Wilson occasionally catches an earful of hospital gossip. Usually, he shares the exceptionally juicy bits with House, snickering between words, but secretly thankful that his marital troubles haven't circulated the rumor mill.

As he strolls through the lobby on Friday afternoon, the excited whisper of an ER nurse triggers a bright, red alarm in his brain. His wife's non-negotiable grocery list is instantly forgotten as he speeds from the parking lot to House's apartment, bypassing the local Wegmans.

Apparently, Dr. House is seeing someone in legal.

He knocks in woodpecker-staccato. One hand, too impatient to wait, reaches up, searching the lip of the door frame, and—thank God—retrieves House's spare key. Rational thought battles his foot-tapping anxiety as the key slides into the lock and settles against the pins.

House's name, his brain whispers, is a regular bedfellow with the legal department. A secretary or nosy paralegal probably mistook House's frequent appearances—entirely professional consultations—as personal visits and never bothered to fact-check.

Wilson's chest tightens, and a palpable need to know rises in his throat. His palm slips on the knob before he twists his arm and cracks open the door.

He notices the change before he steps over the threshold. Stacks of cardboard boxes, each labeled with thick, black marker, line the wall. Shoeboxes crowd the piano bench. A mound of folded clothes clutters one half of the coffee table. When he sidles into the room, his eyes scan for signs of House, and his stomach drops when he finds one.

A blue graphic t-shirt lies bunched across the arm of the couch. Wilson gathers the fabric in a fist, raising it to his face, inhaling and committing scents—House's scents—to memory. Peeking over the folds, he spies another shirt—too small, too purple, to be House's—dangling from the corner of the coffee table. A pair of jeans point toward the hall, where a black skirt hugs the baseboard. A frown pulls at Wilson's mouth as he follows the trail, fingers still clutching House's shirt.

He tiptoes into the shadows of the unlit hallway. The door of House's bedroom is cracked open, casting a dim sliver of sunlight across the floor, and Wilson helplessly gravitates toward it like a suicidal moth. A soft, feminine giggle floats from the room and paralyzes him, freezes his foot mid-step. He feels absurdly warm. Under his jacket, sweat is gluing his button-down to his spine. He settles for loosening his top button, keeping quiet, straining to hear sounds, voices, names.

As he creeps forward, his heart thunders inside his chest—turn back, turn back—and his ear turns toward the open gap. Voices overlap a crisp rustle of bed sheets, but he can't discern words. Their tones are low and playful, interrupted by sounds of wet kisses. Turn back, turn back, turn back. A breath catches in his throat when a pair of violet panties streak across the floor and into view.

Finally, a word on the tail of a breathy moan: "Greg."

He wants to open the door, nudge it just a little. The corner of the bed is visible, covered in a heaping comforter. If he pushes a couple of inches, slowly, and twists his head to the side, he might be able to see the entire bed. Of course, he would be openly visible, and Wilson's face flares with nervous embarrassment as he imagines a woman, mouth open in surprise, scrambling to cover herself, and the firm grip of House's hand, skin hot and damp, digging into his forearm and ushering him out of the apartment. The angry vice-grip might hurt, but it would be something.

Holding his breath and biting his bottom lip, Wilson pushes on the door. His jaw slackens, and fingers impulsively squeeze a handful of House's shirt as his eyes fall on the figures tangled together on the bed. House is lying between a slender pair of legs, head bent low between his shoulders. Small hands circle his neck and glide along the top of his spine, fingertips stroking the surrounding muscles. Thighs tighten against his hips, and Wilson could see the shiver that accompanies House's deep, muffled groan.

So far, Wilson's only regret is that he can't see House's face.

He could hear him, and his ears burn with House's half-moans and sharp inhales as one of her hands curls beneath his hip and wraps around his shaft, visible between her legs. His dick twitches as House's body jerks, and Wilson wants to touch, run his hands down House's back, over the curve of his ass, and squeeze. He drops House's shirt to the floor and touches himself instead, his hand slipping past the fastened waistband of his trousers.

A pang of jealous unease strikes his gut as House slides forward and settles inside of her. Blood pounds behind his eardrums, drowning groans and gasps. He struggles to keep his own shallow breaths silent, loosening his tie with his free hand to quiet the rasps in his throat.

He knows that he has passed the point of curious espionage, passed a secret need to confirm a rumor, a theory. He has his answer, and he has no reason to keep watching, like some voyeuristic customer in a private porn booth, but his gaze is fixated on the subtle shift of muscle beneath House's skin. He can't—he won't—tear his eyes from those lean, rocking hips, pushing forward between pale thighs. He won't.

He does, however, when the woman presses on House's back, urging him lower, and rests her chin on his shoulder, revealing her face, her absolutely gorgeous face. Shit, she is beautiful. Her cheeks are flushed a rosy pink; the color matches the shade of her lips, which part against House's ear, whispering sighs and gasps. Wilson swears again, low and under his breath, and watches as she drops her head, not quite out of view, and offers House a bright-eyed smile that surpasses schoolgirl infatuation or superficial desire.

Wilson's breathing is entirely too fast, too loud, as he strokes himself to the rhythm of House's thrusts. A sting of guilt—he should have left, this isn't his home, his bed, his business—threatens to steal his focus, but he stifles it. His eyes channel his attention to the motion of House's body, the speed and force of him as he rocks within her. House shines with sweat, and Wilson follows the paths of droplets to the small of his back, snaking his tongue across his lip and wondering how he tastes, how he feels under his tongue, his hands, his whole damn body.

"Stacy." Her name leaves House in a breathless moan.

Stacy.

She comes as the word fades in the air, crying his name and fingers tangling in his hair to pull him down for a short, deep kiss. Echoes of 'Greg' ring in Wilson's ears, and his lips try out the name. It feels strange and foreign in his mouth, but from Stacy it sounds fluid, natural. Despite his frown, he tells himself it doesn't matter; he avoids names in bed.

House gasps her name when he comes, repeating it into her hair as his body jerks and muscles tense. Stacy's limbs wrap around him, holding him as he shudders against her. Wilson squeezes his eyes shut and suffocates a grunt in the back of his throat, pumping thick, hot fluid over his hand.

He's instantly uncomfortable and unsure of how to clean himself, but he lingers at the door. When he sees House roll to his side and prop himself up with his elbow, he finally glimpses his face. A smile, full and affectionate, graces House's mouth as he wraps one arm around Stacy's waist, draws her close, and kisses her.

Suddenly, Wilson realizes, his only regret is that he can see House's face, and he lurches out of the apartment, the image of House's smile burned into the back of his retinas.

Two days later, when House corners him in the cafeteria and nudges Stacy forward for a formal introduction, Wilson extends his hand and, somehow, manages a smile.