Games We Play.

Everybody lies.

House lives by this dogma, the center piece in a complex mentality that no one has any hope of ever figuring out. House likes it that way, too.

Ever since he woke up hung over and confused in a strange apartment with a very endearing misanthropic asshole, James Wilson’s life has officially been shot to hell. They haven’t talked about it, not the morning after, not ever, because it was an implicit agreement between two friends that they were both drunk and stupid and really, talking would only make it worse. Wilson is not entirely sure it could be worse, given he now works at Princeton Plainsboro too and he gets an eyeful of House flirting with Stacy and Stacy flirting right back every goddamn day, but then again, he really doesn’t want to imagine something worse.

He’s pretty sure House had something to do with the offer he got by the end of his second week in House’s apartment, given he hadn’t handed out any résumé and while he’s willing to admit he’s good at what he does, he’s not that good. But Cuddy is a good woman and he really likes her – he can see why House likes her, too, literally and other wise – so he thinks he might adapt to this new place and start a new life. House doesn’t know Wilson has lived in Princeton before, but those are sour memories and the New Wilson, as House mockingly calls him, has no use for those ugly patches of a past that has been gone for so long already. It’s a good job though, one that helps him keep focused and prevents another breakdown when he signs the definite divorce papers and sets up a storage room for whatever Susan deems worthy to send him.

He’s still sleeping on House’s couch while he figures out the rest of his chaotic little life and he thinks that maybe House is punishing him for his little slip that way; he’s forced to relieve the whole ordeal every night, even when House’s away at Stacy’s, or they’re all in the same floor, separated by a thin wooden door that’s not thick enough to prevent things from leaking into Wilson’s overactive imagination.

It’d be easier if he didn’t like Stacy, but as things are, he does and she is nice, and perhaps because they are the only two know human beings to ever be on Gregory House’s good graces, they feel a strange sort of friendship blossom between them. Wilson hates it and resents it and still smiles widely at her. If she knows or not, it doesn’t matter, because every fucking body lies and who the hell cares anyway?

“Save me,” House announces as he enters his office without bothering to knock. Wilson’s getting used to that, too, “By the love of merciful Christ, save me.”

“One, I’m Jewish,” Wilson points out wryly while he quietly folds his mental dissection of the mess that’s his life away, “And two, yes, you have to do clinic hours. Cuddy will have your head in a platter if you keep skipping them.”

“I’d give her head,” Comes the slightly grousing reply, “She only needs to ask.”

Wilson grins weakly, because that’s just how House works and thinks and talks and…god fucking damn it, why can’t he hate the bastard? The year they spent sharing emails and random notes, Wilson was proven that indeed, a screen could actually ooze sarcasm, but maybe it’s only because it’s House who was typing. Wilson has the feeling he’ll spend the rest of his life striving on that sarcastic wit, balancing precariously over that razor sharp mind until he mismatches House’s steps and he falls down to his doom.

Or maybe he should stop thinking in metaphors and kick the irritating asshole out of his office before Cuddy comes around and punishes both on the account she can.

~*~*~

Everybody lies.

House lives by this dogma, the center piece in a complex mentality that no one has any hope of ever figuring out. House likes it that way, too.

He wonders, some times, when he’s bored enough – and given he’s bored a great majority of the time he’s awake, there’s a lot time to wonder – about his abstract reasoning to bring Wilson home. House is not of the habit to take strays back with him; he generally points and laughs because that’s what he does, but then again, James Wilson is not just any stray. He’s himself and House, for whatever strange reason he hasn’t fully figured out yet, likes him. It might be the fact Wilson has a compulsive habit to lie and hide the uglier sides of his personality or maybe it’s because he’s not afraid of House and his natural House-ness.

It had been years since had last considered sex with a man, before that really stupid drunk encounter which he still vividly remembers, if only because it was odd, and Gregory House has never been able to ignore something odd in his life. He’s not the cheater type, not really, but maybe that queer phone call with Stacy had something to do with it. She had called him at two am from a very nice hotel in England and talked about nonsense about missing him and how much she loved him.

House had instantly known she had done something bad and was looking to cover up her tracks that way.

It might have been a mistake, she might have been drunk as well, or maybe she was having second thoughts about putting up with him. Regardless, when she came home, three weeks later, there had been a sliver of shame in her eyes, something someone other than House wouldn’t have noticed, but he’s House, of course he noticed.

He wonders if she noticed anything strange going on between him and Wilson, but she had only accepted it as another pet project of his.

House thinks it’s a bit funny that Wilson and Stacy get along so well; in a way they’re too similar, too intent on being perfect. She wants to be there for him, to match him as no one else has ever been able to, and Wilson seemingly lives only to see what new, scary audacity House is willing to commit. He finds himself standing in the middle of their lives, a gray area where they both become symmetrical.

It’s scary and strange and abnormal, so obviously House has to investigate further.

He loves Stacy though, not Wilson. And he knows Stacy loves him, and she certainly does not love Wilson – he hopes. And if he plays his cards well, he might end up with a best friend and a steady relationship more or less undisturbed by the end of it all.

“I think James found an apartment he likes,” Stacy informs him when he enters the kitchen. She’s not one to cook, she’s more prone to mix take out in inventive amusing ways that keep House guessing just what exactly goes on in her mind, “I’ll go see it with him tomorrow.”

“Oh good,” He says with exaggerated drama, “It’ll be good to get my couch back. I was starting to worry the Wilson-ness would stay.”

He gets an elbow for his efforts and a half hearted attempt at a glare. Stacy genuinely likes Wilson, she says he’s good for House – finally someone who can keep an eye on you, eh? – and Wilson honestly likes Stacy, he says she’s good for House – someone who makes you marginally tolerable, at least – and House likes them both in his own way.

He wonders if he could rope Cuddy in along with them and get a tape of a nice, lovely foursome. There must be a webpage for that, right?

Everybody lies, and House’ll be sitting first row to see who breaks down first.