Title: half-doomed and semi-sweet
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: Greg House/James Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1184 words
Content notes: Mentions of sex & alcohol.
Author notes: Whoo, haven't been here for a while! I fell in love with House MD many years too late so here I am, writing House/Wilson.
Summary: House finds Wilson at a gay bar when neither of them are out to each other.



Sometimes, House gets tired of women.

Okay, that’s a lie. Women are great, and they’re great to hook up with, but men. Men are great too, and he’s way too bisexual to deal with it. So he ends up walking into a gay bar with as much confidence as a man who’s been out of the closet his whole life, when he’s the opposite.

He flirts with cute younger men but none of them seem interested or ready to be brought to bed. He shrugs and fiddles with the zipper of his leather jacket; music makes the bar shake a little, and he’s positive there must be some drag performance going on, but he isn’t very interested in it.

He’s a little bored out, taking sips of whiskey and looking around the room to make assumptions of the various men and women he sees. A few of the men there look nervous, out of place — probably have barely come to terms with being into men. Probably not out of the closet. The women seem more sure of themselves — cut short hair and masculine clothes and a distinct pose.

He’s scanning the bar when his gaze falls on a familiar face. An all too familiar face — a way too familiar face.

No way. He blinks, staring, unable to believe his eyes. There’s no fucking way — no way in hell that his best friend of twenty years is bisexual too (maybe even gay, but the man loves women too much to be, so he digresses). No way his only friend who he’s been lusting for ever since he met him is also bisexual.

He falls squarely into the ‘men who look out of place’ category. He’s grabbing at his beer tightly, face unreadable as he talks with the man sitting across him. The man isn’t at all recognizable, so House assumes Wilson must’ve met him at the bar.

He can’t stare at him forever, so he gets up and heads towards him.

“Wilson.”

Wilson nearly falls off his chair.

“House,” he exclaims, sitting up, as if he’s completely forgotten about his companion. “What— what are you doing here?”

House bites back a laugh and simply raises a brow. “To go undercover as gay to see if my best friend of twenty years is secretly gay, of course.”

He rolls his eyes at him, smiles at him exasperatedly. “That’d be a very you thing to do, to be honest.”

“I wouldn’t have to go undercover for it, though,” he replies, stepping a little closer. “I’m bi.”

Wilson flushes pink, interest in his dark eyes. “Me too.”

“Yeah, you’ve gone through too many relationships with women to be gay.”

He rolls his eyes. “I guess so.” He hesitates for a second. “So you were here to hook up with a pretty young thing?”

“That doesn’t change no matter what kind of bar I am at.”

“Mhm.” Wilson chuckles a little. “You’re good at being a gross old man.”

“Hey.”

“Don’t even try and deny it.”

House shakes his head a little and turns back to the bar, beckoning Wilson to follow him. He does, albeit reluctantly, waving goodbye to the man sitting with him and muttering something or other about House being a friend of his. The man has an amused smirk on his face, and House wonders if his attraction to Wilson is that blatant.

He sits back down, asks for more whiskey, and buys some beer for Wilson, sliding it into his hands. “Thanks,” Wilson mumbles, face unreadable.

House drums his fingers against the table and keeps drinking whiskey. Wilson still looks out of place, but more sure of himself now that there’s someone he knows here — and someone he knows so well, too. House believes that Wilson knows him better than all his past ex-girlfriends.

He realizes something.

“If we’re both bi does that mean I didn’t imagine the obvious sexual tension?”

Wilson’s mouth gapes a little and he stares at his beer intently.

“Does that mean I didn’t imagine the obvious sexual tension?”

House snorts, grab his face and pulls him closer, until their faces are inches away from each other. Wilson pushes his bar stool closer to House’s, head tilted up a little, lips parted.

House breathes, “You’re a fucking idiot.” His voice is airy and downright needy. Just how like Wilson likes women— and men, too, he guesses.

Wilson licks his lip, stares at him with wide eyes. “You were oblivious about this too—”

House scoffs, lips curling into a good-natured smile. “Shut up and kiss me.”

“With pleasure.”

Their lips meet crudely and needily and messily. House tilts his head and holds Wilson’s face, kissing him like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Wilson’s lips are smooth and he practically melts into them. After a while he holds onto Wilson’s side, and they’re making out like horny teenagers and God, House hasn’t felt like this in such a long time.

Wilson pulls away for breath, dark eyes gleaming with interest and infatuation. God, House is so doomed. “Wanna talk about feelings over a bottle of whiskey?”

Feelings. He hates those, mainly because he has way too many about Wilson — if he said that he probably has way too many about him, too. But he’s not ready to face how much he cares, how much he lo— no. No, absolutely not.

“Absolutely not.” he replies. “I think I’d prefer to do the opposite of talk about feelings over a bottle of whiskey.”

Wilson raises a brow, kisses him again, drinks in the half-gasp that comes out of House’s mouth. When he pulls away, he’s got this smug smile on his face. “I imagine you’ve got everything we’d need at your place?” he asks, standing up.

House gets up, pays for his whiskey and Wilson’s beer and kisses him again, pushing him closer to him. “Of course I do. I’m not the horniest person in the whole of Jersey for nothing.”

Wilson snorts. “That’s a very fair point. I will get something sappy and romantic out of your mouth before the sun rises, though.”

He shakes his head, trying to smile amusedly as he leads WIlson to his car. “Absolutely not.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Wilson replies as he settles on the passenger’s seat, House driving. House tries to ignore the warmth spreading across his body when he calls him sweetheart — he’s not thinking anything touchy-feely. Not now, not yet, not ever.

He parks and he kisses Wilson again, it growing more fervent as he leans closer to him. It feels like he’s a hormonal teenager with a guy he barely knew in the locker room all over again. But this time it’s Wilson, his best friend of twenty years and his object of desire for over a decade and his something more he doesn’t dare to name.

“Let’s go inside,” WIlson breathes raggedly.

“Let’s go inside,” House echoes, getting out of the car.

Wilson follows his lead, and they let themselves fall apart next to each other as soon as the door is closed.