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Conclusions
by alazysod
i.
Get out of this house.
Wilson presses his foot to the gas pedal, cool wind smacking him in the face as he speeds down the road. His hands are clammy, leaving damp prints on the steering wheel, and the tips of his fingers twitch.
You fucking prick.
There's a suitcase in the passenger seat. He had shoved a pair of jeans, a few shirts, and two pairs of underwear into it before he left. Not that they're going to be of any help, Wilson realizes. He'll have to wear the same clothes to work tomorrow.
I don't know why I didn't see this coming. You've been married twice already, for Christ's sake.
Red light. Wilson slams on the brake, barely coming to a stop behind the next car.
I shouldn't have wasted time on you.
ii.
Wilson presses his palm into the doorbell, leaning onto it so he can hear a constant buzz. The suitcase hangs from his other fingers, and his head droops to his chest. He thinks that it's ridiculous to be this tired so quickly, but the thought drifts away once the door opens.
"Let me guess...you've either just committed murder and you need my help to bury the body, or you've been dumped by another wife," says House in mid-yawn.
Wilson looks up. "Wife."
"I figured." House is wearing a robe and leaning on his cane. The only thing he's missing is a pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth and a good scotch in his hand. "She kicked you out?"
"Yeah."
"Want a beer?"
"Yeah."
They walk inside. Wilson sits on the couch, suitcase on the floor, as House reaches into the fridge for two bottles of beer. He tosses one to Wilson, who twists off the cap and takes a long pull. House takes a seat in the armchair opposite the couch. Nobody speaks for a few minutes, and the only sound is the gulping of beer.
"How did she find out?" House asks.
"One of her friends," says Wilson. He swallows another mouthful. "Gossip gets around. I think she has a friend that has a cousin who works at the hospital."
House doesn't say anything. He's fumbling in his pocket, finally pulling out a white bottle. He pours pills onto his palm, swallows one, and puts the bottle onto the coffee table along with his beer. "There's a blanket in the closet if you want one."
"Okay." Wilson hadn't expected a deep, meaningful conversation about his soon-to-be ex-wife with House. That was why he came here. "Night."
iii.
"Thank you, Doctor," says Tony, standing up to shake Wilson's hand. "It means a lot that you're being so honest."
"I try to be," Wilson replies. Tony's a seventeen-year-old boy. He has one, maybe two months left before he dies. It's unsettling to see the lack of emotion in Tony's face. People always cry in this office. "We'll have a talk with your parents to discuss what your options are."
"Thank you," Tony repeats and moves to the door. He pauses, then says, "Didn't you wear that tie yesterday?"
He did. "Possibly." It's the entire outfit, actually. House's clothing doesn't fit, and Wilson can't show up to work in ripped jeans and an old AC/DC shirt. "I'll see you tomorrow, Tony."
"See you, Dr. Wilson."
Once Tony leaves, Wilson leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes with tired hands. He has many more appointments today, none of which will be easy to do. A middle-aged woman will be told that she is dying. A man -- no, he's practically a boy -- fresh out of college will be told that he must have surgery now, and that his insurance won't cover the costs. A mother will be told that her daughter has a tumor.
A knock on the door wrenches Wilson out of his reverie. He opens his eyes to see House standing (im)patiently on the balcony, tapping on the glass with his cane. Wilson gestures for him to come in, and he does.
"What do I have, doctor?" House asks as he drops into the chair opposite Wilson's desk.
"A number of things that I'm too tired to mention," says Wilson, opening a drawer to tuck Tony's file into it. There's a picture of Julie inside the drawer. He tries to ignore it. "What do you need?"
"Are you planning on sleeping on my couch again tonight?"
"You're cheaper than a hotel, so yes."
"Good. You can buy the pizza."
iv.
They eat greasy, disgustingly good pizza and guzzle cold beer while watching Monty Python movies. Wilson ends up asleep in the middle of The Life of Brian, and wakes up the next morning wrapped in a blanket.
v.
Saturday is awful. Julie follows him around the house, saying she has to make sure he won't take anything that isn't his. It's both humiliating and oddly comical.
"My lawyer will contact you," she says coldly when Wilson starts his car. "Now piss off."
"Fuck you, too," he replies, and drives to House.
He and House spend the afternoon smoking a joint and watching the rest of The Life of Brian. Wilson realizes he hasn't had this much fun in months.
vi.
"I'm sorry."
Wilson glances over to Cameron. "This is an elevator, not a confession booth."
"I heard about your marital problems," says Cameron. Her expression is nearing Puppy Dog Eyes, and he refrains from wincing. "I'm so sorry, Wilson."
He shrugs. "It was bound to happen."
The doors open. Wilson walks out, closely followed by Cameron. "If you need anything, or if you just want to talk -- "
"Thank you, Cameron," Wilson cuts her off, and moves towards the cafeteria. He knows that she's still standing by the elevator, clutching manila folders to her chest with a hurt look on her concerned face. But he really doesn't need pity right now. He needs a sandwich.
House is there, eating a bag of chips in the corner. Wilson sits opposite and says hello.
"Are you planning on sleeping on my couch again tonight?" House asks. He's done this every day for the past few weeks. It's rather pointless, considering that Wilson has most of his possessions in House's living room.
"Yeah." Wilson reaches for a chip. House slaps his hand away. "Ouch!"
"Buy your own damn Doritos," says House, emptying the last of the chips into his mouth and crumpling the bag into a ball. "Better yet, buy tortilla chips and salsa. I'll rent Clerks."
vii.
It's been a month and a half now.
Wilson has come accustomed to waking up on House's couch, drinking coffee while House makes omelets, coming to work in House's car (he does have a better parking space), and spending the night watching movies with House.
He doesn't have to see Julie again. Ever. The divorce is complete. (Julie gets the house and half the money. Wilson gets the good china and another alimony payment.)
And he's never been happier.
viii.
"Why are you sitting on the bathroom floor?"
House doesn't look up from his GameBoy. "Hiding from Cuddy. She can't come in here, can she? There's no way she's a man with those breasts."
"Did you get Cameron to cover your clinic hours again?" Wilson continues, unzipping his pants by the urinal.
"Yup." House flicks the GameBoy off. "She'll do anything to be sympathetic."
Wilson finishes, then walks over to the sink. "Cuddy'll find out sooner or later."
"I think she's preoccupied with her secretary." House stands up, tucking the GameBoy into his pocket. "Are you planning on sleeping on my couch again tonight?"
"Yeah." Wilson reaches for a paper towel. "Do you think I should get an apartment?"
House touches his heart in mock surprise. "Why, Jimmy, I thought we were getting along so well."
"I'm just wondering if my presence is getting tiresome."
House claps a hand on his shoulder. "Without me, dear boy, you'd be grieving with a bottle of whiskey."
Wilson snorts. "I doubt it." He turns around to drop the paper towel in the trash, shoulder brushing House's chest.
ix.
Dear Dr. Wilson,
We are writing you to say thank you for all the work you've put into our son. We will be forever grateful to you for giving him those extra years.
Tony died last night. Thank you for allowing him to spend his last few weeks at home, instead of in a hospital. It meant a lot to us all.
Once again, thank you for trying to help.
Mr. and Mrs. Burrows
Wilson pushes the letter away. The ever-clichd lump rises in his throat, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Being an oncologist, he is used to patients dying.
But that doesn't stop it from hurting.
x.
Wilson sits on the couch, the radio set to a classic rock station. He's really not paying attention, but he needs something to be in the background that he doesn't have particularly strong feelings about.
Tony's funeral was today. He's still wearing his suit.
House walks in the door, carrying a plastic bag. He nods to Wilson, dropping the bag onto the kitchen counter and removing the contents (bread, bag of Doritos, cream cheese). "How was it?"
"As good as any funeral can be," Wilson answers.
House walks over, dropping his cane onto the floor. "Is this where you tell me about your feelings, we both cry, and then cuddle?"
"Fuck you."
"Charming." He sits next to Wilson. "This lack of sex from Julie has really put a strain on your anger management." House opens up a pill bottle and swallows a Vicodin dry.
Wilson looks at House, and something quivers in his belly. He doesn't know why, but the next thing he does know, he's leaning over and pressing his lips to House's.
House is motionless underneath him, and Wilson pauses. Fuck.
But then House raises a hand and cups Wilson's cheek, opening his mouth slightly. Wilson kisses him again, turning his entire body to face House. The stubble is rough, but there's a warm tongue and soft lips so Wilson really doesn't care, and he wants more. He reaches for House's belt, but the moment he attempts to unfasten it, the mouth is gone and House is staring at him.
"This is awkward," says Wilson, his hands still on House's belt.
"No shit," House retorts.
Wilson releases the belt, and then, unsure of where to put his hands, grips the sofa cushion. He swallows. "I think I'm going to go for a drive."
House doesn't answer. That makes it even worse.
xi.
He doesn't know where he's going, but his foot is on the gas pedal and the radio is blasting David Bowie. All that's running through is mind is fuck fuck fuck why the fuck did I do that there wasn't a reason for doing that fuck fuck fuck and he's really not thinking straight.
Wilson ends up at the hospital, parking in House's space out of habit. He hurries inside, his mind still playing fuck fuck fuck even as he's in the elevator with the Head of Obstetrics.
He wanders to his office. Tony was here last month he can't help but think, and kicks a chair. He only succeeds in hurting his toe.
"Fuck," Wilson says aloud. "Fuck."
He opens the door to the balcony. The wind is cool on his sweaty face, and he's immediately reminded of the night Julie kicked him out, and he drove to House (fuck!). Wilson crumples to his knees, just like Mrs. Burrows had at Tony's funeral, and cries.
xii.
"Wilson?"
He opens one eye. Still on the balcony.
"Wilson, are you all right?" Australian accents are increasingly annoying in the morning. "What the hell are you doing up here?"
"It appears that I was sleeping," Wilson says.
Chase offers him a hand up. "House has rubbed off on you, hasn't he?"
Wilson snorts and says, "Not quite," then starts to laugh. It eases into a low chuckle when Chase gives him a look and takes half a step back. "Do you have any coffee?"
xiii.
He tries to avoid House as much as possible throughout the day. He remains in his office (he gets his lunch via a fellow oncologist), concentrating on his patients and how he can help. Because that's what a doctor does, isn't it? They don't sit around, worrying about precisely how much they fucked up the night before.
He can't steer clear of House forever, though. Their offices are right next to each other, after all.
Sometime around four, there's the sound of a pebble against the door to the balcony. Wilson glances up, then immediately looks back at the medical journal he's been trying to read for the past hour. It's a childish reaction, something that he would have done in high school when he was trying to avoid the girl who had blown him at a party in a closet the night before, and he can't help it.
But House is a stubborn bastard, and Wilson curses him for it.
"Oh, James, wherefore art thou?" House shouts, banging his cane against the balcony door. People in the hallway can probably hear him. The tips of Wilson's ears are burning.
After House recites a sonnet, Wilson can't take it anymore. He strides over to the door, whips it open, and says through ground teeth, "What?"
"Oh, good. You haven't gone deaf. I was worried for a moment."
"You can stop with the biting sarcasm and get to your point," says Wilson, stepping onto the balcony. He can see Chase in House's office, nicking a pen from the desk. "What is it?"
The next movement House makes is so fluid that Wilson doesn't have a chance to move out of the way. He grabs Wilson by the tie, pushes him against the wall, and kisses him full on the mouth.
It's a good thing House is still has his hand on Wilson's tie, because if it wasn't, Wilson would have tumbled to the ground. There are lips and tongue and stubble (oh, that stubble) and they're kissing on a balcony, and anyone could walk by either of their offices and watch. Wilson finds himself grinding into House's good leg at the thought, letting a moan slip from his mouth.
"Oh, fuck," Wilson murmurs as House loosens the tie, bending his head to kiss and nibble at Wilson's throat. "Please don't stop."
"Wouldn't dream of it. You didn't give me much of a chance yesterday. Are you planning on sleeping on my couch again tonight?" says House between kisses, fumbling with the buttons on Wilson's shirt.
"Yeah."
House stops. "Then we'll wait until then -- "
"What?"
" -- partly because I like to see you squirm, and also because there's a blonde Aussie that's been standing by my desk with a confused and strangely aroused look on his face."
Wilson dares a look. Indeed, Chase is there, looking confused and strangely aroused. "What now?"
"Walk back inside as if nothing out of the ordinary has just happened." House taps Wilson under the chin, gives him a wink, and heads to the door. "Stay beautiful, sweetheart."
"That's it? 'Stay beautiful'?"
House pauses. "What do you expect? A deep, meaningful conversation? Or did you want me to make you come in your pants?"
"I was hoping for the latter the other day, but you seemed a little against that until now."
"You didn't give me a chance. Ever think of not jumping to conclusions?" House taps the side of his head mockingly, then opens the door. Wilson overhears him say, "Why don't you get me some coffee? I'm going to be staying up late tonight, and I don't want to fall asleep in the middle of anything."
Wilson can hear Chase sputter something unintelligible, and he smiles as he buttons up his shirt and adjusts his tie. He follows House a few minutes later, rubbing his cheeks. Beard burn.
Chase is by the coffee machine, filling a red mug. He turns a violent shade of lavender when Wilson enters the room, and House snorts.
"I'm guessing that House did rub off on you," Chase manages, and Wilson laughs.
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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 Fox Television, 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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