Title: Change We Need
Author: htebazytook
Rating: PG (for philosophizing)
Disclaimer: —
Pairing: House/Wilson
Time Frame: Directly after 5.16, 'The Softer Side'.
Author's Notes: This is some brief, vaguely angsty, mostly pointless, and indulgently philosophical Wilson POV. It seems that every time I try to write episode-related stories they end up all serious, lol
Wilson sticks his hand securely in his coat pocket to stop the pills from rattling. It had sounded so incriminating in the cold outdoor silence. He's worried about snow and the kind of people on the roads at this time of night and he's thinking about how every time he has to go back to her apartment for—sleep, some forgotten paperwork, whatever—it's hard to remember where in time he is.
He assumes House has disposed of his stash. He's certain of it. Yesterday Wilson had been staring at the little stack of preemptively signed Vicodin prescriptions in the part of his wallet next to credit card #2 and thrown them out without a second thought. So, by the transitive property of knowing House too well, he is soon to be in pain and drug-less.
It's times like these that talking to Cuddy is important—House won't tell her things in the way he tells Wilson. The perspective helps.
Icy tickle of snow down his collar. His hands are cold by the time he's trudged through to the hallway. His mouth is dry by the time he's knocking on House's door, other hand still sheltering the drugs, seeking warmth in his pocket.
"What are you waiting for?" House, far-away. Bedroom? Oh, shit.
The door pushes in without resistance or key, freaks him out a little. Wilson weaves into the kitchen, stretches his hand in the direction of the light switch until it flicks on. He's struck by how dark the place is.
While tap water fills up the first available glass Wilson considers doing the right thing and pestering House about rehab and therapy and alternatives and happiness but those . . . will just have to wait until the memory of House half-dead and depressed and abandoned has faded. Going on ten years—Wilson should've gotten over it by now.
He turns the kitchen light off, grabs the glass of water and finally works the pill bottle out of his pocket on his way to the bedroom. Still in his coat, heavy swishy noises with his footsteps. He keeps it on to be as far removed as possible from whatever state he finds House in.
He can walk around in House's apartment in the dark without a second thought but always manages to bruise a shin or slam into a doorframe on midnight bathroom trips at her place. House turns on the lamp before Wilson is halfway across the room, holds out a hand for the drugs and only looks at Wilson when the glass of water is shoved in his face. Wilson tries to see bloodshot eyes and dark circles and sweat but House just looks alien, clean-shaven, swallowing pain relievers in the poor lighting.
"Thanks," House says after a moment, in that sincere tone he only allows himself when something horrible is nearby to take the blame. Two Vicodin down, glass half empty in his hands, sitting up with the covers wrapped around him. He looks like a little kid who's had a nightmare; he's in the kind of mood to listen to Wilson without getting too pissed off.
So Wilson says, keeping the drama away from his voice: "I don't expect you to change. I just wish you'd at least try to be happy."
"What makes you think I'm not happy?" House says, especially morosely, just for fun.
Wilson laughs. "Absurd, I know."
"Listen." And House clasps the glass with both hands and looks into it like an oracle. He still all softly serious, not totally free of the methadone yet. Wilson can't help relishing it. "The only parts of life I hate are my pain and stupid people. And since the pills help the pain and you can help me make fun of the stupid people . . .just. Don't flatter yourself, 'cause I'm not trying to change for you. I subscribe to the worldview that nothing ever really changes. It's kind of my whole thing." Wilson starts to talk but House cuts him off, still not meeting his gaze. "Just because I'm cynical doesn't mean I'm not happy. Just because I'm picky about who I associate with doesn't mean I'm lonely. Listen. The problem with you, is—" he looks at him finally, drug-induced honest blue "—is you have expectations. And when nothing works out the way it's Supposed to, you feel like a failure. If you'd only stop wanting so much out of life you'd realize you have everything you need already."
Wilson has a sneaking suspicion he's gaping. "I . . . are you going to be this chatty after the Vicodin kicks in?"
"Oh, God, I hope not." He's so deadpan Wilson's can tell it's because he wants to smile.
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