Title: Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 3
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: Gratitude and honours shared between earlwyn and triedunture
A/N: Part 3 of a backstory to take place over twenty years, all the way to canon.
Summary: House and Wilson each try and figure out what the hell the other wants from them.
Twenty Years of Stealing My Food: Part 3
House glared at the arrivals board again and gritted his teeth; Wilson's plane was late. He was only flying back from Canada, for Christ's sake; the whole flight was shorter than the two hours House had already been waiting. He checked the monitor once more; it continued to blink DELAYED, mocking him.
He fingered the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Nicotine would be good. It had been a full hour since the last one; surely even Wilson could forgive that. And at least it would give him something to do, rather than stand around here looking like a moron. He'd gotten to recognize all the other faces of people waiting for this flight over the last hour. They all looked like morons. He'd mentally assigned identities to each one: worn-out wife waiting for hubby to come back from business trip; dumb girlfriend waiting starry-eyed for returning wayward boyfriend; over-zealous husband anxious not to let returning wifey drive herself home in the cold.
He wondered what they thought of him, why he might be there. He didn't like to think about that one. Frankly he had no fucking idea what Wilson was up to. It had been a month since their first kiss and the frantic handjob that had followed. They'd been tentatively advancing from there ever since, physically; exploring, groping, trying to find out what worked, what turned each of them on, what the other was comfortable with. What they hadn't done, at all,was talk about it.
He could easily wait outside instead of in here. Frost covered the ground when he exited through the sliding doors. It was getting chillier by the day; the icy wind carved through his light coat. He wished he'd worn his leather jacket. With a quick flick of the lighter, he lit a cigarette; sorry, Wilson. Wilson wouldn't say anything, of course; he'd know House would have been bored. He'd feel guilty about being the cause of the wait.
A voice crackled over the intercom. It was faint but House distantly heard the word Montreal. Thank fuck for that. He took a couple of drags on the cigarette, threw the butt on the ground, and went back inside. People were straggling through; House scanned the crowds of weary faces, searching.
Wilson was looking around, mouth in a comical little frown of concentration, backpack slung over his shoulder. House chose to observe Wilson until Wilson saw him. Wilson's face broke into an unguarded smile, that then faded a little as self-consciousness returned. House carefully maintained the scowl on his own face, jerking his chin for Wilson to join him. They bumped shoulders as they walked towards the parking ramp.
"Thanks for waiting," Wilson said, a little awkwardly, his gaze on the ground. "I thought you might have got fed up and gone home."
"I was about to," House grumbled, looking away. "Next time you go off for a dirty weekend, you can catch a cab. Or pay for airport parking."
"Well, I probably won't be going again for a while." Wilson opened the passenger door of House's car.
"She dumped you?" House feigned hopefulness as he sat down behind the wheel.
"No, but she'll be coming to visit me next time." Wilson fastened his seat belt. "Probably in a month or so. You'll get to meet her."
"Great." House turned the ignition and warm air blew into the car. "Because I'm just so looking forward to meeting the fiancée of the man who gave me a blow job two days ago."
Wilson grimaced and glanced around.
"Oh, relax," House said irritably.
Wilson ran a hand over his face. "Give me a break, House. I've just had a crappy flight and I can't deal with this right now."
House glanced sideways at Wilson; Wilson's forehead was creased with fatigue. House didn't let his expression soften, but he didn't say anything else either.
Back at their house, House jerked the handbrake on and turned to look at Wilson, dozing gently, head nodding slightly. House leaned over and ran the flat of his fingernails across Wilson's face. Wilson stirred, mumbled under his breath, and nuzzled his cheek against House's hand. House arched his fingers over Wilson's temple, tangling them into his hair, and stroked down to cup the back of Wilson's neck. Wilson reached up to touch House's arm lightly, and ran a thumb down House's wrist. House closed his eyes at the feather light touch against his pulse.
They both lingered for a moment before Wilson sighed and opened the door.
Inside, Wilson headed into his room. He looked much better for his short nap and arrival home.
"You turned the heat on," Wilson said gratefully, dropping his bag on the couch.
"It was freezing last night." House stood in the doorway, still uncertain whether to stay or to head on upstairs to his own room. He leaned on the frame, eyes on Wilson, searching for clues.
Wilson nodded towards the couch. House came in, shut the door behind him and flopped down on the couch, stretching his body along the full length. Wilson headed for the bathroom, and returned a minute later, looking refreshed, with a slightly damp face and hair, rubbing a towel over his head to dry off. He was mussing up his hair; House felt an involuntary surge of desire. Wilson came and perched on the couch next to House, his hip nestling House's face. House looked up at Wilson, trying to question and express desire with his eyes; Wilson wordlessly slid down next to him. House shunted over slightly to give Wilson room to lie next to him, and then they kissed.
Since he'd discovered this, House could never get enough of it. Wilson's lips were warm, and soft; House fastened his mouth over Wilson's and sucked Wilson's lower lip, first gently, then harder. Wilson's face, so close, brushing against House's cheek, smelt faintly of soap, a familiar scent, Wilson's usual brand. No strange Canadian fiancée influences permeating; it was Wilson, just as he had been before he went away. House grasped at Wilson's shirt, bunching it up, running fingers up Wilson's chest, hearing Wilson's breathing quicken and then a gentle gasp as House reached downwards and ran a hand over Wilson's crotch. House kept his hand there, and Wilson moaned a little and rocked against House's palm. House closed his eyes and thought that this was as perfect as it could ever be; Wilson, cute and lithe and willing, and pliant under his touch.
"You," House muttered, almost under his breath, "are a fucking slut."
Wilson jolted a little under House's arm, and suddenly Wilson's cock was rock hard and straining beneath House's hand. And House felt his own cock respond in kind; he hissed through his teeth, then scrabbled to wriggle out his pants and boxers, Wilson doing the same. And then House felt Wilson's cock rub against his own, softly, and then frantically, and the sensation of Wilson's shaft rubbing up against the tip of his own cock was just all too fucking much, and he came with a shout that was much too loud, and with a final grinding motion Wilson came too, burying his head in House's chest to muffle his own agonized cry.
The two of them lay on the couch together, breathing heavily.
House reflected through the haze that it looked like Wilson's Canadian trip hadn't changed anything after all.
"Hey." Wilson dropped into the chair opposite House and put his lunch tray down.
"Hey." House looked up. "Fries. How did you know?"
"Just a lucky guess." Wilson rolled his eyes as House helped himself to a handful.
House slid his foot forward a little under the table and rested it casually against Wilson's. Wilson's face didn't change, but he pressed lightly back as he started to eat. House crunched on fat and salt, feeling the texture of Wilson's leather shoe against his own sneaker, and watched Wilson slide a fork into his mouth. House felt a stirring in his groin. He wondered how on earth it had come to this, that he couldn't watch James Wilson eat his lunch without getting a hard-on. They'd been furtively pushing the boundaries of personal space in public for a while now: House certainly got a thrill from it, and he was sure Wilson did too.
They'd spent many hours talking. About TV, sport, music, film. Whether the head of OB-GYN really was having an affair with her (female) secretary. How to remember the names of all the bones in the human hand. In fact, they talked about anything at all except what was happening between the two of them. And if the conversation threatened to veer in that direction, they started necking instead. Not that House minded this, as necking with Wilson had become his favorite pastime, while talking about feelings ranked down there somewhere near talking to his father. But despite this, House's desire to know what the hell Wilson thought he was doing was starting to overcome his aversion to asking about it. House's curiosity was like an itch, that had to be scratched. No time like the present.
"Satisfy my curiosity," House said abruptly. "You told me once that you tell your fiancée when you cheat on her. I can't help but wonder if you've told her about your latest piece on the side." He tapped his own chest.
Two bright spots of color appeared on Wilson's cheeks and he glanced sideways. "House, why ask me this, why here, why now?"
House shrugged. "To maximize the chance of you actually replying without making a scene."
Wilson closed his eyes. "No, I haven't told her, and I'm not going to."
House hesitated. "So you're just going to go on with her, still engaged, planning your wedding?"
Wilson looked up at House, then sat back in his chair, grasping the edge of the table. His legs were brushing right up against House's. "I can live with that."
Really.
"If you can," Wilson added.
House stared at Wilson. So this was the deal. James Wilson, always full of surprises. Wanting to have his cake and eat it. And he'd passed the ball over to House; fucking great.
House thought about it for a few seconds. Did he really want to dig his heels in here, say it's her or me, make Wilson choose? No, he didn't. For a start, he probably wouldn't get the blowjob he was hoping for this evening. Then they'd have to talk about it, which would be hideous and embarrassing; House had little idea what he'd say and even less inclination to say it. And at the end of it all, so what if Wilson still had his fiancée? She was in Canada, it wasn't like he had to put up with her going oochy-coochy-coo with Wilson every day.
Wilson met House's gaze steadily. House could see worry churning in those brown eyes though, and knew Wilson really wasn't sure what House was going to say.
"I can live with that," House said carefully. "But if I were you, I wouldn't. Be able to live with it, I mean."
Wilson's eyelids flickered; relief.
"That's my call," Wilson said evenly. "Can we stop talking about this now?"
"With pleasure." House drained the rest of Wilson's Coke. Wilson's leg was still brushing his own; House twitched a knee slightly to bump against Wilson's thigh, then pushed his chair back. "Have to go. Nose to the grindstone, us junior doctors, not like you student layabouts."
"You doing the late shift tonight?" Wilson asked, offhand, as House stood up. House nodded. Wilson went on, "Drop by my room when you're back. I won't be asleep."
House's eyes glittered. "I'll wake you if you are."
Wilson was munching breakfast cereal one morning, when House came into the kitchen wearing just a T-shirt and boxer shorts. Wilson wasn't complaining at the sight; House had strong, toned shoulders and legs from all the running and lacrosse he did. He was obviously fresh out of the shower; his hair was damp and plastered to his forehead. Too early in the morning to have these sort of thoughts, Wilson mentally scolded himself.
"Morning," Wilson greeted House. "I was wondering if you wanted to go to the movies tonight? That zombie flick has a late night showing."
"No can do," House said briskly, opening the fridge. He crouched down to look inside. Wilson watched House's right leg bend and flex close to him, and admired the robust, muscled thigh. "Gotta date. Do you think this is still edible?" He produced half an egg salad sandwich and peered closely at it.
"I doubt it." Wilson blinked. "You've got a date? With who?"
"I think its only been in here since yesterday," House picked back an edge of cling film and sniffed.
"It's not your sandwich, then," Wilson couldn't help but observe. He remembered seeing House in conversation with someone two days ago and realization dawned. "With that new nurse in orthopedics? The redhead?"
"It is now." House pulled back the film and took a bite. Through a mouthful of sandwich he added, "That's right."
Wilson ate another spoonful of Cheerios which might as well have been sawdust for all he tasted it. House peered at him, blue eyes sparkling with interest and amusement.
"Well...have a good time," Wilson eventually managed to say. "Um—is it a first date?"
"Third." House stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth. "We can do the zombie flick this weekend?"
"Sure," Wilson said, dazed, and House strode out of the kitchen.
Alone, Wilson sat at the kitchen table for a few minutes, not eating, trying to get used to this new information. So House had a date. So what? Just because they were...close, and getting more so, he didn't expect House not to date. It wasn't like he was in any position to object. After all, he was engaged to be married. House had even met Cath, now. She had come down from Canada the previous weekend, and the three of them had met for a drink. Cath had been very lukewarm about House afterwards, and House downright scornful about Cath. Not that Wilson had expected or particularly wanted them to get along like a house on fire, but he'd hoped they wouldn't be quite so antagonistic.
All that day Wilson went around with a hollow feeling in his stomach. Back in his room that evening, he sat down and tried without success to do some work. It was useless; his mind kept flitting from basic anatomy to House's anatomy; thinking of the muscled thigh he'd seen in the kitchen that morning, wondering if the redhead was admiring it too. He shouldn't care. He really shouldn't be thinking about this. Eventually he gave up on his textbook and went to bed. But he couldn't sleep; his room was next to the front door and periodically he would hear it open, and wonder if it was House coming home, and if so whether he was alone or not. Each time, he decided it wasn't House's footstep; and this only started him on the train of thought that perhaps House had gone back to her place instead...
He woke up to find it was morning and he must have gone to sleep after all. He went to take a shower, and failed to bump into House on the stairs or in the kitchen. He thought about going up to the attic room and knocking, but the thought that the redhead might be there filled him with nausea; he didn't want to risk it. Dammit, he had to do better than this.
By the time Wilson had also failed to meet House at lunchtime that day, he was in a state of paranoid apprehension. Where the fuck was House? Rationally he knew this was silly—it wasn't in the least bit unusual not to see House for this amount of time—but his rationality was having trouble being heard over his nervous worry.
He caught a lucky break mid-afternoon; he bumped into one of House's colleagues on his way out of a lecture, and asked if House was around.
"Yeah—but he was going somewhere. I just saw him heading to the car park."
"Thanks." Wilson headed straight for the hospital car park—and there he was! Wilson felt a rush of relieved exhilaration. "House!" he called, waved, and ran to catch up with him.
House paused, one hand on his motorcycle. He was wearing his biking leathers; a jacket which hung a little large on him and close fitting black pants. Wilson arrived next to him, panting slightly.
"Just wondered how your date went last night," Wilson said, as casually as he could while trying to catch his breath. "With the redhead."
House snorted in amusement. "You really want to know?"
"Not the gory details, no. Just the facts, ma'am, just the facts."
"I have to go somewhere." House glanced at his watch. "Come with me and I'll tell you when we get there."
Wilson eyed the motorcycle doubtfully. "House, you know I don't like that thing."
"Oh come on. You can't turn down your only chance to put your arms round me and press your crotch against my ass in public." House tossed Wilson the helmet and straddled the bike. "Get on."
Wilson hesitated, then put the helmet on and climbed onto the bike gingerly. "Where—"
House revved the engine, and Wilson forgot his question as he clutched at House's waist. House roared away, and Wilson hung on for dear life. After a few initial minutes of terror Wilson relaxed slightly, and began to take some pleasure in the rush of cold air whizzing past and House's warm body right in front of him. He leaned his face into House's back, breathing in the smell of leather and sweat and oil.
Ten minutes later they arrived at a house Wilson had never seen before. House parked the bike, and asked over his shoulder, "You still alive back there?"
"Yes, I'm OK." Wilson got off the bike and wobbled slightly on his feet. "My hands are freezing though."
"You need gloves to ride a bike, really." House took one of Wilson's hands, peeled off one of one his own gloves, and slid it gently onto Wilson's hand. Wilson wriggled his fingers around inside; it was a little too big for him and felt warm and sweaty. He looked up at House's face, and found House's eyes dipped, focused on Wilson's hand. House then reached out and took Wilson's other hand. He slid his second glove off and onto Wilson's hand in a smooth motion; Wilson's fingers tingled as they passed through House's, and he felt House's grip on his wrist linger a little longer than necessary. Wilson traced his newly-gloved thumb over House's palm. House shivered slightly, and dropped Wilson's hand.
House turned and strode up the garden path, dug a bunch of keys out of his pocket which Wilson didn't recognize, and tried two before finding the right one.
"House, where are we?" Wilson said, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he followed House in. The house was cold and echoey. "This isn't her house, is it?"
"No, it's not. It's my patient's house." House wandered into a study and started to open drawers.
"Your patient?" Wilson said, aghast. "Does he know you're here?"
"No. I've come to find his passport." House found a file and opened it. "Stupid bastard insists he's never left the country. This is a blatant lie given his symptoms and I need to find out where he's been. So I borrowed his keys while he was asleep."
Wilson closed his eyes for a moment. "So I guess we've just broken and entered." He opened his eyes and glared at House. "I suppose I should be grateful you just gave me your gloves. At least they won't find my fingerprints when we get arrested and carted off to jail."
"We're not going to break anything or take anything. Except his passport." House abandoned the file and opened another drawer. "Didn't you want to know about my date?"
"Uh, yes," Wilson said, immediately distracted. As House had intended, Wilson realized later.
"We had a fight," House said, flipping through papers. "She found out I'd seen her personnel file. Turned out she wasn't very happy about it."
Wilson was rendered speechless for a moment. House carried on poking around the study. Eventually Wilson said, in a monotone, "You stole her personnel file."
"Just borrowed it to look at. I wondered why she'd left her last job, which was a better job, to come here. Aha!" House produced a passport from a folder. He flicked through it. "I knew he was a lying bastard." He popped the passport into his inside jacket pocket and put the folder back in the drawer.
"But how did you get her file?" Wilson asked.
"You know me. Always stay on the right side of the hospital janitors." House shut the drawer. "I play poker with the one who sweeps the record room in the basement. He's usually very obliging."
"You do this often?" Wilson asked, unbelieving.
"When I want to know about someone." House looked at Wilson. "Mr. James Evan Wilson."
"You stole my file?" Wilson's voice went peculiarly high-pitched and two spots of color appeared on his cheeks. His mind briefly raced through what might be in it. Nothing House didn't know, surely.
"I put it back after I read it!" House said with fake indignation. "Damn boring read it was, too."
Wilson threw up his hands and said angrily, "House, you are fucked up. Remind me why on earth I hang out with you."
House smirked, pretended to think, and suggested, "Because you like sucking my cock?"
Wilson laughed rather hollowly, and retorted, "If only it were that simple." His outrage moved him to say more than he might have done otherwise. "And if only you'd reciprocate more than once in a blue moon."
House's eyes widened and he stepped forward so he was within a few inches of Wilson. "Oh yeah? You only have to ask."
He curled a hand round the back of Wilson's neck and slid his fingers down inside Wilson's shirt collar. Wilson shut his eyes as House moved in for the kiss. Wilson felt the tension he'd had in his chest all day start to ease as House's mouth met his own. House's stubble prickled as it rubbed against his own chin; Wilson pushed back, feeling the burn, wanting it, wanting more. House propelled him backwards a couple of paces to the desk chair, and pushed him down into a sitting position. Wilson let out a small oof as he sank down into the large leather chair. House then reached down for Wilson's belt buckle.
"Uh, hang on." Wilson opened his eyes, suddenly panicking. He looked down at House, who was now kneeling in front of him. "House, for goodness sake. We're in your patient's house!"
"And he's in no state to come home unexpectedly in the next hour or so," House finished undoing Wilson's belt and slid a hand inside his pants. Wilson sucked in his breath sharply as House hooked a hand around his cock. He was already semi-hard, but at the sensation of House's fingers, cool, deft, he became fully erect almost immediately.
"Fucking—hell—" Wilson gasped, as House dipped his head and took Wilson's cock into his mouth. Wilson leaned right back and grasped the arms of the chair. Just the sight of House's head bobbing up and down between his legs, in this strange and unfamiliar room, gave him the most incredible rush; and on top of that, the feel of House's tongue on his cock, first skimming lightly, then licking and then sucking—Wilson came within a couple of minutes. It was like a thunderbolt exploding in his head, temporarily blinding and deafening him, rendering him unaware of anything, except House's throat expanding and contracting as he gagged and swallowed in turn.
Wilson sat panting for a moment, unable to move. When the power of speech and movement returned, he moved a hand to touch House's head and mumbled, "You—want—?"
"Nah." House was wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. "I got some just last night."
"Oh." Wilson tried to consider this through his post-orgasmic haze. "Before or after your fight?"
"After."
Wilson closed his eyes and digested this, then asked tentatively, "You seeing her again?"
"Probably," House said, sitting back on the floor. He tweaked an eyebrow and asked in a tone laced with irony, "Can you live with that?"
Wilson went for the easy answer. "If you carry on doing stuff like this."
House snorted with laughter. Wilson managed a weak grin.
House lay on his back on Wilson's couch and pretended to read the TV Guide, watching as Wilson wandered around his room, collecting the final few odds and ends, filling a small box with last minute items.
Wilson's six months in the shared house had finally ended, and he was moving into an apartment with his fiancée, who was arriving from Canada tomorrow. House frowned at the magazine, but his eyes skated past the words and focused on the ceiling above. He stared up at a small cobweb, willing himself to block out the small core of despair inside him, angry with himself for not being able to do so. He couldn't believe how much he minded that Wilson was moving out. That he wouldn't bump into Wilson in the kitchen or the stairs in the morning; that they wouldn't stagger home together late and drunk any more, and collapse in Wilson's room because they couldn't be bothered to climb all the way up to House's room. The idea that Wilson would not only be living somewhere else, but with someone else, made House's stomach clench and his chest tighten.
Wilson came up, took the TV Guide out of House's hands, dropped it in the last box, and snapped tape across the top.
"OK, I'm finished," Wilson announced. He looked at House. House looked up at the cobweb again, keeping his face as blank as possible. Wilson narrowed his eyes, and came and perched on the couch where House was lying. House moved over slightly to make room for him.
"So, you may have to start buying your own Cheerios," Wilson said lightly.
House smiled fleetingly.
"I'll only be down the road," Wilson added. "You know you can pop in anytime."
"Yeah, I'm sure your fiancée will love that," House snorted.
"I'm moving out, its no big deal." Wilson tried to be reassuring. "Nothing has to change."
House shut his eyes briefly, then opened them and glared at Wilson. "Wilson, of course things have to change. You're moving on. You're about to start living with the woman you're going to marry and spend the rest of your life with, right? You should have higher priorities than worrying about m—whether I've got Cheerios or not. Hey, I'll get used to it." His tone became tinged with bitterness. "Everybody leaves in the end, after all."
Wilson frowned at this. "No they don't."
"Yes they do. It's a fact. Stuff changes. People move on, move house, get new jobs, find someone else. They leave. Everybody leaves." House was at his most cynical.
"What, is this a new House mantra?" Wilson's voice rose. "Everybody lies and everybody leaves?"
House shrugged. "Pretty much."
Wilson said carefully, "I'm not leaving you."
"Don't be an idiot— " House began, but Wilson cut him off.
"House, get a grip, and stop wallowing in self-pity. And don't you dare push me away like this. I'm moving out, but I'm not leaving you, and nor am I going to let you use this as some pathetic excuse for leaving me."
Taken aback, House stared up at Wilson. Wilson glared back at him.
"Well, glad we got that sorted," House said, a trifle defensively, feeling his way as he spoke, and Wilson interrupted him again.
"Actually, House, there's something I wanted to ask you."
House could not imagine what on earth this was going to be. He waited.
Wilson hesitated, fidgeted with his fingers, then plunged on.
"I was wondering if you would be my best man."
House was amazed. "I thought your brother was going to be your best man?"
"He assumes so. But I'd rather have you." Wilson looked pleadingly at him. "I know its not your kind of thing, and I guess it's probably a bit weird, but I'd really..."
But House wasn't listening any more, having discovered an unexpected emotion inside himself which he feared would best be described as warm and fuzzy, and quite different to the warm and fuzzy feeling he occasionally allowed himself to indulge in after sex. House had never given a moment's thought to being anyone's best man before. It necessitated having a friend first, after all. And now here he was, and Wilson—popular, nice James Wilson who everybody liked—was effectively telling him he was his best friend.
Wilson looked at House uncertainly, waiting for a reaction. House realized with some amusement that Wilson was afraid House might say no.
House firmly mentally fenced off the warm and fuzzy feeling behind high walls, so there was no danger of Wilson glimpsing it, then pulled himself into a sitting position, and frowned thoughtfully.
"Let me see..." House mused. "The best man has to organize the bachelor party, right? I can do that. Strippers, of course."
Wilson started to look worried.
"And look after the ring. Not losing it, however extreme the bachelor party experience may have been. Tarring and feathering, all that sort of thing."
"Um, House—" Wilson started to say, but this time House cut him off.
"And the best man has to make a speech, right? About how we know each other and what a great guy you are, with a few meaty anecdotes thrown in about your sex life."
Now Wilson looked panicked.
House beamed. "Of course I'll do it."
Wilson's shoulders sagged. "House, you—" He reached out and grasped House's arm. "You bastard." He recovered quickly. "I reserve the right to read your speech beforehand and veto anything that might get me divorced before I even start."
House smirked. "No way. You'll just have to trust me." Another thought occurred to him. "Hey, doesn't the best man also get to sleep with the chief bridesmaid?"
That made Wilson laugh. "The maid of honor? I don't think that's part of the formal duties."
"No," House replied, and added mischievously, "But I guess getting off with the groom isn't either."
"House, you'll be the death of me," Wilson said, rolling his eyes and smiling at the same time. Then Wilson reached into the pocket of his jeans and extracted a small bunch of keys—the keys to his new apartment. He took one off the ring and handed it to House.
"Save you having to steal mine and copy it," he said lightly.
Touched, House took the key. They locked eyes for a moment, then Wilson leaned down and kissed House hard on the mouth.
END OF PART 3. TBC
A/N: Next part: Wilson's wedding #1. House gives Wilson a send-off to remember.
You can read about House's first meeting with the fiancée, Catherine, in a separate fic - When House Met the Wilson Wives.