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Brain Thaw
by Topaz Eyes
House hated anniversaries.
He never understood why people insisted on remembering events that happened once in their lives and were over. How pathetic was it to keep ruminating on the past? As far as he was concerned, too many of them were associated with bad events. Even the supposedly good ones--birthdays, weddings--were often linked to too many negative consequences to want to acknowledge.
That didn't mean he forgot them: he just kept them in his way. Usually by drowning them, if at all possible; House stared at the bottle of bourbon on his desk.
It had been five years tonight since Wilson told him about his long-lost brother.
Three and a half hours since he'd had to rescue Wilson from his moping (and hypothermia) over it.
Three hours (give or take) since he'd let his guard down a little too far.
Now there was an anniversary to remember. Or forget, as it were.
He'd be working on it now, in fact, except that there was nowhere near enough alcohol to blot it out, because the bottle was almost empty. Not enough for even one drink--swigging the dregs would only make it worse. Why the hell hadn't he ordered one of his lackeys to replenish it before now? (Why the hell he was still brooding at the hospital, and not at home pickling himself to his eyeballs, was another question he didn't want to approach at the moment.)
He'd tried a limping marathon through the hospital but that didn't work either, aside from scaring (possibly scarring) the few young nurses and orderlies unlucky enough to cross his path. The older ones on the evening shift, who'd been around for a while, knew to stay out of his way. Either way, it sucked that he ended up with only physical exhaustion to show for it.
He rose from his desk to stare out his balcony door, thinking he should just pack up and go home before the promised snow hit and the roads (not to mention the sidewalks) became impromptu skating rinks. It was then that he saw Wilson standing in the threshold, through the reflection against the door glass: red-faced from cold, hair ruffled, and holding a paper coffee cup in his gloved hand.
House blinked before covering his surprise. "You're back," House said, turning to face him.
"I forgot my briefcase," Wilson replied sheepishly.
"I might have believed that," he nodded at the leather satchel in his other hand, "if I didn't know I would have heard you in your office if you had."
Wilson sagged. "Fine. All right. You caught me red-handed. Can I come in?"
House raised an eyebrow. Wilson asking for permission to be let into his office. Huh. He shrugged and headed to his chair.
Wilson picked his way to the armchair across House's desk, as if he were still debating whether it was a good idea. House might have been amused by his friend's deliberate care, if he already not felt blindsided by this too-soon encounter. Wilson removed his coat and spread it on the seat of the armchair before sitting down; at least House got to see Wilson squirm a bit before settling in.
Too raw, too soon, yet another day of infamy going down in the mess they called their friendship: best to get it over with and move on to more superficial matters. House drew a breath, hoping it didn't sound as shaky as it felt. "So why are you here?"
Wilson took his paper cup and aimed it at House's wastebasket beside the desk. He threw the cup; it hit the upper wire rim before landing on its side on top of unopened consult requests. House saw how Wilson's hands shook just slightly in that moment--strong hands, he thought, with square buffed nails--before he dropped them into his lap.
Wilson answered more quickly, and more assuredly, than House expected. "I came back to say--thank you, for earlier, when you found me on the balcony."
"Don't mention it."
"I know it was stupid, and I didn't think you--"
House scowled, cutting him off. "Really. Don't mention it."
He pulled out a glass from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured the remainder of the Maker's Mark--a finger, if he were lucky--into it. He slid it across the blotter; Wilson picked it up and swirled it, but didn't drink; he set it down gently. House watched Wilson's eyes flicker longingly at the glass as he retrieved the vial from his shirt pocket and popped two painkillers.
Wilson sat back. "You do know that not every problem can be solved with alcohol and Vicodin," he said wryly.
"Solved, no. Salved, yes."
"Because for you they mean the same thing."
Here we go again, House thought, yet another harangue about his many and varied character flaws. "Aren't you forgetting the hookers?" he deflected sourly.
"Ah yes, the hookers. Because paying for sex and temporary companionship is so much better than finding something more permanent--maybe with someone closer to home." At that Wilson frowned, grabbed the glass, and tossed back the bourbon in one gulp.
Whoa. House recognized that self-flagellating tone--maybe this wouldn't be about his glaring shortcomings as a human being after all. Where it threatened to lead might be just as uncomfortable, but he had to admit there was a certain Schadenfreude in listening to (and mocking) Wilson's self-recriminations.
"Sitting for two hours, freezing your ass off on that block in Skid Row--you start thinking about the things in your life you've gotten right. About the things you've screwed up. Relationships, decisions--" Wilson trailed off with a faint smirk as he stared at the edge of the desk.
House met his dry grin. "Screwed up. I'll drink to that." He raised his mug and drank the sludge of coffee left from the morning.
"Then you start thinking--about the things that are halfway in between," Wilson added, in a soft tone that made the hairs on House's neck prickle. "About whether it's worth taking the chance on them, even though you know it'll change everything--"
Here he looked up, and something in his gaze pinned House to his seat. "But you decide to anyway because it's all you have left that means a damn."
Something had set in Wilson's face--had closed, yet also opened--and it only increased House's wariness as Wilson rose from his armchair. House set the mug down harder than he'd intended, wincing at the dull thud of ceramic on the desk blotter; the suspicion had already half-formed by the time Wilson rounded the desk.
The next thing House knew, Wilson was standing in front of him, reaching out to turn the chair, and House, to face him. Then Wilson was gazing down at him, his face carefully neutral but his eyes dark, frank, determined. House stared up at Wilson, frozen in place and feeling the panic rising in his gorge as his hunch solidified.
His grip dug into the armrests of his chair when he realized Wilson was studying his mouth intently, but
Wilson didn't move any closer for a moment. House thawed enough to blink and lick his lips nervously. Just a little more, he thought, and he could maybe push his chair back, cold-cock Wilson, escape and forget this was happening--
But then Wilson stooped, leaning closer as he held onto the armrest to steady himself, and trapping House in the process. House jumped and swallowed hard at the brush of Wilson's fingers against his. He could feel Wilson's breath, humid against his cheek, as Wilson moved to close the distance. With nowhere else to hide, House closed his eyes.
He felt a slight jolt as Wilson's lips touched his.
Wilson's kiss was light at first: neither demanding nor urgent, but tentative, as if Wilson himself wasn't sure this was such a great idea. Which of course it wasn't, House knew that for both their sakes. Hell, it was the king of stupid. Yet here they were anyway, about to swap and share epithelial cells, saliva and oral bacteria, along with--
Was Wilson feeling the same ache now, that same half-tingle in his lips as House had earlier? Because dammit if that hadn't returned in full force either, that maddening need for contact that could only be relieved through the press of another--reminding him that under it all he still needed--and did it matter who gave it--?
As if Wilson had heard him, he deepened the kiss, gliding his tongue along House's lower lip.
A deep, tight knot within House's chest started to loosen and unfold, and then House was kissing Wilson back, responding in kind as if nothing else mattered. Who cared if any of his minions could walk into the office at any time; or that it was all kinds of wrong for either of them to seek comfort (or whatever the hell it was) this way? What mattered was that Wilson's lips were indeed as soft and pliant as House had imagined, and that he could get used to this: how Wilson's hand splayed against the back of his head, how Wilson's fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck, how their lips met and fit together, how coffee and whiskey and need tasted in Wilson's mouth, how the heat of Wilson's body enveloped him like an embrace--
He could get very used to it, in fact.
Strange how that didn't bother him at all right now.
House raised his hand, his thumb caressing Wilson's cheek with its beginnings of five-o'clock shadow. Wilson broke the kiss and turned his face away, resting against House's hand. House ended up kissing the dimpled corner of Wilson's mouth. He could feel Wilson's eyelashes flickering against his fingers, his lips curving in a twisted grin--
That movement broke the spell. House pulled back, remembering where he was, and dropped his hand back onto the armrest.
Reluctantly, Wilson let go of House's head and straightened, clearing his throat; House's eyes flew open at the sound. He shifted uncomfortably and averted his gaze when he saw Wilson's face mirroring the rawness he felt. He stared instead at the bleached-out blotch of his blood on the carpet in front of the whiteboard, grimacing in his discomfort.
House heard Wilson sigh tiredly. When House chanced to look up again, Wilson was staring out the balcony door behind them, his hands on his hips and shaking his head at himself.
"House, I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry--"
"I'm not." Where the hell did that come from?
They both blinked at House's blunt statement. House looked up, catching Wilson's puzzled gaze; Wilson's eyes widened as the truth registered.
"You--you really aren't sorry."
"No need to be," House replied with an indifferent shrug. "It was an unconditioned reflex to an overwhelming emotional situation on your part."
"O-kay," Wilson said, his brow furrowing in doubt; he reached up to rub the back of his neck. After a long moment, he added, "If you're not sorry, then I'm not."
House nodded. "Good."
Wilson frowned in thought. "Although we still need to talk about what just happened. I mean--"
"Don't push it."
There'd been more than enough soul-baring tonight, House added silently.
Wilson nodded in mute agreement. "I'll be going then." He retrieved his overcoat from the armchair and briefcase from the floor, and went towards the door. House picked up and passed his over-sized ball between his hands, watching him retreat.
Wilson stopped at the door and turned to face House. "Good night, House. Again. I'll--see you tomorrow."
"Good night, Wilson."
House tracked Wilson's progress down the hall until he heard the elevator door slide shut. Then he set the ball down, reached for the whiskey bottle, and put it away in his desk. Heaving himself up, he went to the sink to rinse his coffee mug.
An unconditioned reflex to an overwhelming emotional situation. God, how pathetic. His rat was too smart to buy that one. Wilson was probably laughing at that shining excuse of lame all the way down to his Volvo. He knew he would.
Yet another anniversary to add to the roster. Though drowning it might be another question now.
He turned off the tap, set the cup in the sink, and went to retrieve his pack and jacket; he too left to head home, his steps thump-tapping down the darkened hall.
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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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