Work Text:
James Wilson was a romantic at heart. He'd always been. Ever since his mark had appeared at 12 years old, black against his pale forearm, he'd dreamed of kissing one of the girls in his class and having it turn red. His experience was fairly universal - at twelve, giggly pecks in the lips had been traded between pretty much the whole class, which had resulted in quite a nasty mono getting spread around (it was a funny story he told in first dates sometimes even now, how he'd finally been kissed by the girl he had the biggest crush on, only to get stuck in bed for two days with a hell of a fever). Things had, of course, calmed down after that, though he'd always been popular, and he'd gotten his fair share of kisses all through high school and university until he'd graduated.
By then, he'd finally assumed what most people did: he wasn't likely to find his soulmate. His world had gotten bigger, and though he could still dream, he knew there were just too many people it could be. For all he knew, his soulmate might live in the frozen plains of Alaska, maybe Australia. Maybe she didn't even speak English. Most people settled down without being soulmates, and while he still watched those movies in which the life guard's mark turned red as he performed CPR, he liked to think himself to be more realistic now. Which was how he'd wound up married. And then divorced. And then married again. And then - well, you get the picture. Maybe love wasn't for him either, but that wasn't stopping him from trying - he had a much higher chance of building a decent relationship than finding his Alaskan sweetheart, after all.
And yet, depite knowing that, he'd been all too excited to play spin the bottle at that party. He didn't even remember what they were celebrating, only that half the hospital staff he knew was there, including House and his ducklings and a bunch of nurses he was quite acquainted with. He'd been drunk at the time: the pounding headache he sported now was a testament to that, as well as the giggle that had escaped him at the thought. He remembered the game had gone on for quite awhile, and was quite sure he'd kissed at least ten different people by the time it had ended, though he would be hard pressed to name them: everything in his memory had become quite fuzzy after his fourth drink, and he hadn't stopped during the game.
The alarm blared on his ears and Wilson winced, throwing his arm to the side and smacking the clock silent before covering his eyes with his arm. He opened them tentatively and squinted, the world still blurry with sleep, and as he moved to rub at them something caught his attention, a red blur passing through his field of vision.
He sat up, half forgetting his hangover, and turned his arm to look at the mark on it. A mark he knew by heart (ha!), but which currently sported an angry red color. Is this a joke? Did someone paint this on me? He rubbed at it with his thumb, and when the color didn't seem to fade, he licked it and tried more insistently. The mark was still red, and his thumb hadn't picked up any color.
Damn. He'd picked the absolute worst night to forget who he'd kissed.
//-//
Wilson got to work on time, feeling giddy inside. He donned his usual lab coat and rubbed at his forearm, right where the red mark sat covered by two layers of clothing. He debated with himself whether he wanted to tell House: part of him wanted to burst into his office and brag about finally having found his soulmate after all the years of mocking he'd been subjected to, but another part of him didn't want to be mocked even more - especially if House found out he had no idea *who* said soulmate was.
Well, that could be fixed. He'd just have to listen to a bit of nurse gossip, someone had to have heard something. And if that failed, he'd go see Cuddy. She probably knew. But before doing that, he had duties to attend to.
It had barely been an hour when he heard the first juicy piece of news. One of the female nurses, making comments about how Martha had been showing off her very recent red mark. He remembered Martha, she was a younger nurse with side-shaved hair. Well, who would've thought! He didn't know her that well, but he'd probably have a good chance to change that soon.
At lunch time, he decided to go down to the cafeteria. He'd brought his own food, of course, but he wanted to talk to Martha, so he picked up food anyways. He found her sitting with Dr. Billie Crown, one of the best doctors in cardiology. He considered his options, tray in hand, until a familiar hand entered his field of vision to snag some of his fries.
"Hey!" Wilson glared at House, pulling his tray closer to himself. "Those are my fries. Get your own."
"You've been standing here for five minutes looking at the lovebirds over there. I know lesbians are hot, but the fries are going to get cold." House shrugged and took another fry.
Wilson was busy for a second being indignant about his fries before his gaze snapped back to the two women.
"Wait- lesbians?" He gaped for a second and then frowned. "But-"
"Obviously," House interrupted, "why? You didn't notice Martha's haircut?"
"What's wrong with her haircut?"
"Well, she's got long hair with one side buzzed." House's eyes fixed on him, and Wilson felt the urge to make sure his forearms were covered. "And I'm pretty sure she kissed more than one girl with tongue last night. Don't tell me you were trying to hit that, Jimmy. You might have the nurturing nature of a woman, but I think you lack the right bits to woo her."
They're sitting on the floor. House has a pillow under his bad leg, the other knee bumping against Wilson's as he tries to take a peek at his cards. Wilson swats him away, giggling. There's music in the background, and as Wilson peers into House's face - is he bluffing again? No, there's that little twinkle in his eye- the music fades off. The next song starts, something soft and sweet. House looks up and scoffs. "Who put on the lesbian music?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. Chase pipes up. "Oi! What do you mean, lesbian music? It's a good song!" House laughs and points at him with his cane, which he'd been using to rack in the chips. "It's girl in red, that's lesbian music." Wilson stares at him, bewildered. "And how, exactly, would you know lesbian music?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. "I'm a big ally. I only watch lesbian porn," House replies with an affected voice.
Wilson blinked, and the flashback was over.
"I'm assuming you know the lesbian haircuts from porn too. And we played spin the bottle, of course she kissed a lot of girls. And boys. Like me." Wilson placed the tray down at a table and sat down, resigned to eating with House.
"She didn't kiss you." House sat down in front of him and snatched another fry. "She did kiss the hot cardiologist she's currently chatting up. And their forearms lit like a bonfire."
"Are you going to get your own food, or just live off my scraps?" Wilson asked, exasperated, but didn't move to stop House when he reached for another. "Wait, they're-? Ah, well, that's great for them."
"You really don't remember shit from last night, do you?" House asked, amused. He licked his fingers and then slammed his hands on the table, pushing himself up. "Don't even remember meeting your all-important soulmate."
"Wait, you know about that? Who was it?" Wilson mirrored him, getting up.
"Well, it would be no fun if I told you, would it?" House smiled and grabbed his cane.
// - //
Wilson had racked his brain for an answer while he actually did his job until his next designated break, and it had not been fruitless. He hadn't been interrupted by House, even once. That meant he was avoiding him, as House usually took great pleasure in bothering him during work hours. So House wasn't confident he wouldn't give the game away. That meant one thing: it was time to go visit him.
He found him in his office, staring at his whiteboard as usual. He was still wearing his jacket and shirt, which was odd considering the nice weather outside and House's blatant disregard for any kind of etiquette that might have forced him to keep extra layers on, as Wilson did with his white coat. That meant House was either feeling cold or... or he was hiding something.
"House, are *you* my soulmate?" Wilson asked blankly.
House looked back at him and frowned.
"You hit your head recently? ER's downstairs, I don't have time to check your booboos. Dying patient and all that." House picked up his cane and tried to exit the room, which proved remarkably difficult with an oncologist with his hands on his hips blocking the door. "Let me through."
He tried to push Wilson with his cane, but he grabbed it and pulled towards himself, grabbing House's arm with his other hand and trying to pull up his sleeve. He had to free the cane in order to do that, though, which proved to be a mistake as House yanked his arm away and hobbled away. Wilson followed.
"You know you can't outrun me, right?" He asked, making another grab at House's arm.
"Yes, but I also know you can't try to undress me in public. Not without confronting all those feelings you apparently have for me."
"Feelings? What are you talking about?"
"Well, you're ready to believe I'm your soulmate. I'm flattered, really, but we both know my soulmate hasn't been born yet."
"If you're not my soulmate why not just show me your arm? The fact that you're refusing to show it means-"
"It means I'm not about to feed into your delusional fantasy-" House interrupted, using his cane to call for the elevator.
"It means you're trying to hide it from me for some reason, and what other reason would there be?" Wilson interrupted right back.
"If you're so sure, why bother seeing my mark? Let's just meet in the brooms cabinet in 15 and seal the deal," House suggested, waggling his eyebrows.
"Why can't you take this seriously?" Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Because soulmates are a stupid concept made so we'll believe unconditional love is a thing. It's not. Love is conditional. There's no such thing as a perfect partner. No such thing as unconditional love. And you're stupid if you believe a mark should tell you who you should date. I thought you knew it, you've been married for God's sake!" House pushed the elevator button again, staring at the metal doors that refused to open.
"I have, three times, and it hasn't worked so far. I'm willing to accept that maybe the mark has a better eye for partners than I do." Wilson shrugged. "The interesting thing is that you're so defensive about this- hey!" He tried to get on the elevator after House, but met with a cane to his chest, holding him back until just a second before the doors closed on his face.
Well, James Wilson wasn't about to give up because his possible soulmate didn't have the balls to tell him.
//-//
He started by turning up the thermostat in House's office. House found out about 15 minutes in and dialed it back down. He did not take off a single layer.
//-//
The next step was to spill something on his jacket and shirt and have him take them off. Wilson knew House kept a change of clothes in his office, though, which meant he had to take care of that first. He waited until House left to go yell at his employees in the lab - something about a false positive - and vaulted the divider between their offices, going in to find the bag where he kept his spare clothes. He rummaged in it, finding two separate shirts and a turtleneck. He then took out a pair of scissors and set out to cutting the sleeves on the three clothing articles. Once he was satisfied, he hurriedly placed them back into the bag and vaulted the divider back to his office (how did House manage to make it look so easy with a bum leg? He could barely do it and had two functional ones). He exited his office through the front door and then snuck into House's patient room: the one place where he was least likely to find House, actually.
"Who are you?"
Well, shoot. The patient was awake.
"I'm Doctor Cuddy," he lied with a smile, picking up the patient's chart and taking a glance at it. He was in luck: the poor guy was peeing into a bag. "Ah, yes, you're due for a bag change, I'll just get that for you."
He quickly emptied the urine bag into a very tall plastic cup under the patient's confused gaze and then replaced it, smiling calmly. "Ah, this is for testing." He nodded and then walked out of the room, down the hall and directly into House as soon as he saw him.
"Oh, how unfortunately clumsy of me! I seem to have spilled my urine sample all over your excessive layers of clothing." Wilson say, deadpan, not even attempting to sound trite. "Whatever shall we do."
House looked back at him with a look that managed to mix exasperation, fondness and amusement at the same time, and then shook his head.
"Well, I am going to change my clothes. Shame you won't be able to follow me, on account of how much your leg hurts," House said right before using his cane to hit Wilson in the shin hard enough to make him see stars, but not enough to break anything and making his escape while he doubled over in pain.
Wilson managed to reach his office just as House walked out, and Wilson frowned at him. He was wearing a blue shirt that did not have sleeves earlier, with grey sleeves that definitely belonged on another shirt.
"Are those sleeves stapled onto that shirt?" Wilson asked, befuddled by the sight.
"It's a fashion statement, Jimmy. Just like your horrible tie. Or did you genuinely think it looks good?" House asked mockingly, and then limped away.
Wilson cursed under his breath and went for the pharmacy.
It was the last plan: offer House a coffee. Except it was going to be two things: first of all, decaf so House would fall asleep; and second of all, spiked with crushed sleeping pills so he'd fall asleep fast. He'd considered replacing his vicodin with the sleeping pills, but he was pretty sure House had their shape, texture and taste memorized well enough that he'd catch on immediately. And, of course, he couldn't actually offer House a coffee: he'd know Wilson was up to something. He needed to get Foreman to give House the spiked coffee.
Convincing Foreman was easy enough - he was down to mess with House at any given time - and he figured he could meet with a patient so House wouldn't get suspicious about him not trying more of his ingenious plots to take off his clothes, and wow sounded a lot worse when you put it like that, he just wanted to see his soulmate mark, thank you very much. He kept glancing out through his window and into House's office, and as soon as he saw him disappear from view he fake-paged himself and apologized as he rushed out of the room and into the next office.
As predicted, House had decided to take a nap in the office, and was slumped in his armchair with a cup of coffee resting precariously on his armrest. Wilson took the cup first, dumping it in the trash, and then tried to carefully rip the stapled sleeves from House's shirt.
They weren't budging. Wilson planted his feet on the floor then and tugged hard on the fabric: it was a battle between man and terrible fashion, and he was determined to win.
Well. He wasn't going to be winning through brute force, apparently. He paused and then unbuttoned the cuff on House's mismatched shirt, rolling up his sleeve.
He took a deep breath and gently held House's forearm, turning it so he could have a good look at his mark. A mark he had seen countless times, thanks to House's disregard for the hospital's dressing code. A mark that was now an angry red against the pale skin, matching his own. He smiled, victorious. He had been right: House was his soulmate.
It dawned on him then: House was his soulmate. The head of the Medical Malpractice department. The man who hated the idea of soulmates. House, the addict, the cripple, the miserable old man who treated their friendship like it was a game to see when it would break. House, his best friend, the only person he could always fall back on when his relationships met their eventual doom.
Well, shit.
He quietly left the room - not that House would mind if he made noise, the man was out for the count - and made his way to his office, closing the door behind him and sitting down before he started having a very quiet panic attack.
House was his soulmate. What did that say about him? If the House theory on his personality was right, Wilson was attracted to neediness, which unfortunately made House a perfect match for him. And he knew House cared about him, of course he did, as much as he could care for someone that wasn't himself - which, admittedly, was a lot more than other people thought him capable of.
He rubbed his eyes with his fingers and then got up again, ditching the labcoat in a silent sign that he wasn't acting as a doctor, not right now please come back later, and walked straight into the elevator and then into Cuddy's office. He closed the door.
"House's my soulmate."
Cuddy lifted her eyes from her paperwork and blinked.
"I know."
"Yeah, of course, you were at the party too-"
"I've known for years. You're the only person who can stand him outside work. You go on monster truck dates regularly. He's stuck around you longer than any of your wives." Cuddy shrugged. "Figured if there was one person right for House in the whole wide world, it'd be you."
Wilson stared back, and then raised his hands in protest.
"And you didn't think to tell me? I'm- I don't know what to do! He's my best friend and yeah, we've known each other for years but it's still House we're talking about. I'm pretty sure he's just going to try to sabotage any attempt at a relationship because he's too proud to accept that the universe may know what it's talking about."
"I know you. You won't let him." Cuddy stood up and walked around the desk to put her hands on his arms, and then smiled at him. "He's House. He's still your soulmate. Just talk to him, you'll figure it out."
Wilson stared at her, incredulous.
"Talk to him? About a personal matter involving human emotions? Excuse me, have you met House?"
"Yes, I have. Talk to him."
"He won't listen. He'll make it all a game and not take it seriously or he'll deflect or-"
"Talk to him."
"He's not going to-"
"Wilson. Talk. To. Him! Now, get out of my office and go find House!" Cuddy physically shoved him out of the office and closed the door behind him.
//-//
Wilson did not talk to House. Instead, he finished his work of the day, did some clinic hours (that was the least likely place House would find him in) and then got ready to leave. He was picking up his jacket from his office to shield himself from the evening chill, when his luck ran out.
"You're avoiding me." The voice speaking to him belonged, no doubt, to the person blocking the door to his office with a cane. "That means you figured it out, and you don't like it."
"I figured that you're my soulmate, yes. I also figured you're incapable of taking that seriously. Thought you'd be thrilled at the chance to pretend nothing happened."
"Do I look thrilled?"
Wilson looked at him. House looked like he usually did, ignoring the DIY shirt mending. He didn't look thrilled, or sad, or angry. To the common observer, he'd look perfectly neutral.
Wilson was not a common observer.
"You look... scared." Wilson frowned, trying to piece his thoughts together. "Why?"
Silence. House narrowed his eyes, like if he focused his gaze just right he'd be able to see how the scene played out, how exactly he was going to fuck up just enough that Wilson wouldn't want to pursue the soulmate avenue ever again, but would still want to talk to him.
"You hate soulmates because you think that a mark can't choose for you - that you can choose who you love and spend time with. You used to, at least. When you were with Stacy. Well, no mark made you spend time with me. Why are you so... against this?"
"Right. Being friends was my idea. Not at all influenced by any universe bullshit. I feel so much better already. Should we move in together or wait until we've had sex?"
"You think we're only friends because some cosmic force pushed us together?" Wilson stared at him, and then - "No, worse, you think your only friend is stuck with you because the universe decided it for me."
"Yes, I drive away everyone in my life and you seem oddly immune. Forgive me for assuming that's because you literally have to put up with me!"
"I don't have to put up with you. I do it because I care about you. Because I know you care about me." Wilson was moving then, punctuating each word with a step towards House. "Maybe we're soulmates because of that, and not the other way around."
"Yeah, well, you can't know tha-"
The bottle stopped spinning, pointing at House. He rolled his eyes and laughed, saying something about how now they sure weren't going to beat the allegations - Wilson could barely hear it, the noise drowned out by his own breathing suddenly very loud in his ears, heart rate picking up speed as his attention focused on his lips. House leaned over over and he was holding on for dear life then, a tingling sensation washing over him, something like a shiver running down his spine. He surged forward, chasing the feeling, and he was suddenly wondering why they'd never done this before, when it was so obvious, so evident, so maddeningly simple. He'd been looking for a connection in all the wrong places. It had been right in front of him all this time. He had never felt so certain about anything.
"I don't care." Wilson was slightly breathless, the feeling of a connection he couldn't explain still throbbing in his veins. "I don't care what the universe says. Besides, we go out regularly, we have lived together, we're the only working relationship the other has and it's been this way for years. We're already married, forget dating."
"That explains why we never have sex."
"Yeah, yeah, married life sucks. We on for monstertrucks tomorrow night?"
"Of course."
James Wilson was a romantic at heart. He'd always been. He was the kind of guy who held his breath when the lifeguard did CPR on the titular character, the kind of guy who played spin the bottle just in case he ended up meeting his soulmate. He was also, apparently, the kind of guy who had House as a soulmate. Which he could concede was pretty obvious, in retrospect. He was also the guy who would never stop rubbing it in House's face: in the end, they had both found their soulmates.
Game, set and match for the hopeless romantics.