House x Wilson

1

House peered through the remaining hole the rigged doorknob had left. Wilson's wide brown eyes were staring back with retained amusement. "Touché," he said, admitting defeat of that single battle. However he doubted Wilson would find the gun. He had left it with Adams because she clearly wasn't afraid of weapons.

Wilson's voice was laced with triumph. He didn't often win against House's antics so having him trapped in his own bathroom sent a warm feeling to his gut. "Gotcha!" He raised the metal detector he had borrowed from the hospital and held it in front of the looking hole. "Now imma search this whole apartment for the pistol you're surely hiding."

House shrugged, falling back down on the bathroom tile, a refreshing sensation engulfing his neck. "I'm not hiding a gun," he sighed.

"Ri-ight," Wilson called back. He tossed around the maze of boxes House had left in his small closet. "I'm going to search this place until I find a rifle or a pistol or some sort of gun."

House closed his eyes, finding solace in the fact Wilson would never prove him wrong. "Well you could..." he agreed, smoothly. "Or we could just have sex."

He chuckled, looking beneath House's bed. "What?" He snorted. His hand stumbled on a rubber handle and he pulled his old neon green tennis racket out into the dim lamp light. He rolled his eyes and tossed it aside. Why would he steal my tennis racket? He can barely walk.

"Sex is where two people exchange—"

"I know it is." Wilson groaned. He listened for any humor in the man's voice but it was always impossible to tell.

"And?"

He paused what he was doing. "You're serious?" he looked at the door but didn't see his friend's eyes. He figured he was just kidding around with him and continued waving the metal detector around House's sheets.

"I never joke," House said. He waited for his friend to say something in reply but when he didn't he realized the absurdity in his statement. He was one of the most callously humorous people in the hospital. He's making me mess up my words. "Okay, I sometimes joke but the point is: I'm single, you're single and I'm going through a bit of a dry spell right now. I'm giving you the opportunity to get me out of it."

Wilson shook his head and moved to the kitchen. "You're trying to do one of two things here: manipulate me into agreeing so you can take advantage of my love for the rest of your life or manipulate me into agreeing so I don't find the gun." He knew the diagnostician always had an ulterior motivation. Sometimes that's what made him a great diagnostician. Sometimes that was what made him a crappy friend.

House sat up, being careful not to put too much weight on his leg. Is that his way of saying he loves me? "Or I just want sex. Don't start trying to add love into the equation."

"I'm not falling for it," Wilson huffed as he tossed open House's medicine cabinet. He looked behind the variety of drugs for any metal. He saw a few prescription inconsistencies but he decided to ignore them. It's not like the 51-year-old man would actually ever take his advice on drug safety, anyway.

"Because your straight?" House held his breath for the answer.

"Because you're a manipulative bastard."

"Fair enough," House smiled to himself. Wilson evaded the question which meant there was a chance to act on his feelings.

Wilson threw himself onto the bed in defeat. He had found his money clip (now mysteriously empty), his sunglasses, an old box set of Scrubs season 4, a framed picture of the periodic table, and about 13 well-hidden bottles of Vicodin. But no gun. "Were you being serious?"

"Hasn't it been established that I don't discriminate when it comes to sex?" He heard House call back. He seemed so relaxed and calm but Wilson was freaking out inside. Whenever he thought he understood his friend's game he changed the rules. "Did you find the gun?"

"No," he said. "But no doubt you have one somewhere and you're going to be arrested."

"Innocent till proven guilty."

"You were proven guilty. Remember why the 2nd amendment doesn't apply to you anymore?"

House yawned. As much as he loved to bicker with Wilson over his felon rights, he could feel the sting of rejection. If he had any feelings over him, he wouldn't be talking about the law. Bit of a turn-off. "You found nothing. Let me out."

He could hear the tap of his friends shoes as he walked over. Instead of beginning to take a screwdriver to the empty doorknob, he looked through it and peered across the room at House. He lay down again, exhaustion overcoming his old bones. "Earlier... were you being serious?"

Wilson waited in anticipation for the answer. He hoped he wasn't being too vulnerable. They weren't exactly the touchy-feely pair. He would go to House when he had no where else to go. When no one else would offer the flowery lies he craved—needed, even— he would turn to his best friend. Complicated, sure. But having someone who wouldn't sugarcoat the truth at the expense of your comfort is absolutely necessary.

His blue-eyes stared back from his spot on the floor. He was spinning a full ibuprofen bottle in his hand. He always moved his hands in repetitive movements when he was in deep thought. Wilson dare not interrupt. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"

He considered this response. The diagnostician had a point. He had asked for confirmation twice already. Wilson took a screw driver, it's plastic red handle smooth and a bit sticky around his hand. All his senses were amplified since House had made his joke proposal.

After a few moments of messing clumsily with the doorknob, it fell into place on the hollow white door. He rested his sweaty palm on the metal for a single second before he was able to muster up the strength to move the entranceway.

He sat down next to the man and he could feel the observant pupils follow his every slight movement. "Yes, I would believe you."