"What's up?" he asked, and she was glad she'd decided to call him to her office, glad for the uncertainty in his eyes and voice, the way he could never be sure if he was her lover or her employee. House had never noticed the boundaries, even before the three of them collectively decided to screw boundaries and screw each other. But Wilson had always kept up the pretense of being a good boy.
"Shut the door," she said, and watched with smug satisfaction as he jumped to obey, one hand on the doorknob, the other rubbing his neck. Does he do that to look cute? To put forth that little boy lie? Or do I really make him that tense? she wondered.
"What's up?" he asked again, and she knew that the desk between them is what was making his posture so straight.
She sat down, motioning for him to do the same, and as she watched him fold himself into the chair, adjust his tie, cross his legs and uncross them and finally come to rest, she had to remind herself of why she wanted him there. Not because she wants him (though she does). She knew it's going against the rules she set for herself when she began this thing, but she'd chosen her office for this conversation because she knew it'd give her the confidence to issue a reprimand she wasn't so sure she had the authority to give.
She, House and Wilson had been sleeping together for five months, and two nights ago was the first time Wilson had kissed her. That wasn't the problem. In fact, she'd been wanting him to for ages, to feel that Cupid's bow, a face not so sharp as House's against her lips, but he'd seemed unwilling and she didn't want to push. The problem was…House. She let herself forget that Wilson was sitting across from her, waiting for her to speak. She closed her eyes, remembered the feel of House's smile against her face, the rapid puffs of air as he fought to catch his breath, and how warm he felt, and how warm she felt, with both of their weights against her. She smiled at that, but made herself remember what had happened next. A swift movement that she couldn't see coming, and then House groaning in pain, tearing himself away from her to hide his head. She was glad he could never see that fierceness in Wilson's eyes as he pushed harder and harder and possessively caught her lips. It felt good, but it was ugly. She didn't want that. And Wilson was usually good with rules.
"The other night," she finally said, and noticed how he relaxed, now that he knew this wasn't anything business-related. "Were you trying to punish him, or just out to prove a point?"
"What? I…that's not, I-I-," he stammered, and she wished again that she was better at reading him. With House, she'd accepted that she'd be wrong just as often as she was right, but Wilson was a different animal. Even five months into their relationship, she couldn't always tell the difference between guilt and embarrassment. She didn't even know if he felt the difference, either.
"Because if you want to kiss me, just kiss me," she pushed on. "I don't care what the logistics have been. It's still the three of us in bed at night, and I won't have you fighting for something that you already have."
There was a flash of surprise in his eyes, so she smirked at him, sure he didn't mind that she had the upper hand. She stood, walked around her desk to see him to the door, but he twisted out of the grip she had on his arm and backed her against the wall before she could do more than blink in surprise.
"You sure I already have it, Lisa?" he murmured, his voice at a register lower than she'd ever heard it, and suddenly she didn't care if anyone could see them, and suddenly she was on the couch with him above her (please, don't let anyone see us) and they only pushed and ripped and unzipped a few inches of fabric before they were anchored to each other and swallowing any noises of shock they might have made. She whispered James and it was over too soon, and it was nothing like how it was when it was the three of them, and nothing like how it was that night years ago, when it had just been her and House. But it still felt good, as did the goofy smile on Wilson's face when he put himself back together and walked off to have lunch with House. She cleaned herself up in the bathroom and stepped out into the small courtyard attached to her office. More than anything, she wanted to call House, just to hear his voice, but this had been enough indiscretion for one day, and she had the whole night to be with both of them again.
She never mentioned the quickies with Wilson to House. She wasn't trying to hide anything from him, but she didn't want to start some pissing contest either. She knew that much about House. He'd ask who was better. He'd ask how often they did it. He'd ask why she never let him fuck her in the hospital, or at least watch. He'd be dragging her off to every empty exam room in the building, and, unlike Wilson, he had no discretion. It was easier to keep it an open secret, just like the grope fests House and Wilson engaged in on the couch (they called it wrestling). Just like the teenage make-out session she had with House in the bathroom, mouths foamy with toothpaste and eyes gummy with sleep, on the mornings when he actually woke up at a decent hour. She assumed everyone knew about these one-on-one moments, that everyone was fine with it. Until House woke up to the sight of her and Wilson, writhing on the floor, and she'd seen the look in his eyes, and, more importantly, the look in Wilson's.
Needless to say, the next meeting between them in her office did not end like the last.
"Did you…did you think this was an affair?" she hissed, and he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. House had warned her about this tell. He was getting ready to lie, and House always said that if Wilson lied, he thought he was doing it for your own good. Deciding that if she let him open his mouth, he'd blow this whole thing to hell, she allowed herself, and him, an out. "We can't keep doing this, without him. I'm not pushing him out. It's not even a consideration," she announced, trying to make it clear that she'd never choose Wilson over House. She'd rather lose them both than make that choice. He seemed to deflate a bit, and her mouth twisted into a frown as she imagined how easy it would be to choose House over Wilson. As she remembered that she often had, in the past.
"Of course," he said, as if it had never crossed his mind.
She thought things were getting back to normal. Most mornings, she'd wake up with Wilson's arms around her, and she though, this is good. Normal. Out in the open, for all three of us to see. No secrets. At night, she'd reach for House's arm, sling it around her shoulder, burrow into his side as they watched TV or read whichever journal had come in the mail. The sex tapered off, and when they did make love, it was like it had always been. She wondered if Wilson was trying to reassure House that nothing had changed, or if he was really content with keeping House between them. Or if he was angry she had stopped their affair and was trying to shove it in her face. But she let things be, because having both of their weights against her had always been what she liked best. That, and House's kisses, which were getting harder and harder to find.
The next time, Wilson came into her office without being summoned. "He took off," he murmured, flinging himself onto that couch where she had unwittingly let things break open, let the fabric tear.