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“Why not?” House asks, trailing just behind Wilson as they walk through the halls of Princeton Plainsboro.
“Because that’s insane . Besides, it’s legal now; doesn’t that take the fun out of it for you, or something?”
“A little, but it’s also exactly why I’m asking.”
“You’re asking because it’s legal? What, you’ve been waiting for as long as you can remember and you’re just hoping I’ll say yes?” He shakes his head. “No. Tell me the real reason, House.”
“What do you think? Come on, let’s use our thinking caps here.”
“I don’t know, tax benefits? You want a joint bank account so you can spend my money? Everyone in our building already thinks that we’re gay, so why not just jump the gun and get married? ”
“See? Your brain isn’t complete mush. So, are we doing this or what, Romeo?”
“Absolutely not.”
Gregory House and James Wilson are married within the week.
They don’t buy rings, they don’t get a cake, they don’t kiss the bride, they do not pass go and collect $200, and their sole witness is Cuddy, because God knows neither of them have any friends besides her and the ducklings. She only agrees because House tells her that he’ll do extra clinic hours; Wilson isn’t entirely sure how she believed that lie, but he understands having wishful thinking about House’s promises more than others, so he supposes he gets it. It’s not a romantic affair by any means, either; they swing by the courthouse and the county clerk’s office after work, sign and file away the papers, and that is that. Nothing changes, really. They were already one another’s emergency contacts, they already live together, and they already spend most of their time together. House cracks a joke about Wilson taking his last name, Wilson scoffs and pretends to find said joke deeply unfunny, and they both sit on the couch that night drinking a beer while a shitty reality show drones on the TV until House leaves Wilson sleeping with his feet up on the table. It’s nothing new.
Neither of them even take a day for a honeymoon. The following day, both of them are back at work, puttering around and handling patients that are dying or on their way. Wilson comes around for a quick consult, and they go to lunch where House doesn’t pay and eats food that isn’t his. He leaves halfway through, solving his current case through some inane line of conversation. It’s familiar, as is the rest of the day. House is still House, Wilson is still Wilson, and their relationship is exactly the same as it was before they were married.
That’s what’s weird.
He’s not entirely sure what he expected to be different, but for some reason Wilson definitely didn’t expect everything to stay the same. They got married. Legally married. Alterations to their relationship would come naturally as a result, right? Labels were labels for a reason, were they not? They meant something. Getting married, even if it was just to cater to the whims of an addict, meant something. That meant that something was bound to change. Surely, something would change.
A week passes.
Two.
A month.
Six months.
Their “anniversary” rolls around, and everything is still exactly the same. They have a joint bank account now, and he’s sure that’s what House was searching for out of this, but other than that, it’s been no different. For a year . They’ve been legally married for a year and ever since they’ve signed the papers, House and Wilson haven’t done a thing about it. Sure, there’s the occasional sarcastic pet name here, the stray joke about divorce there, but House had been making jokes like that since Wilson got married for a second time. Nothing’s changed, and though he had asked incessantly for the true answer to why he agreed to get married to his best friend, he’s never gotten anything more than a witty comment or a deflection.
Today is normal as always, save for a small bouquet of flowers on his desk from Cuddy that morning. They’re certainly a joke, what with the label that reads “for the lovebirds- you’d think your marriage would mean I would get fewer comments about my blouses” written in her neat cursive. Other than that, the day goes on…mostly the same as all others. He loses a patient, gains another, and he tries his hardest to not let it get to him. It does regardless.
Same old, same old.
The only true difference between today and any other is that he can’t stop thinking about his marriage. Nothing’s changed in a year– that much has made itself abundantly clear over the last 365 days. The kicker, though, is that this means his most successful marriage is to House . They don’t fight, at least not any more than what’s typical, and he’s yet to have an affair, so objectively, this makes this marriage his best one to date. Don’t get him wrong, House is a pain in the ass: he complains all the time, he hides the dishes so that he doesn’t have to do them, he leaves Wilson asleep on the couch, and he does about twenty thousand other things every day that are deeply irritating. That said, he lets Wilson complain, when he does do the dishes it’s always when Wilson’s had an especially difficult day, when he falls asleep on the couch, he’ll wake up at 3AM covered with a blanket that House (however haphazardly) tossed on him, and he does about twenty thousand other things that make Wilson crack a smile (though he doesn’t always wish to give House that satisfaction).
They’ve never kissed, maybe hugged once, and they argue no less than five times a week. Wilson’s never been more…content, arguably, with another human being, much less a wife, in his life.
His eye catches the bouquet that Cuddy set on his desk that morning. An idea forms in his mind. It’s a bad one, and yet he feels himself doing it anyway.
He shoves himself through the door that night much later than he wanted to, already going back on his decision. He had to have been delusional when he thought of this, he thinks, though it was only a few hours earlier when the idea sparked. The small box sits comfortably in his coat pocket, and yet he feels as though it’s burning a hole there at the same time. He creaks the door open, and the familiar droning of the TV is heard almost instantly. He sees feet on the couch out of the corner of his eye. He throws his stuff down beside the couch feeling a pair of blue and calculating eyes following him.
“Takeout’s in the fridge,” House says casually from his spot on the couch.
“I’m assuming that I paid for it?” Wilson replies with a sigh, matching his casual tone as best he can.
House’s eyes narrow pretty much as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “You’re hiding something.”
“You can’t just give the takeout guys my card number. How did you even get it? Do you have it memorized?”
“So that means that you were using it. What were you using it on? You were at the hospital when I left, but that doesn’t mean that you stayed there. So you must have gone somewhere. Where would a guy like you go on a night like this?”
Wilson quirks his eyebrow upward, his mouth forming a thin line. “I didn’t go anywhere. Just a bar…had a drink.”
“You do that here. You go out to a bar when I do, you don’t go by yourself. I doubt there was anyone there with you, you haven’t worn anything particularly nice to work, which means that there’s no one to impress.”
“Did you ever think that maybe I gave up on trying to impress people because you made us get married?” His voice echoes from the kitchen, where he’s run off to hide.
House follows slowly into Wilson’s (albeit poor) hideaway. “You say that like it’s ever stopped you, and I didn’t make you do anything.”
“Well, you never explained why the hell we did this to begin with. It’s been a year now; I think you owe me an explanation.”
“I told you, why not? Plus, now I don't even have to ask you to borrow money anymore. You though, y ou definitely weren’t at a bar, you don’t even smell like alcohol– come on, Wilson, we both know you can lie better than that.” He sighs, thinking. “That means you were somewhere else. Somewhere worth lying about.”
“Is it really that serious? Just drop it, House.”
“That means that it’s probably got something to do with me. Maybe a therapist? No, they close too early, and you know I’d never agree to that. Talking to Cuddy? No, that doesn’t explain that card. You were buying something…”
He trails off, and he gets that glint in his eye; the same glint that he gets when he solves a case. Wilson preemptively sighs.
“You were buying something for me, weren’t you?” A scoff. “Three divorces, are you trying to make sure this marriage sticks?”
“House–”
“It’s got to be something you think I should have, something you’d get as an anniversary gift; Cuddy gave me the flowers, so I’m sure she couldn’t resist getting a jab in at you too, but that also means that those are out the window.”
“ House– ”
“Chocolate would have melted in the car by now, and you’d never leave that in there anyways.”
“You are insufferable.”
“What else is there? A teddy bear? I mean, you’ve got no shortage of those, what with your cancer kiddies and all…”
“Jesus.”
Wilson points in House’s face, looking as if he wants to say more, but he can’t find the words. Instead, he ends up just standing a little too close, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. He looks thoroughly miffed and starts to gesticulate without any particular purpose as he stands there, growing frustrated with his own speechlessness, House’s invasive questions, and his audacity to make yet another joke at the expense of children with cancer (they’re not uncommon, but they never lose their shock value). He knows this was a stupid idea, and he shouldn’t have ever gone through with it, but typically House is the one who stops him from doing moronic things like this. He’s always been prone to being…grandiose, but more often than not, House was there to make a remark about Wilson’s idiocy, reigning him back into the world of the non-romantic. This time, however, clearly House couldn’t stop him as Wilson made what was probably the dumbest decision of his life. He just wanted to show that getting married and staying married was significant, alright? Really, he just wanted a sign that something had changed, that sharing his bank account and his space and his life with his best friend meant something. Was that so much to ask for?
He very purposefully ignores why he wants a sign something has changed. He knows he knows the answer, but for now there is only a familiar frustration (and only frustration, one would not dare to call it tension he’s sure) at the whole situation simmering in his stomach. He takes a deep breath, trying to retain some semblance of composure. His hands fall to his sides, and he shakes his head.
“Nothing to say, sweetheart? ” House tilts his head and widens his eyes, feigning innocence in the most infuriatingly House way possible.
He paces back and forth, turning away from Wilson, musing casually about his potential prizes. “You gonna pull out a locket? A cute pair of panties from Victoria’s Secret? Tickets for a trip to Jamaica? No, let me guess–”
Something hits the back of his head and thuds on the floor. Wilson sighs behind him, already going to pick it up. House has figured out what just whacked his head before he even turns around. It’s not like it’s difficult.
“–A ring?”
When he fully turns, Wilson’s on the ground, picking up the small felt box. He’s on one knee, and he’s looking up at House, eyes already flashing with some fusion of guilt and lingering frustration.
“We’re already married, I don’t think you need to propose. I already got that one covered. A year ago.” He doesn’t say it aloud, but he has already forgiven him; it’s not like the box hurt. From the relief, followed by confusion, followed by embarrassment, followed by further confusion, followed by resignation that shows in his counterpart’s eyes, he knows he knows he’s forgiven.
“Right,” Wilson smirks, “then I guess I’ll cover just the ring.”
There’s silence for a moment. He stays on one knee, holding the box, looking down to the floor. He threw the damn ring, and yet the frustration (who is he kidding; it’s tension) is still there.
“Happy anniversary, House,” he says softly, peering back up, opening the box, and holding the ring out.
The ring itself is simple– just a gold band. He knows how much House would hate something flashy if it represented any kind of human emotion or societal nicety. It’s not like he wants the ducklings to know he has those, and it’s not like he wants to participate in any norm unless it’s for some ulterior motive (see exhibit A).
“You too,” House responds, plucking the ring out of his fingers, inspecting it closely. His eyes run over every atom of the ring it feels like, and Wilson gets up, feeling more awkward by the second on the floor. The tension still lingers, but he turns and shrugs his jacket off anyway; it’s not like he hasn’t repressed things before. He’ll make it work. He starts to walk away to leave House to his scrutiny.
“Wilson.”
He turns back around, probably a little bit quicker than he should have, immediately stumbles and chokes as House reaches out and tugs him by his necktie. He’s smirking, but his eyes show more genuity than he thinks they do. They’re close.
“This is one of my nice ties.” He murmurs.
“No, really, say what’s on your mind, Jimmy.”
“What else do you want me to say? You’re the one with my tie in your fist.”
“Touche.”
There’s another lapse in conversation, and he swears he can hear his blood in his ears. Wilson has been waiting for something to change after getting married to House- he’s never been sure exactly what that something would be, or how exactly it would change, but he’s been waiting. He chuckles to himself as they stand there in their shared kitchen, far too close for just best friends who just so happened to get married. A year. It took them a year to get here. Arguably the most intelligent doctor in the world and his number one, and they weren’t able to diagnose this one until they had gone through nearly twenty years of knowing each other and an entire year of bank account beneficial marriage.
House chuckles along with him, having come to the same conclusion, and it only makes Wilson giggle harder. They stand there for a good five minutes, giggling and snorting at a joke neither of them feel the need to say aloud. Eventually, their laughter dies down, and they both let out a breath. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Wilson notes that the tension is beginning to dissipate.
“So…” House starts, “Are we doing this or what, Romeo?”
“I thought we already covered proposals.”
“Sue– or, no, divorce a guy for trying to squeak in a callback.”
“House…” He sounds exasperated, but his smile gives it all away.
“What? You’ve had no problem with divorce in the past, and–”
“You’re an ass.”
“You’re married to this ass.”
“This ass needs to either let go of my tie or use it to kiss me.”
“Now, why would you come right out and say it like that? Way to ruin it.”
“I’m walking away now.”
Of course, Wilson didn’t walk away. He was never going to– they both knew that. Instead, he stayed right there, and House…
Well, he didn’t let go of that tie for a while.