Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: This piece…worries me. I honestly don't know if I've seen enough episodes to write fanfiction, because I like to make sure I have all my facts straight. So if you see something that doesn't fit, something that doesn't agree with the show, please don't hesitate to let me know.
Also…this piece feels forced, but that could be because I haven't really written anything in a while. I guess I just need your feedback.
It's twelve o' clock at night, and Wilson is seated loosely, arms braced on the counter in front of him, watching House glide his long pianist fingers around the rim of his glass. He picks up his own drink and takes a swallow, more to have something to do with his hands than for an actual liking of the alcohol (although getting smashed is sounding more and more appealing by the minute).
He drums his fingers restlessly and watches House out of the corner of his eye, upgrading to full-blown staring as the night wears on, and he decides that he can attribute it to his drunkenness later on.
(House will call him a lightweight, but it's better than explaining what the sight of his friend's electric-blue eyes does to him.)
"Why, Jimmy," House says, knocking papers off of his desk with one smooth movement of his cane. "You look down in the dumps. Wife not putting out anymore?"
Wilson's lips curl in something that looks like a smile but lacks any warmth. "There hasn't been any 'putting out' for the last three months. Her new method of communication seems to be paper taped to the fridge."
"Is it boring paper? Because if it's the girly notes she used to be so fond of sending there might still be some hope," House says, voice light and eyes unreadable.
Wilson shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose and wishes that he could see what is in House's eyes just once.
He grabs his jacket and stands up.
"Let's get drunk," he says, and shuts the door behind him almost hard enough to shatter.
Wilson glances at his watch and wonders if Julie's friends have gone home yet. He hopes they haven't, because then he has an excuse to go home with House.
The guest list consisted of a few colleagues of Julie and their vapid wives and/or boring, one-track minded husbands, and he had quickly shot down her idea of him being there to play 'model husband' and pretend like their marriage still had some semblance of normality in it. Her lips had twisted bitterly as if she hadn't expected him to agree anyway, and she had coolly asked him, voice hard and brittle, to either be home before midnight or spend the night elsewhere, because she would be going to bed before then and didn't want to be disturbed.
He chews on his lower lip distractedly and remembers a time when he would leave at odd hours and get back at odd hours, and he could still wake her up when he got back with an apology and a soft kiss, and she would curl up against him, drowsy and warm, and things felt right for a little bit of time.
House shifts on the stool next to him (and that can't be good for his leg. He'll find a discreet way to suggest heading to his house soon) and raises his eyebrows as Wilson stares at him for the hundredth time that night.
Wilson knows that had he had even the slightest desire to be a part of Julie's little dinner party, had he wanted to give them, their relationship, another try by going along with her plans, and had House had invited him for drinks or even given him that look that said, 'I won't ask you, but we're going out tonight', he would have chosen House in a heartbeat. House comes first. House always comes first.
He realizes—with a realization that doesn't feel sudden at all, but rather as if he's always known it and just been too slow to pick up on it before—that all of his wives have been the other women.
He thinks that this may have had something to do with the failing of all his marriages.
He goes back to House-watching, eyes tracing the sharp features and curled lips, thick stubble that somehow worked for him, lines etched from pain and eased a little from the vicodin he just took, and meets fathomless blue eyes for all of a second before he jerks away, and he has to wrap his hands around his drink once again to hide their shaking.
Wilson feels a sharp pang at the thought that the rest of his life will be like this: watching from afar, so desperate for warmth in his bed and intimacy that he knows he cannot get from the man sitting next to him that he will go through yet another stupid, doomed-to-fail marriage.
He imagines his ex-wives laughing at him, wherever they are.
He raises his glass a few inches in a silent toast to them and drinks down the last of the liquid in one bitter gulp.