I NEED Him To Sing This Song To Me - Blog Posts

BILLY JOEL AND WILSON HOW WILL I SURVIVE

& the most she will do is throw shadows at you (but she’s always a woman to me)

“hes obsessed with you. which is ridiculous, because he doesn’t even like you. he thinks.”

synopsis: wilson has always been a little too good at self-deception. until you come along and ruin it.

he’s not sure when it started.

maybe it was the third time you rolled your eyes at him during rounds.

or the fifth time you said, “that’s an interesting opinion,” in a tone that made it clear it wasn’t.

maybe it was when you laughed at him in that specific way — sharp and amused and teeth-baring — and walked off without another word.

whatever the cause, the effect is this:

he’s obsessed with you.

which is ridiculous, because he doesn’t even like you.

he thinks.

⸻

you’re impossible.

he tells himself that often.

you’re careless with your words. you’re smug when you’re right.

you point out inconsistencies in his logic, question his methods, act like his years of experience are a mild inconvenience to your brilliance.

you’re not cruel. just —

confident. disarming.

and so, so infuriatingly competent.

he can’t stand it.

he also can’t stop thinking about it.

⸻

“you’ve got that look again,” house says, leaning into his office like a vulture.

“what look?” wilson asks, not looking up from the file in front of him.

“like you’re planning a murder. or writing a love letter.”

“i’m working.”

“you’re sulking,” house corrects.

wilson sighs, saying nothing.

⸻

the problem is, you’re not wrong about him.

you see right through the charm, the practiced calm, the emotional sleight of hand.

you don’t call him out on it. you just look at him.

like you know.

like it’s obvious.

he hates it.

he hates you.

he also, somehow, wants you to do it again.

⸻

he thinks about you in places he shouldn’t.

at night, when he’s brushing his teeth.

in the car, waiting at red lights.

during meetings, when you’re not even there.

sometimes he imagines arguing with you just to see what you’d say. other times he imagines you kissing him mid-sentence to shut him up.

... he doesn’t like admitting this to himself.

doesn’t like what it says about him.

⸻

“you’re patient,” cuddy told him once. “you’re the nice one.” he thinks about that a lot.

he wonders what she’d say if she saw him now; biting his tongue until it bleeds, because you made a comment about his latest consult. it was technically accurate, but also humiliating and he kind of wants to die and/or kiss you about it.

he wonders what you’d say if he snapped.

(he won’t.)

(probably.)

⸻

one day you stop by his office to borrow a file.

you knock once, step inside without waiting, and say something so neutral and mundane that it shouldn’t make his chest ache, but it does.

your voice is calm. your sleeves are rolled up. you don’t even glance at him as you flip through the papers on his desk.

he watches you for maybe two seconds too long.

you notice.

you raise an eyebrow. “what?”

he says, “you’re exhausting.”

you blink. then smile. “likewise.”

and you leave. like nothing just happened.

⸻

he puts his head in his hands and laughs.

he hates you. god, he hates you.

he wants you to ruin his life.

(he suspects you already have.)