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A Cup of Coffee
by Topaz Eyes
Wilson cannot swallow pills. Big or small, it doesn't matter; the rounded shapes always stick in his throat and make him gag, even when he swallows them with a full glass of water. (Gel caps and caplets have been a godsend, otherwise there would be nothing for him to help combat his headaches.) But it's been so long, he can't remember when this problem started; though in his more honest moments, he thinks his missing brother Matthew's first drug overdose might have had something to do with it.
So when his psychiatrist prescribes Lexapro for his nascent depression, Wilson convinces her to write a scrip for the oral solution instead.
He is careful to buy it at the strip mall pharmacy close to the hotel; the hospital pharmacy's too close, and House could read the records and figure it out, HIPAA be damned. Wilson also has the solution coffee-flavored at the pharmacy. When he adds it to his already over-sweet grande lattes, he can pretend it's just another sweetener.
House almost caught him out, when House grabbed a sip of his drink a couple of weeks back in the cafeteria. (Luckily, strong teeth are a genetic blessing in the Wilson family.) House noticed only the extra sugar though, and that gave Wilson the impetus.
He has been taking only half the prescribed dose; his depression isn't really bad enough to warrant the full ten milligrams. The other half he saves for House.
Usually, House has the most astonishing sense of knowing when someone's tampered with his food or drink. (Perhaps because House himself has done it so often.) He might not be noticing it at all, though Wilson wonders if House may just be ignoring the bitterness of the medicine itself; the slight, almost-moldy taste under the full-roasted Arabica. Wilson cannot ignore it, even over the extra two teaspoons of sugar he adds. (He tries not to think it's the flavor of guilt.)
Then again, House has had years of experience with the full-on bitterness of Vicodin. The taste of another five milligrams of Lexapro probably won't matter so much.
It's been a week now, and House hasn't noticed the difference in his coffee. (Or at least, he hasn't commented on it.) Wilson has noticed, however, the changes in House. He seems to walk with less pain; his face is more relaxed, and his smiles are unprovoked. House even made an off-handed remark yesterday when he picked up his morning coffee, that he hasn't been taking as much Vicodin lately. Wilson had been careful not to smile at that. Such victories over House are best cherished privately.
On the couch in his darkened office, Wilson tries not to think that every victory over House must also come with its price. Here is today's, paid with the fog of withdrawal. He should really have throttled House when he realized he was hepped on amphetamines.
Wilson is mindful of House's Vicodin habit; aware of the potential interactions of opiates with antidepressants, five milligrams of Lexapro was plenty. House is no pharmacologist, but if he suspected Wilson was on antidepressants at all, he should have known that mixing uppers with SSRIs was a Bad Idea. Heart racing in triple-quick time aside, Wilson was damned lucky that he didn't develop serotonin syndrome.
House thinks he's hazy. The word he refuses to acknowledge is "happy." Wilson knows that by now, he should be well used to House's refusal to acknowledge him as the source of his current well-being. That still doesn't help. His friend's calculated thoughtlessness has always been a bitter pill to swallow. Wilson knows all of this is true; and he still keeps coming back for more. Even after House pushed him beyond his limit at Christmas, he took it, takes it, will always take it. It's that knowledge that sticks in his craw more than anything; clinging to every miserly morsel of human connection House deigns to throw.
It's after nine o'clock in the evening when Wilson finally feels stable enough to go back to his hotel. (He never thinks of it as "home.") He slowly walks past House's darkened office. House has left, then, and there is no sign of any of the minions, either. He tries to ignore the echo of his solitary footsteps clicking down the hall.
The next day, Wilson stops off at the Starbuck's in the hospital lobby and buys two grande lattes. He can't not buy two; after this many years it's an ingrained habit. His mind helpfully suggests that he replace "ingrained" with "ingrate." His lips twitch and he snorts at the humor, until he realizes it's something House would say, and the gnawing hollowness returns.
Upstairs, he walks past House's glass office, and sees him already there, gleefully tormenting his lackeys. House is backlit by the morning sun, his face in shadow. Wilson has half an idea to walk in and hand House his latte now and get it over with, but decides against it. He can come and fetch his own damn coffee if he wants it, or buy his own.
House turns then, and catches Wilson walking past. He is smirking, no doubt at one of his own witticisms he's just lobbed at Chase. Wilson meets House's cheery glance and turns away, bitterness flooding through him at the look of ease on his friend's normally-haggard features. He then strides to his own walled-in office.
Wilson sets the coffees on the edge of the desk. He sheds his coat, drops his shoulder case on the floor, and sinks into his chair. Head in his hands, he simply stares down at his desk, his gaze tracing the pattern of grooves in the oak grain. There is a small stack of papers his assistant has left. Work, anyway, never ends. It, at least, is a constant. With a heavy sigh, he retrieves his keys from his pants pocket, and goes to open the small locked drawer to his right, where he stores his prescription and the calibrated medicine spoon.
He pauses at the yellow Post-It note, stuck on the lid of the bottle.
The note is unsigned, of course; Wilson knows that scrawl as intimately as his own. He pinches the bridge of his nose as frustration clenches in his chest. "Dammit, House," he whispers, his eyes stinging. Trust House to rub it in any way he can. Every single bloody thing is just a weapon for him to wield.
Then his eyes focus on the writing on the note.
"Next time, make it chocolate."
Wilson blinks in disbelief as he reads and re-reads the message, until the words blur together. He lifts the bottle out of the drawer, shaking his head. He does not want to put too much stock into those five words, knowing the history behind them, but still-- He feels his lips finally curve in a fond, if exasperated grin. Well, then.
He looks up; the morning sun is higher, the office is brighter. House will be by soon, to grab his java, so he'd better get it ready. His chest unclenched, Wilson reminds himself to inform House of the latest rumor about the tranny nurse as he prepares the two coffees; wondering how to extract the details from House's date with Honey, while deciding that chocolate might just add a better flavor next time.
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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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