Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts with a hand in his hair during chemo, he barely feels it. The pain is unbearable, his limbs throb, his chest burns from the inside, his veins pulsating and scorching. But he feels the fingers running through his hair, grounding him, then the gentle press of a palm around his hand. 

It becomes a hug when he wins the eating contest, at least for those glorious ten seconds before he puked his guts out.

House has never been an affectionate person. 

He was briefly with Stacy, their public displays of affection still rare but meaningful. 

He used to be unafraid to touch Wilson, there was a time they used to hug, even if seldomly. At some point, they stopped. The more you see a person, the less you feel the need to hold them.

Their affection became something else, akin to violence, mostly because of House’s continuous mistakes, it had reached a point where most of their interactions were in the form of arguments, mainly when he was dating Cuddy. With prison their interactions stopped altogether, Wilson didn't visit him, he didn't deserve his time.

When they met again, their affection turned into a weak punch that affected Wilson's knuckles more than House’s face.

They hadn't touched since, then Wilson got his diagnosis and suddenly House hadn't left his side once, except for the 24 hours following his “death” and funeral.

Who knew the only way to be as affectionate with his best friend as they used to be when they met was to give a lousy speech at his funeral, one he wasn't even able to finish.

House touches him now.

Not in a particularly affectionate way, he just does. A hand on his shoulder when they need to get back on route, on the small of his back when they walk into motels, a tap on the forearm when he sees a pair of large breasts in a cafe.

He had forgotten what it meant to be the sole receiver of House’s attention. He’d forgotten how it felt to just talk to him without the pretext of a case or a diagnosis. He’d forgotten how it felt to be sure he was loved.

He’d realized when he'd found House sitting on the stairs of his apartment, when he’d been handed the keys to his new motorbike.

He knew House loved him, it was just not often he could appreciate the benefits of his love.

House's mask slipping slowly is oddly mournful. He wishes he’d received his affection sooner, he doesn't know what would've changed but he knows he would've been thankful.

House touches him now and part of him thinks he might be too late.

The rest of him wants to hold onto that feeling until death grasps him instead. So, one day, as they're at a truck stop on the highway and House is sipping from a coke they're sharing on a bench in the middle of Tennessee, Wilson asks:

“Will you hold me?” He keeps his eyes on House, doesn't give him time to reply with a joke before he adds: “When the time comes… Can you do that?”

House takes a moment, swallows his sip and glances at him sideways, eyebrows arching.

“Hold you?”

Wilson blinks a few times and looks away. He hadn't thought about the rest of his speech.

“I know it's stupid.” He immediately adds through a breathy, bitter chuckle. “But they all die alone, shivering. I don't… Please, don't let me die alone.”

He can feel House’s eyes on his nape.

“You're not gonna be alone. You know that.”

Wilson looks down, fiddling with the keys of his motorbike, it's sitting right next to them, beside House’s. He wonders when he became someone who drives bikes. He wonders when he became someone who begs for displays of affection. But he knows there isn't a thing House wouldn't do for him, he knows that now.

“I wanna be held.” He mutters. “I don’t want to notice it. Because I will notice. I-I-I will know, when my breath gets shallow, when I’ll get too drowsy, I’ll know. I’ll recognize. I need you-”

He swallows. House doesn't speak.

“I need you there. I need you to distract me. I need you to- keep talking. Keep me talking. I… I don't want to think about it even for a moment.”

A beat. 

“If it's entertainment you want I’m sure we can put on a national geographic documentary-”

“House.”

He seems to pause for a moment.

“Why are you telling me this like I would just walk out of your deathbed the moment it comes knocking at the door?”

“Because they all want to!” Wilson lets out another bitter huff of laughter. “The family of the patient doesn't want to witness it. Because it's ugly and it's traumatic, it's violent, and they always walk out of the room when they know it's happening. The number of spouses that entertained themselves at the vending machine when it happened- and you know who stayed? I did!”

“Well, you were contractually obligated to.”

“Nobody deserves to die alone.” He turns them, to look at his friend. “But the moment someone you love is going to die, you run. Everybody does. You did it when Cuddy had her cancer scare, you did it at your father's funeral.”

House looks away now, his eyes on the rear wheel of his bike. 

“They all leave.” Wilson reiterates. The answer comes quick.

“I won’t.”

“It’s ugly-”

“I know.” House holds eye contact now. “And it'll be even uglier when you’ll die with your mouth open and drooling like you usually sleep. It's gonna be very embarrassing.”

A smile sneaks its way onto Wilson’s lips. He bites the inside of his cheek, nodding to himself briefly before asking his friend directly.

“Will you do it?”

“If you're that scared of sleeping alone, we can hire a hooker.”

“You're cheaper.” He insists, but he sees something behind House’s eyes.  “If you want to walk out, tell me now.”

“Are you kidding? I’ll be there with a timer waiting for the moment I can start pulling a Weekend At Bernie’s with you.” House purposely lowers his voice to appear more confident, it fails in its task. “Why do you think I packed enough morphine to kill a horse?”

The statement leaves Wilson stuttering for a moment. He furrows his eyebrows, narrows hia eyes.

“For a personal refill, I thought.” House doesn't reply, only shrugs and takes another sip. He can see the hurt in his hunched posture, in his wandering eyes. His jaw is clenched. So Wilson tells him:  “I love you.”

House looks up, not at Wilson, at the souvenir shop.

“I was the one supposed to say that.”

“I don't care anymore.” Wilson stands up from the bench. “I know you do.”

It feels experimental when House is laying in the california king beside him. He is lying back on a stack of flattened motel pillows, the remote resting on his chest. He chews his chips methodically, hand idly dipping into the bag. Crumbs fall somewhere near the comforter’s edge, barely registering in his brain, his free hand dangling from the same pillow Wilson is using for his head. They’re sharing a room, they often do these days, sharing a bed isn't praxis but it doesn't bother them. It's cheaper and they have a finite amount of money that they'd rather spend someway else.

The light from the TV flickers dimly across beige wallpaper and cheap framed prints of oak trees and forgotten coastlines. The hum of an old air conditioning unit buzzes in the background, rhythmically clicking every few minutes like a broken metronome. It’s past 2 a.m.

A mostly empty bag of Lay’s rustles again.

“Don't eat on the bed.” Wilson mutters against his pillow when he stirs. It's late, House has been up beside him for hours, watching his medical soaps at a low volume. The chewing is however very loud and what caused Wilson to open his eyes in the first place.

“Go back to your snoring. I’m conducting a medical review.

“Of Nightshift Trauma Unit?” His face is half-buried in cotton. His hair’s a soft mess from sleep, his voice cracked and groggy. House doesn’t bother looking at him.

The rustling continues. Wilson turns over, shifting beneath the blanket, not away from House, but closer, tucking himself in the dip between mattress and man, like his body knows where warmth is even if his brain hasn’t caught up.

“My right foot is asleep.” He justifies the proximity.

It’s not really a reason. Not one either of them would analyze.

House glances down, where their legs don’t quite touch. He lifts his arm slightly, still draped lazily on the pillow they’re sharing. His fingers twitch with uncertainty.

It feels strange. Not romantic, not exactly. But intimate in a way House doesn’t do. 

House stares at his friend lying closer to him and flexes his hand, unsure of how to act. It's been a few days since he begged and House hasn't fulfilled his side of the social contract yet. He doesn't feel like he has to, Wilson hasn't pressured him.

But he tries, he lets his arm drape above Wilson’s head on the pillow. Slowly, deliberately, House lets his arm slide down the curve of the pillow. His hand hesitates, then finds Wilson’s shoulder, grazing it just enough to be noticed. It’s not casual, but it’s not a statement either.

Wilson turns his head, eyelids heavy, but eyes open. His brow furrows slightly, more surprise than confusion, but he doesn’t speak. House doesn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the glowing blur of the TV.

The moment breathes.

Wilson’s body responds in its own quiet language: he shifts, just a few inches closer. His head tucks itself into the soft crook beneath House’s arm, temple resting just above the bend of his elbow. He lets out a long, unconscious exhale.

House doesn’t move. His arm stays where it is, curved loosely around Wilson’s head, protective without quite admitting it. It’s unfamiliar terrain, but something about it feels natural. A new behavior neither of them comment on, because neither of them want to break the spell.

Crumbs still speckle the blanket. The A/C clicks again. A nurse on TV shouts something dramatic in a fake ER.

The next time it happens, they're camping in a creekside in Mississippi. Wilson has picked a hiking trail accessible enough and, despite the cancer, has done most of the carrying. The only thing not under his authority is the cooler. 

They haven't gone camping since before House’s infarction, it feels like they've both forgotten House was the one in charge of setting up the tents, he even bragged about how fast he was. Wilson is nothing of the sort.

So when they find themselves with a poorly constructed tent by nighttime and they curl inside the not completely sealed space, they realize their mistake in not packing more blankets. Soon their bodies start aching, no longer accustomed to harsh, cold surfaces as they used to be, their joints unforgiving with age.

They're facing opposite sides, in the name of keeping at least some pride. The ground beneath the thin foam pads is merciless. The cold seeps through the nylon tent floor, creeping into joints and settling into their bones.

The two stay facing opposite walls of the tent, wrapped in separate sleeping bags zipped halfway up, stubbornly avoiding the reality of shared body heat. Pride is easier to maintain when you don’t acknowledge how cold you are.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Then a small shuffle. Someone’s shoulder adjusts. Another shift. A sigh.

Their backs bump, barely, but neither moves away. The contact is incidental. Tolerable. A few more inches. They both inch.

House’s shoulder blades touch Wilson’s back. Then it’s more than just shoulders: a slow, deliberate convergence. Back to back, vertebrae to vertebrae, they align like twin halves of a battered compass.

There’s warmth there. Not much. But enough to dull the ache in their hips, the sharp tug in their knees.

They stay like that for a while. Breathing in sync. No one says a word.

Sometime later, Wilson stirs, not fully awake, but aware. The tent around them is all dim shapes and shadows. The forest outside murmurs in its sleep. He realizes they’re no longer just touching, they’re flush together, the curve of his spine resting completely against House’s.

He could roll away. He doesn’t.

The sunlight filters through towering pines and hardwoods, dappling the narrow trail with patches of gold. The forest hums with the slow rhythm of late spring: cicadas, the distant call of a mourning dove, a rustle of something small disappearing into underbrush.

House grumbles with every uneven step, his cane sinking into the soft earth. His gait is unsteady, but controlled, stubborn as ever. His face is flushed from exertion, sweat dripping into the creases around his eyes. Wilson, a few steps ahead on the trail, glances back constantly. He realizes House hasn't complained yet.

“You sure you don’t want to take a break?” He calls over his shoulder.

“Only if you promise to talk less during it.” The older man replies bitterly, swatting mosquitoes away with his hand.

They’re hiking a trail just off the Clear Springs Lake Recreation Area, a path in the Homochitto National Forest. It’s not exactly tourist-heavy at this time of day, just the way Wilson planned it. This route cuts along Morgan Hill, ascending slowly before curving back down toward the creek. Wilson had carefully chosen it for its gentler incline and more compact trail, knowing House would never ask for that concession himself.

He doesn't state that he's struggling but it's clear he isn't used to the exertion like he used to be.

“Son of a-”

He stumbles on a root masked by leaves. His cane slips, but before he can fall, Wilson is there, catching him with both arms. There’s a beat, a moment longer than necessary, where Wilson doesn’t let go.

“Got you.”

House doesn’t pull away. He lets himself be held, just for a second just to get the opportunity to mock Wilson's quick response.

“If you wanted to cop a feel, you could've done it in the tent, Brokeback Mountain style.”

“I didn't have lube with me.” Wilson deadpans, a slight smile on his lips, his arms still stabilizing his friend.

“Neither did they.”

Ever since Wilson has bought a Polaroid camera to immortalize their trip, House has punished him with wasting most of the films on unusable pictures, which is why Wilson is keeping it today.

He’s had far too many unflattering ones taken of himself and wishes to at least get some revenge, though House’s clear poorly masked pain prevents him from gleefully capturing his worst moments.

They pause on a slope with a view between the trees, a broad, winding glimpse of Homochitto Creek. House pauses near the edge of the trail, just off the slope, finding a sturdy hickory tree to lean on. He glances over his shoulder, half-annoyed, half-unapologetic.

“Look away or take notes. Your call.”

He unzips his pants and gets on emptying his bladder, facing the creek. 

whirr-click .

Wilson, standing several feet behind, lowers the Polaroid OneStep, not even pretending to look embarrassed.

House, pissing and unfazed says:

“Straight to the point. Most voyeurs work up to it.”

“This will make us a penny with the German tourists at the hotel.” Wilson shakes the photo until it begins to develop.

“They like the limbs completely off, not just a lazy attempt at an amputation.” House doesn’t look up. His head is bowed, one hand braced on the rough tree bark. A faint grin is forming.

“I’ll apologize on behalf of the snuff director.”

House barely entertains him and continues with his task, a smirk on his lips. 

When he looks up, he sees Wilson smiling, holding the developed picture.

“What, now?” He asks with annoyance.

“I don't think I’ve seen a picture of you smiling since… my second bachelor party.” Wilson says fondly.

House huffs quietly, eyes still down.

“That's not true. I smiled plenty at your chemo party. You were just too knocked out to notice.”

The moment lingers. House’s head is still low, fingers trailing absently on the bark.

There’s a long silence before Wilson asks:

“Are you having fun?” 

House snorts.

“I’m trying to have a piss but you won't let me.”

“Are you having fun with me?” Wilson repeats, his voice vulnerable.  “Do you… find me fun?”

“God, that was lame.” House groans, brows raised in exaggerated disbelief. He zips his jeans up and pushes himself away from the tree.

“Yeah, the moment it came out of my mouth, I felt sixteen again.” Wilson murmurs.

“Because you're acting like it.” He limps back toward Wilson, each step a little slower than earlier. Wilson’s holding House’s backpack loosely in front of him, waiting.

House takes it back, grunting under the weight, and Wilson, still stuck on the thought, asks again, gently:

“So?”

“Seriously? Have some shame.”

“I asked you a question.” 

“That is too lame to give an answer to.” House refuses to answer. Instead, he holds out his hand.

“Cane.”

“You didn't wash your hands.” 

Without a word, House wipes his hand down the front of Wilson’s jacket, slow and deliberate, wearing a smug little smile.

Wilson sighs, his lips pressed into a thin line, then holds up his camera and snaps a picture of House smiling.

“For my collection.”     

“Is it that hard to believe I might be having a good time?” With the way he says it, it could sound bitter and rude to the untrained ear.

Wilson holds the picture carefully, watching House’s smile develop in soft lines of cream and blue.

“Nobody's gonna believe me.” Wilson says with a grin.

House’s own smile fades slightly. He shoulders the pack again.

“Nobody's gonna see them.” He says it with the ease of someone who’s accepted their fate, then he starts moving again, cane tapping against the trail as the wind picks up around them.

Wilson lingers, watching him go. He doesn’t call out, just waits until House is a few steps ahead before tucking the latest photo safely in his backpack with the others.

And then he follows.

The golden light of sunset cuts across the clearing where the trail ends. Their two motorcycles lean on their stands, saddlebags open.

House is bent at the waist beside the bikes, strapping their packs tight with practiced hands. His limp is more noticeable now, but he moves through the pain with a kind of grim satisfaction. Dust clings to his jeans. Sweat mats the back of his shirt.

Behind him, Wilson sits on a bench, flipping through the stack of Polaroids. Most of them are candid shots of him, unflattering in all the familiar ways, mouth open mid-sentence, eyes half-closed, shirt rumpled.

“These are terrible. You’re not even trying to frame them well.”

“Documentary realism. I’m the Dorothea Lange of sad oncologists.”

Wilson pauses at one photo: himself, sitting in his chair by the campfire. House’s legs are in the shot, taken from his own recliner chair, the setting in dark but something is strikingly clear, Wilson laughing, unguarded, surprised, caught dead center.

They check into a better hotel, something quieter, and clearly aimed at an older, more sedate clientele. The kind of place with wicker chairs on wraparound porches, classical music humming faintly from hidden speakers, and white-haired guests who read newspapers at breakfast.

The buffet is set up under a wide stone patio, overlooking a manicured lawn that stretches toward a glinting blue pool. It's May, and the morning sun is warm, casting soft gold across the tablecloths, but the air still bites with a leftover chill. 

Wilson shuffles out carrying a modest plate, a toast, a slice of smoked salmon, a poached egg, and a glass of orange juice. He chooses a table near the edge, beside a woman seated alone. She gives him a polite smile as he settles into the chair across from her vacant companion seat.

She looks to be in her forties, sharp-featured and confident in a way that doesn't beg for attention. Wilson smiles back, tentative. It’s been a long time since he’s entertained any sort of flirting.

They sit like neighboring diners, not quite engaging, but not quite ignoring each other either. A quiet current moves between them, glances exchanged, the occasional mutual smirk. Wilson, out of practice and unsure, raises his glass of juice in a hesitant toast. 

It’s awkward, too much, and not nearly enough. She smiles anyway, amused and kind, and he immediately lowers his gaze, chastened by his own nervousness.

He looks to House for a rescue.

His friend is still at the buffet, stacking yet another cake slice onto a plate, and locked in a low grade turf war with a scowling eleven year old over the last square of coconut cake. Wilson sighs, grateful for the distraction.

The woman leans slightly, her hand bridging the space between their tables, brushing the edge of his placemat.

“Sorry to bother,” she says with a warm voice and a touch of Southern softness, “but I just had to tell you, I love your leather jacket.”

Wilson looks down at the jacket, dark and well fitted, still in pristine conditions, unlike House’s. It’s the new one House bought for him. He hadn’t wanted to wear it this morning, it felt ridiculous for breakfast, but the air was too cold to go without anything more than a button-up, and he was still technically trying to preserve his health, cancer and all.

“You do? Thank you. That’s… really nice of you.” He stutters with a smile.

“My ex-husband had one just like it,” she says, her fingers brushing the sleeve. “Something about real leather, it ages well.”

Wilson smiles, suddenly aware of how long it’s been since someone’s touched his arm without needing to. He doesn’t know when he became so sensitive to touch. He chuckles, flustered.

“Yeah. It does. I mean, I wouldn't really know. I don't have a frame of reference. I don’t usually wear leather. It’s all pretty new. The beard too.” He scratches at the stubble on his jaw, self-conscious. “It’s barely anything, but I’ve never kept facial hair before. I don’t hate it, though.”

“The beard looks good.” she says easily, then nods towards the buffet. “Stealing from his wardrobe?”

Wilson follows the direction of her eyes and glances toward House, who is now fending off the child with a passive-aggressive flourish of his cane.

“Yeah. Something like that.” Wilson says, defeated.

“Well, you know what they say, we always start looking like the people we date.” She says kindly.

The comment lands between them like a dropped fork. Wilson lets out a dry, stunned chuckle. He considers correcting her, briefly. Then decides not to.

“Excuse me,” he says, rising with a flustered smile. “I should probably stop him before he ends up brawling with someone still in braces.”

He crosses the lawn toward the buffet and intercepts House mid-argument with an eleven year old, and grabs his arm. 

“Would you stop picking fights with people a quarter your age?” Wilson whispers.

“He took three slices of chocolate cake. That's just greedy.” House justifies, shooting a glare at the child walking to another cake. Ironically, House does the same in the opposite direction.

Wilson follows him, stepping beside him, clears his throat and lowers his voice, then whispers:

“The woman at the table thinks we're a couple.”

House glances over his shoulder back at the woman, then returns his attention to the buffet, expression unreadable as he continues stacking sweets on his plate.

“Many people do. Personally, I don't think you could've lasted so many years beside me without cheating.”

“Maybe we’re open.” Wilson murmurs. “Maybe you let me cheat as long as you get to watch.”

House wears a hint of a smile, handing him the overloaded plate, as he makes himself a cappuccino.

“If I’m in the room, it’s not cheating.”

“Right, I would never give you the satisfaction of being in the voyeur chair.” He agrees.

“I’d be having too much fun. You'd get in your head about it.” House says, they're smirking at each other and bantering playfully.

“I’d get distracted and she'd notice and then it wouldn't be fun anymore.”

“It was never supposed to be fun for you. ” Wilson replies. He glances back toward the woman, who’s now sipping her coffee, legs crossed, eyes distant. “She said I look like you.”

House studies him for a beat.

“You do.” He says simply. “Does that offend you? Am I that unattractive?”

“You’re hideous.” Wilson says, deadpan. “But I didn’t want to drop that on you over breakfast.”

House lets out a breathy chuckle. Wilson smiles at the sight, then turns and catches their reflections in the side of a chrome chafing dish: two men, both in black leather, both unshaven, both faintly hunched, both visibly tired. He's been tired a lot lately.

“We look like one of those older gay couples that start out different then slowly morph into carbon copies of each other.”

“I haven’t bought a cane yet.”

House stirs a second packet of sugar into his cappuccino. He’s silent for a moment.

“It’s nice to see you out of those horrible ties for once. Unbuttoned. Without a stick up your ass. It makes me feel like I finally succeeded in corrupting you.” He looks at Wilson for a moment.  “I think the leather suits you.”

Wilson furrows his brows.

“I think that’s the first compliment you’ve given me in, what? Fifteen years?”

“And the last I’ll give you for the next fifteen.”

Just then, the boy walks past again, cake stacked dangerously high on his plate. Without breaking eye contact with Wilson, House subtly extends his cane behind him. The kid trips, just enough to lurch forward and drop his plate to the ground.

The sky gives up halfway through the Bogue Chitto trail.

Rain, steady and cold, pours through the trees, hammering the path beneath their boots. It’s not dramatic, just relentless, soaking jackets, fogging sunglasses, seeping through seams. Wilson curses under his breath as he tries to protect at least his phone with a useless flap of his coat. House doesn’t bother. He limps faster, cane sinking into the soft earth, muttering complaints every few steps but he knows it's useless to fight it or strain his leg for nothing.

By the time they make it back to the trailhead, they’re drenched. Their bike helmets squish onto their heads like wet sponges. Rain pelts them on the ride back, loud against their motorbikes, stinging cold against their faces.

They pull into the cabin lot looking like wet rats. The cabin itself is charming in theory, warm wood, stone chimney, big windows. In the rain, it looks nothing like it did yesterday.

Inside, the air is warmer, but not enough. Their clothes peel off in soggy layers. Wilson disappears into the bathroom first, House flops into a chair, dripping on the hardwood. The showers are disappointing. The hot water peters out too soon. When House emerges, towel slung around his neck, Wilson is already in bed under the covers, arms hugging his own torso.

The queen bed is the only one in the room, part of the “couple’s getaway” vibe they have pretended not to notice when booking.

The TV glows dimly, playing some crime show neither of them is watching. The rain taps steadily at the windows. House climbs into bed beside Wilson, blanket hiked up to his chest. The room’s heater kicks on with a groan, but the cold lingers.

Wilson is shivering.

House sighs like it personally offends him. He nudges Wilson with his foot under the blankets.

“We don’t have to wait for the death rattle for a little snuggling,” he mutters. “Turn.”

Wilson glances at him, teeth barely clacking together. “What? Now?”

“I’m not cuddling you face-to-face. I refuse to risk your morning breath killing my morning wood.”

Wilson furrows his brows, confused, yet obeys, rolling onto his side. “Maybe try not having morning wood.”

“As long as you don’t start backing it up during the night.” House shuts off the TV, tosses the remote to the nightstand with a thunk, and turns onto his side with a grunt. “It’s fine. Stop letting your rigid bounds of heterosexuality dictate your cuddles.”

“I’ve never seen straight men do this.” Wilson complains, trying not to sound too receptive as House shifts closer.

“You won’t turn gay from a hug. If you do, you probably just needed a little nudge over the edge.” House says, voice low and dry, but not unkind.

Wilson snorts, but it’s more out of habit than amusement. He doesn’t answer. He’s cold, and tired, and the shivering makes his joints ache. His breath almost fogs the air slightly in front of him. House, meanwhile, shifts behind him with a grunt, dragging his side of the blanket up like it personally offends him that the cold still exists. Then, slowly, almost like he’s expecting Wilson to flinch, House reaches out.

His arm slides around Wilson’s middle, settling just above his stomach. His palm rests flat against the fabric of Wilson’s sleep shirt, fingers slightly curled, not pulling him closer but not keeping distance either.

Wilson goes still. Not tense. Just still. Like a man unused to being held, as if he hasn’t been in countless marriages. But, then again, they all ended in divorce.

The touch is strange, not bad, just unfamiliar. There’s no practiced ease, no romantic rhythm. It’s practical. Functional. Two bodies finding shared warmth in an old wooden cabin with no decent insulation. But even then, there’s something tentative in House’s grip, a question mark that silently lingers in his posture. House would never dare ask if anyone's okay out loud, especially Wilson, but it feels like his body language is asking, silently.

Wilson lets out a breath, slow and measured, and lets himself lean back, just slightly, until his shoulder brushes House’s chest. The stubble on House’s chin grazes the back of Wilson’s head.

It’s awkward. The kind of awkward that’s too honest to be uncomfortable.

House huffs behind him. “This is why I don’t hug people. Too many elbows.”

Wilson makes a small sound in his throat, half laugh, half sigh, and shifts again, trying to get comfortable. Their knees knock. House's leg shifts further over his, a little too possessive for a man allegedly offering 'platonic' body heat.

“You’re pressing your knee into my thigh.”

“Well, my thigh is cold. You're the nearest radiator.”

A pause. House’s fingers twitch slightly on Wilson’s stomach. Then settle.

The rain drums against the windowpanes like it’s in no rush to leave. Outside, the park is soaked and silent. Inside, the only sound is the shared breathing between them and the low tick of the heater trying its best.

Wilson speaks again, voice quieter now.

“Is this uncomfortable?” Wilson asks quietly after a few seconds of awkward adjusting.

“I should be the one asking that. I won’t, though.”

“I feel like I’m snuggling a remote.”

House grunts, shifts his leg to rest over Wilson’s ankles. It helps his thigh, just a little.

“I’ll survive.”

A beat.

“Is this weird?” Wilson asks, his voice muffled slightly by the pillow.

“You’ve drugged me before.” House mutters, matter-of-fact.

Wilson doesn’t seem convinced. He protests: “Yeah, but this is still weird. We’re grown men.”

House breathes a tired sigh. His chest rises against Wilson’s back as he speaks.

“Men cuddle all the time. Haven’t you seen Brokeback Mountain?”

“With how often you’re referencing that movie, I’m starting to think you want to reenact it.”

“You’re Jake Gyllenhaal.”

“I won’t be on the receiving end.”

“Sorry, rules are rules. You’re dying first.”

Wilson exhales, long and slow, his body slowly sinking deeper into the warmth between them. His muscles stop bracing. House’s arm is heavy but steady, and it doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. It feels like something that should’ve happened before.

“You keep doing this.” Wilson murmurs. “Shifting the rules of our relationship and then acting like it’s nothing.”

“Because it is nothing.” House says too quickly, his voice thick and dull.

“Then why not do it sooner?”

House is quiet for a moment. Wilson can feel his breath on the back of his neck, slow and measured. The silence stretches just long enough to mean something.

“Didn’t want to scare you off with my clinginess and affection.” House finally says, flat as concrete. “And our condo has never been cold enough for me to climb into your bed.”

Wilson is silent for a long moment, his teeth pulling at his lower lip in thought. His hand, resting on top of the blankets, flexes slightly.

“Are you doing this out of pity?”

House groans, rubbing his forehead into the pillow. “Oh God, shut up.”

But Wilson’s tone shifts, quieter now, a murmur in the dark. “But you’re… okay, right?”

There’s a moment of rustling fabric as House adjusts again, his leg pressing lightly against Wilson’s beneath the blanket.
“You’re a furnace,” he mutters. “Which I’d normally hate, but it’s freezing. If you haven’t noticed.” Then, quieter: “I’m fine.”

Wilson nods once, slowly, and lets his eyes close again. He listens to the constant patter of rain against the windows. The warmth between them starts to win against the cold.

“Okay.”

Silence again.

Then House mutters, “I do wish I had something to grope.”

Wilson lets out a defied groan.
“I knew this would turn sexual in under five minutes.”

“Yet here you still agreed.” Wilson doesn’t reply to that one. “I’m used to a fuller figure.”

“I knew you wouldn’t have liked me after my breast reduction.” 

House shifts, sliding his hand from Wilson’s stomach up to his chest, giving it a light, testing squeeze.

“Nope,” he says. “Still squishy enough.”

Wilson presses his lips into a thin line, fighting a smile. “Should I be offended?”

“That your B cups perfectly resemble my stress balls? Yeah.”

“As long as you don’t go for my actual stress balls…”

“You’re safe. For now.”

“Wonderful.”

“Great.”

House finally retracts his hand and flops it onto Wilson’s stomach, the movement dramatic, as if exhausted by the very concept of restraint.

“You use too much cologne,” he mutters.

“I’ll spritz something more feminine next time.”

A pause.

Then House moves his hand and pinches Wilson’s nipple with icy fingers through his shirt.

“Ow— House!”

“Night, honey.” House says sweetly, smug grin audible in the dark.

Wilson groans again, pulling the blanket higher over his shoulder and muttering something about a chastity belt and needing a second bed next time. But he doesn’t move away. And he’s not shivering anymore.

Wilson stirs before the pale morning light filters weakly through the half-closed cabin blinds. The first thing he notices is not the cold air lingering in the room, but the warm pressure of House's body against his back. His breath is steady, gently brushing against the curve of Wilson’s neck in soft pulses of warmth.

There’s no morning wood, mercifully, from either parties, but House is fully draped against him, an arm slung low around Wilson’s waist like it got there by accident, or instinct. The blanket is bunched around them, their shared heat trapped underneath. For a moment, Wilson just lies there, blinking slowly, letting his body acknowledge the alien sensation of waking without pain. His back feels loose, uncoiled. His shoulders aren’t sore.

It should feel awkward. It should be strange. But it isn’t, not entirely. For the first time in months, Wilson’s body doesn’t ache. His lower back, usually a pulsing throb first thing in the morning, is quiet. His hands don’t tremble from the constant anxiety like they have in the past few weeks. 

The phantom pain that usually settles in his sternum, at the height of his tumor isn’t there. He knows it’s entirely psychological for now, he doesn’t have any symptoms but his body can anticipate its pain, just not today, apparently.

Still, as awareness settles, embarrassment follows. Wilson exhales carefully and begins to inch away. House’s arm tenses, reflexive, like his sleeping body doesn’t want to let go. A soft, unconscious hum escapes House’s lips, half protest, half sleep-mumble.

Wilson freezes.

But after a moment, the resistance fades. He slowly pulls free, slipping out from under the covers with the care of someone defusing a bomb. The cold hits his skin like a slap. He shivers as he gets dressed in silence, tugging on socks, jeans, and his faded McGill sweater, then quietly opens the door and steps out of the cabin, leaving House asleep.

An hour later, Wilson is still sitting alone at one of the communal breakfast tables near the buffet, outside beneath the wooden awning. His plate sits mostly untouched, just a few crumbs and the soggy remains of a mini croissant. He nurses a lukewarm cup of coffee with both hands, hunched slightly into his hoodie like he’s trying to disappear into it.

The patio is dotted with other guests, mostly othercouples and hikers quietly munching toast. The rain has stopped, but the clouds hang low.

House arrives with his usual lack of subtlety, cane thudding on the deck as he limps across the patio with a tray that looks like a dessert cart tipped over. Two cinnamon rolls, a fat Belgian waffle drowning in whipped cream and syrup, and a pile of strawberries on the side. His coffee is already creamed and sugared, steam rising from the chipped mug. His strides are wide and almost relaxed.
He drops into the chair across from Wilson and immediately starts eating like a man who intends to win something by doing so.

Wilson offers a small nod in greeting, but doesn’t speak. He’s clearly uncomfortable, his eyes flicking sideways now and then, like checking for something unseen.

House digs into his food, fork carving through the waffle with urgency. He chews noisily, clearly unbothered by silence or social norms. Wilson doesn’t say anything. He just watches him for a moment, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile.

After a while, he leans forward slightly, checking around them. A pair of elderly women are deep in conversation near the railing, and no one else is close enough to overhear.

In a low voice, he says, “Thank you… for last night.”

House pauses mid-chew, his brow furrowing. He stares at Wilson for a second, confused, then swallows hard.

“The… offer.” Wilson clarifies, eyes downcast, hoping his phrasing sounds straight enough.

Recognition hits. House’s face twists into an exaggerated grimace, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.

“Mh, yeah.” he mutters with his mouth full.

“I slept well.” Wilson continues, fingers tightening around his mug. “I think the last time I did was... years ago.”

House picks up a strawberry, inspects it, then pops it into his mouth. “I knew Amber was the big spoon.”

Wilson doesn’t answer. He stares at the lip of his mug like it might offer him a distraction.

“Sam didn’t cuddle?” House asks, loading whipped cream onto the back of his fork.

“She says I’m too warm.”

“You are.” House replies, unbothered, licking syrup from his finger like it’s a factual observation and not a potentially intimate critique.

Silence stretches between them, interrupted only by the clink of silverware and the occasional chirp of a bird darting across the patio. Wilson shifts in his seat, feeling the edge of something unspoken pressing at his ribs.

“I don’t want it to be an everyday thing,” he says quietly. “You’re not... obligated.”

House looks up from his plate, brows raised, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I know.”

The days pass like a shift in weather, slow, gray, and without warning. The stretch from Bogue Chitto to Laurel, then Lacombe, and further south through Slidell, should have been slow and scenic, easy stops through dense woods and sleepy roadside towns, the kind of route people took when they wanted to breathe. But somewhere along the way, the stillness between them thickens into something heavier. There are no more touches.

No joking nudges, no passing hands or brushing shoulders when they stop for gas, no idle arguments at traffic lights when they stop beside one another. House rides his motorcycle a few lengths ahead of Wilson now, sometimes more, claiming he’s just following their planned route through rural southern Louisiana, but his pace is just a little too fast, his turns a little too sharp, like he’s running. He claims he's “navigating” because he knows the way, because he memorized the map, but he always seems to be just out of reach.

Even when they park, he keeps his helmet on longer than needed, his sunglasses hiding whatever’s settled behind his eyes.

The places they stop at aren’t charming anymore. The last three nights were spent in motels with paper-thin walls and sour-smelling carpets. They book separate beds, whether by accident or quiet intention, Wilson doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask. He just watches House limp into the bathroom each night and listens to the muffled swears when he forgets his cane.

House hasn’t mentioned hiking again since Bogue Chitto. The day after the storm, he’d seemed fine, even upbeat. He'd limped less. He’d even suggested retrying the trail, then led it.
He mapped out a spot further down near the Pearl River basin when they came back, saying he wanted to hike somewhere else. But the idea evaporated by morning. He’s been more tired, more distant. The limp has returned with a vengeance. Whatever pain he’s feeling, he won’t mention it, but it’s visible.

At first Wilson thinks it's just a rough patch, maybe the aftershock of closeness. But when they reach the Irish Bayou, House doesn’t even suggest visiting the wildlife refuge. They eat in silence at a diner with broken ceiling fans, sleep in a room with two stiff beds that smell like cleaning solution and old socks.

By the time they hit Chalmette, the pattern is unmistakable. Every motel is somehow cheaper than the last, every conversation shorter. Their stops are becoming as mechanical as the rumble of their engines. They’re so close to New Orleans, yet House keeps avoiding it, leading him to neighboring towns with nothing interesting to visit. 

Wilson doesn’t press him. He tells himself it’s just House’s leg. It has to be, it always is.

Still, something feels like it's fraying between them, quietly, but steadily.

House hasn't mentioned the pain getting worse, but Wilson catches the way he winces when stepping off the bike, the now constant habit of massaging his thigh under the table. At night, Wilson hears him grunting in his sleep, spasms that twist the mattress and wake him with muffled curses.

Just outside New Orleans, twenty miles from the city, the highway gets sluggish with late-day traffic. It’s near dusk when they pull into a run-down motel lit by flickering neon, and the receptionist tells them the only room left has one queen bed. No couch. No cots.

House takes the key without a word. Wilson follows him into the room, thin carpet damp with humidity, the AC rattling like an asthmatic. They eat cheap Chinese takeout sitting cross-legged on the bed, cartons scattered around the remote. Something generic is playing on the television, forgotten in the background.

Neither of them cares.

The room feels heavy, like the silence has mass, like the bedframe might creak under the weight of everything they’re not saying. Wilson chews slowly, distracted. His food tastes like nothing. He tries to speak once or twice, but House doesn't look up from the screen. Eventually, he gives up.

He starts to wonder if asking to be held was a mistake. Maybe the whole trip was.

When they’ve eaten enough to call it “dinner”, Wilson throws the trash into the overflowing can by the door. He brushes his teeth in the dim bathroom and crawls into the far side of the bed without comment. House turns the TV off but doesn’t move.

They lie there, facing opposite walls.

The AC hums. Wilson blinks into the dark, listening, he can hear House shifting, restless. Then a soft rustle: the unmistakable sound of a hand rubbing at a sore thigh, slow, circular pressure.

A long breath escapes House’s lips. Not a sigh of relief,more like surrender.

Then, in the dark:

“I know you’re awake.” House says, voice low but direct.

Wilson freezes, breath held. But he doesn't answer.

A long pause.

Then House speaks again, and it's quieter than Wilson’s ever heard him, like the words have been sitting at the back of his throat all week.

“I don’t want you to die.”

The silence that follows is heavier than any motel blanket. Wilson bites the inside of his lip, blinks hard, his chest aching as he processes it, the rawness of it, the absolute lack of sarcasm or snark.

He exhales, voice rough.

“I don’t really want me to die either.”

He swallows and considers leaving it there, but the quiet invites honesty.

“Which only makes my expectations higher,” he adds, forcing the smallest flicker of humor into his tone, “for whatever you have planned for tomorrow.”

A beat passes. House shifts again, and though Wilson can’t see his face, he knows he’s smirking faintly, eyes probably on the ceiling.

It’s the first time either of them mentions how close they are to New Orleans. The stop House had been hyping up since the start of the trip. It had felt like a dot on a map until now, something abstract they were heading toward. Now it’s real, just across the parish line. With Wilson’s statement up in the air, House can’t postpone New Orleans any longer. 

A few minutes pass in the dark.

The street outside hums with the occasional engine, and a dim glow from the parking lot sign leaks through the edge of the curtains. Somewhere down the hallway, a toilet flushes. A distant dog barks.

Wilson shifts beneath the sheets, careful not to make too much noise. Eventually, he gets up with a soft creak of the mattress. The floor is cold against his feet as he pads into the bathroom.

When he opens the door, the light of the bathroom shines on House, lying flat on his back, arm thrown dramatically over his face like a melodramatic Victorian widow.

“You're a loud pisser.” House complains, voice muffled beneath his arm.

“You’re barely disguising your fetishes.” Wilson fires back dryly, his voice gravelly with fatigue but edged with fondness.

He hesitates, lingering in the middle of the room before speaking again, quieter now.
“Why are you still awake?”

House doesn't move. “Told you. You're unbearably loud when you're emptying your bladder.”

Then, after a pause, more honest: “My leg.”

Wilson exhales a small laugh through his nose. “Your leg’s loud too?”

“Right now it is.” House says, the words squeezed through clenched teeth. There's tension in his voice, not just pain, but the tiredness of carrying it. “It’s singing the blues.”

“Must be Louisiana.”

Wilson watches him a moment longer, hands on his hips, before stepping over to his bag in the corner. He unzips it, rustling through socks and aspirin bottles until he pulls out a small gray heat pad. He holds it up as he walks back to the bed.

House peeks out from under his arm. “Why do you have that?”

“For my period cramps.” Wilson deadpans and gestures at him to move. “Turn.”

House watches him.

“Don’t boss me around.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want you to get a boner.” 

Grumbling, House obeys, rolling onto his side with the stiffness of someone twice his age. Wilson gently peels the covers back and kneels on the edge of the bed. He slides the warm pad over House’s thigh, making sure it’s pressing just enough before tucking the blankets around it again.

But then, unexpectedly, he climbs in beside him.

Wilson scoots closer, slow and tentative. His chest presses lightly against House’s back, and he drapes a lazy, almost hesitant arm over House’s waist. He keeps their hips apart, but lets his leg rest behind House’s, adding a bit of supportive pressure along the calf and behind the knee.

House huffs, barely masking the sigh of relief.

“I don’t have enough money for the happy ending.” he mutters. “You’ll have to hit the ATM yourself.”

“I know you slept like a baby the last time.” Wilson replies, his voice low, almost shy. “You were barely limping in the morning.”

House doesn’t reply. That silence says enough.

Wilson grins faintly against the back of his shoulder. “Nothing? Not even a joke about babies being nocturnal and annoying? You’re genuinely enjoying the cuddling.”

“Reminds me of those few warm nights in prison. You know, when soap-dropping led to meaningful moments.” House mumbles, the usual deflection, but softer this time. Less armor, more reflex.

The room is still dim when House blinks awake. A low sun peeks through the slats of the curtain, casting golden strips across the bed. The AC kicks on again with a hum.

They’re tangled.

Wilson’s legs are knotted with his, warm and unbothered. One of House’s socked feet is hooked around Wilson’s ankle, practically holding it hostage. Wilson’s arm is draped across his stomach, and he’s gently, absently tracing slow patterns against House’s skin with the tip of one finger.

House can tell Wilson’s awake. Just not ready to be.

He doesn’t say anything. He pretends to still be asleep, eyes closed, letting himself enjoy it longer than he probably should. His leg feels better. Not great, but better. He knows it’s the heat pad, and maybe the warmth pressed around him too.

He also feels something else.

A very present, very unavoidable detail pressing against the small of his back.

He doesn’t mind. In fact, he smiles to himself.

“...So, which wife do I remind you of? One, two, or three?” House murmurs, his voice gravelly still.

The tracing stops. Wilson stills.

“Alright.” Wilson mumbles after a beat, annoyed and groggy, already pulling away. But the tips of his ears are pink.

“Is it Julie?” House presses, grinning into the pillow. “I always thought we looked alike.”

“Oh, no doubt.” Wilson mutters, tugging the blankets off himself and sitting up. “I married her because her shoulder-length bob looked just like yours.”

“Don’t forget my dainty, feminine hands.” House adds, holding up one hand and fluttering his fingers mockingly.

Wilson stands and starts moving toward the bathroom, shaking his head with a mix of exasperation and barely restrained amusement.

“Hey, don’t go.” House calls after him, voice rising with playful protest. “I was just getting cozy!”

He gets no answer but the soft click of the bathroom door.

Still, House is smiling as he stares up at the ceiling.

After what have been days of tension and distance, New Orleans revives something between them. They start with a strip club, cigars and day drinking. Afterward, they drift through a handful of smoky jazz pubs.

House, with unusual sentimentality, reveals he’s booked a night at the hotel where they first met in ’91, showing him the new antique mirror they replaced the one Wilson destroyed with. There’s a wax modelers convention happening this time, which they decide, after a few more drinks, to join and disrupt. The day is slow but fun, they don’t need too much entertainment to keep themselves entertained, just each other’s company. Wilson is thankful for the change in pace. House is touching him again, a casual arm over his shoulders as they play darts in the hotel lounge, an encouraging pat on the back when he wants another drink, a hand on his forearm when the jazz gets too loud and he needs to scoot closer to talk to Wilson.

The day ends with a splurge on room service: lobster, the good kind, and champagne on Wilson’s tab. Dessert is a half-watched pay-per-view porn that plays in the background while they drink straight from the bottle and talk on one bed, shoulders bumping occasionally.

They booked a room with two beds, yet they only use one to share the champagne and to comment on the badly acted porn in front of the huge flat screen. The rooms are much better than they were in ’91.

After a few chuckles and a long sigh, Wilson glances at the clock.

“Alright, I’m spent.” He turns off the lamp on the nightstand, tugging the covers over his shoulder and turning to face the wall.

House stays sitting up, surprised by the sudden shift in mood, legs stretched out, watching the now-dark TV screen until he finally says, casually:

“No snuggles tonight?”

“I’m good.” Wilson mumbles, already facing away from him.

“I wouldn't mind some heat.” House adds, stretching out the words, as though he’s just commenting on the weather.

Wilson hesitates, then throws the ball back. “Do you want the snuggles?”

“It’s cold.” House replies with a shrug, letting the silence hang for a second.

Wilson thinks for a beat, clearly weighing something in his head, before muttering awkwardly into his pillow: “…In twenty minutes.”

House furrows his brows in confusion, tilting his head slightly in the dark.
“Can you only snuggle during the witching hour?”

“I… can’t.” Wilson admits, voice tight with shame.

House turns in bed to face him. “What do you mean?”

Wilson sighs, embarrassed. “I want to… do some reading first.”

“With the lights off?”

Wilson, caught in a lie, reaches out and flicks the light on again.

“No, you said you can’t. What’s so incapacitating that you can’t cuddle your best buddy?” House accuses, sharper now, the realization hitting him mid-sentence. His mouth drops into a grin, and he gasps in mock shock. “Are you hard?”

Wilson immediately tightens his grip on the covers as House tries to lift them to look.

“House.” he warns, voice low and firm.

House falls back onto his pillow, grinning mischievously. 

“You are.” He giggles. “You're not as old as I thought you'd be...”

“I’ve been... off my antidepressants.” Wilson admits, barely above a whisper.

“Right.” House replies with exaggerated sarcasm, “that’s what most therapists would advise after someone's been diagnosed with terminal cancer.” He snorts. “Seriously? That’s all it took? Some lazy scissoring and poorly written banter?”

“I haven't had sex since that awful threesome. Cut me some slack.” Wilson says defensively.

“You got a hard-on from pressing against my virile body, I’d say you're not lacking sexual experiences.”

“Enough. That was just… biology. And friction.”

“Go get some friction in the bathroom then.” House says without missing a beat, folding his arms behind his head.

“I don’t want you hearing.”

“I’ll put some loud music on. Go rub one off.”

“I’m not—why are we talking about my boner anyway?” Wilson snaps, frustrated.

“Because it’s embarrassing.”

“It’s more embarrassing to not have one.”

House grins wider. “My dick is perfectly house-trained. It only stands after five whole minutes of aimed rubbing.”

“Thank you for the lovely image.”

“I’m trying to inspire you to go solve it in the bathroom.”

“I don’t want to get up. It’ll go away on its own.”

“You can do it here.” House offers, deadpan. “I’ll turn around, wear my earphones-”

“Or don’t, at this point. Actually observe the whole thing and comment on it.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“If you insist.” House says, all mock sincerity, scooting closer.

“Are you insane?”

House rolls onto his side to face him, one arm propped under his head. He smirks.

“Hey, you invited me.” He says with an infuriating shrug. Then adds, more smugly: “I have jerked off with you in the room before.”

Wilson groans, dragging a hand over his face. “I don't want to know that.”

“You already knew that. And you didn’t mind when I did it.”

“I think I explicitly told you not to, every time. But, sure, I didn’t mind it.”

House shifts, folding his hands across his stomach. “I’ve jerked off on your couch.”

“I know.”

“In your bathtub, too.”

“Okay, I get it.” Wilson cuts in, rubbing his temples and lying flat on his back again. “We lack boundaries. I’d rather keep this last one intact.”

House tilts his head slightly, his voice softening a fraction. “You know I won’t mind.”

“Oh, I know. That’s what makes it worse.”

“No, what makes it worse is that you thought about it.”

A pause. Wilson freezes slightly.

“I didn’t.”

House arches a brow. “You did it again just now.”

Wilson lets out a frustrated breath. “You make me question my sanity, let alone my morals.”

House sits up halfway in bed, the mattress creaking slightly beneath him. His gaze doesn’t break.

“I’ve seen you naked before. What difference does it make?”

“You know what difference it makes.”

“We’ve showered together before.”

“Once. While camping, because the water was running out and we were facing opposite ways.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Oh, I know.” Wilson sighs.

“You had a nice bubble butt.”

“Still do.” Wilson murmurs, with a mix of pride and shame.

“I wouldn’t know, haven’t seen it since ‘98.”

“You know the year? You keep track of every time you’ve seen me naked?”

House doesn’t tell him the reason he remembers is because it was their last hike, just a month before the infarction.

“I keep track of your period too.”

“I thought I’d be in menopause by now.” Wilson murmurs under his hands.

There’s a long pause, the older man watching the other still shielding his face.

“Turn around.”

Wilson groans, cradling his head with both hands. “House, seriously, drop it.”

“Turn around.”

“Why?” he asks, frustrated and moving his hands off his face.

House looks at him sincerely. “Don’t overthink it.”

Wilson sits up more, the sheet pooling at his waist. His eyes flick between House’s eyes, uncertain. He blinks, then slowly obeys, hesitantly.

“You tell me if you wanna stop.” House says gently, his hand resting on Wilson’s hip like a question waiting to be answered.

“Stop what?” Wilson’s breath catches. “What are you doing?”

“Helping a friend in need.”

House lets his fingers drift, brushing along the elastic waistband of Wilson’s sweats. “House—”

“Just tell me if you want me to stop.”

Wilson is quiet.

His jaw is tight, his breath shallow. He doesn’t move, doesn’t push House away. The tension in the room turns inward, pressing down like the humidity of a storm just about to break.

House watches his face, reading every micro-expression. Slowly, carefully, he places his hand over the front of Wilson’s sweats, warm, tentative pressure through the fabric, he can feel how firm he is.

Wilson still doesn’t speak.

He exhales, long and shaky through his nose. His shoulders loosen, the faintest shift of his hips pushing just slightly into House’s hand.

“This okay?” House asks, voice low, rough around the edges.

Wilson swallows. Half a nod. His lips part like he might speak, but he doesn’t. Finally:

“We shouldn’t do this.” Voice hoarse, almost regretful.

House doesn’t pull away. His hand stays steady, motionless now except for the slight flex of his fingers, as if unsure what to do next.

“Do you want me to stop?”

That hangs in the air for a long moment.

House moves his hand off him, gently, deliberately, placing it back on the sheets beside Wilson’s hip. They can still go back. He doesn’t retreat completely, doesn’t push forward either. 

He just waits.

The silence stretches. The only sound is the low hum of the air conditioning and the muffled clink of someone walking down the motel hallway outside.

Wilson stares at the ceiling, blinking slowly. His lips press together, then part again. He breathes in.

“No… Don’t.”

The reply is short but certain.

House glances at him, eyes narrowing slightly, searching. He doesn’t smile, but some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders.

He places his hand back, this time with more confidence, and moves it gently, his thumb brushing along the waistband again.

Wilson’s hand finds House’s wrist, not to stop him, just to be there.

His face turns slightly, meeting House’s eyes for the first time. There's something raw in his expression, not lust, not even affection. Just need. Honest, terrifying need.

House swallows hard and dips his hand in his briefs, movements slow and tentative. Despite everything they've drunk throughout the day, bourbon at the jazz bar, overpriced cocktails at the hotel, there's no numbing haze to hide behind. If anything, the air between them feels painfully lucid, sharp with awareness.

Wilson leans back slightly, his breath unsteady.

"Just relax." House murmurs, voice low near his ear. "Pretend it's your hand."

"Bit hard when you're breathing down my neck." Wilson mutters, trying for humor, but it cracks under the weight of the moment.

"Yeah," House says, not missing a beat. "You are a bit hard."

There’s a quiet pause as Wilson exhales, half a laugh and half a sigh. He shifts, and in one quick, unspoken decision, he turns around to face House. The light from the nightstand illuminates half his face, making his expression hard to read.

He’s stroking him, slowly, languidly. It’s not as passionate as he’d like it to be, the lack of lubrication making the friction even more unbearable. Wilson lets out a sound, unintelligible and desperate and ruts into his hand.

It’s just an escalation of seeking House’s touch, it’s nothing different than what he’s done the whole month they’ve been travelling.

"You don’t have to look at me." House says carefully, his voice reminding Wilson how real everything is at this very moment. “Just pretend I’m Sam.”

Wilson shakes his head, almost gently, almost sad.

"No," he says, lifting a hand to House’s face, fingers brushing his jaw with care he rarely gets. He’s never felt his stubble under his fingers. 

He leans in and kisses him, hard enough to bruise.

House doesn’t move at first, completely still, as if stunned by the simplicity of it. 

The kiss is unfamiliar, strange in every conceivable way. Wilson’s lips are warm and urgent but still hesitant, like he’s half-afraid House might flinch or pull away. And for a moment, House doesn’t know what to do. He’s kissed plenty of people before, but never like this. Never someone who knows him this well. Never someone whose toothbrush he’s shared and whose mortality he’s quietly dreading. Never Wilson.

Their noses bump awkwardly, breath catching in mismatched rhythm, and for a second it feels like a mistake, like something borne from the wrong kind of silence. But then House lets go of the instinct to joke, to sneer or to retreat. He leans into it. He feels Wilson’s fingers still at his jaw, a thumb grazing the stubble along his cheek, grounding him. And suddenly it makes a kind of twisted sense. His eyes are open longer than they should be before he finally lets them fall shut, and allows himself to kiss back.

There’s no passion in the way a romance novel might describe it, no firework burst of clarity,but there’s something sturdier, familiar.

It’s clumsy, their mouths moving in fits and starts, testing the terrain like two people learning a new language with their teeth and breath. But somewhere in the awkwardness, something clicks, something soft and scary.

House can feel Wilson’s chest rising with each breath underneath his and suddenly he wants to feel it more. He can feel his own hesitation melting, almost involuntarily, into the space between them.

When they break apart, it’s not dramatic. There’s no gasp for air, no sweeping confession. Just a breath, shared between them in the dark. He’s still stroking him, lazily, almost painfully, when Wilson reaches for the hem of his pajama pants instead.

“Off.” Wilson says, almost desperate.

“No.” House shakes his head. “You don’t- It's gonna take a while. And it’s gonna be awkward. Drop it.”

“I don't care.”

House pulls back slightly, watching as Wilson reaches for the waistband of his pajama pants, the movement slow and deliberate. He grimaces, clearly uncomfortable, both physically from the strain and mentally from the uncertainty of this new territory. His mind races, trying to ignore his bare, exposed, mangled leg being so close to his best friend, but Wilson doesn't give him time to second-guess and touches the front of his briefs instead. He presses his palm against his still limp shape.

Without a word, Wilson shifts closer, his presence comforting, grounding House. It's clear now that there's no going back, no avoiding whatever path they've just stepped onto. Wilson looks at him, his expression soft yet determined, waiting for House to make the next move.

House exhales slowly, his heart pounding, and for a brief moment, he wonders if he’s making a mistake. But Wilson’s touch, steady and reassuring, continues.

It’s a matter of seconds before Wilson is slipping his hand in his underwear and stroking him.

He takes as long as he needs, House can’t help but feel insecure with how long it takes but Wilson simply kisses him. They’ve gotten the hang of it now. House licks into his mouth, uncertainty replaced by desperate need.

Their foreheads press together, the closeness creating an almost electric tension between them. The kiss begins slowly, Wilson’s hand reaches up, gently cupping House's face. He caresses his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble against his palm, the sensation somehow grounding.

There’s a tenderness in House’s movements that he wasn’t expecting, a softness that contrasts with his usual guarded demeanor. Their lips meet again, a little more sure this time, and Wilson lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He feels his pulse quicken.

He comes first, loud and overwhelmed, staining House’s hand and his own t-shirt. Wilson doesn’t give his friend the time to feel any uneasiness over being far from his own climax and instead props himself up on his elbow and kisses him harder against the pillow.

He has a finger under House's chin, holding it up so he can kiss into his mouth. The rasp of their stubbles brushing against each other adds an unexpected layer to the moment, rough against the warmth of their skin. It’s an oddly comforting sensation, even if he's never kissed someone with a beard before.

House comes too, not long after him. 

They stare at each other when the older man wipes his hand clean across Wilson’s belly. The oncologist laughs genuinely and looks at him. The weight of the moment settles between them. 

God, it’s heavy. They’re panting, lying on their sides and facing each other. There’s a palpable tension in the air. The silence stretches between them, broken only by their breathing.

Then, without warning, House’s face shifts. His expression falters, and in an instant, he looks very scared, vulnerable, eerily so. 

His eyes, usually so sharp and guarded, suddenly soften, but not in a way that’s comforting. They’re filled with something akin to terror.

He looks away from Wilson for a moment, and that look, it’s something Wilson rarely sees in him. It makes his chest tighten, something heavy settling there. He looks so small in that moment. The usual defiant spark in House’s eyes is gone, replaced by a raw, vulnerable look that’s entirely unfamiliar.

House bites his lip, the tension in his jaw tightening. Then, as if he’s trying to shake off the moment, he turns quickly and sits up. He pulls on his boxers and pants in silence, the motions jerky and uncertain. He doesn’t reach for his cane, and the absence of that small gesture sends an unexpected pang through Wilson’s chest.

House limps toward the bathroom without another word. Wilson watches him go, his body aching with a mix of confusion and concern. He knows House is trying to distance himself, to regain control of something, anything.

The door clicks shut, and Wilson is left there, staring at the empty space between them. The silence feels too loud.

He lets out a breath and wipes his hands with a tissue, moving to curl up on the bed. He faces the wall, the softness of the sheets against his skin doing little to settle the restless ache in his chest.

Minutes slip by like hours. He eventually drifts off to sleep, but when he wakes, the bed beside him is cold. House isn’t there.

It’s been many days since they last shared a bed, or a complete conversation, the air between them heavy. The distance between them is both physical and emotional. They haven’t talked about it directly, but it’s clear neither of them wants to talk. In fact they don’t. They just drive. House drives further away again, guiding the way, not exactly sure where he’s going. They’ve never discussed other stops after New Orleans, not methodically anyway. He’s been leading them in places they would’ve never purposefully gone to, he simply isn’t currently caring enough to check a map.

They stop at a truck stop to fuel their bikes, the first they find after hours. The day has been long, and the heat of the sun hangs heavy in the air. It’s almost blistering, the air thick with heat and dust. The distant hum of passing trucks is almost drowned out by the sound of Wilson’s bike as he fills his tank.

He grips the fuel nozzle tightly, watching the numbers on the pump tick up. His shirt clings to his back. The roar of a passing eighteen-wheeler vibrates through the ground. House leans against his bike a few feet away, sunglasses hiding his eyes, arms crossed tightly over his chest like he’s holding something in.

“I’ve never been in… Valverda before.” Wilson says, trying to break the silence, his voice casual, distant.

House doesn’t look at him. “Another thing to cross off your list.”

Wilson turns slightly. “What list?”

“Wasn’t the threesome on your bucket list?” House says, voice sharp and glib. “Visiting Valverda must’ve been somewhere on there. Right by skydiving and a near-death homosexual hookup with a friend.”

Wilson freezes mid-movement. The nozzle clicks, the tank full. He removes it, jamming it back into place harder than necessary.

“What is this about?”

House shrugs, the motion tight. “Just saying, you’re getting your mileage in. Cancer finally pushed you to live a little. What’s next? Conjoined twins?”

Wilson drops the flap on his gas tank and turns to face him fully. His mouth is tight.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m just observing.” House replies coolly, biting down on each word. “It’s amazing what a terminal diagnosis can do. One foot in the grave and suddenly you’re experimenting. Living the fantasy while you still can.”

Wilson’s hands drop to his sides. “You think I used you?”

“Well, didn’t you?” House’s tone is venomous now, thick with accusation.

Wilson lets out a bitter laugh. “Oh, please.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the romance. It was so obvious it came from love.”

“You left the bed.” Wilson fires back, his voice rising.

“You were drunk.”

“Not enough!”

“You’re not gay, Wilson.” House snaps. “We both know that. So what was it? Make-A-Wish?”

Wilson recoils like he’s been slapped, then takes two fast steps toward him. “You’re an idiot.”

House steps forward too. “Pot, kettle.”

“I’m the idiot?” Wilson’s face is flushed with rage. “You’re the one who can’t deal with anyone being close to you.”

“You flushed a thirty-year friendship down the toilet for a quick rub.”

“You touched me first!”

“I offered a hand . You’re the one who kissed me.” House’s voice cracks slightly, more from the intensity than emotion.

“Right because it was completely platonic before I added tongue into the mix!”

“It was just a handjob. It meant nothing. We’ve all rubbed one off for a friend before.”

“What sleepovers did you go to?”

“Oh, shut up. You didn’t want it to be platonic. Not in that moment at least. You snort commitment. You can’t even have a hook-up without making it emotionally charged because that’s just how you’re wired. You have to involve romanticism, make it look like it means something. I’m sure women love it. That's what it was all about, the touching, the begging. You were planting the seed in my head. You don't want to be held when you die, you wanted me to give you a reach-around. You wanted someone to jerk you off one last time before you become too ill to make a move on a blonde floozie but you had to pass it off as something meaningful.”

Wilson laughs bitterly, his hands on his hips

“Are you hearing yourself?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t do this.”

“Right. It’s always my fault somehow.”

“It is.” House says, matter of factly. “You can say you’ve done it, you’ve officially successfully manipulated me into mutual masturbation, check it off. At least you won’t die without knowing what it feels like.”

Wilson stutters, his voice going up a pitch. His eyes narrow.

“That’s not what happened.” He says, taking a step forward.

“Then what was it? A platonic handshake?” House snaps, his voice rising. “You’re not gay, Wilson. Or are you?”

He remains silent.

“Right. That’s what I thought. It was never you, just your taste in ties.” House says and limps towards his bike.

The moment he turns, he feels a hard shove at his shoulder. He turns to see his best friend furious. “What are you doing?”

Wilson steps forward suddenly and shoves him again. There he is, the man who destroyed  a ten foot antique mirror.

House stumbles slightly, his cane slipping on the pavement. “Really? You’re shoving a cripple now?”

“I’m shoving an asshole.” Wilson growls through gritted teeth.

House’s mouth twitches into something like a grin, but it’s brittle, mocking.

“What? You disagree? You’ve decided to befriend Dorothy one last time before death comes knocking at the door?” 

House shoves him back, Wilson answers immediately, but the taller man, despite the leg, has stronger upper body strength and grabs a wrist, pushing him forward then roughly backwards to destabilize him. Wilson grabs House’s jacket and pulls him back, making him stumble forward dangerously.

Pain flashes across House’s face as he clenches his jaw and charges at Wilson with a heavy limp, enough for Wilson to put both hands up between them, chest heaving. 

“Stop. Stop. What are? Five? Why are we arguing about this?”

“Because I like it.” House replies childishly.

“You like it? I’ll tell you what you like.” Wilson steps back, putting some distance between them, pointing an accusatory finger at House instead.

“Go ahead.”

“You like me. You like me and you hate it. I didn't manipulate you into cuddling me! You wanted to! I asked for a near-death favor and you used it as an excuse to touch me. And I was grateful!”

House scoffs but says nothing.

“Because you can never just do something. You have to blame others for making you do something. You have to blame me because you hate being vulnerable. Which is why you made yourself insufferable enough to make Stacy break up with you twice. Why you blamed Cuddy for your relapse then drove a car into a wall. Why you convinced yourself Dominika didn’t love so you had to find a way to fuck things up and even in a fucking green card marriage where she was already your hostage!”

House is quiet for a moment, then deflects. “How does listing my love failures prove the fact you’ve broadened your horizons to include male genitalia?”

“Because that's your pattern! That’s what you do! You can't picture yourself being happy so you purposefully make yourself miserable!”

House glares. “You really shouldn’t pick fights with someone who has a cane.”

“You hate that you feel something for me!”

House laughs at him.

“Do I?”

“Yes! Yes! That’s why you can’t bring yourself to say it!” Wilson’s voice goes up a pitch.

“Say, what?” House barks, frustrated.

“That you love me. Even just platonically.”

“You want me to say it?” House snarls, stepping closer again. “Fine. I love you! There. I said it. What now? That fix everything?”

Wilson stares at him, stunned. His mouth opens, then closes again. He nods slowly.


He steps forward, suddenly, grabs House by the collar, and kisses him hard, unplanned, desperate.

House stiffens, caught off guard, but doesn’t pull away.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, voice low and shaken.

“Well, I do.” Wilson replies.

House looks at him for a long moment, Wilson rips his sunglasses off completely, folds them haphazardly and tucks them into the pocket of his jacket. House limps forward and pulls him in again, kissing him back with a mix of frustration, relief, and something that feels terrifyingly like surrender. No hesitation this time, no bitterness left to hide behind. It’s clumsy, charged, and entirely real. Wilson presses into him without thinking, pushing House gently but firmly back against the wall around the corner of the truck stop, supporting him as he limps backwards.

It's just them out here, the parking lot empty, the distant hum of trucks barely noticeable.

He frames House’s face, thumbs brushing against his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble against his palms, and kisses him again, deeper this time. House grips his shirt like a lifeline, leaning into the contact, matching his intensity beat for beat.

Wilson’s hands reach for House’s belt, unbuckling it automatically. House pushes him away enough to look at him and smirk.

“Is this how you're gonna tell me your bucket list includes semi-public sex?” When Wilson continues with his task of undressing him, House’s smile drops with a gasp. “Seriously?”

“I mean…” Wilson flushes a shade redder.

House pauses for a moment then pins him against the wall instead, unbuckles his belt and drops to his knees without second-guessing.

“House-”

“Tap my shoulder if you see someone coming.” He says, voice low. “Also tap my shoulder if that someone is you. I always like a heads up.” 

They fall into a steady rhythm, hotel to hotel, the open road stretching before them. There are hikes, some too ambitious for House’s leg, others just quiet walks through nature. They stop asking what’s allowed, stop testing the boundaries and instead slip into a routine that feels almost natural. At night, they hold each other. They kiss when they feel like it, when something in the air gives permission. They have sex when House’s leg allows it. They stop asking for separate beds.

They don’t talk about what they’re doing. They just live it.

After a few weeks, they find themselves in Florida, near the Anhinga Trail. It’s a lazy Tuesday morning. Wilson sits at the edge of their shared bed, filing his nails with quiet focus. House is lying beside him, idly toying with the hem of Wilson’s boxers and half-watching the news.

“I’m not gay.” Wilson says, unprompted.

House hums, turning his head toward him, then down to his hands.

“I always thought your spiritual submission to me was probably rooted in me resembling a bully you went to school with, but now the roleplay’s getting too real.”

Wilson scoffs. “If anyone's submissive between us, it surely isn't me.”

“I let you do me once.” House says, jabbing a finger against his side.

“Once a day?” Wilson glares at him sideways. 

“Don't get into semantics. We were discussing your repression.” House pokes him again, grinning.

Wilson doesn’t rise to the bait. 
“Look, I don't care what this… makes me.” He waves the nail file vaguely between them. “I just… I’m glad it's with you.”

“Oh, yeah.” House replies with a crooked smirk. “If I had a gun to my head and someone forced me to have some straight platonic sex with a man, I’d have it with you, too.”

“You know what I mean.” Wilson mutters, brushing him off.

“You confessed your love to me.”

“Like it was news to you.”

House blinks, confused. “Was I supposed to know?”

Wilson glances at him over his shoulder.

“What did you think we were doing?”

“ Not having sex!”

“Well, we are now.” Wilson says with a shrug.

“But the sentiment was always there?”

“Why are you acting like it's anything new?”

House frowns, confused. “I’m not following you. You just said you're not gay.”

“I’m not.” Wilson insists.

“But you've been in love since you met me?”

“No. Not— not in love ,” Wilson falters. “I just… I loved you right away. Can you stop making me say it?”

House’s smile tugs crookedly at one side of his mouth. “God, you're repressed.”

“I’m not gay, I just… love you.” Wilson grimaces, like the words have a bitter aftertaste. “I’m not saying it again.”

“At least I have the guts to admit I might not be completely straight.”

Wilson turns to look at him, eyebrow raised. “You're not?”

“How many times do you need to intimately feel up my prostate for you to realize that?”

Wilson blinks at him, setting his file away completely and turning to give House his complete attention.

“How long have you known?”

“I’ve dabbled in med school. Fooled around a lot then sort of stopped.” House leans across the space between them and grabs Wilson’s hand, guiding it to his mouth. “I guess no one had your hands.”

House bites his fingers playfully.

“Mh.” Wilson says, watching as House wraps his mouth around his fingertips. When his tongue darts against his fingertips, Wilson pulls his hand away but House holds onto it on the mattress. Wilson lets him.

“I thought you'd seen my med school pictures. When I did drag on fridays.”

“Well, that's just what you were like.” Wilson says with a frown.

“Oh, yeah, gay clubs are full to the brim with straight dudes. Just because they make great drinks.”

“You never told me.”

“That cosmos are better when a butch lesbian makes them?”

“That you’re… not straight.”

House shrugs.

“I stopped sleeping with men around the time I met Stacy.”

“She sucked the fabulous right out of you?”

“She actually encouraged it.” House remembers fondly.

Wilson toys with House’s fingers mindlessly, then starts:

“Remember Kyle Calloway?”   

“The guy with the car?” House asks, a smile creeping on his lips.

“I… I gave him a blowjob. In that car.” Wilson murmurs with shame.

“I knew you were too good at it to be a rookie.” House smirks at him.

“It happened once. Once and a half.”

“Precocious ejaculation?”

“His girlfriend found us. The girl he went to prom with.” House grimaces.

“You could've just invited her in.”

“In the middle of the AIDS crisis? Yeah, I’m sure she would've appreciated it.” Wilson scoffs.

“You didn’t even use a condom, did you?”

“I wasn’t a doctor back then.” Wilson admits with some shame. “I was sixteen and excited. And I wasn’t going to give my first blowjob with the taste of latex in my mouth.”

“It's hot to know I’m not the first guy you fellate.” The older man says, his finger tracing the edge of Wilson’s briefs on his plump thigh. 

“You have… odd tastes in bed.” Wilson says with a hint of disgust.

“I know I don't drink enough pineapple juice but it can't be that bad.”

The younger man rolls his eyes. “You don’t know the extent of my kinks.”

“I’ve been friends with you for almost thirty years, I know. That’s what worries me.”

“I won’t make you wear the maid dress until you feel comfortable enough to attend the Folsom Street Fair.”

“I doubt I’ll ever be that comfortable.”

“A girl can hope.” House fiddles with his fingers. “I’ve turned you gay enough to like cockwarming, I’m sure I can corrupt you into trying leather in a month or two.”

“I don't think sleeping with you makes me any gayer than I was a month ago.” He insists.

House looks down at his own bare chest.

“I know I just recently started estrogen but are my bosoms really that visible already?”

“Shut up.” There’s a hint of a smile on Wilson’s lips.

Wilson glances down at their hands, joined loosely on the bed between them, and smiles, his thumb brushing lightly against House’s knuckles.

“I think we've always sort of been dating.”

House smirks, lifting his head just enough to catch Wilson’s expression.

“We're dating now?” he teases. “A second ago you weren't gay and now you want to make it official?”

Wilson exhales through his nose, amused, but the undercurrent of sincerity remains.

“Do I need a label to get some reassurance from you?”

House’s lips twitch into a crooked grin. “We're dating?”

“Well, we are having sex pretty frequently.” Wilson’s tone is dry, but there’s an edge of nervousness underneath.

“Because you can't resist my perky A cups, got it. Is that enough to call it a relationship?”

“I haven't spent a good almost three decades of my life looking after you for you to ask that.” Wilson says, deadpan, turning slightly toward him.

House’s smirk fades into something softer, more curious. After a moment, he nods.

“Okay, so we're dating.”

Wilson chuckles, finally leaning back on his hands. “Thank you.”

“That doesn't seem to shock you.”

“Nobody I know would be surprised to hear I’m finally dating you. Why should I be?”

“I guess it's logical, somehow.” House says, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. He sounds almost surprised by his own words.

A long pause stretches between them, easy and familiar.

“I think we're late for the breakfast buffet.” Wilson notes casually, peering at his watch on the nightstand.

“Good. It sucked.” House says without missing a beat.

“We could…” Wilson ventures, voice low.

House turns his head sharply, one eyebrow arching in mock surprise. “Hit that shitty waffle place down the street?”

“I meant…” Wilson gives him a look, flustered but playful. House reads it instantly but remains quietly.

“We can go later.” Wilson finishes.

House leans in, voice lowered, amused. “And do what now?”

Wilson looks up at him, eyes open and direct. He shrugs, almost bashfully. “Have… sex?”

House grins, wolfish and pleased. “For a straight guy, your lust for me is insatiable.”

“I can only talk about leather so much before getting a boner.” Wilson says, narrowing his eyes.

Before House can quip again, Wilson leans forward and kisses him. The kiss is slow but deliberate, and House responds almost instantly. Wilson pulls him closer by the neck, drawing him down and onto the bed, smiling against his mouth.

House settles on top of him with a groan, their limbs tangling instinctively.

The morning sun beats down on the road, casting long shadows behind the bikes as they leave the hotel parking lot. Wilson rides ahead slightly, the engine of his bike purring steadily. House follows at a distance, eyes narrowed behind sunglasses, lips pressed into a flat line as they merge onto the highway.

It happens too fast, a jolt, a screech of tires, a flash of pebbles and dust. Wilson’s bike jerks sideways on a patch of gravel, and he crashes hard to the ground, the impact resounding through the quiet morning.

House slams the brakes on his own bike and jumps off, limping toward him as fast as he can without the cane. Wilson groans and tries to sit up, waving House off.

“I’m fine.” he insists breathlessly, wincing as he cradles his ribs. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re not fine.”

Wilson has moved his jacket to the side, and unbuttoned his shirt enough to check the primary source of the pain. He runs his finger over the scratched skin with a hiss.
“It didn’t break the skin. There’s no bleeding.”

“On the outside.” House snaps, crouching awkwardly beside him. “There’s a hospital six minutes from here.”

“What if they recognize you?”

“In Florida?”

“They could.”

“From what? Wanted signs?”

“Medical articles?”

“With my face on them? I didn’t know my publications were on Teen Vogue.” When Wilson shoots him a glare, he reassures him: “I don’t care if they know me.”

“I do.” Wilson insists. “I’m fine. And I’m not risking you getting behind bars because of a bruise.”

That night, Wilson lies in the bed at yet another motel, stripped down to a T-shirt that clings damply to his skin. The bruising has deepened, the skin across his chest a painful mess of violet and blue. House stands over him with arms crossed, the flickering light from the TV casting shadows across his face. There’s an expression on his face he hasn’t seen in months, the one he gets when he’s searching for symptoms. He thought he wouldn’t see it again until the very last months of his life. He expected that to happen soon but none of the symptoms he’d prepared for have shown yet. He guesses House is probably just glad he has a case on his hands.

“You’re getting a scan.” House says when his breathing gets more labored, voice leaving no room for argument.

Later, they sit in the waiting room of a small hospital, sterile white walls, distant beeping, the scent of antiseptic heavy in the air, it’s oddly familiar. They’re both still in their riding clothes, boots dusty, leather jackets draped over the backs of their chairs. Their shoulders brush, barely touching but not pulling away. Wilson rests his arms on his thighs, staring down at the floor. House fiddles with his cane, expression unreadable, he studies Wilson’s breathing.

Eventually, a nurse calls them back, and they’re shown to an ER bay. Wilson sits on the edge of a bed and begins unbuttoning his shirt. The bruise on his sternum is dark, swelling slightly, a clear imprint of the handlebar. He exhales as he shifts, discomfort etched across his face. House pulls a chair up beside him and sinks into it, twirling his cane idly, forehead furrowed in thought.

A doctor walks in briskly, gloves already on, glancing down at the chart.

“James Wilson, motorbike accident, let's see what's up.” The ER doctor says, walking to him and eyeing the bruise immediately.

“I was riding my motorbike when the car in front of me hit the brakes hard, out of nowhere, I tried to stop but we were on gravel. Lost balance, fell forward, hit my sternum and upper chest on the handlebar.” Wilson explains, exposing his chest and craning his neck. “The bruising got worse and there's some tenderness. Some difficulty breathing but I could be worse.”

“Loss of consciousness?” The doctor asks, inspecting the spot.

“No, just dizziness, headache, nothing major. I just wanted to get some imaging to rule out anything bad.”

“Are you on any medication?” The doctor touches around the bruise with gloved hands.

“No. Just the occasional acetaminophen.”

“Any previous symptoms or illnesses?”

“No…” Wilson hesitates.

“Alright.”

“I think you mentioned something else on the way here.” House adds from his chair in the corner.

“I’m… an oncologic patient. Thymoma, stage II.” Wilson adds after a beat.

“That's pretty important information,” the doctor says, amused. “So you're under treatment? Radiation?”

“No.”

The doctor looks surprised, stepping back slightly.

“Did you move here recently? In that case we can continue the treatment where you left it off—”

“I’m not getting any treatment. I did two rounds of Cisplatin, Doxorubicin, and cyclophosphamide, about… a month and a half ago.”

“April 4th.” House corrects, then adds: “So you said earlier.”

“Two months ago.” Wilson corrects himself. “With no results. So I decided not to try again.”

The doctor watches between them, expression cautious.

“Cisplatin and doxorubicin? That’s an aggressive first-line. Poor response?”

“No measurable improvement. Decided to stop.” Wilson murmurs sadly.

“Did your oncologist suggest switching protocols? Pemetrexed, maybe adding ifosfamide?”

“I’m aware of the literature. I declined further treatment.”

“He’s very stubborn. Which makes him a great doctor but a horrible patient.” House comments.

“You're a doctor?” The doctor asks, almost shocked. “Then, you should know there could still be a chance—”

“73%. I know, I’m an oncologist. Just give me a quick scan to convince him my ribs are fine.” Wilson says, irritated, then, holding up his hand apologetically, adds: “Please.”

“You do understand the trauma could exacerbate mediastinal involvement. If the tumor’s pressing on your lungs or pericardium, you could crash fast. It’s important you disclose every information.”

“I have now.”

“He also uses nail polish on his toes.” House adds, then shrugs. “Thought it might be relevant.”

“We need to rule out pericardial effusion or possible compression injuries.” the doctor continues.

“Pericardial effusion? No muffled heart sounds, no JVD, and his BP isn’t tanking. He’s not in Beck’s triad, he’s in denial. Very different syndrome.” House says. “You’re scanning him because he hit the ground with a tumor in his chest. Not because the tumor suddenly got chatty. Trauma is the variable. Tumor’s the subplot.”

The doctor watches him with confusion, eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you family?”

“Nope, just a concerned citizen. Enthusiast of dramatic chest bruising.” House says with a fake smile. “Bystander. Saw the whole thing happen and brought him here. He said he didn't have anyone to call so I’m taking it upon myself.”

“That was noble of you. But you’re not his doctor.”

“Of course not.” House says, pressing his lips into a thin line, an almost amused smile tugging at the corners.

The doctor turns to Wilson. “We’ll do a CT with contrast, ECG, and a troponin panel. Also CB and BMP.”

“Thank you.”

The hospital room hums with the low whirr of fluorescent lights, the only sound accompanying the slow tick of the wall clock. Wilson sits on the edge of the bed, now wearing his pants and shoes under the hospital gown, arms crossed loosely over his bruised chest. He’s tired and he didn’t want to come here in the first place. He’s almost falling asleep. House leans against the counter, flipping through a dog-eared magazine, cane hooked lazily over his forearm.

The door clicks open and the ER doctor steps in, a folder and a couple of fresh scans in his hand.

“The CT showed no sternal fracture, just soft tissue contusion. No pericardial effusion. Lungs are clear. Tumor mass is, unfortunately, still 1.8 centimeters,” he starts, glancing from the papers to Wilson.

“Right. You mean 6.4 centimeters. Irregular borders. Encasing the brachiocephalic vein. Inoperable. That's my player.” Wilson shoots back immediately, voice dry and sharp.

The doctor doesn’t flinch. Instead, he walks over to the lightbox, slots in the scan, and gestures to it. “Your player might be on the bench today. The current scan shows a well-demarcated anterior mediastinal mass, 1.8 by 1.2 centimeters. No signs of vascular invasion. No sternal or pleural involvement. Extremely operable but I assumed you refused treatment.”

After a moment of silence, the doctors connects the dots and adds:

“If you started from 6.4, that’s a significant reduction.”

House straightens rapidly, his cane tapping against the floor as he limps forward. He snatches the scan from the doctor’s hand, eyes scanning the images.

“Well. That’s what happens when you fall off a motorcycle. You beat the cancer out of yourself.” House says after a beat.

“Is this a joke?” Wilson laughs bitterly, not amused. He waves a finger in House’s direction. “How much did he pay you?”

“It’s not a joke, Mr. Wilson.”

“It’s ‘Doctor Wilson,’ which means I have a license that attests I can read a scan. Multiple scans, in fact. They all said 6.4.” Wilson’s voice rises slightly, eyes wide as he tries to keep control.

“He’s always struggled with dyscalculia.” House offers, voice too casual, but his eyes are locked on the scan. He snatches up the blood work next, fingers trembling just slightly, then hands the doctors the scans back.

“That’s not possible. I stopped chemo after cycle two. That was almost two months ago. I had no response then. What would this even be? Spontaneous regression?” Wilson chuckles again, this time breathless and strained.

“Spontaneous regression in thymoma is rare—”

“ Oh, I know! I know it is!” Wilson snaps, volume rising, frustration leaking into every word.

“—but not impossible, especially in Type B2. With how dark the center of the tumor looks on imaging, it could be immune-mediated necrosis post chemotoxic insult. I mean… the doxorubicin may have taken longer to kick in than expected. Or your immune system kept working even after you gave up on it.” The doctor’s tone stays calm, steady, professional.

“Hey, that’s good news: your white blood cells believe in you, even when you don’t.” House holds up the blood test results like he’s presenting a winning lottery ticket. 

The doctor barely acknowledges him, continuing:

“If the dark spot at its center suggests a necrosis after chemo it means your tumor liquefied itself. The necrosis might’ve happened gradually, which is why you haven’t experienced any noticeable symptoms. You might’ve been fatigued. Your delay in reaction on the bike might’ve been a sign.” House looks at the blood work, side-glancing the doctor from time to time but with no judgment now. “We think you need to follow up with thoracic surgery. At this size, this mass could be resected with VATS, minimally invasive. And if we get clean margins, your prognosis changes completely. We’re talking about curative potential here, Dr. Wilson.”

“ Curative. Right.” Wilson’s voice turns mocking, eyes narrowing.

“I’m serious. With no vascular involvement and under 2 cm—”

“No. I already did this. I already sat in the chair, listened to everyone telling me it was all going to work out if I just fought harder. I’m not putting myself back in that loop.” Wilson’s voice cracks, finger raised as if to physically ward off the words.

The doctor takes a step back, trying a gentler tone. “You have a chance now.”

“I had a chance a few months ago and nothing happened! And I know it didn't happen now! Give me the damn scan.” Wilson’s hand is trembling as he extends it. “Hand it to me.”

When the doctor doesn’t move quickly enough, Wilson yanks the film from him, hands shaking as he lifts it toward the overhead light. He stares.

“The shadow’s not dark enough to justify necrosis.” Wilson murmurs, tracing his finger over a spot. “Here, it's…”

He lowers the scan and runs both hands through his hair, pacing backward a step.

“You know how many people I’ve seen ruined by the hope of remission? You know just how many families I’ve destroyed by being too optimistic?” His voice breaks apart with a manic intensity, eyes wild. “If it did shrink, it's temporary. My tumor’s not going anywhere. I almost died during chemo and it didn't budge an inch.”

“It could've acted later—”

“Don’t- don’t talk. ” Wilson bites, shaking with fury.

He throws off the hospital gown, grabs his shirt and jacket from the chair, and storms past both men without another glance.

House watches him go, expression unreadable. He takes a slow breath, then turns to the doctor and raises his brows.

“Nice work, Doc. Real motivational speaker. If you need me, I’ll be outside not being a doctor.”

House picks up the scans and lab reports from the counter with a slow, methodical motion. He tucks them into the patient folder, his fingers briefly tightening around the edge before he closes it. With a deep exhale through his nose, he straightens, hooks his cane on his arm, and limps out of the ER, not saying a word to the doctor still standing in stunned silence.

Outside, the sun is rising, casting a soft rose gold hue over the hospital parking lot. Cars rumble in and out, people pass by in scrubs and hurried shoes, but Wilson hasn’t moved. He’s sitting on a low bench just shy of his motorbike, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together, eyes trained on the pavement.

House spots him and pauses for a second before walking over. He lowers himself onto the bench beside Wilson, letting out a small grunt from his aching leg. He doesn’t speak.

“It doesn’t make sense. Things like this don’t happen.” Wilson says after a beat, his voice low.

“They do. Just not to you. Until now.”

“I gave up, House. I walked away from treatment. From patients. From everything. And this—” He jerks his chin toward the folder in House’s hand. “... this shows up like some kind of miracle?”

“Not a miracle. Biology.” House answers evenly.

Wilson shoots him a glare, jaw tight.

“Maybe chemo took longer to work. Maybe your immune system had a sudden epiphany. Maybe your thymoma read your living will and got scared.”

“I already made peace with dying. I went through every phase of grief. I closed every file. I said goodbye to people. I told my brother I wouldn’t fight anymore. I told you—”

“And now you’re mad because you might have to undo that.”

“I’m mad because I don’t trust it! It’s like it’s toying with me. Like it shrank just enough to give me hope before it comes back worse. Wouldn't be the first time I’ve seen it happen!”

Wilson’s voice cracks on the last words. He blinks quickly, his eyes glassy and red, the bruising on his chest making him hold himself protectively. House stays quiet, watching him closely. No sarcasm. No retort.

“I can’t go through that again, House. The scans. The consultations. The waiting rooms. Pretending I’m fine with the fact I’m gonna die.”

“You might not be dying.” House says quietly.

“Don't do this to me. Don't tell me you believe them.” Wilson’s tone is a sharp warning.

House holds his gaze for a long moment. His expression is unreadable.

“Your CRP is up, and so is your LDH. You’ve been more fatigued this month than you were when we started going on hikes.”

“Because I have a tumor.”

“That is actively shrinking.” House pauses, hoping his words would reach his partner. “Get the surgery.”

Wilson lets out a bitter laugh and pushes to his feet. He starts walking, quickly, toward the bike. House doesn’t let him go far.

“I should've never let you take me here.”

House grits his teeth and forces himself up, hurrying after him with a limp.

“Don't be an idiot.”

“And you don't be an asshole!”

“Look, you’re pissed, you’re scared and crying in a parking lot like a teenage girl who’s just been dumped. It’s pathetic. But it’s real.”

He steps closer, extending the folder toward Wilson.

“You got something most people never get: a second chance. You can still say no. Walk away. But you know that would just be fear talking.”

Wilson stops. He looks at the folder but doesn’t take it.

“You think if I go back inside, sign up for surgery, it’s all going to magically fix itself? I’m going to wake up and be the guy I was a few months ago?”

“No. You’ll wake up sore, scarred, probably slightly more annoying. But alive. With margins. Maybe even clean ones.”

House lifts the folder, waving it slightly. His voice is soft but urgent.

“You're supposed to be the hopeful one between us. I’m an addict: I’ve never believed in spontaneous rehabilitation.”

“Why would you start now?” Wilson says, confused. His hands are clenched at his sides. “House, I’m not getting any treatment. Just accept that.”

“I can't.” House shakes his head, his voice slipping into something quiet, almost broken.

“Well, you have to.” Wilson answers, arms wrapping around his chest as if trying to hold himself together. “I’m going home. To the hotel.”

House hesitates, almost begging. He doesn't want him to leave the hospital.

“You forgot I’m your designated driver?”

“I don't want you to come with me unless you agree to let me make this decision.”

“You know I will never agree.” House says. “But I’m not leaving you.”

“You're not gonna force me.”

“I’m not gonna try. But I can't pretend I’m okay with your choice.”

Wilson looks at him, tired, raw. He nods.

“That's good enough for me.”

“Okay.” House exhales.

A beat of silence.

“Waffles?” House adds, voice dry, trying to coax something lighter into the air between them.

Wilson gives the smallest smile, tight, barely there, but he doesn’t answer as he starts walking slowly toward the bike.

House limps after him.