Archive of Our Own

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.”