Author's Note: This isn't going to be one continuous story so much as a different little plot bunny for each chapter. Often I have a quick fic idea in mind after every episode, but it's not enough to turn into a full-length story. So I'll just post them as they come to me rather than as separate fics. Most of them will probably be short and drabble-ish, and varying in genre. Hope you enjoy, and don't forget to tell me what you think! xo Charlie


i. unspoken

Post— Son of a Coma Guy (or as House insists, Vegetative State Guy).

I could not let this go. Betcha Wilson couldn't either.


House was impressed. The day was almost over, they had conquered four and a half hours of The L-Word, and the question still hadn't been addressed. Could Wilson have seriously forgotten? He snuck a glance at his best friend sitting beside him on the couch. Wilson sat quietly, munching occasionally on the bowl of popcorn he had in his lap. On the other hand, it was making House downright fidgety how he was sitting there all… fine, and content and all that shit. House wanted to scowl. What the hell was Wilson trying to pull, anyway?

The oncologist suddenly grinned, not moving his head. "Got ants in your pants, House? Or something to say?"

House had the distinct feeling he was being laughed at, and he didn't like it one bit. Slightly uneasy at being caught staring, he snapped back, "No, you?"

Wilson laughed outright. Pressed the pause button on the remote. "How long have you been stewing about this?" He turned on the couch, bringing up one knee to comfortably face the diagnostician.

"I'm not stewing."

"Yes you are, and because I'm so amused and because you so obviously want me to know, I'll bite." Playful coffee-coloured eyes danced in the dim light of the apartment. "House," Wilson pitched his tone to match that of a concerned therapist, "Have you been in love since Stacy?"

House envisioned shooting himself right then. It seemed like a wonderfully fantastic idea, since Wilson had somehow become ridiculously intuitive— or maybe House was just more annoyed than usual— at the most inopportune moment. Damn Wilson. He snatched the remote and jabbed the play button. "Quit being a moron, Wilson."

Wilson grabbed it back and paused it again. "Quit being evasive. You brought it up, and now you get to deal with the consequences. Who is it?"

House thought for a moment and lunged, knocking the half-empty popcorn bowl to the floor and landing (more like sprawling, really) very awkwardly in Wilson's lap. Well, anyway, it was Wilson's fault for anticipating the move and holding the remote just out of his reach, House thought grumpily, and focused back on the task at hand.

He tried again for the remote, since Wilson had turned a funny shade of pink and was currently distracted by the hundred and eighty pounds of doctor on him.

Okay. In all fairness, that was House, but Wilson had ruined a perfectly good evening by getting hooked on the idea that House was in love, which, you know, he wasn't.


"House! God!"

House stretched his arm in the direction of the remote as far as it would go, one hand braced on Wilson's knee— and fell right back down when Wilson pushed on the inside of his elbow with his free hand, causing it to buckle. This left House no choice but to roll off the couch or risk having his face planted somewhere even less comfortable than where he already was—


With a groan, House opened his eyes. "Nghh."

Wilson was still sitting on the couch, leaning over him. Concern tugged his lips into a frown. He was lying on the floor, House realized, and struggled to sit up. He settled, upon encountering the throbbing in his skull, for propping himself on his elbows.

"You idiot," the oncologist accused, "You crashed your head against the table and blacked out on me. All that just so you could change the subject? You really are an ass."

"Thanks, I'm fine," House muttered at him and clawed his way back to the couch, hauling himself up with a grunt. Damn, did his head hurt like hell. Finally he was able to lean back and let his eyes slide shut, hearing the voices on the television resume in the background and Wilson's resigned sigh. He allowed a tiny smile, opening one eye cautiously.


"What?" Wilson looked at him, but House fell silent. He wanted to apologize, say what he wanted to say without reservations, but right now he couldn't. He didn't know how, and it frustrated him to no end. And as light brown gazed into pale blue, Wilson seemed to know that, so House gave a mental shrug and allowed his friend to read what he had to say, projecting it the best way he could… silently.

Wilson smiled; so simple, so goddamn happy, it almost sucked House's breath right out of him. And Wilson spoke. "Well, look at that," he said easily, and offered it back, a mischievous sparkle in those deep pools of brown.

Love you, too.