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Liar
by DLeighC
Coma guy was gone; his kid was in recovery after the transplant. House hadn't cracked any snide jokes in a while, and willingly paid for dinner without comment. They drove in Wilson's car to some Thai place for take-out, and then to House's apartment in complete silence. Wilson's frequent sidelong glances found House staring out the rain-covered windows, chin resting on his fist.
He stopped outside of the apartment building. House stared a moment longer, then looked at Wilson, blue eyes suddenly very dark. He tilted his head toward the building. "Come on, have a beer," he said quietly, adding under his breath, "or twelve."
Wilson hesitated, knowing the beer probably would turn into a few too many, but sighed in resignation and turned off the car. They plodded wearily inside and House shed his coat and blazer, dropping them on the floor. Wilson frowned behind him and picked them up, throwing them over a chair along with his coat and jacket. They collapsed side-by-side on the couch, take-out boxes in hand, and House turned on the television.
They ate in silence, neither paying attention to the TV; it was only there to produce noise, so they wouldn't have to. Abruptly, Wilson set his box down on the coffee table in front of them. "House-" he began.
"Don't," House interrupted, an overt tone of warning in his voice.
"House, you just helped a man kill himself and you don't want to talk about it?" Wilson exclaimed in disbelief, his eyes wide. House merely stared at the television, ignoring him. Wilson ran a hand through his hair, tousling it about and finishing the destructive work the rain had begun. "House, I helped kill that man! I want to talk about it!" His eyebrows were raised, on the verge of disappearing into his now-messy shock of hair hanging over his forehead.
"Get a shrink," House replied snidely. "You didn't do anything. You took my cane to the casino and talked to some people."
Wilson placed a hand over his eyes, rubbing his temples. House's eyes darted to the side, and quickly back to the television. "House, you can't just do things like this, and just, just ignore them!" He shouted.
House tossed his take-out box on the table and shouted back, "I'm not ignoring it, dammit! There's nothing to talk about! Kid needed a heart; he was going to be a vegetable; he volunteered! Why should I feel guilty or psychologically fucked up?!"
Wilson sighed and leaned back, staring blankly at the ceiling. "We sat out there while he hanged himself," he said quietly.
"He wanted to do it. We didn't pressure him. His son lived," House responded emotionlessly.
Wilson squeezed his eyes shut. He felt House stand up and slowly limp down the hall to the bathroom. A toilet flushed. House's irregular gait took him to the kitchen, where he opened the fridge; Wilson heard glass tap together. He heard House behind him, and felt something cold against his shoulder. He opened his eyes and took the offered beer.
"Thanks."
House grunted in acknowledgement, and forced the top off of his bottle. He resumed his place on the couch next to Wilson and took several large swigs of beer before setting his bottle down. Wilson slouched, staring ahead, not trying to pursue his attempted pseudo-therapy session.
"All that matters," House began. Wilson looked at him. "is that that kid is alive. His dad...he wasn't going to do him any good as a vegetable. He volunteered his life, if you can call it that, for his kid's. I don't care why. He did, and I wasn't going to deny him that. That's all that matters."
"But what about ethics?!" Wilson protested, "And the law?!"
House slammed a fist into the arm of the couch. "What about them?! Do the people who make the laws take into consideration situations like that?! I did what had to be done to save that stupid kid, and if you or Cuddy or anyone else wants to turn me in to the Ethics board or the police, then go ahead!" He shouted.
Wilson shook his head. "Don't be stupid; I wouldn't turn you in. I've already lied for you, what's once more going to hurt? And Cuddy would kill to keep you at the hospital. Probably already has," he muttered. He took a large drink of his beer. "I just think you should talk about it. I don't care how miserable or misanthropic you are, no one can keep so much to themselves."
"I'll call Doctor Phil first thing tomorrow," he quipped.
"I'm serious, House!"
"Yes, I know," he replied sarcastically. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his ever-present bottle of Vicodin and swallowed one with a swig of beer. Wilson squeezed his temples again, shaking his head.
House began to stand, and Wilson lifted a hand as if to speak, but stopped, drinking the rest of his beer instead. House sat back and looked at him. "What?" Wilson shook his head. "What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do? Say I'm not going to be able to live with myself? That this'll haunt my dreams for the rest of my life, that I don't think I can be this big bad doctor anymore? Want me to cry on your shoulder, like one of your cancer kids?" He snapped cruelly.
Wilson's jaw clenched. "Just- just do something human, House! Just do something besides crack a joke or hole up in your own twisted mind! I don't care wha-"
He was cut off by House's lips suddenly on his, hard and sudden, as if to tell him to shut the hell up. His stubble burned Wilson's face. He sat, stunned, for a moment, wondering just what in the hell was happening, and then he found himself raising his hand to House's face in a tentative touch. He moved his mouth to respond to the kiss, and House's tongue ran along his bottom lip. Wilson groaned slightly as House's tongue urged his mouth open.
House ran his hand down Wilson's back, stopping at the small of it, where he pushed, urging him closer. Wilson pulled away for a breath and placed a hand on House's chest. "What-" he panted. His face was flushed, chin and area around his lips red from the friction of House's rough stubble. "What in the hell was that?!"
House gazed at him levelly. "Isn't that what you want? How you cope? You don't want me to talk to you. You don't talk; you comfort, and this is your form of comfort. That's what you really want."
"That's," Wilson began, but paused. "Is that what you want?"
House stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. He licked his bottom lip, thinking, and replied, "No." He stood up, picked up his cane, and limped down the hall to his room. "Pillows and blanket are in the closet if you don't want to drive," he called back.
Wilson sat in stunned silence, staring down the dark hallway after House. He raised a hand to his mouth, still feeling the burn against his mouth and face. The taste of beer mingled with a foreign taste that must have been that of Gregory House. "Liar," Wilson whispered to unhearing ears. He stood up, stared at the door in contemplation for a moment, and then walked slowly to the closet for a pillow and blanket.
House lay in his unmade bed, rubbing his thigh with one hand. He ran the other through his hair and down his face, pausing for a moment softly on his lips. He closed his eyes and forced himself to forget the taste of James Wilson.
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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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