Class Room Two

by Nix
(crimsonquills AT gmail DOT com)


Author's Notes: This is the third story in a series. You can find parts one and two here: Little Mysteries (part one) and Twisted (part two).

Many thanks to Aurelia Priscus for a quick beta. All mistakes and potential errors in characterization remain my fault. I'm a little afraid that my recent gorging on Jeeves and Wooster may have undermined my House and Wilson "voices", but here's hoping...


He didn't make as big a deal of it as House did, but Wilson did have a commitment to put in some clinic time himself. Of course, having kept up with them faithfully since he'd started, he only had to put in a couple hours per week.

Given House's aversion to the clinic and Wilson's limited appearances there, it was a surprise when the door to exam room two opened without warning and House appeared. The diagnostician cast one speculative eye on Wilson's patient--a young woman with some more painful than usual menstrual cramps--and assumed a concerned expression. Wilson's practiced eye picked up the falseness of the sentiment at once, but the poor girl was visibly taken in.

"Oh, I'm sorry," House said, leaning with suspicious heaviness on his cane. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I was just looking for Dr. Wilson up in oncology and they told me he was seeing a patient here."

The girl's eyes flew back to Wilson. Internally he sighed and resisted the urge to cover his face with one hand. "Oncology?" she squeaked. "Cancer?"

The sigh escaped. "You don't have cancer," Wilson told her firmly, handing the girl her coat. "Buy some Midol at the pharmacy and take a long, hot bath. You'll be fine."

She clutched the coat to her chest and all but fled the exam room.

"Don't you have enough fun terrorizing your own patients?" Wilson asked, picking up the chart and making a quick note on it.

"I don't have fun terrorizing my patients," House said, limping further into the exam room. "Not even that small amusement can elevate the interminable drudgery of clinic duty to the level of fun."

Wilson shot him a wry look and took a couple of steps towards the door.

"Ah!" House held up a hand to stop him.

"You mean you're actually here for a productive reason?" Wilson raised his eyebrows and let one corner of his mouth curl into a smile. "This I must hear."

House snorted. "I didn't say it was a productive reason," he corrected. Fishing around in his pocket with his free hand for a moment, he eventually withdrew a white square and held it out to Wilson.

"Strictly speaking, you didn't say you had any reason at all," Wilson said, taking the square. He quickly determined that it was a piece of ordinary printer paper folded repeatedly until it was pocket size. "What's this?" he asked, holding it up between two fingers.

"Well," House folded both hands over the handle of his cane and leaned his head back, eyes twinkling. "I figured if I was going to tell you that Foreman told me that you told him that you like me, I might as well skip straight to passing notes in class."

The curl at the corner of Wilson's mouth broadened into a complete smile. "We're not in class," he pointed out, gesturing with the note.

House glanced around the exam room critically. "This is as close as I could come to pimply-faced teenagers consumed with angst over trivial issues," he deadpanned.

Wilson chuckled. "Come on, don't you enjoy clinic duty just a little bit? Isn't it a relief to deal with problems we can fix every now and then?"

"I do fix the problems I deal with."

"We aren't all so lucky," Wilson commented, his smile fading.

"One of the benefits of my presence," House said lightly. "I lighten the darkness with medical brilliance and witty repartee."

"Which are unfortunately eclipsed by your ego," Wilson returned dryly. He headed for the door, absently slipping the note into his pocket.

"Aren't you going to read it?" House asked casually as Wilson passed him.

Pausing with his hand on the doorknob, the oncologist cast a surprised look at his friend's oblivious back. He stepped back into House's field of view and laid the chart he was carrying down on the exam bed. "You mean you actually wrote something in this?" he asked, retrieving the note from his pocket and holding it up.

"Of course I did. It wouldn't be a note if there wasn't anything written in it. Just a piece of paper."

Curiosity piqued, Wilson unfolded the sheet of paper and found a single sentence inscribed in the center of it.

I like you, too.

He looked up at House, who tilted his head and made an underlining gesture with one hand. "Foreman was very specific about the emphasis on 'like.'"

Inexplicably, Wilson found himself blushing. He looked back down at the note in his hands, rather than speaking.

"You still don't get it, do you?" A pause. "Allow me to clarify."

The next thing Wilson knew a familiar hand had curled around his tie and he was jerked forward, his nose colliding painfully with Greg's before the man managed to tilt his head just so and then their lips came together and they were kissing which was remarkable really because he'd never intended to kiss Greg, never even thought about it...well, hardly every thought about it...and...he was very good at it.

Kissing, that is.

Wilson was kissing back without really being sure when he started. All he knew was that the rasp of Greg's stubble against his cheeks seemed to be waking up brand new nerve endings, and the hot, soft touch of his lips seemed to be stealing his breath, despite the fact that he should have been perfectly capable of breathing through his nose.

Eventually they broke apart, Wilson panting and flushed, House looking infuriatingly composed. For a moment Wilson wished House had a tie, just so he could put the man into a matching state. On the other hand, all those layers had potential...

Wilson blinked, scraped his scattered thoughts together, and said the first thing that popped into his head. "I'm not having an affair."

House smirked. "Not yet, you aren't."

--End--