There are many things James Wilson has never told Gregory House.

For example, that he hates fish tacos, but eats them anyway because House really likes them, and it's rare to find something that House loves and enjoys in such an unqualified way.

Or that every time he tells a patient that chemo isn't working, that death is staring them in the face with the pure gold terror of hellfire, he lights a candle for them at home, and leaves it to burn itself down to a puddle of wax and nothingness.

- - - - -

The car shudders to a stop, and Wilson unbuckles his seatbelt.

But House doesn't switch off the engine, he just leaves the car idling. When Wilson reaches to open his door, House holds up a hand in warning - not yet - and turns to stare out the window at the restaurant across the street.

"It's easier to have dinner when we're in an actual restaurant, House," Wilson finally says, after two minutes of waiting patiently in the chill that has slipped through the cracks of House's battered car. "Staring at it isn't going to make it sprout legs and come over to you."

House doesn't even acknowledge this comment, he just continues to look out the window, determination threaded through his shoulders, and Wilson imagines that those blue eyes - always focused, even when in pain, even when turned to ice and glass by drugs or alcohol - are narrowed with the ferocity of a falcon seeking its prey.

- - - - -

There are many things James Wilson has learnt about acceptance after meeting Gregory House.

For instance, accepting that there is nothing in his life - not his lunch, his money, his choices, his pain - that is safe from the air of persistent curiosity that House carries with him everywhere.

That gratitude from House will only come when he least expects it - and that it's never in the form of a 'thank you', but more in the way House nods, a thousand words swallowed and sewn into gestures you might miss if you blink.

That it's a matter of faith that all the strange things House does are always - almost always - done for a reason.

- - - - -

Finally, after a few more minutes of intense staring, House waves a hand in Wilson's direction. "Sandwiches. In the glove compartment."

Wilson blinks, arches an eyebrow, and pops the latch on the glove compartment. Sure enough, there are sandwiches - encased in plastic boxes stamped with the hospital logo - nestled among a tangle of papers, one lonely motorcycle glove with a hole worn through the palm, and a yo-yo.

"So when you said you were buying me dinner, and I asked if you were dying and you said 'yes', this is what you meant by dinner?"

House jerks his chin in a nod, eyes still locked on the window across the street. "If by 'buying', you mean winning a bet with Kutner and making him pay for them."

"I'll have to thank him for this delectable spread," Wilson remarks wryly, wishes again that Amber hadn't gone out of town to visit her parents, and looks at the sandwiches in his hands - at least House remembered he likes roast beef.

"The roast beef is mine, by the way," House adds absentmindedly.

Wilson sighs, and hands it over. "Do I dare ask - what about drinks?"

House throws his long arm behind the headrest, rummages in the backseat for a moment, and drops a worn grey Thermos in Wilson's lap.

"That's mine!" Wilson protests, although he knows that any attempt to suggest boundaries between his stuff and House will always be futile.

"You didn't seem to miss it at lunch today," House shrugs, "At least it's coffee made the way you like it."

- - - - -

James Wilson learned a long time ago that Gregory House is an ass.

He has since learnt to take it as a compliment that House only allows himself to be an especially annoying ass to people he likes.

- - - - -

"So we're clearly on some kind of ridiculous stakeout," Wilson continues, taking a halfhearted bite of a tuna fish sandwich. "Who are we stalking? Your high school lab partner who criticised your titration technique? A hooker you forged an unfortunately intimate personal connection with over a five-minute blowjob?"

"Not anyone you know," House lies, so unconvincingly that it's obvious he isn't even trying to hide it.

So Wilson leans over, looks past House and studies through the plate-glass window the profiles of people he doesn't know, as they trade the stories of their lives over glasses of pinot noir and some escargot.

The face he does recognise - strong, true, transformed by a smile and the pale orange flicker of candlelight - is Cuddy's.

- - - - -

There are several things about Lisa Cuddy that James Wilson has always admired.

The way she does her job, for example - no complaints and no excuses, just does her job as best as she can, all day, every day.

The way she always sees the person - not the statistic, not the money - in every patient that passes through her hospital's doors.

But most of all, for the way she puts up with House, House who has insulted her, lied to her, made her cry - and yet still respects her, because she deserves nothing less.

- - - - -

"She's on a date," House says helpfully.

At this point, the man sitting across from Cuddy leans in, laughter creasing his face as he lifts his wine glass in a toast; Wilson can't help but notice that the cool amber liquid in the glass seems to list toward her, hostage to her unique brand of gravitational pull.

"I've seen that guy before," House continues, "he visited her at the hospital earlier this week. She left for lunch at 11.45 that day."

"Fascinating," Wilson sighs, and takes a sip of bitter coffee.

"She never goes for lunch at 11.45," House adds, glancing at Wilson for the first time that night. "She's also left the office at six every day this week. She never leaves at six."

"How would you know that if you always leave by five-thirty?"

House grunts, good-naturedly for him, "Touché. I do, however, have my sources."

"So Cuddy's having a little fun," Wilson says as House reaches over for the cup of coffee and drains it dry, "she deserves it, once in a while."

"Wait, whose side are you on?" House protests loudly, "Did the boobs distract you again? She's the Establishment. The Administration. The Bureaucrat. The Hell-Bitch. Evil Incarnate doesn't get to have fun. In fact, she drains all the fun out of life, most of the time. She calls it clinic duty."

"What do they say about believing that you doth protest too much, House?" Wilson comments wryly, "Shouldn't you be pulling her hair and kicking sand in her eyes? I think that's how mature adults are doing it these days."

This time House snorts. "When have you ever known me to be mature?"

- - - - -

There are moments when James Wilson knows why he has stayed friends with Gregory House throughout the years.

Sometimes it's hard to remember, when he discovers House in a hole of his own making (drugs and alcohol leaking from every pore) or when House lashes out (not at anyone but at himself, all claws and sarcasm and self-loathing), and Wilson wonders if there's anything in there worth staying for.

But it's all the times that House pretends he doesn't care - pretends so fiercely, so angrily, so quietly - that have kept Wilson from walking away.

- - - - -

"You stalker," Wilson says - and thinks, only to House would anyone say that with affection rather than horror.

"I'm not stalking her," House shakes his head, "you are."

"Of course you're - I'm what?"

"You're stalking her," House replies patiently.

Wilson furrows his brow. "Last I checked I wasn't clinically insane. Not like some other people in this car I could mention."

"I need to know what's going on in there," House continues, again patiently, like he's talking to a child.

"Then go in there yourself," Wilson folds his arms across his chest, "It's one thing sitting here in a car being an unwitting accomplice to your creepiness. It's something else entirely to enable you when you're being a jackass."

"Normally I would," House says quietly, and turns to look out the window again, his fingers starting to pick out a restless, drumming rhythm against his thigh.

Wilson follows House's line of vision to catch Cuddy as she reaches across the table, lightly squeezing her companion's fingers with her own, a story of love and quiet happiness written across her face and in her eyes.

He almost feels sorry for House.

"She's used to me disrupting her dates," House finally mutters, "But I can't today."

"What's so special--" Wilson begins, before he remembers his own little tradition with Cuddy, started so many years ago now, the muffin he passed to her in the hallway this morning, and the way she smiled at him, You know, with every passing year, it gets harder for me to work these calories off.

"She's happy," House says simply.

"She is," Wilson agrees.

"But I have to know."

"You always do."

Wilson opens his car door, takes a deep breath as November - which started with a surprisingly early frost, this year - wraps itself around him, and he walks across the road into the restaurant.

- - - - -

There are many things James Wilson has never told Gregory House.

Sometimes, these are things he doesn't think House deserves to know. House needs humility - he cannot go around expecting the world to bend and twist around him, the world is larger than his ego, even though it never seems that way when sooner or later everything somehow becomes about him.

So Wilson told Cuddy - don't tell him about the Addison's. And he told Tritter - this is the deal I need you to make. And he told himself - this is for House's good, even though it made his stomach curl into itself like paper curling into a flame.

- - - - -

He introduces himself, a little awkwardly, papering over his presence with the clumsy lie that he's picking up his drycleaning and saw her from across the street and just wanted to, you know, say hi.

Cuddy smiles at him, broadly, openly, and he feels that familiar sense of guilt and annoyance that comes from being both House's friend and spy.

"James Wilson," she says, taking his hand and indicating the man across the table from her, "this is Steve - my brother."

- - - - -

This is one thing James Wilson doesn't keep from Gregory House.

He does, however, bite his tongue to keep from commenting on the smirk that creeps across House's face, the one that makes House look... well, almost happy, for once.

House finally starts the car and they pull away from the sidewalk.

Wilson ends up paying for Chinese takeout.

This time, he doesn't mind at all.

- - - - -