Notes: I wrote most of these on their own as plot bunnies and never posted them because they weren't . . . enough to stand on their own, so I just threw them together. I will post two a day, so it'll take five days. Thanks to theletterv for reading through them all (and giving me the idea to post them).

Of Sparkles and Gay Cars

After a long, hard day of avoiding clinic duty, saving a patient with a last-minute diagnosis, and ogling Cuddy's breasts, he had returned to their loft and the smell of spices hit him as soon as he walked in through the door. Wilson had made it home first seeing as House had been busy with a dying girl named Laura or Sharon or something else uselessly unimaginative like that and had thoughtfully decided to cook something that smelled like heaven wrapped around lazy summer days.

"What the hell are you cooking? Smells like a dog died in here after eating the rotting corpse of your aunt's obese cat," he complained as he plopped down on their brand-new non-Wilson-y in essence couch. Oh, he would've been annoyed, except for that organ totally made up for any pansy-ass decisions Wilson had made concerning furnishing the place.

"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't be interested, seeing as it smells so horribly," he answered as he plopped down beside him.

House sniffed and closed his eyes. "Baked spaghetti?" he offered carefully.

"Your olfactory talents never cease to amaze," Wilson murmured, then picked the remote from the coffee table.

"I think not," House stated and then tore the remote from Wilson's hand. "I let you keep it and I'll have to sit through yet another Jimmy Stewart marathon." With that, he turned on the television and pulled up the TiVo list.

One of House's very few and trivial flaws (he operated under the assumption he was perfect in almost every way) was that he recorded things on the TiVo and went months without watching them. He'd once had an entire season of The OC recorded for a little over a year. Wilson, on the other hand, always watched any of his recordings within two days and deleted them promptly.

It was only important because as he picked some show that had been recorded sometime in October; before New Moon had been released. Had it never been for that commercial, they might never have kissed. Then again, had Hitler never invaded Russia, he might've been speaking in German and Wilson wouldn't have even existed so it really was fruitless imagining what sort of horrible, twisted world they would have lived in had House watched that show and deleted it long before they moved into their new loft, taking their treasured TiVo with them.

Conversation had been light, Wilson had grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, and they'd sipped their cold drinks casually as the witty dialogue and self-important visuals danced before them. It wasn't until the second commercial break that House had nearly vomited in his mouth due to the incredulity he felt as having a preteen phenomenon try and sell something that most of the people who actually cared enough to squeal over the commercial couldn't even use for a few more years.

The voiceover had been smooth, delicate; the camera angles pretentious; the star of the commercial? Edward Sparkly-Assed Cullen, driving a Volvo through a winding road in the middle of an ever-so-green scenery. House had gaped, open-mouthed, at the sappily cinematic commercial in either disgust or depression; it was hard to tell which at the moment.

It wasn't until the final, epic sentence-Volvo; the only car Edward trusts-that House burst into laughter.

"Seriously? Has humanity gotten so pathetic that they have to use fad-based fictional characters that suck to sell cars? Some people, especially certain Mormon-worshipping illiterate housewives, shouldn't be allowed to breed."

"Yes, because hopping onto a bandwagon that is sure to gain loads of cash . . . That's idiocy. Fan or not, House, you can't deny the fact most people are eating Twilight up with a spoon. I'm sure they just sold enough cars to guarantee their great-grandchildren tuition."

"You're just sticking up for the commercial 'cause you drive a Volvo."

"What can I say? I'm attached to that car."

"Why?" House asked incredulously, which had not been the first time. "That's the girliest car known to man. Just by driving it, your testosterone drops by at least thirty percent. It's a proven fact."

Wilson scoffed. "It is not a girly car. See? Edward drives it. And, according to Gina, he's all man."

"Who the hell is Gina?"

"My fourteen-year-old meningioma patient. Remember? She puked on your shoes."

House looked at him in confusion as some asinine food commercial played in the background. "Right, because getting puked on in this profession is so rare. Of course I remember Trisha."

"Gina. And this happened yesterday."

"Huh. Well, it doesn't matter. If she thinks that doom-and-gloom vampire who sparkles in the sunlight is all man, I'd hate to have to be there when she finds out her husband's cheating on her with a guy."

"House, Edward isn't gay."

"He wears body glitter and denies a warm-blooded seventeen-year-old girl the chance to hop up and down on his dick; he's gay. Further evidence-he drives a Volvo. That makes him really gay."

"I drive a Volvo," Wilson stated while he took a sip of his beer.

"Hmm, I guess that means you're gay, too," he quipped and faced the television.

Wilson hummed. "Well, if the shoe fits," he conceded.

House furrowed his brows and then turned his head to look at Wilson, who was staring nonchalantly at the TV and taking another sip of his beer, as if he hadn't said anything at all. "What?"

Wilson inclined his head a little in House's direction, but kept his eyes on the television. "Hmm?"

"What did you just say?"

Wilson shrugged and turned his full attention back toe the television screen. "Nothing really. Just that if the shoe fits, et cetera et cetera."

"Meaning . . . ?"

"That I should wear it. The shoe."

House stared at Wilson's completely casual profile, then at the television, then at Wilson again. Wilson didn't laugh or grin or blush or do anything that would indicate he was kidding around or legitimately coming out to him. House stared at his beer, calculated the odds of hallucinating over half a beer and the Ibuprofen he'd taken earlier, then sat it on the coffee table and stared at Wilson again in confusion. "Did you just come out to me?" he asked.

"It would appear so," Wilson admitted.

"So . . . What, you're gay?"

"Yes."

"As in homosexual?"

"Well, that is the connotation I was aiming for."

"Well . . . I mean, why?"

Wilson furrowed his brows and shrugged a little, taking another drink of beer. "Well, because when gazing upon the male form, I often become aroused."

House peered at him, staring at his completely still and casual posture. "You're lying," he stated.

Wilson finally looked at him. "You don't believe me?"

"Hell no, I don't believe you. You're the Great Panty Peeler of Princeton-you love women so much you keep marrying them."

"I also keep divorcing them. Hey, you're the one who's always making comments about the fact I blow-dry my hair and like musicals. I can't believe you're really all that surprised by this."

"You came out to me over Volvos and Edward Cullen."

Wilson sighed and plunked his beer on the coffee table. "House, really. I'm gay. Okay?"

"Prove it," House ordered, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

Wilson raised an eyebrow at him. "Prove that I'm gay."

"Yeah."

"You're actually making me do this."

"If you're so damn gay, it won't be a problem."

Wilson rolled his eyes and sighed in that faux-exasperated way that meant he was enjoying being dragged into doing something stupid. "All right," he grumbled.

His face moved towards House quickly, but not abnormally so-he could've been leaning in to whisper or rearranging his position. It was a smooth movement; not hasty or unsure. He stopped a few inches from House's mouth, eyes locked onto his and eyebrows raised. House didn't move; if Wilson was just kidding and he pushed forward, he might panic and splutter about it all being a prank and House would lose the one thing that really mattered. If he pulled away and Wilson wasn't kidding, they'd laugh it off and Wilson would never attempt to get with him again, if that was in fact what he was trying. No, House would not move an inch either way-this was all up to Wilson.

He brushed House mouth's gently and quickly, like a boy dared to kiss a girl by the swing sets, but when he pulled away it was only a centimetre; just enough that he could purse his lips and tilt his chin and they'd be kissing again. Which he, in fact, did-just as gently as before, but a fraction of a second longer.

House remained still; lips not pursed, but not open either. Wilson pulled away a little further, eyes still on House's and his Adam's apple bobbing. One smooth hand reached up hesitantly and held House's scruffy jaw, then he tilted his head and nudged House's lips again, and again, and again, and then his tongue flicked his bottom lip just enough that House could have pretended he imagined it if he'd wanted.

House closed his eyes and flicked his tongue outward at the same time Wilson did so they met, wary and wet and warm. The noise one of them made (House couldn't be sure who; he was far too occupied with analyzing evidence) was indescribable but quiet and sweet just the same, and thinking back on it he was sure it had been Wilson letting out a little, tiny hum of surprise.

To test his theory, he flicked his tongue again, a bit more insistently against Wilson's barely-open mouth, and he whimpered again-so quiet he'd only heard it because they were practically fused at the moment.

House nipped gently at Wilson's lower lip and they both pulled away, Wilson's hand still on his jaw but at least six inches between their mouths.

Wilson's pupils were large and glossy; his lips parted and his eyes furrowed as if confused, although he had been the one to make the first move with his little admittance. Perhaps he hadn't expected reciprocation or perhaps it really had been a prank with a satisfying, and surprising, end.

Wilson cleared his throat. "That proof enough?" he whispered.

"No," House muttered, and moved in again, meeting Wilson's pliant, and welcoming, mouth with a tad more force.

The timer dinged, signalling that the baked spaghetti was done.

They let it burn.

Better Than Chocolate

Their first kiss was sweet.

House was bored. This, in and of itself, was not new, as he was often bored. However, due to the fact he was single-and had been for about a month now-he could not cure said boredom by attempting to convince Cuddy into office sex. This, of course, would have been simple were it her office, as they had done that before, but he figured that with his level of boredom he might have to give himself a challenge by convincing her to have sex with him in his office. With all the glass walls, in the middle of the day.

Alas, unless she was up for some ex-sex, he doubted it would happen. Although suggesting it anyway might have been entertaining, he was rather attached to his job and getting fired would be a bit bothersome. So instead of going through with the challenge, he decided talking to Wilson was probably the safer bet. And most likely a tad more entertaining.

When he walked into Wilson's office, his greeting died on his lips. Instead of the mountains of paperwork that House had long assumed came attached to his desk, Wilson had a basket with balloons tied around the top, white and black, and on the white balloons black cursive said 'happy' and on the black balloons, white cursive said 'birthday.' From the door, House could see three bottles of wine and a teddy bear.

"What in the holy hell is this?" House asked, shutting the door behind him as he forced his mouth to twist upward in a scowl.

"Vampire survival kit," Wilson answered.

House walked across the room and then sat in the chair he had etched his name on (literally, he'd etched it on the seat in capitals so that he could refer to it as his chair all he wanted). He moved the basket to the left so it wasn't directly in the middle and he could therefore see Wilson. Wilson had a heart-shaped box in front of him, open, with truffles inside. "Zombies are the ones we need protecting from, Wilson. All vampires do is sparkle at us."

"That's what they would like you to think."

"So what's up with all the . . ." he gestured at the basket vaguely, looking at the thin box that had clearly been opened beside the teddy bear.

"Surely you're astute enough to figure it out," Wilson remarked, taking another truffle from the heart-shaped box.

House watched him plop it into his mouth and give House a glare that shouldn't have made his stomach flutter. Wilson wore a thin, dark brown tie that had light-blue designs threaded into it. "That's a hideous tie."

"Is it? I rather like it."

"You like hideous ties," House accused.

Wilson shrugged dismissively. "Well, there is no disputing amongst taste. It was a gift, House. So, is there something you wanted to tell me?"

"I'm bored. Let's play hooky. You shouldn't be working today, anyway."

"And why is that?"

"'Cause I'm bored and want to play hooky."

"How selfish of me to not somehow foresee this fact."

House peered into the basket and looked at the bottles of wine. "Red, white, and pink? Wow, someone wants you to get drunk." He pulled out the pink wine and scowled at the elaborate design on the label. "Demi-seche?"

Wilson yanked it out of House's grasp and then put it back in the basket. "They're imported."

"Ooh, looks like someone has a wittle crush."

Wilson sighed and shook his head. "It's just a birthday present."

"Looks more like a declaration of love to me."

Wilson sighed. "Unlike some people, there are those who actually celebrate this annual celebration of birth."

"I forgot," House lied.

"Sure you did," Wilson muttered, then pulled out another truffle. "House, it wouldn't kill you to-" He contemplated the truffle in his fingers, then shook his head and put it back. The tips of his fingers had small chocolate-y smudges. "Never mind."

House shifted in the chair and looked around the office, eyes settling on the basket. He grinned. "Come on, let's skip out and get wasted."

"I'm doing my job."

"Well, a couple of sips won't kill anyone," House said, reaching for a bottle of wine. Wilson grabbed House's hand and forcibly moved it away. House slumped in the chair and sighed.

After a short bout of uncomfortable silence, House reached and grabbed a truffle. Wilson reached across the desk to grab it out of House's hand, but failed. House laughed and dangled it just within his reach to taunt him as Wilson stood, but then he actually leaned over the desk and swiped at the chocolate. This time, he managed to grab House's wrist. He yanked it towards him, and House pulled back, but didn't manage to break out of Wilson's grasp.

Wilson pulled harder, and then wrapped his mouth around the truffle triumphantly. Which meant he'd also sucked in the tips of House's first two fingers and thumb. The heat from his tongue, which was apparently caressing the chocolate and therefore House's fingers, shot straight up his arm and hit him right in the chest. Considering that House was sitting down and Wilson was leaning rather far over his desk, he could've easily just . . . dropped his hand from Wilson's mouth. Then again, Wilson could have relinquished his suddenly-loose grip on House's wrist, too.

There wasn't a moment where they both froze; instead, Wilson kept savouring the chocolate around House's fingers as if they weren't even there . . . or, perhaps, because they were.

Finally House's fingers plopped out of Wilson's mouth and House breathed in, as he had forgotten to breathe for a few seconds. He watched Wilson's adam's apple bob. House then stood up, grabbed Wilson's face, and kissed him. There was no resistance or moment of hesitation-Wilson kissed him back, welcoming his tongue into his mouth.

The sweet aftertaste of chocolate on Wilson's tongue sent sparks up House's spine, and he deepened the kiss in an attempt to steal more of it for himself. The edge of the desk pushed into his pelvis bone uncomfortably, but he moved forward anyway, pulling Wilson's face into his, nipping at his bottom lip and sucking on it, grunting when Wilson made an odd but arousing noise that echoed in his mouth.

Wilson pulled away suddenly. "Desk's jamming into my hip, House," he explained breathily.

"Ditto."

They pulled away, but both remained standing. Wilson looked at the basket, eyes roving over the wine bottles. He picked up the pink bottle of wine and turned it in his hand, smiling slightly deviously. "You said something about skipping off?" he asked, eyes sliding over to meet House's.

House smirked. "Cork screw's under the teddy bear."

Wilson furrowed his eyebrows. "Wait, how'd you . . . ?" House cleared his throat and averted his eyes briefly. "Thanks for the tie, House," he said with a barely repressed grin.

House plucked a truffle out of the box and plopped it in his mouth. "Happy birthday, Wilson."