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There was a thing about James Wilson, a thing no one knew, and it was better that way.
There was a thing about Gregory House, a thing only a handful of people knew, and it’d better stay that way.
James Wilson woke up at 5am, like he did every morning since he was 14, and gulped down a glass of lemon-infused water he'd left on his bedside table. He slowly pushed the checkered quilt aside, and thumped his way under the shower's lukewarm water.
Closing his eyes, he started humming a catchy pop song he'd heard on the radio, and washed his shoulders, fingers brushing against raised scar tissue and indents. A part of him wanted them gone, but a bigger part of him actually liked them. Sometimes, if he was on a difficult case at work, he would rub them to stay focused, and when Wilson was anxious at night, he counted them to ground himself. They had this strange love-hate relationship that would probably only stop when he would die, but he had made peace with that — he could live with the scars, only no one could find out.
Gregory House woke up at 3am, drank a glass of water and went straight back to bed. When he woke up again, it was 6:30pm — time to hop in the bathtub, put on clothes and go to work.
House didn't look at his scars, but he didn't try to avoid them either — it was pointless anyway, they were stretching everywhere like spiderwebs. The only skin that remained untouched was that of his forearms. Even drunk out of his mind, his father always made sure not to leave any marks here, and House later stuck by that rule.
The automatic doors opened and Wilson greeted the nurse at the front desk before rushing into the nearly full lift, heading for the fourth floor.
His first patient wouldn't be there before 9, and he wanted to get rid of his paperwork by then, there was already too much for his liking. He sat at his desk, cracked his knuckles, and started sorting out the papers into neat piles, each corresponding to a folder — the blue one was for regular patients, orange for cases he had yet to study, and medical bills were in red. It had been half an hour when Wilson heard a familiar limping in the corridor, and House's head appeared through the half-open door.
Wilson looked up at him, barely stifling a yawn. “What could you possibly want at 8:30?”
“Nothing more than spending time with my best buddy. Look, I got two tickets for a gig…” House slipped a hand into his jeans pocket — only a Zippo and… a bunch of band-aids. Huh. Wrong pocket. “Oopsie, wrong pocket! Wait a sec…” he slid a hand into his shirt’s chest pocket and retrieved the tickets. “Ta-da! Two tickets for the Rolling Stones!”
Wilson tried to maintain a neutral expression, but the little tug at the corner of his mouth blew his cover.
“Ah ha! Surprised? I saw you eyeing the poster at the pub the other night, figured I could buy a second ticket.”
Wilson shook his head, smiling. “And you're going to make me believe this is an actual present?”
“You'll buy the drinks, don't worry,” replied House with a grin.
“Thanks Greg, but…” Wilson glanced down at the tickets, seemingly embarrassed.
“You hate crowds, I know,” finished House. “But you like the Rolling Stones. And for some reason you like me. You're gonna be fine.”
James looked back up, searching for any hint of mockery, but there was none.
“Okay, I'll come. Now shoo! Unlike others, I've got paperwork to do.”
House smiled, victorious, and closed the door behind him.
By the time House got home, the sky had already turned a dark shade of blue. He locked the door behind him, kicked off his shoes, and suspended his cane above the doorframe.
The urges instantly flooded back as the pain thudded in his thigh. He'd managed to keep them at bay by working non-stop, but alone at home, there was no escape.
They weren’t always this loud, but tonight they were insistent — a lump in his throat and a pressure behind his ribs. Familiar, but manageable. For now.
House collapsed onto the couch and flipped open a patient file — a seventeen-year-old girl with fever, rash, and intermittent blindness that didn’t match anything interesting. Yet.
He didn’t expect inspiration tonight, he just wanted to keep his hands busy, and maybe his brain too, if he got lucky.
The laptop lit up the room as he clicked through to a white noise playlist — something with rain, clean and constant. No lyrics, no melodies, just enough to take the edge off.
As he read, his fingernails scraped back and forth against the rough denim of his jeans. He didn’t notice at first — the motion was automatic, steady — but eventually he let it continue, dragging his nails harshly over the same patch of fabric. It gave him something to hold on to, something to focus his mind and to keep the rest at bay.
After a while, the words on the page began to blur and the margins bled into one another. Rubbing his face, House tossed the folder onto the coffee table and headed to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth absentmindedly, his eyes unfocused in the mirror. As he leaned sideways to spit, deliberately too close to the tub, his thigh caught the porcelain edge with a muted thud. The pain was immediate, a clean jab that cut through the fog in his head. It was not hard enough to bruise, but it would do.
He rinsed his mouth, put the toothbrush down, and turned off the light.
Back in the bedroom, he collapsed onto the mattress without bothering to change. The laptop was still hissing quietly in the living room, the artificial rain barely audible over the quiet creak of the bedsprings. He tugged the blanket half over himself, let one leg dangle free, and stared at the ceiling until his eyes stopped tracking.
The scraping stopped, and sleep came — slowly, but it came.
By the time Wilson got home, the building was quiet, and he could only hear the distant hum of plumbing. He locked the door, slid the bolt shut, and dropped his keys into the ceramic dish by the entrance.
The apartment wasn’t messy. It never was. But it still didn’t feel right.
He crossed the room, nudged the coffee table an inch closer to the sofa, then straightened the TV remote and the coaster. Each movement was deliberate, each adjustment easing some small, invisible knot in his chest. He sighed loudly and slouched into the couch, turning on the TV to watch an action film, the tension finally leaving his shoulders.
Once the credits started rolling onto the screen, Wilson headed to the bathroom. He stared at his arms in the mirror for a beat too long before turning the tap. He squeezed toothpaste onto the brush and began to scrub, slow and firm, going through the motion even when his gums began to sting. A bit of red pooled at the edges of the foam, but that was expected. He rinsed, spat, and reached for the peppermint mouthwash.
Swish. Thirty seconds. Spit.
Again.
Swish. Thirty seconds. Spit.
Again.
Swish. Thirty seconds. Spit.
When he finally looked up, his eyes were bloodshot, and the sharp taste of mint clung to the back of his throat. He felt clean, though. Clean enough.
In the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his hands over his face. He didn’t want to go to sleep yet — didn’t want to be still long enough for the thoughts to get louder — so he reached for the mail he’d received this morning. Most of it was junk, a few bills, and an invitation to a medical congress. As Wilson flipped through the pages, his nails dug lightly into the fabric of his trousers, scratching back and forth through the cotton of his pyjamas. He wasn’t trying to draw blood. Not yet. It was just about the friction. The sensation. The focus.
Wilson blinked heavily, set the papers aside, and checked the alignment of the lamp on the nightstand. Then the book next to it. They were already straight, but he adjusted them anyway. Finally, he slid beneath the quilt and curled up on his side.
He watched the faint glow of the alarm clock until sleep caught up to him — not because he wanted it to, but because his body gave in before his mind did.
The rest of the month passed slowly, but as the concert date approached, time seemed to lurch forward all at once.
House had dodged most of his clinic hours that week, conserving energy for the two hours of standing he’d signed himself up for. By late afternoon his latest case was solved, and he was parked in the hospital lot, jacket folded on the back seat, a sonata playing low through the car speakers. His fingers tapped out the melody on his thighs, almost unconsciously, until the stiffness in his shoulders eased.
Wilson arrived just as the last notes faded, striding across the asphalt with his tie already pulled loose. He slid into the passenger seat, and they set off silently. Neither man spoke; they didn’t need to. Silence between them was never awkward or tense. It was simply theirs — a small, private space where neither had to perform.
By the time they reached the arena, the queue wrapped around the block, but House’s planning paid off and they moved straight to the front row. Inside, the heat was immediate, a mix of stage lights, warm beer, and the body warmth of thousands of people pressed shoulder-to-shoulder.
At exactly nine, the lights went out and the crowd erupted. The first chords thundered through the speakers, vibrating in Wilson’s chest. He smiled brightly as Start Me Up roared to life. The sheer energy of the room was infectious, and he found himself clapping along, even mouthing a few lines when House shot him a sidelong glance.
For a while, he let himself be carried by it. The guitar riffs, the rolling bass, the way the lights strobed in time with the beat. He could almost forget how close the bodies around them were, how little room there was to move.
Almost.
By ten, the floor was a rolling tide — people jumping, shouting, belting out You can’t always get what you want with the kind of abandon only live music can pull from a crowd. The air felt thicker now, stage heat rolling toward them in bursts each time the flames shot up. Wilson was still smiling, but House caught him scanning the exits more than once.
Wilson's breathing quickened, just slightly, not enough for someone else to notice, but enough for him to feel it. He folded his arms across his chest, thumbs pressing into the opposite biceps — grounding himself.
It helped, until it didn’t. His nails began tracing along the fabric of his sleeve, then hooking lightly into the skin beneath. The noise was relentless, the bassline pounding through his sternum.
Next to him, House shifted his weight and rubbed at his thigh, keeping an eye on his friend. The sweat was trickling down Wilson’s temple now, his shirt clinging damply to his back. He seemed to be folding in on himself, his shoulders drawing forward.
The cotton under Wilson's fingers was uncomfortably damp, too. He scratched harder, and his nails broke the skin underneath, a sharp sting flaring under the repetitive motion. He should have stopped, but the sensation anchored him in a way nothing else could in that moment. By the time he registered it, tiny red dots had seeped through, turning the pale blue sleeves a darker shade in scattered spots, just above his elbows.
House noticed before Wilson did — or at least, before Wilson could bring himself to care. The older man leaned toward him, saying something Wilson couldn’t hear — or register — over the chorus and the roar of the crowd.
He shook his head, unable to talk. The noise was too much. The heat was too much.
The final song crashed to an end, and the applause rolled over them like a wave. In the shifting light, Wilson finally looked at House. For a heartbeat, confusion was all House saw there, then wary, then something closer to fear — before the moment broke under the noise of clapping hands and echoing cheers.
A few days later
House called it a poker night, but Wilson knew better. There were no other fellow gamblers, no drinks already poured — just the faint smell of takeout cartons somewhere under the couch and a half-shuffled deck of cards on the coffee table.
House was sprawled in his armchair, a grin playing at the edge of his mouth. “You owe me a rematch after the last time you accused me of cheating.”
“I didn’t accuse you,” Wilson replied, slipping off his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. “I said you did cheat.”
“That’s slander,” House said, dealing the cards with an unnecessary flourish. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
Wilson sighed, taking his seat on the couch. “Your lawyer’s my lawyer.”
“Exactly. You’ll be hearing from yourself. Should be interesting.”
For a while, it was the usual back-and-forth — light insults, House bluffing too obviously, Wilson winning hands he pretended not to care about. But between shuffling and dealing, House’s eyes kept flicking to Wilson’s forearms. He had rolled his sleeves to the elbow tonight, but House couldn’t quite see enough to be sure of anything.
When Wilson leaned forward to stack his chips, House deliberately reached across to grab another beer bottle from the table, brushing against Wilson’s arm just enough to shift the sleeve.
Wilson froze for a fraction of a second before leaning back and tugging the sleeve down in a movement he hoped was natural. His shoulders tightened, and he shifted in his seat, casually reaching for his glass as if to redirect the moment.
“What?” he asked, voice lighter than the way his jaw had set.
“What what?” House asked innocently, popping the cap off the beer.
“You keep looking at me like I’ve got mustard on my shirt.”
“Mustard would improve that shirt,” House replied, smirking, as he dealt the next hand.
Wilson shook his head, lips tightening as if to swallow whatever else he might have said. House's mind wasn’t on the cards anymore. It was back at the concert — the damp fabric, the way it had darkened in scattered spots, the red bleeding through. He wondered if his friend's shirt would look the same, provided he found a way to squeeze his arm.
Wilson cleared his throat and leaned forward again, this time talking about a patient in oncology. House let him talk, but the words rolled past without catching.
The next morning
The whiteboard was already half-covered with House’s neat writing when the team filed in. Kutner dropped into a chair with his coffee, Taub leaned against the table next to a frowning Foreman, and Thirteen settled beside the marker tray.
House tapped the board with the end of his cane. “Fever, severe joint pain, ocular migraine, rash. Go.”
Taub and Foreman rattled off a few possibilities, and Kutner added more. House shot them down one by one, crossing out whole words with heavy strokes. He shifted sideways to write another symptom when Kutner, trying to squeeze past, clapped a hand on House’s upper arm to move him aside.
House flinched — not much, but enough that his writing jerked.
“What? Sudden onset handwriting disorder?” Kutner joked.
“Just startled,” House said flatly, hand firmly gripping the pen as he finished writing the symptom. He wanted for the pain to subside before turning back to the team.
The discussion rolled on: lupus, sarcoidosis, Still’s disease, all batted around in his usual rhythm. He kept them moving, changing the subject before anyone could circle back to the moment.
When the meeting wrapped, Taub, Foreman and Kutner headed out. Thirteen lingered by the door, arms folded.
“You covered that pretty well,” she said casually.
House glanced at her, feigning confusion. “Covered what?”
“You winced when Kutner grabbed your arm. And before you make up an excuse — no, that’s not a normal reaction when someone touches you.”
House’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Maybe I’m just delicate.”
“Or maybe there’s something you don’t want the rest of us to see.” She nodded toward his sleeve. “I can take a look, make sure it’s nothing that’s going to kill you before the patient’s even admitted.”
He shouldered past her toward his office, not answering.
“That’s a no, then,” she said, watching him limp away.
Later that day
Wilson was coming out of the lift with a stack of patient files when Thirteen caught up to him in the corridor.
“Hey,” she said, matching his pace. “Quick question — is House hiding some kind of injury?”
Wilson frowned. “If you mean the leg—”
“I don’t.” She adjusted the strap of her bag. “During the differential this morning, Kutner grabbed his arm, and he flinched. Brushed it off, but… judging by his reaction, it was serious.”
Wilson’s brow furrowed, but his tone stayed light. “Maybe he just doesn’t like being touched.”
“Not like that,” Thirteen said, her voice still casual but her eyes narrowing slightly. “Felt more like he didn’t want anyone to see what’s under his sleeve.”
They’d reached the oncology ward’s door. Wilson shifted the files in his arms, breaking eye contact. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”
“Please do.” She offered a faint smile before walking away, leaving him staring after her for a beat too long before disappearing into his office.
Three weeks later
It was supposed to be a quick drop-in. House had a file to return, and Wilson’s place was closer than the hospital — simply more convenient, he had the audacity to tell his friend.
Wilson answered the door in a loose Bon Iver t-shirt and bermuda shorts, barefoot, hair slightly damp — just showered, by the look of it. He stepped aside to let House in, muttering something about coffee.
House followed him into the living room, tossing the folder onto the coffee table. “Your flat smells like… lavender and regret.”
“It’s detergent,” Wilson called from the kitchen. “And I’ll have you know it's a highly rated one.”
House lowered himself onto the couch, eyes idly scanning the room — and then caught it. Just above Wilson’s knee, on the inside, a thin, seemingly recent scar trailed pink against his skin. Wilson was bent over the counter, pouring coffee, oblivious.
When he turned back toward the living room, House didn't have time to look away, and Wilson caught it instantly. His expression didn’t change, but his hand twitched to tug the hem of his shorts lower before he crossed the room and set a mug in front of House.
“Something on your mind?” Wilson asked, tone casual but just a tad too controlled.
House took a slow sip of coffee — four sugars, Wilson always remembered. “Just wondering why a man with your salary wears shorts that look like they were rescued from a lost-and-found.”
Wilson exhaled through his nose, sitting down across from him. His eyes flicked briefly — very briefly — to House’s forearm as he set the mug down, catching sight of a dark purple mark just above the wrist, half-hidden under the shirt cuff. House noticed the glance and casually adjusted his sleeve, his fingers brushing on the other bruises hidden under the fabric.
Neither spoke for a moment, too busy trying to decipher each other.
House leaned back, feigning ease while Wilson shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
They looked at each other for a few seconds, and broke eye contact at the same time.