House MD Fanfiction

Out and In

Hilson, coming out!, 1,245 words
By: yarroway

At 12 pm, right after he’d discharged his patient, House spied Wilson in the cafeteria sitting across from some sweet young thing in scrubs. Wilson had the charm going full throttle.

House sat down with them and grabbed a large handful of fries off Wilson’s plate. “Abraham Lincoln,” he said, interrupting their conversation and jostling the girl.

Wilson leveled a pointed, warning stare at him. “My mother’s orthopedist, Abraham Lincoln Rabinowitz,” Wilson said.

The ingenue’s mouth fell open.

“His father was a civil war buff,” Wilson hastened to explain.

House cocked his head. “I don’t think so,” he said, and left. With the fries.

*****

At 2 pm House spotted Wilson in the lab, frowning over a sheaf of papers. He threw open the door. “Alexander the Great."

Wilson glared. “Is that supposed to have something to do with Mr. Singh’s lab results?”

House paused. “Nope,” he said, and sauntered out.

*****

At 4 pm House waited across the hall from the Oncology conference room. When the meeting began breaking up he opened the door and announced, loudly, “Alan Turing.”

Sidebar conversations broke up. The cute new doctor at Wilson’s elbow took a step back.

“Hematology,” Wilson said drily. “Down the hall and take a left.”

*****

At 4:30 pm Wilson came in during the differential and participated with great interest. House was tempted to keep his fellows in the office just to annoy Wilson, but they really did have a case to treat.

When they finally left Wilson turned his back to House and fiddled with the coffee things. With his face practically buried in the cabinet he asked, “Why did you give me the names of three famous tortured geniuses who died prematurely, one by his own hand?”

House rolled his eyes. He hated it when Wilson got emo. “E. M. Forster.”

Wilson looked at him questioningly, but House remained silent. Wilson left.

House sat down the conference table, looking absently at the whiteboard. Something—some noise or something moving or ceasing moving in his peripheral vision made him look up.

Wilson had stopped, stock still, in the middle of the hallway. A moment later he spun on his heel and strode back inside.
“Bayard Rustin,” he said, pointing a finger at House as if it were an accusation.

“Bayard Rustin? How the hell do you even know who he was?”

Wilson rocked back on his heels, looking smug. “You were expecting me to think of Eleanor Roosevelt, maybe, or Ian McKellen? Stephen Fry?”

House snorted. “I had you pegged for Rock Hudson or Cole Porter.”

Wilson frowned. “Seriously? Not even Adam Lambert?”

House shrugged. “Not really your decade of music.”

Wilson sighed but didn’t argue with that. House was surprised Wilson even knew Lambert’s name.

“So,” Wilson said, “we’ve been friends twenty years and you’re only now coming out to me as—what? Gay? Bisexual?”

“Either or,” House said.