Author's Note: This is a series of drabbles, one written for each of the lines from Joni Mitchell's song "Blue." It was a real challenge to write something coherent in 100 words, let alone several somethings! Please note that this is not a storyline; the drabbles are individual pieces in and of themselves. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think!
Blue, songs are like tattoos
He sat at his piano, fingers idly stroking the solidity of the ivory keys, wishing it was the ivory softness of Wilson's skin trailing along the whorls of his fingertips, tattooed by his prints. Against his will, his hands found their way to a haunting melody accompanied by broken, rolling chords and tense harmonies that he had been playing several times a week for more than a decade now. Words never filled his head; he never tried to put into limited language the emotions that music conveyed more effectively. He never even titled the piece. "James's Song" seemed too mundane.
You know I've been to sea before
"Have you ever done this before?" Wilson panted out next to his ear, his breath warm and humid, sending shivers down House's spine. House silently rolled his eyes and pinned Wilson beneath him, feeling the soft lurch of the waterbed, knowing he would never be able to rise to hands and knee to fuck Wilson the way he wanted to, knowing it didn't matter because, even if it was on the stupidest mattress in the world, he was finally taking the one thing he had always really wanted from James Wilson.
He had done this before. There was no comparison.
Crown and anchor me
Whenever House took him in his mouth, Wilson found himself guiltily grateful for Vicodin. But there always came a point when he forgot about the skill and lost himself in the sensations; he would sink his fingers into the soft curls at the crown of House's head and tug him closer—not deeper, just closer—and House's hands would come up to press his hips to the mattress, holding him steady. It was never House's talent that made him come; it was the sense he had in those moments that House would never let him go. He never felt safer.
Or let me sail away
They never talked about it. Pretending everything was fine was a talent they had mastered years ago; they had ignored previous breaches in the Wilson takes care of House contract, such as the OD on his living room floor. But this breach was a wound that would not heal. It was why he could let Wilson go. The words hung unspoken between them.
You loved her more than you love me. After only a few months, you chose her life over mine.
Yes. I wish I could say it was hard. But it was the easiest thing in the world.
Hey, Blue, there is a song for you
"Have you heard this song?" Wilson's face was a study in feigned innocence as he sauntered into House's office. House felt a thrill at knowing that things could potentially go back to the way they'd always been…because Wilson was finally back.
"What song?" he asked testily, providing expected attitude, revealing nothing.
Instead of answering, Wilson tossed an unlabeled burned CD onto his desk and left the room without even a hint of a smirk. House slid it into his computer and leaned back.
When Billy Joel began crooning through his speakers, he closed his eyes and smiled. Still not boring.
Ink on a pin
"Fuck…" Wilson groaned, head spinning. House smirked.
"You're such a girl."
"You try this!"
House rolled his eyes. "Bet I've been stabbed with more needles than you have." He leaned in to examine the artwork. "Nice. Of course, you're going to kill me in the morning."
"I may not wait that long," Wilson retorted, examining his shoulder. It bore the simple declaration: "Never Again."
"I can't believe you talked me into this," Wilson moaned.
"You have selective memory regarding your own marital mistakes. Come on, let's go."
"What's your hurry?"
"Are you kidding me? Your drunken blowjobs are the best."
Underneath the skin
Every time a woman hurts him or a wife leaves him, it grazes Wilson's skin like a meaningless abrasion. House is different; he is the knife between the ribs, the bullet millimeters from a through-and-through. Wilson hates him for this; hates him for creating bleeding that all his usual banal bandages cannot staunch.
But beneath it all, he loves House for being able to cut deep. He had begun to wonder if there was anything left beneath the façade he worked so hard to perfect. House does not let him pretend; he does something better. He allows Wilson to feel.
An empty space to fill in
The piano bench is out of place—dragged up beside the coffee table, despite the fact that both pieces of furniture are of similar heights. He perches on it to eat bread slathered in peanut butter and pizza with all the annoying vegetables picked off. Beside it, the couch looks abandoned. It has been completely unoccupied for weeks.
Cancer and herpes and poker. Women and religion ruin everything. He ignores the couch until it is time for bed; then he stares for long minutes, his eyes cloudy. When he finally limps away and the lights go out, the emptiness remains.
Well, there's so many sinking now
"I can't do this. I can't tell another mother her child is dying. I can't watch another husband lose his wife. Medicine is depressing. Oncology is suicide-inducing."
"You don't take anti-depressants because you can't save your patients. You take them because you can't save yourself from drowning happily in all the need."
"I'm not looking to get philosophical. I'm making an observation."
"You can't leave."
"Why? We both know you're more brilliant, and statistically, maybe even more successful. Why should I stay?"
"Because I need a doctor to admire besides myself."
"…True. And…thanks."
"I have no idea what you mean."
You've got to keep thinking
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
"Can't you think at the hospital?"
"Nope. I think better here."
"I see…Seriously. Stop throwing the ball at the wall."
"I like my balls."
"I'm aware."
"I like yours better."
"…Um. Inappropriate touching can't possibly be conducive to medical diagnosis."
"Are you a genius diagnostician?"
"Not today."
"Then you can't comment. You can just—fuck, yeah. Wilson…Hey!"
"My ball now."
"I'm not leaving."
"You're also not hurling a ball at the wall while I'm trying to sleep. I'm comfortable with the compromise."
"…"
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
"Dammit, House!"
"You didn't seriously think I only had one ball."
You can make it through these waves
He feels like he's drowning. He wants his brother to forgive him; he wants his brother to hate him, to justify years of hating himself. He wants to run away and change his name and forget ex-wives and dead girlfriends and crazy brothers.
It's not the needs of others but his own unfulfilled needs that well up in his chest and threaten to choke him. His hand fumbles across the bed, touching emptiness. He tries to suck in air, panicking.
When House's hand fills his, a warm, callused life preserver, it brings with it the strength to keep treading water.
Acid, booze, and ass
"Oh, my God. This is so fucking amazing. 'The blues' are actually blue. Music looks like colors. House! Music looks like colors."
"I'm aware. You, by the way, are totally awesome high. I should have done this years ago."
"You have, you know. And I can't believe you drugged me again."
"In my defense, you were drunk. It was entirely too easy."
"That is not a defense, House."
"It absolutely is. I can't resist playing pranks on you when you're off your head and rambling."
"Is that why you're undoing my pants?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Needles, guns, and grass
House, too, is a puzzle. Wilson is his friend; surely a little snooping is excused by this act of kindness.
In a wooden box on a high shelf, he finds a supply of morphine. He is disappointed, but not surprised. He suspected as much.
At the back of House's nightstand drawer, he finds several pilfered joints. He scowls, smirks, and pockets one for the day House makes him homicidal by stealing the last of the stuffed green peppers.
In House's dresser, he finds a loaded gun resting on top of a signed suicide note. Apparently, House is prepared for everything.
Lots of laughs, lots of laughs
Chinese food is best: steaming in the carton, noodles spilling over the cardboard side; brown sauce cascading over sticky white rice.
Pizza is best: cold, yanked from a half-full box perched on a bare refrigerator shelf; balanced precariously on top of a bottle of cold, sweating beer.
Movies are best: on a freshly-scrubbed couch, shoulder pressed to shoulder; MSTing the horror flicks at midnight and observing that no one in the room should quit their day jobs for stand-up comedy.
Laughter is best: inches from the face of the one you love, even if the words can never be said.
Everybody's saying
Nothing is ever stated. They do not enter the hospital holding hands; they are never caught kissing in the elevator; no one blows anyone in the janitor's closet down the hall from Cuddy's office. Words like 'boyfriend' or 'partner' are never used; fellows never make observations on the changed nature of friendships. When whispers fall silent as they enter rooms, they merely exchange knowing looks, and neither confirm nor deny.
Everybody knows. Cuddy should be cautioning them in an overbearing fashion reminiscent of jealousy and rejection, and Cameron should be crying in the bathroom.
But whatever everybody's saying, nobody's talking.
That hell's the hippest way to go
Wilson follows him one night, curious as to where House has been disappearing once a week. He is confused when House slips in the side door of the church and horrified when an attractive woman meets him in the foyer and they exchange leisurely, heated kisses. He slips away and waits outside for forty-five minutes in the snow until House appears, looking satisfied.
"Seriously?"
House does not even blink. "I don't believe in God. I wish I did. I bet it would make it even hotter."
Wilson, the atheist, cannot blame religious piety for the sinking feeling in his stomach.
Well, I don't think so
He waits for Wilson to figure it out, sometimes peering at the empty space above perfectly coiffed hair, waiting for the proverbial light bulb to glow with realization. He drives away wives and lovers; they play sweaty, too-close basketball before the infarction and watch sweaty, too-close porn after. He even manages, completely by accident, to contribute to the death of the perfect girlfriend. And still Wilson remains oblivious.
House would like to believe that someday Wilson will wake up and want what House has been offering for years. But he doubts it. Denial is almost all his friend has left.
But I'm gonna take a look around it though
Life without Wilson was terrifying. Hookers did not provide intimacy; Cuddy did not provide friendship; Homey, Cheater, Twitch, and the Adoptee did not provide enough mental stimulation. Wilson provided everything. He did everything he could to drag Wilson back, and when that failed, he was grudgingly grateful to his not-father for dying and giving him back his friend.
When methadone gave him a chance to change, he shaved, found a tie and considered life without Wilson again. Without the pain, he found it disturbingly appealing; when the chance to go back came, he seized it. Improvement, he decided, was overrated.
Blue, I love you
He said it in a pain-filled stupor, in the wake of a lie. Wilson did everything but roll his eyes; he said nothing in response, not I know or you should or even I love you, too. House wanted to grab him, shake him, and say, Have you said it so many times that hearing it is meaningless? Or do you simply not listen to me anymore? But he lay still, and waited for his extra dosage, and mused on how pretty Wilson's mouth was, even twisted up in a disbelieving half-smile. Later, he could blame it on the drugs.
Blue, here is a shell for you
Wilson watched him limp through the hospital halls; watched him eat alone in the cafeteria; watched him bite his lip as he stared at Wilson's door when he thought the owner was not looking. The hooker prank had been a ridiculous attempt to do something, anything to make things feel normal again. Now, they were back to awkwardly almost ignoring each other, and House's eyes betrayed a frightening emptiness. Wilson wondered if House had had that shell-shocked look while he had been absent…and wished he could find the desire to banish it. But he no longer cared enough to try.
Inside, you'll hear a sigh
"There you go again!"
"What are you talking about, House?"
"You sigh at me. You sigh at me!"
"A general sign of disapproval or weariness. I'm not sure why you're surprised."
"Why do you hate yourself so much that you have to force yourself to hate me more?"
"I don't hate you."
"Bullshit."
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"The truth would be nice, if you're capable."
"You want the truth? I sigh because it's better than saying what I'm thinking most of the time."
"And that would be?"
Sigh. "That I wish I'd never met you."
A foggy lullaby
Wilson strides away from the hospital, from feelings of loss, from betrayal warring with self-loathing. He leaves behind a broken man: House's mind potentially in ruins thanks to Wilson's irrational demands. The proxy was dying; Wilson would have been left with only the unattainable original. He needed someone in the way.
He pauses on a bridge, gazing out onto water obscured by fog. In the distance, he can hear a bus pulling away from the curb, a dirge in the city's cacophony. He wonders if it hurts to drown; he wonders if he would be missed. He doubts it, now.
There is your song from me
House is playing a familiar piece when Wilson arrives, food in hand. It's Wilson's fortieth birthday, and there are no balloons or wives with ugly ties. There's only House, and a familiar song.
Wilson sinks onto the couch, and House limps over with a handful of paper. "Here. Don't say I never gave you anything."
Wilson cannot read music. He would recognize the piece if he heard it, but now that it is in his hands, House will never play it in his presence. What captivates Wilson are the two words scrawled at the top in House's handwriting.
'James's Song.'