The first warning comes in the form of a voicemail from a bartender.

“Hi, yeah—Gregory House said he ‘owns you emotionally’ and that someone should come get him before he sings Tom Petty. Again.”

You and Wilson arrive twenty minutes later.

He’s exactly where you expect: slouched over a whiskey glass, cane propped awkwardly against the bar, halfway through a rambling story about how he once solved a case by listening to the Bee Gees.

He spots you both, lifts his glass, and shouts, “There they are! The living embodiments of poor taste and questionable life choices!”

Wilson exhales. “He’s not even pretending to behave.”

“Did he ever?”

House grins, wide and bleary. “You came. Which means I win.”

You both get him home—House mostly cooperating, though he complains when Wilson makes him take off his shoes and again when you guide him to the couch.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, melting into the cushions. “Drunk, not dying.”

“Give it a minute,” you murmur, handing him water. “Your liver’s going to file a formal complaint.”

He takes it, drinks too fast, then squints up at you. “You’re too good to me.”

“And you’re too drunk to remember this,” Wilson mutters from the kitchen, heating up soup.

But House is watching you. Really watching. Drunk, yes—but also unguarded in the way he only ever is when he’s cracked wide open by exhaustion or bourbon.

“I mean it,” he says quietly. “You shouldn’t’ve picked me. Either of you.”

You kneel down in front of him, brushing your hand over his knee. “But we did.”

“Stupid move,” he whispers.

Wilson comes back in, bowl in hand. “Yeah, we’re pretty dumb. But apparently we’re also patient, forgiving, and very good at putting up with bastards who pretend they don’t want love.”

House smirks. “You’re in love with me.”

Wilson deadpans, “Unfortunately.”

You smile. “Both of us.”

House goes quiet. His eyes go glassy, and not just from the alcohol. You settle beside him on the couch. Wilson hands him the soup, but House doesn’t eat it—he leans back instead, head dropping on your shoulder with an exaggerated sigh.

“Don’t think this means I like you,” he mumbles, half-asleep.

You and Wilson share a smile over his head.