Disclaimer: I don't own the snarky awesomeness that is House, or the song Fame Infamy. David Shore owns House. Fall Out Boy owns the song.
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I'm a preacher, sweating in the pew
For the salvation I'm bringing you.
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House smirked as he thought back on all of Wilson's marriages – failed marriages, no less. Wilson had a problem. There was no doubt in House's mind; Wilson was addicted to feeling needed. But every time Wilson sunk himself into another inevitably doomed relationship, House saved him. Swept him off his feet with his wit and…charm. Well. That was how he saw it. The wives, however…
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I'm a salesman; I'm selling you hooks, and plans
And myself making demands.
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Wilson clearly saw the situation differently than he did. In Wilson's eyes, House was jealous. House was just a misanthropic old man who had problems: drug addictions, emotional issues…hell, even the hallucinations. It was sheer luck that House had played exactly on the right string at the right moment. House relieved Wilson of his damned relationships. It was only fair that Wilson would get him out of that hellhole mental hospital. However, House was not jealous. No way in hell. House was just…playing his hand. What else was there to do?
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When I'm home alone I just dance by myself
And you pull my head so close, volume goes with the truth.
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Damn it, he was not jealous. At least, not of the wives. Amber was some proxy-House. 'Oh, hell, I'm not gay, so I'm gonna run off with the first she-House I can find.' Did Wilson think House wouldn't know? Eventually, Wilson would get caught up and notice House…it was inevitable. Through the failed marriages (see how those keep popping up?), House was always there. Wilson would have to fall back on something. With Amber gone, House was that something. It was time for Wilson's surrender, House thought smugly. But how the hell would House deal with it? House certainly wasn't gay. Or jealous. Damn it.
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Signing off, "I'm all right in bed, but I'm better with a pen."
The kid was all right but it went to his head.
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Cuddy thought otherwise. She thought House 'needed' Wilson. House needed no one, especially not some weird, masochistic Oncologist who was doomed to be gay. What was it with women and thinking that House was out to get in Wilson's pants? Wilson wasn't that attractive. He was annoying, and boring. Absolutely lacking in the sense of adventure, which House needed. Then again, Wilson provided something that most people didn't – an ongoing puzzle. How could Saint Jimmy put up with a bastard like House, the nurses questioned. The same nurses that Wilson cheated on his wives with, House thought with an amused half-smile.
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I am God's gift, but why would he bless me with
Such wit without a conscience equipped?
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Wilson was one of the only people who always had a response ready for House. It made sense that House would be attracted to that – but he wasn't. Of course he wasn't. Because House was straight. He loved women. He loved Stacy, before she ruined his damn life. He…well, he didn't love his hookers, but the point was clear. House was not gay, and he was certainly not gay for his annoying, tie-wearing, pansy of a best friend. Just because the man was one of the few people who could occasionally stump House's wit…it was no reason for people to think House found him attractive. Was it?
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I'm addicted to the way I feel when I think of you, whoa
'There's too much green to feel blue.'
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But then House thought back. Through the marriages, through Amber, through the handful of hookers that Wilson had been adventurous enough to mess around with – House was always in the background, waiting for the perfect moment to sabotage it. It was almost uncanny, House's perfect timing. Only a stalker should know someone that well. Holy hell. Did House just compare himself to Wilson's stalker? He…shit. He was jealous.
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When I'm home alone I just dance by myself
And you pull my head so close, volume goes with the truth.
Signing off, "I'm all right in bed, but I'm better with a pen:
I'm all right in bed, but I'm better with a pen."
I'm all right in bed, but I'm better with a pen;
The kid was all right but it went to his head.
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Wilson came home later that evening to find the apartment empty. He grinned and reached behind him, lacing his fingers through those of his latest friend. His first lady since Amber. It was time he moved on, he supposed. He was sick of House teasing him about Amber, about the wives, about his sexual preferences. About everything.
"Looks like we're alone," he smirked, leading her through the hallway.
She giggled. "Good."
What neither of them saw were the startling blue eyes leering at them through a closet door that was unintentionally left ajar. A bedroom door closed, and the eyes squeezed shut before emerging from the closet, accompanied by a tall, lean body and a gun in a fisted left hand. House pressed the gunpoint against his temple and sighed.
Well. Maybe he could let Wilson have his way for a change.
House smirked for the last time.
Surprise.
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- Fin