Title: Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 14
Author: hwshipper
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Heel and Toe Films, Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions in association with Universal Media Studios.
Beta: the ever supportive triedunture

Summary: House is in love and living with his new girlfriend; he and Wilson have to figure out what they can live with under the Stacy Convention.
Excerpt: As soon as they were seated, House yanked the collar of his jacket aside to reveal the lovebite, and said bluntly, "This can't happen again."

Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 14

One rainy Monday evening Wilson was at home doing some paperwork when the phone rang, and he was surprised to see on the caller display that it was House. These days, with House working at Princeton General and Wilson at Penn, they usually emailed: once every few days, back and forth, emails which were mostly mocking and bordering on the abusive on the surface, the underlying affection well masked to anyone but themselves.

"Hey, House. What's up?"

"Wilson. About this weekend..." House sounded unusually unsure of himself.

"Is there a problem?" Wilson asked. Once every six weeks or so, when hospital schedules allowed, one of them would visit the other for a weekend. They would hang out, watch soaps, play computer games, and sleep in the same bed. He was supposed to go down to Princeton this weekend for the first time in quite a while. "Should I not come down?"

"No, no, come down, Jimmy." The use of his first name was like a flashing red light: Wilson immediately knew House had something major to tell him.

"What's up, House? Say it, quick; you're freaking me out."

House sighed. "I need to tell you... come down, but you'll be sleeping on the couch."

"Oh. Right." Wilson was puzzled.

"I'm living with someone."

Wilson dropped the pen he was holding. "You're living with someone?"

For once House didn't pounce on Wilson for repeating what he'd just heard, and carried on. "Her name's Stacy. She moved in with me a week ago."

Wilson was staggered. "And... how long have you been going out?"

"We met two weeks ago. At that doctors-lawyers paintball thing. I told you about it..."

"Not the bitch who shot you? You refused to die and shot her back, and you argued for hours..."

"That's her."

"And a week later she moved in?"

"Pretty much."

"House..." Wilson said slowly, thinking things through, "You can't possibly want me coming to stay this weekend if you've just started living with your new girlfriend. We'll take a raincheck."

"No." There was a deep breath at the other end of the phone. "Unless you don't want to... sleep on the couch. I can understand that. But... I would like you to meet her."

Wilson didn't quite understand what was going on, but he responded to the words and the feeling behind them. "Of course. I'll sleep on the couch." He paused, and added with a hint of mischief, "Can't wait."

"Yeah." House sounded relieved. "See you Saturday."

A patient's relapse late on Friday delayed Wilson's arrival until Sunday, which he regretted, but at least he managed to arrange to take Monday off instead.

Wilson arrived at the train station in the afternoon, and saw House standing in his usual place leaning against the wall. They greeted each other in the same way as ever; that was to say, they started walking towards the parking lot and fell into step together with a gentle bump of shoulders. Wilson sometimes felt he lived for that bump of shoulders. Just as well, as he figured he wouldn't be getting anything else this weekend.

"So tell me about her," he said, once they were in the car, and heading for House's apartment.

"She's a lawyer. High-powered. Works all hours of the day and night. Earns far more than me. Or you." House swerved to avoid a pedestrian. "You'll think she's a good influence on me."

"Mmm." Wilson was reserving all judgment at the moment.

"Her firm does quite a bit of work for Princeton General, and also for the teaching hospital down the road. She's working this afternoon--gotta big case on tomorrow--but we're all meeting for dinner later. If that's okay?" He turned his head to look at Wilson, blue eyes wide and questioning.

Wilson was surprised; House was not one to ask if arrangements were all right; he was apt to decide what they were going to do and Wilson found out later on, if he was lucky. He deduced that House was nervous. He wasn't showing it, but he was nervous. Because he really wanted Wilson to get along with Stacy.

"Sure," Wilson said easily.

Stacy was waiting at the restaurant that evening when they arrived. Wilson already knew what she would be like, like every girlfriend of House's that he'd ever met--tall, dark hair, intelligent, self-possessed. She was dressed casually yet smartly, appropriate for a weekend spent in the office. House and Wilson looked like mangy teenagers by comparison, even though House was wearing a shirt instead of a T-shirt for once.

"Wilson, Stacy. Stacy, James Wilson." House was outwardly confident, but talking too quickly and moving jerkily; he was definitely nervous.

"I'm delighted to meet you, James." Stacy's handshake was firm and her voice was steady.

"And I'm really pleased to meet you too." The words were a little formal, but Wilson meant it; actually he was agog to meet her, to find out more about this woman who had moved in with House. Nobody had managed that before.

They sat down, and Wilson saw Stacy had a briefcase and a small wheeled suitcase behind the table. She caught his gaze. "I have to apologize, I need to leave right after dinner--I have a case first thing tomorrow in Washington, so I need to fly out tonight. I'll be away for a few days. I'm very sorry to go just as you got here."

"No problem." Wilson responded to her politeness in kind. "I have to get back tomorrow myself, I'm just sorry you have to fly out to work on a Sunday night."

House snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. "Let's get some food over here, pronto! Garçon!"

"No need to terrorize the waiting staff, Greg," Stacy said mildly. "I don't want them spitting in our food."

"If they do, I'll diagnose food poisoning and you can bring the lawsuit," House said, leaning over to the next table to grab a menu from another customer. They had barely finished ordering, and looked at him with indignation.

Stacy shook her head, and raised a beautifully groomed eyebrow. "They'd claim extreme provocation. And they'd be right..."

Wilson watched in fascination as House and Stacy batted back and forth, House throwing casual insults and irreverent remarks in his usual way, and Stacy lobbing them right back. A small part of Wilson wanted to dislike her. It wasn't rational; it was simply because House had despised Wilson's own ex-wives and every girlfriend he had ever had, pretty much, and he wanted to return the favor.

But Wilson didn't dislike her; he couldn't. She was smart and funny and warm and nice, and above all, she got House. And House clearly adored her. He wasn't soppy, and neither was she; they didn't call each other any pet names, or hold hands. Actually, they barely touched in front of him, which Wilson was vaguely relieved about. But Wilson could see it every time House looked at her; that blue gaze he knew so well. Intense, intimate, meaningful, delighted as if he couldn't believe his luck; House was nuts about her.

Wilson was a little surprised to find that Stacy was obviously curious about him. Somehow he hadn't appreciated that Stacy would want to know more about House's best (and only) friend, but of course she did.

"So how did you guys meet?" she asked, over starters.

House rolled his eyes and plucked a shrimp out of her prawn avocado.

Good question, Wilson thought wryly. "He knocked me over with his motorbike." (Even more interesting than being shot at paintball, he hoped.) "Although he'd already been stealing my food a week before that."

She smiled. "And that was at Columbia, right?"

"Nine years ago." Wilson nodded.

"You've obviously got staying power," she said.

She asked him about himself, his job, his family, his wives, his divorces. Wilson answered truthfully but circumspectly; there were many things it was important to omit. He found himself uneasy; however ridiculous it might be, it was the first time he had really been faced with the prospect of sharing House with anyone else.

Near the end of the meal, House vanished into the bathroom and Wilson seized the opportunity to have a private word with Stacy.

"Look," he said abruptly, digging a spoon into his ice-cream. "House doesn't let many people close to him." As he spoke, Wilson tried to think of anyone close to House apart from himself, and failed. "Actually he almost never lets anyone close to him. So... I don't know if you realize, but this is a huge thing for him. So you'd better be serious about him. Because if you're not, you'd better back off right now before you really hurt him."

"Wow." Stacy regarded him coolly. "You know what this reminds me of? Me aged sixteen, my first boyfriend, my dad collaring him and telling him he had better treat his daughter right or else."

Wilson grimaced. "I am not House's dad! As you'd know, if you'd ever met House's dad." Stacy looked curious at this, and Wilson hastily swerved away from the subject of House's parents. "But... if you're just playing with him, I'm not gonna just sit here and watch."

"I'm not just playing," Stacy said steadily.

"Because with House it's all or nothing." Wilson pressed on. "He doesn't do compromises."

"He's a big boy," Stacy protested. "Surely you don't need to be so protective."

Wilson wasn't feeling protective so much as possessive right now, and he wasn't about to apologize for it. "And whatever you do, don't think you can change him. Because however close you get, however near he lets you, he's still gonna behave like an ass. That's just how he is. You may think that's cute now, and you can cope, but you may not feel that way after a while."

"James. Quit worrying," Stacy said firmly. "I'm not going to hurt him."

Wilson looked at her, hard. She regarded him calmly back, and after a few seconds he shrugged and took a mouthful of ice-cream. "Fine. I've had my two cents. He's obviously crazy about you. I hope it works out. I really do."

"Thank you." Stacy smiled a little. "And I consider myself warned."

"Not warned, no!" Wilson mentally kicked himself: hell, he really did sound like a concerned parent.

House reappeared at that moment, eyes sharp with curiosity. "So, you two having a good chat?"

It was a casually phrased question but Wilson knew it wasn't casual at all. He chose to be reassuring, and replied, "I think we're getting along just fine."

As they were finishing dessert, a waiter told Stacy that her cab had arrived: she apologized nicely to Wilson again, and left. House walked her out to the cab: Wilson watched them leave the restaurant, House's hand resting on the small of her back.

House and Stacy stopped outside on the sidewalk, the cab with its meter running a few feet away. Wilson shifted his seat a few inches for a better view. He saw them embracing briefly, kissing swiftly, then pausing to exchange a few last words. Stacy with a hand on House's arm, House snaking an arm around her waist.

Coffee arrived. Wilson took a sip too quickly and burned his mouth. He gulped some water, and reflected on how fucking unfair it was that House had fallen in love--and that was what had happened, Wilson had no doubt--right now. Just a month ago he'd been thinking about how he and House might live together, if he could get a job in Princeton... and now someone else had moved in instead. Literally.

Fine, Wilson could cope with that. But he wasn't going to let himself be sidelined.

Stacy got in the cab, and as House waved her off, Wilson sat up a little straighter in his chair, ran a hand through his hair, and prepared to stake his claim.

House returned to the table, bright eyed but worried, keen to find out what Wilson thought of her. Wilson intimated both approval and doubts, and fed House half his chocolate while flirting shamelessly. When Wilson really wanted House, he knew how to play House, and with House unsure of himself and nervy, it wasn't difficult; they ended up fucking in the alleyway outside the restaurant.

Next morning, House emerged from his bedroom with tousled hair and sleepy eyes, came into the kitchen and asked with a nonchalance that didn't fool Wilson for one second, "So, were you okay sleeping on the couch last night?"

They'd stumbled back to House's apartment after their coupling in the alley, and Wilson hadn't hesitated to crash on the couch. He'd seen inside the bedroom earlier, and it was no longer House's bedroom; it was House-and-Stacy's. There were strange possessions in the closet and women's clothes draped over chairs. It was similar elsewhere, with a whole new range of products in the bathroom cabinet, and weighty law books propped up against the equally hefty medical tomes on the living room shelves.

"It was fine," Wilson said immediately, and added a trifle mischievously, "Though if this goes on, maybe you should both get a bigger apartment with a spare room." He knew House was deeply entrenched in his apartment, especially since he'd managed to afford to buy a grand piano at last, and wouldn't leave it unless carried out in a wooden box.

"Yeah, right." House turned to pour himself some coffee, and Wilson glimpsed a large red hickey on House's neck beneath the bathrobe. A sharp reminder of the night before. He'd bitten House on the neck, twice: he knew he shouldn't have done it, but at the time it had seemed necessary.

"She's really nice," Wilson said, trying to show approval of House's new relationship.

"What time's your train?" House asked abruptly.

Wilson hesitated, not sure where this was going. "There's one about noon..."

"I don't have to be in work until the afternoon, late shift. I'll come to the station with you," House said.

Wilson realized House wanted to say something, and yet didn't want to say it, so was putting it off until the last minute.

"Sure," Wilson said, not wanting to push.

They went to a coffee shop at the station, and House found them a table in a far corner which was quiet and almost dark, even in the middle of the day.

As soon as they were seated, House yanked the collar of his jacket aside to reveal one of the lovebites, and said bluntly, "This can't happen again."

Wilson raised a hand in apology. "I'm sorry. They'll fade before she's back."

"That's not what I mean." House didn't look at Wilson as he went on, "I'm not like you when it comes to... compartmentalizing relationships. It's gonna be... different from now on. Us, I mean."

"You mean..." Wilson dropped his voice. "You don't want to--" he made a gesture--"with me any more."

"Not that I don't want to, Christ, Wilson," House hissed. "I'm saying I'm trying to make a commitment here, to Stacy, and that means not jumping my best friend every time we meet. And I can't do that if you... keep pursuing it."

Wilson knew that House was naturally inclined to be much more monogamous than himself, even if House couldn't always live up to his own ambitions. He remembered House's insistence that they should stop fucking after Wilson had gotten married that first time; he remembered his own determined pursuit of House in the face of it...

Now, Wilson wasn't quite sure how to react. He knew he was jealous of Stacy on one level, but he also wanted to rise above that. He did not want to break up House and Stacy's relationship; did not want that responsibility; didn't think anything good would come of it even if he did. He did not want to make House upset, or angry; he wanted House to be happy and content and working well. It looked like House was finally in a place where he could be happy, and Wilson couldn't help but be genuinely pleased for House.

"If that's what you need me to do, House," he said gently, "I can... keep on sleeping on the couch. So long as you still want me to visit."

As he spoke, Wilson was aware of a stabbing sensation in his chest, as if he was falling on his sword.

"Of course--" House broke off, and reached out and grabbed Wilson's hand.

They were in public, and although there was nobody around to see, Wilson was momentarily shocked. House held Wilson's hand tightly, apparently in the grip of strong emotion. Wilson squeezed back, trying to be reassuring. Then he loosened his grip, and instead interlaced their fingers together.

House looked down at their hands, intimately joined. Then House unlaced their fingers, and instead put the tip of just one finger, his middle finger, very gently on the center of Wilson's palm. Wilson felt an electric charge shooting through his body, sending a shiver down his spine and a pulse to his groin. He put out his own middle finger and placed it on House's palm, and watched as House's blue eyes sparked and shone in response.

A crackling voice on the intercom announced the platform for Wilson's train. Wordlessly, they both got up and trudged out.

The next couple of times they met, Stacy was present, and House was bouncing around her with adoration apparent in every movement, affection tempering every otherwise caustic remark. In these circumstances it wasn't difficult for Wilson to be just the best friend. He got to know Stacy a little better; he couldn't help but like her.

The first real test of his new-style relationship with House came about six months later. House emailed to say that he was coming to give a seminar at UPenn's Infectious Diseases department on diagnostic techniques, and would be crashing at Wilson's apartment. Wilson, anxious to try and play by House's new rules, replied sure, my couch awaits.

Wilson went along to the seminar, curious to see House holding forth in his area of expertise. He sat at the back and listened and watched, as House spoke to a paper and effortlessly quashed questions. Wilson was duly impressed by House's authority and command of his subject. House had always known his stuff; but choosing to communicate it like this to his peers--this was new. And Wilson knew what the difference was: it was Stacy. House had been right: she was a good influence. Her own strong work ethic had rubbed off on House.

"That was great, House," Wilson was quick to compliment afterwards. They were in a nearby bar along with a number of his Infectious Diseases colleagues. "You should put it in a paper, get it published."

"Already submitted, to the New England Medical Journal," House said briskly.

"Damn skippy." Wilson really was impressed.

They had a few beers, the Infectious Diseases staff melted away, and by closing time House and Wilson were alone together, exchanging drunken gossip and berating the nature of events currently going on in General Hospital.

They staggered home. At one point House tripped over the curb and nearly fell, except Wilson grabbed his arm and pulled him upright. Back at Wilson's apartment, Wilson opened the door and stepped inside. House followed and went past him into the hallway. Wilson shut the door, turned around, and was caught completely by surprise as House pushed him gently back against the wall and pressed his lips over Wilson's mouth.

Wilson responded instinctively, throwing his arms round House, pulling him closer. House pressed his whole body up against Wilson's; Wilson felt the throb of House's groin, and House shuddered from top to bottom.

God it would have been so easy just to keep goin... to put his hand up under House's T-shirt, to slide his other hand down to unbutton House's jeans... to fuck or be fucked right here, in the hallway, up against the wall. And part of Wilson felt triumphant about this, in a Hah, Stacy! kind of way. He might be in love with you but he always comes back to me...

But Wilson, with an enormous effort, pulled back and said breathlessly, "Hang on, House? I must've misunderstood big-time here, because I thought we weren't doing this anymore."

House looked at him with eyes so fogged with lust that Wilson twitched and bit his tongue before carrying on nervously, "Because of Stacy?..."

The name stopped House dead. He stepped back and breathed, then turned away and walked off into Wilson's living room.

Wilson took a moment to compose himself, then went in and sat down on the couch next to House.

"Thanks for being the strong one here," House mumbled. "Though I never would have believed it. Jimmy Wilson, who'd have thought it?"

"You're gonna have to stop teasing me," Wilson said, trying to sound casual and not as if he was inwardly kicking himself. "Next time I may not find such self-control. Look, I'm going to bed, I'll see you in the morning."

House frowned, and said bluntly, "You're going to jerk off now, aren't you?"

Wilson was taken aback, but retained the presence of mind to hit right back. "And you're not?"

"It makes no sense at all for us to sit here in your apartment jerking off in separate rooms," House stated. "C'mere."

"House, these are supposed to be your rules--" Wilson began, then breathed in sharply as House moved closer, then reached out and unbuckled Wilson's jeans. Wilson promptly lost all power to protest, as House put his hand inside and slowly, deliberately, grasped his cock and began to roll his hand up and down.

Wilson reached out towards House's crotch, but House swiped Wilson's hand away and undid his own jeans. "Nuh huh. You watch."

"Umph." Wilson clutched the back of the couch instead and watched, spellbound, as House pulled out his own cock, then inched closer and then enveloped both their erections together in one strong palm. Wilson instinctively reached down to cover House's hand with his own--but again, House swiped him away.

"Nuh-huh."

"House, God, House--" Wilson groped out blindly, higher-up this time, and found himself grabbing at House's hair. House let out a sss! of pain as Wilson yanked out several follicles, then Wilson came, spurting madly over House's fist and House's own cock. House briefly paused, then slathered Wilson's come over his palm and continued to pump at his own hard-on. A minute later House groaned and climaxed himself.

When he had regained the power of speech, Wilson ventured through stuttered breaths, "So, is this allowed under the Stacy Convention?"

"Fuck off!" House mumbled, sounding weak but indignant. Then he added, a trifled defensive, "I'm still figuring out what I can live with."

"You'd be surprised," Wilson muttered back.

It took about six months before House established some ground rules which he could live with. It had to be infrequent (not too difficult, as Stacy was usually around), and it had to stop short of full penetrative sex. But most importantly it had to be unplanned; House just wouldn't tolerate it if he felt Wilson had set up an opportunity for them to fuck. But if it seemed impulsive, the two of them both slightly drunk perhaps, and being mutually flirty and affectionate, and this somehow ended up with a spur-of-the-moment blowjob, or a furtive handjob--then that could be tolerated.

Wilson found he could live with this too. His nickname for their arrangement stuck, which annoyed House but amused Wilson no end. At crucial moments Wilson would ask, "Is this okay under the Stacy Convention?" or "Can we lift the Stacy Convention for a moment here?" and House would bark at him don't fucking say that!--but it had the benefit that they both knew exactly what they were talking about.

And Wilson found a great deal of satisfaction in manufacturing the odd apparently spontaneous sexual encounter--and if House sometimes suspected it hadn't been quite as spontaneous as it initially seemed, Wilson usually had done a good enough job that House didn't quibble. In fact, Wilson looked back on sex during the Stacy Convention years as some of the most satisfying they ever had.

END OF PART 14

TBC. Next part: Wilson applies for a job at Princeton Plainsboro, under the new young female kickass Dean of Medicine.

A/N: The alley!sex outside the restaurant is told in my separate fic Branding.