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All at Once
by sessile
"You know... for half a second I'd actually considered going into the military."
Wilson looked over at House with great interest. House had never before expressed anything but an undying hatred for the armed forces and the evils it inflicted upon the world. "Really? What branch?"
"Marines." House took a long pull off his beer and flicked at the peanut shells on the bar counter.
Wilson's eyebrows went up even higher. "The Marines? You... would've gone to Grenada if you'd joined. Maybe even gone on to Kuwait."
"I didn't say I was going to make a career out of it."
Wilson made a gesture with his beer bottle. "Then why...?"
House pursed his lips off to the side and chipped away at his beer's label. "Seemed like it'd be fun."
"Yeah, right. No, really - why?"
"That was the reason. I was going to be advanced infantry and be where all the action was. Not some pussy pilot and just fly above it."
Ah, Wilson thought. "What did your dad say to that?"
"I'd gotten as far as telling my mother before she shot it down."
Wilson nodded. "I bet."
House grinned. "She'd said no. I remember that clearly - that no. She said anything else. She told me to go into the Air Force, work on engines if I had to join the service. But not anything that involved me and shooting things."
"Of course. You shoot at something, something's liable to shoot you back."
House smiled. "Yeah." He took another peanut and started peeling it slowly. "She'd nearly lost him, once." He popped the nut into his mouth. "I was nine. They'd shot down his plane, close to the Cambodian border. She'd watched a report on POWs earlier - I remember the guy who'd blinked out the word 'torture' in morse code. That had fascinated me as a kid." He rotated another nut between his fingers. "She didn't sleep for about a week. I'd wake up in the middle of the night and she'd be watching the TV until they signed off. Then she'd watched the test pattern." He ate the nut.
Wilson listened to the bar chatter for a moment, and then said, deliberately, "That dream... really bothered you, didn't it?"
House tapped out some random, rhythmic pattern on his bottle. "I had lost my leg because it was blown off."
Wilson gazed at House, working it out in his head. He spoke the words as they came - slowly, carefully. "You would've lost it doing something honorable... not because of someone's incompetence." His eyes tracked off to the side, trying to dig further into House's mindset. "It would have been purely an accident. Nothing you could have controlled."
House nodded. "I would've been given a hero's welcome, a medal, a new leg, and disability payments for life."
Wilson bowed his head and thought, instead of this insatiable need to save everybody because he couldn't save himself. "But you don't care about any of those things. People's congratulations wouldn't have helped you."
House smirked. "Aren't you supposed to be arguing for acceptance and relationships?"
"Genuine acceptance and relationships. Ones that you build up by actually interacting with people you care about, not socially ordained niceties."
"Well, that's what I'm doing right now. Strangely, my cockles remain cold. Rather slimy, too."
"Well, House," Wilson began to explain, his voice wryly condescending, "it's like a two-way street: you send something in my direction, and I send something in yours, and we both marvel at the connections between humanity and feel a part of the bigger picture. Would you like me to draw it out for you?"
"Fine: tell me about your brother."
Wilson knew he should have expected that, but it stung, anyway. He shrugged. "What's there to tell. He was a junkie, and probably still is one."
"Yeah. You're real good at this. So explains why you never even mentioned him to me until we'd known each other for nearly a decade."
He wasn't going to be a hypocrite, but he didn't want to say this in a bar full of people. House was waiting, though. "He... he...." Wilson scratched the back of his head. God, he hadn't really thought about his brother in years. "He was always causing trouble. Demanding. Attention getting. He stayed underfoot of my mother for as long as he could."
He waited for the snide remark from House, but he was just playing with a peanut shell. He wasn't looking at Wilson, but Wilson knew he did that when he was really paying attention.
"He was fifteen when it really went to hell... puberty in full swing, throwing things, crying, going on about wanting his freedom...." Even now, Wilson could feel some of the old resentment well up. "My parents did their best - set him off to places that would give him specialized attention... but he'd run away, get kicked out. I was in my second year of med school when he disappeared for the first time." He still remembered his initial reaction: he'd rolled his eyes.
"That's when you knew he was a junkie?" House asked.
"No... I found that out when he'd turned up at my dorm room, having set up a score or looking to score. He wanted to crash in my room until his dealer showed up - some kid on campus, I guess. I told him no. I threatened to call our parents."
Wilson almost wanted House to say something, tell him what a self-righteous little bastard he'd been. House just nodded at him to continue.
"After that, we'd found out he was officially living on the streets. Brian was already married and expecting his first child at that point, so I was the one who mainly kept an eye out for him. We'd cross paths at bars, clubs. He'd always refuse to see my parents. And then... I'd stopped seeing him." Wilson sighed and took a long swig off his beer. "And here we are."
"Yeah. Here we are, with you overcompensating with everyone you perceive some sort of need within, to make up for the fact that you'd crapped out on your brother." Wilson looked sharply over at House, who sighed and rolled his eyes. "You started this. What did you expect me to say?" House looked away. "I don't know what else to tell you... besides 'that sucks,'" he said, in a quieter tone.
Wilson chugged the rest of his beer. House was right: he was lousy at this.
"You really can't blame yourself, though. You were young - it was inevitable you were going to act stupidly somehow. If you treated him now that way, then you'd be an asshole. But what were you going to do then? Talk to him and let him know the extent of your seething jealousy for him?"
Wilson shook his head. "I could've just listened."
House snorted. "Listened passive-aggressively. You probably would've made him feel like shit. It was probably better that you left him alone."
"He needed someone."
"He needed someone who could have helped him. It wasn't in your power, not then."
Wilson smiled mirthlessly. "And now?"
"Now - you could probably get him through rehab and onto a brand, spanking new life in under six months. Wife, kids, dog, job - the whole works."
Wilson looked over at House, studying him. "How come I haven't been able to do anything for you then?"
House smiled, and it didn't contain much humor, either. "I know all your tricks, Jimmy. Can't fool me for a second." House gave him a sly look. "You're not really trying, either."
Wilson arched a brow at him. "Really."
"If you really wanted me to stop, you'd stop talking to me and switch jobs... or you'd go the opposite route: make me your sexual slave and taunt me with unknown pleasures until I quit."
"Or knock you out, chain you to the radiator, and watch you until you detoxed."
"There you go, Jimmy! The ideas are there - you just have to implement them."
Wilson snorted, then slapped House on the back as he rose from the barstool. "C'mon. Let's get you to the car before that mickey I'd slipped you hits."
House eyed Wilson as he downed rest of his beer. "Can I know which path you're gonna take: the fun one or the painful one?"
"You'll know in the morning."
"Oo. The anticipation is killing me."
As House slid down off his stool, Wilson reached out to steady him, and House let him, for once. When Wilson began to move his hand away, House surprised him - shocked him, really - by saying in a low, urgent tone, "James. Don't let go."
Wilson looked sharply over at him. Superficially, his face was blank, but the tension vibrated just beneath the surface. "What is it?" he asked, bending close to him.
House shook his head once, refusing to say anything further. He seemed to be concentrating on just putting one foot in front of the other. Wilson's arm was starting to burn some from supporting House's weight.
They made excruciatingly slow progress to the door. Wilson's car was a block and a half away - Wilson figured that there was no way they'd be able to make it; he'd have to bring it around. There weren't too many bar patrons tonight, thankfully - no crowds to wade through, not many people Wilson had to ward off as they gave House pitying looks.
When they finally made it outside, Wilson looked around in vain for a bench or something that House could sit on. "Do you want to sit or stand?" Wilson asked, as House leaned back on the wall, his eyes shut tight.
"Just hurry up," House said, his voice tight.
Wilson jogged all the way to his car and then zoomed back up in it to the entrance. He was getting back out to help House in when House irritatedly waved him off. "Get back in the damn car, Wilson."
Wilson ignored him after he saw that first step House tried to take: he looked like he was trying not to let on that he was walking on broken glass. Wilson strode over to his side and grabbed House's free arm. House immediately clung on and shifted his weight onto him.
"Hey - do you fellas need a hand?" a newly-arrived bouncer called out, but he didn't wait for an answer. He ran over and gauged them, and then went to open the car door. Wilson prayed that House kept his mouth shut.
"Thanks, man," Wilson grunted as he eased House into the car. He tried to subtly block the bouncer from doing something stupid like touching House.
"No problem," the bouncer said, assessing the situation. Wilson gave him a perfunctory smile, and let House close the car door himself. The bouncer gave a nod, having deemed things under control. "Have a good night."
"You, too," Wilson returned quickly, getting in. As he buckled in, he glanced over at House, who was holding himself very still. "Hey," he said quietly. "Buckle up. It's the law."
House didn't even crack a smile, but just slowly and without looking slid the belt across him and clicked the buckle in place. Wilson looked away and drove off.
When they arrived at House's place, Wilson still had to help House walk, all the way to his bedroom. Once House was lying down, he immediately grabbed for the pill bottle on his night stand.
The question burned in Wilson, but House answered it before he asked: "I haven't had one since this afternoon."
Wilson nodded slowly at this as he pulled off House's shoes for him. "Why?"
"I told you I need them," was all House said as he settled back and closed his eyes.
Wilson stared at him, wanting to call him an asshole for doing this - it didn't really prove anything, just that he was addicted - but he also felt the guilt that House intended.
"I'm not your brother, you know," House said quietly.
Wilson groaned and rubbed his face. "I know that. That's not why I'm worried about you."
"But you think I take it for more than just the pain."
Wilson rounded on him, instantly but inexplicably annoyed. "Do you?"
"No, of course not - "
"Oh, yes. How ridiculous of me to think you'd have any problems you'd like to blot out with the chemical equivalent of a sledgehammer."
The tension was back, but for a different reason: House was now glaring at him. Wilson didn't know why he was getting so angry himself - frustration, maybe. God knows how many times they've had this conversation - House and his pills. House and his issues. House and his past. What would it take for House to let go - of something, anything?
But he was too tired right now to fight about it. "Forget it," he said, staring at the floor. "I'll see you tomorrow." When House didn't respond, he chanced a look over at him. Even with his eyes closed, House looked just so worn, so haggard, that Wilson wanted to show comfort, somehow. A hug, a touch - something that would make Wilson feel a little more human, make him feel like he was friends with someone human, instead of a concept some brilliant but damaged mind constructed for himself.
House sighed and adjusted his pillow. "You can stay, if you want." He rubbed his brow. "Stevie needs some food, I think."
Wilson hesitated for a second, then decided fuck it and reached for House's hand. It was warm but clammy, and a little calloused from riding his motorcycle. House didn't react, which was probably better, and he held it tightly for a moment, then let go. He got up and turned off the bedside lamp, then the overhead light. He was almost out the door when he'd heard House's barely audible, "Good night, Wilson."
*****
"I heard one of your attendings showed up hungover to your meeting," House stated as they put down their lunch trays.
"How do you hear of anything, really? Everyone hates you."
House stared at him reproachfully, and Wilson felt a flash of a guilt before House said, "That's not very nice. You know how hard I'm trying for that suck-up-of-the-month award." Wilson shook his head and dug into his salad. "I never understood guys who are chatty while on the pot. You'd think they'd need to concentrate. So what happened?"
Wilson frowned and speared some lettuce leaves. "A problem with his girlfriend. She's depressive, and recently a favorite aunt had died. She's gone off the rails, so he's..." Wilson gestured with his fork and took a bite off of it.
"I bet you offered him leave, so he could 'take care of things,'" House mocked.
"He's still too new for him to be really integral to the staff, so a week would mean nothing to us but probably a lot to him."
"Oh, what could he possibly accomplish in a week? Besides earn a psych degree online." House took a huge bite of his burger and chewed loudly. Wilson gave him a look.
"Well, keep his girlfriend from jumping in front of a bus, for one thing. And for another - " Wilson drew himself up a little " - do you completely have no faith in science of psychotherapy? You didn't see the point in talking to that girl from clinic, either."
"Considering that I'm not at all trained in the 'science of psychotherapy' - putting 'science' in front of it isn't going to make me respect it more - it was utterly pointless. Beyond knowing which meds to dole out to the schizos, the psychos, and the nothing-makes-me-happy crowd - the whole practice depends way too much on the therapist being able to feel your particular brand of pain to be of much use."
"Despite the measurable, positive results therapy yields."
"Which takes years to accomplish. Look at you - you can spot a daddy issue and low-self esteem stemming from mommy's obsession with status at twenty paces. Unless I'm to start calling you the Amazing Kreskin, something tells me that it's not as complicated as shrinks like to justify to themselves."
Wilson gave an irritated sigh. "It's not all about diagnosing the problem - as I'm less than twenty paces right now, I can spot a daddy issue, low self-esteem stemming from everyone hating a know-it-all, and an only child's incapability to recognize anyone else's problems but his own - it's also about finding a different way to think of the problem. You get the perspective of someone who has no investment whatsoever in supporting whatever self-destructive modus operandi you've worked yourself into."
"Unlike you, whose codependent tendencies would short-circuit if I ever really got off the Vicodin."
Wilson knew that the crack only rankled so much because sometimes he did wonder that. "If you want to believe that I'm suddenly going to find you boring just because you're not addicted to pain meds - well, you severely underestimate your ability to entertain. It's like getting to watch a car wreck everyday."
Wilson felt a bit triumphant when House grinned despite himself. "Explains the interest in monster trucks."
They ate in silence for a bit. Wilson watched House scarf down a hamburger, a side of fries, and half his drink before curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "So how's your peeing problem?"
"I pee, therefore not a problem." House sucked down the rest of his soda and kept slurping, staring dead at Wilson.
"Without the cath?" Wilson said loudly over the noise.
"The cath and I have known each other intimately now. I don't want to hurt the poor thing's feelings and not show it love by not shoving it - "
"That's be a no, then?"
"Oh, I'm sorry - did you want to see it?" Wilson grunted when House kicked his shin. "It's nice and warm now - fresshh." When Wilson opened his mouth, House cut him off: "Look - could you spare me the lecture for just once? Unless you've come up with a new way of putting 'stop taking Vicodin; it's bad for you.'"
"Actually, I think that's one I haven't tried." Wilson leveled a look at him. "Stop taking Vicodin. It's bad for you."
House settled back in his seat and gave Wilson his own look. "Why do you do this?"
"What - do you just expect me to just watch as you destroy your body with - "
"And the constant barrage of facts that I already know is going to make me stop. Or the 'clever' manipulations to make me detox and remind me oh-so-well why I take the damn things in the first place."
Wilson gritted his teeth and looked down. "You're not happy with it, either. Faking brain cancer is a pretty good indicator, I think, that you want to do things differently."
House shrugged dismissively. "Okay. You're right. Liver failure isn't for me. Can't do anything else about it now."
Wilson leaned forward and tapped the table for emphasis. "If you honestly went through rehab and got on a different pain regimen, you know we would all help you. I would help you."
House gave him a slow, malicious grin. "What is it about playing nursemaid that gets you off, Wilson?"
"For God's - do not make this about me - "
"I look up at you, eyes shining bright after heaving my guts out for the past hour, and you get that warm, tingling feeling from being able to swoop in, so generously, and carry my powerless little self - "
"Yeah, keep telling yourself that one, House. I'm only here because you're sad and pathetic, and not at all because I keep hoping I'll see again one day the guy I'd become friends with ten years ago, the one who isn't constantly teetering on the edge of self-destruction."
"I think he OD'ed on his living room floor, but you walked away from him, anyway."
Jesus Christ, Wilson thought, staring at House.
House held the stare for a moment longer, and Wilson thought he could see some other emotion besides resentment in his eyes, but then House looked away and got up. He walked off, leaving his tray behind.
*****
"House? Are you in there? House?" Wilson called out, knocking on House's front door. He tried not to think of when he'd done this before, tried to reach an unresponsive House - House was fine now, he got all the pain meds he could wish for - but House's comment from before really hit home. If he really wanted me out, he'd have his locks changed, Wilson thought as he unlocked House's door.
Wilson braced himself as he scanned the floor for a prone House, and sighed with relief when he didn't find it. There was still the rest of the apartment, though.
"House?" Wilson called out again, and he then heard some movement in the bathroom. He rushed over, and then felt something very akin to horror when he saw House sitting on the ottoman, clutching his thigh with his eyes shut tight and tear tracks down his face.
"Oh, God," Wilson breathed.
House didn't respond to his presence, but at the sound of House's breath hitching, Wilson came to kneel in front of him.
"House," Wilson said quietly, urgently, wanting to touch him but refraining. "Let's get you to the bed, okay? Give me your arm."
House shook his head, and Wilson didn't know if it was stubbornness, shame, or he was just afraid to move, but Wilson ignored it and gently pulled at his right arm and slowly brought it around his shoulders. He put his own arm around House's waist.
"C'mon," Wilson whispered. "On three, we'll stand. One, two, three - " Wilson tried to bring up as much of House's weight as he could, but a small, shuddering gasp escaped from House, anyway. Wilson fought to not let himself register it.
This was much slower going than at the bar - Wilson's whole body was aching by the time they reached the bed. He got House seated on the bed, then lifted his legs onto it. Wilson hesitated, and then carefully placed a hand on House's right thigh. "Can I...?"
House shook his head again, and took a deep breath. "Morphine - " House started, and they both could hear the sob in his voice. He stopped and turned his head away.
Does he want me to get him some morphine? Wilson thought first, but then realized: House had morphine stashed somewhere in the apartment. Wilson looked down at House and could see that the tears were still flowing. "Where is it?" Wilson asked, his voice low.
House cleared his throat. "Book - " he tried again, but his voice still sounded tearful. He sighed and seemed to give up. "Bookcase. On top. Near piano," he whispered, and covered his eyes.
Wilson got up and rushed over to the living room. He looked around, and then grabbed the piano bench and hauled it over to the adjoining bookcase. He started to pick up books, trying to find something significant, then started tossing them off to the ground. Towards the middle of the case he found a metal lock box. He snatched it up and hurried back to the bedroom.
"Is this it?" Wilson asked, presenting it to him.
House took his hand away and looked at him through bleary, red-rimmed eyes. "Yeah," he said, taking it from him and settling it on his chest. He diligently put in the combination and the top popped open. He then shifted the box onto the bed and started digging through it. Wilson just stood there, unwilling or unable to move.
"How... how are you?" Wilson asked, his throat tight.
"I'm going to be just fine in a minute," House replied, his voice now just gravelly. Wilson watched with faint nausea as House took out the vial, the syringe, and the tourniquet. "I don't need an audience for this, Wilson."
Wilson wanted to hug him, hold his arms down, just physically make him stop. At the sight of House winding the rubber tourniquet around his arm, he finally broke and delivered a quick, fierce kiss to House's head. He then promptly turned and left the room.
*****
Wilson poked his head in the conference room. House's fellows all turned to look at him. "You guys... paged me?"
Foreman was the one who nodded and spoke up. "Yeah. We're thinking possibly pancreatic cancer."
Wilson stepped fully inside. "Okay. Where's the chart?" He looked around, and frowned. "Where's House?"
The fellows looked at each other now. Foreman inclined his head toward House's office. "They're both in there."
"Is there... something I should know about?"
"We were hoping you could tell us." Cameron was the one to speak this time. "He's... barely talking to us. He's kind of... hogging the file, and ordering all the tests himself. We only paged you because Chase suggested pancreatic cancer, and..."
"And you want me to talk to him." Cameron gave a sheepish sort of shrug. "Okay," he said, with an attempt at a reassuring smile. "I'll talk to him."
Wilson went to the door of House's office, trying to ignore the stares of three sets of eyes on his back. Wilson gave a brief knock and entered. It was dark in House's office, except for the light of the desk lamp.
House looked up at him, annoyed. "I wish that door would lock."
"Who needs locks when growling at them like a rabid Rottweiler works so well? It's amazing - they're all just sitting out there, awaiting your orders. You ought to give them some."
"Don't need 'em this time," House said, going back to the file.
Wilson studied House. "Why are you avoiding them?"
"Don't need 'em. This case is too ridiculous by half."
"Then let them handle it by themselves."
"Not ridiculous enough for them to not screw it up."
Wilson crossed his arms. "You're distracting yourself."
"Fine - you caught me. I'm guilty of being a doctor and trying to figure out what's making this patient sick. I ought to take a page from your book and find someone to hound into accepting that their pain is not actually their pain, but some - "
"House - " Wilson started, but shocked himself when his voice quavered. He blinked hard and looked off. He hadn't realized how hard he'd been trying to keep things together until he actually had to do it.
"Wilson."
He didn't respond. He didn't trust himself to look at House right then.
"Wilson - look."
He looked. House was rolling up his sleeve, and he showed Wilson the intact crook of his left arm. Wilson closed his eyes briefly and nodded.
"I'm fine."
"Like hell you are," was Wilson's immediate retort. He felt himself shaking a little, and he was tired of this. "Let me see the file."
"It's not cancer." Wilson shot an impatient look at House, but he was resolute. "I've already ruled it out."
"Then please - talk to them. So they don't page me over shit like this."
House's face was drawn, almost gaunt, and he nodded. "I will," he said, bending over his papers.
*****
Wilson slowly stirred the risotto simmering in the shallow pan. House munched on an apple as he read the newspaper.
"The military has ray guns now."
Wilson's brow knitted a little, but he didn't look up. "Really."
"'The system uses electromagnetic millimeter waves, which can penetrate only 1/64th of an inch of skin, just enough to cause discomfort,'" House rattled off didactically. "The discomfort of 130-degree heat, apparently," he muttered.
"Does it cause any harm?"
"According to our honorable military sources, no," House replied off-handedly.
Wilson's lips crooked a bit. "See, if you'd joined, you've might been playing with all the really cool toys."
House took a bite of his apple and turned the page, giving an absent "right" after a moment.
Wilson watched his spoon make listless circles in the pan. He wondered if being here was actually a better alternative to Chinese take-out and four seafoam-green walls. Maybe he should have left House alone.
"Here - come taste this."
House half-stepped, half-hopped over and took the proffered spoon from him. Wilson kept a hand underneath it, which House shoved away as he blew on the risotto.
"Don't do that. If it drips on you, it'll burn."
"If it drips on the floor, it'll stay there forever and attract mice."
"Good. Steve needs to see some new tail."
Wilson fought every urge to smile at that ridiculous remark and failed. "Oh, that was so bad. So bad. Jesus." House gave a small grin and took a bite off the spoon. "How is it?"
House licked his lips. "Needs salt."
"You'll taste it once it's cooled down."
"Yeah, I'll taste the lack of salt." When Wilson saw House reaching for the salt shaker, he leaned over and smacked House's hand. House's face became the picture of incredulity. "Did you just - "
"Leave it alone. It's good."
"Then why have me try it at all?"
"So I wouldn't have to endure comments about baby vomit after I'm able to do something about it."
"Well, I was trying to spare your feelings, but since you brought up the comparison..." House gave an apologetic shrug as he licked the spoon clean.
Wilson grinned, and as he watched House stir the pot, he felt something well up in him.
"Hey."
"Mm?" House turned toward him, licking the spoon again.
Wilson took the spoon away from him, set it down on the stove, and pulled House into a tight hug.
"Wilson..."
"Shut up, House."
"I'm sorry to tell you, but Chase used up my manly embrace quota for the year - "
"Don't care. Really don't."
After a moment, Wilson felt one of House's arms come around his back. Wilson shut his eyes and exhaled a deep, shuddering breath.
"You don't have to do this to yourself," House said in a low tone.
Wilson scoffed. "Yeah, I could say the same to you."
House was quiet, and then his arm shifted on Wilson's back. "You know I'm trying."
Wilson nodded quickly and held on tighter.
After a while, they separated, but not by much - Wilson kept a hand on House's shoulder, and House's hand had shifted to Wilson's side. Wilson sniffed and looked at House, who wore a much too familiar expression of bone-deep fatigue.
"Christ - do you know how much I care about you?" Wilson found himself saying. He hadn't meant to, and started to realize that maybe he shouldn't have when House dropped his hand and looked away.
"Yeah, well - that sounds like a personal problem," House muttered as he walked away.
Wilson did it because he had to do it: he reached out a placed a restraining hand on House's arm. House sighed and bowed his head, but didn't go any further. Wilson gently but insistently had House face him again, and he bent his head down until their foreheads touched.
"I just want you well," Wilson said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I know."
With his heart in his throat, Wilson stood there and breathed in deep. He allowed his hands to wander - firm touches to House's forearm, his shoulder, his chest, his waist. House probably hated what he was doing, but he needed to do it, for himself - just to physically know in some way that House was all right.
When House brought up one of his hands and placed it heavily on the back of Wilson's neck, Wilson trembled and grimaced, and finally released a hard sob. "Fuck," he whispered, his throat burning.
"It's okay, it's okay, Wilson. I'm okay," House said, his voice too calm.
Wilson wanted to hit House for that, because he was lying through his teeth. But instead he fisted House's shirt in his hands, and tried to stop crying.
Another hand came up, and Wilson found himself being drawn into another hug, by House, and it was different this time, because Wilson couldn't see himself letting go, and House was holding onto him tight.
*****
Wilson yawned hugely as he shuffled out of the bathroom. The door to House's bedroom was right there, and Wilson paused for a moment, before deciding it wouldn't cause too much harm just to look real quick.
House was sleeping on his side, facing him. He seemed to be resting well enough, still deep in sleep. Wilson was about to close the door when House's eyes suddenly popped open.
Wilson looked at him carefully, to see if he was annoyed about being woken. "Hey," he said quietly.
House blinked a few times, and then focused on him. "What're you doing?"
Wilson gave him a small, embarrassed smile. "Just checking up on you."
When House didn't respond to this, Wilson felt himself relax a little, then stepped fully into the room. Then he stepped over to House's bed and sat down on the edge, checking all the while to see if this was all okay.
"How are you feeling, with your utter devolution into a girl last night?"
"Bastard asshole," Wilson muttered, but it was affectionate. He only hesitated slightly, this time, when he brought a hand up to stroke House's head. House wasn't looking at him, and his expression was blank.
The tenderness he felt for this hard, caustic, bitter man was faintly ridiculous, and overwhelming. House needed no one, but that didn't stop Wilson from wanting to be someone, to him.
"I have to do this on my own, you know. In my own way."
Wilson sighed and pulled his hand back. "God - why would you think something like that - "
"Because no one else has a goddamn clue what it's like, Wilson. What can anyone really do for me? You saw me. I have to - " House exhaled a quick sigh and rolled over onto his back. "I'll figure something out." He sighed again, and rubbed his brow. "I want to figure something out."
This was the best he could hope for. Wilson nodded, and closed his eyes for a moment, because he was still a little tired.
Wilson suddenly felt House's grip on his forearm, strong and warm. Wilson opened his eyes and looked down at it, then at him.
House was looking at him, and for once, for once, it was honest, and open. It was something there for Wilson to see, and not to have to claim in snatches, from stolen glances and other tricks. This was House giving something of himself, and Wilson was grateful.
"You'll be fine," Wilson said, and it was only half a question.
"Yeah. I will." House swallowed hard, but didn't look away. He nodded once and squeezed Wilson's arm. "I will."
fin
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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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