To stand on the line of hope

A familiar knock sounded on his apartment door. "Come in!" House yelled.

It was, of course, Wilson, looking mildly sheepish. "Hey."

"If it isn't Mr. Liar. Care for a drink?"

"Please."

"Get it yourself. You know where everything is. While you're at it, get me a beer."

It was very odd how ordering Wilson about put him at ease.

Wilson came back with two beers, sat down on the couch in front of the T.V. House debated staying in the single-man couch, the one he usually used for reading, and decided he wasn't in the mood for across-the-room yelling. Not without a sigh, he limped to the other side of the couch, sans cane.

"I freaked out," Wilson explained.

"Did you now."

"I—we were too close. And I didn't mind. That bothered me."

"You left because you didn't want to?" House took a swig of beer.

"Something like that."

"Still doesn't explain your avoiding me."

"They're related. I thought it'd be better to distance ourselves. A break."

"Without saying a word."

"I didn't think you'd understand."

"Right on that account. You're the one who sounds like an eighth-grade girl. Can't tell you how many women have used that excuse to break up with me. 'We should spend some time apart.' 'We need to grow as separate people.'" These last two phrases House mimicked in a high pitch voice while bopping his head from side to side. Wilson grinned, in spite of himself.

But he took a deep breath, and the grin was gone. "I was scared you wouldn't want the same thing."

"What's that? Try me, you'd be amazed at all the things I want."

"Better leave it be, House."

"You can't have given up on it all that much, if you went so far as to arouse my curiosity. You know me, I'm not going to stop bugging you until you—"

Wilson picked up House's hand, the one not holding the beer, held it in his palm. His thumb found its way to his wrist, and he stroked downwards, into the center of House's hand, slowly, once, twice. He interlaced their fingers, squeezed gently. "Oh." Shivers ran down House's spine.

"I told you," and Wilson pulled his hand away. "Don't worry, I'll get over it. Halfway there already." He laughed, though it was more mechanical than anything. House had never heard him sound that way before. "Not that it'll stop you from mocking me for all that I'm worth!" House watched Wilson as he slumped back, his head falling onto the couch. "Wow," he said, after staring up at the ceiling for a few seconds, "it's good to get that out." He laughed again, but this time he sounded normal. "Maybe now I'll let it go."

"Let it go," House repeated, and mentally hit himself for acting dumbstruck.

"You're surprised, aren't you?" Wilson analyzed. "I guess it is surprising. Maybe you could get your rat pack to do a differential diagnosis on me, for a straight man showing homosexual tendencies after a lifetime of hetero—"

"You're defending yourself," House interrupted, "with self-mockery."

"I— maybe a little."

"You don't need to."

"Because you'll do it for me?"

"Just don't."

Wilson looked away. "Thank you."

They drank their beers, and then a couple of more, in silence. When Wilson left, it was without a word, but House accompanied him to the door.