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Truth and Consequences
by Adrienne S.
"You might not want to sit exactly there," Wilson said quietly,
not looking away from the television.
House promptly picked up the pillow by the side of the couch and
tucked it under his butt. He hadn't felt any wetness on the
couch, nor could he smell anything, but better safe than sorry.
Wilson's deadpan delivery, along with the studied nonchalance,
usually meant he was willing to play along with whatever
silliness House came up with.
They watched in silence, although House was finding the pillow
too lumpy for comfort. He squirmed a little, taking off his
jacket and dropping it on the floor.
"There's soup in the fridge if you want some," Wilson offered, as
the credits rolled.
"Labelled your property, no doubt," House griped, picking up his
mangled cane and getting to his feet.
"I bought the ingredients and I made it," Wilson pointed out
agreeably.
"You used my pot," House retorted.
"Which is why I'm graciously allowing you to have some," Wilson
replied smoothly. "Or is it more fun if you steal it?"
"Other people's food is tastier. You know that," House said,
hobbling to the kitchen. "I don't know why you're so anal about
the food thing. I always steal your food."
"My food is tasty, no matter whose it is."
"True. How come you never told me you could cook?"
"You never asked." Wilson was yawning, based on the way his words
were slurring.
-----------------------
The soup was sublime. Then again, with Wilson's cooking skills
and ethnic background, it was inevitable that he'd make a chicken
noodle soup that could cure what ails you. He slurped up the
soup, wiped his chin with the back of his hand and set the bowl
on the coffee table. Wilson was staring off into space, his chin
resting on one hand.
"You owe me a new cane," House said abruptly. "I can't believe
you did that. I could have hurt myself, you know."
"You know how to fall, House," Wilson replied, unruffled. "You
deserved it."
House tried to look stern, then pathetic, but couldn't manage
either expression.
"Yeah, it was pretty damn funny," House admitted, with a rueful
smile. "You played it perfectly."
"Thank you." Wilson rose and gave a slight bow. "I'm going to
bed."
House shifted, preparing to get up and leave Wilson the couch,
but Wilson waved a hand and walked away, towards his bedroom.
House figured he was on the way to the bathroom, so he hoisted
himself to his feet to take the empty bowl into the kitchen and
then lock up for the night.
Hobbling into his bedroom, he was startled to find Wilson
climbing into his bed.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"I told you. I'm going to bed," Wilson replied, settling the
covers neatly around him.
"In my bed?"
"You expect me to sleep on the couch after your little prank last
night?" Wilson gave him a wide eyed stare that verged on
puppyish innocence.
"That was your little accident."
"Which was your fault," Wilson said, closing his eyes. "How does
that old saying go? Don't do the crime if you don't want to do
the time."
"Well, I'm not sleeping on the couch," House said, sitting down
on the side of the bed and starting to get undressed. He
wondered how far this little game of chicken would go before
Wilson blinked. He was damned if he was going to blink first.
"Suits me," Wilson said. "You don't move much when you're asleep
and snoring doesn't bother me."
House snorted as he pulled off his t-shirt. He knew damn well he
didn't move much once he actually fell asleep; he'd spent too
many months hooked up to machines to unlearn the art of sleeping
without dislodging anything. He knew, too, that Wilson didn't
move much, either, although he had no idea why. It occurred to
him more than once this last week or so that he didn't know
Wilson quite as well as he thought he did.
He stripped down to his skin and pulled his pyjama pants out from
under his pillow, making sure that there was no way Wilson could
see him below the waist. He didn't care if Wilson saw his
privates, but he really didn't want to expose his scar any more
than he absolutely had to. Even to Wilson.
A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that Wilson wasn't
looking at him at all.
He slid under the covers, making sure that he didn't accidentally
brush against his unexpected bedmate. He punched his pillow into
shape, settled himself and closed his eyes. Several minutes went
by while House argued with himself as to whether he was going to
keep picking at Wilson or not.
"I know what this is all about," House said finally.
"Hm?"
"You just wanted to get me into bed."
"Nope," Wilson contradicted. "I wanted to get into your bed."
"That's what I said." House felt smug satisfaction at being
right, although he wasn't entirely sure how he felt about the
implications of being right this time.
"No, it isn't. I want to sleep in your bed. Your presence isn't
a necessary part of the equation."
House thought about that for a moment, then turned onto his left
side to face Wilson.
"I think I liked you better when you were moping."
Wilson was silent for a moment, then turned onto his right side
to face House.
"No, you didn't," Wilson objected. "You did everything you could
to piss me off so I'd snap out of it."
"Is that what this is about, then? Payback?" House asked, in a
low voice. "Invading the last bit of space you haven't already
taken over?"
"Taken over?" Wilson sounded taken aback. "If you want me out
so badly, why did you erase those messages?"
"I didn't want you out," House shot back, "but I didn't invite
you into my bed, either."
"Should have thought of that before your hand in warm water
stunt," Wilson reminded him. "Consequences, House. There are
always consequences."
"Shut up and go to sleep," House growled and flopped onto his
back again, determinedly closing his eyes. Wilson, he noted,
only shifted slightly.
"G'night," Wilson murmured. House waited until Wilson's
breathing has smoothed out, then looked over.
"I wasn't really jerking off when I put the stethoscope on the
door, you know," House said, hoping to startle Wilson out of his
pre-sleep drowse.
"And I didn't really piss on your couch," Wilson replied easily.
House sat up and glared at his friend.
"Aha. So this is about getting me into bed."
"Of course it is. I'm aching for you," Wilson nodded. "You
wanna shut up now and let me get some sleep?"
"No, I think we should talk about this." House was starting to
get a little nervous. Without the minute visual cues, he wasn't
sure if Wilson was serious. Or whether he wanted Wilson to be.
"Great. Now, you want to talk."
House did not need any visual confirmation of the eyeroll Wilson
was certainly giving him.
"Well, now it's about me," House defended himself.
"Relax. If I was going to make a pass at you, I'd be a lot more
direct."
"So this isn't a pass?"
"No. Do you want it to be?"
"Why are you here, then?"
Wilson sighed and propped himself up on an elbow.
"I thought you didn't want to listen to me ramble on about my
problems."
"I thought you wanted to talk," House replied quietly. "I'm
listening now, Jimmy."
"There isn't that much to say," Wilson said softly. "Have you
ever wanted to dig a hole in the ground, jump in and pull the
dirt over your head?"
"Oh, yes," House breathed softly. God, he knew how that felt.
It wasn't a suicidal wish, exactly. It was wanting the world to
go away, just for a little while.
"I've failed for the third time at marriage," Wilson continued,
in a sad voice. "If I can't hide, I want to at least know that
I'm not quite as alone as I feel right now."
House stayed silent. He knew what Wilson was talking about. In
the dark days after Stacy left, he had felt hideously alone. Now
that he had broken through Wilson's numbness and denial, there
was pain.
He reached over and touched Wilson's hand that was lying between
them.
"You're not alone. For what it's worth, you've got me."
"It's worth a lot," Wilson replied, then added in a lighter tone.
"Besides, my back is starting to hurt from sleeping on the
couch."
"So move."
"I tried that," Wilson reminded him. "How about letting me take
naps here when you're working and I'm not?"
"I don't know..."
"Two words, House. Macadamia. Pancakes."
"Deal."
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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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