Disclaimer: If House were mine, the House/Wilson slashiness would be even more obvious… ;)

Changes

I'm a people person

James Wilson leans back in his chair, loosens his tie and manages to look delightfully, possibly even delectably, scruffy. Across the table, House licks his lips and wonders if anyone - Carmen Electra included – has ever possessed such a biteable neck.

"What you don't realise…" Wilson begins, oblivious of the fact that House is checking him out "…is that you can't categorise people. They just don't fit into neat little boxes like you want them to."

"So basically what you're saying is 'people are a problem'."

"Yes… No!" Wilson runs a hand through his hair; it's too long, forcing him to peak through strands of golden-brown whenever he looks at House. "All I'm saying is that you can't look at somebody – let's say Foreman – and think 'juvenile record' because that says nothing about who he is."

House grins. "Foreman likes Indian takeout, alternative music and women with big asses."

"You just made that up!"

"Prove it, Sherlock."

Wilson is forced into a not-so-reluctant smile. "Come on, I'm being serious!"

"So am I." House loves winding Wilson up; he likes the creeping angry redness that spreads down the neck, maybe under the shirt, possibly to other places too. Oh yes, he'll play Devil's Advocate anytime.

But Wilson is still being serious. "These people work for you; you see them everyday and you know nothing about them. What about Cameron? Chinese takeout, opera and middle-aged men with big sticks, no doubt?"

"Cameron… Cameron likes to fix things."

Even Wilson has to acknowledge the astuteness of the remark. "And Chase?"

"Chase lives in his father's shadow."

Wilson pauses, swallows, and wonders if the next question might be pushing it a bit. "And me?" he asks.

And waits for an answer that doesn't arrive.

House's pager goes off. He takes it out of his pocket, glances at it and frowns.

"You're different," he says, not looking at Wilson. His chair makes an artificial scraping sound as he gets up. His cane clatters on the floor as he leaves the canteen.

"Different…" Wilson muses. "I would have preferred 'special'."

Smugness is easier to maintain

Later that day, House brandishes a Styrofoam cup at Wilson. "Present: it's coffee straight from the heart."

"Straight from the vending machine, more like."

House mock-pouts and Wilson nearly giggles. "Thanks," he says, as he takes the cup, while allowing his fingers to brush against House's. He can't help himself, trapped as he is in a loveless – touchless? – marriage. Wilson knows you've got to take comfort where you can get it. It's the only way.

"D'you reckon there's actually real coffee in this?" House asks, as he perches himself on Wilson's desk. "Because I'm not convinced there is."

"In the old days, on the sailing ships, they used to use burnt biscuit and hot water when they ran out of coffee."

For a moment House looks at him as if he's grown another head and then he barks "The old days, that a technical term, is it?"

But Wilson just shrugs. He likes stories and anecdotes about how things used ot be; he likes the idea of context- likes to think that context is in fact everything. And maybe, just maybe, born in a different place or a different time, he would be sitting here (or anywhere, really) with a different Greg – a happier one – and he himself wouldn't have notched up a big fat 3 on the divorce-meter.

Everybody lies

Night falls quickly. Wilson's had a bad day, a bad caseload and he's tired. He finds House in his office, playing with a musical spinning top.

In the Elevator, House leans his head back against the wall and taps his cane a few times in a half-hearted attempt at being irritating. And then he stops and surveys his friend's rather downhearted expression. "You've just got to expect if from people, James. Everybody lies."

Wilson's heard him say it so many times that sometimes he wonders if House doesn't get through life repeating it over and over in his head like a mantra. Everybody lies. Everybody lies. Everybody…

"No they don't," Wilson snaps, about a minute after House said it.

Blue eyes look mildly surprised.

"I don't lie," Wilson adds. There's a slight note of huskiness in his voice. "Not to you."

The elevator doors open onto the Ground Floor. Neither of the men move.

House opens his mouth to make some smartass wisecrack comment, then closes it again. "No," he eventually says. "You probably don't."

Stupid screwed up friendship

Wilson's not entirely sure how they end up lounging on House's sofa, watching some movie about fire-fighters and cursed fireballs. Or something like that. It's dull anyway and House is soon paying rather more attention than is strictly platonic to the feel of Wilson curled up next to him.

And then he notices that Wilson's eyes have left the television screen and now appear oddly fascinated by his hands, one resting in his lap, the other drumming an old blues tune on a cushion.

"Are you checking me out?" House teases.

Wilson blushes endearingly but chooses to ignore the accusation. Instead he says: "I lied when I said I didn't lie. Um, that is if you count not telling the truth as lying."

"Isn't that the definition of lying?" House asks, smirking slightly.

Wilson looks away for a moment and swallows loudly. "I'm getting divorced."

There's a distinct catch in his throat. And sure as hell it's a conversation killer.

"Oh," House says. "Again?"

"It's not my fault," Wilson replies. He gives an odd, tight little laugh. "Okay, so maybe it is… Maybe I'm just not good at commitment."

Not good at commitment…

There's something unspoken between them. House and Wilson, Greg and Jimmy, friends of nine years now. That's a commitment, surely?

"Christ. I hate getting divorced," Wilson says. He blinks a few times, as if he's considering crying but may yet change his mind. His eyes shine in the orange glare of the TV (cursed fireballs are currently taking over New York City) and House sits awkwardly by his side, not really liking the situation. "It wouldn't kill you to comfort me," Wilson adds. "A hand on the shoulder would do fine…"

To his surprise – to both men's surprise, in fact – House wraps an arm round Wilson, pulling the younger man close.

Beauty often seduces us on the road to truth

After that their relationship starts changing, slowly at first and then with growing speed. Wilson moves in because Julie wants the house and he can't be bothered arguing… Or at least that's what he tells himself.

And the changes keep happening.

It's the way their fingers don't brush so much as linger as House brings Wilson coffee.

It's Wilson placing a not-so-casual hand on House's shoulder as his friend plays the piano.

And it's Greg reaching out and patting James' thigh as he drives him to the Legal Office. And then later - when they're on Greg's couch and there are empty bottles everywhere, when James has whined about the divorce and Greg has told him in no uncertain terms to "get a grip" (a gentle touch on the hand oddly belying his words) – they snuggle.

They don't speak about what's happening, about the fact that Greg's hand is still resting sedately on top of James's, and James is most definitely cuddled up against Greg's chest. It's comfortable, sure, but it's also new and potent and very dangerous; they're at the end of something and the beginning of something else and that's always a scary place to be.

And still neither of them speak, even later when their fingers entwine and James shifts slightly to brush his lips against Greg's stubbly jaw.

Clarification

It's 6.52 AM. House awakens to a dead weight on his chest and a nagging pain in his leg. He opens an eye cautiously, not sure whether the sight of James Wilson cradled in the crook of his arm is alarming or merely surprising. He looks cute too, with his sleep-tousled hair and a glint of saliva at the corner of his mouth where he's dribbled in the night. House feels a pang of something, although he doesn't know what it is.

It's fine to check out a friend, lust after him even, maybe play around with a few fantasies in the morning shower. But this - this closeness, this outright affection, this liking that over the years may or may not have metamorphosed into love - is infinitely more shocking. Shocking because it's real.

House gets up quickly, groaning as his leg complains. Wilson also groans, as his cuddly House-shaped cushion abruptly abandons him.

"Hey!"

But House has disappeared into the kitchen, where he drinks milk straight from the carton and wonders what to do. After a few minutes, he hears the sound of the shower switching on. The clock on the wall reads 5.59, then 6.00, and then 6.01. He hears the shower switch off and then the sound of clattering, as Wilson roots through his bathroom cabinet.

House glances at the clock. 6.05AM. He'll have to go to work in a couple of hours, or maybe three, depending on how late he can justify being.

"Greg."

He turns to find Wilson standing in the doorway, wearing sweatpants and a faded Rolling Stones tee-shirt. And okay, some part of him likes the domesticity of having James Wilson round the house.

Wilson smiles, albeit a little shyly. "I borrowed a tee-shirt," he says.

"I noticed."

And it's just one more change in a changing relationship, when James steps towards him, bare feet quiet on the kitchen floor, and half-whispers "I need this". He kisses House's cheek, takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom.