Chapter Text
INT. WILSON’S APARTMENT — 9 PM
Two men sat on a hideous orange couch, both with their legs crossed politely at the ankles. A slender bottle of beer was held precariously in the taller one’s left hand, the alcohol threatening to slosh over the tip and make its presence known in the mangy orange fur.
The shorter one was observing his companion’s carelessness with a casual eye, as if he was used to it. Contrastingly, his posture was slightly more drawn up, legs straighter, signalling an obvious discomfort at the furniture that went unnoticed by his half-drunk partner.
WILSON (W): Bumped into Nora in the elevator.
HOUSE (H): (ignores)
W: She no longer thinks we’re gay. (shifts awkwardly on his seat)
H: (grins, sparing a glance at Wilson)
W: Instead, she thinks we’re mendacious dirt bags.
H: Mendacious dirt bag comes much more naturally to me.
W: (chuckles fondly) Right.
H: At least we can get rid of that. (tilts head in the direction of the Evita poster)
W: Actually, I kind of like it.
H: (twists body, fully turning towards Wilson) What—
W: Unlike this sofa.
H: (eyes narrow) You know the act is over, right?
W: What act? (brows crinkle in confusion) I actually listen to Evita.
H: No you don’t. (stares intensely)
W: (stares intensely back)
H: (slowly) You did.
W: Yes, I did.
The bottle exchanged hands as Wilson swiped it from House’s rapidly loosening grip.
H: (sinks into couch) You’re…
W: (takes a swig from the bottle) Just because I listen to Evita doesn’t mean I’m gay.
H: Um, it does, actually.
W: Well, if I were gay I’d have fucked you a long time ago.
H: (tilts head) Is that supposed to prove that you aren’t gay?
W: Yes, because I haven’t—
H: No, you’re saying that if you were gay, you’d have the hots for me.
W: (considers this) No—
H: It doesn’t say anything about you actually being gay or not.
W: (holds palms up) You’re reading way too much into this.
H: (rolls eyes) Yeah, ‘cause it’s the only thing I’m good at and I have unresolved daddy issues.
House made a swipe for the bottle, but Wilson effortlessly tossed it to his left hand, which was much too far for House to reach.
W: I’m sure you’re good at other things. (takes a long sip)
H: (eyes the bottle begrudgingly)
W: Like, say… (another sip)
H: Oh, for god’s sake, just spit it out.
W: The wine, or—
H: Don’t act cute. (snappily) Also, that’s not even wine.
W: We should stock up on some, don’t you think?
H: (silence)
W: We could get some Merlot, and a little Cab Sauv never hurt anyone.
H: Nora’s not even here. (twists to look around the apartment) I think. So why are you doing this?
W: I told you this isn’t a performance.
H: Right. All this time, you’ve just been secretly liking Merlot and secretly listening to Evita.
W: (shrugs) It wasn’t a secret.
H: But you never—
W: Because you don’t like Merlot and you don’t like Evita.
H: Right, you’re doing all of this for me, to soothe my sensitive tastes, because God forbid you—
W: It was either that or leave, okay?
A beat passed. The taller man cocked his head to the side, intrigued, while his partner admired the sandy floor.
H: What—
W: (voice rising) You’d never let me stay, never let me move in, never let me buy you an apartment if you knew—
H: What, if I knew about some minor preferences—
W: Minor preferences? (seething) You were just going on and on about how I was gay, how I had the hots for you, and now—
H: You said that you had the hots for me.
W: I didn’t, I said that if I was gay, which I’m not—
H: Right, you just chose that specific example, that phrasing—
W: Because that’s the only way to make you listen!
Both men caught their breaths, chests heaving, eyes glaring. Both knew that this was inevitable, that they should never have moved in together, but both still stayed, bodies glued to the ugly couch, sounds tangling in the empty room.
H: (quietly) I listen.
W: (loudly) You don’t.
H: Maybe ‘cause I don’t listen to lies.