So, this is actually an older piece... it started out as a live roleplay, then went to written dialogue, and then - this. I credit "Kaelir of Lorien" with Wilson's dialogue (please drop by her profile, read some of her stories, they're fantastic!), but the rest is mine - so in that sense it's kind of a collaboration.
Author's Note: This takes place sometime in season 5. I'm aware of the fact that House and Wilson weren't sharing a apartment at that time, but let's just assume that House is crashing at Wilson's for the night. He doesn't need a reason, of course - because he's just House.
Disclaimer: I do not own House, M.D.
Midnight Drinks and Midnight Woes
It was an indefinite time vaguely close to midnight when Gregory House found himself suddenly and inexplicably conscious. Soft darkness pressed lightly on his eyes as he opened them, blurred shadows becoming the recognizable contours of the apartment. His leg was aching absently, and his ears picked up the sound of cars drifting past outside – but neither these nor a myriad of other minor disturbances he might have mentioned could have been enough, on their own or combined, to rouse him from sleep.
Abruptly, he sat up from his supine position on the couch. He was fully awake now, and the rejuvenation of his senses resulted in the realization that he was now hearing the distinct murmur of a human voice. And it was coming from Wilson's room.
Seized by a mixture of curiosity and annoyance, House rose and limped quietly over to the bedroom door, cracking it open slightly. He peered inside. Wilson was the culprit, all right. The other was muttering, and, even more odd, shifting restlessly in his bed – but still clearly asleep.
One finger tapped repeatedly on the doorframe as House considered his options. He could leave his curiosity unsated and go back to sleep – not particularly appealing, now that he was already here – he could wait to see if anything happened, or – he could just go in and wake the other man up. After a moment's deliberation, he chose the third option. Wilson seemed agitated enough that his friend's few scruples were nudged; House carefully slipped inside and moved over to the bed.
The oncologist was still twitching and shifting, as though being attacked by a hallucination of very angry termites. His continued murmurs were too low to be discerned, but were clearly distressed all the same. Sighing, House called his friend's name in a loud whisper.
"Wilson. Hey, Wilson."
The other made no response. House took him by the shoulder, shaking him slightly. "Wake up!" he hissed, and Wilson immediately began struggling. "Oh, God," House muttered. "Wilson, you idiot –"
Giving it up, he let go and stumped back over to the door. There were still a few ice cubes in the freezer that would enjoy a nice, warm bed to sleep in….
There was a sudden gasp behind him, followed by the rustle of fabric and a creak of springs.
"House…?"
But he had gone.
A few moments later, the older man reappeared. He was carrying a glass of cold water in a business-like manner.
"What are you doing in here?" Wilson asked warily, obviously confused, as the other came up beside him again.
"I was going to ask if you wanted this on your face or down your throat." House eyed his friend critically. The oncologist's face was pale and gleaming slightly with a thin sheen of sweat.
"Yeah, thanks – but no." Wilson let out a shaky breath, pulling himself into a more upright position.
"You sure?" House persisted.
"Yes."
A long pause ensued, during which House remained where he was, humming very quietly under his breath while staring at the wall over his friend's shoulder.
"You're still here," Wilson accused shortly after a minute or so of this.
House nodded his agreement. "Yep."
"Why?"
"I want you to drink your water."
"And I already said I don't want it." There was a cold bite to Wilson's tone.
"It'll make you feel better," the other pointed out blandly. He had to admit, it was somewhat entertaining to see Wilson getting so frustrated at his calm responses.
"No, thank you," the oncologist repeated forcefully. "Is that the only reason why you're here?"
House deliberated for a moment before phrasing his reply. "Well, maybe not the only reason," he admitted. Unconsciously emphasizing the point, he sat down on the edge of the bed, depositing the cup of water deliberately on the table an arm's length away. Then he returned his gaze to Wilson, who was glaring at him in irritation.
"So what's the other reason?" Wilson asked, at length.
"Let's deal with the first one right now," was the prompt and infuriating reply. "Drink your water." He sounded like he was speaking to a particularly difficult toddler.
Wilson was clearly becoming annoyed. "For the last time – I don't want it," he pointed out, loudly and cuttingly. "So if that's all – you can leave."
House shrugged, pasting a look of unhappy resignation on his face. "Okay, then." But he didn't move.
"And you still haven't left yet!" Wilson burst out in exasperation. He threw his hands out to either side. "What do you want?"
"Well," House said patiently, his eyes romping idly across the ceiling. "I want you to drink your water." He glanced over at the distraught oncologist. "So the general idea is that I stay until you do."
"And why is this so important?" Wilson demanded, with admirable control.
House paused. "I think," he said slowly, pretending to consider the matter, "It's because it will make you feel better."
"Well, I don't want to drink it, and I'm not going to drink it." There was a faint note of finality in the other's voice. "So now what?"
House sighed in frustration at his friend's stubbornness. He had been hoping that he wouldn't have to take drastic action – but apparently it was needed.
"Okay," he said, almost carelessly, trying to keep his tone flat. "This strategy obviously isn't working, so I'm going to go uncharacteristically mushy on you and say that I'm still here because I'm your friend, and I care that it looks like you were having a seizure."
He saw Wilson's eyes widen a bit at that, and inwardly groaned before the other collected himself enough to deny the accusation.
"I wasn't having a seizure, trust me."
"No," House followed up speedily, "but you're still sweating. You're feeling uncomfortable. You're humiliated by the fact that I had to come over and rescue you from your nightmare." Even while speaking, he was watching the oncologist gradually tense and stiffen. "You're probably embarrassed that I know about it at all." He looked his friend calculatingly.
Wilson held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. "People… don't like to be rescued," he said quietly.
"Nope." House leaned back on his elbows, once again speaking to the ceiling. "People like to be self-serving. Independent. They don't like to accept that, sometimes, they have to rely on other people – people like you and me." He recognized the irony of his own words – the hypocrisy, even – but gave no outward indication of it. "We're doctors – isn't that what we do? Give other people somebody to rely on?"
"You're not my doctor," Wilson said shortly. "And what you just said doesn't even apply to you."
"No, I'm your friend. And as a friend, not a doctor – I'm advising you to drink the water."
"Why are you suddenly so concerned that I drink one glass of water?" Wilson demanded, one step short of full out yelling.
"Let's put it this way," the other said calmly, turning to regard his friend once more. "Right now your stubborn embarrassment is making you disinclined to accept anything I might offer you. I could hold out the cure for cancer, and you'd refuse – putting aside the fact that you'd also run out of a job if you took it. But let's take this glass of water. That's all it is – a little plastic cylinder of H2O. But if you're willing to accept it – this plain, ordinary little cup of H2O – then that brings you one step closer to accepting the mutually dismaying fact that you might need my help." Reaching over, he picked up the item in question and held it out with an expectant twitch of his eyebrows.
Wilson stared at it for a long minute, then slumped back in resignation. "All right… fine." Avoiding the other's eyes, he took the glass and began sipping from it slowly. A somewhat awkward silence fell.
"You know you need to move on," House pointed out quietly, after several minutes had gone by. He was still gauging the oncologist closely.
Wilson kept his eyes on the water as he responded. "Well, it's not like it's just one little baby step and you're clear."
"Nope," House agreed, exhaling slowly. "It's a long, hard slog."
"Yes," continued Wilson, his voice a murmur. "And I can't just forget."
"But you can control how much you think about it." House glanced speculatively at the younger man. "That's almost the whole problem here, isn't it? Control." His voice slid, very deliberately, into the tone he used whenever he was ruminating over a possible diagnosis. "So, to solve the problem, we have to get you back in control. Dreams are often determined by what we think about when we're awake. If you make the effort to not think about it – or, better yet, accept it – when you're in conscious control of your mind, then it's less likely that your brain will revert to those nightmares when you're unconscious – a.k.a., asleep."
Wilson looked at him incredulously. "Oh, yes," he replied, with bitter sarcasm dripping from his word, "just forget about the fact that she died right next to me – that will be easy."
Feeling a pang of annoyance at how the other was continuing to dwell on the obvious, House remarked, "No one ever said it was going to be easy to accept. But you still have to do it," he added pointedly.
The oncologist, unconvinced, lowered his glass in frustration. "But the problem is," he retorted, "that I realize when I'm distracting myself, and what I'm distracting myself from, so it basically defeats the whole purpose. Look – I've been married and divorced three times, I finally find someone who might work out, and she dies." There was a note of self-disgust in his voice. " Is someone trying to tell me something?"
"If they are," House asked seriously, "are you going to listen?"
Wilson looked bewildered. "What do you mean, am I going to listen?"
House's explanation was somewhat sardonic. "I mean, are you going to condemn yourself to eternal loneliness and misery?"
"That… wasn't exactly the plan, no."
"Well," the other observed, standing up, "plan or not, you're doing a damn good job of it." He tugged the glass out of Wilson's hand, abruptly limped out of the room again, and then returned with a refill for his friend.
"Another one?" Wilson inquired rhetorically, as House silently handed it to him. "Thanks, I think. So, if you think I'm doing such a terrible job of managing my life, what do you suggest?"
"Well, I can tell you what you shouldn't do – don't drink, don't do drugs, don't kill yourself. Other than that, the world is yours."
"This from the guy who's tried all three. At least I'm one up on you with that."
"Does that make you feel better?"
"Not really, but it gives the illusion of making me feel better."
"Good. That should help to offset the illusions you're experiencing in your sleep." House turned and made his way over to the door again. "I think I'll go back to bed now," he called back, as though he'd just made the decision. "If you still find yourself in dire need of comfort, my clinic is open 24/7."
And with that, he left the room, settled himself back on the couch, closed his eyes – and waited. Judging by Wilson's current emotional state, he wouldn't be waiting for very long.
Sure enough, about ten minutes later by House's estimate, he picked up the sound of softly padding feet. Cracking one eye open ever so slightly, he watched emotionlessly as Wilson's shadowed form approached and then sat tentatively on the edge of the couch beside its supposedly sleeping occupant.
Patiently, suppressing a faint, knowing smirk, House waited. He could almost feel the discomfort and helplessness radiating from his friend. It wasn't that he was trying to be vindictive – but Wilson was being a bit ridiculous.
After several agonizing minutes, House let his eyelids flutter theatrically and then opened them fully, acting as though he had been woken by the oncologist.
"Is the distressee back so soon?" he inquired coolly.
Wilson started slightly, then hunched over, staring at his knees. "I'd… rather not go to sleep right now." His voice was barely above a whisper – still, a brave attempt at a matter-of-fact tone that, to House's sharp ears, was completely fabricated.
"You should anyway," he said, clasping his hands behind his head.
"No – I really don't want to."
"Yes, but you really need to," House replied, exactly mimicking the other's tone.
Wilson, obviously recognizing House's mockery, clenched his fists in his lap. "I don't want to go to sleep because it scares the hell out me, all right?"
House pretended to frown. "Do you stop thinking about it when the sun comes up?"
"There's a difference between thinking about it and reliving it," Wilson snarled.
"I think you're just making up the difference for the sake of distinction," his friend suggested, with smooth ease. "They're both still mental illusions of the same thing." Another neat puncture in the rapidly deflating balloon of Wilson's protests.
"Except in one case I'm there," the oncologist grated out, "and in the other I know I'm not. But sure, that doesn't mean anything."
"You're right," House agreed infuriatingly. "All it means is that your brain is functioning more rationally in one situation than another."
"So you're saying I'm irrational?" demanded Wilson angrily.
"Yeah." House looked speculatively at his irate friend. "You know, if you were anybody else, I'd tell you to stop moping and get yourself another girl." He paused to gauge the other's reaction, then continued in a low voice, "But in this case that would probably be insensitive." There was a gleam of humor in his eyes.
"You mean that even though I'm zero for four, you think I should keep trying," Wilson clarified, struggling to control himself.
House recognized that struggle, and gave up poking fun at his friend in favor of a more direct approach. "Look," he said bluntly, half sitting up now, "the fact that you're always ridiculously unhappy every time a relationship ends seems to indicate, to the logical mind, that you don't like being alone."
"Maybe that's true," the oncologist grudgingly acknowledged, "but at least when I'm alone I know that things like this won't happen."
House continued as though the other hadn't spoken. "And also when you're alone, you have a tendency to become excessively pathetic. See Exhibit A." He pointed to Wilson, who replied from between clenched teeth, forming each word distinctly –
"Because I was in a relationship."
"So, you're miserable either way?"
"Well, apparently I keep messing up," said Wilson, with a humorless laugh. "Mistakes tend to make people miserable."
House's "differential" voice returned. "Misery can also be caused by blaming yourself – or other people – for something that wasn't your fault, or theirs," he noted, glancing shrewdly at the oncologist.
"I'm not blaming myself because she died," Wilson corrected him forcefully. "I'm blaming myself because I put myself in a position where I would be hurt when she did –" His voice wavered between regret and self-loathing. "And that's my fault."
The other eyed him carefully. "Yeah. That's where you screwed up." The mockery had momentarily dissolved.
"And that's why I'm miserable," Wilson finished their joint line of thought.
"Are you sure that some tiny little part of you isn't enjoying all this wallowing in self-pity?" House suggested clinically.
Wilson looked up again, and there was righteous anger on his features. "Enjoying it?" he repeated loudly. "You think I like watching her die over and over again in my sleep?"
House shrugged. "I just think that a part of you is enjoying the fact that her death wasn't your fault. Unfortunately," he added, "that second aspect doesn't seem to be transmitting itself to the rest of your brain – despite your repeated claims that you know it wasn't your fault."
"I already said that's not what I'm blaming myself for," the oncologist told him vehemently, his voice rising. "And stop analyzing – because there is no way in hell that I'm enjoying this, all right?" He glared furiously at his friend.
"Well then," House shot back immediately, "if you're so definitely not enjoying it, why are you going out of your way to prolong it?"
"I'm not!" Wilson exclaimed. "That's why I'm staying awake, remember?"
"In this case, staying awake is prolonging it," House replied flatly, staring levelly at the other. "You're doing everything possible to avoid facing a problem that needs to be dealt with."
Wilson threw up his hands. "Okay, so I'm running away! I just can't do anything more than that right now." His voice faltered. "Not yet."
House, however, had just about run out of patience for the other's passive misery.
"Fine then," he said shortly, his tone brusque and pitiless. "Keep running. But eventually, when you start wheezing and gasping, all this is going to catch up to you. And since it's highly unlikely I'll be running with you –" he threw a quick, sardonic look at his bad leg – "when that happens – you'll be on your own." He leaned back, closing his eyes.
"Am I supposed to take that as some kind of dismissal?" Wilson snapped.
"Something like that, yeah." House hardly even bothered to form the words.
"All right, fine." The oncologist stood and abruptly turned away, throwing back bitterly over his shoulder, "I'm sure I'll be seeing you in an hour or two anyway when you come to pull me out of hell again." Shoulders set, he angrily returned to the bedroom.
House waited a few moments before opening his eyes again. He was thoroughly irritated by Wilson's refusal to move on with his life.
"I think you should know," he called, aware that the other would be able to hear him perfectly, "that none of what I said is going to be worth a damn if you don't try."
And with that cutting line, House twisted over, closing his eyes once more. But it was a long time before sleep was able to claim him.
Thanks for reading! (...I think I can hear the review button calling you...) May the Force be with you.