On Thursday nights, Wilson goes to the movies. He used to spend Thursday nights with House, eating take-out and watching lazy TV. Now, he lives with House all the time. There's still mindless television and greasy food, and now - sometimes - there's sex afterwards, on more days than just Thursdays. That's all pretty good. But Thursday nights were always his nights away when he was married, so it seems like the habit should remain, even if this thing with House is less like marriage, and more like - well. Something indefinable, but a commitment nonetheless.

He goes to the movies by himself, usually. Sometimes, if there's a new big thriller out, something they've been talking about on the oncology floor, he'll go with a couple of other doctors, or a nurse and her husband. Never a woman alone. He doesn't need that kind of stress or temptation. It's not that he worries that House would get jealous; it's more that he worries he wouldn't.

This week, he goes to a Thursday night showing of the new Angelina Jolie movie with Del Kaplan, another oncologist, and his wife, Peggy. Peggy is a bright, red-haired woman who does PR for some firm downtown, newly married to Del. They're an attractive couple. Wilson likes them both. When they stop for drinks after the movie, she leans over and asks, "Where's your partner tonight?"

"He's not much of a movie buff." Wilson smiles a well-practiced smile and takes a sip of his martini.

"That's too bad," she says, in a sincere way that makes Wilson think she must know nothing about House at all. This is confirmed when she says, "You two should come by on Saturday. We're talking about having a few people over."

Del shifts uncomfortably, and Wilson is used to this reaction from years of being friends with House. He doesn't take this universal discomfort with House any more personally now that he's sleeping with the man. "We're just gonna grill, maybe watch the Patriots game," Del says. "You're welcome, and so's House."

Wilson puts on his best rueful smile. "He's not much for sports," he says, "but I'll try and drop in."

"Oh, do," Peggy says, resting her hand on his arm.

They see each other off at the curb - a sturdy, manly handshake from Del and a delicate hug from Peggy - and Wilson watches them walk toward their car. He wonders, as he turns toward his own, if this is what it used to be like for House, being a third wheel with Wilson and his wife. Did House feel lonely, a little sad, tired, relieved? Then again, Wilson doesn't want to sleep with Del, and House never really went places with Wilson and his wife.

He drives himself home. It's taken him nearly a year to start thinking of House's condo as home, instead of as House's place. It doesn't look like Wilson's place inside, but it's where everything he needs is kept. Wilson abandoned most of his possessions in the last divorce; the few keepsakes he couldn't part with are sitting in temperature-regulated storage at Princeton U-Store-It. Though he still has some brief fantasies of the two of them finding another place together - something with a little more room and a little less House - he's not ready to take up that battle yet.

He parks on the street and waves at Mrs. Whittaker, who lives next door, and she offers a short return wave. She and House have had some kind of unfortunate war over the newspaper, which Wilson tried to remedy by ordering her a beautiful poinsettia at Christmastime. She's been warmer to him since then. From their few conversations - usually in the morning, when he gets back from a run and she's just taking her dog out - he knows that she has no idea what he's doing at House's place. She seems to think he might be a boarder, or some kind of home health-care aide.

He picks up the mail on his way in; half of it is junk mail, and two of the journals are duplicates, one for him and one for House. There's also a vacation postcard from his brother, a beach picture from Florida.

Wilson unlocks the door with one hand, still reading the postcard. David is trying. Thanksgiving at Wilson's parents' house had been spectacularly awkward. Wilson had attended alone. His mother had sighed quite a lot and made an even bigger fuss than usual over the grandchildren, and she'd told him, while they were washing dishes, that he wasn't so old that it was time to give up. Wilson had actually laughed at that, reported it to House on the phone that night, and driven home early the next morning to eat turkey leftovers at the hospital while House had obsessed over his newest patient.

"Hey," he calls. The living room is empty, but the television is on. He sets the mail on the side table and hangs up his coat in the front closet. When he turns, House has stepped out of the kitchen, carrying two beers.

"How was it?" he asks.

Wilson shrugs and takes a beer. "I think the first one was better."

He follows House to the couch and sits on his side, the side closest to the door, while House takes the opposite. "So I should take it out of the Netflix queue?"

"I may feel more charitable in six months." The television is muted, and a faxed copy of an EKG is spread out on the coffee table. Wilson turns it with one finger, reads an unfamiliar name off the top. "New patient?"

"Maybe," House says. "Chase sent it over. He's doing extra time on the CCU."

Wilson doesn't study the printout, just turns it back around. "That's two in a week for you."

"I'm very popular right now."

He snorts and sips his beer. It's good old Guinness, one of Wilson's winter favorites. He loosens his tie and relaxes into the sofa. "Kaplan's wife invited us to a thing on Saturday," he says.

"Kaplan is -"

"Tall, blond, always wears the shoes."

"Ah, Mountain Boy," House says, and Wilson smiles. Del is originally from somewhere in Montana, and he often does rounds in a suit and hiking boots, something that the kids seem to really like.

"You're one to comment on dress code."

House smirks. "What thing?"

Wilson shrugs. "An all-American smorgasbord of food and football," he says, stifling a yawn. "I said I'd try and drop in."

House grunts. He drums his fingers against the EKG and sets his beer down, picks up the phone. While he calls Chase to discuss some epiphany, Wilson pulls himself up and goes back to undress for bed. He puts his pants and shirt neatly into the laundry bag hanging over the door on his side of the closet, then hangs up his suit jacket. The tie goes back in the rack. He's standing in his undershirt and boxers, trying to push the closet door closed, when House comes in.

"We really need more closet space," he says.

"I'll get right on that, Fashion Barbie." Wilson manages to shove the door closed, then turns to look at House, who has stopped in the doorway. "I have to go in," he says.

"Oh." Sometimes, when House has to leave late at night, he goes along - particularly if he's already had his pain meds for the night. It's nearly 11, though, and Wilson always has an early appointment on Fridays, so he says, "Your EKG guy?"

House picks up a black sport coat from the chair in the corner of the room and sniffs it, then slides it on over his T-shirt. "Bradycardia and skin lesions. Twenty-five years old."

"Pretty young for heart disease," Wilson says.

"Yeah, and Chase is freaking out about it. He's already got Cameron and Foreman racing to the scene."

Wilson follows House out into the living room and stands at the end of the hallway while House puts on his leather jacket and gets out his helmet. He picks up his keys and pauses at the doorway.

"You can finish my beer," he says, and Wilson rolls his eyes and waves him off, then locks the door behind him.

When Wilson leaves for work the next morning, House is asleep beside him; they don't talk again until lunch.

"What time did you get home?" Wilson asks, picking at his sandwich.

"Two," House says. "Guy added seizures into the mix."

"Is he stable now?"

"Except for the part where he's dying, yeah," House says. He picks up the other half of Wilson's sandwich and takes a bite, then makes a face. "That's disgusting."

"Yeah," Wilson agrees, reaching over and taking a bite of House's chili. He has his spoon in the bowl when Cameron and Chase appear at House's elbow, and House pushes it over to him and turns to listen. He gets up without saying good-bye, and Wilson finishes his drink, too.

He never schedules patients on Friday afternoons if he can help it - no one needs to hear bad news just before the weekend - so he goes back to the office after lunch and starts on his paperwork. At three, there's a knock on the door, and Del pops his head in. "Hey, Peggy's really excited about seeing you tomorrow," he says, and Wilson understands what this means: we meant the invitation.

It's politic to accept. "Oh, right," he says. "What time?"

"Any time after noon, I think. It's supposed to be nice, so I'm going to try and get the grill out."

"Sounds good. Can I bring anything?"

Del shrugs. "Think we're set. See you tomorrow."

After he's gone, Wilson starts to make a list of things to do that weekend. It took Wilson several months to adjust to weekends in the post-marriage, House-and-Wilson world. When he was married, his weekends were always together time, and always negotiated: we'll go to this party and stay for an hour, and then we can go home and finish this project. With House, weekends are free-wheeling. The first time House disappeared on a Saturday afternoon without explanation, Wilson was disappointed; now he makes his own plans, and this seems to work out just fine.

He pencils the Kaplan get-together in on his planner, right under a note about getting the oil changed on his car, then closes the book and takes his coffee cup next door. House is sitting in his office, bouncing his ball against the floor and staring out the window. Wilson fills his cup with coffee and turns to look at House.

"Still getting worse?"

House shrugs. "He's in a coma." Wilson winces, and House looks over. "I probably won't be home for dinner."

Wilson sips his coffee. "You want me to wait?" he asks.

House catches the ball and looks over at him. "Nah," he says, after a moment. "Could be a while."

"Call if you need a ride," Wilson says, and he leaves just as Foreman walks in.

House isn't his only friend. Wilson could call someone up, go out, get a drink or a cup of coffee, maybe find a party to tag along to. Instead, he goes home at 6, gets the mail, waters the plants, and changes into an old pair of sweats. He eats leftover Thai from the carton and watches three hours' worth of his own favorite television shows - mostly police dramas, shows he can't watch with House because he always ruins the ending and attacks the crime lab's credibility. House comes in at 10, looking tired and wired at the same time.

"You figured it out," Wilson says.

House shakes snow off his jacket and hooks it over the back of the closet door, sets his helmet on the mat by Wilson's shoes.

"Fingers crossed!" he says, his voice dramatic and high, and Wilson laughs. House careens over and drops next to Wilson on the couch. Wilson is still holding his fork when House kisses him, a happy, greedy kiss, and Wilson smiles as he pulls back just a little. House follows him, and Wilson barely manages to get the fork onto the coffee table before House is on top of him. They make out like teenagers, hands in hair and under shirts and waistbands, lips and tongues never out of contact. House pulls back, finally, and snaps off the television with a growl. "Can't do this when people are getting shot at," he says.

"Standards," Wilson agrees, and draws House back to him.

They struggle a bit, not enough room on the couch to get undressed satisfactorily, and after House knees Wilson in the ribs for the second time and nearly finds himself on the floor, they dissolve into laughter and give up. House sits up and pulls Wilson up after him, and they sit companionably, Wilson's shoulder against House's, House's shirt still unbuttoned, Wilson's hair still mussed. "What's your plan tomorrow?" House asks.

"Going to get the car tuned up," Wilson says, shrugging. He looks over at House. "Then Kaplan's barbecue thing. You?"

House shrugs. "I think there's a bowling tournament on ESPN."

Wilson laughs, and then shakes his head. "You could come to the barbebue with me."

"No."

Usually he lets it sit, but House is in a good mood. "Come on, it could be fun. Think of the mocking potential."

House snorts. "I'd argue the bowling thing could have an equal potential, and I can watch it from my own couch with my own beer."

Wilson turns, just slightly, so he's facing House even while House is looking directly forward. "But why not do both? It's what TiVo was made for."

House looks at him. "You're serious. You want me to go."

"Yeah," Wilson admits. "I do."

He can feel House tensing up next to him, and he fights off a sigh. They never talk about this thing between them; they don't argue, either, at least not about this. It's been a year and Wilson has learned not to ask for what he's not absolutely sure he can get.

"I don't want to," House says, and Wilson nods and looks back at the television. He picks up the remote from the coffee table, and after a minute, House gets up from the couch and limps toward his office.

"Your mat's by the dryer," Wilson calls, and House grunts a thanks.

Wilson watches the end of his cop show while House does his nightly physical therapy routine. When the case is solved, Wilson turns off the TV, clears off the coffee table, and goes toward bed. He stretches out on top of the blankets with the new JAMA, and after a while House sits next to him. It takes Wilson a moment to realize House isn't reading anything; he's just sitting there, looking over at Wilson.

"You all right?" he asks.

House leans over and kisses Wilson, a deliberate, deep kiss that makes Wilson's eyes close. He sets his magazine down and holds House's shoulders, touches his back, and House kisses his neck and lingers at the curve of his collarbone. It's slower and more serious than the couch. They've been together for a year and they still have sex quite a bit, but not often like this, with such deliberate care, almost tenderness.

Afterward Wilson pants into House's hair and rubs his back, and House nods and slowly pulls himself up and off of Wilson. Wilson gets up and goes to the bathroom, then brings a towel and House's evening dose of pain meds in. While House cleans himself up, Wilson slides a needle into House's upper arm and sends the prescribed dose of tramadol racing through his veins. This is the post-Vicodin world. House will be asleep in ten minutes, at most. Wilson throws the syringe into the plastic container by the bed and the empty vial into the trash, then crawls under the sheets. He wraps his arms around House from behind and presses his lips to House's neck. If this is all he gets, it's enough, he thinks, it can be enough.

The next morning he wakes up early, almost as early as House, and makes waffles while House is in the shower. House comes to breakfast wearing gray slacks and a white button-down shirt, and Wilson grins and whistles at him.

"Fancy," he says, and House tips his head in acknowledgement. "Thought you weren't going anywhere today?"

"This is my bowling outfit." He takes a plate of waffles and whispers what sounds like either a secret or a prayer to them before digging in.

Wilson sits across from him with his own stack. He can't help staring at House's shirt, his neatly pressed collar, his trimmed nails. "OK, I give," he says. "What's with the outfit?"

House looks up, his eyes half-lidded. Anyone else would see boredom here, but Wilson sees reluctance, hiding. "So," House says, "you really want me to go to Mountain Boy's thing with you?"

Wilson's mouth opens, but no sound comes out. They have done all the hard things: they are out at work, and Wilson has told his parents. House is cagey on what exactly he's said to his mother and father, but Wilson knows there was at least "a conversation" about their arrangement, and he knows that House can't lie to his mother. They have been through a dozen awkward meetings where everyone has assumed that Wilson's loyalty comes only from some strange sexual fixation, and that House's comes from gratefulness. Wilson has lost a few patients and still can't face his ex-wife; House has been having more trouble with Cameron. And yet it's working, this distant, strange coupling, and Wilson is afraid of upsetting things.

"Do you want to?" House snorts, and Wilson shakes his head, laughs at himself. "OK, yes," he says after a moment. "Here's the thing, though. You'll hate it. It's just going to be a bunch of oncologists and their spouses, eating poorly prepared food and looking like they were plucked out of a catalog, watching a sport you hate."

"Yeah," House agrees, "but I'll have you there to entertain me."

Wilson can't help his grin. "All right, that's true. So you're going to come?"

"Yeah," House says, shrugging, as though it's the most normal thing in the world. "But I want to make a deal."

"We have to stay at least an hour," Wilson starts, but House waves him off.

"We can stay to the end of the game, if you want. But then we go to Philadelphia."

Wilson sets his fork down. "Philly? Tonight?" House nods. "Why?"

"Romantic weekend getaway?" Wilson narrows his eyes, because House looks entirely too innocent and eager. House takes a big bite of his waffle and moans, which is the noise that pushes Wilson into crossed-arm suspicion. "What, I can't just want to spontaneously take you away for a night of great sex in a great city?"

"You're welcome to do that anytime you'd like," Wilson says, trying not to be distracted by the images that House's proposal suggest, "but this isn't spontaneous. What's in Philadelphia?"

House actually smiles. "Penn's holding a demo of their GEMINI time-of-flight PET/CT scanner."

Of course. Wilson read about the GEMINI TF a few weeks ago. He's curious about it, as well, though he can't see where Princeton-Plainsboro will ever come up with the kind of sponsorship needed to get one of its own. "Deal," he says. "But you have to be nice."

"Best behavior."

Wilson shakes his head and stands up. "Your best sometimes leaves something to be desired," he says, putting his plate in the sink, then heading toward the shower.

"You have to love me as I am!" House calls after him. His wounded tone is stolen wholesale from General Hospital. Wilson laughs even as he closes the door.

The gathering at the Kaplans' place is even more awkward than Wilson would've imagined. Del answers the door, and he actually flinches when he sees House. Wilson keeps his smile on by sheer force of will. "We brought some extra beer and ice," he says, offering the former. "That's always what we run out of."

"Thanks," Del says. "House, good to see you."

"Nice to see you, too, Del," House says, smiling the bright, fake smile that makes Wilson want to take cover.

Peggy appears at Del's arm, and she beams at Wilson. "James, you made it," she says, and she leans in to kiss his cheek.

"Not too late, I hope?" Wilson says. It's almost 1, fifteen minutes past kickoff.

"We've barely started the grill." Peggy turns toward House, and the slight wariness on her face means that Del has filled her in since Thursday.

Wilson clears his throat. "Peggy, I don't think you've met Greg."

"House, right?" she says.

House's smile is downright charming, and Wilson starts to sweat. "Greg is fine," he says, and he kisses the hand she offers to shake. "You have a lovely home."

Peggy smiles. "Thank you," she says. Wilson looks at Del, who looks completely flabbergasted. If only you knew, he thinks, looking back at House. He's still smiling at Peggy. "Let's find you guys a place to sit," she says.

Wilson follows Del to the kitchen with the ice, and gets a beer for himself and one for House. The kitchen isn't big, but it has granite countertops and a stainless steel refrigerator, and Wilson realizes that the whole house is about a step down from his own last home. It feels strange, suddenly, to be hanging out at the home of one of his subordinates. Wilson doesn't run his department as a tyranny, by any means, but for the first time, he wonders if he's only here, only being humored, because he's the boss.

"I can't believe you got House to come," Del says, and Wilson looks over. "I mean, I don't think I've ever seen him out of the hospital."

"Compromise," Wilson says, shaking his head, and Del laughs.

"The key to any good marriage." He raises his beer, and Wilson clinks bottles with him. "You guys both eat a burger?"

"Sounds good," Wilson says. "Cheese for House."

"You bet."

He finds House in the living room, sitting on a loveseat that's facing a large flat-panel television. Three other doctors that Wilson recognizes - an oncologist, a pediatric oncologist, and the surgeon who does most of their biopsies and tumor removals - are sitting on the couch, and Wilson can see from their body language that they're afraid House is going to bite. He rubs the cold beer bottle against his forehead, then steps forward. He takes a seat next to House, placing himself squarely between him and the other doctors, and hands over the beer. "Hey, Howard," he says to the surgeon, who's sitting nearby.

"Wilson," he says, holding out a hand for a quick, loose shake. "You a Pats fan?"

"Giants," Wilson admits. "But House likes the Patriots."

Howard's eyes track just slightly to the right, toward House, who sits forward just a little. "Had season tickets once upon a time," House says.

"I wouldn't have pegged you as a sports fan." This from Kobe Winters, the peds oncologist. Wilson thinks House and Winters have probably had some conflict in the past, but he can't remember what.

"It's partly the orthopedic interest," House says, but it's not his biting voice. "I used to play, a little, in college, actually."

"Really?" Wilson asks, half-turning, and House shrugs.

"Not organized, obviously. Pick-up games, whatever."

He shrugs and taps the cane. "Anyway, don't try that much anymore."

Winters nods, neutralized, and Wilson feels a bizarre flash of pride. He looks back at House, but House has his eyes trained on the screen. Wilson leans back against the couch and turns to watch. They aren't touching - they aren't even sitting that close - but Wilson feels strangely exposed, over-intimate. The doctors' wives are in the dining room with Peggy, talking over recent holidays, and Wilson wants, bizarrely, to join them, to stop being the only person in the room whose partner is right there, whose love life is on display. They have never really been out in public together before - not like this, not around people they know. Wilson's stunned to realize it. The closest they've come to this is eating together in the cafeteria, and they did that before the sex started. Wilson takes a long pull on his beer and tries to focus on the game.

House thanks Del for his burger and tells him it's done perfectly, even though it looks well-done. He gets up at halftime and asks if anyone else wants something from the kitchen, brings back beers for all, even pauses to laugh at an aside from Peggy. Wilson's stomach is in knots. He keeps expecting a snide comment, a joke at his expense or someone else's, a perfectly-timed House bomb. The guys are all relaxed, and they've been joking with House like they're old friends. It would look like a good time to anyone else.

During a commercial break in the third quarter, House excuses himself to the bathroom and Wilson, after a pause, gets up under the pretense of getting a fresh beer. He waits in the hallway and stops House near the kitchen door.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

House raises an eyebrow. "Best behavior," he says, and Wilson leans back against the wall.

"We should go," Wilson whispers, and House's eyes go wide. Wilson almost can't tell if he's making fun of him. "You hate this stuff."

"On the contrary, I'm having a good time," House says. Wilson starts to sputter, and House cuffs him on the shoulder. "Relax. We have a deal."

Wilson shakes his head. His stomach can't deal with much more. "We should go," he says again, his voice deeper.

After a pause, House nods, a curt, calculating nod that, for some reason, makes Wilson feel better. "I'll take care of it," he says. He opens his cell phone as he heads for the living room.

Wilson counts to ten, then twenty, then takes three long deep breaths, then goes into the kitchen to get the beer he was supposed to get five minutes ago. Peggy is standing at the refrigerator, balancing a tray of cut vegetables against one hip and rooting around for something else. "Here, let me help," he says, taking the tray from her.

She smiles her thanks and hands it over, and he lets himself admire her figure - nicely fit, appropriately curvy - while she keeps digging in the fridge. By the time she's surfaced with a plastic container of vegetable dip, he's demurely looking at the baby carrots on the try. "I forgot we even had this," she says. Her cheeks have a high pink flush, and Wilson realizes she must be a little drunk. "But we're almost out of chips, so we needed something."

"Doctors can be complete pigs," he says, smiling his best rueful smile. Peggy smiles back. She opens the dip container and puts it in the center of the tray, then takes it from him but doesn't step back. "I'm glad you came," she says. Her breath has the sweetness of wine. "Really. Del says you two don't go out much. You should. You're nice together."

"Thank you," he says, shifting slightly back, away. He doesn't want to think of what else Del might say about them, or what anyone might say. He's certain that "nice" is generally not the term used. "It was good of you to invite us."

"The gay thing doesn't bother me at all," she says.

This time, he has to force his smile. "Me, either," he says, and Peggy laughs, a light, tinkly-bell laugh. Wilson steps to the side, finds a beer, warm, doesn't care, nods toward the living room and escapes.

The game is back on, and everyone is leaning forward - the Patriots are running the ball, and as the running back crosses the touchdown line there's a unison howl from the couches. Howard punches a fist in the air and House is grinning, wide, a real, happy smile. For the first time, Wilson thinks he might actually be enjoying himself. It's almost frightening.

He walks toward the group and just stands at the end of the couch, watching the replay, adding his own, "That was amazing!" to the chorus of awe. House leans forward to say something to Howard, but his phone chirps. He's instantly the House that Wilson knows best, businesslike, swift, sure, as he flips open the phone and stands up. "Hold on," he says, and limps toward the doorway. Wilson sits on the couch again and shares a "what can you do?" shrug with the other doctors. The teams are lining up for the extra point on the field. Wilson can hear House talking by the door, and he can't catch all the words but a few jump out - "Respiration? When did it start?"

House limps back in, and Wilson turns slightly, then almost jerks when House's hand lands on his shoulder. "Sorry to cut this short, guys," he says, and those are words Wilson's pretty sure he's never heard from House before, "but I have to go in, and he's my ride."

The men on the couch actually look disappointed. They bandy about promises of future game-watching, and there's a sly mention of a bet that Wilson can't quite follow or believe. Del gets up - even as the Broncos are returning the kick, going sixty yards - and sees them to the door, drawing Peggy away from her friends, too. She kisses them both on the cheek, and Del shakes their hands. "Next time," he says, looking between them evenly, and Wilson is surprised to see House nodding.

In the car, he turns to House before they're even off the Kaplans' street. "That was impressive acting," he says. "Who was on the other end?"

"No one. I set the alarm on my phone." He opens and closes the phone. "I am the master."

Wilson snorts. House fiddles with the radio, finds something he likes that sounds, to Wilson, like noise with piano over the top, and speeds them out toward the highway. "You were a hit," Wilson says, turning in his seat to look at House.

"I'm a popular guy."

"No, I mean, you sold it. They want you back. They probably, at this moment, like you more than me."

House glances over. "Was that why we had to leave?"

"What do you mean, had to leave? Don't you mean got to leave? Were allowed to leave? You hate stuff like that."

House shrugs. "It wasn't so bad."

Wilson's mouth actually falls open. He can't think of exactly what to say, and instead, something like a giggle erupts. House's look turns annoyed. "What?"

"I just don't know how to respond to that."

His eyes narrow. "You could say, 'Thank you, House, for spending the afternoon with my yuppie-poster-children friends. As thanks and reward, I will now dedicate the remainder of the car trip to thinking up new ways to pleasure you upon our arrival in Philly.'"

Wilson grins. "First, they aren't exactly my friends. And second, implying that I need an hour-long mental review of my sexual technique isn't likely to get you any pleasure anytime soon."

House laughs.

The rest of the trip goes fine. They get snagged in traffic going around Trenton, but otherwise it's an easy drive. Wilson even dozes off for a bit, and when he wakes up, they're pulling up to a tall brick building with an overhang. Wilson is confused for a moment, thinking they've arrived on campus - he assumed they'd go to see the machine first - but it's clearly not Penn. The doors are emblazoned with a gold lettering spelling out the name of a hotel that Wilson recognizes as expensive. "We're staying here?"

"No," House says, turning off the car, "We're at the airport Hojo. I just thought your car might want to hang out among the upper class." He opens the door. "Leave your bags, someone can get them."

He follows House into the lobby and pauses at the door to look around. It's a very nice lobby, with old art and wood and furnishings, everything clean but antique. House is already at the front desk, pulling out his credit card, when Wilson walks over. "Reservation for Dr. Gregory House," he says, and the clerk nods and confirms a double-occupancy room for the night.

"I have you down for one King-sized bed," she says, looking up, "but it's no problem to change it, we do have double rooms open."

House rolls his eyes, and Wilson smirks. "If you change it, then we'll have a problem," House says. The girl looks confused, and Wilson decides to throw her a line. He leans, just slightly, toward House, so that their shoulders and upper arms brush, and he doesn't pull back. The girl glances between them and blushes.

"Of course," she says, and busies herself with paperwork.

They get two keys and directions to the pool and the guest lounge and the full breakfast in the morning, and House hands over Wilson's car keys to a valet. Wilson nearly protests, but it's been a good day, he doesn't need to nag over this. A bellboy follows them up to the room. In the elevator, Wilson asks, "When do we see the GEMINI?"

"Tomorrow, after breakfast," House says, then adds, with a leer, "if you're good."

Wilson laughs, but he can't help glancing up at the bellboy, whose blank face is reflected in the mirrored doors.

Wilson tips the guy at the door while House limps in to check things out. The room is actually two rooms and a bathroom, nice but not outrageous, just a step above a standard room. The bed is, indeed, King-sized, and House is already sitting on it when Wilson walks in.

He looks up and puts his hands on either side of his legs, pushes down on the mattress a few times. "Not bad," he says.

Wilson takes a few steps forward and sits by House on the bed. It's a firm mattress, but comfortable. He resists the urge to flop backwards, instead turns and looks at House. "This is nice," he says. "This place." House shrugs. "Have you been here before?" He shrugs again. Wilson doesn't know enough of House's history to know where all he's traveled, but this is a hotel for romance. "With Stacy?"

"It's more of a hooker place, don't you think?"

Wilson nods absently, because that's a yes to the Stacy question. He waits a moment, to see if House will say anything. It's weird, maybe, that House would pick a place like this, because Wilson knows he is secretly sentimental, and attaches memories to places and things and even people well beyond what most would bother with. In a way, it's oddly sweet that he's brought Wilson here, which Wilson would never say aloud.

"Is there a restaurant?" he asks.

"Yeah, I thought we'd go," House says, and he turns. "Later."

It's a question, and one Wilson smiles at. He leans in and kisses House, a dirty, promising kiss, and House smiles back. "Later," he agrees, and they kiss again before Wilson slides off the bed and onto his knees.

They doze for a while, afterwards, and then House gets up and claims the first shower. Wilson lies in the bed and thinks the hotel through a little further. House may be forever hung up on Stacy, which seems only fair, because Wilson knows she's pretty permanently stuck on him. Wilson and Stacy have stayed friends, all this time. They trade e-mails - often just a lawyer or doctor joke out of the blue - frequently, and talk about twice a month. Stacy was one of the last people Wilson told about his relationship with House, and one of the first people he'd wanted to tell. She took it well, better than he'd expected, actually. "If he's off the market," she said, "it's easier for me, too. Particularly when I know he's in good hands."

And now Wilson has someone he can call when he wants to kill House, to just fucking drop kick him into the next century, a built-in understanding ear. (He has wondered, a few times, if his ex-wives have ever realized the value they might have to each other). They'd last talked at the beginning of the month, when House had just lost a particularly bitter battle with Cuddy over some treatment plan and Wilson, who had refused to take sides, had been living in the Siberia of cold-shouldered snarkiness.

He wonders what she would think of this, of House's strangely romantic gestures this weekend. Going to Philly, fine, the GEMINI TF is a big deal and House is benefiting personally from the trip. The hotel, OK, pricey and sentimental, but as far as Wilson knows, House wants to stay there because he has good memories of the place, not because he wants to treat Wilson to something nice.

Going to the Kaplans' party, though, and playing nice with Wilson's friends - that he can't quite explain. He can't think of a selfish motive. The deal doesn't really count, because Wilson would've gladly gone to Philly anyway - which House has to know.

House comes out of the bathroom wearing a towel around his waist. "Your turn," he says.

Wilson leans up on his elbows. "Why did you go to the party with me?"

"We had a deal."

"I would've come anyway."

House shrugs. "Couldn't be sure." He turns to his suitcase and finds a pair of shorts. He sits on the bed to get them on, and Wilson waits until this is accomplished - everything made more difficult by the leg - before he continues.

"You knew I'd go," he says. "We talked about the GEMINI last week. I gave you the article." House pulls a T-shirt down over his chest. He turns and looks at Wilson. "Why?"

House looks right at him. "I needed a break," he says.

It doesn't seem like all of the answer, but it's enough for now; if he pushes, he'll put House into a bad mood, and the evening will only go downhill.

He gets out of bed and showers, and when he comes out, House is in the armchair in the sitting room, watching the weather channel. He takes a cue from House's button-down and puts on slacks and an oxford of his own, does his hair, debates a tie.

"If you wear one, I have to," House complains. "Let's just go already."

Wilson lets the tie go and agrees. He takes his wallet from the dresser and follows House into the hallway. House smells good, his own cologne, for once, and not stuff stolen from Wilson. Wilson walks a little too close to him. "You look nice," he says, and House snorts.

"Thanks, dear," he mutters, and Wilson grins.

"I think this may be the closest we've ever come to an actual date," he says as they step onto the elevator.

House gives him a funny look, then clears his throat. "If all of your dates start with getting a room and having sex, well, I should've started practicing your kind of dating long ago."

They have a reservation at the restaurant and are taken right to a table near the window. They split a bottle of red wine that Wilson selects - House's expertise is beer - and Wilson orders a steak while House gets pork chops in a raspberry lemon reduction. The restaurant is filled with other couples and small, formal parties - not the usual hotel crowd, as everyone is nicely attired and conversation seems subdued. A piano player in the corner provides the music, and Wilson can't help it: he grins. "No, seriously," he says, leaning forward, glancing at the candle, "are you going to propose?"

House smirks. "Not now that you've ruined the surprise."

The waiter sets their salads down just as House says, "But I am knocked up." Wilson sips his water and doesn't meet the waiter's eyes, fighting dueling reactions: embarrassment and amusement. As the man leaves, House continues, "I'm counting on you to do the right thing."

"And get you a psych consult?"

"These hurtful words aren't good for the baby," House says, smirking.

Wilson reaches for the bottle. "If you're pregnant, more wine for me." House keeps smirking. He's in a good mood, so Wilson can push, just a little. "When you were here with Stacy," he says, "was it the same restaurant?"

House's eyes narrow, but it's a respectful narrowing. "I only remember the bar," he says.

After the infarction, then, Wilson thinks. House looks at his wine glass, and Wilson can almost see him drifting into memory. Talking about Stacy used to be solid ground for them; a shared memory, a painful episode in which Wilson's role - supportive best friend - was well defined. Now, their own relationship has complicated things. Wilson isn't sure how to talk about her, because there's a certain amount of discomfort in talking to his partner about the woman who is probably still the love of his life. It's not precisely jealousy that Wilson feels, because there's some regret, in there, too, and he's not sure what to make of that. If things had worked out for House and Stacy, things wouldn't have ever started for Wilson and House. It's hard to root for that outcome, and yet - it's hard to deny that maybe they would have all been happier that way.

"Is your mother more disappointed," House says, his tone abrupt and light, "that you're sleeping with a man or that you're sleeping with someone who eats pork?"

Wilson blinks. "It's a combination. You are, after all, a man who encourages me to eat pork."

"I have a thing for bacon," House says, closing his eyes, a dreamy look on his face. "It can't be helped."

Dinner is extraordinary - House's pork is, when Wilson is persuaded to taste it, succulent and perfect - and they make it through the bottle of wine and coffee with sambuca. Wilson feels slightly tipsy when they leave the restaurant, enough that he steadies himself with a hand on House's elbow as they cross the lobby.

"Lightweight," House accuses, but he lets Wilson lean against him in the elevator.

"We can't all devote so much time to building up a tolerance," Wilson mutters, closing his eyes.

"Goals, Jimmy. Goals."

They walk down the hall, House's steps uneven but steady, Wilson's somehow less so as he trails behind. He tries to picture House and Stacy here, post-infarction. Wilson spent three months - which was how long they'd made it, after the surgeries - fielding daily phone calls and making almost-daily visits to the apartment Stacy and House were sharing. They'd left town only twice during that time, once to visit House's parents - a disaster of a trip - and once, at the very end, as a last-ditch effort to get away and fix things.

Wilson watches House slide the key-card into the door of their room. He turns and says, "You coming or what?" and Wilson shivers, just slightly, recognizing exactly where they are. This is the hotel where things ended between Stacy and House, the place from which he got Stacy's tearful 2 a.m. phone call, the trip after which he'd been waiting, in his car, outside their apartment, so that he could take Greg back to his place while Stacy cleared her things out.

House has already walked into the room, and Wilson barely catches the door before it closes. He can hear House in the bathroom, and he walks past the door, over to the bed, sits on the end. The room is dark, lit only by the purplish glow of streetlights coming around the curtain. Wilson can imagine them here, fighting, tense, her back turned to him, his hand around a bottle of something to dull the pain. It's not hard. It's how they spent their last months.

He looks up when House walks in. He's framed by the light from the open bathroom door, so that Wilson can barely see his face, just shadows and the glitter of his eyes. The wine has made his head too light. "This is where you guys broke up," he says.

House doesn't move. "Not this exact room," he says. "It was on a lower floor, if memory serves, because I remember thinking that the fall couldn't kill me."

Wilson glances toward the window. "The windows don't open," he says.

"I had the heavier cane, then." House shifts, and Wilson squints, tries to see the expression on his face, but it's too dark. House turns, abruptly, and Wilson stays on the bed, feeling dazed and a little foolish and a little afraid. Everything's out of focus and out of balance this weekend. It takes him a few minutes to get up, a few more to realize he should follow House to the sitting room.

He's sitting on the couch, television remote in hand. Wilson sits next to him, not as close as he usually would. House doesn't look up, but he says, "Weekend television sucks."

"There's a 'Simple Life' marathon," Wilson offers, and House makes an appreciative noise and flips the channel. This is normal, at least. This is the usual. House leans in to make smart comments, and Wilson gets tired and relaxes against the back of the couch, and they're touching and laughing by the end of the first episode, and that makes things feel OK.

In the morning, Wilson goes down for coffee while House is showering. He thinks about calling Stacy, but decides against it: however weird this is for him, it would only be weirder for her. Not for the first time, he wonders if this relationship will ever stop being weird, to him or for him or for others, if there will ever come a day when it feels like things are settled.

He takes the coffees back to the room and sets them on the coffee table, turns on the television and watches some financial news while House putters around in the bathroom. He comes out, dressed in a tight, worn purple T-shirt and jeans, and he will undoubtedly be the most underdressed person present at the GEMINI demo. Also, Wilson thinks, the most ruggedly handsome, and he smiles because that thought comes out in House's voice. "What?" House snaps, heading toward the closet

"Just checking you out," Wilson says, leaning back against the couch. House glances over his shoulder as he pulls on his sport coat.

"Stop enjoying the view, Romeo," he says. "We gotta go."

They check out and a bellhop piles their bags into Wilson's car while Wilson gets directions to campus and House pilfers an impressive selection of pastries from the breakfast buffet in the restaurant. Wilson drives them to the hospital and they park in doctor parking, then sit and eat their Danishes and watch people come and go through the emergency entrance.

It's a busy hospital and a large one, though Wilson doesn't find it nearly as impressive as Princeton-Plainsboro. He knows a few people up here - Dobson, who runs nuclear medicine, is one of the best in the business, and someone Wilson's known since he was in med school - and he realizes he should've looked them up, seen about having lunch or something. He tries to imagine bringing House to that meeting, and he can picture it, actually, which surprises him.

House is lecturing his breakfast - and probably Wilson, though he's not listening actively - about the inauthentic origin of the name Danish, and he looks so serious and so very strange and funny that Wilson laughs, and leans over, and kisses him. House still has one hand in the air, gesturing at or to his pastry, and when Wilson pulls back he watches House's fingers flex uncertainly. "So I should steal you breakfast more often?"

Wilson wipes his hands on a napkin. "Far be it from me to encourage your criminal habits further," he says.

"That wasn't exactly disincentive."

Wilson shrugs. "You have a thing for bacon. I have a thing for you."

House grins. "I've seen your thing," he says, and Wilson rolls his eyes.

"Please, no 'other white meat' jokes," Wilson grumbles.

"You take the fun out of everything."

"Goals, Gregory. Goals."

At Wilson's urging, they go in a little early and find the auditorium where the presentation is being held. They find decent seats - halfway up and in the center, precisely in line with the projector screen. Most of the people around them look like local professionals, people who know each other and work together regularly, people carrying hospital-logo travel mugs who leave open seats between themselves and their colleagues.

The presentation itself is informative, a splashy video, but mostly sales-oriented: Philips, after all, wants to turn a profit on the new technology. It's nothing new, just a rehash of the figures from the article, but he listens patiently and grins when he sees House's fingers drumming on the handle of his cane. There's a chance for questions, but House stays quiet, and so does most of the audience.

They go down the hall to see the machine at work. There are example slides and films to look at, and then they watch a blonde kid who looks a little bit like Chase run a patient through the machine. It takes less than ten minutes to get the results back, which is a significant improvement, and the images are much clearer than the usual PET scans that Wilson's used to. He talks through a few of the features with one of the techs, who agrees that the possibilities - particularly for tracking something like Hodgkin's - are impressive. When he looks up, House is watching him and smiling just slightly, and Wilson says, "What?"

"Just checking you out," House says, and Wilson winks and turns back to ask the kid a few more questions.

They leave the hospital with a folder full of information, and Wilson's sure that Cuddy will be getting a call from the Philips people within the next few weeks to follow up. "What a machine," he says, settling into the car.

"For only two million." House grunts. "What do you think I could get for Chase on the black market?"

"Depends," Wilson says, starting the car. "Selling him into slavery, or just for parts?"

House looks thoughtful. "Second thought, Cameron's probably my high-dollar commodity. I mean, I bet her liver's practically pristine."

Wilson looks over at him. "By that purity-test kind of logic, I'd probably have to pay someone to take you, huh?"

House scoffs. "You have a lot of room to talk there. Recovering drug addict versus man whore?"

"Recovering man whore," Wilson says, and House laughs. "I suppose the gay sex thing works against us both."

"Or works for us," House says.

Wilson smiles. "It does work for us," he says, and though he doesn't look right at House, he see the small smile that stays on his face. "So, back home? Or were there other medical miracles and trips down memory lane that you wanted to take?"

"I'm good," House says, then he shakes his head. "But I could use some lunch."

They eat lunch at an Irish pub on the edge of the Penn campus. As they leave, Wilson stops on the street corner and looks over at House. "This was a good idea," he says, and House turns back, looks confused. "This weekend."

House turns to face him. "You're just saying that because I didn't make you get the haggis."

Wilson shakes his head. "No. I mean, yes, but no. I like this. I like - spending time, like this. The two of us."

House's eyes narrow, but he doesn't say anything, just nods. "Can I drive?"

Wilson lets him. They speed on the way home, talk about nothing, about their weeks and the coolness of the GEMINI TF and various schemes to convince Cuddy to buy one for their exclusive use. It's just normal chat, the kind of talk they would have had a year ago, three years ago, just banter between friends. Wilson can't point out the change, but it's there, just beneath the surface. He's more confident of House, now, he thinks, maybe a little more confident of himself in House's presence. It makes the talking faster, the jabs easier to take, the jokes funnier. It's comfortable.

Wilson drags their bags in when they get back to the condo, and House pokes at food in the freezer before calling, "Take out or death?"

"Chinese," Wilson calls back, tossing his dirty clothes from the trip into the hamper. He walks out to the living room and picks up the Netflix envelopes sitting on the hall table, carries them to the couch. House walks in carrying the cordless phone in one hand and beers in the other. He hands one to Wilson and they sit, at the same time, on the couch. Wilson reaches for the phone, to hang it up, but House shakes him off, keeps looking at it. "I thought you ordered already."

"I did."

"So what's with the phone?"

House says, "Stacy called me."

Wilson grips his beer bottle a little tighter, and it's surprise, not dread or jealousy, that makes him do it. Really. "Over the weekend?" he asks.

House shakes his head. "About two weeks ago."

Wilson nods. Around the time he'd last talked to her. This can't be good, he thinks, but he manages to keep his voice even, his face blank as he turns to look at House. "Why?"

"Missed my irresistible charm," he says. Wilson doesn't laugh. House sets the phone on the coffee table, then takes a sip of his beer. The picture of nonchalance, except that his free hand is gripping the couch arm a bit too tightly.

"Is that why - the hotel?" Wilson asks.

"No," House says. His eyes are trained on the coffee table, but he turns his head, just slightly, toward Wilson. "I wanted to see the scanner. The hotel was on the way."

Wilson nods, realizes House can't see that, and says, "OK." House reaches for the Netflix envelopes on Wilson's lap and opens the first one, then snorts and throws the disc onto the coffee table. Wilson doesn't bother to look at it. Movies are the furthest thing from his mind. He clears his throat. "So, wait. What did Stacy say?"

House frowns, and it looks like concentration but there's only silence around them and the television is blank. His voice is light, wry. "She said I should use my big fucking brain to figure out that I was going to lose you if I didn't try a little harder."

"What?" He sits up, turns so he's facing sideways, and the other Netflix envelope slides to the floor, unopened. "Why would she - why would you think - "

"You go to movies by yourself," House says, shaking his head. "You shouldn't have to do that."

The pieces snap together, and Wilson leans sideways against the couch. It explains everything - the trip, the dinner, the party. He sighs. "House, I know you. I knew what I was getting into."

"Really?" House glances over. He looks curious. "You were married three times. I'm thinking that commitment has always looked a little different to you than this thing we've got."

"But it's working," Wilson says. There's a pause that bothers him, and his voice is a little low when he asks, "I mean, isn't it?"

House shrugs. "It could work better." Wilson's stomach twists. House pauses, sets his beer on the coffee table. His hand jerks, and Wilson knows it's still habit, at moments like this, to reach for the pills. He wants to put his hand on House's, but this isn't the time, and they still don't do that, touch out of question or comfort. Slowly, House turns to Wilson. "I don't treat you like her."

"I'm not your girlfriend, so that makes sense," Wilson says, feeling a surge of frustration at House's clumsiness.

"Yeah," House says, and his hand clamps down on Wilson's arm where it rests on the back of the couch, a tight, almost unfriendly grip, "but we are a couple. And I don't - I haven't been acting like that."

Wilson looks down at House's hand. "I'm not sure I know what you mean," he says. "I'm not looking to get married, House. I'm not secretly wishing we could hold hands at work and adopt a couple of kids."

"But I think you are," House says, and Wilson flinches, just slightly. "The thing is," he continues, "I know you, too. And this isn't how you thought things were going to go for you." Wilson starts to argue, but House keeps going. "Your world's gotten pretty small, this last year, what with me taking up all of your time."

"Not so much more than before," Wilson says.

"Except for where you live with me and work with me and sleep with me and spend most of your free time, except for movie night, with me," House says.

Wilson clears his throat. "Are you saying - you think we should spend less time together?"

"If it were up to me, no," House says. "I've been getting everything I want. I want that to continue, so - I'm willing to do some things. For you."

Wilson almost laughs at the awkwardness, but House's eyes are serious, focused, his grip still hard on Wilson's arm. This is as close as he's ever going to get, he knows, to a declaration of love. "OK," Wilson says, because he's not sure what the right answer is. "Um, thank you?"

House snorts, and Wilson's face flushes even as he smiles. "Oh, shut up," he says, and House starts laughing. "You're such a dick," Wilson mutters, pulling his arm back and rubbing the skin, but he's smiling.

"Well, that's one thing I can't change," House says.

Wilson smiles. "I wouldn't ask you to," he says, and House nods. That, apparently, was the right answer. "It is working, isn't it?" he asks again, very quietly.

He tries not to be surprised when House's arm comes up and settles around his shoulders, and though it takes him a moment, he leans into him. Maybe things have closed in, a little, but Wilson is happy. He's comfortable, here, just next to House, just knowing what's going on. He's finally got things figured out. The world at large can just go to hell.

"Yeah," House says, after a moment. "It is."