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A Breath of Ashes
by gena
A Breath of Ashes
The air in the house seemed to stifle him, almost as if a blast furnace had been set up somewhere between the kitchen and the bedroom, funneling all the heat into the dining room where their fights always seemed to start. The sharp, acrid odor of something burning away, love perhaps? prevailed, and it left a bitter taste in Wilson's mouth, as if he breathed in ashes instead of air whenever he came home. Tonight would be different, James thought, reaching for the doorknob and with it a chance to breathe freely. He ignored the trembling hand which made him feel as if he were standing at the edge of a deep abyss just as he ignored the vase which shattered high and to his right. He was glad Julie hadn't taken the time to put in her contacts or he'd probably have a mild concussion and need a couple of stitches. Of course, being seen as the victim of spousal abuse would get him some sympathy - and make him appear even more pathetic than he felt right now.
"So, are you running to him?" Julie shouted from the staircase. She'd taken the high ground, though he suspected it was because she would have better access to the breakables on that fancy ledge she'd had installed with three thousand dollars of his money. James had never understood why it had to be solid cherry when all it held were spindly glass thingamajigs and a few sparkling silver serving pieces. He did understand that the ones being fired off in his general direction were ones his mother had given them during the four years of their marriage. The delicate glassy baubles Julie's mom sent them were still gleaming on the shelf.
"I don't think telling you where I'm going is a good idea at the moment," James said then ducked as another - well, he didn't think it had been a vase this time, too many round edges and swoopy curves, had to be a decorative plate - crashed to the floor inches from his French leather covered toes. A fine white powder drifted over the tips of his shoes causing a flash of irritation that Julie's "this isn't working out" speech had failed to raise. He bent to wipe at the dust and saved himself from another lucky missile when something blue burst against the door. "Julie!" he snapped, "will you stop that? All I want is to get out of here, you don't need to drive me away."
"I'm venting," she snarled, accompanying the words with the musical tinkle of a - James swore it was a glass bird this time - exploding. "Now go running to House!"
"Julie!" Wilson took a step towards the stairs just as Julie reloaded and before he knew it one of his grandmother's candlesticks had made intimate acquaintance with his forehead. "Damnit!" A bright arc of pain flared behind his eyelids.
"James?" Julie hurried down the steps but Wilson stopped her with a raised hand.
"Goodbye, Julie," he said quietly and this time twisted the knob. The air outside felt cool on his heated skin, the chill of autumn bringing with it the scent of fallen leaves. He looked back at the beautiful house he and Julie had shared, missing the memory of warmth only for a minute. They had been happy for a while, just as he and his other wives had been, but the fires of passion were soon spent and all he had left once the flames died were ashes. Tossing his bag into his car, Wilson drove towards the quaint neighborhood where House now lived. He could feel the sticky itch of blood along the bridge of his nose and when he reached up, blotting it away, the streetlight glow made it look like ink on his handkerchief. The sight reminded him of his other marriages and how they had all needed his signature to end, his permission. Maybe a blood offering would make it right this time and he wouldn't have to go through the charade of pretending someone else meant everything to him. Traffic lights were blinking red and yellow and windows peered at his car like black eyes watching his every move. Somewhere deep down, Wilson knew he really was running to House but he tried not to think about Julie's taunts.
House would take him in, as he always did, and his own taunts would be sharp and precise but they would also be tempered by House's peculiar sense of loyalty. Wilson knew the constant reminders of his marital status had always been meant as a kind of warning devise, and the teasing remarks on his flirtations were a kind of disapproval only House employed. He parked on the street, cheered by the silver glow in the living room window. Once in a while House fell asleep before 2 or 3 AM, not often but when exhaustion finally overtook his insomnia, tonight it looked like insomnia was winning. When Wilson got out of the car he took a deep breath, relishing the fresh, cool air which filled his lungs and letting it flush away the lingering scent of ash that clung to his soul.
"You better be selling something I want," House demanded, opening the door on the third knock. He eyed Wilson before shaking his head, "I don't see any Girl Scout cookies."
Wilson shoved passed him, "but I'm minty flavored with a marshmallow center, does that count?"
"You're an idiot with no taste in women," House said but he closed the door behind him. Wilson tossed his bag beside the piano and sank onto the couch. His head ached horribly and he could feel the lump rising as he sat there. He'd have to come up with a manly explanation or people would start to talk at the hospital - maybe he could say he got in a fistfight with House. House limped passed him towards the kitchen and Wilson heard him rummaging in the refrigerator. He expected a beer but the bag of frozen corn that landed in his lap did just as good a job of making him forget how miserable he was.
"Shit! What the hell is this?"
House, who hadn't bothered with his cane, made his way back to his chair, and collapsed with a groan. He wore sweat pants and a Duran Duran t-shirt Wilson had bought him off eBay a couple of years earlier and looked as if he could fall asleep any moment. "Frozen corn. I don't like green beans, you know that."
"Why is it on my lap?"
"Because it's not on your head," House said. Wilson opened his mouth for a snappy retort but understanding dawned and he gingerly laid the cold bag against what must be a nice bruise on his forehead. "Should I call some kind of help line?"
"No, but do you have the number for those Swedish Milkmaids you told me about last week?"
"Stay away from farm girls, Wilson, you're not strong enough yet."
"I have a headache tonight anyway."
House shot him a look, thinly veiled concern over wry amusement, in Wilson's opinion it made House look unsettlingly like his mother and he had to close his eyes. "So number three is number two?"
"I prefer to think of number three as number one," Wilson said, he could usually play with House all night but the throb in his head was making it more difficult than normal. "I've pissed away three chances at love, and a lot of money in alimony." He paused, considering, "still it could be number two if you want to call me a shithead."
"Well, it's that or darling," House said.
"I kind of like the sound of darling better." House grunted something and fell silent. After a few minutes Wilson moved the bag of corn so he could study House's face but the older man had his eyes closed and head back. It was nearly 2:30 and House had been working harder than normal this week. "Hey? We going to bed soon?"
House jerked, gasping as he pressed a palm to his thigh and glared at Wilson. "I would've thought you'd learned your lesson about hoping into bed with people other than your wife by now." Wilson gave him a scathing look but remained silent. House sighed, and picked up his cane. Wilson rose, casually stepping closer as House attempted to get to his feet. He planted the cane and pushed himself up with his left arm, then transferred part of his weight to his right. House had powerful arms, years of doing just this thing had seen to that but once in a while, when he was tired, he couldn't manage the shift. Tonight was one of those times and he fell heavily back into the chair, breath coming out in a chocked off whuff. It wasn't often that he let anyone witness any kind of difficulty, but Wilson had been through the entire illness with him so House didn't lash out when a strong hand gripped his elbow and lifted. Nor did he say much when Wilson followed him down the hallway to his bedroom, he did look askance at his friend when Wilson stripped off his shirt, kicked off his shoes and drew the blankets back on the right side of the bed.
"I'm not sleeping on that - whatever it is in your spare room," Wilson murmured, distracted by the decadent display that was House's own bed. Though his personal style seemed an uneasy mix of aging rockstar and homeless addict, House actually had excellent taste. His condo had an elegant and masculine dcor, the only quirk stacks of newspapers piled around the handsome leather couch and chair and medical journals on the baby grand piano. His bedroom, too, showed that House liked nice things around him, more books and magazines attested to his voracious reading habits but it was the bed which commanded attention. Piled with pillows, dressed with sheets of the softest cotton, and draped by a luxurious chocolate brown duvet that bed invited a person to lie down and rest. Wilson knew it probably had something to do with the fact House had spent months on his back after the infarction, his recovery necessitating a hospital bed in the den he and Stacy had shared when living together, but neither man ever mentioned it. This bed was nothing like the utilitarian bed with its safety rails and built in monitors, this could sleep two adult men comfortably, raise and lower into a dozen positions and, if you knew which buttons to press, it would massage your tired muscles.
"You better stay on your side tonight," House warned. He stripped down to boxers, propped his cane within easy reach and set his Vicodin on the nightstand. Wilson chuckled and crawled in on the other side. Once the lights were off, Wilson sighed and nestled into the sheets, relaxing as he hadn't in months. The bed smelled of House; his cologne, the scent of his body, the faint tickle of cigar smoke and scotch which lingered. It was comforting there in the dark, feeling the warmth of House's body beside him, hearing his friend's breathing eerily in time with his own. It reminded Wilson of times with his brothers, before things went wrong. This kind of night elicited confidences and he was just opening his mouth when House broke the silence, asking, "Are you and Julie getting a divorce?"
"Yes," Wilson whispered, the soft murmur of House's voice only intensifying the feeling of intimacy that threaded around them with all the warmth of the duvet. "I'm filing in the morning."
"Because of Debbie?"
"Who?"
"Debbie in Accounting."
"No."
"That blonde oncology nurse?"
"No."
He felt House shift, rolling onto his side to face Wilson and when Wilson glanced over he could see how those strange blue eyes glinted in the faint light through the drawn curtains. "Then why?"
Why? Wilson had asked himself that plenty of times. Could he honestly say he was divorcing his third wife because he could no longer breathe, because every time he inhaled the hurtful and angry words floating in their big empty house he thought he would suffocate? Would anyone believe him? House would. House knew him so well, knew he took as much as he could for as long as he could, knew he tried to be kind and good and loving, House knew he struggled to maintain the clam gentle shell that held all his fear and loneliness at bay until he could no longer function, until it shattered around him and left him floundering for something to hold onto. House knew all of that but still Wilson only said, "Did you know that while her husband lay dying in the hospital, Cameron fell in love with his best friend?"
He could heard House thinking; twisting that little revelation over and over in a dozen different ways, finally he asked, "did that happen - to you? Did you fall in love while your best friend was in the hospital?"
"Yes," he answered and the stillness pressed down around his heart like the weight of the world or at least his corner of it.
"So-," House cleared his throat and tried again, "so seeing Stacy brought it all back?"
"Seeing you and Stacy together brought it all back," Wilson admitted quietly.
"I see." He'd never heard defeat in House's voice, not even when the doctor's were insisting he'd never walk again if they didn't amputate, House fought until he could fight no more but at that moment he sounded hurt, more wounded than he ever had. Wilson rolled over so the two were facing each other, the gentle brush of House's breath on his cheek the purest oxygen he had ever breathed in.
"No, you don't see, you never have." Drawing upon the bottomless well of love which had sprung up with his first meeting of House, Wilson said, "When you and I met - my wife, Shannon, meant everything to me. I couldn't - picture myself not in love with her, not wanting to be with her for the rest of my life. But then everything changed." He blew out a sigh, noting absently as he did that it sounded very much like a sob. "Being around you I felt - funny - good. I -" he rolled onto his back, unable to face his only friend, "It's why I followed you to PPTH, just to be close." Wilson laughed, a tiny sound nearly swallowed by the silence in the room. "Yes, I am that pathetic, House. I ruined my first marriage because I thought more of my best friend than my wife. You and Stacy were everything to me, but I got lonely again so I married Kim."
"You didn't love her?" House asked, a kind of muted wonder in his voice which Wilson might have noticed but for the fact he'd just told House a secret he'd kept locked in his heart for years. It felt wonderful to let it go - freeing, as if part of an unbearable weight had finally lifted.
Wilson shrugged as best he could on his back. "I love being with someone, you know that. I love sex, I love the chase but did I love her? I guess not, not really. When you had the infarction and I chose being with you, helping Stacy take care of you, it kind of doomed that marriage to fail as well."
"And Julie?" House asked.
"Julie is - was - different," Wilson admitted. "She actually knew I wasn't really in love with her from the beginning." He felt House move beside him, but couldn't tell if it was because his leg was hurting or because he wanted to put some distance between them. "We might have lasted longer if she hadn't found someone else. We had a huge fight a month ago, just about the time you bought that motorcycle. I accused her, she accused me and now the lawyers are working it out."
"I know you, you'll give her everything she wants," House said.
"Probably." He couldn't deny it, being Jewish guilt was practically a way of life with him. "It's just they never - know the real me," he said haltingly, "they see Dr. James Wilson or Jim Wilson the attentive husband, the dutiful son, no one ever sees - ."
"Jimmy," House said. Wilson's could stop the lump which formed in his throat at the familiar sound of his nickname. Somehow, this strange, abrasive, arrogant and insensitive man was the only person who'd ever really taken the trouble to dig behind the flawless exterior, passed the faade he had built to stave off any disappointment he might be to someone who cared for him. A hand touched his side, fingers ghosted across his ribs before settling over his heart. Squeezing his eyes shut, Wilson covered House's hand with his own. "I see every pimple on that perfect face, every food stain on your ugly ties." Wilson laughed, clutching the hand in his tighter. "Every stupid haircut, every idiotic thing you do."
"And people say you're oblivious," Wilson said.
"They say I'm obnoxious."
"Oh, yeah, that was it." Breathing easy for the first time in a long time Wilson drifted to sleep.
**************
"You know what day it is?" House asked, limping into the kitchen one next morning and snagging a slice of toast before Wilson could react. Nearly a week had passed, six days Wilson had been staying at House's apartment, seven nights spent in the same bed as his best friend, curled against him as they slept. It had been good for both of them, Wilson knew House had slept longer, waking only a couple of times a night when the pain got too bad, and he himself had never felt so content.
"Uh, Thursday?" Wilson replied, handing House a plate loaded with fruit. He placed cereal, milk and coffee on the table and both men sat down for breakfast. A bundle of newspapers, most in languages Wilson couldn't read, had been delivered that morning and House picked up the topmost as Wilson searched through for one in American.
"Don't be coy, mon petite ami," House said with an admonishing scowl. "It's Christmas Eve."
"Ah yes," Wilson nodded. "The House traditional day of shopping. I still treasure the electric pencil sharpener and supply of bright white paper you gave me last year."
"Nothing says love like Staples' office supplies. That's their motto, you know?" House peered over his paper, a faux simper playing around his lips. "I'm thinking since I've taken you into my home that you could buy me a really excellent gift this year."
"What? How do you know I haven't?" House just looked at him. "Of course, you've snooped in every closet, and all around my office at work."
"Call Cuddy, tell her I need the day off and you have to take care of me," House advised, "then we can hit the stores."
Wilson narrowed his eyes, trying to work out all the ramifications of House's little plan. Eventually he gave up, shaking his head as he pulled out his cell phone. "Fine," he said, dialing Cuddy. By nature Wilson wasn't a very good liar, he could be easily rattled when caught in one, and thinking them up came hard, but given some time and a good enough reason he could maintain an air of innocence that few, even Cuddy, could penetrate. House shot him a look of pure delight, swooning dramatically when Wilson got to the part about House being unwell and Wilson's reluctance to leave him alone. Cuddy did give them the day off, making Wilson promise he'd keep an eye on House and not tell him about her concern. "We're on," he said, snapping the phone closed.
"She was worried about me, wasn't she?" House demanded.
"No, she figured you were faking," Wilson lied, "she said you had to do ten extra clinic hours next week." House studied him a moment, a look of uncertainty flickering behind his eyes before Wilson started laughing.
House tossed an orange slice at him. "Go get dressed," he ordered.
"I am dressed." House's sneer said what he thought of wearing slacks and a dress shirt on a day off. He sent Wilson back to the bedroom with orders not to come back until he had "taken the stick out of his ass". Thirty minutes later in faded jeans, a black Henley and his overcoat, Wilson followed House out to his car and they headed for one of the newer groups of shops which had sprung up in the area. Clustered around a central courtyard, the shopping center had everything a consumer might want but the stores were spread out so that hitting all of them would take a good chunk of time and a lot of walking. "You up to covering this entire place?"
"For presents I'll limp anywhere!" Wilson shrugged and followed him into Electronics Boutique. House made a beeline to the newest products, soon engaging one of the young salespeople in an in-depth discussion of something that would let him watch TV on his computer anywhere in his condo. "I need this," House said. Wilson nodded to the salesman, who set it aside before scurrying off after House showed interest in a multimedia system. It took nearly an hour to satisfy House's technological desires and by the time they left Wilson had shelled out just over $600 dollars, still, the excitement on House's haggard face made him smile. He honestly didn't mind spending the money and watching House act like a kid gave him a peculiar sense of accomplishment. Okay, House often acted like a child but normally just a petulant brat, this was different. Wilson knew from things House had let slip over the years that while his parents had been generous their ideas of appropriate entertainment had differed from his.
House liked complicated things, things that moved as fast as he did and kept his lightning quick mind engaged. Growing up in the sixties few parents would have understood a child like Gregory House, probably a poster child for what would eventually be called Attention Deficit Disorder, and it was that frustration that had stayed with House, making him crave those things now that he was in charge of his own life. Video games, the implausible plotlines of his soaps, fast cars and motorcycles, horse racing, stockcars, monster trucks, even his drug addiction spoke of a need to connect everything to keep himself focused and functioning. It was what made him a fantastic diagnostician and unfortunately contributed to his self-destructive ways. Wilson decided on the spot that indulging House's whims would be a Christmas present he'd give himself this year. With that resolution in mind, and sorely tested over the next hour and a half, he trailed House like a servant, paying for DVDs, CDs, video games, board games and things he couldn't even remember once they were sacked up.
"I'm hungry," House complained on the way out of Borders. He was clutching a sack full of books, but Wilson could tell by the way he moved that House had reached the end of his endurance and this was his way of calling a halt to the day.
"Why don't I phone an order into Asia Palace, we pick it up on the way home and finish shopping later," Wilson suggested.
"A man with a plan," House said, "I like that. Of course I also like poking around in condemned buildings, playing with serpents and long walks on thin ice."
"A man after my own heart." Wilson made the call on the way back to the car, not really surprised when House tossed him the keys. He liked the closeness between them, the fragile shell which seemed to have formed around them that first night. They didn't talk about the fact that things had changed, neither seemed willing to disturb the balance they had achieved. He would have liked for Greg to say something, after all he had made the first move, it wouldn't take much for a smart man like House to put two and two together and get "Wilson loves House" out of the equation. But so far House hadn't responded. No, that wasn't true. He had responded, not in words but with a gentler manner, with a warmth few others ever saw. Wilson treasured the genuine smiles he earned from House during the private times they spent together at the condo but he would have liked some more substantial sign that House knew and loved him in return.
House popped a Vicodin and settled back with his eyes closed as Wilson drove through them back home. A dozen blocks from the condo Wilson pulled into a parking space and hurried in for their food. There was a small wait and, standing at the window, he gazed out at House still kicked back in the car. A rush of affection and, he hated to admit it, tenderness went though Wilson, making him smile. House was older, smarter, large and in charge, but Wilson had always sensed a thread of vulnerability within him, a kind of fire that consumed from the inside out. It had been the same way with his brother; Richard had been the golden-boy, the pride of the family, but Wilson had seen the cracks in his persona. The support needed when someone was exposed to an ever increasing pressure of expectation had never been there for Richard. Their father would never acknowledge the possibility that Richard might be self destructive, that he might need help. It hadn't been there for Richard and he'd lost his beloved older brother but he'd be damned if he lost House. They were different as night and day, and few people would have thought they were friends but he and House had clicked from their first meeting; the odd slant each had on life, the black sense of humor, the dedication to their profession had drawn them to each other. Wilson had other friends, men his own age he saw socially but he couldn't remember a single meaningful conversation he'd ever had with them. With House, every joke, every look, every thing they didn't say conveyed so much it would take a lifetime to decipher it.
"Your order, sir," the young woman handed him a large sack. Wilson, smiling, shook his head when she blushed and giggled prettily. House stared at him when he got back in the car, almost as if he had something to say but then snatched the bag, inhaling deeply.
"Ah, just like mom use to make."
"Funny, your mom doesn't look Thai." House gave him that peculiar smirk that meant he'd appreciated the comeback but shut up and drive. Wilson shut up and drove. It took him two trips to bring in all of House's booty and by that time House had served them up heaping plates of spicy noodles, and chicken. They ate in the living room, feet on the coffee table and the stereo playing House's Chipmunk's Christmas album. There was nothing even vaguely Romantic about it, two guys in their shirtsleeves belching and eating takeout but Wilson knew his face wore a sappy smile and he had the urge to kiss House just because it felt right. He wondered what House would do if he just leaned in and planted one on him. He knew House wasn't homophobic, he knew House liked him, and he knew he could blame it on the night and the music and the fact Julie had thrown him out. He was still mulling this over when his cell phone rang fifteen minutes later, he answered with a distracted "Wilson" and upon hearing the caller's voice immediately broke into a broad grin. "No, I wasn't busy. Just sitting around, relaxing." Out of the corner of his eye he noticed House looking at him and a moment later head over to his piano sitting down and playing random notes. It should have been a signal, House used his piano as a haven, a safe place he could hide but for once Wilson's innate understanding of his friends failed him. He continued the conversation, comfortable, amused but with no real agenda. "Sure, that's fine. Monday. Bye." He snapped the phone closed and tossed it on the coffee table. House continued to plink out tuneless notes, his shoulders stiff, cane grasped in his left hand, twirling mindlessly.
"Another hot little number?"
Wilson glanced up. "Huh? Oh, no, that was Jenny Keller, she has that shop around the corner from the hospital, the photography store. I dropped off some of my film a week ago and forgot to pick it up."
"Nude shots are all the rage," House observed, one hand thumping the keys. "So, do you take turns trying on silly costume? Nah, I know you aren't that adventurous, I bet you fall back on Doctor Jimmy and his hot nurse, don't you?" Wilson frowned, but House went on, his words deliberate, as if he'd thought them out over time. "Poor Jimmy is getting lonely again. He'll be looking for the next Mrs. Wilson and who better than the neighborhood photographer. She can take her own pictures at the wedding, save you a bundle. Tell me Jimmy, did you smile at her like you did that sweet little thing at Asia Palace?"
"House, don't start-"
"No wonder Julie tried to bash your skull in, she probably wanted to see if there was more inside it than sleazy fantasies." Wilson closed his mouth with a snap, and let his gaze drop to the floor. Without another word he rose, snatched his coat and headed out the door. His breath steamed in the cold air, making him think of ashes. What the hell had brought that on? House's attack had been unprovoked as far as Wilson was concerned. But was it, really? House never did anything he hadn't thought out, he wanted a reaction, he would try things different ways and study the results. This wasn't so much about the phone call or the unconscious flirting he must have done at the restaurant, this was something else.
House wanted to know everything, he had to find the limits - the boundaries and he pushed until he did. He knew what buttons to push, what weaknesses a person had and how to play on them. He was a master at it, testing how much you'd take from him, how much you'd give, how long you'd stay. Wilson had seen it any number of times. It had driven Stacy crazy, this relentless digging, his endless manipulating, gleaning every scrap of information he could from a person and using it to find out secrets. And when he'd lock himself away, applying those same dogged skills to some baffling medical mystery Stacy had been hurt. She'd confessed the fact in a couple of tear filled nights in the long months after House's illness. Wilson stopped walking, choosing a seat on a bench and sitting down. Snow flakes drifted on the breeze, falling from the night sky like crystallized tears. He could feel them kiss his cheeks, melting and taking the place of real tears he could not shed. Stacy had been lonely when House was brooding over some puzzle. She hated the walls he threw up around himself, the silences she could not breech, or the vast empty space his unquenchable thirst for knowledge left and which she could not cross. It was funny how different he and Stacy reacted to the person they both loved. Where she had felt lonely, Wilson felt needed. He liked to watch House solve his puzzles, and when the walls went up Wilson felt like a guardian, a sentry safeguarding a treasure that could be lost for all eternity if he wasn't there. A dark shadow fell across him and House's lean body dropped onto the bench beside him.
They could hear cars crunching the snow but the sound echoed strangely through the neighborhood, distorting reality much as being together had distorted Wilson's own reality. He'd been annoyed about House's little "how much is our friendship worth to you" game a month ago - not with House but with himself for not figuring it out sooner. You couldn't be angry or upset with House it was like being mad at the wind for blowing or the sun for shining. House - was House, he couldn't change and to be honest Wilson wouldn't want him to. House was everything he wasn't but wanted to be. House was the bad boy, the rebel, the anarchist. He saw right and wrong, black and white, he lived his life unapologetic on his own terms. Wilson's world consisted of endless shades of gray, his existence a delicate balance of truth and kindness, pain and desire. "That was a test, wasn't it," Wilson finally asked into the still night. House didn't answer his question but his shoulder pressed into Wilson's. They sat quietly for a long time until Wilson sighed. He had nothing else, nothing that meant anything. It had all slipped away like ashes in the wind. When he could no longer feel anything but the bite of cold and the steady pressure of House leaning heavily against him, Wilson wondered what he would do now. He gathered himself to stand but House's quiet voice stopped him.
"I've pretty much made everyone hate me within fifteen minutes of meeting me," House said with a strange hint of pride in his voice. "Stacy despised me, it took her a couple of days to see my charm." Wilson couldn't stop the rude sound that statement caused and House chuckled. "Only you," he said softly, "liked me from the instant we met. We got along, you never really got angry - I know I piss you off from time to time." Wilson bumped House's shoulder, "but you never stay mad. You always - protect me - love me." Wilson looked up then, his and House's breath wreathing their heads.
"Someone has to," he said, "you're too stubborn to do it yourself."
House tapped his cane against the sidewalk, nodding more to himself than to Wilson. "Let's go, it's passed midnight so it's Christmas and I want to give you your present."
"Oh, great. I put a pencil sharpener on my wish list."
"Come on, Doubting Wilson," House growled but his expression was soft, his eyes shining gray in the streetlight. He pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand to Wilson, who took it. House surprised him by not letting go as they walked back to the condo, their footsteps echoing in the synchronized step they had perfected years before. At the door to 221B Wilson took a deep breath, blowing it out in a cloud that shimmered into nothingness. It felt - amazing. The air filled his lungs with pure, cool joy. He drank it in freely, giddy with the pleasure of simply being alive and breathing. House tilted his head, studying him with a bemused eye. "You don't need to fortify yourself," he admonished lightly.
"It's not that," Wilson said, "I was just enjoying the fresh air." He followed House inside, hanging up their wet coats. He expected a cheesy present and maybe a sprig of plastic mistletoe befitting his friend's warped sense of humor. But clearly House had foregone the silliness in favor of sentimentality, something Wilson had never thought he'd live long enough to witness but there it was. While he had been moping in the cold House had dug out a small fiber optic Christmas tree and a battered looking menorah, setting both on the piano where the tree cast a colorful array across the walls, strangely compatible to the cozy glow created by the shammash.
"I didn't know how many candles for tonight," House said by way of explanation, making his way over to the tree. He sat down at the piano, and picked up the sheet of paper which lay like a present beneath the small tree.
"Here. Happy Chrismukkah."
Wilson hesitated. That same stomach churning feeling he'd had the night he left Julie washed through him and once again he knew he was standing on the brink of something new, at the lip of a black chasm and all he had to do was take that leap and life would never be the same again. He looked at House, at that familiar face, and saw the friend he had known for nearly ten years, but more than that he saw the man who knew him better than anyone else alive. It wouldn't be scary to take that leap, not with House beside him. And so he took it, moving to House's side, settling on the piano bench as House's long fingers settled onto the keys. The sheet of paper was covered with lines of music, each drawn carefully though he could see erasures and changes here and there. Wilson knew enough about music to follow along the hand written score as House began to play. It sounded corny, even as he thought it, but it was like House had looked into his heart and put his life to music. The tune started slow and mellow, skating along on melody until House closed his eyes, head falling back, a frown marring his brow. Wilson resisted the overwhelming urge to touch him, to capture one of those elegant hands and draw House out of the place into which he'd slipped because to do so would be to break the spell and end the story being spun out in perfect notes. So Wilson sat unmoving, though moved, as the music played his life, small chords of apprehension occasionally sneaking in from the left hand but always brushed aside by the diligent right. There was joy and happiness as well; not the shrill treble flutter of false love but something in the middle range, maybe not exciting but solid and real and endless. His own fingers unconsciously traced across the crisp white sheet, caressing the title drawn up and declared in bold - MY OWN, JAMES.
It was only when the notes ended, dying away until the only sounds were their breaths drawn and exhaled, that Wilson dared to move. He turned and stared at the sharp profile of a man he had sacrificed all the easy routes to happiness for, remembering the only times he'd truly been happy had been the ones spent here beside him. "I never expected you to love me back," he said quietly.
House turned to face him and for once the mischievous glint was absent from his eyes. Something sad lay exposed within the blue depths. "I know," he said softly, "and for that I'm sorry." He smiled, though it too held traces of sorrow and leaned in to press his lips to Wilson's. And as the snow fell outside and the clock chimed Christmas Morning, James Wilson thought how wonderful it felt just to breathe.
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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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