It's his stride, the way that Wilson doesn't have to slow down to match it. They both walk down the hallway together, their slacks swishing lightly and their heads leaning towards one another as he tells Wilson about the lab results. His skin is a swirl of coffee, and he speaks Portuguese. House does too, but only enough to ask about the menu. The way this man handles English is luscious and thick. House would make jokes about how exotic he is, but he and Wilson look far too good together.
His team is currently working out what kind of treatment to give to a 5-year old boy with bizarre blood blisters when he catches a flash of white coats through the blinds. He's been waiting for them to pass by all day and rushes over to peek through the glass. They're stopped by the elevator, and Wilson is holding up a file folder and waving it in frustration and the lab assistant is nodding. They're standing closer than House would like, just a sliver of space between them. He imagines himself sandwiched in that space, guarding Wilson from the enemy force, and then possibly running his thumb down Wilson's neck, like he always does.
Wilson's voice echoes in his head: "You're afraid to take a chance because it's too big a chance."
He can't wait to do this later, because he feels the urge now. He limps out of the diagnostic room and steps awkwardly between them, plants his hands on Wilson's shoulders and looks him straight in the eyes, a searing glance that says, you're mine, and don't you ever forget it.
The neck-rubbing will come later, maybe, when there aren't so many people watching. He wouldn't want anyone to think that they were together or anything.