Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The moment House wakes up, he knows something’s wrong. He can’t pin down what, but the air feels off, like the world shifted an inch to the left overnight. He squints suspiciously at his ceiling, as though it might confess, but it remains stubbornly silent. With a groan, he reaches for his Vicodin on the nightstand—only for his hand to land on more bed.

He sits up. Since when does he sleep so far from the nightstand and with another set of pillows? And why is this one all squashed, like it’s been slept on?

Then he notices that the shower is running, and before he can panic further, his sleep-addled brain remembers: Right. Wilson is living with him.

But… in his bed?

Alright, House needs some Vicodin stat to deal with the fallout of whatever terrible decisions were made last night, but when he looks at his nightstand again, the familiar little pill container isn’t there. Compulsively, he searches the drawer—where he typically keeps his stash well-supplied—but there’s nothing there, only condoms and lube. Vaguely, he wonders if he’d always had so many condoms.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed. Come to think of it, his leg doesn’t actually feel so terrible right now. If he’s being honest with himself, it actually feels better than most days. House decides he can hold off on his Vicodin—at least until he can grill Wilson about its whereabouts. He limps to the kitchen, needing coffee and a damage assessment.

The living room looks mostly normal—beer bottles on the coffee table, dirty dishes piled in the sink. They hadn’t gotten drunk last night, House remembers. No wild bender, just a few beers and that godawful telenovela they’ve both been invested in lately. Nothing unusual. Except, in the mornings, the couch cushions are typically molded into a very Wilson-shaped dent—evidence of his usual sleeping arrangement. Today, though? The cushions are perfectly smooth.

Which means Wilson wasn’t on the couch and all but confirms House’s hypothesis that Wilson did sleep in House’s bed last night.

Interesting.

Interesting, especially considering House woke up fully dressed in pajamas. Nothing too bad could have happened last night then—but something clearly did and it’s killing House that he doesn’t know exactly what.

“You know glaring at the machine won’t make it work quicker.”

House snaps out of his thoughts. Wilson is toweling off his hair, another towel wrapped low around his waist, gazing at House with a strange fondness that isn’t necessarily uncharacteristic of Wilson but confusing nonetheless, especially after whatever supposedly happened last night.

House squints at him, trying to figure out how to bring it up. He’d assumed that would be Wilson’s prerogative, Er, uhm, House… about last night…, but so far, zilch.

“Maybe I’m trying to scare it into submission,” he says instead. “Works on med students.”

Wilson huffs a laugh, flipping his hair over his head. House gets a whiff of his overpowering jasmine shampoo all the way from the kitchen, and it makes him a little dizzy. He also hasn’t figured out what changed for Wilson to go from guarding his upper body like it’s the Hope Diamond to displaying himself so brazenly in House’s living room like it’s normal, like he does this every day, but House certainly isn’t complaining of the view.

“Pretty sure coffee machines are tougher than med students,” Wilson says. “You’re up early. Not taking the bike today?”

“What’d you do with my Vicodin?”

Wilson’s eyes widen, and he freezes with the towel halfway up to his head. Aha! Got him.

“House… we threw those out three years ago,” Wilson says, pronouncing each word slowly, carefully. “Why? Is your leg feeling bad?”

“Threw them out?” House demands. He’s crippled! He’s in pain! What kind of cruel joke is this? “Wilson, what the hell—”

Wilson clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Let me get the heating pad. Get on the couch.”

“Wilson, just tell me where you hid them and no one gets hurt!”

House protests and feebly attempts to chase Wilson around the apartment, but somehow, a few moments later, he’s lying on the couch, his legs slung over Wilson’s lap as Wilson massages his right thigh. He’s thrown on a button-down but hasn’t buttoned it fully yet, and some of his soft, pale chest is still exposed as he leans over House with a terribly concerned expression.

“And it came on all of a sudden?”

House considers telling the truth. But if he does, this might end, and he's not sure he’s ready for that.

“Uh… yeah. Sudden. Very tragic. Might be dying.”

Some of Wilson’s worry falls away. He smiles softly and, to House’s complete and utter disbelief, leans forward and kisses House on the forehead.

“If you wanted a massage, you just had to ask.” Gently, he presses the heating pad over House’s thigh before moving his legs off him and standing to button up his shirt. “Asking for Vicodin,” he mutters to himself with a chuckle.

House has gone very still, gaping at Wilson—or whoever this imposter is who stole his skin overnight. Since when does Wilson give him forehead kisses? And leg massages? The faker pads over to House’s bedroom, still chuckling to himself, leaving House sprawled on the couch, trying to reboot his brain. His leg might not be hurting, but his head sure as hell is now.

This has to be a dream. Or maybe a hallucination—a particularly cruel, Vicodin-withdrawal-induced one. House lurches upright and snatches the remote off the coffee table, flicking the TV on. The morning news anchors drone on about traffic on the Turnpike and a cold front moving in from Pennsylvania. He checks the station—local. New Jersey, USA, Earth. Good. Date: March 14th. The day after yesterday. Time is still moving forward. All signs point to reality—for now.

He flips through channels—a dumb sitcom with a laugh track, a rerun of General Hospital, a nature documentary about penguins—all aggressively, offensively normal.

He slumps back against the couch, frowning. Okay, maybe it’s a prank. Wilson’s gone for psychological warfare this time, though “domestic bliss” is an odd choice of torment. Some elaborate, slow-burn game of gay chicken? It’s possible. Wilson’s been known to play dirty. But sharing a bed—and offering intimate massages—isn’t a bluff; it’s a full-on declaration of war. And if that’s the case, House has already lost, because there’s nothing “chicken” about waking up in pajamas and getting kissed on the forehead. That’s just… gay.

House rubs a hand over his face. This is officially beyond even his level of bullshit detection.

“Wilson!” he calls, willing to concede if only to understand what the hell is going on. “You can stop now! You win!”

“Hm?” Wilson reappears in the doorway, knotting some hideously patterned tie. “If this is about the poker game I know you cheated on—”

“This prank,” House says, gesturing all around the apartment. “You got me, you don’t have to—”

But in the action of waving his hand around, his gaze catches on a shiny glint on his finger. He blinks at it. Once, twice. It can’t be.

He’s wearing a wedding ring.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wilson place his hands on his hips, roll his eyes. There’s a similar band on his left hand, fourth finger—the designated marriage finger. The sight is not unfamiliar to House, what with Wilson’s endless stream of wives, but House has never seen a matching ring on his own hand. Certainly not one that matches Wilson’s.

“Alright, House,” Wilson says, “I’ve got an early meeting with a patient, so take your car today if you don’t want to take the bike. See you at work, honey.”

House is still staring at the gold band decorating his finger when Wilson plants another kiss on his forehead like it’s the most natural thing in the world on the way out.

For once in his life, House is too stunned to say anything.

House makes it to his office around noon. He’s been busy all morning recovering from Wilson’s forehead kisses, and after that, raiding his—and Wilson’s, apparently—apartment to collect evidence.

Clue No. 1: Whatever the hell this morning was.

Clue No. 2: His apartment looks like his apartment—enough to pass at first glance—but the inconsistencies start piling up fast. The fridge, for one, is stocked with bizarrely healthy foods: vegetables, fruits, yogurt—and none of it molding or over a week old.

He moves on to the bedroom and notices that half his closet is filled with Wilson’s absurd ties and boring button-downs that are absolutely not his size. His own clothes are still there, but they’re neatly hung, color-coordinated even.

The bathroom looks disturbingly clean. House has finally gotten used to Wilson’s pharmacy’s-worth of hair and skin products being littered all over the edge of the shower, but it’s like Wilson went in overnight and organized it all, placing them inside the mirror cabinet alongside House’s scant products, as if they belonged together all along.

Some things are more subtle, hidden among the usual macho chaos of the apartment, but House manages to notice slight differences in his decor. For one, he’s sure that he has never bought or read half of the books on the shelves, especially the stack of heartfelt memoirs and philosophical musings that reek of Wilson’s pseudo-intellectual taste. Titles like Tuesdays with Morrie, Man’s Search for Meaning, and When Breath Becomes Air sit neatly among House’s medical journals and Lesbian Prison Stories.

The most revealing change in the decor, however, is the sudden appearance of framed photos. And every single one features Wilson.

In one that House studies for perhaps a whole half-hour, he and Wilson are shirtless and beaming, terribly backlit on what appears to be a beach. House looks sunburned, Wilson’s hair is a mess, and they both look obnoxiously, disgustingly happy. His arm is slung lazily around Wilson’s shoulders, and Wilson is leaning into him, practically nuzzling him.

The weirdest part isn’t the photo itself—though, troublingly, House has no memory of such a trip—but the way his own expression looks so… unguarded. Carefree, even. Like he’s a guy who wakes up without pain and doesn’t need three Vicodin just to face the day.

It’s a version of himself he doesn’t recognize.

He hurriedly replaces the picture and decides that he needs to get out of this suffocating apartment.

So Clue No. 2 is really a series of many clues. Sure, House’s living situation is extremely different. Wilson seems to be permanently living with him, and House seems perfectly okay with that. Right, and of course, he can’t forget the damning fact that they both seem to sport matching gold bands on their ring fingers. The evidence is piling up to some inevitable conclusion that still doesn’t make any sense, so House decides to collect more evidence at his place of work first.

He strides through the front doors of Princeton-Plainsboro, barely a step inside before Cuddy materializes in front of him, armed with a dangerously low-cut blouse and an equally dangerous patient file. She smacks it against his chest.

“Thirty-year-old female, vomiting blood.”

“Buenos días to you, too.”

“She’s in the ER. They’ve ruled out the usual—ulcers, varices, Mallory-Weiss—and nothing’s showing on scans. No drugs, no toxins, no trauma. She was fine yesterday, and now she’s vomiting blood.”

“And this is when you tell me she’s actually Angelina Jolie so that I give a damn.”

Cuddy rolls her eyes and turns on her heel, clearly assured that House is interested enough to take on the case. It’s familiar, it’s normal. Cuddy is still Cuddy, and House doesn’t appear to be married to her—a small mercy among this sea of confusing clues.

But joke’s on her, he thinks, tossing the patient file so that it slides to the opposite end of the Diagnostics conference table, he’s got other, more pressing matters than someone who couldn’t keep down last night’s chili.

He scribbles some things onto the whiteboard, then looks over them, tapping the marker against his chin.

House taps his marker a little harder. His brain is fine, he’s sure of that. To be fair, if his brain was not fine, it would still think it was, but whatever. Neurological issues are boring, not to mention psychological ones. And nothing about this feels like either. No, what bothers him is that the clues don’t add up to anything within the neat, predictable boundaries of classical physics. Which means the answer has to be outside those boundaries. Something bigger. Something more advanced.

“Those are some weird symptoms,” Chase says, throwing himself into a chair.

“Last I checked ‘fridge’ wasn’t something capable by the human body,” says Foreman flatly, following him in with Cameron in tow.

With a smile, she jokes, “Unless they’re really, really sick.”

House doesn’t even look away from the board. “Yeah, thanks for the insight, Florence Nightingale. Let me know when you find a patient who’s spontaneously sprouting books and rings.”

“So… this isn’t a case?” Chase asks, frowning at the list.

“It’s a case.” House gestures vaguely at himself. “It’s just a very exclusive one. I’m the only doctor qualified to handle it.”

“Is this about Wilson?” Cameron asks gently, because of course she does.

House finally turns, squinting at her. “Why would you think that?”

She nods at the list. “The first thing you wrote is ‘same bed.’”

Clue No. 3: Others seem to know about the ‘same bed’ arrangement. House isn’t sure how he feels about that.

Foreman snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s purely clinical.”

House glares at them all, then flicks the marker at Foreman, who dodges it easily.

“Focus, children. If I were to, say, wake up in a world where everything looks the same but is fundamentally wrong, what’s the most logical explanation?”

“You’re having a stroke,” Chase offers without missing a beat.

“Brain tumor,” Foreman adds.

“Psychotic break,” Cameron says reluctantly.

House sighs, pacing a few steps. “Right. Those are the boring answers. What if I’m not boring?”

Chase smirks. “Then you’re in a coma.”

House tilts his head, considering. “Coma’s possible. Maybe I crashed the bike. Would explain the hallucinations.”

“Or you’re dead,” Foreman offers. “Studies on near-death experiences show a flurry of chemical reactions going off in the brain in the moments after death. Patients report that it feels like years living a life in a split-second.”

House points at him. “See, that’s creative. Depressing, because I’m dead again, but creative.”

Cameron hesitates, then adds, “What if it’s… something else? Like, physics? An alternate universe?”

Aha! That’s what he was getting at. He’s only a little disappointed that it was Cameron who figured it out and not his secret favorite, any of the other two.

He crosses his arms and says, if only to be contrarian and get at something deeper, “Explain.”

Cameron continues, unfazed, “Alternate realities are a legitimate concept in quantum physics. Everett’s Many-Worlds Theory—every choice branches into a new reality. It’s not strictly impossible.”

“Right,” Foreman drawls, clearly not convinced, “because there’s so much empirical evidence for it.”

“I said it’s not impossible, not that it’s likely—”

House lets them bicker as he grabs a new marker, then turns back to the board and writes:

He taps the marker against the last one thoughtfully. “Well, if this is a coma or the afterlife, I’m disappointed. No naked cheerleaders or tunnels of light. Just… Wilson and strawberries.”

Chase shrugs. “Could still be a coma. People don’t dream accurately—maybe that’s why stuff’s off. Or maybe you’re dreaming about what you secretly want.”

House glares at him. “I don’t dream about fruit.”

“Yeah, but you definitely dream about Wilson,” Foreman mutters.

Even though it could be considered another clue, House ignores that entirely because it came from Foreman and circles “Alternate universe” on the board. “Alright, Doctor Quantum Physics, say this is a parallel timeline. How do I get back to mine?”

Cameron raises an eyebrow. “There’s no evidence on… travel between two universes. It’s all just a theory.”

“You just said it was possible,” Foreman shoots back.

“I said it wasn’t impossible.”

“So you’re saying there’s no treatment,” House interrupts. “Boring. Resident white boy who’s probably seen too many sci-fi movies—what’s the move?”

“Uh… maybe fix whatever’s different?” Chase tries.

Foreman laughs wryly, interrupting their brainstorming just as they were getting somewhere. “Alright, playtime’s over. Don’t we have an actual patient?”

House’s traitorous gaze darts to the file. “No.”

But Foreman catches it, and he launches himself across the table to grab it before House can and gives it a quick skim. “She’s vomiting blood, House,” he says accusingly, like it’s House’s fault.

“Yeah, and I’m wearing a wedding ring. Some things are a little bit more pressing, Doctor Foreman.”

But he’s clearly lost his fellows’ attention already as they crowd around Foreman, shooting off potential diagnoses and treatments. Well, at least they haven’t changed either. House sighs and limps off to his office for refuge, throwing himself into his desk chair.

An alternate universe seems to be the most likely scenario, and also the least depressing, so he’s running with that. A universe just similar enough to his previous reality at first glance, but with some glaring differences. Well, really, it seems to be just one glaring difference, one anomaly. He looks at the wedding band again.

“I hope you’re not thinking that we should’ve gone for silver instead.”

Wilson’s leaning against the door with a knowing smile. House crosses his arms, stuffing the offending hand beneath his armpit and grumbling, “Silver would clash with my nipple piercings. Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to mix metals?”

“My mother also taught me to talk about my feelings when something’s wrong,” he says, settling into his usual spot, the chair opposite House’s desk. The small, familiar action brings House some relief, grounding him in this strange world, and he lets go of a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Wilson studies him, his head tilted to one side. “So, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Wilson sighs. “House, I’ve known you for ten years, been married to you for almost half of them. I think I know when something’s wrong.”

Clue No. 4: Straight from the horse’s mouth.

Okay, maybe “clue” is a bit of a misnomer at this point. This sounds more like the final, damning diagnosis, and testing the hypothesis in his mind against all the symptoms and clues yields that feeling House gets at the end of a case, when he knows he’s hit the truth.

He’s married to Wilson. Well, this version of himself is, and has been for many years.

And for some reason, maybe because of all the shocks of the day, the news isn’t actually as earth-shattering as he would‘ve expected. Somehow, it feels right, like a puzzle piece falling into place. Like maybe it was always meant to happen.

Wilson is still looking at him. “House?”

House blinks. “Yeah.”

“Talk to me.” And the way Wilson says it—a little tired, very fond—indicates that this is routine for them, that they actually do talk about feelings (ew) a lot in this universe.

If he’s to maintain his place here—which he hasn’t decided to do yet, by the way—House must play along, if only a little. “What do you want me to say? You’re a blanket hog and I think we need separate beds.”

House doesn’t know if that’s actually true, but based on Wilson’s exasperated sigh, they’ve gone through this before too. “You know, I heard that in Denmark, couples sleep with two duvets. Maybe we should do that. Or,” Wilson leans forward on his elbows, a glint in his eye, “we just go ahead and move out already.”

“Yeah, that tracks. When faced with a blanket crisis, the only reasonable solution is real estate.”

“Oh, come on, House. It’s been years! We need a bigger place, especially if we want to get the cat.”

“The cat?” It seems like House can only ask questions today. To be fair, he’s apparently been thrown into another dimension, but still. He feels a little dumb and he hates it.

“Yeah! Remember how I told you that Rothschild in OB/GYN has a cat who just had kittens? We should be able to adopt in just a few weeks.”

“Perfect. We can name it Speculum. Or IUD, if it’s a girl.”

“Yeah, let’s traumatize the vet right out of the gate. Maybe we can get a goldfish named Forceps while we’re at it.”

Wilson pauses then, the humor fading just enough to soften his voice. He frowns, studying House the way only he can.

“…So, you’re fine?”

It’s House’s turn to sigh. “I’m fine, Wilson. Just processing the fact that apparently, we’re becoming cat people now.”

“It was only a matter of time. You know you’re gonna love it. Cats are independent, low maintenance, and judge you quietly from across the room. It’s basically you, but furrier.”

House snorts. “Great. Two of me. That’s your dream scenario, huh?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. One of you is plenty.” Wilson’s voice is light, but his eyes bore into House—like he’s waiting for House to crack open and admit something’s wrong.

House doesn’t bite. “Well, if we’re getting a cat, I get to pick the name. Speculum stays on the table.”

Wilson shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

“Don’t you have actual work to do?” House says, suddenly desperate to be alone to figure out how he went from being platonic male best friends with this guy to casually discussing co-parenting a cat in less than twenty-four hours. “Some bald children to poke? Old ladies to hold hands with while you give them the bad news?”

Wilson chuckles and stands. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave you to your brooding. But I’m serious about the apartment.” He points at House like he’s laying down the law. “Let’s talk about it later again.”

House waves him off. “Yeah, I’ll pencil it in between my existential crisis and watching Roberta screw up her engagement to Sebastian.”

“Hey, you said you’d wait to watch that one with me!” Wilson accuses, hand on the door, but he’s still smiling when he asks, “Lunch in a bit?”

House nods, again comforted by the fact that some things never change. He waits until the door shuts behind Wilson before he slumps against the desk, dragging a hand down his face.

A cat. An apartment. Two duvets.

What is this version of his life?

He’s barely wrapped his head around the marriage thing, and now he’s apparently one throw pillow away from starring in a rom-com.

House groans. This is ridiculous.

Okay, but maybe it’s not so bad.

The remainder of the day goes by so painfully normal that House almost manages to forget the morning’s confusion. (They treat the vomiting lady, and she’s stable for now.) The whole “yanked into a parallel universe” thing starts to feel less like a reasonable theory and more like something he’d come up with on hour thirty-six of a Vicodin binge. By the time he’s snapping on his helmet to leave on his bike, it’s downright embarrassing he entertained the thought at all.

Wilson has his arms crossed over his jacket, wearing an exasperated expression. “So you did take the bike this morning, even though you said your leg hurt.”

“If I’m gonna suffer,” House tells him instead of explaining that his leg actually didn’t hurt so bad, “I’d rather do it looking like James Dean and not someone’s grumpy grandpa.”

“You don’t even look a little bit like James Dean.”

“What, are you disappointed?”

Wilson laughs, patting House on the back. The small action startles him, and now the morning in all its technicolor weirdness comes rushing back to him. The Wilson he’s familiar with isn’t so touchy with House; even a masculine, purely platonic pat on the back is pushing it—normally. But this Wilson looks completely at ease, and his hand actually lingers a bit longer than is maybe necessary.

“Nah, I wouldn’t have wanted to marry James Dean. He didn’t have your legs. Well, leg.”

Right, okay. Thanks a lot, universe, for the reminder. Not about the leg—Wilson is one of the only ones allowed to joke about that, and based on the way he’s smiling to himself as he leaves to find his car, he knows that. No, the reminder is regarding Wilson’s privileged position to joke about his leg because he is House’s husband in this universe.

Consequently, House is more than a little nervous on the ride back to his and Wilson’s apartment. He knows that he has no choice now but to come to terms with this new reality. But now comes actually living in it as Wilson’s husband. Strange scenes of marital life flash in House’s mind: paying bills with Wilson, falling asleep with Wilson, kissing Wilson, showering with Wilson, touching Wilson—and he has to brake harshly at a red light to halt his impure thoughts.

He lurches forward on the bike, gripping the handlebars a little too tightly. His heart’s racing, and he has to remind himself to breathe.

He runs through the comforting constants: Cuddy is still Cuddy, his ducklings are still a pack of hapless overachievers, and he’s still Dr. Gregory House, medical genius and certified pain in the ass. James Wilson isn’t all that different either—aside from the minor detail that this House apparently skipped ten levels of their usual dysfunctional friendship and landed straight at the ultimate marriage level, leaving him with absolutely no idea how to play along at that difficulty setting.

But has House ever shied away from a challenge?

No. Never.

By the time he parks his bike, he’s composed himself—mostly. He’s in the entryway and still hasn’t figured out what he’s supposed to say when he walks through the door—Oh, honey, I’m home?—when the door unlocks before he can fish out his keys.

Wilson’s standing there, tie loosened, jacket gone, two beers in hand.

“You were gone so long I thought you ditched me for a younger, hotter husband.” He grins, holding out a bottle. “Figured I’d better bribe you to come back.”

House stares at him for a beat too long. He takes the beer, mostly so Wilson doesn’t notice his hand hovering awkwardly in the air. “Why would I trade in a classic model? I’ve got you house-trained already,” he says, pushing past Wilson to sink onto the couch.

“Was that… a pun?”

House smirks, taking a swig of his beer. “If it was, it was brilliant. Like most of my best work.”

House watches Wilson grab the remote and settle into the spot right beside him, thighs pressed together, no concept of personal space at all. Then Wilson blinks at him, like he’s expecting something, and House does the first thing that comes to his panicked mind: He throws an arm around Wilson’s shoulders—which produces the curious result of Wilson snuggling into him. House feels his body tense, but Wilson appears oblivious, or maybe the other House is always nervous when cuddling with his husband, so this is natural.

“Alright,” Wilson says, clicking on the TV, “my money’s on Sebastian trying to hit Roberta when she tells him the truth, but Alejandro will dramatically save her by getting in the way.”

“Please,” House scoffs. “Roberta wouldn’t know the truth if it rear-ended her car. Sebastian’s gonna walk in on them mid-makeout and go full telenovela Hulk.”

They watch in silence—well, except for the overacted Spanish shouting on-screen—and sure enough, House is right. Sebastian walks in on Roberta and Alejandro, clocking Alejandro so hard he goes through a table.

House raises his beer in victory. Wilson grumbles something about plot predictability and sore losers.

And that’s it. House has managed to relax and minus the snuggling on the couch, it’s so disgustingly normal that House almost forgets about the wedding rings, the cat plans, and the fact that this is an entirely different reality. This is… exactly the same as his normal life.

A terrible thought crosses his mind: Do married he and Wilson even have sex?

The thought is intrusive and horrifying and impossible to shake.

He could ask, but really, there’s only one way to truly test it, and House knows that with that, there’s no going back. He will have crossed the Rubicon with his best friend, and if he ever gets back to his universe, he will never be able to look at Wilson the same way.

But then again, he thinks as he studies Wilson’s profile, soft nose, flushed cheeks, lips just slightly parted as he focuses on the screen—maybe this isn’t new. Maybe it’s always been there, buried under sarcasm and self-loathing and Wilson’s endless parade of wives.

Maybe Chase was right and this is a coma, and House’s subconscious finally stopped pretending.

And hell if he’s not going to take advantage of that.

Wilson’s focus breaks from Roberta’s passionate monologue as he notices House staring at him. “Is… there something on my face?”

It’s now or never.

House kisses him.

And Wilson—he doesn’t break away or slap House or even seem surprised at all. Which, duh, they’re married. House is sure they’ve kissed before—but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s never kissed Wilson before—and why exactly hasn’t he kissed Wilson before? If he’d known it felt this good, he would’ve been doing it every chance he could get.

He adjusts his position on the couch to deepen the kiss, hands gripping Wilson by the shoulders. Wilson makes a little noise at the back of his throat and shifts so that he’s eventually straddling House, their lips still connected, one kiss melting into the next, until they’re all open-mouthed and wet, and both of them are panting.

Dramatic violins crescendo on the TV as Alejandro proclaims his love for Roberta—

Wilson shuts it off. “I’m not interested anymore.”

House can hardly breathe. Wilson is on top of him, looking at him with I wanna fuck eyes and no way this is a coma because he’s positive not even his subconscious could come up with something this good.

“Well, I am,” he tries joking, if only to catch his breath momentarily. “Why’d you turn it off?”

Wilson grins devilishly and grinds down on House’s lap and—yeah. House groans. Why does he even say anything?

Wilson leans in, voice low and playful against House’s ear, his hot breath tickling his skin. “Pretty sure the telenovela can wait.”

House barely manages a breathless half-laugh before Wilson kisses him again—harder this time, like he knows what they both want, like they’ve been doing this for years.

Which, House thinks dimly as his hands find Wilson’s hips, clearly they have.

But for now, he stops thinking altogether.