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Come To My Window
by gena
Come to my window......
It took nearly a week - six days four hours and twenty-seven minutes, not that he was counting, for Wilson to do one of his casual drop-bys. They were "okay" though there had been some lingering hurt on both sides. But when House heard the familiar knock followed by the scratch of a key, he couldn't hide the huge smile which broke across his face. "Come for the DVD player?" He asked.
Wilson carried a couple of bags from the local market and House could see a loaf of Italian bread sticking out the top. "Hungry?" Wilson asked already heading for the kitchen.
"Always." House lagged back, watching Wilson set out the things he would need to cook a meal for the pair of them. A warm pressure filled his chest as he tracked the familiar movements and for a horrifying second House felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. "Not gonna be any crap that'll stink up the kitchen for the next month is it?"
"Like you would notice a bad smell in here," Wilson said, casting a pointed look at the mound of dirty dishes in the sink. He turned to face House and for a moment they merely stared at each other like gunfighters, House armed with his cane and Wilson holding the packet of spaghetti noodles.
House wanted to say something - to shout DRAW or I REALLY MISS YOU but the words lodged in his throat and all he managed was, "I have beer."
Wilson stared a second longer. "Good," he said, nodding and turned to fill a pan with water. House watched him. Most people who observed House and Wilson knew the hallmark of their relationship was the continued verbal sparring they engaged in; the lightning quick back and forth and give and take of equal opponents, but what those casual viewers never saw where the quiet moments that engulfed them just as fully. It had been one of the things House had most enjoyed about Wilson's presence in the apartment. He liked the way they could be quiet together, the way the apartment didn't feel deserted when he didn't have the television on, or his stereo blaring. He liked the way Wilson warmed the stillness, keeping the cold empty feeling at bay and as he watched Wilson cook in silent contentment he couldn't help but long for the precious few nights like this they had shared. He finally went into the living room, seating himself on the couch where he could still see Wilson, soothed by the occasional snatches of song Wilson invariably hummed when doing something he liked. He might have hummed a little himself, eventually getting to his feet and moving over to the piano. He picked out a simple tune, just the melody for several bars before looking up to find Wilson, arms crossed, leaning against the kitchen archway. His smile was so faint House wasn't sure it really even existed outside his own longing. "I found another apartment," Wilson said. He'd moved into a hotel after Grace left.
House stopped playing and looked down at his hands, at his fingers splayed across the keys, bewildered as to what melody they would produce if he pressed harder. When he finally looked up he could feel the veneer around his heart starting to crack. "Is it close?"
Wilson pushed himself off the doorframe, wandering towards House with all the casual confidence he wandered the halls of PPTH. "Yeah, a mile or two." He perched on the bench beside House, the air around him carrying the sharp smell of garlic, the spice of aftershave, and the tang of sweat. On anyone else it would have been unpleasant but coming off Wilson, House thought it one of the most intriguing scents he'd ever smelled. He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Wilson's and instantly felt the pressure returned. "It's a nice place," Wilson said and House nodded, unable to say anything to that. Instead he pressed the white keys beneath his fingers and the resulting sound turned out to be a pleasing combination of notes he never would have thought fit together.
"I can help you move," House whispered. He still had the DVD player and a few odds and ends Wilson had stuffed in the closet.
"Yes, it's always helpful to have you standing around bitching about how much crap I have." Wilson tapped a key, adding another sound to the mix. House cocked his head as that note echoed then put some effort into the tune, his fingers dancing while Wilson continued to pick out single notes at random, hitting each one in the slow and steady way he did everything. It couldn't have been called a song, or anything so structured but together their efforts came out sounding magical, Wilson's control counterbalancing House's natural flair for the dramatic.
"If that's what you need from me," House shot him a playful glance and saw Wilson smile down at their hands.
"I have to let him know by tomorrow if I'm taking it." House didn't stop playing, but the timbre of his tune changed, becoming something darker, something as moody as oaken casts aging in a cellar.
"Why did you come by?"
"I -" Wilson floundered, his head dropping so that the wave of chestnut hair fell forward and hid his brows. It was then that House finally ended his song, his hands releasing the keys only to fall like dead things into his lap. When Wilson looked up House thought he could see the same lifeless attitude. "Sometimes, at the hotel," Wilson said, "I watch SpongeBob."
"You hate SpongeBob." Wilson shrugged but House knew exactly what he meant. Sometimes he thought the long months after his infarction had brought about some latent psychic ability in Wilson. He often imagined that during the time Wilson had spent sitting at his bedside the younger man had delved into his brain, uncovering his every thought. It frightened House more than anything to think that someone else knew him so well and his fear caused him to lash out - even at Wilson. He'd not invited Wilson to his poker games for that very reason, House couldn't risk being revealed to other people. He'd might have done exactly that to Wilson, exposed his secret in front of those strangers; but he told himself he'd done it in an effort to make the oncologist see it through their eyes and maybe stop kidding himself that it was just a kind and compassionate act. Still, if he were bring honest, House knew a big part of what he'd done had been because he was angry with Wilson for lying about moving out and his own inability to see through that lie. It had hurt to know he could that ruthless but House liked to think that some nobler part of his soul had been unwilling to let Wilson go on lying to himself, deluding himself.
"Maybe it wasn't SpongeBob I hated," Wilson said. "Maybe I was just scared SpongeBob would eventually get tired of Patrick, especially when he did something stupid."
"Never happen," House assured him, "they have to stick together just to annoy Squidward. And - I think Patrick is the definition of stupid but SpongeBob loves him." He waited, feeling Wilson begin to tremble beside him.
"I can't do it," Wilson finally said in a broken whisper, his brown eyes were barren, desolate.
"Do what?"
"Love you - like you need," Wilson said.
House leaned in again, his shoulder pressed to Wilson's so that they held each other up. "This," he said, nudging Wilson gently with his elbow, "is what I need."
Wilson drew in a shaky breath and met his gaze. "I - I need it too." He paused and sighed, "I want to come back, House. I want to live with you."
"Great minds," House said, chuckling. "And," he played a fanfare on the piano, "just in the nick of time - we're out of clean pots and pans and I'm starving."
Wilson rose with another deep sigh, "I knew you only kept me around for my domestic skills."
House watched him walk into the kitchen. "No, Jimmy," he whispered, "that's not the only reason." And he smiled.
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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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