Bonnie had always wanted James Wilson, but he’d slipped through her fingers, and all she’d ended up with was a lousy dog.
House had always wanted James Wilson, and he had always had him, but then Bonnie had made him feel guilty for stealing Wilson away (not that she’d had much of a genuine, emotional claim to Wilson in the first place), so he’d had a go at giving up Wilson and taking the dog instead.
He’d had a lot of masochistic ideas in his life, but that was one of the dumbest.
The plan had lasted all of a week before House had given up the stupid dog without a second thought. That night he’d called off his embargo, invited Wilson over, and they’d watched crappy pseudo-lesbian slasher flicks until one and then stayed up talking until five-thirty, at which point it was far too late (or too early, depending on one’s point of view) for Wilson to go home.
House got up with a yawn, and Wilson moved to settle in on the couch for the night. House stopped him by catching Wilson’s hand and leading him, unresisting, into the bedroom. Neither of them said a word, and House flopped onto his side, his back firmly to Wilson.
A moment’s pause, and he felt the bed sink and shift beside him as Wilson lay down. Ten minutes later, House was wide awake and Wilson was deep asleep.
Twenty minutes later, Wilson was still deep asleep but had moved over so that he was wrapped around House’s back, spooning him from behind.
Thirty minutes later, House was falling asleep as well in time to the steady rhythm of Wilson’s breathing.
If Bonnie wanted him to replace the Wilson in his life, she could tell it to the damn dog.