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Untouchable
by bironic
Wilson follows House back to his apartment from the hospital with the promise of food to settle his rumbling stomach and companionship to calm his thoughts. God, it feels like he's spent the whole day in his car. He parks across the street and almost groans with relief when he gets out and stretches his back.
When he steps into the apartment, he learns that House's idea of getting dinner is to slap a twenty into his hand and tell him to call in for whatever he wants. Then House limps off down the hall to take a shower.
Wilson stares at the wrinkled bill, thinking that this wasn't quite the situation he had in mind all those times he wished House would pay for food for a change. His accounts are frozen. His stomach plummets, just as it did when the customer service rep delivered the news to him over the phone. He has no idea how he's going to handle this, how long he'll be able to stretch out the $100 he's got in his wallet, how he's going to pay for food, and gas, and his room, how much he's willing to risk charging to his credit cards, and what will happen if he goes broke before House settles this thing with the cops.
He gets ahold of himself when he hears the showerhead sputter to life and the first pulses of water drum against the tub. Panic later. Dinner now.
He doesn't feel like Chinese, or Italian, or Thai, or Indian. He wants something simple, plain and preferably warm. Soup, maybe. He leaves the money on the table by the door and walks into the kitchen to see if House has anything edible lying around that he can assemble into some kind of meal.
He finds white bread and cheddar cheese among the usual staples and take-out containers in the fridge. The crisper smells suspicious. He squints; something else seems off. He can't put his finger on what, though, so he slides out the drawer, holds it at arm's length and carries it over to the cabinet under the sink where House keeps his garbage bin. When he opens the left door, the bin isn't there. He stands bewildered for a moment, then tries the right door and finds it on that side. He dumps the rotting vegetables and puts the crisper back.
Grilled cheese, then, and soup to go with it. House always has some cans in the cupboard. He ducks down to the cabinet beside the oven to get a frying pan and one of the small pots. It's a mess in there; it takes him a minute to find what he needs. He absently wonders at the disarray as he starts a pat of butter heating in the pan on the stove and goes in search of soup.
Packets of yeast and sugar tumble out when he opens the upper cabinet where the cans are. Peering up, he sees that half the contents have been knocked over, and a few of them belong in a different cabinet. He frowns. House's kitchen may never be well-stocked, but it's always relatively neat and organized. As he locates a stash of Campbell's condensed tomato soup behind an errant box of pasta, he realizes that that's what was bothering him about the fridge--some of the items were in the wrong places. And the garbage can....
Then he realizes why.
Tritter.
Tritter must have searched the kitchen along with the rest of the apartment, combing through the fridge, drawers and cabinets and shoving everything back haphazardly when he found the pill bottles House had squirrelled away in the spice rack or a saucepan or cereal boxes or wherever he'd been hiding them. Or House shoved everything back when he came home that day, and he's been fixing things only as he uses them.
Wilson steps out into the living room. Now that he's looking for it, he sees it everywhere: books out of order on the shelves, some upside-down; knickknacks and photographs rearranged on the mantel; papers and journals piled in drifts on the floor against the edges of furniture; stuff kicked under the coffee table.
He closes his eyes. It's only a matter of time before the cops start sniffing around his own office. His hotel room. The hotel room that will only be his for as long as his last payment holds out. Before Tritter questions him again. And to think that this morning he was upset about lying about the forged signatures. As of tonight, he can add "accessory to murder" to his list of offenses.
The butter starts to sizzle, drawing him back into the kitchen. He concentrates on preparing the meal, taking slow, deep breaths, calmed by the rich scent of hot butter and cheese. This is a time for comfort food if ever there was one. He'll have a salad for lunch tomorrow to compensate.
If he can still afford a salad. Fuck.
He forces the thought away. Stir the soup. Flip the sandwich. Get dishes and silverware.
He's just switching off the stove and pouring the soup into the two bowls he set out next to the pile of crisped sandwiches when House's voice startles him.
"So even when I get dinner, you get dinner."
Wilson glances over. House is leaning in the doorway in sweatpants and a tee shirt, barefoot and tapping his cane against the jamb. He looks as exhausted as Wilson feels.
"Nobody's going to deliver at this time of night," he replies, sliding spoons into the bowls.
"Didn't stop you in Atlantic City." House steps closer and peers at the food. "You just can't bring yourself to spend my money. Or did you pocket the twenty so you can eat tomorrow?"
Pursing his lips, Wilson picks up the plate and one of the bowls and walks past him. "Eat before it gets cold."
They could eat around the island in the kitchen, but he needs to sit, and if he's that tired he can only imagine what state House is in. He sinks into his usual spot on the couch, lays the food out on the table in front of him and takes a bite of one of the sandwiches. The crust is burned on one edge more than he likes, but aside from that it's delicious--firm and buttery on the outside, soft and warm on the inside.
House comes in, finally, holding his cane in one hand and two open beer bottles in the other. Frowning, Wilson asks, "Where's your soup?"
"Had to sell my third arm to pay the hitman who's taking care of Tritter," is the reply as House sits beside him and sets the beer on the table. "Luckily I got to keep my third leg. And I don't mean the cane." He gives a half-hearted leer.
When Wilson only takes another bite and regards him evenly, House glances away and takes a huge bite of his own sandwich; it's a small miracle that Wilson understands his muffled, "Don't like tomato soup."
"Then... why do you have three cans of it?"
House shoots him a look usually reserved for his fellows when they're being particularly obtuse. He reaches for his beer. "Haven't we had enough interrogation for one day?"
No, Wilson thinks. We barely got started. There's one question in particular he would have liked to pursue further; maybe he can steer House back around to it tonight. But House has revealed more about himself in the last few hours than he has in years, so Wilson keeps quiet for the moment and reaches for the other beer. He taps the bottom of the bottle against House's before they drink. "To Gabriel."
House grunts a soft approval and takes a long drink.
Neither of them turns on the television; it seems disrespectful, somehow. The rest of the meal is accompanied only by quiet crunching, slurping, the swipe of napkins on lips and the soft squeak of leather as they shift into more comfortable positions.
They don't talk until dinner has been reduced to a plate of crumbs, a scraped-clean bowl and two empty bottles. The belch that signals House's satisfaction transforms into a yawn. "You may as well stay over," he says when he's finished. "It'll be late when you're good to drive."
"I've had one beer," Wilson reminds him, "and it's already late." But he knows he'll be taking him up on the offer. He needs a home tonight instead of a hotel.
"You want to go, then?"
"No."
Quiet again. To keep from staring at the disorder and facing what it may mean for both of them, hoping he can broach the topic he wants to, he asks, "You want to talk about what happened today?"
House turns to face him. "There's nothing left to say."
Wilson gives a breathy laugh. "Nothing left? You dodged half that guy's questions, not to mention every one I asked you."
There's a flash of something like hurt in House's eyes, but before Wilson can identify it, it's replaced with a more familiar, weary anger. "Talking about what inspired me to practice medicine in front of you filled my month's quota for heart-to-hearts."
It's a perfect opening. "Yeah, about that story, with the--what was it? Bark-something?"
"Buraku," House mutters.
"Buraku," he repeats to buy some time. He has to phrase things carefully to lead the conversation where he wants it to go. "It's an awfully convenient metaphor."
"What would have been awfully convenient was me kicking you out of the room sooner."
Refusing to take the bait, he continues: "I don't know if what you described back there was true, but I know you want it to be. This is how you were with that autistic kid. You see yourself in these--these noble misfits, brilliant and misunderstood and shunned by society. You envy them. But you're different from them, House. You're not untouchable. You just wish you were."
Throughout this speech, House has been making various uncomfortable and annoyed faces at him and other objects in the room. Now he shifts his gaze from the ceiling to Wilson. "Are you done?"
Almost there. "I want to know something. One of the questions today you never answered."
"No. That game's over."
It's flat, abrupt, dismissive. Wilson blinks. "You'll spill your deepest, darkest secrets to a stranger who's been a vegetable for ten years, but you won't answer one simple question for me?"
"Yeah. Because in another few hours, he was going to be permanently unconscious and therefore unable to lecture me."
"And now he's dead," Wilson says, "and I made sure you don't get arrested for it. That's got to be worth something in this conversation. Just... answer this for me."
House's eyes betray his acquiescence before he speaks. "Look, I only stole the damn pad because you were too hard-headed to--"
"Not about the pad. Not about the drugs. Not about any of that. I want to know something else." House waits, poker face in place, while Wilson takes a breath. "Have you ever loved anyone after Stacy?"
"That's what you want to know?"
"Yes."
House looks away. "If you don't know the answer to that, you're more of an idiot than I thought."
"You can't get away with not answering this time. Tell me. Have you ever loved anyone else?"
"I love my mom."
"Don't be glib."
There's a pause. He can't read the thoughts behind the tiny fluctuations in House's expression. "I'm too tired for this," House says at last. "I'm going to bed." He stands and picks up his cane, keeping his face averted.
Wilson rises and takes hold of House's elbow. House shakes his head to the side, once, without tugging his arm free, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet, rough, with an edge to it that sounds like a plea. "Don't push this."
He needs to push this, though, or he'll have to wait months or years more for another chance at an answer. "Look at me," he presses, softening his voice.
It's a long shot, but after a moment, he does, startling Wilson with the vulnerability in those expressive blue eyes. They hold each other's gazes in a silent conversation. When House looks down again, all the fight seems to have gone out of him.
"House," Wilson tries for the last time, gently, even as his heart beats faster. "Have you--Do you...?"
House lets out a slow breath. Very carefully, Wilson strokes his hand up and down his bare arm. When that doesn't meet with a protest, he takes a cautious step closer. House closes his eyes.
The hell with it, Wilson thinks, and with another half-step forward, he slides his arms around House until their chests touch. Before he can think better of it, he presses his face into the crook of House's neck: skin and warmth and soap and slept-in cotton. House's stubble rasps against his ear. He can't feel the scar from the bullet wound.
House stands still and stiff in his embrace, and now Wilson can feel the tremors rippling through his arms, back and neck. Come on, House, he urges in his head. Let go. Let me in. Admit that I'm already in.
He lets out a ragged breath when House relaxes and brings his left hand up to rest in the middle of Wilson's back. Within a few moments they're rocking slightly, slowly, left to right and back again. He doesn't know which of them initiated the gentle sway--he's certain that, like children playing with a Ouija board, they'll both deny being the source of the movement--and he doesn't care, so long as it keeps going.
He starts stroking his thumb along House's shoulder blade. At first it provokes no response, but then House rubs his cheek once against Wilson's jaw, lifting and settling back in nearly the same position; a nuzzle disguised as readjustment.
Wilson draws back without letting go, and House raises his head in return. It's almost a physical jolt when their eyes meet again. He can feel his own breath as it brushes against House's nose and mouth and curls back towards him. Swallowing once for courage, he leans into the remaining space between them.
Their lips barely touch; just enough of a dry, feathery brush to trigger that surface nerve that needs to be pressed before it will stop tingling.
Before he can come in for a second, firmer pass, there's a thump--the tip of House's cane on the hardwood floor--and House pulls away. He swears once, softly. Then he's gone--out of Wilson's embrace, out of the room.
Silence. Wilson stands alone in the middle of the living room looking at the space where House used to be, his arms limp at his sides. His face and body gradually cool where House was touching him. He tilts his head up at the ceiling and squeezes his eyes shut, then grinds his hand into his lower lip, silencing the twinging nerve.
He knows House does not want to be followed. He also knows that what he witnessed was House closing himself off, making himself once more untouchable in all the ways that matter.
After inhaling and releasing a deep breath, he walks slowly down the hall, following the light to House's bedroom door. House stands at the foot of his bed staring at the mattress, leaning on his cane with both arms.
Wilson puts a hand on the doorjamb. His chest feels tight. "House," he begins, not knowing what he wants to say.
It doesn't matter anyway; without turning around, House says, "Blanket and pillow are in the closet."
Wilson swallows. He doesn't trust his voice. He does know that if House would only look at him, he'd be able to read everything in Wilson's eyes, and then it would be all right.
But House straightens, turns, and limps past him into the bathroom without meeting his gaze. He turns on the tap and uncaps his toothpaste.
Wilson follows his progress with increasing misery. "House, I--"
"Good night," House says around his foamy toothbrush. He won't even look at Wilson in the mirror.
Wilson stands there for another few moments, then gives up. He goes back into the living room, where the subtler mess from Tritter's guys is now supplemented with dinner detritus on the coffee table and crumpled napkins on the floor. He'll have to clean up before concentrating on making the couch into a passable bed so he can toss and turn in his clothes all night while House sleeps in his soft queen-sized bed down the hall, like a rerun of last spring. As if they weren't just kissing inches away from that couch. As if House didn't just shut down before his eyes. There's a streak of grease from one of their buttery hands on the armrest where his feet will go.
Jesus. Jesus, he can't stay here.
His coat is by the door on top of House's where he left it; he slings it on, and his fumbling hands suddenly can't button it fast enough. He only manages to get one glove on before he's out the door, holding the other in his teeth as he locks up. It's not until he's sitting in the driver's seat of his car in a mist of his own quick breaths that he remembers the money on the front table. He'll have to make do with staff lounge supplies tomorrow, which probably means bread and butter. Unless House gets his head out of his ass and treats him to a meal.
"Fuck," he grits out, clenching his fists. Then, with a surge of emotions he doesn't want to begin to identify, he slams the heel of his hand into the top of the steering wheel. "Fuck!" That makes him feel a little better; enough to start the engine, take a deep breath, let it out, and pull away from the curb.
He parks at the hotel without remembering how he drove there and rides up to his floor with a mind as blank as Gabe's eyes when the EMTs wheeled him out. When he keys open the door to his room, he notices that he's shaking a little. He tells himself it's from the cold.
The only light comes from the table lamp he likes to leave on when he goes out, and he lets his eyes adjust to the dimness as he changes for bed. He doesn't think about House settling into his own bed in his apartment, or the dozen different ways he could have handled things tonight, or the feel of House against his cheek and in his arms, or how close they came to--
He snaps off the light and gets under the rough sheets without bothering to wash up or brush his teeth. The room is chilly and quiet. He rolls over, pulling the fuzzy brown blanket and comforter tight around him, and curls up like he used to do in his sleeping bag at summer camp after they'd told ghost stories around the fire.
When he finally falls asleep, he dreams of empty ATMs and House turning his back on him.
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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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