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A Single Drop
by Jaryn
A single drop.
Was that so much to ask for? House liked to think he never asked for much, not from anyone or anything. He had a feeling that some people might disagree with him on that one; but then, most people were idiots too.
With everything he could ask for, he felt a single drop of water was a very minor request.
Yet as he continued to glare resentfully at the dark clouds above, while suffering through wild winds that tore at his clothing, not one drop fell.
"A picture is worth a thousand words."
House lifted his head up from his arms to look over at Wilson, who was standing in the doorway of his office. Wilson walked in a few steps further, eyebrows raised, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants. House sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Words are frivolous."
The corner of Wilson's mouth twitched. "Except when you're speaking of course."
"Of course," House deadpanned.
Wilson tilted his head, glancing over at the clock on the wall. "It's nine o'clock. Why are you still here?"
"I was working up the energy to walk to my bike." House's expression was an exaggerated impression of misery, his eyebrows drawn together and his mouth turned down at the corners.
Wilson just smiled at him, impervious. "Right." A second later, Wilson frowned and appeared to eye House a little closer. "You actually look like crap. Is this leg related, team related, or patient related?"
House scrunched up his face, considering. "All of the above?" The truth was more the latter however and House had a feeling Wilson already knew that.
The recent diagnostic case was an extremely sick nine year old boy, brought in late by his parents because they thought he just had a `stomach bug'. Admittedly, when Ben only had headaches and was vomiting it would have appeared so. It wasn't until he became delirious that the parents realised it was something far more severe.
House had been going around in circles trying to figure out what the kid had. No tests reported anything particularly telling except a decrease in production of red and white blood cells, which still didn't give them much. Since being brought in Ben had also developed a further range of seemingly random symptoms, just to make it even harder.
The crunch of the matter was that Ben was deteriorating, his lungs and liver were starting to fail, and House didn't know why or how to stop it.
"All? No wonder you look like crap." Wilson jerked his thumb towards the door. "Come on, I'll drive you home. I don't think you're in any shape to ride that death machine tonight."
House's eyes narrowed, about to argue, but he merely grabbed his cane and got slowly to his feet. Wilson led the way on a silent trip down to the garage. During the drive House actually dozed off, though he'd never admit to that.
Nor would House admit that Wilson had to help him inside to his apartment because he couldn't seem to wake up enough to remember how to walk. House was only vaguely aware of anything during the stumbling trip which ended in his bedroom; in fact his eyes were probably closed for most of it. What happened next, though, seemed to happen in startling detail.
Making it across to the bed Wilson pushed him onto it and House's hand took on a mind of its own. Instead of letting go it clenched into Wilson's jacket and in the next moment Wilson overbalanced and fell on top of him.
Later House would have an especially vivid memory of Wilson's expression right then: a mixture of perplexity and embarrassment. Instead of doing anything House would have expected him to do, Wilson just stared down at him and House stared back, feeling unable to move or say anything. House's arm was trapped between their chests, starting to feel crushed with Wilson's weight on it, but he didn't try to pull it free.
Eventually Wilson blinked and abruptly pulled back, getting to his feet. He stood there awkwardly, not-quite looking down at House. "Uh...goodnight," Wilson muttered before turning on his heel and leaving.
The tension was unbearable. The air was so thick with it House was having a hard time breathing. He didn't know what the storm was waiting for, but he wished it would hurry up already. Gripping his cane a little tighter House looked around, not really expecting to see anything. After all it was nearing three in the morning and most people were inside - likely asleep.
House was momentarily blinded as a flash of lightning sparked across the sky. The thunder was like a bomb going off and he looked down at the ground, half expecting to see it shaking.
Still, there was no rain and the tension held.
House very rarely went out drinking, but sometimes the only way to avoid going over the edge was to numb the pain and to forget that you were standing on the edge at all.
During the week House had gotten a little quieter and a little less antagonistic. No one appeared to notice his change in behaviour; though as for Cameron, Chase and Foreman they were probably too wrapped up in their own strain over the case. Only Wilson noticed, hanging around even more than he usually did and shooting House concerned looks.
People thought him brilliant, but often the clues that led to House diagnosing a patient came through pure luck. This time they'd come too late, which meant he had figured it out too late, and Ben was dead while his best friend would probably have medical problems for the rest of his life.
Arsenic poisoning. The two boys had found scrap wood and used it to build their tree house, completely unaware of the deadly toxins coming from the old Paris Green paint.
After House had done all he could for the kid who was still alive he found himself in Wilson's office, his skin feeling tight around his bones. He stared at Wilson and Wilson stared back for a few long minutes. After a grim nod Wilson gathered his things and took House out for a drink.
Later that night both he and Wilson got a taxi back to his apartment, drunker than sailors on vacation but a lot less rowdy. After handing money to the cab driver Wilson got out with House in an unspoken agreement. Wilson pulled House's arm around his shoulders and together they'd stumbled their way into the apartment and then to his bedroom. Dj vu, House thought.
This time though Wilson dropped purposefully down beside him on the bed after pushing House onto it, groaning deeply. "I don't know if I c'n make it to your ssshpare room, le' alone home," Wilson slurred, draping his forearm over his eyes.
"Okay," House grunted, kicking off his shoes and listening to them drop to the floor off the end of the bed. It was an interesting noise. Thud, thud. Something else was making that same sound, but it took House a full minute to realise it was coming from inside his chest. Turning on his side he patted Wilson on some part of his body and passed out.
Later in the night, or possibly early morning, House woke up to find himself facing the other way with Wilson pressed up against his back. One of Wilson's arms was draped over House's side and he could feel Wilson's breath brushing rhythmically against the back of his neck.
House moved a hand down to cover Wilson's, brushing his thumb over the back and was surprised when Wilson's fingers curled around his own. Wilson shifted behind him and pressed his cheek to House's back, mumbling `Greg' barely audibly.
House squeezed Wilson's hand and went back to sleep. In the late morning, when he woke again, Wilson was gone.
"Come on!" House muttered, glaring up at the clouds accusingly. "Are you waiting for a written invitation?"
The wind was getting wilder, but the lessening of smothering stillness did nothing to abate the tension. At times House had to rely on fast reflexes and the support of his cane to avoid being blown over.
Lightning flashed closer and closer together until it seemed that one bolt had barely finished before another began. House had continual imprints of the bright light on the back of his retinas, which made his eyes water with unshed tears. The thunder was one continuous roar that ached into his bones and deafened him.
House held a hand out, palm to the sky, in some vain hope that maybe rain was falling but it just wasn't falling directly on him. Maybe he was some sort of rain repellent. House held his hand out for a long time and still felt nothing.
House juggled the cordless phone from one hand to the other. He put it down on the coffee table only to pick it up again a minute later and started pressing random buttons just to hear the beeping. Wilson was away at a four-day-long conference about some new chemo drug; House hadn't been paying too much attention to the details when Wilson had told him.
They'd been so painfully awkward around each other ever since that drunken night. House had been tempted to confront Wilson on it a handful of times, but something always stopped him. If it was anything else or anyone else, House would have already gotten into their face about it. This was Wilson though and House found he was just standing still, waiting, where ordinarily he would have leaped into the thick of it and dealt with the consequences afterwards.
When Wilson came to tell him about the conference he had looked everywhere but at House. He'd shifted his weight three times, and rubbed the back of his neck once. House had watched him without really listening, chewing almost fiercely on the plastic lollipop stick he had between his teeth.
Eventually Wilson had nodded as if House had said something, as if they'd just had a perfectly normal two-way conversation, and had left. House had instantly regretted not saying anything, even though he'd had nothing to say.
House cleared the random numbers before dialling Wilson's cell phone. It rang twice before being picked up. "Did you hit the wrong button again?" Wilson asked and he sounded tired. Two days ago House had called and claimed just that before hanging up again, the words he'd wanted to say stuck painfully in his throat.
"No," House replied, sinking back into the armchair. He looked across to the other chair where Wilson usually sat, picturing him sitting there rather than in an entirely different state. "How's the conference going?"
"It's...fine," Wilson said, managing to sound both surprised and suspicious.
"When you come back..." House started to say, knowing he sounded awkward and hating it, "we should go out for a drink." We should talk was what House was really saying.
Wilson sighed, "I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"Don't tell me you've become a Mormon," House joked without any real humour.
Suddenly there was another voice in the background and the sound of Wilson covering the phone, his muffled voice saying something in return that House couldn't make out. "Sorry, I have to go," Wilson told him, voice back to a normal volume though it was strained. "I'll call you tomorrow."
The phone went dead and House let the hand holding it fall away from his ear slowly until the phone thumped against his thigh. His bad thigh, but the pain didn't really register. Wilson was the one reliable, constant thing in House's life and suddenly it felt like he was slipping away. Or, as was more precise, running away.
All because of this Thing between them. Something House had no names for, no diagnoses to throw at, and no sarcasm to fight off with.
Not having any place to go but needing to be moving House started walking down the street, leaning heavily on his cane. Every now and then he paused and looked up, but he was starting to think this was going to be some freak storm that had everything but the rain.
Or maybe it would be even freakier and just suddenly start snowing, even though it was spring, or - better yet - start dropping toads from the sky. At least that would be something.
House turned into the local park, looking up as the trees abruptly tore at each other in a burst of wind, their tangled shadows spreading wide and far through the grass. House sat down on a bench and tilted his head back, his eyes closed - though he could still see the flashes of lightning through his eyelids.
His phone started ringing just as a roll of thunder tried to rip the sky apart; meaning House only heard the fading end of the first ring before it started up again. Digging it out of his pocket House stared at the caller ID before pressing it to his ear. He didn't say anything.
"House? Are you there?"
"I'm probably somewhere," House replied.
"Right," Wilson said. There was another peel of thunder. "That was...loud. Are you outside?"
House watched a newspaper shoot by in the wind. "I'm at the park."
Wilson was silent for a moment, "O-kay," he said, managing to convey a whole range of meaning into that one drawn out word. There was another, longer silence. "The park near your apartment?"
"Yeah," House said with a slight frown.
"Wait there," Wilson said and there was a click. House blinked a few times before taking the phone away from his ear and looking at the blank screen.
Five minutes later a car pulled up on the street. House watched as a figure of a man emerged from it, crossing the road in a walk that was entirely familiar and headed his way.
"That was quick," House said when Wilson stopped in front of him, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket, the wind attacking his hair.
"I was already on my way over."
"Huh." House leant forward with both hands on his cane, looking back up at the trees. Wilson sat down next to him. The wind made a howling noise and somewhere a dog yapped a few times; it was probably one of those small, fluffy dogs that House hated.
"I'm sorry," Wilson said, voice strained, "I've been an ass."
House glanced over at him and then up at the sky again. He let out a deep, frustrated breath, "It's never going to fucking rain." When Wilson didn't reply for a time House looked at him again to see Wilson giving the sky a puzzled frown.
Meeting his gaze Wilson raised his eyebrows, "It looks like rain to me."
"That's because you're an optimist."
Wilson laughed, "I'm about as optimistic as you are." Wilson looked away, expression serious once more. House was about to speak when Wilson reached over and put a hand on his thigh, just above his knee. House sat back, his eyes glued on Wilson's hand.
"Who's going to be the one to say it's all going to be okay then?" House asked, his voice mocking.
Wilson leaned a little into House until their shoulders were touching, "Even if one of us did, neither of us would really believe it. Not until there was proof at least."
There was the same amount of lightning but the thunder was becoming more of a rumble than a bone aching booming. House glared upwards, warning the storm that it wasn't allowed to move on yet.
Breathing in deeply House moved his hand to cover Wilson's, stroking the back with his thumb, and looked over at him. "Everything's going to be okay," he said, voice humorous but his eyes held intent. Wilson smiled at him.
A single drop of water hit House's cheek and then another hit his hand.
In the next moment it started to rain and then to pour in great heavy sheets of water that drenched them down to the skin.
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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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