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Coming Into Focus
by gena
Coming into Focus
Despite the fact they were living in the same apartment he hadn't seen Wilson in nearly six days. There had been signs that his friend still existed; neatly folded blankets on the couch, a dry cleaning bag in his closet and some whiskers in his sink, but otherwise nothing. Wilson often worked late and went in early but even then he managed to sneak away for lunch or a short skulk in an empty exam room or a quick walk and talk in the hall but for the last week House had eaten lunch alone, skulked alone and walked the halls alone. He'd eavesdropped at the oncology nurses' station and found out Wilson had been treating several new patients, helping with a clinical trial and trying to mediate a dispute between his department and radiology. They were going on and on about how tired and pale their poor baby boss looked, so much so that House had to make gagging noises as he limped off.
He knew how busy Wilson was, and how much stress the crumbling of his third marriage had put on him in the last few months, those were givens in Wilson's hectic life. Not many people ever saw him stressed, Wilson had an uncanny ability to present a calm, nonchalant face to the world, it was like a pretty mask he wore nearly all the time. Only House was allowed to see the scarred and imperfect flesh hidden beneath it. No one else would ever know when Wilson's life was crashing down around his ears. House knew, of course, even when he refused to acknowledge it, he knew, but to hear the nurses tell it he was on the verge of some kind of breakdown. House laid the blame on Wilson, he was such a suck-up and knowing Mr. Goody-Two-French-Shoes he'd probably not only completed his annual reviews but put the finishing touches on some massive Forget You're Dying party for his little bald kids in the cancer ward. House shook his head, mentally declaring his friend a masochistic idiot and went back to playing his video game while Cameron, Chase and Foreman did the leg work.
At six thirty House packed up his toys, grabbed his coat and headed down to the lobby. He was out the door and on his motorcycle flying towards home, the only thought in his head that if he hit 80mph on the straight aways he could be home in time to watch Judge Judy. His phone vibrated as he crossed Center street, he could feel the tickle through his jeans but there was no way he would pull over to answer. So it wasn't until he'd made it into his apartment, dumped his things and limped into the kitchen for a cold beer that any message got to him. It was the flashing red light reflecting off the toaster like a little beacon that caught his attention, he flicked it as he twisted off the beer cap. Cameron's voice, sounding strained and a bit breathless filled the room.
"House, pick up if you're there." He could tell she was still at the hospital by the background noises. "House? Uh, I'm calling about Wilson. He's okay," she hurried to explain, "well, we think he is. He collapsed in the clinic -" House snatched the phone, dialing Cameron before the tape quit. It rang three times as he tossed the beer into the sink, not caring that the bottle and one of his mom's plates shattered. He had his helmet and cane by the time she answered.
"How is he?"
"Stable," Cameron said. "They took him for an MRI."
"On my way." He stuffed the phone in his pocket and raced for the hospital. He did not let himself think about Wilson, concentrating only on throttle, shift and brake, on the throb of the engine and the roar of the tires. He reached the ER lot much faster than he'd gotten home and it was all he could do not to drop the bike and rush through the doors. Cameron met him at the desk, her tight smile bringing some relief.
"He's okay. Dehydration and exhaustion," she said, handing over the file as they walked, "they moved him to a room." House kept moving but his eyes missed nothing on the scan. It looked fine, no abnormalities of any kind; blood tests, tox screen, everything else looked just as benign. He knew Cameron had ordered everything because of Wilson's relationship with House and for a second he stopped and just stared at her. She looked back at him, her eyes full of understanding. "He's in room 404," she said quietly, and touched his arm. House nodded, already heading towards the elevator. All the thoughts he hadn't allowed himself as he drove to the hospital surfaced and he wondered if they had shown on his face because Cameron was giving him one of her empathetic looks. The doors closed and House blew out a shaky breath, sagging against the wall as he did. He could feel the tremors in his leg, the dull ache that never went away shooting up half a dozen notches to leave cold sweat on his temples, and make his heart pound against his ribs. Wilson would tell him it was psychosomatic but with a doctor's clinical detachment knew they were all symptoms of shock.
Something happening to Wilson, just the thought of it made House feel sick. He realized with shame that a big part of his reactions were motivated by his own self interest. If Wilson wasn't around he would have no one at all, he would be utterly alone in the world he had made for himself. Without the younger doctor's influence, and ability to soothe ruffled feathers his job would be one hundred percent harder to do. Without the steady and calming presence, House knew his own self destructive tendencies would get the best of him. Wilson had always been the reliable one, the stable one, the caretaker, while he had been free to be the crazy, impulsive, slightly mad doctor everyone expected. His very existence depended on Wilson being there each and every step of the way with him. There was another part though, a part that he'd not acknowledged until that second, a part that admitted there was more to the world than how it effected him, a part which wanted Wilson to be alright because he was a good person, a good man and deserved to be healthy and happy. House knew that someday he would be gone, victim of his own reckless nature but he wanted Wilson to grow old, tilting at windmills, fighting for lost causes.
And he'd never told him. Never once in all the years Wilson had stuck with him had House ever even ventured close to the truth of what he felt for his friend. He'd tried to hint at it, just the fact he'd opened his apartment to his friend meant something, didn't it? And the fact that Wilson, successful doctor in his own right, had asked to sleep on his couch instead of going to a hotel said just how mutual the feelings were, right? There were nights, sitting side by side on the couch, that House wanted to just tell Wilson how grateful he was for the company, and how much better it was than facing the night alone, but he couldn't do it, couldn't make himself so vulnerable to anyone. So he tried to be good, and he tried to make Wilson see what he couldn't say, all the while wondering if they could survive together, if somehow they could beat the odds and their own corrosive natures.
He'd long harbored a suspicion that someday he and Wilson might consume each other, their mutual need for each other was unlike anything he had every experienced. Not even his love for Stacy had been able to blot out the gaping hold in his heart that only Wilson seemed to fill. It had taken years to begin to understand the complex ties which held them together like steel bands. Not merely friendship bound them, or their similar interests and hobbies, the thing which held them together like no other people House knew, was the simple fact they had complete and utter acceptance of each other. This did not mean they didn't want things to change; Wilson abhorred his drug abuse while he despised Wilson's infidelities but these were things each would have changed only for the sake of the other's health be it mental or physical. But underneath it all they accepted each other for exactly what and who they were because their unique personalities were matched like two halves of one whole broken apart.
House shook his head, reigning in such existential thoughts for the day Cuddy had him carted off to a psychiatrist. The elevator stopped, doors sliding open to reveal the quiet hallway he walked every day. Most of the time House didn't even think about the patients in the rooms which lined the corridor, they existed as little more than abstract notions in his world, if their suffering wasn't interesting they would never even achieved that much in his mind. Tonight, limping past each doorway, he became acutely aware that each held a real human being. He could imagine Wilson, that fragile shell housing the spark of life that made him Wilson, lying within one of those rooms and it caused an unfamiliar stirring within his chest. House quicken his uneven pace, afraid of what he might find when he reached room 404 but even as it came into sight his leg seemed to give out, he had to brace himself against the door until he could fumble out his pill bottle and down two of the small white tablets he so desperately needed.
All he had to do was slide the door open, he could see the dim outline of the bed from where he stood. All he had to do was step inside and see for himself that Wilson was okay. Something stopped him, maybe the lingering memory of Cameron's face, the way she had seemed to know exactly how scared he felt, or maybe just a perverse need to hold onto that twist of pain he clutched to his heart like a shield. House stood there a full minute, and might have stood there the rest of his life if not for the faint sound of footsteps coming nearer. Not wanting to share the night with anyone but Wilson, they spurred him inside.
House had never really liked hospital rooms, too familiar with the cold, bland space, the machines, the noise constant monitoring created. But when he finally stepped into the darkened room he felt a rush of gratitude so strong it made him dizzy. The monitors ranged around Wilson provided simple reassurance, the familiar setting; the comforting sounds of Wilson's wellbeing brought with it an overwhelming sense of relief. Wilson sometimes chided him for not caring about the people he treated, only the disease, but over the years House had seen the toll caring took on his friend. Standing next to the bed, seeing the only person he truly cared for frail and hurting, House was glad he didn't feel anything for those others. Because even a millionth of the pain he felt at seeing Wilson like this would have been too much to endure for strangers.
Though he looked Wilson over with a doctor's eye, the hand that reached out was that of a friend needing reassurance. They never really touched each other, not the way male friends often did; a mock punch to the arm, an awkward hug, a sympathetic hand on the shoulder. He knew Wilson was the kind of guy that did those things, he'd seen him with his brother, the way they hugged, and punched and horsed around. House knew the fault was in him. Wilson respected his boundaries and never crossed them, his eyes doing all the comforting his hands were not allowed and his verbal companionship more than enough to compensate for the space House kept between them. But stranded in an ocean of fear, House reached out like a drowning man, his fingers straying to skin, until they ghosted over a high cheekbone.
Wilson slept on, his body too exhausted to know that House had violated his own rules. "Ah, Jimmy," he whispered and before he could even think of what it might mean, House leaned down to brush his lips gently against Wilson's brow. He drew back with an awkward grimace, glancing over his shoulder. No glaring spotlight fell on him, no chorus of "Hypocrite" swept over him, nothing happened with his show of affection except a lightening of the crushing weight in his chest. House gave a wry smile and, using the handle of his cane, dragged the bedside chair closer, settling beside Wilson. He wanted to keep an eye on his friend despite the knowledge that Wilson wasn't in any danger and if anything happened at all he would be called. He could have safely gone home and stretched out on his king sized mattress and gotten as good a night's sleep as he was capable of. Still, there was no question in his mind what he would do and if anyone called him on it he'd come up with a suitably selfish reason for sacking out in the room.
It wasn't a peaceful night by any means; nurses came in at intervals to check Wilson, but none of them were silly enough to disturb House's vigil. They went about their duties, not bothered by House, even when the pain in his leg forced him to stretch out on the floor beside the bed, they simply stepped over him. House let out a small groan as the door slid shut behind a particularly vigilant nurse, popped a Vicodin and closed his eyes, he just needed to lie quietly for a little while and let the third pill do its job. He was tired and worried and everything seemed to be hitting him all at once. He heard someone coming down the hall, the sharp click of heels so very familiar but before he could even register the fact that they'd stopped outside Wilson's room he was asleep.
"House?" House opened his eyes, blinking at the sound of his name. Several seconds passed while he worked out exactly how he had come to be lying on the floor of a patient's room in the early morning hours - when it came rushing back to him he bolted upright. Pain seared through his lower back, splitting like a lightning bolt; half traveling the worn path to his thigh the other riding his spine all the way to the base of his skull where it lodged like an iron spike.
"Jimmy?" He pressed both hands to his thigh, breathing hard for a moment then looked straight into deep brown eyes set in a very pale face. Wilson was staring at him with that mixture of amusement and concern that characterized his normal expression when dealing with House. If it hadn't been for the fact he was lying in a hospital bed hooked up to an IV it would have seemed like a normal exchange between them. "Wilson, you okay?"
"I could ask you the same. What're you doing down there?" Wilson demanded, the amusement dropping from his expression to leave just a concerned frown. "You pass out again?"
"Ha, ha," House said a bit breathless. It took him longer than normal to get off the floor, and all of it was spent acutely aware of Wilson's lingering gaze. "How you feeling?"
Wilson looked away, his embarrassment clear in the color which rose in his cheeks. "Like an idiot."
"So, normal, huh?" Wilson spared him a withering glare but House ignored it in favor of checking the IV in his arm. "If you want to play the fainting virgin, you'll need to work on the virginal part."
"Your advice is always so helpful," Wilson snapped. "Pull that out, I'm leaving."
"Not until I clear you," House said. Wilson closed his eyes, sighing. Morning sun filtered in through the curtains, painting him in pale light, the dark circles under his eyes reminded House of bruises and he couldn't help wondering why Wilson punished himself so hard. "How the hell did you get yourself into this state?" Wilson didn't answer but House really hadn't expected him to. The hand that had only seconds ago tended so gently to Wilson curled into a fist around the head of his cane. House could feel himself barely leashing in the urge to strike out with it, and settled instead for attacking in a much more habitual way. "You just can't help playing the martyr, can you? You'd be happy to die on a cross just to prove how noble you are, how much you care," House sneered. "Poor Dr. Wilson, so vulnerable, so self-sacrificing. That how you get your wives, Jimmy?"
"Shut up," Wilson whispered, turning his face away. House reached out but instead of forcing Wilson to look at him, all he did was unhook the IV. He limped to the small closet and tossed Wilson's clothes to him.
"I'll drive you home," he said quietly. Wilson nodded still without looking at him and began the slow process of getting dressed. House watched, staying close but not so close as to annoy Wilson and once he'd finished House picked up the room phone, punching in a number. "Room 404. Bring Chase." Wilson's frown deepened a few minutes later when Foreman and Chase entered. House hooked a thumb at Wilson. "Make sure he gets down to the lobby without falling on his ass. I'll meet you out front in his car." He snagged the keys from Wilson and limped out.
"Are you alright?" Chase asked.
"Yeah, just -" Wilson shrugged. "You guys don't need to go down with me," he protested.
"Huh-uh," Foreman said, taking up position on one side of Wilson while Chase took the other side. "If anything happens to you, House will rip our hearts out." They stayed beside him, never actually supporting Wilson, but there in case he needed them. In the lobby people murmured as they passed, some of the nurses wishing Wilson a speedy recovery but mostly the older respected physicians whispering among themselves. Wilson acknowledged them all with a vague smile. He was well liked by the staff, most notably the female nurses, but his friendship with House cost him the friendship of his colleagues. For some reason Wilson had always seemed to accept this and not find the price too high. Outside his car, with House at the wheel, waited at the curb, engine revving like a scream of protest against the quiet of the Hospital Zone. "You better get in," Foreman advised, "before he blows a gasket - and before he ruins your car." Wilson gave a tired chuckle and got in. House waited for him to fasten his seatbelt before mashing the accelerator to the floor, peeling out with squealing tires to take the corner at a very high rate of speed.
"Oh good, at least our lifeless bodies will be close to the hospital so Cuddy can identify us promptly," Wilson commented. His words might have implied some rebuke for House's seemingly reckless driving, but his manner did not. Wilson settled back in the seat and closed his eyes, exhausted but trusting House to get them home safely.
"You want me to stop and get us some food?" House asked softly, not sure if Wilson had fallen asleep.
"Hmmm, I don't care," Wilson said drowsily, "If you're hungry get something." House considered, finally driving through a burger joint for an artery clogging quarter-pounder and fries for himself and a salad he could stick in the refrigerator for Wilson. The rest of the drive home was spent in a bubble of contentment that House really couldn't explain except that the smell of French fries made him think of the hundreds of times he and Wilson had stopped for food on the way to his apartment over the years. He glanced over at his friend and smiled. Wilson's head rested against the window in apparently peaceful sleep but his left hand was curled around House's cane in a gesture that House had seen repeated many times but which still confused him. His first cane, a mahogany beauty with a gracefully arched handle, had been a gift from Wilson one day after a particularly grueling PT session, it had lasted nearly a year until House broke it in a bar fight. The next one he'd purchased himself, but which ever cane he used he'd noticed Wilson seemed drawn to it. Sometimes when he didn't think House saw him, he would touch it, letting one sensitive finger slide along the shaft in a delicate caress, and the expression on his face seemed so sad, as if he mourned for House because he could not bring himself to grieve.
"Think you can get your carcass out of the car without my help?" House asked, shaking Wilson's shoulder. Wilson blinked, rubbing his eyes as he looked around. They were parked as close to House's front door as possible, the battered blue Handicapped sign Wilson carried in deference to House's demand for preferential treatment, hanging from his rearview mirror.
"I thought you were driving me home?" Wilson asked, still trying to clear his head. The wrinkle between House's brows deepened as he studied Wilson for a long moment. "Oh, okay," Wilson said, "I guess I forgot."
"You really are dozy if you can forget the wonderful privilege I've bestowed on you," House said. He opened his door and got out, moving to Wilson's side as quickly as he could without appearing to hurry.
"My back hasn't really recovered from the privilege," Wilson murmured, pulling himself to his feet and heading for the door. House stayed beside him, even going so far as to let one hand hover near Wilson's back as they climbed the front step. He had no idea what he would do if Wilson started to fall but somehow the gesture proved enough of a talisman to keep that from happening. Inside Wilson made straight for the couch but House stopped him by hooking the curved handle of his cane around Wilson's arm. "What -"
"Not here," he gently pushed Wilson towards the back of the apartment and into his own bedroom. "I am not going to tiptoe around my own place while you hibernate on my couch for the next week."
"I'm not hibernating for a week," Wilson protested. "I have too much work to do."
"That's the problem, Einstein," House snapped, "all work and no rest makes Jimmy a mess. Not to mention dull." He kept prodding Wilson closer to the bed. "You will take a week off and rest or I'll call Cuddy and tell her you're showing symptoms of paroxysmal non-kinesigenic dyskinesia and need to be sedated and restrained."
"And who's going to run my department - you?" Wilson sneered. "Those people need some compassion - someone to give them hope not just tell them they're going to die."
House sneered right back at him, "One of those useless morons you call your staff can handle things for a while. Jeez, Wilson, if they can't pick up the load for seven days you should ship them back to whatever mail order medical school they came from!" They glared at one another for a full minute before Wilson closed his eyes in defeat and sank onto the bed.
"Yeah, okay," he said softly. House stared at him, confused and slightly alarmed. Wilson rarely gave up like that. He sat down beside him, unspeaking, just tapping his cane on the wood floor, the sound like a heart beating in the stillness. "They can handle it," Wilson said, "They don't need me." He sounded so tired and sat slumped as if his spine had snapped in half, and for a second House felt overwhelmed by a need to protect the younger man so strong that he could have reached out and hugged him. He might have gone ahead and offered comfort if he'd known what Wilson would say, but without that knowledge House felt powerless to act against pattern. Instead when he moved, it was to stamp the rubber tip of his cane into Wilson's foot, not as hard as he could have, but with enough force to make Wilson glare at him. "You suck," Wilson said.
"That's beside the point. Now, lie down and go to sleep like a good boy or no TV for you." Wilson didn't rise to the bait, just nodded in a dejected kind of way.
"Do you - think I'm useless?"
"As tits on a boar," House responded before he could stop himself. An uncharacteristic wave of regret washed over him, making him drop his gaze to the spot between their feet. "Not useless, not unless we're talking about your ridiculous habit of picking out unsuitable wives. You need better criteria than beautiful, needy, blonde and easy. You're too hard on yourself, Jimmy." He got to his feet and pulled back the covers, "Get into bed." Wilson sighed, but did as told. He lay back, staring up at House with an expression House couldn't really read. His dark brown eyes gleamed, not with tears, with something heavier, something that made House remember catching sight of his own eyes during those long months after Stacy left. He had felt useless then, himself, his life had been ruined, his future smashed, his image of himself shredded and everything had seemed too unbearable to face. If it hadn't been for Wilson cajoling him every step of the way House knew he would have given up. He guessed it was about time he returned the favor.
"I'm tired, House," Wilson said and the words sounded so hollow they made House flinch.
"Sleep," House said, and pretending he did it every night, he tucked the blankets around Wilson as if he were a child. Wilson looked beyond tired, beyond the exhaustion that plagued his body, Wilson looked tired to his soul. House let himself sink back down beside his friend, and had to swallow the words that formed on his lips. "Jimmy," he finally said quietly, "just sleep." This time he couldn't stop himself from reaching out to brush the silken hair from Wilson's forehead, telling himself it was just to see his eyes better. Wilson made a small sound like a sigh. A compulsion to find out what that smooth skin would feel like against his lips startled him with its strength and clarity. Confusion boiled within him and he nearly bolted but Wilson was looking at him like a man waiting for news; half afraid and half hopeful - so fragile it could fall either way with one breath. House twisted his features into a smirk and softly flicked the end of Wilson's nose. "No bedbugs but if you want to sleep tight I've got scotch, gin, and vodka." Wilson chuckled, eyes sliding closed over the smile within them and a moment later he was asleep.
House closed the bedroom door and stood on shaking legs in the hall. Those moments with Wilson, the nearly magnetic pull he could feel deep inside him was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. They were friends, had been for years, Wilson had stuck with him despite everything House threw at him, and he was - grateful, but this feeling resonated in every fiber of his being so powerful it blocked out all other emotions. He tried to distance himself from it but time and time again Wilson pulled him back in with nothing more than a smile, a quirk of his humor, the quiet caring that shown in his dark eyes. It scared House in a way he hadn't been scared since Stacy left, since the one thing he had counted on had been jerked out from under him like someone yanking his cane out of his hand. Only Wilson had been there to catch him, Wilson was always there and somehow his being there was all the more frightening because House had learned to count on it even more than he had on Stacy's love and loyalty.
House forced himself to forget about it, pushing the unsettling memories of the way Wilson had looked at him away with his relentless routine of video mayhem, junk food and Vicodin. Wilson slept the rest of the day, waking only long enough to pick at the salad House set in his lap as he plopped down in the bedside chair and began wolfing down a peanut butter sandwich. "Thought you got," Wilson flapped a hand to show he couldn't remember what it was House bought, "-food - when we stopped."
"Ate it." He gulped his milk, and shoved the last crust into his mouth as Wilson dropped his fork and handed over the plastic container. "Here, eat something healthy."
"What's the matter, you on a diet?" House mocked, "Afraid women won't want you if your gorgeous ass is fat?"
"Did you say I have a gorgeous ass," Wilson asked with a yawn.
House titled his head and narrowed his eyes at Wilson. "I said you were a gorgeous ass."
Wilson tried to glare at him but the expression was ruined when another huge yawn ambushed him. "Go away, House, I'm tired." He pulled the covers up to his chin and closed his eyes. House grinned and gathered their plates, starting to hobble from the room. "House?" He turned back to find Wilson looking at him. "Thanks." The word hung between them as if Wilson had just said something both of them could hear but would never say aloud and in that instant House felt everything change. Every cell in his body seemed to realign itself. Wilson was just as screwed up and damaged as he was but in that moment their flaws and the scars they carried balanced each and House found himself smiling, happy for the first time in longer than he could remember.
"You are the most boring roommate ever," House complained but only because it was expected and left the room wondering why he felt as if he should cry. He called Cuddy, browbeating her into letting him have a week off, telling her Wilson needed him but secretly savoring the thought of a week with Wilson and nothing to do but what they wanted. He got his team assigned to oncology for the duration, knowing that would keep them out of trouble, help out Wilson and prevent them from finding some boring case that he could solve with a plastic stethoscope and a PDR. The rest of the day passed in a dreary attempt at being quiet when all he wanted was to drag Wilson out of the bedroom and challenge him to Road Rage Warriors or force him to watch the Gilligan's Island marathon on TV Land so they could make rude comments about Ginger's cleavage. In the end he watched TV alone until 2AM eating popcorn stretched out on his couch. He'd bought the big leather monstrosity because it was comfortable, but after a night spent on the floor of Wilson's hospital room he really missed the orthopedic splendor of his king sized bed.
He woke on the couch surprised it was without the skull pounding headache that usually accompanied waking up there and he would never admit it but his trip to the bathroom was more an opportunity to check on Wilson than a need to empty his bladder. He stopped in front of his bedroom door, pushing it open soundlessly and staring in at the man asleep in his bed. Wilson managed to look like a kid even with the faint shadowing of stubble on his chin. Curled on his side, House's pillow clutched to his chest in lieu of a teddy bear, he could have been some lost waif wandered in out of a storm. House blinked, completely disgusted by the crap taking care of Wilson had raised within his psyche. He wondered vaguely if all this was a result of too much Vicodin and alcohol, and if he should rethink his stand on overmedication. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact Wilson's normally pale skin still looked ashen in the morning light or the fact even after two nights of sleep he had dark circles under his eyes, or even because his wrists looked bony and his t-shirt appeared too large. This was more than a couple of weeks of working too hard, if he looked close enough House could see the signs that this had been going on for months; weight loss like that took time and the lines of exhaustion were too deep to be recent. He'd been caught up in his own problems and as usual if Wilson had mentioned his own House had ignored him.
House pushed those thoughts aside for the moment and went about getting ready for his day, a day off, thanks to Jimmy. Instead of spending his free time in his pajamas, eating cereal out of the box and distracting himself from a never ending maelstrom of pain and the cacophony of his own restless mind, he showered, got dressed in his favorite jeans and t-shirt, and knowing they would need food eventually, or in his case immediately made a list of what they needed. He grabbed his wallet and keys and headed for the door. There was a small market only a couple of blocks from the townhouse. He could carry enough to make a light lunch and they would deliver the rest. He stepped outside still pondering his relationship with Wilson. They'd spent a lot of time together in the years they'd known each other, and lived together since Wilson's separation from Julie but they'd never really had 24/7 contact, since work constituted so much of each of their lives. There was a part of House looking forward to this experience but he didn't allow himself to dwell on his eagerness.
He returned from the market with supplies; candy, fruit, more cereal, and soup, the rest would arrive with the delivery kid. He let himself into his apartment to the sound of the shower. "Wilson? I'm charging you double if you use all the hot water, Jimmy." The water cut off. "I got food," he called moving closer to the door and listening to the faint sounds of footsteps. His shower had not only handrails but a wide bench for mornings standing up was a job best left to those with two good legs, so he had no real worries that Wilson might get into trouble, but something made him wait for the reassuring sound of Wilson grumbling about paybacks. He permitted himself a small smile, and wondered about the damage Wilson was doing to his heart. He'd spent years building up a callous around it, pushing people away, hurting them as hard as he could because they were stupid, because they believed the world was a magical place where unicorns fucked fairies and spawned winged puppies. As Wilson emerged from the bathroom in baggy sweatpants, hair damp and spiky, his feet bare and his chest still glistening with water House felt something inside his chest crack like a magical winged puppy unfurling its wings.
"Did you say food?" Wilson asked.
"Soup," House replied, hooking his cane over his arm and digging into the bag until he found a red and white can.
Wilson sighed. "Fine." He turned towards the bedroom, and as he did so stumbled, one hand coming up to catch himself on the wall, the other flailing aimlessly. House moved as quickly as he could, stooping so that his shoulder fit under Wilson's, the bag of groceries forgotten, cans spilling over the floor, apples bouncing down the hallway. Wilson's arm settled across his shoulders, the flailing hand gripped his wrist above the cane. House could feel Wilson's bare skin all along his arm and it burned through his own skin until he could practically feel his friend like a brand across his soul. "'m okay," Wilson mumbled. "Just a little dizzy."
"Damn," House gasped, staggering slightly as his leg threatened to buckle under their combined weight.
"House," Wilson managed to sound menacing even though he looked ready to pass out. "I'm okay, just a bit lightheaded, okay?"
"Lightheaded? Empty headed, I'd say," House muttered. "You're an idiot, Wilson. You fall on your ass in the clinic, spend two days flat on your back and now you think you're ready for water sports."
"Why, House," Wilson drawled, "I didn't know you were into that kind of thing." He straightened, taking the weight off House's shoulders. "I just need something to eat, okay?" House eyed him with suspicion. "Let's -" he started to reach for the dropped groceries but House stopped him using the cane across his chest like a railroad barricade.
"I got it," he said. "I don't want you faceplanting right in the doorway, I couldn't get around you to pee." It took him a minute to pick up the cans, corral the apples and stuff it all back into the bag but then he was following Wilson to the living room. "Sit," he ordered and waited until Wilson complied, sitting down on the couch and almost immediately leaning back to close his eyes. There was a lot of satisfaction in watching Wilson follow his orders, so often in their relationship they were butting heads like bull rams, or Wilson was the one looking out for him. It felt good to be taking care of Wilson for once. House could remember nights when his pain had been so bad he would have swallowed the whole bottle of Vicodin if Wilson hadn't been there, swearing at him one minute, cajoling him the next and somehow comforting him all the time. Dysfunctional didn't quite cover what they shared; somehow they had each managed to find the one person in the whole world that could understand them, together they enabled each other to survive in a world in which neither one really fit, they accepted the other's flaws because they reflected their own. It didn't make them whole together, just less damaged.
"You every wonder," he said quietly, "what we would be like if we were -"
"Normal?" Wilson supplied. "I would have stayed married to Kim and probably moved to Woodhills. We'd've seen each other on weekends for tennis games, or pickup basketball, and told ourselves that was all we really needed." Wilson mused.
"And this?" House asked. On the couch Wilson stiffened, looking up at House with eyes so dark and empty that for a moment House could have sworn the spark of life had fled from his body. Wilson drew in a breath and shook his head, just once, as if he couldn't bear to admit that the indefinable thing between them might be reliant on something as quirky as Fate. House turned away, busying himself with making lunch. He hummed as he opened the can, and stirred the contents in a battered saucepan Wilson had unceremoniously tossed into the back of the cupboard. House had retrieved the old pot and proudly hung it with the expensive cookware Wilson had unpacked one evening. It looked like a poor relation there among the shiny pans but there was something about it, all battered and crooked beside its perfect mates, that always made House grin.
It took him three trips to bring bowls of soup, a loaf of French bread and a couple of bottles of water but Wilson surprised him by attacking the food the moment it was set down as if he were starving. They sat eating, so close their shoulders and thighs touched and their elbows would bump together if they both attempted to raise their spoons at the same time. It made them laugh and more than a little soup splashed onto their jeans but it felt good. House could no longer ignore the growing intimacy between them; years of keeping people at arm's length seemed to crumble in one afternoon leaving only a desire to be near Wilson both physically and emotionally. In the end he finished eating and flicked on the TV but split his attention between the screen and watching Wilson eat, wondering why he found it so fascinating. At one point Wilson turned and glared at him but House only raised an eyebrow in response. Wilson eventually slowed down, and placed his empty bowl on the coffee table in front of them. "You want more?"
"Maybe, in a while," Wilson said. They settled back against the cushions with twin sighs and House clicked channels at random, working his way though his cable package. It didn't take long before he felt Wilson leaning heavier against his shoulder. House lifted his arm so that it rested behind Wilson's head and breathed in the scent of his shampoo. It felt completely natural to do so though he had never once in all the years they'd been friends sat with his arm around Wilson. He could faintly remember times just after the infarction when Wilson would slip into his hospital bed and hold him through the worst of the pain but those memories were woven with so much anguish he could not bear to examine them. So that now, the feel of Wilson resting against him, the way his breath feathered, warm and moist across House's neck, did much to wipe out his apprehension and allow him to believe that the thing between them was real, felt by both. He wanted something he could cling to, he wanted whatever it was he had with Wilson despite the fact he didn't understand exactly where it fell within the spectrum of how he saw himself. Were they merely friends? These past days shared put that in doubt, but did Wilson see him as anything other than a perpetual fountain of need, the ultimate project for his narcissistic complex?
He let Wilson rest as long as he could, until the remaining muscles in his thigh began to cramp and send blinding waves of pain throbbing up his spine to lodge in his skull. Since his little experiment with Von Leiberman's miracle drug he'd been susceptible to migraines and he could tell this one would be a doozy. He could feel it building behind his eyes, a searing pain that almost - almost made him forget about his leg. He knew he'd need to lie down soon, and he'd probably be sick before the night was through, but even that realization couldn't blot out how good being close to Wilson felt. He couldn't reach his pills without disturbing Wilson so House breathed slowly, evenly and tried not to think of anything for nearly an hour.
In the end he coaxed a sleepy Wilson off him, using the excuse of reheating the soup to alleviate some of the cramping and, while his friend was still too groggy to see clearly, hoped he could down some of the pills he'd gotten from a willing drug rep. House staggered as he rose but Wilson, busy knuckling sleep out of his eyes, didn't notice. He limped slowly to the kitchen, abandoning his cane by the sink in favor of using the countertop and island for support. He usually managed fairly well without his wooden limb but the headache seemed to be taking a toll on his coordination. House fumbled with the pan, nearly dropping it before he was able to pour soup into a bowl and microwave it. He retrieved his trusty cane on the way back to the living room, afraid he might drop the bowl he was carrying and handed Wilson the steaming soup. He'd just turned back towards the kitchen when Wilson swore loudly. He looked over his shoulder to find his friend mopping furiously at his crotch. "Damn, Wilson, that's rude. This soup is an old family recipe, it can't be that bad."
"I didn't know your family was Scottish," Wilson retorted. He struggled to his feet and would have gone to the kitchen but House stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"Sit down before you fall down. I'll take care of it," House commanded, aware his tone sounded much too gentle. He watched Wilson sink down into the black lounger by the fireplace still too listless for his liking.
"I really am the most boring roommate ever," Wilson said. He shrugged at House in a what-can-you-do-about-it way.
"Give it a couple of days then you'll be as chipper as a chipmunk," House joked.
Wilson shook his head. "No marsupial metaphors."
"Chipmunks aren't marsupials," House informed him, "no pockets." He hooked a hand under Wilson's arm, not really pulling him to his feet but implying he would if he could. As he got to his feet, Wilson gave him the affectionate smile House realized he'd come to crave. "Bed."
"You, too," Wilson said and tugged on House's hand.
"I will." House tried to disentangle their hands but Wilson shook his head. "Let go, Wilson."
"No. You're hurting from sleeping on the floor the other night and the way you're squinting I can tell you've got another headache. The couch is not only peed on but basted with chicken noodle soup," Wilson said. "So tonight you're sleeping in your own bed." House sighed but allowed himself to be towed along behind Wilson. Once in the bedroom Wilson striped off his shirt, slid off his shoes and climbed into bed. "I won't bite," he said and patted the mattress.
"Damn, and here I was hoping to get my freak on." Wilson chuckled. House stared at him a moment, the soft smile he rarely displayed gracing his haggard face. "People are going to talk if they find out we've slept together."
"People talk about us all the time," Wilson pointed out.
"Yeah, but this time I'll be adding amazingly realistic details to the rumors." He moved to his dresser and pulled out pajama pants and a t-shirt. House paused for a moment, his back still to Wilson. The little world they had somehow managed to create between them had also created an atmosphere that allowed him to ask, "Does it - bother you?" He said the words quietly, "That people think we're lovers?"
Wilson's prolonged silence made him reach for his pills but before he could swallow one he got an answer. "Yes," Wilson said just as quietly. "It bothers me." House turned, staring at Wilson with a sickening sense of shame. "It bothers me," Wilson went on, "that people think I only stick around because they assume we're fucking each other. I know you can't help being the way you are, that you live your life according to what you honestly believe is the way it should be. That doesn't make you easy to like, House. It bothers me that people can't believe the same thing of me - I'm living my life the way I want. I don't stick around because I want to be the lonely cripple's only friend. It bothers me that they think I'm something I'm not - altruist." He drew in a shaky breath and smiled at House. "It bothers me that people don't know you the way I do, that they can't see you the way I see you." House almost went to him, almost sat down beside him and took his hand. Before that night he never would have even entertained the idea of something so sentimental, something so trite and clich but the air in his bedroom felt supercharged with emotion, as if they had tapped into a buried chamber and long sealed secrets were bursting forth like trapped gases.
"I wish I was the person you see," House said. He escaped to the bathroom before Wilson could comment on that, cursing himself for become a sentimental idiot. Spending so much time with Wilson was making him crazy, it was robbing him of his natural cynicism and ability to mock those around him for being fools. He rifled through the medicine cabinet until he found the migraine drugs, added one to his Vicodin and swallowed them all before limping back out into the bedroom. Wilson was already under the covers, the only light a small lamp on the side table. House propped his cane close and slid beneath the blankets, he could feel Wilson's eyes as surely as the warmth of his body when he lay down.
"You okay?" Wilson asked.
His leg had stopped sending blinding waves of pain throughout his body but his head throbbed in time with the beating of his heart and even the dim light forced him to keep his eyes closed. "I'm okay," he said. Wilson's weight shifted and the lamp clicked out. A moment later a firm hand touched his chest before lifting to his temple, fingers carding through his hair in a soothing rhythm. "Mmmmm," he hummed as Wilson kept up his gentle ministrations, "'s nice." Another stray memory popped into House's tired brain; just after Stacy had left and he'd been coping on his own after the infarction Wilson had come over one day and found him curled up in pain. Those strong hands had settled on his hip, his back, his shoulders, massaging gently, trying to take away a pain that surpassed the purely physical. He'd ended up with his head in Wilson's lap, held in a way he hadn't been since he was a child and feeling safe. He realized Wilson was still the only person to engender that feeling within him.
"I don't like seeing you in pain," Wilson said now but it echoed from that other time. House felt himself sinking into something that must be bliss, his mind seemed to disconnect from his body. He knew there was still pain lurking just beneath the pressure of Wilson's hand, but for the first time in longer than he could remember it didn't dominate his life. "You ever wonder about us?" Wilson asked from what sounded like a million miles away. House let a smile flit across his face, imagining Wilson speaking an hour ago and the sound only now reaching him. "Maybe we've always been together, maybe this isn't the first time we've been - friends." His hands stilled for an instant and House couldn't stop the groan of displeasure which escaped. Wilson picked up petting and massaging House's forehead, and temples, brushing those strong fingers along his brow. "I read a book once that theorized souls seek each other out, that all the people you meet in this lifetime are people you've shared other lives with."
"I don't believe in an afterlife," House said but part of him wondered if this was a lie. If there was a Heaven maybe it smelled like noodle soup and Stetson cologne and touched you like you really mattered. Then again maybe you bounced around like a pinball, crashing into other souls until you found the one you needed to make your own Heaven. House figured if that was the case he didn't have to look any further. What he didn't know was that a small smile had formed on his lips and stayed with him as he sank down into sleep. He dreamed but couldn't really capture the details of it, just the feeling it had been pleasant and that Wilson had been beside him. He woke alone, the pillow beside him held only the faint scent of Wilson's shampoo but no trace of warmth. House rolled over, but there was no sliver of light from the bathroom slicking the hall floor. A welcome, pain-free feeling lingered from the dream and even sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed didn't disturb it. House, worried about Wilson, groped for his cane, but only managed to knock it spinning to the floor.
"Hey." Wilson appeared in the doorway, a darker shadow in the soft gray of the room. "Did I wake you?"
"No. What were you doing?" He saw a movement as if Wilson had shrugged. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just," the hesitant movement again, "restless." Wilson moved across to the bed but instead of sliding in on the other side, sat down beside House. "I've been thinking," House heard him swallow hard and fear rose in his own throat, "I should move out."
"Move out?"
Wilson leaned over so his elbows were braced on his knees and when he spoke it was more to the wooden floor than to House, "Yes, move out. I think it's time." House held himself still. Years of coping with his leg had taught him that by holding himself completely still the pain stayed coiled like a slumbering viper, ready to strike but if he didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't give it a reason to sink its fangs into him it did not. Time had taught him this technique worked well no matter the source of the of pain, lies never hurt as bad when he didn't give them cause to hurt him. Beside him Wilson went on, "It might be best - for us - me. I'll see about a place next week. " He didn't look up. House could feel the viper waking, its coil tightening inside him, mouth opening wide but he couldn't move. Because reacting would make it worse.
"Okay," he whispered. Wilson nodded and rose, head still tipped towards the floor. House watched him move towards the door, and fumbled on the nightstand for his pills. He palmed two and swallowed them with ease but at the precise second Wilson would have walked through the door phantom fangs sank deep into him, pain burned though his nerves like poison. He thought at first it came from his thigh and curled over it, both hands clamped tight to the scar. He must have made some sound because an instant later Wilson was there, kneeling before him, his eyes gleaming with concern, hands hovering just above House's. It was then, looking at Wilson's face that House knew the pain came not from the spot where half his thigh had been removed, this was half his soul being ripped away, leaving a void behind that was raw and bloody. Wilson couldn't leave him, he needed him there, he needed to have someone he could turn to, someone who cared about him, who understood him. Without Wilson there would be only the loneliness, the emptiness he tried to numb with drugs, the pain and the anger.
"House! House, relax, it's a spasm," Wilson urged. "Take a deep breath."
Offense always the best defense, House grabbed Wilson's wrist in a painful grasp, needing to hurt him as much as he was hurting, "Why would you leave? I've tried hard, Wilson. I haven't done anything wrong!" he made it sound like a chore, like an imposition to be kind to his best friend and that made him tighten his grip until he could feel the bones beneath his fingers grind together. Wilson gasped but didn't try to pull away. "I've done what I could. Why do you want to go?" Desperation made his voice crack and he cringed. He sounded pathetic, like some whiny kid begging mommy not to leave him but he couldn't help it. He'd thought Wilson was different, he'd passed every test, House had pushed Wilson as hard as he could but Wilson always came back. What had he done wrong?
"I don't!" Wilson insisted. "I don't want to go but - but it can't be like this. I - I want more." They both stopped struggling, staring at each other in the dim room. "I want more," Wilson repeated. Kneeling before House, face stricken and eyes clouded with angry tears, he looked like a man waiting to be struck down by a vengeful god for asking too much. That look, a mix of hope and terror slammed into House with all the power of ten years worth of memories. He could feel the future crack before him, splitting into two possibilities; he could chose the path he'd walked for years, a path where Wilson's presence barely impinged on his drugs and loneliness or he could step off that path and have faith in the look he saw in Wilson's eyes. House took a shuddering breath - this was so much like diagnosing; begin with a million possibilities and each test, each reaction narrowed it down until he discovered the disease eating away at the patient. But this wasn't a disease, this was something much more insidious, this was him placing his faith and trust in someone else.
Abject terror overcame House, his heart hammered against his ribs while his lungs only made a feeble attempt to keep up, icy sweat formed between his shoulder blades and ran down his spine. Wilson continued to stare at him, pleading silently but, never one to incur pain willingly, House pulled back, letting Wilson's hand fall with a cold slap against his knee. "I - I don't," he said quietly.
He watched Wilson's head drop, shoulders curling inwards as if to protect the vulnerable center where organs such as his heart could be so easily damaged. Part of him wanted to mock Wilson for his reaction; he should have known, all his years of watching House should have clued him in, but like the wide-eyed waif he pretended to be, he had honestly thought House could change. He'd not been able to change for Stacy why did Wilson think he could change for him? `Because you love him more.' The voice sounded like his own, and it originated from somewhere inside his skull but House knew everybody lied - even to themselves.
"You ass," Wilson whispered. House frowned. Wilson looked up and the fire in his dark eyes blazed so hot House sat back lest he be burned. "You think I'm letting you get away with that?" This time his hands shot out, locking around House's wrists. "I know you too damn well, House. You're a lying, manipulative coward," he accused. "You wouldn't say you loved me if I threatened to light you on fire." He pulled House to him, their faces a scant inch apart as he growled, "You love me you shithead and I'm not going to let you deny it." He ground his mouth to House's, forcing his tongue between House's unresisting lips and plundered his mouth. But what began as an assault gentled almost immediately, anger washing away in wonder and tenderness. The bruising grip on his wrists loosened and fell away, replaced by Wilson's feverish hands cupping his face. "You love me," Wilson whispered, releasing his lips, foreheads touching.
"Prove it," House challenged breathlessly. He needed Wilson to force it, to force him, because he couldn't get past the block. He couldn't trust, he couldn't open himself up to the possibility of pain. He'd once told Foreman that pain made people do stupid things but the fear of pain was even worse, it made a person lash out before they could be hurt. Sometimes he convinced himself his leg was the cause of it all, that he had been different before he was crippled but in more truthful moments he knew he had always been afraid.
Wilson eased him back, working him onto the bed with a skill some part of House's brain knew had earned him three wives and then Wilson was crawling up over him like a predator stalking prey and that part of his brain fizzled like a spent fuse. House could feel the cold knot of panic still there inside him but it was warming under Wilson's gaze, growing hot until finally bursting into passionate flame when their mouths touched once again. He moaned, a long satisfying sound that came from the pit of his soul. He'd never been an expert at seduction; before Stacy it had been random sex with willing co-eds, those med-groupies who wanted to bed the infamous Greg House. After Stacy, sex had been an effort that Vicodin only made greater, or a distraction best left to a professional. Jimmy Wilson though had majored in the ancient art of romantic entrapment and seemed to be employing every trick he had ever learned.
He closed his eyes, head thrown back as Wilson kissed his neck and jaw, laying a line of affection that tingled across his skin. It should have felt weird, House had barely ever hugged another non-related male before but what they were doing felt more right than anything he had every experienced before. It seemed to have grown spontaneously from the moment he got Cameron's call about Wilson's collapse, snowballing as he physically cared for his friend until now when they had both faced the thing between them head on. "Proof enough?" Wilson murmured against his Adam's apple. House contented himself with a whimper and Wilson chuckled warm and moist and with more affection than House had ever heard.
The room was still dim, gilded only by what light spilled in from the hallway, and in that pale gleam Wilson appeared as unreal as a satyr. His fair skin glowed and his eyes gleamed and the smile on his face held the power to transport House from reality. "N-not by a long shot," House gasped out. He gave himself over to Wilson, let those sure strong hands seek out all his secrets and expose them one by one. They stripped one another, neither awkward nor clumsy in their newness to the task, until they lay skin to skin, mouth to mouth. Wilson's weight pressed him down, anchoring him in place just as his very presence had for years now.
House reluctantly let his eyelids slide closed, afraid for an instant that not being able to see Wilson might somehow lessen the sensations flowing through him. But even denied sight there was no mistaking the form above him for anything other than his best friend. Because they were both male Wilson possessed the instinctive knowledge of how to please House, and because they had been through so much together he knew House's physical limitations and how to deal with them without making it obvious he was. They moved together, groins thrusting in a growing rhythm of need, skin sweat slicked and hot, mouths feeding hungrily on naked flesh. House explored Wilson's back, fingers mapping his spine before moving on to his flanks and hips, pulling him in tighter. He could feel Wilson's hand snaking between them, gathering him in and hooked his right leg over Wilson's hip. He knew they wouldn't last long at the rate they were going but he wanted as much as he could get in that moment. Wilson kissed him, sucking the breath from his lungs in a hiss of pleasure and House stared up into his eyes.
Gazes locked, they both fell over the edge of passion, coming with shuddering moans as orgasm pulsed deep inside, pumping hot and strong until they were panting and straining and finally collapsing in a boneless tangle of legs and arms. Wilson rolled off him, his hand supporting House's right leg even as his head dropped onto his heaving chest. "If - if you need more - proof - than that," Wilson rasped, "you'll have to wait - a little while."
House sighed, savoring the languid heat in their limbs, the pungent scent of sweat and sex and the way their hearts gradually slowed to normal in complete and utter unison. He brushed a hand over Wilson's cheek, canting an amused brow, "You honestly don't stick around just to be the lonely cripple's only friend?"
Wilson sighed, "Well, not entirely. I mean, I do earn extra points for that, which I redeem for a good parking place but believe it or not I find your sparkling personality reward enough." House kissed him.
"Don't forget," House teased, "I'm a doctor. That's like the best catch ever."
"My parents will be so proud."
House laughed and his last thought before sinking into an exhausted sleep was that this strange sensation unfolding inside his chest just might be an all consuming happiness.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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