Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with House, M.D. or it's affiliates.
Baseball And Beer
It was a quiet night of shared beers and a baseball game on the television, House seated by Wilson's side on the sofa as they exchanged idle comments about how poorly pitched the third inning was, and about that homerun that the Away team against the Yankees didn't deserve.
They were seated close together, their knees occasionally brushing against each other every time one of them sat forward to reach for their beer, shoulders touching each time they took a swig of their drink. Wilson would never admit it, but he liked how warm House's body felt next to his -- it was comforting.
As the night progressed and the alcohol flowed through their veins, they shared heartier laughs and jokes, drinking until they were slumped lazily against each other.
It was somewhere between Wilson tiredly leaning his head against House's shoulder and House drunkenly patting Wilson's thigh that their hands met. When Wilson laced his fingers with his friend's, House asked in a slurred, slightly uncertain voice, "What are you doing?"
"I don't know," he replied sheepishly, and when House gently, almost inconspicuously stroked his thumb over Wilson's, he asked House, "What are you doing?"
House didn't say anything. He just kept on trailing his thumb up and down Wilson's, as though he had an answer but didn't know how to say it.
They stayed like that, silently holding each other's hand, until the baseball game was long over and the last of the beer had been drunk.