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In Threes
by Jaryn
"You need to get out of bed one of these days," Wilson said mildly, walking into House's bedroom with a glass of water. He was met with silence, but he expected that. Wilson set the glass on the bedside table, putting it within House's reach without thinking about it. House had his eyes closed but Wilson knew he was awake - he only slept when he was doped up enough and it had been four hours since the last batch of pain medication.
It had crossed Wilson's mind a couple of times to `borrow' some of House's drugs for himself, because he hasn't been able sleep either. His eyes ached constantly and were so blood-shot he looked constantly like he'd had a hard night on the booze. "The water's there," Wilson said pointlessly, looking down at House.
Somewhere in Florida, Wilson thought, Stacy is at her mother's place and sobbing her heart out over this man. He had this dreaded feeling that Stacy was a step away from disappearing altogether. If not now, then a month or two down the track, when she finally realised House would never forgive her. Would never suddenly see the light about the choice she made for him.
"Go away."
Maybe just to piss House off, Wilson sat down on the side of the bed. "Why would I do that, when you're such pleasant company?"
"I can think of a couple of reasons."
"Right, I should just leave you to feel sorry for yourself in peace. I forgot."
House finally opened his eyes and glared at Wilson, but the look faded quickly. "So, did Stacy call you?" House asked bitingly a moment later, taking Wilson by surprise for more than one reason. So far nothing had been said about Stacy's sudden visit to her mother and his subsequent arrival. All Wilson got when he first walked through the door - after using the spare key Stacy had given him - was a dull, confused look and a question about pain medication.
"You know what's funny about a `recommended dose' Jimmy?" House had slurred. He'd been completely stoned at the time.
"Why are you asking this now? I've been here for two days already."
House shifted under the blankets and gave a pained grunt. Wilson barely registered the sound, he'd become so used to it. "So she called you, twisted your arm, pulled out all the-."
"House," Wilson ground out, getting irritated despite his better judgement. He knew that House had been picking for a fight since he arrived, and so far he'd foiled all the attempts. Wilson supposed it was ironic then, that after all the insults he'd put up with it, it's the idea that he had to have his arm twisted to come and look after House that gets to him.
"She came over, said she was going to visit her mother and asked if I could keep an eye on you. I agreed. That was it."
House's lips twisted in a parody of a smile, but at the same time he was studying Wilson's face intently. "I'm sure that wasn't all of it. Where was all the `he's just being so horrible James'?" House mimicked in falsetto.
Unfortunately, that was more or less what Stacy had said, but Wilson wasn't going to verify that. "Don't be an ass."
Something dark came over House's face before he stared up at the ceiling. "She's going to leave me."
Wilson twisted his body and put one knee up on the mattress and frowned. "Because you won't forgive her."
"I can't," House growled.
"You won't," Wilson fired back at him. "And I don't think it's even about your damn leg. It's about someone daring to think they know better than you and the complete control you have over your life being taken away. That is why you're so angry."
House stared at Wilson for a moment before his eyes went cold and hard. "Get out of here. Right now."
Wilson almost laughed - though the urge had nothing to do with amusement - but managed not to. "No."
For a moment nothing happened. Then House was suddenly struggling to sit up, going red in the face either with the effort or anger - or both. Taken by surprise, Wilson didn't have time to brace himself for the powerful shove House gave him and nearly fell off the bed. "Just...get out!"
Wilson grabbed House's wrists and forced him back onto the bed, using his weight more than his strength, so that he ended up half on top of the other man. House cried out when Wilson jostled his injured leg and tried to shove him off. Wilson only shifted to avoid putting direct pressure on House's injured leg and held on tighter.
"Are you finished?" Wilson asked when House finally seemed to run out of steam, slumping back onto his pillow.
"You stupid bastard," House ground out, turning his head to the side.
"Probably," Wilson agreed. House rolled his head back to meet his eyes and they stared at each other for an endless minute. Wilson broke the contact first, letting his head hang down with a weary sigh, his forehead resting lightly against House's shoulder. After a moment Wilson let House's wrists go and rolled to lie next to him on his back.
"Are you going to leave?"
Wilson blinked and turned to look at House. The question had been asked gruffly, almost angrily, but the words themselves were vulnerable. Vulnerable because Wilson knew what House was really asking.
"No, House," Wilson sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "I'm not going to leave you."
"That's not what I asked," House said, but Wilson thought he heard relief in his voice.
Wilson remained where he was as House propped himself up onto an elbow to face the bedside table, taking the pain medication with a gulp of water. Lying back down, House closed his eyes, and Wilson considered going back to the living room and the novel he was reading. Before he had the chance to even sit up, however, House reached over and closed a hand tightly over Wilson's wrist.
The gesture made Wilson's chest tighten painfully, though he wouldn't have been able to put into words why. Breathing out a quiet sigh, Wilson allowed his own eyes to close. He listened as House's breathing evened out and felt the hand on his wrist slowly becoming slack. Then, before he'd even noticed how close he was to doing so, he fell asleep himself.
Stacy did leave, though it took her longer than Wilson expected. She'd been stubborn to the end, but she was obviously unable to defeat the stubbornness of one Gregory House. Wilson learnt what had happened from Stacy first; she rang him the very afternoon she'd walked out, firing out a tear-choked tirade that Wilson only half understood.
He didn't know what to feel or what to say. Part of him felt sorry for her, part of him was angry at her. The fight between the two resulted in him not saying much at all. Stacy apparently picked up on that, because she slowly fell silent as well.
"I'm sorry James," Stacy finally said.
Wilson didn't know why she was apologising to him. "I..." Wilson trailed off, rubbing at the back of his neck, searching for something to reply with. "I understand," he eventually finished with, because that at least was true. Stacy made vague promises of keeping in touch - none of which Wilson really believed - before hanging up.
Wilson didn't think before he picked up his car keys and jacket before walking downstairs. His wife was in the den and Wilson stood in the doorway, watching her watching TV. "I'm going to Greg's. Stacy left him." There was no response or reaction at all. Wilson clenched his jaw before turning and walking out to his car.
Twenty minutes later, Wilson let himself into House's apartment, not knowing what to expect. What he found was House sitting back against the couch on the living room floor, with a bottle of whiskey in one hand. If House wasn't yet drunk he looked to be well on his way to it. The TV was on, but muted, flickering coloured light across the otherwise dark room. Wilson shrugged off his jacket and walked slowly over to the couch, draping the jacket on the back of it. Without saying anything, Wilson slid down onto the floor next to House, sitting close enough that their shoulders were pressed together.
House held out the bottle of whiskey without looking at him. Wilson took it and drank, grimacing as the burning alcohol hit the back of his throat. He took another mouthful before handing the bottle back to House. Looking around, Wilson tried to deduce why House was sitting on the floor. He didn't see any obvious reasons and wondered if maybe House wanted to be uncomfortable. It wouldn't surprise him. When House hurt, it was if he had to make it worse before he could get over it.
They stared at the TV and continued to pass the bottle back and forth without saying anything, getting steadily drunker. Wilson drew up his knees when the room started to spin a little and was vaguely aware of House leaning more and more against him. He didn't think much of the extra weight on his shoulder some time later until he realised House was shaking. Wilson then realised that the weight was House's head, and that he was sobbing.
Wilson considered putting an arm around House but immediately dismissed it. He did, however, turn his head just enough that his cheek brushed the top of House's head. And if a few of his own tears added to the mix, well, who was going to notice? Wilson knew that neither of them would ever mention this once the night ended, if they even remembered it.
Eventually, House fell asleep - or passed out - and Wilson struggled to get his limp, gangly body up onto the couch. He found a blanket in the linen closet with some difficulty - his vision was blurred and he could barely walk straight - and draped it over House, standing there for a moment before stumbling down the hallway to use the bathroom. After that Wilson went into the spare bedroom and collapsed onto the bed - which smelled like Stacy's perfume. Wilson wondered how long she had used the spare room for before he fell asleep.
Wilson didn't end up leaving House's apartment for another three days, and when he finally did it was to go home to a perfunctory note on the kitchen table and an empty house. It occurred to him that bad things really did seem to come in threes: House's infarction, Stacy leaving, and now his wife leaving.
Well, we still have each other. Wilson's lips quirked up at that thought before he screwed up the letter and threw it in the trash.
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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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