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Chapter 3: A first kiss

A week later, Wilson came into his office and found House leaning against the edge of the desk. The look of satisfaction on his face should have warned Wilson that the next conversation was not going to be one he would enjoy. "Did you know, there's only one Dr. Peterson at Princeton General, who is an ophthalmologist. Unless Robert Peterson has recently had a sex change, I don't think that is the "she" that you had a consult with last week."

Immediately Wilson felt his stomach clench. "You know, House, I really don't have time for this now. I've got a board meeting in five minutes."

House pretended like he hadn't heard Wilson. "There is, however, a Dr. Christina Peterson, a therapist with an office just outside of Princeton. She's got some interesting theories on how to fix me. She talked a lot about not being defined by my pain, learning how to achieve balance and distance. Of course, she completely lost me when she started talking about chakras and aromatherapy."

"I don't believe this. You went to see my therapist?"

House exclaimed triumphantly, "so you admit that she's your therapist."

But Wilson was not to be diverted. "You went to see my therapist? Don't you respect any boundaries?"

"You know me, boundaries aren't really my thing."

"I do know you." Wilson looked at him in growing horror. "You bastard. You've read my file. Oh God, you really did it." He closed his eyes and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, a classic Wilson gesture used in times of extreme stress. "You must have laughed your ass off when you found out I'm in love with you."

His eyes were still closed, and so he missed the look of shock mingled with hope that flashed across House's face. By the time Wilson opened his eyes and was scowling at his supposed best friend, the look had been replaced with neutral indifference.

Wilson's mortification had been replaced with anger. "So did you enjoy the fantasies? Hope she remembered to write all of them down for you. You can go to hell." He turned towards the door, but was stopped by the hand that clamped down on his arm. His exclamation of indignation was cut off when House's lips descended to meet his. Wilson made a strangled sound of surprise and pleasure when House's tongue slipped into his mouth. For a moment, Wilson could only concentrate on the physical sensations that were overloading his brain: the bookcase that was digging painfully into his spine, the strangeness of kissing someone that was taller than he was, the feel of a man's body pressed against his.

He was not to remain a passive participant for long. His arms came around Greg, one arm at the waist and the other at his neck, pulling the older man even closer. His tongue circled Greg's, before he moved to do some exploration of the other man's mouth. The kiss was purely carnal—arms, lips and tongues doing battle for dominance, and then abruptly it was over. House stepped back, and Wilson found himself gripping the bookshelf for support, trying to remember the mechanics of breathing.

"So are you ready to go back to safe land of heterosexuality?"

House words should have been sarcastic, even insulting, but Wilson could see them for what they were, a hastily constructed wall to insulate Greg from pain. He was withdrawing, rebuilding the defenses of hostility and sarcasm that he had perfected over the years.

In response, Wilson leaned over to brush his lips against Greg's, a kiss of tenderness rather than raw sexuality. Their only other point of contact was the hand that he had placed on House's shoulder. Only when he felt the taunt muscles relax under his fingers, did the kiss deepen into a lazy exploration of each other's mouths. It could have gone on forever, if they hadn't been interrupted by the shrill sound of Wilson's pager. "Ignore it," mumbled House, but Wilson was starting to come back to reality. "Shit! It's probably Cuddy, wondering where I am." He looked at his pager. "Damn, I was right. I was supposed to be in the board room five minutes ago."

"What time will you be finished?" House asked.

"Six P.M., at the latest."

"Then I will see you at 6:30 at my place." House leaned over to kiss a startled Wilson one last time, before pushing him toward the door. "Don't be late." His voice was deadly serious,

Wilson nodded, and then bolted out of the office and started sprinting down the hall toward the elevator.

House watched him leave, and then leaned over to pick up the cane that had fallen to the floor sometime during their make-out session. He limped around the desk, and then lowered himself into Wilson's chair, where he sat, head resting on his cane, making plans, considering his options.

He was about to push himself out of the chair, when the partially open drawer caught his attention. Without thinking, he pulled it open far enough so that the BP cuff and the sheet of notepaper were visible. He could see that the paper was covered with Wilson's untidy scrawl. He looked over the list of dates and readings, which ranged from 145/80 up to 155/95, with too many of the latter in the last week or so. In his mind, he could picture Wilson sitting alone at his desk, the BP cuff wrapped around his right bicep, his left hand holding the inflating bulb while keeping the stethoscope placed at the crook of his arm. Calmly writing the readings down before getting up to attend to the needs of others.

"Damnit, Wilson, why didn't you tell me?" House whispered to the empty room.