House had been studying French for about 4 weeks now. His knowledge of the language, in his eyes, was already blooming into a fluent skill he possessed. He would, in the spur of the moment, shout in French every time a mistake was made in the medical rooms. He was, most definitely, very proud of his new discovery.

Wilson, all too familiar with this news, was quite fond of listening to the romantic language that House had remained a very un-kept secret. The screaming words that came from House's lungs were like music to the ears of the loving companion.

House was quietly relaxing in his apartment complex, drinking a rather flat beer and watching television blandly. A knock at the door sent House to retrieve his cane and answer it bitterly. To his surprise, it was Wilson. House had believed that Wilson slept underground with moles or something, seeing as he was almost never over at night, especially this late. It was about 3 AM when Wilson had knocked on the door impatiently.

" Wilson. What are you doing here? Is your 7th ex-wife still instant messaging you drunk texts? " House made a pouting face in mockery.

Wilson walked into the room cautiously, his hands in a cold and sweaty mess of a ball.

" House...uh...well see, the thing is..." Wilson scratched the back of his head and laughed nervously, " I just wanted to see if you were still up...I have a few...questions."

" What is it? I'm not a cancer mommy, so I don't really know what to say to a 5-year-old who is soon to be dead. "

Wilson furrowed his brows at the joke. Even if he was used to House goofing off everywhere at all times, some of his jokes were still pretty offensive.

" No...Greg...how is your French coming...along?"

House's eyebrows raised. " You came all the way here to ask me THAT? What, you got a crush on Frenchie now? " He make a rather ridiculous pose.
" Mom, you'll never believe what the French man said to me today! How many times you got my name scribbled on the front of your journal, Jimmy boy? "

" I just...think it's a rather loving language...it's extremely romantic and all..."

House was slightly stunned. Was Wilson really saying this? House's mind scanned for the most apt medical excuse for this behavior.

Wilson approached House rather boldly.

" Look through your mental medical book all you want, Greg. There's nothing wrong with me but...you. "

House was shaking slightly. Rather it be from the pressure he's putting on his cane from shock, or the adrenaline that's pumping through his heart's chambers, House was definitely dumbfounded and appalled. He knew what was coming, and he tried his hardest to restrain his actions. He wanted to be the one who would initiate a romantic advance, but Wilson had caught him off guard. He was like a very crippled deer in the headlights.

Wilson steadied his breathing long enough to not make a fool of himself. He pressed against House's torso with his own, his hands landing on the small of Greg's back. He put his lips right next to House's ear, and whispered in a gentle and urgent voice,

" Speak French to me House. The language of love purses through your lips in such a manner that it makes my bones ache for your neck in my teeth and your hands on my body. Say you love me. Say anything, and I will be your slave "

After many sloppy kisses and caught breaths, House finally spoke.

" ma mère mange beaucoup de chaussures. " HE looked into Wilson's large, brown eyes and smiled in quite a deviant manner.

" j'ai pris mon chien dans le magasin et ils l'ont mis avec les oignons. Il nage. L'homme nagent, homme chaud. Le papa des choses chaudes. "

Wilson smiled even though he felt his face rise in tempreture quite quickly.

They kissed tenderly.

The sound of French accordians and obes played amorous and whimsical riffs grew and burst through the heartstrings of the two new lovers. The night was painted with acrylic stars and oily moons. There were city lights that ran through the Parisian utopia of their affection, sparking one after another in rushes of bliss and freedom. There was a phrase that coloured throughout each little house and cottage. Each cobblestone, iron café chair, basket of cakes and sweets, and every light that made the Eiffel Tower shine.

" deux oies de manger mes couilles "

Fin.