Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

House had a tendency of flirting with nurses, colleagues and patients alike, she had no issue in making someone uncomfortable for the purpose of delivering a gay joke, and she had never been particularly friendly to men.

She had told Wilson about her numerous one night stands with guys, she'd commented on multiple men's appearances, she'd actually never held back from a dirty joke.

She had the behavior one would expect from a very horny, middle-aged and possibly misogynistic man.

But she wasn't misogynistic, quite the opposite, but she seemed to entertain the idea for the bit. 

House was unpredictable. She'd always been. She'd bailed out Wilson simply because she was bored. She'd bought a banjo and learned how to play it in less than a week just because of a bet. She'd learned a new language just out of spite. She'd chopped all her hair off after finding out her long locks didn't agree with the bike helmet's screws.

She was... mesmerizing.

Harsh, rude, bossy, mean, the furthest thing from an empath, yet simultaneously the most empathetic person Wilson had ever met, even more than herself, and she was known to be to most patient and caring doctor of the entire hospital.

Wilson was a fish at her hook, drawn in by her every word, letting herself be bossed around by the Head of Diagnostics simply out of curiosity, partially out of devotion. She’d been glued to her side ever since she bailed her out in ‘91, stayed beside her through thick and thin. In all honesty there were very few things she wouldn't have done for House, none that came to mind but there must have been some, there had to be.

House defied rules, be it work rules, gender rules, anything of the sort, she liked to live outside societal standards and wouldn't let anyone confine her into a box. Wilson had always envied that. She’d always been a rule follower, a reserved person when it came to anyone but her best friend. Sometimes it felt like House was the only one who truly saw her and, while some days that felt depressing, most days it felt comforting, to know she didn't even have to speak for House to understand her.

This was one of those days, where Wilson simply sat back in House’s Eames chair and bounced her tennis ball as House rambled on about her latest case and Cuddy’s involvement in trying to stop her from getting a brain biopsy.

She’d long left the area of medical subjects and instead delved into vulgar descriptions of Cuddy’s skimpy attire. Wilson simply listened and giggled.

"Every time she's ovulating, I can hear an alarm blaring through my skull signaling that she desperately wants to have sex with me again."

"It might be your mating call. Maybe stop doing that and women will stop flocking in." 

“Why would I want them to stop? I wore my best boxers for the occasion. I even shaved a little.”

Wilson snorted softly and kept bouncing the ball, suddenly feeling under pressure from House’s eyes following the record beating sequence of bounces in a row. House continued.

"She wears that one very thin bra, you can see the full outline of her nipples, and then she barges into my office, like clockwork, and distracts me with those things.” She sat back against her desk, Wilson saw out of the corner of her eye House pointing her fingers like lasers from her chest towards her friend. “Like daggers.”

"Poor you." The mocking unfortunately put her off the rhythm and she had to start over again.

"I'm telling you, she would be all over me if I just did a few clinic hours.”

"Good thing that will never happen then.”

House leaned back, pursing her lips, eyes glued to the bouncing ball.

"I could do a day. Just to get to bump uglies again.” 

" What do you mean "Again"?" Wilson glanced up with a breathy chuckle, stopping the ball with both hands, House seemed to be disappointed by the sudden lack of entertainment.

"I'd like to think my fingering skills have progressed since med school. She might like it more this time."

"You really shouldn't talk about our employer like that." 

"Why? It's true! I mean, if you let me hit, you should expect me to talk about it with my bestie. Even if it happened decades ago.” House said, waving a hand in Wilson’s general direction. She then reached to grab her cane and used it to scoop the ball from Wilson’s lap, skillfully balancing it across the room and carrying it over her side.

"What do you mean?" Wilson stuttered, her thick eyebrows knit together.

"What do you mean, what do I mean?"

"You can't possibly..." She breathed out with a faint smile, waving her hands in circles.

"I can. And I have.” 

Wilson blinked a few times.

"I don't... understand."

"When two doctors want each other very much-"

"You had sex with Cuddy?” The oncologist asked in disbelief.

"You can ask her if you don't believe me. And I've told you this already."

"As a joke... You told me as a joke."

"I had very real sex with her very real tits, honk honk." She used a hand to give a performative squeeze, then set the ball on her desk, suddenly more interested in Wilson’s reactions. "Why do you think we have so much sexual tension going on? She's been trying to get a sequel since the '80s. She once asked me and Stacy out for drinks because she hoped we would all hook up. I would've done it but she got way too drunk, and we ended up just driving her home."

Wilson furrowed her thick brows in bewilderment.

"You would've had sex with Stacy?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I? It's not like we were waiting for marriage."

"Does she know?"

House let out a scoff and leaned back against the desk.

"Yeah, I think she did since she was dating me."

Wilson blinked a few times, wondering if she'd heard correctly.

"What?"

"Her hobby was to diddle me in her office whenever I visited her at work. She was waiting for a chance to get Cuddy into the mix." The older doctor smirked wolfishly, cocking her head to the side and enjoying the sight of the younger woman squirming in her chair. 

"I thought... I thought she was just your roommate." She stuttered.

"Are you joking right now?" House let out a genuine laugh, then let her smile fall in exchange for a worried frown. "You're joking, right?"

"You were dating?"

"Why on earth did you think she was my medical proxy? Had she just been my roommate, I would've picked you." Wilson blinked. That made sense. "Maybe it would've gone better for me."

House murmured the last words, hoping Wilson would have the decency to not engage further in the subject. They'd talked plenty about the infarction, about what they would've done differently. Wilson never truly forgave herself for being on her extended honeymoon. She shouldn't have been away so long. She didn't even want to be away for ten days, yet she remained quiet for the sake of her marriage.

"House, why didn't you tell me?"

House shrugged, her eyes suddenly fixed on the carpeted floor.

"I thought you knew."

"How should I have known?"

"Are you serious right now?" House seemed genuinely shocked. "You didn't know?"

"How should I have? I don't understand why you think it was so obvious.” Wilson hunched forward in her chair, pulling her heels back onto the ground from the urgency. She smoothed her pencil skirt and looked up, pointing a finger at her friend. “It wasn't. You never told me. I'm your best friend and you never once told me.”

House paused, head low, eyes shielded. Her voice a whisper.

"I thought it would make you uncomfortable." 

"What?"

"I thought you knew and were avoiding the subject. I thought, if I'd talked about her in that way, you would've... been uncomfortable."

Wilson let out a mirthless scoff.

"You're my friend. I want to know. I don't want to be kept in the dark about such a big chunk of your life."

"It's not like I get any action anymore."

Wilson searched for her face but she wouldn't look up. "I wish you'd told me.”

"So it doesn't change anything?" House mumbled, entertaining herself by toying with the trinkets displayed on her desk.

"Of course not. No. It's okay.” Wilson nodded to herself. She meant every word. “I want you to feel free to talk about this with me."

House hummed, now fully sitting against the desk, less on alert.

"Okay.”

"Okay."

She finally looked up at Wilson.

"So I can tell you about my hook-ups in detail?"

"Sure."

"Wanna know about Cuddy?"

A timid flush spread across her cheeks but she couldn't hide her excitement. She wanted to hear.

"Yeah, of course."

The premise of the story itself seemed unbelievable but the dynamics felt even more bizarre. That's how Wilson found herself barging into Cuddy’s office.

"Did you have sex with House in the '80s?"

The dean of medicine barely stopped thumbing through her paperwork but managed a glare at her along with a deep sigh.

"Did she send you here?" 

"No. Answer the question.” She pointed an accusatory finger at her.

Lisa faltered for a moment, another sigh escaping her lips then rolled her eyes and gave a short nod.

"It was a one time thing."

Wilson scoffed, planting her hands on her hips.

"No. You're lying."

"I'm not. We were tipsy, I was curious. We hooked up. No biggie.”

The oncologist stared at her with a gaping mouth, it couldn't have been.

"This is very biggie. This is huge actually."

Lisa shrugged.

"She was good. Nothing spectacular. But she knows her way around a lady."

Wilson stepped forward, lowering her voice and holding up a cautious hand between them.

"Is she a... lesbian?"

It was Cuddy’s turn to scoff.

“You didn't know?” Her expression changed when she saw her employee’s stunned reaction.  “Wilson, come on.”

The oncologist's smile had completely disappeared, she stood confused with her jaw almost hanging. 

“How was I supposed to know?”

“Have you looked at her?” Cuddy sighed again, attempting to go back to her paperwork, waving a hand around. “She's not gay, she's bi. Allegedly. But how couldn't you tell? Even from the way she acts with you.”

"She flirts as a joke. She flirted with Cameron.”

"I thought you two had hooked up by now actually.”

Wilson blinked.

"What?”

"The whole Hospital thinks so.” She said with a shrug.

“Are you serious?”

Cuddy looked up at her one last time and simply shook her head in disbelief and smiled at her.

“You're so adorable. So naive.”

What Wilson had learned in the past 24 hours didn't seem coherent in the slightest. She wasn't one to assume, actually she found it offensive when people thought House was something just because of what she looked like. Wilson personally didn't believe in gender norms, though she abided by them constantly but didn't think anything of someone expressing themselves in unusual ways.

She almost admired them. She always found House’s disregard of societal norms partly frustrating but mostly impressive. She was utterly disgraceful, she carried herself with little to no charm and still ended up being so casually and nonchalantly charming in Wilson’s eyes. She swore like a sailor and treated men like creatures to look at and not listen to.

But that didn't make her a lesbian, it just made her annoying to be around. 

She’d never met a lesbian. She’d never met a bisexual either. Not personally at least, not knowingly. Apparently Stacy had been inclined to date women and she'd never realized. And so had Cuddy, two of her closest friends, she'd never once thought about it or asked.

She thought she was just being nice, not assuming their sexualities based on what they looked like and behaved. Just because they were bossy and independent it didn't mean they had to be a certain way. But apparently they were, at least partially.

Nobody had ever come out to her, told her they were dating someone the same gender, nobody in her life at least. Patients did sometimes. Did she look that bigoted to others? She tried to be as open minded as possible and let it be known too.

Her patients told her about their partners, even the gay ones. They knew they could trust her with that information, so why didn't her closest friends?

She’d been connecting to a patient specifically, Grace Palmieri, liver cancer. She didn't have long to live and she was more afraid than most of her patients, so Wilson often stuck around and entertained her, letting her drive the conversation wherever she pleased. What her patients needed most was someone to talk to and Wilson always tried to provide that.

Grace had been very honest. She’s talked about wanting to travel to Italy, to see Florence, she mentioned her ex girlfriend wanting to see Venice. She often mentioned her fondly. Wilson never thought anything of it. She’d never seen queerness as something far from what she felt. She’d loved before, she figured what Grace had felt felt just like hers. She'd never understood the need to label it as something else no matter how much her parents had taught her otherwise.

She understood Grace, she could empathize with how she'd hidden from her family because of their hatred. She knew what it felt like to suppress her own emotions to favor other people's. She did it with her husband constantly, her patients, her family, sometimes even House.

Of course it wasn't comparable in the slightest, her feelings weren't as controversial as Grace’s. She had never needed to fight for her relationships, in fact she was encouraged to date men she barely got along with. It wasn't the same. She had nothing to complain about.

When she found Grace sitting in her chair during chemotherapy and reading a book, she sat down next to her with apprehension, folding her hands tightly in her lap. She didn't want her to feel judged, she didn't want to make her feel cornered.

She entertained light conversations at first, offered a tentative smile, and shifted in her seat. She fulfilled her duty and asked her about her symptoms, checked her dosage and monitored how far in she was, scribbling notes absentmindedly on her clipboard.

Only after a while, once the nurses had left and the beeping machines became the only background noise, she let herself cross the line and ask about the subject she meant to talk about in the first place. She’d waited for the room to empty, the treatment was almost over.

“Grace, I wanted to ask a personal question. If you don't mind.”

“When have I ever said no to you?” She replied with a warm smile, cocking her head to the side, closing her book and resting it on her lap.

“I know this might be a tough subject so feel free to tell me to fuck off.” She paused for a moment, rubbing her hands together, trying to find a way to phrase it. “When did you know? About your… orientation.”

Grace looked surprised at first, her eyebrows rising briefly, then smiled wider.

“Why are you asking?”

“I… I just… I just discovered three of my best friends are into women. I’ve known them for twenty years so it… came as a bit of a shock and I just… I feel guilty for not noticing. Mostly, I feel stupid. I should've known.”

“Not if they didn't want you to.” She shrugged, shifting in her seat and adjusting her scarf. “There's a reason you didn't know. They probably didn't want you to know.”

“But why? Do I… Do I give off a judgy vibe? Do I look like a bigot?”

Grace chuckled softly, shaking her head.

“Far from that.” She paused, eyes lingering on Wilson’s face for a moment. “Maybe they liked you.”

Wilson furrowed her brows, leaning back slightly.

“No. They're my best friends.”

“My ex was my best friend before we started hooking up.”

Wilson swallowed thickly, her throat tightening; she didn't like that notion. She found the idea repulsive. She shook her head and laughed nervously, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“My friends don't do that.”

“Apparently they do.” She offered with a reassuring grin. She placed a hand over her doctor’s. “Or maybe they were just afraid. It doesn't mean they don't trust you specifically. Maybe they just thought you knew.”

“Yeah… that’s what they said. But I… I didn't. I was blind.”

“It's okay. It might be a good thing. It means you're not as judgemental as others. Usually the ones who can tell are the biggest homophobes.” She reassured her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “I didn't find out until college. I didn't even know it was an option.”

“Neither did I. Not until med school.” Wilson admitted sheepishly, lowering her eyes. “I’d heard about gay men. I didn't know… lesbians were a thing until I… saw it happen.”

“Did you experiment?”

“No! No, I- I didn't mean. I’ve never… no. I like… men.” She sat up straighter, hands fluttering in front of her awkwardly. “I like women too. I love women, I think they're cool. We're cool. I just… I’ve never felt… stuff for a woman.”

“Have you felt it for a man?”

“I’m married to one.” It felt unnatural to say.

“That was not an answer.” Grace pursed her lips. “Also, I heard you recently divorced.”

“Julien is a nice man.”

“Not enough to keep him.” Touchée. “Did you like him?”

“Yeah. Of course. We had our issues. We argued but I… liked him, yeah.”

“You claim to be an ally but you look very afraid at the prospect of liking a woman.”

“No! No, I’m not scared. I’m just… It’s just not me. I’m very happy for other people, if that's what they are. It’s just not… me.” Her voice grew quiet as she looked down at her lap.

“Have you ever left room for wondering if you might be?”

“I couldn't.” She found herself replying. She furrowed her brows at her own statement, eyes flicking back up. “I mean I… I was already dating Samuel when I was in med school. I wasn't looking at women anyway, just like I wasn't looking at other men.”

“Yet you cheated on him.”

She blinked a few times.

“It was… it was a mistake.”

“I know.”

“I don't think it would be a bad thing if I… turned out to… like women.” She spoke softly, then hesitated. “I just think I would've known by now.”

“Some people don't know until their fifties.”

“But… how?” Her voice cracked slightly, full of disbelief.

“Sometimes they just don't know it's an option.” Grace leaned back, stretching her legs slightly. “It’s never too late to know. You don't have to discover everything about yourself in college.”

“I had very little time to discover anything, between med school and the two jobs I worked.” Wilson rubbed at her temple, sighing.

“Maybe you haven't given yourself enough time.”

Grace squeezed her hand again, this time lingering a little longer.

Wilson cleared her throat and looked up at the bag, now empty, and stood.

“Looks like you're done for the day.” She said softly. “Let me free you.”
She moved to the IV stand, carefully removing the needle with practiced gentleness.

“Thank you.”

Wilson handed her a bottle of water.

“You always forget to keep yourself hydrated.”

“Plenty hydrated from the inside.”

Wilson let out a polite, breathy chuckle and watched her get her things ready to leave.

“Would you like coffee? Tea? My treat. It's from the crappy vending machine outside anyway.” She smiled, already halfway to standing.

“I would love tea.” Grace said, gathering her things slowly.

They chatted amicably, yet the tension felt much thicker.

“My bus is in fifteen minutes. I should head out.” Grace announced, glancing at her watch.

“I’ll drive you home.” Wilson found herself saying.

“No, Jamie, I can't possibly ask that.” She laughed lightly, shaking her head.

“You're not asking. I’m offering.” Wilson replied firmly, stepping beside her.

“You've done that three times already. Do you drive every patient back home?”

“Just the ones who live way too far to reach by bus after chemo.” Wilson replied, holding the door open for her.

They stopped by the grocery store on the way to Grace’s place. The fluorescent lights buzzed above them as they strolled slowly through the aisles. Wilson pushed the cart while Grace picked out ingredients with practiced ease, occasionally making a joke that earned a chuckle from her doctor. In return, Wilson tossed out dry, sarcastic comments that made Grace laugh, genuine and unguarded. Wilson found herself watching her smile longer than she meant to.

Back at Grace’s place, the apartment was cozy, a little cluttered, but warm and lived-in. Books and pill bottles shared space on the coffee table, and a soft blanket was thrown haphazardly over the back of the couch. Grace kicked off her shoes and motioned toward the kitchen.

“Can you give me a hand getting dinner started?” she asked, already unpacking groceries onto the counter.

“I doubt you’ll like my sous-chef skills but I’ll try.” Wilson stepped in, rolling up her sleeves. “What are we making?”

“Pappardelle bolognese.” Grace said, pulling a heavy-bottomed pan from the cupboard. She moved with ease despite the fatigue lingering from chemo. She assigned carrot-cutting to Wilson. As she sautéed onions and garlic in olive oil, the kitchen began to fill with the savory aroma of comfort food. She uncorked a bottle of red wine, poured a glass for Wilson, then one for herself.

“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Grace offered, stirring the sauce.

“You’re very kind but my roommate usually relies on me cooking dinner.”

“She can’t cook for herself?”

“She tends to be very lazy.”

Grace arched a brow and gave her a pointed look. “And you wonder why people think you’re dating.”

“We’re not.” Wilson said defensively, then paused, the corners of her mouth twitching. She stared at the steam rising from the sauce. “I guess she won’t mind.”

They ate at the small dining table by the window. A small candle flickered between them, and their conversation flowed easily, occasionally broken by laughter or thoughtful silences. After the plates were cleared and another glass of wine poured, they drifted toward the living room, each cradling their glasses.

They had been on the couch for a while, turned toward one another, the wine nearly gone, the air between them warm and thick with something unspoken. The room had grown quieter, save for the occasional hum of traffic outside and the ticking of the wall clock. The dim lighting softened the room, casting warm shadows on Grace’s face. Her legs were tucked underneath her, and her wine glass rested casually on her knee.

“Why did you ask me about my sexuality today?” Grace suddenly asked, her tone light as she took a sip, hiding her smile behind the rim.

“You make me sound like a creep.” Wilson said, shaking her head, her cheeks slightly flushed.

“No, I get it. It’s not a crime to be curious.”

“I guess I just wanted to know if there’s a pattern.” Wilson admitted. “Something I missed and should’ve seen in my friends.”

“Probably the fact two of them were dating for years and you thought they were just roommates.”

Wilson hummed, pursing her lips, sinking deeper into the couch cushion. “Yeah, that might've been a clue.”

Grace’s smile softened. “Honestly, I thought you were asking for personal reasons.”

Wilson blinked, startled. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. “You mean- me? Oh, no. It wasn’t.”

“I guess it was just wishful thinking.” Grace intentionally let the silence linger as she took a long sip.

“W-What do you mean?” Wilson stuttered, barely managing to look up.

“Well, you’re very pretty.” Grace admitted, voice smooth. “You’re also my personal morphine dealer so I suppose that makes you all the more attractive.”

“A strange cousin to the Nightingale Syndrome.” Wilson said awkwardly, laughing nervously under her breath.

“I apologize if I’m being too forward.”

“No, don’t…” Wilson found herself saying. Her voice was quieter now, earnest. “Don’t apologize.”

Grace tilted her head, studying her. “You like the attention?”

“Who doesn’t?” Wilson replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Grace tilted her head slightly, watching Wilson with a small, teasing smirk. She swirled the last of her wine in the glass, then glanced at the soft lines of Wilson’s profile.

“You know,” she began, her voice slow and casual, “I always thought your suits meant you were, you know, like me.”

Wilson blinked, startled out of her thoughts. “Italian?”

“Gay.”

Wilson laughed, short, awkward, almost defensive. 

“I just… I enjoy formal wear.” She looked down at her slacks, tugging lightly at the fabric. They were definitely wrinkled by now, creased from hours of sitting, but still structured. “Though I’m sure I look a mess right now.”

“It looks very good on you.”

“You think so?” she asked, a bit shyly, surprised by the compliment.

“Yeah. It goes well with your hair.” Grace reached out slowly, her fingers brushing the side of Wilson’s face, tucking a piece of dark hair behind her ear. Her touch lingered just a second too long, fingers grazing the skin near her temple.

Wilson’s hair was soft, big, and slightly tousled from the long day, she’d tried combing her waves many times but she seemed to have taken her father’s hair texture, she’d learned to give up and embrace whatever hairdo she woke up with.

“You look like Julia Roberts.” Grace added, her voice softer now, almost reverent.

Wilson let out a breathy chuckle, nervous and flattered all at once. Her gaze dropped instinctively to Grace’s mouth, lingering there for a moment longer than she meant to.

Then Grace leaned in.

The kiss was gentle at first, a question posed without words. Wilson froze for just a heartbeat, but then answered it. Her lips moved against Grace’s, slow and unsure, then with more certainty. Her hand came to rest on Grace’s knee, then slid up her thigh. Grace’s fingers curled around the back of Wilson’s neck, drawing her in deeper.

They kissed with a hunger neither of them expected, mouths parting, breath mingling. The air around them seemed to disappear, leaving only heat and the rush of blood between them.

But then, Wilson stiffened.

A bolt of shame sliced through her chest, sharp and sudden. She pulled back, eyes wide, breath heavy, and stumbled to her feet.

“I should head back.” She said quickly, reaching for her jacket draped over the armrest. Her fingers fumbled as she pulled it on. “Thank you for dinner, truly. It was very nice.”

Grace sat up, brows knitting together, lips still parted.

“Jamie-”

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” Wilson’s voice cracked as she backed toward the door, her expression already shuttered.

“The divorce’s officiated.”

Wilson wiped a hand over mouth.
“I’m your doctor.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” Grace said softly.

“Thank you. But I…” Wilson hesitated at the doorway, not meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

And with that, she slipped out, leaving only the soft click of the closing door behind her.

The headlights of her car cut through the quiet evening as she pulled up outside the familiar brownstone. She sat in the driver’s seat for a second, heartbeat still a little faster than it should’ve been. She pulled a mint from the crinkly tin in her purse, popped it into her mouth, and let the coolness push back the heat on her cheeks.

As she climbed the stairs to the apartment, her footsteps felt too loud, the hallway lights too bright. Her hand lingered on the doorknob a second longer than necessary before pushing it open.
When she stepped inside the apartment, the glow of the TV met her first, then the distinct sight of House sprawled lazily across the couch. Her legs, and sock-clad feet were draped over Wilson’s usual spot.

House didn't glance away from the screen.
“Where the hell have you been?”

Wilson shut the door a little harder than intended, exhaling through her nose.
“You do know I’m an adult woman, right? I don’t have a curfew,” she said, dropping her bag to the floor with a thud and slipping off her heels. Her voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. She hoped House didn’t notice. She ran a hand through her hair, fingers tangling in the knots she hadn’t realized were there. Her heart sank when she realized she should’ve checked in the rearview mirror before walking into the lion’s enclosure.

"I was left without dinner." House replied dryly, tilting her head toward the kitchen like it had personally betrayed her.

"I was told I shouldn't feed you after midnight." 

House’s mouth quirked. “Then I shouldn’t get wet either and I do that plenty of times.”

Wilson narrowed her eyes, knowing better than to fall for House’s bait, but she bit.

“Soaking in the tub.” House clarified, then gave her an exaggeratedly innocent smile.

“I was looking for apartments, it just got a little late. I found a good one. I’ll be moving there shortly, so I can finally get out of your hair.” She stopped by the mirror at the entrance and used the excuse of undoing her tie to check her state. Her hair was a mess, but it usually was by the end of the day, she pulled it to one side, trying to tame the mane. Her nude lipstick was slightly smudged, traces of it marking her chin. She wiped a quick thumb, watching House’s silhouette in the reflection to make sure she wasn’t looking. 

"You give up too easily." House said without looking at her.

"You kicked me out." Wilson replied too quickly, too sharply. Her voice jumped up a pitch and stuck there. She wrapped her tie around her fist, she felt almost nauseous. 

"I've also said I'd get sober plenty of times. I don't mean any of it."

Wilson stood still for a moment, letting the words hang between them like fog. Then, she walked over, hands on her hips, thick brows furrowed.

"If you want me to stay, you could've said so."

House finally turned towards her, her eyes lingering on her outfit a little too long for her comfort. She wondered if she’d seen something she’d missed in the mirror, a ripped stocking, something left unbuttoned. She thought it would be safer to sit down.

She lifted House’s legs with more care than necessary, and sat down beside her. She placed the socked feet in her lap and began to mindlessly rub them, more for herself than for House, something to keep her hands busy, her mind from slipping back. House barely reacted, it wasn’t the first time she did something like that.

"That would be lame, wouldn't it?" House’s voice dropped lower, in that way that always made Wilson feel under the spotlight. "You better not have gone back to him."

She hadn’t expected that. She winced at the words, her stomach coiling with guilt she tried to tamp down. She hadn’t gone back to Julien, she’d done worse.

"What? No. I didn't." She said, almost offended, focused on untangling a bit of loose thread from House’s sock.

"Right." House said, too slow, too unconvinced.

"I didn't. It's done. It's finalized." Wilson insisted, holding up both hands like they could somehow prove her innocence. Her palms were trembling slightly.

"You didn't want things to be finalized."

Wilson let her hands fall into her lap. Her voice came quieter this time, weighed down.

“I thought about it.” She leaned her head back against the couch, closing her eyes for a moment. The heels of her hands pressed against her eyes. “Perhaps I’m not the marrying kind.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the faint murmur of the television. Wilson’s chest rose and fell unevenly, the mint long gone from her mouth but the guilt still burning at the back of her throat.

Then, House nudged her with a socked foot, gentle, but deliberate.
"I wouldn't be so sure, with those macadamia nut pancakes of yours."

Wilson let out a breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. Her smile was small, frayed at the edges. She didn’t look at House.

She moved into a hotel the next day, dropped her things off before work, leaving a note behind to inform House.

That didn’t seem to work well, it had the opposite effect when House wouldn’t leave her side once during the day, her act a mix of territorial possessiveness and disappointment.

She wouldn’t have admitted she was upset about Wilson moving out, not under gunpoint, so she did the best next thing: annoying her and stalking her between rounds.

Wilson spotted Grace in chemo, she walked over to her just to check on her, professionally, but Grace asked her to sit down for a moment, so she, the ever so compliant people-pleaser, obeyed.

House watched the interaction from outside the room. Wilson doing her overly nurturing, bleeding-heart thing, checking vitals, giving soft words of reassurance. But then she saw Wilson laugh. A real laugh, too quick, too nervous. Her hand fluttered to her hair, brushing it back behind her ear again, even though it hadn’t moved. 

Grace said something, House couldn’t hear through the glass, was almost thankful she couldn’t, but Wilson let out another breathy laugh, this one too genuine. Her body leaned in slightly. Grace reached out, fingers brushing lightly against Wilson’s sleeve, then her tie. Her hands lingered. She adjusted it. Carefully. Tenderly.

Then her fingers brushing against Wilson’s chest, with a practiced, far-too-personal touch.  Wilson blinked, clearly flustered, and murmured something,  probably a weak joke to deflect. Grace’s hand lingered a second too long before returning to her lap.

House grimaced, her mouth curling in a mixture of disgust and something sharper. That vicious Italian lesbian had gotten to touch Mount Wilson’s before her. 

This wasn’t platonic. And it sure as hell wasn’t professional.

That much was confirmed when Wilson stood up from her chair and met House’s stare through the window. Her expression froze, eyes wide and unguarded, like a deer caught in the headlights, even more than usual. Her hand twitched slightly toward her tie, the very one Grace had just adjusted.

She cleared her throat, mumbled a few polite goodbyes to Grace, and practically fled the room with a smile too stiff to pass for casual.

House stepped back from the glass as Wilson exited, letting the door shut behind her with a soft click. Wilson didn’t even glance at her, just started walking. She knew House would follow. And House did, matching her pace with sharp, uneven steps and her cane tapping like a countdown.

“You have a thing for baldies?” House asked, voice cutting through the corridor air like a scalpel.

“What?” Wilson replied, eyes straight ahead, not slowing down.

“You and your cancer girl.”

"Grace? She's not bald. And she’s a patient.”

“A patient that adjusts your ties.” House shot back, her voice laced with bitterness. She added, with a cruel smile, “And she’s gonna be bald soon.”

Wilson continued walking, forcing a tired half-smile onto her face.

“Don’t blame me for my patients’ obsessive-compulsive tendencies.”

“I wouldn’t blame you for that,” House said, stepping closer. Her tone shifted, lower, darker. “But I would blame you for getting too close to a terminally ill patient. Don’t you know what the Hippocratic Oath says?”

“ “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife” ?” Wilson pursed her lips. “Oh, no, that’s the bible.”

“It says “Keep it in your pants”.”

“We’re just friends.” Her voice went up a pitch.

“She's a raging dyke. She’s no friend.”

Wilson turned to look at her and arched a brow. “Aren’t you one as well?”

House tilted her head, thrown for the briefest second.
“Wow. Bold remark from the sweet and seemingly non-homophobic neighborhood oncologist.”

“You walked right into it. And I’m not homophobic,” Wilson said with a soft, exhausted sigh. She rubbed the back of her neck, voice quieter now. “I promise there’s nothing between me and Grace.”

House narrowed her eyes, studying her.
“Good. Because you two look too similar. If you fucked her it would basically be incest.”

Wilson blinked, then looked at her fully, finally. Her voice was soft, but deliberate.

“I’m not sleeping with her. Wouldn’t want you to get jealous.”

House stopped dead in her tracks. Her mouth parted like she was going to say something, like the words were there, somewhere, but nothing came out.

Wilson held her gaze for a second longer, watching that rare silence settle over House’s features like a storm that never broke. Then she turned and walked away, the click of her heels echoing down the corridor.

House stood in place, blinking slowly.

In a moment of poor judgment, and a kind of restless, gnawing impulse Wilson didn’t want to examine too closely, she didn’t drive to the hotel that night.

Instead, she pulled into a grocery store parking lot, hands gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled tension, then walked the aisles in a daze, tossing ingredients into a basket like she was sleepwalking. She told herself it was for comfort, for kindness. But she knew better.

An hour later, she was standing outside Grace’s apartment, her heart thudding with something between guilt and anticipation. She knocked. Grace opened the door in sweatpants and a soft, worn tee, her eyes widening in delighted surprise. She lifted the bag like a peace offering. Grace grinned, stepping aside.

Wilson’s smile was tight. Guilt coiled low in her stomach, quiet but present. Still, beneath it all, there was something else, something darker, a spark of depraved curiosity and reckless excitement she couldn’t smother.

She stood at the stove, cooking, like her actions weren’t purely selfish, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, sleeves of her button-up rolled to her elbows, her tie draped over a chair. Her collar was undone, two buttons at first, then three, enough to bare the delicate dip of her clavicle. She stirred the pan with practiced ease, letting the scent of basil and confit tomatoes fill the room.

She didn’t need to turn around to feel Grace’s eyes on her. She heard it in the way her voice softened, in the quiet stares when she thought Wilson wasn’t looking. She knew it was working, the way Grace kept walking over to check the pan, eyes lingering just a second too long on her chest, her toned forearms, her hands as they moved with practiced calm. Wilson didn’t look directly at her, but she could feel it, that gaze. She felt wanted.

And God help her, Wilson liked it. She tilted her head back a little more, tucked a curl behind her ear, stirred slower. She felt disgusting, felt wrong, and still reveled in every inch of attention. Somewhere beneath the shallow thrill, she felt sickened. This was a patient, her patient, for God’s sake. Yet, she kept cooking.

The excitement dulled the guilt into something manageable. Something she could ignore, for now.  She told herself it was because she was hot from the stove. She told herself a lot of things.

They set up the table but never sat down to eat. Grace stood beside her, then shifted closer, her eyes landing on Wilson’s lips with an intensity that made Wilson’s breath catch.

And then they were kissing again.

This time, Wilson didn’t freeze. She wasn’t timid. Her hands were slow, gentle, thoughtful, but they didn’t hesitate. She walked her backward toward the couch. She was still careful,still soft and slow, but there was a steadiness now, an undeniable hunger.

She guided Grace toward the couch, cautious not to overwhelm, letting her pace the moment. She sat and gently pulled Grace into her lap, guiding her legs around her. Grace took the invitation easily, climbing on top of her like they’d done this before.

Wilson’s hands stayed light, palms skimming the edges of Grace’s hips, her back. She leaned back into the couch as Grace kissed down her neck, her head tilting to give more access. Her chest rose and fell with uneven breath.

Let her lead. That felt safer. That felt less like responsibility.

But even in the dim hush of the room, she could hear it.

House’s voice. Flat, cutting. “She’s a patient.” House’s stare, like she was in the room, watching from the shadows, judging, knowing exactly what this was.

Wilson gritted her teeth and kissed Grace again, harder this time, as if that would silence it. The shame. The warning. The truth. Eventually, she slipped a hand between Grace’s legs and her moans drowned out House’s voice.

She palmed her through her pants enough. She could feel the echo of her stare. The razor-edge sarcasm. The judgment. The disappointment.

Wilson’s chest tightened but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
She told herself she was being careful. That she cared. That it wasn’t about power or impulse or need. But it was. It was all of those things.

Then Grace started undoing her shirt, button by button until her lace bra was exposed.
The short haired woman left desperate kisses down her sternum, then down her soft belly. Then, between hushed words and soft giggles, Grace asked her to lay back, propped up against the armrest of the couch. Her skirt came off, then her heels, then her stockings. 

Grace kissed her again as her hands dipped between Wilson’s legs. It was nothing like her past kisses. Nothing like the ones she’d forced herself to feel something during, the ones that had been about comfort, or performance, or obligation. This wasn’t just about being wanted by someone. This was about wanting in a way she hadn’t felt before. She’d never been this wet with her husbands, they’d never been able to just glide in. Grace’s lips trailed to her jaw, and Wilson let out the smallest gasp, quiet, involuntary. Her hands flexed around Grace’s waist. She felt like she was falling through herself, shedding layers she didn’t realize she was wearing. Every careful wall she’d built to explain herself was giving way.

Her eyes fluttered open for a second, dazed. Grace whispered something against her skin, and Wilson didn’t even register the words. All she could think was: Oh. This is what it feels like.

Her whole life, she’d been convincing herself she was something simpler, easier, more digestible. She’d dated the way she practiced medicine, with kindness, with responsibility, with structure. But this? This wasn’t responsible. It wasn’t safe.

And it was real.

She let her head fall back again, her body yielding to Grace’s touch. She felt the flood of guilt still, distant now, like background noise to something louder and truer. Grace moved her mouth with skilled practice between her legs, a damp spot on the pillow underneath her, her tongue pushed inside her like it belonged there. It should’ve felt sick, she should’ve felt guilty, but she felt nothing of the sort.

The couch groaned softly beneath their weight, the only sound besides her own shallow breaths and the hum of the city outside Grace’s apartment window.

Wilson’s head fell back against the armrest, the fabric warming up beneath her flushed skin. Grace’s mouth was on her again, and the world narrowed to sensation. Her pulse was thundering in her ears, each breath harder to catch than the last. Her tongue swirled around her and everything was too much and not enough.

The warmth built, blooming low in her stomach and spreading out in hot, slow waves. Her hips shifted involuntarily, her fingers sinking into Grace’s short hair as she exhaled a trembling breath. The sheer intimacy of it, the weight of Grace’s head between her legs, the smell of her freshly washed hair, the rhythm of shared breath, was dizzying.

Her thoughts blurred. There was nothing clinical in this. Nothing measured or rational. She wasn’t a doctor in this moment. She wasn’t anything but feeling.

Pleasure swelled in her like a tide she couldn’t hold back, emotional and physical crashing together until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Her mouth parted in a gasp she tried to stifle but couldn’t. Her eyes squeezed shut, her legs tightening around Grace’s head involuntarily.

And then she broke. Not loud, not messy, just overwhelmed. Her whole body trembled, her chest heaving, a soft, shaking noise escaping her lips like she’d been holding her breath for years and only now remembered how to let it go.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, not from sadness, but from the sheer, unbearable intimacy of being seen, being touched, being known.

She clung to Grace, panting softly, her heart galloping.

She felt Grace pull back a few seconds later. Minutes? Time felt blurry. She was still panting heavily, she hadn’t noticed her eyes had been shut. She felt Grace’s hands relax around her thighs, her grip loosening and her fingers traveling upwards, over her soft stomach rolls and up to her bra, underneath her still unbuttoned shirt.

Soon, she felt her lips, her own taste against her mouth, a gentle tongue parting her lips. She pulled Grace closer mindlessly and kissed back, tasting herself on her tongue, the bitterness of her medications.

Wilson’s hands roamed along her back, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breath, the quiet tremor of want. Her fingers dipped under the hem of her shirt, reverent and slow. She leaned forward, her lips brushing Grace’s ear as she whispered, low and rough,

“Let me…”

Her hands slid lower, her mouth warm against Grace’s neck. “I want to make you feel good.”

She meant it. God, she meant it with every part of her, blinded by the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being herself. 

The room was molten with heat, bodies tangled on the couch like they'd been trying to hold each other for years. Wilson’s head was in the crook of her neck, her chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic waves. Her hands roamed, desperate, trembling, guided by instinct and need. Her fingers slid under the hem of Grace’s shirt, slowly, reverently, and she whispered, breathless and hoarse:

“Let me taste you…”

Grace paused, lips hovering above hers.

“Jamie…”

Wilson’s eyes were dark, dilated, her voice husky with longing. “I want to reciprocate.”

She reached again, her hand cupping Grace’s face like she was something precious, and then skimming down, seeking, offering. She was blinded by want, by the ache in her chest, by the overwhelming desire to give something back, to show Grace this wasn’t a fluke, this wasn’t just one-sided hunger.

But Grace tensed. Just slightly. Enough. Wilson froze, lips still against her skin, her body still aching with the urge to keep going.

Grace pulled back gently, both palms on Wilson’s chest, not pushing, just holding.

“We can’t.” she said softly, still catching her breath.

Wilson blinked, lips parted in confusion. “Why?”

Grace gave a crooked, pained smile.

“The chemo protocol,” Grace said, her voice almost sheepish. “You told me… remember? When I asked you if my ex could go down on me. You said no unprotected contact at least on that day. With bodily fluids and all…”

The words hit Wilson like a slap. She froze.

She sat back, like the room had just started spinning. Grace was still half-straddling her, but it felt suddenly so wrong. Her own hands, so eager just moments ago, felt alien now, indecent, like she’d reached for something she had no right to touch.
She recalled that conversation, she hadn’t told her she couldn’t receive after chemo, but that she simply had to be careful, they’d laughed about it at the time, about Grace feeling shy to ask her such direct questions and Wilson comforting her that there was nothing wrong with asking.
They could’ve continued, it was possible, but the mere idea of telling her crossed her mind and disgusted Wilson even more: she felt sick enough about her actions, she didn’t want to go against her own guidelines and reassure Grace it would be okay. She shouldn’t have done that, even if she thought about it for a brief second. A second too long. She felt nauseous. It wasn’t a lie, it wouldn’t have been a lie but it would’ve been wrong.

“Fuck.” The words were barely audible. She ran a hand through her hair, eyes wide and horrified. “God, I, Grace, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking, I…”

Grace’s expression softened, but her weight shifted off of Wilson slowly, carefully, as if the spell had broken for both of them.

“It’s okay.” she said gently. “Trust me, I would love that. But I don’t want to put you at risk.”

Grace putting her at risk? But Wilson couldn’t breathe. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, burying her face in her hands. She’s a patient. She’s sick. You’re her doctor. You know better. The guilt came rushing in, crushing, acidic. How could you? She felt close to puking.

Grace placed a soft hand on her thigh, but Wilson remained still.

And House was right. This was a mistake.

She remembered warning Grace against even mild exposure, against intimate contact that could tip her already fragile immune system into danger. And now here she was, willfully ignoring her own protocol for a hook-up. For a thrill. For herself.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, voice cracking.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything. I enjoyed it a lot.” Grace touched her cheek softly. “We can stop here. Actually, I would prefer it. I’m a bit tired.”

“Yeah- Yeah, of course.” Wilson nodded, reaching down to grab her underwear off the floor.

“Any other time, trust me, I would’ve kept you on this couch for hours.” Grace said softly, with a breathy chuckle. She hadn’t taken Wilson’s apology as what it was, a plea to forgive her unprofessionalism and lack of ethics but as a mere acknowledgement that she couldn’t reciprocate. “I missed it. And you… you’re amazing. But my stamina isn't the same as it used to be.”

Wilson sat up, fumbling to button her shirt, not meeting Grace’s eyes. Her fingers were clumsy, shaking, like her body was still trying to remember how to be composed.

Silence settled between them, heavy and taut.

She felt shame bloom hot in her chest, not just for what almost happened, but for how badly she’d wanted it to. Grace placed a hand on her thigh to stop her, then adjusted her own hair and shirt and stood up slowly.

“Let me grab you a change.” 

Wilson shook her head and jumped up instead, feeling every inch of her exposed skin. 

“You don’t have to.”

She bent down to slip her underwear on, then her stockings, she ripped a hole in them. She rushed to put her heels on, then looked down. The young woman was smiling at her, like she wasn’t utterly repulsive. She was actually gazing fondly.

Wilson swallowed her guilt and held up her hands, then flexed them. 

“Dinner.” She said, then walked to the kitchen again, her heels clicking loudly against the hardwood floor. 

Wilson moved with mechanical precision. She boiled the pasta and plated it, though she barely registered the last steps of the recipe. Her mind felt numb, her stomach twisted. She brought the plates to the small table and gestured for Grace to join her. They ate in silence.

Grace smiled through it, watching Wilson with an easy fondness, like nothing at all had shifted. She took a bite, then looked across the table and said, dreamily:

“You moan like my ex.”

Wilson didn’t answer, just smiled. She chewed slowly, her fork clinking softly against the ceramic. She sat up too straight. Her knees were locked together under the table, her shoulders tense. Her underwear was too damp to be any comfortable. She felt like a hypocrite. Like she’d violated some sacred part of herself. And still, Grace looked at her like she’d done nothing wrong.

When the meal was finished, Wilson stood immediately, gathering the dishes like she was cleaning evidence from a crime scene. She moved to the sink, running hot water and scrubbing harder than necessary.

Behind her, she heard Grace rise and stretch. “I think I’m going to bed,” she said gently.

Wilson didn’t turn around. “Okay. I’ll just finish up here.”

There was a pause. “Thank you. For tonight.”

Wilson didn’t answer.

Later, once the kitchen was clean and quiet, she knocked softly on the bedroom door before entering with a cup of chamomile tea. Grace was already under the covers, the lamplight soft on her shaved head, her face relaxed and radiant.

Wilson placed the cup on the bedside table.

“You can stay the night if you want,” Grace offered, voice drowsy and open. “You don’t have to run off.”

Wilson hesitated, then sat down on the bed, beside her, stiff in her clothes, arms awkward in her lap.

“I can’t. I don’t want to leave House waiting.” She lied, the words flat and practiced. “She’ll be concerned.”

A beat passed.

Grace looked at her, a knowing look playing across her face. It wasn’t sharp, more amused, a little fond, not cruel.

“Of course you have to go back to her.” She let out a breathy chuckle, shaking her head.

Wilson blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You look like you’ve killed someone.”

Wilson froze. The air thinned. Dread trickled into her stomach like cold water.

Grace reached for her mug, eyeing Wilson with narrowed eyes. “Are you actually dating?”

Wilson furrowed her brows, confused.

“Me and House? No, I told you.”

“Then what’s the deal with you two?”

“I… I don’t know.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty, if you’re not dating,” Grace said softly, placing a warm hand on top of hers.

“That’s not… the reason—” Wilson started, then faltered.

“You should go to her,” Grace interrupted gently, like she wasn’t asking, just confirming a concern Wilson hadn’t even expressed. The oncologist blinked again, her chest tight. The moment hung still between them.

Then she nodded, slowly, mechanically, and stood up.

Grace leaned back into her pillows, taking a sip of her tea without another word.

“Goodnight.”

“Night, Jamie.” Grace said softly. “Thank you for the dinner. And the dessert.”

Wilson smiled, forced, and left the room quietly. The guilt, however, followed her out.

Wilson stepped out of the shower, steam still clinging to the air. Her damp skin glistened as she wrapped a towel around her head, the fabric soft and warm against her scalp. She slid under the cool, cheap hotel sheets of the bed, the towel still wrapped messily around her hair.

Her mind churned, restless. She thought about the way Grace’s hands had felt, the way her lips had pressed against her skin. But beneath the memory, a voice echoed louder, sharp, insistent, like a ghost tethered to her subconscious.

That voice had been there while she kissed Grace, while they moved together, slow and careful, but intense. Confusing. The sensation had been so good in the moment, so electric, so alive. And then, later, a crushing weight of guilt that settled deep, like dirt under her skin.

Even worse were Grace’s last words, soft, knowing. You should go to her.

Wilson hadn’t imagined House during sex, not in the way Grace thought she did. House wasn’t desire. House was logic. House was the part of her that should’ve been listening, the cold, rational voice warning her off the edge.

There was no desire for House, no heat or longing. She admired House, mesmerized by her brilliant, jagged mind. House was a puzzle she never tired of, a challenge wrapped in defiance and pain. But love? No, she would have known. She would’ve noticed if she were in love with House.

She thought back to the fantasies she’d had about House, soft moments hidden beneath the sharp edges, imagining what it might feel like to witness a softer side of her. Wondering about the men House hired, male hookers, she kept for a night. What they did, how they touched her. She’d wondered. Wondering wasn’t a crime. Thought about her while her husband, whichever of the two, lay asleep beside her. When House told her that she’d be busy with “one of her boys”, Wilson spent the rest of her day thinking about the dynamics, how such a controlling woman could ever be tamed, even for an hour, by a man. It felt impossible, it felt unfair. 

Wilson turned onto her side, staring out at the wallpaper, letting the silence fill the room.

Her mind sifted through their interactions, trying to make sense of the threads. She’d assumed House was off-limits, untouchable, some distant, untouchable figure who only ever truly belonged to herself. Ever since they’d met, every interaction they had since that neat categorization had fit between strictly platonic and just kind of odd. 

She’d thought odd things about House she hadn’t thought about others but she always assumed it was because of their proximity. After all, there was only so many times you could get drunk with your best friend without wondering what it would be like to kiss her.

Wilson swallowed hard at the sudden weight of the realization, her throat tight.

Her thoughts drifted back to a day that had lingered in her mind, vivid, electric, impossible to shake.

It was summer, before the infarction.

She had offered to drive House to work, but House hadn’t been ready. Wilson had knocked lightly on the worn wooden door, but House’s voice called out with that familiar gruffness, “Let yourself in.”

The moment Wilson stepped inside, the heavy scent of cigarette smoke wrapped around her, thick and acrid, curling in the air like a ghost. House used to smoke back then, not just that, she used to smoke indoors, a careless habit that marked the apartment like a signature.

“I can’t find my notebook. The yellow one.” House’s voice carried a rare urgency, the excuse for her tardiness.

Wilson found her pacing, barefoot on the scuffed hardwood floor, in jeans and sneakers but topless, the faintest outline of muscles shifting under pale skin.
A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth, smoke curling lazily upward. Her hair was still long back then, just starting to gray, tumbled over her shoulders in wild and unkempt waves, framing a face marked by sharp cheekbones. Another thin curl of smoke drifted upward from the cigarette now between her bony fingers as she bent down to look under the coffee table.

“House.” Wilson reprimanded her, lifting her hands, eyes closing in protest.

“What?” House’s eyes narrowed, exasperated.

“You’re naked.”

“What are you talking about?” House glanced down at herself and let out a low, gravelly groan, voice laced with amused irritation. “Grow up. It’s just tits. You have them too.”

Wilson flushed, swallowing the rising heat. “I can’t just… look.”

House shrugged, cigarette bobbing with the motion. “Trust me, there’s nothing sexual about them right now.”

Wilson’s gaze lingered, captivated despite herself. She watched as House moved like a predator in repose, confident and utterly indifferent. Her pale blue eyes darted restlessly, her jaw clenched, lips parted around the cigarette.

House’s movements were languid, casual, a study in contradictions. She stretched on tiptoes, reaching for a book perched high on a shelf. Her ribs protruded sharply, the pale planes of her torso catching the light, shadows emphasizing the lean angles. She took a drag of her cigarette while looking up there. The smoke curled around her, softening the hard edges.

Wilson’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I doubt it’s there.”

House’s eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint. 

“No. I just remembered I put some weed up here and forgot.” She looked over her shoulder, holding up a small wooden box like a prize with a lopsided smile.

Wilson’s attention drifted to unexpected details, the dark patch of hair peeking from under House’s armpits, unruly and unapologetic. Then, as House turned, Wilson caught sight of a faint trail of dark hair running from her navel down beneath the waistband of her unbuttoned jeans, a subtle, surprising hint of softness against the sharp angles of her body.

Since when did House have a happy trail? Wilson blinked, startled by the novelty. Had she ever even seen such a thing on a woman before?

“House,” Wilson called softly, pointing toward a yellow corner poking out from under the worn couch cushions. “There.”

House bent down with practiced ease, cigarette still clenched between her lips. She grabbed the notebook and stood tall again, cigarette now dangling between her fingers.

Without warning, she closed the distance in a few long, purposeful strides and cupped Wilson’s face with both hands. Her fingers were calloused but gentle, thumbs firm against Wilson’s cheeks before pressing a hard kiss to her forehead.

“Fuck, you’re a savior,” House murmured, sliding the cigarette back between her lips. She hopped toward the nearest ashtray with a mischievous grin. “If we weren’t in such a hurry, I’d get on my knees and suck your dick.”

Wilson giggled softly, breath catching in her throat as House rifled through the couch cushions and pulled a random shirt over her head. Wilson stole one last glance at House’s chest, the sharp collarbones, the soft swell beneath, small, pointy, facing opposite directions in an almost charming way, no bigger than A cups.

The fabric swallowed her lean frame but couldn’t hide the confident curve of her shoulders or the taut strength in her arms. She used to go to the gym every day back then, Wilson remembered noticing her biceps whenever she could. 

She looked up before House could catch her in the act but her eyes rose to find that signature lopsided smile: crooked, fearless, and utterly captivating.

“You have to pay for the full show.” She’d simply said, then walked past Wilson.

Wilson took decisive steps toward House’s office the next day, her heels tapping quickly on the hospital floor. She had already walked past Diagnostics twice that day, too nervous to go in while the team was still there. Now, with the glass-walled conference room finally empty, she seized her chance.

House was alone, hunched over her computer in the corner of her private office. The glow of the screen lit her face with a cold, bluish tint. Her fingers tapped restlessly at the keyboard. She didn’t look up.

Wilson stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her. She stood just beyond the desk, hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her throat felt dry.

“House?” she said, her voice cautious.

“What do you want?” House replied without glancing up, her tone distracted, eyes fixed on the monitor.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Hemorrhoids again?”

Wilson’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t respond to the jab. Her heart pounded against her ribcage.

“I think I might be…” she drew a breath, bracing herself, “a lesbian.”

House let out a short, derisive chuckle and finally looked up from the screen. She leaned back in her chair, studying Wilson with amused detachment.

“You think? ”

“Yes... should I not?”

“I’m surprised it took you this long.” House said, folding her arms behind her head and tipping back in her chair, as if she’d been waiting for this moment for years.

Wilson blinked, caught off guard. Her expression tightened in confusion.

“Was it obvious?”

“Oh, honey.” House said with exaggerated mockery.

Wilson frowned, flustered. She ran a hand through her hair.

“I... I did some thinking on my own. I thought about your situation and how blind I was, and I realized I might’ve been superficial about myself as well.”

“What made you realize?”

Wilson flushed, color rising high in her cheeks. She hesitated. “I told you, your situation.”

“That’s not all,” House said, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head with suspicious curiosity.

“I guess I always had a suspicion but never let myself even go there. But I think it’s pretty clear with three divorces under my belt.”

House’s expression shifted subtly, the sarcasm drained out of her face, replaced with something sharper, akin to disappointment.

“You had sex with her.” she said flatly.

Wilson stiffened and avoided her gaze. “Who?”

“Your patient. The Italian lesbian.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” Wilson scoffed mirthlessly.

“I saw you leaving with her the other day.”

“I didn’t have sex with her.”

“You did.” House’s voice rose slightly, incredulous.

“No. She just... kissed me. That’s all.” Wilson said too quickly.

“You had sex with her.” House said again, more forcefully this time.

“I—no, she… she just went down on… me. We stopped right after that.”

“She was that bad?”

“No, it was... good. It was really good. She was just tired. And I didn’t mean for the night to end that way.”

“You’re unbelievable.” House stared at her for a beat, then scoffed, rising abruptly from her chair and grabbing her cane with a sharp motion. “You could lose your job.”

"She's... she doesn't have much longer to live. She's not gonna be my patient for long."

"But she is now."

Wilson's face fell with fear.

"You wouldn't tell the Board."

“No, I wouldn’t.” House’s voice lowered, heavy with disappointment. “But you shouldn’t have done that.”

“I know.”

There was a long pause between them. Wilson stood still, arms folded around herself, while House leaned against her desk, gripping her cane tighter than necessary.

“Why her?” House finally asked.

“I guess I was curious. And she was desperate. We used each other.”

“She could press charges.”

“She’s not going to.”

“This is a new low even for you.”

“I know. I’m not proud of it.”

House let out a breath through her nose, sharp, bitter. Her eyes dropped to the floor for a moment before flicking back up to Wilson, narrowing slightly. She tapped the head of her cane against the edge of her desk, a steady, irritated rhythm.

“Do you even realize how lucky you are that I’m the one hearing this and not Cuddy?”

“I wouldn’t have told her.” Wilson said defensively.

House stepped closer, her gaze drilling into Wilson’s like she was trying to excavate the truth. “Good. Because Cuddy wouldn’t give you a little slap on the wrist. She’d hand you your resignation and have Security walk you out the door.”

“I didn’t plan for it to happen.” Wilson said, her voice barely audible.

“No one ever does.” House muttered. “That’s how people ruin their lives, one ‘I didn’t mean to’ at a time.”

Wilson looked down at her heels. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, white-knuckled. “I know. I crossed a line.”

House’s tone suddenly softened, the sarcasm retreating into something almost concerned. “You really that lost right now?”

Wilson looked up, startled by the shift.

“You walk around like you’re made of moral fiber,” House continued, quieter now. “But you’re unraveling. I can see it. I’ve seen it.”

Wilson didn’t respond right away. His throat worked as he swallowed.

“I think I’ve been unraveling for a while,” she admitted. “I just didn’t want to face it.”

House leaned back against her desk, the wood cool against her hip. One arm crossed over her chest, the other resting lazily atop her cane. Her stance was casual but closed off, like she was ready to make a joke out of whatever Wilson said next. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, striping her face in golden slats. She squinted at Wilson with faint amusement.

“So she was your first gay crush? A future bald chick?” House quipped, eyes sharp but her tone light.

“No, no. I don’t think so.” She gave a quick shrug, then looked up at House with a sheepish smile. “Does Anne Hathaway count?”

“You can’t pick her,” House groaned. “She looks too much like you, but not as pretty and with thinning hair. You can’t be that narcissistic and selfconscious, seriously.”

Wilson shot her a look, relieved that the earlier tension between them seemed to be thinning. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and asked carefully:

“Who was yours?”

House rolled her eyes with exaggerated effort, as if the question physically pained her.

“Why do you care?”

“I’m just curious,” Wilson said with a small shrug. “You never told me.”

House exhaled, the corner of her mouth twitching. She tapped her cane rhythmically against the floor, the soft thud filling the silence for a beat.

“I fooled around a lot in high school,” she said at last. “Had sex with girls before I even knew it was a thing. People weren’t generally for the homosexual crowd, unless the sapphics involved are really hot. And I wasn’t.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Wilson said, a bit more boldly this time. She arched a brow, teasing. “Come on, who was it? Was it Cuddy?”

“Later.” House gave a dismissive wave. “At that time I slept around with whoever was around. She was a nice catch but we were just having fun.” Her eyes drifted down for a moment, her voice quieting slightly. “I guess I didn’t accept the fact I actually enjoyed going somewhere over the rainbow until much later.”

“Stacy?” Wilson guessed, her voice gentler now.

“A girl from med school.”

“You said ‘later’. ”

“ She was in med school. I wasn’t.”

Wilson gave her a sideways look. “I hope this hasn’t happened in recent years.”

“We were approximately the same age,” House replied quickly, eyes lifting to meet Wilson’s skeptical stare. “Hey, I like them younger, what can I do?”

Wilson crossed her arms and tilted her head with mock judgment. “Was she of drinking age at least?”

“Oh, yeah,” House said, letting out a short laugh. “She was hammered when I met her. She was a graduate. Just got out of a relationship, needed some comfort.”

“Did you know that you liked her right away?” Wilson asked, voice soft again.

House stopped for a moment, then nodded with a smile.

“Yeah.”

“Did you sleep with her?”

“Nope. Not for lack of trying. I guess she had different tastes.” Something unreadable flickered across her face. She didn’t dwell on it. Instead, her eyes flicked back up. “Does your coming out mean you want me to be your wingman at lesbian bars?”

“God, no,” Wilson groaned. “You’d scare them away. Knowing you, you’d tell them I have murder charges or anal fissures.”

“You know me well. We should make out.”

“Unfortunately, I am still your primary care physician and I can only make out with one patient every 24 hours.”

“I get dibs on you tomorrow,” House said with a grin.

Wilson smirked back, the lines around her eyes softening.

House tilted her head and asked, “Lunch?”

“Sure.”

Chapter Text

They sat side by side on the weathered leather couch in House’s apartment, their legs lazily stretched out, ankles almost touching. The coffee table in front of them was cluttered with empty takeout boxes, remnants of lo mein and dumplings, and a shared beer bottle sat between them, occasionally passed back and forth without ceremony. The TV flickered softly with the changing lights of a commercial break, casting a dim, shifting glow across the room.

House shifted slightly, the couch creaking under her weight as she turned to glance at Wilson. Her lips pressed together thoughtfully, mischief already simmering behind her gaze.

“You wanna talk about girls?”

Wilson let out a soft groan and leaned his head back against the cushion, eyes still on the TV. “ What about girls?”

“I dunno… their boobs?” House said with a lopsided smile, nudging the beer bottle in Wilson’s direction.

“We’ve always talked about women’s boobs.”

“Yeah but now we can do it in a disrespectful way.”

“Okay, then. Boobs.”

House narrowed her eyes at her.

“Boobs or ass?”

“I’m not superficial like you. I like much more than just that—”

“Answer the question.”

“I can’t go based on appearance alone. If I like someone, I like them for their personality—”

“Boobs or ass?”

Wilson hesitated, then gave a sheepish glance to the side.

“Hands. I- I... I like hands.”

House’s smirk deepened. She sat up a little straighter, clearly entertained. “Is that like a fetish?”

“What? No! I just- I like people with nice hands.”

House gave a small chuckle. “What qualifies a hand as a nice one?”

“You just know it when you see it,” Wilson replied with a shrug, her gaze drifting back to the television. “Between boobs and ass, ass.”

“Rookie mistake. You’ll learn to love them,” House said, lifting her hand and studying it idly under the TV’s glow. “I have calloused palms. Tips, too. That’s pretty ugly by societal standards.”

“I don’t base my opinions on societal standards.”

“What a rebel,” House said with mock reverence.

Wilson turned slightly and looked at her. Her eyes lingered on House’s hand. “You have nice hands.”

“You can’t just say that without an explanation. Support your argument.”

“You have... slender fingers. The calluses are just a product of your music, which makes them endearing more than anything.”

“Not ugly?”

“No.”

“Manly, then?”

“I don’t think they are. They’re not feminine, either. They’re just... yours.”

Without warning, House reached out and grabbed Wilson’s hand with little delicacy. She held it up between them and squinted like she was inspecting a medical specimen. Manicured, tender, nails clipped short but elegantly. 

“Soft, as expected. Soft, privileged, feminine hands of someone who hasn’t worked a manual job a day in their privileged life.”

“Shut up. It’s just... moisturizer.”

“Is it?” House pulled Wilson’s hand closer and sniffed. “Oh, yeah, here’s that infamous coconut cream.”

“I like it.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t.” House’s fingers shifted slightly, her thumb brushing lightly over Wilson’s ring finger. “You still have a tan from your wedding ring.”

“I thought it would go away with the winter,” Wilson murmured, glancing down.

House turned their palms and pressed them together, comparing sizes. “Mine’s bigger.”

“You’re also taller.”

“It adds mystery to my presence.”

“It adds something, but it surely isn’t ‘mystery’ since anyone can spot you hobbling around from a mile away.”

House smirked, not bothering to argue. “You have soft girly hands.”

“You’ve said that,” Wilson whispered, her voice quieter now.

House leaned back slightly, her gaze sharp and unblinking as she studied Wilson’s face. The dim light of the room softened the edges of everything, but the intensity in their eyes made the space between them electric.

“After hands, what else do you like about a girl?”

Wilson hesitated, then pointed a warning finger at her with a playful but cautious smile. “Eyes, I think. Don’t laugh at me.”

House’s lips twitched into a near-smirk, but she didn’t look away. “I’m not laughing. I’m just thinking.” Her voice dropped a notch, more deliberate. She kept her eyes locked on Wilson’s, unflinching. “All your husbands had blue or green eyes.”

Wilson swallowed, her eyes flickering downward briefly before meeting House’s again. “I think, yes.”

“You prefer light eyes.”

“Not... necessarily.”

House’s tone softened, but the stare never wavered.
“I wasn’t asking.” She let the silence stretch just long enough to make Wilson’s skin prickle. Then House added, “Sam had psycho eyes. Benny had creepy stalker eyes.”

Wilson’s brows knit together defensively. “No, they didn’t.”

“Julien had pretty eyes, I’ll give you that. He looked gay, though.” House’s voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. “Not like you were looking at any of them anyway. You probably avoided looking at their faces too much. You didn’t care for their appearance, you just liked the praise. The fact they needed you.”

Wilson’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I didn’t ask to be psychoanalyzed.”

House’s eyes glimmered with something sharp. “You were convinced you were straight for so long just because you liked hearing you pleased them. That you’d done a good job. That you fixed them.”

“House.” Wilson’s voice was tired, strained, but she didn’t look away.

“You never listened to me when I told you he, whichever of the three, wasn’t the one for you.”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t think anyone could be the one for me.”

“But I was correct with the last three.” House’s voice was softer now, almost pitying. “I could’ve saved you years of court hearings.”

Wilson let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “If I listened to every unsolicited advice you give me I would be a miserable shell of a woman who has nobody in their life but you.”

House leaned in a fraction closer, their faces inches apart now, her breath faint on Wilson’s cheek. “At least I’d have you all to myself.”

Wilson laughed, but it was mirthless, a hollow sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You confuse me.”

“I tend to do that to most people.” House’s eyes glinted as she turned to look fully at Wilson, voice teasing. “About what?”

Wilson met her gaze, voice low. “You’re always so jealous of everyone who gets to share me with you.”

House’s expression darkened slightly, eyes narrowing. “And?”

Wilson blinked, caught off guard by the change. “It doesn’t make sense.”

House’s voice dropped, a whisper against the quiet hum of the room. “It does to me.”

Wilson’s brow furrowed. “Why would you be jealous of my husbands?”

“Because they were all idiots who took time off your schedule that you could’ve spent with me.”

Wilson shook her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Friendships don’t work like that.”

“Ours does,” House said, voice thick with something unspoken. “And you never whined once about it.”

Wilson’s smile faded into something softer, more vulnerable. “I did, plenty of times.”

House’s eyes softened, and she reached out, fingertips brushing lightly against Wilson’s hand. “Yet you still stuck around.”

They held each other’s gaze, the air between them charged, the unspoken words lingering heavy on their lips.

Wilson’s gaze flickered down to House’s lips and lingered there a moment longer than necessary. Her voice was low, teasing but edged with something more vulnerable.

“House, is this normal to you?”

House shifted slightly on the couch, leaning back against the cushions with one arm draped lazily over the backrest. Her eyes locked on Wilson’s, mischievous but steady.

“Yeah. Boys night with my best girlfriend. What’s not normal about it?”

Wilson’s breath hitched as she caught the way House’s mouth moved, and she fought the urge to lean in closer. Her voice softened, almost a whisper.

“You haven’t looked up at my eyes once in the last few minutes.”

House’s smirk deepened, her gaze dropping ever so slightly, teasing.

“You have something in your teeth.”

Wilson blinked, shaking her head. “I don’t.”

“You do.” House’s voice was almost conspiratorial now, as if sharing a secret. “I can even pick it out for you, that’s how good of a friend I am.” She glanced down briefly, then looked back up with mock seriousness. “Oh, and your boobs are very visible. It’s distracting me. I’m trying not to look but any pair is like a magnet to me.”

Wilson’s cheeks flushed, heat creeping up her neck. She scoffed but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement.

“Or… you could stop looking at them.”

House’s eyes gleamed with playful challenge.

“See? This is what puzzles me. A real dyke would understand my affliction, maybe even be compassionate enough to show them to me. Because she would know how difficult it is to see a beautiful pair not in its totality. You’ve never had that. You’ve always been professional in front of a nice rack. Never lost composure.”

Wilson’s voice was sharp now, laced with mock offense but there was something else in her tone, something rawer.

“Because I’m not a pervert.”

House raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing slightly.

Wilson continued: “And what are you saying? That I’m not gay?”

House’s eyes locked with hers, steady and challenging.

“You’re just hardly believable.”

Wilson’s smile faltered for a heartbeat.

“You just said you knew I was gay.”

“You are, but this… this coming out is not spontaneous. It’s not real, it’s just a label you slapped on yourself because you want to believe your marriages failed because of a bigger reason.”

Wilson’s chest tightened, but she refused to look away.

“They didn’t?”

“They did, but you’re also a shitty wife.” House said bluntly, then added, her tone lighter, almost teasing: “Not to me, you’re great in the kitchen and you have a very nice rack to ogle.”

Wilson’s laugh was bitter, a dry scoff that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Great. So I suck at relationships and I’m a fake lesbian?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Wilson’s eyes flashed with challenge, lips twitching.

“You’re unbelievable.”

House leaned forward suddenly, voice low and confident, a smirk playing on her lips.

“I’ve been dipping my toes in the gay pond longer than you’ve been sentient. I have authority over who fakes and who doesn’t.”

Wilson’s breath hitched, a mixture of frustration and something else bubbling beneath the surface.

“How am I even supposed to fake it if I am actually gay?”

House’s gaze sharpened, piercing.

“That’s the question.” She paused, then added with slow, deliberate emphasis, “You might be a horrible actress but you’re a great liar. And this is all too sudden. You’re just doing what you always do: you morph yourself into whatever the closest person to you needs. And what your patient needs is a sapphic morphine dealer.”

Wilson’s jaw clenched, voice firmer but with a hint of desperation.

“I’m not gay because I like Grace.”

House’s laugh was low and almost cruelly amused.

“Right, you’re gay because Grace needs you now. The moment she kicks the bucket, you’ll probably find a Mr. Wilson number four.”

The silence that followed was thick and charged, their eyes locked as if daring the other to break first.

Wilson’s eyes bore into House’s, unflinching. “This is not a phase.”

House chuckled, a slow, teasing smile spreading across her face. She shifted her weight on the couch, propping her cane against the armrest. “Aw, you sound just like me in the eighties.”

Wilson’s lips twitched into a small, reluctant grin. “And? You are still gay!”

“Yeah,” House replied, voice softer but laced with irony, “because I spent years flagellating myself over the question ‘do I like boobs because I’m a feminist or do I just like them in my hands? ’”

Wilson laughed, the sound light but edged with defensiveness. “I questioned too.”

“For how long? A day?” House’s eyebrow arched in amusement.

Wilson crossed her arms, face set stubbornly. “Five. And I always thought something was… off.”

House rolled her eyes. “You’ve not even had sex with a woman.”

Wilson’s voice went up a pitch. “I have!”

House’s smirk turned into a teasing sneer. “On the receiving end, you don’t know if you like eating women out. I doubt you’ve even watched porn where it happens.”

“I can’t be gay without checking every box of the lesbian Kamasutra?”

House shrugged, amusement sparkling in her eyes. “Ideally, yes. It would be a fun requirement to watch you fulfill as your roommate.”

“No longer your roommate.” Wilson corrected her.

House raised her brows, playful but pointed. “Do you even know how to please a woman?”

Wilson gave her a deadpan look. 

“Of course not, masturbation is frowned upon in the Amish community I’m part of.” The diagnostician smiled. “House, I have rubbed one off before, believe it or not.”

“When Reagan was still in office.”

Wilson snorted. “Trust me, I’ve entertained myself even on honeymoons.”

House’s gaze sharpened, her voice teasing. “Who was it? Sam or Julien?”

“Both, surprisingly.”

House shook her head, mock-serious. “That’s the thing, you’ve gotten so used to having sex with men that it’s no doubt you’re having a middle age crisis after receiving your first lesbian head.”

“Not middle aged.”

“You felt things you’ve never felt before and now you think that’s who you are, just because apparently chemo doesn’t hinder cunnilingus skills.”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “You think you get authority just because you’ve had sex with women and I haven’t?”

“I do.” House said simply. House’s smile was slow, almost predatory.

Wilson’s breath hitched, voice low but steady. “Give me one logical reason.”

House’s grin returned, wicked and unapologetic. “I dunno, it’s just fun to mess with you.”

Wilson gave it a moment, then insisted:

“I know how to please a woman.” wilson insisted.

“Do you?” The older doctor promptly mocked her.

“I am one and I can please myself just fine.”

“Can you? I doubt a cancer patient has strong stamina yet it seemingly rocked your world, suggesting that you have very low standards for oral.”

“She was good! Great, even. And, even if that wasn't the case, I am a people-pleaser. If I don’t know, I will… put in the work.”

House narrowed her eyes.

“Will you?”

“I know the basics, the rest I can improvise.”

“Tell me the basics.”

Wilson scoffed.

“Absolutely not, I’m done humoring you.”

“Because you don't know them.”

“What are we, in fourth grade?”

“You don't know them so yeah, maybe you’re still stuck in fourth grade.”

“I know the basics.”

“Then, show me.”

Wilson stared at her for a good five seconds, and tried not to cave in with that challenging look but eventually stood up and marched to the kitchen.

House furrowed her brows, hearing a drawer open, then a rustling.

“You know you don't need to crack me open like a lobster to suck me off, right?”

Wilson returned with half an orange.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The oncologist sat down and cleared her throat. Her eyebrow twitched, as her fingers sheepishly approached the orange. Her middle and ring finger started on the upper side of the slice and moved in slow circles.

“You… start off like this…” She murmured, then ran her finger tips down the middle. “Then you kind of go…”

She pressed her two fingers into the fruit's soft interior. The pulp gave way with a quiet squelch, the kind of sound that made House’s mouth quirk up to the side.

“Then you use your thumb-”

“Stop fingering my fruit already, you’re making a fool out of yourself.” House grabbed the orange from her hand and held it up with an incredulous chuckle. “Is this what you’re practicing on?”

“I’m not… practicing.” Wilson murmured, retreating her hand with shame. Juice welled up and ran in slow dribbles across her knuckles.

“The good old pillow? Your hand?” 

“I’m not!”

House shot her a look, malicious and provoking, eyes narrowed. 

“Grace?”

“Grace is not an experiment.” Wilson swallowed, watching House set the orange on top of the lid of a takeout box.

“She is. There's nothing wrong with that. Well, there's a lot wrong with that, at least from HR’s point of view. But we’ve all done it, hitting up the closest lesbian in your area and getting the head of your life in exchange for a joint. Or chemo and morphine, in your case.”

“She’s the only one I know.”

House blinked, amused.

“You've just learned about three sapphics in your proximity and you turned to the one that was off limits and under narcotics.”

“Technically you're under narcotics too.”

“Doesn't seem to be a turn-off for you.”

“If I can't go to a patient then I shouldn't go to my superior either. And Stacy is in Boston.”

“Do me, then.”

Wilson blinked a few times, furrowing her thick brows, thinking she might've misheard.

“Come again?”

“Hopefully, if you're good.” House said, completely casually, almost annoyed that Wilson hadn't asked. “Do me, as practice.”

“What?”

“What are friends for if not to use them for your own benefits? I get prescriptions out of you. The least I could do is lend my body to science.”

Wilson nodded slowly.

“Sure, that makes sense. Whoring yourself out for narcotics surely isn't an alarming sign of addiction.”

“The thing is, I don't need to whore myself out, you’ll write prescriptions anyway. This is me being selfless.”

“By doing what? Offering to… sleep with me?”

“Offering a feminine body to practice your lesbianism on.”

Wilson looked around.

“Is the feminine body in the room right now?”

House rolled her eyes.

“Oh, I get it, you're one of those lesbians who only want to hook up with other hot girls.”

“You’re hot.” Her own quickness in replying caught her off guard. She shook her head and held up a sticky hand in protest. “But that's not my point.”

“You don't like butches?”

“I do.”   

“But do you?”

Wilson sighed.

“What is this about, House?”

“What I said. Show me how you please a woman.” Wilson reached out and grabbed the fruit again. “Drop that damn orange.”

She obeyed, with some skepticism.

“You want me to show... on you?”

House shrugged.

“Least I could do as a friend and older dyke.”

“Is it?”

“I’m just being altruistic here.”

Wilson nodded, slowly, taking in the situation. She bit the inside of her tongue then tilted her head after a pause.

“We wouldn't be on this couch, would we? Me and this hypothetical woman?”

“For the purpose of this demonstration, you’ll be on a couch, yes.”

Years of easy trust and hours spent in that same living room, scrub rooms, late calls, private silences. Too much shared, and suddenly, it wasn't enough.

Something twisted in Wilson, not cruel, not calculated, but raw and irrational. A quiet hunger, sharpened by all the decades she had not said what lived just under the surface of her composure. A dare, directed as much at herself as at House.

“I think, if she had a sweet tooth, I would start like this…” She said softly.

She held up her hand.

House looked at it, puzzled.

Wilson moved toward her, her fingers, slick with orange juice, hovered just inches from her parted lips, her gaze locked on her friend’s face with perverse curiosity.

House's breath caught, not from the taste, but from the way she was being observed. Slowly, deliberately, Wilson lifted her hand. Her fingers curved gently, hesitating just a moment before coming to rest on her cheek. Her thumb brushed lightly along the sharp line of House’s jaw, warm skin beneath her fingertips.

The older woman’s breath hitched, eyes widening just enough to betray surprise, but she didn't pull away.

Instead, she leaned into the touch.

Her thumb caressed her jaw. A silent gamble.

The moment stretched thin and taut.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that made House’s breath catch, Wilson lifted her fingers toward her parted lips.

House had a choice: pull away and keep the distance safe, or lean in and see what waited beyond.

She opened her mouth.

Wilson brought her fingers slowly to her friend's thin lips, warm skin brushing against soft flesh. House instinctively parted her lips wider, and let her fingertips brush over her tongue.

The taste was sharp, bright, unexpectedly floral with an undercurrent of bitterness. But that wasn't what held attention. It was the weight of Wilson’s gaze, the way she held her still, her thumb firm on her jaw, like she was testing not just the juice but the boundaries between them.

Just as easy as they entered her mouth, they retreated, stopping just shy of her lower lip. House's eyes fluttered open, she hadn't even noticed she'd closed them.

“Bit bitter.” She whispered, her voice betraying her with a faint crack.

Wilson continued observing her, something sick in the way she kept staring at her mouth. She had a chance to pull away and stop it there, yet she continued:

“And if she was very devoted to me in a weird, obsessive way, I would do this…”

Wilson’s fingers pressed against her lower lip, pulling it down.

House tilted her head, like an obedient dog, a corner of her mouth twitching, but she didn't argue. She opened her lips again, eyes never leaving Wilson, who watched the subtle shift in House’s breath as the damp fingers touched her tongue again.

Watched her lips close around them with a slow, cautious ease. Watched her jaw tighten slightly at the burst of flavor, bright, citrus-sharp, then trailing into something bitter and unfamiliar.

Wilson pushed her fingers further in, by the second knuckle now. House’s breath slowed. She didn't look away.

Wilson, to her credit, didn't move either. She just watched her with some sort of hunger, not with expectation, but with a kind of quiet awe.

House hesitated only a breath, then opened her mouth wider, tilting her head slightly back.

Wilson’s fingers moved on her tongue, not in the center, but to the sides, where she could guide the muscle down without force. The touch was almost clinical. Not careless, just practiced.

The tongue resisted at first, slick and instinctively recoiling. House felt the flutter of her own throat, the telltale tickle of a gag reflex coiled just beneath her control.

Wilson noticed it, then noticed the way House controlled herself and breathed through her nose, the low rumble of a hum vibrating through her fingers as House’s lips closed around them.

“By now she should've had a gag reflex but I suppose, in this hypothetical, she’s an opioid addict that swallows pills dry and was very famous in med school and not because she was a good student.” Wilson whispered, her eyes low-lidded, almost inebriated.

The air between them had changed. Not heavier, exactly. just charged. Like a struck match that hadn't yet found a wick. Wilson’s thumb pressed under her chin, almost holding her in place.

House’s focus narrowed to her fingers resting on her tongue, the press of warm skin, the quiet weight of surrender.

House’s gaze lifted in silence, obedient and waiting. And that was when Wilson smiled.

Not sweetly, but not cruelly either.

Just amused.

“And apparently someone I thought would be more of a brat.”

House watched her with a kind of reverence at first. But then something shifted. The softness didn't vanish, it curled into something sharper, amused, just a little wicked.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, her mouth curving into a smile that was all mischief and heat.

And then she leaned back slightly, to elt the fingers emerge, then bit them, gently, playfully, right at the tips. Not hard. Not serious.

Wilson smiled, holding her saliva-slicked fingers against House's lower lip. House smiled at her, lopsided and satisfied.

Wilson didn’t look smug, no grin, no arch of the brow, just calm. As if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. As if she hadn’t just offered a loaded gesture with no intent to explain it.

House blinked once, slowly. Then again.

For a moment, she almost asked. Almost pushed. Almost filled the silence with a challenge or a sarcastic jab. But she didn’t. She let it stretch, let the quiet crackle.

Then Wilson tilted her head, lips parted slightly as if to speak, but still, she didn’t. And House realized she wouldn’t.

Because this, whatever that had been, wasn’t for show. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t selfless. It wasn’t even about House, entirely. There was something deeper under that polished doctor surface. Something dark, intentional, almost cruel in its subtlety. Not the kind that harms, but the kind that sees how close it can get to the fire without blinking.

Wilson leaned in a little closer, her lips curling into a smirk that mirrored House’s, low, slow, wolfish.

“You should go home,” House said suddenly, her voice gravelly. A droplet of saliva slipped from the corner of her mouth, trailing to her chin.

Wilson blinked, the daze breaking. Her low-lidded eyes opened into their familiar, kicked-puppy look. She looked genuinely caught off guard.

“I don’t have one,” she said, and the words came out too quickly, too desperate to sound casual.

“Your hotel room, then,” House replied evenly, still smiling, a smile that somehow confused more than comforted.

“You’re sending mixed signals.”

House reached for her cane and hauled herself up with practiced force. She didn’t look back.

“Throw the trash on the way out, would you?”

Wilson stayed seated, staring up at her in disbelief, her fingers still sticky. The silence stretched again, heavier now, bruised.

“Do you… actually want me to go?”

House glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. Something flickered there. Not regret, not cruelty, just restraint.

“Go home,” she said quietly. “Go hotel, I guess.”

She limped toward the kitchen, not waiting for Wilson’s reaction.

Wilson wasn’t sure what she felt on the drive back to the hotel. It wasn’t quite shame, not in the way she probably should’ve felt it. She wasn’t proud of what she’d done, exactly, but she couldn’t call it regret either. There had been something exhilarating in the way House had responded, compliant, still, almost reverent. Wilson had never seen her like that before. Not with Grace, not with anyone.

The only thing that came close was a night she hardly ever thought about anymore, a medical convention in the late '90s, back when she was still half-heartedly married to Benny and full-heartedly starving for validation. She’d ended up in bed with a forgettable neurologist, the kind of man who saw her and didn’t try to outpace her. He called her impressive for making it to Head of Oncology in a field dominated by men. He was right, she was. But that wasn’t why she slept with him. She did it because he’d told her, without irony or shame, that she could do anything she wanted to him. And she had. Not because she wanted him, but because she needed the high.

But House wasn’t some soft man with something to prove. She had always drawn Wilson in. Always been too sharp, too clever, too magnetic to ignore. She wasn’t just attractive. She was the kind of attractive that made Wilson wonder, in the quiet corners of her mind, if something had been wired wrong in her since childhood, to crave someone so inaccessible, so much older, so much more dangerous.

And still, it had only ever been House. Not a pattern. Not a phase.

Tonight, she had crossed a line, the last standing boundary between them, and it had felt... addictive. Not just thrilling, not just impulsive. Addictive.

She should’ve felt guilt. She should’ve been panicking over the damage, the rupture in something that had lasted years. But House had told her to leave, and instead of crumbling with guilt or shame, Wilson felt nothing of the sort.

All she felt was want. Still humming under her skin. She should’ve curled into her bed and wondered what had prompted her to ruin decades of friendship like that, yet she touched herself in the shower and slept soundly the whole night.

She walked into the hospital the following morning with a calm she couldn’t fully account for. She tucked her coat under her arm and headed for Diagnostics, unsure what she was even planning to say when she got there, just that she wanted to see her.

House had told her to leave, yes. But she hadn’t said "don’t come back." And Wilson didn’t feel shame, not really. Just nerves, quiet and steady. She pushed the glass door open with its familiar hiss, and Wilson stepped inside. She froze halfway into the room.

Chase and Cameron were near the coffee station in the corner, standing just a little too close, voices low and warm, his hand brushing her elbow as she laughed at something he’d said. The moment was intimate, easy. Wilson felt like she’d walked in on a private scene. She cleared her throat quietly, not wanting to interrupt, but needing to excuse herself.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, already backing out. “Wrong timing.”

They barely noticed. She left without another word and took it, a little unfairly, as a sign. Divine intervention, if she were superstitious: she wasn’t meant to talk to House this morning. She wasn’t meant to ask what that moment had been or whether it had meant anything at all. Maybe she’d pushed the line too far, and this was the world nudging her back into place.

So she went on with her day. Her rounds gave her comfort, something structured, something within control. Even the chaos of new patients, new charts, gave her rhythm. She didn’t feel off balance. She didn’t even feel anxious, not really. House had kicked her out, but not out of her life. That much she knew.

They were too far gone for their friendship to rupture over something like that. House would act out, throw barbs, maybe avoid her for a day, but they’d fall back into sync like they always did.

Wilson had been keeping to herself all morning, eyes on charts, lips pressed in a neutral line that leaned toward forced calm. She was halfway through updating a file outside Room 243 when she heard it, that distinct, rhythmic pattern of three thuds against the linoleum floor. Two steps and a cane.

She didn’t look up. Her grip on the clipboard tightened slightly. House was beside her now, so close she could smell the faint musk of coffee.

"Have you noticed how weird Cameron and Chase are acting lately?" Wilson asked, voice level, trying too hard to sound casual as she scribbled the last note.

"You wanted to play rock, paper, scissors last night.” House replied instead, tone cool and direct.

Wilson blinked, glancing up at her with a frown. “And I thought I was talking about your employees.”

"And I’m talking about how you stuck your fingers in my mouth last night.”

Wilson stiffened, immediately looking around the hallway in mild panic. A nurse passed by with a stack of gauze and a disinterested glance. She hissed quietly, “Could you lower your voice?”

“You’re really a lesbian.” House said it like a diagnosis, not a surprise. But the corner of her mouth twitched with amusement.

Wilson furrowed her brows. “Because I let you manipulate me into some casual sodomy?”

“Nothing casual about answering your dominatrix calling.”

“Cuddy’s office is a few rooms away, but I understand the confusion,” Wilson muttered, starting to walk down the hall. She didn’t need this conversation echoing through Oncology. House followed, of course, her cane clicking a steady beat between them.

“You're not befriending Dorothy because it's trendy.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“I was just checking.” House fell in step beside her, close enough for their arms to brush occasionally, and glanced sideways, her smirk widening. “I believe you could actually please a woman.”

Wilson scoffed, drawing her clipboard to her chest like armor. “That's all it took to convince you? Some lazy flirting?”

“More like your second husband.”

“He wasn't a woman.”

“But I knew you wanted him to be.”

Wilson stopped in her tracks, nearly causing House to bump into her. She turned, eyes narrowing. “You knew?”

House cocked her head. “Who didn't?”

Wilson’s face shifted, her mouth parting slightly as she processed it. A slow realization crept in, and she pointed a finger at her.

“You weren't doubting my sexuality. You’re just jealous.”

House’s eyes twinkled. Her smirk turned wicked. “So you can be bright sometimes.”

Wilson stared at her, blinking. Then her voice dropped, quieter, as something more tentative tugged at her ribs. “You meant it? Your offer?”

“Oh, of course not,” House said mockingly, stepping in just enough to make Wilson feel the warmth radiating off her. “Why would I want my younger, prettier best friend to show me her tactile skills?”

Wilson’s eyes flicked to her lips. She didn’t even mean to.

“I don't want to... ruin our friendship.”

"I would argue tribbing can only make friendships better."

Wilson glanced around quickly, then leaned a little closer, her voice a whisper. “So you... wanted me to kiss you?”

“Hopefully more than that,” House scoffed. “I wish you had taken initiative, yes.”

"You kicked me out. Again.” Wilson said, confused, the tone almost hurt now.

"I wanted you to think about it.” House admitted, eyes darting to a nearby corner, avoiding direct contact now, a rare sign of honesty. “You can be very impulsive after divorces. Getting bad haircuts, adopting dogs, sleeping with patients. I wanted to make sure it wasn't a lapse in judgment." Her voice softened near the end. "Come over tonight? We could watch Scream again. Then we can do some screaming of our own if you're as good as you say."

Wilson’s mouth parted, breath catching. “O-Okay.”

House gave a little nod and started walking away, as if nothing had happened, the cane leading her stride with quiet confidence.

Wilson called after her, a beat too late: “Are you gonna kick me out again?”

House didn’t even glance back. “Probably.”

House’s patient had crashed, a code blue called over the intercom, followed by a flurry of footsteps and the sound of gurney wheels screeching against tile. Oddly enough, that’s when it hit Wilson. The realization didn’t arrive as a bolt of lightning or a cinematic rush of violins, but in the quiet way certainty sometimes does. Watching House march after her team, barking out commands, it hit her all at once.

She followed, almost on autopilot.

Wilson reached the scrub room about a minute later, breath slightly quickened, heart thudding in her chest. Through the glass, she saw the rest of House’s team already rapidthe OR, masked and acting. House stood alone at the sink, scrubbing her hands with slow, deliberate circles, meticulous and silent.

"You were trying to sleep with me from the start."

House didn’t look surprised. She turned her head slightly over her shoulder, eyes sharp and unreadable. She looked every bit the contradiction she always was in scrubs, clinical, severe, and effortlessly authoritative.

"Probably. When, exactly?" she said dryly, grabbing a sterile towel and patting her hands and forearms.

"Not just last night," Wilson continued, breath catching as she stepped inside, the heat from her skin trapped by the tension in the air. "With the hands, the casual submissiveness — you’ve been flirting the whole time. You’ve been flirting with me since we met."

She automatically moved toward the rack of gowns and began pulling a set down for House, muscle memory taking over as she spoke. 

"I act like this with everyone, don't think you're special," House said. She limped past Wilson, without her cane, heading toward the gloves. The first pair snapped on with a practiced flick.

Wilson followed her. "No, you had an objective in mind and you were frustrated that I didn't catch on. But I caught on! Now. I just lately caught on."

She helped House slip into the gown, her fingers tugging at the ties with something between urgency and instinct. House watched her take on the helping role like second nature. Her pale blue eyes looked even clearer under the harsh lights that made her wrinkles look even deeper, a small droplet of water followed the curve of her long philtrum, the narrow slope to her thin upper lip. The deep crow’s feet fanned out from the corners of her eyes.

Wilson only then realized what House had said.

“Wait, you would actually have sex with me?”

"Yes." House’s voice was nonchalant, feeling Wilson was not rushing enough while tying her gown. "I'm kinda busy at the moment, could we do this later? My patient's in a bit of a hurry—"

Wilson reached for gloves of her own, snapping them on, then moved in front of House to help with hers. Their hands met at the edge of the latex, and Wilson’s fingers stalled, just for a second, resting on the back of House’s hand. She looked up.

"What do you mean, yes?" she asked, the words softer, almost bewildered now.

"Did you want me to say 'no'?" Her eyes looked oddly sincere, too bright for someone so relentlessly bitter.

The pale blue cotton clung to her long frame without flattering it, but somehow, it didn’t matter. She wore the shapeless uniform like it was tailored for her. Her short, graying hair, uneven and rebelliously spiked, stuck up at all angles, the kind of disarray that clearly came from self-cutting with dull kitchen scissors and a total disregard for mirrors. There was a handsomeness to her, but it wasn’t neat or obvious. It was the kind that demanded you look again. The lined skin, the small furrows of her brow, the way her features settled in lived-in places, it was real beauty, worn with absolute disinterest.

Wilson blinked, once, twice, then shook her head slowly, lips parting but no sound coming out.

“…No.”

House smirked, eyes crinkling with smugness, and gave a small, satisfied nod, keeping her sterilized hands raised as she backed toward the OR doors, with her limp punctuating every step.

"Cool," she said, then, in one fluid movement, used her back to push the door open, disappearing into the harsh lights beyond, leaving Wilson standing alone, gloved hands still at her sides, stunned in silence.

She found herself marching into Cuddy’s office, barely pausing to knock. The door thudded shut behind her.

“How do I have sex with House?” she asked, abruptly, standing with both hands on her hips like she was ready to debate policy.

Cuddy looked up from her paperwork, brow furrowing.

“Did you lose a bet?”

“I’m having sex with House tonight.” It felt odd to admit out loud. Her voice was tense, her tie suddenly feeling like a noose. “And I’m terrified.”

“For good reason.” Cuddy leaned back in her chair, skeptical. “Did you agree to that or is it a threat—?”

“I suggested it.”

Cuddy blinked, unimpressed.

“You can’t be serious.” Her face shifted into disappointment, lips pressing together. “You find out she’s into women one day and the next you’re trying to get into her pants? Were you waiting for a green light?”

“I didn’t know I was,” Wilson admitted, almost defensively. “But I guess so.”

“And I’m just supposed to ignore the fact you're into women now?”

“I married three men and divorced all of them, I think we both saw it coming.”

“So you’re exploring this new side of yourself by hooking up with House? Seriously? Nobody else was available?”

“Don’t act like it’s surprising,” Wilson snapped back. “You thought we had already hooked up.”

“Yes. And moved on. Like I did. Like anyone should.”

“I don’t… wanna move on.” Wilson’s tone dropped, softening. She looked down at the floor.

Cuddy stilled for a moment, then exhaled.

“What, you wanna move in?”

“My stuff’s already somewhat at her place. It’s been there since I left Julien.”

“Since he left you.” Cuddy corrected sharply.

“So you’ve been living with her this whole time? I thought you were looking for a place.”

“I was. I’m at a hotel now. But I… wouldn’t mind going back to her.” Wilson hesitated, then added, almost shyly, “She folds my laundry.”

Cuddy raised a finger without even looking up.

“Don’t mention that to her.”

“Why not? She wants me in.”

“If you tell her you want to come back, then it’s no longer her idea. And she’ll think you’re going too fast. You have to let her think she’s in charge.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“She moved in with Stacy the same week they started dating.”

“I’m prepared for that risk.”

“She only did that because Stacy said she hated having roommates. And House said the same, then packed Stacy’s bags behind her back and moved her in anyway.”

“She still says she hates roommates.”

“Then that probably means she wants your last name on the doorbell,” Cuddy muttered, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “This is a very bad idea.”

“Why?” Wilson asked, earnestly.

“This is your first lesbian experience, you haven’t even had sex with a woman yet and you already want to move in with her?”

“Not my first.” The oncologist’s cheeks flushed pink.

“When did this happen? With who?”

“Nobody.” Wilson rushed, holding up her hands. “Listen, I’ve had sex with a woman already this week, I loved it but I didn’t exactly do much. I didn’t… lead. And I always lead, kind of, I usually… give a lot. And I didn't, that time. I came here to ask you how.”

Cuddy had barely looked up from her paperwork when Wilson dropped herself into the chair across from her, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her foot bounced with nervous energy, but her expression was stone-serious.

“We should go back to the House talk before I use my work time to give you a rundown of the bees and the bees.”

Cuddy blinked, sighed, and finally put her pen down, clearly preparing for something exhausting.

“House is good for me. Yes, she’s insane, mentally unstable and a bit of a psychopath but I like that! For all I know, it gets me very hot and bothered. That says more about me than it does about her.” Wilson leaned forward slightly, as if declaring something shameful she had made peace with.

“You really are a pervert like House claims. That explains the ties.” Cuddy muttered, tilting her head back and pinching the bridge of her nose. Then, resigned, she gestured vaguely in Wilson’s direction. “Be quick, what do you want to know?”

“How do I have… sex with her?” Wilson asked in a rush, her voice rising awkwardly near the end.

Cuddy’s hand froze in mid-air. Her brows climbed toward her hairline.

“Have you tried watching porn?”

“Not… not with two women, no.” Wilson looked away, suddenly fascinated with the grain of Cuddy’s desk.

“Well, that would be step one.” Cuddy nodded once, businesslike. She tapped her pen rhythmically against the table, then paused. “House is not gonna be like that. She likes… dragging things out.”

“How?” Wilson’s eyes narrowed with curiosity.

“She’s very slow, not in a bad way. At all. But she likes to make it as long as possible, it can be nice, if you have patience. She can’t stand when someone does it to her, though. She’s very impatient. And whiny and a bit of a pillow princess.” Cuddy added with a pointed look. “She’s a bottom at heart but she pulls through if the mission calls.”

“Huh.” Wilson smirked slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in mild amusement.

“I figure, since you brag about being the Queen of oral, that it shouldn’t be too hard to please her.” Cuddy said flatly, arms crossed now, her expression unreadable.

“Well, she doesn’t exactly have the anatomy I practiced on.” Wilson admitted, half-embarrassed.

“But you’re a competitive people-pleaser and a bit of a doormat. You’ll find a way.” Cuddy gave her a tight-lipped smirk, then held up one warning finger. “That said… you shouldn’t be seeking sex advice from your superior.”

“I didn’t come here for a shovel talk either, but I got one.”

“You needed one.”

“I’m still gonna sleep with her.” Wilson said, standing with her hands on her hips, surprised by her own decisiveness.

“Well, at least I win the betting pool.” Cuddy’s voice softened, her sternness fading for a beat. “Just… Jamie, don’t get attached to her. I made that mistake.”

“I think I already have.” Wilson looked down, swallowing. Then, quieter: “I know the risks. And I think I’m… willing to take them.”

“Even if it means the end of your friendship?”

“I doubt I’ll ever be able to get rid of her.” Wilson replied, with something that was almost a fond smile.

Wilson had started to turn toward the door when Cuddy called after her.

“Take initiative, boss her around, maybe tug her hair. She’s very sensitive.” Cuddy said from her desk, voice drier now, but still sincere. “Just be the freak you are and do what's unexpected of you.”

“The unexpected, okay.” Wilson nodded, taking in the advice like a student before finals. “Thank you.”

“She prefers fingers to straps.” Cuddy added, then immediately winced and held up a hand. “This conversation never happened.”

Wilson mimed zipping her lips and smiled, pointing a playful finger at her.

“I love you.”

“That’s the one phrase you should never use with her.” Cuddy shot her a warning look, finger extended with purpose.

Wilson had been hiding.

It wasn’t clever, just clinical. She’d escaped to the clinic under the pretense of “helping with the overflow”, but really, she was avoiding House. She needed time to think, to ground herself, to think about a plan of action.

But hiding from House was like trying to hide from gravity.

Exactly one hour in, while halfway through charting, Wilson heard the door of the clinic room barge open. She was thankful it happened just a minute after her patient had pulled his pants up. House stood in the corner of the exam room, arms crossed, cane resting against the wall, eyes fixed on Wilson with an amused glint.

The patient, a red-faced man in his sixties sitting on the exam table with a pillow clutched against his lower back, noticed too. He frowned and pointed. “Is she supposed to be here?”

“She’s a doctor,” Wilson said smoothly, not missing a beat, “even if she doesn’t look like one.”

 “Oh, I am a doctor. My last patient’s appendix has twisted around a little fibrous band like a pretzel. I wouldn't know what that means if I wasn't a doctor. Or someone who loves pretzels.”

The patient blinked.

“What are you doing here?” Wilson asked, still writing.

“Just making sure you’re treating this delicate case with the urgency it deserves,” House said with a grin, looking at the man, then down at what Wilson had written on the chart. “You don’t see a full-blown hemorrhoidal thrombosis every day. I’m just excited for the show.”

The man’s face went crimson. “Thrombosis? That sounds concerning. You said it wasn’t that bad.”

Wilson shot House a glare before turning back to her patient, voice kind and clinical.

“It's a thrombosed external hemorrhoid, nothing to be ashamed of. I’m prescribing a topical anesthetic, Sitz baths, and I’ll refer you to colorectal surgery just to be safe. If it gets worse, we may need to do a small excision. But you’re going to be okay.”

The man muttered something about his luck and slowly got up, clutching the pillow like a lifeline.

Wilson walked him to the door, professional and composed. The second he crossed the threshold, House leaned over and called down the hall after him:

“I advise not to use the showerhead for self-exploration.”

The man didn’t look back. He just walked faster.

Wilson shot her a look, still holding the door open.

“You should've let me see it,” House said, eyes sparkling. “I was hoping you'd ask for a consult.”

Wilson didn’t reply. She watched the patient round the corner, then slowly, deliberately, closed the door.

House’s brows dipped slightly. “No more patients today?”

She didn’t get to finish. Wilson pressed her against the door, hands gripping her hips with quiet authority.

House’s eyes flew open. Wilson said nothing. Her mane of hair had fallen to one side, exposing her neck, cheek flushed from exertion or adrenaline, House couldn’t tell. But it was the look in her eyes that knocked the wind out of her, that same low-lidded hunger she’d seen the night before. No hesitation. No nerves. Was this the same woman who once cried over a patient’s goldfish funeral?

House blinked.

“Do hemorrhoids turn you on?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.

“Only yours.” Wilson deadpanned. House bit down a smirk.

“Romantic and disturbing. You’re lucky I’m into both.”

Wilson leaned in, lips brushing against House’s jaw, whispering, “I’m not thinking about the patient.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” House muttered, still looking dazed. “You’re not wearing gloves, you know. You might've done the visit without them and I wouldn't know. This could be wildly unsanitary.”

“I am trying my hardest not to think about what I just saw so, do me a favor, and stop mentioning him.”

“I wouldn't be opposed to a little fucked up kink-”

“I said, stop talking.”

House’s smirk returned, albeit slower this time, crooked. “I do like when you get all... commandy.”

Wilson's hand slid slightly higher on her waist. “Then shut up.”

And for once, House actually did.

Wilson leaned in and brushed her lips just beneath House’s jaw, deliberate and slow, her breath warm against the skin of her neck. House blinked,  her mouth parted slightly, but no words came. Just the sound of her breathing, sharp and shallow.

Her hands moved deftly to House’s cane, taking it from her hands and hooking it onto the nearby drawer with practiced ease. The faint clink echoed softly in the small clinic room.

House’s jacket shifted as Wilson slid her hands underneath, fingers grazing the fabric, then sliding it off. Wilson hung the jacket on the coat hanger beside the door, the movement deliberate and unhurried.

House’s eyes flickered with surprise, a quiet question lingering. She stood still, uncharacteristically silent, watching Wilson with a mixture of curiosity and something softer, something unfamiliar.

Wilson’s gaze never wavered as she leaned in, her breath warm and steady against House’s ear, her voice just a whisper without words: the promise of taking charge, the invitation to surrender.

Wilson’s fingers traced a slow path down House’s spine beneath the thin fabric of her shirt, sending a ripple of shivers through the older woman’s frame.

“What are you doing?” 

House’s sharp, baby-blue eyes softened just a fraction, watching Wilson with a mix of amusement and something like awe, like she wasn’t sure what to expect but was willing to find out.

Wilson’s touch was confident, possessive. Her grip on House’s hips tightened just slightly, anchoring them together. House’s lips parted just a little, her breath catching in a rare moment of vulnerability. The steady rhythm of their breathing filled the quiet room.

Wilson leaned in, her voice low and smooth. “I thought you wanted me to take initiative.”

Her tie was slightly loosened now, her blouse creased from the long day, but it only added to the image of someone completely undone, finally leaning in.

House felt compelled to take the lab coat off Wilson’s shoulders, only to be met with firm hands around her wrists.

“Still.” Wilson commanded, softly. House, for once, looked stunned. Her short hair was sticking up at the back from how often she’d run her fingers through it that day. The collar of her shirt was open slightly, revealing her long neck and the subtle lines that age had etched into her skin like maps. Wilson moved to kiss them.

“Couldn’t you have had your gay awakening a little sooner?” House whispered.

Wilson’s lips traced a slow, deliberate path down House’s neck, warm and soft against the cool skin. She pressed gentle kisses just below the jawline, then moved lower, her mouth brushing over the delicate hollow at the top of House’s chest.

Her fingers slipped beneath the front of House’s t-shirt, fingertips exploring the bare skin underneath, tracing subtle, teasing patterns that made House’s breath hitch. Wilson’s touch was electric, equal parts tender and demanding.

House’s leg gave a subtle tremble, her usual sturdy stance faltering under the weight of her own body. Wilson noticed immediately, tightening her grip around House’s hips, pressing her firmer against the door behind them to steady her.

House’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, head tilting back against the door, surrendering to the unexpected vulnerability while Wilson held her with quiet strength, anchoring them both in the charged silence.

Wilson’s clammy hands found House’s ribs, her warm palms pressed against her colder skin. Her fingers moved further up, until they found her small breasts, she never wore a bra, so she touched them directly, without the obnoxious intrusion of fabric, and held them firmly. A sound escaped House’s lips, a half-laugh. Wilson licked over a hickey she’d just left on her neck while her thumb and index pinched a nipple, earning her first whimper.

It was addicting to make House produce those sounds. 

She moved to her jaw again, biting playfully as her hand trailed lower, feeling that long fantasized about happy trail under her fingertips. She licked a stripe, from her neck to her ear, as her hands skillfully unzipped House’s jeans. House let out a desperate breath as a tongue found her ear.

Wilson kissed the shell of it, tugging the earlobe with her teeth while her hands slid down, until her fingertips pressed firmly against  the front of House’s boxers.

The breath was knocked out of the older woman’s lungs. Wilson nosed against her cheek, watching her up close as she pressed against her.

House’s jaw clenched, her face flushing pink as her friend’s fingers started moving in painfully slow circles. Wilson felt something poking, a small bump underneath the thin fabric, she let two fingers pinch it, earning a louder whimper in return, close to pain almost. 

House whined, almost pathetically, draping herself against Wilson, giving her a silent okay to go on, a desperate approval, her chin hooking over Wilson’s shoulder. 

The oncologist stepped closer, even closer, now physically holding House up against the door, her body almost going slump as her fingers pressed with more intent against her underwear. As the people-pleaser she was, Wilson kept notice of every reaction, of every breath, of every aborted moan and what had caused it.

She moved the boxers to the side and let their skin touch. She almost got light headed by the contact.  She couldn’t believe she was touching House so intimately, after almost fifteen years of knowing her.

She looked at her jaw going slack, at her brows rising, her eyelids fluttering closed. She took in the sight of House being silent for once, completely pliant under her touch, silently begging her to do something.

Her thumb circled around her clit, her index moving lower to test the waters. 

She didn't expect House to get so quiet, so confused on receiving, she didn't even consider cracking a joke. She looked at her with uncharacteristic reverence, her eyebrows etched into a desperate expression that only motivated Wilson more.

She removed her fingers just briefly, pressing them to the older woman’s lower lip. She spat on them without hesitation, her eyes almost wide with surprise. Wilson’s fingers, now wet, returned between her legs and slid in just slightly.

She teased her for what felt like hours to House and mere seconds for Wilson. She would've kept her there all day, just to hear more of her labored breathing, to feel more of her hands gripping the back of her lab coat.

She kept her just enough for her to come with two fingers crooked inside of her and a thumb rubbing her slowly. Half a moan, half a whimper, she let her body drape over Wilson’s, with the short woman supporting her completely. Wilson remained there, one hand still in her boxers, the other caressing her face the whole time she cooled down.

House was a sight to see, so soft and vulnerable, a hazy look on her face, her forehead oddly missing her usual frown lines, her pain temporarily secondary in her mind.

Wilson held her because they rarely ever held each other. The last hug they'd shared was on her second bachelorette. She wondered how she'd resisted to House's addictive scent so up close for so long.

She placed a few lazy kisses to her neck before sliding her hand out of her underwear and zipping up her jeans. She gave her crotch a firm pat, earning a grunt back. House let a small smirk appear on her lips as Wilson adjusted her t-shirt, straightened her button-up’s collar and smoothed her jacket. She looked up at her, her thumb wiping a droplet of saliva for House’s chin, then tilted her head to the side and whispered:

“Good enough for you?”

House blinked, a genuine smile on her lips, then gave a nod.

“Flying colors.”

Wilson pressed her lips into a thin line and stepped back, heading to the sink to wash her hands.

House watched her, still unsure of what had just happened. 

The oncologist removed her lab coat, revealing her tight pencil skirt and smoothing her blouse, before grabbing a new coat and unclipping the badge from the former and clipping it onto the latter.

She looked over her shoulder at the disheveled diagnostician in the corner.

“Thai tonight?”

House, for once uncharacteristically speechless, simply nodded. Wilson smiled at her, walking towards her and placing her hands on her hips.

“Great. Now if you’d just go back to your case, maybe I’ll get a second hour of clinic done under Dr. House’s name.” 

The statement alone made House feel even more light headed than the session had. She nodded again and turned around, opening the door and letting herself out.

“House.” Wilson called her, then grabbed the cane hooked on the drawer and handed it to her.

“Eight p.m. at my place.” House said, her frown on again, trying to look authoritative in the slightest.

Wilson smiled and watched her hobble away.

She was surprised to be paged so soon, called to diagnostics for a differential. She knew House couldn't stand the thought of not getting the last word and expected her to do something to show Wilson she was in charge but she had expected her to have the decency to leave her alone for at least an hour.

Wilson stood just off to the side of the whiteboard, arms crossed, quietly watching the chaos that always passed for a differential diagnosis under House’s leadership. Her contributions, thoughtful, measured, were met with interruptions. House raised an eyebrow or smirked dismissively every time she opened her mouth, clearly trying to reassert her place as the authoritative one in the room. Wilson didn’t mind. If anything, the transparent power play amused her.

She offered a plausible autoimmune angle on the case. House shot her a look over her marker, challenged it half-heartedly, and rephrased the suggestion so it would sound like she came up with it instead.

Wilson smiled, slow and knowing. If House wanted to be petty, she could be worse.

Her gaze drifted to Cameron, who was scribbling something into the chart. Wilson tilted her head.

“Cameron, did you cut your hair?” she asked casually.

Cameron glanced up, surprised. “Yeah, how did you notice?”

“It looks very pretty on you,” Wilson said with deliberate warmth. “You look good.”

Cameron blinked, momentarily flustered. Her hand instinctively went to her hair, brushing it back. “Thank you… It’s just… Thank you, Dr. Wilson.”

House rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible.
“Oh, shut up.” she groaned, setting down the sharpie and started assigning tests in sharp tones.

Wilson didn’t say anything else. She just smiled faintly, turned, and walked out of the room with the same unhurried confidence she’d entered with. Behind her, she could almost feel House’s glare follow her all the way down the hall.

Wilson showed up an hour earlier than planned. She stood outside House’s apartment, knuckles tapping lightly against the door, even though she could let herself in.

From inside, House’s voice rang out, gruff and unmistakably annoyed: “I know that knock. Use your key.”

Wilson did. She stepped into the apartment and let the door swing shut behind her. The place was its usual cluttered self, medical journals fanned out on the coffee table, a few pill bottles left uncapped on the kitchen counter, and the dim lighting casting long shadows across the walls.

“You’re early,” House muttered, her back to her.

She was still in her work clothes, the sleeves of her button-up half-rolled under her blazer. She wasn’t using her cane. Instead, she was hobbling across the room, hand braced against her thigh, shifting her weight carefully with each uneven step.

“I know,” Wilson said simply, walking in and setting her briefcase down beside the couch with a heavy thud.

House looked over her shoulder at the sound, arching a brow. “Where’s my food?” she asked flatly, trying to sound sharp, but it came out tired and expectant.

Wilson crossed the space between them without answering. Her hands found House’s hips, and in one motion, she turned her around, guiding her back until she was pinned gently against the sideboard drawer.

House’s breath caught.

Wilson leaned in and kissed her. It was firm, deliberate, and unhurried, no hesitation, no apology. Just the press of lips and intention. House tensed at first, arms lifted slightly in disbelief. Her eyes were open for a second too long before they slid shut, and she kissed back.

Her jacket rustled against the wood behind her as she let herself fall into it, lips parting slowly to match Wilson’s rhythm. She didn’t speak. For once, she had nothing to say. Just the faint crease of her brow, the slow shift of her body as she leaned into the kiss and the warmth behind it.

Wilson deepened the kiss, tilting her head to the side so their lips could press fully together. She let her fingers drift from House’s hips to the small of her back, pulling her closer until there was no gap between them. The rough texture of House’s work jeans scratched her thin nude stockings. House was suddenly vulnerable again, her posture softened, shoulders rounding forward, leaning into the heat of Wilson’s body.

Somehow this felt more intimate than what they’d done in the clinic.

House’s hand slid from Wilson’s waist to her ribcage, the pads of her fingers feeling the rise and fall of each breath. When Wilson’s tongue brushed lightly across House’s lower lip, House parted willingly, a silent invitation that spoke louder than any words could.

In that first, lingering kiss, there was a gentle fierceness. Wilson’s hands moved up to cup House’s face, thumbs brushing along her jawline, as if memorizing its angles. House responded by tilting her head deeper into Wilson’s touch, matching the rhythm of her lips with a shy yet eager pressure.

House hurriedly shrugged off her blazer, eyes locked on Wilson as she reached for her coat. Wilson didn’t resist, letting her take it, her gaze heavy with hunger as House’s fingers worked to untie the knot of her tie.

Just as House’s hands hovered over the buttons of her shirt, Wilson caught them gently, holding them between their chests. Their bodies pressed close, Wilson leaned in and kissed her, soft, slow, deliberate, letting the moment stretch between them.

“I want you on the couch,” Wilson whispered, breath warm against House’s lips. House responded with a faint nod, her usual defiance softened. It was going to Wilson’s head how easy it was to boss her around. 

With a small, deliberate step back, House eased herself onto the back of the couch, lifting her leg over the armrest with practiced movements. She settled down into the seat ungracefully, the familiar way she always did before they watched Prescription Passion together. It shouldn’t have been as hot as Wilson found it.

Wilson smiled, then followed suit, lowering herself over the back of the couch in the same way, her leg draping over House’s as she settled onto her. Her body molded against House’s, the world narrowing to just the two of them.

Their lips met again, this time deeper, more urgent. Wilson’s hands slid from House’s wrists down to her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the familiar tension in her muscles soften under her touch. House’s breath hitched softly, her fingers tangling in Wilson’s hair as she kissed back with growing confidence.

The couch creaked beneath them as Wilson shifted, their bodies pressing even tighter together. 

Wilson’s hands traced slow circles along House’s sides, feeling her ribs beneath her shirt. House’s fingers tightened in Wilson’s mane of hair, pulling her just a little closer, as if trying to memorize the feel of her.

The kiss deepened, slower now, like a question and an answer all at once.

House shifted slightly beneath her, her legs opening instinctively around Wilson’s.

The oncologist took it as an invite and guided her knee to her crotch, applying the faintest pressure against it as she licked into House’s mouth.

House stopped suddenly, after letting out something akin to a whine, pulling back just enough to look up at Wilson with a puzzled expression.

“What?” Wilson asked, her breath still warm against House’s lips.

“You have... soft lips,” House said, phrasing it almost like an insult but with a curious tilt to her voice.

Wilson smirked, tilting her head playfully. “Do I?”

House nodded slowly.

“It’s best to be sure.” Wilson whispered and leaned down to kiss her again. House hummed softly against her lips, a low, unfamiliar sound that sent a shiver through Wilson. Playfully, Wilson bit her lower lip, teasingly.

When she pulled back, House’s eyes were wider, even more shocked than before.

“What’s going on with you?” she asked, a little breathless.

“Practicing,” Wilson replied with a casual shrug, her big brown eyes wide and innocent. “You told me I should.”

Wilson’s hands slid up House’s shirt, inching it higher under House’s watchful, intrigued gaze. Wilson’s fingers brushed along the cool skin of House’s ribs as she carefully lifted the hem of the shirt, revealing more of the familiar terrain she’d only ever admired from a distance before. The subtle rise and fall of House’s breath against her palm made Wilson’s heart skip a beat.

Wilson slowly pulled away from House, her breath still warm against the soft skin of House’s collarbone. She stood up, the sharp click of her heels echoing against the hardwood floor, deliberate and confident.

Without a word, she reached down and grabbed House firmly by the hips, guiding her until her right leg dangled off the couch’s edge while the other remained extended. House’s weight shifted slightly, a faint grunt of surprise slipping out as Wilson took control, her hands steady on House’s hips.

Wilson leaned down, eyes locking onto House’s with a mix of hunger and tenderness. Her lips met House’s again, deep and insistent, while her hands remained anchored on those hips, holding her close, grounding her, commanding her, all at once.

She unzipped her jeans for the second time that day and House let out a breathy chuckle.

“You’re getting greedy already.”

“I gave you about six hours between the first round and the second. Or is your refractory period longer than I thought?” Wilson said, tugging her jeans off with urgency but still careful not to hurt her leg.

House smirked at her, watching her fondly as the oncologist tugged her sneakers off and tossed them away before doing the same to her jeans.

Wilson lowered herself slowly onto House, their bodies settling together on the couch.

House’s voice cut through the quiet, a mixture of teasing and genuine surprise:

“You came here an hour earlier than established.”

Wilson shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips.

“So the food will come after you have.”

House’s eyes flickered downward, sheepish for a moment before meeting Wilson’s gaze again.

“You didn’t give me time to shower.”

“You can shower later.” Wilson crawled over House, her hands steady on either side, her voice soft but sure: “Just let me taste you.”

House blinked, caught completely off guard by how decisive Wilson was being, like she was flipping the script and one-upping her at her own game. The usual power play had seemingly shifted, at least in House’s mind, and House couldn’t help but smirk, a flicker of admiration and surprise in her eyes. For once, Wilson wasn’t just following, she was leading, and House didn’t quite know how to react.

She nodded, just enough to let Wilson go ahead with whatever she had planned for her, she could’ve been hiding an array of the wildest sex toys in that sexless briefcase of hers and House still would have agreed blindly. Anything to sleep with the woman she bailed out of jail to sleep with fourteen years ago.

Having waited that long for this, House felt like she was finally sipping a rare, expensive aged wine, complex, intense, and worth every second of anticipation. Like with many things in life, Wilson didn’t disappoint. She didn’t taste like some cheap knockoff, this was the real deal, and she wasn’t about to let her savor it quietly.

When Wilson lowered herself, sitting on the opposite edge of the couch, between her legs, House shifted uncomfortably, suddenly self-conscious. She hadn’t expected to take her jeans off so soon, especially not with Wilson so close, close enough to see the mangled, twisted mess that was her right thigh, the scar just barely less raw and jagged than it had been five years ago, when Wilson had last seen it. She braced herself for pity, awkward sympathy, or some saccharine reassurance.

But Wilson didn’t flinch. She didn’t pause or avert her gaze. She didn’t worship the scar like House had half-feared, nor launch into some heartfelt speech about how House was still beautiful despite her flaws. Instead, Wilson just leaned in and kissed her left leg, then her right, softly, matter-of-factly, as if it was just another part of her to love, no drama attached.

That simple, unbothered touch unsettled House in a way she hadn’t expected. It made her want to lean in, to be part of whatever calm certainty Wilson carried, ignoring her leg, ignoring the past, and it drew her in deeper, intrigued and much more involved than she ever thought she’d be.

Wilson didn’t seem affected by the leg at all, she simply glanced at it as she ran her hands greedily over both of them, fingers caressing hairy calves and trialing up until she reached House’s dark gray boxers.

Her fingers hooked around the elastic band as she stared at the diagnostician with anticipation. She started tugging them down, slowly, her pupils blown wide with desire.

She tossed them away with little care, her hands moving upwards, underneath her thighs and lifting them up slowly.

Vulnerability prickled at her skin like static electricity, exposing more than just flesh, feeling an odd type of self consciousness she hadn’t felt since her first time. Part of it was the importance of the person in front of her, part just the fact she was the first woman Wilson was seeing naked up close in a non-clinical context.

Yet Wilson’s lack of hesitation, her effortless acceptance, ignited a flicker of desire that House hadn’t allowed herself in years. The idea of being truly seen and still wanted was something she hadn’t been familiar with in a while.

Wilson lowered herself to sit on the edge of the coffee table, careful not to topple it over, to find herself at the perfect height to look at her up close.

“You're big.” Wilson said, softly, with an amused look on her face. 

“That what you used to tell your husbands to inflate their ego?”

“It seems to be working on you, too.” House smirked at her, watching the oncologist lean down to take a better look. “But you actually are big. I felt it this morning and I thought I might've been exceptionally small but I think someone’s cheated somehow.”

House felt cornered, the weight of silence pressing down on her. Finally, she blurted out, “I did testosterone injections for eighteen months for that.”

Wilson looked up at her, an incredulous smile spreading across her face. She was speechless for a few seconds before managing to ask, “Seriously?”

House smirked and shot back, mockingly, “And I thought my voice audibly dropped an octave.”

“I just thought your balls had dropped.” House let out a huff of a laugh, her teeth instinctively tugging at her lower lip with anticipation.

Wilson suddenly leaned down and ran her tongue across her enlarged clit. House flinched at first, then bucked her hips up. Wilson used that as a reason to grab her waist with firmer hands and hold her in place as she licked her again tentatively.

When House shivered, she looked up with a breathy chuckle.

“Did it make you more sensitive or have you always been like this?”

House let out a sigh then grimaced, blinking one eye like she usually did before confessing something.

“It's more… responsive.”

“That's… very hot.” She whispered before dropping her head between her legs and getting to work, properly, seriously.

House’s hand flew to her head, fingers above her hair and sinking further and further in with every more insistent lick. Wilson let her tongue do what felt natural between her folds and kissed and nipped based on House’s response. She wouldn’t have let her inexperience stop her from giving the best service she could.

In fact she didn’t stop, she continued relentless, careless about her jaw starting to ache. She kissed and dipped her tongue inside of her, earning desperate sounds in return. House’s thigh started to tremble at some point, her skin covered in goosebumps under Wilson’s hands and that was when Wilson realized she was actually doing a good job.

Cuddy hadn’t been that far off, it turned out bobbing her head up and down worked just as well on House’s large clit and it was the movement that got House to tighten the grip in her hair. 

When the older woman seemed wet enough on her own, she let her index trace her entrance slowly as she kept bobbing her head. She kept her actions slow and deliberate, wanting to drag it on as long as she could. Her finger slid in without too much resistance, a second joined soon. When she curled them slightly, she heard noises she had yet to hear from her best friend. The closest she’d ever gotten was when House had gone through withdrawal. This was positively going to fuck her reaction to her friend’s pain.

House let out her first loud whine, almost high pitched, when Wilson draped her leg over her shoulder and moved her fingers deeper. The oncologist pulled back for a moment, a whine followed, from the lack of contact.

“You enjoy the idea of me using you as means to an end, don't you?” Wilson asked, breathless, a smirk on her lips as her fingers curled inside of her.

House nodded, desperate, her jaw going slack.

Wilson leaned down and compassionately drove her to her climax, cutting short what could’ve been multiple hours of entertainment for herself and pleasurable torture for House.

The older woman shook violently and Wilson’s hand went to grasp her right thigh and hold it in place as she went through the afterwaves, her head falling back against the couch. 

Wilson watched, with sick admiration, caressing her body in soothing circles. House’s grip in her hair loosened and her hand fell back on her left leg. Wilson pressed gentle kisses against her protruding hip bones and lowered her t-shirt.

She grabbed the boxers from the coffee table and helped House’s legs into them, dressing her up because she decided to. She let her lay back like that, gathering her breaths while sitting sprawled in only her underwear for many minutes until Wilson climbed up her figure, her knee between her legs again and kissed her, her hair falling onto the side of House’s face.

The diagnostician, in a half-haze, raised her hands and framed her face in a rare moment of tenderness and kissed her with her eyes still closed.

Wilson’s lips pressed against House’s in a slow, lingering kiss, the world narrowing down to just the two of them. Suddenly, Wilson pulled away for a moment, her sharp ears catching the sound of the apartment complex door opening somewhere down the hall outside.

Pecking House once more on the lips, Wilson whispered,

“Tell me, will this be good enough for Grace?”

House’s eyes widened, then she let out a loud, incredulous laugh, part shock, part disappointment, unable to believe what Wilson had just said. She watched with disbelief as Wilson stood up and tossed her hair over her shoulder, just as a knock sounded at the door. 

“Perfect timing.”

House’s still chest heaved as Wilson’s heels clicked confidently across the hardwood floor. Wilson grabbed House’s wallet on the way, then strode to the door. She opened it, flashed a quick, flirtatious smile at the delivery guy, and said, “Thanks,” taking the Thai takeout bags from him.

Back inside, Wilson unboxed each box with calm precision and placed them on the coffee table. House, still catching her breath and clad only in boxers, watched Wilson’s casual efficiency with wide-eyed awe.

“Here’s your Pad Kee Mao, I think.” Wilson handed House her order, then kept hers, “And my mango sticky rice. And rolls to share, metaphorically speaking, because I know you’ll spare me one at best if you’re feeling gracious.”

She sat down beside House on the couch, picked up the remote and turned on the TV, settling back as if nothing had interrupted her evening. House remained speechless, stunned by Wilson’s cool composure.

The soft clink of chopsticks against takeout containers mixed with the low murmur of the TV playing in the background, casting a cozy glow over the dimly lit apartment. They sat side by side on the couch, the night quietly unfolding around them, House had pulled her jeans back up between an appaetizer and another.

House broke the comfortable silence suddenly, her voice cutting through the ambient noise. “You were on the tennis team in med school,” she said, her piercing baby-blue eyes locking onto Wilson with that trademark blend of curiosity and challenge.

Wilson paused mid-bite, a half-chewed piece of food lingering between her teeth as she blinked up at House, her eyebrows rising in a mix of surprise and questioning amusement. She lowered her chopsticks slowly, the movement deliberate.

House shrugged, as if stating a simple fact. “You must’ve had sex with another girl.”

Wilson swallowed deliberately, then slowly licked her teeth, a slow smile spreading across her lips, equal parts mischievous and victorious. “That good?”

House immediately scowled, waving a dismissive hand like she was brushing away nonsense.

“No,” she muttered, clearly trying to keep her poker face, but the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

Wilson chuckled softly, the sound warm and teasing, and House shot her a sharp, playful glare.

“Shut up,” she said, voice laced with fond irritation.

The moment lingered between them, playful yet charged. Wilson’s smile softened as she looked over at House, the subtle curve of her lips betraying a quiet affection.

House glanced away for a moment, then back, her usual sarcasm melting into something more genuine. “You’re just… full of surprises.” she muttered like an admission.

Wilson smiled, then playfully tucked a stray lock of House’s hair behind her ear using the back of her chopsticks.

“Only for you.”  She lingered a moment longer, pinching House’s earlobe gently with the chopsticks. 

House’s eyes flickered to Wilson’s hand, then to her face, and for once, the bravado slipped, leaving only a vulnerable trace beneath the usual sharpness.

Wilson cleaned up the space with quiet efficiency, tossing the empty takeout boxes into the garbage bag and tying it off. She moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, setting the bag by the door, ready to take it out. House trailed behind her, unusually silent, like a magnet inexplicably drawn to Wilson’s presence. House never helped after dinner, yet she was there. She stood close, watching Wilson, while fidgeting nervously with a chopstick, twisting it between her fingers, her body leaning lightly against the kitchen table.

Wilson slipped on her coat, grabbed her briefcase and the garbage bag, and paused in the doorway. House straightened up, her eyes involuntarily dropping to Wilson’s lips, her gaze lingering with something unreadable.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” Wilson said softly, the fondness in her voice making House’s mouth feel dry. She looked up, meeting Wilson’s eyes, then nodded silently.

Wilson smiled gently, tilting her head with a warmth that spoke volumes. The room seemed charged with quiet anticipation.

“Goodnight, House.”

“Night, Wilson,” House replied with a slow, knowing smirk as she watched Wilson walk away, the door closing softly behind her.

Chapter Text

Wilson wore her green tie, not subtle at all, and clearly intentional. She’d paired it with a charcoal pencil skirt, just an inch shorter than her usual rotation. It was the one House once complimented years ago, offhandedly, like she hadn’t been thinking about it for days afterward.

The nerves she expected didn’t come. Instead, she felt light. Detached from the guilt she'd assumed would weigh her down after everything. Whatever this was, this thing with House, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt overdue. Comfortable, even. Maybe grief and regret would hit later, but for now, she was curious. Energized. She was enjoying this new side of her, she figured she would’ve gone through the stages of grief and denial at a later time, because so far anything about this new label she was trying on felt right. It didn’t feel constraining, it didn’t feel alien, it was just a descriptor, one that fit her much better than the title of ‘wife’ of some random guy that she couldn't even orgasm with.

House wasn’t in Diagnostics yet, not unusual. Wilson found she wasn’t worried. She even looked forward to seeing her, which was a new, confusing kind of thrill.

After finishing rounds in Pediatrics and reviewing her new treatment plans, Wilson saved Chemotherapy for last. Grace was already there, curled into one of the chairs with a magazine. For the first time that morning, Wilson felt a real jolt of nerves. There wasn’t a good way to start this conversation, if she even had one.

She approached anyway, offering a polite smile. “Hi.”

Grace looked up, smiled back, and gestured to the empty seat beside her. “You’re lucky. I was just starting to hate today.”

Wilson sat down, thankful for the easy tone. They talked through treatment updates first, professional, distant. Wilson kept her voice low, but steady.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” she said eventually.

Grace shrugged lightly. “ Nothing happened.”

Wilson smiled softly. “It did. And it shouldn’t have. I’m sorry... Not for lack of enjoyment, trust me.”

Grace let out a breathy laugh. “Well, for what it's worth, I’m honored I was your first.” Her smile faded to something gentler. “And I’m happy you were my last.”

“I don't have to be the last.” Wilson reassured her, more as a doctor than as a friend.

“You were. I can't… I don't have the energy. And it was a great last. I’ve had a crush on you since my first appointment.” Grace whispered, then clarified: “I’m not making moves on you now.”

Jamie nodded.

“I know.”

“We’re adults. I think we can have an honest conversation about what… didn't happen.” The frail woman smiled. “I’m going to be strictly professional from now on and so are you.”

Wilson nodded again, more convinced this time.

“Of course.”

“But it was nice while it lasted.” Grace reached out and placed her hand on Wilson's forearm.

The oncologist offered her one last smile then stood up, slowly.

“Thank you.”

Grace glanced over Wilson’s shoulder, a lopsided smirk on her lips.

“She’s been staring at us for five minutes.”

Wilson turned around to find the silhouette of a tall woman with a cane on the other side of the glass.

“I’m sorry,” She muttered.

“It is her, isn’t it?” Grace asked, lowering her voice. When Wilson didn’t reply, she continued: “It is.”

Wilson hesitated, then said, “She’s... my best friend.”

“Aw, your first lesbian friendship. You still have to learn.” Grace leaned forward. “You make a hot couple.”

“We’re not a couple.”

“Not yet. I always thought you were.” The woman shrugged.

“I had a husband a few weeks ago.”

“As if adultery hasn’t been your favorite pastime,” Grace teased, then smiled. “Don’t cheat on her. She looks like the tire-slashing type.”

Wilson scoffed.

“I wish. She's more methodical. She would stuff my wardrobe in a car, set it on fire at a crime scene, frame me for murder for the fun of it, then probably bail me out.”

Grace narrowed her eyes.

“I know the sex will probably be great, then.”

Jamie smiled at her, genuinely, then placed a hand on her shoulder and checked her IV one last time. When she emerged from the room, House followed her immediately, she let her, at least until they went around the corner then stopped to hear what she had to say.

“You know it's best to wait 72 hours after chemotherapy before engaging in oral sex with someone whose life expectancy is shorter than the milk in your fridge.” House started. Wilson couldn’t hold in her smile.

“Don't tell me that's the case for my radiation patients, too. I always have a glow after I sleep with them.”

House smirked, then produced an envelope from her blazer, holding it out for her friend.

“Chase and Cameron’s wedding invitation?” Wilsona arched a thick eyebrow, grabbing it.

“The anonymous letter I’ll send the medical board reporting sexual misconduct between a doctor and a patient.”

Wilson scoffed, incredulous.

“You're not being serious.”

“You know what it's called when someone loses control over their own life and job to seek pleasure? Addiction. I know a thing or two, learned it in med school. It's not as cool as the movies would like you to think-”

“House.” Wilson looked serious now, no longer smiling.

“You're a nymphomaniac and it's putting everyone around you at risk.”

A veiled anger etched on Wilson’s features as she let out a mirthless laugh.

“But not you?”

“Studies show that it's better for a sex addict to let off steam on a trusted friend instead of an unassuming patient.”

Wilson narrowed her eyes.

“Are you blackmailing me into having sex with you?”

“Just encouraging you legally.”

The oncologist paused, a genuine laugh bubbling out of her chest. She leaned forward, hoping House would feel cornered.

“House, I am already coming over to have sex tonight. You don't have to convince me to do anything.”

The diagnostician looked at her for a good few seconds, then nodded.

“Good, because I checked out of your hotel on your behalf.” She tapped her cane once. “You're moving back in with me.”

Wilson bit down a smile and instead wiped her face with a hand and put on an annoyed tone.

“Do I have to?”

“I didn't pay for a moving van with your credit card for you to second guess this.” House said, decisively. “I want Korean barbecue, at eight. Not earlier.”

Wilson showed up at seven. She let herself in with her keys, finding House at the piano, still in her work clothes. The diagnostician looked only slightly annoyed.

Wilson glanced around the room, finding cardboard boxes still sitting against the wall with her own handwriting on them.
Her scarf was draped neatly over the back of the armchair, folded in that precise way she always used to do, the one House used to mock as “neurotic origami”. It sat there innocently, like it had never left.

Next, the latest book she was reading. The dog-eared novel she had been halfway through before moving out of Julien’s place, now perched on the side table, a coaster beneath it like House had finally given in to her campaign against cup rings.

A photo frame, the only frame in the entire apartment. It wasn’t front and center, House wouldn’t be that obvious, but it had found its place on the top shelf at the entrance, half-tucked behind a stack of medical journals. The photo of them from a hospital fundraiser years ago, Wilson in a tux, House in something resembling formal wear, both laughing, mid-blink. She’d forgotten how much she liked that photo. Apparently, House hadn’t.

Wilson’s hand tightened on the doorknob. She hadn’t even taken off her coat yet.

By the window, House was still sitting, hunched slightly forward, one hand resting on her thigh, the other hovering over the keys like she couldn’t quite decide whether she wanted to stop or ignore Wilson and keep playing.

“You rearranged,” Wilson said quietly, eyes still on the scarf.

House’s voice came without a pause.

“Spring cleaning.” The diagnostician pulled herself up, grabbing the cane and limping towards her. “You’re waiting outside.”

Wilson furrowed her brows.
“Is there some sort of queue I wasn’t aware of?”

“You’re early. And I haven’t showered. Again.”

“It’s not an issue.” Wilson shrugged.

“To you it isn’t. Because you’re a pervert. To me, it is.” House grabbed a stethoscope from the shelf and handed it to her. “Hang it on the door on your way out.”

Wilson didn't move. She stared at House, eyes narrowed slightly, more amused than annoyed. That stillness, an unspoken challenge, maybe just quiet defiance, was all the invitation House needed.

Without another word, House leaned forward, slowly, like she was testing a theory she’d already run the numbers on. Her lips met Wilson’s with a softness that hadn’t been there the first time, or even the second. This one lingered. Their mouths fit together with a growing sense of ease, a rhythm they were falling into without meaning to.

It wasn’t urgent. It was familiar. Like a habit they were forming together, one that surprised them each time with how right it felt. House let her hand rest lightly on Wilson’s waist, steadying herself more than anything else. Wilson, in turn, leaned into her just enough to answer the kiss fully.

When they finally parted, there was no witty retort, just the echo of something that felt increasingly inevitable between them.

House exhaled sharply and turned toward the door. She opened it, gesturing out with a jerk of her chin.

“To the doghouse you go.” she muttered.

Wilson raised an eyebrow, took the stethoscope from her hand, and stepped into the hallway with a faint smile, hanging it carefully on the doorknob as instructed.

As the door clicked shut behind her, they both wore the same expression, bemused, restless, and maybe just a little too content.

House stepped out of the bathroom, a towel still wrapped loosely around her neck, damp hair darkening the collar of her clean T-shirt. She’d pulled on fresh jeans, slightly rumpled from the drawer, and her socks didn’t quite match, but she was dry and comfortable, and that counted for something.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw Wilson, laying on her bed, still in her work clothes: blouse tucked neatly into her pencil skirt, legs crossed elegantly at the knee. Her heels were propped up against the bed frame, toes angled up like she’d been there a while. The sight was striking, but more striking was the absence of her stockings, the telltale shine missing beneath the skirt.

She’d taken them off. The stethoscope rested on the empty side of the bed, looped like an offering. Silent, clear, and deliberate. House said nothing at first, just looked at her. Wilson didn’t flinch. She was watching her, calm and steady, like she’d claimed her spot and wasn’t planning to move unless told to.

House limped further into the room, her cane tucked beneath one arm, though she barely leaned on it.

“Sorry, I don't let hookers on the bed.” she said finally.

Wilson’s brows arched, just a little. “Ow, but I dressed like one for the occasion.”

House’s eyes flicked to her skirt. “You dressed like a slutty Jehovah’s witness.”

“I have a great joke about you entering my kingdom of heaven.” 

House genuinely laughed.

“I told you to wait outside.”

Wilson didn’t flinch. “You know what they say about strays.”

“I’m not sure I do.” House moved to the drawer, opened it, and pulled out a pill bottle. She shook it, listening to the rattle, then casually tapped a few into her hand and swallowed them dry.

“Let them in?” Wilson guessed, not entirely convinced.

House glanced at her. “What if you have fleas?”

“Only one way to find out.”

House rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. She hooked her cane over the dresser.

“Well, I know you haven’t been spayed.”

Wilson patted the empty space beside her on the bed.

“Don’t make me wait.”

House narrowed her eyes, playfully suspicious. “What’s on the practicing setlist tonight?”

“While I was waiting, I put on some of the German videos in your collection and now I really want to try paddles.” Wilson deadpanned.

“I got a bit ahead with the snuff stuff.” The older doctor pointed to her leg.

“You still have three perfectly healthy limbs for me to cut off.” 

She smirked, toweling off her damp hair, and tossing the towel on a chair. She limped toward the bed, where Wilson was already sitting, her posture too casual to be innocent.

With a low grunt, House sat beside her.

“You have a strange concept of flirting, Wilson.”

“Pot, kettle.” Wilson smirked, turning immediately to face her. She reached out, placing a warm hand on House's chest, fingers splaying just slightly.

House stilled. Her body shifted instinctively toward Wilson, eyes drawn to her mouth as if pulled by gravity. Wilson leaned in, their breath mingling, close enough to blur the line between hesitation and intent.

“No practicing tonight,” Wilson murmured against her lips, her hand already trailing lower.

House pouted. “Ow. I even waxed.” 

“I think it’s time for me to try… actually performing, you know?” Wilson’s voice was soft but steady, a hint of vulnerability threading through her usual confident tone.

House glanced up from where she was half-reclined on the bed, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.

“Tap dance or yodel?” she teased, breath catching slightly as Wilson’s fingers slid deliberately down from her ribs to her belly. The touch was light, teasing, her fingers slipping just beneath the hem of House’s t-shirt, tracing the familiar curve of her happy trail.

House’s breath hitched at the contact, eyes flicking down to the delicate path Wilson’s fingers were painting across her skin. The room felt suddenly warmer, charged.

Wilson’s grin widened, lips curving with mischief.

“You didn’t wax,” she observed, voice lilting with amusement. “Good. Didn’t want you to.”

Without breaking eye contact, Wilson moved fluidly, straddling her hips. The heels she still wore clicked softly against the wooden floor, adding an unexpected edge of elegance to the moment. The green tie she’d worn earlier, now loosened and untied, dangled carelessly in front of House’s face, swaying like a dog treat.

House’s hands rose almost instinctively, fingers settling gently on Wilson’s thighs. The skin was warm beneath her palms, soft and alive with subtle tremors of anticipation. She watched, mesmerized, as Wilson tossed her thick mane of wavy hair to one side in a casual, yet deliberately seductive motion. The tilt of her head revealed the graceful curve of her neck and the sparkle in her eyes that held a challenge.

Wilson’s smile deepened, a quiet confidence radiating from her every movement as she leaned closer, the scent of her perfume, something sickeningly sweet that she only wore on events, filling the space between them. House’s heart hammered in her chest, breath shallow as she soaked in every detail: the warmth of Wilson’s skin, the softness of her voice, the way her smile made the room feel smaller, more intimate.

“Strip for me." House said, keeping her voice intentionally gravelly.

“You told me hookers can’t be on the bed.” Wilson pursed her lips, moving her hands to House’s shoulders.

“Outside powers have influenced the rules.” House broke into a slow, mischievous smile, her eyes sparkling with challenge. “I’m serious. Give me a show.”

Wilson didn’t answer. Instead, she just stared at her, eyes darkening with something unreadable. Her hands lifted hesitantly, fingers brushing against House’s neck with a feather-light touch that sent a shiver down House’s spine.

“Don’t be shy, Wilson.”

Wilson’s lips curled into a teasing smile. “Isn’t it fun if you undress me?”

“Laziness and hormones are influencing my critical thinking.” House chuckled, bouncing Wilson gently in her lap, the movement playful and warm. “Come on, honeybuns.”

Wilson’s cheeks flushed a soft pink as she looked away briefly, then back, voice low and shy. “Don’t make fun of my strip teasing skills.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” House’s hands settled firmly on Wilson’s hips, steadying her as she shifted to get more comfortable. Wilson’s fingers worked deftly at her tie, undoing the knot slowly with a sly smile.

She slid the tie off and wrapped it lightly around House’s neck, tugging it just enough to catch her attention.

“I remember Karamel from your second bachelorette pulling that exact move.”

Wilson’s only response was a smirk, a hint of amusement flickering in her eyes.

“You know, I hired a female stripper that time hoping it would spark something inside you.” House’s voice dropped, amused but sincere.

Wilson’s fingers paused at the buttons of her shirt, then began to undo them deliberately, one by one.

House leaned back, crossing her arms behind her head, eyes fixed on Wilson’s slow, deliberate movements.

“It did.”

Wilson slipped the shirt off her shoulders, the fabric falling away to reveal smooth skin beneath. House hummed softly, appreciation clear in the sound, her gaze roaming, eyes darkening with desire.

“Aren’t you pretty?” House’s voice was soft but teasing as she watched Wilson carefully, eyes glinting with admiration.

Wilson let out a mock sigh, lying effortlessly as she stretched out on the couch.
“Do I have to do this?” Her tone was playful, giving House the illusion that she was in control.

“No,” House said with a slow smile, “but I think you should do it more often.”

Wilson leaned in suddenly, brushing a quick, light peck against House’s lips. The brief contact left a spark hanging between them before she pulled back just enough to grin, slipping off the edge of the bed.

House narrowed her eyes, amused. “Is the ghost of heterosexuality talking to you? Don’t listen to it. I’m sexier than Benny and Julien combined.”

Wilson’s smile deepened, a knowing glint in her eyes. “I’m aware.”

With a slow, deliberate motion, Wilson’s hands moved to the side zipper of her pencil skirt. Fingers worked deftly, pulling it down with the faintest teasing hesitation.

“Keep the skirt,” House said suddenly, the command sharp but laced with heat.

Wilson blinked, surprised, her smile widening. “Seriously?”

“Everything off except the skirt and the heels.” House clarified, voice low and steady.

Wilson smirked, the challenge clear in her eyes. Without a word, she zipped the skirt back up.

Wilson bunched up her skirt, her fingers slipping slyly beneath the waistband of her underwear. With a quick, deliberate tug, she pulled them down and, without missing a beat, threw them straight at House’s face. House’s arms dropped immediately from behind her head, catching the underwear midair.

She gasped, eyes widening as she took in the sight.

“Mismatched bra!” she said, raising an eyebrow.

Wilson rolled her eyes with a smirk. “I couldn’t find it this morning.”

House shook her head, amused.
“This will take points off the final score.” Wilson straddled her again, settling comfortably in her lap with a triumphant smile. “Just gained them back.”

Wilson settled herself comfortably on House’s lap, shifting just enough to get cozy, yet still careful not to put pressure on her right thigh. House, ever the provocateur, brought the underwear up to her nose, inhaling intensely. With a swift, sharp movement, she snatched the panties from House’s hands and glared down at her.

House smirked but made herself comfortable on the bed, reclining back. Her hands found Wilson’s thighs, fingers inching up slowly, teasing with deliberate slowness.

Wilson caught her hands mid-climb, pressing them firmly in place. She ground against House’s jeans, a low, teasing movement that made House huff softly through her nose. She watched Wilson intently as Wilson tossed her hair over the other shoulder and slipped her hands behind her back, clearly taking her time.

A beat passed before House’s voice broke the silence, tinged with annoyance. “Need help back there?”

Wilson’s answer was quick, but not entirely convincing. “No, I got it.”

House narrowed her eyes. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“I’m usually sexier than this.”

She pretended to fumble just enough, obviously wanting House to take over.

“You're terrible. Leave it to the expert.” House fell right into the trap with a grin.

Her arms wrapped around Wilson’s waist, cold hands sliding flat against her bare back. Wilson arched into the touch, breath catching at the sensation.

House’s fingers worked skillfully at the clasp of Wilson’s bra, unhooking it with practiced ease. She kept her eyes locked on Wilson’s face, watching every flicker of emotion as she gently slid the bra off her shoulders.

Wilson tucked her chin down, avoiding House’s intense stare as she threw the bra aside and settled topless against her best friend.

“Front seat to the main show. Men would die for this. Men have died for this.” House teased, her voice low and playful. "They're still paying alimony for this."

Wilson smiled softly, shaking her head. “Shut up,” she said fondly, her eyes warm.

House’s hands slid to Wilson’s soft love handles, thumbs gently caressing the skin dotted with delicate birthmarks. The touch was tender, grounding as she pulled Wilson closer.

Propping herself up on one elbow, House tilted her neck under Wilson’s attentive gaze. Her lips brushed a feather-light kiss right in the center of Wilson’s chest, the warmth of the gesture lingering.

Wilson’s hands moved to the back of House’s neck, fingers tangling in the short hair there, cradling her head gently. She responded by trailing a line of soft kisses down House’s sternum.

Her pale blue eyes lifted to meet Wilson’s, filled with something like adoration as her lips wrapped around her nipple.

The breath was immediately knocked out of the younger woman, her grip tightening on the graying strands of hair. A slow, satisfied smirk bloomed on House’s lips as she sucked languidly, savoring the moment.

Wilson wrapped her arms around House’s shoulders, pulling her closer. House shifted, turning to place a soft kiss on Wilson’s left breast, her hand moving to fondle it gently.

Her slender, bony fingers teased Wilson’s right nipple, twisting it just enough to draw sharp gasps and shaky breaths from her.

“Can I keep them as my new stress balls?” House teased, her voice low and playful.

Without hesitation, House grabbed a breast in each hand, squeezing firmly while humming appreciatively.

“I could do this all day,” she smiled up at Wilson, eyes gleaming with affection and mischief.

Wilson’s breaths grew quicker as House’s hands trailed lower, fingers skimming over the curve of her thighs before settling on her hips, under the skirt. House’s lips traced a path, pressing gentle, feather-light kisses just beneath Wilson’s ear, then trailing down the side of her neck.

Wilson shivered, tilting her head to give House better access. House’s mouth moved lower still, leaving a slow, teasing trail of soft kisses along Wilson’s collarbone. Her lips brushed over the delicate skin there, then dipped down to the swell of Wilson’s breast, planting a tender kiss just above the curve.

Without warning, House’s teeth grazed Wilson’s skin, a gentle, playful bite that sent a sharp thrill through her. Wilson gasped softly, breath hitching as the unexpected nip sparked heat beneath her skin.

House lingered for a moment, the bite lingering like a delicious promise before her lips softened again, trailing kisses down Wilson’s chest with a slow, deliberate tenderness.

Wilson’s hands gripped House’s shoulders tighter, nails grazing over her skin as House continued her exploration, alternating between kisses and light, teasing bitesWilson’s hands tightened their grip on House’s shoulders, nails grazing lightly over her skin through the t-shirt. 

House paused for a moment, her breath hot against Wilson’s skin before she pressed her lips to the peak of Wilson’s breast, sucking gently. Wilson gasped softly, her eyes fluttering closed in pleasure.

Wilson’s body arched into House’s mouth, and suddenly she shifted her weight deliberately, sliding closer until she was straddling House’s left leg. The curve of her knee pressed firmly against the sensitive line of House’s crotch, sending an immediate jolt through both of them.
The subtle pressure was sharp, intimate.

With a slow, teasing motion, Wilson lifted the edge of her pencil skirt just enough to reveal a smooth swath of thigh. Her fingers brushed the fabric aside, exposing bare skin that was warm and inviting. Bucking her hips, she began to rub herself gently against the rough denim of House’s jeans, the friction both foreign and electric.

Her mouth fell open, breath catching in a quiet gasp as she lost herself in the rhythm she set, slow, insistent, pressing against House with every movement. The softness of her skin against the worn fabric, the rhythmic grind of her hips, it all contributed to House’s dizziness.

House sat back, momentarily speechless, eyes darkening with desire as she watched Wilson’s every move. Her gaze traveled the length of Wilson’s body, from the mole on the side of her chin, to the curve of her jaw down to the teasing motion of her hips. The sound of quiet breaths mingled with the faint rustle of fabric, punctuating the charged silence.

Wilson’s eyes flicked up briefly to meet House’s, as if daring her friend to break the silence.

House’s hands itched to reach out, to close the distance, but for now, she simply watched, captivated by the raw, electric intimacy between them.
Wilson leaned down, her hands resting lightly on House’s chest as she kept rocking back and forth with slow, deliberate motion. Her breath was warm against House’s skin.

“You’re wearing way too many clothes,” Wilson whined softly, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of House’s neck.

House swallowed, voice low and breathy. “I’m all yours.”

Wilson’s eyes met hers, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she nodded, pressing a gentle kiss to House’s neck. “Yes. You are. You’re mine.”

House’s brows furrowed, a rare flicker of clarity cutting through the haze of the day. She swallowed hard, voice quieter, uncertain. “I am?”

Wilson’s eyes darkened, steady and sure. “Yes.”

Without hesitation, Wilson kissed her again, sealing the moment with a tenderness that left House breathless.

Their lips parted, and Wilson’s tongue slid gently against House’s, exploring with a teasing softness that quickly grew more urgent.

Wilson’s movements quickened, grinding herself faster against House’s leg. Her knee pressed harder into House’s crotch, eliciting a soft whimper from House, who straightened up slightly, trying to steady herself.

“Forgot how sensitive House Junior is,” Wilson said, her voice low and hungry, a teasing smile playing at her lips.

She captured House’s mouth in a fierce kiss, one hand slipping beneath House’s t-shirt. Her fingers immediately found House’s small breasts, cupping them firmly. Wilson pinched gently, making her grunt softly in response.

Taking her time, Wilson slid House’s shirt up slowly, revealing more skin inch by inch but never fully removing it. She kept grinding, her hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm as she lowered herself.

Her lips left a trail of kisses across House’s chest, playful bites following each press of her mouth. When her teeth caught on a hickey she’d left the day before, House recoiled slightly, the sharp sensation making her gasp.

Wilson’s kisses traveled lower, tracing a slow, tantalizing path down House’s torso until she reached the familiar curve of her happy trail. She flicked her tongue out, licking the line of skin just above the waistband of House’s jeans.

With practiced ease, Wilson’s fingers found the zipper and slid it down, the cool metal sliding smoothly against House’s skin. She shifted off House’s lap momentarily to tug the jeans down her legs.

House’s eyes followed the movement, catching sight of a large, damp stain on her own left leg. The sight made her head spin lightly, a flutter of dizziness washing over her.

She sank back against the bed, breath catching as Wilson pulled the jeans off with determined hands.

Wilson paused, looking down at House’s body, the soft hair on her belly and the very prominent happy trail leading straight to the waistband of her boxers.

“I don’t know how I ever picked my husbands over you,” Wilson murmured, voice low and full of something raw and real.

Then she leaned down to kiss her body again, tracing kisses along the curve of her collarbone.

Wilson’s lips pressed firmly against the side of House’s breast, planting a dark, bruising hickey that marked her territory with a possessive heat. Her mouth trailed downward, kisses soft and deliberate, punctuated by teasing bites that nipped gently at the tender skin.

House’s expression shifted, a sudden wince, her brows knitting as the sharpness of the bites nudged at the edge of discomfort. Wilson bit her again. That almost hurt.

The sensation grew stronger, biting deeper until House couldn’t help but grimace, a sharp sting radiating through her body. That definitely hurt.

Unfazed, Wilson’s mouth found the elastic band of House’s boxers. She tugged it down slowly with her teeth, the soft fabric slipping against House’s skin, exposing more bare flesh inch by inch.

Then, without warning, Wilson released the waistband and delivered a playful slap to House’s exposed skin. The sharp, sudden contact made House flinch and grimace, her eyes flashing with a mix of surprise and mock irritation.

Wilson giggled, a light, mischievous sound that filled the room, and settled comfortably between House’s legs, her shoulders pressing warmly against House’s inner thighs, perfectly at ease in their shared intimacy.

“I like the view from here,” Wilson said, her hands sliding gently to grab House’s thighs. She was careful to keep her touch tender and deliberate over the mangled scar.

House flushed slightly, caught off guard by the compliment. “I usually pay people to say that,” she replied, voice a little flustered as she tried to hide it.

Wilson smirked, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “I can confidently say you’ve never spent money on me since that one time in New Orleans.”

House’s lips twitched into a grin.

“If it wasn’t for that time, you’d still be rotting in jail.” Wilson’s lips brushed House’s inner thigh in a soft kiss. House continued with a teasing tone: “Judging by that mouth of yours, I assume you’d have been very popular.”

Wilson’s mouth found its way to the sensitive peak pressing eagerly against the fabric of House’s boxers. She began to mouth her engorged clit through the thin cotton, the teasing pressure and warmth enough to make House throw her head back against the pillow, eyes fluttering closed.

Wilson’s tongue flicked over the taut fabric, leaving wet, darkened spots with every careful lick. The fabric was thin, and Wilson’s slick tongue slid smoothly beneath, each touch sending sparks of sensation through House’s body.

Slowly, Wilson wrapped her lips fully around the poking shape, sucking gently but deliberately, her breath warm and steady against House’s skin. The sensation was intoxicating, and House couldn’t hold back a breathy whine, the sound raw and vulnerable.

Wilson took her time, moving painfully slow, each movement measured to stretch out the delicious tension, making every second feel electric and charged.

Wilson’s movements were deliberate, almost torturous in their slowness. Her tongue traced languid circles through the soaked fabric, barely brushing the sensitive skin beneath. Each flick was like a spark, teasing but never fully satisfying, sending shivers rippling down House’s spine.

House’s breath hitched, uneven and shallow, as her body strained toward the pleasure that Wilson withheld so expertly. Her hands curled into fists, gripping the sheets, knuckles whitening with the effort of holding herself still.

Wilson’s lips tightened in a slow, almost possessive suction, the gentle pull making House’s hips twitch involuntarily. The heat building inside her was unbearable, sweet, teasing, and deliciously cruel.

House arched her back, pressing her pelvis higher, desperate for more, but Wilson’s mouth stayed slow, patient, savoring every moment of the slow burn. It was a torturous dance, each flick of her tongue, each soft suck, pulling House deeper into a delicious agony that threatened to shatter her control.

Her body trembled beneath Wilson’s mouth, every nerve ending alive and aching, suspended in that delicious tension, craving release yet trapped in the slow, tantalizing wait.

“Just get these boxers off, you, bastard,” House whined, voice strained and breath shaky, the frustration clear as her hips twitched impatiently beneath Wilson.

“Don’t rush me.” Wilson’s nose pressed against House’s damp underwear, her voice low and muffled.  “What’s the special word?”

House clenched her jaw, teeth gritting as she forced the word out, “Fuck.”

Wilson’s fingers didn’t hurry; instead, she slowed even further, teasing the fabric, her touch maddeningly deliberate.

“Close,” she murmured against House’s skin, the word hanging like a challenge.

“Please. Please just take them off,” House begged, voice desperate, every inch of her aching for release.

Wilson pulled back slightly, a slow smile curving her lips.
“See? You can behave sometimes,” she said proudly, her hands still working, careful and slow. “With enough patience, I could actually House-train you.”

House’s breath hitched, chest rising and falling rapidly as she panted, eyes locked on Wilson’s with a mix of desire and surrender. “If it includes Pavlovian training with your panties, I’m ready.”

Wilson rewarded her patience by carefully sliding House’s underwear to the side, exposing just enough of her swollen clit to let her tongue trace slow, teasing circles around it. The delicate skin quivered under the light, sensual flicks, sending jolts of sensation rippling through House’s body.

“Jesus, Wilson. Just get it off me,” House begged, voice rough and breathless, her hips shifting restlessly beneath Wilson’s touch.

Wilson smiled, a mix of amusement and affection in her eyes, before she sank down again, her mouth moving over House’s most sensitive spot with a slow, deliberate hunger. She licked and sucked, her tongue painting wet, heated strokes that had House trembling in response.

But just as suddenly, Wilson pulled away, sitting up to watch House’s reaction with a playful glint.

Her fingers slid teasingly between House’s legs, gliding over the slick, warm skin. She pressed just lightly into the wetness, eliciting a soft gasp.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Wilson brought her fingers to her lips, sucking them clean and coating them in saliva. She returned her touch to House’s clit, circling it with those slick fingers, each movement slow, agonizingly slow, driving House wild with anticipation.

House’s fingers curled into the sheets, bunching the fabric in tight fists as her back arched off the bed. Every muscle in her body seemed to strain toward Wilson, her breath ragged, voice thick with need.

“Wilson.” she gasped, barely holding on. It wasn’t just a name, it was a plea.

Wilson glanced up with a wicked smile, eyes glittering. 

“Gretch.” She answered, cutting her name short like she used to in the 90’s. She dipped her fingers in just slightly, teasing the edge of House’s composure, but just as quickly, she withdrew, leaving only the ghost of the touch behind.

House let out a frustrated, almost helpless sound.

With deliberate calm, Wilson reached for the waistband of House’s boxers and finally slid them down, inch by inch. She held them up once they were off, inspecting them with playful curiosity. Then, mirroring House’s earlier antics, she brought the fabric to her nose and sniffed with exaggerated thoughtfulness.

“Mhh. 3-in-1 men’s body wash,” Wilson declared, voice teasing, though the corner of her mouth twitched as if she knew the scent wasn’t at all that generic.

House’s lips curved into a knowing smirk. The fragrance was familiar, fruity notes mingled with a hint of musk, an unmistakable reminder of the fact Wilson had lived there before, leaving behind her body wash and shampoos.

House let out a breath of laughter, smirking as she let her head fall back on the pillow. She was getting used to being naked in front of Wilson, it felt natural, almost like second nature. Who knew her better than her best friend?

Wilson settled between House’s legs again, dipped her head, trailing soft kisses along the inside of House’s thigh, her breath fanning over the desensitized scar just briefly. Her hands moved with gentle confidence, fingers stroking lightly, teasingly, around where House needed her most, but never quite where she craved it.

House shivered, her fists still tangled in the sheets, her knuckles pale from tension.

Wilson's fingers traced slow, deliberate circles near House’s center, ghosting over her clit in featherlight touches that made her flinch with need. Then, just as House’s hips lifted for more, Wilson replaced her fingers with her tongue again, warm and silky as it swirled around her.

House gasped, breath catching in her throat, the contact even more overwhelming without the .

Wilson alternated between gentle laps and firmer pressure, working in rhythms that teased more than they satisfied, drawing out every reaction with purpose. Her fingers returned, stroking the outer edges with maddening patience, never rushing. House’s eyes fluttered shut as she bit her lip, tension growing with every slow, focused movement.

Wilson glanced up, watching her, eyes dark with affection and intent, each touch designed not just to arouse, but to remind House exactly who was in control of her pleasure, and how deeply she cared. House closed her eyes, chest still rising and falling with effort. 

“Do you have any lube?” Wilson asked suddenly, her voice casual but her eyes glinting with intention.

House blinked at her, then gave a look somewhere between incredulous and offended. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

Without needing to say more, she reached over to the nightstand, rummaging through the bottom drawer with practiced ease. A small bottle emerged, slapped into Wilson’s waiting hand with no ceremony.

Wilson uncapped it, tilting the bottle slightly until the slick liquid landed on House’s clit with a soft sound. House flinched just a little as the cool sensation touched her skin, brows furrowing with confusion, but her eyes never left Wilson.

Instead of staying directly between her legs, Wilson shifted her weight and moved diagonally across House’s body, her positioning deliberate. One knee settled between House’s thighs, the other bent by her hip, anchoring herself astride her.

Then, she lowered herself onto House, whose eyes fluttered closed at the very initial touch between them. She had waited to feel Wilson like that for years and part of her regretted asking her to keep the skirt on, no matter how hot it was, because she really wanted to see her naked. She was wet, very wet, and impossibly warm, sinking lower onto her, until her folds were completely around House’s hard clit.

From that angle, House could feel the warmth of Wilson’s body, every shift of her hips, every subtle rock against her, building a rhythm that was more intimate than aggressive. It was slow, exploratory, and full of intention.

Wilson exhaled softly as she adjusted herself, letting the slick pressure between them guide her movement. Her breath hitched slightly as she rolled her hips again, and House’s hands instinctively found Wilson’s thighs, holding her gently, grounding herself in the closeness.

“You’re inside me.” Wilson breathed out, her voice trembling with effort and emotion as she moved against House with slow, deliberate rhythm. “You manipulative bastard. Happy now?”

House let out a strained breath, her eyes wide as she struggled to hold on to any sense of control.

“Could die happy right now,” she said, voice hoarse. “Fuck, Wilson. I know you're not doing this with the terminally ill. When the hell did you do your homework?”

Wilson smirked through the haze of effort and emotion, still moving against her.
“Just treating you like my husbands,” she replied, her tone dry but loaded. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Her hand came up to cup House’s jaw, fingers brushing her cheek, thumb lingering near her lips as she leaned in and pressed harder against her. She reached down and took House’s hands in hers, guiding them up, placing them gently but firmly on her breasts, where she wanted them, as if there’d never been a question.

“Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?” Wilson asked again, her voice almost a whisper this time, cracking at the edges.

House hesitated, but the answer had lived in her for years. “Yeah,” she said, finally, barely audible.

Wilson closed her eyes and rested her forehead against House’s as she moved in closer, the pace between them intensifying in small, meaningful waves. Each shift of her hips, each breathless sound, carried weight, unspoken confessions and years of push-and-pull crashing into the present.

“You, jealous ass.” Wilson murmured, her voice ragged, each word paired with a push of movement, her tone as full of fondness as it was frustration.

House’s hands gripped her breasts tighter, and her head fell back slightly, overwhelmed. Her fingers moved and curled into her sides as tension coiled through her body like a wire pulled taut. Every breath she took was shallow, shaky, caught somewhere between a gasp and a plea. Her legs trembled slightly beneath Wilson, not from pain, but from sheer, overwhelming feeling.

She tried to say something, one of her usual sarcastic remarks, a dig to deflect how much this meant, but nothing coherent came. Her mouth parted, but all that came out was a sharp inhale as Wilson moved just right. The rhythm between them had built slow and steady, and now it crested, relentless and deep.

House's eyes fluttered shut, her brows drawn together tightly, as though her body was struggling to process everything at once. There was heat, pressure, and something unfamiliar, something terrifyingly vulnerable. She arched into Wilson with a gasp, breath catching in her throat.

Then the tension snapped.

Her whole body jerked, her jaw clenched tight as her head pressed back against the pillow. A low, guttural sound escaped her, not loud, but raw. Her fingers dug into Wilson’s back for grounding, as if afraid she might unravel completely if she let go.

Wilson slowed but didn’t stop, her movements gentle now, coaxing House through the tail end of it. She held her, one hand cradling the side of House’s face as if she’d known all along how fragile this moment might be. Not just physical, emotional. When House finally opened her eyes again, they were glassy, dazed, and searching. She blinked once. Twice. Then huffed a breathless laugh.

“Well,” she rasped, voice rough, “that was… an inconveniently timed religious experience.”

Wilson smiled softly and brushed a strand of damp hair off her forehead.

“I didn't finish.” wilson said, tossing her hair to the other side with a smirk. “Don't get too in character. You don't have to actually behave like my husbands.”

“I’m not gonna start doing the dishes,” House said, her voice hoarse but amused, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. Her chest rose and fell as she caught her breath, eyes still half-lidded and hazy with afterglow.

Wilson shifted beside her, slipping off with a gentle rustle of sheets. The loss of warmth made House frown.

“Hey, no— where are you going?” House protested, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with mock indignation.

Wilson didn’t answer at first. She stood at the edge of the bed, her back to House, and unhooked the side clasp of her pencil skirt. The fabric slid down her legs in a practiced motion, pooling at her feet before she kicked it aside, along with her heels, which fell on the ground with two loud thuds. She sat again, calm, deliberate, and glanced over her shoulder with a smirk.

“I’ll have to take care of it myself, if you’re too lazy,” she said, her tone playful, taunting just enough to spark that familiar flicker in House’s gaze.

House propped herself up slightly on her elbows, her breath catching again, not from exertion this time, but from the sight in front of her. Wilson, half-turned in the golden lamplight, was all soft curves and lean muscle, still flushed in places from their closeness. A few strands of her hair clung to her damp neck, and there was a faint, uneven outline of a hickey rising on her shoulder. Her long, chubby legs were tucked slightly beneath her, her posture elegant even now.

House stared, quiet for once.

“I’m not your husband,” she finally murmured, her voice thick with something she didn’t dare name. She looked at her like she was something rare, fragile, but formidable. Not a fantasy, not a joke, not some selfish whim she’d managed to trap, but a woman she’d wanted for years without admitting it.

“Come here.” House said softly, her voice low and inviting.

Wilson paused for a moment, her eyes locking onto House’s with a flicker of curiosity and something more. Then, slowly, she crawled closer on all fours, the movement deliberate and sensual, every inch bringing her nearer.

“Closer.” House murmured, her fingers beckoning, inviting Wilson to settle on top once more.

Without hesitation, Wilson straddled her, the weight of her body pressing gently against House’s. The older woman’s breath hitched, momentarily breathless from the sudden closeness, before she silently urged her with a subtle gesture, fingers curling, asking Wilson to move even closer.

Wilson shifted, sliding forward until she was seated astride House’s torso, their bodies flush against each other. House’s eyes roamed over her, taking in the curve of her hips, the soft rise and fall of her chest, her large breasts, uneven and charming, and the way her hair fell around her face in a big halo of dark curls.

Her hands found Wilson’s thighs, gripping them greedily, memorizing the warmth and softness beneath her palms, as if trying to hold onto every inch of her in that moment.

House’s eyes drifted down, her gaze lingering attentively and curiously on Wilson’s neatly trimmed, short, well-groomed bush. She let her fingers trail gently over the soft hair, a small, amused smile tugging at her lips.

“I expected you to be shaved smooth,” House said, raising an eyebrow. “You know, with how many husbands you’ve had.”

Wilson met her gaze with a hint of pride. “I let it grow after the divorce,” she admitted, voice steady and unapologetic.

House smirked, teasing. “Look at you, trying out new things, like letting your body hair grow like the adult you are, and sleeping with patients.”

Wilson shot her a quick glance. “ One patient.”

House’s smirk deepened. “Technically two, since you’re my primary care physician.”

Wilson pursed her lips casually, still pressed against House’s sternum, her thighs bracketing House’s breasts with comfortable familiarity.

“I was just…  fulfilling my duty of taking care of your primary physical needs.”

House grinned, voice low and teasing. “I’ll return the favor just to keep my Vicodin prescriptions coming, then.”

“Good girl.” Wilson said with a playful tone.

House was momentarily speechless, then let out an incredulous chuckle. Wilson’s smile softened into the genuine, shy grin she always used to tilt her head down and hide.

House wrapped her hands around, sliding to her buttocks, moving them forward to silently tell Wilson to scooch upward.

Slowly, Wilson moved upwards, her hips hovering just above House’s face. The older doctor lay back, getting comfortable as she guided Wilson closer, her hands firmly squeezing her asscheeks as she descended.

The warmth of Wilson’s skin was immediate, intoxicating, as House’s breath hitched in anticipation.

House’s tongue flicked out, tracing delicate circles around Wilson’s skin, tasting the subtle saltiness mixed with the faintest hint of their earlier closeness. Wilson’s fingers tangled in House’s hair, pulling her gently closer as she started to grind slowly, the motion sending sparks of pleasure through both of them.

House’s tongue found its mark, swirling around Wilson’s clit with deliberate care, teasing and coaxing. She worked patiently, attentive to every little sigh and shiver Wilson gave, taking in the sounds that encouraged her deeper into the moment.

Wilson’s hips moved in time with House’s mouth, grinding just enough to press against her teasing tongue, building the tension slowly but surely. House kept her focus unwavering, tongue and lips dancing with practiced tenderness, savoring the way Wilson’s breath hitched, her hands tightening their grip in her hair.

It made sense, House giving everything she had to bring Wilson pleasure, and Wilson responding with trust and abandon, lost in the shared rhythm and the quiet urgency of the moment. It was fitting. One of her hands remained in House’s mousy hair, the other went to grip the bed frame as her hips bucked forward.

She could tell House was a seasoned player, she wasn’t just testing the waters like Wilson had done, she was sure, confident, intense. She was dragging it out but not painfully slow, just enough to keep her at a high without letting her cross the line.

Wilson’s breathing deepened, her fingers pulling at her hair enough to make her hum against her as she moved with growing urgency. Her thighs trembled slightly on either side of House’s face, and her usually composed voice cracked as she gasped.

“House…” she whispered, almost in disbelief, like her body was moving faster than her mind could process. House didn’t answer, just held her firmly, attentively, her hands steady on Wilson’s hips, guiding her movements with a patience that surprised them both. She was undeniably better than Grace, more than she would’ve liked to admit.

It built slowly, like pressure behind glass, and Wilson bit her lower lip, trying to stifle the sounds rising in her throat. But when House’s hands squeezed her ass just right and her mouth moved with perfect rhythm, something inside Wilson gave way.

Her back arched instinctively. Her hand gripped her hair way too roughly as a cry escaped, and then she was trembling, breathless, gripping House tightly as waves of pleasure swept through her. 

House, ever the observer, slowed but didn’t stop, letting her ride it out with rare gentleness. She watched Wilson with hooded eyes, her own chest rising and falling faster now, flushed with the power of what she'd just witnessed.

When it was over, Wilson collapsed forward slowly, bracing herself with shaky arms before sliding to the side, feeling House’s first deep breath against her inner thighs. 

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

“I think that’s the longest you’ve gone without speaking in a room with me.” Wilson said suddenly.

A genuine laugh bubbled out of House’s chest.

“See how effective it is? You should do it more often.”

House lay back, breath shallow, still trying to process everything. Wilson’s weight shifted above her, not heavy, just present, grounding. Her thighs bracketed House’s torso, warm against her ribs, and there was a hum of satisfaction still radiating from both of them.

“You’re staring again,” Wilson said, her voice low and soft. Her hands were still gently resting on House’s chest, just over her heart.

“You’re very stare-worthy,” House replied, her tone casual but her gaze lingering. “It’s not every day I get a front-row seat to something that almost makes me forget about pain.”

Wilson looked down at her, eyes narrowing affectionately. “I think that’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ll ever get from you.”

“Don’t ruin it by calling it out.” House’s hands moved slowly, deliberately, smoothing over the back of Wilson’s thighs, memorizing the softness and the way they tensed slightly at her touch.

There was a charged quiet between them, not awkward, just full. Wilson’s breathing was steady now, but House could feel the tiny tremors in her muscles, the way she hadn’t quite come back down to earth yet. And maybe neither of them had.

“You okay?” House asked, softer now, a rare crack in her sarcasm.

Wilson nodded, her fingers finding House’s wrist. “Yeah. More than okay.”

The younger woman stared at her for a moment then moved to lay beside her, her hand still on House’s chest, letting out a scoff.

“You've never asked me that question, and you've seen me fall down a flight of stairs drunk.”


"I knew you were okay, you were still cackling."

House pulled her closer, until their foreheads almost touched. For a moment, they didn’t speak, just breathed each other in. The quiet was full of things neither one could say yet, but both felt. Wilson’s thumb traced slow circles against House’s protruding ribs, grounding herself in the contact.

House moved her hand above hers, her thumb brushing absent-mindedly over the skin there. The moment hovered between them, playful, teasing, but heavy with unspoken things too.

Wilson tilted her head, still wearing that crooked, downturned smile. She looked down at House, her eyes flickering over her face like she was memorizing something.
“You’re different when it’s quiet like this.”

House shifted slightly beside her, her usual smirk replaced by something more subtle.
“You mean pathetic. You can say it.”

“I meant human, actually.” Wilson brushed some hair off House’s forehead. “But sure, pathetic works too.”

They stared at each other for a moment. No jokes. No games. Just breath and warmth and shared history tangled between them.

“I’m not used to this,” House admitted after a beat, the words low and quiet. “I usually kick them out by the end of the sixty minutes. And you’ve been here for… almost two hours.”

Wilson leaned forward, placing her forehead to House’s. “Want me out?”

House huffed, more emotion in the exhale than sarcasm. “You have nowhere to go. Checked out of your hotel, remember?”

Wilson smiled.

“You know, it was almost sweet. It was territorial and bordering on psychotic but… sweet.”

“Don’t get used to me being soft.”

Wilson grinned, brushing her nose against House’s. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They lay like that for a while, bodies warm and close, the room quiet except for their breathing. Eventually, House broke the silence.

“You didn’t get me my Korean barbecue.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I was in a hurry to have sex with you.” The spontaneity with how Wilson said it made House smirk, lopsided and tender. Wilson looked over her shoulder at the alarm on the nightstand. “It might be too late to order in.”

“You make a cripple do intense cardio then leave her famished.” House teased, her hand wrapping around Wilson’s and taking it to her mouth. Her chin was still damp when she brought Wilson’s finger to her mouth and bit it playfully.

“I could make you my infamous grilled cheese.” Wilson said, with her lips pursed. “You used to like it.”

“I’ll settle.” House said with a smile, though her smile betrayed her.

The scent of butter and slightly burnt bread filled the apartment. The windows were cracked open, letting in a soft breeze that ruffled the edge of the curtain and cooled the kitchen. Wilson stood barefoot at the stove, her legs bare beneath one of House’s oversized button-ups, crisp, blue, and hanging down halfway down her thighs. The sleeves were rolled up lazily, and every now and then she’d have to brush a strand of hair out of her face as she flipped the grilled cheese in the pan.

House leaned against the table behind her, fresh boxers, an open robe, and a faint grin tugging at her lips. She still hadn’t bothered to tie the robe, letting the evening air cool her down, or maybe just giving Wilson something to look at. They were talking about House’s case when Wilson said something that made her laugh out loud, something that rarely happened. Wilson turned to look at her and cracked another joke just to get another laugh out of her. She turned her spatula around and poked House’s stomach playfully with the handle. House grabbed it and stood up, her other hand wrapping around Wilson’s hip as she towered over her.

Wilson, not intimidated in the slightest, simply craned her neck to peck her lips.

“This is dangerously domestic,” House muttered, once they pulled away and the oncologist turned around to check on the bread in the pan.

“Don’t worry. I’ll leave the dishes in the sink to preserve the illusion that I haven’t been here.”

House stepped closer, sliding her hands around Wilson’s waist and resting her chin lightly on her shoulder, biting her earlobe teasingly.

The grilled cheese hit the plate with a satisfying sizzle, and Wilson leaned back just enough to press a quick kiss to House’s cheek. House caught her around the waist as she tried to move away, grumbling something about territorial behavior and lactose-based bribery.

A few minutes later, they sat on the couch, one leg draped over the other, sharing bites of grilled cheese and arguing over whether the original Star Trek had aged well. Wilson had the remote but wasn’t using it. House had the sandwich but only got about half of it before Wilson leaned in and bit off a large corner, unfazed by the glare she got in return.

House’s hand absentmindedly rubbed at her thigh, her face tightening just slightly.

Wilson noticed, as she always did.

Without a word, she stood and disappeared into the hallway. House sighed, leaning back, only to perk up again when Wilson returned, her cane in one hand, a pill in the other.

“Trade,” Wilson said gently, handing over the pill and taking the last scrap of grilled cheese from House’s plate with the same motion. She leaned down and kissed House’s temple before retreating with a smirk. “I need a shower. Don’t flee the county while I’m gone.”

“Can’t promise,” House replied. But the smirk that played at her lips lingered longer than usual.

As Wilson disappeared down the hall, House stared after her for a second. Then, with a mutter, she hauled herself off the couch and toward the sink, muttering about manipulative oncologists and the slippery slope of gratitude.

Still, she did the dishes. And maybe smiled once or twice while she did.