Title: Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 2
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.
Author's note: Part 2 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, taking us all the way to canon.

Summary: House and Wilson continue to invade each other's personal space, until...
Excerpt: 'I'll give you the key I have to your room, if you give me the key you've got to my room,' Wilson countered.

Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 2

After that day, House and Wilson fell into a habit of lunching together, which amazed everyone in the hospital. It didn't happen every day; Wilson was an over-achieving hard-working student studying all hours, and House was frequently too preoccupied with a case to even remember there was such a thing as lunch. But they looked out for each other, and if they saw each other, they sat together. The food stealing had become a game, with House always taking things off Wilson's plate, and Wilson periodically making it difficult for him.

One evening House came home from jogging and found Wilson in the kitchen, polishing off a bowl of pasta. House and Wilson were both in the habit of going out for a run most days, but not together; Wilson the early bird went first thing in the morning, while House the night owl went in the evening.

"Hi," Wilson said, scraping the bowl clean. "Sorry, that was the last."

House sighed in mock exasperation, said, "Not good enough," leaned over the sink, and gulped water straight from the tap. He was not only covered in sweat and soaking wet. His T-shirt clung to his torso. He straightened up, and found Wilson eyeing him up and down.

"What're you looking at?" House asked, a trifle aggressively.

If he'd hoped Wilson would blush or deny it, he was mistaken; Wilson, as ever, took him head on.

"Your prize-winning entry in the wet T-shirt competition."

House glared at him. "You're looking at my nipples."

Wilson blinked and said, "You looked at me this exact same way on the day we met, when I was coming back from running."

"Did not!" House said indignantly.

"So did," Wilson countered.

For once in his life House couldn't think of anything to say, so he simply thumbed his nose at Wilson and walked out of the room.

A few days later, House was lunching in the hospital cafeteria and keeping an eye out for Wilson, when Wilson appeared with a tray, chatting to a blonde student nurse with a pronounced cleavage. To House's surprise, Wilson looked around, saw House, detached himself gracefully from the blonde, and came and sat down.

House raised his eyebrows. "I'm flattered."

Wilson looked at him inquiringly.

"You could've spent the next half hour staring at a rack like that, but you've come here to be insulted by me instead."

"You're the one always saying to me that with my fiancée, I shouldn't be noticing other women," Wilson retorted.

"And of course you've started taking my advice?" House said sarcastically. "Anyway, it's not just her. Nobody understands why you've started spending time with me. The first time you came and sat with me--uninvited, I might add--you stepped away from the herd."

"Oh God, you're doing a differential diagnosis," Wilson sighed.

"Why did you do it?" House asked. "Why come sit with me? And carry on sitting with me, at the risk of social exclusion by the rest of the entire hospital?"

"Don't be ridiculous. It's not that big a deal. Maybe I just like spending time with you."

"But why?" House pressed.

"I'm sure you have a theory you're about to tell me," Wilson said dryly. "So go on, surprise me."

"You," House said, waving a fork in Wilson's face, "want to specialize in oncology. Nobody does that unless they're an absolute sucker for punishment. You want to spend the rest of your life telling people they're going to die and there's not much you can do about it. Then watching them die, knowing there's nothing you can do about it. No well-balanced person wants that. Therefore you are not well-balanced. Even though you hide that extremely well, behind your smiling, friendly veneer. Deep down, you want to be around people who need you. And that's why you want to be around me."

"I suppose there's absolutely no point trying to argue about any of this?" Wilson inquired sardonically. "And what does that say about you--that you need me?"

"Well, I'm not well-balanced," House said, as if that was obvious (which it was, but Wilson still looked surprised to hear House say it). "Everyone can see that. Every girlfriend I've ever had has wanted to fix me in some way."

"You think that's why I hang around you--because I want to fix you?" Wilson asked, and his voice was angry now.

"No. Or you'd be in that morgue cooler now," House stated. "It's not just fixing with you, or you wouldn't want to be an oncologist. You're attracted to the hopeless cases. The ones that can be helped, alleviated, but usually not in the end actually cured."

"House, why do you have to try and explain everything?" Wilson said despairingly. He took a deep breath and struck back.

"Actually, don't tell me, I know. You did want to be a nephrologist, but now you want to do a second certification in infectious diseases, because you like figuring out weird and wonderful illnesses. It's the diagnosis you enjoy, even more than the treatment afterwards. And all this means that you end up treating people like mystery illnesses--they need to be diagnosed, even when they aren't ill. People to you are just puzzles, where you have to fit all the pieces together, aren't they?"

House blinked, taken aback by Wilson's swift analysis. After a moment he replied, "Yes. But most people are namby-pamby age-up-to-five-years three piece jigsaw puzzles which take two seconds to figure out. You, on the other hand, are a five thousand piece puzzle with most of the pieces missing."

"House, I think it's time for you to just shut up now," Wilson said sharply.

House had gotten up slightly earlier than usual one weekday and was in the kitchen, wondering vaguely if he might bump into Wilson going out to or coming back from his morning run, when he saw the door of Wilson's room open and a woman come out. House didn't recognize her, though he only caught a glimpse of her face before she hurried out of the front door. House looked at the clock; way too early for her to have just popped round this morning, she must have been there all night.

Delighted to have another piece in the Wilson jigsaw puzzle to pursue, House immediately headed into Wilson's room to investigate. Wilson, sitting at his desk piling papers together, nearly jumped out of his skin when House appeared magically inside his room.

"House! You have a key to my room?" Wilson was outraged.

"Used to be my room, didn't it?" House said carelessly. "Guess I forgot to give a copy back when I left."

He carried on swiftly before Wilson, left speechless by his sheer cheek, could respond. "So who was the lucky lady leaving just now? She just come round to wish you a good morning?"

Wilson glared. "So she stayed the night. What's it to you?"

House raised his eyebrows. "Last I heard, you had a fiancée waiting for you back up north. Or do you have one of these open relationships?"

"No," Wilson said grudgingly.

"I knew it," House beamed. "You're one of these guys that just can't keep it in his pants."

Wilson breathed in deeply, and said, "Excuse me?"

"You're one of these people who just can't go without sex for more than ten minutes without shagging the nearest thing in sight. A man-whore, if you will--"

"Fuck--off!" Wilson picked up the closest object to hand, which happened to be a book, and threw it at House. House, a veteran lacrosse player, caught it deftly and threw it straight back. Wilson ducked and then lunged furiously at House, trying to throw a punch; House caught him by the wrists and held on tight.

They stared at each other, faces just a few inches apart. Wilson tried to move, but House was bigger and stronger than him. House's long fingers circled Wilson's wrists, and his stubble almost prickled against Wilson's cheek. House was aware of Wilson's morning toothpaste breath in his face, and could smell his shampoo in his hair.

"Fuck you," Wilson said eventually, and the spell was broken. House let go Wilson's wrists. Wilson broke free, slumped on the couch and said, "OK, so I'm a serial cheater, I'm a bad person, and I'm going to be a terrible husband. Happy now you know all that?"

House left quietly. It had all been more than he had bargained for.

That lunchtime House didn't see Wilson in the cafeteria, and was sufficiently disturbed by this to go looking for him. He found Wilson sitting eating sandwiches on a bench outside, not a usual haunt for either of them, but just easy enough to find with a little bit of searching. House deduced from this that it wasn't that Wilson was hiding from him, but that he wanted to see if House would seek him out. And House had done just that. House felt a little uneasy by Wilson's ready reading; he wasn't used to anyone being able to read him at all.

House sat down next to Wilson, and swiped one of his sandwiches by way of apology. Wilson rolled his eyes, but didn't object, and therefore accepted the apology.

"Why do you always have to know everything?" Wilson asked.

House shrugged and ate the sandwich. "Maybe I'm concerned about your fiancée."

"Yeah, who you haven't even met," Wilson scoffed.

House switched into differential diagnosis mode. "I don't need to. I know what she's like. Small, mousy, dark hair--"

"You've seen the photo of her on my desk," Wilson interrupted.

"--Clingy, not as bright as you, has been planning her dream wedding since the age of six, is now desperately happy that it's happening at last. Possibly willing to ignore a bit of straying on your part."

Wilson stared at House and admitted, "That's not too far wide of the mark." There was a pause, and Wilson added, "I've told her, you know. When I've--cheated."

"Oh well that's alright then," it was House's turn to scoff, and he couldn't help but ask, "So has it happened often?"

Wilson thought for a minute. "We've been engaged for a year. I didn't look at anyone else for the first six months, but in the last six months--I've slept with three different women."

"Including last night?"

Wilson grimaced. "Four different women."

House shook his head. "And she doesn't mind?"

"Yes, she minds! She minds a lot. She cries for days and forgives me in the end. Like you said, she's clingy. Me, I'm just a bastard." Wilson's tone was self-mocking and bitter.

House was silent for a moment, then said, "You're not a bad person. You just…" he shrugged. "Can't keep it in your pants."

Wilson punched House lightly on the arm.

That evening House arrived back home late and tired, having had a difficult patient defying diagnosis. He opened the door to his room and was outraged to find Wilson lying lengthways on his couch watching TV.

"How did you get in?" House spluttered. "You've got a key to my room?"

"Funny, that," Wilson said lazily.

"Where did you get it?" House demanded. Wilson tapped the side of his nose mysteriously. House thought for a few seconds and said accusingly, "You've been making eyes at that blonde secretary in accommodation, haven't you?"

"Better that than fuck her boss every few months like you do to keep your key."

"Give that key to me right now," House said furiously.

"I'll give you the key I have to your room, if you give me the key you've got to my room," Wilson countered.

House was flabbergasted, and a small corner of his mind couldn't help but applaud Wilson for his strategy. He couldn't let Wilson get away with this, though.

"No way. If you don't give the key, then I'll take it from you," he threatened.

Wilson shrugged. "It's on me if you want to come and find it." He grinned, a trifle flirtatiously. "You may not want to delve exactly where it is though..."

House was temporarily dumbfounded by Wilson's nerve. He stormed off into his bedroom to dump his backpack and take off his jacket. He took a deep breath and headed back into the lounge, where Wilson hadn't moved.

"Whose couch is this anyway?" House demanded, and Wilson reluctantly moved his feet so House could sit down.

House sat, reached into his jeans pocket, and pulled out his key ring, a large one with at least a dozen keys on it. He dangled most of the keys off the ring, and held one key aloft between his thumb and forefinger.

"Here it is. Come and get it."

Wilson eyed him warily. "Like it'll be that easy."

House merely looked at him. Wilson sat up, waited for a minute, and when House blinked, Wilson tried to grab the key ring. House easily snatched it away. A wrestling match ensued, which ended with them falling off the sofa in a tangle of limbs.

For the second time that day, their faces were inches from each other. Blue eyes stared into brown eyes. Then their heads moved together, their eyes closed and they touched noses.

Then House very gently took Wilson's lower lip into his mouth, and sucked it lightly. Wilson let out a tiny strangled sound in response, that seemed to House in that moment to be the most erotic thing he'd ever heard. Their mouths pressed against each other, tentatively, softly.

It was electric. It also felt like the most natural thing in the world.

They eventually stopped, pulled apart, and broke eye contact. An awkward silence descended. House didn't want to freak out, but was very afraid that Wilson was about to freak out.

Wilson was the first to speak, scrambling to his feet, saying meaninglessly, "Well it's late... I'd better go..." He left.

Alone, House lay on the floor, breathing, and thought Wilson had undoubtedly gone back to his own room to jerk off. Or perhaps that was just House himself projecting.

House recalled the differential diagnosis they had each done on why they'd both chosen to hang out together. He now recognized that they'd both failed to mention an additional reason.

They each fancied the pants off the other.

For the next few days, House and Wilson avoided each other, each feeling the need for some space, to try and figure out what had happened, and what on earth they wanted to happen next. The key issue was dropped and never referred to again. They bumped into each other in the hallway one morning, and at Wilson's suggestion, they went out for a drink that evening. They fell into bantering the same way as before. Each was secretly relieved about this.

While in the pub House spotted a woman eyeing up Wilson. "Blonde at ten o'clock, looking your way."

"Where?"

"My ten o'clock, not yours."

"Oh." Wilson saw her out of the corner of his eye. "This happens a lot. It's a bit of a pain," he said self-deprecatingly.

"We all have our burdens to bear. Oh--she's coming over." House raised his voice, and said loudly, "So Wilson, tell me more about your fabulous fiancée. When's the wedding date again?"

The blonde woman veered away. Wilson was amused. "Thanks, I guess."

House looked at him, and choosing his words and tone very carefully, said quietly, "Better you wrestle with me than have a one night stand like that." He kept his voice deliberately very light, leaving it completely open for Wilson to laugh it off.

But Wilson didn't laugh. Instead Wilson looked closely back at House, and said, "Yes. Let's go home."

House felt as if they'd both fallen off an abyss.

Without further conversation, they went back to their house, up to House's room, and as soon as the door shut behind them they moved together and started kissing. Wilson gasped as House thrust his tongue in his mouth. House shuddered from head to foot as Wilson pressed his full body up against his, and he felt Wilson's cock like a steel rod against his thigh. He twisted his body so as to rub his own cock against Wilson's hip, and Wilson let out a strangled exclamation. They each dived to undo belt buckles; House put his hand inside Wilson's boxer shorts, grasped his cock and rolled his hand backwards and forwards; Wilson groaned, "God, House," in a most gratifying way. Wilson reached out in return, and House saw stars and thought he'd died and gone to heaven at the sensation of Wilson's palm pressing against his cock. He bucked his hips, rubbing against Wilson's hand.

They each came within the space of a minute, and collapsed on the floor in a sticky mess. It felt great. It felt right.

END OF PART 2

Next part: House and Wilson each try and figure out what the hell the other wants from them.