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A Kiss Is Just A Kiss
by nightdog_writes
You must remember this:
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.
-- Herman Hupfeld
House was stretched out on the couch when Wilson got home, the television tuned to some old black-and-white movie with the sound off.
He made no move to help as James fought to balance the bag of groceries, remove his suit jacket, and close the apartment door all at the same time.
"Don't get up, no, don't exert yourself, it's okay," Wilson growled.
No response. James sighed and carried the groceries into the kitchen, where he took a clean glass from the cabinet and tipped in a healthy slug of single malt.
He walked back into the living room and sat down on the edge of the coffee table, facing House.
"Here," he said, handing him the Scotch. "I heard what happened. There's no way you could've known, and the tests just weren't conclusive enough."
House still hadn't said anything, although he did lean forward and take a small sip of the drink. He looked as bone-weary as Wilson had ever seen him, his ice-blue eyes focused on something far away.
James sighed again and ran a hand through his hair, discouraged. House was like this sometimes -- withdrawn, wracked with self-doubt. It usually happened when he'd lost a patient, like today. Then it was all Wilson could do to be there for his friend, to endure his moods, his bitter words, his anger. This time there was an added layer of drama. Wilson had seen Stacy at the hospital today for the first time in months. Cuddy had told him she was there for a friend's wedding and had just stopped by. He didn't know if House had seen her or not.
"I thought I'd make lasagna. How's that sound?"
No answer.
Wilson abruptly stood, and retrieving his suit coat, lifted three paperback books from the jacket pocket.
"Here," he said. "I found these while I was going through some office stuff. Thought you might like to be somebody else for awhile; Philip Marlowe, or Sam Spade. The only people who die in these are the ones who deserve it." Tossing the books onto the table, he hung the coat back up and retreated into the kitchen.
House lay still a moment longer, then reached over and fanned the books across the tabletop.
The Long Goodbye, by Raymond Chandler. The Maltese Falcon, by Dashiell Hammett. The Postman Always Rings Twice, by James M. Cain. Classics, all of them.
A smile twitched at the corner of House's lips. He hadn't known Wilson liked this stuff. The man was continually surprising him.
The clatter of pots and pans came from the kitchen, and soon the delicious aroma of onions and garlic sauteeing in olive oil filled the apartment.
House picked up The Postman Always Rings Twice, and opened it to the first page. They threw me off the hay truck about noon, he read, and with that all the stress and exhaustion of the week caught up with him, and he was asleep.
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He was sitting in his usual spot, back against the wall in the little Italian restaurant and sipping a cup of joe, when Jimmy walked in. His dark suit was sharply pressed, his snap-brim fedora pulled low.
"House! You called, I came. What's the mystery this time?" He removed his hat and laid it beside House's on the table. A blonde waitress passed by, her smoldering eyes casting an unmistakable invitation in Jimmy's direction. Wilson smiled shyly at her, missing the glint of amusement in House's eyes.
Yep, Jimmy was born to chase the skirts. The trouble was, the kittens knew it. He'd been married eight times that House knew of, and there was still a new jane on his arm every Saturday night.
The coffee cup rattled in its saucer as House set it down and leaned forward. "This time? The mystery doesn't change, Jimmy. She's back and I'm going to find her."
Jimmy Wilson sighed and rubbed both hands wearily over his face. "House. Please. That dame? She's trouble with a capital "T" and you know it. C'mon, don't you want to play the ponies? Find a poker game? We could go up to Ebbets Field; the Dodgers have a doubleheader today."
"Dame?" House's voice was harsh. "She's not just a dame, Jimmy. She gave me the chin music, tried to kill me and damn near succeeded." He thumped his cane on the floor. "As long as she's out there I can't rest. She's my sworn enemy. The bane of my existence. My ... nemesis."
"The Greek guy who runs the bookie joint?" House glared at him but Jimmy didn't blink. "Okay, I get the picture. How are we gonna find her?"
"To find a woman you have to ask a woman ... and I know just the woman to ask."
"I was afraid you'd say that," Jimmy mumbled.
The cavernous speakeasy was fogged with years of cigarette smoke, and the raw stink of bathtub gin hung in the air. Hard men and loose women danced to the overwhelmingly loud music of the swing band at the front of the room. In the dark corners, bets were laid, appointments made, and deadly contracts negotiated. It was a bad place in a bad part of town, and House and Wilson stood a little closer together, each watching the other's back.
A dark-haired woman strode towards them through the nicotine haze, and House stared at her with narrowed eyes. Lisa Cuddy, undisputed queen of every gambling hall and opium den on the West Side. Loan sharking, extortion, white slavery -- her business interests ranged far and wide. She was beautiful, aggressive, ruthless, and above all, smart. She reminded House of himself.
"Uh, House, I might leave out that part about beautiful in reference to you," Jimmy volunteered in a mild tone.
"Shut up," House snapped. "Whose dream is this anyway?"
Jimmy raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"House. Wilson." Cuddy nodded at each of them. "What brings you gentlemen to my fine establishment this evening?"
"Spare us the chitchat, dollface," House smirked as he leered at Cuddy's most valuable assets. "We've got questions, you have the answers! We want to know where Stacy Warner is and we want to know now!"
"Are you sure this is what Cuddy meant when she told us to go to hell?" Jimmy asked, choking. The sulferous fumes and fog were making it difficult to breathe, much less speak.
"Cuddy may be many things," House gasped, "but she is honest. Stacy's here -- somewhere!"
A monstrous roar from very close by shook the two men.
"There she is," House said.
"House!" They both flinched. "Stop following me! This is called STALKING, and if you don't stop I'm going to take out a restraining order!"
"Stacy! This will never be over between us! We need to talk!"
"Get a LIFE, House!" The fog parted, and for just a moment there was the faintest glimpse of what might have been a dragon's tail retreating in the distance.
"That went well," Jimmy observed.
House stood, dejected, hellish smoke twisting and writhing around his feet.
"These dreams never work out," he grumbled. "Once I was Achilles and she was Helen. I was Zhivago and she was Lara. I was Mulder and she was Scully. I was Ahab ..."
"Uh, House," Jimmy interrupted. "I don't think I want to know any more."
House turned and looked at him.
"It never changes anything," he said, slowly. "But if that's always the case, then this shouldn't either." Stretching out one arm, he put his hand on the back of Jimmy's neck and pulled him close. "Let's try something different," he breathed.
And he kissed Jimmy.
"Mmphoshffsgh," Jimmy said.
House's lips were gentle and inquiring. New sensations, new tastes ... Jimmy tasted like toothpaste, and mouthwash, and music; like a Miles Davis riff in a long slow night, a Jobim bossa nova at Carnivale; like the Harry James trumpet solo in String of Pearls, the magnificent piano chords of Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue, a Mozart symphony, a Bach cantata. He tasted like life. Jimmy's hands crept up to rest on House's sides, in that sweet in-between spot where the ribs curve down and the hips begin, and held him there, as if the world depended on it.
They stood like that for a long time, locked in something neither could define but both didn't want to end. At last it was House who pulled back, gazing at Wilson as if identifying a new specimen under the microscope. They didn't seem to be in hell anymore; they stood in a grassy meadow, the sky a magnificent arched bowl above them.
Blue eyes stared into brown.
"Wow," House finally said. "I kissed you." He felt ... odd. "What's going on?"
It took a moment for Jimmy to respond. "Don't ask me. It's your dream."
"It is, isn't it," House mused, and somehow that idea was both frightening and exhilirating. "I think I might like to do this more often."
"Me too," Jimmy replied, "except it's a little late now." He looked down.
House's left eyebrow quirked upward in a question, and he followed Jimmy's gaze.
Before his eyes, Jimmy was disappearing, slowly, from the legs up. His brown eyes stayed with House, even as he continued to melt away like a candy bar left outside on a hot summer's day.
"No! What's happening?"
"What you're afraid will happen. Isn't it obvious?" He was becoming more transparent by the moment. "Y'know, for a hard-boiled detective, you're a real jake."
House tried to hold him, but it was no use. A last flash of that familiar shy smile, and Jimmy was gone; a black snap-brim fedora all that was left, resting on the ground. He was completely alone. House felt panic rising in his throat.
"Jimmy!" he said desperately. "Wilson! JAMES!!"
"House? House! It's okay! Shhhhhh ..."
Strong hands grasping his wrists. Brown eyes filled with concern, looking into his. A deeply worried Wilson, soothing him.
"You were just having a dream -- a bad dream, by the sounds of it."
House relaxed, taking a deep shuddering breath.
"Yeah, a bad dream. That's all."
Dinner was very good; House knew the secret of Wilson's lasagna -- a generous pinch of fennel seeds in the tomato sauce. He claimed his father had learned the trick in the '50s, when he was working for the U.S. Information Agency in Italy.
Both men were relaxed and comfortable; James was barefoot, in old jeans and a well-worn Yes t-shirt. House wore the pants from an old set of scrubs and his prized 1970 The Who concert shirt from Leeds.
Nevertheless, despite the good food and the excellent Chianti, House couldn't help but feel edgy. Nervous. He was aware he was keeping a close eye on Wilson's every move and tried to hide it, but it was too obvious.
At last, Wilson put down his fork and looked House in the eye.
"What's the deal? You've been watching me all night like you're afraid I'm going to disappear or something!"
House blinked. A slow smile spread across his face.
"Just thinking, Jimmy."
Wilson knew he shouldn't, but he had to ask. "Thinking about what?"
The smile grew wider.
"How you'd look in a hat."
~fin
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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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