Wilson has other words at the ready. While he was at work, he rehearsed his side of the argument, coming up with the perfect way to convince House that they made a mistake.

They should stay friends, remove the physical affection from their dynamic and go back to how they used to be. Wilson could cope with that, he thinks. It would hurt now that he knows what it's like to be soft and vulnerable with House in a dating context, but that's okay. Wilson's used to hurting.

His mouth is open to say something, but then he meets House's gaze. House, whose expression is guarded, projecting nonchalance, while something in his stance reveals the thread of anxiety underneath.

Oh god, he's already ruining this.

He wants to take everything back, make promises he can't keep, be the good people-pleasing boyfriend he's always been. But House hates it when he isn't real with him.

He's stuck. His breaths come in short quick bursts and his skin is suddenly too tight. Legs shaky, he stumbles. Distantly, he hears House say his name and he sounds so concerned and genuine that it stings.

House loves him and Wilson knows that he won't be okay when Wilson follows the expected pattern. Wilson can't be responsible for that. The consequences for everyone at PPTH would be bad enough, but the way House will undoubtedly implode…

“I can't,” Wilson says as House’s hands push him towards the couch to sit down. “I can't, I can't, I can't.”

He doesn't realise he's hyperventilating and repeating himself over and over until House tells him to shut up and breathe. It's far from the gentle shushing he might've expected from anyone else, and it works to pull him out of his head a little.

They're both sitting on the couch. House’s hand is pressed against Wilson's chest and he wonders if House can feel his galloping heart rate. He doesn't want to lose this point of contact.

“I can't lose you,” he says, voice cracking.

“Then don't,” House says simply.

“It's not that easy.”

“It could be.”

House says it with an air of easy confidence, as if he hasn't bothered to consider the alternative because there's no chance it'll happen.

“I'm not…good at this,” Wilson says. “Being in a relationship, being happy.”

“And you think I am? Where have you been? I don't do happy, Wilson.”

He flounders for something to say, but he can't think of a way to get House to understand.

He blinks and his vision blurs with tears. House's palm slides up Wilson's chest to rest on his cheek and the underside of his jaw. Tilts his head towards him.

“We can't do this,” Wilson says. “If you don't do happy, why risk being unhappy? When this might crash and burn and kill us both?”

House moves closer, prompting Wilson to turn to face him properly.

“Because you're worth the risk.”

And it's not enough, because Wilson can't imagine anything will ever be enough to convince Wilson that he's allowed to want this, but it's something.

House is willing to risk everything for Wilson. As supposedly carefree as he's trying to appear, Wilson knows he too is fighting the instinct to let himself have something good.

Wilson doesn't know how to respond. He's never been good at reacting to nice words or compliments because a large part of him doesn't believe the words.

But this time, he'd like to.

House tugs at Wilson’s arm, pulling him across the couch until he gets the hint and swings his legs over House's until they're facing each other, Wilson sitting in his lap, knees on either side of his thighs.

“I'm probably going to freak out again later,” Wilson says, settling his hands on House’s waist.

“I know.”

“And I still don't believe you that this won't end badly.”

“Then let it end badly,” House says. “But don't end it now because you're a coward who's allergic to happiness. Be selfish, Wilson. Take what you want.”

“I don't know how,” he admits.

“Do you want to kiss me?”

He nods. He always wants to kiss House.

“Then kiss me.”

Wilson leans down until their lips meet. It's warmth and soft noises and gentle hands and everything that Wilson never thought he'd get to have with House.

When they pull apart, House says, “Not bad. But next time, do it because you want to and not because I told you—”

He cuts him off with another kiss. And another. Each one chips away at Wilson's defenses. It'll take a lot more to break them down completely, but that's okay.

He's not planning on stopping any time soon.

[itooaminthisepisode]

House MD Gift Exchange!!!

this is my gift for @househrt from @housemdanniversary 's gift exchange for the 20th anniversary, happy twenty years everybody!!!

THE UNSUBTLE ART OF CHANGING WHO YOU ARE : (Hilson, 5 times Wilson was shamed for stimming and one time House showed him that it was okay.)

ONE:

James Wilson is four years old when he learns that there’s something wrong with him.

Neither of them has words for it yet but Wilson is sitting across from a boy whose name will end up blending in with the mass of others who have noticed that something isn’t quite right, only he doesn’t know this yet so as he builds his block tower or sorts his shapes and does whatever it is that four-year-olds enjoy, he doesn’t think about much else.

This turns out to be his fatal flaw.

Because the other boy, maybe a Jack, looks up from his end of the table and says,

“You’re doing this,” and he sways his body back and forth.

It isn’t outright malicious, not in the way people will be as he grows older, at least, but something like shame creeps up his throat and swallows any response he might have tried to give.

Wilson only stacks another three blocks in the next hour because all he can think about is maybe-Jack rocking himself back and forth.

Had he really been doing that?

In his mind he’d been sitting stock still like everybody else and to find that all this time he had been moving so unnaturally…

He finds out that embarrassment feels hot all over and he suddenly envies the toy bear that he saw somebody else stuff underneath the bean bags earlier (it was hidden, safe).

The other kids didn’t see him sway, he knows this because everybody else was spelling their names with plastic letters or playing outside in the treehouse, but they still notice something; something other, that they all understand is bad which is why they call him names and walk away whenever he wants to play, but he isn’t sure what it is yet that’s making them go away so he can’t even try and fix it.

Instead, he imagines the array of animals painted along one of the long, long classroom walls coming to life, and when they climb out in pairs from the thick, brick walls, they don’t like the other kids, but they do like him, so really, he has hundreds of friends and he’s fine.

Everything’s fine.

Later he’ll wonder where the adults had been all this time, and why nobody ever seemed to notice him walking up and down the length of that wall what must have been a hundred times a day, running his hands along the paint, memorising every single bump and dent, imagining running alongside his friends, or if they did notice then why hadn’t they spoken to him? Or asked whether or not he was okay?

Sometimes he made the animals talk to one another, in his head where nobody could’ve imagined that such a rich and colourful world was developing.

As he travelled back and forth, totally immersed in his wonderful little world, Wilson would flap his free hand up and down and up and down in time to whatever weird and wonderful story he’d been thinking up that day.

He wasn’t aware of this either. It was second nature, only normal. Just another way that his body moved, and he’d never been asked to stop before, he was still a little kid after all. Except, that boy had scared him, and now he was a little too aware.

Should he stop?

He tried, briefly, to get his limbs under control.

It was possible…

Wilson would practice sitting very still, with his hands by his sides and his legs crossed so it was less tempting to bounce them up and down. This was a start, only the tip of the iceberg in fact (he hadn’t started learning to smile properly in the mirror yet).

But it wasn’t fun. It was uncomfortable, like not being able to scratch an itch or having to hold your breath underwater. The easier thing to do was pretend that he didn’t want to play with anybody at all and walk along his wall instead.

There’d only been one other time he could remember trying to play with the other kids.

What was probably the same year, he had walked confidently up to a group of boys messing around by the quiet corner, they were playing knights and Wilson really liked knights, because they were always helping people and everybody loved them for it. He wanted to be needed like that too.

A blonde boy sat on a throne three beanbags tall, from here he knighted the other boys with his plastic sword from the dress up box; it was him that Wilson walked up to with his courage balled up tightly in the same fist that clung to a plush tiger he’d found in the toy bin (they weren’t allowed to bring teddies in from home anymore, they were too old now).

“What knight am I?”

All around him the other knights giggled as if he’d told a joke and only they had understood the punchline, but Wilson hadn’t been joking and he felt a sticky, unpleasant warmth rising up through his body from the very tips of his toes all the way up to the hairs on his head.

This didn’t stop him from waiting eagerly for his new name, bouncing excitedly on the tips of his toes -another mistake, as he would later learn.

He was surrounded by knights with names that practically cried out for those around them to ask after what were undoubtedly many stories of valiance, and he wanted to feel powerful like they did.

Strong Sam stood up to whisper something in the Kings ear as Wilsons stomach shifted and squirmed uncomfortably beneath the surface of his skin.

“You can be a knight, James.” Said the King, smirking, which Wilson took for a smile (he’d even smiled back, stupid).

Strong Sam had sat back down with the others now and although they clamoured to find out what he’d told the King, Sam would only giggle in response. They’d all find out soon enough.

The King had now lifted his sword and Wilson eagerly got down on one knee as he’d seen the other boys do from across the classroom,

“You can be the knight…” He tapped the sword on one shoulder, and then the other,

“Jerk James!”

Suddenly all of the boys erupted in fits of laughter, rolling around and clutching their sides but Wilson was hardly hearing them at all. If he had been asked to describe it, he might have said it felt a little bit like the floor had given out underneath him, and that the awful ‘hot-all-over’ feeling from before was back along with the churning in his stomach.

“You’d be a Jerk knight because you’re just a jerk!”

He somehow makes it back up but Wilson really, really, really doesn’t want to be in school anymore and he goes slowly back to his wall, cheeks still flushed pink with shame.

Pretending that the other boys aren’t still laughing and shouting behind him, he places his left hand against a zebra’s stripes and resumes the march up and down and up and down.

TWO:

This time Wilson’s just turned thirteen.

They’re all in the kitchen, eating breakfast before school and Wilson’s got the latest DC comic in his hands, mirroring his father from across the table where he fences himself off from his family using the morning paper.

It’s been a long time since he’s learnt that he doesn’t have what everybody else knows it takes to be a human. He’s decided to learn instead.

He spends far too much time poring over sociology textbooks and learning about the human body, he tells his parents it’s because he wants to become a Doctor since that sounds better than admitting that their son is really just broken and trying desperately to fix himself.

“Stop doing that.”

That was his father, predictably.

Some people would call him a Mummy’s Boy, but Wilson preferred to think she just understood him better, maybe she’d been a little bit broken too? He was always too scared to ask.

“What?” He instantly replied, strike one. That was too blunt. Rude (Wilson got called that a lot).

He focuses on making the correct amount of eye contact as he looks up, not enough and people would turn around wondering what was interesting about the wall they were stood against, too much and they looked at you funny, or asked if everything was quite alright -it never felt like it was.

“Acting like there’s something wrong with you. It’s like you’re ret-”

“I always thought it was creative,” His mum chimes in, smiling and glaring at his father, warning him not to cuss, Danny was in the room after all.

“It’s not fu-…” He let a breath out through his teeth, already reaching for a smoke, “Just stop it. Don’t need people saying anything, okay?”

He’s gone before Wilson can even reply, digging around in his pocket for a lighter as he walks out the door.

“What?”

His mum won’t get angry if he’s blunt.

“Oh, you know…” She flattens down a crease in her skirt, looking anywhere but at him as if it’s too humiliating to say out loud.

But his blank stare inclines her to try again, “That thing you do…You know, I personally never had any trouble with it. You know your grandma said it meant you were going to be creative! It’s…It’s just your father, he wants us to look good, don’t you?”

Only that’s only made him more confused, what was that ‘thing he always did’?

Luckily his mother rambled on, skirting very neatly around the point as she tended to do, “I guess it’s just because you’re older now and you know it’s just because he cares.”

It’s always his fault. His father’s blameless.

It’s easier to just nod this time, you weren’t allowed to ask for clarification more than twice because if you still didn’t understand by then it meant that you were stupid, his teacher from last year had taught him this when he failed to agree that he had understood the topic, and since he’d apparently given him attitude alongside his ineptitude, Wilson had been made to hold his arms upright in the air for ten minutes.

This didn’t seem like much, but until you’ve had to hold your hands in the air for ten minutes, then it never will.

There were dozens of lessons just like this one to learn as you grew, and Wilson could never seem learn them fast enough, always falling behind in one way or another.

At least not having friends left him time to catchup (he’d had a few ‘friends’ in looser terms, but eventually it became embarrassing to be seen with him, and then even they slowly stepped away, everybody wanted to be like after all).

People still saw that he wasn’t quite complete not matter what he did.

For now, he had gone back to reading his comic, which he thought was brilliant. The superheroes amazed him, always saving somebody. This always undoubtedly led to many thanks from everybody else in the city, maybe even kisses from the girls who were particularly thankful.

Jealously followed shame closely in terms of emotions that seemed inherent to his existence. Only envy felt easier to fix, remember, he could become a Doctor. They saved people too.

Everything was fine.

“You’re doing it again.” Danny this time.

“No.” But he was only saying that to disagree with his brother, because he still hadn’t the faintest clue where he’d gone wrong in the first place.

“James just stop it alright; your father has a big meeting at work today and you don’t need to upset him anymore.”

“I’m not doing anything.” He insists, naturally. He really isn’t.

“You are too!” Danny reaches over to snatch the comic, “You’re reading it all weird like this.”

To Wilsons horror his brother begins to crease the pages between his fingers and move the book left and right, then up and down. He even lightly flaps the paper away from and towards himself again.

Wilson grabs it back, practically slamming it back down on the table, his cheeks turning shades of splotchy red as he glares down at his breakfast.

“Boys! Behave yourselves!” She warns, but she’s already clearing their plates away with her next breath, so she doesn’t notice Danny shaking his spoon and making his eyes roll round in a cruel imitation of James and his alleged weirdness.

“Stop that.”

“Don’t wind your brother up, go brush your teeth. Both of you.”

Where Danny sprints off, Wilson stands up slowly, staring at his arms in case they get away from him again and walks carefully upstairs, clutching his comic book firmly in his fist.

There has to be something very wrong with him if he can’t hide these ugly, broken parts of himself even now he’s older.

He should have learnt by now, only he hasn’t because he’s stupid and he never learns so he can’t get anything right.

He reckons that dad was right in trying to stop him. Nobody wants an embarrassment like him in the family.

Eventually he’s upstairs and as he scrubs his teeth, wincing around the violently minty flavour exploding throughout his mouth, Wilson tries to imagine what will happen at breakfast tomorrow in his head.

Obviously, a repeat of the comic book situation is off the table, the shame creeping up along his neck clings to him often enough at school, he doesn’t need it following him home as well.

No, tomorrow he will place his comic down flat on the table, one he’s read before so he can focus on where his arms and legs are instead, and he’ll be able to ignore the kettle boiling or their neighbours dog barking because if it doesn’t bother anybody else then it isn’t allowed upset him either.

Then, as his father reads the morning paper and his mother frets over how presentable his brother looks, he will sit still and eat his breakfast like a normal kid. Maybe it’ll get easier, maybe one day he can stop pretending.

THREE:

The cafeteria at his university made Wilson want to throw up from the first moment he set foot inside.

Fluorescent lights glared down, cutlery crashed against table-tops, chairs scraped the faux-wood floor as people stood and everything in the room seemed to be singing a song to a different tune.

The endless clatter and chatter were overlayed with the vile stench of people’s food mingling in the air and this unfortunately forced something uniquely disgusting up into Wilson’s nostrils.

For all of the rules he had learnt and written into the scripts he relied on to function as a real person, (which he was getting better at, he had a boyfriend now, not that his parents would ever know) there was still one thing he still always chose to avoid rather than overcome.

Rooms like this one.

This included coffee shops, restaurants, house parties, parties in general, particularly crowded lecture halls and anywhere else where the lights were too bright, or the sounds overlapped so badly that he could hardly make out what anybody was saying.

Unfortunately, a lot of places met this criterion, and since his attempt to be something other than a widely disliked social recluse -and more broadly to become a new man- he had accepted many invites to places he knew would make his teeth itch.

Almost worse, it had worked.

So what if he broke down every other night alone in his room? Being liked was more important, he had been taught this in a hundred and one way over the years, and some were a lot less pleasant than others.

On this particular weekday, during the precious gap between lectures, his boyfriend (whom everybody loved) had taken them both (along with three of his other friends) into the main cafeteria.

The cafeteria was a largely alien place to Wilson who wouldn’t have gone in there voluntarily if a million pounds was up for grabs (okay maybe only then); for all his practiced nonchalance meant that he had managed to sit down with the others and participate in their conversation somewhat normally, it had been fifteen minutes now and little things were slipping between the cracks.

Whilst he still hadn’t flapped another book (comic or not), nor had he rocked back and forth or fallen for a smirk as easily as he had in his younger and more vulnerable years, something inherent to his being continued to push people away.

Despite many hours practicing a perfect smile (not too many teeth, relaxed, or as close as he could get to relaxed anyways, had become his formula) today it had slipped, and he’d stared blankly back at a friend whose name he’d forgotten a month ago now but was too scared of to speak to, let alone ask.

That had been his first mistake.

It was relatively minor, excusable and swept quickly and efficiently under the rug using a joke to bring attention to him in a new self-deprecating way that hopefully overrode the previous moment in everybody’s memories.

Unfortunately, the second stumble ended in far worse a fall.

Years spent mastering stillness had led Wilson to feel in full control of himself, and usually he was.

But the assault of sounds, lights and noises pressing on him had been pulling him deeper into his subconscious, where it was safer in a way.

“Need to piss or something?” Asks Ethan, typically blunt but it’s funny, because it’s Ethan.

Only clearly Wilsons blank look (strike, always pretend that you understood) doesn’t satisfy his need of for response.

“You’re squirmin’ all over the place babe,” He adds, giving everybody else in the group a look that makes them laugh and Wilson feels four years old again.

What had it been this time? Bouncing his legs, tapping his fingers, flapping his hands? Perhaps swaying or rocking or nodding his head?

“Haha yeah, totally desperate!” He blurted, trying to ward of the fiery shame that was already threatening to paint his face pink and red.

Wrong answer.

You’re out.

Everybody stares back and he recognises the look to be distaste, disgust, disapproval.

He’s seen it on enough people to be familiar with it by now but that doesn’t make it hurt any less and he’s embarrassed all over again, feeling more and more like he might throw up his lunch by the minute because this time the stakes are higher.

An angry blush is coating his face before he’s even able to try and stop it (sometimes if he pinches himself hard enough, it’s almost possible).

Impressing a few boys before any of them had even learnt to count to twenty seemed so inconsequential now that he wanted to laugh at himself for caring so much at the time. Back then he hadn’t needed friends in the way he understood you did now.

That had been his last shot, if Ethan didn’t like him nobody else in his classes would, that boy was essentially in charge of the hierarchy he’d hoped so badly would be left behind following high school.

 Wilson had always hated that made up social food chain, mainly because he’d always been stuck helplessly at the very bottom.

He’d finally climbed up a few steps, practically fighting his way to the top, and now he was tumbling back down, ashamed of himself and jealous of everybody that this came easily to, as per usual.

They were still staring, and he understood this to mean he should leave now, so Wilson mumbled something about actually going to take a leak and walked stiffly away, keenly aware of their eyes burning into his back.

He walked funny.

Ethan had told him, because he always looked out for him like that.

As he walks or waddles or does whatever it is he’s doing wrong this time, laughter echoes in his ears and distantly he realises that one of them is imitating him, much to the joy of his other ‘friends’. He pretends that it isn’t Ethan.

Everything’s fine.

His fingers tap rhythmically against his trouser leg, and he tries to stop himself but his ears ache on the inside and he’s so, so tired that he suddenly finds he can hardly hold himself upright and he wishes he was hidden safely under his clean, white, hotel-room duvet that muffles the entirety of the outside world when he’s underneath it.

The moment he turns the corner he breaks into a sprint and Wilson runs so hard his calves ache by the time he’s back in his bedroom, where he sits against the door so it feels even more like nobody else can come in -with the blinds shut although it’s only midday- and cries silently until the knot stopping air from getting to his lungs loosens enough for him to get into bed and enjoy sleep until he has to deal with yet another day.

FOUR:

He’s back from work on time today, really, really trying to made Julie happy.

Nothing he does ever seems to make her happy anymore, and because things like this are always his fault, he assumes that whatever’s making her distant this time is on him too. Luckily, this means that he can fix it.

Wilson likes to think he’s gotten a lot better at acting like a person over the years.

He has a well-paying job, helping people and being needed just like he always wanted.

Maybe he still isn’t doing brilliantly on the ‘friend’s’ front, in terms of what’s expected for a man of his age anyway, but at least he has House, which will always be enough for him.

Julie is his first wife and every day he marvels at how such an amazing woman could choose a man like him (somebody so broken).

He’d never felt that flirting was his strong suit but somebody in a bar pointed it out to him once that knowing how-to could get a guy long way, and Wilson instantly became obsessed with learning everything about it.

That was a big part of upping his social game enough to start getting anything other than judgemental looks at job interviews – apart from avoiding shame, wanting to earn a living wage was a big incentive when it came to picking up social skills.

Unfortunately, sometimes he still isn’t able to give people what they want; over the past few months Julie has slowly become one of them. Insatiable. Unsatisfied. Disappointed.

This means that they argue now. A lot.

“Honey, I’m home!” He shouts but his voice only echoes back at him, she’s busy (again).

That’s okay, he deserves to be ignored a bit, put in his place.

His father was always keen to remind him and without that not so gentle chiding, Wilson might still be creasing his comics or bringing shame upon himself in a dozen other ways.

Everything’s fine.

He sets about cooking dinner pretty much as soon as his shoes are off, feeling more useful already and smiling to himself as he imagines Julie thanking him and falling instantaneously back in love at nothing more than the sight of this beautiful homecooked meal.

It’s something new, a recipe that he saw on a flyer somewhere and instantly imagined sharing with somebody -he decided that Julie was the correct choice, as his wife, although House probably would have liked it more, but that’s a bad thought, something he ought to be punished for later.

As he putters about their kitchen, the one place in their apartment where he feels truly relaxed, Wilson likes to flap whatever he grabs next, shaking potatoes up and down or making a teaspoon sway.

This little habit grew out of the world’s insistence that he stop flapping his hands.

After he’d been reprimanded and humiliated one too many times Wilson had thrown himself headfirst into reshaping himself.

Everything about him had to be different. The way he worked, moved, walked, lived and breathed.

None of it was good enough and after torturing himself into stillness at last, his unfaithful, wretched body only found other ways to move without his knowing. This started with flapping objects, as if it was less obvious or safer in some way.

Now he had to be careful of that too, minding anything he picked up very, very closely (God forbid he shook a tool mid-surgery or made a fool of himself in the office by flapping some paperwork during a shift).

However, for all his care and concern, sometimes it slipped out, catching him unawares every time he got a little bit too comfortable in his own skin.

Wilson had just grabbed a knife to dice up a few potatoes, feeling himself unwind after a long day, and without even realising it he was holding the handle looser than he normally would, flapping the end lightly up and down as he turned back to the counter with the cutting board on.

“The fuck are you doing?”

“Wha-”

“Are you trying to fucking kill us both?”

His mouth felt dry and although Wilson scrambled to find something to say the words felt thick and heavy on his tongue, too sharp and awkward to pull up out of his throat.

It immediately clicked that he’d been moving wrong, acting badly.

His eyes narrowed down to the knife in his hand.

Oh god how close had Julie been…

“Sorr-”

“I’ve had a really long day, James, and I thought you were cooking dinner, not playing fucking Patrick Bateman in my kitchen! But no-o here you are waving a fucking knife around like you’re five fucking years old!”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Oh I’m sure you’re chock-full of pretty little excuses, but I think it’s House, rubbing off his-…His fucking craziness on you! Yeah, like a gas leak or a groomer or something…God…Look I’m gonna eat out yeah?” She’s already halfway to the door, did she have her shoes on this whole time?

“Bye.”

With that unceremonious goodbye Julie’s officially gone for the night, it won’t be long until he finds out where, and that will somehow hurt less.

She hadn’t even been close enough to-

And Wilson never would’ve-

But that’s not the point.

The point is he’s still broken after so many years of trying to cover it up and he’s hardly any better at pretending to be normal. Look where that got him.

He’s exhausting Julie, in the same way he upset his mother and father, or before that, it was whatever he had done to the other kids at school that made them so loathe to go near him.

Wilson feels tears prick at his eyes and his hands immediately begin to flap in short, stilted bursts, but this merely adds to the anger burning in his chest, threatening to make his heart explode, and instead he forces himself to grip the counter’s edge until his knuckles turn white and he sees spots start to dance in his vision.

Afterwards, he pretends to himself that he is normal.

He finishes dinner, eats a tiny bit (his stomach is now churning with guilt, and shame has almost wholly swallowed his appetite) and puts the rest in Tupperware boxes for the freezer.

It all feels like something out of a movie about a lonely bachelor, when really, he feels more like a single loser who can’t get anything right for shit.

FIVE:

It’s been well over thirty years since his first taste of shame at four years old and Wilson still carries its bitter aftertaste in his mouth wherever he goes, the nauseating envy following not far behind.

If he’s learnt anything in that time, it’s that nobody ever wants him as he is, and that tampering himself down is safer.

This rule is followed most ardently when he’s at the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

Why?

Because it’s a professional setting, a place of work, and it’s taken years for him to decipher the intricate, but by society valued, differences between what’s expected of him at his family home versus with his wife versus in a place of work but he’s finally bleeding done it and now he clings to his rules like a lifeline (in a way that’s what they are).

So he moment he sets foot in that building Wilson puts on his best ‘I’m-a-real-boy’ impression, gritting his teeth against the urge to rock, flap or spin, and pushing everything about him that’s ever been judged or shamed as far down as it can possibly go.

This keeps him safe, makes people respect him and if he tries extra hard, they even grow to like or admire him (especially if he speaks to a nurse in just the right way, because knowing how to flirt really can get a guy a long way).

Hence why it’s even more distressing when the mask slips.

Today Wilson woke up late and essentially rolled right out of bed and into his car which is simply something that he does not do, so things are already off to a bad start -and he will later try to blame his unprofessionalism on this.

It doesn’t help that he’s rushing around for the entire first half of his shift, because it means that in addition to his idiotic blunder there’s now rather unflattering sweat patches accompanying his already fairly unkempt self (hopefully his lab coat camouflages them well enough).

He’s just handing some files over the counter for a frankly gorgeous young nurse to put away when he slips up.

“You alright there?” She asks him, half-teasingly.

“Huh?”

“Oh nothin’…You’re just kinda movin’ weird, ya know like ya might fall over or somethin’…”

His cheeks are almost certainly tinted red by the time he manages to throw together a response, which in that moment feels a little bit like trying to stick together hardened clay with nothing but your strength of will.

“Oh...”

Pathetic.

She sort of looks at him funny for a moment longer, as if she wants to ask whether he might be slightly soft, but quickly cuts the interaction short (normally she likes to stand against the counter at least an extra five minutes for a friendly flirt).

“I’ll just put these away now.” And she turns around a full hundred and eighty degrees to emphasise quite how much she doesn’t want to speak to him anymore.

Under any other circumstance, Wilson might have been the tiniest bit pleased that he had recognised what her body language was trying to tell him so quickly, but this time shame outweighed any smugness he might have otherwise felt.

He’d probably been bopping his head or swaying his body back and forth, perhaps rocking lightly on his heels. None of those options seemed more appealing than another.

“See you around…” He mumbled, although it was half-hearted, and he knew she wasn’t listening anyway.

It just felt more finished that way. You always had to say goodbye to people, not doing so was rude, his father had told him (he would never admit that it angered him slightly that what the old man had said to his teenage self still had so much power over him, it felt embarrassing in a whole new way to do so).

Wilson walked away with practiced ease; hands crammed deep into his pockets to hide that the fact that he was shaking, however slightly.

He spent the next twenty minutes washing his face with cold water and waiting until it felt like he’d scrubbed away at least the tiniest fragment of shame. Then he went back to work.

It had been such a small mistake, after all, people bounced their legs or clicked their pens all the time, this was just the way that Wilson moved.

Unnatural. Alien. Weird.

Words he had become so accustomed to associating with himself that it was second nature, they hardly had another meaning anymore. This is why he knew that she’d had a right to look at him that way. People have been doing it his whole life.

But it’s always worse when he fucks up somewhere that matters. It also seems that every time something does go wrong, he manages to do it somewhere that the stakes are high.

Another flaw in his nature, he supposes.

“Everything okay?”

Everything’s fine, he thinks, just brilliant thanks for asking. I acted like a great big freak in front of somebody who I’d convinced was normal, but yeah other than that I’m doing really fucking great.

Really, he just turns around with confusion written clearly across his face.

Suddenly, -now that he’s been surprised into stillness- Wilson realises that his hand had been patting away at his side (another one of the many ways that his body had tried to rebel against his new rules).

“Yeah, of course.” And just to be safe he quickly adds in, “How are you?” Because if you get people talking about themselves, they’ll quite often leave whatever they wanted from you alone, maybe even forget about it entirely, if you’re lucky.

The subtle art of deflecting. With everything he’s learnt he might as well write a book.

The nurse’s (a different one this time, but he’s pretty sure it’s a friend of the one from before) smirk as she tells him, “Good to hear.” Tells him enough.

The nurse from the reception probably told half the staff about his antics.

‘Hey everybody, our oncologists a massive freak!’, and he can’t stop himself from imagining everybody agreeing. ‘Yeah, total weirdo.’ And saying things like, ‘I knew there was something off about that guy.’

As his paranoia grows, so do the sticky patches under his arms and this only exacerbates the tingly shame that’s now spread across the entire surface of his skin.

To mess up twice in a day where he’s been so incredibly disciplined for years, is so jarring that he wants to cry and hit himself and scream at anybody who tries to come near. Oh right, he can’t do that anymore either (his father never approved).

“I’m doing good too.” She quite obviously holds back laughter here as Wilson continues to frantically attempt to regain control of his carefully crafted façade, before throwing a goodbye his way and walking down the corridor, saving him the stress of offering an actual response.

He swallows hard but his mouth is so dry that the feeling’s more akin to licking sandpaper.

With his face bright pink and his hands once again hidden deep in his pockets, Wilson spends the next hour on his lunch break, reminding himself how to act like a person in the safety of a bathroom cubicle (which almost upsets him even more because if there’s any surefire way to remind him of his worst experiences from high school, then locking him in a bathroom stall definitely tops the list).

Luckily, he manages to clean up almost well enough to feel almost good enough again, and by then there’s only a few hours of his shift left and he hides in his office for most of them, choosing guilt over further embarrassment as per usual.

PLUS ONE:

Everything in Wilson’s life has been one huge enigma.

From learning how to speak to people properly to being taught how to tie his shoelaces (which, embarrassingly, took him until he was twelve years old).

Nothing ever made sense and whatever came easily to his peers wouldn’t stick in his mind no matter how hard he tried to learn.

Apart from one thing.

House.

Meeting him had been like having whatever wacky brainwave he’d been functioning on finally find a match after so many years (his high school bullies might have preferred to compare it to Wilson finally finding another member of his ‘species’, but he felt that apart from being nicer, his metaphor was more apt).

This instant connection made all three of his marriages and consequently any relationship that House managed to hold onto long enough for it to matter, absolutely torturous.

For a long time, Wilson wished that House had been born a woman, so that he could have done his usual routine and wooed him easily into his bedroom. But for all he liked to think it would have been simpler, the two of them were never destined to have it easy, this intricate dance had been necessary to drive them even closer together than they would ever have imagined possible.

Their first drunken fling was years ago now and every day Wilson was fortunate enough to wake up beside the man whom he could unflinchingly say that he loved the most in the world, which made him want to jump and spin and squeal with joy.

He settled for softly kissing his collarbone, his neck, his cheek and then finally his lips.

No word could singlehandedly encapsulate just how lucky Wilson felt.

Sometimes, Wilson saw everything he’d hidden away about himself being expressed so freely in House that something disgusting like anger clouded his vision, he decided not to think about it too much.

House on the other hand, was obsessed with uncovering every carefully concealed part of the man he was proud to call his own.

As it often did, tonight it started with both of them watching an appallingly bad telenovela on the couch (their couch this time) and sipping ice-cool beers.

Or rather, House was sipping an ice-cool beer and Wilson pretended to be angry that he was stuck with a lukewarm pint that House had ‘forgotten’ to return to the fridge after setting it on the side a few hours ago (but he really didn’t mind, he would’ve drunk House’s bathwater).

It all felt so domestic and comfortable that, without realising it -because he never did, damn it- he was slowly slipping into a state so tranquil and relaxed that he began forgetting himself. Only, House would never have told him this, why? Because he loved it.

Seeing Wilson so blissful, dressed in something other than a shirt and tie that he knew bothered him (too itchy, or too tight), not to mention that god-awful over-starched lab coat, made House melt inside and if he wasn’t careful, he might even start giggling like a teenage girl.

As they got further into the episode, (something House had seen a hundred times before, so he didn’t need to watch the screen too closely) his gaze drifted over to none other than Wilson, as it always did.

He looked beautiful.

Tired eyes, sweater all bunched up around his waist with his legs sprawled out in front of him and the empty beer can half crushed in his laps.

The empty beer-can simply won’t do, so House pokes his ribs with a foot,

“Jimmy, grab another pint for a poor cripple, won’t you?”

He only sighs in response but House knows there’s a smile written across his features as he turns around, and sure enough he’s back with another for both of them.

This time he sits on the edge of the couch after throwing House his share, and his beautiful, gorgeous face is hidden from him. Outrageous.

House settles for observing Wilson from behind. He’s not going to pull him into his arms like some totally smitten weirdo…Yet. Who knows, he might do something interesting and it’s no secret that he loves a puzzle.

He gives up fairly quickly, it’s a Friday night after all, and turns his attention back to the screen within ten or so minutes, but then he notices something. From where he’s sat on the other side of the sofa, Wilson is swaying, rocking even, ever so gently back and forth.

It’s impossible not to stare. The movement seems like second nature to him, in fact, Wilson doesn’t even seem totally aware that he’s doing anything at all.

Then he stops.

Wilson always knows when House is watching him, but because there’s never been anything malicious in his eyes, there’s never been any reason to worry, so he lets him do as he pleases, even becoming blind to it after a while. They were dating, if they wanted to stare at one another, they were allowed.

This evening, he doesn’t even notice until House asks for the beer, and he tries to imagine what the other man was seeing. Probably laughing at his atrocious eye bags or getting ready to pounce on him and noting down anywhere sensitive that was exposed enough for him to do so.

That’s all fine, normal, actually. So he goes back to tuning him out pretty much the moment he sits down.

But suddenly, something feels different…

It’s no longer a harmless watching. This time the all too familiar feeling of eyes burning holes in his back is radiating from across the sofa and instinctively, Wilson tenses.

His mind starts working at a hundred miles a minute. What had he done wrong this time? Swaying, tapping, rocking, flapping? He mentally locates the muscles inside all of his limbs and tries to make them stand still.

He’s been doing so well. He always does in the beginning; the pattern can be seen in all of his marriages.

Wilson puts every last ounce of energy towards making himself a perfect partner, and then it dwindles, and dwindles, slowly but surely until he has nothing left to give and they see him for who he really is, then, they leave.

He pretends that it doesn’t hurt as much as it really does.

“Sorry.”

It’s autonomic. Instinctive. The answer he knows he has to give.

“Huh?”

House also pretends, only he’s putting on a show, faking confusion to show Wilson how stupid his response was.

“Nothing.”

Maybe he can stop this conversation before he ruins everything. Maybe it still isn’t too late, and they can enjoy a few more wonderful years before he really fucks up and ruins everything all over again.

“Well given that you said ‘sorry’ means that it’s actually definitely not nothing.”

“Wait why’s Sofias sister crying?” Deflecting.

“Wilson I’m trying to have a conversation here,” He replies, raising the pitch of his voice to imitate a nagging housewife, or rather one of Wilsons ex-wives.

He tries to ignore him this time, which is a hopeless tactic when dealing with House, but he’s too tired to think of something new and no other options come to mind.

House is not having that.

“Why’d you stop.”

Not only did he stop, but Wilson seems tenser than a bow string at its full extension and House sits up, turning off the tv entirely, then he turns to stare at him.

“Oh I see, very mature. You don’t like something, and now no more TV time for me?” Wilson douses the words with sarcasm, as they both tend to.

But this time, when House speaks, he’s nothing but genuine, and Wilson knows this, because it’s House and the one thing that he can be sure of is that he knows House.

“It doesn’t bother me.”

And as he lies back down, he wraps both arms around Wilsons torso so that he can drag him down too.

Perfect, now Wilson’s head rests just above his heart, and after House puts the show back on he starts to gently run his fingers through his hair, carefully undoing an hour’s worth of styling and products from this morning.

Wilson doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t think that he could even if he tried.

Of course House, king of cynicism and snide remarks turned to him and softened his gaze, only to deliver the four most meaningful and devastating words he thinks he’s ever heard. This feels like an ‘I love you’ and it leaves Wilson reeling in the aftermath.

The feeling’s both pleasant and frightening but most noticeably devoid of shame. There isn’t any jealously either and that’s what makes him want to weep.

His whole miserable little life the feelings he’s been a prisoner too are finally, for one blissful moment, gone.

And it’s because of House.

Before he can even stop himself, he’s crying. It isn’t quiet this time and he doesn’t try to stop either.

The shows off again instantly because House wants to comfort him, and he knows if there’s too many sounds playing in the background Wilson finds it hard to concentrate, which only makes him cry harder because he doesn’t think he’s ever felt seen like this before.

In between his great, heaving sobs -ones that cover Houses t-shirt rather gratuitously with snot and tears, but he’s nice enough not to make a fuss about that either- Wilson manages to force out “P…Pr-omise?”

Houses heart grows three sizes or does whatever it is that the story books say.

All he knows is that the pure amount of pain in that one word is so tremendous that it pulls at his heartstrings, and it hurts him too, realising how much Wilson has been forced to hide himself, and how much it hurt him in return.

“I promise.”

And he means it, with every last inch of his being.

Although he never really stopped, Wilson somehow bursts into tears all over again, and it feels like being reborn, because House is seeing the ugliest parts of him and still fucking loving him like it’s breathing.

He cries for hours, sobbing and gasping and howling until his head aches so much it might just split in two, and House’s shirt is soaked through across the entire front panel.

Then he cries some more.

It’s not just tears, this is years of not being understood, years of being humiliated and taught to hate an intrinsic part of himself, years of staying so painfully still.

His hands pat and flap of their own accord and although somewhere in the background his brain is trying to stop him because he’s so used to getting told it’s wrong, he ignores it as best he can because House is still holding him and telling him that it’s okay.

Everything is not fine.

He’s weeping all over his boyfriend’s chest because he got told to stop being weird a few times, only it’s not that simple and they both know it.

They lie like that until Wilson’s too tired to take another breath, but the exhaustion runs deeper than the dark half-moons etched underneath his eyes, and he finds that he can barely stand up by himself.

In the end he leans heavily on House and somehow, they both stumble into their bedroom and fall down together onto the bed, rustling around under the covers so that Wilson falls asleep with his head just below Houses bare collar bone (he’d tossed the damp tee onto the floor somewhere along the way), feeling a relief so immense that it’s almost palpable.

That would only be the start.

Houses new obsession very quickly became separating shame from all of the weird and wonderful ways that Wilson liked to move.

It starts small, with showing him that there’s nothing wrong with rocking back and forth when they’re watching TV together, alone.

From there it only grows. House gets the absolute pleasure of buying Wilson a dozen fidget toys, as well as the pure joy of watching his lover grow more and more comfortable inhabiting his own skin.

Wilson loves it too, as it gets easier.

He finds that it’s like they’re slowly unravelling a knot that for Wilsons whole life has placed an unbelievable pressure on his chest.

He can finally breathe again.

It doesn’t fix everything immediately of course, undoing forty years of shame is no easy task but for now, when Wilson’s at home he feels free to flap his hands and spin in circles to his hearts content, and for now, that’s enough.

[itooaminthisepisode]

Ladies Night

This is my gift to @sillyhyperfixator for the @housemdanniversary :)

Characters: Thirteen, Cameron, Amber, Cuddy, House, Wilson

Pairings: Camteen + Gen Friendships

Rating: T

Summary:

"House. I need a favor."

Wilson's voice made House crane his neck backwards as he shuffled forward in the cafeteria line. It was a slow day, no case yet for a change, so his team was doing their (and his) clinic hours while he was having an early lunch.

Wilson, needing a favor? That piqued House's interest, as it was usually him who needed to be bailed out of trouble (barring their first encounter).

"Three wishes I will grant thee," House said as he took another step forward and grabbed a bag of chips from the counter.

Wilson smirked. "I just need one. Amber wants to host a Ladies Night at our place on Friday–"

"Host a what, now?" House sputtered. 

Wilson gave a sigh. "Ladies Night. Chick flicks, wine, truth or dare probably– who knows. Anyway, she wants… she… I need you to invite Thirteen. I figured, you know, you're her boss, so maybe she'd… take you up on the offer."

"You mean you figured I was her boss so she'd be forced to take you up on the offer," House remarked, as he took an apple out of the basket and bit into it, then quickly put it back as the line started inching forward again. "Since we both know Thirteen would rather shoot herself in the head than be in an enclosed space with CB."

"It wouldn't be just Thirteen."

House visibly perked up at this.

"So, who else is on the guest list?"

Wilson, who knew his best friend all too well by now, braced himself for the inevitable. "Cameron," he forced out.

If House were a cartoon character, Wilson thought, his eyes would be replaced by bright red hearts beating out of his skull and there would be steam coming from his ears.

"Oh, now THAT is JUICY!" House gushed a couple of decibels too loud to go unnoticed by the other people in line. Wilson gave an apologetic smile in their general direction and tried to shush House, but to no avail.

"You're on cloud nine right now, aren't you."

"Hah! More like cloud sixty-nine, my friend!" House exclaimed, so full of glee that he even paid for his lunch with his own money.

This was simply too good to be true.

"Get your mind out of the gutter," Wilson chastised lowly, but without any real annoyance. "Will you ask her, or not?"

House shoved the tray of food into Wilson's hands and, with the neck of his cane dangling between his thumb and bottom of his forefinger, put his hands on Wilson's shoulder in a gesture of utter sincerity. "Absolutely. She'll be there," he assured, leaving Wilson standing there in shock with the tray of food still in his hands.

___

"Absolutely not." Thirteen spat, shooting her boss an incredulous, bordering-on-disgusted look.

"Why not?! Spending the night with two beautiful women and one man, isn't that like your ultimate wet dream?" House asked, scandalized at her refusal. "Well, two beautiful women and Wilson," he quickly corrected.

Thirteen rolled her eyes. "I am not having a sleepover with one of my superiors, a colleague I barely know, and… Amber."

Kutner snorted, and she shot him a look, too.

House pouted down at her. "Oh sweetie, are you afraid the other kids on the playground won't like you? It's like daddy always tells you, just be yourself and–"

"Can we please get back to the patient?" Taub cut in, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Amazing idea," Thirteen sighed. "35 year old female–"

"Go to Ladies Night, or you're fired," House deadpanned.

Thirteen stared up at him grimly. "You can't be serious."

Kutner slightly raised his hand and pointed out, "Actually, I'm pretty sure he is."

___

"Hey- Cameron, wait!"

Cameron spun around on her heels. It had been a hectic day in the ER, she'd been awake since 5am and was running on only a couple of hours of sleep as it was - but, such was the life of a department head.

"What's up? Walk with me? Gotta bring this to the nurses station," she waved the files in her hand into the air once, and Wilson joined her stride.

"So, a couple days ago, after her PT session for her leg," Wilson started, "Amber mentioned to me that she wants to host a Ladies Night, and she'd like for you to be there. It's this Friday, at 7 o'clock."

Cameron gave an easy smile. "Aw, wow. I mean, I barely even know Amber, so it's sweet that she thought of me. Of course, I'll be there."

"Great," Wilson replied, "Thanks Cameron."

"I've never been to a Ladies Night," she mused.

"Ooh, Ladies Night?" a voice piped up beside them, and they turned around.

Cuddy was leaning against the counter on the other side of the nurses station, her eyes sparkling as she announced, "I love Ladies Night."

There was an awkward beat of silence that followed, Cuddy ducking her head still wearing that conspirational grin, and Cameron looking at Wilson expectantly.

"Um, I… Would you like to…?" Wilson trailed off, and Cuddy threw her head back in a laugh.

"Don't worry, James, I'm just kidding. I'm the big boss, I don't expect to be invited to these things," she said and it was genuine, but after so many years of friendship, he could tell the slight disappointment in her voice regardless.

"You're not Amber's boss anymore," he pointed out. "You are Cameron's boss, but-"

"I'm completely fine with that…" Cameron assured. Just then, her pager started beeping. "...but I have to run now. See you at Ladies Night!" And just like that, she disappeared out of their sight.

"...Great. So, Lisa, you'll be there? And just so you know, Amber originally did want to invite you, but she figured you'd be too busy with the baby and all."

"I have a sitter," Cuddy pointed out.

"Right, right, I'm sorry, I didn't mean–" Wilson stuttered, and Lisa gave another small laugh and decided to have mercy on him. For the second time that day, Wilson had two hands resting on his shoulders as Lisa leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "It's okay, I know what you meant. Should I bring anything, to Ladies Night?"

"Just whatever you need to sleep."

Cuddy raised an eyebrow. "Oh, it's a sleepover?"

"I suppose I forgot to mention that…" Wilson admitted innocently. "Oh and, Thirteen will be there, too. But other than that, no surprises, I promise."

Wilson, you sly dog, Cuddy thought affectionately. That Amber sure has him wrapped around her little pinky.

___

Two days later, that tremendous Friday, Cameron was the first of the guests to arrive at casa Wilson-Volakis at a respectable 6:56pm. Wilson took her coat while Amber deposited the bottle of dry white she'd brought to the kitchen to be retrieved at a (not so much) later time. "You shouldn't have," she told Cameron, sounding about 25% honest.

Cuddy rang the doorbell at 7:00 sharp. All of her paperwork for the evening was taken care of; Rachel, who had an early goodnight story tonight, was (hopefully still) sleeping soundly under the care of her sitter; and now, Cuddy couldn't wait to let go of the stress she had pent up all throughout the week. 

"Oh, you really shouldn't have," Amber chuckled lightly as Cuddy handed her the organic merlot in a shiny red bag. "Between the bottle Cameron brought and James' two trips to the grocery store…"

"Honestly, I think we'll manage," Cuddy joked.

"Well, it is Ladies Night, after all," Amber conceded as she led Cuddy into the living room where Cameron was already waiting for them.

Thirteen arrived fashionably late, half an hour later, and shoved the bottle of prosecco into Wilson's hands as she hastily rid herself of her coat and shoes, like perhaps the faster she got in, the faster she'd get out. "Can never have enough of this stuff, right? Isn't that like, rule number one of Ladies Night?"

"I think rule number one of Ladies Night is, you do not talk about Ladies Night," Wilson joked as he showed her where she could hang up her coat. "Thanks, Thirteen." 

After he'd pointed her towards the bathroom so she could get changed into her pajamas, she walked into the living room where Amber, Cuddy and Cameron were chatting on the couch, and they all looked up at her as she appeared in the doorway.

Thirteen curtly nodded in greeting. "Ladies."

___

Thirteen made herself comfortable in an armchair with her knees bent to the side, ankles tucked snugly under her thighs, while Amber, Cameron and Cuddy shared the couch, with Amber leaning against an arm rest, Cameron on the other side with her chin resting on her knees and, in the middle, Cuddy sitting cross-legged, occasionally reaching forward to retrieve her glass of wine.

Not long after everyone was settled and the generalities had been exchanged - how are things around the hospital, how's life after being hit by a bus and almost dying, has House been arrested for malpractice yet, things of that nature - the doorbell rang, and Wilson went to retrieve the pizza form the delivery man. "We ordered one cheese, one salami and one hawaii- I hope that's okay for everyone? No one here is a vegan, right?"

Everyone answered him in affirmative, and Thirteen bit back a grin as she caught Wilson subtly sneaking a look into her direction. Oh, those pesky stereotypes. "Nope," she confirmed, popping the 'p' in her mouth.

Wilson went on to explain the planned progress of the evening as he refilled their wine glasses with Cuddy's merlot. "...As for the sleeping part of the sleepover, we've got a couch and a guest bed that fits two people, but there's also a sleeping bag, in case nobody wants to share."

They all nodded, the silent understanding passing around that Cuddy would be taking the couch, and Thirteen and Cameron would either share the bed or play a game of rock-paper-scissors over the sleeping bag.

"Sounds perfect," Amber complimented as if she hadn't planned every detail of the evening herself, and pulled him down into a kiss. "James, could you get us some more ice, please? Thank you honey."

Cuddy and Cameron exchanged a small smirk, and Thirteen couldn't help but smile down into her lap.

___

As awkward as this was, Thirteen was happy to see Amber like this - her usual bossy self, happy, and rested. With some healthy color on the apples of her cheeks. She still remembered laying eyes on her after the bus crash, so pale and fragile and… still, was the word that came to mind. She had just been so, so still. If she was being honest, Thirteen really thought she would die.

Never in her life had she been so happy to be proven wrong - yet, the memory still haunted her.

She quickly pushed that thought to the back of her brain, though, when she noticed three pairs of eyes looking into her direction.

"Sorry," she shook her head. "What were you saying?"

"You were kinda silent for a while, so Amber just asked how you're doing and if you're having fun, or if you need anything," Cameron supplied.

"I'm good. Just a little tired, I guess. You know, working for House, and all," Thirteen answered. 

Cuddy cleared her throat awkwardly as she took a sip of wine, and then Thirteen played what she'd said back in her mind and cringed inwardly. She hadn't meant it that way, but it occurred to her that what she said could also be construed as her rubbing it in, so to speak, since Cameron no longer worked for House and Amber never really got the chance to.

Her eyes widened at the realization that she'd just made a social blunder, but she played it cool nevertheless, because what else was she going to do. "But that doesn't mean I'm not having fun. It's good to see you still going strong, CB," she answered honestly.

"Awww," Amber cocked her head with a grin. "You care about me!"

"Hey, I was not the one that hated you," Thirteen joked back lightly.

"A little bit?" Amber narrowed her eyes.

So did Thirteen. "Okay, a tiny little bit."

After some more bickering, they settled on "Dirty Dancing" for the movie of the night, and Wilson obediently inserted the DVD into the player.

___

Shortly before 8, the doorbell rang again.

"Excuse me, ladies," Amber said courteously, waving Wilson off as he started to stand from his seat on the floor.

Amber looked through the peephole and blew an exasperated sigh out of her nose as she swung the door open.

"House?! What are you doing here?!" she hissed at the man standing in front of her, his coat unbuttoned to reveal the monster truck pajamas underneath.

"It's Ladies Night!"

"James! Come here!" Amber called, and Wilson immediately scrambled to the front door.

"Hey House."

"You told him?!"

Wilson scratched his head. "You wanted Thirteen to come and I just, well, I wasn't sure how to ask her because I don't actually know her that well-"

Cameron, alarmed by the commotion, joined them in the foyer as well.

"What's going on? House, why are you here?"

"I wanna have Ladies Night with you ladies."

"Okay, but," Amber started, in a voice one might use to explain simple multiplication to a high schooler, "as the name suggests, it's Ladies night, so–"

"Then why is Cuddy here?"

Everyone shot him the most unimpressed looks they could muster up.

Cameron sighed. "I say, let him join in if he wants to. All we're doing right now is watching a movie and eating pizza, a vagina is not a requirement for that," she tried to reason. "I- I mean if it's okay with you guys of course, you're the hosts, I just mean that, well… I don't mind if he stays."

Then, she turned to House sternly. "Don't even say it. "

"Would be way too easy anyway, you gave me like, twelve possible openings with that sentence," he paused for dramatic effect. "...Heh, openings."

Cameron cringed and shot an apologetic smile to Amber.

___

Back in the living room, with the movie on pause, a dull silence, minus the bickering in the hallway, filled the air. Cuddy was texting her sitter and Thirteen wordlessly munched on her pizza, hoping the nervous energy rolling off her in waves wasn't being picked up upon by the older woman sitting across from her. While House storming the party didn't exactly come as a surprise to her, it was also not really helping the fact that this was a hostage situation to begin with.

To her luck - or not, depending how one looked at it - Cameron, Amber, Wilson and House came striding back into the room soon. 

"We have another guest," Wilson announced.

Thirteen raised two fingers off her wine glass in acknowledgement, and Cuddy looked up from her phone, unimpressed.

"Hey ladies," House said, positively giddy. "Long time no see. So! Has Thirteen expanded all of your horizons yet? And by expanded I do literally mean expanded, but by horizons I mean-"

"HOUSE!"

___

Three quarters into the movie, silent tears were streaming down Cameron's cheeks, Cuddy silently dabbed her red-rimmed eyes with a tissue, and James, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning back into Amber's space, hiccuped into her crotch. "Shhh," she gently stroked her hand over his back. "It's just a movie, honey."

House, who was sitting on the recliner, exchanged a pointed glance with Thirteen and they simultaneously took a sip of their wine, and wished that it was something stronger.

___

After the movie had ended and the tears had mostly gone - as had the first bottle of wine - House and Wilson retreated into the bedroom, deciding to have a Ladies Night just the two of them playing a card game, meanwhile the ladies in the living room moved onto the next point on the schedule.

"Oh, I don't trust anyone but my hairdresser with these curls," Cuddy proclaimed. "But I can do a mean French braid."

Cameron laughs. "I think I'll take you up on that - is that okay with you two?"

"Sure," Amber said and Thirteen nodded.

"How do we wanna do this?" Cuddy asked.

Cameron considered for a moment. "Thirteen, want me to do you, and you do Amber?"

As their luck would have it, House chose that moment to pass by on his way to the bathroom and stick his head in the door, exclaiming an enthusiastic "YES!".

Four pairs of eyes were rolled, and then they moved on.

"No, I don't wanna mess with my hair, either."

Cameron accepted this and sank down on the ground in front of Cuddy. However, Amber narrowed her eyes.

"Why don't you want her to do your hair?" she questioned.

Thirteen shook her head with a small smile. You can take the girl out of House's team, but.

"I just straightened it earlier today. Better not to mess with it."

"I've got a straightener, you can borrow it in the morning," Amber said - it was less of an offer and more of a prod, and they both knew it.

"No thanks. I don't wanna have to wash it again," Thirteen swerved.

"Fine." Amber faked a nonchalant voice, depositing herself on the couch next to Thirteen - who had awkwardly been forced into the middle - and faced the arm rest. "Can you do a dutch braid?"

___

Amber announced that the second rule of Ladies Night is that they have to play Truth or Dare.

Thirteen was relieved. This, for a change, was a game she knew well. Cameron was nervous that the others would ask something scandalous of her, and Cuddy was nervous that they wouldn't. As the first, empty bottle of wine was spinning, Amber took it upon herself to open a second one.

Cameron smiled timidly as the first spin landed on her. "Dare."

"Mm," Amber hummed in surprise. "Interesting. Okay, I dare you to… spin the bottle again and give a compliment to the person it lands on."

"Are you going easy on me?"

"Just for the first round." Amber winked.

The spin landed on Cuddy, and Cameron narrowed her eyes, thinking. Her relationship with Cuddy hadn't always been the most positive - there wasn't anything bad that had happened between them, really, no catfight or dramatic fallout, they just seemingly had a general disdain for each other… until they didn't. 

Until forced smiles became genuine, and Cameron wished Cuddy a Happy Hanukkah as she passed her in the hallway, and Cuddy asked Cameron to fill her five inch heels as the Dean (and to Cameron's credit, at least she tried). This, Cameron supposed, was just how workplace friendships went sometimes.

"I admire you. A lot," she told Cuddy earnestly. "I value your opinions, professionally and personally, and I… I just envy that you have this- this clear set of morals, an amazing sense of justice, and on top of that, you never shy away from making hard decisions. I hope I can be more like that."

Cuddy smiled warmly. "Thank you, Allison."

Cameron returned her smile. "Okay, my turn now."

Next, the bottle landed on Amber (whose first kiss was with her middle school boyfriend), then Cuddy (whose favorite part of her body is her nose), then Amber again (who was remarkably good at pretend-performing Justin Bieber songs, it turned out). In the fifth round, the bottle finally landed on Thirteen.

"Dare."

Amber's eyes widened like a predator that had found its prey.

"I dare you… to pick one of us… for a round of seven minutes in heaven."

"What is this, middle school?"

Amber raised her eyebrows. "Are you saying no?"

"I'm saying," Thirteen breathed in. "That one of you has a boyfriend, one of you is my boss' boss, one of you is straight, and that you suck at this game."

"Straight girls kiss girls sometimes. It's a thing," Amber shrugged, ignoring the last part of Thirteen's statement.

Cuddy emptied her glass of wine. "This is true."

Brain too sluggish to properly handle… all of that, Thirteen looked over to Cameron, who was really, really beautiful when she blushed, and not by the least on account of the alcohol currently in Thirteen's system.

"Why not," the blonde breathed, her voice laced with something husky and a little dark that Thirteen had never heard before, but desperately wanted to hear again.

"Closet's that way," Amber directed and smiled conspiratorially at Cuddy as the other two women scrambled to get up. Cuddy refilled her wine glass and barked out a laugh with hooded eyes, simultaneously thinking, Oh, to be 27 again, and, Oh, how peaceful it is to be 40.

There was no light inside the closet, the only source of illumination from whatever shone through the crack of the door, and the only sound was each that of the other's shallow breathing.

"Have you ever kissed a girl before?" Thirteen asked.

"No," came the simple reply.

"It's okay," Thirteen said lightly, "Just… follow my lead."

It sounded a little cheesy as she said it, but she figured it's what Cameron needed. Reaching carefully into the dark, Thirteen stroked the backs of her fingers over the other woman's cheeks, and when she felt - heard - Cameron's lips part with a soft gasp, she went all in. 

___

Not soon after Thirteen and Cameron emerged from the closet, skin flushed and hair frazzled, with dazed smiles on their faces, the women collectively decided to call it a night. 

"I will take the couch, if you two don't mind sharing," Cuddy grinned.

"That's, um, fine with me," Cameron said, and Thirteen nodded as well.

"Please don't have sex on our guest bed," Amber warned with a yawn. "Goodnight, ladies. It was a lot of fun tonight."

___

Once in her own bed, Amber leaned over to kiss James. "Goodnight, honey."

"Goodnight, Amber," James kissed her back and reached to turn off the light.

"Goodnight," House called into the darkness from the middle of the bed. "Threesome, anyone?"

Which got him smacked in the arm, from both sides.

___

Thirteen and Cameron were lying in the darkness, facing each other, both wide awake. 

"Cameron?" Thirteen whispered, stroking the other woman's cheek the way she had done hours earlier.

"Mmh?"

"You said you'd never kissed a girl before…" Thirteen stated, dumbfounded.

"I haven't. But…" Cameron leaned closer into her embrace, her lips softly brushing Thirteen's, "you never asked me if I'd kissed a woman."

___

From her spot in the living room, Cuddy could hear the faint echo of what sounded like a heavy make-out session coming from the guest room. She shook her head with a chuckle, making a mental note to send the two lovebirds down to HR the following day, checked her phone one last time for any texts or missed calls from her sitter, and when she found there were none, she closed her eyes and let sleep take over.

[itooaminthisepisode]

some house md as textposts to celebrate 20 years!!

[itooaminthisepisode]

AWOOOOGAAAAA FIC WAS SO YUMMY AND SUPER DUPER FREAKY AND I LOVE IT VERY MUCH!!!!!!!

i left a more detailed comment on the actual fic but i am just going to reiterate: THIS FUCKING SLAPS!!!!!!!!! THANK YOUUUUUU <33333

House Training

It was just for one night. One night, he would stay at the apartment. One night, he would sleep on the couch. How he ended up on a not-so-metaphorical leash was far beyond him.

or: House and Wilson play a game

For @itooaminthisepisode for the gift exchange (hosted by @housemdanniversary)!! Hope it's freaky enough lol :))

Tags below cut

watersports, master/pet, dom/sub, puppy play, anal sex, pwp, sub+top Wilson, dom+bottom House

[itooaminthisepisode]

my gift for the house md 20th anniversary gift exchange (organised by @housemdanniversary) is done! this fic is for the wonderful gilles aka @russell-crowe, who requested a sub!wilson fic - i hope you enjoy it gilles!!

can you catch me when i'm falling down? pairing: Gregory House/James Wilson description: Wilson's been having a bad day. Luckily, House knows just what to do to make him feel better. warnings: NSFW!

more detailed tags and a link to the fic are below the cut!

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: House M.D.

Relationship: Gregory House/James Wilson

Characters: Gregory House, James Wilson

Additional Tags: House MD 20th Anniversary Gift Exchange, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Established Relationship, Dom/Sub, Dom Gregory House, Sub James Wilson, Top Gregory House, Bottom James Wilson, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Riding, Making Out, Subspace, Praise Kink, Daddy Kink, Caring Gregory House, Grinding, Light Possessive!House, Overstimulation, Cockwarming, also featuring house's hot reading glasses!

Summary:

'Now, when Wilson’s like this – all fluttery and anxious – House’s usual ploy of ‘be-as-obnoxious-as-possible-until-Wilson-will-have-hot-gay-sex-with-him’ doesn’t typically work. He’s far more likely to get all stroppy and storm off. No, this is a delicate operation, one that requires a keen understanding of the inner machinations of a Wilson and a slower, more steady approach. Step one: attract his attention in a totally inane way, and throw in something mildly flirtatious for good measure. Operation: Cheer Up Wilson is a-go.' or: Wilson's been having a bad day. Luckily, House knows just what to do to make him feel better.

[itooaminthisepisode]

Hi all, the collection for the gift exchange is now live!! I’m going through and approving works now. Please let me know if you see anything amiss ^^