House couldn’t fight off a full-blown grin in the face of Wilson’s microphone antics. His leg hurt, the team was questioning his tactics, and under torture he might admit to missing Stacy, but here he was giggling.
Wilson was full of half-baked psycho-babble like that whole “You don’t like yourself” thing, but his streak of humor made House happier than a handful of Vicodin. He could barely hold still for the damned MRI, not when “God” was making fun of Cameron for wanting to know why bad things happen.
With the click of Cuddy’s heels, the world crashed back in.
He’s looking at me. Oh. My. God. He’s really looking at me.
House would never love her the way he loved Stacy. He wanted women with more curves and less baggage. He didn’t need a friend. That position was filled long before she’d ever heard of Greg House.
Most of the time he only saw her when she had a good idea or fucked up really badly.
Being House, he’d had to make a joke out of it, but she knew that for one moment, he’d really looked at her and liked what he saw.
She still had a chance.
Wilson never got close to House's fellows. Ever. House Rules. Besides, they were too ephemeral to bother learning more than their names and specialties. Now, after a day of conflict, he was staring at Foreman over a box of Victoria Madsen’s belongings.
He wasn’t about to spill his own secret in this dump that had once been somebody’s happy home, but for once he would have liked to know more about Foreman. Maybe there was something to House’s insatiable curiosity.
“They’re dead…she was the driver.”
Wilson felt Foreman’s guilt mingling with his own. Without words, Foreman apologized and Wilson accepted