Title Intimacy
Rating PG
Pairing House/Wilson
Word Count 564
Spoilers 314 - Insensitive
Summary House and Wilson try to get their old relationship back.


It was gone. The intimacy between him and Wilson.

And not “intimate” in a euphemistic way – they rarely even touched each other. There were very few people in House’s life he let touch him, and he could count them on one hand. That is, if he didn’t include the prostitutes, which he didn’t. He would need two or three more hands to do so.

He still hugged and kissed his mother, he felt free to reach out and touch Stacy’s necklace despite trying to deny her existence for five years and he let her touch him despite leftover bitterness. Even Cuddy was allowed a hand on the shoulder, to stand too close. Even if no one would believe it, and he would never admit it out loud, these gestures all meant something.

It was why House never particularly cared for any physical contact with Wilson beyond their hands brushing together when they walked side-by-side; otherwise, it was as sarcastic as his words. Wilson used touch everyday to sooth his patients and comfort women with well-practiced speeches filled with false sincerity. Partially false.

Maybe Wilson was sincere. That was the problem; actions weren’t supposed to lie.

He didn’t want that from Wilson. They were able to be intimate by mutual understanding. Acceptance. Knowing what tasteless remarks wouldn’t actually offend. Knowing the right thing to say to hurt.

Knowing better than to touch House, for whom it meant everything, when it was only a commodity for Wilson.

Their intimacy, built up during the aftermath of the infarction, was now gone. But House wanted it back, and Wilson seemed to feel the same. They just weren’t entirely sure how to go about it – what would stay the same, what would change. Wilson’s advice was gentle, probably afraid for the first time to be too cutting toward House. House hesitated before taking Wilson’s sandwich (which he didn’t really want) and was relieved to hear Wilson’s familiar mock annoyance.

So he was naturally surprised to find out that by breakfast, Wilson meant a homemade meal at House’s apartment.

“What are you looking at?” Wilson asked when House came into the kitchen after pacing back and forth for a few minutes. Wilson turned his attention back to stirring the batter.

“Third eye blinked,” House replied, pointing to his forehead. “Could have been a fly.” He limped over to the counter; it was easier to go without the cane in such a cramped area.

“Yes, I get the two confused all the time.” Wilson held the bowl in his right hand, the spatula in his left. House braced himself on Wilson’s shoulder and pulled his hand back to lick the batter off the spatula. “Hey!” Wilson protested, his voice going up a few pitches as it always did. “You do realize you’re not the only person eating this.”

“Don’t worry, kissing won’t get you pregnant,” House said, finally letting go of Wilson’s shoulder. He went back into the living room to wait impatiently, banging his cane against the table as obnoxiously as possible.

Wilson returned the gesture later when he leaned over the back of the couch to hand House a plate of pancakes. He sat next to House, despite there being more than enough room on the couch, the way they always did, in identical poses.

House considered, for a moment, thanking Wilson for the food.